Mystery of the Maze
Megan Milks
MAZE
Because the entrance is situated just below the top of a narrow hill and the stalks are taller than we are, the corn maze’s magnitude is difficult to gauge. From this side of the hill the maze seems small, the size of, I don’t know, our volleyball court. It must stretch out wide rolling out the other side. It’s supposed to be six acres plus. We’re standing at its mouth, looking at a map that tells us the entrance is marked by Rabbit. Do you see a rabbit? No.
We let a parent and child ahead of us. We want to talk freely, roughly, unconcerned with kid ears. We are here to bond in the off-season. I don’t know the others as well as they know each other, but in the summer, we formed a team. We played volleyball on Tuesdays. I’m newest to the area, to the team. I’m trying to make friends.
During the season, we called MINE before swatting at the ball and sometimes even hitting it. We hosed our feet off, split pitchers, engaged in friendly chatter that seemed to dissipate as soon as it began. Or it was just me. I’d been emerging from a period of relative isolation, having recently moved from a small conservative town where I’d made few friends. My social skin was shiny and new, hypersensitive. Conversation grated like sandpaper.
Now it’s October. We haven’t seen each other in months. We ought to have a lot to catch up on. I want to show them: I’ve changed. I’ve returned to myself, become again fun and more friendable. To our left, another parent/child team exits. I don’t understand, the parent says. We were inside for five minutes, tops. The child is a silent but animated child. She is bouncing on the balls of her feet, pulling up the bottom of her coat and fiddling with the buttons.
Is that a map? asks the parent. We show her. In addition to Rabbit, the map marks Apple, Horse, Pig. We didn’t see any of these, the parent says, looking around. What rabbit? We know. Well. She frowns at her kid. Let’s give it another go.
We wait two shakes before following. The corn stalks are dry and brittle, dying and already dead. The path is tight. We form a line, the six of us, and take turns choosing our direction. After choosing, the chooser moves to the end of the line. In this way we all get to talk to each other, our conversations starting and restarting, a volley we can’t quite lift off. A familiar feeling. We’re the lowest-ranked team in our league.
Left. How’s your semester going?
Left. How are the cats?
Right. How’s work?
Left. I can’t believe Trace and Hana bailed.
Left. I’m zonked. Chester woke me up yowling at five in the fucking a.m.
Right. We need to hang out more.
Left. Like actually practice.
Right. Oh no.
We’re out. We’ve exited. Fin. Five minutes, tops. I am experiencing a bit of relief. I was about to drop Carson’s volley. I had hopes, but I don’t know how I can know anyone in this kind of way.
Melody peers suspiciously at the stalks. Weird.
Last year it was huge, says Fran. I think it was behind the pumpkin patch.
Maybe this is the kiddie maze, says Carson.
Maybe we went the wrong way, says Lynn.
Yeah, says KJ. Let’s try a different route.
No, I declare. There can’t be more. It’s physically impossible. We could see the edges the whole time.
Am I lying? The last ‘right’ was mine. But I’m sure: On two sides, at least, gray light flickered through the stalks. I have an excellent sense of direction, I add. My tenth-grade aptitude test suggested I become a park ranger. I keep that last part to myself.
My friends seem uncertain but unwilling to argue. I don’t blame them. In this group I have exhibited weak direction. When I do hit the ball it’s into the ground, or over the fence, or at the net (most common). But also in this group I’m reserved so when I talk it’s assumed to be meaningful. Let’s get on the haywagon, says Carson, team captain. Maybe there’s a bigger maze out there. We squint into the distance. We see nothing behind the pumpkins but a low hill, beyond which could be a magnificent maze. Sure, we shrug. It’s possible.
PATCH
The hay wagon takes us to the center of the pumpkin patch, then stops. We disband, radiating out. KJ finds the biggest big boy. I hunt out the best goblin, a gnarled and warted beast, and stand next to it in the event someone might notice and praise my find. Congratulations, friend. You have found the best goblin. No one does. From here, the maze glimmers with moody potential. I thought my social problems were over but I spiked that last chat into the net. I seem to be forever killing the volley. Sorry, friends. We should try again. I regret saying it’s physically impossible. I leave the best goblin behind and wait patiently on the wagon.
Soon we’re all accounted for. The hay wagon makes no move to venture behind the pumpkin patch. There is no larger corn maze, we infer. None of us is willing to ask the driver. Fran reckons it was a bad year for corn. The tiny maze must have been the best the farm could do, and the farmers were too embarrassed to broadcast it. We nod along, though her reasoning seems wrong. Midwestern farmers depend on our agricultural tourism to survive, Melody adds. Indigenous communities used to depend on this land to survive, says KJ. Before white settlers took over. Right, yeah, of course, Melody nods. I was just about to say that. We return to the main area. KJ and Lynn hug giant pumpkins to their chests and brainstorm the designs they’ll give them. How about Chester’s face? suggests Lynn. Or the word HELL, says KJ. You could carve a bike pump on one side and a breast pump on the other, I think about joking. Pump-kin. I keep my bad joke to myself.
I had hoped this trip would facilitate bonding, that by its end we could freely badly joke. I had hoped we might get—shall we say—corny. We have not yet made it to this level.
The trip isn’t over. Should we go back to the maze? I venture. KJ and Lynn are too weighed down to climb the hill. Leave your big boys in the car, I suggest. Our cars are so far, Lynn moans. Instead we lug them with us to the kitten barn, where we pass around a kitten and take selfies. It’s cute.
From my tone you might think I am not having a good time. I am having a fine time, though I am getting over a cold and dashed dreams. I have just come from another group of friends, old friends, at a nearby national park, where we hiked. I had originally planned to join them for a full-blown camping trip but could only do the hike on account of my cold. I had expected this camping trip would revive our friendship, which has faded now we live in different cities. We would tell ghost stories around the fire, get drunk and happy as we shared our dreams and concerns. We would know each other again. Really know each other. Then I would bring this old set of friends to meet this new set of friends, and they would all know me in new ways. I would be known, newly known, and I would be at the center of the knowing.
No. The old friends wanted to stay at the park. With these new friends I remain on the perimeter. An unknown.
I leave the cute kittens to visit the Port-a-Potty. Though I want to solidify these friendships I am finding it hard to have fun. On my last trip to a corn maze I was also unfun with new friends. I had just moved to Chicago and knew only Dolly, who I knew then only a little bit, and now know quite a lot: she is one of the old friends above. That corn maze was giant, cut into the shape of—was it Batman and Robin? Am I making that up? It was six years ago. At this other farm was a whole row of Port-a-Pottys, a testament to the bigness of the corn maze. If you were to judge by this farm’s twin set, you would guess this corn maze is measly. You might be right.
I pump the sanitizer dispenser and hold the cold squirt in my palm. Outside I rub my hands together and contemplate the maze. Is the corn maze bigger on the inside than it is on the outside? Are there paths to roomy chambers we cannot find? Where is Rabbit? What is Pig? I feel duped. I arrived with an earnest desire to get lost with my friends. I wanted to bond, really bond. But the maze spat us out, then I shut the fun down.
Fine. It’s cold. We get in our cars and go home.
RABBIT
I’ve gone back now to investigate alone. I hand over four bucks and head to the corn maze. From here I can see the gravel lot, the four cars: one mine, one a small family packing up. Today is the last day of the season. By tomorrow, the maze will be straw. Mere straw.
Turn, turn, turn, and I’m out. Done. That can’t be right. I return to the ticket stand and ask the cashier questions. My aim is to solve this mystery and tell all my friends. I am writing the story in my head. In the telling, I will create new opportunities for bonding and being known.
The cashier shrugs, says some of the paths aren’t as clear. Ah. I ought to know something about unclear paths. I’ve been on one continually these last several years, moving job to job and place to place while applying for scores of other jobs in scores of other places, all paths unclear. What will this job and place be like? What new friends will I make?
Withered leaves rustle in the wind. Back at the maze, I march around its perimeter, strumming the dry leaves as I go. Did you know? The first corn maze was called a maize maze. Amazing. This phenomena’s origins are in language play.
I stop when my fingers strum air. There’s a thin gap in the stalks, leading in at a rough diagonal. Could this be one of the not-as-clear paths the cashier mentioned? Or…no. A false trail, leading to a wall of stalks. But we make our own paths. Right? We make our own paths like we make our own friends: combining need, strategy, intention. MINE. I step inside and push my way through, using my hands like fins. Shriveled husks brush my arms.
I spill out into a small clearing where the toe of my sneaker snags on some bump. I stoop down and see a medallion carved in the shape of a rabbit head. I press on it, and it lifts to reveal a new path.
Now I’m in a tunnel, burrowing down. Oh. I see. I’m the rabbit.
APPLE
I walk and walk. I burrow and burrow. Until I find the rest of the stalks. Down here they are green and rise every which way, like a forest. It’s as though I have graduated from a 2D to a 3D jigsaw puzzle. First I’m impressed with myself. Then I’m lost and increasingly panicked. I’m alone and new to this place, where I don’t belong. I, Rabbit, would like to make friends.
I look at my map. Apple, I say. Apple, Apple. Where are you, Apple?
Apple is here, says a form emerging from the stalks. Apple is a scarecrow with a rotten apple head. Apple’s stare is blank and unblinking.
Hello, Apple! I swallow my exclamation point at Apple’s indifference. Uh. You’re on my map.
Apple, a real scarecrow, doesn’t respond. I’m disappointed. It seems clear that Apple will require ‘drawing out.’ In this way, Apple is too like me. I was looking for a friend I could volley with. As if reading my mind, Apple snaps their head off and tosses it to me.
Apple’s head is like mush and leaks sticky on my palms. When a pale squirming thing flits from a hole, I drop the head to the ground. With exaggerated effort, Apple trudges forward, lifts the bruised fruit, and clicks it firmly in place.
HORSE
Apple is weird. I miss my other friends. Should we be going somewhere? I ask. To find the exit, I mean? Or maybe…I glance back at my map. Horse? Do you know a Horse?
Of course, says Apple. Do you?
Another form ambles out from the stalks. Did someone say Horse? Horse is here.
Hello, Horse! I smile brightly. I compliment Horse on their legs, made of husks. Horse bows and trots about happily. I am reminded of my favorite joke. What did the pony say when she coughed? I ask Horse, ignoring Apple.
I don’t know, Horse says excitedly. What did she say?
She said excuse me. I pause before continuing. I’m a little horse. Get it?
Horse lets out a big guffaw. I’m a little horse! I’m a little horse! Hahaha! Horse smacks Apple’s chest with a forehusk.
Very funny, Apple says.
MINE. I feel sure I have made a new friend. Alas, Apple has claimed Horse as their own, I see. Horse nutters happily as Apple mounts Horse’s back. Horse and Apple are old friends, I realize. The realization makes my eyes sting.
PIG
Oh! I’m so lonely. I glance down at my map to avoid the pain of beholding this old friendship. There is only one thing left to find, which I hope is the end, and my true friend. Where is Pig? I wonder out loud. What about Pig?
My friends are solemn and silent. Nay, nay, says Horse. We don’t like Pig.
Why not?
Pig is not our friend, Horse explains quietly. Pig is our enemy. Apple pats Horse’s neck in solidarity.
What do they know, I wonder. Pig is probably misunderstood. No one likes to be on the fringe of old friendship. I split apart from my companions. Pig? I call hopefully? Pig?
Above us, I hear grunting. What could be oinks.
Horse trots towards me with alarm. The grunts are getting louder. Horse halts, their ears twitching anxiously. Nice work, Apple hisses down at me, spraying sticky juice at my cheeks. You’ve summoned Pig.
Was I not supposed to?
Don’t mind Apple, Horse hastens to add. It’s the end of the season and we’re all a bit stressed. But we must insist that you leave.
But—I
don’t know what to say. I thought Horse was my friend. I just got here, I say.
It’s not safe for you here, Horse says. You must get out.
I feel sure Apple has poisoned Horse against me.
Clumps of soil fall on top of us. Apple glances up and heaves an aggravated
sigh. Follow us.
Come on, shouts Horse. I run.
Apple hugs Horse’s neck as Horse steps quickly through the stalks. Right, shouts Apple. Up. Right. Now hard kernels are pelting down on us. I am straining to keep up. Left. Right. Over. And out.
There’s Pig. The tractor. The combine. The end.
STRAW
Mystery solved. Now that the maze has been flattened, I can see its considerable size. Indeed, there was no mystery at all, I’m embarrassed to conclude. Just corn. A whole lot of it. Six acres plus, and still the plot stretches beyond what I can see.
Megan Milks is the author of Kill Marguerite and Other Stories, as well as four chapbooks, most recently Kicking the Baby. They are the recipient of the 2019 Lotos Prize in Fiction and teach writing at The New School.