The Arcana

by Matt Hiebert

III.

  There is a consciousness behind our condition. A mind. Somewhere decisions are being made. Evidence of choice intrudes upon the chaos.

  Why are we named after the major trumps of a medieval divination system? How does the Tarot fit in? Why are only certain trumps chosen? In four years, there has never been a Wheel of Fortune, a Devil or a Fool. Why?

  And the demons? They are caricatures from folklore. Some of them are red-fleshed with horns and tails, the whole nine yards. Some are less traditional and more horrific: twenty feet tall, multi-headed with tentacles for arms, mouths for hands. That kind of thing.

  Four years ago, they came pouring in from a rip in the sky over Manhattan; thousands of them, armed with blunderbuss guns that fired flaming bones - femurs, clavicles, ribcages. They leveled half of New York in two days. Who could stop them? Who the hell was ready for that?

  I watched the horror unfold on the news with the rest of the world. Like everyone else, I was adjusting to the reality that monsters existed and were slaughtering people by the thousands. It was tough to get your brain around.

  On the third day of the invasion. I was sitting in my living room coincidentally talking about the demons with my wife and daughter, trying to comfort them. It wasn’t the end of the world, I told them. They were probably really just aliens that looked like demons. They could be killed. The army had already shot thousands of them. Our guys would stop them before they got here. New York was a long way away.

  About then, something exploded through the front door. Heavy debris sprayed the room. Part of the door frame hit me in the head and I fell to our low-pile carpet floor.

  I didn’t know it then, but the intruder was a member of the Belphegor caste. An assassin sent for me. Nine feet tall, talons like scythes. It had the head of a goat terminating in the serrated mouth of a smiling shark.

  I looked up just as the demon cut my wife in half. I had managed to stagger to my feet as it reached my daughter.

  Laughing at my grief and horror, the demon then came for me. But it was too late.

  I had already become the Tower.

  With the gut-crushing memories churning, I turn off the television and let the darkness consume me. It covers me in a shroud. I am small, hidden and safe. Even from the past.

  I sleep hard and almost escape the nightmares. Not quite though. There is a whole separate war raging in my dreams. Most of it’s gibberish, random horrors leaping at me from a fog, but some of it gets pretty bad. In the dreams, my limbs are heavy and I cannot move. I see the previous Justice kicking and screaming on the end of the pitchfork in Dallas. She transforms into the new Justice, the child, impaled upon a demon’s sword. Then her face becomes my daughter’s.

  I wake up soaked in sweat.

  By the next day, the persona of the Arcana is fully cooked in all of the new members. They now know there is no option, no alternative to what is happening. This is their destiny. It makes it easier in some ways, harder in others. The persona feels like a template overlaying our minds. Or maybe a loose set of clothes. It hangs upon our true selves. Separate from us, yet covering us.

  Justice is stronger today. She seems to have made more progress than the others.

  Soldiers take requests for supplies and dietary needs. The new members are shown around the Enclave then introduced to Stokes and the other government types. They are lavished with gratitude. The importance of their role is stressed again and again.

  The day unfolds in mundane spirals of boredom and time-killing. I eat, read and watch television.

  At dinner I sit with Justice and the Chariot.

  “How you guys doing?” I ask.

  Justice nods big. “Better.”

  “What choice do I have?” the Chariot says. “My number came up. That’s all there is to it.”

  She is in the first stage of the transformation. The one filled with bitter resignation.

  The Hermit comes up holding a tray of food and joins us. He’s only gotten vegetable sides and a salad. I realize he must be a vegetarian. A big smile fills his face.

  “I want to thank you for making this transition easier for us,” he says to me. “I had heard about the Arcana in my village, but I had no idea how members were chosen. I didn’t know what was happening! One second I’m gathering eggs from my hens, the next I’m being swept away by a woman on a flying wheel.”

  I take a bite of steak. It’s not very good.

  “The initial shock wears off after the persona sets in,” I tell them.” You come to accept things very quickly. Or at least a part of you does. But I won’t lie. The tough part is still ahead of you. Your first battle could be at any moment and it will be horrifying. There is nothing within our nature that prepares us to handle this. At some point you’ll freeze in terror. When that happens just remember to push through it. Push through it or people will die.”

  The table goes silent. I keep eating. Why pull punches?

  “When do you think our first battle with be?” Justice asks and takes a sip of milk.

  I shrug, shake my head. “No telling. Could be any minute.”

  “Any tips for surviving?” the Chariot asks. I’ve been asked that question a lot by new members over the years. At various times, I’ve given different answers to people who are no longer here. I’ve come to believe I’ve just been lucky.

  “Work as a team. Listen to your leader.”

  “I’m a leader,” Justice says.

  “Yes, you are,” I say, knowing that at any moment this child could be leading me into combat against another Baal.

  A voice comes from the entrance to the dining area.

  “Beside the sea a city sleeps/Demon hate runs cold and deep/ The horde will come in waves of death/ And never let the chosen rest.”

  It is the Hierophant. He is also one of the leaders. He spooks me. He is an old gray-headed man who shouts poetry during the battles. He talks strangely, in riddles and rhymes, but you have to listen. He’s usually giving you a heads up. His power is knowing. He sees great swathes of the future. Not like the Hermit, who can only react a few seconds ahead of an event. The Hierophant sees the future as an open map. Possibilities and strategies sprawl before him in endless combinations of ifs and what ifs. Or so I’m told. All I know is that he is very fragile and not always right.

  “A swarm,” I say out loud. My companions stir nervously.

  “What’s happening?” the Chariot asks, but knows. Justice turns her head toward the Hierophant, making sure she’s getting everything.

  “He said ‘waves of death.’ That will be a large attack by lesser demons.” I do not feel the summoning. I do not feel the need to go out. But there is one at the table who always goes. “You’re up, Chariot.”

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the woman stands, abandoning her meal, and heads toward the great room to wait for the rest of the Hand. She does this without thought or choice. She is compelled.

  I look to see if Justice moves, but she remains seated. She has not been called either. Something in me feels relief. I’ve got to get over that quickly.

  I see Moon cross the room to join the group. She is the longest surviving member of the Arcana after me. Three years. She is maybe sixty years old with short salt and pepper hair. She reminds me of a nun who has abandoned her habit. Her skin is mapped with elaborate symbols that look like silver tattoos. Sometimes she plays pool with me in the rec room and we discuss literature and philosophy. I don’t know where she’s from.

  Others join the Hand. The Star. Temperance. Death. The swarm fighters. Each has some mass attack ability that works against large groups. They’ve been picked for a reason. There is always a decision behind the choice. There is always a visible plan.

  I notice that Justice is looking at me. Is she measuring my reaction? Looking to see how to respond?

  I give her one of those tight-lipped smiles that can mean many things. This time I mean it to say: “This is how it is. This is how it wo
rks.” I think she understands.

  The Hand gathers in the great room. I go to see them off with Justice and the Hermit following.

  The Chariot extends her arms toward the floor and the white disk forms beneath the feet of the Hand. They rise into the air. A hole in the ceiling parts and they shoot into the night sky. The hole closes as if it were never there.

  We won’t know how it turns out for a while.