The High Priestess (The Tarot Club 3)

Movement caught their attention, and I watched Julian push himself off the wall, straightening his black button-down shirt as he followed the crowd - followed the stretcher that held the remains of the deceased Witch for all to look upon - all to mourn.

I darted between those reeking bodies, eager to look upon the remains that had once housed the infamous Jeanne des Montagnes.

Even in death, the resemblance between Jeanne and Marie was virtually non-existent. Her face was sallow and yellow, the lines on her face deep, and I knew that Jeanne had been aware that her time on this plane had come to an end. There was no possibility that a Witch as powerful as she had been unaware she was dying.

She did not reach out to Marie during her illness, and I was uncertain whether it was out of love for her granddaughter or spite. The truth, I imagined, lay somewhere in between.

The carriers placed her body against the earth, and so the wailing began as the crowd surged forward, blanketing her in their grief. A coin was placed atop each eyelid, making the dead Witch a spectacle to behold.

As the air filled with the village’s wailing, the ground shook as they stomped their feet in frustration - in anger - in pain. Some members of the crowd doubled over, clutching their chests in agony, whilst others simply raised their fists to the sky, promising vengeance of the gods.

And yet, Julian did not show emotion. He slammed his boots against the soil - as was custom, and he raised his fists to the heavens above, but it appeared as if it were more a display for those in attendance than someone truly mourning for the loss of their leader.

As the night grew darker, so bonfires were lit, and soon the wailing turned to music, the stamping pivoted towards dancing as the night was filled with tales of the dead. One by one, the people shared their best memories of the Witch who had guarded them for so long.