by KUBOA
***
The labyrinth smelt of loam. It reminded John of the time before the Minotaur and he were friends, when the boys at school would push his face into the dirt and pile on his back until their combined load robbed him of breath. Instead of his face being pressed into the ground, and the weight of half a dozen children on his back, his chest was being crushed by the dark mass that encircled both he and the Minotaur. The second thing John noticed was the Minotaur seemed to have a clear idea of where he was going. He walked with a determined step, and when they arrived at a large wall that blocked them from going any further, the Minotaur instantly turned left or right.
“Do you think the Greek knows about this place?”
“I don’t think you can have something this big in your home and not know,” replied the Minotaur.
John thought about what the Minotaur said, and realised they had been walking through the network of narrow corridors for a good five minutes. He equated the distance to be at least a hundred metres. Either they were walking in circles, or the labyrinth stretched beyond the boundaries of the house.
“This can’t be possible,” said John. “We must be lost.”
“Isn’t that the point?” asked the Minotaur.
John stopped and grabbed the Minotaur’s huge arm. “I thought we were here so you could find out what was making the noises; you telling me you came in here to get us lost?”
The Minotaur turned and pointed the torch along the corridor. There was no sign of an end.
“I think we should head back,” said John. “Get a better torch, something industrial that will light this place up. We’ll come back better prepared. Maybe even bring a few cold beers and a sandwich. What do you say?”
The Minotaur was facing away from John, his gaze firmly fixed to the distance. “Did you hear that?” asked the Minotaur.
John didn’t hear anything, and was about to tell the Minotaur the very same when the torch cut out.
“Stop messing about,” said John to the void. “Turn the light back on.”
The air turned mute. The breathing John could hear was only his own. He reached out his hand and touched only dank silence. He tried walking a few steps in front and felt like he was about to walk off a cliff. To ease his own panic, he announced that he’d had enough and was heading back.
“When you’ve stopped being an arse, I’ll meet you back in the kitchen!”
John turned, and found the end of the twine looped to his wrist. With the hand not holding the sword, he began to gather up the slack, retracing his steps.
“I’m off then,” he called out behind him. “If you want to make it back before dawn, I suggest you come with me.”
Silence.
Without the torch, steps were cautious and exaggerated. Every damp wall he arrived at felt like the one he had just left. Had it not been for the twine guiding him towards the entrance, he would have been convinced he was moving in circles.
The spirit of the labyrinth’s exit pulled the twine taught, and for the first time John saw a faint light pierce the sheet of black before him. His breath faltered only for a moment, but it was enough to allow a noise like that of shifting stone to creep through the darkness. He stopped and turned around, as if the act of facing the direction of the noise would enable him to hear it better. A profound bellow rose in the distance, then a collapse of mass, as if the whole room had been awoke from a deep sleep. John assumed the combination of awkward navigation and a heavy hand had somehow weakened the walls around him. The composition of mortar and lime had perished due to the damp, and his hand, pressing up against each one, had altered their position somehow. One by one, each of the walls that made up narrow corridors to the labyrinth were now crumbling, and as one fell, it caused another to weaken, creating a domino effect. The noise changed. The shifting of stone was replaced with the sound of an animal wailing in agony. John considered the possibility that the weight of the crumbling walls had trapped the Minotaur. John called out, but what came back forced him to raise the sword. The animal was not trapped, but moving towards him. From the deepest recess of the abyss came a rolling growl that travelled through the ground rather than the air. The soles of his feet shook as the monster gathered stride, dust falling from the structure that clung together precariously around John. A foul stench rooted in all evil announced the monster’s immediate presence. John dug his heel into the ground and placed his weight behind that Greek king’s sword, thrusting it into sinewy muscle and rancid flesh before him. As the monster cried out its final piercing shrill, John’s legs gave way and he fell upon its stinking carcass. His chest beat out with waves as the beast’s heart retreated into a timeless rest. John called out once more to his friend. He needed light. His hand searched the dirt for the torch. He found it in a pool of blood. Click. A shaft of light drifted towards the nothingness, highlighting dust particles that fell before the beam like a thousand mayflies dancing above a fetid brook. And there, lay prostrate in the dirt, the once brutal and unyielding Minotaur remained still and silent. The Minotaur’s final words stirred the quintessence of dust for the final time. “We are all men of blood,” he said.
The sword remained with the Minotaur in the labyrinth. The tools left on the floor helped fix the buckled bolts with twisted screws. John ascended the steps and went into the living room where all the unpacked boxes remained. The room had no signs that indicated someone was living there. The walls stripped bare, shelves empty, as was the mantelpiece above an electric fireplace. The only sign of human existence was a small postcard pinned to one of the cupboards in the kitchen. It was of the Acropolis in Athens. It had no inscription on the back.
The last of the Minotaur’s words accompanied John on his return back home. “We are all men of blood”, whispered John repeatedly, hoping that to hear them aloud might bring new meaning to each. When he arrived home, the dawn sun blistered night’s cold skin, leaving it yellow and red. Though his sleep had been disturbed, he didn’t feel tired, but instead lighter and more content. He checked his watch: an hour remained before he would have to get ready for work. John spent that time in the car, looking out towards the sky. He turned on the radio, and with perfect timing, the Sex Pistols came on singing, God Save the Queen.
180 Degrees
Shy of Heaven
