looked to be a deck of playing cards. The back of each card was inked a distinctive deep orange. “Watch. Listen,” she said and tugged at an earlobe. She set the box on the floor and began turning the cards face up. Each flip of paper revealed a masterpiece—the tall figure of a woman holding a single sharp sword, the sun beating down on a field, a hand holding a star, all in meticulous detail. The old woman touched them with reverence.
When the crate was covered in cards she said, “I will tell you their names and you will learn their faces, how and where we set them. In this way we speak.” She pointed to the pictures and explained them just as Peabody had once explained people. “Fool is fool because of blind happiness. He does not see misfortune.” The card depicted a young man about to merrily walk off a cliff. “Pride before the fall. He is like a child. Like you.” Ryzhkova smiled. He looked away from her cracked, yellowed teeth to the card and the little dog that pulled at the Fool’s curled shoe.
“Dog means many things. Protector, enemy. It depends.” She talked for hours as her bent hands drew lines and crosses over the symbols. Deep in the night, she patted the crate and chuckled at Amos. “You listen well. We will make good work. I see you yawn. The tired mind does not hear well. To bed with you.” With a light kick to his shin, she shooed him from the wagon. “Tomorrow you will come again and I will teach.”
Ryzhkova instructed after shows, by candlelight. Rich red and blue fabrics were left hanging if she was tired, making Amos’s classroom a gentle chamber for watching, listening, and on occasion vanishing. Ryzhkova’s rhythmic speech lulled him until he became part of the cards, falling into them and letting his body disappear. When this happened, she pounded her boot on the floor and shouted a single guttural word. Once he reappeared she smiled, slapped his hand, and started anew.
Amos began to learn. He grew to love the Fool, saturated with yellow and orange—he liked the dog, how it at the last moment pulled its master to safety. He became accustomed to Ryzhkova’s voice; it reminded him of wind in trees and the days when he had run through forests. Over time he found that even when not in her presence her voice vibrated through him. On evenings between towns he watched Ryzhkova lay cards—a cross with a line down the side. Two cards set across each other, then one above and one below, one to the left and its mirror on the right. Four cards down the side. What was to come, what would affect it, what ruled at the moment, and the question’s outcome. She did readings for unvoiced queries, answering blank nothings.
“Chariot,” she said, and turned a card up on the makeshift table. A man on a throne, pulled by animals with human heads. Amos shifted, uncomfortable at the sight of the uncanny animal men. “Conquest and journey. Triumph. See? Man ruling over beast.” She rubbed her knuckles through his hair and clucked at him as if he were her child. “Paired with this card, makes much good.” She set another card at its side. “World, see?” She raised an arm as though gesturing to the sky. “Not the woman in center but all around the woman, yes?” He nodded, eyes focused on the dancing woman’s bare form and her knowing expression.
Before and after lessons Ryzhkova cleared the wagon with a smoldering bushel of herbs that stank of horse sweat. “Smudge,” she coughed. “This is how to clear with fire, how you keep cards clear. Clean.” She wrote words in the air with smoke plumes. “It is not the cards that tell the future as much as the person holding them. Me, you, whoever asks the question.” She tapped the herbs against the wagon’s door, sending embers and ash tumbling. “People touch the cards, leave themselves behind. Dreams. Hope. All trapped inside the cards.” When the room became oppressive she threw the door open and let in the night air. “You. Me.
When the crate was covered in cards she said, “I will tell you their names and you will learn their faces, how and where we set them. In this way we speak.” She pointed to the pictures and explained them just as Peabody had once explained people. “Fool is fool because of blind happiness. He does not see misfortune.” The card depicted a young man about to merrily walk off a cliff. “Pride before the fall. He is like a child. Like you.” Ryzhkova smiled. He looked away from her cracked, yellowed teeth to the card and the little dog that pulled at the Fool’s curled shoe.
“Dog means many things. Protector, enemy. It depends.” She talked for hours as her bent hands drew lines and crosses over the symbols. Deep in the night, she patted the crate and chuckled at Amos. “You listen well. We will make good work. I see you yawn. The tired mind does not hear well. To bed with you.” With a light kick to his shin, she shooed him from the wagon. “Tomorrow you will come again and I will teach.”
Ryzhkova instructed after shows, by candlelight. Rich red and blue fabrics were left hanging if she was tired, making Amos’s classroom a gentle chamber for watching, listening, and on occasion vanishing. Ryzhkova’s rhythmic speech lulled him until he became part of the cards, falling into them and letting his body disappear. When this happened, she pounded her boot on the floor and shouted a single guttural word. Once he reappeared she smiled, slapped his hand, and started anew.
Amos began to learn. He grew to love the Fool, saturated with yellow and orange—he liked the dog, how it at the last moment pulled its master to safety. He became accustomed to Ryzhkova’s voice; it reminded him of wind in trees and the days when he had run through forests. Over time he found that even when not in her presence her voice vibrated through him. On evenings between towns he watched Ryzhkova lay cards—a cross with a line down the side. Two cards set across each other, then one above and one below, one to the left and its mirror on the right. Four cards down the side. What was to come, what would affect it, what ruled at the moment, and the question’s outcome. She did readings for unvoiced queries, answering blank nothings.
“Chariot,” she said, and turned a card up on the makeshift table. A man on a throne, pulled by animals with human heads. Amos shifted, uncomfortable at the sight of the uncanny animal men. “Conquest and journey. Triumph. See? Man ruling over beast.” She rubbed her knuckles through his hair and clucked at him as if he were her child. “Paired with this card, makes much good.” She set another card at its side. “World, see?” She raised an arm as though gesturing to the sky. “Not the woman in center but all around the woman, yes?” He nodded, eyes focused on the dancing woman’s bare form and her knowing expression.
Before and after lessons Ryzhkova cleared the wagon with a smoldering bushel of herbs that stank of horse sweat. “Smudge,” she coughed. “This is how to clear with fire, how you keep cards clear. Clean.” She wrote words in the air with smoke plumes. “It is not the cards that tell the future as much as the person holding them. Me, you, whoever asks the question.” She tapped the herbs against the wagon’s door, sending embers and ash tumbling. “People touch the cards, leave themselves behind. Dreams. Hope. All trapped inside the cards.” When the room became oppressive she threw the door open and let in the night air. “You. Me.
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