2021-02-07 - The Cards Disagree

When Byron had asked the old woman if she'd done any positive readings and she'd replied, 'At least one', that had been a bald-faced lie. She'd done four, but three had been for the same person.

He stopped by her table when no one else was around. On purpose, she thought; he didn't want witnesses. At least, not any he knew.

He dropped a simple medal into the bowl, took a seat in the chair. She didn't need to touch it to know what it represented, why he was giving it up. Despite that it was (in theory) a symbol of past bravery and sacrifice, he felt neither of those things applied to him just now. So in it went: a heart with a gold edge, a man's profile on a purple background in gold at the center.

She shuffled the deck, pushed it across to him. The back was a burl wood pattern with the three moon phases (waxing crescent, full, waning crescent) over a windowed starfield. This was a deck of the wilderness and everything in it, a perfect fit. He was familiar with card readings to know he should cut it.

She restacked the deck, turned the first card. The Page of Swords, in reverse. "Concern over hasty decisions, feeling insufficient to the cause." She didn't need to be good at reading people (though she was) to see it hit home. He made a face, looked from the card to her.

The next card was where she suspected things were going awry. The Empress. She frowned at the gorgeous, purple flower on this card. "Seek comfort in your wife," she said, slowly. "You married her for a reason. She's no delicate flower, and has seen her own trials. She could use the support as well."

The man shifted in his chair. He was toying with his wedding ring, though maybe he didn't know it. Suspicious, she turned the last card. The Eight of Cups in reverse. His life was in upheaval, and that wasn't necessarily by his own design. The seagull's return to it's bounty was a call to not blame himself for the tragedies which had unfolded. He'd done the best he could.

She didn't tell him that. What she did, was slide the cards back into the deck and reshuffle it. He blinked, plainly confused, started to get up. "A moment," she said, and set the deck in front of him. "Cut."

He sat back down, did as she asked. A man with numerous women in his family, then. She pulled the next three cards in rapid succession.

Three of Cups. His spouse and friends and the community. The Nine of Wands. They'd endured this horrible set of circumstances together, and pulled through. She could feel herself getting angrier by the moment, which perhaps triggered the next card, the King of Swords. That she couldn't be clear of; the man in front of her was no King of Swords. Perhaps this was a suggestion to let such men lead in these times. His work was done, he could rest a moment.

She said none of this. The man access the table watched, fidgeting. "Is something--"

She cut him off with a glare. He fell silent, posture growing warier by the moment. She scooped up the cards, shuffled them back in. Had him cut the deck, drew three more.

Three of Pentacles. The Moon. The Empress.

She sighed explosively. "You recalcitrant little cuss," she snapped at the deck. The man stared at her. His thoughts were plain on his face: he was trying to decide if it was time to forcibly disengage. He was, however, also familiar enough with strangers losing it in front of him that he didn't panic or do anything rash. He waited, tense.

She glared at him anew. "You want to know what to do?" She leaned forward. "Go home and fuck your wife. Hug your friends, get drunk with them. Do your work, it always helps. Your anxieties will always be with you, but," she couldn't help how acidic her tone became, "you have the tools to make it through. There." She glared at the deck. "Are you happy now?"

The man nodded, slow and cautious. He knew when not to argue with a situation he couldn't quite understand. "Ah, okay. Thanks."

She looked at him again, her face a study in, 'Leave. Now.' So he did, with a final glance over his shoulder, perhaps to make sure she wouldn't turn into something horrific. (As if she'd do so in public.)

She stared at these three, lovely, supportive cards: the worker bees making their honeycomb; the moon on the ocean; the deep, royal purple of the carnation. "I hope you're satisfied," she said, sliding the three cards back into the deck. "And now, back in there you go, and you're not coming out until you've had plenty of time to think about what you just did." She put the deck back in the box with a little more force than really necessary.

It helped. A little. She took a deep breath, glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed this little altercation, at least. She smoothed down the front of her coat, took up her knitting. She should have someone along any moment now.