The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [87]
It once gave Brey particular satisfaction to run through dark hallways, the keys sounding against his body. Now he does not run, but lumbers. The increasing weight of keys stunts his movement, cripples his growth. He does not resent this ― he does not realize it. According to his father's calculations, when Brey gathers five hundred keys the load will become too heavy. His spine will snap. His father suggests that he should stop at four hundred, and for that reason has equipped the harness with only four hundred hooks. Brey, however, has realized that each hook can be bent to hold two rings of keys. If he continues to collect keys, Brey will someday find himself lying on the ground with a broken back, calling for his father quietly, as if embarrassed.
The keys seem as regular a fixture of the halls as the doors. They are covered with dust where the halls are dusty. They are free from dust where the halls are clean.
He does not know if the halls will continue to exist when all the keys are removed from their intersections. He experiments to discover if, once the keys are gone, the halls will disappear. Perhaps, he believes, they will vanish from around him, allowing him an infinitely open space.
The discovery of a set of keys invokes in him a series of gestures. He picks up the keys. He examines them, assures himself that they resemble the other keys he has found. He hangs the keys from a hook of his harness, then returns to his rooms, trying the new keys in the familiar doors along the way.
If keys exist, doors must exist which they will unlock. Such is the nature of the key. Such is the nature of the door.
He has travelled through two hundred and thirty-six intersections and in the center of each has found keys. He does not know how many intersections exist. He has reached one outer, terminal wall, beyond which he cannot progress. For this reason, he suspects that the halls are not infinite.
His father thinks differently. "Everything is a passage," he says, "though not every passage leads somewhere."
His father has never been wrong. Brey tries to push his way through the terminal wall. The wall seems solid, essential in every regard. His fingers find no passage. He gives up.
His father instills within Brey his respect for keys. His father tells him:
"The keys are in the hallways, at every intersection. I have never collected keys. If you collect them, I shall be pleased. If you choose not to collect them, I shall not question your choice."
His Hallways.
The floors of his halls are polished, black stone. The walls are rough, gray stone, as are the ceilings. His hallways are extensive, forming perfect grids. Each hall between the intersections has ten doors upon each side. Each door is distanced from the next by two spans of Brey's arms ― one and one half spans of his father's arms. The halls are lit by light bulbs hanging single and naked over the intersections. The bulbs are of various wattage, and expire periodically. In certain intersections, the halls are nearly dark, lit only by light bulbs four intersections distant. In other intersections, the halls are brightly lit, the polished floors glistening as if wet. There, the light bulbs are globes, larger than he imagines his brain to be.
The terminal wall is different. On the terminal wall, there are only doors on the inner side of the hall. On the outer side, in the place of doors, windows have been cut into the stone. The windows are filled with glass. The glass is black, opaque, but shiny enough that in it Brey sees his own ghost.
The hall ahead grows dark, the light bulb broken or missing. Brey travels by touch through the dim, unreeling his fishline. He has always been afraid of the dark. He counts ten doors, feels the wall sheer off before him.
He sets the reel of fishline aside. He eases down to his knees, sweeps his hands forward across the floor until they brush something. He fumbles a ring of keys from the floor, ticks off the keys upon it. There are seven keys. This is true of all rings of keys,