Page 34 of Cuervo's Carnival
I shake my head, parting my lips to speak, when the raven that rests on the woman’s shoulder lifts its wings, taking flight. I squint at its black wings before it settles itself right in front of where I sit.
“Welcome,” the woman says, directing her attention to me. “I am Madame Eronel. Well, at least, that’s what I go by now,” she chuckles, as if amused with herself. “But that is neither here nor there. All that matters is that you have found me, Lola. Let’s begin.”
“How do you know my name?” I ask hesitantly, caught between wanting and not wanting to know.
She lifts her hand, twisting her wrist as if she were about to dance Salsa, before she snaps her fingers twice. It’s then I notice her wrinkled hand, though it doesn’t look aged—it looks scarred as if it were burned. She must notice my stare on her hand because she quickly slips it beneath the table, where she snaps twice more and calls for the raven.
“atoriatorio,” she calls, and the raven returns to her shoulder on command. “That’s a good birdie,” she praises the raven oddly namedPurgatorio. Bringing her other hand, which seems free from the scars her now hidden hand has, she strokes its dark feathers.
“Quiet, aren’t they?” she observes, tilting her head in Paxton and Cillian’s direction. Clearly, she is avoiding my question.
“How do you know my name?” I repeat.
Still, she doesn’t answer. She removes the hand petting the raven and reaches for a deck of cards.
“Just let it be,” I hear Paxton whisper behind me as Cillian lets out a frustrated grunt, tightening his grip on my shoulder once more.
I turn back to ask Cillian what is wrong, but Paxton brings his hand to my chin, turning my face toward him. “Go ahead,” he instructs me with unexpectedly sad eyes, tilting his chin forward in the direction of where Madame Eronel sits in front of us.
Nodding to him, I face Madame Eronel. I flinch my shoulders forward, breaking free from the stronghold the guys have on it, and clear my throat. “I asked you a question. How do you know my name?”
“If I didn’t know your name, then I wouldn’t be very good at my job,” she responds rather plainly, unphased by the urgency in my voice. “Now, given both of your lovers’ apprehension, I think it’s best if we leave them out of the reading process,comprende?”
“Sí,” my voice trembles unexpectedly.
She brings her hand from where it’s concealed beneath the table, so she can finally begin to shuffle the deck of cards.
My gaze glued to the cards, I notice the frayed edges of the yellowed cardstock.
“They love you,” she says, once again, in the plain tone I am starting to realize is her way of communicating. “It’s why they aren’t interrupting your experience,” she cryptically says as she begins to spread the cards on the table.
My brow furrows. “What experience?” I ask, confused.
“Your calling. Now, pick a card.” She lifts her hands, twisting her wrists upward so her palms show as she glides them overtop the three cards face down on the table.
I outstretch my hand overtop the card in the middle. My finger lowers onto the cardstock as I tap on it twice. “This one.”
The raven on her shoulder begins to croak excitedly. The sound is ear-piercing as it lifts its wings in a repetitive flutter. “Settle down,” she says, extending her hand to comfort it before redirecting her attention back to the middle card I chose.
“Excellent choice.” She drags the card so that it is still facing downward.
“The deck I felt compelled to share with you today is not a tarot, as I am sure you assumed. These cards are special to my family and culture,” she begins, slowly flipping the card, bringing it close to the veil that shields her face from me. “Ah, just as I suspected.”
Again, the raven begins the same excited flutter it did before, and once more, she comforts it with a long stroke on its head before addressing me. “It’s ok,Purgatorio,” she whispers, as if she were comforting a baby.
“Eternal lovers,” she says, showing me my chosen card. The yellowed cardstock looks more burnt than aged, as if it survived a fire.
A waft of what I could only assume is ash infiltrates my nose, causing me to cough. As I begin to hack, I hear a thud of footsteps and grunting, which I recognize as Cillian’s.
“Enough of this shit, Pax. This is too much!” he shouts.
I keep my eyes on Madame Eronel, who seems unphased by Cillian’s outburst. I don’t pay attention long enough to address him or listen to Paxton’s reaction. I can’t take my eyes off the card that, beyond its marred appearance, contains a symbol that makes my heart sink.
The blackened outline of two birds facing each other with their bills touching graces the front of the card. The simple drawing intensifies that damn chill that has been taunting me for weeks, reminding me of the etching on myabuela’sring. The ring that went missing the day she passed. Hers was of a coqui, but the eternal lover’s symbol is Taino in origin, just like the design on her ring.
“A symbol, sometimes associated with fertility, though it has a deeper meaning. It is known to represent unity, equality, in love and life,” she says.
I go to speak, but for some reason, I can’t. This bleak feeling that has lodged itself on my skin is overtaking my ability to form a coherent sentence.
