The succulent ox meat had been a delicious repast that sat warm in the belly. At my behest, the shoulder blade had been etched, scored, and placed back into the fire.
The smoke of the flame and the long clay pipes coiled around the festoons of the tent, glowing red as the dusk fell. Scorching, the bone emitted loud, angry cracks, followed by seething hisses, as fissures began to form on the surface.
At a glance from the soothsayer, a helper, much in a similar state to the rest of us, crawled forward in Mongolian garb, tongs in hand, and, with a toothless grin, pulled the bone from the fire, placing it in a battered brass tray at the crossed feet of the diviner.
She was as ancient as the songs, a nomadic matriarch who had long followed the herd over snowscape and sky trail. Her hair, grey and thin, swayed like an anemone on a sea current, searching the blue-grey ether for the answer to her riddles.
Pearlescent eyes dipped and began to read the portents that the heat had drawn from behind the veil. My batman and I, lids drooping, both supped upon their noxious brew as the fortune-teller’s thin leathery skin was pulled taut, becoming almost translucent against a glowing skull.
“Ükhel!” she shrieked. “Ükhel! Ükhel!”
“What did she say?” I shouted, springing to my feet and grasping the aide by trembling shoulders. But I knew. Since being posted to that forsaken land, I had heard the word death on many occasions. Death was part of the quotidian rhythm of things, almost accepted, but today was not to be mine.
Drawing my service revolver, I fulfilled the prophecy. Their lifeless bodies still haunt me, pray that this is my dying confession. I beg that forgiveness is mine.