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Chrissie huddled as far under the awning as she could without actually going inside. The breeze was lukewarm but the rain was cold, and both crept under the collar of her thin jacket. She stared hard at the door, clenching her hands in her pockets with indecision. It was an unassuming door. There were no runes or symbols or plain old letters indicating what was on the other side. It was made of dark, old wood and held together with cheap hardware found in any hardware store. Chrissie didn’t even think there was a lock on it. It didn’t matter; no one in town dared break in.
“Come in!” came a voice from within. Chrissie jumped and stared wide-eyed at the handle. She could run. She could still turn and run and no one but the woman inside would be any the wiser. She clenched her teeth and lunged for the cold, slippery handle before she could chicken out of it.
The entry way was over-warm and smelled like cigarette smoke. The walls were a dingy white and the floors were covered in an old, browning laminate flooring made to look like tile. She stood dripping on the moldy welcome matt and stared. It was distressingly… normal.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Come on in.” The speaker was a short woman in her early thirties. Her voice already had the rasp of someone who had been smoking for a good long time. Chrissie stepped farther in and shut the door behind her. Timidly, she shuffled onto the carpet of the front room.
“What is it you’re wanting, girlie-girl?” The woman was puttering around her front room, waving insence smoke away from her face and digging around in the mounds of pillows on the furniture. “Ah hah! Perhaps a card reading?” she asked, waving around a tarot deck she found in the crease of the loveseat. Chrissie shook her head. She suddenly found she couldn’t move. “No? Are you after a love spell?” the woman asked, eyebrow arched and lips thinning. Chrissie shook her head. “Then what are you after?”
Chrissie swallowed and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her heart was beating far too fast. Finally, she murmured, “Is it real?”
The woman, known around town as Rosie the Witch, looked up. She cocked her head to the side as she regarded Chrissie with dark eyes made hazier by the smoke. “Is what real?”
Chrissie gathered her courage again. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. “The stuff you do. Is it real?” she asked.
“I do a lot of ‘stuff’. You’re going to have to be more specific, hon,” Rosie said, seating her self on the loveseat. “Come sit. I promise I won’t stick you in a brew or whatever nonsense everyone seems to think I do.” She patted the seat beside her.
Chrissie prayed that her hands weren’t shaking visibly as she sat down. Her legs felt a little unsteady.
“Now, what, exactly, are you worried about being real or not?” Rosie asked gently.
“The spells.” Chrissie could hardly hear herself, but Rosie didn’t seem to have a problem hearing her.
Rosie hmm’d and made a thoughtful face. “Most people think its utter hogwash. Others think its devil worship. I think it’s real enough. They’re like prayers, but with actions and props and specific instructions.”
Chrissie frowned. “But do they work?”
Rosie shrugged. “No more or less than prayers do.”
“So there’s no guarantee?” Chrissie pressed.
“No,” Rosie said, staring unwaveringly at the girl. Chrissie looked away. It felt like Rosie was looking into her head, like she knew all her thoughts and saw all her reasons. “Do you want one?” Rosie asked, still gentle.
Chrissie’s eyes fell on the large silver pentagram framed by multi-colored stones on the coffee table. The cross around her own throat felt heavy enough to cave in her rib cage. “Excuse me,” Chrissie mumbled as she leapt up and ran out the door.
***********
Two days later, Chrissie was back at Rosie’s door. She hadn’t worn her cross this time. She managed to knock before Rosie beckoned her in.
“What are you after today, girlie-girl?” Rosie asked, a small smile twitching at the corners of her lips. There was no incense today, but the smell was still strong.
“I, um…” Chrissie fidgeted with her hands and stayed standing, even as Rosie gestured for her to sit.
“You have another question?” Rosie guessed.
Chrissie nodded and drew a deep breath. “The cards. Are they real? Can you really predict the future?”
Rosie frowned. “No…” she said slowly.
“They aren’t?! I know people you’ve charged lots of money for readings!” Chrissie’s voice got very shrill and loud.
“Slow your roll, there hon. Lemme finish.” Rosie sent a quelling glare across the room. “Tarot cards don’t predict the future, per say, they expose ways of thinking about your situation that you may not have done before, and present a possible outcome. It’s no more accurate than a spell, really.” She fussed thoughtfully with the stones on the coffee table.
“Then why do you do it? Spells and cards and all that?” Chrissie asked, shifting foot to foot.
“Why do you go to church?” Rosie asked, not even looking up.
Chrissie felt her lips press together as she glared. She didn’t even excuse herself as she stormed out.
************
“I want a spell,” Chrissie said by way of greeting.
“I wondered when you’d ask,” Rosie said, letting her inside. The front room smelled like weed and there was a fat, matted cat lazing on the couch. “Gonna tell me what you need it for?”
“My dad,” she spat out.
“Ah…” Rosie nodded in understanding.
The town they lived in was small, the kind of small where everyone knew your name, who your parents were, and where you weren’t considered a local until your family and been in the area for about seventy-five years. Everyone knew that Chrissie’s dad had cancer. “I’m praying for you!” was uttered so often that Chrissie had grown to hate the phrase.
She didn’t know why it surprised her that Rosie knew too. Maybe it was because Rosie was a transplant. She had blown into town about three years ago and would probably leave again soon. She seemed too transient to know anything about the town and its inhabitants.
“Everyone’s always praying for him. I thought I’d try something a little different,” Chrissie said, quiet and distant, determinedly not meeting Rosie’s eyes.
“Understandable,” Rosie said, watching her with what seemed to be pity. Chrissie grit her teeth. She was tired of pity. “Come with me.” The order was abrupt, just like Rosie’s movements as she rose from her seat and went deeper into the house.
Chrissie followed at a slower pace into the kitchen. There was more browning fake tile and plywood cupboards, along with a formica table from the seventies. Rosie started rummaging in the cabinets, muttering to herself. “Sit down, girlie! Do I gotta tell you that every time you come to visit?”
Chrissie dropped into a kitchen chair in stunned silence. Was that how Rosie saw these instances? How lonely did this woman have to be for Chrissie’s half furious, half terrified invasions of her sitting room to be viewed as visits? Chrissie didn’t voice this thought, just watched Rosie continue to mutter and pull what looked like herbs and pouches from her cabinets.
********
“So this will heal him?” she asked, clutching the blue cloth bag to her chest.
“It will ease his pain,” Rosie corrected, smoky voice sounding far older than she actually was. “I can’t do anything else for him at this point.”
“But you tried, right? You at least put something in here that would attempt to heal him?” she persisted, painful hope plain on her face.
“Honey, it would take an Old Testament miracle,” Rosie said sadly.
“Isn’t that what magic is?! Miracles?!” Chrissie said, voice getting too shrill to be comfortable.
“I tried,” Rosie said, and tucked the young woman to her side with her arm around her shoulder. She started leading the girl to the front room. “But sometimes modern medicine, one witch, and a town full of prayers just isn’t enough.”
Chrissie leaned heavily into the older woman’s side, as she was lead to the door.
**********
Chrissie stood motionless, staring guiltily at her father’s bald head. He murmured quietly to himself, thumbing gently at the old rosary between his fingers. Just moments before she had stuck the sachet Rosie had made between the mattress and the box spring. Her mother had been helping her struggling father from the car after church when she had dashed inside to slip the sachet into place.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Chrissie startled when her father directed the question at her.
“Nothing, nothing, just…” Chrissie paused and stared hard at the crucifix on the wall. The cross around her neck was crushing her rib cage again. “I want you to get better.”
Her dad smiled sadly at her. “If it’s the Lord’s will.”
Chrissie left her father to his prayers. Who is He to decide? she thought bitterly.
***********
Weeks passed, and her father did not get better. He also didn’t get any worse. Still, every conversation with her and her family seemed to end in “I’m praying for you!” Chrissie wasn’t sure she wanted them to.
She visited Rosie about once a week, unable to shake the thought that the witch must be very lonely. The older woman never complained, or asked her to stop. She didn’t talk about her craft, either, which Chrissie was grateful for. On the days she forgot to take off her cross for her visit, it lay sweaty-hot and weighty underneath her shirt.
“How did you know I was at the door, that first day?” Chrissie asked, about a month after she had gotten the sachet. She was sprawled out on the floor of the front room, idly playing with Rosie’s big, lazy cat.
“I have windows, you know. I can see out of them,” Rosie said, her eyes crinkling in amusement. She was sitting next to one of those windows. She had it open and was having a smoke. She waved the hand that had the cigarette around, wafting smoke in front of her face. “You were wearing a bright jacket so I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye. When I didn’t see you move away again I knew you must have been loitering at my door.”
Chrissie smiled ruefully. “I thought it was magic.”
“Whose to say it wasn’t, my dear?”
************
“Could you do a tarot reading for me?”
Rosie raised her eyebrows and set her bottle down. It wasn’t like Chrissie to just burst in, at least not anymore. “I could…” Rosie said slowly. “Why now? You’ve never shown much interest before, girlie-girl.”
Chrissie licked her lips and plopped down on the sofa. “Dad’s not doing well.”
“Ah, well…” Rosie took a bracing drink from her bottle. “I don’t think the cards will have anything to say that you haven’t already thought of, honey.”
“Nothing wrong with consulting other sources,” Chrissie said, staring at the cat, which was curled at the other end of the couch from Rosie, looking like a giant furry pillow.
“You’re sure?” Rosie’s lips were pressed thin, and her eyes seemed deeper set then usual as she stared concernedly at the young woman.
“Well, yeah. God sure isn’t talking to me,” Rosie said, heart jumping at being able to finally voice doubt in the deity her family worshiped with such adoration.
“I’ve found that most deities are pretty quiet until it suits them,” Rosie said, but went looking for her tarot deck anyway.
They settled on the floor side by side in front of the coffee table. Rosie had cleared it of its usual gemstones and pentagram and had placed the deck in the middle. “Go ahead and shuffle the deck, and think about what you want to know,” she instructed quietly. Chrissie picked up the deck with finely trembling hands. She shuffled it clumsily, trying and failing not to blush under Rosie’s kind but amused eyes. “That’s good,” she said as she reached out to take them. Chrissie pushed them eagerly into Rosie’s hands, not wanting to hold them any longer than necessary. Rosie cut the deck and then rapidly pulled out the top five cards and put them in a line on the table.
The first card was upside down. The Hierophant sat grim on his throne of tradition and learning. “This is your past,” Rosie said, voice soft and yet still sounding like gravel. “Sticking with strict tradition has not done you any favors.” The second card was flipped over. The Hanged Man seemed to stand with his hands above his head. Chrissie felt a little sick and dizzy when she realized the man was hanging from his ankles and the card was upside down. “You have been holding on for far to long on a lost hope,” Rosie said.
“That’s not true!” Chrissie seethed, but she fell quiet again when Rosie raised her eyebrows and waited in silence.
The third card was The Tower. A great stone monstrosity seemed to crumble into the sea before Chrissie’s eyes as Rosie calmly interpreted. “There is great possibility for traumatic change, but that change could be freeing.”
The fourth card made Chrissie gasp. A hooded man was astride a giant, ghostly white horse while equally unearthly hunting dogs pranced at its feet. The only part of the rider that was visible was a skeleton hand holding the reigns. When Chrissie saw the name of the card she jumped up and pointed accusingly at Rosie. “You rigged it.” She hissed.
“No, I,” Rosie tried to explain, but was cut off.
“You fucking cheated! He’ll get better! He’s not going to die!”
“Chrissie…”
“NO!” Chrissie shrieked. She turned on her heel and bolted from the room, slamming the front door in her wake.
Rosie sighed sadly and looked down at the Death card.
************
The day her dad was laid to rest, Chrissie couldn’t get the image on the Death card out of her head. She didn’t try very hard, because the statues of angels that surrounded her were somehow worse. She though that maybe it would be nicer to ride off into a forest on a giant white horse rather than be dragged in front of a set of imposing pearly gates and judged.
Chrissie slipped out the back door of her house afterwards, away from all the visitors dressed in black and saying “I’ll pray for you.” She had the blue healing sachet in the pocket of her bright jacket. It looked odd over the top of her black mourning dress.
She skidded to a stop outside Rosie’s house. Strange tattooed men she had never seen before were loading up Rosie’s furniture into a big rental truck. Rosie herself was talking and laughing with the men, helping them load up her things.
Just as Chrissie was about to tear herself away, Rosie noticed her. Without a word, the witch jogged over and enveloped her in a hug. Chrissie bit the inside of her lip stubbornly. She had done enough crying already that day.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, too quiet but Rosie got the gist of it anyway.
“I’m sorry, girlie-girl. There’s only so much of me this town can take before the torches and pitchforks come out. I’m sorry it had to be now.”
Chrissie nodded and took a step back. She held out the sachet. “Dad doesn’t need this anymore,” she said. Rosie’s face was unreadable as she took it gently.
“I have something for you,” Rosie said, and pulled out a tarot card from an inside pocket of her leather jacket. “It’s the last one from your reading. It means hope. There are points of light even in the darkest of places and all that.”
One of the men hollered for Rosie. “Now you be good for your mama, you hear? But raise a little hell whenever you get the chance, too.” She gave Chrissie one last hug and a kiss on the forehead and then went back to packing.
Chrissie looked down The Star she now held in her hand.