Two of Wands

Some would say that a feeling doesn’t have a smell. But the fortune tellers would have to disagree. At least those of us who are of true descent. The spirits and magicks that pulse through the wind--the fates and futures that rise and fall like the tides of the very air we breath--can be so chokingly distinct to a Romani, a keeper of destinies.

Still, one must be trained in the ways. To recognize how certain strains of serendipity have a familiar, welcoming spice that tickles the nostrils, while others bring with it a cloud of musky-scented mourning that clings to the lungs and lingers in the clothes.

People bring with them their own kismet, meandering off them like incense. Their moods, hopes, and fears become their own fortune teller that need merely be read by those with a nose to sense it.

I've never liked my nose really--too pointy and small. It's a wonder the insignificant thing can sense anything at all. But it does. More than I want to, that's for sure.

I hold my long hair back with a scarf, tieing it around my head with a knot against the back of my neck. A woman lifts the flap of my tent and enters bringing with her a sweet scent.

As I shuffle the cards the bangles on my wrist clang together like wind chimes singing of the impending storm. Their cold metal against my skin helps ground me. It helps focus my attention on the task at hand instead of the strong sweet odor of deceit that fills my tent and makes my stomach cramp. Deceit tricks me every time. It has an overpowering, sugary aroma that mimics the scent of love and is similar to innocence, yet without the hint of mint.

The woman before me has tight curls that barely meet her bony shoulders. Her gaunt face pulses on the sides like she’s clenching her teeth in time with her wringing hands.

I swallow.

One last attempt to cleanse my aching throat as I finally take my eyes off my client and give all my attention to the cards.

The tips of my fingers confirm the stack is ready and with eyes closed I retrieve the top card.

A metallic zing runs up my hand and I know the reading before I see it. “Reverse nine of wands,” I say.

My voice is huskier from the fire burning in my open mouth. It blazes more raw with each breath.

This card doesn’t tell me anything my sense of smell hasn’t already. “You have a secret you don’t wish to be found out.” We are merely setting boundaries for what is to come. “You are wanting to know if it's too late.”

Even I cannot sense if her husband knows of her actions. The cards must do the rest. They speak to me like the wind whispers to the trees. Like my Mother and Grandmother raised me to smell those around me, they also taught me to listen to the wands-the magic in the cards.

My fingers dance on top of the deck and the top card is harder to read through my touch but I’m certain it’s the right reading. On the table I exhale as I read it. “Upright. Six of wands.”

The air twists from sweet to sour, like milk that has spoiled. I speak swiftly to ease this woman’s dooming fear. “You’re successful in your quest and have overcome the burden of publicity you fear. See how the six of wands has a man with a wreath riding a white horse. The white horse of course represents strength," and purity, but I leave that bit out. "You have shown much strength in this situation and will surely be publicly rewarded for your efforts."

The woman smiles and her hands are finally still. I inhale deeply at the welcoming refreshing scent of ease. Like rain after a fire it soothes my lungs and throat.

A painful shock is sent through my fingers as I brush the top of the deck. The top card is not right. Closing my eyes, I hum without thinking, and my fingers are lead to the card somewhere in the deck that finishes this woman's destiny.

Down toward the end of the pile I retrieve the one card that vibrates through my fingers. I only stop humming when the Queen of wands is upside down on the table, facing me instead of the woman.

"You must beware of selfishness and jealousy."

The woman and I make eye contact and I both see and smell the worry in her face. "The queen of wands, in either position, represents fertility and the feelings emotions and hardships it brings."

The womans dirty brown eyes have lost all the shine of youth. Without looking away from my face they fill with tears.

"This could mean an obstacle will stand in the way of your success. In order to have what you desire you will have to push through this thing, or person, that stands in your way," I cringe at my own words wondering what this woman is planning and what I am leading her to do. With a shake of my head I continue. I don't need to know the detials of her life. It's none of my business. "Just as one pushes through the hardship of labor and delivery."

My smile turns to grimace as the air in the room spoils like rotten fruit. Another tricky emotion, though I’ve had more experience with lust in my tent than deceit.

I don’t process the woman’s thanks, I only hold my breath as best I can to keep from retching. She pays a grateful tip and runs off to make a mess of whatever fate I interpretted for her. I grab at my stomach as soon as she’s left, falling forward onto the table with one fluid sigh of relief.

My head clears with each fresh breath and I remove the scarf from around my head to dab at my sweating brow. The waves in my stomach calm. The flask under my table is half full and I sit up, then tilt my head back to wash it down quickly.

I blame the attacks of scents that woman put me through for why I don’t notice my next client approaching. My senses are burned numb from use and without warning a large man throws open the door flap and enters.

Sounds of laughter from the carnival and screams from the rides make a chill run up my arms. Or perhaps it’s this gentleman’s appearance that puts me on nerve. Or the fact that I can’t smell him at all.

His shape is like an upside down triangle, with wide thick shoulders and a lean waist. His black hair is unkempt, his eyebrows too shaggy to reveal any eyes, and his beard so mangy it screams laziness more than style preference.

I grab a hanky from my belt and blow my nose trying to clear my senses before we begin. “Your fortune awaits, Sir. Please have a seat in my office.”

I wrap my head dress around my head again bringing the length of the scarf down to drape over my shoulder.

Deceit and lust were tricky, but this next scent has me completely baffled. It floats out to me with an edge of warning but of what? I detect the scent of leaves and grass clippings. Anxiety? It's missing the putrid roadkill scent of fear, though it's definitely earthy. It’s nothing like the pleasant sort of dirt smells that accompany carefree moods such as mellow and relaxed. If smells could have images attached to them this one would definitely be that of a worm wriggling in the darkest of soils.

I can't put my finger on it yet there is something familiar about this man's smell. I've encountered it before. The man smiles a toothy grin and many of his remaining teeth are lopsided with brown decay.

I list again the smells I detect. Leaves, grass, earth, and the last is a nutty sort of aroma that could possibly just be something he ate while enjoying the fair.

The man says nothing, only smiles his disgusting smile and breathes a ragged breath that makes him sound like a smoker. Could that be the nuttyness I smell?

“Can I read your fortune for you, Sir? Or perhaps a palm reading?" My voice shakes at the blindness of this conversation. I still have no clue what his intentions or desires are.

“You look too young to be a fortune teller." His voice is more earthy than his scent. "And definitely too pretty to be one."

"You doubt my abilities then? How I'd love to prove them to you. Please, take a seat." My voice rises higher with each word.

A new scent of roses blends with the earthy smell. Confidence. He does not doubt my abilities at all. Rather he is counting on them. What does he want?

The tent flap is opened again and a crow comes swooping in deftly. With the sight of that bird and the smell of this man I, in an instant, realize two things. One, I know exactly where I've smelt this before and two, I am in big trouble. It all clicks. This man is one of Jarku's men, come to kill off the race of fate-readers, and this bird is with them. I was only six years old the last time I saw this bird help Jarku murder my mother. That nutty aroma I remember now is the intent to kill.

Another man steps in as the bird continues to fly at me.

Standing, I knock my chair over and grab a tarot card from the table in one fluid motion. Instead of allowing the ache to creep up my fingers I push it back into the card and it glows a dim wavering blue.

With a flick of the wrist the card goes flying through the air toward the bird and slices into its neck just as it opens its beak to squawk. The bird call is cut short as it falls with a thud to the ground. From the cards lodged position in the dead bird I can make out the five of wands and the blue light goes out.

Both men just stare at the bird while I grab all the cards from the table.

"I actually liked that bird," the new intruder says. He is taller, but just as full around the shoulders. He wears a simple once-white tunic and a leather strap across his body. The men's mouths are alike in every way, except this one is clean shaven and has white thinning hair.

Stuffing the deck into the folds of silk around my belt I grab two cards for each hand. With a step backward I crouch low and fan the cards-one pair of weapons in front of my face and another high behind my head.

“Now, now." Says the second man. "No need to make this difficult, Gypsy.”

I curl my lip at the term. People associate “Gypsy” with thief, someone they can’t trust. The moods in the air swirl around me and I focus on them trying to decipher which ones come from whom. Anticipation from the first man. Impatience, determination, and doubt from the second one before me.

“What does Jarku want?” I say, not moving from my ready stance.

“He merely needs you to do a reading for him”

I sniff. “Liar!” I spin a card toward him, missing his face by only inches.

The first, stockier man whistles then chuckles.

The fruity smell of agitation hits me in the gut and I pull another card from my sash.

“Just come quietly and we promise not to hurt you.”

The air shifts to the scent of brisk spring rivers- they’re ready to pounce and grab. Barely moving my arms I flick all four cards out in front of me. The ache leaves my fingers as the cards soar and I reload. Two of the cards hit their target, the first man’s throat, one right after another they slice his airway and he falls grasping and spluttering.

The bigger taller barrel of a man dodges and I spin all four new tarot cards out at him again. His sword is drawn and he deflects them but the last glowing tarot card knicks him on the cheek and he grunts.

Dabbing at his cheek he looks at the blood on his hands. Vanilla and warm spices fill the air. He’s enjoying this. It’s the challenge he was hoping it would be.

My hands are reloaded and I crouch again speaking back to the cards. The ache is pushed out of my fingers onto them and they glow a brighter blue than before.

He smiles and takes his stance as well. “Jarku won’t mind a small delay. Never said to deliver you alive.”

I try to give a confident smirk of my own but I know the smell of road kill in the air is from my own fear. “I don’t hand out free fortunes,” I say. “I will expect my regular payment for this reading.”

With that I spin my hands in front of me, letting go of the cards faster than I’ve ever released them. He dodges them and flips a small knife from his shoe. I lean just in time to hear it whiz through the scarf on my shoulder.

Reloaded I send two toward his feet and one at his face. His dodging steps are like a dance the way he hops and skips and moves his head away from them. He is drawing closer to me from the movements. His sword cuts through the air so swiftly that he slices the last card in half mid air.

As I’m grappling for more cards his sword comes at me. Now I’m dancing my part, a sideways frantic shuffle, but my arm isn’t quick enough and his blade makes contact. Pain in my arm makes the ache of the cards feel dull. I barely notice though when he comes at me again. I jump backward missing his second blow and have cards in my hand again.

He steps back as he sees my hand full of cards raise. One, two, three cards fly and the second one zips across his ear making blood rain on his neck.

The memory of the card is still on my fingers “King of wands,” I shout. Quickly I reload and crouch. “You're too cocky and impulsive to be a good fighter.” The shake is out of my voice but I reign in my own pride. Lower myself further to the ground like Grandmother taught me.

He growls as he rushes me with sword in both hands overhead. At the last minute I duck and weave out of his way. Just as he rushes by me I take a card and slice it across his back ripping his shirt and slicing skin with the end of the stroke.

The card falls to the ground. “Knight of Wands,” I say. I’m breathing heavy but smile at the appropriateness. “You must watch your temper. The knight of wands relays the loss of power. Turning to anger is the straightest path to weakness.”

He's hunched over after my blow but with a grunt he leads up with his shoulder, swinging his arm which hits me in the chest. I fall backwards from his blow and my cards spill across the dirt floor. I'm scrambling, crawling backwards like a crab as he rises and towers over me.

"Me Mother was a rotten gypsy like you." He wipes at the blood on his face as it drips into his mouth. "Always telling me about my temper."

One more crawl backward and my fingers ache against a card.

"Always telling me what I was feelin' ’fore I said anything."

The card heats, it's in my hand and I hope the glow cannot be seen from his angle.

"I'll be glad when Jarku finishes off your-"

Leading with the top of my hand my movement cuts him short as I swing from behind. The card is wedged between my fingers. With a flick it's sent off, glowing so blue it lights up the entire tent.

At first I sense his relief as he realizes I missed his throat--the death of his comrade moments ago. There isn't a hint of fear in the air as the card cuts through the fabric of his tunic and lodges deep in his chest. The heat of the glowing card makes the flesh it touches burn and the room stinks for different reasons than emotions or destiny. The only mood to be sensed is shock permeating like fresh cut lemons bold and strong.

He falls to his knees as I scramble to my feet.

The card sticking out of him has a man on top of a castle holding a globe. "The two of wands," I whisper. "Your fate looks grim. You've ignored important details in planning your future, making your downfall," he falls forward flat on top of the cards and I jump out of his way. "Inevitable."

I catch my breath as I stare at the mess made from the fight. Escaping the hand of Jarku a second time has me rooted in place shaking at every limb. To think I could do so a third time is foolish. I need to run.

The bird lies with his beak open and stiff. The metallic smell of my revenge fills the room. I bend and retrieve the card sliced in half, the nine of wands with the sick man standing alone. The last one standing, ready for battle, the card speaks to me of resilience and grit. Stepping over the men I say without looking back, "You owe me a new deck of cards."