The Anectdote

“Thousand pardons,” he begged with a curtsy, “As I take your Lordship’s leave. For I must tend to the Minotaur.”

“The beast in the labyrinth, you mean,” harrumphed the king. “That bull-faced thing I so often mistake for my brother-in-law, the brute?”

“Same, my Lord. He is a sensitive creature, in his own way.”

“How so?” queried the monarch, one eyebrow cocked.

“His limbs, you see, are those of a man, as full of human yearning as your Lordship’s very heart, or mine, if I may be so bold in the use of similes, my Lord.”

The nobleman’s complexion blanched a bit. Tentatively, he cooed, “Go on?”

“His reputation is fierce and widely known. Still, he is as awkward as a tadpole in some regards, one that has sprouted the legs of a frog yet retains the properties, in all other manner, of a fish. And yet, he is fully grown. No pubescent thing or larva. No maggot becoming a fly. No worm in a chrysalis. And he knows it, Lord! He is aware! Trapped not only in his hybrid physique, his instincts at battle with themselves, but trapped equally in his lair, that dark conundrum of a cave through which so many heroes wander dumbfounded to their mortal ends—the labyrinth that is but a rock-hewn manifestation of his very spirit.”

“Yes, yes,” grumbled the king, “Many have been lost. An excellent depository for would-be suitors of our young Lady.”

“One day he wept, your Lordship.”

“What? He what? That monster wept?”

“Inconsolably. He was choking on the bones of a child.”