“We aren’t actually using very much line at all,” she concludes, “because every time we retrace our steps and I wind the line back in, it leaves only the bit along the direct route.”
“I know,” Dad responds, flashing the torchlight back up the corridor that led to the entrance, “and even though we’ve been walking for quarter of an hour, we’re only about fifty or sixty metres from where we started, I’m guessing. At least it should be very quick to get out. You all ok?” The girls nod and Dad turns the torchlight back to their direction of travel.
They rarely speak as it feels wrong to disturb the solitude any more than they must. Leda clings tightly to Dad’s hand, the slack from their cord held between them. Soft footfalls on stone; heavy breathing; the swish of cloth and the creak of the straps of their daypacks or the shifting of the objects within; these are the only sounds. They all try to keep close, occasionally bumping into one another as a result, and they are very cautious not to get caught up in the line when they retrace their steps. At any suggestion that they might do so, Dad commands them to freeze, until they all untangle and Ilia gets the line wound back in.
The Labyrinth is more mournful than they could have imagined. Often they come across galleries and large rooms where their voices echo. These are unsettling in the torchlight as Dad can only sweep them with the light which, as it passes, leaves dark shadows and black corners and recesses where anything could be hiding. But these rooms make it feel more like a residence than they had expected, and each one of them seems to have a purpose; here is a dry fountain; here an empty trough; here a pool but full of sand. Nowhere, however, is there a hint of furniture. When they first pass through them they perform a quick search, but apart from the singular feature in any given room there is nothing else, so the search is easy, swift and disappointing. Often they have to backtrack through the same room as they retrace their steps, and they find that they pass more quickly through these fearful spaces.
Nowhere is there water, which gives the halls and corridors a dead, lifeless quality, like a desert of intersecting stone. They see nothing living; no scurrying rodents, no startled bats, not even a spider in a corner. There is nothing that hints of life, not even a lecherous moss or damp fungal growth; dry, dust, grey, stone – nothing more. Each of these galleries has a door, and they find that every door is closed but unlocked, opening silent and smooth at a push. They leave the doors open as they pass; Dad is worried that they doors might catch and cut their line. But when they must retrace back through a hall, Dad closes the doors behind them. He says that this way it will be easier to find their way back as they will know not to pass through any closed doorways.
They have already passed through a hall with a dusty circular fountain at its centre when they have a start; without retracing their steps they find themselves in it again. Dad stops short.
“Hell.”
“What is it Dad?” Danae asks as she and Ilia gather alongside. No one answers as they can all see the cause of Dad’s concern. The torch beam illuminates the fountain which they clearly remember, as Dad had commented on the Minoan hieroglyphs carved into the rim, one of which was the head of a bull. Dad turns to Ilia.
“We haven’t retraced our steps have we?”
Ilia turns around and gently pulls at the line she has been unravelling. Dad shines his torch on it; the synthetic material glints in the light, like a single strand of a spider web stretching back down the corridor behind them. Dad turns back around and sweeps the torchlight across the floor to see if the line is before them as well, which would indicate that they have come in a circle. They see no line, but there is a huddled pile of rags on the floor.
Dad illuminates it with a curious urgency.
“That wasn’t there the first time through.”
At first glance it appears as something long, wrapped in cloth. Could it be the Wings? But why did they not see them when they first passed through? And how have they come in a circle that is not traced by their trailing line? Is it something living, that has lain down here since they passed before?
Dad slowly approaches it, the girls lagging behind as much as their connecting cord will allow. It is about the size of a person, stretched out across the floor. Dad stands over it and tentatively prods it with his foot.
“What is it Daddy” asks Leda.
“Hang on sweetie, don’t come closer.” Dad squats down, bringing the torchlight immediately on top of it to inspect but, in doing so, with his intervening body, he obstructs the girls’ view of what he is seeing. He seems to prod at it again, lifting up an edge of the rags.
Expletive!!!
He jumps as he swears, springing up and backwards in alarm, nearly toppling over in the action.
“Dad?” Ilia asks. It is very unusual for Dad to swear in front of them. It must have been a serious fright. He is standing there, breathing heavily, still staring at it, but with the torch shining limply on the floor by his side.
“Dad?!” they all echo, with increasing concern.
“It’s a body. A skeleton.”
No one moves. Dad takes several deep breaths, then seems to recover and turns to them.
“It’s bones. Those are the clothes.” He turns back to their discovery. “Wait here…”
Dad approaches it again, squats down, deliberately placing himself between the object and his daughters, and inspects it once more. They see the torchlight panning up and down the length of it, and here and there Dad lifts some of the cloth to inspect that which lies underneath. Their shock starts to subside and their curiosity increases.
“Can’t we see?” one of them asks.
Dad turns in surprise. He might have expected this from Danae, but not from Leda. He looks at her incredulously.
“You want to look?”
Leda nods.
“It’s just like Warhammer Quest,” she says.
“I definitely want to see this,” agrees Danae.
“I’m not that bothered,” Ilia dissents.
Dad regards Leda briefly, then shrugs.
“I sometimes forget you’re the one who likes all the horror films. Ok, come here and have a look.”
Danae and Leda approach and squat down beside the body with Dad. Ilia – reluctant – stands slightly apart, but is now becoming curious also, peering over their shoulders.
Dad shines the torch up and down the body so they can inspect it. It has clearly been here a very long time. It still wears a cloak, which is caught up over the head, hiding what must be the skull. Underneath is a tunic, out of which the clean polished bones of the legs extend. It is probably no taller than Danae, but Dad suggests that, judging by the height of people in ancient times, it was probably a man. The dry air of the Labyrinth has done a remarkable job preserving the cloth. Although aged and greying, both cloak and tunic still demonstrate rich borders of what seem to be – by the way it shines in the torchlight – hems of golden thread. Sandals encase the bones of the feet like ribbed leather cages, although some of the tarsal bones have separated and still lie scattered where they fell, as if someone has been playing a game of knucklebones and become bored.
Dad retrieves his knife from his pocket and uses it to gently lift the cloak so they can see underneath. The cloth is surprisingly supple considering its great age. They see more of the tunic, and also what must have been a rich belt still looped where the waist should be. With a little more care, either through fear of what he may find or respect for the dead, Dad carefully uncovers the skull. It is rather disturbing; two bony sockets stare at them, and the bared teeth seem to grin.
“What’s that?” asks Ilia, who has now completely succumbed to her curiosity and is watching intently over Dad’s shoulder. She is pointing at the skull.
“That’s a fracture,” Dad answers. Although he has never done forensics as a doctor, he still recognises the appearance of bone shattered by trauma.
“You mean to say that someone has smashed this man’s skull?”
Dad nods.
“He had to die somehow.”
“But who would have done that?” Ilia sounds concerned.
Dad lets the cloth fall to cover the head again and stands up. Danae and Leda rise also. He regards the huddled figure thoughtfully.
“They remain where they fell and their bodies help distinguish one gallery from another.” From the absent tone he is clearly reciting something.
“Borges again?” asks Ilia. Dad nods.
“So you think this man is one of those killed by the Minotaur? Like three or four thousand years ago?”
“I suppose it must be.”
“Wow!” Despite being in the presence of a murdered man, the girls’ enthusiasm can perhaps be forgiven, considering they have uncovered a very tangible connection with one of the most famous stories of Greek mythology. It should be gruesome, but the events seem so distant and legendary that this holds little horror.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Ilia suddenly realises out loud, “because this wasn’t here when we came through before.”
“I know,” agrees Dad, “but that’s because we didn’t come through here before. All parts of the house are repeated many times, any place is another place. There is no one pool, courtyard, drinking trough, manger; the mangers, drinking troughs, courtyards pools are fourteen in number.” The girls all stare at Dad for a moment, trying to take in what he has recited.
“So you’re saying there are fourteen rooms the same as this one?” Danae sounds a little incredulous.
“That’s what Borges says. Although he specifies that when the Minotaur says fourteen he means an infinite number. Whether that’s because he could not count and so it seemed infinite, or because if you wander through the Labyrinth endlessly then you keep coming across the same rooms again and again as if they were infinite, I don’t know. But I always thought it was a story that Borges made up; if the Labyrinth even existed, I didn’t think it would be anything like how he describes it.” Leda offers the obvious answer:
“Maybe he had been here?” They all look at her, but no one responds. Their thoughts go back to the old man waiting for them at the top of the great Lightwell. But it cannot be; Dad said that Borges died long before any of them was born.
“Maybe he did,” says Dad dismissively, not wanting to ponder on the disturbing mystery at this precise moment. They have a task to do which requires all their attention. “Anyway, whatever the answer is, let’s move on.” He flashes the torch around the gallery again, half-expecting the light to reveal another skeleton. It does not, but there is something that glints a few paces away.
“What’s that?” Leda asks, but they are already moving towards it.
“Oh my God!” It is Leda’s sharp eyes that recognise it first. Within a moment though, they all do, and each one makes a similar exclamation. Standing over it, Dad reaches down and sweeps it up, holding it before the torch.
It is a short sword. Leda sums up their communal opinion:
“That is so cool!”
The sight of it is not that unfamiliar, as Dad has a Roman gladius at home, which is a similar sized weapon. This sword is symmetrical, with a broad leaf-shaped blade and small cross guards to protect the hand. They all study it as Dad turns it around in the torchlight.
“It’s in perfect condition,” he says as he tests the edges, “and still sharp,” although he sounds more concerned than enthusiastic about this observation. “It must have belonged to him.” Dad nods towards the figure lying behind them.
“Didn’t do him much good though, did it?” This is a statement from Danae, rather than a question, and she sounds inappropriately amused. “Do you think it is worth much?”
“Are you kidding?” Leda responds somewhat condescendingly, but then also turns to Dad for an answer.
“An original Greek sword in as-new condition found in the Labyrinth of Daedalus, used by some dead warrior to fight the Minotaur?” He does not need to say any more. “Only problem is, you’d struggle to find a buyer who’d believe you!”
“Well, we can take it with us anyway, can’t we Daddy?”
Danae answers before Dad can:
“Well he won’t need it any more, will he?”
After a final inspection Dad finds that it can slide into his daypack quite well, the hilts protruding over his shoulder almost as if in a custom-made scabbard. Danae nods approvingly:
“Just have to be careful when you take it out, not to slice your pack open!”
“That is the best souvenir ever,” Ilia adds.
This chamber has lightened their spirits a little and, as they continue on, there is – at first – a little more chat between them. But, within a few minutes, the utter darkness and shrouding silence unsettles them again and the talk dies away. So they continue on in silence, accompanied by the same soft sounds as before. They come upon another gallery, this time with a large central drain, identical to one they have also passed through. Here they find two more skeletons in clothing heaped on the floor, but no weapons or other artefacts. One of them is missing a skull and the other seems to have no bones to indicate a right arm. Perhaps rodents or other animals have carried them off, Leda suggests, but no one responds with the obvious observation that despite walking through these halls for nearly two hours now, no one has seen a single living thing. Also, Dad notices that the right scapula is missing, but says nothing of his suspicion that it might have been ripped off with the arm. One thing is clear; these ancient sacrifices died brutal deaths.
This chamber is a dead-end and they have to retrace their steps back through several rooms and a number of corridors to a previous turning, Ilia winding the line in all the time. Then they turn left and recommence their journey into the heart of the silent maze.
“About half the line is gone,” Ilia reports softly.
“Only 150 metres,” Dad extrapolates. “That’s incredible.” He turns to the girls: “shall we have a break in the next room?” They agree and continue on.
It is difficult to describe the feeling that is building within them; it is related to the darkness; it is born of it. They are increasingly aware of the complete blackness in which they are immersed, and the fragility of their tenuous grip on visibility. The Labyrinth is deep under the earth, hundreds of feet down, and the blackness here is so complete that it is like being submerged in ink. A couple of times Dad flicked off the torch accidentally, and the instantaneous immersion into the absolute darkness was alarming. It is so utterly lightless that nothing at all can be seen – not movement, not a hint of shape, not the slightest gleam or glimmer of a silhouette. No matter how much you strain your eyes or wait to adjust, nothing comes. Covering your eyes makes no difference at all, except for the sensation of touch. The hand itself, owned by you, finding its way to your face solely through proprioception, cannot at any stage be seen before it presses against your skin. Even the slight movement of air displaced by the moving hand can be felt, but nothing at all visualised. Sight does not exist in that blackness, and you are reduced to just four senses – hearing, touch, taste and smell.
They can hear the shuffling noises of those around them and their own breathing, both internal and external. They can feel the cool air on their bare skin; the soft friction and weight of the clothes that they wear; the pulling of the straps of their daypacks and the compression of their shoes laced around their feet. They can also feel the counterweight force from the floor pushing up through the soles of their shoes and transferring into the bones that hold them upright. They can smell themselves, dust, and little more. They taste the saliva in their mouths and whatever warm flavours their last ingestion has left. These are the sensations that are interpreted by their brains, but of sight there is nothing.
Except for the torch; it is the torch that gives them the Fifth Sense. Here in this place, this flimsy hand-held cylinder reliant on batteries and the contact of conducting metal, it changes the nature of existence entirely. Its beam bobs along in front, or swings from side to side, and wherever
it goes the illuminating beam brings vision, transforming the world, bringing knowledge and reassurance. But it is so tenuous. This tiny beam in all these echoing halls and corridors of blackness, it is the one place where vision exists. And as the beam passes, the world resubmerges into the sightless state that is its primordial nature. Nowhere else can such a small thing change your existence so completely. They are aware how much they rely upon it. The back-up torches in their own daypacks are some reassurance, but they are all artificial and all subject to failure. Should they fail, then Dad and the girls would be completely lost.
Their next left turn leads them into another chamber, this one unfamiliar. The cold light of Dad’s LED torch sweeps around the room, momentarily metamorphosing it to a state it has perhaps never known. There are two huddled piles on the floor which turn out to be more skeletons; these constant encounters with human remains, no matter how long dead, are making them nervous. Once they had been warm, speaking, breathing beings with thoughts and hopes and fears. They were selected and then forced to enter what must have been one of the most terrifying places in the known world when the Minotaur yet lived. Here they met such gruesome deaths in the darkness, torn literally limb from limb by bestial strength, or heads smashed into the stone floor, or impaled on the beast’s horns, and their warm lifeblood had seeped out in silence onto the cold stone. They had died far from family and friends and everything they had ever loved and known. Their sad, desolate remains had lain here in the dark for thousands of years long after everyone they had known had died and the language they had spoken was no more and the very civilisation they had belonged to had ceased to exist except in the Archaeological record. And Dad and the girls are now uncovering them, one by one, as they work their way towards the heart of the Labyrinth.
Despite wanting a rest they agree that they cannot do so accompanied by the dead, so they keep moving, hoping for a room that is truly empty. Left, left, left; the repetition becomes monotonous – especially when they realise they have come to a dead end and must backtrack several rooms and corridors to start again. Eventually they pause in a hallway, as they have not entered a room recently that is devoid of the bones of the slaughtered. It is not comfortable and it is not restful. At least walking had created a constant sound of steps and shuffling and rustling; now that they are sitting quietly the silence seems suffocating. And now that they are not moving Dad is reluctant to waste the torch batteries, but no one wants to sit in the dark, so he leaves the torch on; but it acts like a timer that they cannot ignore. Also, the torch beam is narrow and illuminates only where directed; it is not designed to light up an area. So although it provides light, this is at the expense of impenetrable dark shadows in each direction down the corridor; the girls’ imaginations fill this darkness with movement, and their over-strained ears detect sounds that do not exist. They do not “rest” for long.
The Progeny of Daedalus Page 17
