The Demon Tarot

The

Demon

Tarot

Copyright 2016 Kieran Brannan

Published by Kieran Brannan at Smashwords

Cover Art: ‘Fields’ by George Cotronis via Kraken Press

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Foreword

0 The Fool

I The Magician

II The High Priestess

III The Empress

IV The Emperor

V The Hierophant

VI The Lovers

VII The Chariot

VIII Justice

XI The Hermit

X Wheel of Fortune

XI Strength

XII The Hanged Man

XIII Death

XIV Temperance

XV The Devil

XVI The Tower

XVII The Star

XVIII The Moon

XIX The Sun

XX Judgement

XXI The World

Divine Intervention

Foreword

This is a collection of short stories, each featuring the same demon as the central protagonist.

Each story takes some inspiration from a card in the major arcana of the tarot. That inspiration might be connected with the symbology of the card, what it means from a divinatory perspective, or maybe just the imagery. While people interested in the tarot might enjoy identifying and learning from those connections, this book wasn’t really written with that express purpose in mind.

In fact, this work is an accumulation of years of my writing. Whenever I had a story concept that wasn’t long enough to weave into a larger work, I’d put it into one of these short stories. Therefore, each story stands alone, and they were not written in any set order and thus can be read in any order you want. In fact, number twenty-one, The World, was one of the very early stories written.

Those of you interested in the tarot might note that the cards eight, or Justice; and eleven, or Strength; are different from the way most modern tarot present them. The Rider-Waite-Smith tarot was the first to put Justice as eleven and Strength as eight, however I personally use and prefer the older traditional order which I have adopted here.

Lastly, I added a bonus from my short story archive. After so many stories from the point of view of a demon, I thought it felt right to finish the book with a story depicting an angel.

These stories tend to portray very adult concepts, and if you are easily offended or you do not believe in the artistic interpretation of religious concepts, then this book probably isn’t for you. However, if you often find yourself marvelling at the absurdities of life and you enjoy exploring the labyrinth of the mind, then I think you will find this an engaging selection of adventures.

0 The Fool

It's not easy being a demon. The biggest problem is the ignorance and misinformation that drives people to treat us as both a tool and an enemy. I answer a summoning with the best of intentions and here I am, bound into a circle under the command of some sweaty teen who thinks he can command me to do his bidding like I was some sort of dog brought to heel. There he stands, frightened by his own success as he holds a page in his trembling hands, but his beady brown eyes shine from his round face with the triumph of the success of his summoning. Last time I answer a call without checking their credentials first.

The circle he's crafted is a fairly traditional double circle each bordering the names of Christian saints interspersed with incorrectly drawn Enochian symbols. I could try to interpret what the symbols were meant to be but it would be guesswork at best. As magic circles go this is one of the worst attempts I've seen. What makes it border on comical is that it has been rendered in marking pen on a flat cardboard sheet, I guess he didn't want to mark the wooden floor. I'm not laughing though, because the power of ritual doesn't lay in the method but in the belief, faith, and will of the caster. This circle has power, real power, I can feel it surrounding me and crushing me as if I were deep under water. Looks like I am going to have to hear this idiot out.

I've chosen to appear in a sleek looking suit of Italian design in mid grey, sporting a matching Fedora. What can I say, I like the classics, but I'm way over dressed for the venue. I lean forward, putting both hands on a cane carved from walnut and peer in a practised look of menace from beneath the brim of the hat. He still looks too flustered to say anything, his eyes constantly flicking between me and his piece of paper while his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. In a strong smooth voice I decide to break the tension and get this game started. Why have you called me here Mortal? I like the 'mortal' shtick, it establishes a hierarchy from the start.

His mouth continues to open and close for a few moments as he swallows repeatedly, taking another look at his piece of paper before he puts it aside. I guess this was as far as his ritual took things, now he has to think for himself and he's found himself rather lost. When he finally finds his voice I inwardly wince at how weak and reedy it sounds. Foul demon, you are bound within my circle and must do what I bid.

Great, sounds like he's learnt how to do a summoning from watching bad movies. It wasn't the power of his ritual that called me, demons are able to answer any call made to them without the need of such rituals, I had answered the request for aid. Still, he was right, I was bound, at least while he believed I was. I have to work on breaking his confidence, if I can break his belief in the magic, I'll break his circle. I decide the best place to start is at the source. Tell me child, what tome did you find this summoning in?

His eyes glance again to the paper but it seems to be lacking in easy answers for him. Erm, I found it on the Internet from a genuine Satanic site. He sounds proud of himself, like he's done something both clever and clandestine.

I inject a heavy load of sarcasm into my response, Oh, the Internet, the ultimate authority on hidden lore. The young man smiles, my sarcasm completely lost on him, and I feel the binding tighten slightly. Great, this mouth breathing idiot doesn't even know the basics of human interaction. I'm beginning to think the kid has grown up in the shed we're standing in. I will have to be considerably less subtle. There is good reason The Fool is the first card of the major arcana in the Tarot, and also a reason it is such a powerful card. This child's ignorance has me bound as tight as a fence wire.

I sigh inside but keep my face schooled to be completely neutral. Time to try a different angle before this kid gets his wits about him. So what makes you think you have me bound child?

Y-you appeared within the circle, so you are bound.

I give him a condescending half smile and feel the binding loosen ever so slightly. Good, he might not understand sarcasm but he read what I wanted him to from my expression. Oh is that so child. We shall see about that. You do of course know that these rituals have to be performed very precisely don't you?

Oh yes. He looks very proud of himself … damn. I took great care to copy it all down exactly as the ritual demands.

So, the ritual had the name of Saint Theodore spelt incorrectly then?

He looks again at his paper, then squints as he looks to the circle and tries to read his horrible hand writing in the wane light provided by his two black altar candles. I swear I can see his lips moving as he works over the letters.

No, I got it right, it's all spelled right.

I offer him another of my half smiles, I have no doubt you have written it as it's written in your ritual but I wonder if you realise the name is spelt differently in English, quite often details are ... lost in translation.

I spelled it right, the ritual was written by a high priest of Satan and he's used the ritual lots so it's right. His finger stabs the offending word on the page to emphasise his commitment.

Oh really? I turn my head a little to the side to put on a show of studying the word. Well, I knew Theodore personally, he cast out a few friends of mine and I can promise you, the translation is incorrect. Well I had met him once at a function held by John the Baptist. Theodore was a cowardly little man who used the church to shield himself from the real world, mostly to avoid military service. Still, my words had the desired effect as I could feel the bonds weaken considerably. It might be weak enough for me to step out of, but if I try now and fail it would bolster his confidence. I need more.

To the kid's credit he does rally fairly well. If you could get out you would have so I reckon it's spelled right.

I meet his eyes and give him my most irritating little half smile again and I can see the seed of doubt has taken root, I need only encourage it to grow now. You've summoned me at midnight though. You do realise that the witching hour is when demons are at their strongest don't you?

The boy nods, causing his bush of curly hair to move as one greasy mass back and forth like a furry little creature trying to hold on to his scalp. Yes, the ritual says that the witching hour is from eleven thirty to twelve thirty and it's when black magick is the most powerful. You could actually hear him careful pronounce the 'k' at the end of the word. So the ritual must be complete within that time or the demon might escape and make vengeance upon you.

'Make vengeance'? English obviously wasn't one of the kid's strong points. Eleven thirty to twelve thirty huh? He nods again. You do realise that those times are based on the actual position of the earth in it's rotation, not on the arbitrary lines drawn by man right?

He looks confused and his lips move as he thinks over the problem. I begin to feel the bonds degrading but then suddenly become rigid again as his face lights up. That would make a difference but the difference would only be between seven and tens minutes so it's still well within the time.

Great, the kid is good at maths, I guess he has to have something going for him. I take a moment to look around the room and take in some of the details while he bathes in his own cleverness for a moment. It's a farm shed of some sort, rarely used by the looks. It definitely smells like a rural area though, the smell of cow shit on the breeze is unmistakable. Then it occurs to me. I look back to him and flash him my half smile again. Immediately I feel a shiver in his binding as his eyes meet mine.

You accounted for the shift in time for daylight savings then?

His face goes white and I feel the pressure lessen considerably. I lift my cane and carefully put a foot forward. As my foot passes the circle I feel a pain, like pushing my foot through liquid fire, but I do my best to not let it show. As he sees that foot pass the barrier his conviction pops like a bubble and the circle breaks entirely. He falls to his knees and weeps. I begin to walk towards him, punctuating each couple of steps with the tap of my cane on the ground.

He lies there curled into a ball on his knees, his pudgy hands thrust forward. I can see something clutched in his hands reflecting the wane flickering light of the candles. My last hopes for this poor wretched creature dwindle at the sight. You dabble in the occult but your last defence is the icon of that filthy Nazarene at the height of his failure. Do you realise how utterly stupid that is?

His hands spasm and release the tiny icon, letting it trail it's broken chain as it slithers from his fingers to coil on the floor. His sobs shift to more of a constant whine.

My curiosity gets the better of me. In a voice as smooth as custard and as comforting as an asp I ask, Tell me child; why did you call me?

I give him time to swallow his sobs so he can reply, I just wanted to make the bullies stop.

My lip curls up in disgust. I could bring so much pain and suffering to this wretched creature. I could break bones, I could flense the skin from his flesh or I could splay his mind bare with unending terrors. His weakness disgusts me, yet nothing meaningful would be accomplished by adding to his woes. I prod him in the ribs with the end of my cane, telling myself it's to get his attention but to be honest I just had to hurt him, just a little, so I was none too gentle. He grunts with each prod but lies there unmoving. He has given up, his will to fight gone.

Clearing my throat I attempt to rescue something of worth from this mess. I will grant your desire. The sobs stop, I have his attention but he still lies unmoving. I will give you a small measure of my power, a seed if you will. It will not change things overnight, likely not even within a year. Let it grow though and over time my gift will make you strong. Nurture it and you will have the strength to face your bullies, not just these ones but future ones as well. With practice, you will be empowered enough that you will be able to handle any of life's challenges.

It is a half truth. It isn't power in any sort of mystical sense I am offering, all I am offering is something for him to believe in. I hope in time that spark of self confidence will grow into something worthy of life. All humans are born with that creative spark of self but over time most people replace it with something else, something false. Other's, like this one, lose it entirely. I have given him a falsehood but it is something his mind needs as an anchor to regrow his own self confidence.

He looks up, his tear streaked face stained with dust from the shed floor. Really? He pleads. Would you really do that for me?

It is already done, do you not feel the strength welling within you?

He sits up on his heels and puts a hand to his chest, a smile slowly spreading across his face. I do! I do feel it! His face lights up as he builds upon that one belief.

All I have given him is illusion, but that's how most humans build their life so it falls within the bounds of acceptable help. To save me having to hang the spiritual equivalent of a post-it note on his aura, I offer one last piece of advice. You had best leave the occult alone boy, it is not your calling. If you disturb me again I will take back my gift. Understand? He nods quickly, his mop of hair dancing like a mound of wet weeds on his head. There, that hopefully saves him trying this stunt again and having some other entity forced to re-educate him.

Not far away a dog barks and years of habit turns the young man's head in that direction for a moment. It's enough, I take the opportunity to leave him without