Rona Jaffe - Mazes and Monsters

Naturally some of the students who were interviewed defended the game, because they were still playing it. “It’s a perfectly harmless game,” one was quoted. “I mean, people who think that stuff is real are just nuts.”

Kate, Daniel, and Jay Jay refused to be interviewed. They had discussed it and decided whatever they said could be held against them in some way, at some future time. Besides, they couldn’t tell anyone they thought Robbie had become Pardieu. You didn’t tell the world your friend was crazy. That would be the ultimate betrayal.

In the midst of all this horrible tension, the amazing thing was that Perry, who had lent Jay Jay the bones, and the people in the drama department who had let him borrow other props, never told anyone. It was, of course, partly their own fear of being expelled for having been part of this madness. But it was also out of loyalty. Nothing they had to contribute would bring Robbie back any faster, so why would they hurt their friend Jay Jay and his friends?

It was spring. The weather had turned soft overnight, and green buds began to appear on the spindly trees around the campus. The days grew longer. Soon it would be Reading Period, and then Final Exams. They had to study — the three of them who had been so worried they would be expelled were now in danger of flunking out because of grief. They began to force themselves to work, and finally it became a relief to lose themselves in their responsibilities.

Still, there were the newspapers to remind them. The police were receiving hundreds of calls and letters; hints of some of them were in the papers. There was a demand for ransom to be left at a motel in the next town, where someone claimed to know that Robbie had been kidnapped. The “kidnapping” turned out to be a hoax. Only Kate, Daniel, and Jay Jay had been sure from the start that it was. They believed nothing else but that Robbie was in the caverns — Pardieu on his quest.

Lieutenant Martini wasn’t bothering them anymore. They decided to bother him. They went to the police station three times before they found him in.

“We want to know what’s happening,” Kate said.

Martini looked genuinely sorry. “Not much luck,” he said. “Lots of psychics are coming out of the woodwork. They’ve got him here, there and everywhere. Most of that stuff is garbage.”

“Did any of them say he’s in the caverns?” Jay Jay asked.

“Sure. And we looked. But you don’t think they’d pinpoint a place, do you? They describe a place. That could be anywhere. We still haven’t a clue where the body is.”

The body? They looked at each other aghast. Robbie was now just “a body.” They refused to believe it.

“I thought psychics helped the police,” Jay Jay said.

“We use them sometimes,” Martini said. “But you only hear about their successes. They never tell the public about their failures. I heard a funny line from one of the officers — he said we ought to give a dinner dance and invite all the psychics, but not tell them where it is. Then we’ll see how many of them find it.” He waited for them to laugh, or at least smile. They didn’t. “One of them sent me a map of New York,” he went on. “Can you imagine — New York? Where are we supposed to start looking in a place as big as that?”

“New York State or New York City?” Jay Jay asked.

“The whole state,” Martini said. He chuckled. “Big deal.”

“What did you do about it?” Kate asked.

“Filed it with the rest of the crank letters,” Martini said. “What do you think?”

Underneath Grand Central Station, in the middle of New York City, there is a maze of steam tunnels that snakes around for several miles, supplying steam to the large office buildings and hotels nearby. Not many people know about them, nor would have any interest in them. They are the home for drifters, street people; homeless men and women who have no other place they want to go, or can think of to go, or have the energy and hope to go. They carry their belongings with them, and sleep lightly, lying on newspapers, watchful that their meager possessions are not stolen. They eat what little they can get. They cook, talk, make friends. Some of them have been there for years. In the morning the rumbling of the trains overhead awakens them, and many of them leave for the day, to wander the streets. But at night they come back to sleep. This is their home.

There are many ways to enter the underground tunnels from the street, if you know where they are. A polished brass door at the side of the famous Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, emergency exits in Grand Central Station itself, a doorless opening near the lower level that has the words BURMA ROAD handwritten over it. Burma Road is the main tunnel. It is easy to get lost there if you are unfamiliar with the winding passages. It is, of course, a maze.

It had taken Pardieu a long time to find this maze, and now he was resting here before continuing on his journey. He had known from the first moment he set out that he was blessed, but also that he would have to be very careful. A kindly stranger had given him transportation, and after passing through what seemed to be an endless tunnel they had emerged at last into a great city filled with noise and lights and all kinds of beings, mostly Human. Tall towers rose everywhere, but as he scanned the landscape Pardieu saw The Two Towers in the distance and knew he had found the right place. He walked through the streets, watching everything, looking into the eyes of the inhabitants and finding them full of anger and fear. He realized these people did not want to be looked at — they felt it was an assault. And yet some of them had dressed in such gaudy clothing that he knew they wanted to be noticed. It was their souls they were trying to hide. They knew he was a Holy Man and could see within their souls, and so they glared at him. Pardieu looked away, not wanting to incite them to a fight.

Not everyone in this city was unkind. Some smiled at him, returned his glance, and wanted to join him. But Pardieu had to journey on alone. He would smile back and bless them, and walk away.

Whenever he was hungry or thirsty there were places to buy food. He ate simply, buying from vendors who cooked in the open air. At night he would rent a small room in some unsavory inn where he could bathe and sleep, not wishing to sleep in the street. Only Trolls slept in the streets of this city; squat, waddling wanderers carrying bags of plunder and speaking in their own tongue. But even staying at the cheapest places he could find, Pardieu was growing short of coins. Soon he would have to beg.

Everywhere he trudged he looked for some sign that he was closer to the place where he would find the underground maze. “Do you know The Great Hall?” he would sometimes ask passersby, and often they would look bewildered, but occasionally they would point out some way, giving him instructions. He realized they had no idea who he was talking about. They thought he was looking for a building. They were only Men — how could they have heard of The Great Hall?

He tried to recall the map he had drawn, remembering that The Great Hall had told him not to take it because it was unnecessary. Where was he to go? What was the next step? Such an endless city, teeming with people! He waited for night, and his dreams.

Then one night Pardieu had the dream he sought. In it he saw a great door made of gold, as one might find in a castle, and he knew. The next morning he went forth to find it.

He saw it on the second day, set in the side of a fine castle that was guarded by a man in regalia. When the guard turned away, Pardieu pushed the door open and entered.

All mazes are different, and yet they are the same. This one was warm, dimly lit, and pervaded by the strange smell of ancient air. Pardieu longed to be back in the freshness of nature, as he remembered it fondly from so long ago, but he knew he had to go on for he was almost there. He touched his pouch of magic spells, cupping his hand gently over The Eye of Timor, and with the other hand he grasped his sword, in case any monster should appear. Then suddenly, from above, he heard a terrible roaring and screeching that shook the very walls. He knew it was the dragon of the hill, and from the sound it had to be the greatest and most ancient of any dragon he had ever encountered. He stopped, waiting motionless and silent, until the dragon stopped its outcry and was still. Was this to be the final test The Great Hall had set for him — to kill this dragon? In spite of everything — his faith and his magic and the battles he had already won — Pardieu was afraid.