Korridorium

♫ Beyond the Point of No Return ♫

65/398

I enter the corridor, followed by my squad. An infernal heat blasts us; the corridor is a single sea of flames. Well, the treasure of all treasures may be well-guarded, but I’ve brought help. My two fire salamanders step forward. They salute and venture into the blazing hell to reach the opposite side, where they shut off the fuel to the flamethrowers. The path is clear. We march on between walls that are soot-blackened and still glowing hot.

The next portal and the passage beyond are completely filled with earth—this is a job for my mole brigade. They don their helmets and get to work. A short while later, we are able to pass.

We come across a staircase leading down, flooded with water. I’ve thought of that, too. Of course, the most elemental of all treasures—one that has eluded grave robbers for millennia—isn’t going to make it easy for us. The swamp turtles start their march and dive down the steps. They must find the drain quickly, because suddenly the water level drops. A final watery belch echoes through the stairwell, and we are able to descend, though the steps are still quite slick and we have to be careful not to take a spill.

In the next corridor, giant redwoods grow so close together that there is no getting through. I can’t even wedge my hand between the trunks. Wood? I was expecting air. Or Aristotelian ether. But wood? The termites diligently set to work. Yet, even though they give it their all, they don’t make much progress. It takes days for them to process the trees into sawdust. The morale of the troop sinks. Some no longer believe in our success and turn back, despite my impassioned appeals not to give up. Now, only a fraction of those who set out with me remain.

The last corridor—for according to ancient lore, there can be no more than five—is filled once again. But not with air or ether; this time, it is metal. The portal opens onto solid iron, perhaps poured into the corridor in liquid form and allowed to cool. Those of us left look at one another. This caught us all off guard. I cast a desperate glance at our motley crew. None of us is a match for this material.

A chirp. I look up. A small bird flies in, paying us no mind. For a moment, it hovers, fluttering before the massive iron wall, briefly whets its beak against it, and flies off again. At the spot where it—for the umpteenth time, probably—sharpened its beak, the squirrel spots a tiny indentation in the metal and alerts us with a squeak.

So, there is some truth to this legend as well. But now, even my last loyal followers throw in the towel and turn back—evidently not blessed with the patience and persistence of a little bird from Pomerania that pecks at the iron once every hundred years. Only I, the last of the treasure hunters, sit down before the bare metal with my arms crossed. I’ve come this far. The prospect of waiting doesn’t daunt me anymore, even if it might take a little while.

Four Elements:

The Shepherd Boy (Grimm’s Fairy Tales):