by Shannon Page
“Where is Gracie?” I asked aloud, then placed the cards in front of me.
In the first position—“You”—was the Two of Cups. A lovely, peaceful image of two people facing one another, holding golden cups. Mom had told me it symbolized, quite appropriately, a relationship between two people. Sometimes romantic love, but also just any close connection. Gracie’s and my friendship, very likely, since it was the “me” card.
It was a card that implied that everything was under control. Which was…somewhat less than encouraging, I thought, given the circumstances.
Below the single first card, I laid out a second row of two cards: “The Background.” The first one was Strength, and next to it was The Chariot. “Interesting,” I muttered. Elnor wandered into the room, perhaps drawn by my poking at the threads of magic that surrounded us. She sniffed at the cards and then jumped up onto the couch next to me, settling against my side. I rubbed her ears as I stared at the cards.
Strength is the card that comes just after The Chariot in the major arcana, but here it appeared before it. What, if anything, did the switch mean? The picture on Strength is a woman with her hands on the head of a lion—shoving his mouth closed, or trying to pry it open? The symbol of eternity floats over her head, symbolizing (or so I’d been told) emotional fortitude, courage and patience. The message of this card was to stop trying too hard to force something if it’s not working; to be patient, perhaps even withdraw for a while. And then there was the symbolism of the lion—a big cat if ever there was one. What did this mean, in relation to any of my questions?
The Chariot’s message was more forceful, direct. A quasi-military fellow, staring straight ahead in a chariot pulled by two mirror-image sphinxes. It was also a card of emotional control, of putting aside grief in order to take action and move forward.
Grief. My sorrow over Logan no longer ruled my days, as it had at first; but it was never far from the surface. Working with her cards brought her even more keenly to mind. Was I supposed to put that aside?
What I felt about Gracie was not grief. It was worry and anxiety and even maybe guilt, but not grief.
At least, I didn’t think so. But no. I had to believe that she was all right. That this was some sort of extended tantrum; or even that she had gotten caught up in something too exciting and new for her to feel safe letting us know where she was. Leonora would absolutely demand her return to the coven, no matter what Gracie—or her new companions, whoever they might be—had to say about it.
But this was all the background to my current questions. So what did that mean? Did it mean I had put my friendship with Logan aside too much? Not appreciated her?
Guilt is not helping here, I told myself. I cannot do anything about the past. Moving forward: I would focus on that.
I laid out the third row—three cards, signifying “The Solution.” Another one of the major arcana, in The Star; followed by the Ten of Wands, then the Page of Cups. The Star was an amazingly positive card. I smiled when I saw it, and could almost see my mom’s face light up when she had talked about it last week: “When all hope seems to be lost, The Star will be there to light your way. But it will do so quietly. You must pay attention, watch for it, listen for it.”
“Listen?” I had asked.
She had nodded. “It is a very spiritual card—and thus all the more relevant to witchkind. It speaks to our essence. The Star’s energy is the spark of divinity within us all.”
Okay, that was encouraging. Unfortunately, right next to it was the Ten of Wands: a poor fellow heavily burdened by ten heavy sticks, his back bending painfully under their weight. This was a card about power being blocked, and usually (as you might imagine) rather negative in a reading. It could, of course, be a spur to action, but it was pretty dismal. It was a message to stop butting your head against something that wasn’t working, to try another path.
Not much different than Strength, I thought. Both the Background and the Solution seemed to be telling me that I was heading down the wrong path. So, should I not be looking for Gracie? Or not today? Or not this way?
My mini-reading’s message turned back to the positive with the cheerful Page of Cups, however—a happy fool in a fancy outfit, holding a cup at a jaunty angle. (Though I’m not sure I’d be quite so cheerful if I had a live fish in my wine.) The card signified one’s own childlike qualities—romantic and impractical, but also spiritual, nonrational. Kind of a poster child for tarot itself: a message to believe in your intuition, to trust your dreams. It was a card of emotional beginnings. Very fitting for a fifteen-year-old.
What a jumble, I thought, as I laid out the last card, on a row of its own: “The Final Outcome.” It was the Ace of Swords: a glowing hand, emerging from some stormy clouds, holding a gleaming sword pointed straight up. A king’s crown floats near the sword’s tip.
“Huh,” I muttered. A sword cuts both ways, I remembered: the wielding of power and justice, but also an instrument of death and injury. Being the Ace, it symbolized the beginning of a situation—it was interesting, and a little puzzling, to find it here as the Final Outcome. Was it hopeful, or was it a warning? (I could almost hear Mom’s answer: “Both!” Not helping, Mom.) It could also mean a breakthrough or insight into the spirit world, which we generally took to mean the Beyond and the realms beyond that.
I sat staring at the spread for a long time, letting all the messages and images tumble through my mind, trying hard to not control it, not overthink it. I’d been getting better at this, but it was still a challenge for me. Not my natural way of solving a problem.
It was an interesting mix of “advice.” Nothing specific to the issue of finding Gracie, of course; I told myself that I hadn’t really expected that, though I felt disappointed all the same.
But what had I found out? The thing that kept resonating was the wrong path message. The let go, try another way. Gracie might be only fifteen, but she was a witch—and a strong one, at that. I’d been fretting about her like she was a helpless child. Was that the piece I was supposed to let go?
There were also lots of pointers to the spiritual realm. Should I be calling to Nementhe and our other ancestresses more often? Taking more action here in the real world?
Change course, I told myself.
But it was days before I took action.
When I did, it was to focus elsewhere entirely—taking the tarot’s advice for all it was worth, though I didn’t realize it at the time.
What I did realize was that I had let myself become so completely isolated in the last few months. I’d moved out of the coven house, ostensibly to live alone and do my work with less distraction and interference, and with better space. Of course my more immediate reasons had been to pursue my relationship with my sexy human boyfriend Raymond, and to live my life with less supervision—not that I would have admitted any of that to Leonora or any of witchkind’s powers-that-be.
What is it about making plans? Even about having intentions? Because of course none of what I’d envisioned had come to pass. Raymond had turned out to be a completely different kind of boyfriend than I’d imagined he would be. It was almost like he’d wanted to move in, or something crazy like that. And the burden of my not being able to tell him who I was or what I could do…the very fundamentals of my identity…had created a strain between us where our relationship could just not survive.
I hadn’t formally broken up with him, coward that I was. But we were through, and he and I both knew it very well.
He wasn’t the only part of my life that the coven had stifled, though. I’d enjoyed not just fraternizing with humans, but also mingling with the younger set of witchkind. Witches my age, who were not in my coven. With whom I might actually have a thing in common.
I suddenly realized that I hadn’t even been back to Rose’s Bar since the night of Logan’s birthday…when we had met Jeremy.
I patted my belly, sending warm thoughts to my own little growing Rose as I let myself feel the sadness all over again.
Logan had been so happy that night. She’d sparked up an altogether uncharacteristic crush on Jeremy the moment she’d laid eyes on him. Not that I could blame her: he was charming and attractive, and more to the point, he was a complete unknown. The field of eligible warlocks is small in any community. We’d known our local dweebs all our lives.
Even though I still didn’t want to drink any alcohol, I found myself missing the social scene at Rose’s, and wondering why I hadn’t even thought about it in months. Had the associations with Logan been just too strong—was I avoiding it, like a painful bruise?
No matter. Now that I’d thought about it, the next step was to get myself there.
I changed into a sort of shapeless black dress, one that still fit over my growing belly. It didn’t hide the pregnancy exactly, but it didn’t accentuate it. Then I walked out my front door and locked the house with the physical key before walking to the end of the block, where there was a more major ley line. Magical transit would be easier to take from there, with less twisting and turning, all of which drained my energy, already busy with baby-nourishing.
I supposed I could have taken a taxi, but I wasn’t feeling in the mood for interacting with humans. Not right now, at least.
The moment I stepped inside the back room of the bar, I wondered again why I’d let this part of my life fall so completely off my radar. “Callie!” came a happy voice from the far side of the room.
I made my way through the crowd, following the inviting sound, and found Shella and Gentian at a tiny table.
“There’s room for one more!” Shella cried, reaching around to steal a chair from the next table.
Gentian smiled up at me as well. She and Shella were the two junior members of Jasmine’s coven, which focused on botanical magic, though in a more grounded sense (if you’ll excuse the pun) than my mom’s old coven, led by Isadora. I had been tempted to apply there when I turned twenty, but my love of teaching had kept me at Leonora’s.
Paths not taken.
I sat down as Gentian raised her arm for the waitress. “We’re doing Smol’s,” she said, unnecessarily; I could plainly see, and smell, the Smoldering Dragonflies in front of them. They smelled both great and awful. “Want one?”
“No thanks—just a soda for me,” I said, as Glenna arrived, positioning her hands as though holding an invisible order pad. “Do you have lavender, or mint?”
“We have a basil-mint,” she said.
“Perfect!”
Both young witches turned back to look at me, puzzled, as Glenna slipped back to the bar. “Those herbs are great, of course, but—” Shella started, pointing at my belly.
This time, at least, I’d thought ahead. “Healer’s orders: Nora is carefully monitoring all my nutrition, including my alcohol intake; I’m not allowed to have anything fermented that she hasn’t prepared with her own hands.” I patted my belly and gave them both what I hoped was a sad smile. “She’s being very forceful about it. Apparently I’ve been under unusual stress lately, and she wants to be sure everything is perfectly balanced.”
“Wow,” Gentian said, giving me a sympathetic look.
Shella shook her head. “Wow indeed. But she’s right: Callie, we haven’t seen you in months. We knew about the pregnancy, of course—”
“Who doesn’t?” Gentian interrupted. “Story of the year!”
Shella gave her a little swat on the arm. “Gen! Be nice. Callie has been through a lot.” She turned back to me. “How are you doing? We all miss Logan so, but I know you and she were particularly close.”
We spent the next fifteen minutes getting caught up, as I sipped the herbal soda and realized that it was actually pretty nice to have friends. It was true that Logan had been my absolute bestie, and I missed her to pieces, but our community had been much larger than just the two of us.
Somehow, grief and loss—and my whirlwind romance with Jeremy—had eclipsed so much. I hadn’t even realized it.
Even so, I couldn’t tell them everything. It was hard to decide whether this felt better or worse, unloading at least some of my troubles to sympathetic witches.
Better, I told myself, leaning back and watching the two of them order more Smol’s and giggle at some shared joke. A joke I’d missed by being so out of touch.
“So,” Shella said, leaning forward and taking a big draught of her fresh drink, “what’s it like, being pregnant?”
I smiled, resisting the urge to put my hand on my belly again. “It’s marvelous, and weird, and energizing, and exhausting. I love it. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”
“Is she communicating with you yet?” Gentian asked.
I shook my head. “No, that comes a bit later, I’m told. I mean—stuff about what I’m hungry or thirsty for, yeah, but that’s not really communication.”
“No,” Gentian said, laughing, “everyone’s stomach does that!”
“Is it true that it was a surprise?” Shella asked, lowering her voice.
Fortunately, I’d thought about this question too, though I wasn’t sure anyone would have been so bold as to ask it. Oh, I did like my friends. “It was, though everyone seems to think that I must have somehow wished myself into conception without being fully conscious of the fact.”
“Amazing. You’re so lucky.”
I smiled at them both again. “Our family is really fertile. My mom has two siblings, you know.”
“But you don’t have any, do you?” Gentian asked.
“No. I could, maybe, someday. My parents are still together.” Though they’d always been vague about any intentions along these lines.
“Wow.”
“It’s almost like being human!” Shella put in. “Imagine, being able to just…make babies, whenever you want to.”
“Oh, but then they wouldn’t be special,” Gentian said.
Shella rolled her eyes. “Have you ever met a human? They totally dote on their babies. They think they’re the most special things ever.”
“As if any planning or foresight went into them!” Gentian huffed, still smiling. “They just frolic in bed and pop out babies.”
“And then act like they’ve done something amazing!”
“Are you going to sign a contract with Jeremy?” Gentian asked me.
“Oh, so you guys are going to let me back into the conversation?” I joked.
Shella laughed, pretending to rear back and swat Gentian again. “Only to ask you rude questions,” she said to me.
“Well, are you? Will there be a huge party?”
“He offered a contract, but I’m still thinking about it,” I told them. “There’s just been too many changes in too short a time for me. I couldn’t add something else on top of it. Not right now anyway.”
The two witches shared a glance, and maybe even some silent communication. I could guess what they were thinking: But what about the baby? Won’t she need a father in her life? Is this really a good idea? As young and hip and progressive as my friends might be, they were as steeped in our society’s old-fashioned rules as I’d been.
“Plus, Jeremy’s been gone so long,” I added. “Now that he’s back from the Old Country, we’re going to be spending more time together. I’m sure we’ll talk about it more.”
“Sure, that’s good,” Shella said.
Yet I could almost feel the quiet discomfort that had settled over our table. I wished they could just be happy for me, and for baby Rosemary…but they just couldn’t get their heads around there being any alternative way to do things.
Shella turned the conversation to gossip about some witches I barely knew. I tried to keep up, but soon just finished my drink and stood to go.
“You just got here!” Gentian cried, getting up to give me a hug.
I pulled her into a strong embrace. Despite the awkwardness, it had been really nice to get back out into the social swing of things. “It’s like what I said earlier—my energy is unpredictable. But let’s do this more often. Let me know when you guys are coming o
ut next, and I’ll try and join you.”
“We will!” they both promised.
I left Rose’s back room, waving at acquaintances at a half-dozen tables on my way out. The front room was, as ever, half-full of humans who had no idea what was in the room behind the shabby bar they saw. I hardly gave them a glance. I was too busy thinking about the conversation. What had been said, and what had not been said.
Out on the street, I hailed a taxi after all, not feeling up to the ley lines. As the city passed by outside the windows, I remembered what Leonora had told me about Niad’s upbringing. How her mother had been covenless, and the father was out of the picture, and how this had helped shape Niad’s entire personality and value system.
Niad was an uptight, judgmental rule-follower who drove me nuts even when she wasn’t overtly insulting me or trying to boss me around. It felt downright pathological at times…because it probably was. She’d had such a painful, uncertain childhood, no doubt shunned and bullied by witches and warlocks from stable, traditional homes. She’d risen above this, joining San Francisco’s oldest and arguably most prominent coven, and—despite her youth and lack of seniority—taking on a leadership position in it.
As if she were determined to put her past behind her.
And as if she were determined that no other witch should go through what she had suffered.
Niad always maintained that she was bossing me around because she cared about me. It was probably true, in a twisted-up way.
Didn’t make me like it any better.
The taxi turned onto my street; the driver slowed down, peering at the house numbers. “Here is fine,” I told her.
She pulled over in a driveway. I paid her and got out, happy to walk an entire half-block. That was about all the energy I had.
I let myself into my house, went through the feeding-scritching-settling down ritual with Elnor, and sat on the couch in my front room.
Was I making a mistake here? Just out of stubbornness and contrariness? I never liked being told what to do—who does, honestly?—but could generations of witchkind be entirely wrong?
