Like a Moth to a Flame by oshun

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Auguries and Dreams

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The main square, around the corner from our inn, hosted a performance by a company of professional traveling puppeteers at one end while a succession of middling to excellent musical groups occupied an elevated, well-lit stage at the other. Wandering vendors hawked apples on a stick covered in caramel coating, roasted corn on the cob, and tiny bite-sized griddle cakes, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon or dipped into syrup made of maple sugar. Findaráto and I, no longer particularly hungry, shared one of the caramel apples—turning the eating of it into a form of restrained love-making, lots of eye contact and accidental touches of hands or tongues. Relaxed by the ale and refreshed by the food, and looking forward to our room in the inn with its lovely bed, our flirtation had intensified and surpassed where it had left off the night before. I have never had the courage to ask Findaráto if he were even half as nervous as I was. This set of circumstances was unprecedented for me. So much so, that I had never even considered anything like this before—making love in an inn, unobserved, among strangers, in a remote village, and doing so with my devastatingly attractive and universally sought after half-cousin Findaráto.

The side streets would have been fully shadowed by then, lit only by the silvery illumination of faraway Telperion, were it not for the multi-colored paper lanterns strung throughout. We inspected in a desultory manner some of the stalls that remained open, vowing to spend the morning at the fair before continuing our journey.

We rounded a corner onto a narrow lane, barely more than a back alleyway, lined with booths vending both exotic and more familiar-smelling herbs. Its temporary kiosks as well as its permanent shops appeared to deal in objects and produce related to various practices of healing or witchcraft. There were examples of the usual medicinal herbs, fresh, dried, or in tinctures or syrups. In addition to those, we saw less common hanging bunches of leaves and flowers, jars filled with odd mixtures of pebbles, bone fragments, nuts, and what appeared to be dried insects! There were, of course, many varieties of the usual colorful hedge-witch charms from tiny pastel-colored silken pillows smelling of lavender, to crude bundles made up of sticks, dried flowers, strings of beads, and bound with colored ribbons or yarn. Sellers hawked dubious love charms and what I knew to be highly effective ginger-flavored cough drops at the same stands.

Findaráto with his infernal curiosity was dying to explore this unsavory back alley. I was less smitten with the idea. My father often rejected such practitioners as having little to nothing to do with either science or true magic, but I finally decided to relax my censorious judgment that evening. My hypersensitivity to the musky miasma of the paranormal warned me of the presence of arcane powers and techniques, and the residue of invasive questing in the air sent prickles down my spine. The warring signals made it impossible for me, even with my talent, to isolate and untangle all the disparate forms of psychic interference. Nor could I distinguish if the elements I sensed were in themselves largely harmless or dangerous, or had been or were intended to be wielded in a good, bad, or neutral manner.

Although I longed to get out of the airless alleyway, yearned for fresh air, and wished I had my own light source, I soldiered on wanting to be viewed as a good sport. The purplish black shadows and nearly overlapping eaves in places added to my discomfort.

“This street is creepy,” I whined finally.

Suddenly, Findaráto pointed ahead and all but shouted, “Oh, look! I know that shop. The one with the shingle, ‘Fortunes Told. ’ We came here once last year and she read our cards. We could go and have yours read.”

A few houses farther down the lane a large oil lantern of blackened metal and muddy glass produced a surprisingly strong yellowish-orange light. It illuminated the dingy sign, perhaps once red but long hence faded to a sooty pink. The warm glow amidst the murky shadows convinced me to walk toward the shop with him without further objections.

Clad in a flowing garment of homespun brown, her head was wrapped in a striped turban of various reds, blues, greens and yellows. Around her worn countenance, dark curling hair peeked from under her head covering. Her face was etched with smile and frown lines, yet intelligence and the beauty of her lost youth shone through those superficial markings made by time and hardship. She leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded across her chest, wearing a tired but satisfied look. Doubtless, it had been a busy and profitable day for her with the village so swollen with visitors.

I had seen, although rarely, people with that same aged visage before—usually those who had suffered greatly across the sea, but had survived the trek over the mountains and, finally, the journey to Aman. There was no question in my mind that she was Noldorin, something about the proud lift of her chin which left one with the impression of stubborn individualism so characteristic of our people. She spotted us but continued to stand motionless in the doorway of her shop, as though she awaited the two of us in particular.

“Well, well,” she said to Findaráto as we drew closer, “the golden prince returns. Where are your high-spirited brothers, my lord? And who might be this strapping, handsome lad?” She gave Findaráto a wicked wink, but smiled more gently at me. “Come in, boys. Let’s withdraw from this commotion. Then you can explain why you brought your friend to me.”

Findaráto looked at me and shrugged, nodding his head toward the shop. Interested, I followed them into her parlor.

“It’s only the two of us this time. We’re traveling from Alqualondë to Tirion, mistress,” he said. She raised her eyebrows at me in an unspoken query.

I bobbed a short, uncomfortable bow to her, not from any disdain for her station or her chosen occupation, but my usual introversion. “Carnistir Morifinwë Feanárion, my lady,” I stammered, cursing my damnable shyness.

She smirked, apparently at my use of the honorific. “You are welcome here, son of Fëanáro. Although, I should warn you that your father has little patience with the vagaries of my ancient profession.” I did not doubt that. It was difficult to restrain a smile at the thought of his tirades against superstitions and folk magic for which he could find no scientific verification. “Please, sit down,” she said, pointing to two chairs facing a small table. “I just brewed a pot of tea. I was considering closing for the evening, but I would be willing to read your cards first, if you wish.”

“Thank you. Tea would be lovely,” Findaráto said; he had more than enough social grace to smooth the way for both of us.

“My cards?” I asked, intrigued.

The woman went around the room lighting several candles which smelled of high quality bee’s wax, illuminating a small but comfortable room. At one end there was a spotless kitchen, with an unlit wood stove and a cabinet painted in red enamel, well-stocked with stoneware bowls, plates, and cups glazed in the standard rustic brown familiar to me from traveling throughout rural Valinor. In one corner an attractive woven spread of a red and black geometric design covered a neatly made single bed. It never gets cold in that area; the white-washed stucco room held no fireplace; hence the small wood-burning cook-stove. On a shelf near the bed she stored a small collection of bound books and a couple or three scrolls in the older style, along with several pots of ink and some sheets of parchment or vellum—I could not tell which from where I stood. The only other decorative elements were bright yellow curtains hanging on the only two windows on the street side of the building.

It looked as unlike as one could imagine from the character of the kiosks in the lower levels of Tirion and the one witch’s hut I had visited in Formenos with Maitimo and Findekáno—Finno’s curiosity nearly equaled that of Findaráto. Such places usually reeked of herbs foul and fair, and were rife with the thick smoke and heavy odor of smoldering patchouli incense. They were more often than not crowded and disorderly, reminiscent of the market stalls we had seen earlier in the street. The only scent I could distinguish in her small, clean room was the fresh aroma of the newly brewed peppermint tea.

“She is willing to tell your fortune by reading the traditional divinatory cards.” Findaráto’s voice indicated his enthusiastic approval. “She can tell you things about your past, present, or future. We did it before and it was fascinating. Some of the points were quite accurate and others surprising.” He laughed at the memory. “Angaráto thought his reading was too dismal and refused to listen when she tried to explain further.”

We had taken our seats at the tiny table in what appeared to be the supplicants’ position. The chair on the other side was a throne-like affair woven of sea-grass with a tall-rounded back.

The lady placed the cups of tea in front of us. “Drink a little and try to relax. It matters not to me if you wish to decline a reading. I will not try to influence your decision. However, I must admit that I am intrigued. There is something about you that interests me. But you need not do it to satisfy an old lady’s curiosity either.”

She assumed her throne and looked at me with compelling storm-grey eyes of a pearly opalescence reminiscent of moonstones. Sitting so close to her, she did not look as old as she had at first glance. Although the lines on her face were notable still, she radiated the aura of an attractive woman, vibrant and sensual, less elderly than experienced.

I took a deep breath and said, “I want to do it. Will you read mine, please?” I was aware of Findaráto’s approval and keen interest in the whole proceeding. He had wanted me to say ‘yes,’ and I wanted to please him, but still felt more than a little reticent and somewhat foolish as well. She stuck a taper into the flame of the candle on the table and produced a small cone of incense from a drawer on her side of table. Placing it on a small saucer she ignited it. I must have wrinkled my nose as the thin furl of smoke ascended and dispersed into the air.

“You’re a sensitive one,” she said. “Tis only Sandalwood. No one objects to a light sandalwood scent. Concentrate upon it. It will help you focus.” It could have been worse, but I was nonetheless disappointed.

Then I felt someone reach toward me seeking, warm yet tentative—familiar. “You do not have to do this for me.” For the briefest moment I thought it might be the lady, but then recognized Findaráto with absolute clarity. He had not tried to touch me in that way since I had so abruptly rebuffed him the previous evening.

I gladly accepted his offer of intimate communication, thinking of it as he and I joined together against an alien world. “I will do it partly for you, but mostly for myself.”

“It’s best,” the lady said, “if you do not link mind-to-mind while I try to do your reading. It makes my part more difficult. Would you like to ask your kinsman to wait outside?” she asked me.

“He can stay. We won’t do it again!” I was eager now to start and get the reading over with, but did not want to be left alone with her outlandish magics, and half-afraid she would turn us both away. I was not entirely incurious.

“We promise!” Findaráto said, sounding like an errant schoolboy seeking to reassure a tutor.

She nodded, reaching into the drawer again and removing a deck of large cards. She shuffled them a few times in a haphazard manner and handed them to me.

“Hold them for a moment and then shuffle them, as little or as much as you desire. Your touch is necessary to obtain a good reading. When you are satisfied, return them to me.”

I felt silly again as I touched the cards, questing into them but feeling nothing, before shuffling them expertly, a skill mastered in countless long evenings of playing Storm-the-Castle with my brothers. For some reason, Findaráto found my showy cards tricks near unbearably funny, but managed to restrain himself. The lady even ventured a reluctant smile.

“Are you ready now?” she asked, a strange look stealing over her face, half-annoyed and yet somehow still amused. “I think that is more than sufficient. But it is entirely up to you.” Embarrassed, I fumbled the cards, hastily scrambled them together again, and handed them to her.

“There is no need to be nervous,” she said with renewed solemnity. She seemed to gather into herself, emitting a sense of omens and auguries falling into place, which sent a shiver down my spine.

“Can. . . can I ask one last question, please?” I stuttered.

“You may ask as many as you like. This is your reading. I am but an instrument now.”

“I don’t need the past,” I said, thinking of a whole series of childish secrets and shameful highly personal moments that I preferred not hear repeated aloud. My cheeks burned red at the contemplation of revelation of such puerile secrets. “And I’d rather not see the future.” In the nightmares of my childhood, I’d received enough glimpses of a terrifying future—filled with blood and warfare, loss, guilt, and inconceivable heartbreak—that I had only recently learned to interrupt when they threatened to break my rest. If any of those were true portents, I did not want to know, nor was I interested in questionable predictions of luck with women or prowess in hunting. And I already had far more affluence and notoriety than someone like me would ever desire or need.

“Fine, then,” she responded with regret. “That will be a rather irregular and curtailed reading indeed. But, I can see you are feeling self-protective, so I will do the best I can. Perhaps another time, if you pass through this place again.” She handed me the stack. “Draw three cards, from anywhere in the deck and place them face down upon the table.”

I took one card from the bottom, one from the top, and another from roughly the middle of the deck. I placed them on the table as she directed and raised my eyes to meet hers. She was trying not to smile.

“There is no reason to be anxious. No matter what the cards may tell one, the truth of them is never carved in stone. Never despair. Do not forget that in life, whatever mistakes one makes, one is always the master of one’s fate. It is never too late to change one’s path or seek to undo harm already done. Do not believe those who tell you otherwise.”

She flipped the first one over. “Ah, the King of Swords.”

“He looks serious,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” she insisted. “This is a particularly powerful card in the present position. Perhaps you are developing a crush on someone whom you have always admired but felt more distant from in the past. You are impressed by his use of language and drawn by his magnetism. The attraction may be intellectual but is physical as well. He or she offers you choices which appear to unsettle past certainties and lead you in a different direction. You do not need to follow him—the choice is yours entirely. But to ignore the challenges he offers could result in future regrets. This is a positive card in your case, if you chose to accept its possibilities.”

“Hmm,” I said, trying for thoughtful or weighty, but hitting only inflexible and pretentious. Standard fortune-telling fare, I thought.

“Do you have any questions? Or anything at all you want to say?”

I just sat there like a rock and stared at her. She pursed her lips together to control a smile or, Valar forbid, a laugh. “All right. Fine then. Next card,” she said. She flipped the next one over, with a loud slap on the table, revealing a foppish-looking lad, leaning forward with one hand on his hip and the other holding a golden cup, which incongruously contained a fish! I wondered if she really expected me to take this seriously.

“Well, well, well,” she said, not sounding as kindly as she had before. Perhaps she sussed out my cynicism and was responding to that. “Aha! None other, dear prince, than the Page of Cups. Young men in love often draw this card. You are in love and do not even realize the depth of your attraction to this person. You might even try to deny it.”

I opened my mouth and tried to speak and only managed a sound between a croak and squeak before I started coughing and knocked over a tea cup. I jumped up with the intention of halting the flow of tepid tea before it swamped the cards. I might not believe in divinatory card-reading but I did have respect for art and, pictures—poncy page boys or not—were well-executed and painted. Luckily for me, given my ineffectiveness, the tea flowed away from her cards and into my lap. Findaráto suppressed a choking sound of mirth, uprighted the cup, and produced a kerchief, too small to be of much use. I snatched it from him before he could begin sopping it in my lap.

“Did you want to say something? Do you have a question, your lordship?” she asked.

“Er, ah, no!” I stammered. Findaráto placed a warm hand on my thigh under the table, whether in sympathy for my obvious discomfort or an apology for wanting to laugh I did not know. Beggars can’t be choosers. I was grateful of the support. I covered his warm hand with my own and gripped it. He squeezed back and held on.

“Well then. May I continue?” She did not wait for a response. “Page cards also indicate a lack of experience, purity, or, as I observed before, denial. Usually a mixture of all three. The golden cup signifies your emotions and the little fish staring at you is love. The longer you reject the prospect, the more frustrated you will become. Immaturity, inexperience, and so-called innocence are overrated. Deny love and you will surely stunt your development. You are a passionate person, young man.” She lowered her eyebrows and quite literally scowled at me. Findaráto pressed my hand again.

“I did not dispute anything. I am listening,” I asserted, glowering back at her. I had mastered my scowling technique in early childhood; it might have been considered among my family and closest friends as my most characteristic expression.

“I apologize if I have underestimated you.” She shook her head in disbelief, far from repentant. I perceived her manner as perhaps half-annoyed and half-deflated. “Next card then.” She turned the last card over, without the flourish of the first time or the irritated snap of the second.

“Judgment,” she pronounced, with a sigh.

“No surprises there. It also reflects your internal conflict. Confirms what I believed before and then some. It tells me that you know you are at a crossroad. All this card represents is that the decision you are about to make is, in fact, a significant one.” She looked at me as though I had lied to her. Actually, I had hardly said a word. I simply had confirmed nothing. Probably used to encouraging reactions, she must have taken my reticence as recalcitrance. It may have been a little. She had made me uncomfortable and confused me. Meanwhile, her cooling toward me raised my hackles. I told myself these kinds of pretenses at foresight or insight were nothing more than superstition, clever words and experience at reading people. I could imagine others listening to her readings and oohing and aahing at her perception or perhaps some, like Findaráto and his brothers, laughing and teasing one another about her predictions.

I thanked her profusely in inverse proportion to my lack of enthusiasm. I tried to offer her too much coin and she haughtily refused the excess. Findaráto remained quiet.

Finally, as we took our leave of her, she called out. “Wait, son of Fëanáro, I have one last thought for you. Your father is right that one should not trust the Shining Ones.” I wondered how she knew that. I guessed it was no secret, although he certainly did not proselytize his views—not at that point in time anyway. “But to believe that we can explain everything with science is to deny many powerful forces in this world.”

I could not meet her halfway on that point. More likely there were things in the world we perceive as magic or superstition that science has yet to explain. I muttered a second series of thanks and farewells and stumbled out the door.