The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [98]
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 re-collecting 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