Mr. Smith was not wearing his nice suit and tie. He was wearing itchy scratchy uncomfortable roughspun britches and tunic, and he was frowning because of it.


    Tikjab had managed with wild gestures and gesticulation, to get him out of his nice comfortable crisp modern clothing, and into this travesty upon his baby soft skin.


    How could ancient peoples have worn this uncormfortable getup, he thought. Well they didn''t have a choice did they, he answered himself curtly, frowning furiously.


    He scratched an itch, and sighed deeply.


    Through the various gestures, Tikjab had explained that his suit would have frightened the other villagers or made them angry or something. The farmer just kept jumping around and making gastly face in response to John''s wardrobe, and then either stabbing him with an imaginary sword, or running away in terror. After much hemming and hawwing, Mr. Smith was unceremoniously stripped out of his nice modern ware, and into something resembling slavery in ancient egypt. Or maybe they didn''t have to wear clothes, because it was so hot there, what he wouldn''t give to be in ancient egypt, or at least somewhere that made sense.


    In the end he was decidedly uncomfortable, and he was unsure as to why he was going to meet the other inhabitants of the area.


    Tikjab had tried to explain, with much squawking and kernigling, and gesturing to his mouth with a surprised expression. Like "Oh! Now I finally understand what you were trying to tell me, that pigs can in fact fly, in this gods forsaken place." Or some other such nonsense.


    In the end John Smith, had been guided, proded, poked, and put into a wholy new pickle, where he was uncomfortable hiking along and a well worn path through the forest, beside an annoyingly chipper farmer, babbling on in his strange language with a smile on his weathured face.


    ---------------------------------


    The whole in the end of the hookah pipe, stared forlornly into John''s vacant soul. He looked up at the family, who stared back at him expectantly. They all sat around a blazing fire pit in the middle of some old stone houses. An old woman with a headress of beads and feathers was poking him with the peace pipe, and it uncomfortably reminded him of the few times he''d gone to parties in college.


    At such parties, he was inevitably handed such things to drink or smoke or in other words alter his perception of reality in some uncomfortable way or another. Mr. Smith didn''t subscribe to such things, because inevitably it just made everything much, much worse, excacerbating his usual frown to a brand new low. And so, he held up his hands in protest, but the old woman jammed the hookah into his mouth, until he inhaled. Coughing for a solid 3 minutes, as Tikjab and the family of woods people laughed and laughed. As the smoke curled up into the night, their speech became muddled, the sounds changing as if he was under water. The words warping and twisting into something recognizable. In a few minutes their words started to sound like english, albight with a very strange accent, and sometimes it didn''t seem like english at all, but he could understand. He listened to Tikjab regail them with the embarrasing story of how they met.


    Tikjab humorously regailed the with his tale. "I was harvesting wheat, when this strange man walks out of the Goblin forest," he points to Mr. Smith with his gnarled finger.


    "I was warry at first, ready to wack him a good one with my hoe, but he was wearing the strangest clothing, beautiful, like a prince or a king or something, so I says to myself, says Tikjab, maybe he''s a rich young master, who lost his guards or something. He doesn''t have any weopons or anything," Tikjab grins and rubbing his hands together.


    Tikjab continues, "So maybe I can get some money out of him, but when he starts talking, he''s obviously foreign, I can''t understand a word, so I point myself as if to say this is me, and I say Tikjab. Then he points to himself and guess he says his name is," Tikjab asks a boy about 9 years old, sitting staring up at him.


    "What did he say," the boy asks bouncing up and down.


    Tikjab waits, till everything silent, and the points to himself and says, "Shit, he said his name is shit," and everyone busts out laughing, the kids running around screaming, except for John who only reddens, frowning uncomfortably.


    A child walked up to John and asked him, "is your name really shit?"


    "No its John, my name is John," he says, and they all start laughing even harder.


    Someone pokes John in the shoulder roughly. Its the old woman, staring at him a bit too close.


    "They can''t understand you," says the old woman in the headress chuckling quietly. "I''m the only one who can, because of the nurah leaf, I could link our minds together, look," she said, and her eyes glowed blue, and an ethereal grey thread was revealed floating between them, like the thread of a spider web caught in the light.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    "You see," she cackled.


    "What is your name exactly?" she asked him.


    John stared at the old woman who looked like a wrinkled prune, combined with the backside of a peacock, and sighed.


    "John Smith," he said. The old woman smiled, "it will be hard to get by in this world calling yourself shit, all the time. You might need a new name," she said kindly.


    Afronted John said "I like my name, it doesn''t mean shit in my land, and wherever this is, I''d really like to get back to it. Just call Mr. Smith for now, if you don''t mind," he said.


    The old woman smiled a frienldy smile. "If that''s what you want Mr. Smith," she said, "now tell how you got here, and I''ll let you know if there''s anything I can do to help," she said.


    He told her about the wardrobe with mysterious symbols, and the feeling of falling upwards through a great tunnel. He told of the incredible pain and bright light. The dream of flying through a nebula of blue energy, and the strange blue boxes appearing in his vision.


    The old woman eyes got wider and wider, as he related his tale.


    "What did the blue boxes say?" she asked, seriously.


    He told her and she turned away, staring at the fire, until John finally asked.


    "How do I get back, what can I do?" he asked.


    "I havn''t a clue," said the old woman staring into the fire. "I''m not that powerful of a witch honestly, and you''re talking about something so incredibly beyond me that I''ve no idea where you could even start. You''d have to contact a powerful mage, more powerful and knowledgeble than anyone I''ve ever heard of, and even then there''s no guarantee that they''d know how to get you back to wherever it was you came from Mr. Smith." She sighed regretfully.


    "I''m sorry Mr. Smith, all I can really do is send you on to a larger town," she sighed, "it will cost quite a bit to petition the services of an archmage, or a grand wizard, or some other such character, and they''re all involved in politics so meeting them is sometimes an impossible task. Your best bet might be to learn all you can about those symbols you saw, and try to recreate a method to travel back yourself," she said.


    "Those bastard archmages might just use you as a test subject and through you away, not caring if you ever get back home. In one way you''re lucky Mr. Smith, because us common folk don''t care about the high and mighty ways of archmages, we''re good and honest folk, and we won''t cheat a traveler who''s lost his way, even one as incomprehensible as yourself, but I wouldn''t go telling anybody else but me about those classes and titles you got, or you might be turned into a mana battery for some rich noble, or a sacrifice for an evil cult or something."


    John paled at the casual references to power hungry wizards, and evil cults. First the blue boxes had told him to beware of beasts from the ethereal plane, and now he had to worry about evil wizards and cults. This witch seemed a nice sort at least she was helping him.


    To get back home though it sounded like he''d have to learn magic.


    Mr. Smith frowned, he didn''t want to learn magic, he didn''t want to be here is this mysterious land, he was a normal person, these kinds of things didn''t happen to him. He was the type who got cancer in his fifties, and then went into remision just in time to see his grand children grow up, and then die peacefully in hospice. Mr. Smith was not an adventurer.


    The very thought of adventure appalled him. It was uncomfortable, like a wort that had grown on his bum, that pained him whenever he sat. Or like a salad that had flies in it instead of peanuts, something he could complain to the staff about. He looked around, but there was no staff to complain to.


    "You should really accept that class," pressured the old witch poking him in the shoulder.


    He frowned.


    "I really don''t understand what you mean," he said, frowning graciously.


    "The Class," she said, "System Technician, you should really accept it, Anything that has to do with the System is probably incredibly powerful. I''ve never heard of anything like it before." she said poking him in the shoulder.


    "Stop poking me," he said, brushing her off.


    "What class, what are you talking about, what are you saying, I don''t understand. Are the translation drugs wearing off or something."


    "No you idiot," she said poking him as only a grandmotherly person could get away with, "what you don''t have classes where you come from? Or do you call it something different where you come from? What do you do for jobs then, how do you know what to do?" she frowned up at him. It was a very good frown, he had to admit.


    He''d practiced frowning in the mirror, so he knew a good frown when he saw one. There was just something about the elderly, who could from down at you dissaprovingly, even if they were 80 pounds and 4''6" that you had to appreciate.


    He felt that dissaproving stare.


    "Well," she said, poking him in the shoulder again. The things the elderly can get away with, he thought.


    "We pick our jobs, probably just like you do here I suppose," he said. "Wheather were born into it, or we''re good at it, or we get an opportunity to do a job, and practice until we get good at it. I mean we go to school when we''re young and school has classes, but that doesn''t seem to be what you''re talking about?" he frowned down at her, trying desperetely to do his very best no-nonsense expression.


    She was unnafected, and frowned right back up at him.


    "Classes," she said slowly, as if to a three year old, "are bestowed by the System to grant us power. We grow stronger, and gain more skills spells, etc... by practicing our skills or spells or whatever our class has bestowed upon us. In addition," she continued as in teacher mode, "by slaying dangerous monsters, or making great contributions to society or the world, or great feats of strength or intellect or what have you, we can gain Titles, also bestowed by the System which increase our power. Every child is taught this so you''re quite behind it seems, Mr. Smith," said the old witch haughtily.


    Error, said Mr. Smiths brain, I don''t understand, I don''t understand, I don''t understand, he kept repeating to himself.


    "Monsters," he shot to his feet, "there are MONSTERS, IN THIS WORLD?" he shrieked, looking around the into the woods, into the shadows, and the darkness, imagining things out there, watching him.


    The family looked at him in consternation, but with a word from old granny, went back to their food and conversation.