Page of Wands · Wands · Fire

The Page of Wands stands on ridged orange sand, three pyramids low on the horizon, one scrubby plant to his right, the sky a pale washed blue. He is dressed to be looked at: a grey cap with a short red feather standing off it like a flame, red-gold curls beneath, a straw-yellow tunic printed all over with black salamanders, an olive mantle, red hose, yellow boots with cuffs cut into points. The staff is planted in the sand before him, taller than he is, budding leaves at its crown, at his shoulder, near the ground. He holds it with both hands, one at hat height under the leaves, one closed at his chest. In profile, chin lifted, boots flat.

He has the grip of someone about to walk, and he is standing perfectly still.

Classically the Pages are messengers, and this one carries fire: news, an invitation, an idea that arrives already wanting to be acted on. Beginner’s enthusiasm, unproven, unembarrassed, willing to be seen caring about something. The staff has been carried nowhere. It is still a branch in leaf.

Upright, that is the whole gift. Curiosity, appetite, the courage to start badly. He announces the work before he can do it. The announcing is part of how it gets made real.

Reversed, the same fire runs to the mouth. Enthusiasm that never leaves the doorway, promises made mostly to hear them said aloud, a hundred first days and no second one. Or the message is held back, the spark kept private until it goes out. The staff can stay planted, or be lifted and carried. The card holds that open. It does not say which.