Laying down the cards

The new year brought on the dogs; not a favorite cycle for most cats. Corn loved the Year of the Dog.

"Are you back now?" Corn purred softly.The veil and the masks between the worlds set themselves on pegs as the cat waited for Ambriana to wake. Dreams were her favorite mode freeing her from choosing and second-guessing. The boots leaned against the bed as the young woman focused.

"Would have liked to stay put and clean things up once and for all." Corn knew that voice of resignation. The face and body was someone else's. She had stayed put too long and now the cards would have no pull on her. The future was not hers. The story was older than the girl.

"Did you sip a bit of Milk Thistle before?" Corn was hopeful.

"No. I didn't think to support the liver. Is it ... is it too late for that now?" She knew the answer to that. Corn was mostly mist now.

The story was older than the girl and its threads were pulling up the corners of her toes cobs wrapping them in expert webs. No need to go further with the ramble the Year of the Dog will never know the rest of this tale. For now it is enough to have begun to understand not all stories are yours.

"Perhaps another game, another deck of cards printed in floppy left-handed script will come to write itself a fresh chapter." A giant web dangled like suspended scaffolding on a thread the of charcoal silk.

"Perhaps." Corn the ancient cat climbed on the back of God's Dog and headed toward the smell of crispy bacon.

Ten of Clubs

Transformations are never easeful. That is, sliding or slipping from one form to another is multi-faceted. An acorn transforms from armor encasement into a classic oak when it is a lucky year: squirrels haven't eaten it, and the ground into which the nut is harbored fits well with the temperatures the whims of burrowing pigs and the shovels of cultivating humans. All in total, the oak's transformation is miraculous.

So too is the transformations humans go through. Not easeful, or easy but one gets used to the ride with practice and acceptance. Bri settled back onto the patchwork pillows, the daytime dreaming began quickly accompanied by the voices of the small lows and deep clicking from the ravens. There were some with talents for reading the past on people, like the boy named Widget in The Night Circus. He was a favorite character, so deftly rendered.

I could love a boy like him, said Corn on more than one occasion. Well, yes but we won't do there and distract this already wandering tale. It is enough to say that along with the vials of medicine plants, Ambriana's shelves contains stories, books, and recordings of voices she loved.

Removing the black leather lace-ups was a ritual for remembering who and what the girl witch was meant to explore. Deviation, the hunt for lust, though not uncommon in many stories was something this girl had very little room for. Like the sadness of addiction to alcohol or mind-bending chemicals lust was a potent element, a saddle on the wild horse best left for other riders.

Specks of history tends to get caught in the laces hidden between the eyelets. Small sharp raven beaks were perfect tools for that purpose. The work was enjoyable, a task made available to choice corbae. The boot ravens knew theirs was a caretaker role and they were well pleased at their assignment.

And what of the small calves? Simple enough to answer really. While the girl-woman disconnected from the leather and laces, it was the calves who buffed off any clinging memories not meant for Bri. If the future, the potentiality was to be given proper 'soil' like the acorn in the ground, the young and small calves must be given time to do their work.

Would the man Lane Baker find a place in this story? The dreams made way. Soft pink voile floated off of bronze rods in front of an open window. The smell of vanilla and hot apple pie soothed her. Her stomach rumbled. The girl nestled deeper into the feel of the familiar stitches. Her patchwork pillows comforted. The sound of a chocolate maker's theme sound circled her lips. She felt kissed a good one.

Funny how wild dreams can get.

Then?

Nine of diamonds

Always, ha. That is a very big request. But, yes, always remove the left one before the right. The tradition was as long as the snot trails blown from Raven's considerable nostrils. Ambriana took her time undoing the laces binding old leather the color of the Trickster's inky self. The transformation was swift once the left boot was heeled off.

" Oh how lovely is the curiosity waiting for the first and then the next clue. Where is the cloth, girlie of the boot? Bring on the smell of honey bees and waxy memories, we clamber for the next bit ..." The voices of the leather-bound Lace People were somewhere between the deep low of cattle and the chortle of Ravens when playing. Not easy to imagine if the ears hearing had not known either, but, Bri was a girl familiar with both. She laughed her own deep low and chortle in response to the miniature line up of Nine Lace People. They headed straight for the tin laid in Ambriana's generous lap, and without much deliberation, there was no need for that after all. They knew just what needed doing and knew as well, there wasn't much time to dally.

Tiny calf creatures no larger than thumbs on a girl surrounded the shoe box size tin and pushed up the lid from all sides. The smell of beeswax rose like bread rising in a warm kitchen. Ahhhh ... woman and lace people were in chorus.

Ambriana smiled and continued with her part of the ritual: she started to undo the laces from the right boot while the Nine Lace People waited and inhaled, waited and inhaled. Three of the taupe shaded calves carefully laid the tin's lid onto one of the brightly patched cases covering a wall of pillows lining Ambriana's bed. They lingered only briefly, the tiny calves chatting among themselves as they took in the sight of the colorful cat eyed glass doors where plant medicine hummed with music as old as sound itself. And just what would tiny calf people talk about? Well what would you and your chums speak of if you only had the opportunity when the Black Leather Lace-ups were undone?

Ponder that for awhile.

The right boot required more attention once unlaced. There was no left boot to push on the heel, and her lace stocked foot was reserved for finer acrobatics. Bri reached down without crushing the Lace People and pulled the boot free.

"Wheww .... click, cluck, gallump ... cluck." In exactly the same number as tiny calves from the left, a flock of perfectly imperfect and irreverent miniature Ravens unfolded from the tongue of the right boot. On their foreheads between marble smooth black eyes was a red diamond ... a fine and truly red gem. It matched the smooth red diamond on the calves though on the beasties the shape was a pattern of hide .

Her work done for the time being, Ambriana stretched her feet and toes as eighteen pieces of magic went about the cleaning of boots with soft muslin saturated with beeswax.

A bit more, here.

Eight of Spades

Bri found a parking space in the lot across the street, stepped on the manual brake and undid her seat belt.

I won't be coming with you, but the bacon ...

"The bacon'll be crispy. I know." Bri slid from her seat and headed for the back of the van where a sliding door opened to her home. Shelves filled with large amber bottles and small vial glass jars labeled with their contents lined one side of the the wall upon entering. These were the tinctures, the plant medicines arranged in her own sort of alphabetical order, like her floppy script. She kept just a few of the most necessary: St. Joan's Wort for managing the heat, soothing aches, and keeping viruses in check; Mother Wort for heart strength and heart ache; Echinacea for colds and infection; Yarrow flower tips for soothing sore throats and calming inflammation especially in the mouth; Sweet Violet in an oil of the olive of course for keeping her channels clear so she would always hear the trees. It was the Violet that originally spoke to Ambriana when the experts were giving her guardian the diagnosis -- tinnitus. "Ringing in the ears so loud she becomes addled ..." But really it was the conversation of the Trees wanting access to the tiny girl. Ambriana knew she would always be as tall as they.

The adjoining wall was shelved with intricately patterned colored glass doors -- kaleidoscopes of shapes that changed dependent upon the young witch's temperament. Folded lengths and scraps of cloth, old cloth of natural fibers, cloth as old and older than the step van itself filled the cubby holes. Each length of fabric was layered with a gauze of paper so thin it could have been spider's silk. Well, in fact, it was the silk of very particular spiders who fed on the musk or dust mites that would set off the young Ambriana's allergies. There was a ritual of cleaning both the spider silk and the old cloth. In four nights the dark moon would require the month ceremony, the cleaning.

Only one cubby contained a thin metal box of soft muslin at the bottom of the shelving. These scraps were for cleaning and caring for the black leather lace-up boots. The young woman sat on her bed, pulled the box of muslin onto her lap. It was a small flat tin box the size of a shoe box.

"Clean the boots before you climb down," Ambriana repeated the instructions to herself. She had heard it many times in her life and when she finished the simple mantra Bri untied the laces on the black boots and slipped them off in turn starting with the left one.


The 1956 van was originally a bakery van. When bread was delivered fresh and long johns were still filled with real custard Wila B. was a tiny girl of eight with a delight for making sweets. The girl was small for her age but that made her passion for baking that much grander. Wila's daddy Ambrose Bolinas was a baker and the van was an investment in a dream. "This is big magic," he told his only daughter. "To see our sweet bread and long johns going out into the early morning darkness, just like the milk man. It's a beautiful thing, Sweet Patootie. Something special. 5 cents for long john, 10 cents for hand-size poa doce. We not going get rich, but we going make plenty people happy."

If Wila Bolinas's mother had lived she would have corrected her beloved Ambrose for she knew between them, the pair would become rich beyond her husband's wildest dream. The small and beautiful cubby holes of kaleidescopic glass would watch those things she could not see in person. They were the eyes of cats long the friends and familiars of women who delighted in making life sweet.

"I am not solid, but I am not gone."

Seven of hearts

It makes some sense, not a lot but a bit, the argument was an old one the kind two people who have a long history rewind. Corn was a very old witch's cat, a Familiar. His side of the argument niggled at Bri.

"How often do I really get to just play at being in love? It isn't as if I'd hurt the man much. He's been around is savvy about lots of things ... life seems easy for him. Give me that," Ambriana Chu only looked twenty one years old when she wasn't in high octave argumentative. As the step van climbed the bridge to West Seattle the amazon behind the wheel was the accumulated legacy of women and witches. She was messing with relationships. Yes, she was young, but things add up. Too many past lives heated up in the name of lust. Playing with love Corn said this to himself deliberate in his parry.

Not a proper use of your juice Ambriana. This debate straddled the edge of soul development. It mattered to the Familiar this outcome. He was entrusted with not just the girl. Corn Silk was the guardian of those black leather lace-ups and that was big. From the warmth of his carrier his turquoise blue eyes glazed over when he thought of the women before Ambriana who grew up in those boots. The love and the heart break they inflicted and the equivalent breakage they endured. Corn felt a hair ball creating chaos in his gullet. Like owl pellets the furry wad projected. Spitting out the remnant white yellow ball, he said as gently as an old grandfather Slow down enough to clean them boots before you climb down, girl. If nothing else the cat's sideways caution made Bri disengage from the energy she knew was more than her own. She exhaled and eased up on the gas as she came to the red light.

"Okay, but I really do like the way he makes me feel. Like I'm made for being with him for adventures and education. I could use some wise company. No offense. Your wisdom is unquestionable it's just the human sort that is uncommon in my generation. Lane Baker is interesting." Bri felt the rumble inside her burble. It was pancake hunger with attitude.

Lane Baker is complicated, and, he is still in love with his ex-wife!

Six of Clubs

Battered Beats held the record for tasty breakfasts that didn't break you. For less than ten dollars two eggs pancakes served with real maple syrup and a cup of coffee could keep a girl fed well into the night. Ambriana Chu filled her black leather lace-ups with the curvy body of her Poly roots. "If I didn't start drinking coffee, I'd be seven feet tall." It was a joke that sat well with her friends who marveled at the bronze-skinned goddess who never drank alcohol, could keep drinking coffee for dinner and be snoring before her room mate Katy finished brushing her teeth. It was Katy who knew all about Battered Beats. Born and raised not far from the music and eats place, Katy worked the cafe side waiting tables five mornings a week. At sixteen Katy Collins started washing dishes on the weekends. It was this kind of work ethic and a facility to pick up on the nuances of energy left when she handled dirty dishes that gave the pert red-head her first clues about Bri.

The women were nearly the same age, twenty-one, born a month apart they couldn't have been less alike in physical appearance. Ambriana Chu was nearly seven feet tall, "Six feet six inches." Always ready with the specifics it was Katy who wasn't shy about asking for heritage. But that sort of conversation didn't happen right away. It's just that an amazon wasn't easy to miss even when you're in the back room doing dishes. If she was in the mood for elevation Katy stood a mighty five feet and three inches. Freckles spattered her creme and roses sort of complexion making her elfin innards glow. From her angle and with her feet anchored in those black leather lace-ups Bri saw the light shining like a crystal out the top of her soon-to-be-best girl friend's red haired head.

"I like the six because you can divide them in three pairs or set the triangles on their tips for a balance if you're keen." It was the first long sentence Katy Collins spoke while she bused the bin of dishes behind the table where Bri finished her last pancake swimming in real maple syrup. Ambriana had a deck of cards spread into a game of Solitaire. She didn't own an iphone then and would always prefer the feel of a real deck of cards to the virtual.

"I'm partial to Clubs" Katy said almost under her breath.
"I prefer the reds, Diamonds in particular. My name's Ambriana, my friends call me Bri."
Katy set the big plastic bin filled with breakfast dishes down, wiped her hands on her apron, extending her left-hand, "Katy Collins. Everyone calls me Katy Collins." They laughed, Bri sputtered pancake out her nose as she reached with her left hand as well. That sealed the deal right there. Fast friends with a love of the six.

Five of Diamonds

5 of Diamonds Happiness and success. A change for the better. A birth, or good news for a child. A good time to start new projects.- Fortune Telling Playing Cards

The van was painted brilliant yellow. An enamel finish specially mixed with properties of chemistry and alchemy, the former food truck shone with its own glow of sunshine and was home to a Traveller and storyteller. Stencils of the five of diamonds playing card danced across the hood and sides of the twenty foot step van. It was a gift, the van that is, for the storyteller's seventieth birthday. In all there were fourteen cards.

"Only one of them leads to the treasure," the welder and creator confided when he placed the keys to the ignition and gas tank in the storyteller's palm. The keys dangled from an old fishing lure, his lucky lure sans the sharp barbed hook. He was talking about the lay of the cards and the puzzle all but invisible to the unseasoned.

"You are the teller of old stories, stories that the young will understand before the Old Cousins. One of these cards will turn up a particularly luminous child. Pay close attention to any children you meet along the way." That would not be difficult as the new owner of the van was keen on children with especially soft spots for children that could hear in color.

The Five of Diamonds Van as it became known withstood decades of wear, nearly 70,000 miles of road travel still vibrant as Summer Solstice noon and only once in all those years did a young child, a little girl, listen with ears that could hear in color.


The story continues.