Ep. 79- The Ghost of a Flame

And a cold north wind is gonna blow on that day,

It’s gonna bury us in snow that will never melt away.

All the stars in the sky are going to flicker once and die,

On the last day that we ever close our eyes.

A day will come when you look up from your bowl of Raisin Bran or your glass of beer or your stupid tv show or the silly little words you’re typing into your silly little word document and realize that you don’t recognize a single person in your life. Despite my warning you here, it will still come as a great shock to you.

You’ll run to the mirror and look at your face and say My God Is That Mine Too? and you’ll realize not only do you not recognize the people around you but you’ll scarcely recognize yourself you will suddenly feel very small and frightened.

And you’ll ask the people closest to you- Hey, Let’s Go To This Place or Do These Things and they’ll look at you like you’re something they don’t recognize either, like two different sides of a fractured looking glass straining to break through to one another, indignant that the other side doesn’t repair the fissured crystal first.

But no matter how many times you reassemble the mirror and fill in the cracks it’ll never feel right again. You’ll go to bed that night feeling cold and angry and hurt, saying How Dare They Change, How Dare They Leave Me Behind. We are all our own constants; the rock, the island, the surest bet.

That we might be anything less than Ptolemaic is unthinkable.

They used to burn people for that kind of thing.

ext. seawood forest depths night

Thick brush, the dark depths of the sanguine wood where moonlight rarely penetrates the ever present canopy.

The sound of hacks and slashes. A sword clumsily cleans in a vine barely splitting it. The wielder tries to yank the dulled blade out, fails, tries again. An exasperated sigh, a great groan of strength and finally the sword extracts from the vine. An armored hand brushes the vine out of the way and we see the weary face of the Knight of Cups, eyes red, thin ruddy streaks of moisture leaving trails on his dust-baked face of battered leather.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
ALICE!!!

Behind him at a slow, deliberate walk, the Pale Horse in his natural equine form. His head lilts from side to side in a careful watch as he strides forward.

PALE HORSE
Save your strength, Knight of Cups.

The Knight turns to him, bewildered.

KNIGHT OF CUPS
How can you be so calm! The Alice was under our care!

PALE HORSE
I am not the one who let her slip off my back in the middle of the night.

KNIGHT OF CUPS
I do not need to be reminded of my shame. The Alice saves my life, I swear an oath and then I fail her at the first opportunity. I…couldn’t stay awake…on my own horse.
(he groans)
Oh, how I wanted to, Pale Horse…

The Knight wearily sinks to his knees, his lips quivering with emotion.

KNIGHT OF CUPS
I have been a failure in the service of Love.

The Pale Horse, about to pass the prostrate knight, sighs and stops. He sinks his head to the level of the Knight’s downcast face.

PALE HORSE
I will speak plainly, Knight of Love. Not but a few hours ago you faced a Major Arcana- a god of this world, and stood your ground. You faced certain death and did so with dignity. For your body to give in to rest hours later is lamentable, but understandable.

KNIGHT OF CUPS
Don’t patronize me, Bearer of Death. I had to be saved. I couldn’t do the saving, oh no. I am no gallant sword of chivalry. I am a Knight of Misery. Again.

PALE HORSE
(a pause, then, thoughtfully, a memory awakening)
Again. Hm.

The forest drums on with life- bugs chirping in unseen crevices, predators swooping from unseen perches and observers keeping careful watch from unseen holes and hovels. The quiet orchestra of the wild stirs the Pale Horse’s flickering ears for a moment and then he returns to the broken knight.

PALE HORSE
(continuing)
Alice is not your queen, Knight of Love. She is not the opportune ghost of a flame long extinguished. You will find no penance in punishing yourself as if she were. Fate is not nearly that convenient.

KNIGHT OF CUPS
(quietly)
What would you know of it.

PALE HORSE
(with a reverent, thoughtful hush- more human than he otherwise ever lets on)
More than you could guess. We hold more in common than I’d ever dare admit.

At this the Horse turns to smoke, taking his humanoid shape, his rusted dark armor soaking in the white light of the moon like a greedy black hole, his pearly white skull jaw smooth under the milky lunar rays. From the darkness his poleaxe takes shape in his hand.

PALE HORSE
(to the darkness)
Some things are dark, or say they are- but in these eyes, all things are light enough to see.

A snapping of a branch and a rustling of leaves, soft plop in dirt and a rustling of air against dry leaves. A rising form amassed from lincoln green- first a mount and then a person as the folds of green give way to fabric and cloak and then a face- THE PAGE OF WANDS makers herself known, a wood bow in hand, quiver upon her back, short sword at her side, ruby curled hair falling in bunches about a calm, bemused face.

PAGE OF WANDS
Had I wanted your life, I could have claimed it as you waxed poetic, Pale Horse.

The Pale Horse turns- recognition flickers in his eyes- it is not an unpleasant reaction. The Page, for her part, is visibly pleased. These two know each other. What’s more, they respect each other and are even, in tender moments, curious. But stations apart and set upon paths far removed from one another, this curiosity is fleeting and instead morphs to an exaggerated interest in one another’s wellbeing. It is an understanding that love can take many shapes and forms, hammered into tools that serve well in the right moment and circumstances- but are ill fitted for all seasons.

However, riderless and without his newest charge, the Pale Horse finds him in the exact right season for this most fortuitous of relationships- and the Page, always constant (and always, by preference, alone) is willing.

PALE HORSE
We have problems.

PAGE OF WANDS
And I have answers. But there’s…fewer of you than I’d expect.

PALE HORSE
We met two Major Arcana. Like more of the Sun’s minions ride at our back. Our way to Waite is harried at best, blocked at worst.

PAGE OF WANDS
And you didn’t think to look me up?

PALE HORSE
(seriously)
I did not wish to involve the House of Wands any further if I could avoid it. I didn’t wish to endanger…well…

PAGE OF WANDS
(saves him from this admission with a smile, cutting him off)
It was sweet of you, but with my brother’s death, we’re in for a penny, in for a pound, as it were. War is afoot, Pale Horse, and we haven’t much time. Besides…

She casts her gaze to the broken knight…

PAGE OF WANDS
(quite serious)
Where is The Fool? The Alice?

PALE HORSE
(quietly, after a look back at the deteriorating gallnt)
We’ve…lost her.

The word “her” echoes, reverberates within the brain of the Knight of Cups. His lips move, repeating the phrase- We’ve Lost Her- again and again. His face twists with grief, forcing the fault lines beneath ancient creases in his face to shift. As the words “her” and “lost” continue to bounce about in halls of memory’s mansion he stumbles into the room of moving images that replay the events of that terrible night so many years ago, the night his first love was lost…