life in a maze

It can be quite nice, here in my maze, when the walls look like green hedges and the occasional butterfly flies along the path with me. More often, though, the walls are towering stone, high enough to block out the light. I can hear other people as they play in the garden outside the maze; I even see them wander through my maze at times, passing through the walls as if they didn’t exist. I can almost convince myself they’re only a figment of my imagination, yet always if I try to follow, I find they’re only too solid.

There are certain parts of the maze I’ve managed to learn my way around and sometimes, when I find a path I’m sure of, the walls will shift and I can see through the aligning doorways into the garden beyond. I can shout to the people outside and it feels as though I ought to be able to reach them in a few minutes walk, but somehow I take a wrong turn that takes me deeper into the maze instead or the gatekeeper catches me before I have a chance to escape.

The gatekeeper is the first to sense someone approaching the maze to try to find me, but I’m soon alerted by the echoes of doors slamming shut around the edges, the noise growing louder and closer until I’m trapped in the very centre. Or worse: the walls will divide me, locking parts of myself away. I can hear the intruder still and I know I should call out so she knows I’m here, but words become heavier and more unwieldy the longer I’m trapped inside. Slippery, too. Even if I find the ones I need, it’s almost all I can do to keep hold of them. I walk quickly, trying to stay unnoticed while I search for an opening the gatekeeper may have missed, willing a gap to appear around the next corner. In desperation, I’ll hack away at the sentences, hoping to whittle a message small enough to push through a crack in the wall. Too often, though, it’s snatched away by the wind, or the meaning is left behind with the debris on my side of the wall.

Pinned to the page, words aren’t so troublesome. These words don’t have the power of those said aloud, which seem as if they could break down the walls if only I could find the right ones. Because of this I’m permitted to seal letters in a bottle to throw over the walls, although some have to be thrown when the gatekeeper is at the far end of the maze. There’s no shortage of messages from the outside to read, either. It can be torture to read the happy missives of those who’ve never even realised there’s a maze here, but there are also glimmers of hope to be found in the stories of people who’ve found their way out. These stories I pore over, looking for familiar landmarks, trying to piece together a map from these clues. I know the gatekeeper would prevent me from leaving even if I did know the way; still, for a time, I can forget the walls exist and inhabit a world of sunny, open meadows.

At the worst times, when the gatekeeper storms angrily around the maze and I have to go deeper and deeper to avoid him, I’m even cut off from these words of comfort. Fortunately, I haven’t yet had to go so deep that I can no longer hear the music that wraps around me like a blanket, blocking out the ominous thud of the gatekeeper’s footsteps so that I can sleep. In the morning, the music will have soothed him as well and it will be safe to venture a little further out again.

Even when the coast looks clear, I know the gatekeeper is still lurking somewhere nearby, ready to block my way, or worse, should I misstep. Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of the people outside, I find myself holding my breath with worry for them, wondering how long before their gatekeeper catches up to them and what he’ll do to them when he does and how they can laugh and play with such ease, never once looking over their shoulder. I start to wonder if, maybe, I could confront the gatekeeper and demand to be allowed out into the garden to join them. But then a twig snaps behind me and I hurry away, head down, before he can catch me contemplating the freedom beyond the walls. Better not to even think about it.