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Now… how does this story go, again? Ah yes, seven boys and seven girls sent to be sacrificed to a monster in a labyrinth, and a brave hero saving them all with the help of a beautiful princess whom he later runs off with. This story has been told over and over and over and over again, never changing. I’m sure that you can tell it. I wonder what you will say if I tell you that you are wrong.
Do you see the ship? It sails under the athenian flag and on board it has seven young women and seven young men, trembling in fright and dreading the arrival. They know that they are to be sent into a dark labyrinth from which no living creature escapes. But one of the boys stands alone by the rail and watches the sea. He is odd, this one, never says much and keeps to himself whenever he can. He has odd dreams, this one, dreams that have plagued him since childhood. He dreams of darkness and warmth, and wakes feeling bereft each morning. He has not told anyone of these dreams, fearing their meaning, fearing their message. His mind shies away from what they tell him is to be. He thinks of the youths sent to their death on this ship, on the ones that have gone before. He thinks of the monster in the depth, the one who has killed them. He does not think of the warm embrace in the dark.
The girls cry as they are made to disembark, begging for mercy, for freedom, for the Gods to help them. But their words fall on deaf ears and soon their pleas die away and only the weeping remains. The boys walk silently, but they too are weeping. Well, the dreamer is not weeping. He lowers his head and closes his eyes so that his brethren will not see that his eyes are dry.
The house in which they are kept is lavish, but the fine surroundings do nothing to soothe the terror brewing within them. The rich foods turn to ash in their mouths. The soft beds feel like wooden planks covered in nails. They wait, silently. There is nothing more to say.
At dawn, the guards come and take one of the girls. Her sobs echo in the empty street long after they have lost sight of her. They do not weep; why weep for her, when they will soon join her in her misfortune? No, they only have tears for themselves. Except for the dreamer. He has no tears at all. He waits. And dreams.
The days pass, and at each dawn one of their number is taken away. They alternate, girls and boys, and at last there is only one boy remaining in the house. The dreamer sits alone on a fine silk pillow, hands clasped in his lap, waiting. His eyes are dry, his heart weary and tired. And yet he knows that his fate lies in the darkness, and he is not afraid.
The entrance to the labyrinth looms up ahead, like a gaping maw ready to devour him with no trace left behind. He waits outside it for the guards to order him inside; wanting to enjoy the sunlight for the last time. That is when he sees her - the girl in white, the girl on the docks. The one with the haunted eyes. The guards avert their eyes as if they know her and yet do not want to acknowledge her presence. She walks up to the dreamer and hands him a ball of thread. To help him find his way out, she says. He considers telling her that his fate is in the heart of the labyrinth. It is not his fate to leave. But he takes the thread and puts it in his pocket, and when the guards pushes him towards the labyrinth he makes a show of tying it to a protruding rock. Then he is alone in the darkness, a ball of thread his only companion.
The thread unravels quickly as he wanders through the dark, his eyes soon getting used to the lack of light and starting to see contours and shapes. He does not know what he is meant to be facing, does not know in what shape his destiny will appear, but he can sense that it will be soon now. He can hear rustling that does not come from his feet on the stone floor. Breathing that is too heavy to be his. It is his destiny, it must be.
He pushes on, towards the center, thinking of his dreams. In his dreams, there is no danger in the dark; only warmth and an embrace that feels as if it has been made to clasp him, press him to a muscular chest, and he is not afraid of this darkness. It is the same darkness as in his dreams.
He turns one last corner and is momentarily blinded by the light of torches burning along the walls. Once his eyes regain their sight, he sees the creature kept in this maze. It is larger than a man but built as one, except for the heavy head that turns towards him. Heavy dark horns protrude on each side of the wild face, but the eyes are surprisingly intelligent. The body is heavy and strong, like a warrior who has seen many battles. It is sparsely covered by dark hair on the top half, but below the waist the hair thickens until it nearly becomes fur, ending in a pair of heavy hooves.
Theseus drops the thread and walks towards the minotaur, breath quickening, legs trembling, already anticipating the embrace that awaits him. He does not see the club until it is too late, until he is sinking through the earth into Hades’ cold arms.
The minotaur, who is monstrously wise and wisely monstrous, picks up the thread and pulls it. It holds tight. Curious for the first time in it’s long life, it follows the thread through the darkness that is all it has ever known and into the sunlight. The cries of terror and horror that it meets at the entrance hold no meaning, nor does the soldiers with their blank weapons for it has not seen such craft before and does not understand their danger. Does not understand danger. He is, therefore, unaware of the princess approaching from behind, dagger in hand.
Ariadne wipes the beast’s blood of her face, thinking of darkness and warmth. She is not afraid of what dwells in her dreams.