“So you’re saying everyone is going to forget the past?” The boy breathed out the last word as he happened to glance around him. He’d thought some of the shelves were metal when he first entered, but they were all clearly wood, very old wood. He wondered at how he’d not noticed that. He could have sworn the room had been lit by the same fluorescent lights as the rest of the library, but somehow during the conversation he realized that he was bathed in the soft, sepia glow of much older incandescence. There were sconces on the wall with those old-timey bulbs. It felt comforting somehow, permanent and pervading.
“They’ll forget themselves, creatures of an eternal present, with neither past nor future, neither memory nor hope, living for the moment.” The old librarian was placing books in an old satchel now, but still fully attentive.
“I don’t understand. I mean, can’t people just do what they want and be happy?”
“A time is coming when ‘do as thou wilt’ will be the whole of the law, and there will be no greater tyranny, the will of the all against the one . Men will go mad, and when they see a man who is not mad, they will attack him, saying ‘he is mad; he is not like us!’” Men and women will cover themselves in ephemera, write it into their very skin. They’ll take pills to wake and pills to sleep. Your peers who howl in the hallways and sleep in class- people won’t even be able to function without fivefold the drugs they take. They’ll be hollowed out, whitened sepulchers, held up to the admiration and disgust of millions with nothing inside but the echoes of what winds slip through the cracks. Lost.”
“How do you know?
“Because I’ve seen it.” For the first time there was real vehemence in her voice, a shudder at what she recalled. He didn’t bother asking how she’d seen it. They were quiet for a while.
“Like Theseus. Lost.”
“Yes, like Theseus.” She resumed stuffing her bag as she continued the story.
With the string tied, Theseus strode off down the tunnel. The walls were lit with torches, which illuminated strange murals. He could see they depicted the gods, but the execution was alien, the Zeus of another race, ancient and foreign. He stood atop his mountain, hurling bolts of thunder at Eastern horrors, giants and monsters. Tuphon was there and his mate Echidna, the progenitors of a whole race of nightmarish beings. Titans- those overreachers, battled their brothers the Kuklopes, the Hekatoncheires. Great hosts of men, adorned as in days long past, contested in the fields below, a war of all against all. But these were not scenes of Zeus victorious; rather, the scene was indeterminate- were the monsters being driven down the slopes or striving upward to shake the very heavens? Theseus looked away, and steeling himself, fixed his gaze ahead to the relatively comforting blackness beyond the light of the last torch in the corridor.
He rounded a corner, then another. For a maze, it seemed to be taking him along a certain path. There was a light ahead, and as if to mock his marvel at the straightforward course thus far, he saw that it was a torch on the wall marking a dead end T-intersection. To his left was a further dim glow off in the distance, but to his right there was only blackness. From that direction, however, he could hear a whisper and breathing.
Something was waiting there for him in the darkness. He hefted his sword and pulled the other end of the string from his ball of thread, tying it around his wrist- the last thing he wanted to do was drop it in a fight in the dark. It was then that he noticed that it hadn’t decreased at all in size this whole time it had been unwinding behind him. Women and their magic. He walked forward, taking silent steps, praying that his smell would not betray him, or that the Minotaur could not see in the dark.
The breathing grew louder. Theseus held the sword before him like a probe, ready to thrust it into the first thing that didn’t feel like stone. He realized then that his own breath was loud enough to be audible, and tried to slow his racing heart. But as he got closer to the sound, he realized it was no monster, and in between breaths he could make out the words of a babbled prayer.
“Mother Athena shine your light in this accursed darkness . . .”
It was one of the youths. He recognized him from the boat, still wearing the gold bracelet he’d said his mother had given him for the journey. “I am Theseus, son of Aigeos- who are you?”
“It comes it comes like a shadow filled with stars it comes . . .”
“A shadow filled with stars?” He could barely make out the shape of the young man, but could feel him disturb the air with his trembling.
“It took others and it comes again. Athena will not help me what god will answer me?!”
“Still yourself!” Theseus turned his ear down the hall, listening carefully. There came a whining-whirring sound, followed by a loud ringing the like he’d never heard before, and a curious grinding noise, like some surf on the shores of Hades. Then he saw them in the far distance, twinkling lights, like stars. For the first time in his life a chill ran down his spine.
Even more unnerving was the reaction of the other youth to this. He didn’t seem scared at all, but rather, transfixed at the sight of the lights. They were red and blue and yellow and white, like a rainbow, but dead and cold, flashing without order or rhythm. The youth stopped his prayers at the sight. He neither cried out nor made to move, and the expression on his face was as blank as if he were buying grain at the market.
Theseus could see its form take shape out of the shadows, hulking yet fleet-moving, its breath disturbing the dust on the ground far beneath where its face would be, its eyes glowing red, with the lights adorning it illuminating hints of hair covering its bulk. He absorbed this still mostly hidden specter, turned on his heels, and ran the other way as fast as his legs would carry him.
“He ran away!? I thought he just found the Minotaur and choked him out.” The boy found Theseus’ reaction genuinely off-putting.
“Fought many Minotaurs, have you? Don’t be so quick to judge. You didn’t see what he saw, even that hint of it.” She closed her satchel and sat down on a chair, resting for the first time since they entered. He noticed for the first time that the shelves were almost completely bare; he could have sworn they were full of books when they arrived. She couldn’t have put them all in that bag. When would she have had the chance? Still, those weren’t the first questions on his mind.
“What was it that made it so scary? I thought he fought monsters all the time.”
“He’d fought evil men and a giant pig at that point. Nothing beyond the ken of men. He hadn’t seen those lights before, but he had sense enough to fear them.”
“What do they do?”
“False stars take the place of real ones in the mind, with everything that follows from that.”
Theseus ran from the darkness into the light opposite from the direction he’d come. He’d expected to hear a scream, but there came not a sound. He was alone again, and that thought gave him no more comfort that being chased. He ran and ran, until he could run no more, then doubled over to catch his breath. He was red-faced and ashamed. He’d never run from anything in his life, stared down the worst the world could throw at him without blinking. But those awful lights that glowed so coldly . . .
It occurred to him then that he was bathed in light even now, and that the ground beneath him wasn’t dirt, but some sort of rug that ran from one side of the hall to the other. Glancing around, he realized that the walls were not the rough stone he’d beheld earlier, but flat and covered in some sort of plaster, which, like the carpet beneath him was a kind of sickly brown-gray-yellow color he’d never seen before, like some shade of dull, lifeless flax. The light, which came from above, gave both an unearthly, greenish sheen, and he perceived a low and audible hum, like some distant and unnatural beehive. Looking up, he saw that the light and noise came from behind a pane of glass, too opaque to see through, set into a ceiling made of some kind of ugly plaster tiles held in place with a gray metal frame, which resembled tin but with a matte, ugly finish. The hall continued ahead in a straight line, and he could see more of those ceiling lights, spaced apart equally, as far as he could scan. There were identical halls to his left and right, and, to his horror, behind him. He felt for the string out of instinct and found it still tied firmly to his wrist, the ball in his hand still not reduced in any way. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Theseus walked ahead for a while, though for how long he could not have guessed. He turned right at some point, then left, then forgot which way he’d gone. It didn’t seem to matter. The lights and that hum though, they crept into his mind. Had he died and gone to Hades after all? What mortal could endure this, hour after hour beneath these lights in this gray twilight prison, an abode fit only for bloodless shades? And then he heard that sound once more . . .
He froze at the whining-whirr, but this time had the presence of mind to look all around him. He caught a glimpse of it passing from one corridor to the next nine intersections behind him. In the awful light of these hallways he could make out more of its shape, hairy yes, but with the rough form of a man, its hide not merely adorned with those flashing lights but also some sort of mirrors embedded into it. It moved too fast for him to see its head clearly. After only a moment’s contemplation Theseus saw in move back the other direction six crossway’s back, then three.
He ran, this time not out of raw fear but in the desperate hope that he might find some place more suitable than these accursed endless hallways. But everywhere was the same, those damned lights and the same loathsome interior in every direction. If only he could think, if only he could shut out that horrible light! He closed his eyes. There was nothing to run into after all save the Minotaur, and he could hear him whining-whirring, ringing, and grinding closer behind him.
No sooner had he taken ten steps then he collided face first with a flat surface. Opening his eyes, he saw that it was a door, with a strange round grip for a handle. He pulled it and pushed it even as the noise grew louder still. Finally, he turned it, and the door sprang open. He rushed inside and slammed it shut, and looked around.
“As above, so below. That’s the trite version anyway. The things we see around us participate in the higher things, or at least they’re supposed to. That’s what it means, really, to turn to the stars for guidance. We have different glowing things telling us what to do. And it will only get worse in the days to come.”
The boy wondered at that. “I saw the stars once. We went on a family vacation and we drove through the mountains. I can’t see them where I live.”
The old librarian thought to herself for a moment then asked, “would you care for some tea?"
“Tea?”
“Yes, from that kettle on the top there just behind you.” The boy turned and there was indeed a small stove he hadn’t noticed, a cast iron one like he’d seen in old Looney Tunes cartoons. How had he missed this coming in? He didn’t like tea, but he didn’t want to be rude. “The cups are in the cabinet there just above it, with the sugar and cream,” she added, indicating their location in another bit of furniture he’d not previously been aware of in the room.
He opened the cabinet and saw that it was full of bottles, two clearly labeled ‘sugar’ and ‘cream,’ but others more obscure, some marked in languages the identity of which he couldn’t guess. He avoided them, retrieved the two he knew, and two cups. He poured the tea into each, clumsily adding the cream and sugar to his own, the old librarian declining any of either with a polite head shake. Resuming his seat and taking a sip, he found he actually liked it. It wasn’t like anything he’d tried before.
The door opened to a set of downstairs and a new sensation. There was a distinct smell here, like some strong vinegar or lye; Theseus couldn’t quite place it. The warm and humid air made his skin itch a bit. The lights in this room were similar to those in the previous area, but far dimmer and set in a much higher ceiling. The walls were covered with small, square tiles, stark white, and the staircase terminated not onto ground but a great pool. Three walls lay around him bare and solid, but opposite his position the pool flowed through an opening into another room. The only sound was a faint churn in the water. He descended, the string flowing behind him beneath the door he’d entered, until it came to rest floating on the surface of the water. The disturbance of his entrance into the pool cast flickering shadows on the wall. It was waist deep.
He waded to the other side of the room and through the opening, where he discovered, as he’d grimly expected, another room just like this one beyond it, and another to his right and left. This time, however, rather than being aligned in straight rows, the openings offset in seemingly random ways. Perhaps there would be some place here from which to gain some advantage against the Minotaur. He pushed through the water, which was unnaturally tepid despite being indoors, and so clear he could see the same tiles on the pool bottom just as well as those that adorned the walls. He moved from one room to the next, scanning each interior, looking for the best place to stand and fight.
He heard a splash behind him. All at once the water was roiling, small waves crashing into his chest. Something was approaching, something big. He swung left, then right, sword in hand, clenched tightly to admit no moisture against the grip. With sudden awareness he sensed its presence behind him, and he spun to meet it just as the Minotaur rose from the water in a great explosion of force.
It was half again as tall as Theseus, and twice as broad. As he’d perceived, the Minotaur had the vague outlines of a man, but was not only hairy, but covered in innumerable silvered mirrors and blinking lights that marked this monster as profoundly unlike anything formed by nature. In like manner its head resembled that of a bull in a superficial way, but the face was neither human nor bovine, but some horrible fusion of the two, while its horns, such as they were, were twisted bundles of wires, their irregular ends bent off into barbs all along their length, down to the very end. Its eyes glowed a furious crimson but were glassy like something dead. It’s claws were squared-off and coppery, as were its teeth, which it bared as it let out its by now familiar cry, the whining-whirring ringing grind, made more horrific by its proximity and its reverberating echo against the bare tile walls.
Theseus breathed deeply and fixed his heart for the fight. There was no outrunning the Minotaur in waist-deep water and where would he go in any case? With a loud cry, he fell upon the monster and slammed his sword into its flank. The keen edge found its mark, shattering the little mirrors there, but bit no further. Theseus may as well have struck the bronze ram of a trireme; his sword actually reverberated in his hand. He was taken aback, but only for the split-second it took for him to feel the monster’s great claw swiping towards him. He dropped backwards into the water as the copper talons swung over his face. Undaunted, he sprang up from the water, this time thrusting into the Minotaur’s nether regions. But the point of his blade fared no better than the edge, and there was, unsettlingly, nothing there to strike in any case. This gave him pause, and the Minotaur grasped him quickly with his other hand, lifting Theseus by the neck clear out of the water.
He swung his sword into the monster’s outstretched arm, the futile blows doing nothing but sending small shards of silvered glass into the water below. The monster let out another of his horrid noises, but did not move to bite or rend him. Instead, from his claws and his arm emerged a tendril of wires, which snaked down toward Theseus, wrapping around him. Strangely, the sensation was less that of constriction than caress, even as the ends of the wires wormed their way into Theseus’ own skin. It reminded him of the leeches in the swamps of Lerna. Then the slivered screens began to flash, even as the lights blinked with greater intensity. Images appeared on their surface, of men and women, alone and in crowds, of animals and strange machines like nothing he’d ever seen. Words in a thousand scripts flowed across their surfaces, and a cacophony of noise like he’d never heard before filled the air, echoing the voices of a hellish host. It was horrible, terrifying, and yet, he could not look away.
The spectacle demanded attention. A million things all at once demanded the presence of his mind, each striving for his focus, which he felt flitting from one object to another- an explosion, the breasts of some blond woman, two bears fighting in the woods, a tattooed creature with a eunuch’s voice . . . He felt something like energy departing his body, some part of his life force being given over to these sights, but a part of him, a suddenly growing part of him, wanted to hand it over, wanted to surrender to this. He felt more wires enter his body, his temples, his abdomen, his wrist. And there it happened that the wire tugged on that cord he’d tied there, that cord that bound him to whence he’d come. It pulled tight against his skin such that it pained him, shocked him into awareness that whatever this sensation was, it was unnatural, was inimical to higher things. He felt polluted and angry and fearful all at once; his mind raced to bring itself to bear on the situation. This Minotaur was robbing him of what made him human, a man.
Theseus slid his sword (carefully) between his loincloth and his leg, cutting the garment free. Catching it, he hurled the heavily wet and glass-besharded garment hard into the face of the Minotaur. It hit him with a loud slap, and at once it dropped Theseus to swipe it away. With all his might Theseus dove into the water and swam hard into the next room. There were no passages out of this space. Instead, in the center of the water here lay a great whirlpool. With the noise of the monster looming behind him, Theseus dove in.
“He beat him with his loincloth?” It was the strongest note of incredulity the boy had advanced all day, but, seriously . . .
“Theseus knew one thing about monsters, that they could be cunning, but only men could use the gift of reason. Monsters, like the beasts of which they were perversions, could only act on emotion and appetite. Men can think. Not all men, obviously, but the capacity is there for those who cultivate it. The loincloth wasn’t the most elegant solution, but he knew the Minotaur’s instinct would be to drop what was in his hands to clear his eyes. Beasts and monsters live in the moment. Men are made for more noble ends, and reason is one path to that end.” The old librarian sipped her tea, looking relaxed for once. The boy was feeling a bit relaxed himself now. This weird room felt like home.
“What’s the other path?”
“Reason is the lower attempting to reach the higher. When it goes the other way, it’s called revelation.”
“Why would the higher want to talk to the lower.”
“That’s reason attempting to answer a question that only revelation can resolve.”
The draining water emptied into a dark tunnel, splashing Theseus into a small, flowing stream. There was no light here save at four points just beyond arms’ reach above his head. His probing sword clanged into something hard and metallic, which proved to be a ladder. Climbing up to the points of light he discovered they were holes in some kind of metal lid. He pushed it aside and climbed up.
He was outdoors now, or so it seemed. It appeared near twilight, or perhaps dawn-it was impossible to tell. He stood in the middle of an empty street, which appeared to be covered in some type of hardened tar, studded with small stones. Beside him were small plots of grass, bearing neither crops nor flowers, and in the midst of each sat an identical house. Each house was huge, not much smaller than the palace of his father, with a sloping roof covering in what appeared to be paper covered in the same strange tar as the road. The houses were all that same dull flax color as the rooms he’d previously encountered, but in the weird twilight gloom of this place they were as listlessly drab as the belly of a dead fish. They all had doors of a slightly darker shade than the walls, each with a single round handle. Each home had a row of neatly-trimmed bushes and a single tree before it, but they looked wan and waxen, unnaturally green, like the low grass. A white wooden fence framed the back portion of each. He could see an intersection ahead, with the same houses running identically down each street. Though it seemed to be just before or after the daytime there was neither sun nor moon present. Instead, the cloudless vault of heaven bore only an array of stars, but not the ones he knew. They were all arranged in neat rows, equally spaced, running to each directions’ horizon on the perfectly flat landscape. It filled him with revulsion.
He walked down the street for a good while. He was conscious of growing tired. His body bore puncture marks from the dozens of wires that had stabbed him, and his neck ached horribly from the Minotaur’s grasp. Theseus was hungry and thirsty. Perhaps one of these homes was occupied. He strode through one lawn and banged on the door- no answer. He tried the next one, and got a similar result. The third he simply forced his way into.
Walking inside, he saw that the home was furnished as if for a king. Soft cushions covered all the furniture; there was a table was surrounded by tall chairs. The house was subdivided into smaller rooms, with soft beds in some, assorted furniture of odd type in others. In one, he wrenched open the door of a metal closet and found it full of cold air, but otherwise empty. Uneasy as being there made him in any case, he felt a shudder run through his spine as he realized this house had no hearth. What a cold and evil place this must be for the wretch who would live here. Where one might expect to find one there was instead a box with a glass screen, though one could not see through it inside. He considered breaking it open, but thought the better of it. Whatever dark gods these people worshiped were likely inside, and he didn’t want to disturb them.
There being nothing here, he moved on, and gazing in a few more windows realized the houses were all the same. They were equally empty; no one lived in this bizarre village. He walked further along, looking for some sign of anything conspicuous, but began to despair of it.
He thought it odd that the Minotaur had not yet come. In the prior areas he had shown up after not too long, but Theseus had by now wandered for hours and had not heard that awful din as yet. Perhaps he was not where he ought to have been. Perhaps he should retrace his steps. No sooner did he turn and take hold of the cord behind him than he noticed a light in the window of one of the houses he’d passed. Cautiously, he approached and rapped on the door.
A man answered. He was older and wore- mercifully- familiar clothing. “Do you speak my tongue, stranger? I am Theseus Aigedes, and I seek xenia.”
“Indeed, I know you and your family, young prince. Welcome and enter. I am Daidalos, the architect of this place.”
Theseus stepped inside. However nondescript it appeared on the outside, the interior was nothing like that of the other houses. It was one great open space, a fire blazing in a great hearth to one side, a large wooden work table in the middle, upon which sat innumerable tools the purpose of which the prince could only guess. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with racks of scrolls, some of which were spread out on other tables. Daidalos bid Theseus to sit on a rough bench.
“You built this place, why? You keep that monster fat and happy on the flesh and blood of the young. And why does he hide now, when he’s stalked me thus far?“
“You’ve done well for yourself. You mastered your fear, looked beyond your immediate circumstances, used reason in a crisis- there’s a king to be born from you yet, perhaps.”
“The men in this land speak riddles as surely as the women.”
“You think you’re in Krete, then?”
“Where am I?”
“I hold court here.” A loud clear voice, that of a young man, came from behind Theseus. Turning, he beheld a beardless youth in traveler’s garb, who sat down next to Theseus. From where he came the prince could only wonder. “Daidalos made this particular place but all such topoi are mine by right. The in-betweens and undefineds, the gray borders and cross-overs, these are my territories.”
“Who are you?”
“I bear a message.”
“From whom?”
“I’m told to tell you that Asterion is quite angry. He figured out that you were special, escaping his grasp and all. He wants prince to devour and as you’ve gotten away for the moment, and there are no spare princes, he’s made clear in his own way that some other substitution must be forthcoming.”
“You don’t mean..?!”
“Minos is not about to lose his wealth. He’s but one life to spend in decadence and can always sire more daughters.”
“By Zeus, the monsters outside the Laburinthos are worse than the ones within!”
“Zeus indeed, for it is worse than you think. Long has Asterion lusted for Ariadne.”
“He means to ravish her?! With what tackle, the steer!?
“Worse still. You see, apart from his sister, the object of his deepest hatred is the Fountain of Memory. He has done everything he knows to pollute it, but the water yet flows pure. But somehow, in that mad animal instinct of his, he’s hit upon the notion that drowning a princess and a priestess in the well will serve to defile it forever. And in that he is quite correct.”
“That is why he is not hunting you,” Daidalos added. “He has captured her and is making his way at all speed back to the fountain he so hates. You must stop him there.”
“My sword but annoys him and I’ve not even clothes to protect myself. What am I to do when I face him again?”
“Take this tunic.” Daidalos handed him the clothes from his own back. “As for arms, I have little to avail you here save this.” He strode over to his hearth and plucked out a coal with tongs, dropping it into a hollow fennel stick in his other hand. “It will be dark where you’re going. You’ll need illumination. When it grows dim, rub this black spot here, and it will brighten once more.”
“That’s it then, a stick?”
“And a sure path,” the messenger-lord indicated a door in the rear of the house, one Theseus had not noticed before. Go through there and you will be near enough to Asterion and the Fountain, and of course, Ariadne. The fate of all is in your hands.
Theseus stood and nodded his gratitude. He made his way to the door, opened it, and passed through.
“Who were those guys really? I mean, it was some gods or whatever in disguise, right?” The boy had very sure notions of how these stories went.
“They were who they needed to be at that moment. Men have a hard enough time grasping simple truths in simple times. Laying complexity onto an already great challenge would just cause problems.” The old librarian had finished her tea and moved over to a nearby desk, taking a few things into her pockets.
“By the way, what time is it? I’m not late for class, am I?”
“The school day is already long over. I imagine it will be dark soon.”
“Crap! They’re going to call my mom and tell her I skipped.”
“I imagine so. And you’ll probably get in trouble, suffer a bit. That’s not what important. Suffering is inevitable. The question is, what makes it worth it.”
“Yeah, I’m glad I got to hang out here.”
“You know, this is my last day here.”
He forgot his inquiry and just stared blankly. This morning her rumored departure barely registered in his mind as an afterthought. Now, the idea that she was leaving felt like a great weight pressing down on his chest. “Do you have to go? Did they fire you?”
“Nothing like that. My time is up, you see.”
“I don’t want you to go.” He felt ashamed of how sad he was. His face burned. His eyes moistened.
For the first time, something like softness appeared on her face. “I know. But it’s the nature of things. All earthly relationships are temporary. We have our time together and then that time is gone. That part is over.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Let’s finish our story.”
The door opened into a long hallway. It was dark and dusty, and stuffing his sword into his tunic belt he hefted the fennel-stick and gazed around in the dim light. The walls were white-painted brick, the floor large grayish tiles, and the ceiling high and lined with metal pipes. Everything was covered in thick dust, and the light from the coal revealed swirling motes in the air all around. Before him, far ahead, were cracks of dull light that indicated a door. He made his way there. As he walked, the light grew dim, and as instructed, he rubbed the black spot. Strangely, it felt rubbery under his thumb. He pressed it and all at once a beam of light burst forth from the twig’s end, brighter than a bonfire. In the new glow he saw that the fennel was now a black metal tube, with a knurled grip, and the end that had held the coal was now a flat piece of glass over a glowing gem inside. He marveled at the craft of Daidalos.
Opening the door, he discovered he was inside a vast chamber, like the Agora, but covered with a roof. He stood on a wide walkway that ran over a lower level, with another walkway opposite him, connected further ahead by several bridges. Everywhere was metal and glass, opulence such as he’d never seen, or it would have been, were everything not coated in dust and detritus. Along the sides of the walkway were great panes of glass and even doors of the same material, which opened into dimly lit rooms. There were colors here, unlike the other places, but they were worn and faded, what were once bright pinks and greens chipping into particles and joining the rest of the dander. Those same lights he’d seen earlier, with their uncanny hum and cold gloss were everywhere, flickering and broken in many spots.
As he walked, he wondered if this was indeed some Agora in the underworld, some place shades flitted to but the wares of the dead. There were what he took to be signs above many of the doors, though the tongue escaped him. He passed an open area with tables, as though it were a feast hall, but the seats were hard and uncomfortable and he couldn’t imagine anyone gathering here in joy. Metal staircases ran up and down between the levels, the odd individual steps interlaced like chain links with those adjacent. And then there was the music. At first he thought it was a trick of his imagination, but he realized that the round metal grates above him were somehow producing the sounds of horns and strings and other eerie unknown instruments, along with a faint human voice, scratchy and disjointed. He tried, and failed, to tune it out.
One of the great windows in what he took to be a shop was broken, and inside was a statue, still adorned with clothes. But it was like nothing he’d seen before. It was neither stone nor wood; ivory was closest in color and texture, but it had no weight or solidity or richness of color. It was light and dull and felt horrid to the touch, cold and dry and smooth. It had no features of any kind, no eyes or nose, no fingernails or lips. It was the most lifeless thing he’d ever touched, and he recoiled from it.
Here and there were more familiar statuses, actual marble and bronze, but all were cracked or broken or defaced. Like everything else, they were covered with dust. There were also, in stands of a dozen at a time, those same large pithoi like the ones from Ariadne’s chamber. There was none of the unsettling uniformity of the other places here. This was a ruin, but an occupied one.
He felt somehow that he was approaching the center of things. Scanning up, he stumbled over something lying on the ground. Glancing at it, he at first took it for one of those horrible statues, and indeed it was, but what he noticed next made his blood run cold as the River Stux. For the statute was clad, not in the weird garments of the others he’d seen, but a loincloth like the one Theseus had hurled at the Minotaur, and around its arm was a gold bracelet. This was what came of those who didn’t escape, who didn’t look away, to become these lifeless, weightless, faceless.
He pressed on, forward. He dared to hope he might find Ariadne and the Fountain before the monster found him. But it was not to be. Rounding a corner, all at once, he heard the familiar, ominous noise and, from a cloud of dust, came the Minotaur charging.
Theseus stood calmly as the monster ran full tilt toward him, holding his metal light pointing down. Then as it drew closed to arms-length, he flipped it up, blasting the creature’s eyes with the beam of light. It howled and swerved, crashing into a column, great racks snaking through the course grey stone beneath what had once been colorful yellow paint. The dust cloud kicked up by this served as the cover Theseus needed to run forth to the faint sound of water he heard ahead.
And there it was, looming before him in a great open area, the Fountain of Memory. It was twice his height and spewed water a third again higher, almost reaching the level of the walkway above. There were areas where plants must once have grown around it, which were now bare and empty. Around it was a stone lining wide enough to sit upon, and there indeed bound and gagged and trussed, was seated Ariadne.
Running as he was, Theseus could still hear a great clamor, first behind him, then above and beside, and then at last, with the whining-whirring cry, the Minotaur came crashing down from above. He was right next to Ariadne. What one might imagine was a smile creased his lipless visage.
Theseus charged forward. He tried to shine the light again. The monster ignored it, turning instead to his victim. The prince dropped his metal torch and drew his sword, for whatever good that would do him. He was three strides away when all at once his motion was cut short, as a tug on his left wrist pulled him back.
The string had at last run out.
The Minotaur grabbed Ariadne and hefted her above, roaring his unearthly cry in triumph as he plunged her face first into the water.
Theseus quickly moved to untie the cord, but here he hesitated. Ariadne herself had said never to drop it. Ariadne had said without it he would never return, that he might wander here forever.
Ariadne was drowning and her death would defile the fountain forever.
The cord prevented him from going further and his weapon was useless in any case.
Ariadne thrashed despite being bound, even in the fierce and hateful grasp of her brother.
And in that moment, Theseus understood.
He took three strides back, made three great circles with his arm, gathering the string in wide loops, and then, with his sword, cut the cord free.
He charged the Minotaur as fast as his weary legs could bear him. He grasped the other end of the severed string in his right hand. The monster didn’t even acknowledge him, so ecstatic as he was with his sacrifice. He leapt onto the rim of the fountain and from there onto the Minotaur’s back. He looped the cord thrice around the monster’s great neck, and pulled tight.
The Minotaur would have howled were he able to draw breath, but instead thrashed wildly. Ariadne flew from his grip and slid across the floor. He slammed his full weight against Theseus, crushing him into a column. His claws and wires dug into the prince’s body from every angle he could manage. The same sensation washed over him, a false sense of contentment and ease and satiety, a feeling that told every muscle in his exhausted and beaten body to relax, to surrender and seek comfort at last, probing his mind with the very real knowledge that he would likely die from this. But Theseus willed such illusions away. He’d resigned himself to end his life here when he cut the cord that bound him to all he knew. He had but one thought, one fixed purpose; the whole of his reason, spirit, and appetite were as one in holding firm his grip on those cords, even as they dig into the flesh of his fingers, even as he felt his muscles tear from the strain.
Bit by bit the Minotaur grew weary. It sank to one knee, then the other. The lights on its body flickered ever more dimly. The little mirrors all at once bore the image of a swirling circle. Its eyes glowed less brightly, then shut. The Starry One went dark, and crashed face-first into the cold stone floor.
Theseus at last released his hold on the cord and made his way to Ariadne. He untied her and breathed his own breath into her body. She awoke with a start. “Theseus, you have conquered.” She could only whisper through her blue lips, but her elation was unmistakable.
“Yes, but at no small cost.” He held aloft the bloody cord dangling from his left wrist, though it pained him even to heft that heavy of a load.
“Did I not tell you, Prince of Athens, that sacrifice was necessary. Did your path not take you to the Fountain of Memory? She stood on shaky legs and helped him to his feet. They walked together the last few steps. “Drink, Theseus, and remember.”
He bent and scooped up and handful of cold water, bringing it to his lips. He drank, and he remembered. A myriad of myriads’ worth of images burst into his mind, his whole childhood, the line of Athenian kings, the Pelasgians who once haunted the land, Troy and the thousand ships, the horse-lords of distant plains and strange tongues, Atlantis sinking beneath the waves, and some thousands of other things. And then the weight of it all was at last too much, and he tumbled forward into exhaustion.
“I feel like there’s more going on here than you’re letting on. Why did you bring me back here, I mean, why me?” The boy would have stood as she walked past him, but he felt himself strangely weary all the sudden.
“It doesn’t do any good to explain. The significance of our circumstances only really becomes clear in hindsight, the more distant the better. In other words, young man, you’ll understand one day, perhaps. I have to go now.” She moved not toward the door the came in but through another he hadn’t noticed before, on the far end of the now bare room.
“I want to go with you. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t care. I don’t want to go back to school and deal with all that crap. I want to do this forever. Let me through that door too, please!”
“It’s not a door, young man. It’s a gate. Remember that word, gate. You’ll have your own to enter. Goodbye, and goodnight.” With those words she stepped into the doorway, and the boy fell fast asleep.
When Theseus awoke he was beneath a starry sky, real stars, bright and arranged in the constellations the gods had set up. He felt a swaying beneath him and realized he was on a ship. Glancing over, he saw Ariadne, her gaze fixed ahead.
“You’re awake at last. That’s good.”
“Where are we?” Theseus felt far better than he ought to have; he must have been asleep for some time.”
“Near the island of Naxos. The ship and crew are Daidalos’ men. They smuggled us off the island and are taking us there for the wedding.”
Theseus perked up even more at that thought. “When do we land?”
“In an hour or so.” Ariadne didn’t seem as excited as he was, despite it being her idea.
He said nothing more, who knew with women?
The ship made landfall and Theseus and Ariadne walked down the gangplank onto the beach. She took the lead and beckoned him inland. His mind and heart were racing; was there some feast arranged ahead of them? Who would be there?
That question was shortly answered as a short trail led them to a clearing occupied by exactly two people. One was a matronly woman, the other a handsome youth with flowing dark hair.
“Welcome, prince and princess.” The woman greeted them as if she knew them well.
“At last, said the young man, “my bride has come.”
At that Theseus stopped short. “What is this, some treachery? Who are you- speak, and no games this time!?”
“My name is Dionysos. I am the lord of this place, and Ariadne is my chosen wife. This is my dear aunt Demeter, Mistress of Grain, beloved of all houses, here to bless our union.“
Ariadne looked at him with resignation. “I told you I wanted to leave Krete and marry. And so it has come to pass.”
Theseus was unmoved. “I love her as well as any god. I have paid a greater bride price than you, Lord of Vines.”
Dionysos laughed as a man would at a child’s antics. “Dear prince, I do not wish to rob you of any prize. The gods of Olympos are ever lovers of justice. I give you this choice. You can marry Ariadne, and dwell on this island, and grow old together in this solitude and pass into Hades from each others arms. Or she can be my queen, and I will fix her in the very stars, and you, Theseus, will rule your people with the wisdom you have gained, the courage you’ve shown, and the willingness to sacrifice that marks a true king. Choose.”
Ariadne looked at him. “We both know, don’t we?”
He didn’t make it harder than it had to be. He didn’t say goodbye, didn’t kiss her, didn’t look back. He simply walked away. The ship sailed at that instant for Athens. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. He knew what he’d given up. He tried to focus on what needed to be done.
His father, wizened in his debauchery, had died, and with Medea and his half-brother gone, Theseus, slayer of the Minotaur, became king by birth and acclaim. He returned his people to a rightful path, forsaking by law and example those things that lowered men and in the same manner showing a better way. The arts flourished, and the sciences with them, family life became more whole, and piety became a byword for Athenians. And always they remembered their duties to the sacred and to their fellow men, and those who came long after remembered as well the golden age of Theseus, King of Athens, liberator from slavery in all its forms. And Theseus remembered, in his quiet moments, as no one else ever would, those dark eyes in the torchlight, and thought of what might have been. Such is the nature of sacrifice.
The boy awoke in the middle of the night in his own bed. He hadn’t remembered coming home. His mom made no mention the next day of anyone calling from the school, nor did any of his teachers speak of his absence, but he could barely wrap his head around any of it and hadn’t thought about detention at all. Was it magic? Was it the fact that at this school, if you weren’t actively stabbing someone, you weren’t really a problem yet? His head was spinning trying to make sense of that day.
He returned to the library. The TV was up, and some more computers had been installed. He went to his usual seat in the stacks. There, on his habitual chair, was a pamphlet.
‘NEW PROGRAM: Gifted and Talented Education. Testing begins shortly. Exciting opportunities for those looking for a unique learning environment. Sign the back and turn it in to the school counselor and start your journey today!’
Why not . . ?
It's great.
I think I get most of the allegorical parts. I like how simply you resolved the abandonment of Ariadne on Naxos (you should try to visit temple of Demeter there if you haven't already, but do it between late October and maybe April--the island is mobbed these daze). You're not a stan for the 'black sails' part of the myth and Aigeos hurling himself into the Aegean (so giving it its name)?
Incidentally I refuse to accept the idea that the so-called 'temple of Hephaiston' in Athens is any such thing. It's the temple of Theseus. I don't care what the WE-NOW-KNOW 'experts' say.
Bravo, sir!
In all seriousness (since tone isn't always carried by text) I hope you can find a way to publish physical copies of this. That way I can read about the internet destroying my humanity without the aid of the internet.