Макс Фрай - The Stranger

“I can only sympathize with them, poor fellows! And what did they dream?”

“All three of them dreamed about a ‘small, transparent man,’ as they described it. He came out of the wall, and they all experienced inconceivable horror. From then on their versions of the dreams diverged. Malesh Patu claims that the transparent man wanted to poke his eyes out, and Sir Alarak Vass complained that he ‘was groping for his heart.’ The third case is rather amusing,” Janira related with downcast eyes. “The prisoner insists that he tried to plug up his backside. His biggest fear is that his next dream will see the attempt succeed.”

“Goodness! I wouldn’t want to be in his place.”

It sounded to me as though the prisoners’ nightmares had been an eccentric combination of real dangers and individual phobias. This transparent fellow had most likely done something wicked to all of them, but each of them had a personal interpretation of the events. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was where this creature who haunted all their dreams had come from in the first place. Sorcery was not supposed to be possible in Xolomi; that’s why it had become a prison for those who had a penchant for forbidden magic.

“How is their overall health?” I asked. “Have you shown them to the wiseman?”

“Yes, of course. We cannot just ignore complaints like that, all the more since the trouble began simultaneously with three prisoners. These gentlemen hadn’t been acquainted before, and here in Xolomi, you understand, they couldn’t organize any kind of conspiracy. And why should they? It turns out that the health of all three of them is hardly anything to brag about, but the organs that the transparent ‘dream man’ allegedly targeted are in perfect condition.”

I noted with pleasure that my theory about the influence of personal phobias on the interpretation of nightmares wasn’t so far from the mark. Not bad for a dilettante like myself.

“What could be wrong with them, then?”

“All three of them are gradually losing the Spark,” Janira said in a portentous whisper. Then he went quiet, waiting for the significance of what he had just said to sink in.

I let out a low whistle. To lose the Spark means to suddenly lose the life force, becoming so weak that death comes like sleep after a hard day, when you cannot resist it and don’t even want to. According to my competent colleagues, this mysterious condition is the most dangerous thing that can befall a person born in this World.

“What’s strange is that these unfortunates are getting weaker only gradually, whereas a person usually loses the Spark suddenly, without any alarming symptoms,” said Janira. “In spite of that, our wisemen are absolutely sure of the diagnosis. They say that they can still save them, but medicines don’t seem to be helping.”

“Well, why don’t you try this: move the poor souls to other cells—the farther from cell 5-Ow-Nox the better—and let their cells remain empty until I can discover the cause of this misfortune. You can manage that, I hope?”

“Yes, certainly,” said the Comforter of Sufferers, nodding. Then he added apprehensively, “Are you certain it will help?”

“Almost certain. But that’s always how it is. I can never be completely sure of anything. In any case, give it a try. And do it right now. We may still be able to save them. I don’t know what they did before that landed them in Xolomi, but not a single person deserves such a terrible punishment as sleep filled with nightmares. I’m speaking as a longtime expert in this field.”

“Do you know how to prevent nightmares, Sir Max?”

“I do,” I said, and grinned. “My own, anyway.”

I went back to my cell. It looks like I’ll have my fill of bad dreams here, I mumbled to myself.

I had hardly returned to my senses after the nightmares from the house next door had paid a call, when I was treated to another round in Xolomi, where prisoners are tormented by bad dreams. A plugged up backside, for instance . . .

Nevertheless, I had slept excellently during the day myself. Perhaps it was because it had really been daytime? The heavy cell door closed behind me and . . . disappeared. Here in Xolomi every door exists only for the person in the corridor. From the vantage point of the prisoner, it isn’t there at all. Amazing!

Now I was burning with impatience. Would the “transparent man” appear tonight—and what would he do if I didn’t fall asleep? I was absolutely sure that I wouldn’t. I had slept too soundly and well during the day. What would you have done?

I began waiting for events to unfold, which, in their turn, they didn’t exactly hasten to do. The night brought no answers to my questions. On the other hand, it was generous with strange experiences and sensations.

I felt neither fear nor anxiety, but I constantly sensed I was being scrutinized by somebody’s gaze. And it was so intense it tickled. The tickling irritated me like a caterpillar that had crawled under the covers. I grumbled and scratched and ran to take a bath three times—but it was no use.

At dawn, everything stopped, and I tumbled into sleep. During the night, however, I had a bright idea—though putting it into practice could wait until dinner. (Putting things off until later is a hobby of mine. From morning to evening all I do is put things off.)

I woke up from the rumble of the cell door. My food was brought in to me. Tasting the cheese soup, I started seriously contemplating what kind of crime against the state I should commit. Being held captive for twenty years in these conditions—not a single Royal Honor could compete with “punishment” like this!

When I had finished my soup, I asked to go for a “walk” to Mr. Commander’s office. The time had come to consult Juffin. That night I had realized that the part of the story of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox I knew about only went back to the first of the seven deaths. Since then three years had passed. What had happened there before? Who had been kept in the cell? That was what I meant to find out. In Echo you have to be on top of things like that. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that a few thousand years ago, some shady Grand Magician or other had been held here, and that today’s misfortunes were a logical consequence of that.

I didn’t doubt that Sir Juffin knew every detail of the history of this little place. But in sending me to Xolomi he kept as quiet as a fish—either out of perversity, or because he was just waiting for me to ask the right questions. (In the interests of professional training, of course!)

But look at me! Instead of pedantically collecting information, I wasted time and energy on gathering personal amorous experience. It’s my own fault! I concluded, and settled myself more comfortably in the commander’s chair. After beating myself up like this for a while, I sent a call to Juffin.

Now tell me how it all started , I demanded. What happened here before the 114th day of the 112th year? One of your mutinous Grand Magicians was held in the cell, I’m guessing?

Very good, Max! Juffin was ecstatic about my knack for putting two and two together.

I have no idea why you’re praising me , I grumbled. Well, yes, I asked the question that I should have started with only today, and not a year later. For an idiot like me, that’s probably an achievement.

I have any number of acquaintances who would have needed not one, but two hundred years, if they needed a day. You’re angry at me; but you’re even angrier at yourself. But I meant it when I said “very good.”

I don’t recognize you, Juffin. Such compliments! You must miss me or something.

I had already forgiven him, of course. I was as happy as a pig in a puddle. Praising me is definitely the right strategy. Someone who praises me in good conscience can twist me around any number of little fingers.