The Plaque

On the wall there was a plaque:

“Where are those who have gone before us?

Have they gone to the Field and planted roses,

Have they lain themselves down among traveling stones

Do they turn to dust from flesh and bones?”

She read the plaque aloud, then lay her hand on the stone wall. She looked tired, as though her legs were to ready to give out. Light from the torches along the walls augmented the exhaustion in her face.

“We’ve a long way, yet.” I said, “I’ll carry you awhile.”

“But we're out of food- of water, you'll tire out.”

“I'll be fine, come.” I turned around and hunched over, “besides I can find the way out.”

“Thank you,” She whispered as she placed her arms around my neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said and she fell into an uneasy sleep, her weight relaxing on my back. She was warm and light.

“Where are those who have gone before us?” It was a memorial, it seemed, to the countless souls who’d entered this labyrinth, and of whom nothing remained; No bones, no flesh, no steps, no marks.

I told her I knew the way out. I suppose I thought I could find it; I’d studied labyrinths, I’d seen a map, I thought, of this chamber and knew the shape. But solving paths take time, and this labyrinth was vast, and it was deep, and it was intricate, and we had only a small amount of time.

But time is an ambiguity.

“They've gone to nothing,” I muttered, stopping at a cross-road.

“Are you sure you know the way?” She asked wearily,

“Left,” I said quietly, then to her “I know the method to try. A formula of sorts.”

“How'd you come up with that?” She sounded annoyed,

“I've studied labyrinths and mazes. There are patterns to follow, sequences.”

“Aren't you tired?”

“I'll manage. It's best not to lose track of the paths.”

“Mmm.”

“But it's strange,” I said “It's like we're the first ones here. No footprints on the floor, no bones or bodies. Yet the torches stay lit.” I glanced at the torch on the wall. “There aren't even burn marks on the stones.”

She sighed in response. She'd fallen asleep again. At length I stopped and she woke as I set lay her down in the path.

“Have we made it?” she asked

“No, just resting a moment”

She looked wearily up at me, “How long have we been in here?”

“I'm not sure.”

“How did we get here...?”

“We started in the center, I think... we've been walking-”

“But how- ah, forget it. Is there anything to eat?”

“Very little, only moss from the walls.”

“Are you sure it's edible?”

“No,” I stepped nearer the wall “But there's nothing to lose, and it will probably help with hydration.”

Was it a trick of the light? I was certain the moss grew thicker as I spoke, and when I pulled a clump away it seemed to grow back in the way iron dust follows a magnet. I took a bite of the moss. It was thick and chewy, like a strange blend of crisp salad and soft cake, but it was filling.

“It seems good,” I said, “eat.” So weakened was she that she could hardly move. I had to help her lean against the wall. Only some hours before she'd been more than able. She couldn't chew. I took a bite of moss and chewed it for her, even so “It's good,” she said.

She seemed too weak to even notice what I'd done. The moss seemed to revive her and after some time, perhaps hours, she woke and was able to eat more moss on her own. I sat, but could not sleep.

While she slept I sat and stared at a torch on the wall. How had we come there? I was certain it had been only a few days, but somehow where we'd been before was unclear. Perhaps we had always lived there- wandering and uncertain, one sleepless while the other lost her strength. Where did we meet? Where had we come from? When did I study maps? Have I ever studied maps? Have I ever slept?

At length she woke.

“Are you able to walk?” I asked, helping her as she stood.

“I think so,” She was trembling and leaned heavily against the wall. “What's happening to me?”

She seemed paler in the torch light. “Have I always been so weak? I'm sure I used to walked on my own two legs; I'm sure I could have fought a bloody battle. How long have we been here? How did we come to this place” She took a tremulous step forward and took a deep breathe. “Do you think we're close?”

“I do,” I said, “I have a feeling we're close.”

“'A feeling.'- Let's go.” She started forward.

“We'll turn right at the next cross-road.” I said. She seemed determined to lead, to show she had strength to walk on. Had she ever been so weak before? I thought not, surely I had known, but when had I learned of her strength? Who was she to me? She stumbled and fell to her knees.

Is it strange or not to see those we’ve known as strong as weak?

Kneeling on the ground to help her I sensed how well I must have loved her once. How we journeyed together and shared a life. I had known her. I had examined her face in the moonlight and sought her soul through shared prayers and shared beds. I had learned the seasons of her body and mapped the labyrinths of her personality.

“I loved you once,” I said.

“Have we loved?” She asked, “Then how have we come here? Where are the moments that have gone before us?”

We continued without an answer, her waning frame resting on my back.

“We must have loved,” she said at length, “When our days were not marked with woe, when our substance was strong and full.”

I cannot say how much longer we walked, only that the air grew sweeter with the passing of time, and light seemed to filter in from an unknown door.

“We’re closer,” I told her when we stopped to rest. “Can you smell it in the air?”

She breathed unsteadily. “yes” She said, “it smells like roses.” she smiled feebly. I helped her eat, then we continued on. I felt a new energy and moved faster with excitement. I had solved the paths, I could see the door and beyond was a sky just filling with stars.

“Look!” I said as we cleared the doorway.

“Look at the open sky!” I said and stopped just outside the labyrinth. I felt her smile and she hugged my back, before sliding down to rest against the doorway.

“I see,” she said, sliding down the wall to sit on the ground. “I see,” and she leaned against the stone.

She faded there, melding into moss and stone leaving me to gaze at the path just beyond the labyrinth door. No tracks were left in the floor. No bones, no flesh, no steps, no marks remained in the winding paths. And on the wall there was a plaque:

"Those who have gone before us

Have gone to the Field and become the roses,

They lay in rest beneath still stones

And turn to dust from flesh and bones"