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The Tarot Cards
Somewhere between the stony mountains of a distant and nameless land, a tale can be told. There are many adaptions of this old tale, too many to write here, yet they all have one thing in common - The ancient castle and the fair princess trapped inside it. However, I should start from the beginning rather than confusing you with old wifes tales or campfire horror stories. You see, our story is completely different. It is a tale of love in its purest form and innocence where innocence does not exist. But let us turn the page and proceed with the story.
Only the foolish would stop to drink at the marble fountain next to the ruined castle, but this man was just that. He didn't notice the way that the mist seemed to veil the castle or the shadows that fell oblique. Too many shadows, even now in full daylight. He did not notice the pale face in the window that briefly set eyes on him before disappearing into the impenetrable darkness once more.
Yet even if he had seen these signs, he wouldn't even have shivered, for he was a modern man of reason and he had been far too schooled to believe in anything but science and far too loved to fear. Therefore, the castle did not scare him.
Meanwhile, inside the dark, damp cellars of the castle, the princess as always laid out her tarot cards on the antique wooden table. The room was only lit up by a single green candle and it made already present shadows seem all the more ghastly as they moved and stirred, set in motion by the flickering candlelight.
Everything that the family who once built this castle had owned was stashed in this room, at least what remained of these possessions.
Beautiful hangings were ornamenting the brick walls and ceiling, yet they were frighteningly decayed and it could seem that they would shatter into a thousand pieces of dust if you touched them. Persian carpets were stacked or rolled together all over the room like cats that had served out their time as rat catchers long ago and now laid idly, collecting dust. Along the walls of the room, faded pictures were leaning against each other, each of them covered in such an amount of grime, that it was impossible to see what lay beneath it. A wide collection of statues, gracefully crafted porcelain and jewelry in any form one might dream of, was carelessly tossed and shattered all over the room.
However, if one was perceptive enough, and not many were, he might notice that there were no mirrors in the room, though their gilded frames stood gaping and empty.
The princess herself was a sight even more stunning that this collecting of treasures. She seemed utterly white and luminous, her waist-long raven hair becoming one with the darkness and her blue eyes blazing, yet never giving light.
She sighed with despair as she ceaselessly laid out her constellation of tarot cards. As always did she get the same cards - Death, the Lost Love and the Prison. You see, beauty was her prison. She was so beautiful that it is was unnatural. Her beauty was a sympthom of her disorder, an abnormality, a deformity, for she had none of those flattering little flaws that reconcile us as to the imperfection of the human condition.
The princess was perfect and what is perfect may never be touched, lest it should break. Therefore, she must never see the light of the sun or feel the touch of love as this was too much for her white skin to bear.
To see the princess, one must give his life. Some thought this to be too high a price, some did not.
At times the old blind and mute crone of a maid would bring the princess a guest. Some ignorant traveler, who so gullibly stopped to drink by the fountain. The princess longed for company, longed for the touch of a man’s hand. Yet once they saw her, they saw beauty in such a form that they knew they must die, as they could never again find anything that could match her in perfection. And so every man who ventured into the castle died and once more, the tarot cards would burn her in their horrible and unending truth. Death, the Lost Love and the Prison. Oh, why must it bring such agony!
To return to our story, the young traveler was still outside. He seemed the completely opposite of the castle in all its mystery. He was innocent, which gave him a strange immunity to the sensuous castle. Because truly, innocence is not the concept we create. A child cannot grasp innocence, nor can a monk who lives in chastity. Innocence is the complete freedom, innocence is the power to look around you and say "what the hell is this?"
He yawned, about to take his bicycle and leave. Though so young, he was rational, and what is a more natural way to transport yourself than a bicycle? To ride a bicycle is in itself some protest against the existance of the supernatural, since it is pure reason applied to motion. Two wheels and a stick, it was so simple. Beneficial to health and emits no harmful fumes whatsoever. How can a bicycle possibly be an implement of suffering?
Remember, one kiss woke up Sleeping Beauty in the woods.
The waxen fingers of the princess lay out the tarot cards once again. Never, never before has she cast herself a fate involving love. She shivers, she trembles, her eyes close beneath her finely veiled eyelids. She has for the first time in decades dealt herself a hand of love and death.
The young man didn't even flinch as he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, but calmly turned around and laid eyes upon an old, shriveled woman who seemed as dead as the castle itself.
He smiled at her, what was she doing up here a frail and... Ye gods! Blind old lady dressed in a maid’s garments! He must help this poor soul!
Before he could say anything, the lady motioned towards the castle. He hesitated, not certain what she meant. Impatiently she gestured again and took a limping step towards the towering stone door. Driven by a childish curiosity, but first and foremost a sense of responsibility towards the old lady, he followed her hastily.
As they entered the castle, he was startled to see that it was completely empty and appeared enormous in its ruined, unclean shape. The lady gestured for him to stop and as she walked on and he followed, she made yet another motion, biding him to wait. Soon she was out of sight, disappeared into one of the countless rooms that seemed a maze to him. Why had he let her go? He thought, scolding himself bitterly. What if she trips in this place that is only inhabited by spiders and the shadows of the past?
But he soon found that his worry had been uncalled for, the old lady had returned. She curtsied politely and then made a series of gestures, that he finally gathered were meant to mean that she would have him drink tea with some ruler of this house. A feeling told him that this was a great honour, and so he followed her politely down a long, croaked stair and through an iron door where she left him standing in a narrow room. What an odd place! Perhaps he had misinterpreted her soundless language? He was just thinking to go look for the lady as a soft, singing voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere stopped him.
"My guest..." said the voice, leaving behind it a deep echo. "Do come in, it has been so long since someone visited me, I must confess that I long for company". The iron door in front of him pushed open, moved by some unseen force that seemed to be completely natural to this castle, not something to be feared.
He entered the room, his gaze immediately resting upon the princess. Here, the desire of any other man would have been his death, but this young man was shielded from lust and he did not see the dazzling beauty before him, but merely a poor young creature alone in the darkness. Ah, she must be the result of some inbreed, her bones too frail and her eyes too big and embellished for her thin face. How long was it since she had seen sunlight? She was as pale as a corpse might be. He walked to her and passed her a friendly smile, the princess looked up at him with obvious surprise, the expression on her face like that of a puppet master when his puppets suddenly break free of their bonds and start dancing by themselves.
His eyes suddenly caught the tarot cards laying on the table. Such horrible pictures! What manner of person would buy her these grotesque toys? He quickly replaced a card with a picture of an ancient, cloaked skeleton with a beautiful one of two lovers embracing each other tenderly. As he once more turned to the delicate princess, she finally spoke. "Welcome," she said, her voice dancing with sonorities. "Welcome to my castle. I rarely receive visitors and it is such a shame since nothing animates my heart as much as the company of a stranger. This place is so lonely and my one companion, she cannot speak. Often it is so silent that I think that I, too, will forget how to use my voice and nobody here will ever utter a word again."
She offered him sugar biscuits and he took them, thankfully. She is like a doll, he though, or more like an ingenious clockwork. She seemed empowered by some dreary energy of which she was not in control.
"And the light... I must apologise for the lack of it. I must have darkness, it is a hereditary illness that infects the eyes."
He nodded. This confirmed his theory of that poor, inbred concubine. Her melancholy gaze eyed his face.
He was so very beautiful, just like the dazzling sun that she was not allowed to set eyes upon because it shrivel her like a butcher's knife. Poor bird. Poor little night bird.
Suddenly she dropped her cup. The mechanism in her had failed, the ritual was ruined. But oh! There was no room in her lair for drama or improvisation and the unexpected sound of shattering glass broke her spell. She stared blindly down at the splinters, what is she to do now? And as she knelt down to collect the splinters, she cut herself. Never has she seen her own blood before and it produces a melancholy awe in her. Into this vile and folly room, the young bicyclist rushed and brought out the basic remedies of nursery. He gently grasped her hand and dapped the cut with his handkerchief. Silver tears poured from her eyes, how can she endure the pain of becoming human?
He was awakened the next morning by the sound of larksong. The shutters and windows were all opened and sunlight shone in. He noticed a figure laying sprawled on the floor. It was the princess, and she was not sleeping. In death she looked older, less beautiful and thus, for the first time, fully human.
I will vanish with the light of day, I was but an invention of darkness. I leave you to this dark, thorny rose that I plucked from my heart. It is a flower laid on a grave. A flower laid on my grave.
The young man soon left the castle, but when he returned to the city, he found the rose tucked into his pocket.
The rose never withers, or so they say. It will always stand strong and baleful in all its splendour.