I had been tricked into trusting Ari and she lured me into a trap. She hadn’t forgiven me for choosing Meredith over her and now she was going to make me pay.
I was abandoned in a garden maze on her uncle’s estate and the outside temperature was beginning to fall as the sun went down.
I lay flat out on the ground looking up at the deepening sky above and seeing the first few stars.
I knew if I stayed out all night I’d end up shivering in the cold unable to sleep. If I were going to solve the puzzle of the maze, I’d have to try before the sun completely set.
I was thinking more clearly now that I had drunk a small amount of water and mercifully, the blinding sun was behind the trees. I tried to remain calm and think logically.
I knew every maze had a solution summed up in an easy to remember mnemonic device. For instance, the key to the famous Hampton Court maze was summed up in the phrase, “Left, right, right, left, left, left, left.” If one followed that pattern of turnings he’d easily find his way out.
But what could be the clue to this maze? Obviously, the answer lay in the mind of its clever creator, Victor Russet. If I knew the man, I’d have some insight. But the bare facts I knew were that he rose through the ranks in the British army going from drill sergeant to colonel, before retiring and pursuing a career as an illusionist.
Not very much to go on, but on the other hand, there were no massive details to digest.
What did the bare bones of Victor’s life suggest?
Suddenly, it hit me—he was an army drill sergeant in charge of directing men to march—and what directions did he give them? It was incredibly simple and obvious—why, he would bark out the command, “Left, right. Left, right”
I had difficulty standing, let alone walking, but by following my simple “left, right” formula and pushing myself, I found the way back to the green door.
Once outside, I had a choice whether to confront Ari or leave, but in my weakened state I decided my best option was to drive to the nearest hotel where I could find water, food and rest.
I found a Day’s Inn and spent two days and nights recovering from my ordeal. When I was recovered enough to make the long drive home, I considered whether or not to return and check on Ari—after all, I was sure her uncle had never been there at all and she was marooned in the country.
But the more I thought about it, I decided not to return.
She had my cell phone, and assuming she could get a signal, she could call for help. Besides, I could phone one of her girlfriends and have her check on her—that would be better than enduring a three hour ride with Ari sitting rigidly erect in the seat beside me, fiercely defiant and seething like a dark smoldering fire.
It wasn’t until three months later that that I finally saw Ari again. It was at the symphony. I saw her from a distance accompanied by her uncle Victor and another grim-faced young man. When her gaze met mine, she fixed me with a hateful stare and then instantly turned away.
I looked for her afterwards, but she was gone. She seemed to have perfected that disappearing act.
Last I heard she married that young man and went to live in the Cotswolds in England, no doubt in some rural estate.
But Ari's metamorphosis into a spider accomplished something—the horrific ordeal changed and deepened me. Suffering does that—it’s like a refining fire that purges away the dross leaving pure gold—provided of course you’re able to outlast the flames.
