“So?” Sam asks.
“So, maybe that’s the hint. The sign is referencing the cultural phenomenon, not the historically accurate event,” Xavier says.
“Does that mean we’re going to go with ‘True’?” I ask.
“Yes,” Xavier says.
Relieved, we follow the arrow next to the word “True”. We get approximately four steps.
“But now that I think about it,” Xavier starts.
He turns around and heads back to the sign. The rest of us let out a collective groan. I hold my hand out to Dean.
“Give me the damn chickpeas,” I say.
Xavier stares at the sign as I munch through a mouthful of the salty, crunchy beans.
“It says Plimoth, Massachusetts, with an ‘i’,” Xavier says. “But the colony was Plymouth, with a ‘y’. The living history museum that’s there now is called Plimoth Plantation, but it’s in Plymouth, Massachusetts, with a ‘y’. Maybe that’s what the sign is asking. Not if the first celebration of giving thanks for surviving what arguably should not have been survivable was held in Massachusetts, but if the celebratory meal stylized as the First Thanksgiving, with the big letters, was celebrated in that year in Plimoth, with the ‘i’.”
“And in that case, we’d be back to ‘False’?” I confirm.
“Yes,” Xavier nods.
“You know if we go down that path, it’s going to twist us all over hell and back,” Sam comments. “That’s the point of the signs.”
“These signs are supposed to show us the way through the maze, right?” Xavier asks.
“Yes,” Dean says. “You answer the question and follow the path that corresponds with your answer. The right answers will lead you through the maze.”
“And the wrong ones?” he asks. “Where will they lead you?”
Dean looks at me for guidance, but I shrug, holding up my hands. This one was on him.
“The right answers will put you on the right path through the maze,” Dean tells Xavier.
Coming to the corn maze today was a whim. We were already on the road when I saw signs for it and decided to detour. It’s supposed to be helping us through the trauma of the last corn maze we were all in together. Away from Harlan, away from the field of bones, and the now-empty house where Lilith Duprey lived, this maze is thankfully non-haunted and grown without any form of human-based fertilizer.
Xavier asked. Much to the displeasure of the man supervising the maze.
It was an optimistic adventure when we first climbed out of the car and walked beneath the big arched sign welcoming us into the maze. Now that we’ve been standing here, stymied by the third question in the series, for more than an hour, I’m not feeling as enthusiastic about my self-growth exercise.
I shift my weight and Sam looks at me with concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Just hurts from being on my feet for so long,” I say.
My injuries have healed well in the last couple of weeks, but I’m still a bit the worse for wear.
“We need to choose a direction and go,” Sam says.
“Let’s take the leap that the person who painted this sign isn’t as familiar with the story or language bugaboos you are, and go with ‘True’,“ I sigh.
“That’s probably going to be the most direct way,” Dean says in the tone he uses when he’s explaining something to Xavier or trying to get him to think in a straight line long enough for the rest of us to stop feeling dizzy. “We want to make sure we pick the right path, so it doesn’t take as long.”
“What is the right path, Dean? Is it the one that brings you most easily through the maze? The way that is expected of you? Or is it the one you follow because it’s the only one your feet can follow with righteousness?” Xavier asks.
“It’s a Thanksgiving-themed corn maze at a carnival,” Sam points out, his voice softer and higher with uncertainty. “They hand out candy corn at the end.”
“You lay the bricks of your own path at your feet,” Xavier says. “You carry them with you and choose with every step. Do you lay them down where it’s easy, simply because it’s easy? Because the ground is smooth, and your way will be made clear for you? Or do you carry them on your back as long as you need to, creating your path even where it is hard? Where you’ll be challenged and torn apart, but where you know is the right place? Because knowing you are doing what’s right buoys your heart and makes your burden lighter?”
For an instant, my breath stays locked in my lungs, and I can’t figure out which way to send it. Dean, Sam, and I stare at Xavier. I look at each of them, then at the two diverging paths in front of me.
“Shit.”
Tossing another handful of chickpeas in my mouth and washing them down with water, I head down the path marked “False”.
Chapter Two
“I’m pretty sure about this one. I know you have a filing cabinet of randomness in your head, but I’m going to go ahead and say you’re wrong on this one,” Dean says.
Sam jogs up to me from the bathroom he made a beeline to as soon as we finally emerged from the maze a couple of minutes ago.
“What are they talking about?” he asks.
“The buckles on Pilgrim hats,” I say, letting the words out with a long breath.
“They weren’t the fashion of the time, and they would have been far too expensive and showy for the Puritans. That would be like you going undercover in a diamond tiara,” Xavier says.
“I think I could pull that off,” Dean protests.
“They didn’t wear black all the time, either,” Xavier says. “That was their nicest clothes. Which is why they wore it for their portraits. They wanted to look their best. Which in my opinion is why individual portraiture is inherently problematic to anthropology and the tradition of commemorating generations for the future understanding of humanity.”
“Why?” Dean
