The Magician

Chapter II

The Magician

The first time I saw the Magician he manifested in my spread reversed. Even I, with my books for Tarot idiots at the time, did realize a Magician standing on his head, helplessly kicking with his feet in the air and pointing down to hell and eternal flames could not be a very good sign. Further investigating the issue, I learned he was all about skills and communication, self confidence and abilities. Certainly, the card was spot on. I had divorced, my whole world was upside down, guilt and doubt were trying to reach my mind, and I was desperately fighting the fear of spending the rest of my life alone as a result of my imprudent restlessness. Communication was lacking in all directions. I was lying to myself and to my closest friends. I was a loser, a loner, and a coward. My pride had diminished to a fruitless seed following the endless debates in the attorney’s office where I had to practice extensive self control to not attack my ex-husband’s lawyer – a short, plump, bald troll who called me persistently “a dreamer” with false contempt.



It was three months later when the Magician showed up again in his full glory. He marched upright assuring me I had it all to achieve happiness. Really?

***

October brought another birthday. Jemma sent me a card wishing fewer staycation plans in the year ahead. Probably thought it was clever. Then I saw the deep wrinkle under my left eye. “Won’t let you manifest there like a Queen of Swords,” I swore while mercilessly rubbing the skin with anti-aging serum SPF 35. How didn’t I notice the nasty thing sooner?



“A new man?” Jemma asked hoping a new thrill had caused the increased attention to wrinkles but I denied. Practically, there wasn’t a new man. “Bad. When are you going to come?”

“It’s busy now.” I muttered.

“You haven’t even asked, have you?!”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Do it!”



If she had had the slightest idea what obsession she was fueling, she would have withdrawn her invitation immediately but I’ve always been good in keeping secrets. I had never lied to her and I couldn’t but remaining silent – that was my thing. I was chewing on the travelling idea daily. Could I go there? Kept asking the cards which I believed, were my only connection to him now. The readings became clearer and, as the knowledge grew, more tempting. The Magician was regular. It was all up to me, he seemed to say. I was studying my man again and again – what he liked to do, what kind of person he was, what he liked or disliked in women, and so on. It gave me the illusion I was part of his life.



The ground was already covered with leaves. Hats and gloves marched the streets. Another winter was coming. Another staycation seemed inevitable. I kept falling deeper for the memory of him and set Google alerts to follow each step he made, each word he said. This time I didn’t write a staycation plan. He was an overwhelming presence and a paralyzing fear. What plan would fit this? Finally, I did it – sent an e-mail to my manager asking for a possible time off. That was it. One last time. One more shot at the ever glowing Ace of Cups.



“I’m sorry, Helena. It is out of the question till Christmas as you know very well.” She responded. End of the story. E-mailed Jemma who cursed extensively but didn’t lose hope.

***

In November surrendered to red wines from Provence. Was drowning myself in the bottles. Wanted to strangle the hateful cow who was keeping me away from him. Couldn’t overcome the feeling I had missed a major chance in my personal life. Because it felt different. And the feeling was persistent. His coldness I preferred to excuse. He must had been embarrassed, I thought. Nothing to worry about, it happens. A true “Mr. Darcy”.



At the end of the month, in search of more “Mr. Darcy” experiences, I purchased all film versions of “Pride and Prejudice” I could find. My nights turned into movie marathons. My work suffered the sleep deprivation. The cow - manager got a new wrinkle тоо but my memories of the man were religiously kept fresh. Each time I read the book or watched the movies I replaced the actor’s face with the one I wanted.

***

In the beginning of December Jemma still didn’t know anything about “Mr.Darcy”. I guess it shows what kind of reaction I expected.



Jemma was one of those women who believed single life was poisonous but falling for men who were not at hand was suicidal. I hadn’t met her for more than three years since she moved to London where she practiced serial dating and breaking her dates’ hearts with innocent smile on her dolly face. She had never been really attached, never married, but never asked to either. I couldn’t deny the satisfaction of scoring this one point. You know – the proposal, the ring, the white dress. Jemma was my maid of honor. She looked fantastic but all in black which brought quite a bit of tension to our relationship at the time. I accused her in mourning instead of rejoicing. When I look back, she may have had a point after all. I had allowed to be fooled by things that were later thrown at the back of the wardrobe. The white dress ended up in stains which I never felt like cleaning. The proposal sounded stupid only months after the wedding. The ring I stopped wearing less than a year later. Jemma wouldn’t fall for all these easily.



The Messenger rang. These days it was my only way to see friends for we were all scattered like squirrels around the globe. I had vaguely mentioned the need to talk in my e-mail earlier that day and she suggested the online meeting. I finally realized I couldn’t live with the obsession without doing anything to either make it a reality or forget it. I needed someone to share my pain with, even if it meant to be told I was a fool. My early evening was her middle of the night but she had never been on time for work anyway.



“How are you? Looking amazing!” I said exploring her face carefully.

“Thanks, Snaky! What’s up? Having a good night?” She asked suspiciously. She never considered my nights properly spent.

“I think so… Was watching a movie… Jane Austen, you know.”

“Kind of. Watched “Pride and Prejudice” here few years ago.” Not much of a reader, my dear Jemma.

“That’s the one I was watching too.”

“Oh, it broke my heart then! Wish you were here so we could watch it together, drink like fish, and cry our little hearts out!” I hated it when she talked like that - girly-pinky-cosmo-style talking. Besides, no movie would ever break her heart. Very much doubted a man could do it either. ”Snaky,” she went on, “you must ask again about the vacation. The holidays are coming.”

“Um, don’t know… Haven’t thought about it lately,” I muttered to conceal the heretic seed producing gentle green shoots in my mind. After Christmas it was going to be quiet…

“Come on! I’ll take some time off.” Jemma insisted.

“Since when do you have to take time off at all?”

“Don’t be mean! I am working!”

“Yeah, but you don’t have working time.”

“True. My life is a song.” She grinned and I noticed the wrinkles. Thank God, wasn’t the only one. “Well, think about it. Now, tell me what you wanted to tell.”



So, I told her what had happened except that I had met him months ago and kept it a secret. There wasn’t much to tell. Took me less than ten minutes. It’s sad when the most precious times of our lives fit in less than ten minutes description. I thought it was heart breaking news. She thought the whole story was rather bad news.



“That’s pointless.” She said twisting her lips.

“Why?”

“Nothing happened really! You should have stayed there!”

“And what? Sleep with him?”

“Oh, don’t behave like a nineteenth century maiden, please! Movies are movies, this is real life! You don’t think he kissed you due to an urge of his innocence, do you?”

“Um… I guess not.” Bit my lips at the memory of the kiss. Not innocent, no, no.

“I don’t really see what you can do now.”

“May be I’ll see him again…”

“Wishful thinking.”

I hated her sometimes.

“We’ll see. Just wanted to share…”

“Good. The fact that you fell in love again is already optimistic. I was seriously worried about you. Now, we have to get him out of your mind. The sooner, the better.”

“Wishful thinking,” was on top of my tongue. Instead, I promised to ask about a possible vacation again and most important: to stop reading Tarot which she thought a waste of precious time that should be spent socializing, i.e. looking for a new man.

“What happened with the plan? Not going to be self-sufficient anymore?” She chuckled.

“Are you mocking at me?”

“Don’t be dramatic! Just asking how it feels back in the game.”

“Weird. Insecure. Challenging fate… But it happened…”

“Listen, I told you then – leave this all to the shrinks. People are social animals.”

“Many people are single.”

“And happy? I don’t buy this. Anyhow, you are shooting in the wrong direction again. This man won’t work. I’ll find you someone.”

“No, thanks. I’m too old for blind dates.”

“Doesn’t look like your open-eye dates are working well, nor does your choice improve with the time.”

“How do you know?”

“He – is – not – available.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know all I need and not interested in further details. Forget him. If he was the right one, you wouldn’t be staring at me in this dumb way from the stupid screen but would be rolling under the sheets. I’ll take care of this all. You just come.”

“I’ll see what I can do but not to be set up with someone. The holidays are the busiest time in our branch.”

“And the worst time in your fancy but empty apartment. I have to get some sleep. Get the Darcy man out of your mind and write, OK?”

“Hm. Kisses.”



There. I told you she wouldn’t be happy. She didn’t even ask about his name or anything… “not interested in further details,” as she put it. On the other hand, she was single and living in London. I won’t pretend that going to the city where he lived didn’t encourage picturing all kinds of favorable coincidences like bumping into him at the market, at the store, or in the botanical garden where we could spend hours undisturbed. Such things happened all the time! In fact, I have noticed in bigger cities I tended to run into more acquaintances than in small villages. Don’t know how it worked.



Spent the rest of the evening reading about the Air-Water combination because my significator was the Queen of Cups. Seemed we could be a disastrous match. Storms, hurricanes - dangerous stuff. At 2 a.m. already knew enough to foresee struggles. Not that it made any difference. I tended to be masochistic at times. Besides, the “beautiful Queen of Cups”, as she was very often referred to, was an intuitive, deep, and compassionate creature, reigning over a sea of emotions. She should know how to handle the freezing air blowing in the King of Swords’ mind.



Then took the cards out of their bag. Started muttering as usual: “Thank you for being my cards… When and where could I meet him?” Shuffle. Think. Focus. Assign seasons to the suits. Cut.



Three of Wands, Three of Cups, the Seven of Swords fell out itself. Such a card was called a “jumper”. The Wands were summer to me, the Three spoke of a trip across the water… Such a long wait? Until the summer? No way! This must be wrong. I should ask for a vacation after Christmas. Where - the seaside, beaches? No. In a beautiful garden, there will be a gathering of some sort, a party, a celebration like on the Three of Cups… Looked like a castle garden to me with this fountain… A festival? The women were dressed up. A medieval festival with all these tents on the Seven of Swords… Sneaking? Who, me? Why would I sneak out with my things? No. Focus. Look at it. Who is this man? Dark haired man, has lots of possessions… He is sneaking out of the tent… Him? Sneaking away? Being bored? Or followed? Reporters? That was it.



Wrote it down in my Tarot journal – a vital part of the arsenal of every self-respectful reader. In most cases it was supposed to help learning from previous readings and observing how the cards manifested in reality. In my case it was more of a tormenting tool which kept reminding me I failed to see even the most literal and obvious meanings at the time. Still, being the responsible person I was, I updated the journal religiously and even wrote down all my failures. Noble, no?



Hours later, in the middle of the night, I was still peering in the darkness, wondering how I could possibly meet him again?! And what should I do even if I went to Jemma’s place in London, without leaving it all to pure chance. There must be hundreds of events he attended. Promised to be a subscription for depression.



Then my astute mind jumped over to grandma. I used to spend almost every summer at her country house with a big veranda and a beautiful garden. Grandma knew a lot about the nature, the energies that worked around us, about the secret lives of animals and flowers, rivers and trees. I think grandma was what some people called a witch. She wasn’t doing anything to openly influence anyone but spent her time exploring herbs and seeds, hanging them around the house in specially made silk and organza bags, and sometimes making tea in which she stared for long minutes before trying to encourage my intuition.



“What do you see, Helena?” She would ask, leaning back in her white rocking chair.

“Nothing, grandma. Leaves.”

“Focus, Helena. Look for pictures… Rows, lines, letters, numbers, anything.”

“Oh… May be a cloud.”

“And then? Where is this cloud going? What will the cloud reach at the end?” She would insist and I would bend over the cup, twisting my neck to change the perspective in a desperate attempt to make a story out of the floating green pieces.

“I don’t know, grandma. It is going to the end of the cup.” I would finally admit disappointed.

“Exactly. You must trust yourself. And your eyes. The cloud signifies thoughts, the mind. If it goes to the end, then the person will reach a conclusion, his mind won’t be just wandering. You have it all, Helena! Open yourself!” She would then stand up, a bit annoyed, and go for her afternoon nap, leaving me astonished how it all sounded right from her mouth.



She also used to take me out on the moonless nights to burry seeds in the forest and talk to them to grow as the moon was waxing, and on full moon nights to teach me recognize my feminine power and celebrate the gentle goddess. We would dress beautifully, hair down, bare feet, and would carry baskets with gifts for the fairies – fruits, drink, and silk bags filled with fragrant herbs which we would tie to the branches of the trees. Then grandma would take her dress off and bathe in the stream under the moonlight. I never did.



“Helena, are you ashamed?” Grandma would call from the water.

“Nnno… I’m cold.”

“It’s summer.”

“I don’t want to!”

“OK, don’t shout. I guess it’s your tough puberty. Hopefully, it will pass soon before you completely lose the idea of how much power your body was granted.” She would mutter getting out and dressing up. “Stupid young women! Nudity is your power, not buying thousands of clothes.” She would go on, marching through the field.



But most of all, grandma insisted I should learn to use my mind to attract happiness. I wasn’t the best student and didn’t succeed much in this either. I found it interesting but very demanding. On the other hand, this November night realized I had never tried to do anything since grandma died many years ago. Somehow, I had lost my desire then. Now it seemed to be back.



I closed my eyes in the dark room, stretched my hands and feet, and relaxed my head on the pillow. Focused on his face as I remembered it. Tried to hold the image for nine heartbeats. Then released it and imagined a ray of light which was piercing the darkness of the cosmos, crossing time and space, to finally reach him wherever he was. Lost it half the way but tried again, and again, while finally saw a window in my mind. Opened it and felt the fresh air. Heard the noise of a street. I knew inside me this was London. The mist before my eyes cleared and the shadows on the sidewalk gradually turned into human faces. I was looking for him when he suddenly appeared behind the woman with the purple scarf. He was walking towards me in a long dark coat. His heavy, intense sight fell on me and he stopped. Partially scared and partially amazed by what had happened, I lost the vision and held my breath in the darkness. Could he see me? Impossible. Could I tell him something? No, but sending him images he would later see in his dreams was doable. Sometimes he would even see them when awake if I was focused enough. I had to try it. Had to.