TAROT DRACONIS: 3 of Wands

Down The Mountainside 

Johnny, Alondra and Belenos descended the mountain. It was a harsh trek, especially for Johnny, as the summit was steep, jagged and rocky. Beneath his feet, the warm ground permeated through the soles of his dirty sneakers. To his right, the flaming river of lava flowed downhill, glimmering in the night and lighting the way.

He found the journey difficult; he was unused to hiking and traipsing up and down mountains. He tried to emulate Alondra’s graceful steps, but he stomped and trampled all over the strange, barren peak.

Who were these people that lived in a volcano? Did they not fear it would one day erupt like Krakatoa, or Mount Saint Helens? Did they even know about these events?

Belenos skipped from rock to rock, as if this trek were nothing but a light walk, and it made Johnny uneasy and somewhat jealous of Belenos’s grace and good looks. He hoped to grow up to be someone handsome and lithe.

He also wondered whether the other runes could help him descend this precarious mountainside.

“I cannot say,” Alondra said and Johnny gazed at her, astonished.

“You can’t say what?” Johnny asked.

Belenos paused and was gazing at them.

“I cannot say whether the other runes will work here. Raido is the rune of Journey, but it is the only one.”

“And now I’ve lost it.”

Alondra nodded.

“Although,” Alondra continued after a pause, “at first, I understood a little of Belenos’s tongue because he speaks like the Ancients. But, when we two are together, I understand him well, and so do you.”

“So?”

“So, you have the remaining runes, and Ansuz is the rune of Word. I think we all understand one another because of it.”

“Yes,” Belenos interjected, “when you speak, I hear strange words, but they make sense in my mind.”

Johnny raised his eyebrows; Belenos was right. He also felt a strange sensation in his brain, as if it jumbled and reorganized the information his ears relayed. 

“Maybe the other runes work here too.” Johnny stated; Alondra smiled and shrugged. 

They proceeded in silence as the descent became easier. Here and there, plant life sprouted from the barren earth, and Johnny realized they were nearing the fertile base of the mountain.

“Do you know any of these plants?” He asked Alondra.

“No, they are like some I know, but not the same.”

As they continued downwards, the vegetation flourished and soon Belenos had led them to a copse of tall evergreens. Johnny could not discern whether they were pines or spruces, but they had similar features as the evergreens back home. Although here, their leaves glittered with an iridescent sheen. In fact, this entire world glinted and sparkled and twinkled, even in the deep inky night. The air here was crisp and biting, and so deliciously fresh he almost tasted it. Johnny realized this was a world without industry, without pollution.

Dawn had crept as they made the laborious journey down the mountain. Its pale light shone on the cloud-bellies of the horizon, which glimmered with a mother-of-pearl glow. He glanced at Alondra, whose intent and puzzled gaze pointed towards the dawn. 

For the first time in a long time, he smiled. He liked this world and pondered whether he would ever want to leave.

“You do not belong here,” a voice whispered through the trees.

Chills ran up Johnny’s spine.

“Did you hear that?” He turned to Alondra, but she was still looking towards the new day. 

“What is it?” Johnny asked her.

“I think that is the West,” Alondra pointed towards the sunrise. 

“Yes, it is,” the same voice replied. 

Alondra and Johnny whipped around, searching for the owner of the voice. A kind smile formed on Belenos’s lips. 

“Who’s there?” Johnny called.

“I am,” the voice said. 

“Who are you?” Alondra asked.

“I am me,” the voice giggled.

“A joker,” Johnny huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“No,” the voice replied.

It bounced around them, so they could not pinpoint its location; they jerked and bobbed their heads like cats hunting invisible bugs. 

“Where are you?” Alondra asked.

“Here!”

They whipped around towards the voice and spotted a path to a grove. Belenos beamed and pointed to a tiny cave entrance on a nearby ledge.

“I guess we have arrived,” Alondra stated. 

The voice giggled.

TAROCCHI DELL’OLIMPO: XIII Death

A Helping Hand

Cassie Power walked out of the school building and said goodbye to Mrs. Hall, now that the amiable teacher had commented she never saw Cassie at the door anymore. Mrs. Hall had a habit of standing by the front double doors and saying goodbye to all the students. Small town, small school.

A light breeze played with Cassie’s hair as she stepped into the sunshine. It was a chilly breeze, and she hoped summer would last just a little longer.

She walked down the school path and turned the corner. Out of sight from everyone, Cassie would hide behind a tall oak and use her jumping powers to transport herself home before the bullies followed her.

Then, something reached out and tripped her. She lost her balance and, in slow motion — at least to her — fell flat on her face, and onto the hard cobblestone.

Laughter erupted around her, and through watering eyes, she saw Becky, Kendra, and Paula guffawing. Cassie tried to pick herself up, but someone pulled her leg from under her and she went down again.

Tears stung her eyes as the mocking laughter filled her ears. Kids everywhere gazed at her and pointed, smirking. They encircled her and jeered at her. Every time Cassie tried to stand, someone pushed her, and she fell. Cassie’s hands and cheek stung from the falls, and she was certain her jeans had ripped — Dad could not afford new ones — and she had scraped her knee. 

The rage and humiliation rose and spilled as tears; these tears only made the bullies laugh harder. The laughter entered her ears and multiplied in her brain. It blocked her mind and turned Cassie into a mockery of an automaton, like the wind-up monkey that clapped the cymbals. Up and down, again and again; this loop of humiliation and mockery with neither clear nor graceful exit ensnared her.

Then, the most curious thing happened, the laughter ebbed away until only a few snickers remained.

Cassie lifted her eyes off the floor and saw a hand reaching out to her. The hand was rough and strong and reminded Cassie of a bear’s claw. She traced her gaze over the wrist attached to a brown, muscled arm. Then along a square torso and up into the smiling blue eyes of the kneeling, long-haired, bearded young man before her.

He winked at her, and Cassie placed her grateful, tiny hand on top of his thick fingers. The powerful arm helped her rise, and Cassie thought he could lift her off her feet with that arm. The man also rose, until he almost touched the clouds gathering overhead, like the giants in the fairytales she still read in secret. He was taller than anyone Cassie had ever seen; taller than Adrian, and taller than Dad. 

“Are you all right?” The man said in a deep, rolling voice.

Cassie nodded, blushing, “Yes, thank you.”

The man gazed at her for a moment and Cassie thought he looked familiar. Something in his piercing blue eyes caught her attention, and reminded her of… but the cool breeze blew the recognition away. 

The man then glared at all the surrounding bullies, now silent.

“You all sound like hens,” he said and turned on his heel.

Cassie dusted herself off and tried to hasten after him, but Kendra pushed her. Cassie regained her footing and spun around to face the enemy. Kendra’s lips stretched into a mocking grin, she threw her head back and… clucked.

Kendra gasped and placed her hand across her mouth. 

Paula and Becky opened their mouths to speak, “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

An instant later, the small circle of desperate bullies was clucking with panic in their eyes. They jittered in place and walked in circles, like, well, headless chickens. The thought brought a smile to Cassie’s lips, though she fought back her own laughter lest she also turned into a silly hen. Also, Cassie knew too well the jagged, salty taste of humiliation. 

Instead, Cassie hurried, hoping to catch up to the man.

“Wait!” she called, “What’s your name?”

But there was no sign of him, only a cat lazing atop the hood of a parked car gave her a disinterested yawn.

UNIVERSAL WAITE TAROT: XVI The Tower

I Started a Lie

Sheilah glanced around her bedroom as tears sprung to her eyes. She pinpointed the moment her world crashed. It all started with a fib; a little white lie, a lie of omission.

Sheilah turned on the radio, no longer able to bear the silence. The Bee Gees sang “I Started a Joke”, and the song hit her; it chided her. Disgusted with it, and herself, she turned it off and silenced the shaming tune. 

She started no joke. She had stayed silent, then uttered a fib, which snowballed into a monstrous lie. Before she knew it, she was standing in the ring of fire caused by it.

The shame smoldered in her mind and stung the back of her eyes as more tears welled up and ran down her cheeks, like liquid smoke. Her ears burned and her chest rattled from the raging force of the lie.

If only I had shut the fuck up, she thought.

But ‘if only’ was too late. ‘If only’ was a dead wish in a dried up wishing well. That fib, that little innocent lie, why did she say it? 

Even now, as she replayed the events leading up to that moment, as she lived with the consequences, she could not say what possessed her to fib.

The school expelled an innocent person. A person, a friend, unable to afford a permanent record tarnished by such a disgraceful expulsion. 

Sheilah tried to fix it, to no avail. Those once unspoken words now boomed louder than her voice, which dissipated like ashes in the space between her and the school principal. 

“I was afraid,” she said for the first time.

The realization smacked her right in the chest. It was fear, fear made her lie. But fear of what?

“Fear of these very consequences,” she said.

The silent bedroom replied with more silence until her sobs broke through it.

Sheilah lay down on the floor, rolled herself into a ball, and cried. The day turned to dusk, and night soon spilled its inky darkness over the world, and still Sheilah cried. The room darkened around her, but she noticed nothing.

“Sheilah,” a voice whispered, and Sheilah opened her salt-rimmed eyes.

“Sheilah,” the voice said again.

“Who is it?”

“You can still make it right,” the voice whispered. It pealed like heavenly bells.

“How?”

“Tell the truth,” the voice said, and a loving touch warmed her shoulder, yet she saw no one.

“It’s too late!”

“No, it’s never too late to be truthful. Come, I will guide you. But first, I must apologize. I wasn’t there when you needed me, and this is the result.”

“Who are you?”

“You know me, I appear in adversity, and I am here now.”

Sheilah felt a soft kiss on her cheeks and arms that pulled her off the floor. In a daze, she grabbed her backpack, which held the crumpled, evidential truth. The loving, invisible fingers closed around her hand and guided her out the door. A resolute warmth flowed through her skin and into her tingling spine. 

“Come now, let’s make it right,” the mellifluous voice sang in her ear.

“But who are you?”

“I am Courage.”

BRUEGEL TAROT: 5 of Chalices

Grim Encounter

Jeb and Billy stepped out of the bar as if floating on clouds. Their heads swam with every step, and their faces glowed with a foolish grin. They ambled along in the humid night. The chilly breeze cooled their blazing cheeks, and the air smelled of wet earth.

“I guess it rained,” Jeb slurred.

“We weren’t in there that long, were we?” Billy answered, and hiccuped.

Jeb shrugged and gazed at the sky. A thin shaft of moonlight pierced the thick clouds overhead.

“It was still daylight when we entered the bar, and not a cloud in the sky.” Jeb gave Billy a lazy and dazed grin.

“Maybe we are Whip n’ Wrinkle and we walked out twenty years later,” Billy suggested.

“Rip van Twinkle… no, Winkle.”

“That’s… what I said.”

The brothers giggled like schoolboys and sauntered on, swaying now and again.

“Damn that Ol’ Hans. Once he gets talkin’ there’s no stoppin’ him,” Billy spoke after a while, as the cool night ebbed his boozy buzz.

“Yep, but he spins a good yarn. He’s a helluva folklorist, if there ever was one,” Jeb replied.

“Ha!” Billy snorted, “He tells half the stories backward and confuses fairies with leprechauns.”

“Ain’t leprechauns a type of fairy?” Jeb asked.

“Don’t you start,” Billy glared at him askance.

Jeb giggled.

The cloudy night drew around them as they turned down the country lane towards home. Only the faint beams of porch-lights guided the way. Jeb wished he had his flashlight with him and said so. Billy harrumphed. In their drunken state, it occurred to neither of them their cellphones could act as flashlights, so what had begun as a swaying amble now turned into a precarious trek.

A crisp breeze blew through the trees lining the lane as a patch of sky opened above them. The half moon shone on a nearby tree.

“What’s that?” Jeb stopped Billy and pointed towards the tree.

Through his boozy daze, Billy glimpsed something white billowing beside the tree. He blinked a few times and squinted, trying to focus his eyes. He had forgotten his glasses and the undulating whiteness took on a spectral blur.

Chills ran up his spine as his befuddled mind recalled the tall tales Ol’ Hans had regaled them with in the bar.

“A ghost!” Billy said and Jeb paled.

“You think?”

“Uh-huh,” Billy nodded as the thing quivered before their eyes.

“Uh-oh, what if it sees us?” Jeb said, his eyes darting side to side, searching for a hidey-hole. But… Could you hide from ghosts?

“If we don’t look at it, it won’t see us,” Billy said matter-of-fact.

“Like… Cats,” Jeb answered.

“Yup… Wait, what?”

But Jeb had moved on, and was tiptoeing past the ghost with both hands at his temples, shielding his eyes, like horse blinders. He froze with one foot in front of the other. Still shielding the corner of his eyes, Jeb turned inch by inch towards Billy, who stood stiff as a board, though with quivering knees.

“You hear that?” Jeb whispered, and the soft sound cut through the heavy darkness.

“Yeah,” Billy squeaked.

“It came from the ghost,” Jeb said.

Billy nodded.

The brothers stared at one another for a moment, Billy opened his mouth to speak, but a low growl near the tree killed the words in his throat. Then a sorrowful howl meandered through the forest. It crescendoed as it approached, and the brothers, ashen-faced, watched in terror as the ghost hovered for an instant and took flight towards them.

Its flapping and quick approach stopped their hearts but kick-started their legs. Jeb and Billy, neither athletic nor limber, sprinted home while the ghost fluttered and thrashed at their napes, lashing out and tousling their hair. Screeching like frightened squirrels, they reached the safety of their house faster than either of them could say Usain Bolt.

They locked the door, drew all the blinds and huddled in their living room until sleep overtook them. 

Sunlight woke Jeb. He rubbed the sleep off his eyes. He lay sprawled on the couch, one foot on the floor. 

Billy snorted himself awake and blinked at Jeb. He had draped himself on the high-backed chair with limbs contorted every which way. 

“If anyone asks,” he said, “we fought the thing off.”

Jeb nodded, “like the Brave Little Sailor.”

“Tailor.”

“Whatever.”

Birds twittered outside their window and a soft thump on the door meant the newspaper had arrived.

Billy rose from the chair and rubbed his back and neck. Groaning and muttering something about feeling stiff, like RoboCop, he blundered and tottered towards the door. 

He opened it and grabbed the paper. 

Wind gusted and lifted the discarded white rag lying on the lawn. It lingered for an instant, waving goodbye, before the wind blew it away. The brothers were none the wiser.

OLD ENGLISH TAROT: XVIII The Moon + XVII The Star

Ella

Ella sat by the window; moonlight cast a silvery glow over the snow-covered ground and the smooth surface of the frozen lake. Stars scintillated in the heavens, and Ella marveled at how bright they seemed despite the moon’s radiant glow. The wind crooned through the window and picked up stray flurries that glittered like fluttering grains of sugar. Frost settled over the snow and froze the powdery fluff so that moonbeams caught the individual crystals here and there, sparkling like diamonds on the soft ground; a mirror image of the twinkling stars in the sky. An owl hooted nearby, and the sound seemed to cast a spell over the shimmering landscape. 

There must be magic tonight, Ella thought, good magic, as the world seems sprinkled with sugar, like icing on a cake.

Ella pulled her cream-colored flannel robe over her paisley blue pajamas and turned away from the window. She glanced at her bed with its purple flowered bedspread and the one teddy bear she had not yet parted with leaning against the pillow. Over the last few months, she had exchanged her toys for posters of cute boy bands and celebrities. Necklaces and bracelets now dangled from the corners of her vanity’s mirror, and a jewelry box had replaced the Barbie dolls sitting atop the dresser. 

She reached into the pocket of her robe, and, smiling, took out her brand-new lipstick. She had cajoled her mother into buying it for her. It was her very first, and it was a soft pink hue, though she had tried to convince her mother the bright red “Cadillac Heart” shade suited her better.

“No baloney, Miss Mahoney,” her mother had put her foot down and glared. 

Beside the jewelry box stood the bottle of her first perfume, which her beloved aunt gave her as a birthday gift. It had started the transformation inside her. 

Facing the mirror, Ella traced the lipstick over her lips, marveling at how the paint changed their appearance. She pressed her lips together to even out the color—like her aunt taught her — then puckered them and beamed at herself, giggling. 

Ella sighed and returned her gaze to the sugary cake-world outside her window. A glimmer in the sky caught her eye, and the thought she should wish upon that star flashed, but her new grown-up mind stifled that spark.

“You’re too old to believe in fairytales,” she chided herself; the owl hooted once, as if disagreeing. 

The star, one of many, flickered again and, unbidden, the wish for a handsome prince blossomed in her mind. Feeling silly, Ella slid her feet off the window-seat. 

She was turning away when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She fixed her gaze on the frozen lake. Her heart pounded as a figure floated across the ice. In the moonlight, she discerned someone approaching her house.

She gulped; was it possible her wish was coming true? She wondered whether to call her parents, who were watching TV in the living room; the muffled sound of the program seeped through the otherwise silent home. Yet something kept her rooted to the spot. Awe, perhaps, mingled with a tad of apprehension.

The figure neared and crossed the property boundary into the backyard. Ella grinned; the moonlight shone on the figure of a young man about her age. He was handsome, like the boy celebrities plastered on her wall. He glided with a cool swagger and, as he reached her window, a smile lit up his face.

Ella and the shimmering prince gazed at one another through the frost-lined pane. The prince reached out his hand and placed it on the glass, beaming his royal smile.

“Let me in,” his mellifluous voice broke the frozen silence, “I’m cold.”

Ella contemplated his beautiful eyes as her hand edged towards the latch. Her fingers closed around it.

She blushed at the boy’s adoring gaze, while her brain instructed her wrist to turn the latch and open the window. 

An instant later, Ella gasped and yanked her hand back, shaking her head. She had caught the flash of malice in the prince’s eyes. Her heart thundered in her ears and chills crawled up her spine.

The prince scowled, and his whole countenance darkened.

“Let me in,” he demanded, but Ella shook her head.

She opened her mouth to scream, but terror caught in her throat as the glass splintered where the prince’s fingers still rested upon it.

“Let me in,” he growled, but Ella refused.

Help me, she thought, her mind racing as she noticed the fiery-red glare of the prince’s pupils. They burned into her like hot, furious coals.

“Let me in,” he snarled and gnashed his teeth.

“No,” she whimpered.

Someone help me, please, she implored.

The prince-demon balled his talon-fingers into a fist. Ella felt her heart would burst out of her chest. The prince-demon drew back the fist and was about to smash the window, when a Snowy Owl swooped down upon him. Amid the flutter of blinding white and bloodcurdling screeches, Ella shrieked as the prince-demon shattered into a thousand glowing cinders that dissipated into the night.

OLD ENGLISH TAROT: Queen of Cups

Reyna’s  Oak

The statue stood in the old graveyard since time immemorial. A stone woman sat on a throne and held up a goblet in an eternal salutation to the good life. The throne perched atop a tomb, and a tall, thick oak tree flanked it, like a sentinel protecting his queen. Time had smoothed the statue’s nose, eyes, and mouth into bumps and valleys, and the name on the tomb had faded into oblivion long ago.

The carved folds of her dress were now smooth lines covered in moss and bindweed. Ivy slithered around her bare, polished feet and crawled up her lap, winding itself around the arm holding the goblet aloft. No one knew her name, the villagers all called her The Queen.

She was the heroine of many fanciful legends about her identity and contribution to the world. People surmised she was Guinevere, or Boudicca, but the mystery hovered still over the village of Reyna’s Oak.

The statue had been many a scholarly enterprise for decades. Historians and archeologists came from the big universities to determine her name and age. Many experts said medieval sculptors carved her, but others thought she was Roman, and still others believed she was even more ancient. They brought machines and dug around her feet. They used ground-penetrating radar to peer under the slab of stone that covered the grave beneath the throne. There was a skeleton down there, they said, but without exhumation they could know no more.

The village council hemmed and hawed every time someone — always an outsider — suggested breaking the stone beneath her feet. They stonewalled all attempts to dig deeper into The Queen’s history.

The villagers of Reyna’s Oak considered The Queen a landmark, a patrimony of their village, and they stalled all endeavors to deface her. They understood something the erudite scholars and archeologists did not: The Queen’s well-being affected Reyna’s Oak’s well-being. The tomb bound the village to it, as if Reyna’s Oak’s life began with The Queen’s death.

The goblet The Queen held was always full of water. How much water remained in the cup at the start of spring determined the harvest and economic development for the rest of the year.

If the water in the goblet was low, then the village — poor and rich alike — would have a harsh year. If the water brimmed over, then the village rejoiced, for abundance lay ahead. The goblet had never been dry.

One night, a terrible storm raged. It came in a banging flash and villagers scattered, running to their houses as hail and rain pelted them from the sky.

Taking refuge in their homes, they watched in horror as lightning zapped down and struck the old cemetery at the center of town.

Many screamed, others gasped, and all hoped The Queen remained unscathed.

Thunder, lightning, and hail pummeled the village all night, but by morning, the storm had abated.

The villagers breathed a collective sigh of relief as they took stock of their property. Most buildings were undamaged.

Not a significant loss, they murmured. Phew, they breathed.

Then the screams sounded throughout the village streets.

Lightning had struck The Queen.

The guardian oak stood with its thick trunk split and charred, and groaned in pain and sorrow as its branches swayed in the cool breeze. The Queen’s goblet lay on the ground with its cup separated from the stem. The cup — thank heavens — remained full. A jagged crack marred the smooth statue as the lightning left its trace. The tomb beneath the stone had shattered, and a hole gaped. A few people dared to peer inside it, others turned their heads.

Those who dared a glance reported seeing nothing but earth and stone, despite the assurances of the myriad of scholars of a human skeleton buried in the ground. Many shrugged and stated that academics rarely knew what they said. Most looked at one another askance, superstition shining in their eyes and wondering if perhaps this was a bad omen.

That night, the villagers awoke to the sound of a woman singing through the village streets. The voice was both sweet and hollow, and an eerie mist spread over the town. The meek cowered in their beds, while the bold dared to peek out the windows. They reported the spectral figure of a woman in a long, flowing dress floating down the street. Barking dogs quieted and whimpered as she approached. The mist thickened and soon engulfed the village.

The next morning, the scholars came, alerted to the damage done to The Queen. They arrived at the quiet village and wondered that no one was in sight. They knocked on doors, but no answer came. Then they peeked in the windows and found the houses empty of living souls. The mystery of Reyna’s Oak’s disappearance only deepened when the scholars read the last entries in the vanished inhabitants’ journals.

UNIVERSAL WAITE TAROT: Page of Swords + XVIII The Moon

Strangers

“Hey, Lori,” Joe called, “come see!”

He stood by the window that peered out to the meadow beyond the backyard’s wrought-iron fence.

Lori joined him.

“What do you make of this?” He asked.

She followed his gaze to where a young man was lighting a campfire. He was tall and muscled and Lori thought he was “ruggedly handsome”, though she would never admit it to Joe. 

“Are people allowed to camp here?” She asked.

“I dunno,” Joe replied, “the realtor only said the meadow lies beyond the property line and it belongs to the state park.”

“Huh… Maybe the park allows camping in this area.”

Joe shrugged. 

Lori examined the man, both with awe and apprehension. He was dark-haired and with weatherbeaten skin and the way he squatted… There was something odd about him.

“He doesn’t belong here,” she murmured.

“Should we call the police?” Joe asked.

“No, I mean… I don’t know how to explain it,” Lori answered.

Joe gazed at her, waiting.

“It’s like, have you noticed how guys don’t look like him anymore? Like he’s not from around here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, he lit that fire without lighter fluid. How many guys can do that nowadays?”

Joe raised his eyebrows; she had a point.

“Also, he hasn’t taken out a phone or some fancy-pants camping doodad most people use today. And check out his clothes, it seems he’s mixed and matched every clothing style since time began.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And that hunting knife strapped around his waist looks more like the swords they used in Gladiator.”

“Something’s off.”

A young woman approached the man. She wore a yellow old-fashioned raincoat and a cloche hat. Her boots had spats on them, and though the raincoat hid the rest, Lori glimpsed pinstriped trousers.

“She looks like someone out of I Love Lucy!” Joe exclaimed.

Lori nodded, her brow furrowed. The young woman was out of place, too. No, they were out of time, as if they came from another time, or from many other times.

The back door opened, and Lori saw Joe walk across the yard. She stood, frozen in place.

“Hey there!” Joe called as he approached the couple.

They stiffened and stared at him. The rain drizzled, and wet sprinkles appeared on Joe’s shirt.

“Is everything all right?” Joe called.

Lori held her breath as the woman placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

The man rose, wrapping his arm around the woman’s waist, while his other hand slid across his chest and hovered over the ‘hunting knife’. Not taking their eyes off Joe, they said nothing.

Lori’s heart skipped a beat when the woman slipped her free hand into her coat pocket. Did she have a gun? Lori’s breath came in rapid gasps as Joe, spotting the movement, stood stunned like a deer in headlights.

Thunder clapped, and in a flash of light, the couple vanished. Joe’s ashen face stared wide-eyed at Lori. Wisps of smoke rose from the abandoned campfire. 

THE GODDESS TAROT: Eight of Cups

Nothing Special About the Lighthouse

Irene crossed the street and followed the sidewalk to the beach entrance. She leaned on the stumpy seawall separating the beach from the sidewalk and took off her shoes. Summer was over, yet the weather remained warm. The salty breeze played with her hair, and the moonlight shone on the breaking waves. She crossed the sand and let the waves lick her warm feet. The icy water bit at her toes.

Irene stepped back, beyond the reach of the waves, and trudged on the sand towards the lighthouse. Its beacon rotated in the night air and lit up the rocks as it passed over them. Those jagged rocks had been the culprit of many a shipwreck, but no ship had entered the harbor since… Who knew?

The murmur of the lapping waves crowded her hearing and cleared her mind of the sad thoughts of the day. She recalled walking with Grandpa Nathan along the beach as a child. He would tell her folklore and fairytales as the waves caressed their feet, and their footsteps remained imprinted on the wet sand. She marveled at how quickly the water wiped them away, as if their existence were nothing but a flutter in time.

Grandpa would never take her on his night walks, because she should have been in bed. But Irene often crawled out of it and, from her window, watched his rickety silhouette make its way to the lighthouse.

“What’s at the lighthouse?” She asked once.

“Nothing,” Grandpa said with a stern eye, despite his grinning lips.

Irene shrugged and let the matter drop.

“Go to bed,” Grandpa ordered afterwards, as if he had only just realized the lateness of the hour.

Moonlight peeped in through the window and gleamed on the wedding picture of Grandpa and Stella—her real grandmother—on the mantlepiece.

Irene knew Erica, the woman who raised her after her parents died, was no blood relative of hers. She was Grandpa’s second wife; Stella died long before Irene was born. She loved Erica all the same.

The sand stuck between Irene’s toes as she walked to the lighthouse for the first time in many years. Glancing at the houses lining the beach, she imagined someone at their window wondering who the woman in the black skirt and blazer was, what she was doing there, and what was so special about the lighthouse at night.

“Nothing,” she would have said, but there was no one at Grandpa’s house.

He died long ago. And today, Irene had buried Erica. In all the years she had lived with them, Irene had never gone for a night walk. She left for college soon after Grandpa’s death and started her life in the city, though always in touch with Erica. Now Erica left too, and for the first time, Irene went for a night stroll on the beach.

The lighthouse rose before her. Lost in her reverie, Irene did not realize when she reached it. She put on her shoes and glanced towards the lighthouse-park entrance. The gate was closed. Irene sighed and looked up at the smooth building atop the rugged rocks. Grandpa was right, there was nothing special about the lighthouse at night.

As she turned to leave, the ocean breeze carried a happy giggle. Irene scanned the area for its source and decided it came from the park.

She remembered visiting the park with Erica on a hot day; the sun blinded her as she crossed the gate. There was nothing special about the lighthouse in the daytime, either.

Irene heard the giggle again. Should she investigate? She climbed up the dangerous rocks, cautious and teetering, but too curious to leave.

She reached the lighthouse, and in the moonlight, she discerned two silhouettes on a bench. A young man and a young woman sat talking and giggling, and from that distance, Irene noticed they were very much in love.

She pondered whether to call the police.

Then the young man spoke and Irene froze.

“Stella,” he said and Irene’s heart skipped a beat, “will you marry me?”

“Yes, Nathan,” Stella replied, her voice sparkling with joy.

Irene gazed at the couple; the moon shone on their faces. Tears sprung from her eyes when she recognized the lovers whose wedding picture had sat on the mantlepiece all her childhood.

GOLDEN TAROT OF THE RENAISSANCE: Knave of Pentacles

Taps

The tap-tap-tapping woke Lars every night. It did not frighten him; he convinced himself it was all part of the old house’s charm. He told himself it was all right since the home inspector found nothing of structural concern.

Little by little, since moving into the old house, he had gotten used to every creak and moan. He had identified the cause of most noises, save for the tap-tap-tapping. He could not explain it away. As the days passed, it got louder and louder. For the past few nights, Lars had walked around the house, trying to find the cause of the tapping.

He went to the library and looked up the house in the town’s public records. It was two centuries old.

The records stated the grandson of the original owner disappeared. The police blamed the stepmother. She stood trial, but because no one discovered the body, the jury acquitted her on all charges. Her defense claimed the boy wandered off into the woods and got lost. The boy never reappeared.

Years later, a new family bought the house. A child from this new family also vanished, but in this case, no one suspected foul play. This child too must have gotten lost in the thick woods that engulfed the property. The townspeople thought evil beings haunted the woods; they still believed in old superstitions and whispered about witches, ghosts, ghouls, and changelings.

Lars frowned as he read further. Each time the house exchanged hands, a child disappeared. No one ever found the missing children. The woods swallowed them; the townspeople said. 

Lars left the library, puzzled and somewhat concerned. The realtor had never mentioned these incidents, though—Lars reasoned—they had no direct connection to the house, only to the surrounding woods. He found no mention of strange taps in the records or the old microfilmed newspapers. Besides, Lars, a bachelor, had no children. 

Lars glanced out the window at the darkened forest and resolved never to hike it without a compass or GPS. He turned off the light, rolled onto his side, and fell asleep. 

The tap-tapping woke Lars soon afterwards.

It was loud and concentrated in one room of the house. Lars followed the sound to a small door in the smallest bedroom. He gulped. He had read Edgar Allan Poe in high school and hoped he would not find children’s skeletons encased in the wall. 

Lars knocked on the tiny, child-sized door. To his surprise, the plaster on the wall beside it fell off, and a golden shaft of light seeped through a tiny pinhole.

“This isn’t an outer wall,” Lars whispered.

He shut one eye and peeped through the hole.

Two patrolmen knocked on the door. Lars had not been to work, nor phoned in for several days; after many failed attempts to reach him, his boss called the police.

The officers entered the house, but found it empty, though Lars’s furniture and belongings remained; nothing else seemed amiss. 

“One more for the books,” Officer Jackson shrugged as they closed the front door, “it’s always this address. D’you think we oughta search the woods?”

“Shh…” Officer Maxwell replied, “listen…”

A faint tap-tap-tapping sounded through the house.

“Let’s check that out,” Jackson said, but Maxwell, placing his hand on his partner’s shoulder, stopped him.

“My old man always said to never investigate mysterious taps, and this house is chock-full of mystery.”

GOLDEN BOTTICELLI TAROT: Ace of Wands

Golden Goose

Pat gave Lena the money and watched through the window as the dusky evening swallowed her up—Pat hoped—forever.

She closed the blinds; she must start dinner. Pat entered the kitchen and stared at the counter, now bathed in the evening light shining through the box windows. Dusk gleamed, its indigo hue broken by the last rays of sunlight that shot out of the earth and colored the fluffy bellies of the cloudy sky.

Pat took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened them moments later. She was still standing by the counter in the darkening kitchen as the gloom engulfed the cabinets and the glazed white backsplash behind the spotless stove.

I should turn on the lamps, she thought, and flicked the light-switch.

As the electric beams flooded the kitchen, a light broke through her own dark thoughts. A wave of emotion rose through her feet and broke with a thundering crash in her chest, right by the heartbeat. Tears came unbidden as Pat leaned against the kitchen table with its inlaid wooden, multihued rhombi arranged in a star pattern. It was a beautiful table, and she contemplated it, trying to keep the toxic thoughts at bay.

Lena came and went; now, she was a thorn in Pat’s side, though once a beloved daughter.

Tonight was the last time, Pat promised herself, though her resolution faltered.

Could she ever do it?

Hoping the darkness would swallow Lena up forever differed from wishing her harm, she persuaded herself. With a shake of the head, Pat chided herself for her guilty wish as Lena left with money in hand.

Though once a happy child, Lena fell in with a dangerous company as a teenager. Despite Pat’s and Ted’s entreaties, Lena chose the path of fun and recklessness, which had led her down a speeding highway of drugs and booze.

Ted had not lived to see the jittery waif Lena had become. Her first arrest had ended with Ted’s massive heart attack.

Pat clenched her fist as she recalled using Ted’s savings to bail her daughter out of jail. Her head throbbed, and her pounding heart shook her entire frame to the core.

Lena left soon afterwards and once in a while returned, sometimes sober and apologetic, though most times high as a kite, and always begging for money. Pat always complied.

A stifled sob broke through the kitchen’s silence.

“No more,” she whispered, “please give me the strength to let her go.”

Pat had used much of her own savings to pay for Lena’s first stint in rehab, with excellent result. Pat had relaxed for the first time. Then one day, Pat came home to find her jewels and debit card missing, and Lena gone with the wind. The hassle of canceling the account before Lena cleaned it out still made her blood boil. 

Later, she had dipped into Ted’s life insurance payout to bail Lena out a second time. The girl swore and promised she would quit, and cajoled Pat into investing even more money into another drug rehabilitation program. But it seemed Lena could not stop. Did she not want help?

Years passed and Lena appeared and disappeared, and every time, Pat’s little income dwindled.

Tears stung Pat’s eyes and flowed down her cheeks as she gritted her teeth. The rage that had been boiling inside her for years erupted in a geyser of sweltering tears and heartbreaking sobs. Gloom closed in around her, and swallowed Pat the way she had hoped it would swallow Lena. The salt and pepper shakers rattled from the force of Pat’s shaking body, and her enraged screams ripped through the silent house she had shared with Ted.

“Please,” she cried, “please help me let her go!”

A hand on her shoulder startled her. Pat turned, expecting to find Lena, but her jaw dropped. Through the tears, she saw Ted as young and handsome as the day she had met him. He smiled at her.

“Hey doll, don’t you worry ‘bout Lena no more,” he said in that sweet tenor voice Pat missed so much, “she’s made her own choices. You are not responsible, nor were you ever. She’s always known what she’s doing. She relishes in the harm she causes.”

“Why?” Pat gasped.

“I don’t know,” Ted answered, “but it’s not for us to know.”

Ted pulled her into his arms. Pat felt the love she missed in the cold-warm spectral embrace. She closed her eyes and relished the moment as her old body pressed against his young image.

Lena knocked on the door to her mother’s house. She stood on the stoop perplexed when a young man answered.

“May I help you,” the young man asked, eyeing her with suspicion and disapproval.

She looked like a junkie, and she knew it. It was all part of the act, part of the scam.

So the old lady turned out to be a real cougar, a wry smirk spread across her lips.

“I’m looking for Pat Morrow,” Lena sprinkled the name with contempt.

“Sorry, I don’t know who she is.”

“This is her house,” Lena said, her haughtiness rising, as it always did.

“No, this is my house,” the young man glared; his stern reply startled Lena.

“Who sold it to you?” Lena defied the man with her jutting jaw and arms akimbo.

“The realtor,” the man’s exasperation showed, “the old woman who lived here died, and her estate put the house up for sale. Now, please leave, or I’ll call the police.”

He shut the door in her face.

Lena stood a moment longer as the realization dunked her into a tank of icy water; the goose that laid the golden eggs was dead.