Four Signs and a Shadow

Al Raji’s

Previously:

April had begun to feel at home in the refugee camp, a place that once felt foreign. Sitting outside with her UGG boots dangling over a low wall, she watched the camp's life unfold, exchanging smiles with a boy and greeting a cautious elderly woman. A young man offered her pomegranate seeds, triggering memories of childhood and a similar gesture that led to a lasting friendship. She was later stunned by a boy’s extraordinary talent as he played piano in the camp. Walking with Joseph, she noticed how revered he was, while she felt both embraced and like an outsider. A mysterious encounter with Al Raji, the camp’s fortune teller, reminded her of her time on the Lakota reservation, where she witnessed the sacred return of the bison—both moments filled with reverence and connection to the past. As Joseph invited her to get her future read, April felt a mix of fear and excitement, ready to embrace the unknown.

Joseph dropped the spices off with his mom and told her we were going to Al Raji’s. She didn’t even bat an eye. Back home, that would have earned at least a raised eyebrow, but I supposed it was just part of the culture here, something normal in a world that was still so new to me.

We made our way to Al Raji’s place, a small, modest room tucked away from the bustling alley. Inside, the atmosphere shifted, like we had stepped into another world—a quieter, more intimate space where time moves differently. She gestured for me to sit, and I felt a strange mix of anticipation and nerves bubbling inside me. The scent of rich Arabic coffee filled the air as she poured two small cups, the dark, thick brew swirling like ink in a ritual older than I could imagine. Normally, I wouldn’t drink coffee this late, but how could I refuse? I took a few sips, the earthy bitterness lingering on my tongue.

Joseph leaned in, whispering, “Finish it. That’s how she’ll read your story.”

From my coffee cup? I didn’t know what to expect, but I drained the cup, the last sip dense with grounds. I handed it back to her, feeling the weight of the moment settle around me. Al Raji’s movements were precise, almost rehearsed, as she placed the saucer over the cup and swiftly flipped it upside down. The clink of porcelain echoed in the quiet room, and we waited. It felt like the universe itself was waiting with us, the air thick with something I couldn’t quite name. The cup sat there, cooling, untouched for what felt like forever—though it was probably only ten minutes. Each second stretched, anticipation crawling up my spine.

Finally, she reached for the cup. Her hands were steady, but her eyes—those sharp, piercing blue eyes—moved over the cup as if it were a portal to another realm. She lifted it slowly, peering inside with the kind of intensity that made me hold my breath. This wasn’t just a coffee cup to her; it was a story, my story, written in the swirls and shapes that the coffee grounds left behind. 

Al Raji cradled the cup, her gaze shifting across the tiny patterns, interpreting each line, each mark, as though it was whispering secrets only she could hear. It was like watching someone read a language I had never known existed. I leaned forward, trying to see what she saw, but to me, it was just smudges and swirls. To her, it was everything.

She began to speak, softly at first, her voice smooth and slow, like testing the waters. She said things like, “Ahead of you is a long journey. You will meet two people you haven’t seen in many winters. There is a bridge, and this bridge is waiting for you to cross it.” Her voice was calm, measured, as if she were reciting something she'd said countless times before. I began to wonder if these were just the kind of vague, scripted sentences that fortune tellers rely on—phrases that could fit any situation. Could she really know what was coming? Or was I simply falling for yet another elaborate trick?

My skepticism grew. Fortune tellers, after all, thrived on ambiguity, didn't they? They dealt in words broad enough to cover any outcome, leaving the listener to fill in the blanks. I found myself torn between curiosity and doubt, unable to decide whether to lean into the possibility that she knew something I didn’t, or to dismiss it all as nonsense.

Just as I was about to brush it off, her demeanor changed. Her eyes sharpened, and her voice quickened, taking on a new intensity. The words poured out of her like a flood, no longer controlled or rehearsed, but raw, almost frantic. It was as if something had shifted, as if she'd glimpsed something urgent—something real.

Joseph listened intently, nodding, his face serious. Al Raji’s eyes never left the cup, her fingers tracing invisible paths over the dark stains. She pointed to a small curve, a line near the handle, her voice rising slightly in emphasis. 

Her gaze settled near the handle, and Joseph glanced at me, translating her words with a seriousness that made my pulse quicken. The handle, they say, is like the clock of the cup—its position tied to time, marking whether events will come soon or linger in the distance. The cup felt like a map, the past, present, and future intertwined in a language of symbols only Al Raji could understand.

The room started to close in, time stretching and folding around us as she deciphered my future in the grains of coffee, weaving together fragments of a story I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear. I held my breath, waiting for her to reveal something—some profound truth, some glimpse into what lay ahead. 

But Al Raji didn’t rush. She let the silence build, thick and heavy, before finally lifting her eyes to meet mine. Her smile was not one of comfort—it was a knowing smile, the kind that told me she had seen something, something deep and unspoken. Whether or not she would reveal everything she saw, well, that was her secret to keep.

She spoke of four signs whether it be in—four years, four months or four days—marking a journey that would lead to a grand celebration. Her voice was calm, steady, as if time itself flowed through her words. She foretold of a great love, a union sealed near the roar of rushing water, a moment where joy would fill the air. It felt distant yet strangely real, like a future already written, just waiting for it's time to arrive.

But her vision wasn’t all joy. Her tone darkened, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine. She saw a heavy burden, a shadow that had been hanging over me, something dark that I would carry for more years to come. She warned me of a challenging death, someone close to me—someone dear—who would suffer greatly, leaving behind a wound so deep it would take years to heal. As she spoke, I felt a deep, unsettling sense of recognition. 

The warmth of her small room, filled with the scent of coffee grounds and lingering smoke, couldn’t chase away the cold that settled inside me. Her words, hanging in the air, seemed to intertwine with the thick aroma, sinking into me like the future itself was closing in, and all I could do was wait.

Al Raji also saw Joseph and me dressed in elegant clothes, standing before a large audience, accepting some kind of award. She spoke of my work continuing, reaching out across the world, helping children in ways I couldn’t yet imagine. I figured she might have known about The Questioneers, and maybe that’s why she said it. Her words painted a strange, impossible picture—a mix of dreams and forebodings that left me breathless with disbelief. Part of me wanted to believe, but another part remained skeptical. It wasn’t really part of my culture to believe in fortune tellers, and I couldn’t fully grasp all she said.

And yet, some part of me held on to her words. Years later, when Joseph and I were married at Snoqualmie Falls—exactly four years to about the day after that reading—I was stunned by the prophecy’s uncanny accuracy. The water thundered down in a torrent, bearing witness to our vows. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were somehow fulfilling a destiny I had never quite understood until that moment.

As time moved on and the years passed, the vivid intensity of Al Raji’s telling began to fade. Her words no longer lingered at the forefront of my mind, instead slipping quietly into the background of my life. But every now and then, like a sharp pang of déjà vu, her prophecy would return with startling clarity. I'd find myself in a seemingly ordinary moment—maybe seated at a café, walking with Joseph, or in conversation with someone—and suddenly, her words would hit me. Hard. It was as though the universe had shifted, aligning just enough for me to realize that this moment, this exact point in time, was what she had been talking about all those years ago.

It wasn’t always immediate. Sometimes, it was a feeling that gnawed at me later, a delayed recognition that made my heart race. I’d pause, replaying her cryptic phrases in my mind, and it would all come rushing back: the quiet room, the scent of coffee grounds and cigarettes, the way her eyes locked with mine, that strange, knowing smile. In those moments, I’d be reminded that her reading hadn’t been about grand predictions or lofty visions of the future—it had been about the small, often hidden threads that wove together to create the tapestry of my life.

I’ve learned to accept that not everything Al Raji foretold would come all at once. Some of it has already woven itself into the fabric of my life, often when I least expect it. And yet, one part of her vision remains elusive—the award. The image she painted of Joseph and me dressed in elegant clothes, standing before a grand audience, accepting something important and symbolic. It hasn’t come to fruition yet, and I sometimes wonder if it ever will. I used to anticipate it like one might wait for the climax of a Hollywood film, expecting a dramatic, lightning-bolt moment where everything clicks into place, where the music swells and the camera zooms in for that perfect, satisfying ending.

But life, as I’ve learned, doesn’t follow that kind of script. It’s not the Hollywood timeline I once imagined it would be. Instead, life reveals its secrets slowly, in its own time, with deliberate patience. It’s more like a long, winding road where each bend brings something unexpected—where the big moments don’t come with fanfare, but rather as gentle realizations that settle into your bones, shifting your perspective without you even realizing it.

Still, as much as I joked about it, I couldn’t help but feel homesick and heavy-hearted after we left Al Raji’s. Her words had lingered in the air, heavy with prophecy, casting a shadow I couldn’t quite shake. Joseph walked me back to Rafik’s place, his presence comforting in the dim light of the camp, but I just didn’t want to be alone. The weight of the future she’d glimpsed, and the reality of my present far from home, pressed down on me like a heavy blanket.

“Can we just maybe watch a movie?” I asked quietly, my voice betraying a hint of the vulnerability I was trying to hide. This was before the days of the internet and Netflix, when the simplest comforts required more effort. Joseph nodded, understanding in his eyes, and disappeared to fetch a pirated DVD.

He returned a short while later with Stardust, an old film that promised a bit of magic, a bit of escape. We settled in on the small bed, the screen flickering with the soft glow of the movie. As the story unfolded, I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to ease, a small smile playing on my lips. The familiar sounds and images tugged at my heart, a comforting reminder of home. Joseph sat close, his presence grounding me, his arm just brushing against mine.

As the film played on, I began to fade, my eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion and the emotional toll of the day. I finally felt myself settle in, the nostalgia and warmth of the movie pulling me under like a gentle tide. 

The next thing I knew, I was stirred awake by a sudden movement. Joseph was getting up, his motions quick and careful, as if not to wake me. I blinked, disoriented, and realized he was leaving in a rush. He glanced back at me, a mix of concern and something else in his eyes—something tender, something I hadn’t quite seen before.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered, still half-asleep.

He gave me a small, almost apologetic smile. “I fell asleep. If anyone sees me leaving this early, they might get the wrong idea,” he explained softly. “I don’t want to risk your honor being questioned.”

I watched him for a moment, the realization settling in. In this place, the rules were different—older, almost like stepping back in time. Here, every action was scrutinized, every movement had meaning. But there was also a certain beauty in his concern, in his understanding of what mattered here. It was more than just respect; it was something deeper, something that made my heart ache in a way that was both painful and wonderful.

As Joseph slipped out into the quiet darkness of the camp, I felt a mix of emotions—gratitude for his thoughtfulness, a strange comfort in the unfamiliar, and a growing affection for this man who seemed to understand me better than I understood myself. I lay back down, staring at the ceiling, the echoes of the movie still playing in my mind. There was so much I didn’t know about what lay ahead, so much that Al Raji’s words had only hinted at.

I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily. My mind was alive with questions, thoughts spinning like the stars above. In the quiet of the night, a new feeling crept in—an anticipation, a sense that something was about to change, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As I drifted back toward sleep, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning, that something unexpected was always waiting just around the corner.