The Discworld Tarot…

The first in an occasional series. Note this is Tarot – as known on Roundworld – and expressly not the Caroc of the Discworld. The reasons are simple. One, I know the Tarot better and there are only seventy-eight cards, the Major Arcana of twenty-two cards plus the four suits each of fourteen. According to the Terry Pratchett Wiki, the Caroc has its Major Arcanum plus eight suits each of fourteen cards. Life is too short.

So learn a little Tarot lore and hopefully enjoy the short explanatory stories/drabbles/one-shots or whatever. This is the one form of Fanfic I'm not greatly good at - keeping 'em short - and I think 2011 is the year of riding to the challenge.

The Major Arcana:-

Key Zero () The Fool

A Fool in tatterdemalion strides confidently out, his worldly wealth in the traditional tied bundle on the end of a stick which he nonchalantly rests on his shoulder. As he approaches a precipice, a cliff-face or an abyss, a small mongrel dog runs yapping at his heels, trying to warn him.

The interpretation covers the whole gamut from the everyday to the esoteric. It can be the carefree holiday feeling, or a weekend with no responsibilities, nothing to do, and all day to do it in. It can be a warning of trouble to come that you are not registering or denying; a reminder that there are friends there, both seen (the dog) and unseen; it can typify the pilgrim at the start of his journey to Seek Wisdom (for as every seeker after truth knows, it's never anywhere nearby or convenient, chance would be a fine thing!)

"No, no, NO, you stupid bastard!" Gaspode wheezed, as he ran barking and shouting round the feet of Foul Ol'Ron (a place most sensible people and even the majority of dogs do not care to visit, as a rule.)

They were AWAYS like this when they'd been on the lethal cocktail called "Hedgehog's Revenge", Gaspode thought. A half-and-half mix of paraffin lamp oil and methylated spirits would kill most people and drive the rest blind.

But not the Crew. Most of them were sprawled insensate in the dank warren of cardboard boxes and packing crates under the Ankh Bridge that they called Home. Well, Ron called it "Clonkers!" and Arnold Sideways had temporarily lost the power of speech, and indeed sentience. Gaspode had kept a wary eye on Altogether Andrews, preparing to run like buggery if the meths helped Burke emerge as dominant personality. He'd been relieved it had been Lady Hermione who had taken control, and who had likened the foul brew to a "cheeky little Uberwaldean hock". Burke, however, would be the most likely candidate to emerge for the hangover, and Gaspode was bracing himself. But that would be tomorrow. Tomorrow could look after itself. Now was…

"No, you dozy sod!" barked Gaspode, as a drunken Ron lurched towards the edge of the river walk. The river was low at this time of year and from the elevated walkway by the pier, there was a thirty-foot drop. A man could break a few bones falling onto the river from that height… a dog could break a few bones, which was a more pressing concern.

As Ron, under the impression he was a concert singer on the music hall stage, pirouetted and tried to fit the words "Hand, millenium and shrimp!" to the tune of "Aunty Nellie Had A Fat Belly"1(1), a panting Gaspode saw him being buffeted to safety and away from the edge by something invisible to the eye. The thinking-brain-dog relaxed. His nose had tuned out for its own protection, so close to the river and the Crew, but he detected an outline in the nasal perception field. Of course. Ron's Smell was active again, keeping the Source safe from harm.

He made a quick decision.

"Well, you won't be needin' me, then. I'll just go back home and curl up for a kip!"

Satisfied Ron was in safe hands – or at least, a safe and sentient miasma – Gaspode turned and trotted off to the underneath of the Bridge. Who knows, there might even be a Dibbler sausage left from the afternoon's scavenging…

Or it could just be Foul Ol'Ron and Gaspode the thinking-brain dog, which if it turns up in a reading means an aggressive beggar is shortly going to sting you for half a bar or else you get The Smell. Oh, and something for the little doggie too, sir…


1 (1) A cheery ditty about a lady who belatedly realises the growth in her stomach is due not so much to what went in through her mouth, as to, er, other factors…