by Jon Jacks
A smartass!
He won’t even glance my way tomorrow.
He’ll ignore me; like it all never happened.
Wait! When the bell for class went, when I had to leave him – didn’t he say, ‘See you later’?
It’s just an expression, girl!
Like ‘Bye’.
Like ‘Bye forever, hope I never see you again.’
Was it me who said it anyway?
‘See you later.’
Gawd! I hope not!
How arrogant is that? To assume we’d see each other again!
The Greek God and the sort of gnome-like girl, dressed like she lives on charity.
Sure. Fated in the stars, right?
Fated?
Huh, not according to these bloody cards!
*
Chapter 5
Okay, okay: I know I’m being all stupidly negative.
Going over things way too much.
Driving myself crazy with ‘might-have-been’s and ‘if-only’s.
And ‘oh-my-god,-why-did-I-say-that?’s.
Then again, I reckon there are so many others out there just like me.
Maybe we should get together.
Maybe we’d all like each other.
But you know what? I don’t think we would.
I think we’d be upset to see another ‘me’ out there in the real world.
Showing us all our faults, clearly on display.
Who would like that sort of person?
I don’t like that sort of person.
Even though I am that sort of person.
No, not ‘even though’ – Because I’m that sort of person.
If anybody could hear me now, they’d already be irritated by me, wouldn’t they?
Whiney. Miserable.
I try and hide it, of course.
But it always shows through.
In the end, it always shows itself.
Oh, get yourself together girl!
He’s only a boy!
Only the most gorgeous boy who’s ever talked to me.
*
‘So, what do you reckon, Grace; do witches exist or not?’
He knows my name!
He knows my – get yourself together girl!
I won’t tell you again!
Then again, it makes such a nice change from being called Lowlife Lowry.
‘I still reckon witches don’t exist; they can’t.’
‘Yet the cards can tell your future?’
‘Well…you know.’
‘No; I don’t know.’
‘I thought you believed in them?’
‘Do you?’
‘Wow, questions, questions.’
‘It’s just the one question, isn’t it? Do you believe in otherworld powers?’
‘I…I suppose, yes; I do.’
‘But not witches?’
‘Not witches; I think that is a different question.’
‘And if I could prove to you that they exist?’
‘Didn’t you ask me if they did exist? Now you’re saying you have proof?’
‘I need someone who can read the cards to prove it.’
‘Ah, I suppose, yes; that does make sense.’
‘So?’
He looks directly into my eyes.
‘So?’ I repeat unsurely.
‘So could we meet up tonight: see if we can prove that witches are real?’
*
Chapter 6
Some date.
Though I don’t suppose Dean sees it as a date, to be honest.
It’s not the usual thing to ask a girl out on, is it?
A séance kind of thing, in an old abandoned house.
Who ever said romance was dead, right?
Oh be still my beating heart.
Yeah, it is beating; but for all the wrong reasons.
I’m scared.
This is serious.
I’ve just finally admitted to myself I don’t really know this guy.
What if he’s into…you know.
Oh sure, Grace; so you’re prepared to go out to a spooky house with a guy dabbling in the black arts – but when you’re worried he might be more into grabbing and groping, you start getting all flustered like some Victorian girl.
A knee to the family jewels; that should put an end to that.
Failing that, I’ve got an eight-inch hatpin in my hair bun that could cause considerable damage to an elephant’s nether regions.
Thing is, he’s made no sort of play in that direction yet anyway.
And he’s brought along, as promised, candles, chalk to draw the pentangle, and an ancient mirror.
You know, typical first date materials.
Providing you’re planning on dating Beelzebub himself.
You know, if I survive this date, I might promise myself I’m never, ever going on one again.
*
My knees are filthy.
I didn’t know I’d be expected to help him draw out the diagrams on the floor.
It’s not even a pentangle. He showed me this diagram in an old book. Looks like it was previously owned by the great-great-great grandfather of the guy who worked with the Witch Finder General.
I’ve seen newer fossils.
The candles are lit. A sort of lavender perfume, I think. I’m not sure if that’s intentional or not.
If it’s aromatherapy, it isn’t helping calm me down.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ I ask him for about the third time.
‘If you’re right, and witches don’t exist, we don’t have anything to worry about, do we?’
Yeah, great; thanks for the reassurance Dean!
‘But isn’t this more to do with conjuring up demons, that sort of thing?’
‘So you believe in demons? But not witches?’
You know, I’m beginning to wonder if Dean isn’t a bit too much of a smartass even for his amazing looks!
Quickly searching the old house, Dean had found a full-length mirror in one of the rooms, which he pronounced as being better than the one he’d brought along. When he places the mirror on the floor alongside the candles and diagram, such that everything’s reflected in it, it all looks quite entrancingly beautiful.
And now there is a pentagram, the other half completed by the mirror’s reflection.
I glance at the diagram we’ve chalked out on the floor, wondering why I hadn’t recognised earlier that we were carefully rendering a half pentagram. It’s because it’s a trick of the light, the way the candles illuminate the lines running directly away from them, yet not others. The semi-pentagram had been hidden amongst so many other lines, I hadn’t noticed it.
Dean places a velvet cushion (I had worried what that was for) on the floor in the middle of our diagram.
‘Now Grace, if you could sit here please, and start laying out your cards–’
‘Who for? Whose future should I read?’
‘It doesn’t have to be anyone; the cards will begin to tell their own story.’
I move towards the cushion, sit down on it.
‘Where did you learn how to do all this Dean?’
‘An old book.’
‘The book with the diagram?’
‘Older than that.’
Wow, older than God then.
That makes everything all right then, doesn’t it? That he got all this out of an old book?
How did I get myself into this?
Oh yeah; Dean’s wonderfully green eyes made me think all this would be the best idea I’ve ever had!
That’s it – I’ll never trust green eyes again for as long as I live.
Provided I do live, that is.
*
Chapter 7
As I start laying out the cards before me on the floor, I keep glancing up at my image in the mirror.
Wondering what’s supposed to happen
When it will start to happen.
So far, there are no tricks. No surprises.
It just all looks rath
er nice, like some elaborate ceremony.
I feel bizarrely uneasy though.
As if I know for sure something’s going to happen.
‘Is it okay to talk?’ I ask, worried that I might have already jeopardised the spell.
‘Sure.’
‘How’s all this supposed to work?’
‘Well, most people, when they try and perform this, forget the mirror.’
‘Huh huh.’
‘When you look into a mirror, it fools you into thinking there’s a three dimensional world inside it; even though it’s flat, as flat as a photograph. A two dimensional object, portraying three dimensions. In the case of the mirror, however, unlike the photo, it’s a world that’s ever changing, ever in motion. It allows us to see more and more of that three dimensional world as we change our viewing point.’
‘Huh huh.’
Thanks for the physics lesson, Dean. I’m concentrating on the strange way the cards are coming out; I’m sure I shuffled the pack, and yet…yes, they’re coming out in the right order!
‘Now a three dimensional mirror will therefore reveal to us the fourth dimension–’
‘Isn’t that time? The fourth dimension?’
‘Not really, no: although we use the fourth dimension of time to transform our two dimensional mirror into one of three dimensions, so–’
‘There’s something odd with my pack,’ I anxiously admit. ‘It’s like it was when I’d first printed them all off and cut them to size, proudly putting them in order when–’
I pause, whirl around looking for Dean.
‘Is that because of the change in time?’ I ask urgently. ‘My pack’s gone back to–’
I abruptly stop speaking once more.
Dean isn’t there.
I’m on my own is this unnervingly weird room.
*
I leap to my feet, figuring the best ploy now is to get outta here, quick!
In the mirror, though, I don’t leap up. I rise slowly, unhurriedly.
Like I have all the time in the world.
It stops me, this unbelievable scene.
My refection, having a life of its own.
In the mirror, too, a card rises up from the floor with the reflected me. My image snatches the card from the air; I can’t see which it is. But while I’m trying to work out which it could be, the reflected me rapidly starts to lose focus, to lose shape, such that I glance down at myself for reassurance that it’s not also happening to me.
When I look back in the mirror, I’m no longer there.
I’m facing instead the Hanged Man; the Hanged Man from the tarot pack.
*
Chapter 8
I know; I should run.
But…this is just so amazing to see this Hanged Man in the mirror.
Not because I’m completely morbid, understand?
I mean; it’s a tarot card come to life.
In three dimensions. Reflected in a mirror; even though there’s no such thing to reflect.
I glance about me, just to make sure.
Time in suspension, that’s one of the Hanged Man’s meaning. Which is quite apt, I suppose.
Taking care, making sacrifices, for others; as the god Osiris was cut into pieces, then later resurrected.
Rather than stepping farther back from this curious sight, I step even closer, curious as to how it has been achieved, this remarkable mirage.
He hangs upside down, only one foot held within the noose, his eyes closed. He looks so real, I feel I could reach out and touch him.
I reach out.
I touch him!
He opens his eyes – and he grins maliciously.
*
I knew I should’ve run!
I whirl around on the balls of my feet – but I’m suddenly jerked back.
The Hanged Man is somehow already down on the ground, using his own noose to lasso me around my neck.
I’m choking, gasping for air. Like I’m now the Hanged Girl.
He’s pulling me back, back into the mirror. I’m frantically scrabbling at the tightening rope, trying to wrench it clear of my windpipe; but I can’t get my fingers inside.
God! Where’s the good looking hunk when you need him?
I kick out at a candle near my feet, hoping that disturbs whatever mystical pattern has been created in this room.
Nothing happens. Well, apart from the fact that the Hanged man has been able to utilise my increased unsteadiness to pull me even farther into the mirror.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that I’m inside the frame. Realising my frenetic scrabbling at the rope isn’t helping me, I reach out for the sides of the frame, trying to grasp them. But my fingers slip, slide, failing to get a grip.
I’m feeling dizzy, too, the rope cutting off oxygen from reaching my brain.
What a way to die.
Being dragged to your death by a tarot card!
*
Chapter 9
It’s a strange thought to have at this moment, I know: maybe I’m even more dazed and delusional than I thought I was.
To the ancient Mesopotamians, breathing and life were the same; ‘napistu’, meaning ‘throat,’ ‘to breathe’, ‘life’.
Rather than trying to breath in, I breath out.
And I keep breathing out, producing air from I don’t know where. I wouldn’t have that much breath in a full set of lungs, let alone the air starved lungs I have at the moment.
The breath swirls around me, reaches out to the candles, rapidly snuffing each one out.
Immediately, the rope around my neck vanishes. No one’s brutally pulling me back into the mirror anymore either.
As I’m still fighting against a force that no longer exists, I end up stumbling and falling away from the mirror. I’m still choking however, gasping for air with relief.
The room’s now just about pitch black, with all the candles doused. There’s just a slight sliver of already dim evening light coming in through a few small holes in the threadbare curtains Dean had earlier drawn across the windows. Light which is eerily reflected from the now equally dark mirror.
I’m tempted to fool myself that I only imagined everything that’s just happened, that I was simply spooked by the weird surroundings. My throat tells me otherwise; it’s hurting like the rope’s still around my neck, as if the skin’s burned or at least badly bruised.
I know that now, at last, I should have the sense to run.
But I can’t leave without my cards.
Yet I daren’t light a candle again to give me some light. I have to use, ironically, the thin beams of light being reflected from the mirror to see what I’m doing as I urgently scrabble around on the floor, feeling for my cards with my hands.
What blew the candles out? Was it just some failsafe system in the diagram? Was it just a draught, coming in through the rotting floorboards of this wreck?
All I can know for sure is that it wasn’t really me, as I’d imagined it to be when I was dizzy from the lack of oxygen,
But what was that in the mirror?
And what’s happened to Dean?
*
As soon as I’m sure I’ve retrieved all my cards, I’m outta there.
Okay, so anyone normal wouldn’t have even hung around to get their cards back.
But these things, you’ve got to understand, are precious to me.
They’re almost entirely my own creation.
(Yeah, yeah: I know someone came up with the idea of tarot cards long before I did!)
I’ve illustrated every single one; creating images that I believe aptly highlights what each card represents.
They’re individual to me – the sense I get that this is what a tarot pack should actually look like. With just about every one of the major arcana being a representation of an ancient god.
Ridiculous?
Probably.
Dabbling in things I shouldn’t be?
Obviously!
*
&nbs
p; Chapter 10
When I get outside, still gasping for air, my chest burning almost as painfully as my neck, I’m surprised to see that everything around me seems to be exactly as it was when Dean and I first came here.
Apart, of course, from it now being a little darker.
So time hasn’t changed after all. If it did change, then everything seems to be back to normal.
Same cars on the same streets.
Same porch lights blazing above doorways.
If I knew where Dean lived, I’d head round there right away to check that he was okay.
But I don’t.
I don’t even know what part of town he lives in.
I run through the streets, nervous about every blind corner I have to turn around.
Worried I’m going to run headlong into the Hanged Man once more. Or some other demon, out to get me because I’ve dared to tamper with the tarot pack.
Is that it?
Is that why I was nearly strangled to death?
Surely not.
It’s because, of course, we drew out that ridiculous diagram.
If I find out tomorrow morning that Dean’s okay, I’m the one who’s gonna kill him!
*
The next morning, Dean’s fine.
And no, I don’t kill him.
I just glare at him as if I might.
‘Just where the hel–’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he blurts out anxiously, rushing towards me and taking me into his arms. ‘I’ve been worried about you all night! What happened? Where did you go? I didn’t know where you lived, so–’
‘Where did I go! You were the one who vanished!’
He frowns, genuinely puzzled.
‘No no, Grace! You were setting out the cards; and then, suddenly, you just weren’t there any more! And all the candles went out! I was worried sick!’
‘Worried? Then why didn’t you hang around?’
Hang around! What a choice of words!
‘I did!’ he protests, still holding me close, like he doesn’t want to let me go, like he regrets leaving me to face God only knows what. ‘I was searching the house for ages! Thinking you must have dropped down through a hole in the floor! Or just got up and started blindly walking around when the candles went out!’
‘So you really don’t know what happened to me?’
I prise myself loose of his arms so I can check his response. He seems mystified by my anger.
