In Memory of: The Hermit & The Chariot Deck
(A.K.A. “The Consultant’s Little Helper,” “Megan’s Oracle”)
Circa Q3 2022 – November 15, 2023
It is with a sense of inevitable, cardboard-thin fate that we announce the passing of the above-named tarot deck, a 78-card weapon of mass intuition that met its end in the sterile, fluorescent glow of the 14th-floor kitchenette, beneath a half-full carafe of ethically sourced, lightly caffeinated blend. Its demise was swift and undignified. It is survived by its owner, Megan from Strategic Synergies, a newly promoted Senior Director of Forward-Looking Paradigms; its many unheeded warnings; and a lingering scent of sandalwood and desperation in Conference Room B.
Born not of ancient mystics but of an Etsy artisan in Portland, the deck arrived in a velvet pouch during a period of profound corporate uncertainty—the Great Restructuring of ‘22. Megan, then a mid-level manager adrift in a sea of synergies, found in its cards not spiritual guidance, but a tactical manual. The Hermit & The Chariot was no mere collection of archetypes; it was a consultant’s SWOT analysis in pictorial form. It predeceased its own innocence, its purpose shifting from self-reflection to socio-professional radar within its first shuffle.
In its vibrant, if brief, life, the deck was a tireless servant. It diagnosed the hidden motives of Kevin in Finance (The Seven of Swords, reversed, next to The Emperor: “gatekeeping resources to consolidate power”). It forecast the outcome of the Q4 budget meeting (The Wheel of Fortune atop The Ace of Pentacles: “a favorable turn, but only if you speak first”). It provided the strategic patience needed to endure Derek from Brand’s interminable vision-journey presentations (The Four of Swords, repeatedly). The deck was present at the genesis of every “let’s take this offline,” every carefully worded, “per my last insight,” every strategic alliance formed over cold brew. It did not predict the future so much as outline the battlefield, its cards laid out on Megan’s standing desk like a general’s map before a campaign.
The deck is survived by its most potent legacy: Megan’s promotion. The Chariot, pulled the morning of her final interview panel, was taken as a divine mandate to project relentless, forward momentum. She spoke not of collaborative ideation, but of decisive action. She did not facilitate; she drove. The deck’s work was, in that moment, complete. Its death was, perhaps, a necessary corporate succession plan.
It is predeceased by several vanquished foes: the naive belief that merit alone is enough; the idea that Karen from HR’s feedback was ever “just a suggestion”; and Megan’s own former tendency to apologize for taking up space in meetings. These fell, one by one, to the clarified, card-backed certainty the deck provided.
The end came not from a failed prediction, but from a moment of shocking literalism. Yesterday, seeking a final bit of clarity on the new departmental headcount, Megan laid a three-card spread beside the coffee machine. As she pondered the Ten of Wands (burden), The Tower (upheaval), and the ominously smiling Page of Cups (new, emotionally manipulative message), Derek from Brand ambled over for a “top-up.” His elbow, engaged in a broad gesture about market disruption, connected with the carafe. A tide of lukewarm, light-roast destiny washed over The Tower, smearing its lightning bolt into a brown Rorschach blot. The cards, unlaminated and artisanal, swelled and fused into a single, pulpy mass.
There will be no memorial service, though a suspicious sage bundle was burned in the parking garage at 7 PM. Megan has already sourced a replacement—a sturdier, plastic-coated Thoth deck, better suited to the occasional liquid hazard. The Hermit & The Chariot, in its soft, stained velvet shroud, was committed to the landfill bin, its secrets dissolving amidst coffee grounds and discarded yogurt lids.
It served its purpose, granting the illusion of cosmic order to the chaos of human ambition. In its saturated ruin, it finally told a truth no single card ever could: that all empires, even the petty ones we build in corner offices, are temporary, and that every oracle, in the end, drowns in the mundane spillage of the world it tried to decipher.