“I guess we’ll never know if this girl is the one destined for Traven, now will we, Fright?”
Despite her resolve, Crystalia felt her feet falter. What was the old woman talking about now? The girl was able to squeak out another step before she turned her head back. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that last night the bones implied Traven was linked to another soul. I simply thought it would be interesting to read your cards and see if you were the one. But you’re right. There’s probably no real sense in wasting our time.”
A war raged within Crystalia.
The thought that she might be somehow linked to Traven thrilled her. Could she be meant for the Hero? Oh, that was too glorious a thought.
On the other side of her mind, all the stories of Hanger’s Mansion and Madame Hesper poked sharply. How could Crystalia trust anything this woman said? Yet each word of the old woman’s had rung true, or was it just because the medium told her what the girl wanted to hear?
And what type of payment would Madame Hesper ask? Would it be too steep for some foolish nonsense? I should keep walking, Crystalia kept telling herself, but the internal battle raged on.
Caution lost out as Crystalia hurried across the room and slid back into her chair. Its silky seat was cool against her dress. Was it not warm velvet a moment ago? Before she could contemplate the restless furniture, Madame Hesper began dealing the cards.
“No matter the outcome, child, no matter what happens in this room, you must sit firmly. To leave the protective circle could be your undoing,” the Madame said in a well-rehearsed tone.
Madame Hesper did not need to explain. Crystalia had heard these warnings before.
Some summers, at the height of the Thaw, gypsies would wander north and ply their trade. Viola and Crystalia would sneak out in the evening and visit the fortune-tellers, not that the gypsies ever had anything interesting to say. They had always assured Crystalia that she would marry young to a wealthy man and have healthy children. Those stories may have delighted many a poor town girl, but not Crystalia. She had gotten so tired of their happy pronouncements that Crystalia had not even gone with Viola last summer.
“Do you understand, Crystalia? You must keep your seat.”
“Yes.”
Instead of the usual arrangement of cards in rows, Madame Hesper had set five cards into the shape of a star with a card flanking either side. The altered Snowy Maiden card sat in the center.
“Place your hands on these two cards,” the medium stated, indicating the cards on the outside of the pentagram. “Do not remove your hands until I instruct you.”
Crystalia casually put her palms down, then nearly flew out of her seat. It was as if she had touched a hot kettle. Madame Hesper gripped her wrists, keeping Crystalia’s palms in contact with the cards. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Crystalia forced her hands to stay where they were despite the itching of the lines on her palm. Even her other palm begged to be scratched. Crystalia had the intense desire to look at her left palm and see if anything blossomed there, but the look in the Madame’s eyes squelched the urge.
Madame Hesper gave her one last scolding glance, then closed her eyes. The old woman’s mouth moved, but no words came out. When the Madame’s eyelids snapped open, her pupils were filled with a burning light. Crystalia gasped but stayed put. She desperately wished to avoid another scalding look. Instead of chiding Crystalia, the Madame looked down at the cards, then turned the card at the top of the star.
Crystalia was unfamiliar with the subtleties of the Tarot cards, but she knew the Winter King when she saw him. His card was flecked with silver glistening snowflakes and snow so pure that it waxed a bluish tint. Crystalia felt a cold breeze snatch a few curls from her neck and jostle them around. Her nostrils clamped down as the air grew crisp and cold. Wind howling in the distance made the room throb and pulse. Soon, Crystalia found she needed to dig her fingers into table, just to keep them steady.
The Madame only nodded knowingly, then turned the next card to the right. The firewood popped behind her, giving Crystalia a startle. When she looked back down, she found that the medium had turned over the third card.
It was better than Crystalia could imagine. The two cards that flanked her own Snowy Maiden card were the bold Hero and the beautiful Lovers. Above the raging of the wind, Crystalia could hear the strings of passionate music and the boom of victory drums. Surely this confirmed the Madame’s vision?
“Does this —”
“Silence!” The Madame’s voice was a strangled whisper.
Crystalia’s mouth snapped closed. She did not wish to disturb the medium, not when the old woman was so close to fulfilling every dream Crystalia had ever had. The fourth card only fueled the girl’s excitement. It was the visage of the Wanderer. Crystalia might not know much about the arcane, but she knew that anyone who received this card was about to embark on a long and perilous journey. Perhaps Traven was not going to come back to her? Perhaps it was the Fates’ decision that she should join him?
Madame Hesper paused with her hand over the fifth card. Crystalia urged the medium on with her mind. The girl was desperate to see the outcome of her travels. But still, Madame Hesper hesitated, as if she dreaded revealing the card.
Finally, the old woman’s fingers tapped the card, hard, then turned it over as if it might sting her. Crystalia did not even register the identity of the card until the Madame let out a curse. Their eyes met.
Behind the medium’s orange pupils, Crystalia could clearly see fear. Crystalia looked down again but could not quite place the card. It looked like a joker, jester, or perhaps this one was called the Fool. She could not remember. What Crystalia did know was that tragedy was in the making.
Crystalia opened her mouth to ask, but Madame Hesper shushed her to silence. Anything that could startle the medium so caused Crystalia to panic.
Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all. Crystalia had no desire to see the other cards, but she obediently raised her right hand off the sixth card when Madame Hesper asked her. Crystalia’s heart nearly jumped out of her throat.
This card she knew.
Actually every child in all of Sky Shawl knew that this card was poison to your soul.
The Snake in the Forever Garden.
Hissing filled her ears, and the girl had to fight the impulse to snatch up her feet, lest it bite her right then and there. The card meant evil was in your life, side-winding its way to your heart — sooner or later it would take its toll.
“Lift your left hand.”
Reluctant to obey, Crystalia let her palm linger on the last card. No one should know this much about their life.
The Madame’s finger gently touched her own. “You must.”
Ever so slowly, as if her mere hesitation could make the card go away, Crystalia lifted her palm. With equal reluctance, the Madame turned over the last card. Crystalia sat stunned — too shocked to even properly faint.
The black-cloaked image of Death floated before her.
Sickle raised for his next victim.
The room lost all its heat, all of its light. Fright let out a startle cry, and his wings beat frantically past her ear. Crystalia could feel herself being swallowed by unconsciousness, but the Madame’s hand found her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. When Crystalia looked up, she found the medium’s eyes had lost their glow. Now only an old woman sat across from her.
“Do not worry child. That card is not for you.”
Crystalia let out a choked sob.
Madame Hesper looked haggard as she leaned heavily back into her chair.
“It is for me.”
*****
CHAPTER 8
The lights were all out. Traven and ’Becca had snuck out the front door on this stormy night. They knew Granny would be out here. Thunder always disturbed their grandmother, and she would go to the porch swing and rock away her worries.
And t
here Granny sat, holding a cup of hot cheba tea and humming to herself. Pa was always saying how Granny was as deaf as a fence post, but each time the clouds rolled with the clap of thunder, their grandmother would cringe and take another sip. Lightning played across the sky as if the gods were having themselves a bit of game.
“Thunder is the messenger. Lightning is the deliverance of the gods’ wrath.” Granny spoke softly, almost afraid.
Traven stopped himself from correcting her. Even babes knew that lightning came first, then the thunder, not the other way around. ’Becca crept forward and sat next to Granny’s feet. His younger sister was all eyes and ears. If something shook Granny this badly, then it had to be dangerous. Traven wasn’t so sure. Pa made fun of his mother-in-law, even daring to call Granny a scared old woman — but only when Pa was certain she was well out of earshot.
It was hard to think that the woman Traven had feared and respected all his life was nothing more than just another grandmother.
No one else’s Granny was like her. They were all warm and cuddly, passing out cookies and baking sweet breads. Not Granny. She’d put a switch to your bottom as soon as she would smile at ya.
But tonight, with her wrinkled, haggard face silhouetted by the storm’s light, Traven wondered if his father was not right. For in those tired eyes he saw something he had never seen before. Fear. True, real, fear.
“You don’t believe me?” Granny said, still staring out into the cold night. She patted the seat beside her. “Get up here, and I’ll tell you it all.”
Granny never did quit swinging, but ’Becca and Traven crawled up beside her. This was a welcome treat. Normally, they had to sit by the side, watching her rock back and forth. Now they, too, could feel the sway of the swing and be lulled by its motion.
“Don’t forget that I’ve seen it. I’ve heard the thunder call my name.”
Traven nearly blushed. He had almost forgotten Granny’s family history. No one ever spoke of it openly. Only by snatching the occasional whisper between his aunts and uncles had Traven begun to piece the puzzle together.
“Tell us, Granny, please?” ’Becca begged. Traven knew it was futile. Granny had never spoken of it before.
“It was a night like this eve. All black and blustery. The clouds were heavy with rain but wouldn’t shed a tear for us poor farmers. Mama and Papa didn’t know the gods could be so angry that they would just point a finger and strike you down.”
Traven could not believe it. Granny was going to tell them a story of her childhood! It was exciting but strange, too. To think his shriveled up grandmother had parents and that once she was a little girl, just like ’Becca. It was almost too hard to imagine.
“I was younger than you. Younger than both of you. Back then I slept like a babe through this weather. The whole family did. Jeromy, Petunia, and Hoss. They were fast asleep when the gods unleashed their fury.”
Granny paused, but it wasn’t like her usual, well-timed hesitations. Her eyes were lost on the horizon. The smell was thick and full of anticipation, as if any moment the gods would strike again. Not caring that his father would call him yellow, Traven scooted nearer to his Granny. ’Becca was already on the old woman’s lap.
“They just didn’t know, but how could they...?” Granny spoke, but Traven knew it wasn’t to them. With a cough, Granny focused on her story. “It was deep into the night when the lightning struck. I awoke at the first bolt and felt the other three strikes rattle the house. Fire burst from the rafters, and I screamed for my daddy.”
Traven found himself reaching out and holding Granny’s hand. She gave it a little squeeze but didn’t look towards him. With her other hand, Granny stroked ’Becca’s hair.
“I was the only one that still slept in our parents’ room. The others...” Granny nearly choked on the bitter memory. “My brothers and sister slept up in the loft. They didn’t even have time to cry out for help.”
How could his father be so mean? Traven wondered. Who could not hear this story and know Granny’s apprehension was well-founded?
“Papa ran up the stairs while Mama dragged me out of the burning house. She wanted me to run to the Duncan’s place for help, but I couldn’t. The lightning was still striking all around the house like a whip against a stampeding herd.”
There was a long pause. Finally, Granny sighed. “Daddy made it back out with Hoss, but neither of them survived the night. Petunia and Jeromy were just charred skeletons...”
Traven had not known his heart could feel so heavy. At least Granny’s mama survived, but Traven knew that was not necessarily a blessing. The whispered stories told of how Granny’s mama was never quite right after the tragedy. Granny had to take care of her mama until the red fever claimed the woman when Granny was but fourteen.
The house shook, and ’Becca squealed as lightning hit the iron rod that stuck up from the weather vane.
“Oh, they’re angry tonight,” Granny said with a tremble in her voice.
“Will they kill us, too?” ’Becca asked in a choked whisper.
“Nay. Your daddy has seen to that.”
Traven spoke before he thought, “Why’d you fight Pa when he put up the lightning rod?”
Granny’s foot stopped their rocking for a moment, then slowly started again. Traven feared he had overstepped his bounds. He felt like blurting it out was just a stupid rumor, but Traven knew that more talking would just get him in all the more hot water.
“There’s the question, young man. Do you risk the wrath of the gods at the expense of expelling the Wee Folk from your home?”
’Becca was easily distracted, “You ever seen the Wee Ones, Granny?”
“That’s a tale for another night, little sweet one. Another night, indeed.”
Traven grew bold with his Granny’s indulgent mood, “What is a tale for tonight, Granny?”
In the pitch black, Traven could not tell if Granny was angry or contemplating. Suddenly, another lightning bolt brightened the sky so intensely that Traven could see each line on the old woman’s face.
In that moment, he found her pale blue eyes staring into his. Not in anger, but searching. For what he did not know. Just as quickly as the light came, it vanished, plunging them into darkness again.
With the air charged, feeling dangerous and exciting all at once, Granny began. “Once, under a hot summer sun, The Man Who Did Not Know rode out towards Thirsty Gulch...”
Ah, Traven could stay forever in that night so long ago. His world was as blissfully black as that distant memory. Why could he not stay forever in Granny’s world of shining heroes and glimmering beauty?
Traven would have chosen to, but every so often, a noise, most annoying, would intrude. For some reason, light was trying to pry through his eyelids. Last he saw of the world, it did not look too friendly, and the Hero was not any too anxious to return. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. The pain started at his temple and meandered over his scalp, down his neck, settling into his lower back. The throbbing sensation kept nagging at his comfortable oblivion.
Which was good, in a way, he guessed. Traven assumed all this pain meant that he was still alive. The Hero certainly hoped that, when he died, this level of discomfort did not accompany him.
Opening his eyes was far too ambitious at this stage, so the Hero worked on moving a finger, then two. That had to be a good sign, Traven reassured himself. His arms were leaden, but they picked up and plopped back down with some semblance of control. He tried to wiggle a toe but felt nothing. Traven tried another, then another.
Concern roused him, and the Hero made a conscious effort to move first his foot, then his entire leg. When nothing happened, Traven felt the first true pang of worry. Groping through the fog of his unconscious, the Hero tried to focus on his limbs, but it was if they were not there. No aches or angry grumbling came from his hips or knees to match the rest of his body.
As he awakened further, the Hero heard several voices and the distinct sound of snoring. Traven
loathed to let go of the last vestiges of sleep, but at some point, he would need to find out what had become of him.
Slowly, he cracked open his eyelids. They fluttered open far easier than he expected, and the bright light seared through his pupils. Slamming his eyes shut, Traven tried to get his bearings with his other senses. The air was warm, almost too warm for all the layers of clothing that the Hero wore. There was the smell of a cooking fire, and the bouquet of apples floated through the chamber.
The aroma and the gentle clanging of a spoon on a kettle sent streaks of pain through his stomach. It had been days, maybe even a week since he had last eaten. Traven was so hungry even the smell of caribou dung would have been intriguing. That aside, the cider smelled especially delicious, with the slightest hint of cinnamon. His nose twitched and almost made him sneeze. The air was a bit damp, and the presence of moss and widow’s green tickled his nostrils.
Voices rose and fell, and, if he was not mistaken, they were fairly close by. Again the Hero tried to move his lower limbs, with equally discouraging results.
Shielding his eyes, Traven took in the surroundings. He could sense he was laying on his back with his head propped up by something hard and bulky. The roof was not too high and appeared to be exposed granite.
Along the walls, moss crept up the lower half of the stone, while the widow’s green found tiny crevices to burrow into and climb the slick granite. Baby’s Breath and small patches of Forget-Me-Nots nestled in amongst the foliage.
Traven scanned as far around him as possible, but he could see no guards. The two voices were just out of his line of sight.
Tentatively, the Hero steadied himself on his elbows and slowly propped himself up. A scream caught in his throat as he looked down at his legs.
Clenching his jaw, Traven tried to take in the scene. His legs appeared fine, except a huge White Wolf lay draped across his knees. The wolf’s furry paws were crossed over the Hero’s legs, with its snout casually propped on its paws. For a moment, Traven just stared as the wolf snored with each breath. It would have been intriguing, even funny under other circumstances, but not right now.
7 Folds of Winter Page 11