Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

Two years ago, Theo had stood over new graves in California, devastated. A year ago January, when she was newly arrived in Paris, Averill had invited her to Verlaine’s funeral. “Our literary world will be there.” The flamboyant church was dedicated to St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, the service solemn but marvelous. She’d met Casimir for the first time, and remembered how enthralled he was by the organ music. He was just coming out of mourning, too, for his grandfather. Feeling they shared a bond of grief, Theo asked if Casimir missed him much. “A man most ancient and utterly corrupt?” He’d smiled lightly. “I mourn Verlaine far more.”

  After the service, the three of them joined the most famous writers in France on the long walk to the cemetery. As the chill drizzle gave way to clouded sunlight, the memorial transformed into a celebration. Everyone shared stories of Verlaine in all his glory and pathos. His poems were quoted around the grave like benedictions. Even the absurdity of his tawdry mistress trying to reclaim the sheet that covered him merged instantly into the myth of the poet. The tragicomedy continued when they turned to leave. Their umbrella and a dozen others had been stolen from under the tree where they rested. An Irish poet named William Butler Yeats pointed out the fleeing thief and recognized him—Louis XI—a poor, crazy, homeless man that Verlaine had taken under his wing and renamed because of his likeness to the medieval king. At last, the clouds parted and azure sky graced their return home.

  That day, Theo had felt herself on the brink of something momentous. For her it was a death that signified a rebirth, a winter that promised a bright spring. This spring, too, was bright and glowing. But Death stalked her, stepping out from Mélanie’s Tarot card, twirling his scythe.

  Hearing the crunch of gravel, Theo turned to see Carmine approaching. She also wore mourning. Nodding toward the cathedral, she said, “You look anything but consoled, Theo.”

  “The sermon wasn’t the tribute I hoped for. The priest informed us that the fire was God’s judgment on us. We were wicked for indulging in the irreligious scientific and social ideas that abound in these sinful modern times. But if we repented, we would not be punished. Otherwise we should expect to be burnt to cinders. It was hateful.”

  “Pompous, flatulent fool,” Carmine muttered. “I warned you.”

  “Yes, you did.” Theo paused, feeling sad for the thousands who had come to the church in a futile quest for comfort.

  “I have a better tribute to Mélanie. There are rumors of a protest at the École des Beaux Arts. Many of the men grudge sharing their privileges with women students. If it happens, I will protest their protest,” Carmine said. “And you?”

  “I will go with you!” After the men’s treatment of Mélanie, Theo felt bound to support the other women.

  They sat watching a butterfly, grateful for its beauty. Carmine asked, “Remember when I drew the Priestess from the Tarot deck?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were probably angry that I left so suddenly.”

  Theo swallowed. “A little angry. Shocked.”

  Carmine nodded. “It was as if the Priestess spoke to me. Summoned me. That’s why I knew the card wasn’t me. I felt I had to leave.”

  The memory disturbed Theo but she was fascinated, too. “Leaving saved your life.”

  “Yes. That morning I’d drawn the Tower, just as Mélanie did. I would have been trapped, too.”

  To call it coincidence seemed cowardice. “I don’t know what I believe.”

  “To me, the mystical is all around us. Not to see it is a kind of color blindness.”

  Theo winced. “That hurt.”

  “It was meant to pinch at little,” Carmine admitted. “But it was unfair.”

  “It is so far beyond my control, it frightens me,” Theo confessed. “But I’ve always prided myself on facing my fear.”

  “Moina Mathers wants to meet you today.”

  “Your Priestess?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided to study with her.” Carmine paused. “We think it’s important that we read the Tarot for you.”

  Theo felt her stomach plummet, but Carmine looked at her so earnestly she didn’t refuse. Because of Mélanie, Theo knew she must confront the cards again.

  As they started to walk, Carmine looked up to the cathedral. “Did you know they were going to tear down Notre Dame?”

  “Tear it down!” Theo was stunned. She loved the elegant façade and glowing rose windows. Most of all, she loved the crazy collection of gargoyles perched on the ramparts. They were named for their gurgling and gargling as they poured rainwater from their snouts.

  Carmine nodded. “Then Victor Hugo wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame and everyone fell in love with it again. Sometimes we artists have power.”

  “Sometimes.” It was an interesting conversation Carmine was offering, but Theo found concentration difficult. The Tarot cards had resumed their taunting dance in her brain. On the Right Bank they bought a ticket for a horse-drawn omnibus. When it arrived they climbed to the open-air seats on top. Theo was restless. She turned to Carmine. “Tell me about your priestess.”

  “Her family is quite a cassoulet—her father is Polish, her mother English. Moina was born in Switzerland but has lived most of her life in Paris and London. Her brother, Henri Bergson, is making quite a stir in philosophy.”

  The Revenants had talked about Bergson.

  “She married an Englishman named MacGregor Mathers. He is a bit mad, in the way the British can be. The last time I was there he wore a kilt and performed a sword dance.”

  Theo tried to smile. “That sounds quite dramatic.”

  “He was actually rather good, though I could have done without the lecture on tartan plaids.” Carmine rolled her eyes.

  “But you are impressed.”

  “I find Moina compelling. McGregor is intense, but perhaps too much the autocrat. They are both serious about their occult studies. Between them they must know a dozen languages and MacGregor translates ancient texts. The one he’s about to publish is called The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-melin the Mage.” Carmine intoned the title. “They are discreet about it, but I’m sure they are exploring magic.”

  “Exploring magic,” Theo repeated. She knew Carmine didn’t mean parlor tricks. A week ago this would have been enticing. Now she felt uneasy.

  “Moina designed the cover for MacGregor’s book.” Carmine frowned. “Most of her painting is for his projects.”

  “Isn’t she unhappy, sacrificing her own art?”

  “No. Utterly devoted.” Carmine paused. “Theo, have you been able to paint?”

  “Paint?” It was difficult to even say the word. Theo felt as if a giant hand was squeezing her lungs. A cloud of sooty darkness hovered behind her eyes. “No…I’ve only drawn a little.”

  Nightmares flung her sweating out of sleep—into the waking nightmares of memory. First had been the torment of not being able to paint at all, then of being compelled by the hideous images that haunted her night and day. Flames burned inside her brain until she thought her skull would explode. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of color. Afraid of hot scarlet, and orange, and yellow that burned white. Afraid of the vivid licks of azure that tipped the ends of flames. Perversely, she was scrawling compulsively in charcoal, her fingers black, the smell half nauseating, even the gritty sound repulsive, but she could not stop. Clouds of smoke obliterated the white pages. Black flames burned to the edges of the paper. Rage and fear and grief drove her fingers into scrawling patterns….

  “Theo, are you all right?”

  She took a deep breath. “I will be.”

  “I’ve been drawing Mélanie over and over again. Trying to keep her alive.”

  Mélanie came to Theo too, but she could not bear to draw her. She swallowed hard, refusing to cry on the omnibus.

  They were silent again until they reached the suburbs. The flats in the sixteenth arrondissment were attractive, but less expensive than the ones closer to the center of Paris. Theo nudged Carmine, po
inting out a new building in the sinuous lines of Art Nouveau. “Look, it seems to have grown out of the street.”

  “It’s beautiful. Unique.” Carmine gestured toward the rest of the block. “I really hate Haussman’s renovations. I wish Paris were still medieval, full of nooks and crannies and quirks. Sometimes I go to the old churches just to slide back a few centuries.”

  “I love the broad sweeping avenues,” Theo countered.

  “Ploughed through the homes of the poor.” Carmine huffed.

  Theo didn’t try to defend that. “I find Paris very beautiful. Perfectly elegant.”

  “We call Haussman the Alsatian Attila. When he rebuilt the city for Napoléon III, he demanded uniformity. All new houses must be six stories high and stand square with their neighbors. The roofs must cant at the same angle. There must be a pretty little balcony running the length of the second floor and another pretty little balcony on the fifth,” Carmine complained.

  “I love the balconies,” Theo protested.

  “It’s so regimented!”

  “But Carmine, the modern buildings blend with the older ones. Most are built of the same limestone—all those pale shades of cream and buff.”

  Limestone from the quarries that housed the catacombs. The thought silenced Theo.

  They got off the omnibus on the rue Mozart. The tree-lined street was pleasant, even if a prime example of the Alsatian Attila. Carmine led her to the Mathers’ buuilding, and together they walked up several flights of stairs. A young maid opened the door. Despite the serving girl, Theo could tell that the Mathers did not have much money. But everywhere talent and imagination enlivened their home. The apartment was furnished with low divans and other touches of the exotic. The air had a scent of incense and roses, of cinnamon and clove. Piles of sketches lay about, men in kilts and fairy goddesses. Others evoked ancient Egypt, a temple with lotus columns, pagan gods with the heads of beasts, a figure that looked like a priestess.

  Moina Mathers came to greet them. Her voice had a beautiful resonance, and Theo relaxed in her presence immediately. She had a warmth, a glow that both brightened and soothed. Willful brown hair framed her face. Her eyes were vivid cobalt, her skin a warm olive. Moss green, her flowing dress was in the Arts and Crafts style fashionable a while ago. On her it seemed timeless. Since Carmine used Moina’s given name, Theo suggested the same. She preferred informal manners.

  Gesturing to the sketches, she asked, “Are these for a play? They are evocative.”

  Moina tilted her head and smiled. “We plan to give performances of ancient Egyptian dances—as we envision them.”

  Theo wondered just what envision meant.

  “Carmine said that you wanted her to read the Tarot for you.” Moina held up a hand. “I know. That was before the fire. All the more reason to carry through. Questioning will open paths for you. Trust will come in time.”

  “I don’t know if I could ever trust the Tarot.” Since Mélanie’s reading had come so devastatingly true, Theo was wary. Could such a sinister coincidence be mere chance?

  “The Tarot did not cause the fire,” Moina said, as if she could read Theo’s mind.

  “No, of course not,” Theo answered, but realized that was part of her fear, however irrational. She thought of Mélanie’s Cassandra, doomed to see the future and not prevent it. She thought of Mélanie’s charred corpse, wearing the Wedgewood cameo that Inspecteur Devaux had cleaned. Yet, Carmine survived because of the cards. Mélanie might have too, had she not misunderstood the falling Tower for the École des Beaux-Arts. The cards were not a trap, but they could mislead as easily as reveal.

  “You can say no, Theo.” Carmine looked at her directly.

  “No, I can’t.” She could not walk away. She needed to prove to herself that the foretelling of the fire was only a terrifying fluke. “Let’s begin.”

  “Usually I consult the Tarot only for our students,” Moina told her. “But what happened at the charity bazaar was quite extraordinary. My husband agrees with me that it is appropriate to read for you.”

  With a prickling along her spine, the conversation with Carmine and Mélanie returned. She disliked Moina’s dependence on her husband’s approval.

  Moina smiled serenely. “MacGregor is my husband, my friend, and my teacher.”

  Once again, Theo had the disconcerting feeling that Moina could read her mind. Though more likely, her thoughts were plain on her face.

  Moina tilted her head. “Carmine thought it would be better if I read the cards, Theodora. But if you prefer, Carmine could do it.”

  “Moina could watch and comment,” Carmine added.

  Theo was curious about Moina, but she had to admit to herself the offer relieved her.

  They went into a pleasant little alcove where afternoon sun filtered hazily through embroidered curtains of red gauze. The rosy light edged the black-on-black design of Carmine’s cut velvet jacket, an array of poppies. Theo could imagine Carmine dressed in perfect Gypsy regalia, a silk scarf bright with scarlet flowers wrapped around her hair, kohl painted around her eyes, and a multitude of gold chains draped about her neck. Theo felt another surge of gratitude. It was the first image she’d had in days that did not conjure the fire.

  Carmine unfolded the silk protecting her Tarot deck. Despite her uneasiness, Theo wanted to see the images close up and feel the textures of the cards in her hands. “Three cards?”

  “Too few,” Carmine said. “I only did a brief reading for Mélanie because it was so crowded and noisy in the bazaar. My grandmother first taught me the Tarot. I will use her special six card layout.”

  Theo nodded. She could hardly refuse Carmine’s almost mythical grandmother.

  Carmine handed her the deck. “Remember to pose a question in your mind as you shuffle them.”

  “Can’t they just tell me whatever I need to know?”

  “If you prefer.”

  Theo began shuffling the cards. They felt large and awkward, difficult to manipulate. Part of her still insisted the whole thing was silly. Yet over and over she saw the images of the flaming Tower and of Death. Theo pushed those images away and tried to look into the future without asking anything specific. She painted a lazy question mark in her mind as she shuffled, a stroke of mental calligraphy. The cards felt cool and smooth in her hands, yet warm and alive, too. She had not expected that. Then they seemed to fall into place smoothly, and she felt a quiet descend. How strange.

  “I think that must be right.” She set them down, remembering to cut three times.

  Carmine’s hand hovered over the piles. She chose the center one and placed it atop the others, a different order than she had chosen for Mélanie. She put one face down on the table. “My grandmother always laid them out one at a time, so I will too.”

  Theo was holding her breath. She let it out in a shaky sigh. “Show me the first.”

  “This represents the past,” Carmine said at last, and turned over the first card. “The Seven of Staves.”

  It looked like an ordinary playing card to Theo. She felt nothing. “Before you tell me what this card means, Carmine, tell me the image you will paint for it.”

  Carmine looked up at Theo. “I see a wounded Amazon. She holds a long stave to support herself. Behind her the other staves stand like a fragile fence. Beyond them, fire and smoke on a hillside with an army approaching.” The image came alive in Theo’s mind, and she nodded for Carmine to continue. “You are in the midst of a monumental battle, Theo, a battle that will call for all your strength.”

  “A battle?”

  “You have achieved a victory, but it is not the end. The respite may even be an illusion. Another ordeal lies ahead.”

  Memory pierced Theo. Her courage had been tested in the fire. She’d won a great victory, but at a terrible cost. “Mélanie had a card with Staves. She was trapped in the fire.”

  “Fire is the element of that suit, but Mélanie’s card wasn’t the seven. Your card says you can win the battle, but you must
keep fighting no matter what the odds.”

  “I don’t give up.” She nodded for Carmine to go on.

  “The present—the heart of the matter.” Carmine turned over a new card and drew a sharp breath. “The Devil.”

  “The Devil,” Theo repeated, frowning at the ugly, looming goatish figure and the chained minions at its feet…its hooves. The figure of the Devil had horns. The male and female figures below did too, and tails, but otherwise were human, even attractive. Incubus and succubus? “At least it’s not Death.”

  Carmine looked at Moina but neither of them spoke. The silence was palpable. “What?” Theo demanded. “It’s bad enough when you talk, saying nothing is worse.”

  “There is a malign force at work—a power both seductive and repugnant.” Carmine met her hostile look. “You may be chained by your own passions.”

  Theo felt perplexed, then relieved. The cards must be wrong. But even as she shook her head, Moina added, “You may be ensnared in a maze of evil instigated by another. Theodora, is there anyone in your life that you see as destructive—perhaps even evil?”

  “Evil?” The idea of a devil running around was ridiculous, but not all evil decked itself out in horns and pitchforks. People committed evil acts. Robbery. Murder. Children were abducted and tortured. She heard less certainty in her voice. “I don’t know anyone evil.”

  Carmine was watching her sharply. “Not even a forbidden temptation that threatens to take hold?”

  Theo began a denial, then bit her lip. Falling in love with your cousin was forbidden by the Catholic Church. It also wasn’t wise. Her heart might be broken. But a big looming Devil with scaly skin and hairy goat legs? Averill with cloven hooves peeking out below his elegant but often rumpled suit? She swallowed a laugh. “Not really.”

  “The Devil can be a figure of anarchy,” Carmine suggested, rather reluctantly.

  “Anarchy?” Paul? Theo’s thoughts jumbled together. Paul’s violence was all talk, an idea he played with to vent his frustrations. Wasn’t it?

  Moina leaned closer. “Sometimes this card means addiction to a substance, or bondage to a person.” She touched the man and woman on the card. “See how the chains only drape them? They enslave themselves, from lust, or from fear.”