All alone, I was, and I just then realized I couldn't recall the way out.
I did somethin' foolish, then. I was lost below, and I needed a guide. So I thought back to an old, old tale with the darkest maze, the cleverest guide. The wave built, and I rode the swell and spoke it into existence: the hero in the dark, the dreadful offerin', the bull with his sister, the princess. Most importantly, I called up the thread. A ball of twine spun itself into bein' in my hands, its end extendin' ahead in the darkness. I had my way through. But there was a catch.
I don't make the stories, I've told you before. I can pick and choose which tales to speak and which waves to ride through the world. But once it's out there, it's out there, and the rules ain't mine to decide. The thread was my way home–but before it would lead me out, it would lead me to the darkest denizen of the maze. It would take me to the eater of the innocent, and if I was no hero, I would become the vulnerable sacrifice.
I started breathin' again and wasn't that a funny feelin'. I could tell I had a neck again, and a heart from the way my pulse pounded in my neck. Fear is all well and good to speak, but it had been an age since I'd truly experienced it. It was a loathsome, dreadful thing: sweat pooled in my hair, and I started to panic. Panic! Like a child in a nightmare, longin' for the nightlight to chase away the shadows.
The next step was runnin', which came too easy with the fear. I charged after the thread, goin' deeper and deeper below. The darkness I thought was so amusin' became cloying tendrils that snuffed out all but the sound of my own breathin'. Down we went, the thread my future, the drops of sweat my past. There was no room for another tale. There was only the maze, the gift, and the awful thing ahead.
I almost didn't notice when the cave dipped, and the tunnel ended. I thought the rock had swallowed up my guide for a moment when I realized the floor was too smooth and flat. The fear was gone for a moment, and I seized the chance. With a cry, I named the scarab that pushes the sun as it sleeps underground, and the tunnel was filled with a blaze of glory. I looked upon the dark waters and asked what the fudge it thought it was doin' down here, the great useless puddle.
[Unintelligible noises, punctuated by fragmented vocalizations.]
And what do you care if my language was a bit stronger than that? You're much too young to hear what I did say, and all you need to know is I was right peeved.
[One continuous ululation, lasting approximately twenty seconds.]
Fine. Maybe I was hypocritical after makin' such a stink about the unnecessary swearin' earlier, but that ain't the point, honey. The point was I was angry and vulnerable, and I was standin' in the lair of my enemy of millennia, and it couldn't even be bothered to notice me.
I told the water to make itself somethin' with ears so I could yell at it, and just got a ripple in response. I said our daughter is missin'. You remember her? Name of Barbara, genius loci, allergic to pine nuts? Or did you lose your stolen sentience over the handful of years I been gone?
It didn't do no good. That's just how the hungry waters work. It don't care. It can't unless it ate somethin' that knows how. Still, that didn't explain me. Why would it ignore me at my lowest? Why would it let me stand here and shout at it, under the light of a glowin' bug laboring hard to make sure the sun rose again?
I calmed down then and tried to think straight. The thread was still spinnin' in my hands, unravelin' into the water. It was eating the story, the very thing that made me vulnerable. Why? The tale of fear unraveled with it, and I came back to myself, steppin' away from the waters as they boiled and moved. The thread disappeared, utterly consumed. I watched as they condensed and compacted, taking a shape. Finally, an old fella in a white toga stepped from the depths, which retreated and drew up within him.
The Stray: Entries
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