The Greater Trumps by Charles Williams Page B

shuffling the cards, each moment more quickly. She was trying to keep up with the movement; she wasn’t initiating it, and that feeling of earth escaping was in fact only this compulsion which the cards were exercising. They were sliding out and sliding back; now she saw the four of deniers on top, and now the ace, and now the Esquire, and now the King, a hatted figure, with a four-forked beard, holding the coin—or whatever it was—in a gloved hand. It shone up at her; a card from below slipped out, and her fingers thrust it back, and it covered the King—the nine of deniers. A slight sound reached her, a curious continuous sound, yet hardly a sound at all, a faint rustle. The cards were gritty, or her hands were; or was it the persistent rubbing of her palms against the edges of the cards? What was that rustling noise? It wasn’t her mere fancy, nor was it mere fancy that some substance was slipping between her fingers. Below her hands and the cards she saw the table, and some vague unusualness in it attracted her. It was black—well, of course, but a dull heavy black, and down to it from her hands a kind of cloud was floating. It was from there that the first sound came; it was something falling—it was earth, a curtain, a rain of earth falling, falling, covering the part of the table immediately below, making little sliding sounds—earth, real black earth.
    â€œSteady,” said the voice in her ear. She had a violent impulse to throw the cards away from her—if she could, if she could rend her hands from them, but of course she couldn’t; they, earthy as they were, belonged to this other earth, the earth that was slipping everywhere over and between her fingers, that was already covering the six of deniers as it slid over the two. But there were other hands; hers weren’t alone. She pressed them back into her lover’s, and said, keeping her voice as steady as she could, “Couldn’t we stop?”
    Breath deeply drawn answered her, then Henry’s voice. “Yes,” it said. “Steady, steady. Think with me, think of the cards—cards—drawings—just drawings—line and color. Press them back, harder; use your hands now—harder.”
    It was as if a brief struggle took place between her hands and that which they held, as if the thing refused to be governed and dominated. But it yielded; if there had been any struggle, it ceased. Her strong hands pressed back the cards, pushed them level; her thumb flicked them. Henry’s hands left hers and took the suit. She let hers drop, took a step away, and looked at the table. There lay on it a little heap of what seemed like garden-mold.
    Faintness caught her; she swayed. Henry’s arm round her took her to a chair. She gasped out, “I’m all right. Stop a minute,” and held on to the arm. “It’s nothing,” she said to herself, “it’s quite simple. It’s only that I’m not used to it—whatever it is.” That it was any kind of trick did not even enter her mind. Henry and that sort of trick could not exist together. Earth on the dining-room table. Aunt Sybil would wonder why it was there. She deliberately opened her eyes again, and her mouth opened in spite of her. It was still there.
    â€œAll right?” Henry’s voice said.
    Nancy made a great effort. “Yes,” she said. “Henry, what’s happened? I mean——”
    â€œYou’re frightened!” he said accusingly.
    â€œI’m not frightened,” she said.
    â€œIf you are, I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “I can’t share with you unless you want me to. This is only the beginning; you’d better understand that at once.”
    â€œYes, darling,” she said. “Don’t be cross with me. It’s a little sudden, isn’t it? Is it … is it real?”
    He picked up some of the earth and scattered it