Searching By Christine Nedahl
Lou Stocking stared hard at Mari.
“I got a man with me,” she spoke gutturally. “’E don’t want the woman to come through, stoppin ‘er ‘e is.”
She looked at the uncomfortable young lady as if she was seeing right through her. Mari gave a nervous cough.
“I don’t understand,” she almost whispered, “who they could be.”
“E’s a pipe smoker. Too young to be your Dad. ‘As your grandfather passed over?”
“Which one? Oh dear that was a silly question. Yes. Yes they both have.”
“Tha’s it then. Did you know ‘em?”
“Who?”
Mari wished she’d never come but her friends had insisted old Lou was good and she would tell her things even she didn’t know about herself. According to the villagers, she was over a hundred and well known for her readings. At this rate she’d grow old in the rickety chair and have no chance to use any of the useful information she was supposed to get.
She took a good look at the wizened woman seated across the small, round table. Round table indeed. That smacked of Arthur and knights of old and wisdom. The latter seemed in short supply in this dark, fusty-smelling room. Mari felt a smile play on her pale pink, painted lips. Lou haloed in the basket chair, sun hardened and wrinkled, appeared diminutive, the wicker weave threatening to engulf her. A black hole here in the Rhondda thought Mari and stifled a giggle in the back of her throat.
Lou started, small, bird like eyes honed into the young lady’s face and seemed to see Mari for the first time.
“Says you were interestin’,” she rasped. “Remembers you reading - specially the big fairy book ‘e bought you.”
At this Mari sat up and took notice. The old crone gave a grated chuckle. This young thing didn’t believe. It was fun to throw in a sprat to catch a mackerel. Lou knew well the woman fighting to come through to this world. The grandfather was a strong old beggar and kept telling her it wasn’t the time. Lou respected her spirits and fell in with their wishes. They meant no harm and tried to protect those they had long since left behind. She picked up a black, silk bag and took out a pack of tarot cards. Darting eyes locked onto Mari’s face.
“Aquarian you are,” and she placed one card in the centre of the table.
The mediaeval picture depicted a queen with a sword in her hand. Quite bizarrely, Mari thought, a crimson butterfly rested on the sword’s edge. Another pack was lifted by the old woman’s tiny, creased hands and she shuffled them once.
“Time for the cards then.” She spoke more quietly now and with reverence. She held the pack toward Mari with a small jerk. “Cut them.”
Mari did as she was told. She felt less certain that this was pie in the sky. She was indeed a February child!
Lou’s gaze dropped to the table as she slowly dealt. Mari felt each card was a drum roll heralding doom. She wasn’t sure about staying but she’d paid twenty pounds. She wasn’t mean but her money was hard earned. She didn’t feel inclined to give the witch-like fortune spinner something for nothing.
Her mind wandered to visiting a friend’s daughter who had been seriously ill. She and Jane had left the ward for a breath of fresh air. Jane talked about praying in the hospital chapel the night before. A bracelet with no clasp, which had become too tight to remove, had slipped from her wrist on to the floor. She’d seen that as a sign that Ellie was going to get over her illness. Her husband, unused to the ways of prayer, had gently touched the head of the Christ child at the front of the altar. It was then that Mari had the urge to tell Jane about her mother. She had died suddenly and their last meeting had been less than cordial. She confided that family members or friends who had passed away always seemed to her to have gone to a safe place, a haven but she couldn’t place her mother anywhere. She just didn’t know where she was. Her friend asked her then whether her mother ever visited her and her family in their new home. The answer was no. Her mother had lost the desire to go outside the front door even though she was only in her sixties. Jane was reassuring. Her Mum was unable to say goodbye because her spirit couldn’t find her in an unfamiliar place. It would be okay though because the uncertainty would right itself and eventually she would reclaim her place in Mari’s heart.
That was a long time ago. Ellie was a young woman now, still having to take care of her health but leading the wholesome life which had seemed beyond her grasp. Jane believed in the psychic world and the power of prayer, things that Mari’s logic wouldn’t let her embrace. She was here as a disbeliever, to prove to all her friends she wasn’t the cynic but the sensible one.
She mentally shook herself and her own chastising voice told her the comment about the book was a lucky hit. She remembered that book so well. Grandpa William had bought it for her when she was three. She could read even then and was thrilled with the hardboard covered tome that stood as tall as her. Lying on her tummy, the book uprightly open in front of her, she devoured the beautiful pictures and pretty words. One illustration in particular was etched into her memory. The right side page was feathered with bluebells arching across the top of both leaves and beneath their shade, gossamer fairy folk played in their woodland world. She walked with them, dissolving through the paper door that lay before her. Many times Grandpa’s arrival at the terraced house in Drift Street was the thing that brought her back into the real world, the comfortable, warm, sitting room of family fun.
The staggered spread was complete. Lou examined the cards. She began to speak in a slow, careful voice.
“Many cards from the Suit of Cups there are. All ‘bout emotion the Cups. You are here because you are a disbeliever,” she cast a quick glance at Mari, “but more you’re troubled and you look for an answer, a long time looking.”
Mari shifted nervously. The chair creaked, breaking the silence that had fallen in the stuffy room. The old woman continued to talk and the younger woman listened. Observation after observation came, creating a map of her life.
“The Ten of Cups reversed gives to me your sadness, Five of Cups upright so much turmoil in your heart.” On and on went Lou injecting insight and, it seemed, advice into her reading. “Ah! The last one, The Seven of Swords reversed,” she fixed Mari with a benevolent smile. “Take care to listen, someone is trying to help you. No more to tell now. You come back again, soon. Next time the woman will come I think.” The last words emphasised through the crone’s toothless gums.
She got up, seeming no taller standing than sitting. Leaning on the table for support she looked deep into Mari’s eyes. Her own eyes were kindly and not frightening and her face held something intangible. Mari couldn’t explain but she felt the old woman understood life, the here and now and what comes after. Lou moved to the back of the room and her living quarters. Her tiny frame walked on bird like ankles. Around one of them a stocking hung like loose, parched skin.
Copyright Christine Nedahl 2012
“I got a man with me,” she spoke gutturally. “’E don’t want the woman to come through, stoppin ‘er ‘e is.”
She looked at the uncomfortable young lady as if she was seeing right through her. Mari gave a nervous cough.
“I don’t understand,” she almost whispered, “who they could be.”
“E’s a pipe smoker. Too young to be your Dad. ‘As your grandfather passed over?”
“Which one? Oh dear that was a silly question. Yes. Yes they both have.”
“Tha’s it then. Did you know ‘em?”
“Who?”
Mari wished she’d never come but her friends had insisted old Lou was good and she would tell her things even she didn’t know about herself. According to the villagers, she was over a hundred and well known for her readings. At this rate she’d grow old in the rickety chair and have no chance to use any of the useful information she was supposed to get.
She took a good look at the wizened woman seated across the small, round table. Round table indeed. That smacked of Arthur and knights of old and wisdom. The latter seemed in short supply in this dark, fusty-smelling room. Mari felt a smile play on her pale pink, painted lips. Lou haloed in the basket chair, sun hardened and wrinkled, appeared diminutive, the wicker weave threatening to engulf her. A black hole here in the Rhondda thought Mari and stifled a giggle in the back of her throat.
Lou started, small, bird like eyes honed into the young lady’s face and seemed to see Mari for the first time.
“Says you were interestin’,” she rasped. “Remembers you reading - specially the big fairy book ‘e bought you.”
At this Mari sat up and took notice. The old crone gave a grated chuckle. This young thing didn’t believe. It was fun to throw in a sprat to catch a mackerel. Lou knew well the woman fighting to come through to this world. The grandfather was a strong old beggar and kept telling her it wasn’t the time. Lou respected her spirits and fell in with their wishes. They meant no harm and tried to protect those they had long since left behind. She picked up a black, silk bag and took out a pack of tarot cards. Darting eyes locked onto Mari’s face.
“Aquarian you are,” and she placed one card in the centre of the table.
The mediaeval picture depicted a queen with a sword in her hand. Quite bizarrely, Mari thought, a crimson butterfly rested on the sword’s edge. Another pack was lifted by the old woman’s tiny, creased hands and she shuffled them once.
“Time for the cards then.” She spoke more quietly now and with reverence. She held the pack toward Mari with a small jerk. “Cut them.”
Mari did as she was told. She felt less certain that this was pie in the sky. She was indeed a February child!
Lou’s gaze dropped to the table as she slowly dealt. Mari felt each card was a drum roll heralding doom. She wasn’t sure about staying but she’d paid twenty pounds. She wasn’t mean but her money was hard earned. She didn’t feel inclined to give the witch-like fortune spinner something for nothing.
Her mind wandered to visiting a friend’s daughter who had been seriously ill. She and Jane had left the ward for a breath of fresh air. Jane talked about praying in the hospital chapel the night before. A bracelet with no clasp, which had become too tight to remove, had slipped from her wrist on to the floor. She’d seen that as a sign that Ellie was going to get over her illness. Her husband, unused to the ways of prayer, had gently touched the head of the Christ child at the front of the altar. It was then that Mari had the urge to tell Jane about her mother. She had died suddenly and their last meeting had been less than cordial. She confided that family members or friends who had passed away always seemed to her to have gone to a safe place, a haven but she couldn’t place her mother anywhere. She just didn’t know where she was. Her friend asked her then whether her mother ever visited her and her family in their new home. The answer was no. Her mother had lost the desire to go outside the front door even though she was only in her sixties. Jane was reassuring. Her Mum was unable to say goodbye because her spirit couldn’t find her in an unfamiliar place. It would be okay though because the uncertainty would right itself and eventually she would reclaim her place in Mari’s heart.
That was a long time ago. Ellie was a young woman now, still having to take care of her health but leading the wholesome life which had seemed beyond her grasp. Jane believed in the psychic world and the power of prayer, things that Mari’s logic wouldn’t let her embrace. She was here as a disbeliever, to prove to all her friends she wasn’t the cynic but the sensible one.
She mentally shook herself and her own chastising voice told her the comment about the book was a lucky hit. She remembered that book so well. Grandpa William had bought it for her when she was three. She could read even then and was thrilled with the hardboard covered tome that stood as tall as her. Lying on her tummy, the book uprightly open in front of her, she devoured the beautiful pictures and pretty words. One illustration in particular was etched into her memory. The right side page was feathered with bluebells arching across the top of both leaves and beneath their shade, gossamer fairy folk played in their woodland world. She walked with them, dissolving through the paper door that lay before her. Many times Grandpa’s arrival at the terraced house in Drift Street was the thing that brought her back into the real world, the comfortable, warm, sitting room of family fun.
The staggered spread was complete. Lou examined the cards. She began to speak in a slow, careful voice.
“Many cards from the Suit of Cups there are. All ‘bout emotion the Cups. You are here because you are a disbeliever,” she cast a quick glance at Mari, “but more you’re troubled and you look for an answer, a long time looking.”
Mari shifted nervously. The chair creaked, breaking the silence that had fallen in the stuffy room. The old woman continued to talk and the younger woman listened. Observation after observation came, creating a map of her life.
“The Ten of Cups reversed gives to me your sadness, Five of Cups upright so much turmoil in your heart.” On and on went Lou injecting insight and, it seemed, advice into her reading. “Ah! The last one, The Seven of Swords reversed,” she fixed Mari with a benevolent smile. “Take care to listen, someone is trying to help you. No more to tell now. You come back again, soon. Next time the woman will come I think.” The last words emphasised through the crone’s toothless gums.
She got up, seeming no taller standing than sitting. Leaning on the table for support she looked deep into Mari’s eyes. Her own eyes were kindly and not frightening and her face held something intangible. Mari couldn’t explain but she felt the old woman understood life, the here and now and what comes after. Lou moved to the back of the room and her living quarters. Her tiny frame walked on bird like ankles. Around one of them a stocking hung like loose, parched skin.
Copyright Christine Nedahl 2012