by Rich Horton
Labyrinth nodded, put her forehead against the familiar wood.
all it needs now is a heart, said the house.
“A heart. Hah. Do I even have one?” Labyrinth was almost laughing, but it was not a happy laugh. It was a heavy laugh, heavy as a stone sinking to the ocean floor.
The house said nothing, but it said nothing in that way only big places do, and in the language of big places, this meant yes.
• • •
When I finally found the house, it was a little bit like looking at a crater, there were broken rocks that could have been a footpath leading to the house, and the earth looked like it had just opened up and swallowed everything in one big gulp. It was hard to imagine people had lived there.
Oh, and the gossip. Few things will get the gossip going like a teenage mom, I suppose, especially so if she comes from a rich family with a line of ancestors huddling under Time’s dark coat. I didn’t pay much attention to any of it, none of that mattered, not to me. I knew Labyrinth, knew her antler shadow, her minotaur soul, and I had seen her eyes in my dream, eyes that looked like she had ravens living inside her soul. Oh, these dark wings!
• • •
Inanna, you may not leave this place again; Inanna, you may only leave the Underworld if you give someone to the shadows who will drink the darkness and eat the dust in your stead while you are away. And Inanna gave her lover into the shadows to eat the dust and drink the darkness.
The minutes she had in her father’s private library, where books with silvery and coppery and iron spines lined the walls, were few and therefore precious.
My dear house, you have shown me five of your seven gates . . . she wrote, crouching between stacks of books, pen flowing awkwardly. She had taken to writing letters when she had first realized she was pregnant, and she would always leave the letters inside of books. The house appreciated it, it was such an intimate gesture like brushing one another’s cheek with your fingers or tucking their hair back behind their ear.
The house understood its wintry haired master well, for he had passed through all its seven gates already, but the house had never quite made friends with the man. The thing was, Labyrinth understood the house back, and every little thing in the universe wants nothing more than to be understood and known for what it truly is. And to find that understanding, lengths will be gone to.
The months passed quicker for the house than they did for Labyrinth. The house was glad. It knew that to pass through all of its gates, even bigger pieces of one’s self had to be given, and it did not want Labyrinth to feel rushed in that giving.
it must feel like sacrifice, the house therefore told Labyrinth.
And Labyrinth, no longer pregnant, but cradling her child now, wrote in a letter that she tucked away in an old book that she understood sacrifice, had always understood it, because inside, she and the house were both the same, a place and not a place, a person and not anyone at all.
• • •
When I reached the ruins of the house, well, can we just say that I realized I had no need anymore for normal sight?
When I touched the rubble, it felt almost like taking a fresh clear sip from a well, but always when I blinked, that feeling was gone and I was pulled back to here, to reality or whatever you want to call it. Rope, bark, blood. How many hours hanging on that rope. How much waiting, how much sacrifice?
I used a knife, and what else would a knife leave but a flesh wound?
• • •
And Inanna returned to the upper world, but deep inside her, she knew the world below, carried a piece of it always inside herself.
for the sixth of my gates, you pass through, but you leave your child behind. your brother will stay with her, and he will never leave, he will drink darkness and feast on dust. i will see to it that he is kind to her, that is my gift to you for going through my gates with open eyes.
for the seventh of my gates, you pass through, but you must leave one half of your soul behind. do not worry. i will keep it safe, hung on a silver hook. also, your father will stay in the room of hooks, and he will watch over the hooks so you don’t have to. For he also has crossed through my gates, but he may never leave. None would eat dust and drink darkness for him.
“And then, we are apart.”
that which is strongly linked can bear to be apart. that which is strongly linked can never be apart.
“My body will be broken. Your gates lie so deep within, and I will be broken once I crawl through, crawl out and back up.”
you will still be. and that which must heal, will heal, with time.
Labyrinth nodded. And through the sixth gate, she took the first step.
• • •
The stories all go that the house came down like a storm, like a bomb had fallen on it or an earthquake had hit it, or like all of the above combined.
In the hospital, I got my EMT talking about it.
“When we got there, well,” she said. “The girl that made it out, that was incredible, a miracle, we all thought. She crawled, through the dust and the rubble. You were just sitting there, darlin’, but she crawled. And every bone in her body broken and bent.”
I never believed that all of Labyrinth’s bones were broken, but I did gather she left an impression on the first responders.
“I’d have sworn the entire family was dead,” my EMT went on, “and when we got the call tonight, I was sure that cursed place had killed again.” She padded my hand, and I imagined that she was smiling, looking at me in that everything’s gonna be okay manner that people have when they don’t want to hear the truth spoken with their own voice.
“But you are gonna be alright, you hear, darlin’?” Said like it was a mantra for her. I felt she would benefit from finding a different job, but said nothing to her.
The second time I met Labyrinth, I was out of bed for the first time as a man without eyes. It was very strange. I found her by the smell of poppies, by the way shadows kept passing over my face the closer I got to her room.
“Do not come in,” she said as my fingers were just feeling the door jamb.
“Want to keep me out the same way you wanted me off that poppy field?”
I heard her tsk-ing. “That was a silly thing to do. On your part. The poppies are not for you, and I told you that.”
I knew then that it was probably better to change the subject. In my memory of that dream, Labyrinth was softer, like a doe fleet-footing over grass, but here I realized that this was not so. Labyrinth. Of course, she had to be vast and boundless and incorruptible. Unyielding, too, in a way. And that minotaur living in the heart of her, I could hear her chafe her hooves whenever Labyrinth spoke, knew that she had my scent.
“You won’t stay here for much longer, will you?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “This isn’t the right place for me either.”
“I’ve been to the house. I have given my eyes.”
“Yes, I know. How could you not. The Hermit’s sacrifice.”
Standing there, facing Labyrinth unseeingly, Labyrinth who was so much of a riddle to me, and yet so clear, I wanted to ask her a million questions, but the words just wouldn’t come. I felt empty, and the only thought I had in that moment was of that big old oak tree again.
“I think I’ll go home,” I told her.
“Yes. We all must return to where we came from, in the end. Will it give you some peace knowing that my father is keeping your father company in a room full of sharp hooks and very little light?”
I thought about that. “I’m not sure,” I finally said, and no matter what my life had been like, my childhood, my youth, I knew that was the truth.
“Well, one way or the other, it doesn’t really matter. There they are, and there they will stay. And we must move on. Goodbye, Hermit, until we meet again.”
“Goodbye,” I said, and as soon as the words had left my mouth, I didn’t feel her presence any longer, no unclimbable walls, no minotaur shadow circling my soul.
> • • •
I went home. The oak tree was still there, of course, still is. You might find it silly to water a tree big as that, but the tree really likes it, and it’s not like I have anything better to do with my time.
The swing is no longer mine, of course, that is to say, it is no longer for me. I want you to know, though, that it is still there, still here, and it is waiting. It’s not hard, just a little push, a little pull, the ropes will hold you and do all the work for you, if you are willing, if you can give something of yourself. The only thing you have to do is really want this, really have the courage to go looking for it, the bark and the blood; the sacrifice.
Tick-Tock
by Xia Jia, translated by Emily Jin
Him
Alone in the darkness, he counts the tick-tocks.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .
There are sixty seconds in a minute.
His thumb slides from the tip of his index finger to the second knuckle.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .
There are sixty minutes in an hour.
He clears the counting on his left hand and carries a digit over to his right hand.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .
Ring-a-ring.
The alarm clock bleeps, waking him up from the darkness.
The wind blows at the curtains, letting in the sunshine. It’s a new day.
He rolls out of bed, washes his face, brushes his teeth, makes coffee, slides a toast into the toaster, fries an egg, eats breakfast, changes into a business suit, puts on a tie, goes downstairs, starts the car engine, and leaves for work.
It’s a bright, breezy day. A few puffy, white clouds are drifting across the clear, blue sky, the sight so beautiful that it almost looks like a cartoon image. He skims through his day schedule as he drives. There’s more work to do today than he had imagined.
Lately, he’s been overloaded with work. But his love for his job is enough to push him through.
He parks his car next to a school, opens his trunk, finds the box labeled “1” and takes out the costume and props inside.
The costume is a school uniform. He puts it on, half-tucks his shirt into his pants, steps into a pair of grubby sneakers, ruffles his hair into a bed head, and sprays toner onto his face to moisturize the skin.
A smooth face, bushy eyebrows, and clear eyes: the perfect schoolboy package. Satisfied with the reflection in the rearview mirror, he does a few warm-up moves on the curb to stretch out his arms and legs. He can smell the fragrance of osmanthus flowers in the cool morning air.
All set. He gives himself a clap of encouragement.
• • •
Ready, action!
He races toward the school.
Going to be late for school, better hurry up . . . faster . . . he thinks. He gasps for air as he runs. His hair and unzipped sweater whip in the wind. The soles of his shoes are burning. He swings his arms frantically as if the extra motion could speed him up. Faster, faster . . .
Bam!
He runs smack into someone as he turns a corner. He stumbles, then falls to the ground, sprawling.
Ouch. He has hit his head so hard that he’s seeing stars. The world seems to be spinning before his eyes. He lies there, unable to get up.
“Ah!” a girl’s voice rings above his head.
He looks up. He sees a pair of white sneakers, and then the hemline of a school uniform skirt.
A girl with short hair is kneeling next to him. Eyes wide in surprise, she examines him carefully. The morning sun shines on her face, illuminating the tiny freckles on the sides of her nose.
“Are you alright?” asks the girl.
Something hot is running down his chin. He realizes that his nose is bleeding.
Cut.
• • •
He sits up. Wiping his nose on his shirt, he evaluates the previous act. Was it natural enough? Was it too dramatic? Did he fall down correctly? What would an inexperienced high school boy do when he falls in love for the first time? Verisimilitude doesn’t matter; what matters is whether his performance could stir up the feeling of young, innocent love in an adult audience. Generating empathy is the key to a successful performance.
“Are you alright?” the girl asks again, her voice timid.
She is so young, he thinks, this is what a real high school student is supposed to look like. He can never fake the look of youth no matter how good his acting or how flawless his makeup. As he gazes at the girl’s face bathed in sunlight, he feels the bittersweetness of a first crush slowly rising in his heart.
Let’s redo it. He decides.
He rewinds the scene. The bloodstain on his shirt disappears, the girl returns to the other side of the road, and he appears back at his car.
He checks the rearview mirror again to fix his makeup and costume, warms up and gives himself another encouraging clap.
• • •
Ready, action!
Once again, he dashes toward the school.
Bam!
Cut.
• • •
The second performance is definitely better. Satisfied, he grins to himself.
It’s getting late. He heads off to the next scene, leaving the school behind.
The clouds are thinning. The sun, now brighter, casts the shadow of trees onto the road.
He parks his car in an underground lot and takes out the box labeled “2” from his trunk. The costume this time is a close-fitting gray uniform, looking rather futuristic. He tightens the belt, puts on a badge and slicks his hair back.
He enters an elevator. As the elevator ascends, he rehearses his lines silently.
The elevator gate opens. He walks out and strides onto the bridge, his head held high. The crew salutes him.
“Captain, the wrap drive is ready.” His first mate calls out to him.
“Forward!” he orders, with a wave of the hand.
• • •
You
In the darkness, you count the tick-tocks alone.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .
There are sixty seconds in a minute.
Your thumb slides from the tip of your index finger to the second knuckle.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .
There are sixty minutes in an hour.
You clear the counting on your left hand and carry a digit over to your right hand.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .
Ring-a-ring.
The alarm clock bleeps, waking you up from the darkness.
• • •
You turn on the light in your windowless, messy room. It’s a new day.
You pour yourself a cup of cold water, drink it in one gulp, go to the bathroom to shower, dry up with a towel, change into clean clothes, make instant coffee, grab a sandwich from the fridge, and sit down at your desk.
You browse your inbox and your day schedule. There’s a lot to do. Better tackle these tasks one by one, you sigh.
First of all, you create a new project: a high school romance. No need to build a new scene—you can use an existing template. Most shows about high school romance are largely identical, even the schools on the sets look pretty much the same. You display the miniaturized 3-D model of the school and the neighborhood on your dashboard. You change some of the shop signs and add a few cars and pedestrians to the scene. You adjust the lighting and the color, and use a filter to make the sky seem bluer and clearer. You set the time to September. With a final dash of cool morning breeze and the fragrance of osmanthus flowers, the scene is good to go.
Next you design the female protagonist. Height, weight, measurements, outfit, hairstyle, facial features . . . you give her a pixie cut, tanned skin, some light brown fre
ckles and lean, muscular legs like a deer. She resembles a girl whom you’ve had a crush on in the past.
You know for sure that the male protagonist will fall in love with her, because he is you, and you are him. You created him. Or, rather, you created an avatar of yourself in a virtual world. He feels and thinks exactly the way you do. With him as the protagonist, you spin thousands of stories. Through him, the consumers can immerse themselves in your stories. He becomes their eyes and ears.
Other characters in the scene, however, are merely NPCs (non-person character) generated by 3-D modeling and algorithms. They can cry, laugh, sing, and dance, but nothing beyond those simple actions. The protagonist is the only RPC (real-person character) who can react genuinely to each scene, like a real living human.
He appears at the crossroad and changes his costume and hairstyle in accordance to the scene. You take the chance to adjust his statistics. Enhance speed, dexterity, and flexibility. After all, the upcoming scene involves a little more physical activity than usual.
Since an RPC is based on a real human, you cannot change their character setting like you can do to the NPCs, or else the RPC will experience identity confusion. You have to create an ultimate role for him that overrides all those alternative characters, like an umbrella: you make him believe that he is an enthusiastic actor, and playing those characters is only a part of his daily job.
Humans have mastered the skill of reducing cognitive dissonance. Even an RPC in a virtual world will rationalize everything around them and generate a self-consistent life story. The same thing goes for dreams. When we dream, no matter how strange the dream, our brains always make it feel real.
Does a virtual character dream? Occasionally you wonder.
What would someone living in a dream, dream of? You don’t really know. You, on the other hand, haven’t dreamed in a long time.
All set. You put a finger on the “start” button.
Ready, action!
• • •
EXT. IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL—EARLY MORNING
He races toward the school.
(Going to be late for school, better hurry up . . . faster, faster . . . )
Bam!
He runs smack into the female protagonist who is also running towards the school, as he turns a corner. He stumbles, then falls to the ground, sprawling.