turns without pause, drawn all the while

by the trivet, which seemed towed on a
wire.
I wish hed come out here so I could
shake his hand, someone said wistfully,
but there was no way to stop. The
switches were coming faster now, and
the path narrowed, as if Dale hadnt
quite figured out the proportions required. The corns soft tassels brushed
my shoulders.

didnt realize how exhausted I was

until, turning the last corner, I found
the center. The moon shone a straight
beam into the clearing, which was about
eight feet wide, with a depression in
the dirt the size of a man. The trivet
was straining toward the ditch. It took
my whole strength to hold it back, and
my strength was failing. But I had to
keep it safe. Dale had given it to me
with two hands, looking me in the eye.
With the last of my power, I turned
around, positioning myself between my
burden and the hole. The trivet did its
work from there, pushing me back and
down, into the pit that seemed to have
been dug to suit me, complete with a rise
in the dirt for my neck and a uniform
pile just below my feet. The trivet settled in the center of my sternum. It grew
cold there and heavier than before, though
I felt no desire to move from under its


mass. I saw now that it was a stone like
any other. I found that once I stopped
struggling and held very still, barely
breathing against its mass, I could hear
the crowd again. They were telling stories of my heroism and bravery, of underwater rescue and diplomacy; tales I
couldnt remember being a part of, though
surely I must have been involved in some
way, if so many recalled them so fondly.
Eventually, I did try to stand, at which
point I understood the trouble.
Folks? I said, quietly at first. I
think I got stuck on a root structure or
something.
They continued their talk, which
grew even grander than before. Someone brought out a guitar and began to
improvise songs about my origin story.
Born to a rancher just a little west of
here / Jim raised his head and never cowered out of fear, went one line. My lungs
strained to fill against the weight of the
stone.
Dale? I called out, gasping. I need
help. Can you bring a crowbar?
I was being driven down into the dirt
as if by a machine press.The carved glyphs
bit into my chest and branded my skin.
I was alone. Then I met the Minotaur.

newyorker.com
Amelia Gray on Labyrinth.
THE NEW YORKER, FEBRUARY 16, 2015

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