Rats

Old man in a black cloaked clasped his hands and walked through the veil of fog masking the country floor. His boots sunk into the mud. He no longer prayed, but instead asked himself what would happen when he died. Visions in the fog provided the fantasy of his bones popping from white skin. Ribs poking through the mud. Eyes-long fatigued-barrowing back into his skull. The black cloak flying from a pole stuck in the mud to mark his grave. Visitorless, not even starving dogs neared the decay. No maggots devoured. No vultures circled him in wait.

            His journey interrupted when from the fog came the slosh of another trailing into the mud. The old man snorted hoping that their paths would not interject, but the outline of a goblin emerged. A small frame, short, bowlegged with wide shoulders with long arms that hung like lumbersome tree limbs. He wore a white tunic, no pats. His face round and chubby, curly blonde hair, eyes so big and round they looked like they were popping from his head. The old man ignored him and passed by, failing to notice the strange little peasant pull out a knife, lean over behind the old man- an like a bird instinctively diving to catch prey- his thieving hands had the instincts and talent to reach into the black coat, find the coin purse, but it free and disappear into the fog before the old man could turn around.

            The old man waited for an endless morning. He sat near the stump of a blackened tree. The husk and bark laid in the mud besides it. He sat on the fallen tree, and pulled out his tarots. With no money for food, he thought, why not see what the future has to offer. He pulled out the deck from a pocket. Weathered edges, yellowing paper held together by a single band. He undid the leather strap, and shuffled the cards, keep the faces away from him, the repeated motley pattern dancing before him. He laid out the first five cards face down on the stump in the shape of a cross, then laid four others to the side. Then one across the center. He didn’t ask his question aloud, but tried to clear his mind. He concentrated on the sound of dripping branches. The air seemed to crackle. A crow cawed. This land he walked on had once been a battleground. Swords left stuck in the ground, suits of armor nesting with rotting skeletons, becoming shelters for rats and dingy rodents. The creatures grew larger and larger. The rats became the size of raccoons. Their eyes bleeding red and beady. Their fur black, and teeth long as a pianist’s fingers. The swords were swung for a town that no longer stood. Its gate was lost in the fog, burned to bare structural bones, exposed posts that protected nothing but stacks or ruble long since raided of valuables. Yet the old man still remained, still kept his shack up beneath the bridge. No one bothered him, and he bothered no one. The small stream never flooded. The fog never disturbed him. The rats though, didn’t know their boundaries. Hordes of them would wander over the bridge and find their way below thinking that they found some comfortable shelter where they could mate and dig burrows. The even invaded the old man’s home.

 He didn’t live in a shambley shack. He had been a treasure hunter in his youth, and made a good sum to retire on. The walls had been mended by his own hands, insulated and studded, cut from Purple Heart trees, floored with cobble tile. A small pit for fires on the front porch, with a kitchen, bedroom, reading room, and one chamber full of memorandums from his day, locked away in a dense walnut chest. A sturdy home, last into his old age, no damage or infestations until the rats. He awoke to the squeal of them mating, and nibbling on his walls. Dozens of them, digging and chewing and mating. He had to get to his chest, kicking and swinging a broom at the rodents. Inside, he found his torch. A club wrapped in cloth. The item he had discovered in tombs of oriental ruins. By swinging it, flames ignited like the tip of a match. A useful tool, but hindering its usefulness was the amount of smoke it produced. Like a chimney, black clouds filled the home. The rats scurried away. It took days to clear the soot and ash. That night he had drawn out his tarot cards. The realization occurred to him. His days of being an adventurer had ended. Could it be, he asked the tarots, that he still had the strength to venture forth? But he didn’t read the cards. Didn’t even bother flipping them up. They felt too heavy.

            On the trunk, he flipped over the center card, representing the present. The Knight of Cups. The illustration in copper  ink composed a winged man on a horse, carrying a war scarred helmet, as the hooves of the animal linger above a large pot. The old man read the qualities written in an ancient language framing the image.  Romance, Charm, Imagination. The knight represents opportunities, new ideas, offers,  boredom, a constant need for stimulation, and a being dissuaded or encouraged to follow dreams.

            He flipped the over the future card. The Papess. The back of a woman in men’s forest wear. A  cross bow at her thighs, facing away, and a shield facing the Old man. In front of her, a tower. Qualities it encompassed. Love, wisdom,  Introspection, Mystery, subconscious. She both conceals and reveals secrets. A powerful female influence.

            He scratched his beard as he turned over the past card. The Pope.  Knowledge, Discipline, Deception, Tradition, Religion. A benevolent teacher, beholding a moral compass.

            He turned over the card of hidden influence. Ten of Swords. The image of a sorrowful man struggling to carry ten tall, curved blades. Betrayal, Defeat, Ending, Loss. Absolute destruction.

            He turned over the last card, Advice. Death. The image of a devastated soldier standing above a dead knight pinned  to the ground by a spear. In the soldiers hand, a sash reading: Eternity. The dead knights head spilled from the armor and peered at the old man, his face twisted, frozen in the final moment of terror before he died. An arrow stuck from an eye socket. Loss. Transformation. Goodbye. A cycle will come to an end, the card promises.

            The old man sat in contemplation. Perhaps his legend will die forever. It would explain the mystery of the Papess, her connection of the knight of cups being that his time as a warrior ends. The pope stays behind, keeping his tale as a religion, a fairy tale. Influenced by the struggle of aging, and the inevitable defeat, he should change his ways. The way? Perhaps the life of an old man waiting for death beneath a bridge.

            The cards he found to be vague. It could also mean that his legend would last forever. The Papess lives, and with her comes the legend of his life. In the past, The pope collected the knowledge of the once great adventurer. Influenced not by the threat of his life ending, but instead the desire to inflict destruction. Perhaps on the rats, perhaps on the thieve. Death, being the way he solidifies his legend.

            He went over the cards over and over, thinking and drawing alternative possibilities but the two he few up earliest were the ones that he believed the cards wanted him to know. He packed up the cards. Wondering about the ambiguity of the cards, maybe their vagueness makes them fraudulent. Maybe he misread them. The temperature dipped. The old man collected his cloak to that he would keep him warmer and went into the fog. He heard something in the distance, and a burning orb danced before him. Curiously he approached. The sound was a woman singing, her voice muffled by walls. The orb turned out to be a torch on the outline of a building. Smoke bellowed from a chimney. The sign swiveled in the wind.

            Inside, he found a hall with burning embers, a bar, and tables. A few patrons, a maid sweeping the floor, and a bard standing on a stage. A fire place burned by the near wall. Above it, a monument of a medusa. Furious expression with snakes spreading out in a curtain around its face. The old men felt agitated at once. This wasn’t the place for him. The musician was male, though his face was high like a woman’s. He played his own instruments and when he was done singing he took out a flute and began to whistle into it. The old man wanted to leave, but he remembered the cards. Change. Opportunities. Hidden secrets. He had no money, but an idea came to him.

            Mervin the drunkard had nowhere else to go. Worse yet, the bar tender cut him off. So the overweight grain harvester had to sit, his black teeth aching, and his stomach burning, and his skin red and itchy. A wound on his leg oozed pus, and it itched all the time, though it hurt to scratch. He watched a candle burn, wondering if the  bar maid would come ask him for food, or better yet, a drink. That’s when the old man plopped besides the drunkard.

            “Greetings.”

            “Well met,” Mervin said. The old man in front of him made his skin crawl His voice was deep, and low as if he hadn’t spoken aloud in some time. Worst yet though was the fact that he didn’t take his hood off. A white beard below pale lips and a sharp crooked nose is all he saw. No one else in the tavern had their hoods up, not even a hat. Besides that no one but the monastery monks wore black robes. True the torches fire darkened the walls outside of its aura, and that’s why Mervin didn’t notice the old man. He had snuck through the dark and situated himself in front of Mervin before the sober drunkard could even ask who he was, and if it wasn’t an old man he would’ve barked at him to get away. “What do you want?”

            “No need to be curt with me, sir. I wish only good company, and good fortune.” He pulled the deck of tarots out, all seventy eight cards bound in a leather strip. “Sir, I may not look it, but I have the treasures to prove it, but I’ve been all over the world, and have witnessed all sorts of incredible things.”

            “Like what?”

            “I’ve seen books so powerful that untrained readers turn to smoke at sight of the archaic letters. I’ve seen rich lords fall, and knaves rise to power. Tell me, which are you?”

            “I move hay, I harvest. I grind it in the windmill. No, sir, I’m not a rich man.”

            “Would you like me to tell you your future?”

            “You can do that?”

            “I have many abilities. Ask me a question, any question, and I will open a window into the spirit realm sir.”

            “Them cards? I don’t believe you.”

            “Neither did I. At first.  But the cards have shown the truth, if truth is what you seek.”

            “This is some black magic? I knew you were trouble. No sir, not interested.”

            “Very well.” The old man was disappointed. “You see, I was robbed. I need money for food.”

            “I might be a poor farmer, but I’m not getting involved in any black magic. I’ll buy you food, if you’re starving. I have plenty since they cut me from the wells.”

            “No. I don’t take handouts, but thank you for the charitability. Now, who here would be interested in black magic?”

            “No one.”

            “I very much doubt that. Even you are curious. I can see it in your eyes.” With that the old man slunk away into the darkness.

            Bart was a sheriff in town once. Still kept a knife on his side, and enjoyed drinking his spiced cider, rich and alcoholic, with steam dripping from the lid. His leggings were covered in mud. His face was riddle in scars. He wore nice clothes, but none knew him to be a good sheriff. Common belief was that he maintained a luxurious lifestyle on the coin of people he shook down. In shape, stern faced, eyes sinking in, hair gray. When the old man appeared before him from the dark he reached for his dagger, but the old man caught his attention.

            “I apologize for intruding. I am a wanderer, and a fortune teller. If you pay me one pence, I will answer any inquiry you hold against the universe.”

            The sheriff wanted to spit in his face, but he felt humored by the alcohol. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.

            “That enough?”

            “Yes, sir, that’s plenty for me. Ask a question, any question, and I will project to you an image of your fortunes.”

            “What kind of fortunes are we talking about here?”

            “Great mysteries, where the fog becomes so dense that no one can see through it.”

            “I don’t like you talking in riddles. You better tell me how this works.”

            “You ask a question, and the cards will answer.”

            “So I could do this myself?”

            “But you don’t know what the cards mean. I do, and you can trust me sir, I have seen this magic work. These cards will point you to the right path when you are lost.”

            “Very well. I want to know. Will I ever own land?”

            The old man shuffled the cards, and drew five. One by one he flipped them over, explaining their meanings, and how they connect to the others. Present, he drew the Six of wands.

“You must be a well-known man in your community. Even children can recognize you when you ride down the roads. You must possess leadership skills”

“I used to be the sheriff, I like to maintain a profile.”

“Of course. This next card is your future. You have, the Hanged Man.”

“What does that one mean?” The former sheriff sounded a bit alarmed.

“Surrender.”

 “Damn.”

“But let us see what’s in your past… ah, the Two of Wands. Owning land is something you’ve wanted your whole life hasn’t it?”

“My father owned land, yes. It was supposed to be mine.”

“The Two of Wands means you still have power in your hands. Maybe you’re hard work won’t be in vain. This card is the influence hidden in your life. The Knight of Swords. I see now. Brave, but foolish. You may find yourself in trouble, good sir.”

“What should I do?”

“This final card, is advice. The King of Wands. Perhaps you should deliberate before rushing into a decision.”

“So what will happen?”

“I could lie and say the land will be rightfully yours, I know of the many tricks that charlatans would play on you, good man, but I am not one of them. I can read magic text, speak dead languages, and perform certain magics long forgotten by mortals. The way I read these cards will not be vague, nor promising. I will tell you exactly what I see.”

“Tell me, I’m starting to want my coin back.”

“You will try to reclaim your fathers land. The family that owns it now, the Lemotts, will not sell it. It’s a small piece of land, wouldn’t cost you much but it’s all they have. They plan on passing to the eldest daughter.”

            “They WHAT!”

“Calm yourself. It will be after the eldest brother leaves for a far off war. It will be years until he returns. Which he will.”

            “How did you know the Lemotts owned that land, stranger?”

“The cards tell me everything. Do you know what’s going to happen?”

            “If they put that girl in charge…” He slammed a fist into the table.

“You’re going to murder her for the land, and you will get away with it, until the son arrives. He will kill you in your sleep. You won’t even know what he looks like.”

“That’s nonsense… I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but it’s nonsense.”

 “You danced with the spirits, good man, and any tent gypsy would tell you every word you want to hear, but not me. You know what’s real, and what’s not.”

“Get away from me.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out piles of coins. “Take it all, just stay away from me. If you tell anyone we met I will hunt you down like a dog.”

The old man smiled as he took the dimes. He bought himself a leg of chicken, and went home. He returned the next day, sat at a table with his cards out. He asked patrons as they entered to be enthralled and mystified by tarot card readings. The barmaid put down her broom, a young girl with hair like hay, stiff and pointy, sat down and placed a few coins down.

“Please, will I ever leave this place?”

“Let us see what the cards tell me. You’re present, is the Nine of Swords. Yes, you are miserable. The nightmares won’t stop will they?”

“…No…”

“You’re future, is the Nine of  Wands. Interesting…”

“Is it a good thing?”

“It could be. We’ll have to look at the other cards. Your past, Four of Coins. You poor girl, you’re an orphan aren’t you?”

“Lucky guess.”

“No. Your father was a banker. Your mother a prostitute. You were left behind with your uncle, the bartender. Still doubt me?”

“Please, I have to know…” She choked back tears.

“This is you’re hidden influence, the Ace of Coins.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means an opportunity may be on its way. But lets see, Advice. Ah, the three of coins. It means you will have to cooperate with someone. Perhaps your uncle. Would you like me to tell you more?”

“No thank you. I’m… a bit scared.”

“Yes, I see. There is something to be afraid of. I’ll keep it to myself. Be gone.”

            It continued for days. The old man would come in, get maybe one, sometimes two customers. He did this every day, earning a sum of money that he kept hauled in his home. Many people began to spread rumors about the Tavern, and the old mystic there. That he used to be some kind of tomb raider, lived in a shack under a bridge built on a huge pile of money. That he hauled up an array of magical items. Those are all rumors, be assured. The mystic that comes into the Tavern, the local holy man dictated, is a fraud, a heretic, and a servant of evil. The mystic, he claimed, was responsible for the giant rats and the fog. For the poverty, and the dead men rotting in the mud. The ex-sheriff agreed, as did the farmer Mervin. They banded together, a mob of fifty, and surrounded the tavern, demanding the old man give himself up. He refused to come out, and the tavern patrons fled, the barmaid fled, and her uncle fled. Torches were put to the Tavern, and it went up in flames.

            The holy man and his flock rejoiced at the death of the heretic. The next assembly they met in the church. Talk was about the immense wealth that the barmaid and her uncle had accumulated. No one seemed to knew where it came from, but after the fire they have four wagons drawn by eight horses and they were off to the land where the fog doesn’t soak everything, where corpses long dead don’t litter the ground. As the church assembled to listen to the holy man speak, no one noticed the infiltration of rats. First a few. Then hundreds.