February Thaw (12 page)

It wasn't so much a tone as the theme from
Close Encounters
.

"Well, I think the solution's obvious."

Cynthia stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "Obvious?"

"You've got to learn to see the symbolism before the reality kills you. You've got to get in touch with your spiritual side."

"With my what?"

"You'd better stay here tonight. We can get started in the morning."

*

She felt each of the ten swords as it pierced her body, nailing her to the floor. Closing her eyes against the pain, she muttered, "The stains are never going to come out of this carpet."

From far away, she heard a familiar voice intone, "Look beyond to the symbolism."

"Symbolism? David, this carpet was hand-tied in Morocco!"

When she opened her eyes, it was morning.

*

"What is this?"

"Granola."

Cynthia poked at the whole wheat, dried dates and who knew what else in the hand thrown pottery bowl. "I never realized roughage was spiritual."

Before David could offer reassurance, Drew yelled from the next room that they should look out the window. "Some idiot's gone bungee jumping off his balcony."

"He probably jumped rather than eat tree bark for breakfast," Cynthia muttered as she peered over David's shoulder at the building across the courtyard.

The jumper had anchored his cable on one of the trees that crowded the edge of the penthouse garden. As the bounce wore off, he swung by one leg, hands folded behind his back, free leg crossed back behind the other knee.

"He must've threaded fibre optics through his hair. Look at the way his head's glowing."

"Seems perfectly content though, doesn't he." As David moved out of the way, Cynthia pressed against the window and frowned. "You know, physics was never my strong suit, but shouldn't he have swung back and hit the building?" When she heard pages turning behind her, she sighed and closed her eyes. "Don't tell me..."

"The Hanged Man. Representing things that are before you; self-surrender to a higher wisdom."

"Higher wisdom?" Pivoting on one heel, she stared at David in astonishment. "So far they've created a major traffic hazard, turned a lion loose downtown, tossed a crustacean into a hostile environment, tied someone up in the middle of the night surrounded by illegal weapons, and jumped off a balcony! That doesn't sound like a higher wisdom to me!"

"The cards aren't the wisdom, they're pointing the way."

"Oh puh-leez."

"Just eat the cereal. We've got a lot to do."

*

David felt that bicycling to work would've been more spiritual, but they ended up taking Cynthia's car. Fortunately, it had a tape deck.

"What's that?"

"It's a tape called Distant Angels; new age instrumental music. According to the box, it's the music of transformation and it's supposed to break through your inner resistance leaving a state of relaxation and attunement."

As the sound of a single flute filled the car, Cynthia's scowl softened. "Very pretty. Very relaxing." She slumped behind the wheel only to jerk erect as a transport nearly ran them off the road. "But do you really think I should be listening to it during morning rush hour?"

There were no surprises waiting for them at the office.

"I'm just glad the Devil was out of the pack," David declared standing a safe distance away as Cynthia unlocked the door. "That would've made life interesting."

*

They ate lunch in a tiny park off Spadina. Except for a small disagreement over the burning of some incense – "And what exactly is oxygen deprivation supposed to symbolize?" – the morning had been an uneventful and unsuccessful attempt to help Cynthia see beyond the obvious.

"All right, look at this deep, rich red. What does this red symbolize to you?"

"It's a colour, David. And I think it's too dark for the hotel."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Doing what?"

A number of other people were also out enjoying the sunshine. Mothers with small children, junior executives with oxford cloth sleeves rolled up, teenagers grouped defensively by the fountain, and the ubiquitous variety of buskers.

David pointed out that the buskers could symbolize artistic freedom, unwilling to be confined by a nine to five world.

"Unable to be confined, you mean." Cynthia winced as a young woman with metres of orange hair delivered an extraordinarily off-key performance of Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi. "I'm not throttling her. That must count for something."

"But why aren't you throttling her? Because her music touched you?"

"Because I don't want to face an assault charge."

David sighed and stood. "Close. But not quite."

Dropping empty juice bottles into the recycling barrels, they started back to the office.

Removing his high crowned hat, one of the buskers balanced carefully on his head and began preforming a complicated juggling act with two discs and a piece of hose tied into a figure eight.

As they passed, Cynthia's cell phone rang, the shrill twitter cutting through the ambient noise.

The busker jerked and one of the discs went flying into traffic.

Closest to the curb, and feeling a bit guilty, Cynthia ran out after it, half her attention on the phone – "Augustine Textiles, Cynthia Augustine speaking." – half on the disc.

David grabbed her shirt and yanked her back just as the Spadina bus roared by in a cloud of blue exhaust. When the smoke cleared, the disc lay in pieces. Checking carefully up the street before he bent forward, David picked up the largest shard. Silently, he held it out to the young busker who sighed and shook his head.

"Man, I was afraid that was going to happen. That's no use to me now, you can keep it if you want it."

"No thanks, I..." Then he took a good look at what he held. As the busker headed off, he waved the shard in Cynthia's face.

"...get back to you tomorrow. That right. Thanks for calling. David, that was a business call and... is that part of a broken pentacle?"

He nodded and pulled the slender book out of his back pocket. "Two of Pentacles. Reversed. Your seventh card representing your fears. Oh gee, big surprise – you're afraid you're having difficulty handling your problems."

"There's no need to be sarcastic."

Ignoring her, he went on. "And it seems like you got a double whammy because they also just reminded you that your fears can kill you."

"I think you're reading too much into it."

"The Ten of Swords. The Final Outcome."

She had a sudden memory of the way the carpet had felt pressed warm and sticky against her cheek. Dry cleaning was not going to be enough. "Okay, okay, you win. What now?"

"I don't know but I'll think of something. There's only two cards to go and they seem to be coming closer together."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I know." David glanced around and suddenly smiled. "I've got it. This is an easy one." Grabbing Cynthia's shoulders he turned her toward the waterfront. "What does the CN Tower symbolize to you?"

She squinted at the familiar landmark and shrugged. "Radio towers?"

"No, that's what it is. Try again."

"Revolving restaurants?"

"Cynthia!"

"I don't know!" Her voice had picked up a slightly desperate tone. "What?"

"It's the world's tallest, freestanding, phallic symbol."

"But they're not shaped anything like that."

David sighed and considered giving up the fight. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Let's go back to work, I'll put on the Benedictine monks and while you try to step beyond reality, I'll try to think up a new angle."

"I think we've been beyond reality since we talked to Madame Zora," Cynthia muttered. The thought of falling swords made the skin between her shoulder blades itch.

*

"I haven't been inside a church for years."

"Nothing does symbolism better." David pushed open the heavy wooden door of St. Michael's Cathedral. "Come on."

"We can't just wander in."

"We're not just wandering. Now, come on."

It was cool and quiet inside the church. Aside from a few elderly women praying in the first couple of rows, they had the place to themselves. In a low voice, David began pointing out the various symbols of his faith.

"I know all this stuff, David. I haven't spent my life in a closet, if you'll pardon the expression."

"You know it here." He touched her forehead then tapped on her sternum. "But not here. You have to believe that some things stand for things that are bigger than they are."

"Would now be a good time to tell you why I stopped going to church?"

They were turning to leave when a figure leaned out of one of the alcoves and beckoned.

Cynthia frowned. "Okay, it was a long time ago and it was a United Church, but isn't that guy just a little overdressed?"

The alcove held a low dais, a throne, and two pillars. A pair of monks in robes embroidered with roses and lilies knelt before the throne. Between them, was a pair of crossed keys. Seated on the throne, was a priest.

"What's with the Carmen Miranda hat?"

"It's not a hat," David hissed looking up from the book. "It's a three tiered crown."

"Don't tell me..."

"It's the Hierophant. Your eighth card. The seeker's environment or the fears of your family and friends."

"If you don't mind, young man," the priest said snippily, "I can speak for myself."

"Sorry."

"I should think so." He cleared his throat. "Your family and friends, my dear, are afraid you're overly concerned with a need to conform. That you are bound too tightly to convention."

Cynthia's lip curled. "First, I'm not
your dear
. Second, you're wrong. Tell him he's wrong, David."

"Uh..."

"So, who says I have to be wild and crazy?" she snarled. She glared down at the monks. "Do you two have anything to add?"

"No," said the monk on the left.

"We're just here for effect," added the monk on the right.

Absolutely furious, Cynthia stomped out of the church – modifying her step when she heard the slap of her shoes echoing against the stone. When David caught up with her on the sidewalk outside, she whirled around to face him.

"Why me, that's what I want to know? Why put all this effort into changing me? Am I such a horrible person?"

"No. You're not. You're just..." He searched for a polite way to put it. "...a little narrowly focused."

"Is that such a bad thing? I'm not hurting anyone!"

His voice gentled. "Except maybe yourself."

The anger left her as suddenly as it had appeared. She clutched at David's arm. "We haven't much time, have we? One more card and then..."

"We'll beat it, Cyn, you'll see. But maybe you should stay home until you've made a break-through, that way no one can drop swords on you."

"No, but my building will collapse in an unexpected earthquake and I'll be found in the rubble wearing Mr. Garibaldi's collection of medieval weaponry."

"Mr. G. has a collection of swords?"

"Not that I know of
now
. Anyway, I can't be responsible for that, think of what an earthquake would do to the property values in my neighbourhood." When she caught his expression, she almost grinned. "Kidding." The grin slipped. "Mostly."

They came out onto Yonge Street in the midst of a crowd of street vendors. Forward progress meant carefully picking a path through merchandise stacked precariously on rickety tables and spread out on the sidewalk. Her mind replaying the dream of the swords, over and over, Cynthia moved blindly toward disaster.

Her foot struck something hard and cold. Which struck something else. Which struck something else. Metal rang against concrete.

When she looked down, she realized she'd kicked over three brass goblets, spilling their contents. The vendor, his skinny form wrapped head to toe in a black cloak, stared down at them in despair as other pedestrians stepped fastidiously over the spreading liquid.

"I'm so sorry."

"Accidents happen," he allowed mournfully.

"I'll pay you for what I spilled."

He sighed deeply. "No point. What's done, is done."

Done.

Done.

Done.

Cynthia suddenly needed to out-run the word echoing in her head, suddenly needed to get out of the crowd. David found her two blocks away, leaning up against a store window, staring at but not seeing the display.

"There were two cups still standing," he said.

"Doesn't matter. That was the ninth card."

"How do you know?"

"Oh come on, David. Cups. A guy in a full cloak making enigmatic statements – what else could it be? You might want to stand back; you'll never get blood stains out of that shirt, it's silk."

Flipping through the book, David ignored the suggestion. "Okay, if it was your ninth card, then it represents your hopes and fears."

"I think the fears part is pretty damned obvious!"

"But there were two cups still full! You can break through this Cyn if you just try!"

"I
am
trying, but face it, it's not working!" Her words had picked up a panicked cadence. "So, something wants to broaden my viewpoint. Suppose I don't want my viewpoint broadened?"

"I don't think you have a choice."

"There's always a choice, David. I can choose to stand here and become some sort of symbolic pincushion!" The look on his face stopped her cold. "All right. No, I can't. But only because it would upset you." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We're almost out of time. What do we do?"

They were standing in front of a shoe store. David peered through the glass and, unexpectedly, he smiled. "Let's buy you some sandals."

"Sandals?" She blinked. "That's your solution?"

"When I was younger, I took riding lessons. When I started I didn't have the right clothes because, well, they were expensive and I couldn't see how they'd make a difference. When I finally broke down and bought a pair of breeches and some boots, my riding improved. What you're wearing can affect your state of mind. Sandals can be very spiritual. Christ wore sandals. Come on."