Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) by C. C. Benison

entrance and a single path, coiled though it be and mystifying in its seeming meanders. It was life’s journey, of course—Dosh had said as much all those years ago at Chartres, though his eight-year-old mind hadn’t taken it in. The centre of the labyrinth was the goal. The centre was Jerusalem, enlightenment, Christ consciousness, Atman-Brahman, what-have-you. As you walked the leafy purlieus, you moved tantalizingly close to the centre, then suddenly you veered away, but eventually, always, you arrived at the transfiguring centre.
    And then, transfigured yourself, you returned to the world.
    Right? Or left? No such decisions were necessary in a labyrinth. Tom walked on, conscious now of the counterpoint of his breath, heartbeat, and scrunching steps along the path, his mind slipping ineluctably to the visitation in the night. Now, away from his stuffy bedroom, away from Eggescombe Hall and its mazy interior and moralistic carvings, in the still, fresh air of pre-dawn twilight, he felt the glimmerings of restoration—that, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.”
    God made us for joy, had He not? And mightn’t there be a grace in an encounter, however fleeting? After all, how are we to understand our embodied existence? Mightn’t desire simply be love trying to happen?
    Or was he paving the road to hell?
    A soft scraping sound interrupted his thoughts, and he lifted his head again, this time towards the quadrant opposite, the apparent source. Was he really not alone? Had a living figure—no statue—been at the centre of the Labyrinth after all? Lucinda? Could it be? Is this why she had left his bed, and where she had come? The notion seemed wild, unlikely. And why would she conceal herself? Unless she shared his discomfiture. Tom pricked up his ears and pressed forward. He had skirted the Labyrinth’s centre once on his journey, glanced at the shadowy shape there; now he was doubled back, twisting away from the centre. The sound came again, closer this time. Was one of the children up early and larking about? Or both of them? Max and Miranda’s heights, though greater than the hedge’s, nevertheless made hunkering down easier, but he knew the game wouldn’t endure without one of them giggling or whispering. Only random birdsong interrupted the quietude. He moved ahead, more cautiously, alert now to irregular sounds. If there was someone bent down scuttling along the path, he would run into him or her soon enough. There was only one way out of the Labyrinth: the way you came in.
    He returned to his reverie with steely resolve not to be distracted: Or, he began again, was he simply rationalising? Mightn’t there be danger, rather than grace, in his encounter with Lucinda, however fleeting?
    Or—?
    Another scrape, closer still, though, strangely, rather softer. Tom paused again, frowned. He was now on the arc farthest from the centre. On this soft summer morning, with the sun’s touch drawing colour from the grey, staining the horizon tenderpale pink, he sensed no sinister thing lurking in the Labyrinth’s dark green lanes. Untroubled by concern, he felt more peeved that this sweet opportunity for thought and prayer was being soured by some mischief-maker. Of course, some animal could be the source. He was outdoors, he realised that. However manicured and tamed, these hedges weren’t waxworks. As if to confirm his thought, before he could take another step forward, an extrusion of whiteness like cotton batting squeezed forth from under the foliage. A rabbit, Tom thought, with a flutter of relief, as the creature hunched on the pebbles.
Where’s your waistcoat and watch, old man?
But the light was dim by the bottom of the hedge. It wasn’t a rabbit. Those weren’t rabbit ears. It was a cat, he realised. A very fat white cat.
    The cat, as if hearing Tom’s thoughts and highly offended, abruptly scampered across the pebbles and