The boy was shoved down into the maze. He stumbled on the dark stairs and fell scraping his hands and skinning his knees on the rough dirt. His long knife clattered away into the gloom. His heart drummed in his ears, mixing with the wails of his mother and the scornful laughter of his uncle. At least the other boys, some his white faced friends, had not heard him fall and cry. The heavy wooden door had seen to that. As he scrabbled for his blade he wondered which of the lads would follow him. There was a tradition, carve your name on the door. His sister told him not to do this as it would blunt the blade, instead she said pretend and when the beast is nearly up on you turn and stab here and here. She pointed to the soft places on her belly.
The boy was shaking too much to mount the steps and face the slammed door. Instead he crouched in the dark, tiled passage way waiting, whimpering, his eyes adjusting to the long mosaic floor stretching away, clouded with dust and dried blood.
The Minotaur had heard the offering enter. He was waiting as always, polishing his hooves with his only rag, a scrap of clothing from long ago. He pushed his hideous head around the shadowed corner.
The boy would not see him all the way down here and the Minotaur realised he could not see the boy. His big dull eyes were baffled again. He had been peering out of the cracks in the stone trying to see the world in daylight. Though the offerings were weak they had the eyes and views of the gods; they walked in the sun and rain whereas he had to wait until night to push open the broken screen once gilded gold. He would gaze at the moon, her sisters the stars, the soft hills, the glittering sea where fishermen’s’ houses lit the shore. He knew the names of these things but had long forgotten their taste and smell. He had spent a forever in his stinking rut, the maze.
The boy was sitting now playing with small stones humming, forgetting? The Minotaur was insulted. They used to send me men, with armour and now this, a boy? The Minotaur snorted. The boy jumped up and thrust his knife towards the gloom. His thin torso shivering, his grubby loin cloth wet. The Minotaur had an urge to talk to the boy. He had tried this before but it did no good. Those about to die lacked the capacity for interesting conversation. Later it got very dark only the Minotaur could see. The boy had fallen asleep on his feet, his back embedded in the rough wall. His scabby paw still clutching his knife.
The Minotaur edged towards the offering, snorting, but the boy remained asleep. No one really knows why the Minotaur did what he did, though many tell the tale. The beast had been thinking, ruminating. He had dropped his rag, an auspicious sign in a superstitious age. He gently loosened the blade from the boy’s sweaty hand and threw it in the bottomless well where it joined the men, their armour, their dreams and nightmares. He lifted the sleeping child, manoeuvring through the tired screen. Out on the soft hillside, he glanced around, searching for a hollow shielded from the sea breeze. He waited till dawn. The warm boy woke as the grey light reached the tall grass. Disorientated and dehydrated he stumbled away back to his mother’s house. The Minotaur watched him go. He wanted to say something profound to the boy, but look: he was nearly over the brow of the hill. The boy did not look back. The beast stood stiffly and gazed at the world. The sun grew brighter. What did he do then? Well if you left your maze what would you do?
