Free One Day In Budapest by J.F. Penn Page B

ancient, perhaps already here when humanity was born. It would still be here when the span of human existence ended, when the wars exhausted themselves and the earth could rest again.  
    “The company that ran this place created a bizarre tourist trail in the labyrinth,” Zoltan said, his voice low. “It was meant to be a journey into the history of Budapest and also a kind of spiral path into the self.”  
    “I can see the attraction of the symbolism.” Morgan whispered back. “In Jungian psychology, the labyrinth is a powerful symbol of the unconscious. We protect our secrets even from ourselves by winding them in deep, hidden mazes. In myth, the labyrinth held the Minotaur, the beast we must all slay to reconcile our true selves.”  
    Zoltan grunted softly. “Enough of stories. There may be real beasts down here.”
    Their torch beams flickered around the tunnels running off to the side. A shadow of a figure loomed suddenly from the dark, and Morgan started suddenly, her hand moving instinctively to where she would normally carry a weapon,  
    “It’s OK,” Zoltan reassured her. “It’s just one of the statues they have down here, called the Guides of the Soul. The weird red figures are everywhere. It’s an odd place, with different galleries according to the time period and even a cafe, deserted now of course, which makes it perfect for a ready-made bunker in the heart of the city.”  
    They continued down a long corridor with carved stone heads atop life-size pillars on either side, their faces featureless, similar to the giant statues of Easter Island.  
    “This is known as the Axis of the Earth,” Zoltan said. “People would come alone to spend the night here, considering their lives.”
    They rounded another corner into a cavernous room, the stone walls bare of decoration. Dominating the room was a stone pillar carved with two faces, one leonine and the other like some mythical dark elk.
    “This is the double faced shaman, the táltos,” Zoltan whispered, and Morgan heard a touch of reverence in his tone. “The ancient Hungarians believed in soul dualism, a bodily soul for this physical realm, and another that roamed free in the world. The shaman had a watcher spirit that guarded his physical body as his powerful soul traveled.”
    Morgan played the torch over the figure, dual faces with harsh lines, a powerful embodiment of the shaman, while leaves and branches curled down the pillar. Zoltan saw the movement of her light and explained.  
    “The tree of life connects the worlds of Magyar myth, the upper home of the gods, this middle world where we dwell and the underworld entwined in its roots, where Ördög dwells, creator of all evil .”
    Morgan felt her skin crawl at the pronunciation of the name of the Hungarian devil, for in Zoltan’s mouth, the myth seemed to live, and they were down in his dark realm now. There was a palpable sense of menace, as if the walls themselves exhaled a poison. She almost expected to see dark shapes oozing from the stone, shapes that demanded another soul to gorge on.  
    “The souls of the táltos could travel between the realms, drenching the ghosts and interceding for humanity with the gods, some say preventing the destruction of all by the ravaging of demons.” Zoltan paused, running his fingers down one branch of the tree. “But their strength has disappeared along with the people’s faith in them. And where were they in the dark days of the ghetto?” he murmured.  
    Rounding a corner, Morgan saw a massive head emerging from the earth, his crown a grotesque bulk that pushed out of the ground. It was a giant buried by the mountain, a fallen king, perhaps representing the fall of Austro-Hungary, Morgan thought, a once-mighty empire that struggled to rise from the dirt of history. In her mind, she saw the figure shake itself free to rule again. At first he would be noble and just, dealing fairly with his faithful subjects. But this king had twisted