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.

♫ Uvs Nuur ♫

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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.

♫ 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.

♫ From a Wind-Swept Mind ♫

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91/398

I enter the corridor. Oh, if only I’d considered it was a castle in the air! The ground gives way beneath my feet, and now the winds—led by Apheliotes, though Lips is doing his fair share—make a game of blowing me through the sky. Finally, Kaikias takes pity; he carries me away from his unruly companions and lets me sink—not exactly gently—into a harbor far to the northeast.

Reykjavík.

Not exactly my dream destination in the dead of winter. But word is it’s got a hopping nightlife.

♫ (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.

♫ The Labour of Emergence ♫

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140/398

I enter the corridor, at long last, after arduous attempts to fall into a trance. Now I’m back in familiar territory. From the beginning, in my imagination, it has always been this corridor—with its bare brick walls and fading frescoes on the vaulted ceiling—that has led me to my past lives. I study them to glean details and information for my research as a historian, insights that the sources available to me as a scholar would never yield. Of course, none of my colleagues, let alone the director of the institute, can ever know about this.

This time, however, it’s different. At the end of the corridor, no door awaits to transport me to some long-gone era and a strangely familiar environment—this time, the corridor opens into a garden that feels entirely foreign. It greets me with an almost overwhelming blaze of color, intoxicating floral scents, and the buzzing of legions of insects. A large, buzzing beetle—a dung beetle, I suppose—barrels toward me, and I have to duck quickly to avoid being hit.

In a pavilion sits an elderly gentleman with a fine, gray mustache, looking at me expectantly. He pours me a cup of tea. “You wanted to speak with me?” he asks kindly. I know him. This can’t be a past life; C.G. Jung didn’t die until 1961. Next to the delicate Chinese porcelain teapot lies a book bound in red leather.

We drink tea and talk about myths and archetypes. I explain my conviction that our world needs an entirely new myth, one that gives us the strength and guidance to overcome the problems of our time. I believe only a universal story and constellation can move us—can move this fragmented world toward a collective new beginning, a new departure. Gilgamesh, Prometheus, Odysseus, Arjuna, Paul Bunyan, Frankenstein, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Little Nemo (the comic, not the film), Rübezahl, Batman, Bernd das Brot—I’ve already vetted many mythical figures from different cultures to see if they could offer us contemporary answers, or even just strategies for finding them.

“Is it about answers?” my host asks shrewdly, sipping his tea.

Yes and no. Ultimately, it’s about a healthy perspective—on ourselves and the world. One that leads to sustainable solutions and progress.

But I lose my train of thought and start talking about the corridor. “I enter the corridor?” he repeats, smiling. That, he says, cannot be the sought-after new myth. It must be something connecting, something collective that instills a communal spirit while drawing deeply from the unconscious. “Try, ‘We enter the corridor,’” he suggests.

At first, I’m somewhat taken aback, then, I suddenly feel light and inspired.

“Or even: ‘We enter, drunk with fire, the corridor,’” he adds with a smile.

Of course: We! All of us! Moving forward with shared joy and confidence into a space full of new possibilities, well on our way to finding the best way—the best ways. I am not alone, and neither are you. None of us is. Because we are many! And we have the same goal.

A promising vision.

I’m welcome to return anytime, my host says as we part. The search for a new myth is an important task, one he’s happy to support with advice and action. Glad to have found a true authority as an ally, I leave his pavilion and the lush garden and enter the corridor once more…

♫ Grimm örlög ♫

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159/398

I enter the corridor. The hunters are already searching for me here as well. Before they can pounce on me, I dart aside. A long staircase begins here, for which my four legs are actually too short, but mortal terror propels me upward. The warriors are following me. In front of me, I see a man opening a heavy timber door. I follow him, run between his feet, knock him over unintentionally, and huddle in a corner of the room, trembling.

“Close the door, cook!” thunders a voice. Obediently, the man rises from the floor. Outside the door, a few of the Einherjar stand silently, staring in. The cook closes the door and turns around. His face is blackened by soot. I recognize him! He’s the cook who set the hunters on me and wants to throw me into his cauldron.

I do not know the other man, the one standing by the window opening. Two ravens sit on his shoulder, but now they flap their wings and fly off, croaking into the open air.

“My Lord, the boar…” the cook begins and falls silent.

“I see.” The man at the window has just one healthy eye. It fixes on me. My entire body trembles as I try to make myself as small as possible.

“The boar didn’t want to go into the forest today to be hunted. It ran back to the fortress, and then… obviously…” Again, the cook falls silent.

“Obviously straight to me. Spare me explanations for things that are plain to see. Maybe the boar doesn’t want to be hunted; maybe he doesn’t like that?” The cook nods.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be butchered and cooked? Only to rise again from his bones the next morning, only to be hunted, butchered, cooked, and devoured again by warriors, valkyries, and my wolves? Day after day, week after week, year after year?” The cook stands motionless.
“Or would you, perhaps, find pleasure in such a fate, cook?” The man with the soot-blackened face shakes his head. He, too, seems to want to make himself as small as possible.

“So let us deliver him from his fate.” The man at the window steps aside and takes a gleaming spear from the wall.

“But my Lord!” the cook interjects. “What am I to serve at the feast tomorrow? What are the Einherjar supposed to eat in the future? And what should your wolves feed on?” He ventures forward, but suddenly realizes whom he’s reprimanding and bows deeply, moving backward until he backs into the double doors.

The man by the window laughs. “Tomorrow, cook, when he is restored to life, the boar will know nothing of the fact that his god had promised him deliverance.”

And with that, he throws the spear. Everything happens too quickly for pain. Suddenly, I am entirely weightless, and I gaze down on the world from far above. I can see everything from up here. It seems a massive feast is approaching, where rivers of mead will flow. And under a large cauldron, the cook stokes the fire…