Mysterious Awakenings

A small bed heaped with blankets stood against one stone wall with a cold hearth across from it.  The wall to the left of the bed was dominated by a large arching window, but the fourth wall contained no door as one would expect.  A wardrobe stood there alone, instead.  At the foot of the bed sat a wooden chest; a wash basin by the window.  A mantle above the fireplace held naught but cobwebs.

            A bird alighted on the window ledge, its species unable to be determined through the ancient glass.  It was merely a grayish blotch that warped as it moved.  It tapped at the window, tap tap.  Cocked its head, tap tap again.  The blankets stirred; it flew away.

            A man emerged from under the blankets stretching and yawning as if he were accustomed to waking here; this was not the case at all.  He had never seen this room before.  Still, he ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair, felt the stubble on his cheeks, and shrugged.  Calmly he looked to his left and then his right, then flipped the blankets back and came smoothly to his feet.

            He pauses, looks down.  He isn’t wearing anything.

            It could not have concerned him; he went first to the window, arriving in three quick strides.  Try as he might, he could not make out anything.  He saw only fog-gray with a darker smear below.  He examined the latch, but just then the window rattled in a gust of wind and he stepped back.  There was a chill to the draft.

            The chest proved to contain a pair of linen pants without pockets and a worn leather sheath with no knife.  It seemed odd, for a chest of its size to contain so little.  Still, pants were better than nothing, so he quickly pulled them on.

            The wardrobe was equally as baffling.  A single shirt hung inside, with but a pair of boots sitting underneath.  He examined the boots; a soft leather, no tread, well worn.  After feeling inside with his hand, he slipped the boots on his feet.  To his surprise they fit perfectly, as if molded to his feet.  The shirt was a bit off-putting to him.  It was faded purple, long sleeves.  But it didn’t button up, it was pulled on and then laces on the chest could tie it closed.  This he did, as there really was a chill in the room now.

            So now he stood in the middle of the room, dressed, but with nothing to do.  He was holding an empty sheath he could neither fill nor wear as he had neither knife nor belt.  The hearth offered nothing as there was nothing with which to light a fire.  Looking at the sheath, he set it on the mantle; no point in holding on to it.

            Back to the window, he unlatched it.  Two great panes swung inward; there was nothing to see but fog.  He couldn’t even tell what sort of landscape he looked out at, only that it was flat.  The ground below was lost in shadow, and the wall featureless other than a few other windows.  He shut the window.

            Now he was back to where he started: the bed.  One by one he picked up the blankets and shook them out, folding them neatly to place them in the now empty chest.  One blanket was obviously not a blanket at all.  One end had the corners folded in and sewn, with a hood attached.  It was a cloak.  An emerald green cloak.  Knowing full well it clashed, he swung it around himself, determined to utilize anything that he found.  To his disappointment, the cloak was the only secret the bed had held.

            A more thorough search of the room turned up nothing.

            Moving the wardrobe only revealed more stone wall.  He examined the wall.  He examined all the walls, as well as the floor.  He came to be in the room somehow, and it wasn’t likely to have been by flying through the window.  But he didn’t find a secret door.  Not even in the fireplace.

But there was a poker next to the fireplace.

He took off his cloak and started using the poker to chip the mortar out from between some stones.  If he couldn’t find a door, he would make one.  He was at it for over an hour and getting quite hungry when he heard a sound behind him.  Turning, there was now a doorway between the fireplace and the wardrobe.  Donning the cloak once more and tucking the useless sheath in the back of his pants, he cautiously went through the opening with his poker held as a weapon.

The next room was smaller.  It held a table and two padded armchairs.  On the table was a steaming platter of food.  He sat down, laying the poker on the table, and started eating.