Orson Card - Maps in a Mirror - The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card

Alvin entered a single command that told the computer to start analyzing the input, and father and son sat together to watch the story unfold.

After a seemingly eternal wait, in which neither of them said a word, a picture of a card appeared on the screen.

“This is you,” said Joe. It was the King of Swords.

“What does it mean?” asked Alvin.

“Very little by itself.”

“Why is the sword coming out of his mouth?”

“Because he kills by the words of his mouth.”

Father nodded. “And why is he holding his crotch?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you knew,” said Father.

“I don’t know until I see the other cards.” Joe pressed the return key, and a new card almost completely covered the old one. A thin blue line appeared around it, and then it was blown up to fill the screen. It was Judgment, an angel blowing a trumpet, awakening the dead, who were gray with corruption, standing in their graves. “This covers you,” said Joe.

“What does it mean?”

“It’s how you spend your life. Judging the dead.”

“Like God? You’re saying I think I’m God?”

“It’s what you do, Father,” said Joe. “You judge everything. You’re a scientist. I can’t help what the cards say.”

“I study life.”

“You break life down into its pieces. Then you make your judgment. Only when it’s all in fragments like the flesh of the dead.”

Alvin tried to hear anger or bitterness in Joe’s voice, but Joe was calm, matter-of-fact, for all the world like a doctor with a good bedside manner. Or like a historian telling the simple truth.

Joe pressed the key, and on the small display another card appeared, again on top of the first two, but horizontally. “This crosses you,” said Joe. And the card was outlined in blue, and zoomed close. It was the Devil.

“What does it mean, crossing me?”

“Your enemy, your obstacle. The son of Laios and Iocaste.”

Alvin remembered that Connie had mentioned Iocaste. “How similar is this to what you told Connie?” he asked.

Joe looked at him impassively. “How can I know after only three cards?”

Alvin waved him to go on.

A card above. “This crowns you.” The Two of Wands, a man holding the world in his hands, staring off into the distance, with two small saplings growing out of the stone parapet beside him. “The crown is what you think you are, the story you tell yourself about yourself. Lifegiver, the God of Genesis, the Prince whose kiss awakens Sleeping Beauty and Snow White.”

A card below. “This is beneath you, what you most fear to become.” A man lying on the ground, ten swords piercing him in a row. He did not bleed.

“I’ve never lain awake at night afraid that someone would stab me to death.”

Joe looked at him placidly. “But, Father, I told you, swords are words as often as not. What you fear is death at the hands of storytellers. According to the cards, you’re the sort of man who would have killed the messenger who brought bad news.”

According to the cards, or according to you? But Alvin held his anger and said nothing.

A card to the right. “This is behind you, the story of your past.” A man in a sword-studded boat, poling the craft upstream, a woman and child sitting bowed in front of him. “Hansel and Gretel sent into the sea in a leaky boat.”

“It doesn’t look like a brother and sister,” said Alvin. “It looks like a mother and child.”

“Ah,” said Joe. A card to the left. “This is before you, where you know your course will lead.” A sarcophagus with a knight sculpted in stone upon it, a bird resting on his head.

Death, thought Alvin. Always a safe prediction. And yet not safe at all. The cards themselves seemed malevolent. They all depicted situations that cried out with agony or fear. That was the gimmick, Alvin decided. Potent enough pictures will seem to be important whether they really mean anything or not. Heavy with meaning like a pregnant woman, they can be made to bear anything.

“It isn’t death,” said Joe.

Alvin was startled to have his thoughts so appropriately interrupted.

“It’s a monument after you’re dead. With your words engraved on it and above it. Blind Homer. Jesus. Mahomet. To have your words read like scripture.”

And for the first time Alvin was genuinely frightened by what his son had found. Not that this future frightened him. Hadn’t he forbidden himself to hope for it, he wanted it so much? No, what he feared was the way he felt himself say, silently, Yes, yes, this is True. I will not be flattered into belief, he said to himself. But underneath every layer of doubt that he built between himself and the cards he believed. Whatever Joe told him, he would believe, and so he denied belief now, not because of disbelief but because he was afraid. Perhaps that was why he had doubted from the start.

Next the computer placed a card in the lower right-hand corner. “This is your house.” It was the Tower, broken by lightning, a man and a woman falling from it, surrounded by tears of flame.

A card directly above it. “This answers you.” A man under a tree, beside a stream, with a hand coming from a small cloud, giving him a cup. “Elijah by the brook, and the ravens feed him.”

And above that a man walking away from a stack of eight cups, with a pole and traveling cloak. The pole is a wand, with leaves growing from it. The cups are arranged so that a space is left where a ninth cup had been. “This saves you.”

And then, at the top of the vertical file of four cards, Death. “This ends it.” A bishop, a woman, and a child kneeling before Death on a horse. The horse is trampling the corpse of a man who had been a king. Beside the man lie his crown and a golden sword. In the distance a ship is foundering in a swift river. The sun is rising between pillars in the east. And Death holds a leafy wand in his hand, with a sheaf of wheat bound to it at the top. A banner of life over the corpse of the king. “This ends it,” said Joe definitively.

Alvin waited, looking at the cards, waiting for Joe to explain it. But Joe did not explain. He just gazed at the monitor and then suddenly got to his feet. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “It’s all clear now.”

“To you it’s clear,” Alvin said.

“Yes,” said Joe. “Thank you very much for not lying this time.” Then Joe made as if to leave.

“Hey, wait,” Alvin said. “Aren’t you going to explain it to me?”

“No,” said Joe.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Alvin was not about to admit to anyone, least of all himself, that he did believe. “I still want to know. I’m curious. Can’t I be curious?”

Joe studied his father’s face. “I told Mother, and she hasn’t spoken a natural word to me since.”

So it was not just Alvin’s imagination. The tarot program had driven a wedge between Connie and Joe. He’d been right. “I’ll speak a natural word or two every day, I promise,” Alvin said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Joe said.

“Son,” Alvin said. “Dr. Fryer told me that the stories you tell, the way you put things together, is the closest thing to truth about people that he’s ever heard. Even if I don’t believe it, don’t I have the right to hear the truth?”

“I don’t know if it is the truth. Or if there is such a thing.”

“There is. The way things are, that’s truth.”

“But how are things, with people? What causes me to feel the way I do or act the way I do? Hormones? Parents? Social patterns? All the causes or purposes of all our acts are just stories we tell ourselves, stories we believe or disbelieve, changing all the time. But still we live, still we act, and all those acts have some kind of cause. The patterns all fit together into a web that connects everyone who’s ever lived with everyone else. And every new person changes the web, adds to it, changes the connections, makes it all different. That’s what I find with this program, how you believe you fit into the web.”