BRUEGEL TAROT: XVIII The Moon

It’s the Guys from “Supernatural”

The highway stretched into the distance; the cold jagged peaks in the horizon never neared.

Karla and Rachel sat in congenial silence while Bruno Mars played on the stereo. It was a long drive and half of it was already behind them. The full moon rose in the shimmering sky as the sun set at their back.

“Huh,” Rachel breathed, “seems like we’re going backwards.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yeah, we’re driving towards the darkness as we leave the light behind us. Like moving away from life, towards death.”

Karla sniggered, “Don’t be such a Debbie Downer.”

Rachel chuckled.

The long drive was only the start of a long goodbye and yes, Karla was aware they drove towards death. The ultimate destination of Grandpa’s long life.

Karla glanced in the rearview mirror. A black classic car was tailgating them, pushing them to speed up.

“Look, it’s the guys from Supernatural,” Karla said as the car changed into the fast lane.
The sisters watched it overtake them.

It was a Chevy Impala, but an earlier model and a convertible, unlike the one featured in the show. The top was down and two impatient women laughed and whooped into Karla’s side mirror. The driver wore a baby-blue headscarf wrapped around her hair, which billowed behind her; one gloved hand on the wheel, the other draped over the door. The passenger had a ponytail tied with a pink ribbon and curled into a single ringlet; she wore red Lolita heart-shaped sunglasses. The Impala’s bat-wing fins zipped by and the cat-eye taillights squinted at them as the car heaved and revved, then sped into the horizon. 

“Grandpa would have loved that,” Rachel grinned, “it was a 50s model, right?”

“Yep, he would know the exact year and the whole shebang, too. He talks a blue streak about cars.”

Rachel giggled.

The drive continued; blue shadows fell over the landscape. 

Karla and Rachel would stop at a motel. As Rachel read out the upcoming exits, Karla glanced in the rearview mirror.

“Huh,” she said, “the guys from Supernatural behind us again.”

The sisters fell silent as the eager black car overtook them. The two female passengers zoomed past with reckless abandon.

“Gosh, Karly, that was the same car!”

“I know, right! But how? At what point did we pass them?”

“Maybe they stopped for a bite somewhere?”

“Maybe.” 

Karla doubted but kept quiet; she didn’t recall any rest stops…

The road stretched ahead; they would soon near their stopover. As they approached their exit a car pulled up behind them. It drew close and honked. 

“I think it’s the same car again,” Karla frowned at the rearview mirror.

Rachel glanced back, “No way…”

“Ooh, that’s our exit,” she exclaimed as they passed a road sign.

Karla slowed down and signaled. The black car followed close in rude impatience. They took the offramp; the Impala pushing them to go faster. Karla resisted because she knew not how dangerous the junction into the state highway would be. The Chevy sped up as they rounded a curve and overtook them. Both women glared at the sisters as they passed; the pony-tailed passenger—her heart-shaped sunglasses now atop her head—stuck her tongue out at them.

 The black car squeezed in front of Karla’s Honda and merged onto the state highway. Karla screamed and slammed on the brakes when it disappeared under the nose of a semi-trailer truck with a horrible crunch and a flash of metal. Karla’s own car skidded with screeching brakes; Rachel shrieked. Karla maneuvered onto the shoulder; they came to a trembling stop. The truck zoomed past, not stopping for the black wreck in the grassland.

Rachel jumped out and ran towards the wreckage as Karla’s shaking fingers fumbled for her phone. She was about to dial 911 when Rachel’s perplexed expression in the beams of the headlight stopped her. She ran out to meet her sister.

“What the…?”

“There’s no one here,” Rachel choked, “there’s no one!”

Karla stared. Rachel was right, there was no one. The metal remains were rusty and overgrown with grass and devoid of humans. 

A cloud covered the moon and darkened the landscape. Rachel felt for Karla’s hand; the car-wreck disappeared! Nothing remained on the arid grass by the highway. As the moon shone again, something glinted in the grass at Rachel’s feet. She picked it up. It was a rusty 1950s Chevrolet hood emblem encrusted in the bent rims of heart-shaped sunglasses.

THE GODDESS TAROT: XIV Balance —Yemana

Wishing for Solitude

Dear Stella,

I have followed your advice column for years, but never had cause to contact you until now.

My family has owned Wraith Manor for two centuries, and, in it, I have enjoyed a most quiet existence.

I love the cold, drafty rooms and ancient halls. I spend my happiest moments in the solitude of home. At night, the stars peek through the old casement windows and the soft breeze blows through the dark hallways, dripping with the musk of my mother’s roses.

I am free to roam my domain at will; yet, now and then, infestation appears, like the biblical locusts.

In the past, I have removed these plagues with little effort, but now, try as I might, I cannot get rid of them. My tried-and-true tactics—footsteps, moving objects, torpedoes, wails, moans and slamming doors—no longer work. 

Worse even, the new vermin have taken my family portraits off the walls and installed pesky fireflies that light up with the flick of a switch.

I love fireflies as much as the next, but these little bugs, instead of blinking soothing green, light up in garish hues of white and yellow that glare and crackle.

Gone now is the moonlight wafting through the windows. Gone now is the sleepy silence of the hall, kitchen, ballroom and bedrooms. Instead, there is a constant chatter of voices by day, and a relentless buzzing by night. 

I have done my best to spook these pests away, but to no avail. I even reached out to my cousin at Canterville Chase, but he could not offer much help.

What can I do?

Spectrally yours,

Wishing for Solitude in Eternity

UNIVERSAL WAITE TAROT: XVI The Tower

Jem Thompson

Jem Thompson’s childhood best friend was Bruise, a mongrel dog mixed with stray, with a gray-black patch over his eye. Bruise died when Jem was a teen, and he missed his friend so much he never kept another pet again. There could be no other like Bruise. 

Marriage, kids, grandkids, widowerhood.

Every day, Jem Thompson would walk in the park that faced his house and sit on the bench by the mermaid fountain at its eastern corner. There he would watch the comings and goings of his neighbors, and revel in the games they played with their dogs. 

Late in the afternoon on a cloudy day, Jem Thompson sat at his bench longer than usual; fluffy white clouds had kept the beaming sun at bay and a cool breeze blew. He laid his head back on the hard wooden seat and took a brief nap. A cold wetness surprised Jem Thompson and he awoke to find Bruise’s soulful eyes gazing at him as the dog licked Jem’s fingers.

“Bruise?” Jem Thompson muttered in disbelief.

The dog yipped and Jem Thompson knew was Bruise, not another dog that looked like him. Bruise nuzzled his hand and then nudged Jem Thompson, now an old man, to follow him. The dog was relentless, and, with a snap of bones and a creak of the old knee, Jem Thompson stood, his hip jutting out sideways. Bruise walked a few paces, then returned to coax his old friend. With his slow and crooked gait, Jem Thompson followed his long-gone dog. It never occurred to him to fear the animal; this was Bruise, after all. 

Bruise led him across the street and down a narrow alley, away from the square with the park at its center he’d known so well for forty-odd years. He walked past houses he hadn’t seen in decades, since Madge’s death and the creaky knee had forced him into an almost sedentary life. He came to a brick-red townhouse that stood between two modern bungalows. Jem Thompson recalled it had been part of a row of townhouses; now it was the last one standing. The plain, modern eyesores had replaced the others. 

Jem sighed, winded and tired; Bruise trotted to the door. He barked and scratched it. The sun was low in the sky and Jem, unaware of how far he’d walked, stood like a fool before the house.

Bruise returned to his side and snapped at Jem’s hand, the way he’d always done when he’d wanted something from him. Jem sighed, and, shaking his head, tottered up the front path. He stood at the door, uneasy. With a deep breath, he rang the bell. An old woman opened; they stared at one another for a moment, then Jem’s eyes went from dull to shining with recognition.

“Fanny?” He said, surprised, “Fanny Markowitz?”

A slow smile spread over the woman’s face, “Jem Thompson, well I’ll be damned! It’s been, what, sixty years?”

Jem smiled at his old friend and was about to reply when a loud bang rattled the house.

“What the…?” Fanny exclaimed and turned to enter when Jem pulled her back. 

“I smell gas!” he yelled.

He took Fanny’s withered hand and let her to the street. Tongues of fire licked the kitchen curtains. Smoke billowed from the upstairs window-frames and, in the next instant, flames erupted from the shattered glass.

“Serena!” Fanny yelled.

“Is someone else inside the house?” Jem asked in alarm.

“Serena, my cat!” Fanny screamed, “I need to get her!”

She was about to lunge into the flames when they distinguished the silhouette of a dog in the gaping doorway. It carried something in its muzzle. 

Away from the burning house, the dog set the dangling bundle on the ground; it jerked and moved and ran to Fanny. Fanny cradled the calico cat in her arms. Jem turned to pet the dog, but Bruise had disappeared.

Fanny whispered beside him, “That was Bruise, wasn’t it?”

Jem nodded and moved his lips, but wailing sirens drowned out his answer.

GOLDEN BOTTICELLI TAROT: 6 of Wands

Perfumed Glass

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” Vicky squealed. Her thick round glasses made her look like an owl.

“Oh my gosh, I know!” Kathy giggled, “I didn’t think they even knew we existed!”

They glanced at themselves in the mirror; excitement beaming in their faces. Kathy put her earrings on. 

“Now for the final touch,” Kathy smiled at Vicky.

She picked up the perfume bottle and sprayed just a tiny amount on her neck and on her wrists. The perfume was her dearest possession; it had belonged to Tina, Kathy’s older sister, and Kathy only wore it on special occasions. She passed the bottle to Vicky.

“Really? May I?” Vicky asked.

“It’s for good luck,” Kathy answered.

Vicky was careful to only use a tiny spritz behind her ears. Both girls fell silent as jasmine and lemongrass filled the room.

“An angel passed…” 

“Tina, of course,” Kathy glanced at Vicky, her smile suspended in Tina’s scent.

Should she tell her best friend about Tina’s footsteps approaching her bed at nights, or about Tina’s laughter bursting through the walls when no one else was home? 

“I feel her sometimes, you know,” Vicky said, her voice cautious.

“Yeah,” Kathy mumbled, “she’s watching us from heaven.”

Vicky wanted to say more but turned to the mirror. She gasped.

“Look,” she pointed.

Kathy followed Vicky’s gaze. The mirror no longer showed the image of the two excited girls, instead it showed a party replete with their classmates, well, only the popular kids. Kathy and Vicky did not belong to this group, and this was the party they would never ever in their wildest dreams attend. No one would invite them, and should they show up, they would be out on their butts in a flash. Kathy glanced at Vicky, whose owl eyes looked like two round moons.

The image in the mirror wound through the throngs of teenagers laughing and drinking. A couch appeared and, in it, sat Chad and Ian, the two boys who’d asked Kathy and Vicky on a date. Kyle, their friend, sat on the nearby chair. They were joking and laughing and swigging the cans of beer in their hands.

“Are you guys going to pick up those two nerds?” Kyle asked.

“We’ll leave in a few minutes,” Ian replied, “don’t get ahead of yourself, the night is young and we’ve caught the prey.”

“Easiest hundred bucks I ever made,” Chad chuckled.

“Don’t forget you have to go all the way, otherwise you lose the bet,” Kyle retorted.

“No problem,” Ian said, “those uggos are already eating out of the palms of our hands. We got this.”

“It’s a done deal,” Chad drove the knife home. 

Kathy and Vicky stood speechless and shocked as they watched the exchange through the mirror. All the pieces fell into place; the date was just a game to them. Kathy felt the sting of tears and glanced at Vicky, whose glasses had misted over and wet streaks shone down her cheeks.

Tina’s perfume still hung in the air when the doorbell rang, and the mist from the spray hovered before the mirror. The girls’ eyes met and reached an unspoken agreement. Kathy flew out and reached the door as her father was about to open it.

“No Daddy, don’t,” Kathy whispered.

Her father stared at her through eyes sunken by deep sorrow. Tina’s death had left him haggard; a ragged soul in a middle-aged shell with a long life still ahead.  

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, we’ve decided not to go.”

He gave her a puzzled look; his eyes trying to pierce her innermost thoughts.

“Okay,” he reassured her, “you don’t have to go. I’ll handle this.”

He ushered Kathy upstairs; she joined Vicky and listened to the murmur of voices at the front door. Vicky touched Tina’s perfume bottle, then looked at the mirror. Through the perfumed mist, Tina’s smiling figure appeared in the glass. Her long black hair hung loose on her shoulders, and the green dress they’d buried her in shone like light passing through emeralds. 

“Thank you,” the girls murmured in unison. 

Tina smiled at them, and, as the mist dissipated, the girls noticed the pearly white wings on her back. 

TAROCCHI DELL’OLIMPO: Knight of Wands

Wagons Rolling Down the Mountain

I opened the balcony door and stepped out to the balmy evening. Rain had trickled down all afternoon and had wrecked our plans to climb the mountain under whose skirts the small hotel stood. It was an ancient house built during colonial times, made of adobe with dark and dank rooms. The balcony was a narrow ledge protected by wrought-iron, and I leaned on the railing as I gazed at the mountain nearby.

The sun had set moments before, and its last rays intensified the green of the mountain. Verde que te quiero verde, I thought, and watched the flitting hummingbirds defend their territory at the feeder in the walled garden below my room. Hummingbirds—such big wars raging in such tiny creatures. No wonder the Aztecs believed warriors reincarnated as hummingbirds; only the bees dared to defy them.  

Dusk descended, and with it an eerie calmness. I pulled up a chair and put my feet up on the railing; the cicadas’ fervent buzz inundated the evening like radio static. A humid breeze blew and wafted waves of jasmine and honeysuckle.

In the distance I heard the soft rumble of thunder and hoped rain would not ruin tomorrow’s expedition, again. Yet, as I listened, I realized it was not thunder I heard, but the soft grumble of hooves, and the click-clack of wooden wheels. I strained my ears and, sure enough, I distinguished the clip clop of horses and the rackety-rack of carts. A pilgrimage?

I glanced at the mountain and watched in awe as a long string of red mist descended the mountainside. It wound through the rocks and trees as if following a well-trodden path. 

I remembered what the owner had told us in the lobby, “Sometimes you can hear wagons coming down the mountain after a rainstorm. People say it’s ghosts, but I think it’s the wind blowing through the trees.” 

I would have agreed with him. Yet no one had mentioned the red meandering mist.

The water in the bathroom stopped and Tom stepped out.

“Shower’s free,” he said, and approached in his jeans and wet hair.

I did not answer, but stared mesmerized at the haze; the clatter of hooves reverberated in the mellow dusk.

“What is it?” He asked.

I pointed, “The mist. Isn’t it weird?” 

He watched for a moment and agreed. A white moon appeared in the sky and Venus, the evening star, blinked hello.

“How long has this gone on?” Tom wondered.

“A few minutes, it started after sunset,” I answered, “wait… listen.”

It was then I realized the cicadas were silent and the hummingbirds had vanished from the feeder. I told him so. Tom pulled up a chair beside me and we watched the fog snaking closer; it would soon engulf us.

The raucous hooves intensified, as if the sound belonged to the red cloudiness. Tom reached for my hand and squeezed it; there were no words in his mouth or mine.

The reddish mist was upon us now, and as it slithered past our balcony, I discerned the shapes and figures of horses and riders, and a regiment on foot. I recognized the puffy pants, armor plate, helmets and muskets of the conquistadors that had marched through this land five-hundred years before. 

They tramped right under us, oblivious to the garden wall and hummingbird feeder dangling from the ahuehuete tree. The cannon rattled as a horse pulled it over uneven ground. A rearguard soldier glanced up in passing and caught my gaze.

Señora,” his hollow voice rang in my ears as he nodded a gracious greeting.

The mist dissipated with the sudden flutter of a myriad of hummingbirds. Night fell. The sounds of hooves faded away as the cicadas chirped again. The soft breeze whirled jasmine, honeysuckle… and gunpowder.

TAROT DRACONIS: XII The Hanged Man

The House Told Me

The house menaced in the harsh sunlight. The yard was a barren plot of dry grass, and the broken windows looked like hollow eye-sockets. 

“Isn’t it great?” Miranda giggled and bounced on her toes. 

“Um…” I tried to stammer out a supporting response but couldn’t, for the life of me, fathom why anyone would buy this house. 

“It’s my first fixer-upper,” she squealed with delight, “it’s got real potential and I think we can turn a good profit.”

“Does Oscar agree?” I asked, knowing my sister’s penchant for pies in the sky. 

“You bet!” She said and beckoned me to follow her. 

I stared at the hideous building. It didn’t have the charm of a bygone architectural style most old houses had. It was square, dilapidated and bleak, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. 

“Let me show you,” Miranda took my hand and hurried me across the arid yard. 

Charm and beauty weren’t on the inside either. It was like walking into a box with low ceilings and no decorative features. Debris lay strewn about on the floor, lost and mismatched objects, broken glass and, in the corner, a creepy doll slumped against the wall. 

My heart skipped a beat when I beheld it. Only a bare rag of what may have been an apron covered the doll. Its arm was scorched black and it was missing an eye. Someone had pulled out most of its hair. To whom had this toy belonged?

“Do you know who lives here?” I asked Miranda, unable to peel my eyes off the unfortunate doll. 

“Um, no, it’s abandoned.” Miranda answered, oblivious to the anxiety in my voice. 

I cast one last look around the room as she led me towards the stairs. Eerie warped sunlight entered the window, and for the first time, I noticed the walls. My heart raced as my mind sought an explanation for the reddish brown spatters and streaks that lined the shabby wallpaper. What could have done this? These stains peppered every wall, and though they didn’t look like blood, I had the strange sensation they pointed to something. 

“Elise!” Miranda called from the upstairs landing. 

Reluctant, I climbed the stairs that creaked and cracked under my feet. Miranda stood at the top, arms akimbo, waiting for me as I dawdled. Shadows danced on the walls and ceiling behind her. I paused. Were they the distorted shapes of children? 

I gulped. My mind was playing tricks on me, but…

I reached the top of the stairs and entered the gloomy and messy second floor. 

“It doesn’t have the greatest view,” Miranda chatted as we crept down the hallway, “but we’ll figure something out.”

We entered one of the smaller bedrooms. I gasped and held back a scream. 

“What?” Miranda asked. 

“Who lived here?” I breathed. 

She followed my gaze and shrugged.

“So the windows have bars,” she stated with that annoying nonchalance that often made me want to punch her. 

“On the inside?” I exclaimed and pointed at the iron bars that ran from the ceiling to the floor. 

“Why not?” She shrugged; I gave her an annoyed glance. 

A draft blew in this dreary, ugly house and sent a chill up my spine. I whipped around, certain I’d heard a child’s whimper in that gust of air. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadow run into the adjacent door, but I didn’t dare look. Instead, I invited Miranda to lunch, the sooner to hightail it without hurting her feelings. She was so damn sensitive and so excited about this horrible house any objection would fall on deaf ears. 

As we turned to go, I glanced down the hall towards the master bedroom. In the fuzzy sunlight streaked on the wall, I saw, just for a moment, the dangling silhouette of a hanging man. I hurried my sister along and sped through the ground floor and its stained walls and into the dead yard. 

This house is dead, but the shadows live. The words pounded in my brain and it took me a while to compose myself. Miranda never noticed. 

“I’ve heard some stories,” Oscar whispered when I voiced my concern over the telephone the next day, “I heard the last owner, decades ago, hanged himself in a bedroom. They said he was heartbroken when his wife ran off with their kids.”

I said no more; in the background Miranda’s excited voice mixed with the rattle and boom of heavy machinery. 

I hung up and went about my day, trying, and failing, to get that house out of my mind. Oscar’s story rang true, but there was something…

Night fell; the phone rang. 

“Oh my God, Elise!” Miranda yelled before I could say the customary hello. 

“What? What’s happened?” I said alarmed. 

“You won’t believe what the workers found!”

“The skeletons of a woman and children entombed in the stained walls,” I blurted out. 

A pause. 

“How did you know?”

“The house told me…”

OLD ENGLISH TAROT: Ten of Cups

The Gilded Ballroom

Samuel shifted in his seat and rolled his shoulders back, trying to get comfortable in the cloth-draped plastic folding chair. The recital had begun, and while Alice gazed at the string quartet in rapture, Samuel fidgeted. Alice had begged him to join her at the concert, and though he hadn’t been reluctant to attend, now he found it boring.

He glanced around the mansion’s ballroom (now a museum) and marveled at the opulence of the Gilded Age. Baroque-style gold leaf adorned the high walls, and the marble floor shone with polish. Even the furniture seemed to sparkle with a gold sheen. Silk drapes hung on the floor-to-ceiling windows, and French doors opened onto a large stone terrace. A painted blue sky and clouds covered the ceiling, with cherubs at each corner and a large, ornate gold medallion at its center. Samuel sighed and turned his attention back to the performers. 

Music filled the room, yet Samuel had the uncanny feeling a fog was settling over the audience. His sight blurred and his chin drooped. He jerked awake at the sensation of falling, then endeavored to focus on the quartet, now playing a lively tune. Too lively, Samuel thought, for only the most dismal and somber pieces—Alice’s favorites—were on the program. He gazed at the musicians. 

Samuel frowned; wasn’t a woman in the quartet? An older, chubby and somewhat frumpy lady with black slacks and red cardigan fiddling on the viola came to mind. Now, there were men in black three-piece suits playing… a waltz?

Samuel scrunched his face and turned to Alice, but found only a side table with a Tiffany-style lamp beside him. He examined the lotus themed leaded glass lampshade with its bronze leaf-shaped mosaic base… Holy moly, a real Tiffany lamp! 

“What in the world…?” He murmured and scanned the room. 

Samuel gulped; he no longer sat on the folding chair among the spectators, but on a high-backed leather seat off to the side and by a window. Ladies in satin dresses, lace sleeves and low necklines, bouffant hairdos and sparkling jewels swirled on the arms of dapper men in tuxedos with stiff, high collars and slick hair. 

The room rang with the sound of laughter and merry conversation as the couples twirled around the dance floor. The piece ended, the music paused, and a hush fell over the ballroom. 

A strange tinkling sounded above Samuel; he glanced up and noticed the heavy crystal chandelier shaking and shimmering in the twilight. An astounded murmur rose through the crowd as the marble floor shuddered. Samuel kept his eye on the chandelier as it swayed back and forth. The chandelier creaked and the wiring snapped; he jolted.

“Wake up,” Alice hissed in his ear and gave him another discreet shake. 

Her angry gazed burned, and Samuel found himself back at the recital with the chubby lady on the viola. He scanned his surroundings. The furniture was the same, save for the hard plastic folding chairs placed at the center. No chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Samuel glanced at his neighbors and noticed some fast asleep with their chins on their chests. He was about to glare at Alice when the sleepers jerked awake, and in unison, yelled, “the chandelier!”

A spectral crash sounded through the room; the marble floor glimmered with the ghosts of shattered glass.

THE GODDESS TAROT: Two of Staves

Demon in the Mist

Laura gazes into the forest and her sight tries to pierce through the thick branches but sees nothing beyond the trees. She’s been at Rainier’s cottage for days, though for her it feels like years. He’s been absent just as long, a wanderer in the thick forest mist. 

In the morning she collects eggs and milks the goat and remembers her teenage self, always wishing to leave farm life behind her. Live in the city, be someone. Promises her devil made and… well, no, he kept. He gave her money and social status. Too late she realized what he expected in return; stupid girl. 

In the evenings Laura listens for Rainier, but only the sounds of the forest enter the window. Some nights she hears a bear or a wolf pacing. She lights the oil lamp Rainier left by the nightstand. Laura closes the chicken coop and brings the goat in, her only companion. 

Night falls. 

Laura sits by the window and listens to the forest animals, while a fire crackles in the hearth. She doesn’t need it, nights are mild, but the warmth and flickering light comforts her; pleasant company, fire and goat. An owl hoots and the sound travels from the treeline where she suspects it lives in a hollow trunk. 

The owl quiets and a chill crawls up Laura’s spine. She peeks out the window and sees nothing by a dank, thick mist. Neither moonlight nor starlight pierce the fog and Laura finds herself plunged into a strange world of darkness and silence. It’s a dead darkness with a coffin-like silence. She fixes her gaze on the fire, but its waning flames flicker with a warning hue. 

A change in the air; Laura’s nostrils flare as the pungent yet sweet smell hits her. It’s a scent meant to intoxicate, to obfuscate, to immobilize. She realizes the mist is not natural but man-made; someone has poured venom and evil into the fog. Someone wants to harm her. 

“Laura,” a voice whispers in the night. 

Laura glances around the room for a weapon to defend herself from the enemy lurking beyond the cottage. The poker; she attempts to reach for it but finds herself immobile. Panic rises and she wants to scream but cannot open her mouth. 

The goat places its head on her lap and consoles her but does not break the spell.

“Laura,” the voice taunts, “I see you.”

Laura watches through the open window as a figure emerges from the fog. It’s tall and clad in a black suit and hat, like the gangsters of old. Like her devil, though she knows it’s not him. Not for the first time, she wishes she hadn’t dropped her gun as she ran out the door the night she killed him. She’d once found the vintage clothing endearing, but now she realizes it’s a uniform of sorts; a way to identify them

The figure approaches, then stops at the fence. Laura knows it won’t stop him and glances at the door, wishing for Rainier. 

A barn owl soars through the mist; its vibrant white cuts through the black and Laura realizes the fog itself is black, not the world. The owl flies and swirls around the homestead and disperses the mist. Laura hears the flapping wings and with each flap her heart settles and the spell loses its hold. The barn owl lands on the windowsill and faces the man at the fence. Its screeches cut through the night and break the enchantment. 

The man sniggers.

“I’m not finished,” he whispers and his voice snags Laura’s brain. 

She shudders. He vanishes into the night.

The barn owl turns its heart-shaped head to face Laura, a creepy, yet comforting gesture. It hoots and flies away. The crescent moon shines in the sky. Laura gazes at a bright star and wonders whether it’s the same star she prayed by that night as she lay wounded on the riverbank.

TAROCCHI DELL’OLIMPO: Knight of Pentacles

Ethur

Cassiopeia rushed to Mom’s nightstand. The teacher’s lesson on the Trojan horse reminded her of the tiny figurine Mom had worn around her neck and Dad had buried in a drawer since she died. Cassie rummaged in the drawerful of knick-knacks Dad hadn’t yet had the heart to clean out until her fingers closed around a bauble wrapped in Mom’s cotton hanky. 

Tears sprung to Cassie’s eyes when she saw Mom’s initials knitted into the cloth but she fought them back and unwrapped the trinket. In her palm she beheld a black stone carved into the shape of a horse rearing on its hind legs. It shone iridescent gold when the light caught it and Cassie remembered Mom telling her it was Fool’s Gold, an obsidian with a gold sheen. Mom had promised Cassie would inherit it someday. Someone had wrapped a silver wire around it, simulating a saddle and bridle which twined into a long silver chain with no clasp, as if to bind the figurine into infinity. 

Dad didn’t think it worth much, it only had a deep and cutting sentimental value to him. But Mom had always told her ancestors had bequeathed it even after the townspeople had hanged Great-Grandma Cassandra as a witch three-hundred years before. 

At the thought of Great-Grandma Cassandra, the ancient graveyard by the meadow flashed through her mind. Cassie checked herself and endeavored to distract her thoughts away from the cemetery, though it was her most beloved place in the world. She and Dad had spread Mom’s ashes amidst the tombs of her ancestors. 

“Stop it!” She scolded herself. 

If she concentrated on a place, Cassie would find herself there. Once, while imagining herself as a hawk perched on a branch, she appeared atop a tall oak and had a harrowing time climbing down from it. She’d gotten better at controlling this gift. Now, by concentrating on her room, it served as a respite from the harassing torment of her walk home in her tattered sneakers and faded clothes. 

Cassie twirled her fingers around the obsidian horse, then draped the chain around her neck. In a flash, she stood at the old graveyard in the meadow. The peacefulness of the place ran through her body and washed away the distressing school day mired by constant bullying. 

Two groves flanked the old graveyard, one a barren clump of dead birches with peeling ghostly white bark and scraggly branches that rose upwards like supplicant fingers. Mom had said Great-Grandma Cassandra’s unmarked grave had withered those trees. 

On the other side, stood a thicket of hawthorns and redbuds that seemed in constant bloom and powdered the ground with pink and white blossoms. Whenever she walked among the ancient graves, the wind always stirred these blossoms and they clung to her hair like fairies. 

Cassie’s chest tickled. She gasped when she saw the tiny obsidian horse dangling by her bellybutton, kicking and bucking. She tried to grab it. The tiny horse, still on its long chain, slipped through her fingers and galloped up her arm and onto her shoulder, where it patted her skin with its glimmering hoof. It emitted a tiny huffy neigh and gazed at her. 

The wind gusted through the hawthorn and redbud blossoms and drew her attention. In the swirling pink and white buds a woman appeared with a long black dress, white apron and hair tied into a cap. She shimmered and seemed to meld into the wind until she hovered before Cassie. Their eyes met and Cassie perceived the same mystical pearlescence of her own malachite-green eyes. 

Cassie gulped; the woman ran a ghostly finger down Cassie’s nose, just like Mom used to do, only it felt like falling dew instead of Mom’s warm caress.

“Cassandra?” She squeaked. 

Cassandra nodded and smiled, then placed her fingertip under the tiny horse’s snout still perched on Cassie’s shoulder. The horse nuzzled it. 

“This is Ethur, he is your spirit-guide and protector,” Cassandra spoke, “only those like us can bring him to life. Ask and he will answer, go and he will follow, but know this, he is of Light and only works in Light. He will not heed the dark requests of your heart. He is your constant companion, guide and friend. Love him as he loves you, and when you leave this earth, he will sleep. Pass him down to your descendants until someone awakens him again.”

Tears rolled down Cassie’s cheek, but Cassandra, her fingers under the girl’s chin, continued.

“You have much magic in you and much to learn. As your gifts evolve, he will guide you to use them for the good of the world. Those who torment you do so out of fear, this is your fate, do not let them stop you in your path to lighten the darkness. Ethur, I, and your ancestral line are always with you. Fear not your destiny; embrace it instead.”

She bent down and kissed Cassie’s cheek. It felt like a cool speckle of rain under a clear sky. Another gust of wind and Cassandra vanished with the swirling blossoms. 

Cassie stood alone by the old graveyard. She gazed at Ethur on her shoulder; his obsidian gold sparkled in the sunlight. She smiled at him and placed a fingertip under his snout, just as Cassandra had done. He nuzzled it and warm energy rushed through her body. In her heart, she knew the gesture had formed the thickest of bonds. 

Voices approached and Ethur froze. He tugged at her neck as he slipped off her shoulder and dangled at her belly, a stone trinket once more. An old couple in hiking boots stopped to admire the blossoms and never noticed the girl with the shabby clothing who was there one moment and gone the next.

GOLDEN TAROT OF THE RENAISSANCE: VIII Justice

The Ancient Cemetery

The forest had swallowed the ancient cemetery until all that remained was the stone angel projecting from the undergrowth. The name on the tomb had vanished and moss and dead leaves covered the statue’s feet. Lichen clung to its wings. Twining plants wound and twirled around the statue’s legs, and Spanish moss hung from its outstretched arms. The right hand clutched a sword ready to strike. The left hand held an uneven balance scale with empty pans, their weights lost in the sands of time. A thin mist always hovered as a ghostly reminder of the long-forgotten names interred there. 

Miranda and Maureen had visited this place since their youth; the twin sisters had loved to meander around the mounds of earth, moss and protruding partial headstones. They’d loved to gaze at the stone angel with facial features smoothed out by time and the encroaching forest. Tall trees surrounded the burial grove and a break in the topmost branches allowed a tiny ray of sun to shine its feeble light on the statue. For decades, every Saturday, the sisters had taken the narrow and nigh invisible path to the ancient graves. Then had sat on a rock before the stone angel to enjoy a picnic of sandwiches, chips and soda. 

Birds trilled in the trees as Miranda traipsed through the path, broken and uneven by the thick roots of the tall oaks that lined it. Once Miranda approached the grove, all sound ceased and the perennial thin mist hung low about the ground. Here she found the solace and comfort she needed from the oppressive burden of loss. She missed her twin sister’s following footsteps and sometimes felt the warmth of her body beside her. But when she turned her head, Miranda saw only the rainbow caused by the feeble sunlight through the spectral mist. 

Miranda sat on the rock and wept. Maureen would never visit this place again; those happy picnics gone forever, ripped from her by a careless teenager from the prestigious boarding school on the outskirts of town and his fancy fast car. Miranda took out a black-and-white picture of the sisters in their younger days with their beehive hairstyle, strapless gowns and coy smiles. In their prom picture Miranda and Maureen were as young as the boy with the flying red car who had plunged Miranda into a life of one. 

“The sign flashed ‘walk’ and he didn’t stop! Oh, Maureen!” Miranda cried, and her voice broke the eerie silence. Her blood boiled as she recalled the police dropping the charges the moment the boy’s father had opened his checkbook. An unfortunate accident, they’d ruled. 

Now, the ritual comprised tears over a fresh grave in a proper cemetery, then a melancholy picnic before the stone angel. The boy zoomed past her as Miranda left the graveyard. She walked through the town center on her way to the forest; the bright red car parked on the street. The boy and his friends sat at a cafe’s outdoor patio, laughing and joking, not for one moment heeding the sad old woman with the quivering lips. Miranda hung her head and, with leaden steps, trudged to the ancient burial ground and its funereal serenity. 

On the rock, Miranda put her face in her hands and sobbed, her wails shaking the tree leaves, yet muffled by the mist. 

“Justice! What justice is that?” She lamented. 

“Miranda,” a voice whispered and Miranda glanced up. 

The trees rattled and a figure emerged from the statue. First the feet surfaced, then the tunic and the arms with the scale and sword. The face took on radiant and benevolent features and at last, the pearly glimmering wings materialized. 

The angel stood before Miranda and smiled. He showed her the balance scale. On the heavy plate, she saw an image of her sister’s grave, while on the lighter plate the image of the rich boy appeared. He was at the café as she’d seen him moments before, still laughing and joking. 

The angel swung the sword and Miranda smelled the metal as it swooped by her. The plate with her sister’s grave rose while the other lowered. The scale clicked into place. 

Miranda watched the principal expel the boy from school. The scale tipped and the once-generous over-protective father threw the boy from his house. Again the scale clicked into place and the boy, with blood-shot eyes and tattered clothing, stood on a street corner and leaned into the window of a black car. 

With each tip of the scale, the boy became a man. By the seventh click he was homeless and freezing in the driving snow of an unnamed street; the scales almost balanced. 

Miranda watched with bated breath as the scale tipped one last time. The homeless man stood on a street corner. The ‘walk’ sign flashed; he stepped off the curb. A bright red streak hit him. The speeding car did not stop for the vagrant dying on the street. 

The plates leveled on the angel’s balance scale and Miranda’s eyes filled with tears. 

“Thank you,” she whispered and wiped her eyes with her fingers. 

The angel vanished and the sun shone its single beam on the nameless grave with the stone statue. Wind gusted through the trees and lifted the oppressive sorrow from Miranda’s heart.