Three Ways In
I don’t ask people to enter the maze. They choose to be lost.
They fight their way through a topiary tangle of crazy-paved paths to the house at the centre, through the aisles of heavy dark furniture and long velvet drapes within. Lamp sconces emerge from the walls, golden hands to guide you onto the right path, but they can be trusted no more than anything else in this place. Light is not intrinsically good; it conceals as much as the dark. People forget that, I find.
Choose a door, then. Any door. They all lead to the same place anyway.
To this high-ceilinged corridor there are three ways in, and no ways out. On the far wall is hung a square ebony frame – inside, the thread-thin lines and spirals of a black ink maze trace across white parchment and overflow, an intricate tattoo of endless paths sprawling across the white walls, the curved plaster ceiling.
This is where the maze begins.
The seekers always look up before they look down. Why is that, I wonder? Surely it is a more pressing conundrum, knowing where to put one’s feet? Not that it matters. By then, it is already far too late. Underfoot the floor is a spiral of black and white tiles and it is only then my visitors realise they were not finding their way out of the maze, but their way in.
I do not ask people to enter. Neither do I let them leave.
Well, I must eat something.
© Faith Mudge 2012