Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  Carmine frowned. “I’d rather you touch them only if you are shuffling them to have your fortune told. I will show you the pictures, but each deck needs to preserve the connection with its owner.”

  Theo wanted to see the images close up and feel the texture of the cards in her hands. “Well, I must have a reading too—but not in this madhouse!”

  “I don’t care!” Mélanie insisted. “I’ve been wanting one ever since I saw your sketch!”

  Carmine gathered the cards and handed them to Mélanie. “Then you shall have one.”

  “What should I do?” Mélanie looked perplexed now that she actually held the Tarot in her hands.

  “Frame a question in your mind and shuffle them. Don’t tell it to me until after I read them. Or never, if you prefer.” Mélanie began to shuffle very awkwardly and gazed at Carmine in dismay. “Do it slowly, until they feel right to you. Closing your eyes may help.”

  Mélanie closed her eyes and shuffled the cards several times. At last she opened them. “And now?”

  “Cut three times, from left to right,” Carmine instructed. Her demeanor was quieter and more serious than Theo had ever seen before. Art, politics, people, all were up for a tongue lashing, but Tarot cards were not to be mocked. When Mélanie cut the cards, Carmine chose one group and restacked the pack with it on top. Then she placed three cards face down in front of Mélanie. “This reading is a time progression. Sometimes it is past, present, and future. Sometimes it is the present moving into the future.”

  Carmine turned over the first card and Theo drew in her breath sharply. Upside down, the image showed a stone tower struck by lightning, its jagged streak vivid against the black night sky. People fell from the ramparts, and huge stones plunged to earth as the high walls crumbled. Fire spouted from the cracked top and sent orange tongues licking around the windows.

  “The Tower—reversed.” Carmine frowned fiercely. Mélanie said nothing.

  “What is it?” Theo asked, not all that eager to know but hating the silence.

  “Let me see the rest.” Carmine turned over the center card. “Next is the Ten of Staves.”

  After the spectacle of The Tower, the simple staves looked both innocent and meaningless. “How would you paint this?” Theo asked.

  Carmine thought for a moment, then answered, “The background, a wall of fire. Against it, a wall of interwoven staves.”

  Mélanie looked pale. “Still—that is not as bad as the first card, is it?”

  Carmine shook her head, but in a way that might mean “yes” as easily as “no.” Having begun, they had to finish, so Theo asked, “What is the last card?”

  Carmine turned it over and Mélanie gave a small cry.

  The card was Death—a dancing skeleton wielding his scythe. Heads lay scattered on the field in front of him…the head of a king stared blindly at the head of a peasant. Theo felt she was back in the catacombs.

  “The Death card rarely means physical death,” Carmine said quickly. She looked at each of them and added, rather defiantly, “There is no card, however dark it looks, that cannot lead to brighter things.”

  “You have to tell us what they mean,” Theo insisted. They could hardly pretend the cards were not there. Mélanie nodded mutely.

  “First, there is something I must tell you…” Carmine stared at the Tower.

  “What is it?” Theo asked, trying to restrain her impatience. Carmine loved to dramatize, but she seemed truly upset. She was as pale as Mélanie, her olive skin sickly.

  Finally she looked up at them. “Every morning I draw out a card to contemplate. This morning I drew the Tower—reversed.”

  “This morning?” For a second, Theo wondered if Carmine was making it up. But however much her friend might prod and provoke, she would not deceive any more than she would cover what she meant with pink sugar frosting.

  Now Carmine said, “Drawing that card twice cannot be coincidence. Maybe the message is not for you. Maybe the cards are still trying to speak to me.”

  “Do you think so?” Mélanie looked relieved then horrified at herself.

  “I don’t know. But they are not happy cards, so I decided to tell you that before I do the reading. Let it be a buffer for you.”

  Mélanie nodded. “But they may truly be for me. I understand.”

  Carmine laid her hand down beside the first card. “The Tower signifies a great disruption. Suddenly, the world you know will be blasted as if by lightning. Where you expected safety and security, you will find nothing but upheaval and chaos. Sometimes the card means some literal catastrophe, a disaster that spares no one. Sometimes its meaning is personal, internal, and you will find it is your vision of the world that will tumble into ruin.”

  “And what brighter thing awaits?” Theo couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. The Tarot was supposed to be a harmless diversion to please romantic Mélanie.

  “After the Tower falls, you may find unexpected freedom.”

  “What does it mean that the card is upside down?” Mélanie asked.

  Carmine’s lips tightened, but she continued, “The fall of the Tower should be a blessing in disguise. It can mean the toppling of a despotic regime—or being broken loose from confining ways of thinking. But since it is reversed, you may find yourself imprisoned.”

  “But you are warned now, Mélanie. You can cope with it better,” Theo knew she should hold her tongue, but the images throbbed before her. The longer she looked, the more alive they seemed.

  Carmine didn’t chastise her but touched the middle card. “Next is the Ten of Staves. The element of Staves is fire. They are cards of action and creative energy, but here, under the weight of the ten and trapped between two grim and powerful Major Arcana, their energy becomes a terrible oppression, a blind cruelty. There are destructive influences at work that you cannot control. There is no escape. You must face whatever comes with all your courage until the energy has consumed itself.”

  That left the last card, with its skeleton overlord. Carmine grazed it with a fingertip. “As I said, this card rarely means physical death.”

  “But it can?” Mélanie asked, her voice wavering.

  “Death finds everyone. But most often the card means the dying of an old way of life. A rebirth into light after the darkness of the scythe has cut the old bonds. The other cards cloud this, but Death also promises release.”

  Carmine took up the Tower, and gave a bitter smile. “Until today, I’ve loved this card. For me it signified the forces of Revolution.”

  “But I’m not…” Mélanie began, then stopped abruptly.

  “Everyone is a revolutionary if the stakes are high enough,” Carmine said.

  “Or a reactionary,” Theo began, feeling argumentative, but then she noticed Mélanie’s chastened expression. “Does it have a meaning for you?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I do know what it means,” Mélanie admitted. “When we began, I asked what my future would be.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I’ve been worried that everything will go wrong at the École des Beaux-Arts. The first day of classes…some of the male students spoke rudely to me…pushed me.”

  “Pushed you?” Carmine exclaimed. Mélanie had said nothing about this before today. Theo had thought the men of the École would be protective of someone so very feminine. She had expected them to patronize Mélanie, not shove her about.

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone,” Mélanie admitted. “They tripped me then pretended it was an accident. They laughed at me all tangled in my petticoats. It was humiliating!”

  “Beasts,” Theo hissed. She wrestled with her temper, knowing the hot flare of her anger for a reaction to the fearful Tarot cards as much as to Mélanie’s nasty encounter.

  “Now they are threatening to protest,” she told them.

  “Yes, it would make sense if the reading were about the Beaux-Arts,” Carmine said with obvious relief. “With the admission of women, their old ways are being overthrown. But they are so reactionary t
hey will cling to the falling stones. Instead of the revelatory experience you hope for, Mélanie, it will oppress your spirit. You may become trapped by their rule, by your own fears and crushed dreams.”

  Mélanie didn’t seem any happier, but Theo preferred this to destruction and death. “Let old notions die and you can be reborn to a new and better creativity.”

  “Exactly.” Suddenly, Carmine gathered the cards and shuffled, paused, shuffled again. At last she stopped and laid the top card face up in the center. Half hidden behind a veil, a mysterious woman held open an ancient scroll. “The Priestess.”

  “She’s like Cassandra, whose warnings went unheeded,” Mélanie whispered. “We should believe you. You got the Tower so you would be forewarned.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t think the Priestess is me,” Carmine said.

  “It must be you,” Mélanie said. Theo agreed completely.

  “I think it is Moina—she is far more the Priestess than I am.” Carmine gathered up the cards with shaky hands and thrust them inside the silk bag. She stood up. “I must go and tell her about this. I will ask for a reading. When I see you again, Mélanie, I can tell you if these cards are truly yours or meant for me.”

  Stunned, Theo and Mélanie watched as Carmine abandoned them, pushing her way through the crowded bazaar.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In that day the sun shall become black like sackcloth of hair

  ~ Oscar Wilde

  SMILING hesitantly, Mélanie turned to Theo. “This is all a little crazy, no?”

  “Yes. Crazy.” Theo felt icy jitters skittering along her nerves and wished for the hot burn of anger again. “Let’s go. We’re too upset to enjoy the bazaar anymore.”

  Mélanie looked distressed, but she shook her head. “You go if you want, Theo. I promised my mother to give money to her favorite charity, and talk with the sisters. She wants to be remembered in their prayers.”

  “I’ll walk you to the booth.” Theo wanted to leave, but now that Carmine was gone and the cards with her, fear seemed foolish. “Then we can meet by the café in half an hour? We’ll take a carriage to Ladurée.”

  “Yes! We’ll have tea and macarons. They are famous for their pretty macarons. All different colors and flavors….” Mélanie pressed a gloved hand to trembling lips.

  Theo’s anger came to the fore and she welcomed it. She was angry at Carmine for frightening Mélanie. She was angry at herself for wanting to flee. Theo did not believe in Tarot cards or crystal balls. Fuming inwardly, she walked with Mélanie as far as her charity’s booth. Within the little church the decorator had created sat the blind orphans with a nun protecting them. How strange it must be for them to sit so dutifully in this alien environment they could not see, looking charmingly pathetic to the passersby. But it was a worthy charity, and she added her promised francs to Mélanie’s. “By the café,” she repeated.

  Theo remembered a booth with lace near the cinema display and made her way back. She paused there, admiring the exquisite creations of black silk and pure white laces. What infinite patience went into their creation! There was a simple muslin blouse trimmed with the less fashionable blonde Alençon lace, but even that was beyond her budget. She reminded herself she needed paint more than a replacement for her wardrobe. She must go to Sennelier’s for new tubes of viridian green, alizarin crimson, and lamp black.

  Beside her someone whispered that the Duchess of Alençon herself was there, sister of the Empress of Austria. Glancing up, Theo saw her, sitting proudly in her chair, not selling, but nodding to those who had come to gawk. Her shoulders were draped in the finest shawl her city’s lace makers could offer. Her highly coiffed hair gleamed in the light.

  Refusing to be a gawker, Theo left the tempting lace behind and began a slow stroll back toward the café. She hated the sense of dismay that was creeping back over her. When would Mélanie be ready to leave?

  Huge sound erupted in the bazaar. A violent explosion silenced the chatter of voices, the clatter of coins. Within that thundering silence, a concussion of air shoved Theo forward. She fell, but caught herself by clutching the edge of the booth. The front of paper mache caved under her grip, and she scrambled for another hold. Regaining her footing, she glimpsed light and spun around. Sheets of orange flame were racing up the velvet curtains of the projection booth. Dark smoke coiled. Even as she watched, the fire sent blazing tendrils along the streamers of crepe paper and silk banners that fluttered above the booth of laces and leapt to the canvas ceiling.

  “Fire!” a voice cried out a warning.

  “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Screams rose all around her. She felt the surge of terror like another explosion. It stunned her with its power. Hordes of people raced down the aisle toward the entrance. Theo watched, mesmerized, as the flames glided along the ceiling toward them. She dragged her gaze away. Time was moving slow as cold molasses but she knew there was none to spare. The booths were nothing but luscious tinder for the conflagration to devour. What had happened? Pressed against the side wall of this booth, she could no longer see the room that held the projector. That whole corner of the building was aflame. She remembered the slow turnstile that reluctantly released one person at a time.

  Screams. Shouts. Curses. Fear and rage rose like flames from the crowd thundering past. A woman supporting her elderly mother was knocked aside by a man. They fell to the floor in front of him and he trampled over them. The crowd followed, oblivious in their panic. Theo moved to help them, but already they were invisible. The crazed rush pushed her toward the door, where the crowd jammed together in a seething mass

  Hot, sharp pain slashed her back. Theo cried out in terror. Glancing back she saw it was not the fire but a man with a cane. Snarling with rage, he hit her again, cutting her cheek. Then someone rammed him from behind and his fall shoved her forward. Theo dove even as she fell and landed sliding on a table of pamphlets. The man who had struck her lay screaming on the floor as the mob stampeded over him. Shaking, Theo pulled her feet under her, stood atop the table and looked around. Geysers of flame rose from the tops of the booths and poured through their flimsy walls. Overhead, patches of fire spread along the ceiling. Like huge birds of prey they opened scarlet wings, then plummeted to seize their prey in burning talons.

  She saw a woman with a bright red boa, not of feathers but living flames that wrapped around her neck. Theo wanted to scream, but she swallowed back her cry. Somehow the screams rising around quieted her—as if they all were screaming for her. She did not need to scream.

  She needed to escape.

  Calm wrapped her, strangely cool in the dreadful heat. She watched the men beating their ways to the forefront of the crowd. Their canes rose and fell as they struck each other and any woman who dared cross their path. If she had a cane, she’d beat the cowards herself. Anyone who fell was crushed underfoot. The pile of bodies was growing, and the men were climbing over a heap of women and children to get through the narrow admission door.

  Fear and fury both urged her forward but Theo did not move. She’d be burned alive before she could fight her way through that stampede. She scanned the burning walls. There must be another exit, but she could not find it. She felt the screams inside her beating like trapped birds against the thin wall of her control. Some of the crowd knelt and prayed, hope already incinerated. Her gaze was riveted by the Duchess sitting rigid in her burning booth. A man bowed before her, beseeching. Was she too terrified to move? No, Theo saw the knowledge of death in her face, and a grim determination. She said something to the man. He flung up his hands in despair, then whirled and vanished into crowd.

  “Theo! Theo!” At first it was a scream like all the other screams. Then it was her name. It was Mélanie, carrying a little girl along the edge of the crowd.

  “Mélanie,” Theo called as her friend maneuvered through a collapsing booth.

  Reaching the table, Mélanie thrust the girl into Theo’s arms. “Save her!”

  Theo wrapped her arms tightly around th
e child’s back. The little girl locked her legs around Theo’s waist and her arms around her neck. Mélanie saw her safe in Theo’s grasp then turned back into the sea of chaos and fire. Theo did scream then. “Come back!”

  “They are blind! They are trapped!” Mélanie let the press of the crowd carry her back toward the charity booth. Theo glimpsed a woman inside, crouched on the floor, her arms spread over a dozen little children. Then flames from a burning booth between them leapt up to block her view.

  The terrified crowd crashed against the table. Holding onto the little girl, Theo struggled to keep her balance. She steadied herself against the edge of the wall but didn’t trust it to hold her. She heard a sob against her shoulder. “I’m Theo.” She pitched her voice low, hoping the sound would carry under the screams of the crowd and the insane crackle of the flames. “What’s your name?”

  “Alicia.” The girl trembled against her but did not panic. She gripped Theo tighter and gave another sob. Was her blindness a blessing or a terrifying curse amid the screams and crackling flames?

  Theo searched frantically for an escape route but found only horror. The ceiling was a river of fire. Heat scorched her lungs with every breath. Choking smoke clogged the air. Dark shadows fell—chunks of the tarred canvas ceiling that clung to whomever they touched. A black smoldering cloak covered a man completely. He staggered into a burning booth and fell thrashing to the ground. Fire danced up the dangling ribbons of a woman’s straw hat. She snatched at her hatpins with white gloved hands, then lifted them burning from the great wheel of fire swirling around her head.

  Theo heard a loud crack. Another booth disintegrating? No. At the far end of the aisle, she saw an axe split an opening high on the wall. Hope surged through her, more desperate than fear. She clambered off the table, clutching Alicia close. “Hold tight!”

  Grabbing a chair, Theo knocked through the crumbling walls of two burning booths. The next would not give way. There was no way left but the aisle. Theo plunged into the seething crowd, shoving fiercely against their forward press. For an instant the black smoke parted and she could see the hole. The crack of the axe came again, the split widened. A cry went up, and the tide of the crowd swerved for the breach. Theo ran with them, choking and coughing with every breath, fighting to keep her balance against the violent shoves from behind. Flames burned up all around them, consuming the last wreckage of the booths.