A Curious Reading

Before the sky even begins to darken Bensiabel leaves his rooms in Livorno and begins walking toward the circus. There is a steady stream of citizens following, most in groups or couples. Some pass him at a brisk pace, in heightened spirits, pointing to the tips of the tents in the distance and the faint silver glow surrounding them.

A girl points to him and whispers to her friend, who blushes deeply, and they giggle. Bensiabel feels his ears getting warm, though he has left his hat in the city.

When Bensiabel reaches the gates the sun is still low on the horizon, the sky streaked with red and gold. He fidgets while he waits, tapping his fingers on his pant leg as the first stars appear in the dusky violet sky, brightening as the sky darkens.

He is close to the front of the line that begins to wind around the gates. Patrons already clutch their purses, ready to purchase their tickets and enter the marvelous cirque. Bensiabel wonders if they experience the same feeling as he when attending the circus, the feeling of wonder and exhilaration. Being called to the circus, and yearning for it when they leave.

When the sun is gone, the last line of gold on the horizon dissipated, the circus comes to life before his eyes. The gossamer glow that permeates the circus like perfume brightens. The pearlescent gates shimmer and the sounds of wind and rustling leaves fades away, replaced by the subdued music of the circus and patrons going “ooh” and “ah”. Bensiabel cranes his head to better see the entrance of the cirque, standing on tiptoes to see over the heads of patrons filing in.

Bensiabel purchases his tickets from the ticket seller and proceeds to the Moon Mirror, pausing in the concourse to plot out a path. He decides to go around the perimeter of the cirque and circle inward slowly, like a spiral, to see the outermost tents first, and save the enigma of the centre of the circus for future exploration.

Bensiabel passes tents he recognizes, and others he does not, but he selects tents that attract fewer crowds, wondering if such tents hold personal mysteries. He encounters a large white tent, spectral and pale and glittering like icicles in the light of a nearby lamp. The sign outside, inscribed with elegant and swirling calligraphy in silver on black wood reads Cartomancy: Prophecies and Oracles. All that has been and all that will be.

A boisterous crowd passes, paying him no attention, as though they do not even see the moon white tent. Intrigued, Bensiabel pushes the opening aside.

Inside the tent the space is vast and open, the white canvas stretched taut and lit by flickering silver flames in wrought iron scones lining the walls. A sphinx, in pale smoky grey, rests in the centre, the silent guardian of a basket at its feet.

The basket is an oblong shape of curling silver metal, the top of which is pulled apart like taffy, curls and spikes of silver crisscrossing and overlapping in intricate patterns. When Bensiabel approaches the sphinx, realizing it is much taller than him, almost three times his height, and glances into the basket. It is filled with black squares of paper, flashing silver when the undulating light from the sconces hits them.

Bensiabel reaches into the basket and sifts through piles of cardstock until catching the corner of one with his fingernail. He draws it out; it is a simple but sturdy card with a black and silver etching of two doors and two knights in gilded armour guarding them with long swords. On the breastplate of one knight is a filigree of a crescent moon amid tiny stars; the other’s is emblazoned with a silver sun, its rays like the sharp prongs of a trident. Bensiabel turns it over, where written in elegant calligraphy it reads:

One Door Leads You Onward

The Other into the Abyss

One Man Always Tells the Truth

The Other Man Always Lies

Choose Carefully and Proceed With Caution

Looking up, Bensiabel is startled by the sight of two shadowy figures by the sphinx, each guarding a door hidden half by shadows.

He glances back and forth between the sphinxes, his gaze spending a considerable amount of time in between, looking to the sphinx for guidance, but its face remains impassive. He did not expect such a cerebral attraction, though he is not certain what the actual attraction is.

From the depths of his memory, as faint as a layer of dust on a long forgotten book, emerges a sense of familiarity. As well as the impression of warmth and soft fingers, of his mother’s laugh and her perfume. She has told him a similar riddle.

It is several minutes before Bensiabel recalls the answer to the riddle, and his process is hindered by the vague recollections of his mother and her stories. Eventually he returns the card to the basket and approaches the knight in front of the door to the right.

He clears his throat and hesitates, glancing quickly around the tent to make sure he is alone, feeling rather silly for conversing with a statue.

“If I asked him,” Bensiabel points to the knight to the left, “if his door leads me onward, would he say it does?”

The knight does not reply. There is silence in the tent, not even the sounds of the circus outside encroach on the sphinx-guarded temple.

Bensiabel is beginning to feel stupid and he watches the frozen knight. As he backs away a sound, like a soft thud, echoes through the knight’s metal body.

Glancing down Bensiabeal realizes a piece of heavy cardstock has appeared in the knight’s hand, the tip held between his fingers and his sword.

Bensiabel plucks the card from the knight’s fingers, backing away quickly, half-expecting the knight to reach forward and reclaim it. When he is a safe distance away he turns it over, reading the one-word answer Yes.

“Then the other one leads onward,” he says, but the words do not sound as sure spoken aloud as they did in his head.

Bensiabel approaches the second knight and, keeping a wide berth between himself and the knight, pushes through the heavy velvet curtain.

Beyond the curtain there is only darkness, blackness so consuming Bensiabel cannot tell the difference between his eyes being open or closed He reaches out and fumbles for some guidance, for a door or a wall or a light. He feels walls on either side of him, but he hesitates, unsure if he should continue or if he has wandered into some backstage area of the circus.

Just as Bensiabel has decided to turn back, and is navigating his way toward the direction he came, small pinpricks of light appear in the darkness above him, appearing like clusters of stars.

He continues onward, hands outstretch in front of him and to the sides, should he bump into something.

After some time he does hit something, a soft surface that he realizes after a moment is a curtain. He pushes through it, the velvet cascading around his shoulders as his eyes adjust to the light in the new space.

Bensiabel stands in a vestibule, lit by black candles and festooned with paper stars. The walls are black and there are two high backed chairs, throne-like and carved with a spray of stars inlaid with pearl.

There is another curtain opposite him, only a few steps away.

Bensiabel tentatively moves to this new curtains and pushes through, unsure of what to expect in the adjoining room.

The space is even smaller, though it houses a table and two chairs, one of which is occupied by a woman wearing a dark veil. The fortuneteller beckons Bensiabel forward and he hesitates in the doorway for only a second before stepping through, letting the curtain close behind him, the star pocketed passageway hidden.

The room is full of heady incense, dark and smoky, that makes him feel almost sleepy.

“Have a seat,” she says, her voice low and soft. She gestures to the chair across from her.

Bensiabel sits down. The chair reminds him of those in his mother’s room, though he has not sat in them in a year. They are not uncomfortable but he sinks deeply into the cushion, enough that he is not eye level with the fortuneteller.

“Good evening. I hope you have been enjoying the night,” she says when he is seated and still.

Bensiabel nods, then, feeling he should say more, continues, “I was here last night. I haven’t had the chance to see many tents though.”

The fortuneteller smiles. “Then I am honoured you chose to enter mine. What would you specifically like to know?”

“Um,” Bensiabel says. He mentally berates himself for saying something so stupid but the fortuneteller’s expression does not change. She waits patiently for him to speak. “Not really, I mean, no.”

The fortuneteller nods. “That is fine. I can read for you anyway.”

The fortuneteller produces, from under the tablecloth of cascading black brocade, a striped tote covered in black lace and ribbon. It is closed with a button, which she undoes and reaches not into the bag but into a hidden pocket in the silk lining. She glances up at Bensiabel and when she catches him staring, she smiles. “This deck was made specially for me, by someone very close to me. I always carry it with me.” She removes a deck of cards, longer than playing cards and decorated with a pattern of silver stars on black.

As the fortuneteller shuffles Bensiabel begins to notice some small details within the tent. The subtle change of the scent of incense, the increased warmth as though they are seated next to a roaring fire, the cards becoming a blur in the fortuneteller’s hands.

The fortuneteller spreads the deck of cards across the table, an array of starry silver. “Please pick a card. “

Fortunetelling seems incredibly simple to Bensiabel. He regards the deck of cards, not sure which one to choose. They look the same and nothing catches his eye.

He chooses a card in the middle, almost completely hidden beneath another card, its silver edge catching the light as Bensiabel tilts his head. He reaches for if tentatively, pausing with his hand over the arc of black cards.

“May I pick it up?” he asks, wondering if there are rules in this subject, like leaving one’s cards untouched until a dealer is done with a regular playing deck. But the fortuneteller nods and he turns it over.

On the card is a picture of many stars, in silver ink similar to that on the back of the card. A woman kneels next to a black ocean, holding two jugs tilted downward, as though pouring the water into the ocean and onto the shore beside her.

“This represents me?” Bensiabel asks, his voice comes out with much more doubt than he intended. He is not sure how he feels about fortunetelling. He has never met a member of the occupation before and has heard only superstitious gossip and his father’s own opinions.

“It is all hocus,” his father has said. “There is nothing trustworthy about a person who tells others what they want to hear or spouts nonsense and portents of doom or true love.”

But Bensiabel finds he is incontrovertibly curious, though he sees no resemblance between himself and the rendering on the card in his hand.

“It is a positive card. It means good will and hope, or it can mean discovery.”

The fortuneteller retrieves the remainder of the deck, gathering them into a neat pile to resume shuffling. Her hands move quickly over them once more as Bensiabel slowly places the card on the table near his elbow.

The fortuneteller flips the cards over, one by one, revealing detailed pictures of cups and swords in various numbers and settings. When she places the remainder of the deck on the table beside her she leans forward to regard the arrangement.

Bensiabel leans in to inspect the layout and the exhibition of strange drawings. There are cups and swords and magicians’ wands, a great many deal of stars, and some drawings of more mysterious things. There is a silver sun, blazing with moon-coloured fire; a crumbling tower surrounded by rubble, man hanging from a rope wrapped around his wrist, suspended amidst white clouds. The pictures are completely foreign to Bensiabel, who knows of no hanged men or towers.

Bensiabel wants to ask her what she is looking for, but he does not want to break her concentration. And he finds that the intimacy of the enclosure/space makes him shy.

“You are a very sensitive person. And there is some great weight you carry with you, losses and sorrow you are not ready to let go of.” She gently touches the cards closest to her, shifting them by degrees.

“You like to travel, though you have not traveled much. You are rarely content in one place, am I correct?” She looks up at Bensiabel for confirmation.

He nods and follows her gaze back to the cards.

Her not quite smile falters. “There is… confusion in your future. You are a part of something, something you do not understand, but I cannot see how it will play out.” She lays one card on top of another.

“Are you quite devoted to the circus?” she asks, her hands still on the cards, though they remain still, the pictures beneath her fingers looking almost alive in the undulating candle light.

Bensiabel has not considered it. He loves what he has seen of the circus so far, and he aches for it the moment he leaves. “I suppose so,” he answers.

“You have a job ahead of you,” the fortuneteller pronounces suddenly. She sounds profoundly hopeful, to Bensiabel.

“What sort of job?” he asks anxiously. He has always considered he would grow up and take over the vineyard, after perfecting his father’s craft. He has never even spoken of another occupation with his father, never discussed an education or job elsewhere, though the idea of “elsewhere” certainly appeals to him.

“The cards are tricky things. They can read much more than the future. They can see your memories, for they cling to you like cobwebs. But there is so much they cannot see, they are not for specifics, I generally find. And they are rarely as accurate as stars and shadows,” she adds, still regarding the cards with a look of concentration masking faint surprise. The hope in her countenance has faded.

“You can read shadows?” Bensiabel asks.

The fortuneteller nods, her attention still on the cards before her, her brow furrowed. “Shadows are more connected to a person, they are far more telling than the cards. The things a shadow could tell stay on a person like sugar on your fingers. But I can see some things that people don’t want me to see, so I refrain from doing it unless I am given express permission.”

“Can you see things in my shadow?”

The fortuneteller glances up, her eyes shifting over Bensiabel’s face.

“I could. But it is one thing to read your cards, another entirely to read your shadow. Your shadow is very personal, there are things both light and dark in your shadow.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you read my shadow,” Bensiabel offers. His piqued interest in the job she has mentioned outweighs his apprehension of what his shadow could reveal.

“Would you truly not?” She asks, giving him a sad smile. “There is a great loss, I can see that. And it is personal, painful. There is a great pain in loving so strongly. And one does not always wish to share that pain.”

Bensiabel feels very exposed, as though the fortuneteller can see through him as easily as seeing through glass. It is odd, to have his own secrets and desires disclosed to him.

The fortuneteller considers him silently for a moment and he expects her to speak but she remains wordless, the moment stretching on as she focuses on him.

Bensiabel shifts under her scrutinizing gaze, though she seems to be looking through him, rather than at him. Suddenly the intensity in her expression is tempered.  

“Ah,” she says, her voice and her eyes softening. “I am sorry you lost your mother.”

Bensiabel, caught off guard, does not immediately reply. “Thank you,” he responds quietly.

The fortuneteller returns her attention to the cards. She appears to be trying not to smile, as she gazes at the mismatched assortment of cups and swords before her. “It is not a bad job, do not worry about that. It will be revealed, though I cannot say it will happen very soon.”

“How soon?”

In the dim lighting her expression if difficult to discern but the secret-keeping smile she had is no longer concealed at all.

“I do not know, I am sorry. But do look forward to some new friends.”

Her last comment is a surprise to Bensiabel, who has always been distant with the friends he has. There are few people his own age who lived near enough to him that he sees them frequently, and they are just as busy attending school and working, too busy to grow very close.

The fortuneteller looks up. “That is all. It was a pleasure to read for you.”

Bensiabel rises slowly. “Thank you.”

The fortuneteller smiles and he scrapes back his chair, taking a step away from the table.

“I’m Bensiabel,” he says. “What is your name?”

“My name is Pamina,” she says, extending a hand encased in black velvet. Bensiabel takes it, shaking formally. The name does not sound quite right, like a word on a paper with a spelling error one cannot identify. Bensiabel is sure, when she smiles; it is not her real name.

Bensiabel lingers next to the table, unsure of why, his fingers itching. He puts a hand in his pocket and feels velvety softness in his fingers.

He presents her with the feather saved from the illusionist’s stage. “This belongs to the illusionist,” he says as he holds it in the palm of his hand, among the flickering candles. “Would you give it back to her?”

Pamina blinks, then laughs loudly. The candles around them flicker. She reaches forward and plucks the feather from Bensiabel’s hand.

“Yes,” she says, still laughing lightly. “I’m sure she’ll be very pleased to have it back. Thank you.”

Bensiabel nods and turns, walking to the exit of the tent, preparing himself for the dark tunnel beyond. Something nags at the back of his mind though.

Bensiabel stops and turns back to the fortuneteller, his hand suspended before the velvet curtain. “Could I learn to do that? To read the cards the way you do?”

Pamina considers the question. It would be a bad idea, a very bad idea to involve him. Yet he seems to care for the circus and though he is not special, she is quite sure he would make a match for any pawn of Tamino’s. It is also a way to keep watch, through Bensiabel’s eyes she can observe the circus and stay alert for any changes.

“Yes. Not now, but yes, you can.” She adds, almost as though speaking to herself, “You could learn to do many things.”

Bailey nods a goodbye and pushes against the fabric, encountering no darkness but instead an open intersection of paths between tents. He hesitates before stepping through, disappearing into the gossamer glow of the Moon Mirror.

Art by Lucie MacAulay

Text by Lucie MacAulay