By Lillian Hartley / Mystic Reads, Falmouth

Of all the seventy-eight cards in the tarot, I have always found The Fool the most philosophically interesting. Not because I believe a deck of painted cards can predict the future, but because The Fool offers a rather elegant illustration of the human condition.

In the traditional Rider-Waite-Smith deck, a young traveller stands at the edge of a precipice, carrying a small bundle and accompanied by a cheerful little dog. He appears entirely unconcerned by the drop before him. Whether this represents courage, innocence, or an alarming deficiency of common sense is left to the observer.

The Fool is numbered zero, He stands outside the conventional sequence, possessing neither the certainty of experience nor the burden of knowing how his journey ought to end.

And therein, lies his peculiar wisdom.

When Sylvia, Inspector Wren, and I become entangled in one of our investitations, we invariably begin with the conviction that we are setting out towards something: a discovery, an explanation, perhaps even a resolution. Yet experience has taught me that the destination we imagine at the outset seldom resembles the place where we eventually arrive.

Out enounters with mysteries surrounding Avalon, the disapperance of a Ukrainian woman’s brother, and the unsettling events at Salward Farm have each challenged our assumptions about what it means to know, to lose, and to act responsibly.

The Fool, I suspect, would find our determination to impose order upon such experience rather amusing.

Sylvia would undoubtedly disagree with my interpretation. As a hereditary West Country wise woman, she regards the tarot as something rather more substantial than a philosophical illustration. She would agree that The Fool stands at the threshold of the unkonwn precisely because the universe has something to reveal to him. She might even suggest that his little dog possesses knowledge the traveller himself has yet to acquire.

Inspector Wren, on the other hand, would probably recommend that the young man take three steps backwards, examine the terrain, and consult a reliable map before proceeding.

I have some sympathy with both positions.

Sylvia reminds us that curiosity requires imagination. Wren reminds us that imagination without judgement can lead to unfortunate consequences. But I wonder whether they both overlook the most important feature of the card.

The Fool does not know what happens next.

Neither do we.

We may gather evidence, consult ancient traditions, examine our motives, and prepare ourselves as thoroughly as circumstances permit. Yet eventually we must act without possessing complete knowledge.

This is not foolishness in the ordinary sense. It is the unavoidable condition of being human.

I once believed that wisdom consisted largely of understanding the world. These days, I am increasingly inclined to think it consists of recongnising how much remains beyond our understanding, while refusing to let uncertainty prevent us from living.

The Fool’s journey is not a promise that everything will turn out well. Nor is it an invitation to surrender judgement. It is a reminder that the future cannot be experienced in advance, however diligently we attempt to do just that.

Perhaps that is what connects our three stories.

At Avalon, we confront the danger of believing that every mystery ought to be solved. In the search for Mykola, we discover that love does not necessarily entitle us to a solution. And at Saltward Farm, we learn that responsibility sometimes requires us to act without the reassurance of certainty.

Each is a different encounter with the precipice.

I imagine Sylvia would insist that The Fool must eventually discover the meaning of his journey. Wren would maintain that a sensible traveller ought to avoid the precipice altogether.

As fo me, I rather hope the young man pauses long enough the admire the view, listens to his dog, and then decides for himself which direction to take.

After all, there is a considerable difference between stepping into the unknown and being pushed.

At that, I think, is where wisdom begins.

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