Shadows Out of Time

I took her cup. Upending it onto its saucer, I tapped the bottom three times, restored it to its proper perch and focused all my attention within. Some leaves had fallen loose into the saucer. The remainder huddled in moist blackish patches and canals inside the cup’s concave surface. Within I saw…mulch, compost, peat moss and unraked leaves. I had been so focused on blocking the old woman from seeing into the innermost recesses of my mind I had slipped into a Beta state. I shifted over to my right brain hemisphere and went into deep Alpha.

The tea leaves just lay there, mute. I could feel the flop sweat popping out of my brow. Tea had always baffled me. It was my psychic Achilles’ heel.

“It’s just a question of focus,” prompted Theresa. “Relax. A practiced psychic can read anything from the creases of the palm to the interlacing patterns of bare tree branches against the sky.”

A clump of wet tea leaves clinging to the side of the cup suddenly suggested a shape. Familiar, but elusive. My eyes scoured the room, came to rest on an old sea painting over the fireplace mantel. The rough resemblance of the tea leaves to the many-sailed craft depicted in sun-cracked oils was one of those synchronicities that make my business so interesting.

“Why am I getting a ship?” I asked.

Her smile was thin. “This establishment has its origins in the flourishing tea trade of the 1850s. The original owner was a tea merchant. His Clipper, Blue Moon, brought the first Kingsport tea from old Siam to Massachusetts. When the tea trade dwindled in importance, he converted his home into a modest inn. Later, it evolved into my little tea room. So you see,” she said, taking the cup from my hands, “we have quite a tradition to uphold.” She peered within. “Remember what I said: absolutely no death predictions. You have to curb that negativity. Where is the Scorpio in your chart?”

“Moon.”

Her left eyebrow arched. “Just moon?”

“And ascendant,” I reluctantly admitted.

Both brows shot upward. It was the first expression of real emotion to mark her puffy face. “You have come to the right place. Most of my readers are Piscean or Cancerian psychics. I need a Scorpionic reader. You will do nicely. Can you start now?”

“Yes.”

It was as simple as that. I filled out no application. No references or social security number were asked for. Not even my last name. Last names are jealously guarded in this business.

As she handed me over to the hostess, Miss Theresa fixed me with her brittle blue eyes and said, “I have a strong feeling you will be impressed before you are finished here.”

“I hope to be very impressed,” I countered gallantly.

“You will be impressed,” she repeated. The warmth went out of her tone like an abruptly-banked fire.

It was a slow afternoon. By the southern bay window, a bluehaired matron was having her palm read. Two teenage girls sat in a corner taking notes as a big albino Black ran cards on them.

Dorinda escorted me to the sunroom break area, wordlessly handing me a yellow pamphlet entitled Learn to Read Tea Leaves. I saw that Miss Theresa was the author. No surprise. It had a homemade look.

I had no time to read it. A minute later, the albino came in, followed by the woman who had been reading the old lady’s palm. He introduced himself as Thom, and I saw that he was not a true pink-eyed albino, but some kind of ethnic amalgam. The woman was a tight-lipped super-Virgo I took to have been married twice before and was on the prowl for Number Three. She called herself Starla.

“Swap readings?” Thom asked after guarded introductions had been made.

“Sure.”

Putting up my walls again, I went first. I read him divinationstyle, going through the seventy-eight cards in my Rohrig deck, and speaking to any card that spoke to me.

The first card gave me a solid hit. “You had a pet monkey when you were young.”

His face lit up. He spanked the card table with a big hammy hand. “A spider monkey! I can’t believe you got that!”

If I’ve heard that phrase once in my life, I’ve heard it a thousand times. Every psychic has.

Other trivia popped up. I kept it light. No need to dredge up old pain and buried traumas. Every psychic has a sad past. I saved the best for last.

“I am seeing a dream you had in the last, two, perhaps three days,” I began. “I am not seeing it clearly. A dark wind — a hurricane, or tornado. Much confusion, and fear.”

His meaty face quirked up in surprise. “You’re good. Three nights ago I had this dream. Man, it was weird. California was coming apart in an earthquake. The winds kicked up fierce as a hurricane. The skies were full of blood-red lightning. It felt so real I woke up with my heart pounding, my pajamas drenched.”

I nodded. “Did you tell anyone about this dream?” I asked.

“No.”

“So only God and you knew about this dream?”

“That’s right.”

I smiled a slow Scorpionic smile. “God and you, and now me.” I use that line a lot.