Major Detours

by Zachary Sergi

  “I have a lot to say, Chase. That’s why I came back,” Logan begins. “But if that’s what you need, yes, I can do that for a little while.”

  Logan looks like he wants to hug me, and I desperately want him to, but we don’t know what’s allowed in this strange new place we’ve entered. So I try to pull myself off the bench. I step forward and hug Logan.

  It feels so good, my chest actually tightens. I press my eyes shut as tears well against the lids, because I’d rather not cry here next to the baked asphalt and gasoline pumps.

  “I just need you to know,” Logan begins, still holding me, “I did what I did trying not to hurt you. Really. I know it didn’t work, but I need you to believe that was my intention. That it still is.”

  Against my will, a couple tears pry loose from my closed eyelids. They wet my lashes and streak my cheeks. I wipe the tears away behind Logan’s back, resisting the urge to sniffle.

  “I believe that now,” I say.

  This might not change anything for us, but I know Logan means what he says. Besides, it’s not like my own reaction was perfect. I’m sure I stung Logan and that was never my intention, either. I want desperately to hear everything else he has to say, but I also know I really do need to decide what feels right to me first.

  I’m thankful we have a long drive ahead of us, because I have to make up my mind very soon. How can time feel so split, abundant and expiring all at once? Either way, I know I need to make every bit of it count.

  I end up being the one to drive the final leg to our destination, which feels fitting. We now enter the land of the Sworn—the clear and cutting Corner of Swords, the suit of The Emperor sitting on his mountaintop throne.

  The others still doze in Charvan’s bucket seats as the sun rises all around us. They need the sleep, but it’s almost a shame. The views we now pass approaching this final destination are some of the most stunning of our trip so far.

  The Emperor and Death contained the split coordinates for the missing Queen of Swords, which led us to Mammoth Mountain. Logan drove the first six hours of the trip, heading north so that we could actually reach the southbound road that took us into Mammoth. This circuitous route followed the only available roads through the chain of mountains, but it actually worked in our favor. As far as we could tell on our shifts to keep Logan company, we haven’t been followed. Whatever we do find at the final set of coordinates, it feels right to be headed up into the sky, to a place of elevation.

  The single road leading into Mammoth is breathtaking. It’s all sweeping vistas and open fields, half desert and half forest valleys framed by enormous mountain chains. The view stretches for miles in every direction, and it makes Charvan feel like a sword itself, a white-hot streak piercing the path forward. It’s not lost on me as we pass a crystal-clear lake that this is a land suited for all: red deserts and blue waters, green branches and snowy-white peaks.

  The hour that follows feels like a holy one, taking in the sights as we come into the more-populated towns lining Mammoth Mountain. It’s clearly a summer space riding out its waning days, hiking trails and lake houses breathing their last breaths before giving way to ski season. The GPS puts our final coordinates deep in the heart of the mountain, far beyond the main commercial areas. After another twenty minutes, I come to a long road populated by nothing but forest and winding road. The prospect gives me both a chill and a thrill—what remote corner is Perilli’s last card going to bring us to for our grand finale?

  It’s not until I pull Charvan a few minutes off the main road and up to a set of enormous bronze gates that I finally wake the others.

  “Oh my goddess, are we here already?” Amelia yawns, stretching her limbs.

  “I don’t exactly know what ‘here’ is, but the coordinates are somewhere up there,” I say, craning to look up the winding driveway beyond the gate.

  “Well, judging by that, I think we’re in the right place,” Cleo says, pointing at the top of the gate. When I see what they mean, I can’t believe I didn’t notice it first.

  The top center of the gate is adorned with six wrought-iron swords. These particular swords look like the ones in our deck, simple white blades and a pale blue hilt set with green and red gems on either cross handle. These swords are also arranged exactly like the Six of Swords card in our deck: each pointed tip meets in the middle and the slender blades fan out into a sharp-edged pinwheel.

  “The Six of Swords,” I say, triggered like an automated assistant. “A symbol of transition, having passed through disorienting obstacles into calmer clarity. A sign of achievement, followed by the need for further curiosity and exploration.”

  “Can I get an amen?” Amelia adds. “Do those swords look like a pentacle to anyone else?”

  “They actually look like a windmill to me,” Logan replies.

  “If you ask me, it looks like the heart of a compass,” Cleo offers.

  “No, I know exactly what that symbol stands for,” I say, taking my turn. “Can I have the deck a second?”

  Amelia hands it to me and I quickly find the card I’m looking for. Sure enough, its symbol also matches the six-pointed shape of the swords on the gate.

  “The Star. Representing a guiding light through darkness, one that must be carefully followed. It also stands for achievement awarded, just like the Six of Swords. I never realized how close the relation was between these two cards.”

  This must mean, one way or another, the Sworn Corner exists up there. To my surprise, a burst of excitement slices away my reservations. Maybe I should know better after everything we’ve experienced, but despite myself, I cannot wait to see what we’ll find at the top.

  “Should we just ring the bell on the gate intercom?” Amelia asks.

  “I don’t think we have a choice.” I answer.

  When we ring the intercom, no one answers. Instead, the automated gates begin to open slowly inward. There’s a camera attached to the system, so whoever let us in must have accepted seeing us. As I drive Charvan forward, the winding driveway is longer than I expect, lined with thick and encroaching trees. I just hope this isn’t some kind of Perillian trap—not that we have any other options.

  When we reach the driveway’s end, we are met with an impressive modern house perched on a cliff overlooking a vast valley, all chrome and wood gleaming in the morning sunlight. As we all begin to climb out of Charvan, I take a deep breath. The air up here feels thinner, but also cleaner. Like the first flushes of autumn fill my lungs, crisp as leaves crunching.

  Then the front door to the house opens and a man in a wheelchair emerges. He begins to roll down an entrance ramp toward us, a warm smile on his face. He appears to be in his fifties and his olive-skinned features tell me he’s likely a fellow Italian, but his features also strike me as maybe half Filipino? He dresses neatly in a shawl-collar sweater, dark jeans, and tortoise-shell glasses.

  “Welcome to the Lianist Outlook Center,” the man says, waving as he reaches the base of the ramp. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  This line should be a little freaky, but instead it just feels inviting. This man, whoever he is, seems to radiate calm and kind, like a kindergarten teacher. Still, I remind myself not to get too comfortable.

  “I’m Brendan,” he continues, rolling directly up to us and reaching up to shake each of our hands. “You’ll have to forgive the quiet. I’m afraid today I’m the entire welcome wagon. I know you’ve come a long way, and there’s so much to discuss, but we’ve just finished work on our grand foyer. I’m incredibly excited to show it to someone new. Would you mind following me inside? There are bathrooms and water and some snacks, if you need any.”

  “Um, I’m sorry,” Amelia says first. “But where exactly are we? And how do you know who we are?”

  “Shoot, forgive me,” Brendan answers. “I’m always getting ahead of myself. It’s been just me, myself, and I out here most of the time, so my social skills aren’t what they used to be. This is my life’s work, the legacy left b
y my father.”

  “And do we know your father?” I ask.

  “There I go, doing it again!” Brendan laughs. “I’m going to have to get better at these introductions once we officially open. And no, you couldn’t have known my father, but you certainly know of him by now. My father was Carson Perilli.”

  The news spreads across us with an airlock snap. A dozen new questions begin to race across my brain.

  “I’ll be happy to answer all of your questions as best I can,” Brendan continues, rolling back toward the house for us to follow. “You’ve caused quite the stir, turning up out of the blue the way you have. I must admit, I was starting to think my father’s final deck would never surface. I’m sure you know by now he liked his secrets, dolling them out like treasured treats, different flavors for different Corners. None of us have the full picture of his work, not even me. Though I should say, I have no interest in taking your deck. I’m incredibly curious to study it, but I can only imagine the kinds of trials you endured getting here—I myself have found a missing Perillian royal or two in my day. Anyway, I know this means you’ll have to take me at my word, but I’m happy to do anything that makes you comfortable.”

  I turn to Amelia and find her eyes already on me. She nods and I can tell her instincts are saying the same thing as mine: something about Brendan’s energy just feels sincere and up-front, especially compared with the other Perillians we’ve met. Turning to Logan for confirmation, he nods as well. Then we all turn to Cleo, the toughest among us, to find a quizzical look on their face.

  “Are you Page Zain?” Cleo then asks.

  In response, Brendan laughs.

  “An excellent question indeed, young… Cleo, you must be? But no, I am not Page Zain. I’m afraid I don’t know their real identity, though not for lack of trying.”

  “Then do you know why we have this deck?” Amelia tries next as we reach the ramp leading to the entrance.

  “I think I do, yes,” Brendan answers. “But in all honesty, it will be up to you to confirm my suspicions. My father left the last remaining trove of his secrets to be uncovered by the person who turned up with that deck, as I’m sure you’ve already learned. So if you feel ready, might we begin?”

  Brendan casts his eyes over all of us, and once again, we nod along.

  “Excellent! I promise your faith in me will not be misplaced. Now, if you’ll follow me, I can’t wait to show you the Lianist Outlook Center!”

  Brendan spins and begins rolling his wheelchair back up the ramp. He turns his head over his shoulder, speaking as we follow.

  “I’m the only one among my siblings to develop an interest in our father’s work. He started it much later in life, after our mother passed away, and I think they all found it quite odd. I must admit, I pretended to feel the same publicly so that I might continue my father’s work in private. If Perillians are anything, they’re tenacious. I set myself apart, for obvious reasons. So did my father, in his own way. He only ever sorted two people into his Sworn Corner: himself and myself. He fancied it an exclusive Perillian right. One of his many flaws, if you ask me. Exactly the kind of thinking we’re trying to change here at the Center.”

  “And what exactly is this Center?” Cleo asks.

  “What isn’t it? A spiritual hub. A charitable foundation. A retreat center,” Brendan answers, turning forward as the automatic front doors swing open. “But surely it’s better if I show you?”

  We follow Brendan inside and find ourselves in a two-story entrance foyer. It’s all modern sprawl, gleaming chrome and brass and glass. To our right, a full wall of windows overlooks the incredible vista views outside. To our left, the opposing wall is made entirely of mirrors. The reflections between the two are dazzling, making it feel like we all float on top of this mountain.

  Brendan rolls behind a long wooden table, one that has golden letters across its front: THE LIANIST OUTLOOK. The tabletop is neatly organized with water bottles and pamphlets and a stack of tarot decks. My eyes lock on the decks because I recognize Perilli’s signature artwork right away.

  “Not original articles, I’m afraid,” Brendan says, catching my eye. “These decks are reprinted from the only complete set of cards I ever got my hands on. I sold that deck years ago to help fund all this, but not before saving prints for reproduction. Your deck there is actually the first authentic Perillian artwork to enter this space in years.”

  “Can we take one of the decks?” I ask, trying to sound casual. In reality, I couldn’t be more eager to pore over another set of Perillian cards.

  “Of course. Though we have a ritual here, before you can,” Brendan answers, rolling across to the mirrored wall. “You really couldn’t have come at a more serendipitous time, though I suppose a proper Perillian would claim the tarot is all about serendipity. We’ve just finished construction on an interactive introduction to The Lianist Way. No one but our skeleton staff has seen it, since we’re not open to the public yet. But I can’t think of a group better suited to experience it first, honestly.”

  Brendan rolls to a doorway, the seams of which are barely visible on the gleaming wall. Registering his motion, an image appears in the center of this invisible door: the Six of Swords. It almost looks like a hologram floating there, but it must be a screen or a projection?

  “The interactive introductory hall is designed to explain what our Foundation is all about in tarot form. Engaging in the experience also works as a kind of divination calibration, to let us know where you might benefit most from what we offer here. It’s a modern riff on my father’s Corner sorting tarot readings.”

  Brendan looks us over then, the giddiness of his smile feeling infectious.

  “So, possessors of Perilli’s final mysteries, minor and major. Are you ready to enter The Hermetic Dawn?”

  It turns out this interactive experience must be entered into one by one, since Brendan said the readings must be uniquely tailored to each individual. I asked to go first. Logan had his faithful desert, Cleo had their fluid coast, and Amelia had her chaotic forest, so I felt I should enter this clarified peak first—especially after what Rosa said about me on our ride yesterday.

  Right now I find myself standing in the main room of The Hermetic Dawn, which is a kind of soundproof studio with several potential exits. In front of me stand two large mirrored panels, each reflecting a different angle of myself in the dim lighting. Before entering, a touch screen had asked me to input some basic information like my name, identifications, hometown, birthday, and a few of my favorite things: blue, spaghetti Bolognese, reading, and my journal. I entered these facts honestly, since I bet Cleo will take their turn to mess with the system for all of us. Besides, something in me really wants to take this experience seriously.

  Serene instrumental music begins to play in a major key, and the lights dim as the room registers my presence. A cool breeze of air conditioning hits my arm, then a soothing, agender voice pipes in through some unseen speakers.

  “Welcome to The Hermetic Dawn of the Lianist Outlook Center. I’m Waite and I’ll be your guide through this interactive experience. All you have to do is relax and listen, then answer my questions when prompted. Before we begin, let me ask, are you familiar with the works of Carson Perilli?”

  The lights shift again, and suddenly my appearance in the mirrors follows. I look to my left and see that an image is projected onto my reflection, making it appear like I stand in a living tarot card. I still can’t tell if this projection is a hologram or a screen or something else, but it’s incredibly cool.

  On the left panel I become The Fool, styled in court jester clothes. If I move my hands in the right place, I hold a scepter shaped like an upside-down question mark. Above my Fool head floats the word No. Then, looking to my right, the mirror transforms me into the Prince of Swords. I soar through the clouds, away from a city, my sword outstretched like that of a superhero. Above my Prince head floats the word Yes.

  “Yes,” I say, for obvious reasons.


  “Excellent,” Waite responds. The mirrored panel that depicts me as The Fool then goes dark, while The Prince of Swords panel glows a bit brighter.

  “The Lianist Way hopes to take the greatest truth translated through Perilli’s tarot and leave behind its elitist elements,” Waite continues. “We still believe that knowledge should be earned, but we also believe the right to earn it should be universal—not guarded by gatekeepers. Our aim here is to bring Perillian wisdom out of the shadows and to the masses. Or rather, to those masses who seek it out.”

  Waite pauses as my Prince reflection fades and two more projections populate the mirrored panels. To my left I see myself as The Magician, wielding a wand in one hand and a cup in the other, then wearing a pentacle necklace on my chest and a sword strapped to my back. To my right I can see myself as The Hermit, cloaked and bearded, standing before a gate guarding stacks of books. If I move my hands in the right place on this projection, a large key appears in my hand.

  “The tarot is about a careful balance between the reader and the one being read. The cards you are being projected into have been chosen carefully by our system based on the information you entered. So my question for you is simple at this juncture. Do you have the heart of a Magician or the mind of a Hermit?”

  This prompt might sound simple, but I immediately peel back several layers: the keepers of the Minor and Major Arcana, the surreal and the real, emotion and intellect, magic and science, faith and fact…

  Logan’s heart and my head.

  “I have the heart of a Magician.”

  Click here

  “I have the mind of a Hermit.”

  Click here

  Once I answer, an identical transition process triggers before Waite offers the next guiding steps.