Insomniac, part 4
Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5
Tariq was euphoric. He felt like his flesh was steel. Proudly, he held the broken boards at his side as he strode down the white line in the middle of the road. Vaguely he attempted to retrace his path, but his attention was inward. He imagined himself calling out challenges to the sleepers in their beds. He envisioned a coliseum of spectators, leaning out their apartment windows, chanting his name. He saw himself beset by barbarians with long spears mounted atop roaring sedans. He felt barrel chested and waved the sword, pretending to parry and strike.
On the jagged end of the wooden sword, some of splinters were stained red with Santa’s blood. The fantasy collapsed. Tariq’s invincibility deflated. He had hurt a troubled stranger.
He stopped. His heart felt rubbery. He had the sensation he was carrying a murder weapon. He returned to the sidewalk and skirted around the circle of light under a lamp post. He stopped in front of a trash can. He opened the lid to discard the bloodied item, to be done with it. His hand shook.
Tariq imagined the stranger who could transform himself into a bull. He imagined the stranger finding the sword here and realizing what had happened. He imagined the stranger hanging his head in shame.
Tariq slid the sword back down his pant leg. The edges scraped his skin. He wanted to be back in bed.
He continued to walk. His way meandered. He turned corners. He crossed his fingers. He hoped he was aiming himself towards home. He considered knocking on a door and asking directions, but his vision was blurred. Buildings looked like enormous gravestones.
The wind had died down, but the chill remained. A song rose up in the hushed air around Tariq. It was jaunty, half hummed, half whispered. Tariq followed the sound.
“That Dionysos /
He gave me a twirl /
He told my master /
Go without the girl!”
Down the block, a woman sat on the sidewalk with her legs outstretched like a small child. Her gray hair spread in every direction and tangled around itself.
Tariq stared. She had a hammer and chisel in her hands, a metal pail at her side. Carefully, she positioned the chisel in the sidewalk and pounded it with the hammer. She blew away the dust and examined her narrow indentation.
She sang as she worked:
“Well Dionysos /
You’re the god of wine /
My man can’t do it /
Without any twine.”
She continued to chisel until she had a straight line of about three feet, crossing perpendicularly over another crack in the sidewalk. She then lifted her bucket of water and poured it into the indentation. It spread at the cross and filled the crack.
Tariq’s skull felt like lead. He wanted to roll up into a ball in the alley. Instead, he approached. She looked up and squinted. He was reminded of the way witches were drawn in children’s books.
“I’m sorry,” said Tariq.
She cradled her tools to her breast. “Are you from the government?” she said.
Tariq shook his head.
She looked over her shoulder. “They don’t like my art,” she said and she smiled. Her teeth pointed in several directions.
Behind her, Tariq could see rows of cracks in the sidewalk. Some were parallel. Some circled around. Some intersected at odd angles. If he hadn’t seen this old woman carving them, he never would have assumed they had any design.
He stepped closer. Then he stepped back. The cracks were gone and he was staring into giant, thin letters. Invisible to all but the most careful observation, they formed words: you are not in hell yet.
The old woman packed her hammer and chisel into her pockets and sang:
“Dear Dionysos /
He gave me a crown /
Couldn’t get to Olympus /
Without going down!”
Tariq continued to gaze at the letters. His mouth was dry. It was as if the city were whispering secrets in his ear.
Tariq crossed the street and examined the cracks on the opposite sidewalk. At first he thought these were ordinary wear and tear. Then he spotted a distinct N and then an M. The words became clear: Fuck the man.
When he looked up, he noticed that the old woman was waddling away. He hurried to catch her.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I was wondering if you could give me directions. I’m… lost.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “That’s good. First, we see Flynn. He’ll be starting soon.”
Tariq tried to argue. The exhaustion that he had sought was upon him. He longed to lie in his bed and let go of the night. But the old woman just chortled.
“Come, come,” she said. And he followed.
The sky overhead was a muddy shade of blue, but a mist was settling on the city around Tariq. He could see the faint outlines of distant skyscrapers, but in the haze they looked like arrows pointing towards the heavens.
The old woman’s steps were plodding, but Tariq’s feet were like lead and he shambled along with her.
“You see,” she said, “when I was a little girl- yes, yes, I know, you can’t imagine me without these wrinkles and warts, well, let me tell you, I was not born with them! Well, when I was a little girl, my mother would take me to the park after school. My father, you see, was a mean, old drunk so she didn’t want me home until after he had fallen asleep. So I had to play all afternoon, which might sound like a very nice thing for a little girl, but, let me tell you, I was a shy child. I was embarrassed about my father and I couldn’t speak well. I didn’t dare ask the other children to play with me. So I made up a game- I pretended I was playing hide-and-seek with them and I would hide behind trees and sneak around. No one ever caught me. I could tell myself I was very good at this game and all the children must be impressed. But I knew it wasn’t true and I was very lonely. I longed for a friend.”
The fog grew thick around them until Tariq couldn’t see the buildings on the other side of the street. It felt like the city was being slowly erased. He had the sensation of stepping into limbo.
“This went on for many months,” continued the old woman, “until I was climbing into an apple tree and there was a little boy sitting up there. He says, ‘Oh no! You’ve caught me!’ and runs away. Well, I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I go looking for him and find a girl behind a bush. She says, ‘Phooey!’ and she runs away, too. Well, I chase them and find more children and then more children and more children- they’re under blankets, they’re behind rocks, they’re holding up leaves to look like plants, they’re submerged in the river. By the time my mother comes, there’s one hundred and fifty of us. And they’re just like me- they’re all very shy- this one thinks the children will laugh because he has dirty clothes, that one doesn’t want them to see her limp. So they play their own games by themselves, but now we’re all caught. So the next day, when I get to the park, I know where to look- we can’t hide from each other anymore. And now we can play new games together. I take them to the tree with the most delicious apples. The little boy with the dirty clothes knows about a cave where the snakes mate in a great big ball. The girl with the limp knows a glen where giant caterpillars spin enormous silk chrysalises.”
Through the fog, Tariq could see the inky forms of fishermen. They carried long poles and huddled around the glow of a fire.
“Eventually, I stopped going home,” said the old woman.
She led Tariq towards the fishermen and a great, open gate appeared before them in the fog like the drawbridge of a castle. A gatekeeper stood unmoving atop the structure as if he too were hewn from rock.
Tariq stopped and squinted. The silhouettes didn’t appear to be moving, the fire didn’t flicker.
The old woman motioned for him to keep up. “Come now, he’ll be starting soon,” she said.
Tariq stepped forward tentatively and the frozen figures came into focus. He recognized them as bronze legionnaires with long spears. What he believed to be a gatekeeper was the statue of Caesar, forever making his march toward Rome.
Tariq rejoiced to see Caesar and his army. He knew where he was. He couldn’t see the vanished buildings encircling the Rubicon Square Plaza, but he knew his way home from here.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He smiled at the old woman. He felt that was insufficient, so he gave a small bow.
She pursed her lips into a pout. “You can’t go yet. Flynn’s performance is about to begin. We can watch- he won’t have to know. Besides, it’s not even dawn yet.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Tariq. “I really need to get to bed.”
She shook her head and raised a dainty hand. He stretched his hand out to shake it and she stuck her nose into the air. He leaned in and kissed the wrinkles on her knuckles. She smiled and held onto his hand. He wanted to say something sweet and poetic, but his head was wrung dry.
“Thank you,” he said again.
The old woman gripped his hand tight and yanked on his arm. He stumbled forward. He tried to pull free, but her grip was firm and she led him around the arch.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Shush!” she said.
“Look!” he said. He wanted to swear at her, but the words wouldn’t come.
In the mist, Tariq spotted someone moving and the old woman stopped. The shadow raised its arms in the air and swung them in circles. Tariq recognized the agility of the movements. It was his masked stranger.
The old woman led him to one of the statues at the edge of the square. She sat just outside the illumination of the floodlights. There was a buoyancy to her. Tariq was reminded of a smitten teenager.
The stranger was visible now. He stood beneath the flagpole. With the spotlights shining up at him, he made faces, opening his mouth wide, then scrunching his eyes closed and squeezing lips together to a tiny point. The muscles across his torso swelled as he stretched.
“His name is Flynn,” said Tariq. It was meant as a question, but his inflection didn’t rise.
“Yes, just like Errol” said the old woman. “Now, sit. If he notices you, he might get too timid to perform.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Tariq.
“He likes to say it’s Euripides, but it’s not.”
Tariq didn’t understand. “Who is performing for?”
“The cockroaches. Now, will you sit?”
Tariq sat. The stone was uncomfortable beneath his legs. He wondered if he would fall asleep against it. The mist obscured the ground. Tariq wondered if there was really an audience of insects in the cracks. He imagined their antennae poking up towards Flynn. He imagined the plaza writhing with thousands of delicate, spiny legs.
“Theseus, my son, you know the suffering time draws near.”
The old woman gripped Tariq’s arm. He turned his attention to Flynn. Flynn stood very tall and stately. His brow furrowed and it drew up wrinkles around his face, giving him a wizened visage.
“This very morning, our ships make ready the black sails for their journey to Crete. This very morning, I am to draw the names of the fourteen youths that will be doomed to act as tribute to Minos’s abomination. This is a heavy morning for me. Yet you, my only son, come to me and entreat me to send you among the condemned.”
Flynn stepped close to one of the statues and spoke to it directly. The statue stared back at him, defiantly, spear and shield in hand.
“If only you could see how the fourteen of times past behaved. When their names were called out, they fell to the earth, they cursed the gods, they wept, they begged. They behaved like the beasts of sacrifice and became little more.”
He shook his head and looked up towards the obscured sky, averting his gaze from the statue.
“You tell me you can slay the monster at the center of the infernal labyrinth, but you do not know what it is you will face. The Minotaur may have the appetites of a beast, but it has the heart of a man. It will not let you go.”
Flynn reached out a quivering hand and placed it on the statue’s shoulder. Tariq felt he could see the statue’s expression soften.
“My child, for so long we have been strangers. When I am gone, this kingdom and all its glories shall be yours. Why must you now dare so much?”
Flynn paused. Tariq waited for the statue to respond. Flynn nodded in resignation. He lifted a white cloth from the ground and unfurled it. The edges were frayed, but it was spotless. Tariq recognized it as one Flynn had recovered from the dumpster outside the casket company.
“If you demand this of me, I will grant it to you and feel like it is myself I have condemned. But promise me, at least, that if your journey prove successful, you will fly this white sail so that I may know the instant I can that you have returned safely home to me.”
Tariq looked to the old woman. She leaned forward, mouth agape. Her hands were tucked tight against her torso. Tariq wrapped his arm around her and she fell against his chest, never diverting her attention away from Flynn.
Flynn’s body transformed. His back arched, his shoulders broadened, his face grew young and defiant. He moved with confidence and courage. He became Theseus the hero. Tariq was transfixed.
“Every man must make his own path,” he said and hoisted a black sheet up the flagpole as his sail. He climbed after it. Tariq had the sensation of the ground rocking back and forth with the waves.
Flynn told the story of the journey to Crete. He told of the cruel hunger of the unholy Minotaur. He told of Theseus’s love affair with the young Ariadne.
Tariq barely breathed lest he disturb the actor.
“Theseus,” said Flynn in the soft voice of a young woman, “I was raised as princess of this isle, but to me it has always been as much a cage as the labyrinth is to the Minotaur. My father, king Minos, betrayed the gods when he did not sacrifice the snow white bull as he had promised. My mother, queen Pasiphae, betrayed the laws of nature when she lay with that bull. They locked the monstrosity within the earth, but they could not so shackle their crimes inside their minds. At night, they cannot sleep. They claw at the walls. They scream. They pray and the gods turn a deaf ear.”
Flynn stepped close to his statue and reached out a tentative hand to brush the statue’s cheek. He blushed and Tariq could feel himself grow warm. The old woman patted his chest and said, “Your heart is racing.”
“I, myself,” said Flynn as Ariadne, “have known nothing but doubt. I could not want for a future. I am like my half-brother the Minotaur who must roam between worlds. I have not known love. I have not known the touch of man. Long have I wondered if I would ever have either. Yet, when you stepped from the Athenian ship, I saw a certainty in you that burst my heart.”
Flynn pressed against the statue and nestled his face against its neck.
“I would love you,” he said.
The old woman stroked Tariq’s arm. Tariq realized he was shaking.
Flynn pulled away from the statue and wiped at his eyes. “But first you must take on your destiny. Let me give you aid. Take you this…” Flynn reached towards the feet of the statue. His arm was shrouded in mist.
Tariq knew Flynn was looking for the wooden sword. He could feel what was left of it pressing into his thigh. Flynn swallowed uncomfortably and the character of Ariadne vanished. Tariq tried to lift the old woman off himself. He wanted to reach the broken boards. He wanted to run to Flynn. He wanted to apologize. She looked up at him and shook her head.
Flynn nodded and Ariadne was back. “Take you your white sail and unwind a long thread from it. You may find the Minotaur, you may slay it, but if you would escape, you will need a guide home. Otherwise, you may be lost forever.”
With that, he held the white sheet and gripped a corner. Plucking free a single strand, Flynn raced across the plaza, sheet unwinding behind him. He moved into and out of patches of fog. He circled statues and the thread tangled around them. The sheet bobbed as the thread pulled away, as the string grew longer, as the cloth became smaller and smaller. Eventually, it was just a tiny patch, no larger than a handkerchief. And the plaza was covered with thin white lines, connecting everything together.
Then Theseus was gone and the great horns of the Minotaur were visible through the mist. It stomped. It snarled. It bellowed. It cried. The mask was hideous. Tariq felt the old woman grip him tightly.
The Minotaur charged through the arch in their direction. The old woman let out a tiny cry. The Minotaur froze. Tariq wondered if they had been caught. The Minotaur struggled and Tariq could see it had caught itself in the web of string. It roared. It tried to run, but the threads formed a great corral. It followed the thin white lines until it faced the statue of the young legionnaire. The Minotaur dipped its head low and pawed at the ground with its feet.
A voice called out and echoed. It seemed to come from the statue and not the mask. It said, “I have found you, murd’rous beast!”
Tariq gasped. He knew this part. He had seen this practiced earlier in the night. Tariq remembered it like it had happened fifty years ago, like he was being reminded of a story told to him as an infant.
The Minotaur raced at the statue. It tipped its head and the statue seemed to side step. It jumped forward and gored at the soldier, but with less than the slightest movement the soldier deflected with its shield.
The monster grunted and twisted in circles, losing track of Theseus. Then with a cry, the two were pressed against each other. Tariq couldn’t see the statue’s spear.
The head fell back and from the mouth of the Minotaur emerged a horrid death knell. The pain was both monstrous and human. The Minotaur crashed to the ground. Its head bounced once and twisted until it had broken.
Theseus did nothing to celebrate his victory. If anything, the statue looked mournful in triumph. Tariq could feel a wetness about his eyes. He brought his hand to his mouth and bit his fist. He wanted to cry openly. He wanted to applaud, but he felt like revealing his presence now would be some intense violation.
Flynn was back on his feet without the mask. Sweat dripped down his face. He located the tail end of the thread and gripped it with both hands. He followed the thread round and round as it circled back through the square, back under the arch, back round the statues.
“Ariadne!” he called, voice low and haunting. “You would have me take you away from this, your world, but, alas, that is not my place. I have seen the deep. I have vanquished the thing we all feared. I have spared many lives and you have helped me find my way in the dark. You have saved me. But that way now leads me home to reclaim my throne alone. Our paths are not entwined.”
Tariq was confused. He tried to piece the story together from fragmented memories of high school English classes. He was uncertain what was to come.
Flynn climbed once more up the flagpole. The mist was beginning to abate. The black sheet fluttered in the breeze. Tariq could see gray sky above the square. He could see the spires of distant buildings.
Flynn lofted the tiny remaining patch of white cloth in one hand and waved it desperately in the air.
Tears dripped down Tariq’s cheeks. He wiped his face against his sleeve. In his lap, the old woman sobbed.
“Then that is all.” The voice was Theseus’s father again. When Tariq looked up, he was surprised to see Flynn standing on the archway, propping himself upright with a hand on Caesar’s shoulder. Flynn’s faced was aged and weary.
“For all that he dared, for all that he imagined, for all that he could hope, we will never be free of our demons. He was but mortal…” The thought trailed off as he looked to the waving black sheet. Tariq felt like he could hear Theseus in the distance yelling to his father that he would be returning home, that he was not lost.
Clouds of mist blew past. Tariq had the sensation that the world was speeding up. Flynn stepped to the edge of the archway and closed his eyes. He stretched his arms outward.
“My world is no more,” said Flynn and he fell forward. His body was stiff. Air rushed around it.
“No!” cried Tariq. His body felt numb as if it was barely there, but he found himself moving with intense urgency. He pushed the old woman from his lap and found his feet running, barely touching the pavement as he sprinted towards the falling actor.
The world seemed to move quickly, but Tariq felt as if he were taking it all in at once. He could see woman with the wrinkles and the tangled hair, embarrassed he was ruining the play. He could see the pale sky overhead- blank, as if the day hadn’t yet decided what time it was. He could see cars driving past the plaza, headlights illuminating the odd patch of dissipating fog. He could feel the sword rattling against his leg. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest. He could sense insects taking flight, fleeing from under the crush of his feet. Somewhere, standing on the far side of the arch he could see Santa, his temple black and blue.
And above Tariq, Flynn careened towards the Earth. Tariq was barely aware what he was doing, but he arms were outstretched and Flynn landed in them, caught like a child who had fallen asleep in a parent’s arms. Flynn’s eyes were wide.
“I… I caught you,” said Tariq. He didn’t seem to believe it had happened.
“You ruined the ending,” said Flynn. There was no anger in him.
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I wouldn’t have. Just like wearing the mask, falling takes practice.”
“I’m sorry.”
Flynn didn’t answer. He reached up a hand and felt Tariq’s cheek. He ran his fingers through Tariq’s hair and pulled Tariq’s face close to his own. Their noses batted at each other and they kissed.
Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5
