A Tale

She rose early, a restless night, ahead of the neighbors,

well before the sun lifted above the horizon,

and stoked the stove back to life, fire

from embers rekindled into flames, the snap

of kindling catching hold and the crack and scent

of oak and birch burning, recalling the warmth

that they bring into this room that is her home.

She placed a kettle there to heat, setting the water to boil

to pour into an old yellowed mug to steep an herbal tea,

her own blend fashioned from the herbs she grew and dried

in the solitary life she chose for herself, living here, alone.

Wrapping her robe tight around her, its sash pulled snug, she felt

a shiver shaking her, though the room was now comfortable and warm,

a feeling she shrugged off; “it’s nothing,” she told herself.

As per her ritual, she slowly removed the silk from around

the crystal ball and took the tarot down from the shelf,

the deck and crystal and the wisdom of the ages passed down

from her mother and grandmother and the grandmothers

before them, down through time and the ages, generations of women

chosen to pass down wisdom, knowledge, and truth, the basis of our lives.

 

Her hands wrapped around her mug of tea, steam rising

as she gazed into the crystal, not for signs and symbols

or meanings, the charlatan’s realm, but to see what might

show there from deep within her, where wisdom dwelt

and truth grew. The smooth surface fogged and the prismed

light reflected from the lone candle that lit her room, and

the stars and sparkles within seemed to pulse with the flickering

of the candle’s flame in the breeze the drifted through.

From the deck of cards, she drew five, turned each

and laid it down on the table, a single row, the pictures

detailing a heritage begun long before her time, generations

passing into generations, driven from their lands or, restless,

moving on, settling again, the stories growing and the truths

they bore. And the cards and crystal, no more than cards

and crystal, stories told over and over, the wisdom of the ages,

knowledge, truth, passed from woman to woman; these she shared

with those who would come to her, asking, willing to pay, those

in need of hope, of reassurances, just an ear to listen or a voice

to listen to, songs and stories she would share freely, taking their offerings

only because of her own needs, this small place and sustenance,

for there was no other in her life, for who would have her, an outcast,

a teller of stories, a singer of songs, passing on traditions,

ritual, and a past readily forgotten, the beginnings of time itself.

 

Each card turned this day, this early morning,

cards seen many times and the stories connected to them,

sat cold on the table, flat and dull, reflecting nothing

though their sheen had never dimmed over the years,

the Dreamer, the Jester, the Lady of the Glen with her raven

hair dancing, the goblet and the lance, reflecting a rich heritage

moving forward in time, but as she touched each card, feeling

nothing but their cold surface, a foreboding rose through her,

begun in the spleen and up through her chest, her heart, and down

into her limbs, a heaviness, an ache, and tingling traveling her veins,

that same foreboding striking now as before when the shaman,

the seer Sayer, the prophet of doom arrived at her home,

a sharp rap at her door she opened to the one with his holy text

clutched tight, accusing her, the word her mother never used

but warned her she would hear, an evil word from evil men

who would not understand, would never accept, would hold

over her, condemning her, accusations made in the fear

they had wrapped themselves in and finding no warmth.

And came again that sharp rap on her door, as before, and

an urgent pounding, the scuffle of heavy boots, and the cards,

the crystal revealed nothing, no fears, no insights, no ill warning,

only the memory of who she was, one in a long line of proud women

gifted with sight, bearing the traditions, the wisdom of the ages,

knowledge and truth since time began, before all remembering,

to be carried and shared with a world, a village in need, but lacking

the power found deep within themselves, powerless to bring it to bear.

 

And the voices outside called to her, not her name

but that word, that evil word she’d not heard but once before,

and now this same man, fearing her, hiding behind his sacred text

clutched tight, called out, “come, Witch, purveyor of evil, come out,”

and the chants of the others rang loud, bound together as they were

by the fear of what they could not understand, could not accept,

would not allow in this village, those scared men forcing their way

into her home, the wood splintering her door, an axe head forced through,

tearing it open, and the Shaman, the Seer, the Prophet of Doom stepped

inside, he and his hoard, grabbing at her and dragging her out

into the cold of the morning, the faint light of morning growing, warming,

just beginning to show herself. Behind her now, held tight in the Shaman’s

grasp, her wrists hurting in the tightness, she heard the shattering

of glass, heavy glass, and the unheard scream trapped in her throat, loud

in her ears, echoing inside her head, and the silent scream of her crystal

smashed, deafening to those attuned to it and to the stars and the sparkles

in the prismed light reflected. A roar of voices rose from the crowd around her,

those sacred few, and the air filled with smoke and flame and heat rising up

from what had once been her home, an intense heat, searing, destroying everything

within, her mug of tea, unfinished, and her herbs, the cards drawn from the deck

and the deck itself, the Dreamer, the Jester, the Lady of the Glen with her raven hair

dancing, the goblet and the lance, a rich heritage moving forward, turning black

and curling, turned to ash in the morning light of a new day rising anew. No one

heard her cries, no one would come, no rescue, their own fears, not of her

but of the crowd cheering around her, their own fears of this fearful man,

powerless against him and his evil, his sacred text clutched to his chest.

 

Her arm released from the Shaman, Prophet of Doom, she collapsed onto the snow,

and, curling into herself, let loose her tears, crying at the loss, all that she had, and

as each man walked away, walked by her, he spat on her, kicked her, pushed her

deeper into the snow, and laughed, smug in himself, as if he had defeated something

wild, something wicked, some rabid animal of little worth, defeated her even,

leaving her lying there in the snow, naked but for the robe spread out around her;

but the Wisdom of the ages, her knowledge and the truth were not gone,

nor the crystal or the cards, for in the bright sunshine, high now in the new day’s

light, they lay whole and complete, sheltered in the silk she wrapped them in,

whole and complete on the remains of the table where she had place them,

resurrected, as wisdom, knowledge, and truth always are, always will be

against those who fear them; she herself was not defeated,

nor the heritage to which she bore witness, a rich heritage continuing.

 

A small child appeared and quietly collected them for her, and unafraid, took

her hand in his; without speaking, together they walked away, walked away

from a crumbled body lying naked in the snow, a frozen corpse,

and away from the village she loved, cared about, a village living in fear,

not of her, not of the crystal and a deck of cards, but afraid of itself,

for it cannot understand, cannot accept, truth and knowledge and wisdom,

that which we find deep within ourselves, not from some magic book

or magic spell, nor from some holy text we hide ourselves behind,

but from our openness to the wisdom of the ages, passed down mother

to daughter, father to son, generation to generation, the heritage of who we are,

traditions, rituals, and the stories of our lives passed on, their warmth resurrected in us.