by Lucy Banks
As long as she doesn’t take it too seriously, I thought, following as she and my brother surged restlessly towards the narrow tent. The last thing I wanted was for some charlatan to give my wife false hope about another pregnancy, or worse, dash her hopes further.
“Gosh, this looks fun, doesn’t it?” Arthur stopped just outside the tent and peered into the semi-darkness. A single, mostly molten candle flickered on the table, just visible between the swathes of the tent entrance.
“Is that what you’d call it?” I studied the dim interior of the tent, wondering where the Fortune Teller was. If she was inside, she was certainly doing a good job of concealing herself.
To my surprise, a young, dark-eyed girl emerged from the shadows, only a few feet from where I stood, looking every bit as sinister as a spirit, slinking through the night. At closer inspection, I could see she was a striking little thing, with large, knowing eyes, and a mass of curly hair wrapped loosely under a shawl. “Sixpence a fortune,” she muttered, kicking at the grass underfoot. “Payment in advance.”
“Will it be you reading our fortunes?” Arthur asked, as he rooted in his pocket for some change.
The girl shook her head. “My aunt. She’s a world-famous psychic, she’s read the fortunes of royalty.”
“Has she really?” I replied dryly, already regretting my decision. I knew I should have declined to partake in this nonsense while I had the chance.
The girl counted the coins carefully, then closed her palm over them, tightly as a sealed oyster shell. “One at a time, if you please. Ladies first.”
Eleanor beamed, and without a second glance in our direction, stepped into the tent. We heard the dim rumble of a voice, asking her to sit down, then the entrance curtain was fully drawn, shutting us out.
“Well,” Arthur said finally, after the girl had disappeared behind the tent again. “This is all rather thrilling, isn’t it?”
“It was a silly idea,” I replied, folding my arms. Across the field, a man in a tailcoat and top hat was shouting from a podium, though what he was hollering, I couldn’t tell. If the milling crowds were anything to go by, it seemed as though the circus performance was about to commence. I hoped Eleanor wouldn’t be too long.
“Come on now, where’s your joie de vivre? Don’t you find it amusing?”
I shrugged and looked away, reluctant to meet my brother’s eye. In truth, I was finding his enthusiasm exhausting, not to mention mildly irksome; especially as I sensed it was for show, to rouse a sense of nostalgia in us all. But then, that was Arthur; ever the crowd-pleaser, and it probably wasn’t fair to judge him harshly for it. Instead, I studied my shoes intently, hoping that Eleanor wouldn’t be too long.
Thankfully, she emerged after only a few minutes, smiling widely. I smiled back, despite my reservations.
“Well?”
“Apparently, I’m going to be rich when I’m older,” she said, moving aside. “Though she mentioned unhappiness, which isn’t surprising, given what’s happened to us recently.”
Sounds like the usual guesswork and rubbish, I thought, with relief. “So, shall we go?” I asked, extending my arm to her.
“Not yet,” Arthur interrupted, pointing into the tent. “I paid for all of us to have a go, and that includes you. Come on, get on with it, otherwise we’ll miss the performance.”
With a sigh, I ventured into the tent. I knew there was no point protesting, my brother would only cajole and wheedle until I gave in. It was even darker inside than I’d anticipated, perhaps because my eyes had grown accustomed to the bright pools of light created by the lamps outside. I looked down to see a minute woman sitting behind the table, watching me with alert, birdlike eyes.
“Hello,” I said awkwardly, unsure where to put myself.
She nodded, her voluminous shawls rustling with each movement, then gestured for me to sit beside her. Without waiting for me to settle, she began shuffling at her cards, shutting her eyes, and muttering under her breath. I fought the urge to sigh.
“Are you looking for a simple reading, or do you have a specific question?” she asked. Her voice was rich and velvety as a glass of port, surprisingly deep for such a small person.
“Keep it short, please.” I glanced at the curtains covering the exit. What a ridiculous waste of time, I thought, wishing that etiquette didn’t insist that I remained here, rather than simply getting up and leaving, as I wanted to.
“Very well.” With a nimble flick of her wrist, she dealt three cards, face down upon the table. Their geometric patterns gleamed dully in the candlelight. “The first card represents your past,” she announced, then without waiting for my response, turned it over.
I gazed down. It showed a man with a crown, sitting on a throne.
“The Emperor,” she continued, eyes squinting in concentration. “You had a contented childhood. Solid foundations in life. A comfortable upbringing, I suspect.”
Anyone could tell that, just by looking at me, I thought, but nodded nonetheless. “And the next?” I asked, anxious to push on.
“The next card represents the present.” She flicked it over, then nodded; the beads of her shawl tinkling delicately with the movement of her head. “The Wheel of Fortune.”
“Sounds a bit more interesting, what does that mean?” I was becoming curious, despite my reservations.
She pondered, drumming her fingers across the table’s surface. The candle flickered in response. “It can mean a number of things,” she said finally, touching the card lightly with her thumb. “It’s reversed, which means your life hangs in the balance. Things may change soon, and swiftly. Your peaceful existence may be under threat.”
I snorted, unable to stop myself. “I presume the final card foretells my future, then?”
“It does.” She glanced up at me. “Do you want me to turn it?”
Not really, I felt like saying, but some morbid interest drove me to nod instead. “Go on,” I muttered. “Let’s see what fate has in store for me.”
The image on the third card was unmistakable, even to someone like me, with no interest in this kind of thing. The Hanged Man. I observed the card’s image, the resignation on the man’s face, as he hung suspended by the ankle. Ah well, I thought, feeling unsettled and relieved in equal measures. At least it wasn’t Death, I suppose.
The Fortune Teller looked more concerned than I was comfortable with. I waited for her to speak. Finally, she raised her eyes and took a deep breath.
“A sacrifice will be made,” she said simply, then without waiting for a reply, scooped the cards back up. “Then, stasis. You’ll be lost at sea, cast adrift forever.”
“Hang on,” I said, quite without meaning to. “Whatever do you mean by that? That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
She shook her head and refused to meet my eye. Indeed, there was something about her posture that indicated fear, though quite what she had to be afraid of, I had no idea. Certainly, my presence didn’t usually inspire fright in people. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, realising I wasn’t going to leave until I had an answer, “it is better not to explore the cards too deeply.”
“What on earth does that mean?” I rose, confused.
She sighed. “Sometimes it is better not to know.”
An involuntary shudder ran through me. Damned superstition, I thought, feeling suddenly angry with Eleanor for suggesting it, and with Arthur for paying for it, despite my having showed no interest whatsoever.
“My friend?” The Fortune Teller’s voice caught me, just as I’d lifted the curtains to depart.
I turned, reluctantly. “What?”
Her hollow face looked ghoulish in the low light, yet there was a concern there that reminded me, inexplicably, of my mother. “Please be careful,” she said. “And do not show your friend in, I will not be telling any more fortunes tonight.”
Without another word, she blew out the candle, leaving us both in darkness. I shivered as I remem
bered her words, despite the warmth of the evening. You’ll be lost at sea. Cast adrift forever. I knew that it meant nothing, but nonetheless, they niggled at me, persistent as an ice-breeze through my body. Stepping outside, I was relieved to breathe in the reassuring fumes of the oil lamps, not to mention the sight of my brother and wife, as they waited expectantly for my return.
“What was said?” Arthur asked immediately, sidling up beside me.
“Absolutely nothing,” I said curtly, still cross at him, though I knew it wasn’t really his fault. He’d only been doing it for a lark, with no malice intended. “You can’t have a turn though, she said she’s finished for the evening.”
Arthur grimaced. “But that little girl took my payment, I was rather looking forward to having my fortune read. I wanted to find out if I was going to meet a ravishing beauty tonight and make her my wife!”
“Shall we try to find her, and get her to give your money back?” Eleanor stepped closer to the tent and scrutinised the shadows behind.
“No, let her have it,” Arthur said, with typical generosity. “She probably needs it more than I do. Come on, we should hurry, most of the people have gone into the big top now, and we don’t want to miss the show.”
As we made our way towards the tent, following the trail of lamps, I couldn’t help but muse over what the Fortune Teller had told me. It was all hogwash, of course, but nonetheless, her words played over my mind, even as we took our seats on the rough benches inside, and the horses, resplendent in their bells, ribbons, and feathers, started to canter around the ring, and the music began.
I was angry at myself. After all, I was a rational man, why should I be perturbed by a silly playing card? Yet her comment echoed flatly in my head. Sometimes it is better not to know.
Still, at least Eleanor was having a wonderful time, pointing and gasping at the spectacles before us, and that was all that mattered.
“This is jolly good, isn’t it!” Arthur shouted, over the rapturous applause. The horses trotted lithely out of the ring, and a set of clowns, faces thickly daubed with paint, raced on. “I’m ever so glad we came, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am!” Eleanor said, leaning into me. “We should come out more often, don’t you think? It’s been just what I needed.”
And that’s what’s important, I thought, trying to ignore my own reservations. In truth, however, there was nothing I wanted more than to return home, settle in the living room with my newspaper, and pour myself a quiet drink. The circus simply wasn’t for men like me, it was too bright, too brash, designed only to inflame and ignite, when my spirits tended to prefer being settled and soothed.
The crowd roared with laughter, though at what, I wasn’t quite sure. The music twinkled higher; one clown tripped and fell, red nose landing on the sawdust. I made an effort to smile.
“You could at least look like you’re having fun,” Arthur whispered eventually, with a nod in Eleanor’s direction. “You’ve got a face like a washed-up trout.”
I smirked. That had been one of Father’s favourite expressions, and I hadn’t heard it in a while. “I would, only it’s not terribly funny,” I whispered back, taking care to avoid being overheard. The last thing I wanted was to come across as a killjoy.
“That’s your problem, you see.” Arthur’s expression grew solemn as the crowd erupted once more into laughter. “You think about things too deeply.”
It is better not to explore the cards too deeply, she’d said. The memory sent goosepimples running up my arm.
“Let’s just drop the matter,” I said firmly, sitting up straighter on the bench.
Arthur’s eyebrow raised. “Gosh, you’re cantankerous tonight. You should try to be in a better mood, you really should.”
“Really?” I bristled at his tone. It was unlike my younger brother to hector me. Perhaps he feels he’s more important, now he’s got his new promotion, I thought uncharitably.
The clowns had formed a tower, teetering on one another’s shoulders like badly stacked playing cards. It was obvious what the outcome would be, but the audience whooped and cheered regardless, like over-excited children.
Arthur coughed. “I should say so. It wouldn’t hurt you to enjoy life a little more, would it? For Eleanor’s sake, if not your own?”
Eleanor turned towards us, expression quizzical. “Are you two all right there? You’re missing the fun.”
“Yes, we’re fine,” I said, placing a hand on her arm. I glanced back at Arthur, then added quietly, “I enjoy life very well, thank you very much. And Eleanor’s happiness is my concern, not yours.”
“Steady on, there’s no need to be like that.” Arthur’s expression hardened for a moment, then he held his hands up in mock-defeat. “I take your point, though. Let’s carry on watching, shall we?”
I nodded, forced a smile, then took Eleanor’s hand and squeezed it slowly and deliberately, ensuring that my brother saw it.
FOURTEEN
— 1901 —
AGNES HASN’T SPOKEN to the ghost in two days.
He understands why. The suffering of living humans has always affected her, and none more so than one of her own kin, particularly this aunt, who had cared for her as a child. He observes the dying old woman, noting her readiness to ease out of this life and into the next.
If only it had been like that for us, he thinks, envying the simplicity of the process for every other ghost they come across. All they experience is a moment’s confusion as they slip out of their body, a gleam of recognition, then plip, they fly from existence like a flame extinguishing in water. He doesn’t know why it is different for him and for Agnes. Perhaps we did something terribly wrong in life, and we’re now paying a penance for it, he wonders.
Occasionally, they come across other ghosts, lurking miserably in ancient buildings, skulking in churches. Generally, these creatures flee at the sight of another like them, leaving no clues to hint at the nature of their existence. And so, he and Agnes remain alone, together, oblivious to why they remain, and what the future holds for them. It is an intimidating, frightening thought.
Agnes’s aunt looks rather like a walnut shell, he thinks; small, brown, and leathered, narrow eyes blinking in and out of consciousness. It cannot be long now; her breath grows raspier, the rising of her chest more laboured with every inhalation. The circus women gathered around her sense it too, and clasp her hands more tightly, willing her to stay, whilst preparing her to go. Crammed into the caravan, the concentration of their life-force seems almost a taunt to the dying that is happening before them.
He thinks he remembers this aunt. There is something about her that strikes a note deep within him; a chime of a distant memory. He can see her at a table, a series of tarot cards in front of her, and for some reason, one particular card clangs loudly as a bell within his mind; the Hanged Man. However, he doesn’t know where this vision originated. Perhaps from his time spent at the circus, shortly after he’d died. Strange, how his memory fails him at crucial moments like this. He hopes it will not worsen with time; after all, his memories are all he has left.
“Agnes?” He approaches gently, as one might a skittish mare.
She shakes her head, then dwindles into invisibility, though he knows she is still here. Very well, he thinks, understanding her need to be alone. This aunt was obviously close to her, this pickled old creature who seems nothing more than loose bags of flesh to him. We have no choice over who we love in life, he realises, and feels a vague tang of bitterness at the thought.
Still, he pities the old woman, on her narrow bed. She looks lost beneath the stained old blankets, her skin mottled in the weak light that filters through the tiny caravan window. Presumably, she’d once been young, beautiful, travelling from town to town with the circus, seeing the sights of the world. Agnes has told him a little of her childhood, growing up in the gaudy confines of a caravan, telling fortunes in exchange for money. He can imagine how it might have been.
This is miserable, he thinks, wishing he could leave. The cramped space reeks of forthcoming death, but he can’t depart, not without Agnes. They are now linked, tied to one another like ropes in a storm, though for exactly what reason, he’s not sure. Details tend to escape him these days; making his memories somehow soggy at the edges, like a landscape seen through misted glass.
The woman coughs, an agonising, exhausted splutter, and the ghost thinks, This is the moment. He can sense death, easing closer, ready to claim her. Sure enough, her chest flutters, then stops, and at last, after days of suffering, she is free.
He watches, fascinated as always, as her spirit forms; her misty features gradually fusing into focus. She blinks, then stares at the living women around her, who still hold firm to her empty shell of a body. Agnes returns to the corner and waits, motionless.
“Agnes?” The voice has a richness to it that the ghost was not expecting from someone so short and narrow-shouldered.
Agnes drifts forward, arms outstretched. “Aunt Esme, you recognise me?”
The ghost smiles. It is a relief to hear Agnes speak again. He’d missed her comments, the reassuring murmur of her voice as they travelled from place to place. He makes himself as unobtrusive as possible, aware that this is a private moment, an occasion that he has no active role in.
The aunt’s mouth twitches; a conflicted motion of confusion and pleasure. Then, she notices herself, the transparency of her body, her sheer lack of physicality. He can see the realisation dawning, the gradual disbelief. The ghost feels for her. It must be painful to know that life has come to an end, that all you held dear has been stripped from you, as carelessly as bark from a willow branch. He personally cannot remember what it was like; the experience of dying has all but faded from his mind now, as all troubling experiences inevitably do. He only remembers the sensation of not breathing; the wide-eyed gaze at the sky above, and how distant it had looked.
And I remember Eleanor’s hand, reaching for mine, he thinks. How they’d locked fingers, before death had wrenched them apart.
