GOLDEN TAROT: Nine of Wands

The Night Watch

The night constable walked through the empty streets; his footfalls clacked on the cobble as he approached the cemetery. People said cemeteries were places of silence and tranquility, but he disagreed. The cemetery at night was as noisy as any city in the daytime. Owls hooted in the trees, crickets chirped and, if one paid attention, one could hear the soft scurrying sounds of rodents among the graves. To the constable, cemeteries were full of life; he often rested on the bench beside the wrought-iron gates flanked by stone angels. 

People asked if it didn’t scare him, but, in his thirty years of treading the vicinity, he’d witnessed nothing odd. Nothing spooked him, not even the mist which sometimes hovered over the graves and cast an eerie atmosphere. 

“What would the dead want with me?” He said, “Most people were good in life, why should they bother me?”

With a tired groan and a stiff back, the night constable sat on his bench, arms spread out along the backrest, and gazed skyward. The moon shone bright, and the stars twinkled. He even recognized a planet, though he was unsure which. He loved watching the stars from this spot and contemplated the Northern Cross bright above him. His mother used to tell him stories about the constellations as they sat out on the field by his childhood home. 

A black mass passed across the moon, and, as it crept, blocked all light. One by one it blotted out the stars, as if someone had placed a cloak over the dome of the sky. 

A dense silence settled over the cemetery; only the dim gaslight at the street corner provided an anchor of reality in this new thick darkness. All sound ceased. It oppressed and discomforted. 

The constable’s heart beat and pumped loud in his ears. What’s happening? He thought, and tried to call out, but though his mouth moved, no sound emerged. 

Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a light, and, thinking it might be a lantern, turned in the direction. He discerned a green orb, perhaps a comet, yet it hovered much too low on the horizon. It brought the silence with it, and the constable watched it approach. 

The light entered the cemetery and, like a billiard ball, bounced from grave to grave. It then ascended to the sky and disappeared, taking the strange mantle with it, as if someone had pinched a handkerchief off a table and flung it into the air. The moon shone again and the stars, one by one, turned on and twinkled. The night sounds resumed, and the world plunged back into normality. 

“Will-o’-the-wisps,” his wife shrugged when he explained. 

He shook his head. That light came not from this world.

TAROCCHI DELL’OLIMPO: 4 of Chalices

Elysium

 The battle raged, thunderous with destruction, despair and human cries of violence. Lucius, shield in one hand and gladius in the other, cut men down one by one. The sweat and muck in his eyes made it difficult to see, and he hoped he slayed only the enemy. Rain fell hard, and each drop stung his face; it cooled his body though it pinged off his armor. 

Lucius found himself alone, ensnared in the sudden hush of the surrounding dead. In this temporary calm, he wiped the grime, sweat and rain from his eyes, looking this way and that. Had the battle ended? A strange silence had befallen the field and Lucius thought he might be dead and on the threshold of Elysium. 

Lightning flashed and struck the ground nearby; the vibration snaking up his legs. Lucius blinked, and, astonished, glimpsed a young woman in a strange yellow cape standing in the middle of the battlefield. She had appeared in the flash and now glanced around, confused. 

For a moment, Lucius thought she might be a witch and raised his sword to slay her, but his dark eyes met hers and Lucius froze. A shock of short black hair framed her thin and dainty face, white as marble. Long dark eyelashes outlined big blue eyes which shone with fear and wonder. Eyes fixed on him, she extended a gloved hand, reaching for him. 

Thunder clapped and the clamor of war broke the eerie enchantment. Out of the corner of his eye, Lucius caught the menacing figure of an enemy, turned and stabbed him dead. The young woman remained, confused and frozen to the spot. A sword rose behind her, ready to strike. Lucius rushed to her side; he pushed her to the ground and killed the enemy. She screamed, covered her head with her arms and rolled herself into a bright yellow ball. Lucius kept fighting, aware of the delicate figure at his feet, careful not to trample her. 

Another lull. Lucius pulled her up by her elbow. He placed his shielded arm around her and ran with her into the nearby forest away from the onslaught; her body warm under his protective embrace. 

Lucius pushed her against a tree and told her to stay there. She freed herself from his grasp, hopped up and grabbed the nearest branch. He watched amazed at her nimble movements as she climbed the tree. She stopped on a fat branch and huddled against the trunk. Those big blue eyes shone at him through the wet leaves. Thunder and lightning flashed, and Lucius prayed for Jupiter to spare the tree from Vulcan’s bolt. Their eyes met one more time, and he returned to the fray. 

The battle soon died and the young woman clambered down from the tree. She walked among the dead, looking for her savior. She found him caked in blood and mud. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she wiped the blood from his closed eyes. He groaned. Her soft giggle of relief sounded like heavenly music in his ears. He opened his eyes and smiled into those bright blue irises gazing down at him. 

“Lucius,” he whispered and pointed to himself. 

The young woman took his hand in hers and raised it to her lips. 

“Miriam.”