The Voyage of the Minotaur

by Wesley Allison

  Senta skipped and walked and skipped again east from the plaza down the Avenue Phoenix, which was just as busy as the plaza itself. Travelers hurried up and down the street, making their way on foot, or reaching to grab hold of the trolley and hoist themselves into the standing-room-only cab. Quite a number of couples could be seen strolling along together, arm in arm; the man usually walking on the side closest to the street, in case a steam carriage should splash up some sooty water. Others on the street were shopping, because both sides of the Avenue Phoenix were lined with shops. There were quite a few stores which sold women’s clothing and a few that sold men’s, a millinery shop, a haberdasher, a bookseller, a store which sold fine glassware, a clockmaker, a tobacconist, a jeweler, a store which sold lamps, a florist, and at the very end of the avenue, where it reached the Prince Tybalt Boulevard, just across the street from the edge of the park, on the right hand side, a toy store.

  Stopping to press her face against the glass, right below the printed sign that said “Humboldt’s Fine Toys”, Senta stared at the wonders in the store. She had never been inside, but had stopped to look in the window many times. The centerpiece of the store display was a mechanical bird. It worked with gears and sprockets and springs and was made of metal, but it was covered in real bird feathers in a rainbow of hues, and would sit and peck and chirp and sing as though it were alive, until it finally wound down, and the toy maker would walk to the window and say the word to reactivate the bird’s magic spell. Senta knew that the bird would remain in the window for a long, long time, until some young prince or princess needed a new birthday gift, because that bird would have cost as much as the entire Café Carlo. Arranged around it were various mechanical toy vehicles—ships, trains, and steam carriages. Some were magical and some worked with a wind-up key, but they all imitated the real life conveyances from which they were patterned.

  None of these wonderful toys held as much fascination for Senta though, as the doll that sat in the corner of the window. It wasn’t magical. It wasn’t even animated by a wind-up mechanism. It was a simple doll with a rag body and porcelain hands, feet, and face. It wore a simple black dress. Its blond hair had been cut in a short little bob, and looked like real human hair. It had a painted face with grey eyes and pink lips. It may well have been one of the lesser-priced toys in the shop. It was definitely the least expensive item in the window, but Senta would never be able to purchase it. Had she been able to save every pfennig she earned, it still would have taken her more than thirty weeks to purchase the doll. And she could not save every pfennig she earned. Most weeks, she could not even save one.

  Pushing herself regretfully away from the glass, and leaving two hand smudges, a forehead smudge, and a nose smudge, Senta ran across Prince Tybalt Boulevard, which crossed perpendicularly, making a T at the end of Avenue Phoenix. She ran in a zigzag motion to avoid being run over by any of the numerous steam carriages that whizzed by. Several of them honked at her with a loud “ah-oogah” but none of them ran over her. And then she stood at last on the edge of Hexagon Park. Senta had no idea that Hexagon Park was so named because of its six-sided shape. She didn’t even know what a hexagon was. She did not realize that Hexagon Park was the exact same size and shape as the Great Plaza, where Café Carlo was located. To her, the park had always seemed so much larger. Nor did she know that the park, the plaza, and the rest of the Old City had been laid out and marked, using a stick dragged through the dirt, by Magnus the Great, the King of the Zur, when he had conquered the continent almost nineteen hundred years before.

  Hexagon Park was lovely in the spring. This eight hundred yard diameter wonderland was filled with delights. At the south end, to Senta’s right, the park was carefully cultivated, with large rose gardens, numerous small beds full of colorful annuals; ancient fountains spraying water from the mouths of mythical animals or pouring water from pitchers carried by statues of naked women; abundant fruit trees now in bloom behind their own little wrought iron fences, and still reflecting pools filled with tadpoles. At the north end, to Senta’s left, the park was kept more natural, with large expanses of beautifully green grass, large shade trees, now filled with more than enough leaves to do their duty, winding pathways, and small ponds full of colorful fish. Senta headed for the center of the park, following the flagstone path that led to the central courtyard. Here was a small amphitheater, a series of park benches arranged around a mosaic map of the kingdom inlaid in the pavement, and the wonderful, wonderful steam-powered calliope, which played joyful music from mid-morning to mid-afternoon.

  The calliope, which had been between songs as Senta walked through the park, began toot-toot-tooting the next tune, just as she arrived in the center courtyard. Senta had heard this tune many times, though she didn’t know its name. It was lively and bouncy and made her feel even more like skipping than she usually did. The growls of hunger from her stomach overcame the urge to skip down the paths of the park though, so she sat down on one of the benches, unwrapped her red plaid bindle, opened the wax paper, and bit into her sandwich. Mouth watering with each bite of the course bread, the salty ham, and the tangy brown mustard, she had finished off more than half of it before she stopped to take a breath and to look around her.

  There were numerous people in the park, walking down the paths, admiring the flowers, and lying on the large swaths of green grass. Several small boys, about five or six years old, tried to catch tadpoles in the reflecting pool some forty yards away. There were relatively few people in the central courtyard though. The calliope man was there, making small adjustments to the great machine. It was a large, square, red wagon upon four white wood-spoked wheels, with a shining brass steam engine, which bristling with hundreds of large and small brass pipes, each spitting steam in turn to create the wonderful music. A young man in his twenties—nicely dressed but not obviously rich—sat reading a newspaper while he ate fish and chips from a newspaper cone, which he had no doubt purchased from a vending cart just outside the park boundaries. On the bench closest to the one on which Senta sat eating, was an older man in a shabby brown overcoat. He was tossing bits of bread to several of the foot-tall flying reptiles that could be found just about everywhere in the city. Unlike birds—tending in these parts to be smaller—which hopped along when not in flight, these fuzzy, large-headed reptiles ran from bread crumb to bread crumb, in a waddling motion, with their bat-like wings outstretched.

  “Anurognathus,” said the man in the shabby brown overcoat, when he noticed that Senta was looking in his direction.

  “No, thank you,” said Senta, in the loud voice she used for people who were deaf or addlepated. When she did so, a piece of her sandwich flew out of her mouth. One of the flying reptiles quickly ran over and gobbled it down.

  The older man in the shabby brown overcoat paid her no more attention, and the winged reptile soon realized that no more partially-masticated ham was likely to come its way and so scampered back to the sure thing of the man throwing pieces of bread. Senta finished her sandwich and then opened the wax paper that contained her dill pickle. Dill pickles were one of her favorites, not that she had a wide experience with produce. She chomped her way through what had once been a prince among cucumbers, and then wiped the remainder of the vinegar from her hands and face upon the red plaid cloth. Gathering everything together, she walked over to the dust bin and deposited all her waste. She didn’t see a policeman around, but they were always around somewhere, in their stiff blue uniforms, with their tall blue helmets, carrying their stout black cop clubs—just waiting to use them to thump someone littering or spitting on the street or (at other times of the year) someone picking the fruit from the trees which grew behind their own little wrought iron fences.

  The steam-powered calliope was playing a different, though equally happy tune now. This time, Senta did not stifle her impulse to skip, and skipped her way north out of the park. The journey back home was quite a long one. One had to follow Prince Tybalt Boulevard through the Arch of Conque
st, and out of the Old City. Then one turned east once again and followed the Avenue Hart until one reached Contico Boulevard. At the corner was the Great Church of the Holy Savior.

  The Great Church of the Holy Savior was a massive and highly ornamented stone building. It was never referred to as the “Church” or the “Great Church” or the “Church of the Holy Savior”. It was always “The Great Church of the Holy Savior”. It was imposing from its lowest level, with its forty steps, festooned with columns across its entire front. It continued to be imposing on its first story, which featured sixteen immense stained-glass windows and was topped by dozens of statues of angels and saints. It became incredibly imposing, when above the highest story one saw the great dome, held aloft by still more columns, matching the columns on the ground level. And most imposing of all was the golden cupola at the very top of the dome, its square shape contrasting with the dome itself. Atop the cupola, was the golden statue of the crucified savior. Senta ran up the steps and peered into the open double doors. The interior looked dark and foreboding to her daylight-adjusted eyes, but she had been inside several times with her Granny. She wasn’t going to venture in alone however, so she made the sign of the cross, and ran back down the stairs to continue on her way.

  Past the church, bounded on the south by Avenue Hart, the north by the railroad yards, the west by Contico Boulevard and on the east by what Senta didn’t know, was one of the city’s seemingly never-ending masses of tenement buildings. Here were countless brownstones, put up quickly and cheaply, with none of the artistic style, careful engineering, or safety considerations taken into account when the buildings of the Old City had been built centuries before. The shortest among them were seven or eight stories high, but most were at least fifteen. The highest among them, reached up into the sky more than twenty stories. Senta, still skipping despite the hour-and-a-half-long journey from the park, reached the entrance of her own building and skipped up the eight steps to the front door. From that point on, skipping was out of the question. Even a child with as much energy at her disposal as had Senta, was worn out by the time she reached the twelfth story. And the twelfth story was where Senta lived with her Granny.

  She turned the doorknob as she leaned against the door, and burst into Granny’s apartment. Senta had always thought of it as Granny’s apartment, rather than her own. She was only one of the children who lived there. There were six. Bertice, who was a pretty and very quiet seventeen year old, worked fourteen hours a day sewing in the shirtwaist factory. Geert, a surprisingly husky boy of twelve, traveled each day to the King’s warehouse, where the government gave away bushels of apples. Then he took the apples to the train station to sell them for a pfennig a piece. Senta herself, at eight, fell next in line. Then was Maro, Geert’s eight-year-old brother, who worked in a printers’ shop. He had lost the two endmost fingers on his right hand playing too near the printing press. Didrika was a cute and precocious four year old. She and her baby sister, Ernst, were Granny’s only real grandchildren, Bertice being the granddaughter of Granny’s younger sister. Senta wasn’t too sure what the exact relationship was for Maro and Geert, or for herself either, but everyone in the house was somehow related, and everyone in the house was treated as though they were a cherished grandchild by the hunch-backed, grey-haired old woman who looked up from her washing when Senta entered.

  The front door opened into the combination living room/kitchen. An old table and two chairs sat next to the coal-fire stove and just to the left of that was a large, two-basin sink with running water. This was used for washing clothing, washing dishes, and washing children. On the other side of the room, a ragged sofa sat next to a mismatched chair. At night, the room was used as a bedroom by Geert, who slept on a sheepskin, which was pulled out from under the sofa and rolled out onto the floor; and by Maro, who pushed the two chairs away from the table, and placing them side by side, spent the night lying across them.

  In addition to this room, there was one other in the apartment—a bedroom. The double bed that had come with the apartment, was shared by Granny and Bertice and Didrika, who was small enough to curl up between them. Ernst had her own baby crib, which had arrived when she and Didrika had, two years before. Senta didn’t remember what had happened to the two girls’ parents, but they, like her own, were dead now. Senta had her own special bed which had been made by setting side by side three wooden crates, two which had originally held Geert’s apples, and one a carrot crate, given by an old man who with his little donkey, delivered carrots to the many eating establishments in and around the great plaza. Then the three crates were covered with a hand-stuffed mattress.

  Granny had a bucket in the bottom of the right hand sink. The bucket was filled with soapy water and dirty clothes. The old woman picked up the washer, a device which looked like a large brass plunger attached to a broomstick, and placing it in the bucket on top of the clothes, began to plunge it up and down while turning it. This was a lot of work, but nowhere near as much as cleaning clothes with a washboard, and it was much easier on the clothes too.

  “Payday,” said Senta, giving Granny a hug, and then handing over the fourteen copper pfennigs she had earned for the week.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Granny, pausing from the washing to accept the money. She then handed two pfennigs back and said. “Keep one for yourself and put one in the meter. The gas went out this morning, and we’re going to need some light tonight. Maro will want to read to us, and I have to catch up on my knitting.”

  High on the wall, above the coal fire stove was the gas meter. It was a square device about two feet across which controlled the flow of gas from the pipes in the wall to the two gas lamps on the ceiling. It had a coin slot and a knob on it. When a pfennig was placed in the slot and the knob was turned, the appropriate amount of gas would be allowed to flow out to be used by the family for evening light. It usually lasted about two and a half evenings, so the family, most weeks budgeting two pfennigs for artificial light, had five evenings lit by gas. The other two evenings were either lit by a single candle, or kept dark. Senta pressed the less shiny of the two pfennigs in her hand into the slot and turned the knob. She could hear the little copper coin fall down a pipe, making a little echo as it went down into the wall. A second later, she could hear hissing of the gas making its way from the meter toward the lamps. It hissed only a moment then stopped. They wouldn’t light the lamps until after dark. Waste not, want not.

  “Would you like me to go get the coal for the stove, Granny?” asked Senta.

  The coal supply was located in the basement—the lowest level of two basements. This meant walking down fourteen flights of stairs, and walking back fourteen flights of stairs with a bucket full of coal.

  “Getting the coal is not a job for a little girl,” said Granny.

  “I can do it.”

  “Oh, I know you can. But Geert is already getting it.”

  “How come he’s home so early?”

  “Oh, he had a very good day today. He sold all of his apples so quickly this morning that he was able to go get a second bushel just for us. I’m going to make a pie this evening.”

  At that moment, Geert entered with a bucket full of coal. He grunted at Senta and walking over to the cast iron stove, opened the small door at its very bottom, and shoveled in about a third of the bucket. He then took a sheet of newspaper from the stack nearby and wadded it up. Striking a wooden match, he lit the paper, tossing it in after the coal.

  An hour later, the room was warm with the heat of the oven, Ernst woke up from her afternoon nap, Didrika returned from playing with her friend on the eleventh floor, and Senta helped Granny make an apple pie. By the time the apple pie was done, Maro had returned from his job at the print shop and had plopped down on the sofa, while Granny and Senta peeled potatoes. Dinner was ready when Bertice arrived home, completely exhausted, curling up in the mismatched chair, able to stay awake just long enough to eat her potato soup and apple pie.

  The rest of
the evening was spent together in the living room/kitchen. Bertice was quietly snoring, Granny was knitting, and the rest of the children were listening to Maro read, by the light of the gas lamps, from the broadsheet he had brought home with him from work. The broadsheet was just one of the many propaganda-based papers which were distributed around the city each day—some pro-government and some supporting various opposition groups. The main story in this one was about how the government was gathering all of the wizards in the kingdom and making them spend their time creating enchantments and weapons for use in a possible war with the kingdom’s hereditary enemies Freedonia and Mirsanna. This, according to the broadsheet, left no wizards to cast the spells needed by average citizens: to protect homes, to increase the crop yields of farms, and to create enchanted vehicles. Not to mention, thought Senta, to tell fortunes and create beauty or love or happiness potions. There were also local news stories—a fire had burned down a candle shop, someone had stolen a brand new steam carriage in broad daylight, and another young woman was murdered near the waterfront. Afterwards, someone nudged Bertice awake long enough for her to change into her nightgown. Everyone else changed into their own nightclothes, and they all went to bed.

  Senta didn’t know what woke her up in the middle of the night, but she was awakened. Moonlight streamed in the tiny window of the bedroom. She lay on her bed, made of three crates and a hand-stuffed mattress for a long time, listening to Bertice quietly snore, and Ernst breathe. She couldn’t hear Didrika for a while, but then she heard the six-year-old quietly whimper as she sometimes did when she was cold. Thinking that the blanket must have come off of her, Senta quietly got up and tip-toed over to the bed to find that sure enough, Didrika’s knitted baby blanket had slipped down to her knees. Leaning over Granny’s form, she pulled the blanket back up to the girl’s shoulders and tucked her in. As she leaned back, Senta looked at Granny’s face. Granny’s eyes were open.