Chapter Twenty-Four
The Memory Maze
Deeper into The Catacombs
I stare straight ahead. The jagged and rounded top of the cave passageway sits just above my head and gives little room to maneuver my arms on either side. The lack of space suffocates me about as much as the fact that I have no idea where I am, where I’m going, or where I am meant to be.
Fyre floats ahead, their light casting dancing shadows that make the passage feel somewhat alive.
The cave tube forks in front of me, leaving me with a decision to make. Right or left. The road goes in two directions, but I can only pick one.
I stop walking, staring at the fork as if it might offer some indication of which way I should go. The left passage seems slightly wider. The right descends at a steeper angle, disappearing into darkness that not even Fyre’s light can penetrate.
How do I pick a way when I don’t even know where I’m supposed to be going?
“Sometimes, you just have to pick a path and move.”
I turn to look at Fyre, who hovers nearby with an expression of patient amusement.
Did I say any of that out loud? Did the flame read the confusion on my face? Can it read my thoughts?
Last thing I need is another supernatural entity poking around in my brain.
But before I can ask Fyre any of these things, they continue speaking. “It does not matter which road you choose. It only matters that you choose it. Be firm in your decision. Steadfast in your step.”
“But how can I be sure of anything when I don’t even know where I’m trying to go?” My frustration bleeds through.
We’ve been navigating this maze for what feels like hours, and Fyre offers nothing but cryptic philosophy and sarcasm.
“You seek The Innermost Gate.”
“We’ve been over that part, Sparky. Did you bring a map by any chance?”
“The only way out is through.”
“Through what?”
“Through.”
I stare at Fyre for a long moment, hoping that continued eye contact might somehow extract a straight answer. It does not.
“You know, for a guide, you’re not very helpful. I hope you’re not expecting a tip at the end of this.”
“Your currency holds no value here. Now walk.”
“That was a joke,” I mumble in annoyance. “How can you be sarcastic and lack a sense of humor at the same time?”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
I pick up my feet, which feel like they’ve grown into the uneven ground beneath them, and trudge forward.
A brief recollection flashes before me—Maddy plucking flowers with her left hand.
Punching me with her left hand when I was being particularly annoying.
Learning to write her name in her private studies with her left hand. All these flash before my tired eyes.
Where did that come from? I haven’t had that many memories in succession in so long. The phantom whiff of her scent has been enough to bring me to my knees before. But those memories hit in a wave.
I shake my head, trying to clear it as I step to the passageway, then turn toward the left. I cannot see anything down the tube, as the light only reaches so far. I glance over my shoulder to see if the other way shows more promise, but only darkness stares back at me.
“The only way out is through,” I voice softly, then take a few more tentative steps down the leftmost passageway.
A low rumbling stops me in my tracks, and the sound of crumbling stone spikes fear in me.
I imagine the impact of all this earth collapsing atop me.
The feeling of being buried alive comes over me from the sound alone, and my anxiety takes over.
I close my eyes, expecting the weight of the dirt upon me at any moment, but nothing comes.
The rumbling stops, and the sound of stone toppling over stone dies down.
I look behind me again, and Fyre flies over my shoulder to give a better view in that direction.
Where once there was a passageway, now there is none.
The way is now barred by piles of stone, like a tsunami that only made it as far as the entrance.
“No going back now,” I say, speaking only to myself again, forgetting I have company.
The dancing fire reminds me of its presence with a quick retort.
“Onward through The Memory Maze, reaper. Time to face your past.”
“How do you expect me to do that?” The irritation in my voice is sharp. “I’m traversing a maze in the bloody dark, getting cryptic navigation from a sentient flame.”
He ignores my jab and continues, “Same way any soul does. One step at a time.”
The flame floats further down the lone corridor, beckoning me forth. I grip the handle of my blade, borrowing comfort from its mere presence.
And then I walk down the path.
Each step feels a bit surer than the last, and my pace reaches a decent clip before another fork in the road demands a choice from me.
This time, I don’t hesitate. Fyre drifts along my shoulder and lights the way from behind as I approach this Y-shaped fork in the road.
Without any hesitation this time, I move my feet toward the left side of the break and continue.
Once the decision is made, the flame slides from around my back to the space in front of me again.
The grey rocks and damp earth packed against the walls of this serpentine tube shift and soften before me. The space seems to open up, and the atmosphere changes. The air grows warmer and thicker. The walls seem to whisper.
At first, I think it’s the wind or sound of water somewhere deeper in the caves. But as I move closer, I realize it is whispering as the words become clearer. Voices. Dozens of them, layered on top of each other, creating a cacophony of cruelty.
“Idiot.”
“Blockhead.”
“Know your place, boy.”
“Get those silly ideas out of your head. You lot have a purpose, and it’s to serve your betters. Best not forget that.”
“You’ll never amount to anything.”
“Your kind doesn’t deserve dreams.”
“Stop asking questions. Just do as you’re told.”
The voices are a mix of tones, accents, and ages. Some are high and shrill, others deep and resonant. But they all carry the same weight. The same crushing certainty that I am less than. That my value is determined by my usefulness to others. That my place in the world is fixed and insignificant.
I can hear the cruelties of so many from my past, reminding me of my worth, or lack thereof. I can feel myself doing the same thing I did all those years ago—believing them.
From a world I can no longer change to a cave I can no longer escape, the reminder that I let the thoughts of others dictate my belief in self pounds into me.
“Fyre,” I call out, my voice unsteady, “what is this?”
“Foundation, Thomas Asher. The beliefs built into you before you ever had a chance to question them. The voices that narrated your existence since childhood.”
Those menacing mouths get louder as the room gets brighter. The cave seems to open up into a room I could never forget—my family’s quarters on the Whitcomb estate.
The afternoon light streams through the small square windows in the pale bars, dust motes dancing lazily through the beams. The walls are whitewashed plaster, smooth in some places and rough in others, where the lime bubbled and cracked over the years.
My mother did what she could with them. She hung a small, pressed flower print near the door and tucked a sprig of dried lavender above the frame, and a crudely made horseshoe my father had forged for her when they wed hung above the fireplace like the crown jewel.
The furniture is simple and serviceable—an iron-framed bed with a plain wool blanket and a patchwork coverlet my grandmother made, a narrow wooden table that serves as both a writing surface and dining space depending upon the hour, two straight-backed chairs, smooth from years of use.
Nothing matches. Nothing was chosen for beauty, yet somehow, my mother made it feel like home.
There’s a small mirror on the wall, its frame of bare wood gone dark with age. Beneath it on the table sits my mother’s brush, with a few strands of her dark hair still caught in the bristles.
The air smells like lavender and rosemary. She always kept sachets tucked into every drawer and corner she could manage. And it caused me to always smile fondly when the scent invaded my senses.
Everything about the room is familiar and foreign at once. It’s exactly as I remember it to be, down to the small imperfections. The slight water stain on the ceiling, the worn edge of the rag rug near the door.
And there, in the center of the room, sits my father.
Despondent, desolate, inconsolable.
“No,” I whisper to Fyre, who seems to be bringing this memory to life before me. “Not this moment. Please. Anytime but this.”
Fyre hovers nearby, their glow reflecting off the surfaces of the room. There’s something almost gentle in their expression now, though it’s quickly masked.
“I am not in charge of your memories, Thomas. Face what you must to become who you have always been destined to be.”
“Destined?” I laugh bitterly. “The only thing I’m destined for is heartbreak and pain. Why would you show me this?”
“I’ve not chosen this moment. I am shedding light on it. These are your memories, your pain. You lived them, remembered them, and now you must try to understand the self that is a result of all these moments. Look now upon the smoke that preceded the ash.”
“I don’t need to relive this—”
“And yet here we are.”
Before I can beg Fyre to make the scene before me disappear, I am thrust bodily into the middle of it. My vantage point becomes the same as it was when I was but a lad of twelve years old, standing in the doorway of my home with the afternoon light painting everything gold.
England, 1858
I stare into the face of my father, the strongest man I know. The chiseled features of his rocky face seem ashen and soft for the first time I can ever recall. The set of his jaw remains, but the steel in his eyes is gone. His shoulders slump forward, and he stares aimlessly into space.