Mr. Mortok's Hall of Curiosities

Interlude

     A hush falls over the crowd as they take in the story of the shoe, the last remains of the Dancing Doll named Pandora. A few sniffle and wipe their eyes on tissues and the host inhales deeply and exhales a plume of smoke that curls lazily towards the ceiling.

     "The unique and the strange often have tales of woe attached to them," he says lazily, his words dripping like honey into the darkened hallway. He smiles indulgently and shrugs languidly, "but if it was pleasant stories and teacakes you were after you would have visited the balloon artist and not myself." He motions the gathering along and they move silently, now locked into the journey, unable to leave even if they would have wished to. They have been caught and enchanted by the strange man and his pipe. He leads them deeper into the hall, motioning to an exotic mask that was used in funeral rites in the dark jungles, he waves dismissively at a glorious painting that was painted by a blind man. He stops, as do they, at another pedestal and as the light hanging above comes on, it shows a single baton with a scorched end. The note on the pedestal reads, 'The Fire Blower.'

     "Some of you may know this story," he says softly, his voice now a hush. They strain to listen to him, not wanting to miss a single word. "In fact, depending on how old you are, you may have SEEN this particular story," they know something special is coming, something like the shoe, a story that is held within.

     They hunger, yet they are not aware of it. The painting had been magnificent but purely visual. No moment held within it, no story to be had. But this, this torch. They hunger to know what this story is.