The Palace

The pond in the atrium, in this atrium, is filled with common fish: bluegill, perch, catfish, bass even. Bluegill and perch, they’re dumb fish. Easy to catch. Barely a minute goes by and there’s something on the end of the hook. The real trick is, if there is a strong line around somewhere, to catch a bluegill and use it as bait for something bigger and better. Throw a bluey on the hook and weigh it down towards the bottom and then take a nap.  

He did this a few hours ago and now a catfish is on the end of the line. It comes up like an old boot being pulled from the muck. Another stupid fish. He clubs it hard with a hunk of wood that happens to be nearby until it stops moving. He brushes his greasy red hair behind his ear to get it out of his face and hesitates for a moment, looking at the fish before grabbing it to bleed it into the water and thread a string through its gill slit.

Channel Catfish (Ictalurus punctatus), named for its barbels which are reminiscent of a cat’s whiskers. The species of catfish is the state fish of Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, and Tennessee and is the most fished species in the United States. 

He lets go as quickly as he can.

Before long he drags the fish into the hallway, with its marble floors and high arched ceilings. His feet are cold. Toes chilled to the bone, even through socks. Any heat sucked right out of them. He lets the door to the atrium bang closed behind him and the echo resounds through the seemingly endless corridors. He’s feral, barely a man at this point even as he resides in all the opulence, the resplendence of the great palace. He’s blind to the beauty of it all. Rot in the perfume.

His fire still burns, but it is mostly embers. He reaches his camp—if it could be called that—and lets out a long sigh, dropping the fish to the floor with a slap. The fire, the dead fish bleeding, the camp itself, all profanity. The blood will leave a stain, but he doesn’t care. His camp is a mattress dragged from one of the multitudinous rooms and covered with dirty lumps of scavenged duvets and pillows. More filthy piles surround the site.  

He sits on the mattress and sloppily cleans the fish, then lies back staring at the ceiling, which has a fresco displaying various constellations rendered into life. Aquarius catches his eye.

Aquarius, the water bearer. Zeus took him and brought him to Mount Olympus and gave him a job: to carry water for the Gods.

He closes his eyes and wipes his slimy viscera covered hands on the bedspread. To carry water for the Gods, he thinks. The smell of death wafts off him.

There’s plenty of food in this place really, but he doesn’t remember where it is. Besides, the thrill of exploring the palace had long since worn off for him. He needed something to do besides walk the cold marble floors and his mind wasn’t equipped to understand the grandeur of the place. The palace had not always been so big, but it kept unfolding like a road map that you could never fold back up again. Everything had its place, as long as you knew where to look. Of course, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.

It begins. A bell tolls and an impassive voice rings out. In the palace, it resonates through the empty hallways and bounces off the walls echoing back and forth into oblivion. He waits for the thrum to die. It takes longer than he thought it would, even after all this time. The sound fully dissipates and he sits a minute longer before being pulled into action. He can’t remember how long he’s been here. He can’t remember anything. Not even his own name. Maybe it’s here somewhere, he thinks. I’ll have to look sometime. Now, however, he has something to find. 

“Antigonus?” he mutters to himself. His name is definitely not Antigonus. He throws some wood on the fire before leaving, bits of a four-poster bed he broke apart when he took the mattress. The posts were intricately carved with depictions of various Kama Sutra positions. He hated burning the closest thing to smut that he could get his hands on here, but he had to keep the fire burning. It was so cold.

He walks a few steps, but has no idea where he’s headed and searches the pockets of his stained robe for his map. His map had been created with only slightly more care than his camp. He’s started dozens, maybe hundreds of maps. He used to explore more. It was somewhat worthwhile since new rooms, halls, and corridors tended to be a bit warmer. Not warm enough to make the effort, though, when he could just keep a fire stoked. Most maps ended up in a fire. The floor around here is covered in ashes, bones, things dragged out from various rooms and discarded. He’s consciously decided to stay out of the rooms as much as possible, but the map sometimes helps if he needs to find something.

The effort with this particular map has lasted longer than most. The wrinkled papers are soft with distress and flop over when he tries to hold them. He lays them down on the cold floor and smoothes out the papers, which are cobbled together with bits of tape and staples. “Camp” is marked with a crude drawing of a fire. The fire is important. It is visible, it smells of smoke that you can sense from far away, far further than you can see. The fire makes it easier to find his way back. Plus, it provides heat. On his hands and knees, he looks over the rough, unscaled renderings he’s made. The chill from the floor is already trying to creep into his hands.

On the map there are scribbles and hash marks where expansions have been added. There are lots of hallways that don’t end within the paper confines of the map, and little ticks mark the unending, unexplored doors. He knows there is some order, rules by which everything is likely governed. But he knows this the way a dog knows the rules of the house: he knows the rules exist, but he doesn’t fully understand them or the reasons behind them at all. He knows enough to know there are places he’d rather avoid, like the hall of people, for instance. Occasionally, he’d open a door there, but he never stayed for long.  

“Antigonus,” he repeats. 

His hand slides across the tattered papers smoothing them again lightly as he looks for the libraries. He knows he’s seen them before, he’s thrown books on the fire. The problem for him is that this place changes constantly, add-ons appear, entirely new wings. He’d think he had something nailed down and then, in would slide an entirely new corridor between two others overnight. There was no point in writing down a single room. He’d need a spreadsheet to even begin to track them all and even then he’d run himself ragged trying to keep up with any changes. The edge of the piecemeal map is marked with arrows pointing off the page from the ends of hallways. One arrow has the accompanying notation “LIBRARIES” scrawled in chicken scratch.

His hands are freezing from the floor.

He heads down the hallway in the direction he had written in the note. I should paint lines on the floor like they do in hospitals, he thinks. But no, there’d be far too many to even remember what they meant. He drags his fingertip over the plaques on the doors. 

Aviary - Pacific Northwest

Aviary - Rocky Mountains

Aviary - British Columbia

Birds, so many damn birds. He wonders if he were to open one of these, would he find an actual aviary or yet another hallway that reveals taxonomies or taxidermies of further specificity. Even if he knew, he supposed it could change anytime. What was previously a room might become a stairway to another level that sprawls out in different trajectories overnight. He hasn’t figured out how to manage multiple floors on a map yet.

Aside from the doors and the frescos above, there are of course pieces of art adorning the walls of every hall, but he tries not to look at or touch most things unless he’s decided to tear them down, burn them, use them. And he never knew when there would be a call for something. 

DING. Who was the thirty-second president of the United States?

DING. How many movies has Bruce Willis been in that have a number in the title?

DING. What is the oldest musical instrument?

Ding, he hates this place.

A half-mile on, the hall splits off in eight different directions like the spokes of a bicycle. He pulls out his map and throws it on the ground, confused and frustrated. He spins around and chooses a direction seemingly at random. Perhaps some instinct is guiding him, but if so, he’s unaware. He looks back the way he came and wonders if he’ll be able to find his crude camp again and starts down the hallway.

From time to time he checks the door plaques. It is the peak of his remaining curiosity.

Marie Curie (Maria Salomea Skłodowska-Curie) - Chemist, 1867-1934

Another mile.

Beurre Blanc - French Sauce

He was among the kitchens. He suddenly wished he hadn’t thrown away his map and tears down a painting to lean against the wall so it would be easy to see later. 

Vertumnus by Giuseppe Arcimboldo - 1590, in Roman—

He let go, standing the painting as conspicuously as possible leaning against the wall, as close to perpendicular to the wall as he could manage. He looks back at the painting as he walks away, he’d made sure to face it away from himself. If he walked past this hallway again, he’d see it and know there was food here. Another few minutes, another few turns and he checks the doors again. 

Samuel McMannus - Work Acquaintance

The hall of people. He feels uneasy here, but can’t help but wonder if his name is Sam McMannus. He looks down the hallway in the direction he was headed and then opens the door to Samuel’s room. The room is small, like a broom closet, just big enough to house the uncanny homunculus, still, unfeeling, cold. He’s not Sam. He reaches out and touches the eerily lifelike figure. 

Samuel McMannus - accountant, married (Karri) with two kids, Samuel Jr. and Kelli, nine and seven respectively. Aspen 2021, Work conference. Drinks whisky sours.

He lets go and a shiver runs through him. He wonders again if he has a room of his own in the palace somewhere. He leaves the room and shuts the door softly behind him. Bye, Sam, he thinks. Before too long he finds himself in a wing of the library. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he came here directly. He doesn’t know how it’s possible that in this place he manages to find things when there’s a call. He quickens his pace, scanning the plaques as he passes: Jane Austen, Charles Dickens. He’s getting close, he can feel it now.

His feet slow and stop almost on their own. He grabs the handle of a door: William Shakespeare. He enters into a long narrow hall made of old, darkly stained wood. Rows of doors on both sides, each one frosted with a picture and title. One on his right has a satyr, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. On the left, a design of a storm, The Tempest. 

Finally, he reaches The Winter’s Tale and takes the handle to enter the room, not knowing exactly what to expect. The room smells like the pages of an old book, but there are no books inside. Each of the walls are different. One has paintings of scenery (Sicily, Bohemia), another has diagrams of some sort, maybe the plot and conflicts, another has busts of various characters. He find Antigonus.

“Antigonus,” he mumbles and touches the bust. 

Antigonus - torn between loyalty to his king and his wife…famous for the stage direction—

Exits, pursued by a bear, I write.

“That doesn’t sound very Shakespearean, dude.” Jerry is practically yelling over the sound of the pub.

“Well, it is,” I say, annoyed, confident, barely loud enough to hear. I know he doesn’t like me, but he’s happy to share in the winnings and I need a teammate. I’ll dump him if someone better comes along. Somebody will come along that will want to partner with a winner. For now, I can’t say much about Jerry, but he’s dependable, shows up every week like clockwork. A prepaid tab is a powerful motivator for someone who I imagine is always here anyway.

“I don’t get it, man,” he says and interrupts himself by taking a long swig of his beer. “How do you know all this stuff?” 

“I’ve told you, Jerry.” 

“Oh sorry, I don’t have a memory palace,” he says, putting the last words in air quotes and then belching to punctuate the disrespect. I screw up my face into a look of disgust. He pokes at my temple and a lock of greasy red hair falls in front of his face. “Am I in there too? Old Jerry up in the palace?”

“Definitely,” I say.