The Maze House (# 1)

Who Do You Want to be When the Apocalypse is Over?

This story is a shapeshifter and this version feels the most true so far. It’s also been the most fun to write. Is this its final form? Maybe. Share your insights in the comment section, and who knows, your feedback might help this story realize its wholeness.

Transmission from Black Lotus

The apocalypse went pretty well, as far as such things go.

Sure, there were catastrophes of environmental and societal scale, but a potent mixture of persistence and grace saw us through. Where through happens to be is up for debate. The threshold is hazy around the edges; all depends on how/when/if you look at it.

Time and timelessness are having a moment, so to speak, and reality is very much in the eye of the beholder.

There’s been a split, you see—one of those shifts where the whole comes apart to recombine in a new way. An unfolding to be rewoven.

<muffled grunt of pain>

My companion says to mention the earth. Ow! Specifically, the Spirit of the Earth. Plus, there’s all that business with the sun, but I’ve done enough telling for now. It’ll make sense when you get here; like a great spiral, all steps leading toward the center.

<snort>

[Aside: That’s not wizard gibberish. It’s true!]

Anyway…back to the apocalypse.

A word that means “uncover” or “reveal.” Imagine living in the same house for your whole life, for generations, and then suddenly an entirely new level appears. No renovation crew, no debris, no blueprint, just blam a mysterious upper room is revealed, whose very existence challenges your perception of reality.

But you can’t just stroll into this new domain like a guest on holiday who lucked into a stay in the penthouse. No, the door is locked. And the key is custom fit to you as an individual.

To some people a locked door is an invitation, a challenge, a promise. Mysterious no doubt, but a rare opportunity nonetheless. To others, a locked door is a warning, implying a danger that needs to be contained. And then there’s some who can’t be bothered to notice.

Imagine this locked door, this symbol, as a vessel of quantum superposition, both here and not, equally available for glory or cataclysm. In plain sight, yet deep down and far away.

And remember, there are door makers just as there are door breakers, minders and finders. Always in opposition are these forces, seeking balance through tension, though they may be unaware of this aim. Duality, a ceaseless modifier of evolution.

[Aside: I’m getting there. Alright, alright..]

A story as old as humanity, or at least recorded history. We are the stories we tell ourselves just as much as we are the bits that get left out. All of the discarded, suppressed, denied bits that are deemed problematic by the powers that be—or should we say the powers that were—when they come to light.

All structures decay, even seemingly indomitable beliefs like capitalism or democracy, allowing new growth to sprout like dandelions in cracked cement.

My companion and I reside where all of the doors converge. Probably the only place that every type of person can agree on as real, despite the fact that none have returned to speak of their experience. Until now.

The living myth that is this story is an uncovering, an unlocking of the door here at Black Lotus, and what happens when you step fully into the unknown.

Manu Fireborn out.

<mic drop>

[Aside: Sweet. I’ve always wanted to do that. What? It’s still on? Crap. How do I—]

---

Jaym

140 years since the Shift

Magic is as easy as breathing, and just as easy to take for granted.

Jaym looked down at the topside of clouds as he gazed over the edge of the pavilion and wondered: is this it? No sign of land below, only an endless expanse of soft curves. Sigh. Where was the sense of awe he was supposed to feel? Instead, all he got was a persistent low-hum of boredom, a friction building into frustration. Even the glare of the sun and its effects were stifled by a mostly invisible barrier surrounding the enormous platform. Funny, thought Jaym, how a wall is still a wall no matter how subtle. But the manipulation of subtle forces was the name of the game for an Adept.

What of the countless lives beneath the clouds? The Technics in their metal towers and the Naturalists in their ecopods. Unimaginably different than life in the floating city of Thrice Great, flagship of the Adept constellation.

Black clouds ripe with chaos thundered in the west. The storms seemed to be growing wilder each season. Something the city had been able to avoid, or deflect, so far. Yet, even something as mighty as Thrice Great couldn’t stay above the fray indefinitely. Magic could do the seemingly impossible, but its uses were only as good as what people believed to be possible.

Jaym's belly rumbled as if in answer to the blackness eating up the sky, the needs of his body dispelling the focus of his spellwork. He was done here anyway; Thrice Great was in for a surprise tonight. The floating city tilted away from the sun, riding the curvature of the earth like a plump, low-hanging satellite easing toward night.

His stride cut a silhouette through the arcane glow of street lamps, each street illuminated by a distinct shade. Residential architecture flowed along a spectrum from baroque to eccentric as the houses silently demanded his approval, as though he were the judge in a contest no one asked for. Jaym shook his head at the unspoken game, the simmering competitiveness. The meaninglessness. He passed through an opening in a tall hedge, entering into the contained sprawl of his family garden.

“Don’t go!” his younger brother wailed.

“I just got here.”

Sindri balled his hands into tiny fists. “The fairies were here until you scared them away. Now they might not trust me anymore.”

“Fairies are temperamental folk. They’ll probably want an offering to make up for this.”

Sindri frowned. “Like what?”

“Nothing serious, just a blood sacrifice.”

Sindri’s expression darkened. “Why is it always blood?”

“Easy now! I was only joking.”

“Something sweet, then?”

“That oughta do it. And if the lore can be believed, it’s best not to accept anything they offer you.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “Remember, all that glitters is not gold.”

Inside, their mother flitted about, lighting incense throughout the main floor, her eyes distant as she communed with her deity. Her muttering alternating between making requests and giving thanks.

“Hi, mum,” said Jaym, receiving no reply. “Sindri is decapitating a chicken in the backyard.” Still nothing. “He might even chop off a few fingers to appease his hungry little friends.”

Jaym sighed as she looked through him, her vision locked on the Queen of Silver.

He rummaged through the pantry in search of something to nosh. The emphatic chanting of father’s voice echoed through the walls as he conducted an experiment. Jaym bit into a sandwich, but the flavour was lost on him as he considered the strivings of his parents—one attempting to prevent their doom and the other to elevate their prestige. As the saying goes: mo’ magic, mo’ problems.

Jaym went about preparing a meal for when his family snapped out of the haze of their obsessions, so they wouldn’t snap on each other. Hangry is a foul mood, no matter where you happen to be in the EveryWhen. And, just like birds following migratory ley lines, the individuals flocked to the table as Jaym set down a steaming pot.

“Goat stew again,” said Father.

“Jaym does it wonderfully,” said Mother.

“Mhmhh,” Sindri mumbled around a spoonful, heedless of the heat.

“Options are limited these days,” said Jaym.

Father coughed softly and Mother stirred a small piece of meat around in her bowl.

“My new project could be the one,” said Father.

“I’ll pray for success,” said Mother, resting a hand on his forearm.

Jaym focused on eating, having heard a version of this conversation countless times. Triumph was always just out of reach, strung along by hopes and prayers.

“There’s a gap in the Barrier at the western perimeter,” said Jaym.

Father’s heavy moustache drooped, his jaw tightening. Mother’s gaze lifted to the ceiling.

“Give me strength,” she said.

“How did it get there, I wonder?” said Father.

Jaym shrugged. "Might be nice to let a little freshness in. Should be interesting when we roll into a storm tonight."

Father’s hand thumped the table. “Mischief and vandalism are a waste of your gifts!”

“I share my gifts freely with the world.”

Mother gasped and Father scowled.

“Every generation wants to save the world,” said Father. “Believing their elders are morons. I used to think just like you.”

“When did you give up?”

Father exhaled slowly from his nose, thin and controlled. Mother placed a hand on each of their wrists. Jaym had come to the line that must not be crossed. Sindri laughed maniacally.

“A storm! The fairies like storms; they say it helps them integrate.”

All eyes turned to the boy with stew smeared on his cheek. Oblivious, he scooped more into his bowl.

Mother slid into her well-worn role as peacemaker. “We all make our way through this life as best as we can. May we show each other patience and understanding.”

Self-righteous as an oldest child on the verge of adulthood, Jaym pressed the needle in. “Does this compassion include the other Veins?”

Ah, the vindictive ease of attacking or defending a cause that doesn’t impact your own day-to-day. Even better when it’s a complex societal issue with no clear cause or solution.

Mother pulled away, rubbing her hands together nervously.

“I didn’t think so,” said Jaym.

“We’ve been over this,” said Father. “The timelines are complicated.”

“Nuh-uh,” said Sindri. “In the Astral I heard…” He paused, sensing the tension. “Never mind.”

“I don’t like you spending so much time there, talking to Goddess knows who,” Mother snapped.

“It’s mostly entertainment,” said Jaym.

“Wasteful,” said Father.

Mother closed her eyes, gesturing with a hand at her forehead, mouth, and throat; the fleshy pad of her thumb representing the shape of a full moon. Father glared at his half-finished meal. Sindri slipped away from the table. Father returned to his experiment. Mother to her shrine. Jaym remained with the stillness of the dirty dishes, languishing in the rough-cut aftermath of the unsaid.

Restless, Jaym went to his room and shut door—in need of an escape.

He lay on the bed, eyes closed, concentrating on activating an inner vibration needed to access the Astral. All Adepts were born with this ability and were taught how to cultivate it at an early age.

A buzz like electric mist tingled over his skin, blurring the boundary of his body. The vibration deepened, as though recognizing him and pulling him closer. His bodily sensations fell away—he was rising, being lifted by an unseen force. A flash of expansiveness filled his awareness with the all-consuming colours of the Astral.

It took a few moments to adjust to the dreamy quality of this place; simultaneously feeling realer and faker than waking consciousness. There came an intensifying buzz as Jaym focused on a specific location and then snap. A scene straight out of ancient Greece appeared before him—or at least how those in the Astral assumed it to be—tall columns and fragrant spruce trees framing a large, rectangular meeting space. No weather here, no temperature, no need for a roof. Jaym entered, feeling his Astral-consciousness align with the energetic pattern of the agora, centering his mind on this location. A solo figure spoke to people lounging on couches and benches.

"The engine has started," said the speaker, a statuesque woman draped in purple silk. "No invitation is needed for this one-way destination. The train will soon depart. Seize this opportunity while you can."

Muttering filtered throughout the audience. Intuition, smooth and cheeky as a purring cat, came to life inside of Jaym. Something about the woman’s presence, a strange density unique to her among those gathered.

Her piercing eyes latched on to Jaym. “See if you are worthy of the Mystery.”

“The Maze House rant again?” said a straggler holding a glass of wine. “Don’t push your regrets on us old woman just cause you missed your chance.”

Jaym’s secret obsession: Black Lotus, commonly known as the Maze House. Only people between the ages of fifteen and thirty could enter, for reasons unknown. The structure was impervious to magic, technology, or ritual. The more he looked into it, the stronger Jaym’s suspicion that the destiny of the Veins revolved around this mysterious hunk of rock in the Mediterranean Sea.

A person sprawled on a couch yawned. “What’s the point?”

“The promise of the Heart Forge at the center of the labyrinth,” said the speaker. “And the treasure revealed.”

There were countless theories regarding this supposed treasure—immortality, unlimited power, enlightenment and everything in between. Some circles held that the treasure would grant any wish, but an aspect of the wish would undoubtedly be twisted, leaving the wisher disappointed or worse. There was even a whole side-hustle industry claiming to teach seekers how to bulletproof their wishes—and you couldn’t wish for more wishes, obviously.

The treasure could be anything because nobody had reached the Heart Forge, and this included seekers from the other Veins. Many viewed this whole endeavour as a spiritual arms race where the winner claimed truth for their people, thereby disenfranchising all others. An “in your face” power move telling the losers to shove it up their root chakra.

Whatever the case, the mystery of Black Lotus was the ultimate bait and few could resist its charms, whether they went in pursuit of the fabled treasure or not. The crowd began to bicker. One thing was certain, this topic created friction.

Jaym studied the female speaker, proud as an oracle, she stood calmly in the churning sea her words had put in motion. He stepped forward, motioning for her attention.

“You imply a lot by saying nothing. What do you think the treasure is?”

Her eyes lit up, fuelled by a slow burn of that inner density. “Life.”

The crowd quieted. The woman simply waited, observing Jaym like a serpent toying with a mouse.

“Meaning?”

She smiled, the expression strangely aggressive. A bestial roar shook the space within the agora, disturbing the conversation. A huge white lion prowled down the stairs toward the speaking platform. Was this an attack? Some sort of new security measure? The crowd panicked.

Jaym remained motionless, transfixed by the power emanating from the lion. If the woman had felt like a great hidden weight holding his attention, then this creature was an overwhelming lightness that his mind could dissolve into. Calm and purposeful, elegant and predatory, the lion continued forward. Feline jaws opened wide, revealing sharp fangs framed by a thick white mane. Its roar was enough to rattle the sense of one’s identity. People dispersed, pulling themselves out of the Astral like parachuters evacuating an airplane.

The seed of intuition within Jaym sparked by the conversation bloomed into something wordless, emotionless, senseless, unfiltered.

The lion sniffed a circle around the empty speaking platform, its blue eyes searching. A low rumbled poured from its chest. Jaym understood the challenge being given to him. Claws scraped on stone as the lion tensed, muscles coiling as its hunter’s eyes stared into Jaym.

Then he was falling beneath crushing physicality, his pulse racing. Jaym clutched at his chest, back in his bedroom. Safe. A primal awareness shifting Jaym into his body an instant before the lion leapt.

“What in the Nether was that?”

Such a thing shouldn’t be possible. The dark corners of the Astral would be swarming with conjecture about the meaning of the white lion. Lightning cracked violently overhead; they must be within the storm, and the breach he’d opened seemed to have let some of the weather inside the self-contained structure of Thrice Great. Raindrops smacked hard against the roof.

Thresholds and flow. Change in all of its ferocity and grace.

Jaym opened a small, wooden chest set on his desk. A warded box keeping a single object: a tightly rolled manuscript. His most cherished possession. A fine piece of enchantment that he’d managed to craft, even though he wasn’t quite sure how it worked. He unrolled the manuscript, staring into the blank white paper.

“What is the treasure of the Heart Forge?”

Black lettering scrawled itself across the paper: Follow your question to Black Lotus.

Even the Invisible Man on the inside couldn’t (or wouldn’t) say for sure. But the woman in the Astral had given a definitive answer. An answer with teeth.

Sindri's feet slapped on the floor as he raced down the hall with a knife in hand; the volume of rainfall increasing as he opened a door to the yard. Jaym sighed, putting the magical object away and closing the lid on the question of his heart's desire, choosing to go after his little brother. You can't trust fairies, everyone knows that, and he didn't want Sindri to learn the hard way.