world. He thought it was a love song, but he was mistaken.
Labyrinth
Dale had been doing a lot of reading on Hellenic myth, and so when he said he had a surprise for us at his Pumpkin Jamboree, we knew he wasn’t screwing around. The Jamboree—a weekend he organizes on his property to bring the town together and raise a little money for the fire department—features a hayride, face painting, and a cakewalk occupying the side yard entire, but his corn maze tends to be the highlight.
A crew of hardcore maze-runners formed a line before he had even finished setting up. I deposited my five bucks like everyone else. “Only it isn’t a maze this time,” Dale said, arranging a last bale of hay around the pumpkins from the patch. “It’s a labyrinth.”
A general murmur rose. “What’s the distinction?” asked a woman holding a whorl of candy floss.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s largely the fact that the path is unicursal, not multicursal. There’s only one road, and it leads to only one place.”
“There’s no point if you can’t get lost,” said a townie kid who was known for pulling girls into hidden corners of previous corn mazes and taking advantage of their confusion.
“Also,” Dale said, “each of you has to go in alone.”
“It’s no fun alone,” shouted a pretty girl who was implausibly holding the townie’s hand.
“My kids aren’t going in there by themselves,” said the high-school football coach, taking a knee to clutch two boys to his chest.
Dale held the bucket back from folks reaching for their money. “Calm down,” he said. “Nobody has to go if they’d rather not. To be clear, the labyrinth is known to possess magic. Some say that once you find the center, you discover the one thing you most desire in the world. Others claim that God sits beyond the last bend. Individuals must learn for themselves. Go check out the jam contest if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“There’s no way,” one of the firemen called out, a little drunk. The man was undoubtedly a guest of honor for the weekend and held some influence over the group, which began to turn away and head for the fest’s other features. The rope pull was another favorite.
Dale watched them leave, fingering a pumpkin’s thick stem and surely considering his hours of lost work. A few months beforehand, he cuts into the young corn when it’s tall but not yet sprouted, taking a pass first with the tractor and then with the riding mower to pull out the brace roots and tamp it down. He does the maze plans on drafting paper and displays them in his swept-out garage addition—he calls it the Hall of History—with other jamboree memorabilia: the gearshift from the original hayride truck, trotter prints from the winning pigs. We gather around to remember which wrong turn we took and what was waiting on the other side.
Knowing what he put into it, I thought it was a shame to stand by and see everyone go. The sun was still low in the sky and it was lonely at home, where the TV had been broken for a week and the tap water had begun to taste oddly of blood. “I’ll go first,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
A few of the others stopped their exodus. The pretty girl—whose name, I remembered, was Connie—let loose of the townie’s hand. Unfazed, he ambled off to do drugs behind the house.
“That’s the spirit,” Dale said. “Jim will do it, everyone. He’ll start us off.”
I shook my friend’s hand. “I know you worked hard on this maze and I intend to take full advantage.”
“It’s a labyrinth, but thanks. That’s the kind of brave spirit we’re known for around here.” Dale made a point of looking at the coach, who was still on one knee. Shamed, the man stood.
“All right then,” I said, and made to get started, but Dale stopped me. He dug in a bag at his feet to extract a piece of clay trivet, the type that allows a hot dish to sit on the dinner table.
“You’ll need this,” he
Labyrinth
Dale had been doing a lot of reading on Hellenic myth, and so when he said he had a surprise for us at his Pumpkin Jamboree, we knew he wasn’t screwing around. The Jamboree—a weekend he organizes on his property to bring the town together and raise a little money for the fire department—features a hayride, face painting, and a cakewalk occupying the side yard entire, but his corn maze tends to be the highlight.
A crew of hardcore maze-runners formed a line before he had even finished setting up. I deposited my five bucks like everyone else. “Only it isn’t a maze this time,” Dale said, arranging a last bale of hay around the pumpkins from the patch. “It’s a labyrinth.”
A general murmur rose. “What’s the distinction?” asked a woman holding a whorl of candy floss.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s largely the fact that the path is unicursal, not multicursal. There’s only one road, and it leads to only one place.”
“There’s no point if you can’t get lost,” said a townie kid who was known for pulling girls into hidden corners of previous corn mazes and taking advantage of their confusion.
“Also,” Dale said, “each of you has to go in alone.”
“It’s no fun alone,” shouted a pretty girl who was implausibly holding the townie’s hand.
“My kids aren’t going in there by themselves,” said the high-school football coach, taking a knee to clutch two boys to his chest.
Dale held the bucket back from folks reaching for their money. “Calm down,” he said. “Nobody has to go if they’d rather not. To be clear, the labyrinth is known to possess magic. Some say that once you find the center, you discover the one thing you most desire in the world. Others claim that God sits beyond the last bend. Individuals must learn for themselves. Go check out the jam contest if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“There’s no way,” one of the firemen called out, a little drunk. The man was undoubtedly a guest of honor for the weekend and held some influence over the group, which began to turn away and head for the fest’s other features. The rope pull was another favorite.
Dale watched them leave, fingering a pumpkin’s thick stem and surely considering his hours of lost work. A few months beforehand, he cuts into the young corn when it’s tall but not yet sprouted, taking a pass first with the tractor and then with the riding mower to pull out the brace roots and tamp it down. He does the maze plans on drafting paper and displays them in his swept-out garage addition—he calls it the Hall of History—with other jamboree memorabilia: the gearshift from the original hayride truck, trotter prints from the winning pigs. We gather around to remember which wrong turn we took and what was waiting on the other side.
Knowing what he put into it, I thought it was a shame to stand by and see everyone go. The sun was still low in the sky and it was lonely at home, where the TV had been broken for a week and the tap water had begun to taste oddly of blood. “I’ll go first,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
A few of the others stopped their exodus. The pretty girl—whose name, I remembered, was Connie—let loose of the townie’s hand. Unfazed, he ambled off to do drugs behind the house.
“That’s the spirit,” Dale said. “Jim will do it, everyone. He’ll start us off.”
I shook my friend’s hand. “I know you worked hard on this maze and I intend to take full advantage.”
“It’s a labyrinth, but thanks. That’s the kind of brave spirit we’re known for around here.” Dale made a point of looking at the coach, who was still on one knee. Shamed, the man stood.
“All right then,” I said, and made to get started, but Dale stopped me. He dug in a bag at his feet to extract a piece of clay trivet, the type that allows a hot dish to sit on the dinner table.
“You’ll need this,” he