GOLDEN TAROT: VII The Chariot

The Last Train

The old man rocked on the back porch; his niece sat beside him. The evening closed around them, crickets chirped and cicadas buzzed. His niece lived with him; she cared for him in his last years and he accompanied her in the autumn of her life. Two lonely people, both unmarried, both aging with nothing to do but sit on the back porch and gaze at the garden, and wait. 

“Uncle, can I get you something? Maybe some lemonade?” Niece asked. 

Uncle nodded and told her to hurry.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she giggled.

Niece entered the old house, once a railroad station, with its gabled roof and stumpy watchtower. It had been more than a century since the trains had stopped and half that time since the old station became a house with an added two-story wing. The old railroad tracks, now rusty and decaying, marred the garden Niece cared for with vehemence, yet she’d never covered them. 

Trains had stopped at this station, passengers had climbed off and on, and then had pulled out with a loud whistle conveying hopes to their destinations. The tracks ran through the tree-lined meadow and disappeared into the forest, where they wound around a bend and continued along a steep ravine. The Last Train had vanished into the trees and reappeared at the bottom of the gorge as a twisted and smoldering wreck. No one survived. No one removed the tracks either. 

“The train won’t come if you cover them,” Uncle had said when she’d first moved in a decade ago. She had watched him with quizzical eyes, wondering if his mind was deteriorating too. 

“Trains haven’t stopped here in more than a century,” she’d said.

He’d grumbled something and nodded, but a tiny sparkle had shone through his old man’s eyes. 

Niece joined Uncle with two tall glasses of lemonade. 

“I miss the fireflies,” he broke the silence, “haven’t seen one since that night.”

“What night?” Niece asked in her most nonchalant voice; she sensed a rare peep into Uncle’s history. 

“The night she vanished. Crickets and cicadas had buzzed then too, but the fireflies flitted all over the fountain,” he sipped the lemonade.

“Who vanished?”

“My bride-to-be; she left her wedding dress on the perch and disappeared into the night.”

“You were engaged?”

He nodded. 

“She left you?”

He nodded again, “though I’ve always suspected I’m to blame. Me and my trysts.”

Niece gazed at Uncle with wide eyes. She’d never married because no one had proposed, but Uncle…

Uncle produced a photograph from his inner jacket pocket. A beautiful girl with marble skin and cropped jet-black hair that peeped from under a cloche hat with a white flower bow on the side smiled at the camera. The picture was black-and-white, but Niece noticed the light eyes, maybe blue, that twinkled with delight. She was young and fresh, and Uncle’s perfidy stung Niece.

“She took her yellow raincoat, her blue suitcase and that hat. They found the hat by an abandoned car. It was 1959. We never heard from her again.”

“What was her name?”

A tiny green light twinkled between them and Uncle and Niece turned their gaze back to the garden and the long-forgotten tracks. The same green light sparkled and multiplied until the garden glittered. 

“Fireflies!” Uncle exclaimed with delight.  

They watched the fireflies with awe and wonder as the bugs flitted around them, like flickering memories of innocent times. 

“Uncle, what was her name?” Niece repeated after a moment. 

A rumble blew through the trees and Niece’s question faded in the wind. The rumble thundered in their ears, yet the world remained unperturbed. In an instant, a black steam locomotive chugged into the eroding tracks. It hissed and sputtered. The murmur of voices overpowered the crickets and the hubbub and flurry of the past engulfed Uncle and Niece. A stationmaster called out orders. Gentlemen in suits, high-collars and stovepipe hats, paid porters to handle their luggage. Women in long skirts with bustles, corseted jackets and flowered bonnets, fanned themselves or closed their parasols, ready to ascend the train. 

The locomotive churned on to the edge of sight, and the first wagon appeared with its passengers peering out of the window. Niece knew who to expect: the old lady and her elaborate hairdo, the gentleman with prominent muttonchops smoking his pipe, and the young dandy with the round spectacles. All of them with shining eyes and hopeful smiles, unaware they rode The Last Train and their dreams had tumbled into the abyss a century and a half ago. 

Uncle gasped and pointed. Niece followed his gaze and through one window saw two passengers she’d never seen in the decade they’d watched The Last Train arrive. A young woman with a pearly complexion, short jet-black hair and blue eyes leaned her head on the shoulder of a rugged dark-haired and olive-skinned man with piercing black eyes.

“Miriam!” Uncle shrieked. 

The train chugged away and vanished into the trees, toward the final bend. 

Niece stared aghast; the photograph flittered in the breeze.

But… The Last Train crashed long before Uncle was born.

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.

TAROT DRACONIS: V The Hierophant

Cat-O’-Nine-Tails

The abbess knocked on the door. The sounds of a flogging whip shook the darkened corridor; she received no reply. Starlight shone through the arched Gothic windows that lined the passage. 

She knocked again. 

Should she enter? The young novice needed the last rites. 

The abbess knocked a third time and gave the door a slight push. It creaked open. 

The bishop stood with his bare back to the door, and in the dim candlelight the abbess saw streaks of gooey blood marring the skin. 

A whip cracked and a wound opened. 

What great sin could he be repenting? 

Another crack and the pieces fell into place. As blood poured down the wounded back, images flowed through the abbess’s mind. With each lash, she recalled every visit the bishop had made to her abbey and the events thereafter. 

The young novice; the stillborn.

Sister Elizabeth; the drowning.  

Her eyes widened and the dreaded thought flashed like lightning: not coincidences but consequences. 

“You!” The abbess exclaimed; the bishop whirled around and glared.

She stood in the doorway, old, wrinkled and yet so innocent, but her wide eyes betrayed her horrible realization. The cat was out of the bag, his secret sins exposed. 

He advanced towards her with such violence that she turned and ran; her frail steps booming with the guilt of his crimes. He followed down the narrow window-lined corridor, starlight and shadow alternating with each step. He caught her just as she reached the winding stone stairs. 

They struggled; she scratched him. He tried to pull her back to his chamber, but she fought hard. To control those flailing arms, he pushed her. Her slight frame lifted off the floor, and, in an instant, she flew out the window. 

The bishop glanced at the broken abbess pierced by the thorny briar and surrounded by shattered glass sparkling in the starlight. He returned to his chamber. A cat wailed in the night. Hurried footsteps. 

***

Lillian gazed up from the book Derek had placed before her; eyes filled with fear and wonder. It had been blank, then little by little, the horrible scene had appeared within its pages, each moment ripped out of Lillian’s mind like tangled hooks.

Derek took the book from her and wrapped it in its towel. 

“Does this book show you your nightmares?” Lillian stammered. 

“I don’t know,” Derek mumbled, “does it?”

MINCHIATE: Queen of Cups

Wolf

Marilyn stared at the screen; the cursor blinked like an impatient mother tapping her foot. Tap, tap, tap. The cursor glared at Marilyn. 

She’d spent the last days staring at the blank document. Once in a while she began a sentence, then deleted it. Sometimes writing a story was like squeezing the juice out of a dry, withered lemon: it came in dribs and drabs and through gritted teeth.

Marilyn slammed her fist on the desk and stood up in frustration. The chair rolled and slammed against the wall. It left a nick in the drywall; Marilyn cared not. 

She made herself a snack and gazed at the street through the kitchen window. A dog barked and Marilyn, crunching potato chips she’d served in a bowl, expected her neighbor to appear as he walked his poodle every day. Marilyn brought a chip to her mouth and was about to pop it in when her hand froze in mid-air. A black-and-white Siberian husky passed before the kitchen window and fixed its ice-blue eyes on her. 

Marilyn furrowed her brow, “Wolf? Is that Wolf?”

With a thudding heart, she observed the dog, every moment more convinced it was Wolf. A woman appeared, and there was no mistaking Norma Jean’s coarse blond hair dyed in purple highlights. For a fleeting moment, Marilyn’s heart soared with delight when she recognized her sister. Then she noticed the torn clothing, missing hiking boot, Norma Jean’s ragged and bloodied ankle and grimy face. Her sister’s arm hung limp and at an odd angle. 

Marilyn dropped the bowl; it shattered on the cream-colored tile and scattered crumbling bits of potato chips. She ran out the front door. 

“Norma Jean!” Marilyn panted as she reached her sister, “What happened?”

“Help us, Marilyn!” Norma Jean’s hollow voice chilled her. It sounded far away, like through a static-filled radio station. 

Marilyn wanted to embrace her sister, but a dark cold and a zapping panic rooted her to the spot. 

“We’re up there, by the twisted tree!” 

Norma Jean pointed to the canyon in the distance and Marilyn’s heart sank as she saw the jutting form of the fallen tree dangling precarious over the craggy mountain slope. 

Wolf barked in the same hollow sound, and a gust of wind took Norma Jean’s last cry for help. Marilyn stood in the blistering sun, stunned and alone, and hesitated for a suspended moment in time.
A crow cawed and broke the spell. 

Marilyn rushed to the phone. 

***

“We made it just in time,” the rescuer told Marilyn as she burst into the emergency room, “they were there all yesterday and last night, but your sister will be fine.”

“And Wolf?”

The rescuer looked puzzled, “The dog?”

She nodded. 

“He’s at the animal hospital nearby on Monroe Avenue, I think he’ll be okay,” he paused, “I gotta say, that damn dog’s a genuine hero. She’d be dead if it weren’t for him. She slipped and fell down the slope. The dog slid after her, caught her by the ankle before she fell off the last ledge and pulled her to safety. She’ll have a nasty scar, but it’s a minor price to pay.”

OLD ENGLISH TAROT: Ten of Cups

Under a Crimson Moon

The fire crackled and sparked in the stone fireplace and lit up the dim room; the ornate grandfather clock ticked. Claire stood by the casement window as the sun glittered over the valley beyond the grounds. The castle lay atop a hillock and the gleam of the setting sun gave the shimmering landscape an air of magnificence. Xavier read his book. 

As the sun dipped into the jagged horizon and cast one last ray of light, Claire distinguished the three crosses silhouetted in the distance, their long shadows like ghostly fingers reaching for the castle.

The clock chimes mingled with the seven peals of the church towers beyond the gates. 

“Xavier, do you know the story behind those three crosses?”

Xavier, taciturn, rather than ask which crosses she meant, closed his book and joined her at the window. 

“Hmm,” he grumbled, “I don’t remember, but I believe they were three merciless bandits.”

“Strange someone would bury them and mark their graves,” Claire commented; Xavier shrugged. 

She glanced at her husband, his handsome features eerie in the dim firelight. Claire didn’t resent their move to this place. It wasn’t Xavier’s fault he’d inherited it from an estranged uncle. She would have preferred her modest old house, in her old village, yet they must take the golden opportunity. 

The castle needed much repair and Xavier had inherited the property and everything in it, but not the means to restore it. Now, they lived with parts of the majestic home closed. They meant to inhabit the castle, repair it little by little and turn it into a fancy hotel. Yet their savings were all but gone and the project not advanced enough to generate an income. 

Claire pulled up a chair by the casement. Darkness cast itself over the land and Xavier retired for the night. The full moon rose crimson and cast copper beams over the landscape. The stars poked through the inky black one by one. 

Charlemagne, their German shepherd, sat at Claire’s her feet. Claire’s eyelids drooped and her head nodded forward, then jerked back. She resolved to go to bed and cast one last glance at the glistening valley; the fire glowed dim. 

Charlemagne rose and gazed out the window, his ears perked and alert, listening. Claire followed his gaze. Under the rusty moonlight, three hooded figures rose from the three graves. Claire could not distinguish their features in the dusky night, but felt no fear, as if the figures meant no harm. Gliding, they approached the castle and faint moonbeams caught the crucifixes twinkling on their chests. 

“Monks, not bandits,” Claire murmured. Charlemagne gave a low whimper. 

The figures entered the grounds and stopped by the large weeping willow whose leaves drooped over the murky moat. The figures glanced around, then disappeared under the dangling boughs. 

Hoofbeats trampled the moonlit silence; the monks emerged from beneath the willow. Horsemen appeared and stormed the castle. Claire, with a hand over her mouth, let out a muffled shriek. The monks stood stoic as the horsemen slew them. 

Charlemagne growled; a cloud covered the blood-red moon and plunged the valley into darkness. The wind swept the dusky clouds away and the moon, now white, shone upon the land. All figures had vanished, though a silver moonbeam shone on the weeping willow. 

Claire grabbed a light and leashed Charlemagne. Xavier watched from the bedroom as the moonlit figures of his wife and dog crossed the grounds and approached the willow. They passed through the gnarled limbs. 

Charlemagne sniffed around the massive trunk; Claire followed his movements with her light. The German shepherd, resting his front paws on the trunk, stood on his hind legs and barked. Claire shone the light upwards, and in its soft glow, saw a tree hollow several branches overhead. 

Charlemagne yipped and wagged his tail as Claire climbed the willow. When she reached the tree hole, she dipped her arm in, wary of waking its tenant. An owl hooted as Claire’s fingers touched smooth metal. 

“Did the monks hide something?” Xavier called from the ground. 

“You saw them too?” Claire answered. 

She sat precariously on the branch, and hesitating, stuck her other arm in the hole. She pulled something from the tree hollow.

“Catch!” 

She dropped a box into Xavier’s extended arms. Surprised by the weight of the box and the cold metal, he dropped it. It clanged onto the tree root and flew open. Claire clambered down from the tree. 

“What is it?” Claire asked when she noticed Xavier’s gawking expression. 

Scattered over the twisted tree roots, sparkles of ruby, emerald, sapphire, gold, and silver glimmered in the thin rays of moonlight that passed through the heavy leaves. 

“It’s our financial salvation,” Xavier exclaimed.  

BRUEGEL TAROT: 2 of Swords

Like Cats and Dogs?

Rufus snuggled up to Minerva; she gazed at him askance, decided he meant no harm, and turned her attention back to the kitchen. 

What’s it about this time? Rufus whimpered. 

Minerva gave him a disinterested yawn. 

It was always about something. Yesterday it was about him not clearing the dishwasher. The day before, she’d thrown away his napkin. He snored, she scraped her teeth on her fork. 

Rufus and Minerva cuddled on the couch, though his panting was annoying her. In the kitchen, they would soon hurl insults at each other. 

Minerva felt sleepy, but endeavored to stay awake and alert in these crucial times, lest a missile startled her. 

Rufus wanted to play and nudged Minerva. Finally she conceded and pretended to swat at his long drooping ears. He nipped at her, never meaning to hurt. 

“Fuck you, asshole!” 

Uh-oh, the gloves were off in the kitchen; Rufus and Minerva paused their game, four eyes intent on the scene before them. 

“No, fuck you, you bitch!”

“Who is she?”

“The fuck I’ll tell you!”

“Bastard!” 

A bang shook the table. The plates upon it rattled. 

Rufus whimpered; Minerva mewed. They gazed at one another and he nuzzled his snout against her calico cheek. Minerva returned the gesture, rolled onto her back, and playing, pawed at his long basset hound ears. Rufus panted. 

“The fuck you snooping in my phone!”

“Who is she?”

Plates rattled. A chair scraped the floor. A cabinet door opened.
Minerva rolled herself onto her paws and squatted. She let out a soft growl. Rufus stood on the couch, his chubby legs ready to run. They stared ahead, Minerva’s ears pulled back. 

“Fuck off, witch! Stop snoopin’ in my damn phone!”

“Then answer the fucking question, idiot!”

He stood up and slammed his fist on the table. 

Rufus and Minerva watched the fight, damned if the customary torpedos caught them unawares again. 

“Answer me!” 

The flying cup hit him right on the chest. 

Rufus barked and Minerva meowed, but they might have been pictures on the wall for all the good it did. Another cup followed; he ducked. 

“Don’t you dare dodge, you wuss!” 

A saucer shattered against the wall. 

Rufus and Minerva slid off the couch and sauntered towards the bay window that looked out onto the street. She leaped up on the seat while Rufus, resting his short legs on it, pulled himself up beside her. The window’s distance from the kitchen kept them safe from the flying objects. Minerva loved to chatter at birds flitting on the tree branches by the window, and Rufus barked at anything that walked past the house. 

Something thudded on the couch; a chipped plate landed where the cat and dog had sat moments before. 

ALEISTER CROWLEY THOTH TAROT: 6 of Swords, Science

The Phone Calls

Brenda considered herself a woman of science and dedicated her adult life to scientific research. She felt at home in her lab coat and among her beakers, flasks and petri dishes. She believed science could explain everything, one just had to know what formula to apply. 

The mysterious phone calls were a nuisance at first. The phone would ring, Brenda would answer and… nothing. Only noise on the other end. 

“They’re all from the same number,” she told Lisa, her co-worker, “you’ve no idea how many times I’ve blocked it.”

  “Why do you answer then?” Lisa asked. 

“That’s the creepy part,” Brenda replied, “the calls come from my grandfather’s number. He died when I was seven, but it, and my house, are the only phone numbers engraved in my memory.”

“Maybe someone else has the same phone number?”

“But why don’t they ever speak? It just sounds like someone at a party butt-dialing me.” 

“Weird,” Lisa shrugged and returned to her experiment. 

Then Brenda noticed the coincidences. 

One day she walked down a crowded city block. The hubbub of voices, footsteps and car horns buzzed in her ears, but the phone rang too loud to ignore. With an exasperated sigh, Brenda paused at a busy street corner, despite the pedestrian light signaling to cross. Oncoming passersby gave her angry looks as she blocked the sidewalk while she fished in her purse for the insistent phone. 

A car sped through the red light and almost hit the man on the crosswalk. He skipped onto the safety of the sidewalk and cursed the driver.  

“Good thing you weren’t crossing,” he turned to Brenda, who’d blanched, “he’d have run you right over.” 

“That wasn’t the only time,” Brenda chatted with Lisa the next day during their coffee break, “there have been other, little coincidences.”

“Go on,” Lisa coaxed and sipped her coffee. 

“The other day, I had finished up in the kitchen and was retiring for the night, when the phone rang. I’d left my phone on the table, but when I reached it, it stopped ringing. I shrugged and gave my apartment a last glance; I noticed the front door. It was unlocked! Had the phone not rung, I would’ve gone to bed without locking it!”

“And you’re sure it’s your granddad’s number?” Lisa asked, “May I see it?”

Brenda pulled the phone from her lab coat pocket and searched in the phone call register. As Lisa took the phone, it rang. The mysterious number blared on the screen. The women blanched and stared at it. Brenda’s hand shook as she lifted the phone to her ear. 

“Hello?” She squeaked.

“Get out of the building now!” A warm voice, an old voice, demanded. 

Brenda’s heart skipped and tears sprung to her eyes. That voice, it couldn’t be…

“Who are you?” She bleated. 

“You know who I am, Brenny-kin,” the familiar voice replied, “get out of the building now!”

Brenda grabbed Lisa, and pulling her along, led her out of the building. 

“GET OUT!” Brenda yelled as they rushed down the hall, “Get out of the building!” 

Lisa, ashen with fear and surprise, echoed Brenda’s warning. 

They reached the courtyard; Lisa begged Brenda to stop by a weeping willow. People filed out after them and loitered on the grass, bewildered. 

“What the…?” Lisa panted.

  A loud boom drowned out her voice. 

The ground shook beneath them as a heavy rumble echoed through the university grounds. Lisa watched horrified as the building they’d vacated crumbled and blazed. She put her arm around Brenda, who wept and sobbed with her hand covering her mouth.

The authorities determined a gas leak caused the explosion. An accident, they said, it was lucky no one died.

MINCHIATE: VII Strength + 7 of Staves

Good Samaritan

Laura stood outside the cottage. The overcast sky rumbled in the distance, though the sun peeked through the dense clouds and glimmered on the grass. She knew not how long she’d convalesced. Her wound still pained her, but no sign of fever today. She hadn’t yet met the Good Samaritan who’d helped her, though she recalled footsteps during the floating moments between sleep and fever. 

Someone had left a metal plate with bread and hard-boiled eggs, and a metal cup of milk on the rustic table inside the cottage. Laura was hungry, but stepped outside hoping to greet her rescuer and get her bearings. 

“It’s a farmstead,” Laura murmured as she scanned the rundown cottage and its surroundings. Chickens clucked by a rickety coop and a goat bleated; a loose rope, tied to a fence post, hung around its neck. 

“Like in Heidi, goat’s milk and eggs. I wonder where they made the bread.”

She walked around the small property, careful not to injure her bare feet. She’d run out her door barefoot—the night of her devil—and her ragged feet were only just healing. The Good Samaritan had left a pair of leather boots by her bed, but they were much too big and uncomfortable. 

“Mystery solved,” Laura sighed as she discovered an ancient brick oven behind the residence. 

The property thus comprised the cottage, the coop, the goat, the oven and a small field where, Laura suspected, the mysterious inhabitant farmed the grains for the bread. Thick woods surrounded it beyond her sight.

“Self-sustaining and off the grid,” Laura addressed the goat; it bleated in response. 

A chill crawled up her spine, “I hope this property doesn’t belong to one of those doomsday cults.”

The goat gazed at her with passive eyes. 

A thought tingled at her nape. Where was the dog? She’d heard one during the nights of sick slumber. She found no sign of other animals beside the goat and the chickens. 

Laura retreated into the cottage to plan her escape. She rubbed her arms; the wound at her side hurt and her stomach grumbled. But other thoughts pressed her. What if she’d fallen into their trap? What if this person was one of them, or worse?

Night fell and Laura remained in the cottage. She’d eaten the meal and stepped into the too-big boots intent on leaving, but had stopped at the forest edge, uneasy, scared and convinced invisible eyes were upon her. They had means of finding her through the air and time. 

Something—perhaps the intuition that had failed her when she met her devil—assured her the cottage was a safe place. A small fire crackled in the fireplace; the sound of the forest entered the windows and raindrops pattered on the roof. 

A thud at the door; Laura gasped, and knife in hand, waited with her heart in her mouth. The door creaked open and tiny hooves clip-clopped as the goat ran through the doorway. It bleated a greeting. A thick mass entered, and by the firelight, Laura thought it was a bear. An instant later she discovered it was only a tall bearded man. 

“Who are you?” Laura held the knife before her, ready to defend herself. 

“This is my home,” the man spoke in a deep, rumbling voice, “my name is Rainier.”

“Oh,” Laura had expected… well, something else, “did you bring me here?”

“No,” he answered, “you came to me. You knocked on my door.”

Rainier was young, maybe in his thirties, though by the thick voice, Laura thought him older. He wore his thick black hair long, had piercing blue eyes and the darkened complexion of someone who spends most of his time in the sun, wind and rain.

“The wound’s better? Does it hurt much?”

Laura shook her head, “Only a little.”

They stared at one another in the flickering light. 

“Thank you,” Laura broke the awkward silence, “I’m Laura.”

Rainier nodded. 

An owl hooted and the wind howled through the window. It almost blew out the fire; the red-and-orange tongues ebbed and waxed and cast a dance of eerie shadows on the walls. 

Rainier stood tense and alert with the brow-knitted expression of one who listens to the small sounds of the night.

“There is no danger in here,” he glanced around, “but someone outside means harm.”

In an instant, Rainier disappeared into the drizzling night. Laura sat dumbfounded at the table, the knife loose in her hand. She listened for his heavy footsteps on the damp ground, but heard none.

GOLDEN BOTTICELLI TAROT: Queen of Swords

The Eagle Flies

Cleopatra Bysbys sat on the park bench, her walking cane draped across her lap. Her wraparound sunglasses hid her eyes, which gazed into the distance, yet her sight was fixed inward. 

The sun beat down on her saggy skin, but Cleopatra, always a fright to behold, cared not. She paid no attention to the sunshine, nor the birds, nor the squirrels scuttling about her bony legs. Her wild hair fell over her jutting clavicles, and sitting so still and frozen, she looked like the pharaohs of old.   

Cleopatra Bysbys often trudged the lengthy walk from her rickety old house to the city park, both out of boredom and mischief. Spring had arrived; porch pirates didn’t hunt for free presents anymore, so her chances of a hearty laugh out of her aerie had dwindled. 

People were out and about, and Cleopatra, using her inner sight like invisible tentacles, glimpsed into their lives and delved for their deepest secrets. All their little peccadilloes in her grasp. A young man caught her attention, and she sniggered. She gripped her cane. 

The young man carried a doggie bag from a fancy restaurant; his eyes twinkled with witchy delight. He strutted down the footpath and would soon be upon the blind, ugly scrag of a woman on a bench. He sneered; today was a wonderful day and nothing could bring down his mood. He’d just clinched the deal of the century and stood to swim in moolah. Oh yeah, life was peachy keen, jelly bean. Plus, the little side gig… 

He strode past the bench; the cane on the witch’s lap swerved and whacked him between the ankles. An instant of confusion passed in slow motion as his feet lifted off the ground, the doggie bag flew and terra firma rose to kiss him. 

He spat and sputtered blood and pebbles and tried to stand. Cleopatra—half cackling—repeated raspy and empty apologies. She struggled to untangle and retrieve her cane but smacked him on the ankles, calves and shins instead. 

The young man, angry and frustrated, kicked the cane away. 

“You stupid old bitch!” He yelled. 

Cleopatra Bysbys sobered her expression and lowered her sunglasses. When her icy blue eyes glared at him, he froze. 

“Fuck off, you embezzling shithead,” she growled.

The young man blanched; with eyes like saucers, he wiped his bloody mouth and staggered to his feet. He hesitated, the little hamster in his brain churning away as a million thoughts flew. How did she know?

No matter; his expression darkened. He drew back his fist to punch the putrid hag. A searing pain burst on his knuckles as Cleopatra swatted the fist away. She pointed her cane at his throat and glared at him, her lips drawn into a defying smirk and cool as a cucumber.  

“Fuck you!” He showed her his palms and scampered away. 

Cleopatra Bysbys leaned back on the bench, cane draped across her lap and sight inward. She sneered. She wouldn’t miss that young man’s perp walk on the evening news for the world.