Rona Jaffe - Mazes and Monsters

He walked on, careful and alert for danger. Here and there he saw signs that others had been in this place before him. Food had been eaten, bottles of wine drunk and tossed away empty. There were runes written on the walls; names perhaps of other searchers for the treasure. Surely that dragon above had the greatest treasure in all the world. A treasure such as his would feed and clothe many of the poor and needy. As for himself, Pardieu had no money left. He had spent his last coin yesterday, and if he had not had the fortune to have found this place at last he would be sleeping on the street with the evil Trolls, or begging, which he was loath to do. A Holy Man should beg for the unfortunates, not for himself. Still, he was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped he would come upon some other wanderer who might share his provisions with him.

He turned a corner and found himself in front of a cozy little nest made of paper and rags. A Man was sitting there, looking at him curiously. He was a distinguished-looking man — tall and thin with an aesthetic face and silver hair. He did not look like an enemy.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“I am Pardieu the Holy Man,” Pardieu said.

“I’m the King of France.”

“Why, may I ask, are you here?” Pardieu asked respectfully.

“There are worse places,” the King of France said. “What are you doing here?”

“I am on a quest.”

“Aren’t we all. I’m making some coffee. Care to have some?”

“Thank you,” Pardieu said gratefully. “I would.”

The King of France had set up some cooking things in his little corner, and he and Pardieu drank coffee together and talked. He also gave Pardieu some small cakes. “One of these days,” the King of France said, “I’m going to leave this place. I say that every day. But then I don’t go. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Years.”

“Have you ever seen the dragon?” Pardieu asked.

“Seen lots of them. Seen some you’ll never see.”

“The one above …” Pardieu asked. “Tell me of him.”

“Stay away from up there,” the King of France said. “They catch you, they throw you out. It’s safe down here.”

“But the dragon guards the treasure.”

“Depends on how you feel about money.”

“It’s not for me,” Pardieu said quickly. “It is for the poor.”

“Then forget it. Why don’t you go home?”

“I can’t.”

The King of France nodded understandingly.

That night some other wanderers began to come by, carrying bundles of provisions, and each went to a place which seemed to belong to him or her and prepared a nest to sleep in. Pardieu noticed they all slept very cautiously, trusting none of the others. He realized this was a kind of central meeting place, but no one discussed their plans or their quest even though they knew each other. Perhaps they had no quest. They were subterranean dwellers, that was all. He sighed. They might give him food or drink or company if he gained their trust, but they would never come along to aid him. They could not. He was destined to be alone … and perhaps that was as it should be.

The King of France was asleep, snoring softly. Pardieu rose to his feet and quietly slipped away. He remembered that the others had entered from a different branch of the maze than he had, and he thought there might be a way to the dragon’s lair. All the pathways were dimly lit, and in some of them he came upon other wanderers, also asleep. It must be very late. The dragon was silent. Dragons slept too.

He found a door, and touched it carefully, listening to hear what might be on the other side. He was sure now that this was what The Great Hall wanted of him: to find the dragon where it lay and to enchant it and take the treasure. The dragon was evil, as all dragons were. Perhaps there were slaves that had to be freed. Pardieu kept his hand on his sword. He fervently prayed that he would not be forced to kill anyone or anything ever again, but if he had to kill the dragon he knew he would be forgiven. He opened the door and gasped.

There was a huge, beautiful room with a vaulted ceiling, like a room in a castle. It was empty. Long hallways led into dank tunnels that had the metallic smell of dragon’s breath, and Pardieu knew the dragon was somewhere near. He walked down one of these, listening and sniffing, and then jumped lightly into a long narrow ditch that wound deeper into the dragon’s lair. He was walking along a kind of metal track that seemed to go on forever. He suddenly realized that he had been walking ever since early that morning, with the exception of the short time he had stopped to rest and take refreshment with the King of France, and he was very tired. It was dark here, and quiet. He could take just a short rest, perhaps sleep. When the dragon awoke Pardieu would surely hear him. It was more prudent to deal with a dragon when you were not so exhausted as he felt now.

To be sure he was perfectly safe, Pardieu opened his vial that held his potion of invisibility. He drank half. That would ensure his invisibility for six hours, which was enough. He curled up next to the wall with his cloak around him, his head resting on one of the tracks, and was instantly and deeply asleep.

In his dream Pardieu heard the rumbling of the dragon, far away. He felt it vibrating along the track where he had laid his head. Then he awoke and knew this was no longer the dream — the dragon was awake too, and nearby. Pardieu could hear him, coming closer.

He stood up, peering into the dark. Then he saw the great bright eyes of the monster, like lights, sweeping ahead to find danger. What a fearful racket! Pardieu rushed to the side of the tunnel and pressed himself against the wall as the dragon came thundering past him, screeching and clattering his iron scales, breathing great showers of fiery sparks. Never in his life had Pardieu seen a dragon as immense as this. He was terrified. It would take an army to kill this dragon; it would take a war. How vainglorious he had been to think he could do anything.

When the monster was gone Pardieu climbed out of the ditch and ran on shaky legs back to the door that led to the safety of his underground maze. He felt sad and ashamed. He would stay here for a while and live like the others, sleeping underground in the quiet nights and begging on the streets during the day so he would not starve. And every day he would walk and look, waiting for The Great Hall to forgive him for the presumption of going out to kill the dragon unprepared — waiting for his next instructions. He knew that the next time he would be sent to do something that was possible.

It was May. In Greenwich everything was blooming with fresh new lushness. The sky was a clear sapphire-blue. People who had boats began taking them out on the water, white sails snapping smartly in the warm breeze. Robbie had been gone a month.

His absence had not brought his parents closer. Cat knew that happened in nice novels but not in real life. She and Hall had made tentative attempts to be kind to each other, because they had no one else now, but there was still too much blame between them. She wondered if stopping drinking would make her stop blaming Hall for her life, and him stop blaming her for the loss of his children. She doubted it. Not drinking would only make her stop talking about her pain, not stop thinking about it. The only difference was that Hall spent more time at home now, waiting for a phone call from Robbie that never came, and thus Cat was able to talk to him more. She wondered if he really listened.

Most of the time she talked to herself. Sometimes she spoke to the absent Robbie, the way she wished she could do if he were there. “I wanted you to be able to listen to music and look at the sunset,” she said to him. “I wanted you to do all the silly, romantic, quiet things I did when I was young. But you don’t have sunsets — you have war and riots and terrorists and threats of nuclear poisoning. You have crime and drugs. We had implicit faith in money and the future, and you have only fear. I couldn’t keep the world away from you … maybe I made it worse. Did you hate coming home? Did you hate me? Did you hate your father? I wasn’t angry at you, just the world. It wasn’t your fault, Robbie. Did you think I didn’t love you?”