Empty with echoed silence, the house held the
odour of burned incense.
She turned the card and smiled. It was a
smooth surface and slightly yellowed, faded on the right-hand corner. She
examined carefully at the illustration, and gently brushed the back of the
tarot card.
But that happened one day a couple of weeks ago,
and she couldn't remember exactly when.
She kept close her eyes tightly for a long
time, and the moon was high in the dark when she opened again. A soft light
danced outside the narrow cell window, maybe a firefly. She remembered about a
flame of a white candle. She had a vague memory of her mother then, making
herbal substances in the dining room. She used to say "The flame
represents the source of our creation, your inner light", and she talked
on "You can give power and magical qualities to the flame, but the
energies come from your consciousness". She missed her somehow, feeling
lonely recalling her tired face, marked by time.
The next morning she wasn't hungry. As usual,
she thanked the Nature Deities Gaulish, the deity of forests and rivers, and
Nantosuelta, goddess of nature, fire and fertility. And then she waited.
The odour of the garlic flower intermingled
with the penetrating smell of the incense, and she could visualise the petals
of the purple flowers turning yellow because of the fire.
She looked closer her hands and she
remembered her last tarot, the Hanged Man, the twelfth trump or Major Arcana.
Someone was coming, and she stood up, her
hands were chained and resting on her underbelly.
"Witch? The stake is ready, your time
has come."
She stared back at him and said: "Yes, I
know".
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