Tarot: The Fool

At the edge of the dying day, in the twilight, he finds a spot in the fence where the tall metal bars are warped, just big enough to slip through them. Inside the cemetary, the leaves do not stir. The wind does not rise, despite its howling just beyond the gate. All sound is muted by the cold, hard-packed cemetary loam. His breathing keeps the silence at bay.

He follows the curving pathways through aisles of tombstones, glancing at those with particularly elegant inscriptions, or topped with tall stone angels whose features have been worn away by time and the wind.

He stops at the only spot he recognizes, standing in the shadow of the mausoleum as the first of the stars appear, glittering in the sky like a scattered handful of diamonds. The metal doors are chained, but as he stares at it, the padlock unlocks with a series of echoing metallic thunks. He reaches for the gates and pushes them open. They protest wildly, with a noise like the squealing breaks of a train, and stop half-way, but it is lost in the sudden tempest.

The wind pushes against his back, making his coat billow around him. The leaves swirl madly, and voices whisper in his ears, longingly, though the words are too numerous for him to catch entire sentences. "... come... just another... closer to us... like falling asleep..."

A voice that sounds as though it is speaking as much within his head as without rings like a bell over the cacophany of jumbled whispering. "Why are you here?"

He pauses, and when he speaks, his voice sounds dark and wild. "I want to live forever."

Something sighs against his neck, warm and sad. The voice comes again, soft as fur. "This is not living."

But the gates open fully, and the darkness pulls him inside, like the cold hand of a child.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay