Chapter 32
Over the next two months, we receive sixteen visitors.
Most come from New York and New England, although one travels from California and another from Vancouver.
Nearly all of their cars get stuck in the snow or mud at the base of our road, and they complete their pilgrimages on foot, arriving at our house looking dirt-splattered but eager.
Everyone drinks the elixir, does Paula’s dancing meditation, takes a cold plunge, and receives a prophecy that appears to satisfy them, and, in some cases, to astound them.
Some are the expected “seekers” looking to broaden their horizons in general ways; but we also get visitors who are hoping to heal specific wounds.
There is the would-be mother trying to process her recent pregnancy loss.
There is the former executive who was “canceled” for a sexual indiscretion and can’t get past the shame.
There is the father who is consumed by anger since losing his son to an opioid overdose.
And there is the cancer patient who knows she doesn’t have long, but wants to see the oracle before her time runs out.
We even get a few high-profile visitors, including a YouTube sensation who is suffering from burnout and a recently retired NFL player looking for spiritual direction.
We are upfront that the oracle has Alzheimer’s, and some of our supplicants take comfort in that fact.
They trust they can divulge their secrets, knowing that he will soon forget them.
In my father, these people have found an ideal outlet for their angst—a place to voice their fears, hopes, and shame.
In the process, these feelings are alchemized.
“So much better than therapy,” one woman muses after her session.
But to me, the most magical discovery is that nothing seems to shock my father.
He receives everyone’s story with patience and equanimity; it’s almost as if he has heard it all before.
One morning, I receive a call from the owner of the Locust Inn.
“Miss Campbell, I don’t know what you are up to over there at Catwood Pond,” he says, and I brace myself for admonishment.
“But whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.
We’ve had more reservations this April than the last few years combined—and during mud season!
It’s unheard of. All these folks say they’re here to see you.
To get their fortunes told or whatever it is you’re doing. ”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” I say, instantly relieved. “It’s really just for fun, but all the better if it’s helping your business.”
“Sure is,” he says. “And have you seen the Yelp reviews?”
“I haven’t,” I say. “Are people finally giving the Locust Inn its due?”
“No, not for the inn,” he says. “For the oracle…”
We hang up and I open Yelp to see what he’s talking about. Sure enough, someone has created a listing for “The Oracle at Catwood Pond.” There are a few photos of Carl’s signs, and there are already a handful of reviews, all of them five stars.
I can’t believe I’m writing this, but this oracle is the real deal. Wise, modest, funny. I felt like I was meeting with an old friend.
Run, don’t walk, to see this guy. (But wear good shoes because the road is very muddy.)
I was bereft after the death of my dog who I’ve had for seventeen years.
I went to see the oracle out of desperation.
He described my dog in detail, right down to his orange collar.
He reassured me that Sweet Potato was living a joyful afterlife.
I felt such peace when our visit was over.
But the weirdest part might be that the oracle has a huge cat named Dominic … and now I think I might want a cat…?!
Worth every penny. (Did I mention it’s free?)
I’ve been struggling to process a trauma for the last twelve years of my life.
I’ve tried everything—therapy, SSRIs, EMDR, ketamine, and every form of woo-woo self-help out there.
Nothing made a difference until now. The oracle didn’t solve my problems for me, but he helped me reframe them. He gave me hope.
The tea is hot, the pond is cold, and the oracle knows his shit.
We had planned to take a break during mud season, but by the end of April, our wait list has grown to over two hundred people. There is no stemming the flow, so we proceed with our two-guests-a-week schedule.
It’s still cold, but the sun is becoming more assertive, slowly winning its battle against the last vestiges of stubborn snow. A few patches lie here and there, but the ground is softening, and the busy birdcalls indicate that we are on the edge of a new season.
One morning, I awake to hear the pond groaning. The ice is thawing, and as usual, it is protesting as it goes. It feels like a victory to have made it to this side of winter, but if I’m honest, it’s not really spring that I have been waiting for.
My father’s prophecies for our visitors have provided plenty of proof of his abilities—if not to see the future, then at least to offer up significant insight into the present.
But despite the influx of visitors that is bringing more variety to our lives, I still find myself anticipating one particular visitor.
My father has not mentioned Seth since the day Nils did his ice plunge, but even so, I am always waiting for his ghost to reappear.