Eyes of the Tarot Page 11

  She wanted to turn and run, but she could not, could not move.

  She had found the cards.

  They were on the walls of Madame LePanto’s bedroom.

  So was Madame LePanto.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bonnie closed her eyes, hoping the horror would be gone when she opened them.

  It was not.

  Madame LePanto, like the cards, was pressed against the wall. Or pulled. All the loose fabric on her dress was plastered flat against the dark floral wallpaper. Her eyes were wide and staring, her arms splayed grotesquely out to her sides. Her feet were several inches off the floor. Her hair stood out around her head, a silvery umbra held tight to the wall. Her bracelets were crushed, the metal molded to her forearms by the incredible force that was holding her.

  Scratched into the wallpaper below her right hand were a line and a cross. They were stained with blood. The blood came from Madame LePanto’s finger, which was torn and bleeding from the effort of making the marks.

  Bonnie wanted desperately to scream, but couldn’t. Her mouth had gone so dry it felt as if it were filled with cotton and cracker crumbs. Her throat was sealed shut, and her lips refused to move.

  Driven by a ghastly fascination, she crossed the room to Madame LePanto.

  Vacant eyes stared down at her.

  Bonnie reached out and touched the woman’s arm. As if the action had broken a circuit, the cards fluttered to the floor. At the same time Madame LePanto’s body pitched forward, falling directly toward Bonnie.

  Then Bonnie did scream, as the horror of the situation tightened her stomach and set her heart pounding so hard it felt as if it were trying to escape from her body. Yet at the same time instinct took over, and she held out her arms to catch the old woman.

  Her body was surprisingly light.

  It was also still warm.

  Weeping now, Bonnie dragged Madame LePanto’s body to the bed and stretched her out on the worn quilt that covered it. Then she pressed her ear to the old woman’s chest.

  No heartbeat. No breath.

  Bonnie was trembling with horror, and fear.

  She glanced down at the body. The staring eyes were too awful. Timidly, Bonnie reached out to close them. She touched the eyelids, then withdrew her hand with a shudder. Steeling herself, she reached out again, and managed to press the eyelids closed.

  Slowly, they opened again. As they did, she heard Madame LePanto whisper, “Bonnie, help me.”

  The hair on Bonnie’s neck bristled. Though the words were clear and distinct, Madame LePanto’s lips had not moved.

  So where had the words come from?

  She began to back away from the bed.

  “Bonnie, don’t go! I need you.”

  The voice sounded distant. And desperate. But she had no doubt that it was real.

  “Madame LePanto! Where are you?”

  “Bonnie!”

  “I’m here!” she cried desperately. “Where are you?”

  “Gone…” The voice seemed to be fading.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Bonnie, take the book…”

  She no longer had any doubt. The voice was fading.

  “The book… take the book!”

  “What book? Madame LePanto, where are you? How can I help you?

  “Oh! Oh! Please, don’t!”

  This last cry was one of terrible fear. And it was directed not at Bonnie, but at someone or something else.

  Casting aside her fear, Bonnie took the old woman by the shoulders and began to call her name.

  It was no use. She was gone. The body was limp and still. But her face had changed, twisting into a mask of fear.

  Trembling, Bonnie pulled the quilt over Madame LePanto. Somewhere the woman was still alive.

  Alive, but in mortal danger.

  And Bonnie had to bring her back.

  She felt crushed by guilt. First Alan, and now Madame LePanto were suffering because of events she had set in motion.

  She had to help the old woman, had to make up for the problems she had caused.

  But how?

  The book. Madame LePanto had said to take the book.

  She looked around. There it was! She had been so intent on the cards and Madame LePanto that she had not seen it before. It lay on the floor right by the wall, as if it had fallen down like the cards. The Tarot in History and Legend said the spine.

  Was the answer in here?

  “Bonnie!” She spun around. But this call had not come from Madame LePanto. It was the voice of the Fool.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Never mind that. Just take the cards and go. Now!”

  Bonnie began to gather the cards. Suddenly she was surrounded by noises—a whine, like the sound of an electric motor winding up; then a rumble, deep and distant, but growing closer. She could feel a sudden increase of power in the room.

  “Go!” cried the Fool. “Now!”

  The closet door flew open. A rush of foul wind swept through the room, accompanied by a terrible scream, the cry of a lost soul.

  Scooping up the rest of the cards, Bonnie snatched the book and hurtled out of the room. In the parlor the chair was sliding across the floor again. A lamp, sailing through the air, just missed her head.

  “Run!”

  She raced for the front door, which she had left open when she entered the cottage.

  It slammed shut just as she reached it.

  “Let me out!” she screamed. “Let me out!”

  The door opened, then slammed shut once more. It began to flap back and forth, opening, slamming, opening, slamming. The force was horrendous. Bonnie hesitated. She had to get through, had to get out. Watching, she timed herself. The door flew open. Now! She jumped through. The door smashed against her, knocking her off the porch. She sprawled in the dirt at the foot of the steps. The cards had fallen from her hands. She scrabbled in the dirt, gathered them up, and ran.

  #

  When she finally reached her room, Bonnie flung herself across her bed, where she began to sob with terror and fatigue. She had run the entire distance from Madame LePanto’s, farther than she had ever run in her life. Her lungs still burned, and her side felt as if someone were pounding on it with a hammer.

  The cards and the book lay on the bed beside her.

  She had to have help, someone to talk to.

  But who? Bonnie suddenly felt how vulnerable she was now that the old woman was gone. Madame LePanto had been a shield between Bonnie and the dark forces she had unleashed. Now, with Madame LePanto trapped in whatever limbo she had been taken to, Bonnie felt naked and unprotected.

  Alan. She would talk to Alan. At least he would believe her. He had known, even before she did, that there was something sinister about the cards. She should have listened to him when he told her to get rid of them.

  She got up from her bed and went to the bathroom, where she splashed cold water over her face. Moving slowly, taking deep breaths to calm herself, she stripped and stepped into the shower. The warm water relaxed her throbbing muscles. She wished her mother was home, out in the kitchen, fixing a meal, making the house feel safe and warm.

  But at least she was here herself now, away from the cottage. She was home, and it was safe.

  She hoped.

  #

  Half an hour later she called Alan’s house.

  “Mrs. Peterson? Hi, this is Bonnie. Is Alan home from the hospital yet?” She smiled. “Oh, that’s good. Would you mind if I came over to see him? Mom kept me home from school today and—okay, thanks. I’ll be right over.”

  After putting the book and the cards into her backpack, Bonnie hopped on her bike and headed for Alan’s.

  Mrs. Peterson greeted her at the door. “I’m glad you could come over, Bonnie. The doctor said they were able to make a perfect set, and his leg will be fine when it heals. But he’s terribly upset. It will be good for him to see you.”

  Bonnie felt another stab of guilt. Would it rea
lly be good for him to see her? She wasn’t at all certain.

  Mrs. Peterson was still talking. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to run out to the store for a few minutes. I haven’t wanted to leave him alone, and…”

  She shrugged and gave Bonnie a pained smile.

  Bonnie smiled back, trying to be more encouraging than she felt. “That’s fine. Take your time.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  She watched Mrs. Peterson leave, then made her way to the den. She stopped at the door, nervous, wondering what Alan would say when he saw her.

  He was sitting in a wheelchair, his leg propped up before him. He was staring out the window at the dunes, sitting in profile to her. His face was bitter, brooding.

  “Hi,” she said at last.

  He turned toward her. “Hi.” His voice was flat, dull, almost lifeless.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  He shrugged.

  She stepped into the room. “Are you mad at me?”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, I know. But—”

  He cut her off. “No, I’m not mad at you.” He turned and looked out the window again.

  She went to him, reached for his hand. “Alan—”

  “You don’t want me,” he said bitterly. “I’m a coward.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. And you know it’s true. I lost my cool, panicked, nearly killed us both.”

  “Do you think there’s anyone who wouldn’t have panicked in a situation like that?”

  He turned and looked her in the eye. “You didn’t.”

  She flushed. “That was different. I saw something you didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “That De—that the rider wasn’t after us. Not in that way.”

  “Oh.” He pressed his lips together tightly and turned back to the window.

  “Alan, I need your help.”

  “How can I possibly help you?” he asked, his voice bitter. “I’m a cripple.”

  “Well your brain’s not crippled! And you’re not crippled for the rest of your life. That accident could have been a lot worse, you know.” Instantly she backed off. “I’m sorry. But it’s not going to do you any good to feel sorry for yourself.”

  He glared at her. “What do you want?”

  The bitterness was gone, replaced by a dull anger.

  Quickly she told him the story of what had happened at Madame LePanto’s. She watched his face as she spoke, watched him struggle through several emotions. Suddenly he exploded. “Bonnie, get rid of those damn cards!”

  She drew back. “No!”

  “Can’t you see what you’re doing? There’s something evil about them, and you’re letting it out—out of the cards, and into our lives. Last night it was me. Today Madame LePanto. Who’s next? Your brother? Your mother? You?”

  “But Madame LePanto needs—”

  “Maybe that’s the way to get Madame LePanto back. Destroy the cards and break the spell, or something like that.”

  “What about the book?”

  He relented. “All right, let’s look at the book first. But you have to get rid of them, Bonnie. You have to!”

  She pulled the book from her backpack.

  “Put it on the desk,” said Alan. “Then we can look at it together.” He rolled his wheelchair over to the desk and waited for her to set the book in front of him.

  “Look,” she said as she opened it. “Here’s a page that’s folded over. Maybe she was marking something.”

  As Alan folded the page back Bonnie let out a cry of surprise. Across the top of the page, in bold letters, were the words, “The Deck of Magistimes.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She pointed to the page. “That’s the name of the Magician!”

  “What magician?”

  “The one in the cards.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute,” said Bonnie. “First let me read this.”

  She turned her attention to the book. As she read, her hand tightened on Alan’s shoulder. She held on to him as if he were her only hope of sanity in a world that was crumbling around her.

  #

  THE DECK OF MAGISTIMES

  #

  We come now to what is perhaps the most infamous of all tarot decks, the set of cards known as “The Deck of Magistimes.” This deck dates back to the early 1400s, and though it has not been seen for some five hundred years, legend persists that it is still in existence, waiting for its master to return and claim it.

  For this deck did indeed have a master. Unlike those tarots designed to predict the future, this deck was designed to create it.

  Magistimes was a powerful magician, whose history has been lost in the shroud of time. Claims for the date of his birth vary by over a thousand years. Regardless of when he was born, it is clear that he became active—again?—at the beginning of the fifteenth century, when he traveled through Europe, appearing at the courts of kings and nobles, performing great feats of magic.

  Magistimes was reputed to be a handsome man, with great personal magnetism. There is little doubt that he was an early master of the art of hypnotism. But he was possessed by enormous greed, and a desire for power and control. It was a shame, for with his strength and talent Magistimes could have been a great force for good.

  Unfortunately, he chose to corrupt those gifts for his own ends.

  After a long study of the tarot he undertook the creation of his own set of cards. According to legend the cards were fashioned in the dead of night, and as much magic as art was put into their making, for Magistimes bound into the cards powers and forces that he had enslaved with his magic.

  The key card in the deck, the one that controlled them all, was the Magician—which is said to be a portrait of Magistimes himself.

  For a time Magistimes made a great name for himself with these cards. His readings were uncannily accurate.

  But gradually rumors spread, fueled by fear, about the nature of the cards and what they did. It was whispered that the wizard was not foretelling the future but creating it.

  In 1432 Magistimes gave a series of readings in Scotland for the duke of McBurnie. They predicted terrible misfortunes for the duke—all of which came to pass. The duke lost everything. And standing in line to receive the duke’s wealth was Magistimes himself.

  The duke, convinced that Magistimes had engineered his downfall, roused a mob to storm the castle that had once been his. The magician was dragged into the streets and burned at the stake.

  As the flames crackled around him, Magistimes cried out against those who had attacked him, and warned them that he would return and take his vengeance—even if it took centuries.

  The castle was ransacked, but the cards were never found. There are several versions of what happened to them. One legend claims they were burned with Magistimes. Another says they were carried away by one of his faithful servants. Yet another asserts that they were pocketed by the duke himself.

  A bizarre footnote to the whole incident involved an apprentice of Magistimes, who was so attached to his master that he could not bear to be totally separated from him. Even as the flames were mounting the boy clambered onto the pyre and sliced a finger from the magician’s hand. Though he was attacked by the crowd, he managed to escape. He was never heard of again.

  The deck of Magistimes remains one of the great enigmas in the history of the tarot.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So was this Duke of McBurnie any relation to you?” asked Alan.

  When Bonnie didn’t answer he turned to her. She was staring straight ahead, face white, eyes vacant.

  “Bonnie? Bonnie!”

  She blinked and looked at him. The vacant place in her eyes had been filled by fear. “Those are my cards, Alan.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Deck of Magistimes. That’s what I have.”

  “Now wait a minute—”


  “No, listen.” Quickly she repeated to him the stories her grandmother had told her.

  His face and eyes were hard. “All right, that sinks it. We have to destroy those cards. They’re—I don’t know—they’re like a gate, a gate that’s letting something awful loose into this world, all kinds of forces and powers we don’t know anything about, Bonnie. And it’s all been set in motion. It’s out of your hands now. You can’t stop it. You don’t know how. And there’s no one to help you, not even Madame LePanto. We have to destroy the cards. We have to.”

  Bonnie nodded her assent. Slowly she took the cards out of her backpack. “How shall we do it?”

  “Burn them?”

  “They’ve come through fire once,” she replied in a voice that was not quite hers.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think it will work.”

  “Of course it will work! You’re the one who kept telling me how fragile they were. Look, my father has a cigar lighter over there on the coffee table. It’s got a flame like a blowtorch. Go get it, and we’ll take care of them right now. Bring over that brass ashtray, too.”

  Bonnie did as Alan asked, placing the items in front of him.

  “All right, let’s start with your friend here,” said Alan. He had taken the Magician from the pack while he was waiting for her. “Better tell him goodbye!”

  He flicked on the lighter.

  “Alan, no!”

  It was too late. The flame leaped up six inches or more. Alan held the card over it.

  Nothing happened.

  Muttering nervously, he thrust the card into the flame, turned it sideways, ran the edge back and forth.

  Nothing happened, at least not to the card. But suddenly they heard an enormous clap of thunder. The flame went out. The lighter flew off the desk and smashed through the window, landing in the grass several yards from the house.

  Alan dropped the card.

  “Did you burn yourself?” cried Bonnie.

  “Burn myself? The damn thing is ice cold!”

  At that moment Mrs. Peterson burst into the room, still carrying a bag of groceries. “Alan!” she said sharply. “I know you feel terrible. And I don’t blame you for being angry. But you have to control yourself. Losing your temper and throwing things through the window is not going to do any good.”