Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy of the movie. Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.
Short chapters this time, and more of them.
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.
The Pied Piper
One
The memories were old, years old. An eternity down here.
"One, the centre," she had said. "That what you are or causes your problems."
He turned on his small bed, shrugged against his rough mattress, pulled the thick blanket over his head and tried not to dream. Or to think. Or to feel. Or to hear the gasping, gurgling sounds in the darkest corner of the cell.
There was this memory of bright red hair, doe-like brown eyes and a nervous smile. She was young and not very experienced. Wore the wrong make up, had all the stupid things outsiders found gypsy like. Big earrings, purple cloth over her hair and shoulders, fake gold on her fingers. A cheap glass bulb for a crystal ball- the rest was vague, swirling colours, dancing images. But for the cards. And the explanation that was so wrong.
"It is the Magician. The master and creator of his own fate. You are one that knows what he is doing. You make ideas real."
He remembered he must have smiled- how if she truly had been clear-voyant she would have taken the card as literal as possible and thrown him out.
"The second card is what crosses you or supports you."
The black card of the tower appeared, with two falling figures and a crown falling from a burning tower struck by lightning.
"Your life will change radically, but you do not wish it"
Falling. Fallen from grace. Struck by lightning. Falling. The man on the cot remembered flying. And falling. He should have listened. He should have. But he had not and now he had fallen.
"This is your resent past. Your heart was damaged."
Grey clouds pouring rain. A floating red heart, pierced by three swords. The coughing in the corner became a little louder and rough "Please-" the hoarse voice begged desperately. The man on the bed pressed his hands flat against his ears not to hear.
"This is your future-" He still remembered how the young woman had hesitated. Why for pity's sake would he remember a thing like that!
"This will only be your future if you do nothing about it, if you make different choices, this will not be."
"It cannot be all that serious, surely?"
He remembered his own voice, had he truly mocked so cruelly? Another muffled sound from the ground. He did not turn towards it. He cared not for it. All he wanted were a few blessed hours of oblivion, of sleep.
Ten of swords, a dead person, impaled through the back, lower back and ear to the beach, wearing a cape of blood, Dead. Face to the ground. Unable to see the rising sun lifting the shroud of the darkest, blackest night of the soul.
"If you keep thinking the way you are thinking now, going in circles, you will end up very depressed."
The man on the bed mumbled to his past- trying to reach out to the fortune teller over a gorge of more than fifteen years.
"I never hold on to the past. I'm immortal- I'll go mad if I did."
The door to the cell, heavy metal, padded with soft materials, stood slightly ajar. The gurgling sounds moved towards the gap.
"This is what you are, your deepest emotion. You really are a happy-go-easy guy, aren't you?"
"That card has more than one double meaning."
"He! I'm the fortune teller here, alright! I know what it means and it means deep down, all you wish for is to be happy."
The bright card of the fool, the zero. The all encompassing. The little voice that made you act rash or childlike. Both innocent and experienced, knowledgeable without knowing. Not of the normal world, but ready to enter it's adventures. The one that impulsively acts without thinking. The eternal beginning.
The man on the bunk remembered how he had just smiled. But where was his smile now? Who had stolen it?
"This is what is on your mind. The lovers. You are constantly pining after a love you lost. If you don't stop thinking like this, you will hurt yourself."
He remembered snorting at that.
"This is where you are now. The moon. You live in a fantasy world."
In spite of himself the man on the bed chuckled. He didn't even know what was real anymore. He wanted to leave this place, wanted to go out in the world, wanted to find the sunlight again, even on the card it had been obscured by the moon.
"This is the outside world. The people around you. This card is the five of swords- it means that you will be fighting a fight you cannot win. So try avoid fights. Since it has something to do with the law- but it could also be-" the young woman shrugged-
"Well?"
"Different voices in your own mind."
Within the safe dark, he turned towards the door and saw one foot sticking out. The other had crawled through it. Laying in the brightly lit hall, his colleagues would come for him soon enough. The prisoner cared not. He cared only for the cold of the past. The cold he felt with the turning of the next card.
"This is what you hope and fear. Oh my!"
The devil. Lord of Illusions. Of that which was not real. Lord of Lies. Of passion. Of feasts and physical pleasure. The card telling the timid to be less shy, the hedonist do back down. A king to look inside of his heart and not fear the outcome. A man to not fear the illusion.
"Let's look at the last card first, shall we?"
The man on the cot started to laugh out loud- it was not a happy sound, slightly maniacal. Nine of swords, the card on the position of conclusion. Here he was, an insomniac in a padded cell, remembering a tarot card drawn years ago, showing him a person desperate for sleep and unable to move. Those cards had predicted madness! But he wasn't mad, surely.
"If only I could remember..."
A vision in his cell. The fake gypsy with the three other cards she had asked him to pull from the deck. The star, in the hour of deepest dark, a guiding light would save him. It was the card of hope. The two of cups, a young couple exchanging cups, looking each other in the eye lovingly. The blessed love of the conscious adult. The blessed love of the parent for the child, the friend for a friend, the one for the other. Blessed true love. The queen of cups, The queen of the free spirit and creativity. The queen of feelings and emotion and instinct.
"You will be saved by the woman you love."
In his cell he laughed as he had laughed then.
"There is no woman that loves me- or one I feel for." He had chuckled.
With a frown on her youthful face the gypsy had angrily answered him.
"Yes there is- and her name is..." She hesitated, snapped with her fingers in the air as if taking the knowledge from it.
"Her name is Sarah!"
That was when he had bolted.
The man on the bed flinched and sat up. The light from the hallway scarred half his face. Thin and wild, filthy and sticky with sweat, spiky hair matted, dull eyes staring at the trail of blood his so called guard had left.
If the others were quick, he might not die.
There were sounds in the hallway. Rubber footfalls of soft shoes, harsh voices shouting about broken limbs, faces and ambulances.
He pulled his arms around his legs and rocked himself like a frightened child., buried his face against his knees.
The door swung open. Large men dressed in white. He was yanked up at the sleeve of the uniformly formless pyjamas they had issued him, thrown on the dirty floor, hit over the back with a truncheon, twice, thrice. He curled into a ball, protecting his head, whimpering and crying.
"Jesus! Look at all the blood!"
"Stop hitting him! He ain't resistin'!"
"The bastard! That small bastard!"
"But how the hell did he do it?"
They yanked him to his feet, forced him into a straightjacket and marched him, in between the three of them, to one of the isolation cells. One without furniture and completely padded. They threw him in, and he lay where he landed, unmoving, with closed eyes against the light.
Back in the cell apart from the blood on the walls and in the corner were the beaten orderly had fallen, they found a tray with syringes and heavy sedatives.
"What the hell was Jack doing in here- alone with that nut!
"Jack must have thought him too small too be dangerous."
"He! The guy murders children alright! He might be not a lot of things, but he -is- dangerous!"
"Yeah, well- give him a wash and he's pretty."
"Wadda ye mean!"
"You know the rumours about Jack- and pretty male inmates."
"Oh, come on! Jack would never..."
"Believe what you will, but I'm not going to condemn this guy for covering his arse- If you know what I mean."
"Have you -seen- what he did to Jacks face!"
Thomas, tall, broad, too square of chin to be handsome, croocked teeth, mousy hair and gentle blue eyes, nodded.
"Never guessed he was that strong, eh?"
"Would it be safe, having that psych looking at him tomorrow?"
"Don't know. But she's tough, you know. She'll be able to handle him."
"Nobody should 'handle' that nut! He's a mad dog and he should be put down!"
Why was it he could always hear the people talk in his head? Why was it nobody else could? He wished the light would go out in his new room. He really wished it was dark. Just dark, so he could sleep.
"And have you seen those ears! How crazy must you get to have somebody do that to you!"
Suddenly the corridor where the men stood went dark.
"Oh my gawd!
"Not -another- power outage!"
The men scurried away to find flashlights and make repairs, although nothing was probably damaged.
In the padded room the slender man with the funny ears sighed, curled up like a shrimp and closed his eyes. And finally, finally, he slept.
Short chapters this time, and more of them.
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.
The Pied Piper
One
The memories were old, years old. An eternity down here.
"One, the centre," she had said. "That what you are or causes your problems."
He turned on his small bed, shrugged against his rough mattress, pulled the thick blanket over his head and tried not to dream. Or to think. Or to feel. Or to hear the gasping, gurgling sounds in the darkest corner of the cell.
There was this memory of bright red hair, doe-like brown eyes and a nervous smile. She was young and not very experienced. Wore the wrong make up, had all the stupid things outsiders found gypsy like. Big earrings, purple cloth over her hair and shoulders, fake gold on her fingers. A cheap glass bulb for a crystal ball- the rest was vague, swirling colours, dancing images. But for the cards. And the explanation that was so wrong.
"It is the Magician. The master and creator of his own fate. You are one that knows what he is doing. You make ideas real."
He remembered he must have smiled- how if she truly had been clear-voyant she would have taken the card as literal as possible and thrown him out.
"The second card is what crosses you or supports you."
The black card of the tower appeared, with two falling figures and a crown falling from a burning tower struck by lightning.
"Your life will change radically, but you do not wish it"
Falling. Fallen from grace. Struck by lightning. Falling. The man on the cot remembered flying. And falling. He should have listened. He should have. But he had not and now he had fallen.
"This is your resent past. Your heart was damaged."
Grey clouds pouring rain. A floating red heart, pierced by three swords. The coughing in the corner became a little louder and rough "Please-" the hoarse voice begged desperately. The man on the bed pressed his hands flat against his ears not to hear.
"This is your future-" He still remembered how the young woman had hesitated. Why for pity's sake would he remember a thing like that!
"This will only be your future if you do nothing about it, if you make different choices, this will not be."
"It cannot be all that serious, surely?"
He remembered his own voice, had he truly mocked so cruelly? Another muffled sound from the ground. He did not turn towards it. He cared not for it. All he wanted were a few blessed hours of oblivion, of sleep.
Ten of swords, a dead person, impaled through the back, lower back and ear to the beach, wearing a cape of blood, Dead. Face to the ground. Unable to see the rising sun lifting the shroud of the darkest, blackest night of the soul.
"If you keep thinking the way you are thinking now, going in circles, you will end up very depressed."
The man on the bed mumbled to his past- trying to reach out to the fortune teller over a gorge of more than fifteen years.
"I never hold on to the past. I'm immortal- I'll go mad if I did."
The door to the cell, heavy metal, padded with soft materials, stood slightly ajar. The gurgling sounds moved towards the gap.
"This is what you are, your deepest emotion. You really are a happy-go-easy guy, aren't you?"
"That card has more than one double meaning."
"He! I'm the fortune teller here, alright! I know what it means and it means deep down, all you wish for is to be happy."
The bright card of the fool, the zero. The all encompassing. The little voice that made you act rash or childlike. Both innocent and experienced, knowledgeable without knowing. Not of the normal world, but ready to enter it's adventures. The one that impulsively acts without thinking. The eternal beginning.
The man on the bunk remembered how he had just smiled. But where was his smile now? Who had stolen it?
"This is what is on your mind. The lovers. You are constantly pining after a love you lost. If you don't stop thinking like this, you will hurt yourself."
He remembered snorting at that.
"This is where you are now. The moon. You live in a fantasy world."
In spite of himself the man on the bed chuckled. He didn't even know what was real anymore. He wanted to leave this place, wanted to go out in the world, wanted to find the sunlight again, even on the card it had been obscured by the moon.
"This is the outside world. The people around you. This card is the five of swords- it means that you will be fighting a fight you cannot win. So try avoid fights. Since it has something to do with the law- but it could also be-" the young woman shrugged-
"Well?"
"Different voices in your own mind."
Within the safe dark, he turned towards the door and saw one foot sticking out. The other had crawled through it. Laying in the brightly lit hall, his colleagues would come for him soon enough. The prisoner cared not. He cared only for the cold of the past. The cold he felt with the turning of the next card.
"This is what you hope and fear. Oh my!"
The devil. Lord of Illusions. Of that which was not real. Lord of Lies. Of passion. Of feasts and physical pleasure. The card telling the timid to be less shy, the hedonist do back down. A king to look inside of his heart and not fear the outcome. A man to not fear the illusion.
"Let's look at the last card first, shall we?"
The man on the cot started to laugh out loud- it was not a happy sound, slightly maniacal. Nine of swords, the card on the position of conclusion. Here he was, an insomniac in a padded cell, remembering a tarot card drawn years ago, showing him a person desperate for sleep and unable to move. Those cards had predicted madness! But he wasn't mad, surely.
"If only I could remember..."
A vision in his cell. The fake gypsy with the three other cards she had asked him to pull from the deck. The star, in the hour of deepest dark, a guiding light would save him. It was the card of hope. The two of cups, a young couple exchanging cups, looking each other in the eye lovingly. The blessed love of the conscious adult. The blessed love of the parent for the child, the friend for a friend, the one for the other. Blessed true love. The queen of cups, The queen of the free spirit and creativity. The queen of feelings and emotion and instinct.
"You will be saved by the woman you love."
In his cell he laughed as he had laughed then.
"There is no woman that loves me- or one I feel for." He had chuckled.
With a frown on her youthful face the gypsy had angrily answered him.
"Yes there is- and her name is..." She hesitated, snapped with her fingers in the air as if taking the knowledge from it.
"Her name is Sarah!"
That was when he had bolted.
The man on the bed flinched and sat up. The light from the hallway scarred half his face. Thin and wild, filthy and sticky with sweat, spiky hair matted, dull eyes staring at the trail of blood his so called guard had left.
If the others were quick, he might not die.
There were sounds in the hallway. Rubber footfalls of soft shoes, harsh voices shouting about broken limbs, faces and ambulances.
He pulled his arms around his legs and rocked himself like a frightened child., buried his face against his knees.
The door swung open. Large men dressed in white. He was yanked up at the sleeve of the uniformly formless pyjamas they had issued him, thrown on the dirty floor, hit over the back with a truncheon, twice, thrice. He curled into a ball, protecting his head, whimpering and crying.
"Jesus! Look at all the blood!"
"Stop hitting him! He ain't resistin'!"
"The bastard! That small bastard!"
"But how the hell did he do it?"
They yanked him to his feet, forced him into a straightjacket and marched him, in between the three of them, to one of the isolation cells. One without furniture and completely padded. They threw him in, and he lay where he landed, unmoving, with closed eyes against the light.
Back in the cell apart from the blood on the walls and in the corner were the beaten orderly had fallen, they found a tray with syringes and heavy sedatives.
"What the hell was Jack doing in here- alone with that nut!
"Jack must have thought him too small too be dangerous."
"He! The guy murders children alright! He might be not a lot of things, but he -is- dangerous!"
"Yeah, well- give him a wash and he's pretty."
"Wadda ye mean!"
"You know the rumours about Jack- and pretty male inmates."
"Oh, come on! Jack would never..."
"Believe what you will, but I'm not going to condemn this guy for covering his arse- If you know what I mean."
"Have you -seen- what he did to Jacks face!"
Thomas, tall, broad, too square of chin to be handsome, croocked teeth, mousy hair and gentle blue eyes, nodded.
"Never guessed he was that strong, eh?"
"Would it be safe, having that psych looking at him tomorrow?"
"Don't know. But she's tough, you know. She'll be able to handle him."
"Nobody should 'handle' that nut! He's a mad dog and he should be put down!"
Why was it he could always hear the people talk in his head? Why was it nobody else could? He wished the light would go out in his new room. He really wished it was dark. Just dark, so he could sleep.
"And have you seen those ears! How crazy must you get to have somebody do that to you!"
Suddenly the corridor where the men stood went dark.
"Oh my gawd!
"Not -another- power outage!"
The men scurried away to find flashlights and make repairs, although nothing was probably damaged.
In the padded room the slender man with the funny ears sighed, curled up like a shrimp and closed his eyes. And finally, finally, he slept.