Every year – just for a day – a fleet of gypsy caravans would pass through the town and set up camp on the village green. It was a yearly event. Many of the caravans would become open homes while the owners sold their wares which they made, such as wooden toys, or scarves, or hats, or whatever. Of course many of the so-called gypsies were not gypsy by blood but by choice. It was a way of life.
Jaxon was a local villager. He never missed visiting the village green for the event. This year he got terribly daring and entered the caravan of a fortune teller. The lady was lovely. She shuffled her cards with aplomb. She dealt the cards with flare. And what is that card there? asked Jaxon.
Oh dear, said the gypsy woman, that is the Death Card. I’m sorry to say but the cards say that when your plum tree flowers you will die.
Jaxon was horrified. It was late winter already. He walked home in a daze. He got out his chainsaw. He cut down his plum tree at ground level. He burnt every twig.
When spring came he died anyway.