Dreamer Easy

Storyteller

7.          Storyteller


         When Jack woke up he found himself in complete darkness. A cold steel chill pierced his spine. His eyes adjusted ever so slightly, but did him no good. He had a terrible headache. He wondered if he had finally awoken from that terrible dream.

         A light flickered on. It was a lamp that hung directly above him. It buzzed a couple times, turned on and off, and then finally lit the room, though only partially. Jack squinted, and then turned away from the bright beam above him. The walls were a creepy and familiar pale, and upon seeing them Jack writhed in disgust. It had been no dream.

         He moved about on his back, and then began to examine the abnormal object which he was lying on. He found himself situated on some sort of awkward steel furniture. It was the length of his body but curved slightly like a recliner. A cold steel recliner from hell.

         Jack looked around, trying to avoid focusing on the eerily pale walls and the miserably bright lamp. The light was barely enough to make out anything at all, lighting only a small portion of the room and encircling Jack. The rest of the room was cast in leftover illumination. It was at this point that something unusual caught his eye.

         In the corner of the room a shadow seemed to have moved. Jack concentrated on it for a bit. It was a man.

         The outline of the man sat in the corner of the room with its head down. It seemed to be starring at the floor with its arms crossed—either that or it was sleeping. Jack wondered if he should wake it, but then realized that this would be an opportune time to escape from this retched place. He looked around quickly but noticed no door, though he figured that upon walking around a little he would find an exit.

         He began to sit up, but suddenly was struck by a series of unusual, intense pains.

         His head throbbed and he grasped it in agony. “Agh!” he said too loudly. Some terrible buzzing sound shot through his head. It rattled around in there like a pebble in a glass jar. The sound was like a low-frequency whistle, something the Chinese would have used to torture a man to death. It was sharp and destructive and terrible; it could easily drive any man insane. He could hear it painfully torment his head. He rocked his head about, hopelessly trying to shake the noise out. It was no use.

         Suddenly, movement came from the corner of the room. The head of the shadow looked up. It starred at Jack for a couple of moments then stood up in a slow, deliberate manner. It walked over to Jack at a funeral pace.

         Jack had his hands on his head still, writhing in the agony of the noise. He glanced over with a terrified eye at the approaching shadow. His pupil’s dilated; the veins around them grew.

         The shadow stopped right next to the lamp. The sound of his last footstep against the floor echoed through the small room. Jack turned his painful head slowly towards the undertaker, his body still pulsing in pain. He expected “Welcome to Hell.” or even “Welcome to the Hotel California.” He had thought Satan would have that kind of humor.

         “It’s just the drugs.” the shadow said. It was still a shadow. It hid just behind the lamp, out of its light. “It’ll go away in a minute or two.” he explained.

         Jack didn’t believe him at first, but, oddly enough, after a minute the shadow turned out to be right. Jack shook his head once more for good measure. The noise had finally escaped his skull.

         “It’s been drugs?” Jack questions. “Well, that explains it.” Jack rubbed his eyes. He noticed he had been on some kind of sedative as well. “Those are some terrible, terrible drugs.” He shook his head. It had been a while since he had been in his apartment. He had lost track of time hours ago.

         “What is all this?” he said. “I want out of here.”

         The man took a step closer to the awkward steel furniture. His face was finally revealed in the light. It wasn’t a terrible face like Jack had imagined. It didn’t smile a conniving, demonic smile or laugh a maniacal, demented laugh. It didn’t look down at him like scientist looked at a rat in a cage, rubbing his hands cleverly and feeding him some kind of terrible poison. It just looked down at Jack like a normal man would. Jack was surprised. The shadow-man looked like a person.

         “It wasn’t the drugs.” the man spoke. He was average height. He wore civilian clothing: a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants. Jack looked confused.

         “What wasn’t the drugs?” he said inquisitively.

         “All that.” the man spoke.

         “What do you mean all that?” he asked again.

         “You’ve only been drugged for the past hour, and only while in this room. All your experiences before that were entirely your doing.” he said.

         Jack shook his head. There was no way all that had not been externally induced. “No, that’s not right.” he said softly. “That can’t be right…”

         The man moved the chair in the corner of the room near the steel recliner. He sat down next to Jack and smiled. It was genuine.

         “I…I can’t explain it.” The man began. “I don’t think anyone can.”

         Jack shook his head. He didn’t have any idea what was gong on. Was he in some sort of mental institution? If so, how long had he been there? At this point Jack credited any and all theories.

         “I don’t understand….” Jack said.

         “Neither do I.” said the man.

         Jack looked perplexed. He was confused and distressed even more so.

         “This isn’t making sense…” Jack began. “I don’t understand. Why am I here? When can I leave?”

         “I’m not sure.” the man said. “I’m sure its all under control, though.”

         Jack starred at the man. He starred back, intensely. What was under control? Jack shook his head. This had been a terribly strange day. Jack looked down and got lost in his thought.

         He figured he was in the loony bin for sure. He thought that he must be insane. He tried to remember if he had admitted himself voluntarily or someone dear to him had nicely drove him up. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t have many friends who cared that much, so he figured he had admitted himself. It was for the best, he supposed. He didn’t really fit with society, anyway. The shadow-man spoke and broke his thought.

         “Are you alright?” he asked.

         Jack looked up, his eyes dilated. He ignored the question.

         “Who are you?” he said.

         The man stared back into Jack’s eyes and smiled.

         “I am Ian.” he said.

         Suddenly, Jack’s memory rushed back to him. He remembered last night, the bar, and his terrible intoxication. He remembered the black-haired man who sat down next to him, introduced himself, and then told him some strange drunken tale. That was what had started it all. That man and his strange tale. It went something like this:

         Long ago there was a man who was quiet and shy and disliked by many people for all the wrong reasons. This man made shoes. The shoe’s he made were inexpensive, durable and comfortable, but not at all fancy. The rich nobles considered shoes a measure of social status and thusly judged all the people who wore this man’s shoes poor and alternatively stupid, including the shoemaker.

         One day, the shoemaker found a way to make an incredibly durable shoe with very little materials. These shoes never broke, and looked quite good on one’s feet. The shoemaker knew that this new invention of his would lead him to financial prosperity, so he quickly called upon one of his richer friends to advertise the new shoes by wearing them around town. This rich man was one of the few friends the shoemaker had. He had come to appreciate the shoemaker’s durable, comfortable shoes. Upon seeing the new shoes and trying them on, the rich noble told the shoemaker that they were the best pair of shoes he had ever worn, and immediately bought them. He told the shoemaker that he would soon be a rich man, and invited him to have dinner with him in his home. The shoemaker eagerly accepted.

         At dinner, the rich noble had an amazing proposal. He offered the shoemaker a partnership, backed by his already strong horse-trading business, which would ensure the lowly shoemaker soaring financial prosperity. The shoemaker would finally become something he had always dreamed of: a prosperous, respectable man. The deal was quickly accepted. They shook on it.

         After the meal, the noble asked the shoemaker how he created these new, amazing shoes, saying it was out of sheer curiosity. Seeing no harm in revealing his secret to his new business partner, the shoemaker complied with his request. He told the noble of the process of preparing the leather, framing the sole, and crafting the shoe. He told him all the secrets and how he came about this idea. The noble listened closely.

         The body of the shoemaker was found abandoned near the sewers later that night. He had been bludgeoned to death. The rain fell hard like the steel rod that had killed him.

         And no one came to his funeral.

         The noble went into the shoe business and grew even richer than he had been before. His poor victim was never missed.

         Jack Dresden, so it goes, was told that he was just like that dead shoemaker: innocent and ignorant to the terrible world around him. Jack argued that he knew the difference between a friend and a fraud, but the storyteller told him that he obviously didn’t understand allegory. Jack had wondered what that meant, although he probably would’ve understood it if he hadn’t been so drunk. He had remarkably remembered that entire story, though.

         That man had given him the white card which still happened to be in Jack’s coat pocket. It had been crisp and new when he first received it but was now wrinkled and soggy from sweat. Jack recalled the question the dark-haired man asked just before giving him the invitation. “Do you want to end up like that shoemaker?” he had said, to which Jack had drunkenly replied no.

         “Remember the shoemaker.” The storyteller took something white out of his pocket. “This is the end of all your worldly problems.” he said as he handed Jack the card. He had said that Jack didn’t fit here, but Jack didn’t understand that, either. It was probably on account of the alcohol again.

         Next morning, which, ironically turned out to be this morning, Jack had a strange impulse to go to the place inscribed upon the card. He had apparently been psychologically affected by that story. He had blamed it on his intoxication. But everyone knows that stories really do have that affect on people.

         And that’s how he got to be where he was now.

         Jack was back in the dark room now, lying on that cold steel furniture and talking to a man named Ian. Jack should’ve had a lot of questions for him, but he was just too tired to ask any. He blamed it on the sedation. But everyone knows that terrible experiences have that affect on people. They cause people not to care.