Korridorium

♫ From the Bön Scriptures ♫

4/398

I enter the corridor leading into the labyrinth that I will never leave again. Daedalus stands behind me, smiling proudly. He has spent months constructing it and outfitting it for me. He calls it a “Palace.”

“I will die of thirst and starvation,” I say. Daedalus shakes his head. “You won’t. Down in the basement of the palace, there is a spring. There are courtyards with numerous fruit trees, and there is a damp vault where countless mushrooms grow.”

“I will be lonely,” I predict gloomily. Daedalus counters: “We will send you entertainment from time to time. Young men and maidens from our vassal states, whom you can treat however you wish.”

“Meat,” I say. “As you wish,” says Daedalus.

“I will long for freedom and go mad.” Daedalus seems unimpressed. “You won’t. The Palace will seem infinitely vast to you; you will constantly discover new rooms and encounter new wonders. I have ensured that you can create a structured daily routine with everything you like to do. It begins with a large, soft bed of straw, next to which I have placed a small bell. As soon as the sun rises, a mechanism will strike it. The chiming will grow louder and louder until you finally get up.” When he hears me groan, he adds: “However, if you would like to sleep a little longer, you can use a small lever to make the mechanism stop the bell from striking for a while.”

“Inventions…” I say dismissively. “That is all you can do: think up mechanisms and devices. But what about people and their feelings?”

“You are not a human. At least, not quite.” But when he notices tears welling in my eyes, he hastens to add: “But I have thought of your feelings too, my dear fellow.”

I look at him hopefully as he stands there in the entrance to the corridor, the blue sky and the sea behind him—the freedom I am now permitted to see, smell, and hear for the last time.

“I know,” says Daedalus, “that the kingship should rightfully be yours. That a… cruel fate denies you your inheritance and birthright.” He forgets to mention that he was the one who brought this fate about. Nonetheless, I listen expectantly to his words. What has he intended for me?

“In your Palace,” he says, “you will find a balcony that opens onto a large square. There, you can present yourself and give speeches. And when you pull the wooden handle you see next to the railing, your people will applaud and cheer you from many throats.”

“My people?”

“That is what it will sound like, yes. I spent a long time tinkering with the hydraulics.”

I sag. Another mechanical device, a decoy like the one my father, the bull, fell for.

“You’ll like it. I’m quite sure of it!”

Daedalus smiles at me encouragingly. He takes a step back into the open air and throws a lever. With a grinding sound, a section of the wall descends to seal the corridor. I could mark this spot—carve a cross into the wall with my horns so I can find it and destroy it later. But I am certain Daedalus has thought of that, too, and devised ways and means to prevent me, to confuse and fool me, making me a prisoner in this Palace forever.

He bends down to wave at me one last time from under the slowly descending wall.

“Don’t be sad! You know…” he calls out.

“It’s for the best for everyone,” I repeat obediently, as he has always drilled into me, “including me.” Daedalus nods, smiling. Then he is gone behind the wall. With a thud, it seals the corridor as if it had always been there.

I feel a bit dejected. Finally, I turn around and enter my Palace in search of the balcony.

♫ Treasure Chest Dwellers ♫

6/398

I enter the corridor where the antiquarian stores his unsaleable artifacts. He acts as if it’s a great honor to be led back here. With flowery language, he describes what he supposedly will never find a buyer for, but also cannot bring himself to simply throw away:

An elixir of immortality that doesn’t prevent aging. (Might be something for one’s worst enemy—or perhaps a wife, if one wants to be sure of being well cared for in old age, the antiquarian says with a knowing smile. I wave him off.)

A cloak of invisibility that only makes the wearer invisible from the knees up. (Could be useful in tall grass, the antiquarian muses. I wave him off.)

A flying carpet that literally only moves at a snail’s pace. (Then again, it only rises a few inches off the ground, at most, the antiquarian remarks, pursing his lips. I wave him off.)

A magic key that, while unable to open doors, can lock them forever. (He should perhaps inquire with the nuclear industry, the antiquarian says, feigning thoughtfulness as if the idea had just occurred to him. I wave him off.)

A vial of truth serum that has the side effect of revealing the truth in painstaking, minute detail, causing the victim to get hopelessly lost in the specifics without ever reaching the point. (Sometimes he has the impression the brew is being used on certain TV talk shows, the antiquarian says with a strained laugh. I wave him off.)

The Ark of the Covenant, which is actually a quantum-mechanical radio for calling God. (The biblical Jehovah, that is, the antiquarian explains jovially, adding that He hasn’t picked up the phone in quite some time. He smiles slyly: “no answering machine.” I wave him off.)

A love potion that causes whoever drinks it to fall into an immortal love with themselves. (Which, for many disillusioned by love, the antiquarian says, glancing sideways at me, actually sounds like the perfect, sustainable solution. I wave him off.)

A book that, when opened, writes itself in that very moment. (But it only ever contains short, muddled stories about someone entering hallways or corridors or something—no, it always says “colonnades”—in any case, nobody can make heads or tails of the scribbles, the antiquarian grumbles sullenly. I ask how much he wants for it.)

♫ March of the Monuments ♫

14/398

I enter the corridor. My old joints ache, but I never falter in making my daily rounds, leading me through the secret corridor deep into Olympus, where a hidden vaulted hall lies. Here, in a seven-thousand-year slumber, lie elves, dwarves, dragons, gnomes, trolls, unicorns, the roc, cyclopes, centaurs, genies, and guardian angels. They are waiting out the reign of humans—uncouth, dim-witted, lumbering figures who create disorder and sow discord on the surface of the Earth.

Sometimes, one of the Ancient Beings opens its eyes, thinking it is caught in a heavy dream. I then sit by its side and sing one of the old lullabies. It won’t be long now, and the age of humans will come to an end. Once they are gone and the rightful guardians of the Earth have wiped the sleep from their eyes, my ninth life will finally draw to a close. I will walk through the corridor one last time on aching paws, leading the way to show them the hidden exit from which they can descend from Olympus.

♫ Family Beast ♫

15/398

I enter the c… What fiend did this, balancing a water bucket high up that ajar gate?! Dares he trifle with me—the Beast—with such a silly prank? I shake my matted mane and thunder a deafening blast that rattles my palace’s hallways. I shall find ye! Let’s see if they’re acquainted with this labyrinth better than I, the man-eater.

♫ Uvs Nuur ♫

16/398

I enter the corridor. The thread running through it, I wind tighter and tighter; I already have a substantial ball in my hand. I see the thread disappearing under one of the doors. Here I will find her; here she is waiting for me! I toss the ball aside carelessly and rush to the door, which is indistinguishable from the countless others. As I open it and hurry through with her name on my lips, a creature with a bull’s head confronts me. With one of its horns, it tears open the flesh of my chest, laying bare my heart. I fall to the ground. “He is my brother, after all,” I hear her voice, very close to my ear.

How many before me? And how many more will they lure? And all that endless blood… The waterfall in my ears grows louder and louder, until there is only an all-consuming roar that mercifully takes me in.

♫ Hello Folly! ♫

44/398

I enter the corridor. It’s always a long ascent to Elysium, even on this Christmas Eve in 1930 A.D. Finally, I reach the top. As I do every year, I report to the Creator.

He looks at me expectantly: “Well?” – “They have disregarded your warning, eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, and left the Garden of Eden.” – “I know, I know. Don’t always start with Adam and Eve.” – “They wage cruel wars in your name, recklessly exploit the creation you entrusted to them, and behave in a downright blasphemous manner—short-sighted, cold-hearted, and narrow-minded.” – “You’re quite the devil’s advocate. I’m painfully aware of all of this.”

“In any case, I think they deserve punishment. May I… cast them into the fires of hell?” I ask slyly, wiping a thread of drool from the corner of my mouth. “Not necessary. They’ll inflict it upon themselves in a few years.” – “Another world war? Hm. Can I at least… further confound their minds, so that they succumb not just to stupidity, but to madness as well?” I ask, trying not to appear too eager. “They’ll handle that themselves too. They’ve just invented television.”

“Television? Oh. Hm. May I…? Is it possible…? With my evil gaze, perhaps…” I stutter, nervously scuffing my cloven hoof and chastising myself for not seeming more confident and convincing. “You’ll simply continue to watch over them, my dear.” – “But why?” – “Because you still have much to learn.”

♫ Nirbas Hunt Lashlarms (Exc) ♫

46/398

I enter the corridor. Somehow, I suspect the islanders want to be rid of me, and I am on my guard. I imagine they dislike my large ears, my sturdy legs—my otherness. Unadorned, roughly plastered stone walls rise on both sides; since there is no roof, the sun streams in. I scan my surroundings warily. Is a pitfall awaiting me? Will spears, triggered by my steps, shoot from the walls to pierce me? There is a pungent odor here. Apparently, the islanders usually drive goats through this passage.

Carefully, I place one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, a shadow eclipses the sun. Looking up, I see a gigantic bird plummeting toward me. In the narrow corridor, I cannot turn quickly enough. And where would I go, anyway? I become easy prey for its outstretched claws, each of them as large as a full-grown leopard. They seize me, and with a few powerful wingbeats, the majestic bird soars back into the air.

Apparently, it wants me alive. Below me, the islanders have gathered in the square before the Temple of the Formidable Naked Mole-Rat; they wave their arms and dance as spirited drum music rises up. I trumpet in protest.

The giant bird heads toward a mountainside. I spot an immense nest where four enormous, gaping beaks reach upward. The hungry squawking of the chicks makes my blood run cold.

♫ Find the Hidden Wishing Well ♫

56/398

I enter the corridor. One of the windows opposite the doors looks out onto a small courtyard where a fountain splashes. In a small cluster of palms, birds chirp carefree. I stand there for a long time, savoring the view and the fresh air wafting in. How I would love to be out there! But with these long horns, I don’t fit through the window.

♫ Sequax ♫

57/398

I enter the corridor with the amphibians. My father has thought of everything—even providing tanks for the creatures that spend part of their lives in water but wouldn’t survive the Great Flood. The cages are small, but there has to be room for everyone. Despite the constant drumming of rain on the wooden deck above, I can hear the lions in the big cat corridor. They have been hungry for days. My father hadn’t accounted for that. Yesterday, we discussed which animals we should feed to our carnivores. It’s a difficult decision because no matter what we choose, those animals will be extinct after the flood.

I defended the cute rabbits, the lively squirrels, the adorable goats, and even the naked mole rats tooth and nail. Let Dad take the ugly Nasobames. They smell horrible and are of no use to anyone. He seemed to agree, but I suspect he’s going to start with the unicorns after all. He’s had it in for them ever since the mare, right in the middle of a feeding, gouged out his left eye.

♫ 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.