by Tanya Huff
"Man, I was afraid that was going to happen. That's no use to me now, you can keep it if you want it."
"No thanks, I..." Then he took a good look at what he held. As the busker headed off, he waved the shard in Cynthia's face.
"...get back to you tomorrow. That right. Thanks for calling. David, that was a business call and... is that part of a broken pentacle?"
He nodded and pulled the slender book out of his back pocket. "Two of Pentacles. Reversed. Your seventh card representing your fears. Oh gee, big surprise – you're afraid you're having difficulty handling your problems."
"There's no need to be sarcastic."
Ignoring her, he went on. "And it seems like you got a double whammy because they also just reminded you that your fears can kill you."
"I think you're reading too much into it."
"The Ten of Swords. The Final Outcome."
She had a sudden memory of the way the carpet had felt pressed warm and sticky against her cheek. Dry cleaning was not going to be enough. "Okay, okay, you win. What now?"
"I don't know but I'll think of something. There's only two cards to go and they seem to be coming closer together."
"That's not very reassuring."
"I know." David glanced around and suddenly smiled. "I've got it. This is an easy one." Grabbing Cynthia's shoulders he turned her toward the waterfront. "What does the CN Tower symbolize to you?"
She squinted at the familiar landmark and shrugged. "Radio towers?"
"No, that's what it is. Try again."
"Revolving restaurants?"
"Cynthia!"
"I don't know!" Her voice had picked up a slightly desperate tone. "What?"
"It's the world's tallest, freestanding, phallic symbol."
"But they're not shaped anything like that."
David sighed and considered giving up the fight. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Let's go back to work, I'll put on the Benedictine monks and while you try to step beyond reality, I'll try to think up a new angle."
"I think we've been beyond reality since we talked to Madame Zora," Cynthia muttered. The thought of falling swords made the skin between her shoulder blades itch.
*
"I haven't been inside a church for years."
"Nothing does symbolism better." David pushed open the heavy wooden door of St. Michael's Cathedral. "Come on."
"We can't just wander in."
"We're not just wandering. Now, come on."
It was cool and quiet inside the church. Aside from a few elderly women praying in the first couple of rows, they had the place to themselves. In a low voice, David began pointing out the various symbols of his faith.
"I know all this stuff, David. I haven't spent my life in a closet, if you'll pardon the expression."
"You know it here." He touched her forehead then tapped on her sternum. "But not here. You have to believe that some things stand for things that are bigger than they are."
"Would now be a good time to tell you why I stopped going to church?"
They were turning to leave when a figure leaned out of one of the alcoves and beckoned.
Cynthia frowned. "Okay, it was a long time ago and it was a United Church, but isn't that guy just a little overdressed?"
The alcove held a low dais, a throne, and two pillars. A pair of monks in robes embroidered with roses and lilies knelt before the throne. Between them, was a pair of crossed keys. Seated on the throne, was a priest.
"What's with the Carmen Miranda hat?"
"It's not a hat," David hissed looking up from the book. "It's a three tiered crown."
"Don't tell me..."
"It's the Hierophant. Your eighth card. The seeker's environment or the fears of your family and friends."
"If you don't mind, young man," the priest said snippily, "I can speak for myself."
"Sorry."
"I should think so." He cleared his throat. "Your family and friends, my dear, are afraid you're overly concerned with a need to conform. That you are bound too tightly to convention."
Cynthia's lip curled. "First, I'm not your dear. Second, you're wrong. Tell him he's wrong, David."
"Uh..."
"So, who says I have to be wild and crazy?" she snarled. She glared down at the monks. "Do you two have anything to add?"
"No," said the monk on the left.
"We're just here for effect," added the monk on the right.
Absolutely furious, Cynthia stomped out of the church – modifying her step when she heard the slap of her shoes echoing against the stone. When David caught up with her on the sidewalk outside, she whirled around to face him.
"Why me, that's what I want to know? Why put all this effort into changing me? Am I such a horrible person?"
"No. You're not. You're just..." He searched for a polite way to put it. "...a little narrowly focused."
"Is that such a bad thing? I'm not hurting anyone!"
His voice gentled. "Except maybe yourself."
The anger left her as suddenly as it had appeared. She clutched at David's arm. "We haven't much time, have we? One more card and then..."
"We'll beat it, Cyn, you'll see. But maybe you should stay home until you've made a break-through, that way no one can drop swords on you."
"No, but my building will collapse in an unexpected earthquake and I'll be found in the rubble wearing Mr. Garibaldi's collection of medieval weaponry."
"Mr. G. has a collection of swords?"
"Not that I know of now. Anyway, I can't be responsible for that, think of what an earthquake would do to the property values in my neighbourhood." When she caught his expression, she almost grinned. "Kidding." The grin slipped. "Mostly."
They came out onto Yonge Street in the midst of a crowd of street vendors. Forward progress meant carefully picking a path through merchandise stacked precariously on rickety tables and spread out on the sidewalk. Her mind replaying the dream of the swords, over and over, Cynthia moved blindly toward disaster.
Her foot struck something hard and cold. Which struck something else. Which struck something else. Metal rang against concrete.
When she looked down, she realized she'd kicked over three brass goblets, spilling their contents. The vendor, his skinny form wrapped head to toe in a black cloak, stared down at them in despair as other pedestrians stepped fastidiously over the spreading liquid.
"I'm so sorry."
"Accidents happen," he allowed mournfully.
"I'll pay you for what I spilled."
He sighed deeply. "No point. What's done, is done."
Done.
Done.
Done.
Cynthia suddenly needed to out-run the word echoing in her head, suddenly needed to get out of the crowd. David found her two blocks away, leaning up against a store window, staring at but not seeing the display.
"There were two cups still standing," he said.
"Doesn't matter. That was the ninth card."
"How do you know?"
"Oh come on, David. Cups. A guy in a full cloak making enigmatic statements – what else could it be? You might want to stand back; you'll never get blood stains out of that shirt, it's silk."
Flipping through the book, David ignored the suggestion. "Okay, if it was your ninth card, then it represents your hopes and fears."
"I think the fears part is pretty damned obvious!"
"But there were two cups still full! You can break through this Cyn if you just try!"
"I am trying, but face it, it's not working!" Her words had picked up a panicked cadence. "So, something wants to broaden my viewpoint. Suppose I don't want my viewpoint broadened?"
"I don't think you have a choice."
"There's always a choice, David. I can choose to stand here and become some sort of symbolic pincushion!" The look on his face stopped her cold. "All right. No, I can't. But only because it would upset you." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We're almost out of time. What do we do?"
<
br /> They were standing in front of a shoe store. David peered through the glass and, unexpectedly, he smiled. "Let's buy you some sandals."
"Sandals?" She blinked. "That's your solution?"
"When I was younger, I took riding lessons. When I started I didn't have the right clothes because, well, they were expensive and I couldn't see how they'd make a difference. When I finally broke down and bought a pair of breeches and some boots, my riding improved. What you're wearing can affect your state of mind. Sandals can be very spiritual. Christ wore sandals. Come on."
Shaking her head, but with no better idea, Cynthia followed him into the store.
The pattern of the carpet looked familiar.
Eyes locked on the loops and swirls, she heard nothing of what either the salesman or David said as they picked and fitted and boxed her cowboy boots. Moving numbly to the counter on the unfamiliar slabs of cork, she pulled out her wallet and muttered, "How much?" A moment later she repeated the question considerably louder.
"Cyn, they're made in Germany..."
"So what! I'm not taking them on the autobahn."
"Think of it as an investment in your state of mind."
She looked down at her toes, pale and naked, and past them to the carpet. "Oh well, I probably won't have to wear them for long." Handing over her gold card, she signed where indicated, picked up the piece of plastic...
...and froze, credit card clutched in one hand.
"Cyn?"
"This isn't money!"
"No, but..."
"But it symbolizes money! In a way, it symbolizes a standard of living I couldn't achieve on cash alone! Do you hear music?" Without waiting for an answer, she whirled around. "Those shoes with the three inch heels, they not only symbolize the patriarchy's effort to keep women helpless, but also women taking charge of and flaunting their own sexuality!"
David felt a little the way Henry Higgins must have when the rain finally fell on Spain.
"And red!" Grabbing his shoulders, she shook him back and forth. "Red symbolizes blood and blood symbolizes sacrifice and sacrifice symbolizes passion so red symbolizes passion!" Releasing him, she spun away, eyes gleaming.
The salesman leaned over the counter. "Is she all right?"
"She's having an epiphany." Trust Cynthia to have an epiphany with a credit card.
"These shoes symbolize a dream of playing like Michael Jordon!"
The salesman frowned. "Is it going to make a mess on the carpet?"
"I don't think so." David smiled so broadly his cheeks hurt. She'd done it, she'd managed to acknowledge a greater reality. There would be no tenth card. No swords. No body. It would be enough to know what the meaning was.
"Symbols, symbols tap into the collective unconscious! All of a sudden, poetry makes sense, although," she added throwing herself back into one of the chairs, "I still don't understand Shirley Maclaine." The chair, made for more sedate landings, tipped backwards. "Oh shit!"
Watching her hit the floor, head down and feet in the air, David had an epiphany of his own. As the chair landed solidly on top of her, he wondered if he should say anything. The Ten of Swords had been reversed. Realistically, there wasn't a lot of difference between being stabbed and being impaled but symbolically...
He checked the new meaning as the salesman – torn between laughter and fear of being sued – helped her up.
The Ten of Swords, reversed. In spiritual matters, the Seeker may now turn to higher powers for help.
He closed the book before Cynthia turned to face him. Higher powers. It was out of his hands. And thank God, ghod, gods, or whoever for that.
Rubbing one buttock, Cynthia limped over to the counter. "I think," she said, enthusiasm muted slightly, "I'll consider that a warning. The spiritual must be balanced with the practical."
Before David could agree, the cell phone rang.
"Augustine Textiles, Cynthia Augustine speaking."
Eyes locked on her face, David searched for an outward manifestation of the inner change. He couldn't see one and, as she frowned, his heart started to pound uncomfortably hard. Perhaps it wasn't over.
"That," Cynthia said as she tucked the phone back in the belt pouch, "was Madame Zora."
David started breathing again. "She wants to congratulate you on reaching enlightenment?"
"Not exactly. She wants her twenty bucks."
Every now and then, the appropriation of voice discussion reoccurs throughout the writing/reading community and we go through the whole males shouldn't write from a female point-of-view, heterosexuals shouldn't write from a homosexual point-of-view, Caucasians shouldn't write from a People of Colour (phrase used as shorthand for the many different non-Caucasian peoples of the world) point-of-view and I'm sure I'm missing a few.
I think people should write from whatever point-of-view is necessary to tell the story, but they should never write mindlessly. If you can't put yourself in your point-of-view character's place, feel what they're feeling and know why they're feeling it, then don't do it. If your young, straight Asian university student is thinking and feeling like an older, gay, Caucasian, part-time bookstore clerk, part-time writer, then you're doing it wrong.
I was living in Toronto's Chinatown when I wrote this and there were some nasty gang wars going on at the time. Not that gang wars are ever anything but nasty. A body was found in the park across from our apartment and a wounded young man who spoke no English – at least to us – collapsed in our stairwell but staggered off before the police arrived. The shooting outside the restaurant was, unfortunately, not stopped by two teenagers and a dragon.
Shing Li-ung
"Donna. Your grandmother has asked to see you."
Incipient panic thrust Donna Chen up out of the chair and nearly pushed her voice over the edge to shrill. "Me?" She waved an agitated arm towards the backyard where her three cousins were playing a subdued game of croquet. "What about them?"
Her Aunt Lily, her mother's younger sister, stepped back out of the family room and shook her head. "You're the oldest. And besides, she asked to see you."
Donna recognized the tone; her mother had one just like it. Ears burning, she stood and headed for the stairs. With her aunt marching close behind, she felt as though she were being escorted to her own execution. There's someone dying in my house. That just doesn't happen in the suburbs.
Just outside the master bedroom, she paused, resisting the pressure of a small hand between her shoulder-blades. "What if she dies while I'm with her?"
"Oh for heaven's sake, Donna, you're almost eighteen; you're not a child. And you'll be in a lot more trouble if she dies before you get there. Now go."
The bedroom had been her parents' until eight months ago when her grandmother had fallen, broken her hip and been unable to live alone any longer. She had been frail then. Now, with eight months of pain behind her and death so near, she looked ethereal, no longer real.
To Donna's surprise, the curtains were open and, instead of the gloom she'd been expecting, the afternoon sun filled the room with golden light. Father Xiangao, the priest from Our Lady of Sorrows, sat to the right of the bed, her mother to the left. She paused just inside the door, but her grandmother saw her and, murmuring something in Mandarin, beckoned her forward. Determined to make the best of a bad situation – given that she had no choice – Donna moved to the end of the bed and paused again, her knees pressed up against the mattress.
"Yes, grandmother?"
The bird-claw hand beckoned her closer still.
Eyes on the neutral landscape of the yellow blanket, its surface barely rippled by the wasted body beneath, Donna shuffled past her mother's knees and jerked to a stop when fingers of skin and bone clutched suddenly at her wrist. Heart in her throat, she somehow managed not to pull away.
"Chun Chun, woh yu ishi don-shi ne shu-ino."
Although her grandmother spoke fluent English, in the last few months she'd reverted solely to the language of her childhood. As Donna spoke no Manda
rin, Father Xiangao translated.
"She wants to give you something. She brought it with her from Kweilin. It carries very powerful..." he paused and asked a question before continuing. "It carries very powerful protection."
Donna allowed her hand to be pulled forward and, curious in spite of herself, leaned down for a closer look. Although she didn't understand the words, she understood the tone. Her grandmother considered this to be very, very important.
Three inches long and about one high, a red and gold enamel dragon on cheap tin backing – the kind they sold for less than a dollar at most of the junkier Chinatown stores – lay on Donna's palm, still warm and slightly damp from her grandmother's hand. This was it? Donna turned it over. Meant to be worn as a brooch, the pin had been bent and straightened more than once and rust pitted the clasp that secured it.
"Shing Li-ung."
Startled, Donna glanced over at the priest. Maybe she was missing the point of this.
"That's its name," the priest said softly. "It means Shining Heart."
Donna could feel her mother's presence behind her and knew what was expected. "Thank you, Grandmother." It could have been a lot worse.
The grip the old woman had on her wrist relaxed a little and then surprisingly, convulsively tightened again. Her eyes opened very wide and she appeared to be staring at a patch of sunlight on the ceiling. Then thin lips curved up in a wondering smile and, just for that moment, Donna realized that this woman had once been eighteen too.
She breathed out the name of her husband, long dead, and never breathed in again.
Trying very hard not to freak, Donna pulled her hand out of the circle of slack fingers as Father Xiangao reached over and gently closed the old woman's eyes. The imprint of the death grip clung to her wrist. Frantic scrubbing against her jeans, did nothing to erase the feeling.
Then behind her, over the drone of the priest's prayers, she heard her mother crying. Puzzled, she turned. She had seen her mother cry before, but never like this. Understanding came slowly. The dragon dropped to the blanket, momentarily forgotten, as Donna drew the older woman's head down to her shoulder and held her tightly while she wept. Her own tears were not so much for her grandmother as for the sudden knowledge that someday she would be the daughter who grieved.
