by Ellis Knox
“His middle name is Thucydides, an affectation from his mother, I’m told.”
The professor’s tone was mercilessly superior.
“Told you so,” Nik said, and winked at me again. I started to tell him to stop doing that, when Bessarion interrupted.
“The door is open.”
I had missed it. I was sure he’d performed some simple trick, a bit of deception the Firsters could use to make themselves seem like they had secret knowledge. Why else were we to stand away? But I said nothing. The professor had indeed “got the jump on me,” to use Nik’s Americanism, and I retreated to the security of skeptical silence.
Bessarion ushered us through the open doorway with the solemnity of a priest. As I stepped through, I looked it over, and emerged more baffled than before.
The door was thick as a fist, solid iron, which would have made it impossible heavy. The door frame, too, was iron, and the molding was on both sides, six inches wide and three thick. The door was sealed in place. It could not be opened, yet there it stood, swung wide.
The whole thing was impossible. The door was too heavy to move, should be brittle with rust, and couldn’t open anyway because it was blocked by its own frame, which itself appeared to have somehow grown into the granite. How had such a door even been transported here? And what did it guard?
A metallic clang sounded behind me. I did not even need to look back to know it had closed. I turned anyway, of course. Whatever look I had on my face at that moment, Bessarion ignored it as he resumed his position in the lead.
“Do you think Fournier made it through?” Nik asked.
“Certainly,” the professor said. “Temur knows the same secrets as our own Bessarion. Moreover, had the door stopped him, he would have long since returned to the surface world like the others.”
The phrase surface world sent a chill through me. We truly had left one world and entered another. A world, among other wonders, of impossible doors. I scolded myself for missing vital information and resolved to keep an eagle’s eye from now on.
“From here on,” Nik said, “we all follow Beso’s lead.” He spoke as to all, but he was looking at me.
“Haven’t we been doing so all along?” I asked, a little irritated at being singled out.
When we next stopped to camp, Nik limited us to a partial cup of water each.
“Are we being rationed now?” I asked.
“Merely a precaution,” Nik said.
“In case we do not find more.”
“We shall find more,” Henrik said firmly.
“Because those who went before us must have, isn’t that correct?”
“It is.”
“I suggest another possibility,” I said.
“Which is what?”
“Those who went before us are all dead. They died of thirst, either up ahead or else on some alternate route, clawing at stone in the darkness.”
“Miss Lauten,” Henrik said, “please reserve your lurid prose for your newspaper readers.”
“I thought you might want a sample,” I said. “Before you’re too parched to appreciate it.”
“There is no other path because Fournier is led by Temur. In any event, you underestimate how long we can manage on even just a few swallows a day. Water is ahead, you may count on it.”
“I do, professor, believe me, I do count on it. We all do.”
I continued to fret in silence. The professor’s reasoning about water had not only failed to persuade me, it had given me fresh cause to worry. I had expected some sort of logic from him, a scientific argument for why we might find water soon. I fancied I myself could come up with a few. There were, after all, underground springs and rivers. Why should there not be such things at a deeper level?
But Queller had instead relied only on the—as yet unconfirmed—evidence of others who had gone before. There was no sign of failure, therefore they must have succeeded. This logic was almost that of a child, or a simpleton. Or a madman. I reflected that the professor’s high spirits might derive not so much from enthusiasm as from delusion, that his confidence stemmed less from knowledge than from romanticism, if not monomania. The more I considered, the more my concern grew.
The next day I woke up thirsty, and the limited water did little to help. I took up my position in the marching order, leaning heavily on my walking staff. I called up a picture of the beech forests of my home, but I was no longer sure I was remembering them aright. Their dark trunks kept turning into gray stone, and when I peered through them to the Baltic Sea, there was only darkness. We were five frail beings crawling through the belly of the earth, searching for dead men, guided by legends.
So preoccupied was I by these worries, I did not notice the cavern until we stopped inside it. I gasped aloud at the scale, then again at the peculiar sight.
I became aware we had stopped because I nearly ran into Nik. I looked past him. Beso was in the lead, lantern held high, but its light was swallowed up and I saw nothing beyond. Only the quality of sound gave any hint of what was ahead.
We had emerged at last from the unending tunnel and stood now upon a wide ledge that could have held four times our number. The cavern was enormous, far too big for our lanterns to illuminate its dimensions. I could see neither its floor nor its ceiling. The walls to either side curved away into shadow. Professor Queller struck his Alpenstock sharply against the stone. The sound seemed to get lost in darkness, only to return to us several seconds later, oddly distorted.
“Hah,” he exclaimed, “I would have the skeptics see this. The earth is manifestly not solid! If a space this vast can exist, why not still greater ones, large enough to encompass whole cities or continents?”
“How are we go get down?” I asked.
“Rope,” Nik said, “unless someone here knows how to fly.”
Cosmas rummaged in his magic bag and pulled out a great quantity of rope. He found a rock, almost a stalagmite protruding from the ground, looped the rope around this, and passed both ends over the side. When the rope did not reach the bottom, he pulled it back up and tied a second rope to the first. Eventually, both ropes showed slack. It hung over the side like a rope ladder with no rungs.
He pulled it back up.
Bessarion now announced we should take time to eat. Professor Queller noted somewhat huffily that it was rather early for a midday meal, but the dwarf insisted, saying there would be no chance to eat later. He did not explain but fell at once to fussing about with the rope.
We ate in silence. An oddly apprehensive mood settled over us, as if we had all peered into a fearsome abyss even though it looked plain enough. I wanted to ask if some horrible trap lay before us, but Bessarion was humming busily as he worked. It was not a happy sort of tune but was rather dispiriting, repeating the same few phrases over and over. I looked at Niklot, who merely shrugged a reply.
We were scarcely finished when Bessarion announced it was time. Cosmas took up a position near the edge, rope in hand.
“Niklot Thesiger first,” Cosmas said.
“No,” Bessarion said, “it must be me.”
The ogre shrugged and handed the dwarf the rope. Beso tied the rope around his middle, handed his Alpenstock to Cosmas, looped a length of rope around one wrist, and went over the side. In a moment I saw how this worked. By keeping one rope around his middle, Beso used the other to lower himself. Once on the ground, he unfastened himself and Cosmas hauled one end up again.
“When you go,” Niklot said to me, “mind you keep hold of both ropes. Wrap your legs before moving your hands, and wrap your hands before letting go with your legs. Watch me; the first bit is the trickiest. Remember,” he said, putting his hand on my arm, “keep hold of both lines. If you fall, I’m only going to jump out of the way.”
He squeezed my arm to signal he was joking. He had somehow managed to worry me and reassure me simultaneously.
Niklot went down next, then the professor. Then it was my turn.
Going over the side
was indeed the most anxious moment, but Cosmas was most kind and helpful. He had me familiarize myself with the rope first. When I lay on my belly with my feet hanging over the drop, my heart pounded and sweat coated my back and face. The knots, though, felt secure. I soon found I could ease my way down with only a small sense of peril. When I touched solid ground again and Niklot gave me a “well done”, I truly felt I merited it. As we stood waiting for the ogre, I felt even more fully a member of the expedition. Having come through so much, I was ready for anything.
The Tangle
Cosmas came last. I supposed we would have to abandon the rope, but the ogre had it all planned. That rock stump served as a stanchion. The ogre lowered himself in the same manner as we all had. When he untied himself at the bottom, he simply pulled at one end until the whole length of rope lay at his feet. It was a marvel of simplicity, but the others seemed to regard it as routine.
The light from the lanterns was sufficient to show we stood in a kind of foyer, the walls of which were black and smooth. A single doorway stood across from us, as open as a mouth. Like walking into the mouth of the underworld, I thought, then mocked myself bitterly, for I was already under the world.
Bessarion gathered us close and spoke to us as to a group of strangers.
“It is the Tangle,” Beso said. “You will now listen to me.”
I thought to myself, We’ve been listening to you all along.
“We will enter a room together. We will exit a room together. No one is separated, not even by a few feet.”
“Stay close,” Niklot said. “Understood.”
Beso looked skeptical.
“The Tangle is many rooms. The walls move. There are many ways to be lost and only one way through.” He began humming that tuneless tune again.
“Does Temur know the way?” I asked.
“You are speaking, not listening.”
I almost shot back a retort, but at a look from Niklot, I stayed silent.
“There is an old song. The dwarves of Weissbach and the Alte Alp know this song. Most think it is a nonsense song, but is not. It is an Ancient Wisdom.”
Again I wanted to scoff, but both Niklot and Henrik looked so serious, I said nothing. But I did reflect that if I bit my tongue much more, I’d have no tongue left.
“You must stay close, for the walls move. Do not speak to me, do not distract me. It is a very long song.”
“I repeat my warning. Follow me. We enter the maze, the greatest of all the Troll Gates. We must never lose sight of each other. If you get lost, you are lost forever.”
This sounded ominous enough, but I had confidence that if one of our number strayed, we’d be able to find him again. I confess I was thinking of the professor.
“The walls of the maze move,” Bessarion continued. “If we go to the right, they move one way; to the left, they move another. The maze tries to trap you; that is its purpose.
“I am going to start the step song. Once I start, do not stop me. Only the song can lead us through the maze. If I get even one step wrong, we will all die here.”
“You’ve never been through, have you?” Niklot said, his voice hollow.
Bessarion’s chin went up. “I know the song,” he said. “No one gets through who does not know the song.”
Niklot glanced at me with a wan smile. “Don’t interrupt the dwarf,” he said.
Bessarion began humming again. It was an irksome tune, endlessly repeating without ever quite being identical. It did indeed sound like a children’s song. My heart sank as I realized this was the very song that was supposed to preserve my life.
And now he was dancing.
Or hopping, at least, on one foot then the other, then in patterns that dissolved as quickly as they formed. I was about to offer a snide observation about dwarves and dancers when he spoke aloud to us as he danced.
“Be ready. Stay close.”
I renewed the grip on my lantern. In that dark, chill place, sweat formed at my neck.
Abruptly, he was off. We kept our same order of march—the dwarf, three humans with Ruhmkorff lamps held high, then the ogre with his trägersack. Our shadows hurried after. The echoes of our footsteps slunk away.
Through the doorway, we entered a small, rectangular room with no other doors. The walls were devoid of decoration or even of relief; they were as dark and featureless as a shadow. Bessarion executed an odd series of steps to one side, then forward, and a door appeared ahead.
Or seemed to. As Bessarion had said, the walls moved. Each wall was a blackness moving through black, and in the moving either formed a doorway or simply left an opening. Only the merest change in the quality of darkness showed there was a door at all. The dwarf hurried forward with a gesture and we hastened to follow. I took a quick look over my shoulder to see that the first opening no longer existed. Stay close, he’d said. I resolved to stay as close as the purse on his belt.
The next room was larger, more square than rectangle, but was just as featureless. Again Bessarion’s feet performed a curiously aimless shuffle. This time, I heard what sounded like words, but I couldn’t make them out. I guessed they were Old Dwarvish. As if in response to the song, walls moved, doors appeared in front and disappeared behind, and we followed the dwarf into the next room.
So we went. The walls moved in whispers, an uncanny sound that made me think of castles and ghosts. Beso sang continuously. For a time I tried to sort out if the lines in Old Dwarvish were also repetition, but gave it up. The place was so haunted with half-seen movement and dark sounds, I concentrated on just staying close to my compatriots. With each door that opened, I hoped to see the end of the Tangle. I began to feel as though I were holding my breath.
The walls moved by an ancient magic I could only guess at. Phlogiston might be involved, but this was otherwise utterly mysterious and eldritch power, veiled but brutal. A magic to move mountains.
One of the greatest accomplishments of the modern world is to explain miracles, to place the supernatural firmly under the hand of Science. There are still unknowns, of course, even mysteries. But there is nothing incomprehensible. All is within reach if not yet in our grasp.
Or so I had always thought.
Queller's expedition was upending my careful understanding of the world. We had come charging through like a boy toppling a tower of blocks, and these walls that responded to a singing dwarf had scattered those blocks to far corners. I was not merely confronted by mysterious powers; I’d been swallowed by them.
I do not wish to sound overwhelmed. On the contrary, I looked forward to more revelations. There would be time yet to construct a new tower of understanding, with new blocks. But I was coming to appreciate that I had entered a world filled with powerful forces whose nature I barely comprehended.
Bessarion the dwarf sang us deeper into the maze. We turned and turned again until none of us had any sense of direction remaining. My legs grew weary and my stomach complained—by such crude measures I determined we had been in the maze for hours.
Every room looked like every other: blank. Some were larger or smaller. After a time, I noticed that the roof of the cavern had descended and there was now a ceiling. Other than that, we might have been returning endlessly to the same room. This was truly the most terrible of all the Troll Gates. If I had got separated, I would have been lost, instantly and forever. We were a tiny boat in a sea of rooms.
One room only differed from the rest, not by its appearance but by its contents. It held a body.
The corpse was not quite fully decomposed. Bits of dry flesh still hung from the bones, and most of the clothing was still intact. It lay on the black floor turned over to one side, its head staring sightlessly upward. A wave of pity washed through me. How many doors had this poor wretch passed through? How many screams of despair had he hurled against these deaf walls? I shuddered. I wanted only to get out.
Then Professor Queller darted to the side. A broken Alpenstock lay at the man’s side, still grasped in a bony
hand. Queller picked up the stick, but the dead hand held fast.
“Uncle!” Nik hissed as loud as he dared.
Bessarion chanted louder. The next opening appeared, and he went forward.
“Professor,” I cried out. This was my darkest fear playing out. The professor would be lost, and we with him. Almost without thinking I pushed Niklot forward. He resisted, reaching out to his uncle.
The ogre next broke rank. In two quick strides he crossed the space between us and the body. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bessarion in the glow of his lantern—he was already in the next room. I cried out again. Any moment the walls would move and we would be lost.
Cosmas grabbed hold round the professor’s waist, lifting him bodily. He spun, and as he did so the bony fingers holding the staff shattered. White fragments went flying over the black stone. The ogre sprinted into the next room, carrying Queller. Nik and I raced to follow. The wall snapped inches behind me like a mouth closing.
My heart hammered; I gasped for breath, but the next opening was already appearing. Bessarion finished his chant and spared one moment to glance over his shoulder. His eyes were big as silver groats.
And then we were out. It may have been four more rooms, or maybe five. All was a blur after the professor’s mad dash. We passed through yet another moving wall and came to a stop. Only gradually did I realize the walls around us were gray rather than black, that the ceiling was again high overhead, and that Bessarion was no longer chanting.
Niklot dropped to the ground with a groan. Cosmas spoke softly to the professor, who shook his head in reply. My legs were trembling. The dwarf regarded us with the stern look of a schoolmaster.
“You interrupted me,” he said.
“It was necessary,” Professor Queller said. “You neglected to tell us that your magic incantation was the rope song.”
Bessarion shrugged.
“What?” I said. I’m afraid my powers of reasoning had not yet fully returned. Queller elaborated.
“It is old and rather obscure now,” the professor said. “It’s a children’s game. They make a kind of web with ropes—I’ve never actually seen it myself—around one of the children. The others move the ropes in various patterns while singing a song. The one trapped has to know what each verse means in order to escape.”
