About the story. Labyrinth is a story I had been mulling about in the back corners for several years. Finally last year it stumbled out during NaNoWriMo. Take the 50s,the Korean War,small towns in North America,religion race the Sidhe and tent shows and mix them all up.

Chapter One

Sciuris cinereus. His thick, grey brush tail curled at the lack of danger, the oak kitten played in the tennis ball heaven of freshly dropped walnuts at the edge of the field. Out on the field itself the wind skittered across the thick bluegrass, already arranging a leaf-blanket for the coming winter. Just down the gravel road, past a small stand of trees, was the town of Grace, sleeping by the river. A steady town, a sturdy town, where a squirrel dancing below the fire toned oak trees could have greater dreams of ancient glory than many of the humans.

Perhaps it was all just an illusion. Or perhaps it was simply that sometimes the currents of change run so deeply you do not see them until you fall in them. But the steady town of Grace was about to enter a labyrinth that would change it forever. What it would be like when it emerged, if it emerged, was anyone’s guess. The only certainty, on this late autumn afternoon, was change itself.

From oak kitten back to squirrel to frozen in alarm at noise, he watched the ragtag caravan as it swung its noisey from the road onto the field. Two old Indian motorcycles led the way, followed by a Nash Metro almost swallowed by the weeds and a boat of a Hudson that seemed to float over the grass. At the rear were two WWII military surplus trucks. One was loaded down with canvas while the other still had its tarp spilled down so it could not be examined.

The squirrel began to bolt with a walnut as the people began to spill out of the vehicles n laughter and bright colours. But then it paused in perplexity and curiousity. The sounds were the human eaters, and the sights seemed to be human but still there was something different about them. Without knowing why , the squirrel gathered its courage and rolled the walnut toward a lady with long hair and a smile that made the squirrel think of spring and food everywhere. She bent to look at the squirrel and his gift. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but the winter may be hard this year. I accept and offer it in return.” The squirrel understood without understanding. She petted him lightly before standing. The squirrel, who had never allowed himself to be petted, shivered with joy. Then in a moment he came to his senses and, grabbing the walnut, ran to his nest. .

With the sound of voices and laughter and singing the trucks were unpacked and the motley carnival of performers and family set about putting up two large tents. Into the first went folding wooden chairs but there something vague about the second tents contents. And the good citizens of Grace, if they had been about to see the moonlit scene, would have most likely questioned the description of the workers as people. Finally a series of smaller tents toward the edge of the field were pitched and, their work done for the night, the crew turned in for a few hours sleep. All except for a man and woman who stood looking across the woods.

The man himself was tall, and carried himself in a way that made him seem even taller. His hair,much longer than average, seemed to shift in colours as the sun played on it. For the most part though it was a shade of rusty brown colour shot with silver. Apart from his eyes, he seemed quite human. Which was to be expected, for once, long ago, he had been. But his eyes showed how long ago that might have been, and how much those eyes had seen since. They were a blue that changed depending on his mood. They could be the deep blue of an angry sea, or the soft blue of a summer pond or even the deep grey of a dangerous storm. His grey slacks brushed against the grass while his hair covered the back of the matching turtleneck. His left arm rested on the shoulder of the woman, fingers occasionally moving of their own volition as though waiting for an instrument to play.

The woman was looking into her palm as though she was still holding the squirrel’s gift of a nut. She was shorter than the man standing next to her, although taller than the average female. Her long dark hair cascaded in thick waves nearly to her waist. She wore black chinos and a beige wool sweater, but somehow she wore them as if they were something more sensual, more exotic. Most humans would fool themselves into thinking she was one of them. More sensual, certainly more attractive but still human. But late at night when reality retreated to the borders of sleep they would realize they were fooling themselves.

Through the trees a few of the lights from Grace could be seen. She turned to her companion. “Do you think we will find any here?”

He brushed her hair to the side of her face. “Maeve, you know that is not how it works. If any are here, they will find us. Will they? I can only hope. I do not worry about not finding anyone. I worry about those who should find us and do not.”

She smiled in the moonlight and kissed the hand on her shoulder lightly. “You always do, Rowan, you always do.” Taking his hand she led him toward their own tent to wait the morning and the start of the journeys of the people of Grace.