Bohemians of Sesqua Valley (3 page)

The outsider returned with a thick briefcase in his hand and excitement dancing in his eyes. Leonidas smiled at him and motioned that Stanley should follow him, and then led him to an alcove that was dimly lit. The elder creature’s pallid hands reached for a teakwood box, which he placed onto a stand. “I’ll leave you to your business, Mr. Kaplan; but do remember that this deck is old and very rare.”

“Absolutely. I have a special camera with which I’ll photograph each card, and I’m quite adept at making copies of cardstock with pen and ink, to capture intricacies that won’t be captured on film. It’s time consuming…”

“The upper portion of this building serves as a bed-and-breakfast establishment, and I’ll happily supply you with a room at no cost, for as long as you need to work. Would that be easier than taking the cards with you to the city? You could combine work with a holiday of sorts. You’ll find the valley restful, for a few days at least.”

“That would be fantastic! I was going to try and find a motel or something, but if I could stay here, it would make everything so much easier. But I can pay you.”

“Not at all. Mrs. Rudson will charge you for meals, that is all. Her cooking is superb. Shall I show you a room? Can you contain your obvious curiosity concerning the cards?”

And so Stanley followed the old one to the upper portion of the ancient building, to a room that was simply furnished. Although he wouldn’t be taking the cards out of Sesqua Valley as was his original hope, he wanted still to encase them in protective sleeves. When, at last, he was alone, he sat on the bed and donned curator’s gloves, then reached for the teakwood box, which he carefully opened. Reaching into it, he took out the bundle of cards that had been wrapped in a piece of black silk, using the silk to bear the weight of the deck evenly in his hands. The clean scent of cedar assailed his nostrils as he drew apart the fabric’s folds, which revealed the reddish edge-worn leaves of the cards.

From some distant place in the valley, a beast wailed. One by one, he placed all of the cards onto the bed, wondering at the texture of the stock on which they had been printed, which felt queer to the touch. All of the cards were before him, and yet he could not quite make out their design because his eyesight became blurred as a sensation of deep-rooted pounding emerged from some place beneath the mansion. Removing a handkerchief, he wiped his eyes and then dabbed at the moisture on his forehead. Was he coming down with some sudden disease?

Taking up a pen and blank notebook, Stanley began to try and copy one of the cards, and as he peered at the card its image became absolutely clear. He gasped at the intricacy of the design. To reproduce such designs was a portion of work at which he was quite skilled, and he adored exploring every aspect of the card that he was replicating. He worked until his eyes grew heavy, and when at last he set down his head and shut his eyes, visions of the Yellow Deck drifted in his dreaming.

III

For two days Stanley Kaplan kept to his room, working as in a fever on his reproduction of the Yellow Deck. He made three sets of photographic reproductions with his highly-technical camera, but now he was doing what he loved best, filling a notebook with an artistic representation of each card in his own hand. On this third day he felt the need for air and scenery, and so he placed his notebook, pens and the deck into a hefty knapsack and walked into the morning air. Used as he was to the dim light of his room, the light of Sesqua Valley was bright upon his eyes. Oddly, when he shut those eyes so as to rub his hand over them, images from the Yellow Deck floated before him as sentient symbols, emblems that danced provocatively. He could almost taste the scent that faintly exuded from the cards, the smell that daintily mingled with the valley’s cloying fragrance.

He opened his eyes and looked at the nearby mountain, that twin-peaked titan of sparkling white stone. Its image had been used on the Magician card, whereon the artist had imbued the mass of stone with a weird kind of—consciousness—that was the only word that came to mind. And as he kept his eyes on the mountain, Stanley had the strangest sense that it was observing him. He had certainly been spending too much time cooped up in that room. His mind was undoubtedly playing tricks apropos of the Magician. He moved on, cheered by the droll connection, down the wooden sidewalk of Sesqua Town’s quaint business area. Entering a small café, he sat and ordered coffee and scones. From his knapsack he took out his notebook and the Fool card, on which he was working.

“Wow, is that the Yellow Deck?”

Stanley looked up at the young man who wore an astonished expression on his strange face. “It is.”

“Damn! How the hell did you get it out of Creighton’s clutches?”

“I’m merely examining it while I am staying in town. I work for an outfit that reproduces rare Tarot decks. This is quite a find.”

“It is,” the lad responded as he sat, uninvited, across from the outsider. The elder man noticed the boy’s silver eyes and facial features resembled Simon’s, although they were not nearly as grotesque.

“Have you an interest in Tarot?”

“Not really. I’m an artist, and I saw your notebook and had a hunch that you drew. You’re drawing the deck?”

“A pictorial reproduction, yes.”

The young man studied Stanley’s reproduction of the card. “Not very flattering, to give the Fool your face.”

Wrinkling his face in confusion, Stanley glanced at the page of his notebook and was astonished to find that his rendition did indeed resemble himself. “How curious. It was not deliberate.” He looked up at the boy and laughed uneasily.

“But it’s true to the card, really. You see, the figure there resembles you as well. You were just being accurate. Kind of amusing that you didn’t notice the resemblance.” And he laughed as well, lightly. “So, you’ve examined all of the cards?”

“Oh yes, many times. I’m puzzled that there is nothing that names the artist. It must have been some local person, I should think.”

The boy was silent for some few moments, and then he smiled broadly. “Say, if you’re not doing anything later this evening, some few of us local artists are meeting here for a little social thing. They’d be fascinated with your project, and may even have some clues about the origin of the Yellow Deck. How long will you be in Sesqua?”

“For a few days more, I think. It’s quite relaxing. Yes, I’d enjoy meeting local art folk. At what time?”

“When darkness falls.” Then the boy rose, winked at Stanley and was gone.

Finishing his coffee, Stanley packed his things and returned outdoors. As a child he had loved following trails through woods, and so he decided to enter the woodland and see where any path would lead him. He walked a ways, until coming to a place where stood a mammoth boulder taller than him, and a tree next to it whose bark was of a dark purple hue. He touched a hand to the chilly bark and the places where small protuberances pushed outward, shapes that resembled some kind of runic alphabet. Oddly, the symbols were not of artificial substance; rather, they were a natural part of the tree’s trunk, part of the living thing. He was, of course, familiar with the ancient Germanic alphabet, and with traditions of carving such symbols on rock and wands of wood; but this was something different and inexplicable.

Stanley kept his hand on the tree as shadows around him darkened. Beneath his feet he sensed a kind of rhythmic beating, as if he stood upon the place of a behemoth’s neck where pulsed a monstrous vein. A faint mauve mist began to gather at the place where his hand still pressed against the tree, a mist that coiled around his hand. Seized by sudden panic, Stanley pushed away from the thing and fled the place. His sense of direction became confused and he knew not where he was rushing to, in what direction he was headed. The silence of the woods seemed unnatural, a hush that accentuated his frantic painting.

At last he came to a clearing, but it was not the place he hoped it would be. Before him was a small lake, and on the other side of the water was a sight that seemed familiar. He gazed at the two-story cabin of yellow wood, at the three totems that slanted before it. And then it came to him. Reaching into his knapsack, he took out his notebook and rifled through its leaves until he came to his depiction of the Yellow Deck’s rendition of the Three of Wands. Yes, the card depicted this very scene, the cabin and the queer totems.

Stanley watched as the water of the lake began to ripple. Something white and shapeless subtly emerged in the middle of the body of water. Stanley intuited that what he was watching was but the smallest portion of a monstrous thing. The sun must have been affecting his sight, for he imagined that he could make out multiple eyes forming and vanishing on the protoplasmic surface. Then another form surfaced next to it, something lean and black that swam toward the totems and crawled out of the water. Was it a malformed wolf? He watched as the beast approached one of the totems and then expanded with shape-shifting. The paw that had stretched so as to touch the totem became an ebony human hand. At last she stood, proud and erect, a beauteous black woman with long red hair, superbly nude. She stalked toward the cabin and entered into it. Gradually, the soft sound of singing caught his attention and beguiled him. Stanley walked around the lake and toward the cabin, stopping so as to be able to peer through the doorway. He saw that the woman had quickly dressed and was sitting at what looked to be an antique spinning wheel.

“You may enter if you wish.”

Like one caught in a spell of enchantment, Stanley moved to the doorway and crossed its threshold, creeping into a cluttered room. “I’m sorry to intrude, miss. I seem to have lost my way.”

She turned her beauteous face to his but did not smile. He took in the luster of her amber eyes. “You’re not in town for Old Twelfth?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Twelfth Night?”

“Um…”

“The time when that that is is not. No?”

“I’m sorry, no. I’m here on a project concerning the Yellow Deck.” Was it his imagination, or did her eyes darken? “I work for a company that replicates rare Tarot decks.”

She smiled at last, the sight of which disconcerted him, and rose from her spinning wheel. “Aha. I doubt you’ll be allowed to see it.”

“I have it with me, on loan.” He reached into his pack and took out the deck wrapped in its silken cloth. “Mr. Creighton has allowed me to borrow it so that I can make my copy. I’ve already photographed each card, and now I’m in the process of drawing pen and ink replications. Naturally, I was fascinated to find your habitat here beside the lake. It corresponds with the Three of Wands.”

“Have you given yourself a reading?”

“Not yet. I’ve been too fascinated studying and copying the cards. They cast quite an enchantment!”

The woman took the deck from him, unwrapped the silk cloth and dropped it to the floor, on which she sat, motioning for Stanley to do likewise. Frowning, she looked at the deck of cards, which were face down. Stanley studied the design on the back of the topmost card, a pattern that vaguely unsettled him. He watched the woman shuffle the cards, then take one and set it away from them.

“Why did you do that? I’ve never seen that before.”

“One card unturned,” the woman solemnly replied.

“Ah yes—the notebook mentioned something about that. One isn’t supposed to look at all of the cards. To do so spells doom.”

“Just so. And what is this notebook?”

“It’s a record of one woman’s investigation of the Sesqua deck. I don’t think she actually studied it, although I think she meant to. She misspells the valley’s name in her notes, but it is spelled correctly on the three maps that accompany her account.”

“That is how you found us.”

“It is. The maps all seem the work of different hands, so I think Miss Steelwood meant to visit this region. It was long ago, and I couldn’t find any record of her coming here. The record ends rather abruptly.”

“You have her notebook with you.”

“I’ve donated it to the Sesqua collection at the antique shop.”

The woman shut her eyes and there was a long moment of silence. “That was generous of you. But then, it was the Yellow Deck with which you were intrigued.”

“Obsessed. In all my professional life, I’ve never come across anything like it.”

“Yes, it is unique. Touch the deck…” She paused and gazed at him inquiringly.

“Stanley Kaplan.”

“Touch the Yellow Deck, Stanley Kaplan.” How carefully she enunciated his name. “Have you looked at the entire deck?”

“Yes, of course. The first thing I did was to spread all of the cards on the bed and study the entire set. To feel its ambiance. To soak it in.”

She peered at him for some moments. “So that is what I discern there, in your eyes.” She then reached for the card that had been set aside and returned it to the deck, which she then wrapped within its black cloth.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t need to read the cards to know your fate. You are doomed. Come, I’ll show you the way to town. I need to venture there myself.”

She rose from the floor and vacated the cabin without waiting for him to follow her. Dropping the deck into his sack, he got to his feet and rushed after her. The woman kept her silence as she led the way along a woodland path. Stanley followed her in silence until they came upon a magnificent thing, a round tower of red brick that drew his complete attention. Stanley whistled and went to investigate the arched opening of the edifice, touching his hand to some of the symbols that had been embossed upon some of the bricks. They were similar to those he had seen on the bark of the queer purple tree.