Divination

Earth Horse – Reliability. Temperance. Rationality.
Driving, swaying with the motion of the car, as though the wheel he clutches and swings with one hand controls my shoulders, impelling me to the right and to the left. The engine noise vibrates through the floor, and I feel it in the tips of my toes when they occasionally touch the floor, until no turn is needed and he can switch the flask to his left hand, grinding the gear stick into second, and then third.

He obviously sees something in the road, that same look Trixie would get right before you let loose with the frisbee, we swerve, we speed up, we slide to a halting stop. He throws his arm atop the bench seat and drives back to the object of his interest.

I stand on the seat and watch him walk into the middle of the road. There is a snake, writhing on its back. He puts the heel of his boot on its head and grinds into it like a cigarette butt. He throws the body into the trunk.

I try to find my position, I find myself uncomfortable, and move to see what is underneath. What I'm sitting on is a bit of chrome, in its center a sparkly blue label atop a button. I tuck the seatbelt into the bench seat as far as it will go and lean forward to roll out the vent window, relief from the smoke, a little bit of noise to break the silence.

Water Boar – Belief. Relentlessness. Influence.
Driving, lurching forward with the sudden appearance of potential road kill, as though the click-clack of the turn signal symbolizes the remaining seconds before divination. The noise of the tires softened by so much gravel, and I feel his hand on my chest, Supplementary Restraint System in the time of lap belts, the warmth from the fingers almost certainly from the coffee mug and nothing more, and still it makes me uncomfortable.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t curse the armadillo or possum or stray dog. He always makes a face like a smile after each sip, a flash of yellow for the unaware, and this is where I learn routine and habit. We are going to be late for the bus to camp, but we slow down each time we pass a speed limit sign until it feels like this quiet will inter me.

He reaches across my chest and opens the door, pushes it out and says, ‘Bye, now.’

The other kids stand atop picnic benches, watching me the way unfamiliar children do, spotting the marks of disease and insufficiency. I was always good at this, and make friends instantly.

The Fire Horse – Inconsistent. Alluring. Willful.
We prefer our cigarettes in the cold of early morning, smoke and frozen breath indistinguishable, standing very much on the firing line of an approaching train and departure.

“I don't like what you're asking me.”

“I didn't ask anything.”

“You asked with your eyes.”

“It doesn't count til I ask with my hands.”

I sometimes cannot believe it is so short. It is instantness. You open your eyes and sleep in almost the same moment, how much you cause and then miss. To forget that you once never stopped wanting.

The Metal Sheep – Jealous. Defensive. Unbalanced.
Riding through the water, smiling because this, however rare an occurrence, is where I feel elemental. He puts his hand on my head, tousles the hair, tells me to drink from the can. It has such a bitter taste, entirely devoid of sugar and spice.

Almost immediately the lake is quiet, the gas-oil fumes dissipate, and I’m running hooks through the minnows’ lips and dropping the lines into the water. Every cast lands a fish, until it feels like the boat floor is shaking with the life force of all these white bass. It is wordless, immensely satisfying work. Later, I will vomit over the side from the exhaustion, and I’ll drink again from the can and continue, wondering if it’s possible to ever want to stop.

I don’t see him much after that, but he sends a letter years later that I open while driving to my high school commencement. “We’re so proud of you,” it says, simply, the ink lines faint and broken as though penned over fish scales.