Bitter and deliberate designs
7 Swords ~ Tarot de Secrets, Lo Scarabeo
Let me tell you a story about my life, which began in my old age.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was an old man living with a warrior clan. I had heart trouble and my face was bitter. Thin-skinned, I was white and bloodless from ill health. I was tired of being told what to do, when to do it, and how, and other such things. I had joined the camps at the age of 17, and I was tired of the warrior clan, tired of our work. In truth, I was too old to be useful and no one paid attention to me anymore. Inside of me was a great deal of anger, at the life, and at the men, over half of whom were no longer noble, nor did they value honor. Only the Master of Arms was still true, and he was my friend, but it wasn’t enough. So I decided to run away, decisive toward living my years in peace, away from fighting, and those who love fighting.
As I thought about it, I found that I had a good plan. I would wait until the dark of night, on the large moon, after the men had eaten. And so I did. It was dark, a full, beautiful night, with a giant moon shining down upon me, on my adventure of escape and renunciation. The moon in its gentle silver light seemed quite perfect to me. The night, so light and still, was quiet with the sound of bugs and the tickle of the tiniest wings. All was just so! Every man had eaten~ the cook fires were burning down beneath the tripods. The last stalwarts had stumped or stumbled off to the tents, full as winter bears, full of stew. Now I would go, and so I began on my stealthy way.
I suddenly stopped~ feeling the freshness of my old bitterness and tiredness and anger. I could do one final task, for the Eternity of the Warrior, for the path of the warrior, for peace insured by warriors who guard and stand, and so have no need of war. My task! My only right task, before I left that empty place. I would take the swords!
Certain of our men were quarrelsome and difficult. Not satisfied with fighting when they might, for honor and the clean duty of war, they bothered the homesteaders and the common people. Without a provocation, they ranged around and slew pigs, cut up the laundry hanging on the lines, frightening the old people, getting belligerently drunk and fighting in the taverns. One casually chopped the hand from a nine-year-old boy who reached to touch his shield. These men made our work small, made us wrong, needed to be hindered. Tonight, I would be the Master of Arms! I took their swords~ seven of them, from the most dangerous, wrong-headed men, the honorless men. I left two of the swords embedded in the soil before the Master’s tent, as a sign. I was angry, passionately detached, and somehow deeply amused.
The swords were far too heavy for me in my age, I could not longer use them deliberately, the hafts were too wide and heavy to grasp. But I understood leverage and balance, and so propped them on my shoulders, with the points in my hands. The apex of pain, and the ability to maneuver, that is what I gained, control and leverage for the last task. If the swords fell, the heavy tops would bang to the side and down, causing no harm, and if I needed to drop them, fleet in my escape, the points would embed in the soil, or fall all about, while I ran. And so I went, bitter and joyful, on to my destiny of freedom, betraying the belligerent in the fraud of their weapons. Too perfect. Worth the trouble. A simple redefinition of betrayal. A new way of war.
Later, the men were angry, and ranged about yelling, looking for their swords, yelling and cursing and blaming each other. No one noticed I was gone, until all the men were on their feet, with the troublous men most loudly complaining. The Master stood there confounded, and all at once the camp felt my absence. In that same moment they all realized, and saw the Master realize, just exactly whose swords were stolen. And in the pause, my pattern was complete.
The Master changed the habits of the camp. These seven men would be given their swords only in event of war. Not given for camping, marching, or traveling, eating, or ranging among the people. Venal, empty-hearted men would no longer carry swords in a peaceful country.
I was soon forgotten. Ever after, the homesteaders were vigilant to keep their their new swords carefully hidden, but always to hand, against the possibility of a troublous warrior. No more pigs were killed and the laundry stayed on the lines. Little boys were safe. So perhaps I was not forgotten, after all.
