Naxos walked the corridors looking for some thread to guide him.  Any suggestion of a direction would suffice.  The left turn led to mosaic portraits he didn’t recognize.  Right leaning ran a curve to corridors too familiar to feel like progress. 
        Returning to the fork, he sat for a time, immeasurable in the maze, considering directions.
        He thought about scaling the walls, the airshafts a desperate exit, but there were no handholds.  He tried to kick a few notches to climb on, though he only managed to knock off flacks.  The halls extended forward offering a sense of direction.  Feeling the candles waning, Naxos pressed onward, collapsing into the contentment of supposed progress. 
   
He found a fountain and drank.  The water, despite its saltiness, ran freshly cool down his throat.  He couldn’t tell if the horse-shaped fountainhead glared or looked upon him sadly.  Either way, he didn’t care to leave it behind.  The drooling statue provided some company.
        Now one way, then another, the corridor twisted ever deeper—perhaps to an outcome, maybe to a furthering circle.  Naxos had no way to know.  He only felt one foot in front of the other.  Candles lit the way in diminishing wax and wicks.  He tried not to think of them snuffing out before he found some exit. 
        One dead end preceded another.  Three roads diverged, leading back to the same choices.  The marble walls appeared unique though the forks felt the same.  Ahead to come back, second guess, then wander forward. 
  
Did it take days?  Could hours feel the same?  What difference did it make to know the time?
        His stomach growled.  Limbs ached for refreshment his pauses did less to abate.  Naxos wondered if the sun still moved. 
        Sounds echoed up, coming from the deep dark surrounding.  No way to be sure of their origin.  Some came as footsteps.  Others shivered like screams.  Naxos lost the sense of sweat, what each bead might mean.  He simply poured as he coursed the maze. 
        Exits existed.  He remembered that much.  He felt certain he’d heard of a way out.  The stale air infected doubt.  Pounding hooves made him hurry.
  
The boat that carried him here freighted no answers.  It sailed with a purpose its passengers could not glean.  Those who did whisper of destinations learned silence from the lash, all but one, whom the sailors treated with reverence.  That one seemed to regard the crew as cattle, a bothersome herd to be led by the sharp flick of his tongue.  The rest were cargo. 
        Naxos recalled little of the entrance.  He only knew, from the size of the guards and the glint of their weapons, no exit lay there.  The man from the boat, the one the sailors obeyed, entered with the cargo.  For a passing breath, Naxos took comfort in his presence. 
        But they all lost track of each other.  Many ventured off in a blind rush.  Others, whom he’d left behind, lingered. Naxos understood; the only way out was in the maze ahead.
  
The first thing he learned was to ignore the bones.  Skeletal fragments of the ones who came before littered the ground.  Naxos paid no mind to the scuffs on bone, looking like teeth marks.  Only the exit mattered.  Rats can score ribs and skulls while an active imagination exaggerates the rest. 
    

Copyright ©2010 Calliope, All rights reserved.

Calliope
5975 W. Western Way
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Tucson, AZ  85713

He knew full well the false impressions of an excited mind as any shepherd might.  In the candle gloom, anything felt possible.  To save himself from hesitation, Naxos shunted his own figments to the back of his mind. 
        The screams grew louder.  Huddling in a corner, blanketed by shadows, Naxos waited for the madness of his fellow occupants to quiet. 
        Clip-clopping cloven feet stamped an echo down the halls.  More than once he encountered the stink of animal droppings.  One more fright to bring confusion into the maze.  Naxos didn’t worry.  He knew how to deal with beasts.  Calm voices and slow limbs often did more than sharp swords—though he longed for even a small dagger.  Who knew what deranged wanderers were imprisoned here?
        He tried not to think of the duration of his own stay. 
  
Feet slipping wildly, Naxos cursed the warm pile that unbalanced him.  He considered what it might have been, decided on the bliss of ignorance, and continued deeper. 
        Fewer candles burned in the depths.  Soon Naxos needed to feel his way along the walls.  Forking routes became more frustrating.  The exit felt closer but trickier to find.  Or maybe hope simply took a higher place in his thoughts, shading the circumstances from tunnel inks to sky blues.  Either way, his fingers led him round the bend of a curve.
        Snuffling in the darkness.  It came through the walls.  It sounded animal, but the accompanying grunts verged on human.  Naxos waited.  The scent of a burning torch singed his nostrils.  He scolded himself for not fashioning one of his own, or, at the very least, taking a candle from a holder.  Somehow it felt irreverent to disturb the maze with anything other than his presence. 
  
The walls quaked.  Naxos heard the unmistakable sound of a bull enraged.  Stones beneath his feet shuddered.  Screams in the deep, not quite human but not wholly animal, penetrated his ears.  Dust clouded off the walls pushed Naxos into a defensive crouch.  Impacts shook the world around him.  Epic cries shattered the tension into a tornado of cutting blades.
        The stillness came swiftly.  Naxos sat on his haunches, waiting for some sign.  Of what he had no idea, other than it might inspire some action.  Faintly, he heard footsteps, carried along by a self-satisfied chuckle.  When that turned to dead silence, Naxos breathed a sigh of relief.  Comforted by the quiet, he went back to traversing the maze.
    
  
                       About the Author
     
        J. Rohr is a native of Chicago, born and raised.  He became interested in writing at a young age.  It afforded him the opportunity to make his point of view a part of the world.  He graduated from DePaul University with a degree in History.  At present he lives in Skokie or nearby Wilmette, dividing time between familial obligations and personal ambitions.  There are people who doubt that J., being mostly nocturnal, can survive the sun.
        Recently, he completed the first draft of a novella entitled Home Sweet Homicide: a tale of reasonable madness, which he is currently polishing in the hope of getting it published.
        “In the Maze” is his first published piece of fiction.