The Thorn Tree
By Lawrence Buentello
Again, the man dressed in fine
black velvet sat at a table in a corner of the tavern, haloed by the light of a
single kerosene lamp hanging by his head. His black hair shone in the
lamplight, as well as his black eyes when they glanced away from the cards he
dealt upon the table to assess the cowering men who dared still drink at other
tables. For three nights he’d come into the tavern, a stranger to the village, occupying
the same table, which had been declared forbidden by the other imbibers. After
ordering whiskey he dealt his cards, which were neither traditional gambling
cards nor Tarot, waiting.
To a man, the villagers
felt this stranger possessed an evil influence, some whispering epithets, which
described an agent of the devil, or the devil himself. And they knew why he
waited.
When Doren Orney Byrne
entered the tavern that third night, having little care for strangers or the
superstitions of villagers, he sat with the others with his pint of beer, which
to his mind tasted sour and cheap, and ruminated only on his own sad state of
affairs.
A young man shouldn’t have
so few prospects, he felt, and so little hope for the improvement of the
prospects he already owned. Poor, uneducated, a laborer with callused hands, he
wondered why men were only born to labor, suffer, and die without having the
good fortune of others, or the love of the fortunate, which hurt his heart
immensely.
For he loved her,
but she regarded him as nothing but
another common laborer, so young Doren Orney Byrne shook his dirty blond hair
at the world, drank his beer, ruminated and cursed the fate of men born poor.
“She loves another?” the
old man, Walsh, asked at his elbow while keeping a close eye on the stranger in
the corner.
“She loves her dreams, does
lovely Shauna,” Byrne said, the sarcasm lilting his voice. “And her dreams won’t
suffer an ordinary life.”
“There are plenty of women
who would suffer an ordinary life, my friend. Why worry over only one? You’re
young, and not unhandsome. Forget this girl before she makes you morose.”
But Byrne couldn’t forget
her, the lovely Shauna; her eyes held the oceans in their blue, her face caught
every beautiful ray of the sun, and while she was never enchanted, she seemed
charmed to the young man, who was
foolish enough to believe in the singularity of beauty. So he could not forget
her, or forget that the reason why she rebuffed his overtures lay in his
poverty.
“Who is that man?” Byrne
said, nodding toward the stranger. He would rather change the subject, since he
would never renounce his love for Shauna, and the stranger made for an easy
distraction.
“Forget him,” Walsh insisted,
leaning back into his chair. “He is a seer, an evil man. We’d throw him from
these premises if we didn’t fear his magic.”
“You believe him magical?”
Byrne laughed. “He’s only a gambler hoping to take your money.”
“He’s waiting to take more
than money, young Doren. Ignore him and think of your future.”
But Byrne had come to drink
to forget his future, which included only enduring poverty, endless labor until
his death, and the loss of the love he cherished most in his mind. The class of
men with which he consorted also commented on his future, and their lack of
courage in the face of strangers proved they deserved their lot. Why cower from
a gambler? No dearth of sporting men existed in the province, why should this
one seem so frightening?
When he’d had more beer, he
announced, “I’ll speak with him.”
“Sit down!” Walsh said,
clutching at the young man’s sleeve.
Byrne shook off the old man’s
hand. “Are you so superstitious you’d let yourselves be cowed by a gambler?”
“He is not the man you
believe him to be.”
The young man stared
incredulously at the men sitting silently at their tables. “You are all old
women.”
#
When Doren Orney Byrne
stood before the stranger’s table he found himself questioning his own
resolve—but for only a moment. The man’s dark brow and shimmering black eyes
seemed mere shadows in the sunken face, his thin lips calmly pressed together.
His gaze met Byrne’s and held it as a man hold’s the gills of a harvested
trout; and then he released the young man’s gaze and gathered the cards upon
the table.
“Sit, if you wish,” the man
said, his voice echoing deeply in a room where no echo should exist.
Byrne, disarmed by the
stranger’s stare, shook off his own superstitious impulses and sat across from
the man. “Who are you, then? Are you a gambler?”
“Not in the sense that you
understand.”
“In what sense?”
The stranger quieted the
cards in his hands. Then, as the young man watched, he laid down each card face
up upon the table in three rows of seven. Byrne studied the display before him
and noted that each card bore a different image, some stark and horrifying,
some pleasant and picturesque. A card of the darkling grave, one of a tormented
face in flames, one of an alabaster palace on a hill, one of two young lovers
in a passionate embrace—each card held an impression of either great beauty and
joy, or immeasurable suffering and pain. And as Byrne was familiar with the
Tarot, he felt confused by the symbolism of these cards, for they seemed
nothing more than fantasies.
“What is the meaning of
these cards?” he asked, fascinated by their images.
“This is the Deck of
Fates,” the stranger said, his hands resting, palms down, before the array.
“They foretell the course of a man’s life.”
“Then you tell men’s
fortunes?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“The cards decide your
fate, nothing more.”
Byrne shook his head over
the cards upon the table, then regarded the stranger. “I’m Doren Orney Byrne.
What is your name?”
“Call me Hughes.”
“Well, Mr. Hughes, I don’t
understand why you’re in our village. If you’re not a gambler, not a fortune
teller, what is it that you do for money?”
“Why do you think I have
need of money?”
“Then you’re wealthy.”
“In my own way.”
The young man laughed.
“You’re an entertainer, by my eyes. You wait for men to buy you drink and food in
exchange for amusement.”
“Some are amused, some
aren’t. I only deal the cards.”
“For whom, Mr. Hughes?”
“For those who wish me to.”
“Why would I wish you to?”
Young Doren Orney Byrne
then listened to the stranger’s disquisition on the nature of the cards upon
the table—
A man may study the cards
as they lay face up before his eyes, Hughes explained, memorizing the future of
his desires: in this way he would be able to influence the course of his life
and become master of his fate. But then the stranger would turn each card face
down upon the table, changing each card’s position in the array under studious
eyes. When these manipulations concluded, then the man wishing to influence his
future would choose another of the cards which would be turned face up again.
Whichever image met the
light would inform the man of his fate.
“Close study is essential,”
the stranger said, waving one hand over the cards, “if a man is to choose
wisely.”
Byrne nodded over the
presentation. “And if he fails to choose the card he actually desires?”
“Then he must accept the
card he’s chosen. There are no exceptions.”
Byrne leaned back in his
chair. “Why do you make this offer?”
“Why would you accept it?”
The young man smiled and
leaned over the cards again. Many posited horrific circumstances; fire,
drowning, death in chains; others offered blissful contentment, pastoral
feasts, gloriously apportioned houses, gold coins piled high in coffers. Of
course, his eyes fell upon the card displaying the contented lovers, and he
knew which card he’d most desire to see turned up in the lamplight.
He turned briefly to regard
the other men seated in the tavern and marked the grave concern in their
expressions, but they were superstitious, and foolish to think a stranger
bearing a colorful deck of cards portended evil.
Byrne turned again to the
stranger. “What does it cost to play your game, Mr. Hughes?”
“The cost is your fate,
young man, be it joyous or pitiable. No coin could buy the future of your
dreams.”
“Do you mean that if I
choose to play I owe you nothing?”
“You only receive that
which you select.”
“And if I select the card displaying
the future I most desire?”
“Then you shall receive it.”
“Your game seems never to
bring you one penny,” Byrne said. “What remuneration do you receive for
playing?”
The stranger’s thin lips
widened in a smile. “Solely for the joy it brings to me, I assure you. Seeing a
man achieve his dreams offers great satisfaction.”
“And what if the poor soul chooses
a terrible fate?”
The stranger’s smile faded.
“Then that is the luck of the cards.”
Byrne studied the display
of cards again, fixating on the young lovers. Of course this would be the card
he’d choose if he played the stranger’s game, but why should he play? Certainly
he didn’t believe the card he chose would decide his fate—
“It is a trick of the mind,
then,” the young man said. “I choose a card and decide I must fulfill the
prophesy myself, be it good or ill. That is the fate of weak-minded men.”
“If you say.”
Then the young man noticed
the card adjoining the lovers to their left which he hadn’t before—a stark,
simple image of a black thorn tree on a hill surrounded by billowing black
clouds. This tree seemed little else but an ugly ornament stabbed into the
hill, signifying nothing of consequence the young man could perceive. The thorn
tree seemed only a tree, nothing more. What in the world could it represent?
Intrigued, he asked, “What
is this tree?”
The stranger didn’t bother
to glance down at the table. “It is a thorn tree.”
“Yes, I see, I am not
ignorant. But what does it mean to a man’s fate?”
“You would only know should
you choose that card.”
Byrne smiled, but
nervously. “You mean to lend mystery to your game.”
The stranger did not
comment on Byrne’s suggestion, but only said, “Do you wish to play?”
The young man stared
wonderingly on the blissful lovers again, wishing the stranger’s proclamations
were true. He glanced back toward the tavern’s regular patrons, who gazed back
on him as if he’d been made filthy by his association with the stranger.
“My friends believe you’re
an evil man,” he said, succumbing to the superstitious impulses he knew were
foolish antiquarian beliefs. Still, the strangeness of the circumstances
perplexed him. “Are you only waiting to steal a man’s soul, Mr. Hughes?”
“Men corrupt their own
souls,” the stranger said gently. “I have no need of unquiet spirits. I only
serve to foretell the future of men’s lives.”
Byrne once again studied
the idyllic image of the consorting lovers, substituting his own and Shauna’s
for the faces on the card. “If I choose the card I please, then I’ll choose my
future?”
“The card you choose will
tell your future.”
The young man felt it might
be a sin to indulge the prurient games of a mischievous man, and he knew no man
may wish his future into existence, but if he could choose his future—a
future with the woman he most wanted for
his lover—
Byrne decided that the
man’s game had been offered entirely in jest. That no dire consequences awaited
a poorly chosen card, any more than sweet fulfillment. Even so, he would win
the game, conquer the stranger’s manipulations, and triumphantly present the
result to his cowardly brethren.
“I’ll play your game,” he
said, ignoring the anguished stares of the other men in the tavern. “I’ll win
your game, too, and have the future I desire.”
“There are no winners or
losers, my young friend. Only players. Now, study the cards well.”
Byrne understood the
intention of the game and felt prepared: he fixed his eyes upon the card
illustrating the joy of the young lovers and forced himself to concentrate upon
it only. The stranger waited a moment, then began turning each card face down
upon the table, though still in their original positions. The young man kept
his eyes focused on the lovers’ card even after the stranger turned it down;
only for an instant did Byrne’s eyes move from the overturned lovers to the
adjacent thorn tree as the stranger turned it, too—
“Watch carefully,” the man
said, then began slowly exchanging positions of each card, so that no one card
occupied its original position.
The young man had prepared
for this maneuver, always keeping his eyes fixed upon the correct card even as
the stranger moved it from place to place. When all manipulations were
completed, and all cards lay displaying the same scarlet backing to the world,
the stranger placed his hands upon the table and nodded to Byrne.
“Choose your card,” the
stranger said. “Choose your fate.”
The young man recorded the
correct position of the lover’s card in his mind before daring to look up from
the table. He was certain of its position, even face down upon the table. More
than certain. In a moment, he would see the lovers again and, if the stranger
spoke truly, he would also know a future with his beloved Shauna.
Doren Orney Byrne touched
the tip of his finger to a card upon the table; then the stranger reached down
and turned its face to the lamplight.
Staring up from its dark
hill and stormy skies stood the ugly black thorn tree.
“That’s impossible,” the
young man declared. “I know I chose the right card!”
“You did
choose the right card,” the stranger said, nodding. “For any
card you chose would have been your future.”
How could he have chosen
the wrong card? Was he so taken by the mysterious image of the thorn tree that
he let his unconscious mind choose for him? Now he would never know the love of
his Shauna—
“But what does it mean?” he
asked, perplexed. “What does the thorn tree mean to my future, Mr. Hughes?”
“Only you shall know.”
Now the young man felt his
anger stir, for he was convinced of his selection and knew he must have been
beguiled by the stranger. No man could tell the future of another. The man only
delighted in playing games, tarnishing peoples’ desires, giving false hope—
Byrne would have unleashed
his anger upon Hughes, but something in the man’s persistent stare stayed his
hand; instead, he decided he must save his pride by dismissing the proceedings
entirely, laughing at the game and declaring it folly.
In the face of the young
man’s ridicule, the stranger gathered the cards into his hands again. “I have
other villages to visit, and other fortunes to tell. Like yourself, young sire,
someone always wishes to play.”
After the stranger left the
tavern, to the relief of its other patrons, the young man sat again with old
Walsh and proclaimed the proceedings nothing but poor theater.
The old man only watched
him with bleary red eyes.
For a long time Doren Orney
Byrne wondered over the meaning of the thorn tree, his chosen fate, but
couldn’t discern any possibilities in the symbol. He continued his pointless
labors, his covetous wonderment of others’ prosperity, and his fruitless
pursuit of the affections of his Shauna—if only he’d chosen the lover’s card!
One day, years later, drunk
and impassioned by unrequited love, he killed the woman who refused his
betrothal and found himself swinging from the gibbet.
After he died, and found
his soul hanging eternally from a thorn tree in Hell, he finally understood the
meaning of his chosen card.
The End
