From Rosalyn Lane: Arcanum — The Fool, Second Edition (2025). A continuous selection from Act One, “Driftwood”, introducing John Baptist as The Fool and Sebastian Hawthorn as The Magician. The prose is reproduced from the author’s supplied second-edition manuscript; the original printed page design and embedded Tarot illustrations are not included in this online text edition.
Act One
Driftwood
John Baptist
I am The Fool.
Imagine if you will the Tarot card The Fool, with all its rich tapestry of symbolism and colours…
The Fool of Tarot is depicted as a youthful, carefree figure on the brink of a new adventure. He stands at the edge of a cliff, one foot lifted as if about to step off into the unknown. Dressed in brightly coloured, whimsical attire, he wears a tunic adorned with playful patterns and a feathered cap, symbolising his free spirit and spontaneity. In one hand, he carries a small bundle tied to a staff slung over his shoulder, representing his light baggage and readiness for a journey. On the other hand, he holds a white rose, symbolising purity and innocence. A small dog at his heels jumps excitedly, either warning him of the impending danger or encouraging his leap of faith. The background shows a bright, sunlit sky with high mountains in the distance, indicating both the challenges and the limitless possibilities that lie ahead. The Fool embodies new beginnings, boundless potential, and the courage to venture into the unknown with an open heart and mind.
Now, keep your eyes closed just a little longer. Good.
Now keep that original image of The Fool in your mind. But replace it with this version:
Let us start with my current age. Seventy-two. I am The Fool at age 72.
I stand at the edge of a crumbling rooftop in the heart of this sprawling metropolis. I am much older now, my face etched with deep lines and scars, each one a testament to the relentless hardships of my life. The bright, sunlit sky has turned to deepening twilight, the last rays of the sun casting long, melancholic shadows over the concrete jungle below.
My attire is no longer the brightly coloured, whimsical garb of youth. Instead, I wear a dark, buttoned-up boiler suit, scuffed and stained from years of wear and toil. Heavy-duty, steel-top safety boots anchor me to the gritty reality of my surroundings, grounding me in this harsh world. A simple black beanie hat covers my thinning, greying hair, and a heavy tool belt, laden with instruments of my trade and mission, hangs from my waist. This tool belt represents the practical, often violent means by which I must fulfil the prophecy of the Grey Father’s Revelations. Each tool is a reminder of the brutality and necessity of my tasks.
In one hand, I carry a small, weathered bundle tied to a staff, the weight of my burdens evident in my grip. The staff, once a symbol of carefree adventure, now represents the ominous guidance of the Grey Father’s cryptic messages. In the other, I hold a wilted flower, a stark reminder of lost innocence and the harsh realities of my quest. The flower, much like my spirit, has withered with time.
At my feet, instead of a playful dog, there is the haunting presence of my inner turmoil and constant nagging thoughts, manifesting as ghostly, whispering figures that swirl around me, urging me forward or warning me of the dangers that lie ahead. These figures symbolise both the incessant doubts and the grim determination borne from the Grey Father’s prophetic burden.
The landscape behind me is a maze of towering skyscrapers, flickering neon lights, and dark, shadowy alleys. The once bright and open path of The Fool is now a narrow, treacherous ledge, with the looming threat of the city’s underbelly ever-present. This decaying urban jungle is a testament to the modern capitalist society, rife with corruption and decay, just as the Grey Father foretold. It is a city that thrives on the broken dreams and crushed spirits of its inhabitants, much like how it has thrived on mine.
The twilight setting signifies the transition from innocence to experience, from clarity to ambiguity, and the approach of darker times, in line with the apocalyptic tones of the Grey Father’s Revelations. The swirling shadows and intermittent light around me reflect the constant tension between chaos and order, a central theme in the Grey Father’s philosophies. It is a twilight that mirrors the fading light of my own spirit, as cynicism has taken root in the soil where hope once grew.
Hidden within the shadows are eyes, or symbolic markings, representing the hidden knowledge and secrets I must uncover. They symbolise the occult wisdom and esoteric truths that underpin the Grey Father’s Revelations. These secrets are no longer tantalising mysteries but burdensome truths that weigh heavily on my weary soul.
I, John Baptist, The Fool, now embody the weight of my mission, the loss of innocence, and the constant battle with my inner demons. My cynicism, born from years of disillusionment, has replaced the naïveté of youth. I stand on the brink of a journey not into the unknown, but into the depths of a decaying, dystopian world where prophecy, inner turmoil, and the remnants of modern capitalism collide. The naivety and boundless optimism that once defined The Fool have long since eroded, replaced by a hardened scepticism and a jaded view of the world.
Each step I take on this treacherous ledge is heavy with the weight of past disappointments and the knowledge of the grim tasks that lie ahead. The carefree adventure has transformed into a grim march through a city that reflects the rot and decay of its soul. The once lively, colourful world is now shrouded in the harsh, artificial glow of neon lights and the oppressive shadows of towering structures, each one a monument to human excess and moral decline.
The ghostly, whispering figures at my feet are not just the voices of doubt but a chorus of past regrets and haunting memories. They remind me of every misstep, every betrayal, and every moment of lost hope. They are the relentless echoes of a life lived in the shadow of prophecy, where every action is dictated by the cryptic and often cruel words of the Grey Father.
The wilted flower in my hand is a symbol of everything that has been sacrificed in the name of this relentless pursuit. Innocence, joy, and love have all withered, leaving behind only the stark reality of my mission. The staff, once a guide on a journey of discovery, now feels more like a crutch, supporting a body and soul worn down by the unending burdens of destiny.
The city itself seems to mock my journey, its neon signs and advertisements promising happiness and fulfilment while hiding the ugly truth of exploitation and despair. The maze of alleys and high-rise buildings is a labyrinth designed to ensnare the unwary and crush the spirit. It is a place where dreams come to die, and where the only escape is through the grim fulfilment of the Grey Father’s dark prophecies.
As I move through this urban nightmare, the hidden eyes within the shadows watch my every move. They are the keepers of secrets, the silent witnesses to the city’s slow decay and the human suffering it engenders. These eyes, these symbolic markings, are a constant reminder that there is always more to uncover, more hidden truths to reveal, each one more burdensome than the last.
I am no longer the carefree Fool standing on the edge of a bright new adventure. I am John Baptist, The Fool transformed by time and experience, standing on the brink of a journey into darkness. My steps are measured, my heart heavy with the weight of cynicism and hard-earned wisdom. The path ahead is not one of boundless potential but of grim necessity, driven by the relentless march of prophecy and the unforgiving nature of the world I inhabit.
In this twilight world, where the light of hope fades and the shadows grow ever longer, I continue forward. The Grey Father’s Revelations have turned my journey into a mission of survival and fulfilment of dark destinies. My once open heart and mind are now guarded and wary, shaped by a lifetime of hardship and the relentless whisper of inner demons. The Fool’s journey is no longer a tale of new beginnings but a testament to the enduring struggle against a world steeped in decay and disillusionment.
Tonight, I am the Fool.
Sebastian Hawthorn
I see him there, The Magician, the architect of fate, standing at the precipice where the known world meets the unknown. In one hand, he holds the wand · a tool of creation, of power, of endless possibility. The other hand reaches down, grounding him, drawing upon the primal energies that pulse beneath the earth, binding the heavens to the earth, the seen to the unseen.
This is the figure I have become · a master of my craft, a conductor not merely of music, but of destiny itself. With every movement, every note, I command the elements, bend the forces to my will, and shape the world as I see fit. Yet, in the depths of my heart, I am no fool. I know that every spell, every symphony I weave, draws from a reservoir that is not infinite. The well from which I draw my power, like all things, is finite · its depths perilously close to running dry.
The Magician’s gaze is fixed, his intent unwavering, yet there is a shadow that lingers just behind those eyes · a whisper of the cost of such mastery, the inevitable toll that comes with wielding such power. For what is power if not a double-edged blade? What is creation without the ever-present spectre of destruction, lurking just beyond the edges of light?
As I stand upon this stage, I hold the instruments of my craft · the baton, the score, the orchestra itself, each a symbol of my dominion over the intangible. Yet with each act of creation, I edge closer to the abyss. The power I wield is not without consequence. The forces I command are not mine to own; they are borrowed, fleeting, and each time I summon them, they demand their due.
The Magician knows this truth well, as do I. There is a toll for every masterpiece, a price for every spell cast in the name of art, of fate. And in the end, who shall pay it? The hand that wields the wand, or those who dance to the tune it plays?
But as I continue to gaze upon The Magician, the image begins to shift, to warp under the weight of my own reality. The once-bright aura that surrounded him · symbolising boundless potential and the purity of his craft · begins to dim, as if the light of the heavens he once commanded now recoils from him, retreating into the void.
The wand in his hand, once a beacon of divine power, now trembles, its wood darkening as though it is being consumed by the very shadows it once repelled. The smooth, polished surface twists and warps, the grain of the wood becoming gnarled and knotted, as if the instrument of creation itself is rebelling against its master. The elements that once obeyed his every command · fire, water, air, and earth · now swirl in disarray, no longer the obedient servants they once were, but chaotic forces ready to lash out, no longer content to be mere tools in his hands.
His robes, once pristine, embroidered with the arcane symbols of knowledge and wisdom, now appear tattered and worn, frayed at the edges, as if the very fabric of his being is unravelling. The intricate patterns that once spoke of ancient wisdom now fade, consumed by creeping tendrils of darkness that spread like ink across parchment. The crown of unseen power upon his brow, once a symbol of his divine right to command, slips, its weight too great to bear. It tilts precariously, a reflection of the burden that has grown too heavy, the cost of his mastery weighing him down like an anchor dragging him to the depths.
The table before him, once adorned with the tools of creation · the cup, the sword, the pentacle, the wand · now bears the stains of countless sacrifices, the wood cracked, splintered, and warped as though under immense pressure. The symbols etched upon it, once vibrant with meaning, now fade and blur, obscured by the shadows that gather in the corners of the room, lurking like phantoms waiting to claim their due.
His eyes, once burning with the fire of ambition and control, are now hollow, haunted by the knowledge of the costs he has incurred. The confident gaze that once looked to the future now falters, clouded by the spectre of what is to come. The once-sharp clarity of purpose that defined him has been replaced by a grim resignation, a knowing acceptance that the path he treads can only lead to one end.
And in the darkness of the room, I see myself reflected in his image · no longer just The Magician, the master of fate, but a man weighed down by the very forces he sought to command. The instruments of my power · the baton, the score, the orchestra · lie before me like relics of a once-great empire now crumbling under the strain of its own grandeur. Each note I conduct, each chord I summon, is a step closer to the void, the music resonating not only in the concert hall but deep within the chambers of my soul, reverberating with the echoes of a coming downfall.
The transformation is complete. The Magician is no longer the figure of boundless possibility; he is now a figure of caution, of warning. His mastery is tainted, his power corrupted, his path leading not to the heights of creation, but to the depths of despair. The once-clear waters of inspiration have been muddied, clouded by the sediment of doubt, fear, and inevitability.
Yet, even in this darkened state, there is a terrible beauty, a tragic elegance to his downfall. For what is The Magician without the struggle, without the cost of his ambition? The image before me is not just a reflection of my current state, but a prophecy of what I may yet become · a maestro who has flown too close to the sun, whose wings are now scorched, yet who continues to soar, because to fall would be to admit defeat. I cannot afford to fall, not for the music · my music · demands to be heard, even if it is the last thing I ever conduct on stage.
I am The Magician, but no longer the one who stands at the beginning of his journey, filled with the hope of endless potential. I am The Magician at the twilight of his reign, struggling to hold onto the power that once came so easily, knowing that every spell, every note, brings me closer to the end. The forces I once commanded now loom over me, their demands insistent, their toll inevitable.
This is the image that now haunts me · a reflection of what I am, and a warning of what I am to become. The Magician’s path is a lonely one, and the higher he climbs, the further he has to fall. But fall I shall, for I cannot turn back, and the music · my music · must be played, no matter the cost. The symphony is not yet finished, and until the final note is struck, I will wield my baton as The Magician wields his wand, even as the shadows close in around me.
End of the selected reading.