Nine

Monica Catches Up with Her Reading

     Monica Holmes was dusting the gargoyles when the boy in the backward baseball cap came in. She gave him a smile as he entered - one thing she had sworn when she opened the place was that she would never become one of those paranoid small-shopkeepers who always regarded unfamiliar patrons with suspicion, the "hairy eyeball" and all that. Monica had been on the receiving end of that look enough times to know it well... and also to wonder why on earth anyone could believe that that sort of attitude could be good for business.
     Cap-boy just looked at her blankly and nodded his head, slightly. A friendly gesture, she supposed. He began browsing the books, starting in the Tarot section, and she returned to her housekeeping.
     It was a slow day, but no slower than usual. The Silver Veil Book Store was seldom particularly busty, but Monica managed to eke out a living nevertheless; the store had been a fixture on Arkham's waterfront since the late seventies. Twenty years in business, in a line where shops came and went in a matter of months.
     The boy had pulled a book off of the shelf and was leafing through it. One of the Crowley books. Good luck, kid! Probably heard the name in that Ozzy Osbourne song. Though that might be before his time, she corrected herself. Do teenagers still dig Ozzy Osbourne? Had time moved on that much?
     Once upon a time every new Ozzy album would bring a squad of button-down fundamentalists to the Silver Veil's front door, lock-stepping it and chanting "Down with Satan!" Or "A Friend of the Devil is no Friend of Jesus." It was no use trying to explain the difference between the "Old Religion" and what they called "Satanism". Her religion, by their definition, was Satanism, and nothing would ever change their minds about that. The ancient Romans had done their work well.
     The protesters had worried her at first, but most of her clientele actually relished the opportunity to flaunt their paganism in the face of the bible-thumpers, and business actually rose slightly on days that she was picketed.
     How the world had changed. Many of the very people (types, not specific individuals) who in the past would have tumbled for the bible now came in to pick up the latest info on angels, or twelve-step books, or healing crystals. The Occult had become mainstream; "New Age" had become a marketing handle, and "The Craft" had been a hit movie (what a crazy couple of weeks that had been! If she never saw another teenage girl...).
     And good ol' Ozzy's crazy devil-antics seemed so quaint in a world where recording artists now felt obliged to remind their teenage fans that it really wasn't a very good idea to shoot one another.
     The boy had put down the book and was now scanning a glass covered display. Beneath the glass were many of her rarer, more expensive pieces; some were precious items, like the genuine kachina doll, and some just over-priced show-off junk, jewelry with big creepy pentacles or Tolkein dragons.Still, she loved the cheese as much as the cake... Margaret Hamilton was, after all, one of her childhood idols.
     The boy had, by now, sidled up to the main desk, with a furtive look around. He looked at Monica with a nervous expression, and when he spoke she half expected him to ask where he would find the condoms (stores kept them on shelves right out in the open these days), he seemed so nervous. But his first words were more predictable:
     "Are you the chick who does the Tarot readings?"
     Monica responded with what she hoped was a withering sort of glare. Funny how some slang just doesn't go away, they'll be saying "cool" when they open Disney's cryogenic capsule, other words just disappear, like "grok" and "boss"; and just sort of fade in and out of usage, words like "chick". And that was one she hadn't missed.
     Still, it was better than "bitch".
     "I wouldn't recommend addressing an unfamiliar woman as 'chick', especially if you want a reading from her. But, yes, I am the reader, as well as the proprietor. Would you like a reading?"
     "You tell me."
     One of those. Terrific. "Yes, of course you do. But I don't have to be psychic to see that. And let me assure you, my young friend, that simply wanting one will not acquire it for you."
     He gave her a sulky, insulted look, the type that some men make into an art form. "I've got money."
     "Glad to hear it, but that's not what I meant. Magic is not something that you demand of the Cosmos. It is something you request."
     He looked befuddled.
     She tried again. "Try asking me politely."
     He grinned. "Oh, I see. It's a magic store, I gotta say the magic words. Right?"
     "Right. And you'll find they work in the mundane world as well."
     "May I please have a tarot reading?"
     Sincere as a check from Ed McMahon, but better than nothing. "If you would be so kind as to cross my palm with silver?"
     "What?"
     "Payment's in advance, junior."
     "What's that about silver crosses?"
     "A joke. Something gypsies say in old movies. Usually bad old movies, where someone turns into a low-budget werewolf. Ever hear of Maria Ouspenskaya?"
     "No. She a gymnast or something?"
     "She was always playing creepy gypsy fortune tellers in old movies. 'You heff ze mark of ze weeerewolf!'"
     He looked at her with that same blank expression.
     "Stay up late, watch some black and white movies some time. It's a different world. You'll be amazed!"
     He muttered something unintelligible about his Grandma while he pulled the cash out of his pocket.
     Monica put the bills in the cash drawer and led the lad over to the small table where she did the readings. It was an alcove in the corner of the store, about the size of a booth at a diner, though she had expended much effort to ensure that it conveyed an entirely different sort of atmosphere. A thin curtain of black lace separated the booth from the rest of the store, giving the illusion of privacy while allowing Monica to still keep an eye on the store, and at the same time darkening and transforming the quality of the light that seeped into the booth; even on a bright sunny day the booth seemed gloomy and atmospheric. A dark patterned tapestry on the wall complemented the reddish-brown cloth draped over the table, with whorls of intricate celtic-style knotwork that seemed to move and intertwine if one looked at it long enough under the flickering light of the alcove's single candle.
     The candle wasn't absolutely necessary, of course; even with the darkening effect of the lace curtain there was more than enough ambient light to see clearly. But in magic, Monica had found, atmosphere was nine-tenths of the battle.
     She lit the candle, a white one, and touched a stick of incense to the flame. The scent was a creation of her own, brewed and dipped in the back room (the "witch factory", she liked to call it), a blend of water-y scents, good for tapping into the rivers of the subconscious, the inner land where the gods of tarot hung out.
     She sat in her usual spot, and the youth slid into the seat across from her. "Now," she said, "What would you like to know?"
     "I'm, uh, not really sure..." The young man looked around, as if hoping that the answer would materialize somewhere out on the sales floor. "Can't you just do a reading to see what it is that I want to know?"
     "Well, yes, of course. But bear in mind that the answer you receive may not be the answer that you expect, and also that you have paid for a half-hour of my time and the minutes spent in laying out a reading to show me what you want to know could be conserved for later readings through the simple expedient of you telling me yourself."
     The boy seemed to understand what she meant, and thought for a moment. "All right," he said. "I've got the question in my mind but I'm not gonna say it. Can you work like that?"
     "Sure enough," Monica replied. It was not that uncommon for new clients to come to her with secret questions, usually having to do with sexuality or ethical dilemmas, but she knew better than to pollute the reading by assuming that the boy's question was either of those things. She selected a deck from a shelf beside her seat. Rider-Waite, the most well known of decks, the classic. Not her personal favorite, but most newbies having their cards read liked to see the deck they were most familiar with. Pulling out 'old reliable', giving the audience what it had come to see, was not merely showmanship; Monica had, in fact, initially resisted the urge to play to the rubes when she first started doing readings. As she gained more experience, however, she had realized that the customer's mindset was as important as her own in the exchange of magical energies; the magical trappings, the showmanship weren't just window dressing, they actually facilitated the mystical process.
     "What's your name?" Monica asked him, as she shuffled the cards from hand to hand.
     "Um, uh, Billy," he replied.
     Hesitation. A fake name. Hmm. Someone's not taking any chances.
     "You don't seem like a Billy. I think I'll call you..." she narrowed her eyes and stared at the center of his skull. "... Justin."
     She watched his eyes widen. Bingo! Sometimes the small psychic triumphs were the most satisfying.
     "Uh, wh, whatever," he mumbled, trying to remain nonchalant.
     "Okay, Justin, what I'm going to lay out here is called the 'Celtic Cross'. It's one of the most common tarot spreads. If you were to have watched one of those old werewolf movies I told you about you would have seen it. It should give us a general idea of the energies surrounding your query."
     "Uh -huh."
     "These are the forces that surround you."
     She held the deck in her left hand and turned the top card with her right. She placed it down in the center of the table.
     The Devil.
     Monica felt a chill sweep over her like an ice mist. It was a physical feeling that came over her in the presence of powerful energies; it left her hackles raised, her toes numb, her arms dotted with tiny raised lumps of gooseflesh.
     What the hell!?
     She tried not to let her growing apprehension show. "The first card is the Devil. It shows that there are powerful forces operating around you now. And the impression I'm getting is negative. A dark cloud of oppression."
     The kid looked shocked, but pleasantly shocked. He smiled. "That is so right. Man. Oppression. Right. These cards know their sh-"
     Monica raised a finger. "Respect. Respect the cards. Respect the powers. Now, shh. I have to concentrate."
     There was something about the way the energies felt here; something about the shimmering around the unturned cards in the deck. It was an unsettling energy, a sense of imminence, of frightening potentiality. Yet it was familiar at the same time, a pet fear that lurked in the dark closets and shadowed underbeds of the childmind. She reached for the next card, attempting to quell the involuntary shaking of her fingers.
     "This card will show the forces around you that oppose the negative energy..."
     She was surprised at the control in voice as she turned the next card.
     The Empress.
     A cold finger slipped down the back of her spine as what had been a feeling turned to certainty.
     The Empress represented her. Monica.
     The force that would oppose the Devil in this boy's life was her. Was Monica.
     "This is a woman possessed of great earthly power, a representative of the female energies. She is a real figure to you, someone of great presence and influence. She may have some ability to neutralize the negative energy..."
     Listen to yourself, Monica. Great presence? Influence? They mean you. The cards mean you.
     But should she tell Justin?
     No. Not yet.
     She was beginning to wonder if this reading was still even for the kid at all...
     "The next card," she said, "Shows your ideals."
     Oh sure. Death.
     "Death in tarot doesn't usually mean 'Death'. It usually means a profound change in your life."
     Unless, of course, it means "Death".
     "That's a cool card," Justin observed.
     "Yeah, whatever." Monica smiled, in spite of herself. "The next card represents your basis..."
     "Umm, just a minute. How come the cards spend so much time telling me stuff I already know? Like, my 'ideals'? My 'basis'? What is up with that?"
     Monica rolled her eyes just a little bit. She found herself starting to relax a bit. "Well, that's just the point. 'You' already 'know' it, I sure as hell don't. And how well do you know yourself, really? The cards may surprise you."
     "I don't want to know the 'present'. I wanna know the 'future'."
     "Do you? Do you really?" Monica said sardonically as she turned the next card, which explained a lot to her, a whole lot...
     The Hermit.
     Monica looked the kid in the eye and leaned back in her chair. "Let me tell you some things that you probably didn't want me to know."
     Justin looked nervous, but didn't say anything.
     "First off, you don't have any friends. Sorry to have to say it so bluntly, but it's true. You may pretend that you don't need anybody, but you do. Worse, you've convinced yourself that you're superior to everyone around you. Special. A bit... gifted."
     Justin started to fidget.
     Monica looked at him for a moment more, saying nothing.
     Justin finally broke the tension. "Well?"
     Monica clapped a palm against the table. "Ahh, to hell with it. No beating around the bush. You've been fooling around with black magic. You've been talking with an entity from 'The Beyond', probably through an Ouija board, and he or she or it has told you how you're a great powerful magician and how you're their chosen vessel and all kinds of crap that makes you feel creepy and cool and tingly. But they're just playing with you, Justin, just messing with your mind; and if you let them keep up, they're going to destroy you."
     "No, man, it's not like that at all. Beal says-"
     "Beal?" She laughed out loud. "What kind of hokey spooks are you channeling, boy? No, wait, forget I said that. This 'Beal' is nothing to laugh about."
     Monica waved a hand, indicating the store beyond the veil curtain. "Officially, I don't believe in Evil. No such thing. It's a concept created by dark age bishops to scare the dirty uneducated masses into submission. There's only positive and negative energy. Left and right paths. Dark and light. But no 'Evil', no 'Devil', no 'Hell'."
     She slapped her hand forcefully against the table. Justin jumped. "But what I sense from this force around you, and he is around you, this 'Beal'; I can sense his presence trailing off you like mist from a cloud of Sulphur Dioxide, is just plain out-and-out Evil. And he's out to destroy you, Justin, and he will. Drop this demon like a flaming dogstool and do it now!"
     Justin seemed unsure, then he grinned. "Beal told me you'd say that, you know. He really is powerful. He really is."
     Monica drummed her fingers against the wood of the table-top. Tap tap tap tap tap. "I see. What else did he tell you?"
     "That you were gonna tell me my future."
     "What if I say 'no'?"
     "He says you won't."
     He's right, Monica thought. I can't leave a reading unfinished.
     She tapped the deck with that nervous hand. She flipped the top card.
     "The Past," she said, putting it in its place, to the right of the initial card.
     Six of cups.
     "The future."
     Three of swords.
     "The imminent future."
     Seven of swords.
     "The influence of forces around you."
     Nine of swords.
     "Your hopes and fears."
     Page of spears.
     "And the final outcome..."
     "Well?" Justin asked. "Aren't you gonna show me?"
     "Why should I? Beal knows already. Beal knows everything." Monica said the last sentence in a taunting schoolyard sing-song of a voice.
     "Yeah, well he doesn't have to tell me. I know. It's the World. Isn't it? Isn't it?"
     Monica turned up the card. She had been expecting the Tower, but the card she turned, Ace of Spears, was as dire, in this context.
     "That's an Ace," Justin said, to show that he, too, could read the little numbers on the cards. "It means the start of something. Something big."
     "It's the beginning of the end for you. That's the only way I can phrase it. These sword cards are fatal; you're on the brink of an abyss. God, are you even listening to me?"
     Justin leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He seemed oddly distracted. "There are other voices to listen to."
     Uh-oh. This was getting spooky. Time to cut this short.
     "Look, if you're not going to listen to me..."
     "Monica. There will be another."
     Monica started to shiver uncontrollably. She'd encountered negative entities before, but never seen one take command of a body like this. It was unnerving, unnatural. "Another what?"
     "Another acid test, of course."
     Monica stood up, jarring the table and scattering the cards. "Get out!" she stated, loudly and firmly, though it seemed to her that she was screaming uncontrollably.
     "The first was incomplete."
     Monica reached into her bag, fumbling through her stuff with nervous fingers. Finally she found it, and pulled it out, its blade to the ceiling.
     Her athame.
     The creature, the foul spirit inside Justin looked at the knife coldly. "Whatcha' gonna do, Monica? Gonna kill me?"
     She summoned all the magical will that she could muster and focused her energy on the blade. "I cast you out, foul spirit, with my will and the essences of the winds. By stone, by steel, by flame, by pool," she said, making a four-pointed diagram in the air in front of the Justin-thing.
     'Justin' just smiled. "I wasn't planning on staying. I just dropped in to..."
     "I cast you out..."
     Justin leapt across the small table and seized Monica's hand. There was rage in his eyes; and fear, and confusion. "All right! I'm leaving!" he hissed, then dropped her hand and staggered backward out of he the booth and through the store, banging into a bookshelf and then a display without noticing.
     "Give my regards to the Miskatonic gang," were the last words she heard from him, as he lurched through the door and out into the gray of the afternoon.
     Monica stood speechless for a moment, almost overwhelmed with dread. The past is always alive, she thought, always lurking.
     "See!?" she yelled after him, in a shaken voice, "That's why I make you pay in advance!"
     She didn't stop shaking for several hours. And by then, the next wheel had whirred into place.