WHEN WE DISEMBARK, it’s to more disappointment. More hallways. We may as well have stayed in those infernal office buildings. Though Willow doesn’t seem put off.
“Up ahead,” Willow says, and points. “This corridor will split in two. Both halves go straight, but one curves slightly left, one slightly right.”
“And which way takes us out of this maze?”
Willow sighs. She’s tired of me asking are we there yet.
She’s right. Within minutes, we arrive at the fork.
I’m surprised at the decrepit state of the floor. The floor tiles, on both paths, are curling at the corners and cold concrete is showing beneath them. Entire tiles are missing, and others are smashed to pieces as if hit by a jackhammer. The walls of both corridors are streaked yellow from ancient water leaks and a want of cleaning. A thick carpet of dust coats the floor, whereas the path we came from was relatively clean.
“Does nobody travel this way?”
“Many do, but it’s not a road that most take if they can avoid it.”
“And can we avoid it?”
Willow shakes her head, “’Fraid not. But I’ll help you through it. You’ll be fine.”
I examine both paths, wonder if one is easier or shorter than the other. Then I consider my frayed and flimsy shoes. These tiles are going to hurt.
Willow looks at me, apparently understanding my hesitation. She gives me a small smile, and tilts her head towards the paths as if asking ‘which one?’
I turn the question back on her, “Which path is better?”
Willow arches an eyebrow, purses her lips. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Which is less—” I’m lost for words, so I just gesture to the paths.
“Rocky? Winding? Torturous? Both are, in many places. Both can also be smooth, and when the going gets good we’ll move at a decent clip and we won’t even think about the other path. But honestly, whichever path you pick will get us out eventually.”
“The end of the maze.”
Willow looks at me expectantly.
I breathe out slowly, resigning myself to blisters and cut feet. “All right,” I say. “Right. Let’s go right?”
Willow shrugs and sets off down the path. I watch where she walks, though she doesn’t seem concerned about foot placement or avoiding sharp edges. She leaves no footprints. Oh, to have ghost soles.
I stumble dozens of times within the first ten minutes, and the path I’ve chosen displays no evidence of easing. Hidden pitfalls snag my sneakers, send me into a half-run half-trip, no matter how slowly I walk. Willow, after a time, takes my hand. I trip less often, then—but why? Can she see the path? Does she have surer footing than me? Or has our corridor smoothed?
“Some people avoid these paths,” I say.
“Many, actually.”
“How?”
Willow looks at me, runs her tongue over her teeth as she thinks. “This labyrinth isn’t exactly teeming.”
That’s true. I guess the best way to avoid it would be to never get trapped in the first place. The figures we’ve seen are few, and those all seem to be local denizens. Even Willow—I have a hard time imagining her outside of the labyrinth. I wonder if she’ll be able to escape with me, and what would await her on the other side if she did.
My feet become bruised. I can feel cement beneath my left foot, where the rubber has torn wide open, exposing me to the cold floor. Every step sends a little jolt through my legs and up my spine.
I marvel at Willow’s easy gait, carefree smile. Perhaps ghosts don’t feel pain.