The Maze The Lost Labyrinth

CHAPTER 9



Whatever was bellowing showed no signs of ceasing. It sounded like something was in a tremendous amount of pain and was broadcasting its misery for everyone to hear. If there was a minotaur loose in this maze, then there was no question where the lamentations were coming from.

I stood there, bathed in blue light, wondering what to do and how to react, but everything felt foreign. I didn’t know which way to go, which way to run. All I knew was that I was in trouble. The bellowing grew louder by the second; the minotaur or whatever was getting close.

The walls will show you the way.

I studied the faintly glowing hallway, looking for some pattern, some familiar sequence of numbers and symbols that made sense. I ran my fingers over the smooth surfaces, hoping for revelation, praying for deliverance. The wall in front of me was covered in various shapes, Roman numerals, words written in languages I didn’t understand, drawings that ranged from the crudely rendered to the expertly crafted, symbols that could have been musical notations or mathematical representations, and a hundred other forms of written expression that could have meant anything or nothing at all. It was almost as if the maze had been populated with idiot savants who had written down every iota of their narrowed down expertise, and I was expected to sort through it all in a matter of seconds and find meaning where none seemed to exist.

“Think, Jamie. Think.”

No amount of thinking could make sense out of the nonsensical. No obvious patterns were present in the mishmash of symbols and numbers; it was like looking at one long computer print-out of garbled programming.

There was still some part of me at this point that didn’t truly believe in the reality of my surroundings. I kept expecting to wake up at any moment and realize that I had fallen asleep on the couch---or in a hospital bed hooked up to life support. A blast of air that stank of decomposing hay and rotten flesh, however, quickly made me reconsider the whole notion of dreams. I wrinkled my nose and listened to the clap-clap-clap of hooves. Something was still coming toward me.

Something big.

For a split second all I could think about was getting ripped apart by some ancient monstrosity before I could figure a way out of this place, before I could make amends with Amy and hug Peter tightly one last time. I couldn’t bear the thought of dying this way, in such a sad state of circumstances. This was what my life had been reduced to, and I didn’t want it to end like this.

I didn’t want to die as Jamie Burroughs, the man who had almost cheated on his wife with an old girlfriend. If death was in the cards for me, I wanted to die as Jamie Burroughs, loving husband and father. It would make for a much better epitaph.

I’d heard it said before that there were no true deathbed atheists, and the wisdom in that statement was more apparent now than it had ever been. I wasn’t an atheist. Despite all my shortcomings, I believed in God, but now, faced with the unbelievable, I regretted not living a more devout life. There wasn’t time, however, to make amends for that mistake.

The smack of hooves on cobblestones was louder now. The deafening cadence of approaching steps echoed off of the walls, the ceiling, and the floor like ricocheting bullets. Something was coming, and I was very afraid.

‘Please God,” I said. “Please. I don‘t want to die this way.”

The minotaur was coming. The pastoral stench of a bull preceded the creature, announcing its presence as effectively as a trumpet blast.

“Help me, God.”

It was only as I wallowed in self-pity and stared blankly at the walls that a certain string of numbers stood out from the millions of other digits: 04071976. My birthday. Of course, that particular series was surely coincidental and had nothing to do with me. Still, it was the only thing I could make any kind of sense out of. I traced the numbers with my index finger and was surprised to hear a sonorous humming coming from behind the wall. It was like being stuck in the middle of a great machine that was running at full-throttle. The maze rattled so much that I felt my teeth chattering, and I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, fully expecting something horrible to happen. Then the vibrations stopped. Slowly, I opened my eyes and saw a doorway where one hadn’t been before.

From the opposite direction came a long, mournful, inhuman lament. I needed to move quickly. The minotaur was almost upon me; and if the note was correct, he was hungry for transgression.

I stepped through the doorway, hoping I was doing the right thing. A panel abruptly slid shut, sealing off the passageway behind me.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for my heart to stop racing. My shirt was stuck to me with a thin glue of perspiration, and I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. I exhaled loudly and took a deep breath, enjoying the cool air in my lungs. Gradually, my trip hammering pulse slowed to a moderate gallop and then a trot. I wasn’t as nervous now as before. That probably had something to do with the fact that I was going to live, if only for a little while longer.

I was dismayed, however, to find myself in another room that had no doors or windows.

This room was nothing like the previous room. For starters, the walls were a different color, emerald this time instead of cyan. The numbers, symbols, and pictures were still there, but they weren’t the focus. The grand dining table spread out before me was the focal point. Each place setting was an intricate mixture of Italian china, highly polished silverware, ornately embroidered napkins, scented candles, and a fancy covered serving platter. It was the kind of setup that demanded appetizers and cocktails and multiple courses, followed by desserts so elaborate that the average person couldn’t spell them.

I felt even more out of place here than I had before.

It was like the dining hall of a four-star restaurant had been dropped into the middle of a nightmare. I didn’t know whether to be comforted by the sight of something familiar or horrified at how alien everything else seemed in comparison.

A fortune cookie sat in the center of the table, looking as out of place against the opulent backdrop as I did. I knew it was meant for me. I wasted no time cracking the cookie open and pulling out the thin slip of paper within.

I didn’t know whether to expect a string of lucky numbers, words of wisdom from Confucius, or my horoscope. As it turned out, it was none of those.

“The light of the body is the eye: therefore when thine eye is single, the whole body also is full of light; but when thine eye is evil, thy body also is full of darkness.”

I knew it was a verse of scripture but I didn’t readily understand how it figured into the prison-like workings of the maze. Hesitantly, I lifted the lid on one of the serving platters and was a little confused to see a Polaroid of me watching something on television. I saw enough nude flesh on the TV screen to know what kind of program I was watching. I didn’t remember the specific day the picture had been taken nor did I recognize anything in the foreground to denote what made this photograph special. Had Angel Face taken this picture as well? How long had this surveillance of my life been going on?

Still confused, I moved onto the next platter and lifted that lid. There was another Polaroid, this time featuring me and James Ketchum, a client of mine. I didn’t have to know the circumstances of that meeting to know what was on my mind. It was apparent by the deviant shine in my eyes that I was dreaming of a big commission. I was greedy, and the picture was proof enough. The man in the photograph scarcely even looked like me, and I wasn’t at all happy with the way I was being portrayed. I remembered over-inflating the sales quote I gave James and padding his portfolio with products that he didn’t really need. He had trusted me, and I had known it, had taken advantage of it.

The next platter had a third Polaroid. This picture was taken today at Adam’s Ribs. It was a photo of me staring up at Karen as she was touching my arm. There was no mistaking the intent in my eyes.

With trembling hands, I lifted the lid to the last serving tray and was surprised to find a blank Polaroid. It was the way a picture looked as it went through the developing process, only this was a permanent condition.

I wondered what kind of picture had been taken here. What had I been doing that was so horrible that even the film itself rejected it? I ran my fingers over the picture and for a split second saw the brief flash of an image: my family in happy unity. All of us were smiling and content. I held Peter in one hand and hugged Amy tightly to me with the other. We were a family there, a perfect model of strength and stability. That life now seemed a million miles away.

That picture didn’t exist. The reason why was explained succinctly enough in the other three pictures. I sank to my knees; it felt like someone had stabbed me between the ribs with a rusty knife. That fleeting image had shown me a glimpse of the life I had been so displeased with, the life I would have given anything to have back. Strange how priorities twist and turn.

As was the case with the previous room, I guessed there had to be some sort of mechanism or trigger that would open another door and possibly lead me out of here. Where was it located and how did I operate it? I studied everything-the symbols on the walls, the letters, the pictures, the layout of the place settings-and searched for a pattern.

I touched symbols and mysterious glyphs at random, hoping for a miracle. Machinery behind the walls chuffed and rumbled. Pistons sighed as they released steam. Gears in need of oil squeaked loudly, but no door appeared.

Frustrated, I touched another group of symbols. Immediately a series of razor-tipped darts rushed past my face, missing me by inches. I inspected the opposite wall and noticed that the darts had been fired from a recess in the rock. No doubt, I had triggered some sort of mechanism with my aimless groping. It was a mistake I couldn’t afford to make twice.

I paced back and forth, studying the dining table and its contents and wondered how I could use any of what I’d learned from the Polaroids to help me escape. After wracking my brain uselessly for nearly a half-hour, I collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, exhausted and confused. It was only as I let my mind wander and unfocus for a second that I was struck by a certain incongruous fact. Initially, I had thought that this maze was some sort of prison designed to punish me for my sinful intent. But, this room seemed to be focused more on alerting me to the fact that there were very specific areas in my life that were broken. That hardly seemed like a punishment. If this trap was the byproduct of a demon architect’s imagination, there was no way such a creature would go to the trouble to point out those weaknesses in me that needed fixing. On the other hand, if this was a labyrinth of angelic design, there would be no mention of a minotaur that delights in transgression.

I wasn’t sure what to think about the kinds of forces controlling my destiny. At the moment, it didn’t matter. Whether angels or demons were responsible, the fact remained that I was still trapped. Knowing the whys and wherefores wouldn’t magically make a door appear.

I picked up a fork or a spoon off of the table from time to time and smacked the walls in hopes of a reaction. Fearful that another barrage of darts might be fired at me, I was careful not to hit any of the symbols. I inspected each and every square inch of the room, looking for a break where a doorway might be. I even stood on top of the table and inspected the ceiling for a possible way out, but found nothing useful. Every square inch of the floors, walls, and ceiling appeared smooth and unbroken. I couldn’t find any trace of the door I used to enter the room.

I was trapped inside a Victorian nightmare where manners and etiquette were enforced as punishment; I kept waiting for a butler or a maid to enter the room and start dusting or polishing something, but nothing happened. Nothing moved, nothing gave any hint as to the room’s secrets. The cryptic writings on the walls read like the musings of a schizophrenic, and no amount of staring brought any further revelations. I remembered hearing about mathematical experts who had spent years studying the same blackboard and the same half-worked problem before one day saying 'Eureka!’ as the solution came to them in a flash of genius. I didn’t have time to wait on a similar burst of brilliance to show me the way out. I couldn’t imagine spending my entire life in a place like this. I would go crazy long before I ever died of hunger or thirst.

Panic set in at this point, and I nearly hyperventilated at the thought of being trapped here forever. Outraged and overwhelmed by helplessness, I lost it. I threw silverware and hurled plates. I smashed the chairs into kindling and reduced the tablecloth to tatters, and then started screaming.

“Let me out of here! I’m sorry for what I did!”

After destroying as much of the room as possible, I collapsed onto the floor in an exhausted heap. My hands were raw and filled with splinters, and the floor was covered with broken bits and pieces of china. Tattered Polaroids littered the ground like dead leaves in need of raking.

Despite every effort to create a door by force, I was trapped. Unable to do anything else, I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I thought about Amy and Peter and how much I‘d love to hug them both close to me and ask for forgiveness for the things I‘d done.

Thoughts of my family, however, vanished like wisps of fog the moment I crossed the threshold between waking and sleeping.

I dreamt I was being chased by a creature with eyes that smoldered like white-hot coals. Wickedly sharp horns crowned a head that owed as much to bovine physiology as it did to human anatomy. Flies circled the creature's head, laying eggs in the messy tangles of matted hair. Blood stained the creature’s muzzle, and its nostrils flared at my scent. It could smell the sin in my heart and salivated at the thought.

I ran blindly through the maze, not knowing which way to go, wondering if I was traveling in circles. Once or twice, I stumbled and scrambled to my feet in hopes of eluding the bull-creature that was hot on my heels. Yet no matter how far or how fast I ran, the beast kept up with me and never seemed to tire.

I ran, despite a stitch in my side and a cramp in my leg. I stumbled along in darkness, desperate to get away. My mouth was dry, and my lungs burned. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

And still the beast drew near---

At one point, I felt the monster’s rancid breath on my neck, and I woke up screaming and gasping for air.

What I saw only reinforced the need for oxygen.

The dining room setting was just as it had been when I had entered the room. Nothing was broken. Nothing was torn. Even the place settings were the same. It was as if my psychotic breakdown had never happened.

“This can’t be. This is insane.”

Like before, the fortune cookie sat in the center of the table, an edible oracle. With trembling hands, I picked it up, wondering if I was doomed to spend all of eternity repeating the same mistakes over and over again.

Once again I broke the cookie open, fully expecting to find the same message as before and was surprised to read something different.

“Think of this as a place where you can discover who you truly are. Angels and demons abound in the depths of the labyrinth if you know where to look. Some will be out to kill you and delight in the damnation of your soul. Others will try to help you and bask in the light of your spirit. The choices, however, are yours to make. You will own the triumphs---and the mistakes. A man shapes the course of his life by the decisions he makes, and you will write your destiny inside the walls of this maze. Underneath the lid of each tray you will find something to prod your conscience, to defibrillate those unfeeling parts of you that have become numb. Delight in the pain that follows. It’s part of your healing. Guilt, as you well know, is a bitter pill, but it is one you must swallow. Keep one with you at all times, if only to serve as a reminder.”

I raised the lid on the first tray and was surprised to see a tiny golden pill that looked like it had been made from solidified amber.

“Guilt?” I scarcely believed what this little pill was purported to do.

I half-expected to lift one of the lids and see a sign that said “Eat me” or to be greeted out of nowhere by the disembodied smile of a Cheshire cat. But this wasn’t Wonderland.

Like the first, the other trays each held a pill, and I pocketed all of them except one. I popped it into my mouth and dry-swallowed, not really believing that there would be any consequences from the action.

I suddenly remembered something that I hadn’t thought about in years. It was a summer day. I was five. The clerk at the grocery store was too busy pricing spaghetti sauce to notice me slip a pack of gum into my pocket. Nobody had ever known about that. I had never gotten caught, but the act was catalogued in the database of my memory, and I had just inadvertently opened the file.

After that, things only got worse.

My head felt like it was going to self-destruct, and I fell to the floor in a twitching, jittery heap of half-remembered sins. I was a swimmer about to be consumed by a tidal wave of transgressions, and I suddenly forgot how to tread water. All at once, I recalled everything I had ever done wrong, from the time I had broken a window at City Hall to the time I cheated on an exam in college to that time not more than a few hours ago when I had gone to Karen Jantzen’s house with thoughts of infidelity on my mind. It was like mainlining pain, and I wanted nothing more than to make the horror stop.

“Oh God!”

I wept. Although my eyes were still closed, I heard the smooth swoosh of a door sliding back in its tracks.

When I looked up, an entrance had opened at the far end of the room.