Korridorium

♫ From the Bön Scriptures ♫

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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.

♫ March of the Monuments ♫

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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 ♫

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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.

♫ Inside the Temple of Braga ♫

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22/398

“I enter the corridor just like everyone else,” said the Master to his visitor, who had asked how he might find his way through life.

“Are you, then, a seeker like me?” the visitor further inquired.

But the Master shook his head. “The path forks; there are many passages to choose from—long, short, straight, sharp-turning, leading up and down stairs—and most end in dead ends.”

“That is precisely the trouble,” the visitor lamented. “In this labyrinth, I cannot find my way.”

Once again, the Master shook his head. “Labyrinth? That would be a single, winding passage that leads to the center through many loops, but without any branches. What you are describing is a maze.”

The visitor hesitated. “And how, then, do I find my way through the maze?”

For a third time, the Master shook his head and repeated, “I enter the corridor just like everyone else.” Then he smiled. “But beneath my steps, the maze transforms into a labyrinth.”

♫ Keep the Focus ♫

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34/398

I enter the corridor of sliding plastic walls. The researchers start their stopwatch. They want to test if I know something I shouldn’t: if so-called morphic fields form from the learning experiences of individuals, which other members of the same species can then access.

I, for my part, do not know the way through this maze. But countless other rats wandered through it until they could memorize the shortest route to the food. Some of them are now dead and dissected—they accompany me invisibly with their knowledge, helping their unwitting comrade, giving me impulses to go right here, left there, or to ignore forks in the path.

At the end of the course, I savor the canned meat—my reward—while the researchers record their results in a table.

All living beings have ancestors who help them. Even the researchers. It’s just that, much like they must protect their hairless bodies from the cold with skins and fabrics, they also keep all inklings at a distance. Their brains have likely swollen so much for this purpose that none of these faint inklings can penetrate into the sensitive depths within.

So they often go astray, again and again, before—if they are very lucky—they reach the destination of their desires.

♫ The Trailblazer’s Red-Letter Day ♫

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45/398

“I enter the corridor”—today, as a visitor to the Korridorium, you can say that with total confidence. This time, friendly hostesses approach you to lead you to one of the many doors. Behind them, more corridors await—and more doors—but those you’ll have to push open yourself.

Another visitor has entered with you: a man in a suit, clutching a briefcase and looking a bit dazed. “I have no idea what I’m even doing here!” he tells you. A banner hangs above three bistro tables where the hostesses wait; it reads: “What else to find?“ One of them is already attending to the man. “Yes, it’s quite easy to get lost here,” she says. “If you’re looking for something specific and don’t have much time, you should head through that narrow door up front.” You notice it’s labeled “Vignette.” “Or here”—the friendly young lady points out a tiny, almost miniature door labeled “Fract“—”for the very short attention span. Some pieces are no longer than a tweet—140 characters or less,” she continues.

“I’m interested in constellations,” says the man with the briefcase, straightening his glasses.

“Then this might be the right door for you.” The man frowns at the sign: “Lists.” Yet, it seems to suit him; he shrugs, gives the lady a brief, thankful nod, and decisively turns the handle.

In the meantime, another hostess has noticed you. “How can I help you today?” she asks with a smile.

“Are there stories here with plots and characters? You know, actual short stories?”

“Oh, yes,” the hostess responds, gesturing toward a glass door labeled “Story“ and the three behind it: “Classic,” “Fantasy,” and “Sci-Fi.”

“What about classic fantasy?” you ask, furrowing your brow.

“Oh, yes—that could be misleading, right,” the young lady says. “All short stories without magic and futuristic elements, without bells and whistles, so to speak—that’s what ‘classic’ stands for here.”

She starts to explain how difficult it was to find the right keywords, but you get distracted. A visitor carrying—strangely enough—an open umbrella printed with the words “(B)right as rain,” is asking a hostess for “spiritual texts.” She is directed toward the doors labeled “Nous“ and “Kōan.” “Nous” covers everything involving consciousness, she’s told, while “Kōan” represents Eastern wisdom in the broadest sense. “And what about, uh… love stories?” the woman asks softly, as if she’s a little embarrassed. There is a door for that too, further down the hall. Unsurprisingly, it’s labeled “Romance.”

Before you can turn back to your own hostess, a boy in a hoodie rolls in on a skateboard. He shoots a disdainful look at the corridor from under his hood. A hostess is on him in an instant. “Cory?” he asks. The hostess shakes her head, smiling. “But you might find the answer behind this door.” She points to one labeled “Cory?“ and then indicates the one next to it: “Meta.” “You might find more clues there. In any case, that’s where all the explanations about the Korridorium itself are kept.”

This gives you an idea. You ask the helpful young lady about stories involving parallel worlds—you’ve heard they are a recurring theme here.

“Oh, yes,” your hostess smiles, “there’s a door for those, too. Please, follow me.” The door in question, labeled “PluriDim,” is at the very end of the corridor. “I’m told it stands for ‘Pluridimensional’—multi-dimensional perspectives.”

Intrigued, you read the sign on the door next to it: “Paraphernalia“?

“Oh, yes,” the young lady nods. “That’s where we put everything that didn’t fit anywhere else—even things too strange for ‘Kafkaesque’ or ‘Surrealist.'” She points to the door directly across from “Paraphernalia.” “Kafka,” she says, “is simply ‘K.’—but due to space constraints, he’s been grouped with Surrealism.” The door reads: “K. / Dada.”

Better not subject myself to that, you think, masking the thought with a polite smile. “But what if I’m specifically looking for things involving labyrinths and the Minotaur?”

“Oh, yes,” the hostess says eagerly. “I should have realized. I saw the horns, of course, and knew immediately what a distinguished guest we had today.”

You snort a bit through your nostrils; people usually expect that sort of thing from you. Although you meant it to be friendly, the hostess takes a cautious step back.

“Here,” she says, sounding slightly intimidated. “This would be the door of your choice.” It bears the label: “Myth.”

“But that can also mean a lie—as in, ‘Oh, that’s just a myth!'” you point out critically.

“Oh, yes,” the hostess says, swallowing hard. “But it’s certainly not used in that sense here.”

“Well, I should hope not!” you retort, and swing the door open.

♫ Find the Hidden Wishing Well ♫

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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.

♫ (Invisible Calls from the) Soaring Sirens ♫

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108/398

I enter the corridor, guided by the red thread. I stumbled across it by chance while wandering through this endless, labyrinthine palace. There must be someone else here! And if this someone is laying a thread, then it will either lead me to them—providing a welcome change in my monotonous diet—or it will lead to the entrance through which they came. And what is an entrance for them is an exit for me!

So I follow the thread through the labyrinth. And sure enough: daylight and the distant roar of the sea. How I have missed the sun during these lonely years! At the end of the corridor, I see blue sky. And a figure. It is a woman. I have to blink. She looks familiar. “Sister!” I say. My voice sounds strange and rusty—I haven’t used it in a long time.

“You have no place out here,” she replies. She has aged. Do I see streaks of gray in her hair?

“I followed the thread.”

“That was Daedalus’s design.” I might have guessed. She sees my gaze fall on her black armband. “Father…” she says, and swallows.

“Then I am king now.”

“Fat chance,” says a new voice behind me. A sharp pain shoots through my back, and I see the gleaming tip of a sword protruding from my chest. I want to say something, but my lungs refuse to fill with air. My legs buckle, and I sink to my knees.

From here, I can see the sun, now blindingly consuming the world that just moments ago stood open to me, until my sister steps toward me, casting her shadow over me as she leans down, and a merciful, all-encompassing darkness embraces me.

♫ Level 256 ♫

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134/398

I enter the corridor, right, and chomp the dots (10 Pts) on my way, down, to a cherry left, but the ghosts are already, down, getting, right, menacingly close, up, before I reach the life-saving, up right, power pellet (50 Pts), now becoming the hunter myself, up left, chasing the flashing blue ghosts, up, to banish them, right, succeeding with one, up: banished! (200 Pts), down, before the other three change, left, and I can see that I caught back, the orange ghost—it’s Pokey—continuing to chomp dots (10 Pts) on my way down, but suddenly, I am ruthlessly pursued by Shadow and Speedy, back, back, right, and finally back back overrun by Speedy right where, of all places, I initially entered the maze.

Two lives remain.

I enter the corridor.

♫ Haunted by the Zeitgeist ♫

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160/398

I enter the corridor, feeling a bit excited. It’s my first time experiencing this trend called Corridoring. Yeah, sure, I know you shouldn’t jump on every viral internet fad, but there’s something about this one that resonates with me. Maybe because it hides behind masks. Or because of its connection to an ancient myth. Anyway, the thought of crafting a bull’s head mask and capturing a photo of myself wearing it in a corridor of my choice—the idea triggered something deep inside me, and I just had to be a part of it. I can only hope that others will also post their photos in the gallery, showcasing their homemade bull’s head masks in a corridor of their choice. Over time, this could grow into a vast network of hallways and passages—the magical land of Corridoria, so to speak, a virtual worldwide labyrinth traversed by a solitary, bewildered hybrid being.

It’s kind of a nice expression of our zeitgeist, isn’t it?

Well, the Atomium definitely has plenty of corridors to offer for such a photo. It immediately came to mind when there was talk of corridors, and as it turns out, I just need to get inside early enough so there aren’t tourists running around everywhere and the Horned One is truly alone in the picture.

I set up my camera, pull the papier-mâché mask from my backpack, adjust the self-timer, and hang my head as I get into position…