The First Minotaur

A boy enters the labyrinth certain there is treasure somewhere inside. Unfortunately, something else is looking for him.

His bed gives way to corridors of stone,
their walls rising beyond the torch's reach.
Somewhere lie gold and silver, perhaps jewels—
who knows? It hardly matters. Treasure waits.

He spots a sword propped up against the stone,
a battered shield half-hidden underneath.
He takes them. Several passages remain.
The darkest looks the best. He chooses that.

Ahead, the torchlight gutters into black.
At every fork he picks a turn and goes:
left first, then right, then twice again to left.
A dead end. He has counted something wrong.

He pulls a burning torch free from its ring.
Stone grinds behind him. He spins round.
Where solid rock had been, a doorway gapes.
Shield first, he squeezes through.

The passage closes silently behind.
No thread lies at his feet to lead him home.
Then somewhere in the darkness comes a roar;
the floor itself seems shaken by the sound.

He runs. The torchlight leaps from wall to wall.
A snarl comes after him, then heavy hooves,
then wood on stone—a single hollow thunk—
and every turn he takes brings it more near.

At last the passage ends in solid stone.
He turns. The Minotaur blocks the passage now,
horns almost touching either side.
The club hangs from one hand. It only waits.

He looks behind him. Nothing. Just the wall.
Every way out has vanished with the dark.
So this is where the maze was leading him.
He raises up his shield and grips his sword.

The Minotaur steps forward, hoof on stone.
It swings the heavy club above its head.
He plants his feet and lifts the battered shield,
quite certain now that somehow he can win.

The club comes down. His eyes spring open wide.
The stone is gone; his bedroom has its walls.
He lies there for a moment, then he smiles.
Better luck next time.