I was looking for a project at the time. Something to keep me busy. Something to occupy my mind in the dry days of summer. Something I could look at and think, "I made this. It's mine."

The stone is my project. It's almost smooth now. A smooth, speckled red.

It's pretty. I think so, anyway.

The angel above me has his foot on the stone and seems to find it comfortable. My stone is clean and polished. I'm proud of that.

I know it's not much. It's just a stone. But it's mine, it's mine, it's mine.

I made it. Me.

15. The Devil's Pedestal: Day 2,189,345 in Hell. Noon. Greenwich Mean Time.

Satan lifts a claw and gores another notch in my side. Two witnesses stand by to watch, to make sure all the legal formalities are observed. This is Hell; we believe in legal formalities.

There are now 2,189,345 notches in my side. I am zebraed with notches, tigered with notches. One notch for each day of damnation.

I am the calendar of Hell.

Satan lives in dread of losing track of his time here. Sometimes he forgets whether he's made the notch for the day, and he gnaws at his talons, trying to decide whether he should make another notch. But he knows if he's already made today's mark, another would throw off the count.

He goes through this every day. Despite the rigorous routine, despite the witnesses. And he worries that sometime in the past, millennia ago or just yesterday, he really did make a mistake and now he's permanently wrong.

I have no trouble keeping track of his notches. I know how fresh my pain is.

If Satan clawed his own hide, he'd know too.

16. The Sparks Shooting from the Tower: This tower stood for two hundred and fifty years.

It resisted five enemy attacks. Those who lived in the tower praised its strength. Honored it with songs. Spread its fame through all countries.

More than four hundred children have been born within its walls. Most grew to adulthood here, and died when their time came.

Diplomats came here from across the sea. They complimented the strong walls, the view that commands the surrounding territory, the strategic positioning of wells and storehouses.

This tower stood for two hundred and fifty years.

We sparks last a second at most.

Don't you dare feel sorry for this damned tower.

17. The Bird Observing the Star: A woman is pouring water, some on the ground, some into a pool. Huge white stars circle around an enormous yellow one.

Portents. Humans love portents. Humans hunger after portents.

We birds haven't forgotten about Roman auguries. The priests slit living birds open, just to look for portents in their entrails. Entrails…humans always use the word "entrails." The truth is the priests would cut out our hearts. They cut out our livers. They cut out our intestines and scanned them inch by inch like stockbrokers examining ticker tape.

Stockbrokers examine ticker tape for portents.

We birds see everything, from stockbrokers to stars, but we don't see portents. Birds have no portents, not even portents of things that concern us, like winter. One fall day we find ourselves flying south, that's all.

That's all.

18. The Dog Who Bays at the Moon: Wolves howl at the moon.

Dogs bay.

Here's the difference.

A wolf is shouting a challenge, crying defiance at the great face in the sky. A wolf is saying, "Despite hunters and hunger and sickness and snow, I'll be here again next month, same as you. You go on and I'll go on. You might be hidden by a cloud, but I'll still be here. And when I die, my children will howl for me, and the pack will howl and every pack will howl, until you slink below the horizon. We are forever."

A dog is greeting a companion, a fellow traveler that humans revere or ignore. A dog is saying, "You and me, moon, we're the ones who know how to laugh. Whatever damned thing the human race comes up with next, it's okay with us. Dogs are no more domesticated than you are, moon; we're just easygoing. Why make a fuss? Eating is good, sniffing is good, sleeping is good. Most things are okay."

That's what we dogs say to the moon.

It's the only sane attitude. Wolves are too intense.

19. The Sunflowers Beneath the Sun: Height! More height! More height!

Height is sun and sun is height.

The pretty-doll flowers in the garden next to us are irrational. They hug the ground. They keep their heads down. They don't compete.

Why? Why? Why?

It must be some mutual agreement to remain mediocre. If no one sticks her head up, no one else gets overshadowed. And they're all so spineless—they're so afraid of losing if they take a chance, they're so reluctant to seem rude—they remain prissy little runts all their lives.

We sunflowers have more stomach. We strangle each other. We compete. More height means more sun. More sun means more height.

The prissy little runts ask how much sun and height a flower really needs.

More! The answer is always more!

20. The Trumpet That Wakes the Dead for Judgment: It's no big deal. At the End of Time, the angel Gabriel will use me to blow a single note and the dead will rise from their graves. Until then, I stay silent.

I can handle that.

Gabriel can't. It's a big responsibility for him, and he'd like to practice. Sometimes he takes me out of the case, puts my mouthpiece to his lips, and thinks about playing. Something soft. Something so low human ears couldn't hear it. But he knows it's like biting a balloon—big bite or small, the effect is the same.

I have this hunch about the way Heaven works. I don't think Gabriel will ever be given the signal that it's time to blow. I think someday the temptation will just grow too great and he'll crack. He may try a quiet little toot or blast a fanfare that makes the stars echo, but sooner or later he'll break. And that will be the End of Time.

Running things this way, God doesn't have to make the big decision. He just appoints Gabriel as the scapegoat and waits for all hell to break loose.

Me, I'm patient. It will happen or it won't.

Gabriel polishes me every day with the vigor of a man who needs to keep his hands busy. He doesn't sleep well.

21. The Wreath on the Card Called the World: A woman dances, holding a baton. She is clad only in a tastefully draped ribbon.

I surround her, a green wreath with the silhouette of an egg.

In the four corners of the sky, faces look at us: a lion, an eagle, an angel, and a bull.

So. Which one of us is "the world"?

Me? The woman? The watchers? All of us? Some mysterious whole that encompasses us?

Or simply the ink that depicts us and the cardboard that gives the ink something to cling to?

Philosophers may amuse themselves making arguments for each possibility. Theologians may obtain their god's version of the truth and expound it from the pulpit. Cynics may say that the designers of the Tarot didn't know what the hell the world was about, so they took the opportunity to draw another naked woman.

Anything's possible.

Anything's possible.

Anything's possible.