The entrance stood in the wall of an otherwise unremarkable garden.
There was no sign above it, no gatekeeper, and no indication that the passage beyond led anywhere in particular. The walls were made of grey stone, and the path was covered with fine white gravel. At the entrance, a brass plate carried a single inscription:
EVERY VISITOR FINDS THE WAY THEY CAME LOOKING FOR.
Martin thought this was an unnecessarily obscure way of saying that the labyrinth had several exits.
He entered.
The first passage turned left, the second right, and the third brought him to a small circular courtyard containing a wooden chair. A cat sat on the chair.
It was an ordinary-looking cat, except that it appeared to be smiling.
“Excuse me,” Martin said. “Is this the way through?”
“That depends,” said the cat, “on whether you're going through or coming back.”
Martin looked behind him. The passage was empty.
“I've only just arrived.”
“Have you?” said the cat.
Martin decided that labyrinths were probably maintained by people who enjoyed irritating visitors.
“Can you tell me the way out?”
The cat's smile widened.
“I can tell you the way in.”
“I already know the way in.”
“Then we're making excellent progress.”
Martin walked past the chair and took the passage opposite the one through which he had entered.
After three turns, he arrived at the same courtyard.
The chair was empty.
He sat down to consider his position. On the stone beside him, someone had scratched a small arrow pointing towards the passage he had just taken. Beneath it were the words:
You have been here before.
Martin rubbed the inscription with his thumb. The letters were old and weathered.
He was certain they had not been there when he arrived.
He chose another passage.
This time the walls grew taller, and the light changed. He passed a narrow opening through which he could see a room furnished with a table, a lamp, and a sealed cardboard box.
A woman sat beside the box, holding a notebook.
“Are you lost?” Martin asked.
She looked up.
“Not at the moment.”
“What is in the box?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why are you sitting here?”
“I'm waiting to find out.”
Martin peered through the opening. The box had a small window, but the window was covered by a square of black cloth.
“Why don't you open it?”
“Because then I would know.”
“Isn't that the point?”
The woman considered him.
“It was when I arrived.”
Martin was about to ask what she meant when the cat appeared on the wall beside the opening. It was sitting upside down, its paws neatly crossed.
“Don't interrupt,” it said. “She's waiting for you.”
“For me?”
“Someone has to open the box.”
Martin turned back to the woman.
“What happens if I do?”
She closed her notebook.
“Then we can find out whether you were here.”
Martin stared at the box. It was a perfectly ordinary cardboard box, the kind in which one might receive a pair of shoes. He felt faintly ridiculous.
He reached through the opening and lifted the cloth.
Inside the box sat a cat.
It was not the smiling cat. This one was small, black, and entirely unremarkable. It looked at Martin with an expression of mild annoyance.
Martin withdrew his hand.
“There,” he said. “Now we know.”
“Do we?” asked the woman.
He looked again. The box was empty.
The woman opened her notebook and wrote something down.
“What did you write?” Martin demanded.
“That you found the box empty.”
“But I saw the cat!”
“Yes.”
“Then why have you written that?”
“Because that's what happened.”
Martin took the notebook from her. The page was covered with entries in his own handwriting.
I found the box.
I opened the box.
I found the cat.
I found the box empty.
The final entry was dated tomorrow.
He dropped the notebook.
When he looked up, the woman and the room had disappeared. He stood in a narrow passage with a blank wall behind him.
The cat was waiting at the far end.
“You might have warned me,” Martin said.
“I did.”
“When?”
“Before you asked.”
Martin hurried towards it. The cat vanished, leaving its grin suspended in the air. He passed through the grin and emerged into a courtyard he had never seen before.
In the centre stood a stone fountain. Its basin was dry. Around its rim were carved the names of visitors, thousands of them, some fresh and some worn almost smooth.
Martin searched for his own name.
He found it near the bottom, beside a date three hundred years in the future.
He touched the letters.
Behind him, water began to flow.
In the fountain's surface he saw the garden outside the labyrinth, the brass plate above the entrance, and a man standing at the doorway. The man was reading the inscription.
Martin recognised his coat.
He called out, but the sound did not carry.
The man entered the labyrinth.
Martin watched him take the first passage, turn left, then right, then enter the courtyard with the wooden chair.
The smiling cat was waiting there.
Martin could hear their conversation, though the words seemed to arrive from a great distance.
“Can you tell me the way out?” the man asked.
The cat smiled.
“I can tell you the way in.”
Martin struck the water with his hand. The image broke into fragments.
When it settled, the courtyard was empty.
He looked at the names around the fountain again. His own had disappeared.
In its place was a new inscription:
You have been here before.
Martin followed the passage leading away from the fountain. It turned left, then right, and ended at a wooden door.
Beyond it lay an ordinary garden.
He stepped outside.
The brass plate above the entrance now read:
EVERY VISITOR FINDS THE WAY THEY CAME LOOKING FOR.
Martin walked away without looking back.
He had almost reached the garden gate when he heard a cat laughing.
He turned.
There was no cat.
Only a grin, suspended in the air.
And beneath it, scratched into the stone, were four words:
You may begin again.
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