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Enemy Cargo

Night of September 23, 1990. Sunday.

I am traveling on the Orca with Quint and the real Alice from Wonderland.

The cabin is semi-dark. A mist drifts by the windows. It seems to begin in mid-conversation. “I hope your head is on straight,” he says, “we don’t want no lossage of heads here.”

“My head is fine,” I say stoically, but only semi-aware.

“Your head is fine? Okay, so then let’s drink to our heads.” He takes a drink. For a moment, I think I see the Statue of Liberty through the mist, but far in the distance.

“Our enemy cargo, doesn’t make the boat go…very far. Alice, here, she’s a real card shark,” he says, snickering at his own word play.

Eventually, Alice takes out some Tarot cards, which apparently is the "enemy cargo" (recurring - “enemy cargo” and “Tarot cards” have been the “same thing” in my dreams since childhood, as well as “grid of darkness” - although actually dreaming of them “correctly” in any way - relative to imagery - is very rare). She looks at the cards on the table casually and announces, “You are about to go on a journey.”

“We are about to go on a journey…” he smirks absentmindedly, copying her words, pointing in her direction, “there’s a fifty percent chance of…journey…”

“OR…you have just come BACK from a journey…” she continues. (He continues to point, then nods, apparently trying to hold back laughter.) “Then again, the cards say this reading may be for someone else…someone you know…or someone you don’t know.” (He lightly taps the table with the right side of a closed fist with his right hand.) Alice looks up, “This is important…or maybe not…” she continues.

Looking at the cards, I see that each and every one is “The Fool” (with the label as such, anyway) but instead of the supposedly traditional design (although it does appear for a short time, briefly animated as if moving out of the way for the next image), each card has an image of a shark with its mouth open, facing out and up somewhat. “Mind no go…with that cargo” he says, “Each and every day, I pray to the great codfish for protection…” (There is a brief thought of how “cod” sounds like “God”.)

Eventually, I see that there are miniature Grim Reaper figures everywhere, some with black cloaks, but soon, some with white, reminding me of the Black Spy vs. White Spy Mad magazine comics. They seem to be randomly running each other through with their scythes. “Who cares for you?” says Alice, “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!” She brings her fist down upon the cards and figures. Every part of the cards and figures becomes white powder, which turns out to be snow. Suddenly, it seems the cabin is filled with fresh, exhilarating outside air, as on a hilltop - and a light, refreshing snow falls inside the cabin.

“Self-willed transmutation, the only thing that matters,” Quint nods. He takes a final sip of drink from his cup.

tarot cards are enemy cargo
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