This Isn't What It Looks Like

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  “How’m I supposed to know what that means?” asked the girl, staring at the card.

  “Some say the Wheel means good luck, but do not trust it,” said the Seer dismissively. “Your mission will go well or it will go badly. What is certain is that the Wheel will spin again.”

  “Thanks, that’s really helpful,” said the girl, who had lost her memory but not, evidently, her tendency toward sarcasm.

  “The cards can only tell us what we already know,” the Seer cautioned.

  “But I don’t even know where I’m supposed to be going. I don’t know anything.”

  “Patience.”

  The Seer turned over another card. (Or was it that the card turned itself over?) This one was decorated with an Egyptian motif. It showed a somber-looking woman sitting with a scroll in her hand and a crescent moon at her foot.

  “Here is your destiny—the High Priestess. She is the bearer of secrets. Is it perhaps a secret that you seek?”

  “Yeah… I think… I think maybe it is,” said the girl slowly. “The Secret.”

  She didn’t know where the thought had come from; nonetheless, a small flame had been lit in the darkness of her mind.

  The Secret. She was seeking the Secret.

  “The Secret, yes,” said the Seer cryptically. “That is what we all seek in the end, isn’t it?”

  The Seer raised her hand slightly and another card was revealed. Unlike the others, it faced the girl rather than the Seer. The girl read the inscription: Ace of Wands.

  “This fourth card takes us back to your distant past, to the foundation of your journey.” The Seer shook her head sadly when she looked at the card. “See how it’s upside down? It seems an old wrong must be righted. You will never rest until the wand is returned to its rightful position.”

  “What wrong? What wand?”

  “It may be that something has been stolen from you. Or perhaps you have stolen from someone else?” The Seer shrugged. “Then again, sometimes a wand is just a wand.”

  “You mean like a magician’s wand?”

  “What other kind is there?” The Seer nodded with satisfaction as another card turned over. Here a robed man stood holding a wand aloft with his right hand while pointing downward with his left. The Magician, it read. “How else could you have gotten here—if not by magic?”

  “How do I get out of here? That’s what I want to know,” said the girl, who was growing more irritable by the minute. “Or do I just click my heels and say, ‘There’s no place like home’?”

  “As above, so below. As in this world, so in the other. This is why the Magician points upward and downward at the same time. I cannot tell you how to get from here to there. Only that your actions in this place will reflect in that one.”

  A sixth card turned over, and for the first time, the Seer looked surprised. “The Fool? But surely…”

  “What? Why is that weird?”

  “The sixth card signals the goal of your quest. And yet the Fool is always the questioner. You.” The Seer paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is you yourself you must find….”

  The girl looked at the card. And now it was her turn to be surprised.

  “What is it?” asked the Seer.

  “A minute ago I saw a guy—a jester—who looked exactly like this. I kept thinking he looked familiar. And I think I just realized why….”

  The Seer raised her eyebrows. “The cards are more helpful than you expected?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” the girl admitted. “Hey, um, what’s your name? In case I want to find you again or something.”

  “Me? My name is Clara. But most people call me Cassandra.” She laughed. “They say I too often predict disaster.”

  Cassandra. Cassandra. The girl repeated it in her head.

  “I see the prophet’s name is known to you. You are a student of Greek mythology?”

  The girl smiled. “Not really, I just—I just know the name really well, that’s all.”

  Cassandra. Her name was Cassandra.

  The Magician. The Jester. The Secret.

  Her memories fell into place one after another, like cards in a deck.

  She was indeed on a mission. A mission into the past. A mission to find the Jester.

  To find the Secret.

  And to find herself.

  She was the Secret Keeper, they had told her. It was time to learn what that meant.

  When Cass’s attention turned outward once more, the Seer was gone. Her tree stump perch was bare. And so too was her tree stump table. Save for a lone fly that flew away as soon as Cass noticed it.

  Had she only imagined the encounter? Had it all been in her head?*

  As Cass’s eyes focused on the stump in front of her, the rings appeared to vibrate. Was she dreaming, or were there fewer rings now than previously? Did that mean that she’d gone further back in time? Or maybe the rings had represented her future and now she was solidly in the past?

  She was about to conclude that she was slowly going crazy, that she had imagined the tarot card reading and the change in the tree stump, when she noticed a shiny object on the ground in front of her. The Seer’s golden monocle.

  Had the Seer left it for her intentionally? And if she looked into it, would she see what the Seer saw?

  As she picked up the monocle, Cass noticed something odd about it: it was made of two lenses, one on top of the other. It was, in effect, a double monocle.

  A double monocle that gives you second sight—it makes sense in a way, she thought.

  With only the slightest bit of nervousness—what could she see, after all, that wasn’t already there?—Cass held up the Double Monocle to her eye and looked blinkingly through it.

  Pietro’s circus never looked very inviting in the early morning hours. Tent flaps were closed. The shades in the trailers and vans were pulled down. And then there was all the stale kettle corn, half-eaten hot dogs, and over-chewed wads of gum strewn across the ground.

  By the time Max-Ernest made his way to the clowns’ camper-van, the soles of his sneakers had doubled in thickness and long threads of cotton candy trailed through the dust behind him.

  He hesitated at the door. If anybody knew where Pietro was, the clowns would, but interacting with the clowns was never easy. Screwing up his courage, he knocked—a little louder than he meant to.

  “Who is it?—and don’t wake up the whole neighborhood!” came the muffled reply.

  Max-Ernest opened the door and immediately started coughing uncontrollably. The van was so smoky, there might have been a campfire inside.

  “It’s… Max… uh… Er… nest…,” he managed to spit out between coughs.

  The clowns, Mickey and Morrie, were sitting across from each other at a small folding table. As usual, they looked completely disheveled, shirts buttoned incorrectly, traces of clown makeup on their unshaven faces, as though they’d just woken up—or else hadn’t slept in days. On one side of them sat Myrtle, the circus’s bearded lady, a pink-and-green housecoat hiding her ample girth. On the other side sat Pietro, the old magician and secret leader of the Terces Society, his bushy gray mustache still showing the remains of his breakfast.

  All four were smoking fat cigars. Large playing cards fanned out in their hands. A big pile of coins beckoned from the middle of the table.

  “Well, if it isn’t the two-named wonder!” joked Morrie, the shorter, fatter clown. “What do you think, Myrtle, would people pay to see him? Two names is almost like having two heads, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, maybe we could promote him as a split personality. Dr. Max and Ernest Hyde,” joked Mickey, the taller, skinnier clown.

  “The only split personalities around here are going to be yours if you keep teasing that poor kid,” said Myrtle.

  She picked up an oversized yellow hammer off the floor and waved it threateningly. Max-Ernest was relieved to see that the hammer was rubber, one of the clowns’ circus props.

  He waved smoke away from his face. “Pi… e… tro…
can… you… out… side?” he asked in a gasping whisper. It was still very hard for him to speak, but this was an emergency.

  “Just wait the minute, Max-Ernest. This game, it is not over.” The magician’s Italian accent made all his words sound slightly comical and more than a little mischievous. As if a punch line were just around the corner.

  “Just… for… a… sec… ond?”

  Pietro shook his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot take my eyes off these clowns or they will steal the pot.”

  Myrtle nodded sagely. “Sticky fingers, these two…”

  “Who—us little lambs? We never steal!” exclaimed Mickey.

  “Why should we? We cheat plenty good!” agreed Morrie.

  “But… it’s… a… bout… Cass!” Max-Ernest protested.

  Pietro put his finger to his lips, shushing Max-Ernest.

  Helpless, Max-Ernest sat down on top of one of the clowns’ costume trunks—a curly red wig spilled out the side—and resigned himself to watching the game.

  “OK, my trick,” said Myrtle.* “Leading with wands. That would be the Ace of Wands,” she added smugly as she laid the card on the table.

  Pietro smiled appreciatively. “Molto bene, my bearded partner!”

  Max-Ernest craned his neck to see the card. He had assumed they were playing poker, but he’d never heard of an Ace of Wands before.

  “What… kind… of… cards… are… those?” he asked, interested despite himself.

  “Tarot cards,” said Mickey. “And what happened to your voice? Used to be nobody could shut you up.”

  On the counter next to Max-Ernest was an oversized polka-dot notepad and an oversized candy-striped pen—more circus props. He picked up the pen and tested it on the notepad. (It worked, although it contained pink glitter-glue instead of ink.)

  I HAVE LARYNGITIS, he wrote. And on the next line, YOU MEAN LIKE CARDS FOR FORTUNE-TELLING? Then he held up the pad for the table to see.

  Morrie nodded. “Except when you gamble with them, you’re not wasting your money!”

  “That’s right—you’re contributing to the Clown Improvement Society!” said Mickey.

  “In Italy, there is a game we play with tarot cards, many hundreds of years old,” Pietro explained. “It is called the Tarocchino.”

  “Enough history lessons, old man,” said Mickey. “Morrie?” He tapped the table twice, making sure Morrie saw him.

  Morrie nodded discreetly. Or sort of discreetly.

  “How sad! I’m fresh out of wands,” said Morrie, sounding not very sad about it. He held up a card face-out for all to see. “Mr. Magician, I present my trump card… the Magician.”

  The real-life magician’s eyes twinkled as he laid his card on top of Morrie’s. “How about a clown for a clown? Or should I say, the Fool to trump a fool?”

  “Wait, you can’t play the Fool—that’s like the Joker,” said Mickey, outraged. “You’re changing the rules…!”

  “I am the only Italian in the room, no? I think I should know the rules. The Fool, he is wild. He trumps all.”

  Mickey threw the Two of Wands on the table, then pushed the pile of coins toward the magician.

  “Cheater!” he grumbled.

  A few minutes later, Pietro and Max-Ernest stood outside the trailer. Miserable, Max-Ernest was scribbling furiously with the candy-striped clown pen.

  I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT AND SHE DIDN’T EVEN BLINK! SHE JUST KEPT LYING THERE. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. THE DOCTORS SAY THE LONGER SHE STAYS IN A COMA, THE LESS LIKELY SHE’S EVER GOING TO WAKE UP.

  He showed Pietro the pad, then added petulantly: NOT THAT YOU CARE!

  Pietro put his hand on Max-Ernest’s shoulder. “I know you are angry with me. You think I should not be playing cards at a time like this. That I do not love our Cass enough. But you must understand, the cards, they were telling us something—”

  Max-Ernest looked at him suspiciously.

  I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST PLAYING A GAME.

  “That does not mean the cards have lost their power.”

  BUT YOU DON’T THINK THEY’RE… Max-Ernest hesitated before writing the word… MAGIC? YOU DON’T ACTUALLY BELIEVE PEOPLE CAN SEE INTO THE FUTURE, DO YOU?

  He couldn’t believe Pietro, his mentor and hero, could be so superstitious. Pietro was a professional magician—well, a retired professional magician—not a wizard.

  Pietro shrugged. “What is the magic? Most people, they think it is what cannot be explained. The magicians, we know better. The magic, it is what has not been explained… yet. Here—”

  He reached behind Max-Ernest’s left ear and seemed to pull out a coin.

  Max-Ernest almost rolled his eyes—it was the oldest trick in the book. But still he observed closely. Pietro rarely did magic tricks anymore, and it was always instructive to watch him.

  Pietro closed his fist around the coin. When he opened his hand, there were two coins. He closed and opened his hand once more; and once more there was only one. Rather than lying flat, it stood on its edge—as if to show there was no coin underneath.

  “Now, where do you think is the other coin?”

  Max-Ernest smiled knowingly.

  YOU’RE HOLDING IT BETWEEN THE BACKS OF YOUR FINGERS.

  “That is the usual method, yes,” admitted the magician.

  But when he spread his fingers, there was no coin to be seen.

  “This time it is something else.”

  He turned his hand over, keeping his fingers spread open. The second coin was standing upright on the back of his hand, seemingly perfectly balanced.

  He turned his hand sideways and the coin did not move. Neither did the coin that was standing on his palm. Both coins appeared to be weightless and/or stuck to his skin.

  “What is the trick, do you think?”

  TAPE? GLUE?

  The magician shook his head. “See for yourself.”

  He handed a coin to Max-Ernest, showing him that it was not the slightest bit sticky.

  Max-Ernest grunted in frustration. It wasn’t in his nature to be stumped.

  “Do not be upset. We do not need always to know everything right away,” said Pietro. “The magician, he wants to understand, of course. How does the elephant float in the air? What makes the illusion? Is there a mirror or are there strings? OK, fine, yes. This is the magician’s job. But, Max-Ernest, if you do not feel first the mystery, you do not see the magic! You are like a musician who can make all the sounds but does not hear the music…. Now, take the other coin.”

  As soon as Pietro handed the second coin to Max-Ernest, it stuck to the first coin. Max-Ernest pulled them apart—they flew back together.

  THEY’RE MAGNETS?

  The magician nodded, smiling broadly.

  Max-Ernest frowned, disgruntled.

  ISN’T THAT CHEATING?

  Pietro laughed. “You and the clowns with your cheating! It’s a magic trick! What is the cheating? There is no cheating in magic, only in poker.”

  I STILL DON’T SEE WHAT THIS HAS TO DO WITH TAROT CARDS. OR CASS.

  “Who knows? Perhaps there is some force field that directs the cards just as the magnetic field swirls around the magnets. Imagine, the people in the ancient world, what they thought the first time they saw the magnetism….”

  As he spoke, Pietro took the magnetic coins back from Max-Ernest and made one dance in his palm by manipulating the other coin above the first. “Invisible strings pulling two things together—it is magic, no? The cards, I know they are a sign. Just because I do not understand their secret, that is no reason to ignore their message.”

  OK, wrote Max-Ernest, not totally convinced. SO THEN WHAT WERE THE CARDS TELLING US?

  The magician looked him in the eye. “Really? You are ready to listen?”

  Max-Ernest nodded.

  “Very well,” said Pietro gravely. “Did you notice how the Ace of Wands, it fell upside down? This, I think, means a wrong must be righted. Or in this case, a stolen item returned.”

  WHAT
STOLEN ITEM?

  “Did you not take the Tuning Fork from your principal? What is her name? Mrs. Johnson. This thing, it is bad luck. It wants to be returned to its owner. That is why it will not help you.”

  IT’S A METAL OBJECT. HOW CAN IT WANT ANYTHING?

  “Is a magnet not a metal object? Does it not want to point north? You ask for my advice. This is my advice. Give the Tuning Fork back to your principal.”

  FINE, I’LL GIVE IT BACK, wrote Max-Ernest, not at all certain he understood. BUT THEN HOW DO WE GET CASS BACK? I NEED THE TUNING FORK TO MAKE THE ANTIDOTE.

  “You must get her yourself.”

  Max-Ernest stared in confusion. YOU MEAN FROM THE PAST? FROM BACK IN HISTORY?

  “More or less. You must bring her home from her own head.”

  BUT HOW??

  “You know her head better than anyone. Get inside it.”

  LIKE MIND READING?

  “Yes, if you like to call it that.”

  Max-Ernest shook his head in disbelief. Pietro had given him many impossible assignments in the past, but this one took the cake.

  “Listen, my friend. We both know you do not have the laryngitis.”

  The magician gently extracted the pen from Max-Ernest’s hand and held it aloft as if it were one of his magic wands—or perhaps the Ace of Wands. “Your problem, it is not here”—he pointed the pen at Max-Ernest’s throat—“it is here”—he pointed the pen at Max-Ernest’s chest. “My heart is heavy, too. But you must be strong. This situation, it is very serious. It is not only Cass’s life that is at stake. If she dies, the Secret, it will die, too.”

  Max-Ernest reached for the pen, but Pietro shook his head and made the pen disappear with another sleight of hand (not easy to do, considering the pen’s large size).

  “Speak.”

  Max-Ernest shrugged, resigned to using his voice. “I thought you didn’t want anybody to find out the Secret.”

  “This is true,” agreed Pietro. “But the only thing worse than people finding out the Secret, it is that we lose the Secret forever.”