Chapter Twenty-Seven

Heart and Soul Bookstore

The doors to Holy Cross Church were blessedly unlocked, and I crawled onto one of the hard wooden pews to sleep. Other than a couple of hours sleep on the concrete floor of the pavilion, I had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. I closed my eyes immediately in total exhaustion.

I awakened with the first rays of light the following morning. A coarse woolen blanket fell from my shoulders when I sat up. A kind priest must have taken pity on me during the night. I scratched my head and figured I’d been asleep for twenty hours!

I stepped out of the church into the cool morning and marveled at the change of seasons. The air was perfumed with lilac, and June foliage rustled from stately oaks. A field of heather separated me from the forest, which was also cloaked in the accouterments of early summer. All traces of the dark autumnal landscape were invisible.

“How is this possible?” No one heard my question. I was alone. I shook my head in wonder. I pondered the mysterious autumnal shift affected by Dark Woods. The world was spinning off its axis, and the True Path ran through places where the rules of nature did not always apply. However, I was back in the real world, which I had left on a spring morning just two days ago, according to my mind’s calculations. My eyes and nose told me otherwise as I sneezed in response to the early summer pollen. I listened to the wind whistling through the heather but heard no answer in its sigh.

I headed toward the Gill’s Rock marina in hopes of catching a ride back to the bottom of the peninsula. I knew of a shortcut, of course, but wasn’t willing to hike the haunted wood alone. I wasn’t even sure that I could find the trail from this side.

I caught a ride to Sister Bay with a local farmer who eyed me suspiciously during the fifteen-minute drive. I had only a ten-minute wait before a sister from the Holy Cross chapter of the Franciscan Order spotted me at the Sister Bay Yacht Club and offered to drive me back to Green Bay. Her bumper was decorated with a small silver fish. Her fish was oriented along the horizontal plane. Hers was not the mark of the Broken Path.

I accepted the ride, and she drove me all the way home. She didn’t ask many questions, and I didn’t feel compelled to speak. The sisters from that order are wonderful human beings who treat people with kindness simply because it is the right thing to do. The drive was pleasant, and I slept most of the way.

The first thing I did when I arrived home was agonize over the mess Umbra and his henchmen left in the wake of their search. Couch cushions were flung about the living room. Drawers had been ripped from dressers, overturned, and then carelessly tossed aside. Warm, humid air blew into the house from the broken entryway window. Even so, the house smelled stale and unlived in. I had been gone more than a month!

I restored things to their proper places one-handed, thankful nothing appeared to have been stolen. What were they looking for? I ran my hand along the front door, looking for some sort of security device meant to alert those assholes to my return. I was no expert but didn’t find anything.

I ran hot water for a shower and looked in the mirror. I was a mess. Several days growth of beard, black hair unkempt, clothing wrinkled, hand in a makeshift splint. I was thankful I couldn’t see the film over my teeth. I undressed and climbed into the shower. As the hot water descended upon me I wondered what Umbra had been looking for. Was I his target? I didn’t think so. He and his buddies wouldn’t look for me in desk drawers. Did he know about Isabel’s Kesemanetow? Did he think I had possession of them? Would a hidden camera somewhere inform him of my return? I was missing something but had recently learned that wisdom only comes with time. The answers would reach me eventually.

Next came food. I had only canned goods but made an adequate meal of stale pasta and a reasonable red sauce. I put on clean clothing and comfortable, appropriately sized leather boots. I had a hell of a time securing the laces one-handed and had to use my teeth.

The bones of my hand were crushed in several places, but I dared not seek medical help. Umbra seemed to have the cops in his back pocket, and keeping a low profile seemed wise.

I slumped into the leather chair in the study and examined my Kesemanetow with hopes of...well I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. A vibratory hum moved from my fingertips up my arm and eventually pulsed with my own heartbeat. The card was cold, like a slab of rock at the bottom of Death’s Door.

“I need answers!” I shouted this out hoping Isabel would hear me, wherever she was. No reply.

The view of the bay drew my attention. Sunlight played upon the water. The bay’s surface would eventually ignite into a burst of magenta, but sunset was several hours away. It looked inviting outside. I marveled at all the scarlet painted cup in full bloom along the waterfront. The arrival of summer was a mystery for a different time. I had a job to do.

I poured over the details of The Fire Walker card. I examined every color and nuance of the painting to find a meaning. Nothing. I tried to will it to life. Surely the All-Father’s magic was still present in this ancient treasure. Nothing. I flipped the card over. The white wolf device was beautiful to behold but, unfortunately, not instructive.

“Thanks for the help!” I shouted to Isabel. “I know you can hear me.”

The day turned to night, and I had failed miserably. I was exhausted. I moved some clothing and other essentials downstairs into the wine cellar. I figured I would hide down there until I figured out what to do. A cleverly hidden side door allowed entry to a storage room, which in turn led directly to a rarely used back door. No telling when Umbra or other uninvited guests might return.

I studied the Kesemanetow over the next few days but could not fathom its meaning. Try as I might to mentally change the picture, the black-robed man just stared passively across the sea. The card was cold to the touch, and it always sent waves of electricity shooting into my arm and chest, but that’s all it did. No answers. I had run out of food and had a bad case of cabin fever.

I kept myself entertained by engaging in one-sided conversations with Isabel.

“Oh, Izzy,” I’d exclaim, “your answers are always so clear and so concise. I’d be lost without you.”

Or sometimes, “Hey Izzy, did you ever wonder how fun my life would be right now if you hadn’t ruined it with those stupid, fucking cards?”

I needed a change of scenery and fast.

Ready or not I deemed my hand stable enough to handle the Harley. I rode past the Bay Beach Amusement Park and then followed Quincy Street south. I was headed for a small grocery store where I had never shopped and where I didn’t think I’d be recognized. Along the way I passed a metaphysical bookstore.

The Heart and Soul greeted me with a large sign of bold crimson lettering set against a background of warm yellow. They were having quite a sale. Signs boasting of “Half off all herbal teas,” and “Twenty-five percent off all holistic therapies” dotted the postage stamp yard. Something about the store’s name tickled the back of my mind. Theorizing that my quest was of a more metaphysical than scientific bent, I parked the bike and walked into the small bungalow.

The Heart and Soul was fragrant with the essence of lilac mingled with French vanilla. The store was warm and comfortable, lit by yellow candles and miniature lamps muted by burgundy lampshades. The only windows were in the front of the rectangular store, and no artwork hung from the plum walls. Tall bookshelves, lined with tomes large and small, were the main feature of the single room.

I surveyed the oak bookshelves and smiled at the evocative titles. A Guide to Healing Through the Human Energy Field, Essential Reiki: A Complete Guide to an Ancient Healing Art, Capturing the Aura, and so forth. The Heart and Soul, it seemed, thrived on a clientele disheartened by the beliefs and practices of people in my profession. I wondered if I was deep into enemy territory but realized I had no right to question the beliefs of spiritually minded individuals. I was now one of them.

“May I help you, doctor?” a voice called from behind me. I turned around to meet the stare of a large Native American woman, draped in layers of red silk. Her face was round, almost cherubic, and her features declared her to be of Oneida blood. She made her way heavily toward me on two-inch heels that helped her reach my shoulders in height.

“I’m just looking around,” I volunteered nervously. Up close, acne scars stood out on her cheeks. Her lips were painted a bold shade of scarlet, which accentuated their fullness. I tried to ignore the white, mother-of-pearl necklace sandwiched within her line of cleavage. She continued to stare at me.

“You left the front door open, doctor. You’ve disturbed the store’s essence,” she scolded me. Her voice sounded young, but she looked to be about my age.

“Sorry.” I walked back to the entrance and closed the shop door. Brass chimes clattered noisily from the doorknob. “How did you know I’m a doctor?”

“I know who you are, Doctor Prophet.” Her tone was ominous, and I was surprised lightning did not flash portentously. Suddenly a soothing herbal tea sounded good.

“There’s nothing supernatural about how I know you,” she reassured me. “You took care of my niece last year at Children’s. Her name is Chelsea—she had seizures…”

“Right,” I interrupted her. It would have proved embarrassing not to recall the shopkeeper’s niece, but I remembered her. I had to intubate her when she stopped breathing during her seizures. As I recalled, she recovered well with no residual brain damage. “How is she doing now?”

“Good. She hasn’t had a seizure in over six months. She’s going to see Doctor Edgar next week; I think we may stop the Dilantin.”

“Wonderful news,” I proclaimed. I hoped she was grateful enough for my past service that she wouldn’t call the cops on me the second I left her store. Was there a warrant out for my arrest? I didn’t think so. Those assholes were going to keep things below the radar.

“Doctor,” she repeated, with some concern. She looked at me with large brown eyes. Something about her spoke of dissatisfaction with the hand life had dealt her.

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry,” I answered. “I was daydreaming for a minute. You were asking me a question?”

“I was wondering what I could do for you today. You did come to The Heart and Soul for a reason, I suppose?”

Now she had me. Why did I walk into her store? I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.

“What do you know about tarot cards?”

My question evoked a wan smile that verged on sarcasm. “You don’t strike me as the tarot card type.”

Now it was my turn to smile. “I guess I’m not, really. One of my patients—may I sit down?” She motioned me toward the back room, and she parted the black velvet curtain to let me pass. We sat across from each other at a small, oval table whose faded red silk tablecloth was embellished by oversized yellow quarter-moons and stars. The walls of this small square room were also plum, and a single electric lantern provided dim lighting from its position at the center of the table. A red velvet curtain was drawn closed at the rear entry, which seemed to lead to the owner’s private quarters.

“May I offer you some tea, doctor?” she asked.

“Please, call me Paul,” I said.

“You may call me Auntie if you like.” She smiled at me maternally, and I got the sense she was being serious.

“Nice to meet you, uh, Auntie.” The name didn’t really fit her, and I wondered if she used it to conjure an image of maternal warmth where none existed. I had more important matters at hand and aborted that train of thought.

“Okay, Auntie, I’ll fess up. I recently inherited a card from a very mysterious deck.” A pang of guilt shot from my brain directly into my heart. I said too much. Isabel adopted me into her private clan, and I nearly betrayed her confidence. Auntie looked at me expectantly. I choose my next words more carefully.

“I think it may be a very old tarot card. Perhaps you can tell me what you know of Door County art—”

“Do you have it with you?” she interrupted.

“No,” I lied. Isabel shared her secrets with very few people. It went without saying that I should maintain her cloak of secrecy. Besides, the Kesemanetow were not to be viewed lightly. They had a way of turning one’s life upside down. There was something else, as well. Auntie… A tingle ran along the back of my neck.

Auntie looked disappointed. She unwrapped a bundle of white silk to reveal a deck of traditional-looking tarot cards. She began laying the cards out mechanically across the table, a ritual she performed with familiarity.

This was not exactly what I had in mind, but I went with it. She motioned toward the cards and asked me if they looked familiar. They did not. The scenes before me were pale and unemotional in comparison with Isabel’s deck. These were mass-produced cartoon-quality drawings with figures clothed in ridiculous Renaissance costumes. The kings, queens, and pages seemed lifeless and bland.

“I’m using the Universal Waite Tarot Deck,” Auntie explained. “ Occultist Arthur Edward Waite commissioned Pamela Colman Smith to paint the originals in 1909.”

I listened patiently to Auntie’s brief history of these ordinary-looking cards.

“As far as I know,” she continued, “there are hundreds of variations on this deck but they all are based on the original Rider-Waite deck.”

“So the tarot was basically invented by this Waite guy in the twentieth century?” I was disappointed the tarot and Kesemanetow shared no common ancestry.

“Not exactly,” she cautioned. “The first known tarot cards appeared sometime between 1430 and 1450 in northern Italy. The oldest surviving tarot cards are from fifteen fragmented decks painted in the mid-fifteenth century for the Visconti-Sforza family, the rulers of Milan. The tarot may even date to ancient Egypt. I’ve even heard rumors that Waite discovered an ancient set of tarot cards from which he created the modern deck.”

Is Auntie referring to the Kesemanetow? “Izzy’s cards look different.” I failed to hide the disappointment in my voice. Auntie gave me a quizzical look. I realized too late I should not have mentioned her by name.

“Isabel is the patient who gave me the card I talked about.” The cat was already out of the bag. Auntie looked at me patiently as if waiting further explanation.

“They contain some of the same images you’re showing me, but they’re different. They’re a bit larger, for one thing, and the cards seem more antique. In fact, they’re not so much cards as miniature paintings.” I was struggling to describe the nuances of this most illogical pursuit. I would not describe the true difference between Auntie’s and Isabel’s decks. This was a secret belonging to Isabel’s people. My people.

“I can’t really explain it,” I offered apologetically.

Auntie gave me a benign smile as if I amused her. “I’m sure Izzy’s—is that her name?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I’m sure her cards are different, Paul. There are hundreds of different variations of tarot. There are American Indian tarot, astrological tarot, feminist circle tarot—”

“I get the point,” I interrupted.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Why don’t you look through my deck and tell me if any of them seem familiar.” It was more of a demand than a request.

I scanned her cards, one at a time. My breath caught in a moment of complete and sudden shock. Auntie looked up at me with a worried look.

“Are you all right?” she asked. I nodded my head apologetically and showed her the first two cards that caught my interest. They were labeled in English with the names The High Priestess and Five of Cups. The High Priestess was a beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting on an alabaster throne. She wore a pearl headpiece and was situated between two columns, one white and the other black. Behind her was a tapestry featuring various fruits, and beyond that was a blue sea. The card was emotionless, yielding none of the vibrancy of Isabel’s paintings, but the similarities were too great for simple coincidence. I had seen a card like this in Isabel’s deck.

The Five of Cups was even more fascinating. A dark-haired man stood on the shore of a narrow river with his back to the viewer. A stone castle stood across the water, and a collection of five overturned gold cups were spread at his feet. Dark wine spilled from several of the cups. The man wore a black cloak. My heart began to race.

I placed my right index finger upon the Five of Cups but felt only the smooth surface of the cardboard. No electrical hum or otherworldly cold. Auntie shook her head at me with disapproval. I rummaged through the remainder of the deck and found another card that caught my attention.

A trumpet-playing angel, a pied piper of sorts, beckoned gray children out from their tombs. This card sent chills down my spine. Despite the washed-out colors and cartoonlike artwork, this image was vibrant with the presence of evil. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I felt a convergence of worlds. Auntie stared at me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

“Do you know the name Fire Walker?” I pointed to the black-robed figure from Auntie’s Five of Cups. She examined the card carefully before answering. I got the distinct impression she was trying to hide her excitement.

“Did you say ‘Fire Walker’?”

I nodded.

“Where did you come across this name?”

Do I detect a note of incredulity in her question? Perhaps it was just my imagination.

“Izzy may have mentioned it to me at one time,” I answered in partial truth. I was getting dangerously close to betraying Isabel’s confidence and needed to proceed with caution.

Auntie excused herself from the table and hurried, or rather lumbered quickly, past the scarlet curtain into the back room. She seemed ill equipped to handle her body weight, as if she had gained excessive mass rapidly. I heard her rummaging through books, mumbling to herself. Moments later she returned, carrying a large, dusty, black leather-bound tome. She scanned the table of contents, ignoring me completely. She opened her book to the selected chapter. “Here it is,” she exclaimed.

She showed me a series of images, each a handdrawn reproduction of what were clearly Kesemanetow. Some of the drawings were unfamiliar to me, some looked like the ones Isabel shared with me, and some were similar in detail to the pied piper. Pure evil.

My heart resumed its now-familiar chain of palpitations as I turned each thin-leafed page of the leather-bound volume. Reproductions of an ancient and magical art from an actual book lent immediate tangibility to them. I sat back deeply into my chair and enjoyed the lilac scent that wafted into the room.

The sound of rain falling on pavement reverberated throughout the shop. The muted rumble of thunder arose from somewhere off in the distance. The day had grown dark and serious.

“The tarot are old, Paul. Really old. The history books teach us they were first invented by the Europeans, but you saw for yourself the similarities between the modern tarot and the images from my book. I have reason to believe Wisconsin’s Native Americans created the first set.” Auntie seemed terribly disturbed by an indefinable emotion of excitement. As if we both knew of the existence of the Kesemanetow but did not trust the other enough to fully explain what we knew.

She looked up at me with those distrustful brown eyes, her discomfort and concern giving way to a wan smile. Something invisible to me clicked inside her head. She picked up the spread of cards in front of me and replaced them into the deck. She also collected her ancient tome from my side of the table, indicating our little chat was coming to a close. I had even more questions now than I had upon my arrival.

“Some of the images from my book relate to forces that are not benign,” she warned me. “If I have learned anything from them it is this: some tarot cards are better left untouched.”

“I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time,” I apologized, concerned by her ominous warning. “Can you tell me if there is a secret to working the images from your book?”

She looked off into the distance and breathed a sigh of resignation. “It depends upon the source of the card. Take your Fire Walker, for example. He was created by the All-Father.”

Auntie looked into my eyes for emphasis, perhaps to gauge my response. This was far from nonsense. No condescending smile parted my lips.

“The All-Father’s cards are each connected to the sunset,” she said. “That is the time when the land, sea, and sky are joined by a great path of fire.”

She carried her book with her through the velvet curtain but continued to talk to me as if we were in the same room. “Other cards are not empowered by sunset.” She said nothing more, but I was pretty sure she meant the Miskenupik.

The rain fell more heavily, battering the rooftop violently with plump droplets. The thunder was closer now, punctuating the black day with angry drama.

“Auntie, I have to confess—until recently I’ve never been a believer in the mystical or the occult.”

She returned to our little room and contorted her face into a look of mock surprise.

“Anyway,” I said, lifting myself out of the comfortable chair, “I need to go now but I’d like to come back. I’d like to show you that card.” I was almost ready to lay down my guard. Auntie was one of two living, breathing people willing to help me. Still, I kept the Kesemanetow in my pocket.

“Of course, child,” she replied. She looked neither interested nor disinterested in my request, which surprised me. I made my way toward the front of The Heart and Soul, preparing myself for the oncoming deluge. As I opened the front door, I had to raise my voice considerably to compete with the storm’s voracity.

“Thank you,” I shouted. The storm began to soak me even before I crossed the threshold. Auntie waved goodbye, deep within the shelter of her shop. She bade me farewell with a few parting words I had trouble discerning against the din of the autumn storm. I had already exited and made haste for my bike.

As I sat on the Harley’s wet touring seat, soaked and cold, I wished I had dressed for the weather. The air smelled of rain and ozone, and the washed freshness cleared the incense from my brain. I wondered if the mass-produced tarot retained any of the magic of old. The good or the evil. The latter thought filled me with dread. I pictured thousands of people studying their tarot cards and absorbing imagery that affected them in unpredictable ways.

I looked at the side-view mirror and through the raindrops saw the top three floors of Children’s Hospital behind me, looming larger than its downtown neighbors. I was beginning to miss my life as a physician. It now seemed such a simple life where problems were solved with logic and compassion. Too late for that.