Queen of Cups, reversed
(Sunday night, August 11, 2002)
V
ictoria spent the afternoon buying all the salt she could find.
“How should we do this?” she asked Theo when he arrived, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“I asked Sean that very question between sessions,” Theo confessed. “As the expert on Celtic cauldrons and chalices, he would be the one to know. He said to immerse the chalice in the salt. That would be the most simple and straightforward way to cleanse and purify it of whatever influences it was stained with.”
“It certainly does sound simple and straightforward,” Victoria agreed. She led Theo from her small living room into her even smaller kitchen. The boxes and cylinders of salt she had purchased that afternoon were all on the table.
She took down a large mixing bowl from a shelf and set it on the table, pried open the spout of a box of salt and began to pour out the shimmering snow-white crystals. The salt whispered and hissed as it cascaded into the bowl and formed a small pyramid that grew and shifted as she poured. She opened another box of salt and also emptied it into the bowl.
Theo set his backpack on a kitchen chair and unzipped it. He pulled out a bulky hotel bath towel that concealed something and set the package on the table. He unwrapped the layers of towel and within moments, the chalice was exposed, lying on its side. He set it upright on the table. The silver cup glistened.
Victoria tapped the box of salt against the lip of the bowl to dislodge the last few crystals. She set aside the empty boxes and took hold of the bowl with both hands, gently shaking the bowl from side to side, causing the pyramid of salt to collapse into a flatter, more even surface. She tapped the foot of the bowl against the table to ensure there were no air pockets hidden inside the bowlful of salt. She set the bowl down.
She and Theo looked at each other across the table. “I guess this is it,” he said. He lifted the chalice with one hand, his fingers wrapped around the stem, and reached for the bowl with his other hand.
“Wait!” Victoria burst out.
“I almost dropped the chalice!” Theo exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”
“We should make a circle. All the books say any magical act should always be performed within a protective circle,” she explained. “A circle that keeps away destructive powers while it harnesses and channels the powers for good that are being invoked.”
“You sound like you’re reading from a book right now,” chuckled Theo, setting down the chalice and bowl.
“Well, maybe I am. From memory.” Victoria sheepishly looked toward the floor but then popped her head up. “What should we make the circle with?”
Theo laughed. “I haven’t a clue, Victoria! Making a circle is your idea!”
She looked around the kitchen. “I could draw a circle on the floor with chalk,” she said, “but I don’t have any chalk.” She thought for a few seconds. “We could make a circle with a line of salt.”
“But don’t you think we should be careful not to waste any of it?” asked Theo. “We’ll have to repackage all this salt that’s already in the bowl, won’t we? Just to be sure we have enough when we sprinkle it along the route of the old Royal Road. I mean, you bought a lot of salt.” He gestured at all the packages on the table. “But I’m thinking that it won’t go very far when it’s time to pour it out on the streets.”
“You are correct,” Victoria agreed, in her somewhat stilted and formal English. “What else can we make a circle with?” She ran her eyes along the cabinets and drawers. “I know! We could use a knife as if it were an athame, one of the other four tools, right? “
“Yes, I suppose we could. An athame is generally a ceremonial dagger but a kitchen knife might be acceptable as an imitation,” Theo considered.
Victoria stepped to her utensils drawer and pulled it open, clattering the silverware inside. She pulled out a black-handled paring knife.
“There! This is as ceremonial a kitchen knife as I have,” she announced.
“Now how will you make the circle with it?” Theo asked.
“Like this,” Victoria announced. She held the knife in her right hand as if it were a murder weapon she was about to plunge into the chest of a romantic rival. She stepped away from the table and bent over, touching the tip of the knife lightly to the linoleum floor. She shuffled backwards, holding the knife firmly as she did so. The knife’s sharp tip touched but did not cut into the floor. She hobbled along, tracing a circle on the floor slightly larger than the table but including it, the chair with Theo’s backpack on it, and Theo. She was careful to keep herself inside the line she was drawing.
“There! Finished!” she congratulated herself. She had reached the point where she had begun drawing the circle. “We’re safe!” She set the knife on the table.
“Shall I continue?” asked Theo, amused.
“Of course, professor!” Victoria was surprised that he would ask her permission. “I just wanted to be sure that we do this right. And safely!”
“And safely!” Theo concurred. He picked up the chalice in one hand again and took the bowl with the other. He held the chalice up for a moment, nearly level with his face. It shone in the light of Victoria’s kitchen. Simple. Elegant. Beautiful. Then, in a rush, he plunged the chalice into the bowl of salt. Victoria squeezed her eyes closed. They both held their breath.
“Well?” She opened one eye. “Did anything happen?” She opened both eyes and peered at the bowl.
Theo still held the chalice submerged in the salt. “I… I’m not sure,” he stammered. “It doesn’t look like anything changed. There were no flashing lights, no puffs of smoke, if that’s what you mean.” He looked at her quizzically and raised one eyebrow. “But Sean didn’t say that there would necessarily be anything to see.”
“But he’s never actually done this before, right?” she asked, prodding him.
“True. He never has.” Theo lifted the chalice into the air again. Streams of salt poured back down into the bowl from the overfull goblet. The white crystals and the silver cup glittered beautifully against each other.
“I’ll do it again. Just to be sure.” He held the chalice before him again. Some of the salt still in the cup slid out as he held it at a slight angle, hissing as it cut through the air. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. This time, he slowly and gently brought the chalice into the bowl of salt, turning it onto its side as he did so. The salt in the cup flowed out into the bowl. He turned the chalice over and over in its cocoon of salt. He even let go of the stem and held it with three fingers on its base, thus exposing every inch of its surface to the purifying, reenergizing power of the salt. After rotating the chalice several times, he set it upright in the bowl, its base still buried in the salt.
They looked at each other, unsure if anything had happened. Theo took the cup in both hands and lifted it out of the salt, crystals pouring off the pedestal back into the bowl. Victoria thought he looked a little like a priest at church.
“Let me try?” Victoria asked as the excess salt finished streaming back into the bowl.
Theo considered that. “It couldn’t hurt,” he decided. “Third time’s the charm, they say.” He turned the chalice over and poured all the remaining salt back into the bowl. White peaks formed and melted away against the sides of the bowl. He handed the chalice to Victoria. She took it carefully, nervously. She twisted her wrist, examining the chalice carefully. It felt smooth. Cold. Like any other silver chalice might. Nothing special.
It looked just as she remembered seeing it, the last time they had all used it together at Magdalena’s house for a ritual. “Months ago, now,” she realized. She told Theo, “Last spring. Before Magdalena went to New York. A ritual for her safe trip.” He nodded.
She held up the chalice as he had, level with her chin. She grasped the bowl on the table with her other hand to steady herself. She looked at the chalice in her hand, at Theo standing across the table from her, at the floor where s
he had made the magic circle with her kitchen knife. She held her breath and closed her eyes.
In her memory, she saw the chalice in the flickering candlelight that evening at Magdalena’s. She could recall the scent of the incense burning on the charcoal, the taste of the wine in the chalice. In her mind’s eye, the circle on her floor shimmered with a pale silver light. The chalice in her hand reflected the light from the circle and the reflected light shone onto the salt in the bowl. She felt a slight quiver in the chalice’s stem. Curiosity overcoming her, she opened her eyes.
The thread of light encircling them on the floor grew thicker. Like vines growing in trick photography that collapsed time, the light around them twisted and turned back on itself almost as if it were growing leaves and blossoms. A pulse thrummed through the chalice in her hand as if the cup were coming to life. Vines of light curled around the chalice and up her arm, toward her elbow. Shimmering leaves unfolded and blooms eagerly opened along the length of the vines. Some trailed into the bowl on the table and then slithered out and around the bowl. Wisps of something—steam, perhaps?—curled into the air.
“Beautiful.” She heard herself whisper in awe.
Suddenly the vines of light gripped her arm tightly, forcing her to drop her hand—and the chalice—into the bowl of salt. Bubbles of light burst into the air, fading as they floated away toward the ceiling. The metal beneath her fingers shivered and heaved as if it were a snake struggling to discard its old skin. Wisps of black smoke curled out from the bowl now, only to be consumed by the blossoms of light, as if by a celestial Venus flytrap devouring its food. A stench similar to what she imagined fermented excrement must smell like came with the black smoke, a stench that was amazingly overcome by the delicate fragrance of the blossoms, which Victoria had not noticed until now.
Theo gasped.
One final burst of black smoke escaped from the bowl. Some of the smaller blossoms leaped at it, snapping up its wispy tendrils. Larger blossoms seized the bulk of the smoky mass and struggled to tear it apart like starving hyenas discovering a freshly killed antelope. The blossoms seemed to swallow the smoke with difficulty, snorting and gulping it down. The stench assailed Victoria’s nostrils like some exploding pustule and the delicate fragrance of the blossoms struggled to consume it as the blossoms struggled to consume the smoke.
Bubbles of light fizzed and burst around them. The chalice thrashed in Victoria’s hand, knocking handfuls of salt onto the floor. She struggled to keep her fingers wrapped around it, afraid the chalice would slither away and hide or vanish if she let go. With a kick like the back legs of a mule, there was one last explosion of energy from the cup, and the bowl fell onto the floor, spilling the salt across the circle of light.
The vines and blossoms of light curled and withered. But the smoke and the foul stench were gone. The bubbles of light that still hovered in the air faded away. The lush filigree of heavenly vegetation retracted and—like film running in reverse—shrank back to wherever it had come from.
The overturned bowl lay on the floor. Salt crunched beneath Victoria’s feet as she stepped aside to look at the floor. Then she looked at the chalice in her hand and at Theo across the table.
The chalice shimmered, the silver newly polished. Theo’s eyes were wide with amazement, his mouth hanging open. The delicate fragrance hung in the air a moment longer.
The chalice was ready.
Theo finally found his voice. “I’ll sweep up the salt.”
Magdalena had found a moment earlier in the afternoon to tell George that she had the rabbi’s staff in the office and that two of the conference delegates had earlier attempted to retrieve it. Now, as he had instructed, she had brought the staff to his hotel room. She sat on the edge of the chair at the desk. He stood, holding the staff with one hand. With his other hand, he ran his fingertips along its length. His eyes caressed the wood. Magdalena could see the very tip of his tongue pressed against his upper lip.
“You can feel the power in it,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, brought the staff to his face and rested it against his cheek, appearing to savor the touch.
He opened his eyes at last and held the staff away from his body, seeming to do so with difficulty. “Excellent work,” he congratulated Magdalena. “Excellent work.” He stood the staff against the wall. “I gave Elizabeth a small errand but told her to meet you at the Astronomical Clock at eleven o’clock. I want you to meet her with this staff. I have given her instructions as to what to do with it, but it is vital to the work Fen’ka asked you to accomplish that the magic of the staff and that of the Clock be united and unleashed.”
Magdalena nodded. “Isn’t it something that you could have instructed me to do?” she asked.
George touched her cheek and shook his head. “We each have our tasks to fulfill if we are to accomplish our goal. It was yours to obtain the staff. It is mine to retrieve the athame, the sword of Bruncvík. It is Elizabeth’s task to wrest control of the Astronomical Clock, the pentacle of Prague, from Fen’ka’s enemies. Alas, my child, it will also involve the release of a great deal of power. Power that could easily overwhelm you. Perhaps even injure or kill you. I would not want that to happen. But as you grow more familiar with the secret ways of power, then yes… It will be possible to give you such an assignment.” He smiled down at her.
She pressed her cheek into his palm. He had promised that she would be capable of wielding such occult power someday! “My life is opening up,” she thought, gratitude pressing her cheek more firmly into his hand. She closed her eyes and felt a tingle of excitement radiate from his fingertips into her skin, a gentle reflection of what she herself had felt earlier from the staff.
A low guttural rumble in George’s throat caused her to open her eyes and look into his. Mutual longing and desire met. He glanced at the small clock on the bedside table.
“You have some time before you need to meet Elizabeth.” The priest seemed to be thinking aloud, his voice low. He looked back to Magdalena. “Shall I show you one of the toys I brought with me from New York?”
“Yes!” burst from her lips. “I would love to see it!” She couldn’t begin to imagine what he might be about to show her. He stepped to a half-open valise on the floor near the window. He pulled out an implement that she could not see clearly. He turned back to her. He held a black wooden rod in his right hand. A leather strap at one end of the rod was wrapped around George’s wrist while handfuls of long black threads hung from its other end, extending nearly an arm’s length.
“What is it?” Magdalena asked, intrigued.
“A horsehair whisk,” he answered. “These are all taken from horses’ tails.” He stroked the long, shining black threads. “Have you ever felt one before?”
“N-no,” stammered Magdalena.
“Allow me to show you how it feels, then.” He took up the end with the horsehair and held them in his fist as if they were an old-fashioned shaving brush. He lightly stroked Magdalena’s cheek with the ends of the bristles.
She gazed into his face and then closed her eyes, allowing the sensation of the horsehair bristles to wash across her. Soft, yet scratchy. They awakened her skin with a new sensation.
“Deep, slow breaths,” George instructed. She did as he told her, slowly drawing in a breath, holding it, then gently releasing it. He stroked her cheek, her forehead with the horsehair. He brushed her lips.
“Stretch out your arms,” he told her. She did so, and felt the bristles caressing her forearms. The tender skin in the fold of her elbows tickled and yet… it was more than a tickle. She remembered to breathe again, slowly and deeply. The long, gentle strokes of the whisk made her shiver with delight. She yearned for more, that he would awaken the rest of her body as he had awakened her face and arms.
“Stand,” he instructed at last. “Lean against the bed and pull down your skirt.” She did again as she was told, stretching her arms out to support herself on the bed, her clothes pulled down around her knees.
&n
bsp; She heard the slice of the whisk as it cut through the air and felt it kiss the naked skin of her buttocks an instant later. A short gasp escaped her lips. George placed one hand on the small of her back to steady himself and braced one of his legs alongside hers. The length of the horsehairs swirled around her thigh and up between her cheeks, sharp yet tantalizing. There was a pause and then another snap of the whisk slapped the bristles against her tender skin. It hurt but in a way that she had never experienced pain before. It was like the pain of stepping from darkness into bright light, opening her eyes after a prolonged night. It was the pain of pouring alcohol on an open wound, washing away an infection. It was the pain of stretching her muscles in new ways, ways that she had never imagined possible.
She heard the hiss of the whisk as it sliced through the air again and again, more rapidly now and with fewer long, gentle strokes up and down along her legs. She felt the life rising in her even as the blood coursed more quickly through her. She heard George’s voice instructing her, “Breathe slowly. Breathe deeply.” She felt his hand continue to press against the bottom of her spine and his trousers against the flesh of her leg. But more powerful than any of these was the sensation of the whisk, the horsehair slapping against her again and again and again. The accumulated intensity of the strokes filled her. Excited her. Drove her wild.
Without quite realizing what she was doing, Magdalena arched her back and reared back her head. She heard another voice, her voice, she realized in some far corner of her mind, cry out in ecstasy and abandon and heard George’s voice utter some command, but she could hardly focus on the words. She arched and reared again, crying out again and again as the whisk struck again and again and again. The sensation of the whisk and the sound of her voice were all that she was conscious of and it was only after some few minutes that she realized—again, in some small, far corner of her mind—that her cries had become the excited, exuberant whinnies of a mare in heat. A sound she had not heard in decades since her childhood visits to her uncle’s farm. Then, the cries of the sex-crazed horse had terrified her. Now, the wild and euphoric cries seemed the only way to give voice to the new life she felt opening within her; yet, at the same time, the cries were inadequate to contain the rapture she wanted to express.
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 83
