The Empty Mirror
Chapter 25: Queen of Wands
After the culmination of the circus show, immersed in primal brutality, Constance, at my side, collapsed in a substance resembling a viscous, mucilaginous liquid of clown make-up. It spilled onto the rubber seat like that of a condom, uliginous and nauseating, taking on the appearance of a worn and repulsive clown's grin, exhaling the smell of a rotting corpse.
The make-up, with its chromatic nuances gradually fading away, left behind only a whitish residue, similar to milk that has lost its freshness, rancid milk. This fluid gave off milky bubbles that burst, splattering the stands with ineffable disgust. Finally, the make-up disintegrated on the floor of the sewers, slowly dispersing like a gooey glucose yoghurt, or rather, a liquid that amalgamates with the sewage, evoking a kind of spilled sperm.
The porcelain dolls, in their state of tense madness, remained impassive at the end of the performance. I feared that these hideous mannequins would come to life, giving me unpleasant and terrifying looks, and then expel repulsive contents such as semen from their mouths in an act of grotesque disgust. I was uneasy about the possibility of their perversion and lewdness manifesting itself, engaging in improper and dishonourable acts.
My heart clenched with fear, I looked away to the sewers, where the waters were permeated with regurgitations. With hoarse voice and trembling steps, I rose from the damp seat and walked over the dark waters containing residues of impurities and vaginal fluids. My stomach almost rebelled at the repulsive scene, but I tenaciously maintained my grip on palate and tongue, adapting to the secretions that flowed around me.
In the disorientation of my path and in the absolute solitude that embraced the circus, where taciturn porcelain dolls were my only company, I was left with only the path that led to the stands, to the central hemicycle where the execrable performance took place. There, I could see yoghurt-like liquids, make-up, pouring on the floor, while the bullfighter's clothes were prey to flies and maggots, as if they were a feast for ghouls.
Close to the rags, I spotted a card on the back, black in colour with white outlines that formed the silhouette of a bull. As I approached, I noticed how the letter stood unchanged on the filth. I bowed reverently to rescue it, as if it were a call for help, or perhaps it was seeking the shelter of this unusual deck of cards.
It was then that I noticed that the bullfighter's attire, which had previously been lit with a chromatic palette in repose, was nothing but scraps of human skin in an advanced state of decomposition, giving off a nauseating stench of blood and viscera. With dexterity and speed, I tore the letter from the mass of pulsating skin, which dripped with viscous blood, revealing itself as a grotesque costume made of human skin, a sort of repulsive symbiosis between living and dead flesh that threatened to wrap my hands like wide, pathetic sleeves.
Holding the obituary with the engraving of a bull, enveloped in the gloom that blurred the skin or costume of the bullfighter, I was compelled to settle my person on an old wooden chair, whose creaking evoked the lament of a senile rocking chair. A board supported by four legs, like a mules or a cow, metamorphosed into a table, on which rested the dismembered head of a bull. Devoid of eyes and adorned with extracted teeth, it formed a macabre pendant around the horns, like a crown of secrecy. The bull's tongue, torn out of its socket, lay in its mouth, the delight of maggots. The table, moreover, held an oil lamp, rusted and corroded by the dampness of the sewers, casting an inclement light on the scene.
At that precise moment, a silhouette emerged, carrying an imposing witch's hat, disproportionately large for her head, more akin to the headdress of a giant in oil. The hat, twisted at its peak, housed a feminine figure rising with bull horns unfurled, evoking the magnitude of imaginary colossi. These horns extended over the hat, tinged with charred hues, creating the impression of an apotheotic bull. The enigmatic figure rested on a stone throne with a raised back, flanked by columns supporting monumental candelabras. Candle wax slid over metal containers, emitting an intoxicating aroma, subtle as perfume in an Edenic garden.
The wax, with a melancholic cadence, languidly dripped onto the ground, where the pillars, like giant witnesses, stood behind the horn-adorned figure. The terrain, crafted in an oppressive scenography of earth and sand reminiscent of albero, rose imbued with dust and the ephemeral traces of floating votive candles, resembling drops of blood suspended in the darkness.
On the flanks of the chamber, only centennial tomes were discernible, resting with reverence on shelves of rotting wood. The spines of the books, in shades of brown and black, evoked the texture of a bull's hide, while the yellowed pages hinted at a whisper, as if resonating in the aged blood of words.
The environment, shrouded in dense darkness, obstructed my vision, allowing me to glimpse only the dusty albero, marked by footprints mimicking the silhouette of bulls in the arena. The rigid and horn-like structures recalled the footsteps left by clown shoes on a literary stage of intrigue and mystery.
That figure with horns, as if adorned in a satin membrane whose unpleasant and yellowish hue shone with a unique gloss thanks to the cuticle that adorned it, was displayed in all its acme. The attire, resembling a clerical robe of reverence, enveloped both its limbs and body with solemnity, imparting an air of distinction and mystery. Atop its head, it bore bull horns, akin to a bullfighting crown that enhanced its presence in a majestic and enigmatic manner.
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In the skilled hands of this mysterious figure rested a garrocha, an implement adeptly used by picadors and garrocheros to challenge and tame the bravery of bulls. The garrocha, also known as pole-vaulting, stood as a form of bullfighting on foot, involving a daring leap onto the bull backed by a long pole equipped with a steel-tipped end. This noble art, executed with mastery by astute garrochistas, unfolded in rural tasks, where skilled riders adeptly guided the fierce cattle using such a distinguished pole.
Not confined to the bullfighting scenario alone, the garrocha displayed its multifaceted role in the bull-handling, carried out by teams of garrochistas during the testing of brave cattle. Additionally, it played a crucial part in the derribo or takedown, an act designed to assess the bravery and charge of the bull, even being an integral part of equestrian competitions that celebrated the skill and grace of this age-old art. In every movement, the figure mimicked a dance between the daring and the elegant, shining as a true master in the art of the garrocha.
The garrocha, resembling the shaft of a cane, rested with dignity on its abdomen, a steadfast support. It extended its arms in my direction, revealing a delicate skin and red nails of unsuspected elegance. With mastery, it laid on the table a deck of cards whose backs displayed the marble silhouette of a bull, echoing the already admired figure. The distinct woman, adorned with bull horns, showed restlessness and alertness, in stark contrast to Constance's pride. Her experience and readiness echoed in the firmness with which she wielded the metallic garrocha, sharp at its end, ready to challenge any charge. Though devoid of fear, her demeanor did not unveil absolute presumption.
"I am the Queen of Wands, the inexhaustible flow of desire unfolding with splendor. I embody the fiery cavern where creativity sprouts and burgeons. My hair is the sea foam gathered in a single wave. I represent generosity, thriving in every barren land, populating it with my works, a symbol of independence and freedom. Giselle, do not rush and keep calm; I have led you to the edge of your consciousness, not into a nightmare," she expressed with a calm and measured voice.
At the brink of my perplexity, I inquired, "Who are you, noble presence?" evaluating the scene with my inquisitive gaze.
"The marchioness, not the elderly one; simply a marquess taking advantage of this coherence," she replied with clear honesty.
"Who entrusted you with this crossroads?" I continued my questioning with unease.
"I was sent by you, my child," she replied with affection and tenderness.
"For me? What do your lips say?" I tried to probe the situation with a hint of fear.
"Giselle, the witch of pale horrors, was my emissary. Do you need me to name that cherrywood staff for you to find certainty in my words?" she answered promptly, without hesitation, her words echoing like echoes from a distant era.
"No more. I have no desire to entertain such madness," I replied, my eyes on the verge of overflowing with tears.
"Don't be complacent. If you ever find me in the course of time, avoid engaging in dialogue with me. Otherwise, you will find yourself facing the fate shared by bulls in the arena," she warned with severity and puritanism.
"Are you threatening me with death?" I inquired, a tight knot forming in my throat.
"It's not my intention, but you must settle the debt you now hold with me. There's a pending promise you must fulfill. Are you willing to proceed?" she asked firmly.
"What is my task?" I attempted to inquire about the mission without knowing the reasons or consequences and without glimpsing an exit.
"I need you to deliver the Homo neanderthalensis. Bring it in the company of that smoker if you wish, and in return, I will grant you motherhood. Additionally, I will honor my word by providing you assistance. Thus, your promise will be fulfilled, but you must hand it over to me," she explained in a tangle of inscrutable words.
"Homo neanderthalensis?" I asked with intrigue and horror.
"Yes, deliver it to the smoker after sealing it in colorless and nauseating appendices. You don't need to keep all these details to yourself; just remember to take it out of the castle," she looked at me indulgently, her strands of blood-dyed hair barely perceptible under tension. In response to such a gesture, I could only nod in agreement.
"Very well, turn and carefully place the arcane you have snatched from the skin on the table," she said as I diligently attended to such instructions.
As I deposited the letter, my eyes met the sight of a jet-black bull, suspended in the ether, defying gravity, its head hanging inverted from the branches of a cherry tree. This lordly entity seemed rooted to the ground, yet simultaneously reached for the skies, tethered by a leg like cattle in a butchery. A rope secured this extremity, while the radiant sun bestowed a celestial halo behind its forehead, endowing it with a unique sanctity. A cherrywood shaft, upright as support or shadow, formed a "T" with the suspended figure, identifying it with the Tau letter. This representation symbolized meditation and renunciation through isolation and introspection, a testament to humanity choosing to distance itself from the mundane in pursuit of introspection. The letter hinted at stepping away from the tumult of the world for a moment of reflection. In an immediate reply, the answer was a resounding NO, though acknowledging the possibility that in the not too distant future, it might be considered.
"I, am The Hanged Man, devoutly believing that imagination and inaction provide the most fitting answers to certain dilemmas. I remain in a spiritual state where the lack of knowledge becomes a sacred element. My existence resembles a pendulum swinging between immobility and punishment. I conceive that destiny is an egalitarian path for all."
The marquess, with horns akin to those of a bull, shared her perspective as one unravels the meaning of the suspended bull. After this reflection, portraying me as a lady hanging from a plum tree, the supposed oracle shuffled the cards and laid them reversed on the wooden table.
Then, she urged me, "Raise one of them, don't contemplate, just do it." Following her guidance, I chose a card and turned it towards the ether; it turned out to be an Ace of Wands.
The woman expressed, "The forest responds to the title 'Ace of Wands,' that is the anomaly guiding such a forest, unraveling what you yearned to discover about its authenticity and the singularity governing its peculiarities and eccentricities.”