Jack Emerson

by Michael Brent Jones

  Chapter 9

  “Did you figure it out?”

  “No, I felt like I was trying to crack some German military code in the heat of a world war.”

  Jack laughed, “So you want the answer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The third son’s name was Yvan.”

  “How did you make that conclusion?”

  “Rab is bar backwards, as in the law bar. Yrma is army backwards. And Yvan is Navy backwards, because he was a sailor.”

  “Well that’s ridiculous! How was I supposed to have guessed it, sailor could have been FISH if that was the case!”

  “And how do you know it’s not the case?” Jack asked, which caught me off guard.

  “I don’t…” I answered hesitantly.

  “You’re right!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the Russian man did name his third child YVAY, but you’re right, you couldn’t have guessed, because the pattern isn’t perfect. But, even though it wasn’t possible to really know, it could have been one of the few possible names you came up with.

  Let’s say you are in a room and have the task of finding the third child, using all of your methods to determine possible names, you might not find a person named Hsif or Taob, you only find an Yvan.”

  “Or I could just ask, “Hey, who has brothers named Ymra and Rab?”

  Jack laughed, “That is if you spoke Russian.”

  I laughed too. “So I didn’t fail?”

  “Who am I to say whether someone passes or fails? It wasn’t the answer the author of it was looking for. I however, was merely interested in how you would go about it. Also, I wanted to see how far you would go in trying to figure it out.”

  “I went pretty far actually. I assigned numbers to each letter A to Z, and then forward or inverted I looked for any patterns between the name and the job.”

  “I think some writers unknowingly write fallacies, and others I suppose write them at times to make people stop and think. Knowing which way is surely south can be quite helpful in finding your way northward.”

  “Do you know any examples of writers doing that?”

  “I don’t know any writers well enough to say one way or another, but I know I do when I write.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t started writing.”

  “I just said if I wrote a book I would probably go mad before finishing it. And I haven’t written a book yet, just a few stories.”

  “Could I read any of your stories?”

  “None are ready yet, editing by far is the hardest part.”

  “Well, I do want to read it as soon as any are ready.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re the first to know when one’s ready.”

  “I’m excited, you do seem to know a lot about writing Jack, I’m sure it will be great.”

  “Knowing and doing can be very different things.”

  “Yes, but you seem to have a way with words.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t given them thought before.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Yeah-but the rab-but.”

  I laughed; I suppose I accidently reopened Pandora’s Box.

  I noticed Jack’s ranting expression before he even spoke, so I knew what was coming.

  “The thing about writing, I mean real writing, where people actually want to read it; you have to read it yourself a hundred times first.

  If you make it through a hundred reads, and of course editing it along the way, you're either incredibly stubborn, or maybe you've got something. If you read it a hundred times and still enjoy it, well then, it could be a masterpiece... Or you're certifiably nuts.”

  “You don’t believe there are any natural writers that just seem to plop out masterpiece after masterpiece?” I asked.

  “No masterpiece is ever plopped out. When a writer really reads through his work without bias and critically edits it, he changes himself. The next work will be different, because he will be different, and every next work will be better, because he is better. We all find ourselves in the hole of fragility and mediocrity, and we all have to write our way out.”

  “How would someone write their way out of a hole? And you don’t mean a literal hole do you?”

  “Well of course I mean a literal hole,” Jack said with a serious expression. He waited to see what I did and then laughed. “But seriously I do mean an actual hole. Should I write someone out of a hole?”

  “Jacky?” I asked excitedly.

  He feigned a smug expression, and started the story… or should I say Jacky’s story, because she was writing it.

  ¶

  “A damp and suffocating darkness consumed me. I suddenly found myself confronted by a terrifying barrage of loneliness and despair.

  I was too scared to walk or move in any direction into the abyss. I crouched low, and with my arms extended, felt out the whole bottom of what I eventually concluded was a pit.

  I then reached as high as I could and felt around the whole wall of the pit. I found it was deeper than I was tall. I couldn’t let my knees touch the floor as I crawled around to feel out the floor, because of all the jagged rocks in every foot of dirt. I felt around to see what all was there and look for any loose rocks but there were none. I couldn’t even find a place to comfortably sit down. Finally in a fit of irritated spite, I just started to tare with my fingers at the dirt around the rock where I wanted to sit.

  I was over the idea of being able to lie down, that would never happen. I concluded that if I could just get this one rock out, at least I would have a place to sit till sunrise. Hopefully then I could see better to find my way out.

  I tore away at the dirt around the rock until my hands were numb. There was that eerie feeling that I was bleeding, but I couldn’t see it, and I dared not put my dirty hands to my face.

  After what seems like hours, I finally got that big stupid rock out of the ground. Of course it was so large, that when I tried to sit down, the void it left was deep enough to not be comfortable. The rock which I had pushed aside, I picked up, and threw as hard as I could towards the other side of the pit. It didn’t go that far, and hit with a crack and a thud, breaking against the rocks on the floor.

  Awkwardly and irritatingly uncomfortable, I sat where the rock had been.

  I had already put enough work into making a spot to sit, so I figured I might as well fill the dip with the dirt I had loosened to move the rock. It helped, but it wasn’t near enough.

  Holding my hands up in front of my face, they were so void of feeling, and the pit was so dark, that for all I could tell, they might not even exist.

  Trying to convince myself the effort was still worth it, I remembered the rock I had pulled out; I made my way over to where I remember hearing it hit, and picked up a piece of it. I found my way back to the dip, and started scrapping at the dirt on the wall. The dirt from the wall of the pit was a lot softer than that on the floor. Quickly I had enough dirt, and it was moist enough to mold into a seat.

  I sat down and let out a sigh of relief, but it was forced, the relief wasn’t there.

  Now sitting still, I was very aware of the throbbing in my hands. “Blasted!” I screamed as loud as I could. “Help! Help! Help! The last one was hoarse; I could hear the gravel and wheeze in my voice, echoing in the cold loneliness of the night air.

  I picked up the rock and just started tearing at the wall. Dirt started falling everywhere. In hysteria I coughed as I continued to tear at the wall. I clawed and scrapped until I was so weak I crumbled to the floor.

  Too tired to feel tired, I just passed out till morning, or at least I assume it was morning, because it was still pitch black dark when I awoke.

  I was starting to get really hungry, and short of eating dirt, digging my way out was the best hope I had.

  I felt around until I found the spot where I had left off, and was surprised to notice that the dirt I had pul
led from the wall made quite a substantial step. Standing on the step I reached, and as far as I could feel it was still shear wall, but my hopes were higher at least.

  I’d like to say that I dug myself out in a few hours, but within a few hours the only notable accomplishment was that I exposed some roots. Which though I couldn’t properly clean away the dirt; they still somewhat dulled the pang in my stomach and contained some amount of water.

  As I sat there in the dark, nibbling on my treasury of delicious roots in quite a sarcastic manner, I noticed the faintest of light figures that danced high up on the wall. “Well, dinner and a show! How luxurious!”

  It wasn’t nearly enough light to even tell how deep the pit was, but it was still encouraging.

  “I did hope the show had music, but then again beggars can’t be choosers, right? Right!”

  But there was a sort of music; it was very faint; I could distinguish a light breeze and a bird or two. What I needed was something upbeat, but it would have to do.

  I made my way back to the wall and continued digging away.

  My mind started to wander, and I dreamed about all things I would like to do once I was out. I would read, bake, and relax. Oh and I have always wanted to ride a horse. But then the question piqued, why was I in this pit? I don’t even remember falling. Why don’t I remember? I must have hit my head when I fell in here… but did I fall or was I thrown in here?

  My mind seemed to twist on itself into a debilitating stupor of exhausting anxiety. I settled to the ground with my knees to my chest and I just squeezed them closer.

  I wearied faster of worrying than I would have expected, and went back to work digging. About at shoulder level where I was digging I uncovered a big flat rock, almost like a shelf. I cleared above it as much as I could. Working with my hands above my head was very tiring, but the thought of climbing up on the shelf and reaching much higher was exciting.

  I found another rock shelf above the first, and boldly climbed on top the first and holding on the second to clear above it.

  The work was moving smoothly, until a large rock I was digging away at, gave suddenly with barely enough notice to lift my feet up as it crashed onto the first shelf.

  It sounded loudly with a crack and then a thud as is hit the pile of fresh dirt below. I didn’t think much of it, until I went to put my feet back on the self below me, and it started to give way. Then I started to hear a rushing sound, right then I felt water jetting passed my legs.

  There was no way of me stopping up the water, it was flowing way too fast, and the shelf I was standing on was no longer there.

  I just hung there in awkward suspense; I didn’t even know what to think. To be honest, more than anxiety, I felt a surreal sort of hopeless serenity; maybe I was still asleep on the floor, or better yet, maybe I was asleep in my bed at home. I laughed at the thought.

  It wasn’t long before I felt my toes splashing in the water that was quickly rising.

  “Why not?” was the thought that came to my head.

  The water had to be at least as deep as I was tall, and I couldn’t hold on much longer. So I pushed off the wall, and plopped in the water.

  I had never swam in the dark, and especially not pitch black dark; but the cool water did feel nice on my bruised and swollen hands, not to mention my sore back. Sleeping sitting up is not really sleeping.

  I lifted my chest as much as I could, relaxed and laid back in the water. Not your typical water bed but hey, I seemed to be going up, and going up quickly.

  I had no frame of reference as to how fast I was going, how far I had gone up, or how far I still had to go up.

  After a half an hour or so It seemed I had stopped moving up. I felt for the wall and sure enough that was as high as the water was going to go. I did however feel real roots, big ones! The dirt was even softer, and I could just dig my hands right in and grasp the roots… so it did.

  I pulled myself up and out of the water. Every muscle in my body seemed to be drained, but the hand and footholds were easy.

  I climbed and climbed, and then noticed a lot of little roots. “Grass!” I exclaimed with a renewed energy.

  Two handholds later and I reached the top. I pulled myself up and out in a state of maximum adrenaline. I crawled a few feet from the edge of the pit, rolled to my back and passed out.

  The few moments as I laid there on my back shaking from the adrenaline, even through the thickest of trees, I could see the stars.

  ¶

  Jack paused.

  ¶

  “Wait!” I petitioned, so how did she fall in the pit? Or did someone throw her there.”

  He laughed, “who says it has to be either one of those?”

  “Well how did she get to the bottom of a pit?”

  “Who says it was a pit?”

  “You did.”

  “In the dark she concluded it was a pit, but that doesn’t mean it was.”

  “Well what could it be then?

  “There are two ways up the mountain she wished to climb. One is the steady climb, the other, is straight into the mountain, and then straight up.

  “Why didn’t she remember that then?

  “The tunnel is straight into the heart of the mountain, and though she had been on that dark journey for a long time, she knew it was the way to go. Right as she entered the shaft upward, there was an earthquake that collapsed the tunnel, knocking her out and jogging her memory.”

  “What about the water table?” Those aren’t in mountains, or are they?

  She was forced to high grounds by the floods. If the tunnel hadn’t have collapsed, the water level would have risen too slowly, and she would have drowned before it rose high enough to grab the roots.”

  So why was it dark? I asked.

  “Did she bring a light?”

  “Obviously not.” I replied.

  “So…?”

  “But still.”

  “Okay, the darkness kept her from seeing how far she had to go. Thinking it was just a little farther kept her going.”

  “Where did you get this story?”

  “I was just trying myself to write my way out of the pit.”

  “What is the pit in your life?” I asked.

  “I think the story applies to any personal development or any transcending in life.

  “Did it work?”

  “Yes, actually. It wasn’t until you asked why she couldn’t have gone back I realized, she decided to climb the mountain and couldn’t go back. You make it to the top, or you’re condemned to the pit.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Jack appreciated.

  “No, thank you,” I insisted.

  “No really, I needed someone else to ask those questions.

  ¶

  That pretty much concluded our talk. It was good to leave on that note. I really thought about his story on the way home, and still while I’m writing this right now. I hope this doesn’t keep me up tonight trying to figure it out; if it does I’ll have to count sheep in relativity like Jack.

  The puzzle he left me was: There are ten bags, fifty coins in each bag, all of which look gold, but only one bag has good coins. You can pick one bag. The gold coins weigh 1.01 ounces whereas fake coins weigh 1 ounce. It costs twenty-six gold coins each time you use the scale, and you can pay after you use it. How do you pick the right bag?

  ¶