The oblivious rain descends upon the send-off, lashing against the windows of the moving car to form streaks that look like the clawmarks of voracious demons. An omen, perhaps, of trials to come. But the Fool pays no heed, just as he does the rest of the noise in the world.
He arrives at the gate of departure where he meets a boatman bearing the cross of the Hanged Man. His guide across this River Styx. The boatman says: Name yourself, traveller. For the unwilled shall not pass.
And the Fool replies: I bear-
A sword in my chest.
A cup in my soul.
A wand in my hand.
And a coin in my pocket.
The boatman nods expressionless and beckons him to embark. And off they go into the mist, across the horizon between dawn and dusk, life and death, and every other pair of opposites in the world. For all becomes one at the world’s edge. Nothing else matters. Time comes to a standstill. All one needs to do is entrust their fate to the cards.
The Tower awaits.