The deadfall collapses. He hears muffled sounds, fading. He swings open the door, brandishing the table leg, baring his teeth.
Peach preserves have spurted over the floor. He lifts the tabletop off the ground. He peers under it. Nothing but squashed peaches. The rats have escaped.
He travels through the dust, unspooling the fishline. Dust billows up. He stops, listens for rats. He hears nothing. He continues on.
He squints his eyes, breathing through the cloth over his mouth. He drops to his knees, pushing his hands into the dust. He takes up the keys, stands. He gropes his way to the wall.
He returns. His mother's door is ajar, splinters of wood scattering the floor.
He raises the table leg. He kicks the door open.
His mother lies where he left her, unharmed. Beside her, leaning against the edge of her bed, is his father. "Come here, Brey," his father says. Brey hesitates in the doorway, club half-raised. "This is not a game, dear Brey," says his father. "Am I understood?" Brey nods. His father rises, takes the table leg from Brey's hand, throws it out into the hall. He raps his knuckles hard against Brey's plaster forehead.
"Brey?" he says. "Brey?"
He turns the tabletop upside down. He sops up the peaches, flushing them down the toilet. He unravels a strip of cloth from his mother while she sleeps. Dipping the cloth into the toilet, he uses it to swab the floor.
Perhaps he can strike a bargain with the rats. Perhaps a truce might not be impossible.
He screws the legs back into the table, but leaves the tabletop upside down on the floor. He ties the strip of cloth to a table leg as a white flag. He leaves three jars of peaches next to the flag, proof of his goodwill.
He is willing to offer the rats something in exchange for a little peace. He is willing to exchange something valuable for the right to collect keys. Even something of great value. His father, for instance.
Limit.
Days pass. The jars of peaches remain. The rats do not come.
He tips the tabletop onto its side. He drags it over to block the bathroom door. The flag drags across the floor, turning gray. He unties the flag from the table leg, carries it to his mother, draping it across her calves.
There are keys to be collected. He has been told that he should collect keys. He will collect keys.
He is at the outer edge of the intersection, near the spool, holding a ring of keys. He follows the fishline back, trying the keys at each door, without avail.
He listens to his own footsteps. He stops abruptly. Behind him footsteps continue an instant, stop. Whirling around, he sees nothing.
He continues forward. Behind him, a light sputters out. He turns his head, peering backward into the fresh darkness. He feels the fishline vibrate. He starts to run.
He lumbers forward, crossing dusty intersections. He reaches the spool of fishline, stops long enough to heave it up and struggle on. The fishline plays out through his legs, shuttling to and fro across the spool. On one side of the spool appears a strip of exposed wood, growing wider as the fishline plays out. He crosses three dust-filled intersections and enters clean halls. He stoops to pick up a set of keys, hurries to the next intersection. He plucks up another set of keys and lumbers forward, the keys hooked awkwardly over two fingers. He stumbles, breathing hard, shifting the spool's weight to one side, to the hand without keys in time to scoop up a final set of keys.
The fishline pulls stiff between his legs, spool growing solid before his thigh, drawing him up short. The line breaks, he is thrown forward. Keys jingling, he tumbles down. Brey has run out of fishline.
[THREE]
Brey, at Rest.
He lies splayed near the spool. He rolls his body over, stares up at the ceiling. He lifts a hand to his face, tracing a crack running from the upper edge of the mask down to his eye. He draws a deep breath.
Perhaps it would be best to pretend to be dead. Perhaps it would be best to deceive the rats. Perhaps it would be best to wait until the rats approach his body, thinking it a corpse, and then kill them.
He has memorized the rat books. He has begun to think like a rat.
He hears the sound of footsteps at some distance. He lifts his head, straining to see through a mask gone skew. "You are lying in the middle of the hall, Brey."
Craning his neck, he glimpses the upper half of his father.
"Me?" says Brey.
"Is there anyone else?" says his father.
"You?" says Brey.
"Lying down, for God's sake," says his father. "Is there?"
Brey looks across the level of the floor. He turns his head to the other side, looks. He turns back to his father, shakes his head.
"Get up," says his father.
Brey does not move.
"Don't be difficult, Brey."
His father straddles him, reaching down to slide his palms under his back. Straining, he drags Brey to his feet.
Brey lets his knees turn to water, refusing to support his own weight.
Grunting and staggering, his father hugs him to his side with one arm. He strikes Brey in the throat with his other fist. He bares his teeth, bites Brey on the ear.
He lets go. He moves back his bloody mouth. Shaken, the boy stands.
The moment his father is out of sight, Brey lies down. He is not afraid of rats. He is protected by his boots, his keys, his mask.
The only thing he fears for are his eyes. The eyeholes of the mask are large enough to allow snouts. As he kills rats, he must remember to shield his eyes with one hand.
He lies in the hall, alone. The rats are clever. They have not come. They plan to starve him.
He turns his face to the floor. He pulls himself to the wall. Bracing his hands against the wall, he rises to his knees, sways to his feet.
His bones are sore. His tongue cleaves as if his mouth were packed with dust. The keys hang heavy upon him. He can feel his father's teeth still clinging to his ear.
He gathers the scattered keys, hanging them upon his hooks. Leaving the spool on the floor, he follows the fishline back.
If the rats are waiting in the darker hallways, he can do little to avoid them. It would be safer to take another route back, but he will not leave the fishline. Despite his father's misgivings, he must keep to the fishline.
The path turns away from the terminal wall. He follows the fish-line as it runs straight, turns, turns, continues straight, turns again. The path is not as he remembers it. Yet there are no keys in the intersections of his path. He is following the right path.
He continues. He stops when he reaches a dust-filled intersection. The dust was not here before. Perhaps the dust has been moved here. By the rats, to torment him.
He moves through three intersections filled with dust. He travels through each, stepping lightly.
He looks to one side. He sees that the intersections to either side of his path are free of dust. A second glance, and he sees that there are no keys in those intersections.
Logic: If he has not explored the intersections, there would be keys. If he has, there would be fishline. If not one, the other. Yet there are neither.
"Father?" Brey cries, turning circles. "Father?"
On Blame.
He waits in the middle of the hall for his father to come. His father does not come.
His father has lied. His father chose to collect keys. Otherwise, there would be keys in all of the intersections which Brey has not explored. His father has betrayed him.
Yet, suppose it were not his father but the rats?
Rats are collectors, according to Our Friend the Rat. If they discover a glittering object, they will bring it back to their nest.
Keys do not glitter, but they catch light. The rats might take keys for two reasons: a) the keys catch light or b) to persecute Brey. Nothing must be blamed on his father. Everything can be blamed on the rats.
But should it? Perhaps his father and the rats are working together against him, his father's hatred of rats a cover-up for his fath
er's hatred of his son.
Brey will return to his rooms. He will return to confront his father, to force him to reveal the truth. This time Brey will not be easily satisfied.
His Desk.
Turning a corner, he comes to the end of the fishline.
In the middle of an otherwise empty intersection stands his desk, all the drawers missing but one. One of the legs has been gnawed off, the stump of it lying near Brey, the fishline wound around it.
He winds the fishline around his hand, reeling the leg to him. It must have taken a vast number of rats to carry his desk through the halls. The two rats that have escaped his father have multiplied.
He opens the remaining drawer. Within, a canteen and three jars of peach preserves. His papers are missing, perhaps destroyed. He closes the drawer.
Leaving the desk, he follows the fishline out. Ten intersections later, he reaches the new end of his fishline.
He lifts it, examines it. The end of the fishline is neither stretched nor curled nor deformed. It has been cleanly cut. He has lost his rooms.
His Wandering.
He attaches one end of the shortened fishline to the desk. To the other, he attaches the broken desk leg. He holds onto the leg as he explores the halls, reeling and unreeling the fishline as if the leg were a spool.
The fishline reaches to a distance of ten intersections. He maps a roughly diamond-shaped area, ten intersections in each cardinal direction, less for those intersections which he cannot approach directly. He does not find keys.
Using a key, he scratches a map onto the surface of the desk. He codes "O" for intersections without keys, " ― " and "|" for hallways. If he finds intersections with keys, he will record them with an "X."
He explores in every direction. He reaches the limit of his fishline. Within his range are no keys to collect, no new hallways, no terminal walls, no windows. He sits on the floor near the desk, eating the last of his peaches. His fingers are stained yellow, his mask glazed below the mouth. The crack in the forehead of the mask has spread wider, exposing the cloth beneath.
He licks his fingers. He stands and sets out, exploring again the same halls.
He chooses a direction, follows the fishline to its end. His father stands one intersection farther, well out of his reach.
His father cups his hands around his mouth. "Brey!" his father calls. Brey lifts the desk leg up, shows his father the fishline attached to it. His father, squinting, moves a few steps closer. "Where is the spool?" says his father. "Cut," Brey says. "Rats." "Are you sure it was rats, Brey?" "Not rats?" says Brey.
"Whoever cut it did you a favor. You must leave the fishline."
Brey shakes his head.
"Come here, Brey," says his father.
Brey does not move.
"Who gave you life, Brey?" says his father. "Is that where I went wrong?"
Brey takes a step backward. He turns, flees. His father remains motionless, watching him run.
He takes hold of the desk and pulls. The desk groans toward him, listing toward the corner missing the leg. Walking backward, he drags the desk after him.
He pulls the desk into the next intersection. Unreeling his fishline, he explores the additional hallways he can reach from there.
There are no keys in the new intersections. He returns to the desk, scratching his findings onto the surface. He pulls the desk forward an intersection, sets out.
The desktop is covered with scratches. He humps the desk forward. He travels to a new intersection, this one filled with dust.
He closes his eyes. He drops to his knees, poking his fingers forward. He finds no keys.
He drags the desk forward one intersection, sets out. Beyond the first dust-filled intersection is a second. He drops to his knees, wades in. He stands, coughing, his hands empty. He returns to the desk, carves his findings into it.
A third dust-filled intersection and the dust ends. The next intersection is as empty of keys as all the others. As is the next, the next, the next.
He searches for his rooms. The halls are not infinite ― he once reached a terminal wall. Eventually he must find his rooms.
He has nothing to eat. He has not slept. He pulls the desk forward.
Some of the halls are dark, others lit. None have keys. He travels with great speed when there are no keys to collect. The desk is covered over with interlapped marks which tell him nothing. He does not know where to scratch his next mark. He finds the space with the least number of other marks and scratches his mark there.
He has explored an unknown number of intersections in an unknown amount of time. Had there been keys in these intersections, his back would now be broken. But there have been no keys.
He unties the fishline from the broken desk leg. He opens the desk drawer. Empty peach jars are stuck to the floor of the drawer by their syrup. He breaks the jars free, their bases shearing off, leaving jagged circles of glass.
He puts the broken desk leg into the desk. He ties the fishline around his waist, decreasing its range by a meter. To compensate, he moves the desk a meter closer to the edge of the intersection.
The intersections are similar. None have keys. None have dust. None
lead to his hall. He moves the desk forward. He keeps on.
His Keys.
He stands in an intersection, leaning slightly forward. The fishline is taut behind him. He takes a set of keys from his arm. He drops it onto the floor. The keys clink when they hit. Clink.
Leaving the keys in the intersection, he walks backward toward the desk.
Once there, he turns around again, returns to the intersection. On the floor he sees a set of keys, the first in a long while.
The keys have returned.
His father sits cross-legged in an intersection. Brey touches his ear, hugs the wall, nods in passing.
"Still collecting, Brey?" says his father, reaching out to touch Brey's arm.
"Collecting keys," Brey says. He removes a ring of keys from his hooks, shows it to his father.
"Shall we be friends again?" his father says. Brey hesitates, nods.
His father stands, opens his arms, moves forward. Trapped against the wall, Brey must meet the embrace.
He travels the halls, dropping keys in intersections. There are keys to collect now in every intersection. His load gets no heavier.
He collects the keys one set at a time. He returns, trying each key in each door.
Advantages: Brey is satisfied. The weight on his back will never increase. His back will never break. He will collect keys until he starves.
Disadvantages: He has not slept. He has no food, he has no water. He will never find his rooms unless he stops re-collecting the keys. He is as good as dead.
He collects keys, checks the doors, marks the map. The surface of the desk is mutilated. He runs his hand over the desktop. His palm comes away shot through with splinters.
As he walks, the fishline becomes entangled about his knees. His steps grow shorter. The fishline slides, slips down, spools loosely about his ankles. He shuffles forward, tottering stiffly from side to side. Ahead lies a set of keys. He moves forward.
The line tightens. His ankles come together. He tries to continue forward. He sways. He stretches his hands toward the keys and pitches forward.
[FOUR]
His Back
His father never said, "Stay attached to the fishline." His father never said, "Someday you will run out of fishline." His father never said, "You must be careful ― the fishline might become entangled around your feet."
There are many things his father never said.
What his father did say was, "Are you certain collecting keys is the right choice?" Brey is not certain.
He shakes his head. The shards of plaster still clinging to the cloth click together. He eases himself over to his back. He tries to move his legs apart, finds them bound together.
He lies on the ground, body still. He stares at the light bulb.
Slivers of plaste
r scatter the floor. He raises his broken face. His father's face leans into his own, warmly. His father tugs on the rags covering his face, tearing free a shard of plaster. He turns the shard in his hand, flicks it aside.
"What has happened to your face, Brey?" asks his father. Brey turns his face away. He father reaches out, cups his son's chin in his palm. He forces his son's face to look at him. "Stand up, Brey," his father says.
Brey does not stand. His father grabs the straps of his harness. His father heaves on the straps, raises him slightly off the floor. Brey stiffens his body. His father lets him fall.
Moving back a step, he kicks Brey in the temple. Brey grits his teeth.
His father stoops, inspects the side of Brey's head, caresses his temple. He rises, takes Brey by the boots, drags him down the hall. Brey bends his knees, kicks them swiftly into his father's stomach.
His father lets go, stumbles bent and staggering. He stands wide-legged above Brey, catching his breath.
"This is for your own good, Brey," says his father.
Grabbing his straps, he drags Brey down the hall. Brey digs his fingers and heels into the floor, shaking his shoulders until his father releases him.
"I have given you slack, Brey," says his father. "But too far is too far."
His father kneels. He removes a set of keys from Brey's hooks, casts it aside. He removes another, casts is aside. Another, another, another.
He continues to remove keys until Brey bites his hand. Cursing, his father rises, departs.
Comes a pressure on one side of his face. He does not move. A shape crosses his eye, rubbing against the eyelid. It moves to cover the other eye. Where it touches his face, it is warm, soft. Covered with hair.
Rat.
He struggles to move his legs. His legs are bound in fishline. They do not move. He tries to lift his head but the rat is too heavy. He twists his neck sideways. The rat claws at cloth and shard, sliding off his face.
The New Weird Page 22
