by Mark Anthony
Cool chimes sounded as the door shut behind Deirdre. The sound of wind and birdsong floated on fragrant air, and for a second she believed she had once again found herself in an impossible forest. Then she saw small stereo speakers mounted on the walls, and the wire that suspended the gnarled branches from the ceiling.
A waterfall of blue beads clacked, parted.
“Well,” a husky voice said, “it’s about time you’re all here. There’s trouble in the cards.”
And dark fingers beckoned them deeper with long, red nails.
55.
They gathered in a cozy room behind the shop. Small windows were covered with heavy velvet, and the only light came from candles positioned all around. On a round table, carved with mystic symbols, tarot cards were laid out in an intricate pattern. Deirdre knew it was nearly noon in the outside world, but here, in this room, she had a feeling it was always midnight.
“Marji,” Grace said with a tentative smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
Marji laughed, her teeth brilliant against her ruby lips. “Of course it is, queen. But didn’t I tell you we’d meet again? It’s fate—there’s no denying it. Now sit down, everyone. I know we have lots to chat about.”
The drag queen Marji made a sweeping gesture with a lean, dark arm, and as if the motion had the power of a spell, Deirdre found herself sitting along with the others.
Marji stood above the last empty chair. She wore an improbable ensemble consisting of a chartreuse minidress, a sequined, short-sleeved evening jacket, and a choker of gigantic faux pearls. Deirdre felt a slight twinge of envy. She had never looked that much like a girl in her life.
“I’ve gathered you here today,” Marji said ominously, “to read you the last will and testament of your greatgrandfather, lately deceased.”
Five pairs of eyes stared.
Marji stifled a laugh, then sat, adjusting her jacket demurely. “Sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Farr glowered at her. “Really, madam, this is no time for jests. We have items we need to purchase, then we need to be on our way.”
“Well, I see someone’s put on the dark and brooding just a little thick today.” Marji coiled a hand beneath her chin, purple eyelids drooping. “It’s cute on you, sugar, but I bet Sister Marjoram could turn that frown upside down.”
Deirdre clamped her jaw to keep from laughing. Farr muttered something incomprehensible and looked away. A small vein throbbed at his temple.
Vani leaned over the table, studying the cards. “These look like T’hot cards. You are an oracle, then.”
Marji gave a delicate shrug. “I have a gift. But I’ve never heard them called T’hot cards before. That’s an interesting name. Where are you from, sugar?”
Vani did not look up. “Far away.”
“I suppose you are that. And let me just say one thing, girl.” Marji’s voice brightened as she waggled a finger at Vani. “You and black leather. One word: Wow.”
Vani looked up, her gold eyes confused. “The leather offers protection while allowing me to move freely. It is practical, if that is what your word wow means.”
Marji rolled her eyes, then looked at Travis, who sat next to her. “Honey, who are these people you’ve brought me? And what planet are they from?”
Travis gave her a sheepish grin. “Actually, that’s sort of a good question.”
Marji lifted a hand to her throat. “You aren’t kidding, now are you, honey?”
“No,” Travis said, gray eyes serious. “I’m not.”
There were points, as Travis spoke in low words, telling their story, when Marji’s eyes grew wide and she gripped the edge of the table, but she did not interrupt. Finally, when his voice trailed into silence, she shut her eyes. Then she opened them again, and they were as dark and peaceful as a garden at night.
“So you’ve been to another world, queen,” she said to Grace. “You and the cue ball here.” She looked at Vani. “And you’re from that world. Well, it makes sense. I’ve never met anyone on Earth who could pull that look off like you do.”
“You believe us?” Grace said.
Now Marji laughed. “Why not, queen? Of course there are other worlds than this. God knows there have to be. I’d go crazy if there weren’t.”
Deirdre thought she understood. Marji was fabulous and unique. But this world was not always kind to those who were special.
She leaned forward to study the pattern of tarot cards on the table. Deirdre didn’t necessarily believe they were magic, but she did believe the cards contained ancient and meaningful symbols, honed over the centuries, that could be illuminating in the hands of someone who was sensitive and thoughtful.
“I’ve never seen this layout of cards before,” she said.
“That’s because I invented it myself,” Marji said. “But the cards aren’t really your bag of tricks, are they, shaman girl?”
Deirdre sat up straight. “I’m not a shaman.”
“Really?” Marji raised a carefully tweezed eyebrow. “Then why do you wear that?”
Deirdre reached up and clutched the yellowed bear claw that hung around her neck. “You misunderstand. My grandfather was a shaman. He gave this to me before he passed away.”
“Okay, sugar. And why do you suppose it was you he gave it to when he knew he was dying?”
Words fled Deirdre, like birds taking wing.
Marji clucked her tongue. “Don’t deny your gifts, girl. I just can’t understand it, why everyone is so afraid of their own power. Well, Sister Marjoram isn’t. Why can’t the rest of you take a pointer from her?”
These words caused Travis, Grace, and Farr to look away. Deirdre joined them. Marji was a cheap West Colfax psychic in drag. She couldn’t possibly be right.
By the time she looked back, Vani was poring over the cards.
“You said you saw trouble,” Vani said. “What sort of trouble?”
“I wish I knew.” Marji glanced at Travis and Grace. “I’m afraid I got just a little bit curious after you two showed up on my doorstep the other day, the police hot on your hind ends. So I decided to see if the cards would offer any illumination.”
She held up a hand, silencing Travis’s question.
“No, don’t you worry. I didn’t tell them anything when they came in here. But they were looking for you all right. And they came in here again, after your little adventure down at the Blue Sky Motel.”
Grace gave a bitter smile. “You really do see all, Marji.”
“Actually, it was the morning news that time. Not that I should watch. I still can’t believe they give top billing to that hussy Anna Ferraro. And don’t you believe those things are any more real than mine are.” Marji adjusted her perfectly shaped breasts.
“Marji,” Vani said softly. “The cards.”
“Sorry, sugar. I digress.” Marji ran her fingernails over the cards. “But the fact is, I don’t know what they mean. And that doesn’t usually happen to Marji. Here, on one side of the triangle, is the Chariot. Someone’s been traveling for sure.” She glanced at Vani. “But then, I think we’ve established that fact. And here, next to the Chariot is the Seven of Swords. See the two people in the boat, journeying across the water? The water represents the unconscious. They’re both so sad, but they’re leaving the past behind them, and look—they’re going to a golden city on the sea.”
Deirdre frowned. “But all of that sounds hopeful, Marji.”
“You’d be right, shaman girl. Except for this.”
With a crimson fingernail, Marji tapped the third card of the triangle. A hideous, leering face gazed up. The Devil.
“There’s something there,” Marji said in a low voice. “Wherever you’re going. It’s evil. And hungry. And it will destroy anyone who goes near it.”
She looked up at Travis, dark eyes shining.
He laid his hand over hers. “We have to go, Marji—if we can open the way. And that’s why we need your help.”
She smiled: a sweet, s
ad expression. “I know you have to go, honey. I just had to warn you. That’s all.”
Farr stood. “Marji, there are some things we need. Herbs, oils, I believe.” He looked at Vani.
“I can tell you the things.”
Now Marji shot Farr a blinding smile. “Will that be cash, check, or charge?”
It didn’t take long. Marji’s shelves were well stocked. The main difficulty was that Vani did not know the English names of the herbs she required, but she described them to Grace, who displayed a knowledge of herb lore that surprised and impressed Deirdre; Grace was able to tell Marji what it was Vani needed. It wasn’t a great deal: three bags of herbs, a bottle of pure, scented oil, and five black candles.
“I’d use these things for some kind of purification or preparation ceremony,” Marji said as she handed the bag to Vani. “What kind of ritual is this you’re doing, sugar?”
“One that I hope will take us to a golden city on the sea,” Vani said.
Marji nodded.
Farr cleared his throat. “We should probably be going.”
However, before they could move, Marji stepped in front of them. “Hold it. No one’s going anywhere on an empty stomach. I don’t care what world you’re from, everyone’s got to eat.”
It seemed so unimportant—they had so many things to do, things Deirdre could hardly envision. Yet Marji was right. Even in the midst of incredible events, a person had to eat. Neil Armstrong would have fallen flat on his face on the moon despite the low gravity if he hadn’t had his Tang and Food Sticks up in the orbiter.
They sat around the séance table in the back room while Marji seemed to produce lunch out of thin air. There were small cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, a bowl of hummus with crackers for dipping, green olives, and macadamia nut cookies.
The repast was good for more than just nourishment. Farr pulled out the map of the Duratek complex, and with Vani they refined some of their earlier ideas.
Marji eyed the blueprints as she cleared dishes from the table. “That all sounds like some supersecret spy stuff, babies. Now, it goes without saying that Marji knows how to keep a secret. But I sure hope no one else knows what you’re up to.”
Farr gave Travis a pointed look.
“I haven’t talked to anybody.” He frowned. “Well, that’s not completely true. I did call Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor, some friends up in Castle City. But I didn’t tell them where we were or what we were doing. And that was before …”
“Your good friends at Duratek Corporation got wind of where you were hiding,” Marji said.
Travis gripped the table. “Wait a minute. You’re not saying Mitchell and Davis—”
“I’m not saying anything,” Marji said, holding up her hands. “Except that loose lips sink ships.”
Farr handed Marji a crisp white business card. “We thank you for your discretion.”
She tucked the card into the pocket of her jacket and winked. “If you want, you could be thanking me for other favors, sugar.”
Farr hastily moved to the door. “We really should be going now.”
“Thank you,” Deirdre said.
Marji gave her a solemn nod.
Grace hesitated, then caught Marji in an embrace. “We’re so lucky we found you.”
Marji clucked her tongue. “Nonsense, queen. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was fate, pure and simple. Now, watch the pearls.”
“Oh,” Grace said, and stepped back.
“Good-bye, Marji,” Travis said.
She moved to him, closed her eyes, and kissed his cheek.
“Marji …”
She stepped back, grinning. “Don’t worry, honey. There’s already plenty of competition for your heart. I know, I’ve seen it in the cards. Just indulge Sister Marjoram for a moment.”
Travis hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her ruby lips. Marji stepped back, eyes wide, then fanned herself with a hand, at a loss for words for the first time since they had entered her shop. Travis smiled, then turned away.
Vani gazed at Marji, her gold eyes thoughtful. “My people are great seers and oracles, and they have wandered far over the years. Perhaps, somehow, it came to pass that others found their way here, and that their blood runs in your veins.”
Marji squeezed her hand. “I like thinking that, sugar.”
There was no more delaying Farr. He moved to the door of the shop. The others followed.
Deirdre turned to tell Marji thanks one last time, but all she saw were blue beads, clacking faintly. Then the door opened, and they stepped into white-hot sun and the future.
56.
Marji hung up the telephone, then turned and gazed at the pattern of cards on the séance table.
“I sure hope that was the right thing to do, girl,” she said with a sigh.
But they needed help, that much was clear. She moved to the table, sat, and studied the cards again. Marji had never seen so many dark signs come together at once before. Not even the day she lost her bid to become the Queen of Denver’s Rainbow Court, and that fat little tart Chi-Chi Buffet won solely because she lured three of the judges into the bathroom for some very personal persuasion.
She tapped one of the cards in the center triangle—the Devil—and a shiver coursed up her back. She felt so cold. But that’s what happened when one chose fashion over comfort.
Like you’re ever going to change your ways, girl. Being beautiful is your burden.
Although it hadn’t always been. Once, years ago, she had been Martin J. Morris, a gangly black teenage boy living in Five Points with an uncle who only ate food that came in cans, only drank things that came in bottles with bulls on the labels, and only spoke in words that would have been bleeped out on the TV reruns Martin liked to watch.
Fame? What’s that crap, Martin? You should be watching The A-Team. Mr. T—now that’s the man you want to be. ’Cept without all that jewelry. Spin like them dancer boys, and they’ll be calling you Fartin’ Martin. Are you listening?
Martin wasn’t. He did spin, at night, alone in his attic bedroom.
Things hadn’t been so bad when his aunt was alive. She had laughed when Martin had danced for her, holding an egg beater like a microphone as he lip-synced to her old Billie Holiday records. Then, one day Martin had glanced into the mirror in his bedroom, only he hadn’t seen his own reflection. Instead, as clear as That Girl or Ginger on Gilligan’s Island, he had seen his aunt walk across a street he knew was two miles from their house. Then he had watched as a garbage truck ran a red light and struck her.
He had always thought people flew through the air when they got hit by cars, tumbled to the pavement, rolled, and got up just like Lindsay Wagner, the Bionic Woman. Instead, his aunt had exploded, as if the frail, heavy fruit of her body had been just barely held together by the force of her life. For a moment the mirror had turned crimson, then he had stared at his own wide eyes.
By the time he got downstairs, the police were there, and his uncle had already popped the top on a bottle.
It was about a year later, one day when his uncle was snoring wetly on the couch, that Martin sneaked into his uncle’s room, raided the closet of his dead aunt, and ran back to the attic with an armload of chiffon, velvet, and crisp polyester. And that gray afternoon, at the age of sixteen, color finally found its way into Martin’s life in shades of canary, hot pink, and lime green. Sister Marjoram was born.
A year later, when his uncle finally found what had become of his dead wife’s clothes, he threw Martin out on the street. It was the best favor anyone had ever done for Martin in his life.
It’s clear you’re suffering from depression, low self-worth, and a lack of identity, the slack-eyed counselor at the youth center had told him, staring dully at his tight jeans, tube top, and feather boa. That’s why you’re creating a new persona for yourself.
But the counselor was wrong. Sister Marjoram wasn’t the persona. Martin J. Morris was. For sixteen years he hadn’t had the slightest clue who he was,
had gazed at the skinny boy in the mirror with the uneasy eyes of a stranger. Then, that day, he had finally found what he hadn’t even known he was looking for in a pair of high heels and a Chanel handbag. He had found himself.
And she wasn’t Martin anymore. She was something different, something marvelous, and—for all the falseness, for all the feathers and sequins, the depilatory cremes, collagen injections, and silicone—something that was utterly true.
She was Sister Marjoram, the Spice of Life.
And, at the moment, she was more than a little confused.
“What is going on here, girl?”
Marji knew she was psychic, just like she knew she looked sensational in lavender chenille while it made Chi-Chi Buffet look like Miss Piggy. A dozen times more in her life she had seen things in the mirror, like the day she saw her aunt die, or the day she saw herself opening Marji’s House of Mystery, and each of the visions had come true. But today her talent seemed to have fled her. There were so many clear images, but nothing quite fit together, like a broken mirror she couldn’t fix.
She lifted her finger from the card of the Devil. That evil was real and dangerous, but it was distant, surrounded by cards that bespoke traveling, the past, and dreams. She moved her finger to a card in the outer circle. The Knight of Swords, reversed. A powerful man, but his power had been stolen. Only who was it? Next to the card was the Magician. That was him—the delicious bald boy. Travis.
She sighed. “You would have done a few personal favors for him, election or no, wouldn’t you, girl?”
A heat rose in her, then cooled to chill dampness. It wasn’t just desire. It was darker, stranger, and so much more compelling. She had known it the second she had seen him: that she loved him and could never have him.
“You can’t always get what you want, Marji, you know that. That’s what wine and credit cards are for.”
But if she couldn’t have him, who would?
The Knight of Swords. It had to be—the position made it clear. And hadn’t they said there was a man they were trying to rescue? But there, on the other side of the Magician, was another court card, the Queen of Swords. So who was it who loved him, then? The Knight or the Queen? Then she knew.