The New Weird (29 page)

He looks to one side. He sees that the intersections to either side of his path are free of dust. A second glance, and he sees that there are no keys in those intersections.

Logic: If he has not explored the intersections, there would be keys. If he has, there would be fishline. If not one, the other. Yet there are neither.

"Father?" Brey cries, turning circles. "Father?"

On Blame.

He waits in the middle of the hall for his father to come. His father does not come.

His father has lied. His father chose to collect keys. Otherwise, there would be keys in all of the intersections which Brey has not explored. His father has betrayed him.

Yet, suppose it were not his father but the rats?

Rats are collectors,
according to Our Friend the Rat.
If they discover a glittering object, they will bring it back to their nest.

Keys do not glitter, but they catch light. The rats might take keys for two reasons: a) the keys catch light or b) to persecute Brey. Nothing must be blamed on his father. Everything can be blamed on the rats.

But should it? Perhaps his father and the rats are working together against him, his father's hatred of rats a cover-up for his father's hatred of his son.

Brey will return to his rooms. He will return to confront his father, to force him to reveal the truth. This time Brey will not be easily satisfied.

His Desk.

Turning a corner, he comes to the end of the fishline.

In the middle of an otherwise empty intersection stands his desk, all the drawers missing but one. One of the legs has been gnawed off, the stump of it lying near Brey, the fishline wound around it.

He winds the fishline around his hand, reeling the leg to him. It must have taken a vast number of rats to carry his desk through the halls. The two rats that have escaped his father have multiplied.

He opens the remaining drawer. Within, a canteen and three jars of peach preserves. His papers are missing, perhaps destroyed. He closes the drawer.

Leaving the desk, he follows the fishline out. Ten intersections later, he reaches the new end of his fishline.

He lifts it, examines it. The end of the fishline is neither stretched nor curled nor deformed. It has been cleanly cut. He has lost his rooms.

His Wandering.

He attaches one end of the shortened fishline to the desk. To the other, he attaches the broken desk leg. He holds onto the leg as he explores the halls, reeling and unreeling the fishline as if the leg were a spool.

The fishline reaches to a distance of ten intersections. He maps a roughly diamond-shaped area, ten intersections in each cardinal direction, less for those intersections which he cannot approach directly. He does not find keys.

Using a key, he scratches a map onto the surface of the desk. He codes "O" for intersections without keys, " ― " and "|" for hallways. If he finds intersections with keys, he will record them with an "X."

He explores in every direction. He reaches the limit of his fishline. Within his range are no keys to collect, no new hallways, no terminal walls, no windows. He sits on the floor near the desk, eating the last of his peaches. His fingers are stained yellow, his mask glazed below the mouth. The crack in the forehead of the mask has spread wider, exposing the cloth beneath.

He licks his fingers. He stands and sets out, exploring again the same halls.

He chooses a direction, follows the fishline to its end. His father stands one intersection farther, well out of his reach.

His father cups his hands around his mouth. "Brey!" his father calls. Brey lifts the desk leg up, shows his father the fishline attached to it. His father, squinting, moves a few steps closer. "Where is the spool?" says his father. "Cut," Brey says. "Rats." "Are you sure it was rats, Brey?" "Not rats?" says Brey.

"Whoever cut it did you a favor. You must leave the fishline."

Brey shakes his head.

"Come here, Brey," says his father.

Brey does not move.

"Who gave you life, Brey?" says his father. "Is that where I went wrong?"

Brey takes a step backward. He turns, flees. His father remains motionless, watching him run.

He takes hold of the desk and pulls. The desk groans toward him, listing toward the corner missing the leg. Walking backward, he drags the desk after him.

He pulls the desk into the next intersection. Unreeling his fishline, he explores the additional hallways he can reach from there.

There are no keys in the new intersections. He returns to the desk, scratching his findings onto the surface. He pulls the desk forward an intersection, sets out.

The desktop is covered with scratches. He humps the desk forward. He travels to a new intersection, this one filled with dust.

He closes his eyes. He drops to his knees, poking his fingers forward. He finds no keys.

He drags the desk forward one intersection, sets out. Beyond the first dust-filled intersection is a second. He drops to his knees, wades in. He stands, coughing, his hands empty. He returns to the desk, carves his findings into it.

A third dust-filled intersection and the dust ends. The next intersection is as empty of keys as all the others. As is the next, the next, the next.

He searches for his rooms. The halls are not infinite ― he once reached a terminal wall. Eventually he must find his rooms.

He has nothing to eat. He has not slept. He pulls the desk forward.

Some of the halls are dark, others lit. None have keys. He travels with great speed when there are no keys to collect. The desk is covered over with interlapped marks which tell him nothing. He does not know where to scratch his next mark. He finds the space with the least number of other marks and scratches his mark there.

He has explored an unknown number of intersections in an unknown amount of time. Had there been keys in these intersections, his back would now be broken. But there have been no keys.

He unties the fishline from the broken desk leg. He opens the desk drawer. Empty peach jars are stuck to the floor of the drawer by their syrup. He breaks the jars free, their bases shearing off, leaving jagged circles of glass.

He puts the broken desk leg into the desk. He ties the fishline around his waist, decreasing its range by a meter. To compensate, he moves the desk a meter closer to the edge of the intersection.

The intersections are similar. None have keys. None have dust. None

lead to his hall. He moves the desk forward. He keeps on.

His Keys.

He stands in an intersection, leaning slightly forward. The fishline is taut behind him. He takes a set of keys from his arm. He drops it onto the floor. The keys clink when they hit.
Clink.

Leaving the keys in the intersection, he walks backward toward the desk.

Once there, he turns around again, returns to the intersection. On the floor he sees a set of keys, the first in a long while.

The keys have returned.

His father sits cross-legged in an intersection. Brey touches his ear, hugs the wall, nods in passing.

"Still collecting, Brey?" says his father, reaching out to touch Brey's arm.

"Collecting keys," Brey says. He removes a ring of keys from his hooks, shows it to his father.

"Shall we be friends again?" his father says. Brey hesitates, nods.

His father stands, opens his arms, moves forward. Trapped against the wall, Brey must meet the embrace.

He travels the halls, dropping keys in intersections. There are keys to collect now in every intersection. His load gets no heavier.

He collects the keys one set at a time. He returns, trying each key in each door.

Advantages: Brey is satisfied. The weight on his back will never increase. His back will never break. He will collect keys until he starves.

Disadvantages: He has not slept. He has no food, he has no water. He will never find his rooms unless he stops recollecting the keys. He is as good as dead.

He collects keys, checks the doors, marks the map. The surface of the desk is mutilated. He runs his hand over the desktop. His palm comes away shot through with splinters.

As he walks, the fishline becomes entangled about his knees. His steps grow shorter. The fishline slides, slips down, spools loosely about his ankles. He shuffles forward, tottering stiffly from side to side. Ahead lies a set of keys. He moves forward.

The line tightens. His ankles come together. He tries to continue forward. He sways. He stretches his hands toward the keys and pitches forward.

[FOUR]

His Back

His father never said, "Stay attached to the fishline." His father never said, "Someday you will run out of fishline." His father never said, "You must be careful ― the fishline might become entangled around your feet."

There are many things his father never said.

What his father did say was, "Are you certain collecting keys is the right choice?" Brey is not certain.

He shakes his head. The shards of plaster still clinging to the cloth click together. He eases himself over to his back. He tries to move his legs apart, finds them bound together.

He lies on the ground, body still. He stares at the light bulb.

Slivers of plaster scatter the floor. He raises his broken face. His father's face leans into his own, warmly. His father tugs on the rags covering his face, tearing free a shard of plaster. He turns the shard in his hand, flicks it aside.

"What has happened to your face, Brey?" asks his father. Brey turns his face away. He father reaches out, cups his son's chin in his palm. He forces his son's face to look at him. "Stand up, Brey," his father says.

Brey does not stand. His father grabs the straps of his harness. His father heaves on the straps, raises him slightly off the floor. Brey stiffens his body. His father lets him fall.

Moving back a step, he kicks Brey in the temple. Brey grits his teeth.

His father stoops, inspects the side of Brey's head, caresses his temple. He rises, takes Brey by the boots, drags him down the hall. Brey bends his knees, kicks them swiftly into his father's stomach.

His father lets go, stumbles bent and staggering. He stands wide-legged above Brey, catching his breath.

"This is for your own good, Brey," says his father.

Grabbing his straps, he drags Brey down the hall. Brey digs his fingers and heels into the floor, shaking his shoulders until his father releases him.

"I have given you slack, Brey," says his father. "But too far is too far."

His father kneels. He removes a set of keys from Brey's hooks, casts it aside. He removes another, casts is aside. Another, another, another.

He continues to remove keys until Brey bites his hand. Cursing, his father rises, departs.

Comes a pressure on one side of his face. He does not move. A shape crosses his eye, rubbing against the eyelid. It moves to cover the other eye. Where it touches his face, it is warm, soft. Covered with hair.

Rat.

He struggles to move his legs. His legs are bound in fishline. They do not move. He tries to lift his head but the rat is too heavy. He twists his neck sideways. The rat claws at cloth and shard, sliding off his face.

The rat squats close to his face, cheeks asquirm. The tail is bare. The feet are grayish pink as are the eyes. The body is covered with matted grey hair. The head tapers to a blunted snout. Below the snout, the tips of two teeth.

The rat clambers up the bridge of Brey's nose, onto his temple. Brey moves his head slightly. The rat slides off in a heap. The rat sniffs his face, clambers atop his head. It sits upon his ear.

He slowly lifts his arm. He moves his hand up his body. He touches the rat's tail. He brushes his palm over the rat's body to touch the head.

He curls his fingers in a basket around the rat's head. He tightens his fingers until the knuckles whiten. The rat sucks at his hand, breathless, scrabbling and clawing the side of his face. It entangles its claws in cloth and plaster. His fingers tighten.

He opens his hand. The rat slides off his face and onto the floor, quivering, its eyes floating and misdirected. He rolls onto his side, carefully knotting the rat's tail. He ties a double knot, leaving a slight loop. He forces the loop over a hook on his harness, hanging the rat as if a set of keys.

The rat lolls off to one side, its neck twisted, its head lying turned against the floor.

He stares at the light bulb until it is blotted out. His father stands above him, dark-faced, head surrounded by a fiery nimbus of hair. His father holds the rat's tail pinched between thumb and forefinger. He dangles the rat in the air.

"Your idea of a joke, Brey?"

"Joke?" croaks Brey.

"No joke?" says his father.

"Rat?" says Brey.

"Rat?" says his father, hooking the creature back onto Brey's chest. "Where?"

There is his father, lifting him, lifting him.

For His Own Good.

A bank of twelve lights in the ceiling, five of which have expired. He turns his head. He sees that he is lying on a mattress. Four walls, a single door. He has escaped the rats.

No doubt, the rats will find him. Yet, before they arrive, he will devise traps. He will bait the traps with peach preserves, using fishline to set them. He has thought of several good traps. There are more traps than the deadfall ― traps that
How to Build a Better Mousetrap
does not cover, traps that the rats will not know to avoid.

The dead rat hangs from a hook on his chest, beneath the sheet that covers him. He will get out of bed. He will draw a picture of the rat. He will flush the rat down the toilet. He will find his fishline and knot the pieces together, so as to continue to collect keys. He will not collect keys until the rats are dead, but he will collect keys.

The sheets cling tightly to him. They are tucked under his body. He rocks back and forth until the sheets loosen. He frees his hands.

He rolls over onto his side, looks over the edge of the bed to see on the floor below a mound of keys.