The Devil’s Hand.

“Once upon a time, there were four sisters.

The first had her eyes pecked out, by the raven.

The second had her ears clawed off, by the raven.

The third had her tongue bit out, by the raven.

And the fourth, well her name was Raven.

And so it was that Raven wandered through the wilderness, followed by her sisters.

One blind, one deaf, one mute.

But put together, they saw, heard, and spoke together, with Raven as their guide and guardian.”

The old gypsy who told me this tale paused at this point.

“Slaves to the ones who wound. Now that, that is the nature of love.”

I coughed up blood. “That's the nature of consumption. Ask Keats.”

She laughed.

“What ridiculous man has reduced you to this, my dear?”

“It wasn't a man.”

“A woman?”

“The Devil, tearing at my throat with her ancient claws.” I spat those words with conviction, a mixture of pain, remorse, and sanguine tears.

The old crone cackled another laugh, wheezing through her absent teeth.

“I met the Devil once. She gave me a gift.”

The old gypsy broke out her deck of cards. My anticipation blossomed, and I could almost taste it, and them.

Her quivering hands shuffled the cards, attempting to read my fate.

Her hands were still delicate, the one part of her flesh not ravaged by the ages.

I yearned for that time now past.

“How long have you done this?”

Her face turned ashen; she responded as if she were in a trance...

“Seventy Eight years.”

I looked on her with pity. I tried to crack a compassionate, though crooked smile.

“That's a very long time indeed. One card for every year.”

She cackled at that.

“How old were you when you borrowed from the fates?”

The old woman scowled at me. “You can leave now.”

“I came for an answer, and I won't leave without it.” I threw cash down on the table.

Mostly U.S. Currency, with a few Chinese Hell Notes thrown in for good measure.

She would need them, based on where she was going.

She started carefully sifting through the notes. After counting through them twice,she sat up straight in her chair, posed by rigor mortis. “Six hundred dollars for a reading and a question?”

“Start by answering the question.”

“I was young. A dark haired lady came to town, with her sisters behind her. One was blind, one was deaf, and one was mute. But I've already told you that story. Why do you care?”

“Because stories matter. Please, please, read my cards.”

She dealt the first card, face down, before asking me her last question.

“Have you come to reclaim the debt?”

“Just read.”

She turned the card over.

I coughed up what little blood I had left.

Without a further word, she walked outside her tent, card in hand, the images burned into her eyes and mind.

On the front, the Raven, on the back, the Devil.

That poor, poor woman, not to mention my poor, poor, tragic, ravenous sisters.

Missing their eyes, ears, tongue, and now hands.

Don't think the Devil doesn't have sympathy for the damned.

But don't think that means you can cheat the Devil her due.