Read Online Allegories of the Tarot by Annetta Ribken, Eden Baylee - Free Book Online
Authors: Annetta Ribken, Eden Baylee
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happening ahead of them, something exciting.”
Rico smiles, remembering the thrill of the first time he
watched inspiration seep into someone’s dream. He wonders if he looked like
Balar, with a smile testing the limits of his cheeks.
“The crowd is chanting. It gets louder as she gets
closer to the front. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your treason grow?’
She’s singing along and clapping,” Balar says. “There’s a queen nearby. Her
face is white as snow and her hair red as fire, but the girl ignores her. She
wants to get to the front. She can’t see what’s up there yet, but I can. I see
a man in a black mask holding an axe. He’s standing next to a blood-drenched
block of wood. There’s a body on the ground beside it, but I can’t tell whose
it is. I can’t see the head.”
“Nor will you,” Rico says, unclamping Balar’s hand from
the girl’s shoulder. “It’s her story now. Let’s leave her alone to explore it.”
Balar pouts his lip, pleading, but Rico shakes his head.
“You have to let go. Even when you deliver inspiration to a dangerous place,
you can only take artists so far. Keep them inspired, keep them safe, but know
you are nothing to them.”
“But she’s going to wake up and write a story, isn’t
she? Won’t she wonder where it came from?”
“Maybe, but she’ll never guess right. Artists stand on
the shoulders of muses to see the expanse of their imaginations, but they can’t
see far enough to be grateful for our stability. We don’t exist to them, Balar.
Our memories do not survive death. Our own stories will never be told.”
Rico exhales, feeling his age. “It’s time to get back to
the Bridge.”
Holding onto Rico’s cord, Balar follows the muse out
through the tunnel. Once they’re back in the chamber, Rico reaches out to
unplug his cord from the terminal, but it’s not there. Not in the terminal, not
in his ear.
“What’s going on? Where is it?” he asks frantically.
“You don’t need it anymore,” Balar replies. “You have
done well, Rico. For thousands of years you have given the living world reasons
to create, and in turn, reason to live. I am proud of you for all you’ve done,
but it’s time for you to rest.”
Balar removes his goggles. His eyes have changed, become
deeper.
Rico has never seen those eyes before, but he knows them
in an instant. He sinks to his knees, tears welling as he whispers, “Spec?”
Balar’s hand is warm against Rico’s face, but Spec’s
words are warmer.
“I know your lifelong loneliness, child. I’ve seen your
malaise and how you’ve set it aside to inspire joy in others. Because of that,
I will not let you fade.”
“But that’s the fate of blood-muses. We don’t go to a
Graveyard. We fade from the Spectrum’s memory.”
The screen fills with the image of Earth2. As Rico
watches in awe, it zooms in on North America, America, Maryland, Frederick
County, Taney Avenue, a townhouse, and a cluttered study.
“For your service, for your sacrifices, your memory will
endure. With the entire Spectrum as my witness, your stories will be told. And
she,” he says, pointing to a woman with curly hair, scrawling in a notebook,
“will be your storyteller.”
Weariness hits Rico like a sledgehammer, and Balar helps him lie down. From the beginning of his lonely life to this
moment, Rico felt the weight of responsibility. There had been moments of
pleasure, but none comparing to the sensation of a slowing pulse. His life will
end, but Spec’s gift grants him the chance to live better ones. The facts of
his existence won’t change, but the spaces between are endless now. For the
first time, he knows the weightlessness—and joy—of possibility.
Rico’s eyes close, his breath ceases, and the
storyteller lowers her pen.
***
Jessica McHugh is an author of speculative fiction that
spans the genre from horror and alternate history to epic fantasy. A member of
the Horror Writers Association and a 2013
Rico smiles, remembering the thrill of the first time he
watched inspiration seep into someone’s dream. He wonders if he looked like
Balar, with a smile testing the limits of his cheeks.
“The crowd is chanting. It gets louder as she gets
closer to the front. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your treason grow?’
She’s singing along and clapping,” Balar says. “There’s a queen nearby. Her
face is white as snow and her hair red as fire, but the girl ignores her. She
wants to get to the front. She can’t see what’s up there yet, but I can. I see
a man in a black mask holding an axe. He’s standing next to a blood-drenched
block of wood. There’s a body on the ground beside it, but I can’t tell whose
it is. I can’t see the head.”
“Nor will you,” Rico says, unclamping Balar’s hand from
the girl’s shoulder. “It’s her story now. Let’s leave her alone to explore it.”
Balar pouts his lip, pleading, but Rico shakes his head.
“You have to let go. Even when you deliver inspiration to a dangerous place,
you can only take artists so far. Keep them inspired, keep them safe, but know
you are nothing to them.”
“But she’s going to wake up and write a story, isn’t
she? Won’t she wonder where it came from?”
“Maybe, but she’ll never guess right. Artists stand on
the shoulders of muses to see the expanse of their imaginations, but they can’t
see far enough to be grateful for our stability. We don’t exist to them, Balar.
Our memories do not survive death. Our own stories will never be told.”
Rico exhales, feeling his age. “It’s time to get back to
the Bridge.”
Holding onto Rico’s cord, Balar follows the muse out
through the tunnel. Once they’re back in the chamber, Rico reaches out to
unplug his cord from the terminal, but it’s not there. Not in the terminal, not
in his ear.
“What’s going on? Where is it?” he asks frantically.
“You don’t need it anymore,” Balar replies. “You have
done well, Rico. For thousands of years you have given the living world reasons
to create, and in turn, reason to live. I am proud of you for all you’ve done,
but it’s time for you to rest.”
Balar removes his goggles. His eyes have changed, become
deeper.
Rico has never seen those eyes before, but he knows them
in an instant. He sinks to his knees, tears welling as he whispers, “Spec?”
Balar’s hand is warm against Rico’s face, but Spec’s
words are warmer.
“I know your lifelong loneliness, child. I’ve seen your
malaise and how you’ve set it aside to inspire joy in others. Because of that,
I will not let you fade.”
“But that’s the fate of blood-muses. We don’t go to a
Graveyard. We fade from the Spectrum’s memory.”
The screen fills with the image of Earth2. As Rico
watches in awe, it zooms in on North America, America, Maryland, Frederick
County, Taney Avenue, a townhouse, and a cluttered study.
“For your service, for your sacrifices, your memory will
endure. With the entire Spectrum as my witness, your stories will be told. And
she,” he says, pointing to a woman with curly hair, scrawling in a notebook,
“will be your storyteller.”
Weariness hits Rico like a sledgehammer, and Balar helps him lie down. From the beginning of his lonely life to this
moment, Rico felt the weight of responsibility. There had been moments of
pleasure, but none comparing to the sensation of a slowing pulse. His life will
end, but Spec’s gift grants him the chance to live better ones. The facts of
his existence won’t change, but the spaces between are endless now. For the
first time, he knows the weightlessness—and joy—of possibility.
Rico’s eyes close, his breath ceases, and the
storyteller lowers her pen.
***
Jessica McHugh is an author of speculative fiction that
spans the genre from horror and alternate history to epic fantasy. A member of
the Horror Writers Association and a 2013
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