THE OWL’S DIRECTIONS LEAD US to a railway track that’s been cleared of snow. A series of long steel columns suspend cables over the track. Following the track takes us to a train platform. On the platform we wait. We wait for a long time.
The sun peeks out from behind a parapet of clouds. Six lampposts, about six metres tall and painted sky blue, ring the train platform. Each lamp sports a single round, snow-capped bulb perched atop its slender stalk.
The platform itself is little more than a slab of concrete with stairs spilling off either side. Half the platform is protected from the elements by a black-shingled roof on trout-green pillars, while the other half is open to the air. Yellow paint on the pavement and crimson rail guards warn Willow and I away from standing too close to the platform’s edge, though no train seems to be coming.
Near the train platform stand two gazebo-like structures, one on either side of the railway tracks, each with a large yellow sign instructing us to LOOK BOTH WAYS FOR TRAINS. Beneath the yellow signs, yellow gates give us access across the tracks.
“Erich Heckel was here,” I joke, pointing at the bright and clashing colours around us.
“I don’t get it,” Willow says.
She points out a map standing in the centre of the platform, but the damn thing is illegible. In fact, it’s less a map and more a symbol—some unholy cross between ouroboros and caduceus: a symmetrical pattern of two lines, one red and one blue, intertwining with and consuming each other.
“This train had better not be a giant snake or something,” I mutter.
I look at my watch. The minute hand has just moved beyond the midway point, which tells me that I’m half an hour into whatever the hour currently is. Morning. Half an hour into morning.
I take off my shoes as the winter sun warms our little slice of civilization and I begin extracting the pulpy mess from within them. I also give Willow her sweater back, and drape my windbreaker over the red rails, letting it dry in the sun.
Willow gives my stained shirt and outdated khakis a critical once over. “All right,” she says. “I’ve got something for you.”
She hands me a neatly folded bundle, wrapped in brown paper, and smiles at what must be the flabbergasted expression on my face.
“It was lying on the platform,” Willow says. “There’s one for me too.”
My suspicion flares again. She’s not saying something. “I didn’t see them.”
Willow sticks out her tongue. “I know. You were busy looking at lampposts.”
Inside of the brown paper is a neatly folded button-up shirt, a pair of black dress pants, a suit jacket, and a pink tie.
Willow’s package holds a sleek, black dress, which she holds up against her sweater. She nods, as if she expected this. “Good,” she says, and casts an eye at the clothing I’m carrying.
“You’ll clean up nicely too. Or you would, if not for that shrub on your chin.”
I bring a hand up to my neck and I’m surprised by the growth there. I drop the clothes and bring both hands to my face. My beard is coarse and wiry—it feels more like six months’ worth of hair than the few days or weeks I’ve been trapped in this maze.
“What? This is ... Jesus, how long have I been stuck here?”
Willow’s not listening. She says, “Dibs on the platform. You have to change in the woods. Scoot.”
I’m shooed away, but a seed of doubt wriggles at me as I swap my rags for black pants and a suit jacket. Two bundles of clothes. Not one, not four. Two. A suit and a dress. What’s more, this clothing could be tailored for me, it fits so well. The fit is perfect and the fabric feels light and natural, like a second skin. I’ve owned some nice suits, but nothing like this.
Willow shouts for me, so I finish changing and bundle my old clothing up. I’ll worry about it later. I have new clothes and, for once, it feels like we’re making progress through this maze. That will have to be good enough.
I return to the train platform, and stop at the sight of Willow. Her dress, which also looks to have been tailored for her, is a sombre black. A simple, steel crucifix hangs at her throat. And she’s wearing a black veil.
“Willow?” I ask softly. I look at her, and then down at myself. “We look like we’re about to attend a funeral.”
Willow clutches her bouquet of grass in front of her. Her veil’s down and I can’t see her eyes. “The train’s here,” she whispers. “All aboard.”