The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  But something, as the bird stares down at me, a little too much like a beast reading for the hunt, stirs in my gut. A hiss. There was a hiss as it landed. No it couldn’t be.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I look over and realize that Dalcia is haunched on her elbows and is looking at the bird. The bird flies off, quickly, and is out of sight in a second.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “That bird. Something was wrong about it too.”

  “Wrong?” I say, thinking on the hissing sound.

  Dalcia squints at me, rubs her eyes hard, and reaches for her clothes, her breasts in danger of slipping out of the sleeping bag. I turn my eyes away, trying my hardest not to warm up, to focus on the birds tearing some piece of food between them, and not look at her innocence. But my periphery is bold and somehow focuses on her.

  She rustles with her clothes in the sleeping bag, and I feel flush, and will in no uncertain terms leave my sleeping bag. “You done?” I ask, when she falls silent.

  “You can look, shy boy.”

  I prefer to be called old man, and it’s too early in the morning for this game.

  “That bird,” she says and points at the horizon. “It was like Turing.”

  “Get out of here,” I say even though I sense that she might be right. “A robot bird?”

  We sift through the locker and find more food packets to eat. I’m dizzy with hunger, so I dive in, handing Dalcia a few packets that she munches on while looking at me with distant regard. I decide to return her stare, and after the initial burst of energy through my heart dies down, I realize that her eyes hold a wisdom that I’ve rarely seen before. And that she’s much younger than me and has this wisdom, this way of seeing the world, frightens me. I’m not sure why. I should simply be soaking in her beauty, and yet all she’s doing is worming, as an image and a presence, through my mind and making me doubt all that I’ve ever stood for.

  “That’s right,” she says softly. “But you still spacing out on me.”

  I lean back and chuckle. “Guess that’s my curse.”

  “And you think Turing can help?”

  “He will, trust me. A robot is just that: a series of algorithms—“

  “I know how machine learning works,” she says.

  “You’ve worked on them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why let it bother you?”

  “He’s... different. That bird too.”

  Is that what it comes down to? The fact that Turing simply gives her a certain gut feeling? We eat some more of our food in silence.

  “Look.” Dalcia’s pointing at the lake. A small shape in the form of a canoe appears over the reflection of the sun’s rays on the rippling water.

  I remember Ben. This lake. In better, cooler form, I amble out of the sleeping bag.

  Slowly, the form grows, and is soon on the shore. I go over. It’s Ben, all right, shirtless, with half a wetsuit on. I notice Dalcia staring. I help Ben drag the canoe on shore. We hug.

  “What is up, man?” I say and pat his shoulder.

  Dalcia makes her way over with very cat-like steps.

  “Nothing. Life is going. You?”

  “I’m making it, man.”

  “I’d say you were. Your ugly mug isn’t plastered everywhere anymore.”

  “I’m sure they’re looking for me,” I say, still remembering Turing’s reassurance; though when that combines with Dalcia’s distrust, I wonder if Turing is setting us up.

  “That will always be. But you’re a badass, I’m sure you can handle them.”

  He’s thinking about movies, not real life. Not the fact that one man, no matter how talented in the arts of war, will never stand up to the multitudes. But I smile in agreement because it’s good to forget about the former.

  “This here is Dalcia,” I say.

  She’s covered in a facade of aloofness and so is Ben. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning, though I wonder what she would make of Ben’s profession.

  “You’re from the Bronx?” Ben asks.

  “Yup. You?”

  “Oregon.”

  A pause lingers.

  “Let’s sit,” I say to break it. They both hungrily accept my offer.

  We walk to the remnants of the fire.

  I set myself up on the foot locker and they sit, suspiciously far apart beside the burned logs. Dalcia reaches over and hugs her sleeping bag. Ben stares angrily at the burned logs. This might not be such a free flowing conversation after all.

  I try to ease up the tension. “They caught me after you saw me.”

  Ben exaggerates puzzlement. “Really? Here?”

  “Near,” and I point back towards where the grass is, but because I see no wall, and know that seeing no wall is a confirmation of my insanity and wave my hand up as well. “They came out of nowhere.”

  Ben seems to mull this over. “Damn. When was this?”

  I try to place a time line to what I’ve done. There is none. I’m not sure how fast time in this labyrinth ticks and tocks compared to up there.

  “Don’t space out on us,” Dalcia says. Ben laughs and they exchange a look. Again, I suppress a grin.

  I don’t ask Ben where he thinks we are. “When did we meet? It was only a little bit later.”

  “I’m not sure either.”

  Great, so no one is aware of any time. “Well, after they got me, they put the screws to me. Real bad,” I say, holding my breathe as my body remembers the slight pain and a chill runs through my bones. I grind my teeth. “But I got lucky. Bomb hit. I escaped.”

  “The one in Manhattan?”

  “That’s it.”

  “They claimed it was you.”

  Silence. That accusation still stings.

  “Wasn’t me,” I say. If what Turing says about me being off a list is true, would the articles in all the national newspapers and websites be targeting someone else or perhaps be playing up the mystery part?

  “I know that,” Ben says, raising his hands to protest his innocence. “They did say that. Said it was all a matter of time, and that they had to get you. Then they started to talk about other matters. Blame others.”

  “Probably a group out in the Middle East.”

  “Ah yes. IS, or something like that. I think they’re pretty bad fucks.”

  “So that’s their reason for killing innocents this time?” An anger arises in me.

  Ben looks me over, a flash of distrust flows across his face—he shrugs.

  “It’s all about money,” I say.

  “Of course. That’s how life is,” Ben says picking up a half charred twig from the fire and rubbing the black soot on his hands.

  “I told him that,” says Dalcia.

  Ben nods, tracing black lines on his forearm. Dalcia lets out a sigh. I’m not sure Ben heard it, or perhaps it is meant for me.

  A shot rings out, and I jump up, my heart rate spiking, sending a flash of fire through my body.

  But everything goes back to being quiet.

  “Something’s wrong,” Dalcia says.

  I think I see a handful of birds, with the red-crowned one in the middle, looking at us, but they’re too far to be of concern.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  Ben stands up. “No. I think she’s right.”

  I stand up and look around. They’re right. Piss pushes against my bladder wall. Everything is a little too quiet. “Perhaps we should move over to the grass.” We all look over there. It seems safe. But I can’t be certain. Beyond that stands some hills, but that’s where the wall stands. I consider finding out. Or finding out if there’s a door still there.

  “Hi, ya’ll.”

  I spin fast, my hands forming fists and raised to my chest. It’s Turing. A few deep breathes later and my breath still hasn’t come down. “What the hell, Turing,” I say, in a low and growling voice.

  Turing raises his hands in the air. “I’m sorry. Am I disturb
ing something?” He smiles.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to see Ben’s face filled with confusion and Dalcia looking like she’s just barely disguising a scowl.

  “Same place as you. Is that not allowed?” He half pouts in a a very dramatic fashion.

  “Don’t do that, it makes you look silly,” I say.

  It doesn’t affect Turing—of course, he’s a robot—because he smiles and bows his head, like sure. And he’s being very pliable, but something strikes me as wrong. The feeling doesn’t leave when I turn away from Turing and beckon Ben over. Turing steps up as does Ben. Dalcia keeps her distance.

  “Turing, this is a friend of mine, Ben.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Turing says with a smile. He sticks out his hand.

  I realize that Turing’s flesh looks newer and a little different every day. And his stubble has turned into a thick beard.

  “Oh?” Ben says, looking at me and back at Turing as they shake hands.

  Completely unsettled, and perhaps a little too tired and groggy to process all that’s going on around me, I speak. “So why are you here?”

  “I came to say hi. To see how things are going.”

  “They’re good. Dalcia is—“ I say and turn to say something to Dalcia, or perhaps have her say it, but she’s down by the lakes, squatting and staring at the waves coming in. “Dalcia!” I yell.

  She spins around, and I wave her over.

  “Was it a good night?” Turing asks, straight faced.

  I sense Ben leaning in to hear the answer. “She’s mourning, Turing.”

  “What did you think I meant?”

  “Well, she’s getting over it.” I stare at the beard on Turing’s face a little more. “I don’t remember telling you about Ben.”

  “I think you did. How else would I know about him?”

  Dalcia’s feet crunch louder on the sand and she’s next to me, kicking up sand as she stops and places her hands on her hips. “What?”

  “I almost forgot,” Turing says out loud. He pulls out a thermos from behind his back and thrusts it to me.

  Had that hand been behind his back this entire time? I take the thermos, and open it. Coffee, fresh, and from the smell of it the good strong stuff. “Thanks,” I say and take a slow sip.

  “Of course,” Turing says, beaming.

  “Well?” Dalcia asks again.

  I offer her coffee. She takes a sip and makes a face. I offer Ben, and he takes a larger sip and makes a brave whiskey face.

  “What were the three of you doing?” Turing asks.

  “Just getting up,” I say. “And Ben came along to chat.”

  “About?”

  “That’s a lot of questions,” Dalcia says.

  I place my hand up to stop her. “We’re just enjoying some time here, Turing.”

  “I was actually looking for someone to help with our new art studio,” Turing says, his eyes focusing on me, then for a nanosecond flashing towards Dalcia.

  Is the bastard listening? “We have an art studio?”

  “Yes. It will helps with a few things. So we want someone interested in art. We pay well.”

  Ben shakes his head when Turing looks over at him. “Not me, man. I’m the furthest thing from an artist.”

  Dalcia looks at Turing with one eye squinting. “You pay?”

  “The full deal. An apartment nearby so you can work and not worry about anything else. Are you interested in art?”

  When she glances at me, her face questioning, I give her a nod.

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Perfect.” Turing sticks out his arm.

  Dalcia shirks back for s split second, then takes hold of it.

  I feel like the ground below me has shifted as she walks off with Turing.

  “Damn,” Ben says letting a lungful of air, like he’s holding it the whole time. “That girl is beautiful. How do you know her?”

  “Me? I knew her brother. She just lost her family.” The two figures disappear. An uneasy feeling lingers in my stomach and I’m not sure why.

  Ben indicates with his head towards the fire. We sit back down.

  “Who’s that Turing guy?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “Money?”

  “Apparently. We’re working together,” I say. Then remember that I’m doing things for Turing for money. I’m working for him.

  “Well, anyone who wants to spend money on art... Well you know what they say.”

  “What?”

  “That whole spiel about art being in the halls of power and never the halls of the rebel.”

  “Never heard of it,” I say. The birds are no where to be seen, but the place hums with life as seagulls start dive bombing on the beach.

  “Ever come to a place and not know it’s real?” I ask.

  Ben laughs. “You smoking that devil weed again, George?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. Perhaps I’ve been taking things too seriously lately. Still, I don’t like Ben’s cavalier attitude. “He’s a robot. We’re trying to make things right.”

  Ben whistles after a second. “Fuck man. You sure about that? I mean...” He stands up, picks up a stick and pokes at the weakened, charred logs. “A robot, huh?”

  That smell, of solidified smoke, fills the air, before a cold crisp breeze takes it away.

  “Yep,” I say, looking him over, trying to see what his thought process is.

  “Looks like a guy.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  He whistles.

  I look off at the distant row of mountains. In the daylight they’re dark purple humps, oscillating int he distance.

  “You were saying that the bomb in Manhattan wasn’t you?”

  My mind doesn’t want to focus on that, I’m almost certain I’ve been over this before. “Yeah. They pinned it on me. I was in the building. They were softening me up.” I feel that weakness in my body.

  “Torture, you mean?”

  Never heard Ben say that before. “Yeah.”

  “Fuck.”

  “They were only starting.” I waved my hand at nothing in particular. “No one can hold out forever.”

  Ben takes this in, shivers. “I guess not.”

  “Only in fairy tales,” I say, angrily, since he doesn’t seem to believe me.

  The waves grow larger, pushing Ben’s canoe a little more. We walk over and pull it farther inland. Sitting back when we’re done.

  “They caught you, tortured you. Then pinned the entire thing on you.”

  “Yup.”

  “Said you were ISIS. Offered all sorts of evidence... I’ll admit, that even I believed it when I saw it.”

  “It’s meant to be believed.” I visualize the bombings that Turing had shown me earlier. “And there’s no way they showed any evidence. There was none. They don’t operate that way. They must have said they had evidence and left it at that.”

  Ben seems to agree though he doesn’t use any words.

  “That’s fucked up,” he says after a few more waves splashed on the beach.

  “That they would lie?”

  “That you seem to take it like it’s an everyday thing.”

  I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

  “And you wouldn’t plant a few bombs to get back?”

  “Not to target innocent people.” My heart stops. Never thought I’d say that.

  Ben whistles.

  My mind runs paranoid. Is he some agent, being paid to goad me into saying, doing something horrendous. To plot something?

  “Don’t get paranoid on me.” Ben laughs.

  I laugh too. “We’re not there yet. We use the constitution and we make this country a better place.” I hold out my hand as if I’m trying to grasp this abstract thought. My voice doesn’t even sound like me.

  Ben shake his head. “Thought you were smarter than that. You know those with power want you to do that. So they mark you and chuck you aside. Th
e system is broken. How can it not be? Even rednecks my way are talking about it.”

  “You want me to start it up, don’t you?”

  Ben doesn’t react, though I think he nods.

  “Keep doing what you’re doing, but stay out of trouble. We may need you yet.”

  “I have guns. I have ratlines up and down the West coast and the mountains. Some to the East coast.”

  “We’ll have to be careful. No emails. No cells. No electronics.”

  “Got it.”

  We hug and I watch as he paddles out to the horizon.

  When I turn I’m not surprised to see Turing.

  “Your friend?”

  “Yup.” Should I push him on the fact that he knew more about Ben than he should have? “Great friend.”

  “He’ll be helping us.”

  It doesn’t sound like a question. “I’m not sure if you’re eavesdropping on us, Turing, but you shouldn’t play your hand if you are.”

  “Oh, you’re perturbed by me knowing a little more than a human being would?”

  Is he boasting? I’m not sure. “Yeah, something like that.”

  He starts walking back, and I follow. We walk past the grass, the sandy hills and the hills seem clearer and realer than ever. But when we push into a hedge that’s ten feet high and obscures our view of the hills, I find myself face to face with the wall and the door. The air goes out of my lungs. I’m in over my head, I think, then decide that perhaps there’s another way around this feeling.

  “Nice. Is that wall painted like hills?”

  Turing looks at me funny as we enter the hallway with stone walls, the air damp, the smell of moss, old water, filling my nose. “No.”

  We’re in the elevator. It moves up, silent, hardly even a slight pull from the acceleration. Now it smells like a new car.

  I notice his beard again. “Where’s Dalcia?” I say, suddenly not trusting the fleshy-metal man in front of me.

  “She’s enjoying herself. She’s in charge of an art studio. Unlimited funding. We’re going to be huge.”

  “Nice. Where’s the studio again?”

  “North of Chelsea. We’re getting more all around. We’ll put her in charge when we do. She’s a natural.”

  I feel better. “That’s great. She likes art.”