The Fool'sTale

I entered the forest as a story enters the mouth of a minstrel: slowly, with the humble step of one who does not intend to move the world, but to listen to it. It was dusk, and the New Moon had extinguished her lamp, leaving a tapestry of stars leaning over us like a cloak. We sat in a circle, with no ceremony but shared breath. One drew air in and let it go, another followed, and soon song was born where breath becomes pulse. We sang as if learning our names anew. We sought nothing; perhaps that is why the forest offered us so much.

I, the Fool —though that name is better pronounced by the wind— had come with little: a seed in my pocket, an invisible dog guarding my heel, and the certainty that something was ready to close its circle and begin another. We were a handful of wanderers, sisters and brothers who did not yet know which cards had chosen us, though we felt, somehow, that the night itself recognised us all.

Breath turned into song and song into river, and in that river, presences began to appear. Sister Wheel of Fortune revealed herself first, not in a drawn symbol, but in the way her smile ordered the air, oiling the invisible cogs of the group with kindness, bringing calm that turned the chill into caress. She laughed without breaking the silence; her laughter polished it as one polish a mirror. Later we would see in her card the letters of the Name, the serpent descending and the riddle above; but that night her assent was enough to teach me that change is dance when it is danced in trust.

Close by shone Sister Sun, with a midday lodged in her chest. A marvellous mind, awake sensitivity, an energy that joined what was separate without effort. Her laughter opened windows. When she shared an idea, she did not impose; she illuminated. In her card she would later ride a white horse with a banner that needed no wind. But I already knew that her joy did not ask forgiveness to exist.

Sister Moon walked like water. Facilitator of the invisible, creativity spilling into movement, voice widening the space without occupying it. Under her gaze, songs found a common pulse; our hands remembered ancient rhythms. In her card, later, would rise two towers and a silver path between dog and wolf; that night it was enough to see her serve simple flavours —bread with memory of sun, fruit with murmur of tree— to understand that intuition does not compete: it summons.

Sister Death drew near with pockets full of crystals and sweetness. She was not hurried; she was skilled. She cupped her hands and blew, and from that hollow was born a flute of skin. From the depths of the pines an owl replied. Its hoot crossed our circle with the precision of a tuned string. The Wheel turned a little, the Moon bowed her dark face, the Sun dimmed to listen better, and the dog at my heels lay down to learn that language. In Sister Death’s card we would later see the rider on the white horse, bearing the banner of the rose; I knew then that reaping prepares sowing, and that when owls answer, they announce beginnings.

Brother Devil tended to possibility as one who lights lanterns along a night path. His logic opened doors, his order left air, his readiness said “yes” when it was good to say “yes.” In his mind the beauty of the place became a divine lens returning the world to us as if new. In his card would come loose chains and temptations with tails; in his company, desire became devotion and pleasure, gratitude.

Brother High Priestess —chivalrous and kind— upheld small gestures with great dignity: offering a blanket, moving a stone from the path, opening space so a timid voice could sit. Vulnerable without show, honest without edges, grateful for the simple. In his eyes there was a veil; in his listening, the book that opens only when the heart understands the tongue. Later, in his card, we would recognise the twin pillars, the crescent at the feet, and the scroll of the Law partly hidden. That night, his presence alone allowed the implicit to breathe.

Sister Empress did not arrive, she blossomed. Strength braided with beauty, delicacy without fragility, openness that perfumed the air. Her nearness made the grass greener, the ground softer, the night gentler. In her card would shine twelve stars and a discreet river; but that night her crown was already upon her, in the way she cared, served and celebrated the simple.

Thus, Friday was the prologue of a minstrel: a mantle of stars wrapped us, and song, born of breath, became the cord that held us. No fire was lit; none was needed. The flame was the blood we shared in silence.

Saturday dawned without haste. Before anything, we built the altar: stones warmed by our hands, feathers that had agreed to travel, leaves gathered with respect. There we laid intentions, fears that needed light, and parts of ourselves ready to journey. The altar breathed with the circle. I placed on it my nameless seed and the invisible dog, so he might learn to guard what burns without flame.

Then came Brother Hierophant with music and voice. He did not dictate; he recalled. He held one note long enough for the others to dare. He was a bridge between inside and out; two fingers to heaven, two to earth. Tradition, in his mouth, did not weigh, it sustained. The medicine of the earth —psilocybin, gift of ancestors who converse with roots and stars— took its place among us as ancient sap.

Before opening the door to its teaching, we each chose our cards. Blindly, from the Major Arcana: the great gates. I tucked mine beside the seed. The card throbbed. The dog leapt and then lay down, as if he too knew the edge must wait.

Night came with its fresh cloak. The medicine did not enter as stranger: it revealed itself within, like a lamp discovering it had been lit all along. I walked a path that seemed a precipice and was beginning. I touched a stone, and it was bread. I opened my hand and found a cord.

I saw Sister Wheel turning beneath our feet, each spin making change a dance. With Brother Devil I stripped off old chains: as they fell, they rang like bells. Sister Moon showed me how dog and wolf could howl together without betrayal. Sister Sun mounted me on her horse: joy asks no leave. Brother High Priestess drew back the veil so I might glimpse the book; Brother Hierophant held the bridge beneath my steps. Sister Empress taught me to cut a leaf without scolding the plant. Sister Death named with tenderness what no longer was, and by naming it, let it go.

Then again, the flute of Sister Death called to the air. The owl answered louder. Its song pierced the skin and signed itself into our bones. I understood that a long-postponed closing had found its gesture, and in the same gesture another gate opened.

There was laughter like children who find the perfect hiding place. We shared stories without dates and truths without wounds. Sister Moon set a silver note in a broth; Sister Empress adjusted a flower so it might breathe; Brother Hierophant gave the tone that made other voices brave; Brother High Priestess steadied one who trembled; Sister Wheel reminded us, with a nod, that impermanence is hospitable; Sister Sun warmed the edges of the night; Brother Devil lit lanterns where the path grew dim; Sister Death swept crumbs from a table ready to become another table. And I, who always wander on the edges, allowed myself to be inhabited by a centre that was not a point, but a relation.

It was then, in the small hours, that we revealed the cards. Each turned their arcana, and wonder was shared: Sister Wheel rolled with wisdom; Sister Sun smiled with her banner held high; Sister Moon offered her silver path; Brother Devil showed chains that could be loosed; Brother High Priestess veiled and unveiled with patience; Sister Empress crowned with wheat; Sister Death raised her white rose; Brother Hierophant blessed. I turned mine: The Fool. Zero that is bowl, seed, round door. Sometimes, Twenty-Two, when ending shakes hands with beginning.

We made no calculations; we kept silence. I understood we were one organism. The Wheel and Death signed the covenant of life in motion. The Moon and the Sun were the two eyes of consciousness. The High Priestess and the Hierophant stretched a bridge between inner and outer temple. The Empress and the Devil reconciled matter and desire. And I, the Fool, held the edge: availability, the gentle courage to begin, the circle closing only to become seed.

Sunday leaned toward mystery and offered us an eclipse. The sky closed one eye so that we might open two within. Forms learned another grammar. No one spoke; the stars, allies of the New Moon, covered us with gentle certainty.

We packed without hurry. Blankets smelled of clean night. The altar slept with the warmth of a domestic creature. We walked towards the clearing with the forest’s dialect on our tongues. Nothing had changed, and everything was different.

Since then, the cards have not entirely returned to their cardboard. I find Sister Wheel in a baker’s smile wishing me a good day; Sister Sun in a message that opens my ribs; Sister Moon in a timely dream; Brother Devil in a question asked without judgement; Brother High Priestess at a crossing light where silence answers; Brother Hierophant in a neighbour’s humming; Sister Empress in the pruning of basil without scolding the plant; Sister Death in a softly crossed-out appointment. And myself, the Fool, in every edge that calls me by my secret name: come.

If someone asked me for a moral, I would offer a landscape: the Equinox that balanced, the eclipse that revealed, the New Moon that began. If they asked for advice, I would give a breath: sit in circle, let song find its place, learn the grammar of the owl with cupped hands. And if they asked what it meant to have been, together, those cards, I would say: we were Union. Not uniformity, but chord. Each one a note; together, a music.

The tale does not close; it vibrates. Like a string stretched between trees, ready for another round. Like a card warm in the pocket. Like an altar dreaming of seeds. Sometimes, when I hollow my hands, the air repeats the language of that night. And when I look at the edge, the horizon answers with my true name. Then I remember: Zero is not void, but place. The seed is not promise but beginning. And the Fool, humble traveller, keeps walking.