Oh! they really pack 'em in...

[prolixfootle]

I've posted this here too, but I really reccomend that you (or at least those of you who might have an interest in this sort of thing) go and read it at the_hande_booke...

 

 

Cassandra Jayne has come again!

Tell kith and kin, and tell your thane!

Hand in hand she will explain,

Days to come afore they wane!

 

Cassandra Jayne has come again.

Ask for weal and ye get pain.

The quest for cert is e’er in vain,

All to lose and naught to gain.

 

Cassandra Jayne has come again,

Sweet o’ smile and fair o’ mien.

Your soul’s to lose in this bargain.

Run and hide from Cassandra Jayne!

 

 

M’ name is Cassandra Jane Androcles, and I’m a Chiromancer – a reader o’ futures in th’ lines o’ your hand. A Chiromancer Extraordinaire as it says on m’ caravan. And ‘tis true, dagg it. Most times I’m too true, as ye might ken by th’ little nursery verse that’s been attached t’ m’ name.

Speaking of, m’ fore name’s based on an ancient Terran myth, or so I been told. ‘Twas bestowed by those who sought to curse me when they found I’d been touched by th’ Fey (didn’t work, though – most people believe m’ sooths wi’ nary a qualm). Jayne was what th’ old healer – the closest thing t’ a parent I ever had – called me, afore he turned his back on me. Th’ others I made up on m’ own, for times when I’m needing them. O’ course, that’s not m’ full name, but I know better’n t’ put m’dagged Moly name t’ paper.

Anywhat, I’m an orphan, knowing neither Ma nor Pa, nor any other bloodlined antecessor. I was found, alone and squalling, on th’ Elderwold on th’ day o’ th’ first killing freeze o’ th’ autumnal season some six score odd years ago. Th’ huntsman what found me took me to th’ local healer, thinking I’d been left t’ die due t’ some defect. There’re lots o’ defects ’round them parts, ‘cause o’ th’ Schism. But he found naught amiss, leastways not just then. Nor did he e’er find anyone who’d name me as kin, so he claimed me himself, proper-like, in a formal Kin-Maundy.  He raised me to th’ Art and taught me to read and write, leastwise ‘til he found th’ Fey in me. When he found that, he cast me out, Kin-Maundy or no.

But I was expecting it. See, th’ Fey calls to its own, whispers its secrets and instructions, and e’en young’uns recognize th’ song. I hid m’ talents as long as I could, but I also got m’ self ready for what I could see was coming. I knew what to do, ye understand, instinctual-like. I learned t’ read cha leaves, and t’ cast bones, and later I picked up th’ Cards, but m’ best, and what always came easiest, was th’ lines. When I’d stare at a palm, it’d be like I fell right into a happening, and I’d see what was coming clear as if it was already over and done wi’. ‘Tis always strongest when th’ moon’s sway’s upon me (but th’ sooth’s always wicked then too – e’er and always dreadful seeings during m’ moon’s-blood), but ‘tis always strong and true for me. So I started out on foot as a travelling seer. Gypsy, Zingaro, Varletain, Witcherwoo, Bazigar, Muliebrity, Delphinian; whate’er ye will, I been called them all.

What I found amazing was how many want t’ know what’s coming, no matter th’ cost. So I traveled for a bit, foretelling for pay, all th’ while honing m’ skills. And learning th’ Fey o’ course. Th’ Fey finds ways to teach its own, all subtle-like.

Eventually I got me m’ wagon, and some fine travelling garb, all th’ accoutrements for th’ show and whatnot, and e’en some fair coin. But in some places I also got th’ Loos because back then I was still doing regular soothings during th’ moon’s-sway. And as all know, a bad reputation’s hard t’ shirk. So I kept moving t’ keep ahead o’ those who thought I’d done them ill, though I ne’er done such. I only told what was there for me t’ see.

Oh, and have I travelled! M’ first centenary has come and gone, plus two and twenty years – a barely-teethed youth by Fey standards – but already I’ve seen six o’ th’ seven know Universii (all but Ultima Thule, th’ realm o’ th’ Energumen o’ Eld, because th’ Fey warns t’ stay well shut o’ that place – but e’en so, when m’ Last Days beckon wi’ bony hands, I may go, just to see. But that’s a much later travelling, or so I’m hoping), and I’ve seen twelve different ages o’ Man, from th’ Empyrean Mythos to th’ Rage o’ th’ Sciences. And e’erywhere I’ve been has come to know th’ name o’ Cassandra Jayne and recognize her abilities, oh my yes.

Aye, learned to fear her a bit too. O’er th’ years I’ve learned a few spells and such, and picked up more’n m’ fair share o’ th’ tricks o’ self defense, as well as acquiring a few technotrinkets to help me protect m’ self and m’ belongings. Nowadays I can travel by m’ lonesome and feel safe and secure as I rest m’ weary head, knowing that I’ll not be molested in m’ sleep.

O’ course, ‘tweren’t like that at first. Travelling alone and on foot on th’ sphere o’ me birth. Soothing for pennies, and always fretful that some who’d mistook m’ telling as sinister or somesuch would catch me out t’ do me harm. Or, worse yet, being caught for rut by some lust-ridden man tired o’ his own red right hand. Ye see, I’ve not met any whose lines I couldn’t read, but mine own are closed to me. I can’t see nothing ‘tall about m’ own morrows, though I’ve tried more times’n I can count.

But I’ve e’er had th’ travelling itch. And e’en back then I could ken that there was other places – different places – but it took me forever and a day to find th’ portieres. ‘Tweren’t like they had guide signs or nonesuch. And they was usually hidden away someways, all secret-like. But those that’ve been well touched by th’ Fey can usually ferret out th’ passages ‘tween th’ spheres, if given long enough (or, at least some o’ them can. I’ve met more’n a few who are strong wi’ th’ Fey who’ve ne’er developed th’ knack o’ travelling cross spheres, poor sots). It was in th’ winter o’ m’ three and sixtieth year th’ first time I found a passage, and I remember it as if ‘twere yesterday. It took all m’ gumption to just peek through, and e’en though I prepared as best I could, I nearly stroked out when I saw what was on th’ other side. ‘Twas a realm in th’ midst o’ one o’ th’ Ages o’ Technology o’er there (though I didn’t know it as such at th’ time), and things were far and away stranger’n anything I’d e’er dreamt. Still, I girded m’ strength, said a spell o’ protection, and passed on through. Wonders and wonders I saw that first time, and ev’ry one’s still burned in m’ memory. A thousand and more marvels I’ve seen since then, but those first I still recall th’ clearest.

After that, ‘twere somewhat easier t’ find others – though ne’er just plain effortless, i’ ye ken m’ drift. See, portieres got a look about them, a kind o’ shimmery sheen that catches th’ corner o’ your eye and lets ye know that th’ fabric ‘tween th’ spheres is thinny and can be twitched aside. Once ye got that shimmer-shine fixed in your eye, it gets easier and easier to spot them, though opening them ‘tis another matter entirely. ‘Talmost seems that they have t’ want t’ be opened afore ye can do it, leastwise t’ m’ mind. Sometimes they open, and sometimes they don’t, capricious things.

And travel ‘tween th’ spheres is ne’er wi’ out danger. Passing itself is tiring, and ye can ne’er know exactly who nor what ye’ll meet on th’ other side, nor how they (or it) might react. If ye be lucky, ye come through in some quiet corner wi’ nary a soul about, but usually ye slip through in plain sight trying hard not t’ be seen. Th’ Vulgaris have a natural knack o’ not seeing what they don’t expect t’ see (which seems t’ include lasses popping out o’ thin air, I’m opining), so ‘tis not quite as hard as ‘tsounds. I expect they find it t’ be somebody else’s problem or somesuch.

Another problem is that time don’t flow th’ same e’erywheres. Faster here, slower there, sometimes backwards for a bit o’er yonder, sometimes skipping about in another. Ye can step through one way or tother, realize ye’ve forgot something, step right back through and find that days or weeks have passed already. Once, ten years or so lapsed o’ m’ life’s time ‘twixt me visiting a particular place. Upon m’ return, I discovered ten centuries had passed ‘tween m’ visits. Ye’d not believe th’ fawning and toadying that happened when them folks realized I was th’ same Varletain who read for their antecessors.

But e’en wi’ all th’ dangers and problems, traveling cross th’ spheres is th’ love o’ m’ life. I try and stay t’ where th’ Fey is strong (which means I don’t usually go t’ places ruled by th’ Sciences. Readings’re harder where th’ Fey is weaker, ye see – though once in a while I’ll meander into a techy place to just t’ ogle th’ gewgaws and gimcracks. I do love me some bright baubles o’ mechomagery to play wi’!), and I try not to do readings anymore during th’ moon’s sway if I can avoid it, but e’en so, I’ve still been to many and many again places. And met th’ most amazing people! Kings to commoners, priests to paupers, scientists, sages and sycophants, th’ famous and th’ infamous. And Cassandra Jayne’s read for them all, be it good or ill depending on their lines, wi’ most’ thanking me very kindly at th’ end.

And each reading has a story, so I have more stories’n m’ cat has fleas. Speaking of, did I tell ye about m’ cat? Strangest creature I’ve e’er met., and I’ve met some doozies! Remind me one day t’ tell that tale (no pun intended, heh!).

Anywhat, most Vulgaris think that foretelling is easy, that anyone can just dabble in th’ sooth, but that’s just plain wrong. When ‘tis done f’real, ‘tis one o’ th’ most difficult things for a person t’ do. Not only d’ye have to see, ye also have to interpret what ye be seeing, all o’ th’ symbology embedded in th’ imagery, what’s relevant and what’s needless, what pertains to th’ client and what’s bleeding in from th’ reader. Then ye have t’ decide what must be told, what should be told, what can be told and what needs t’ be kept t’ yourself (because not e’erything that’s seen ought t’ be passed along, an’ some things must ne’er be spoken of, if ye ken m’ meaning).

For instance, I remember this one soothing that’s haunted me down through th’ years…

I was doing readings outside m’ wagon in one o’ th’ little backwater places I know on one o’ th’ lesser travelled foreign spheres. Shortly after I found th’ portieres this was. I was just finishing up wi’ a wee lass o’ ten and six (a lovely child, bright and full o’ promise. Not outstanding, mind, not integral, but still looking at a full and happy life) when a gent came up t’ have his palm read. A common enough looking fellow, no different from any o’ a hundred other Vulgaris, plain as th’ day is long and who ye wouldn’t know from Firstman. He sat down at m’ table and offered his hand palm up. I took it, and suddenly a wave o’ loathing and repulsion passed o’er me, just as if I’d taken hold o’ a week dead opossum, all slime and bile and full o’ maggots. Right away I knew this was going to be a bad one, very bad, badder’n any moon’s sway reading I’d e’er done, and, as I’ve said, those are always terrible.

But, agin m’ better judgment, I persevered; after all, a customer is a customer and I have m’ reputation t’ tend. Plus, m’ natural curiosity always gets th’ best o’ me. So I kept hold o’ his hand (though I wanted loose o’ it in th’ worst way) and started th’ soothing.

His heart line was high on his hand – mayhap th’ highest I’ve e’er seen – and very sinuate, telling me that he was chock full o’ high passions and wi’ lots o’ troubles in his life. And not any ordinary troubles, as I was soon t’ know.

I followed his head line deep into his past and found that this was an evil creature, a monster, neither giving nor deserving o’ a drop o’ mercy. Full o’ vile passions and murderous intent, twisted and depraved, what many would call a daemon in human form, mayhap a belial or a dybbuk. So bad were th’ signs that I feared for m’ life should this devil e’er find out what m’ reading was telling.

Firstly, I saw clearly that he was a Uranist, which is fine in and o’ itself (and naught more that th’ way he was made, I’m opining). But, more’n that, I saw that he was possessive and jealous – so much so that any he fancied as his could ne’er belong to another, if ye ken m’ meaning. And mean, insane mean, like th’ way a dog gets mean when th’ water phobia’s upon it. Killing was as much a passion as lust, and he went about both wi’ equal abandon.

I saw those that he had taken – dozens ‘twere at th’ time – lying uneasy in their graves, screaming into th’ aether, crying out for justice, craving revenge and release. But worse’n that, I saw all those fair and precious innocents – oh so many! – yet to fall under his malevolent sway, all looking to me, begging, pleading, demanding surety o’ salvation.

I certainly couldn’t tell him what I saw, – t’ would mean m’ life, I knew that plain and simple – and I wasn’t sure o’ what, if anything, passed as law and judiciary in those parts. Not to mention whether or not they’d take th’ word o’ a Witcheroo, or take m’ complaint as an admission of guilt from a hellion and string me up instead! I hadn’t a clue what t’ say or do (I hadn’t th’ protections then that I have now, ye see), and each passing moment poured more terror into m’ heart.

I could tell he was sensing m’ discomfit, so I cast about for something – anything – that’ d get me out o’ this chancery wi’ m’ hide intact. I started to suss out his lifeline, but there was naught t’ aid me there. Then I found his line o’ fate, and all astart th’ Fey was upon me like a rage-cat in heat. Strong, it was, stronger’n any other seeing I’d done prior. So strong was it that I lost m’ self completely and was swallowed whole by th’ reading.

As I followed his fateline down and down into th’ future, I saw, clear as day, that this man, this monster, was a lynchpin, a turning point in th’ history o’ man, and not only on this particular sphere. That fact dazed m’ wits and left me addlepated. As such, I had quite a bit o’ trouble following all that I was being shown. Th’ symbology was all jumbled up like a huge pile o’ jack straws, and th’ images were passing so fast I could nary grab a one. Th’ Fey whirled and twirled in m’ mind, and filled m’ ears wi’ a veritable din o’ voices. I tried m’ best t’ comprehend what I was being told, but as soon as I grasped one fragment, it was torn away t’ be replaced by another o’ a totally opposite character. Th’ bones o’ Death was there to be sure, sometimes less, sometimes more, sometimes filling th’ sky like snow during th’ blizzards on th’ Elderwold.  Mixed in were th’ seeds o’ life which sometimes seemed to flourish on some o’ th’ bones o’ death, but not on others, sometimes ran riot through the Universii, and sometime were all but extinguished. Th’ wheels o’ th’ morguecart spun furiously changing to th’ wheels o’ chance and back again while th’ dogs o’ war barked and bayed and spat up great flocks o’ snow-white doves. Pawns queued on chessboards, to be swept asunder by rays o’ sunlight, or walls o’ fire, or crashing tides only t’ rise up again in different formations. Chance, choice, life, death, pain, pleasure and most of all confusion; all th’ threads o’ history wove and raveled, were rent and mended and then were ne’er despoiled, o’er and o’er again, all t’ a silent cacophony that shook m’ soul like a pennant in a hurricane…

Sorry, sorry… just th’ memory o’ that reading makes m’ head pound and leaves m’ knees weak and watery. Let me gather m’ wits again.

Thing is, I’ve no idea how long I stood there following his lines, trying t’ grasp all th’ meaning and mystery hidden in them. It felt akin to days or weeks, but seemingly ‘tweren’t long enough to raise his suspicions, for he still sat in front o’ me wi’ only a mild curiosity apparent in his mien.

What I finally sussed was that there was two possible outcomes tied to this creatures life. If he were t’ die soonly, all those innocents, howe’er many he’d snare during th’ rest o’ his existence, would be spared th’ horror o’ his touch.

But! BUT! (And this is what fevered m’ brow and caused m’ stomach t’ twist and knot.) One o’ those t’ be spared would spawn, far and farther down th’ river o’ time, another monster, one far worse’n this miserable creature, vile as he was. This future monster would kill right across the known Universii, and so many would die that entire spheres would become naught but huge charnel houses. But only if th’ creature here in front o’ me were t’ meet his end soonly. Were he allowed to continue his deathly spree, future multitudes would be spared.

Masses much, much later versus handfuls now… horror o’ horrors.

Now I knew, as th’ Fey whispered it to me, that I could push it one way or th’ other, were I o’ a mind to. All I need do was whisper a sentence. Tell him that he’d live a long and prosperous life and he’d become careless in wanton in his killing. So wanton and prolific that he’d be caught in no time and his vile life would be ended. Or I could caution him that death and danger lurked in his future. Then he’d become careful and secretive. – still killing o’ course – but wi’ e’en more care and stealth. Either way, the fate of the Universii would be determined by Cassandra Jayne Androcles, Chiromancer Extraordinaire. What a responsibility t’ weigh so heavily upon m’ slender shoulders! One little whisper from my lips would set the future! But what t’ do? What direction should I take? What role was I meant t’ have?

In th’ end, I did nothing.

Call me a coward if ye must (and I know many will), but I knew th’ truth in m’ heart o’ hearts. This was a dire responsibility well beyond m’ simple wits. This was in th’ realm o’ gods, or spirits, or whate’er higher powers exist, and nary a fit place for any mortal – e’en one touched by th’ Fey – t’ meddle.

So I did nothing, nothing at all. I disclaimed all the consequences and let th’ Fates determine which o’ those poor souls would be doomed. I recouped m’ self as best I could, made some feeble excuse as to how th’ sprits weren’t cooperating, and returned his coin. He seemed nonplussed, but was polite and went upon his way without any trouble.

I knew I’d done what I had t’ do, and the burden o’ it was mine to live with. And – well, leastwise till now – I ne’er had to explain m’ self to anyone else, nor burden another wi’ th’ knowledge o’ what I’d done.

But th’ faces o’ those he touched haunt me t’ this day. Their voices still cry in m’ nightmares.

So any who think that dabbling in readings is all fun and sunshine, take this tale as a warning. True soothing is a dangerous vocation, not a party game, one which can lead t’ heartaches and trouble, and in some cases, can e’en endanger your immortal soul. That’s a hard lesson I’ve learned, and relearned, many times much t’ m’ detriment. But e’en so, I continue to sooth, because I know ‘tis what I was put in th’ Spheres t’ do. And I love doing it – well, most o’ th’ time. Wi’ a few exceptions.

Anywhat, mayhap one day soon I’ll regale ye wi’ some more o’ th’ interesting stories I have about those I’ve met and read for. Right now I feel th’ need to be out and about, but ye should be able to catch me up th’ next time I meander through this neck o’ th’ woods. Or mayhap ye should warn your grandbabes to keep an eye out for Cassandra Jayne, and I’ll pass m’ tales onto them. Either way I’ve got some seeing t’ do, so I’ll be seeing ye later!