Allegories of the Tarot (7 page)

“No way.
I don’t want that kind
of responsibility.”

“We have our fair share, believe me. Some take it more
seriously than others, though.”

“Like you?” he asks. “I thought muses didn’t work longer
than five centuries, but I heard you’ve been working for ten. Are you a
blood-muse?”

“Now who’s being rude?” Rico snaps.

He’s not ashamed of his heritage. Embracing it was
better than the alternative. An orphan from Earth33, he came into the world
alone and remained so until he came of age. Many blood-muses turn from their
fate. There are better lives, with better payoff, but after learning what he
was,
Rico saw no reason to fight it. The mere prospect of
leaving the filthy streets of Constantinople was better than anything else he’d
encountered there.

Rico presses the entry button on the terminal, and the
left screen bulges into the room. Elongating to a tunnel, it spirals open for
the muse and his trainee.

“We’re going in there?” Balar asks as a frigid breeze
rushes out from the opening.

“You’ll be safe, I promise. Until you get a terminal
cord, your suit will allow you to enter the Graveyard and travel between
worlds.”

“After we’ve done the job, do you mind if I take it for
a spin by myself?”

“A spin would be the most you could do. Suit or not, traveling
without me could earn you a place on the other side of the Graveyard, with a
very short story to tell.”

Balar’s eyes widen. “You're joking.”

“Not at all,” Rico smiles, and pulls the trainee into
the tunnel.

The wind blasts them as they push through. Balar’s suit
frosts over, and Rico grumbles, “Damn Earth7” as he flicks the icicles from his
cord, but the chill is less abrasive upon their exit. The passage opens into an
ivory flatland. There are no animals, no plant life, only millions of small onyx
pools stretching as far as the eye can see.

“Where are we?”

“The Earth7 Graveyard.
Each of
these pools represents a sentient being whose has lived between the beginning
of time and 1587. There are significantly more plots in this version of Earth
because it happens to exist in an eternal Ice Age. But the person we’re looking
for didn’t freeze to death. She was beheaded for allegedly conspiring to kill
her cousin, the Queen of England.”

“Did she really do it?”

“That’s not our question to ask or answer. It’s our job
to deliver the story, with all of its possibilities, to the proper artist.
In this case, someone who lives on Earth2.”

Rico scans row after row of black plots until he sees a
blue pool winking in the distance. He heads toward it, and Balar holds onto his
cord as he marches behind.

“Here she is,” he says, gazing into the azure pool. “Everything
Mary is, everything she did or said on Earth7 exists in this plot.”

“You mean her plot is in this plot?” Balar snorts.

“You’re new, so I’ll forgive that archaic quip,” Rico
says. “Anyway, it’s inaccurate.”

He removes a syringe, uncapping it as he kneels beside
the pool. Piercing the surface, he draws up the shimmering liquid.

“This,” he says to Balar, “is fact plus possibility.
Mary Stuart, residing on Earth7, was accused of treason. She was imprisoned and
executed. She was born and died in an eternal winter, the blood of her
beheading freezing before it could hit the ground. Those are facts. There are
more, but few compared to the spaces between. Those spaces are the realms of
possibility, to be filled and filed and fit into any shape the artist wishes.”

“And it’s different every time?”

“Usually, though there are exceptions. Some minds can
only stretch so far and will settle on similar storylines.”

“It sounds confusing.”

“This is the easy part, kid.”

The pool fades back to black, and the field is uniform
again. When Rico was Balar’s age, the sight broke his heart. He knew he would
be back for more collections soon, but he hated the moment when he’d look out
upon a Graveyard lacking stories to tell.

He doesn’t feel that way anymore, especially on a busy
day when the fields don’t darken. It doesn’t happen often, but complicated
deliveries cause their fair share of delays, and missions can pile up.

“The job of a muse is twofold: deliver inspiration, and
protect the artist,” Rico tells him. “Except for sleepwalkers, safeguarding a
slumbering artist isn’t difficult, but if they’re flying a plane, or scuba
diving, or performing a high-wire act, they’ll require closer attention.
Inspiration can be a dangerous thing, Balar. It can strike all at once, or it
can appear in the periphery, a glimmer awakening other glimmers that eventually
become solid ideas. But no matter how it comes, inspiration is always a
distraction. You must prevent it from becoming a fatal one.”

“Have you ever lost an artist?”

Rico answers with
silence,
his
head bowed, and turns back to the tunnel. Dozens of sad memories bloom as he
walks back to the Bridge, but he forces them to disappear with the Graveyard.
Back in the Bridge, “Earth2-2013” fades from the right screen, zooming in on
the planet, greener than Earth7. The image enlarges until the screen focuses on
a window into a cluttered room.

Then, there’s a girl. The laptop beside her is open, but
the word processor is blank, the cursor blinking like a sleepless tease. But
the girl dozes, hunched over at a desk with her head resting on folded arms.
With a sigh, Rico thanks Spec for an easy delivery.

He plugs in to the right side of the terminal, presses a
button, and the screen bulges again. The tunnel stretches out to meet him and
Balar, who smiles when a summer breeze eases from the entrance. The destination
is brighter than any Graveyard, but it’s nearly as silent. The only sound comes
from the oscillating fan in the corner of the teenage girl’s bedroom, and the
fluttering posters of baby-faced boys with side-swept hair.

Whispering, Balar asks, “What now?”

“You don’t have to be quiet. She can’t see or hear us.”
Rico removes the syringe from his pocket. “And she can’t feel this.” He injects
the blue liquid into the girl’s neck, saying, “Watch, Balar. Tell me what you
see.”

Rico pushes the plunger, and inspiration rushes in.

“I see it, bright blue in her veins,” Balar says. “It’s
charging down her arms and up to her brain.”

“Put your hand on her shoulder.”

Balar obeys, gasping when he makes contact. “She’s
flying through cotton candy clouds. How is that possible?”

“You’re looking into her dream. Keep watching.”

“She’s shivering now. The clouds have turned to ice, and
she’s floating toward the courtyard of a frozen castle. There are hundreds of
people there, wrapped in filthy fur. They cheer as she lands, but not for her.
There’s something happening ahead of them, something exciting.”

Rico smiles, remembering the thrill of the first time he
watched inspiration seep into someone’s dream. He wonders if he looked like
Balar, with a smile testing the limits of his cheeks.

“The crowd is chanting. It gets louder as she gets
closer to the front. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your treason grow?’
She’s singing along and clapping,” Balar says. “There’s a queen nearby. Her
face is white as snow and her hair red as fire, but the girl ignores her. She
wants to get to the front. She can’t see what’s up there yet, but I can. I see
a man in a black mask holding an axe. He’s standing next to a blood-drenched
block of wood. There’s a body on the ground beside it, but I can’t tell whose
it is. I can’t see the head.”

“Nor will you,” Rico says, unclamping Balar’s hand from
the girl’s shoulder. “It’s her story now. Let’s leave her alone to explore it.”

Balar pouts his lip, pleading, but Rico shakes his head.
“You have to let go. Even when you deliver inspiration to a dangerous place,
you can only take artists so far. Keep them inspired, keep them safe, but know
you are nothing to them.”

“But she’s going to wake up and write a story, isn’t
she? Won’t she wonder where it came from?”

“Maybe, but she’ll never guess right. Artists stand on
the shoulders of muses to see the expanse of their imaginations, but they can’t
see far enough to be grateful for our stability. We don’t exist to them, Balar.
Our memories do not survive death. Our own stories will never be told.”

Rico exhales, feeling his age. “It’s time to get back to
the Bridge.”

Holding onto Rico’s cord, Balar follows the muse out
through the tunnel. Once they’re back in the chamber, Rico reaches out to
unplug his cord from the terminal, but it’s not there. Not in the terminal, not
in his ear.

“What’s going on? Where is it?” he asks frantically.

“You don’t need it anymore,” Balar replies. “You have
done well, Rico. For thousands of years you have given the living world reasons
to create, and in turn, reason to live. I am proud of you for all you’ve done,
but it’s time for you to rest.”

Balar removes his goggles. His eyes have changed, become
deeper.

Rico has never seen those eyes before, but he knows them
in an instant. He sinks to his knees, tears welling as he whispers, “Spec?”

Balar’s hand is warm against Rico’s face, but Spec’s
words are warmer.

“I know your lifelong loneliness, child. I’ve seen your
malaise and how you’ve set it aside to inspire joy in others. Because of that,
I will not let you fade.”

“But that’s the fate of blood-muses. We don’t go to a
Graveyard. We fade from the Spectrum’s memory.”

The screen fills with the image of Earth2. As Rico
watches in awe, it zooms in on North America, America, Maryland, Frederick
County, Taney Avenue, a townhouse, and a cluttered study.

“For your service, for your sacrifices, your memory will
endure. With the entire Spectrum as my witness, your stories will be told. And
she,” he says, pointing to a woman with curly hair, scrawling in a notebook,
“will be your storyteller.”

Weariness hits Rico like a
sledgehammer,
and Balar helps him lie down. From the beginning of his lonely life to this
moment, Rico felt the weight of responsibility. There had been moments of
pleasure, but none comparing to the sensation of a slowing pulse. His life will
end, but Spec’s gift grants him the chance to live better ones. The facts of
his existence won’t change, but the spaces between are endless now. For the
first time, he knows the weightlessness—and joy—of possibility.

Rico’s eyes close, his breath ceases, and the
storyteller lowers her pen.

***

Jessica McHugh is an author of speculative fiction that
spans the genre from horror and alternate history to epic fantasy. A member of
the Horror Writers Association and a 2013 Pulp Ark nominee, she has devoted
herself to novels, short stories, poetry, and playwriting. Jessica has had
thirteen books published in five years, including the bestselling
Rabbits in the Garden
The
Sky: The World
and the gritty coming-of-age thriller,
PINS
. More info on her speculations and
publications can be found at
JessicaMcHughBooks.com
.

***

THE LOVERS

A Modern Affair

By Eden Baylee

Strands of jet-black hair brushed her face as she tilted
her head from side to side. I guessed her to be no more than thirty, but her
bad skin aged her by at least a decade. Even with her face hidden in shadows,
the lines around her mouth revealed she smoked. Her intensity frightened me a
little as I watched her eyes narrow. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat,
fighting the urge to say something.

“I see a man,” she said, finally breaking the silence.
Her husky voice reverberated off the walls of the tiny room. She continued to
stare intently at my cards. “Is there a man?”

A tiny smile curled my lips. “Yes, there is.”

“Is he a lot younger than you?”

“No.”

“Hmm…” She pressed her fist to her lips. “Perhaps he is
less mature?”

I couldn’t help but laugh as she fished for information.
My husband was twelve years older than me, the furthest thing from immature. I
remained silent to avoid offering any clues.

“I see a man who is either biologically younger than you
or sexually less mature.”

I nodded to show support, just because I felt bad she
was so far off the mark. “And what does this card mean?” I pointed to
The Lovers
, the card in the middle of my
Tarot spread.

“It can mean many things. The five apples on the tree
behind the woman represent the five senses, indicating sensual love is very
important to her. The snake suggests the temptations of the world, perhaps a
love affair.”

I chuckled but quickly regained my composure. “Are you
saying I will have an affair with a young, immature man?”

She shook her head, leaned back in the chair. “Not
necessarily.”

I massaged my temples. “Okay, what does it say about the
man?”

“The flames behind the man represent the flames of
passion, his primary concern.”

I don’t think so.

“Your card is upright,” she continued, “an indicator of
harmony, trust, and mutual attractiveness. On a more personal level, it
represents your own belief system, staying true to who you are.”

“Staying true?
About what?”

She looked me square in the eyes. “Just be aware of the
difference between love and infatuation.”

My face tightened. Her words made no sense to me. “Thank
you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.” She offered a sympathetic look before
sweeping the cards off the table.
“One more thing.
If
you find yourself at a moral crossroads, consider all consequences before
acting. The Lovers card is about making choices, and they are not always easy
or obvious.”