Šekherezada
(To be accompanied with Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade)
"Cards are war, in disguise of a sport." – Charles Lamb
Chapter I. The Sea and Sinbad's Ship
[Arizona Territory circa 1870s]
The obscurity of night was welcoming as she slipped from the bed into the parlor of the hotel suite, where she was alone, if only separated by the partition-wall and a wooden door. She lighted no lamp as she entered for she needed no light, her eyes much accustomed to the darkness. Taking her place at the head of the small table, she reached into the pocket of her dressing gown removing her cards. They were her only true possession, a deck of seventy-eight tarot cards that her grandmother had sewn into dress lining; it was the only thing that she had left of her family.
She shuffled them carefully, her fingers bending softly to handle their worn edges. She knew each card by touch, each tear, each crinkle, each nook, and could divine just as well in the dark than during the light of day. With each caress of a card against her palm, it brought back memories laced with soft scent of rosewater and the plink of piano keys; and with each caress it calmed her. With the cards between her palms she could believe that she was leagues beyond this dusty, hot hotel room and cloistered in a secret garden of her own.
She forced those thoughts aside and centered her mind and body on the question. Tonight her question was no different that the previous nights’, nor did she think it would change much. It was always about Mussen or rather in extension of him—herself. With her question firm, she placed each card in their proper position. After one last brush, memorizing the knowledge beneath her fingers, she began to weave the parts together.
She knew what people thought of her hobby, for that is what Mussen called it—a hobby, to be permitted only because of its inherent nonsense. Most prided themselves that they had not sunk so low, that the cards were just trifles, a silly little game to be smirked at.
But the cards never once lied to her. That was more than she could say for the people in her life. Every person she had ever met wanted something from her, every person except her grandmother.
But now the cards were showing her something different, she felt her heart flutter: could it be possible?
Suddenly, and ochre lamp flickered on in the suite’s bedroom, and she flinched at the blast of light into her secluded world. Quickly she gathered up her cards, and as soon as she put them back into her pocket, she was being called.
“Girl!”
She rushed into the bedroom to do his bidding.
Eric Mussen was a large man, all muscle, his golden hair like flaxen hay, his nose had been flattened once, and it gave him a rough appeal, and other women seems to think he was handsome. When she was a child she often dreamed of having golden hair like his, such a contrast to her own russet curls, but now she knew better.
He was sitting on the side of the bed, covers encasing him, his gray eyes fixed on her.
“We’re leaving today for the Larian at Drifter’s Gulch. The coach leaves at first light, I don’t want anything left behind.”
Even dwarfed by blankets and dressed in a nightshirt, he still managed to intimidate her, her muscles tensed and she curled slightly inward at his forceful request.
“Yes, sir.” She murmured, fingers of her left hand brushing over the cards in her pocket. She smiled inside where Mussen couldn’t see, and then there was hope.
Drifter’s Gulch was a little town, like most Mussen had dragged her into. There was one saloon, one hotel—presumably The Larian, one general store, and the Sheriff’s office at the end of the street. There were a few small buildings along Main Street; they appeared dark and not just because curtains were drawn across their windows. As if they were bottles of preserves that someone, anyone, had yet to pop the seal of, and they had been sealed for so long and things were growing inside just under the exoskeleton of timber and glass.
Mussen stomped off towards the saloon after the coach and disappeared, and the other patrons had made their own ways. She knew without a doubt he expected her to follow; and she did, brushing the traveling dust from her jacket, and scurrying after making sure to keep her head low.
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