Perfectly ripe and succulent pears, rolled in rich brown demerara sugar. A delicious take on the classic pear drop.
Church bells rang in the town square as the clock struck midday. A murder of crows leaped off the top of the tower and flew high above an old man in robes, his white hair reflecting the winter sunlight that caught it.
It had been a frustrating morning for the soothsayer. He had spent it in fierce debate with the high priest, arguing that the unseasonably warm weather they were experiencing marked a global shift in weather patterns which would ultimately be their doom.
“God is not testing us, fate is!” He muttered under his breath as he shuffled across the square. He was looking forward to a warm brew in his hut when he returned home.
“A mutated soul!”
Like rogue apples falling from a rickety cart, exclamations of madness littered his journey to the outskirts of town, upwards to the top of the hill where his humble abode perched. And just like his own old body, the dilapidated hut was slowly disintegrating every day.
Upon entering, the soothsayer slumped in front of his sortition mortar. He needed wisdom in theses troubling times and cleromancy was the only way to get it.
“Fruit of the gods, behold thy nature!”, he cried as he smashed four pears to pieces in the bowl with his pestle.
“Sand of the earth, colour thy future!”, he shrieked whilst he sprinkled brown sugar over the remains of the pears. As the soothsayer began to decipher whatever divine message the scene before him portrayed, the sweet scent of the sugared fruit reached his ancient nose. Asking fate for forgiveness, he popped a chunk into his mouth.
It was all the wisdom he ever needed. The prophecy had been made.