The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller by Lucy Banks

Author:Lucy Banks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Amberjack Publishing
Published: 2019-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

— 1901 —

AGNES HASN’T SPOKEN to the ghost in two days.

He understands why. The suffering of living humans has always affected her, and none more so than one of her own kin, particularly this aunt, who had cared for her as a child. He observes the dying old woman, noting her readiness to ease out of this life and into the next.

If only it had been like that for us, he thinks, envying the simplicity of the process for every other ghost they come across. All they experience is a moment’s confusion as they slip out of their body, a gleam of recognition, then plip, they fly from existence like a flame extinguishing in water. He doesn’t know why it is different for him and for Agnes. Perhaps we did something terribly wrong in life, and we’re now paying a penance for it, he wonders.

Occasionally, they come across other ghosts, lurking miserably in ancient buildings, skulking in churches. Generally, these creatures flee at the sight of another like them, leaving no clues to hint at the nature of their existence. And so, he and Agnes remain alone, together, oblivious to why they remain, and what the future holds for them. It is an intimidating, frightening thought.

Agnes’s aunt looks rather like a walnut shell, he thinks; small, brown, and leathered, narrow eyes blinking in and out of consciousness. It cannot be long now; her breath grows raspier, the rising of her chest more laboured with every inhalation. The circus women gathered around her sense it too, and clasp her hands more tightly, willing her to stay, whilst preparing her to go. Crammed into the caravan, the concentration of their life-force seems almost a taunt to the dying that is happening before them.

He thinks he remembers this aunt. There is something about her that strikes a note deep within him; a chime of a distant memory. He can see her at a table, a series of tarot cards in front of her, and for some reason, one particular card clangs loudly as a bell within his mind; the Hanged Man. However, he doesn’t know where this vision originated. Perhaps from his time spent at the circus, shortly after he’d died. Strange, how his memory fails him at crucial moments like this. He hopes it will not worsen with time; after all, his memories are all he has left.

“Agnes?” He approaches gently, as one might a skittish mare.

She shakes her head, then dwindles into invisibility, though he knows she is still here. Very well, he thinks, understanding her need to be alone. This aunt was obviously close to her, this pickled old creature who seems nothing more than loose bags of flesh to him. We have no choice over who we love in life, he realises, and feels a vague tang of bitterness at the thought.

Still, he pities the old woman, on her narrow bed. She looks lost beneath the stained old blankets, her skin mottled in the weak light that filters through the tiny caravan window.

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