The deck of cards

Max sat bolt upright; his eyes darted around the room; his heart pounded in his chest.  The curtains wafted as a gentle breeze caught them letting a sliver of silver moonlight into the otherwise dark room. Shadows, both alien and familiar danced across the walls. A tin can rattled down the road outside as the wind caught it, giving it a brief taste of life, somewhere a car started then it too faded to nothing as silence reclaimed the night. His heart rate slowed, nothing was out of the ordinary, whatever had awoken him was gone now. He gave a wry smile, he should never have listened to the old man, it had set his imagination into overdrive, at this rate it would become a self fulfilling prophecy. The old man had been crazy, he knew that, he’d spoken of things that could not exist in the real world, things that had no place here. He lay back down, sleep was a thing of the past so he allowed his mind free reign, letting it roam where it wanted, yet it always came back to that day's events.

#### #### #####

He’d been driving around, getting a feel for his new neighbourhood, when he’d seen it; a car boot sale. It was the usual affair, bits of toot passing from one owner to another. Most of the crowd were here searching for antiques. People had gotten wise a long time ago, though, anything worth anything had been appraised by professionals. He had smiled as a woman paid thirty five pounds for the most hideous vase that he’d ever seen; a vase that would fetch twenty pounds at auction on a very good day. It had been then that he’d first seen the old man. He hadn’t though much of it, old men were everywhere he looked, he’d given a shrug and walked away.

He had been about ready to leave when he’d seen the cards, though it hadn’t been the cards that had caught his attention, it was the jokers. They were gargoyles, grotesque and beautiful at the same time, he’d known he had to have them for his collection.

“How much?” He’d asked, careful not to sound too keen.

“Two pounds.”

Max had shrugged his shoulders, “I can get a new pack for less than that.” He’d replied, walking away.

“A pound then, though I can’t go lower than that or the wife will kill me.”

Max had paid the pound, he watched as the man gathered them together gently, careful to keep the jokers in their position at either end. He saw the old man again, a sad look on his face. Perhaps he should have sensed something was wrong then, but he’d been too caught up in adding to his collection. A collection started long ago, after reading the Solitaire Mystery by Jostein Gaarder. It had made so much sense to him, he too had been a joker, not the humorous kind, though he wasn’t lacking in humour, but like those in the deck of cards, he belonged nowhere and everywhere; he didn’t fit into any mould that had been laid out for him since birth. He had always been different, free.

“Enjoy them, sir.” The stallholder was saying, holding out the box.

“I’ll take good care of them.” Max had said. Out the corner of his eye he had seen the old man’s head fall. He ignored him.

Max had wandered around for another ten minutes or so before heading back to his car. The old man was there, waiting for him.

“Give me the cards, Max.” He’d asked, his tone pleading rather than threatening.

“The cards? Sure I only want the jokers anyway.” He’d said, before realizing the old man had used his name.

“NO!” A few heads turned as the old man had screamed out the word, on or two had started approaching them but the old man waved them away. “You cannot separate them. Don’t you understand that? You who pride yourself on your cognitive abilities?” He’d said, his tone once again pleading.

“They are just cards, old man.” He said, like those in the book had been to the shipwrecked sailor, just cards he had made into something more.

“No, not like those, they were different, they were good.” The old man had said; his voice desperate now.

Max thought he must have spoken that last part aloud, though in hindsight he knew he hadn’t.

“You cannot separate them.” The old man had repeated, “These are the opposite of those that have been told of. Please, destroy them, hide them, but don’t ever separate them. I beg you.”

“Okay. I’ll keep them together.” He’d said, knowing it was a lie, but the crowd was beginning to grow and he’d have given his first born to get out of there, away from the crazy old man.

“Heed my words, young man, or you will never have a first born to trade, you won’t even have a life.”

##### #### ########

“He was just a mad man.” Max whispered, “As am I, talking to the shadows like this.” He added, pulling the quilt up over his shoulder. He gave one last look around the room, his eyes lingering on the desk for a moment or too, before he closed them, sleep beckoned him once more.

A door opened downstairs.

“Just the wind.” He told himself, even as his heart sped back up.

A stair creaked; again and again he’d lost count at twenty three, still the sound echoed in the silence.

“Free us, we can help you.” The words echoed in his mind.

“Who are you? What’s happening?”  He called out, as a shadow passed beneath his door.

“You know. You must, you are the keeper.”

“I don’t, I just bought them.” Max called out. A drum began, steady and methodical it matched his heart, beat for beat. The handle of his bedroom door turned; slowly it began to open. Max’s heart sped up, the drums too quickened their pace. His mind whirled, this was not happening, this was the real world, things like this didn’t happen in the real world.

“Free us.” The voices, desperate now, called out again.

“I’m dreaming, I must have dozed off. This is not real.” He muttered, reaching for the light switch, the bulb burst into life for a moment then died. Laughter filled the room, maniacal laughter. “I free you. You are free, I wish it, I demand it.” He yelled out. Nothing happened. He felt something against his leg. Yelping he leapt up, throwing the quilt aside, there was nothing there. He watched as dozens of small men, all armed, marched toward him across the moonlit floor. Not one of them was more than a foot tall, yet they had the presence of a well trained military troop and he knew somehow that he would be just as deadly.  The drums continued to beat. Max headed for the open door, but they had blocked his path, he ran to the desk. The gargoyle jokers lay there, inert. “This is not real.” Max repeated as the first sharp blade struck him behind the knee, sending him sprawling to the floor, the others moved in.

#### #### ####

The old man looked around the room. Max’s body lay there in the centre, surrounded by playing cards. “They never listen.” He said shaking his head as he set about collecting up the cards, being careful to ensure the jokers once again took their place at either end, ignoring their baleful looks. “Still, it wouldn’t be as much fun if they did, would it boys.” He added, beginning to laugh.

Approx. Word Count: 1300