‘Look,’ I say calmly, taking his hand, leading him off to somewhere where we can talk, ‘you’re not going to believe me when I tell you what happened.’
*
Chapter 11
‘So you reckon you only escaped because the wind blew out the candles?’
I was afraid that Dean would laugh at me, call me crazy; yet he thankfully appears thoughtful at every point of my tale.
He looks like he’s going to interrupt a number of times, but it’s more as if he wants a bit more explanation, rather than he’s about to express his disbelief.
‘You’re taking it all pretty calmly: this idea that some sort of tarot character came to life in an old mirror.’
‘As I said, I knew it was a powerful diagram, used by my ancestors: I just didn’t know how powerful, or how dangerous!’
‘Didn’t they give any clues as to what might happen? You know; leave some notes, a note book? Preferably one entitled “Don’t Go Ye Dabbling With These Spells”!’
He shook his head, grinned.
‘Can’t you take this seriously!’ I snap, giving him a quick, irritated jab to his chest.
‘Oh, so a book entitled “Don’t Go Ye Dabbling” is taking it seriously, is it?’
‘I’m the offended party! I can make light of it; if I just happen to be so stupid!’
He wraps his arms around me once more, draws me close.
I can smell his warmth, his skin.
It’s all so comforting, so reassuring.
‘What the heck was that thing, Dean?’ I breathe anxiously.
‘I…I don’t know! But it seems my ancestors really did know what they were doing, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, unlike us!’
*
I’d suggested that next time Dean wants to entertain a girl, he should stick to taking them out for chicken and fries. And hey, what do you know? – here we are sharing a takeout.
Okay, so it’s still not soaring to the very heights of romance: but it’s the closest I’ve ever got to a romantic meal for two!
For another thing, it’s takeout chicken and fries with the most gorgeous boy anyone could hope to be going out with.
To be seen with too.
If Helen sees us, she’ll be spitting teeth.
You know, perhaps being half scared out of my wits was worth it after all.
Besides, we’ve agreed that there’ll be no more dabbling with Dean’s ancient book.
As for my tarot pack; well, it never caused me any problems until I mixed it with Dean’s diagrams, did it?
‘How were my cards supposed to work anyway?’ I ask him now as we throw away our used boxes into a nearby waste bin.
He shrugs.
‘I’m not sure; the book didn’t go into any details. It just said use tarot cards to choose who you want to talk to.’
‘Dean!’ Why hadn’t he told me this earlier? ‘No wonder everything went wrong! You can choose a card to represent a certain person! You know, going by whether it’s male or female, hair colour, character, that kind of thing! I wasn’t supposed to deal out the cards!’
‘Hah, yes,’ he says with a blush of embarrassment, ‘I suppose that does make more sense!’
‘But who were you wanting to specifically talk to anyway?’ I chuckle. ‘Is there a particular witch you know of?’
‘No, course not; but there’s my ancestor, of course. I thought we could call him up, have a talk with him.’
‘Call him up?’ I stop, glower at Dean accusingly. ‘That diagram wasn’t to call up witches then, was it?’
He shakes his head, grimacing with embarrassment once more.
‘Er, no; it was for calling up the dead–’
‘Dean! Don’t you realise how dangerous that is?’
‘Oh, whereas calling up witches, that’s just fine and dandy, right?’
‘We could have called up anybody–’
‘Not if we’d used the cards right. That was my fault, sorry!’
There’s something not quite right about Dean’s explanation about the diagram’s purpose. I briefly pause, trying to work out what it is that’s nagging me. Then it dawns on me.
‘But if it’s to call up the dead, then why did I get the Hanged Man? A tarot card character; and yet one brought to life?’
Dean raises his eyes quizzically.
‘Maybe,’ he says, having thought about it, ‘you’d arrived at the Hanged Man card as you dealt them out just when things were beginning to work: and the guy in the mirror was maybe some Victorian thug, hanged for his crimes.’
I shake my head vehemently.
‘But it wasn’t that kind of a hanging: it was, as I’ve said, just as it appears on the tarot card. The guy was hanging with the noose around one foot. He even had the loose leg bent behind the other, to form the ankh symbol.’
‘Sorry?’ he gives me a puzzled frown. ‘I know a little about the tarot: but I don’t see the connection with the Egyptian ankh. The symbol for eternal life, right?’
I nod.
‘That’s right; it actually means “breath of life”. And on the card, the noose and the bent leg represent the loop and the cross bar of the ankh. The ankh’s based on a cross section of a bull’s spine, as the Egyptians believed that’s were sperm was generated.’
Dean grins.
‘Obviously, they didn’t have to endure sex education classes back then.’
‘You’ve got to wonder why they didn’t die out with beliefs like that, haven’t you?’
‘Well, I suppose all that part of it just came sort of naturally to them…’
He stares into my eyes intently, a glint of humour there, a glint of a challenge.
Now I’m the one who blushes.
Great!
I must look all of ten years old, acting like this!
Thankfully, he doesn’t try to push home his advantage; he’s got those sort of eyes that, you know, just sort of make you feel all fluid inside? Like you’re turning to jelly or something?
‘Are you sure,’ he says instead, ‘that the candles were blown out by a draught?’
‘Sure,’ I say with relief. ‘What else could it be?’
He shrugs.
‘I don’t know: magic maybe?’
‘Magic?’ I say with a dismissive laugh.
‘Why not? We know for sure, after what happened in the mirror, that weird things are possible.’
I nod in agreement.
‘I wasn’t knocking magic in general! I think, as I said, that the diagram might have had a sort of inbuilt safety system. What I was laughing at was that you seem to think I might be capable of performing magic!’
‘Well, why not? You seem to know an awful lot about the tarot.’
‘That’s not magic! You should know that! And as for me having special powers, where would I have got those from?’
He shrugs.
‘Who knows? Maybe, you know, you’re actually the child of a fairy, swapped at birth–’
‘A changeling?’ I tussle with him playfully. ‘You’re calling me a changeling?’
‘Well, magically blowing out candles–’
‘Magically? Dean, if you saw my dad, you’d see I unfortunately look just like him but with long hair–’
‘You must have a very pretty dad!’
‘Dean!’
I give him another playful thump, hiding my face, too ashamed to let him see how pleased I am by his flattery.
I’m just going to have to stop hitting the poor guy, though!
But I just want any excuse to touch him, to be honest.
*
Riding pillion on his motorbike is the best experience ever! Not because I find riding on the bike thrilling (I don’t: I’m sacred stiff every time he slides low into a corner). No, it’s because I get to wrap my arms tightly about his waist. To rest my head against his back (even though it is encased in this damned helmet).
When he drops me off outside my house, I hand the helmet back to him. He rea
ches inside his jacket, pulls out his ancient book – and hands it to me.
‘Burn it,’ he says with a wry grin. ‘It’s too dangerous; but I can’t bring myself to do it!’
I’m gawping at the book in surprise when he unexpectedly leans over, still carefully straddling his bike, and brings his lips to mine
Oh God! He must think I’ve never ever been kissed before in my life!
(Er, which I haven’t: but I don’t want it to be obvious!)
When he pulls back, he thankfully doesn’t seem to mind how inept I’ve been.
He grins happily, as if everything had been simply perfect.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he says, slipping his helmet back on, gunning his motorbike into life.
As he pulls away from the kerb, he carelessly looks back over his shoulder, waves. The bike wavers and wobbles wildly.
‘Careful, careful!’ I cry out, both worriedly and gleefully.
Wishing he’d take care.
Wishing he’d look back and give me another wave.
He straightens the bike up, roars it, like it’s a roar of exuberance. He heads up the road too fast for my liking, like he’s too elated to care.
(Sure, I’m flattering myself that he feels like I feel.)
As he goes into the curve at the end of the street, I’m still watching. I don’t want to waste a second of this magical experience.
I’m rewarded for my patience when he looks back and waves excitedly at me once again. He wavers and wobbles again too, this time dangerously.
I giggle with excitement.
Silly fool!
I wave back at him.
He waves again.
And that’s why he didn’t see the truck heading towards him.
*
Chapter 12
The funeral’s a small affair.
With Dean being new around here, his parents don’t really know many local people.
They don’t know me either, of course.
So I’m not invited. Not to sit in the chapel, anyway.
I have to hang around outside, with all the mourners who have come to know and like Dean in the short time he’s been here, but aren’t really seen as family and friends.
Helen is amongst this group, and so’s Rebecca. They’re both in floods of tears. Maybe they really are so cut up about Dean’s death. Maybe it’s all a little bit too theatrical.
Hey, look at me! How upset I am.
It could just be that cynic in me again, of course.
The same cynic who had told me there was no hope of saving Dean when I’d rushed over to him. See, some other part of me still foolishly clung on to the belief that he might have survived such a horrifying crash.
‘Look out, look out, look out!’ I’d screamed out uselessly as I’d watched the heavy truck bearing down on him.
The truck had immediately driven off. The driver too scared or shocked to bring his vehicle to a halt and call for help.
Maybe the passenger I saw in the cab with him will call the police later.
Shop his friend for manslaughter.
Nah, he won’t will he?
It was too dark that late in the evening to get a clear view of them, sitting in the shadow of their cab.
Weirdly, in the brief moment I saw them – all my interest, of course, was in getting to Dean as fast as I could – it looked like a horse and a dog were sitting in there.
I was too dazed to register anything else, anything clearly.
I should’ve told him, shouldn’t I?
Stay clear of motorbikes.
*
I use my cards in the hope they can help me make sense of life when it seems to be letting me down again.
In my cards, I hope to see some form of pattern forming.
A pattern I can control, or at least adapt to.
There are the Lovers, of course.
Looking at my design now, I wonder if I hadn’t been just a little too pessimistic about my own chances of ever finding someone who would love me.
I’d chosen a hermaphrodite god; Hap-Meht and Hap-Reset in both forms, intertwined with the fertility symbols of lotus and papyrus plants.
Wouldn’t you know it, the Death card comes up.
Not, of course, that the Death card definitely means death.
It can be a symbol of rebirth, a transformation. Or a necessary yet painful change.
All very very apt, of course.
In this case, though, it means: Death.
Obviously.
You don’t need to be a reader of the cards to figure that one out.
The Lord of Chaos and Disorder, the donkey-headed god Set. Along with the Guide and Guardian of Your Soul, the jackal-headed Anubis.
A donkey and a jackal.
A horse and a dog.
Could it be…?
No!
*
Chapter 13
Should I burn my cards?
Are they coming to life?
Coming to life through our foolish use of the diagram?
Perhaps I’m imagining it.
Perhaps it was just the shadows in the truck’s cab that made them appear to have the heads of animals.
Perhaps it wasn’t even the shadows; maybe I’ve just conjured up these images in my mind, mixing in what I already regarded as a representation of death.
And if the cards are involved in some way, will burning them prevent that?
It’s not as if the diagram’s power is still in play, is it, seeing as how I doused the candles? And yet, if I’m right about the truck’s driver and his passenger, it’s still having some effect on my life
Could the candles have been relit? Someone exploring the building, relighting the candles out of curiosity?
Could they have been relit by yet more magic?
I have to go check.
*
I don’t go into school. I want to visit the house during the day.
That way, I hope it’s safer.
Not that I’m too worried that things are going to go wrong.
I’m just going to check that the candles aren’t lit; then get out of there.
I’m not planning on sitting in front of the mirror. Let alone doing so with the candles lit. With the tarot pack in my hand.
No no no no no no!
Would I be so foolish?
Despite the sun shining outside, it’s almost pitch dark in the room.
The candles are still unlit, thankfully. And the curtains are still drawn, with only the narrowest of beams shining through the threadbare holes.
They hit the mirror, where they sparkle like stars before reflecting back at another sharp angle across the room. A few of the beams, however, aren’t so brightly reflected. A thick, fluffy sheen of dust covers large parts of the glass.
Why hadn’t I noticed that before? Probably because the beams of light weren’t anywhere near as strong that late in the evening.
I was also too enthralled with what we were attempting to achieve. Too enthralled with being alone with Dean.
There’s something about the way the dust lies upon the mirror that catches my eye; the sense that it isn’t a random covering, but seems quite symmetrical, almost a pattern.
I step closer; yes, yes, even through I’d told myself I wouldn’t, told myself I wouldn’t go anywhere near that wretched diagram unless it was to douse the candles.
I gawp at the mirror.
The dust has been deliberately wiped clear only in certain areas. Very certain areas. The cleared, sparkling area forms the shape of an ankh.
Is this what it had looked like when we’d first been here? Had Dean cleaned it up like this on purpose, as part of the diagram’s instructions?
A mirror in the shape of an ankh is supposed to give you a view into another world.
Although, of course, there’s no supposed about this mirror.
It actually works.
It gives you contact with another world. r />
With the dead.
The dead like Dean.
Oh oh; I really really really shouldn’t be thinking this way!
*
Chapter 14
What’s the real risk?
It went wrong before, of course, because we didn’t know how to use the tarot cards correctly as part of the ceremony.
If I choose my card carefully, one I think perfectly represents Dean; then it will be Dean who appears in the mirror.
Not a Hanged Man who wants to hang me!
The Sun: that’s whom I believe represents Dean.
Hope, understanding. Amon-Ra, who rules the earth, the sky – and yes, now the underworld. Bringer of light and the upholder of Ma'at, or order and truth.
(Hey, I really like him, right?)
If it does work, though, will Dean appreciate being woken up, or whatever it is that happens to them?
Will he think I’m summoning him like he’s just some servant?
Hah; fool!
You can’t do it anyway!
You haven’t got any matches to– I have got some matches!
I just slipped my hand into my pocket – for whatever reason I don’t know – and I’ve put my hand on a box of matches!
There’s a box of matches in my pocket!
I never have matches on me!
I must’ve picked them up subconsciously when I left home.
Which means; I’ve been secretly (hiding it even from myself) intending to do this all along!
*
Maybe my cards are the solution, not the problem.
If the diagram can be controlled using them – using them like we were supposed to in the first place – then maybe I can even work out a way of giving life back to Dean.
Okay; so that might be going a bit far.
But at least I can talk to him, right?
I light the candles. I sit on the cushion.
I put out the card before me; the Sun.
And I think; think only of Dean.
Concentrate only on Dean!
It’s Dean I want to see in the mirror.
No one else!
Outside, the sun shifts slightly, naturally, as it makes it way across the sky. The effect on the reflected beams, of course, is doubled. Where I’m sitting now has placed me in the direct line of one of the reflected beams.
It shines straight into my eyes, almost blinding me in its incredible brightness.