Minotaur​
by Ivan Holtzinger

Runestone, volume 12

Minotaur​
by Ivan Holtzinger

Runestone, volume 12

My eyes prodded the tangle, all endless outstretched fingers clawing wildly at the passing breeze. I spotted another one, two, three, in the gaps between the branches: their forms were stones in rushing water. When the wind died, they became hidden again, leaving just those three on my side of the ditch.

So, six. Maybe seven, but the edges were muddled. Maybe seven. All alert to my presence, muscles tensing even as they lay. So I stretched my arms, fluidly, gently. Forward, just a step. Passersby might have wondered at my dance, but I had to consider my audience: consider, from the eyes of the wolf, that stillness was their enemy. I was no wolf.

His eyes were fixed onto me, unblinking. Midnight welled in those eyes. Deeper he stared, even as his mate lost interest, her head slumping in the leaves. Neither had antlers, but I knew them all the same. I didn’t have antlers, either.

Just another step before the ground fell between us, the ditch like an alley far below—walled on my side but flattening on the other bank. I stood on the edge, now. The afternoon sun groped through punctures in the quilt above, draping us in a patchwork of pale light and shadow.

“‘Afternoon,” I ventured. Silence. So I hummed something bright and wild, with a melody spun thin as spiders’ silk. His ears twitched, tuning to my frequency.

My dance was loose, languid: one leg over the other, in lockstep with the river’s pulse.

“What’s that song?” he asked. His voice was crushed velvet, rich and sonorous.

My eyes lifted from the ice below to meet his. “I’m not sure.”

“Do you like classical?”

“Music?” I asked. He nodded. “I suppose I’m partial to it.”

“Do you know much Debussy?”

“I’m familiar.”

“Your tune sounded like one of his. Maybe a symphonic poem.”

I considered this. “I suppose.” I liked Debussy. There was something of a stray brushstroke to his music, loose and wet.

“You should sit.” He nodded to the wall’s edge. So I sat, and my legs dangled over the expanse between us, passing in and out of the flecks of sunlight.

January heaved another sigh, tossing the silence into a renewed rustling as it teased up my sleeves with a prickle. Not that the silence had been, by any means, quiet. A steady rush surrounded us, inescapable: the humming of motors, shuffling footsteps, thundering bass. Crest of an anthill. Beneath it all, the thin trickle of the stream. Sitting here now, among the whip of the branches, was like stumbling upon a chance courtyard in the bowels of an endless labyrinth.

“How did you end up here?” I asked. Saying it aloud made the question seem impertinent.

He made a show of looking around, breaking our eye contact for the first time. “End up where, exactly?”

“Here. The middle of a city.”

His ear twitched. “And here you are as well.”

“I just meant…” The wind died again. A dissatisfied buzzing rented out the vacancy, eternal to the wont of the colony. Some density of pheromones clouded the air, all arms and legs, the shifting of a black tide. There was no shortage of crumbs, it seemed.

“Do you know why the leaves fall?” he asked. “What is this hand, always plucking, always brushing like a current?” He read the confusion in my silence. “And for whom? Come down here and rest your head. Claim it for yourself.”

My gaze ambled, momentarily, to the carpet of leaves below. Then, back I wandered, back into the pits of his eyes. The city roared. “I wish that I could free you from this.” I waved my arm around. “Us. All of it.”

He shook his head. “Are you familiar with the story of Tantalus?”

I nodded.

“Ever reaching, never grasping. Ever thirsting, never drinking.”

“You believe that our hunger will destroy us?” I asked.

“Us?” a smile played on his black lips. “You think I speak of humanity. I’m referring to you.” 

The breeze returned with sharpened fangs, a sandpaper scrape. Again his ear flicked.

“Yes, you,” he continued, his voice raising above the gale. “You wish to free me? I, the seraph, the eye and tongue of Hades, need to be freed?” His was the guttural laugh of a larger beast. “You’re up to your knees in ichor, and still you thirst! Unbending! I’ve seen the way you wander. Look at you, hunting yourself down! You want to grant my freedom?” The wind roared. “You, who are fettered to yourself? What is freedom to you, Tantalus?”

It was dangling in the void, out of reach. His eyes held veil to the tabernacle.

“Now, how about Theseus and the Minotaur? Every day you enter your maze, yarn in hand. And every night I watch you try to exit.” His voice was solemn. “The leaves will fall for you, dear Tantalus, if freedom you truly thirst.”

“What do I have to do?”

“What, indeed.” He closed his eyes. Opened them. “Answer this question: where do the deer go?” The wind was manic. A needle was weaving through the sky, deft as the fingers guiding it, sewing all the gashes up. Somewhere far away, another hand was kneading my brain’s gelatin, flattening the passing seconds into a river’s pulse. And still the ants were busy, ever busy.

---

I’m standing in an alley with a leather mask strapped around my head. The mask is tight. It clings to my sweat. The mouth of the mask protrudes out, forming a muzzle. On the sides of my head are two pointed ears and antlers. The face of Death.

Comes the Black Sea: “Follow.” Submerged beneath the canopy, I become the swelling of the waves, rippling over buildings, over awnings.

“Very well.” I am following the threading of the spool. The children of the night are cowering, cringing as I pass. Streets all bleed together in the dark.

And now I’m in another alley, under the neon.

“Well?” His voice was coarse, an ashtray.

“Just waiting for the tide to come in.” 

“I figured.”

“I don’t know why you look so glum.”

It’s a funny word, glum.

There’s a kind of throbbing to it, some sort of heaviness.

I don’t know what it is.

Sometimes there’s a lighthouse, sometimes not. But all the time there’s a deep shredding that tenses me up, then I feel the bile leap in my throat. Always that.

And the mask is some grotesque anchor. I feel like hiding, always hiding from the thought of it.

“In the blue light…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe that’s all we have, just four small words.

“More to it, I ‘spose.”

“Probably.”

“Where do the deer go?”

“What?”

There’s nothing quite like it, this maw. See it gape—it’s deep down somewhere, down already. Down the gullet of a big fish. Harpooned. The boat strays too close to shore. The light is out, or is the lighthouse gone entirely?

“Well, what else is there?”

“Nothing, really.”

Veni: I came. Was it Caesar or Alexander who filled in the other two parts?

I’m filling in now.

“Light another.”

“Okay.”

And then the tide recedes, mighty, scalding.

“You know something?”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah.”

A sorry sort of fizz: the rim of the glass is always so near, then pop! before it reaches the mouth.

“Aren’t you gonna say more?”

It’s hard to talk on a full stomach. The cigarette burns me deep inside somewhere, jangling among the keys.

I feel his hands on my head, caressing me, oh, so gently. And there is a different feeling, cool night air on my scalp,

“Mask stays on.”

“Freak.”

“Yeah.”

“That all you’re gonna say?”

“You’ll fill in the rest.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah.”

There’s nothing quite like it, this wreck.

---

“Are you Tantalus?” Imitating sea waves, in and out, the wind died again, plummeting all but the ants into stillness.

“No.” It was fractured glass. I swallowed the shards down.

“Then who are you?”

The yarn was in my hand. “I’m Theseus.”

“So you desire nothing?”

“I—”

“Do you believe that one will destroy the other?”

“Why not?”

“Do you know what Theseus did to Ariadne, once he slew the Minotaur? No? Well, let me tell you. He ran off with her, just as he said he would. Sailed all the way to Naxos, promised her the world. And then he abandoned her. Just sailed away. Left her to rot.” The snarl that leapt into his voice was disarming.

Shame rose like a gale. “What choice do I have? If not Theseus, do you mean for me to be the Minotaur?”

“And does the Minotaur ever slay Theseus?”

“What, then? Both are in the labyrinth, waiting to meet. Either way, I can’t wander forever.”

He nodded to his mate, asleep in the leaves. I averted my eyes.

“You want to be free? Tell me then, where do the deer go?”

---

I’m dancing now, fiddler in the corner keeping time. I hate when the room tilts so: starboard, port. There’s nothing to hold onto when you’re out on the floor.

I choke.

Blue fire escapes my lips.

“What is it now?”

“Where do the deer go?”

He doesn’t answer me.

No one does. But I’m a river, my veins are tidal.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you know me?”

Back to blue light, humming it now. As if this shithole was some belvedere motel. The song is saccharine. Something about it really buzzes me. I need another light. 

Something else on the mask. Yolk. Dripping from the ceiling, thick, viscous.

“Came in early.” Footwork.

“Always.”

“Fuck you.” Footwork.

“Always.”

There’s nothing quite like the way he pumps, grabbing my antlers while the fiddler keeps time.

“Where do the deer go?”

“Open your mouth.”

And now the boat is sinking again.

The beast curls up. Claws shredding, shredding, shredding.

“Where do the deer go?”

The alley is dimmer now, or maybe that’s smoke. The mask is animal musk.

“Hello?”

The leaves are a howling rustle on the chain link.

“Hello?”

There it is again, the crashing of the waves.

“Hello?”

The tilting of the lighthouse.

Up above. The windowsill.

“Hello?”

“Yes?” My eyes drift from the envelope. I’m sitting at a familiar table, sunlight streaming in through the window. She’s waving the hot pan in front of my face.

“This done?”

“Yolk’s still runny, ain’t it?” That sends her hopping. I light another cigarette, make myself choke.

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah.”

I’m wearing a tie. Red stripe down the middle…no shirt. Just the tie, the mask, the collar, and the boots—

“Where are you?”

“Far away. On a boat somewhere.”

“Can’t you hear me?”

There’s the breeze, rustling. Pawing at my throat. Singed. Cigarettes.

“Juice?”

“Yeah.”

I hate when O.J. and nicotine mix.

Envelope. The tunnel is empty, so I shake it again. Something slides out. Express from Naxos. I tear it open. The wrapper is inside.

TROJAN, it says.

I climb back inside myself, slide the mask over my head.

“Will you ever look up at me?”

It’s the only way to get a bitch off: shoot him dead in the eyes.

“Take the mask off.”

Where are you? Can’t you hear me?

It’s a sick sort of churning, the pitch bucking me. The sea is shredding me away.

“Hello?” The landline. “Hello?” Ariadne. “Hello?” Man in the alley. “Hello?” Stag.

“Anyone home?” He is ice and I am glass, ichor drips while I just stand and stare.

The keys jangle in my throat, the foghorns blare, the world sits and rocks, the blue light burns dim. Scattered stars.

---

“How will I taste?” His voice betrayed no venom. Just curiosity. Desire. 

“I don’t know what—”

“How will it feel?” 

“How will what feel?”

“Claiming me.”

A strange sticky warmth blossomed inside of me. My head swam. Buzzed. “Like death.”

He tilted his head. “And what is Death?”

Sky sewn shut, stray snowflakes began to drift around us, pressing a dull weight into the air. I thought of falling leaves. I thought of Debussy.

He stared deep into me. Death held no lodging behind those eyes, inky black and glinting. That face, so soft and vacant, beautiful, yielding to the spirited brush of the wind.

Wind that stung my eyes, stung me raw.

---

“In the blue light…” he begins again.

Fuck if I know what’s next.

We’re shooting pool. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep the anthill dry.

Dry for now. Waxing tide always swells. Dry for now. Itching.

“Now?”

“Right here on the table.”

The orange juice spills. That’s all I want.

“Get my tongue real good.” He presses the butt on pink till it sings.

Shredding. I swallow the ash.

“Where do the deer go?”

“What are you?”

“I’m the Minotaur.”

“Take off your mask.”

“Never.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah.”

I take a long drag. Burns the whole way down. I’m rising with the other boats. 

Sinking, shredding away.

I keep throwing myself at it, but there’s no way to park the car beyond the sign, beyond the little street, beyond the tunnel with its scabs in the brick. I toss the keys away, the taste of bile, the headlights.

It’s all sticky, I think. I wouldn’t know, the light is out. But if I ran a hand down the wiring, I’m sure it would chafe and smear. Yolk.

“Hello?”

“Yes, it’s me. I’m Tantalus. Where do the deer go?”

---

He shifted and rose without a sound. The other deer straightened as well, rocks dislodged by the current. Those beyond the trees paced to the bank and leapt the creek to join the others. Seven, after all.

The snow, silent, windless, collected in my hair. I blinked it out of my eyelashes.

He nodded to me. I leaned forward, peered down at the ground below. The ditch was a bed of leaves.

Naxos was galloping through the raised portcullis. “One-trick pony,” I whispered, laughing, then pushed myself off the ledge.

---

I am adrift in their sea. The tide carries us along, all concrete and graffiti dipping cold fingers in the current. There’s something of a rhythm to our flow. A pulse.

I chase the spectral memories deep, deep along every turn and phrase in the path. There’s a melody strung through it, some kind of convergence of stasis and motion. They lope ahead of me along the icy riverbed, wind clamped to the bridle and rearing, while I crash behind on two legs.

We trace the vein to its artery, red yarn throbbing. Trace it to the center of the labyrinth.

The ditch is cut off by a high concrete wall. Ants in metal boxes skitter on endlessly above. A tunnel cuts through, directing the trickle of the creek: a tunnel that they stand before, waiting. I peer down the beast’s gullet, deep into unyielding blackness and flow. I am looking right into his eyes. The two are one, a gaping threshold into the pool of midnight, ichor undying. Not even the snow follows us in, beyond death.

We descend into the outstretched maw, into darkness.

---

“This is where the deer go.” My voice was over me, on top of me, suffocating me, slick, sopping.

The words dug under my eyelids and pried them open.

“This is where they go,” I repeated, and down came my antler.

I drove it deep into heaving flesh. The body was beside and beneath me. Oil erupted from the gash, spattering. The smell was poison sweet and oh, so heavy.

“This is where they go.” I dragged my antler down the deer’s throat; another spray. It filled my mouth, blinded my eyes, coated my neck and chin and lips in heat and ooze and yolk.

One, two, three. My muzzle lapped up the excess. I buried my face in the water.

“Watch.” My hand was in my hair, talons digging, clawing.

My throat caught in a sob.

I couldn’t breathe.

“This is where they go.” Bone licked the deer’s cheek. Six, seven.

His eyes were marbles. No antlers.

But I had antlers now.

My crown gleamed, sank eagerly into the flesh and chewed down the length of the body with a scrape. Just a tangerine. I slipped my fingers under the hide and peeled. Stripped it all off.

It was heavy, damp. The odor bloomed: cloying, coppery, rich. I lifted the pelt high into darkness, reveled in it as I slid it over my arms, my legs. I drowned out my protests with a smack.

“How does it feel?” came his voice, soft and low. How does it feel to claim him?

I was diving deeper into the pits of his eyes. Black. Deeper than onyx. Oil. Ichor. Those eyes were my eyes, the eyes of Hades; they did not see death. I was over me, I was dripping, and down came my crown; out rushed the tide. I was kneeling and drinking. I was emptying into the river. I was escaping the labyrinth.

I was humming, too. Both of us. And the tune was bright and wild, flapping madly against the webs of heat and oil. I descended over me, pressed my bloodied muzzle to my lips, then drove my antlers into the heat between us. Tore it in deep. I choked, and the bile shot from mouth into muzzle. The hide covered us. Claimed us both. We bathed in the ichor together.

---

And out into the blue light, into falling leaves. They’re waiting for me here, on the other side of the tunnel. I dance on two legs, four; I shift to fill the folds of skin; I sag beneath my rotting hide; I dance with the rhythm of blood and river flow. Humming too, and the song is the same. Something like Debussy, something like tangled yarn in a winter breeze. Something of my own, something grotesque and lovely. Here the leaves fall freely, as they must. The labyrinth, swarming hive, anthill, is behind me. Death as well. And what is death?

All I taste is ichor, all I see is blue light. This is where we go.