Herman

The manor had a maze. The man in the manor built the maze because he hated children. He had made his maze so long and complicated that by the time the children had escaped, they would be adults.

His wife was impartial to the practice and visited the children. She brought them advice and food when needed. But she always escaped because she knew a trick her children didn't. There were four, maybe five of them. And they hated being lost. They had been lost their whole lives and they were sick of it.

They were not alone in the maze. Their Father had bred rabbits at first for meat, then for sport, and then for size. His largest sprung to the size of a cow. He loved the creature. The rabbit’s eyes were a smidge smaller than the rest of its body. And one could sense a strange pain in these eyes, if not a pain then an uncomfortableness at being so large. The rabbit had started gnawing on the nice wood in the manor. So the man stuck the rabbit in the maze as well.

The rabbit was scared of the children. It ate the hedges and made holes in the maze, which made everything more complicated. The children were befuddled by the rabbit. It seemed to have some purpose. It was the only creature of note in the maze. But it didn’t hunt them or track them or do anything really besides nibble and sleep and run away.

When the children slept, the rabbit came and sniffed them. Marking their individual scents one after another. And he began to care for the children in his rabbit way.

The children were growing older but the maze still trapped them. Every night they would gather around their small fire and draw on an old faded flag they had found. They drew on it with mulberries and sticky fingers and the map grew more and more as the children explored their annoying prison.

Their Father watched them with his telescope to make sure they were still growing. They were and so was the rabbit—Herman—who was now nearly the size of an elephant. Herman would never snuggle with the children. But he was often nearby which was strange in a maze so big.

One day when the children left to find water Herman sniffed the map. Then he began to chew. He started at one corner and finished far down and many holes had been made in the map and the map hadn’t even tasted good; it was just fun to chew.

The children came back with their water and found all their years of hard work had been chewed through and shat into little balls all around the campsite. And they all sprang to catch the big bunny for it was he who had chewed it. Perhaps Herman was a spy. Perhaps he had malintent. Perhaps he was doing Fathers bidding. Perhaps his stomach held some secret.

The children found the rabbit sleeping, all full of map, its big nose whiffed and sniffed and its eyes were wide open. But the children knew that rabbits slept with their eyes open. Each ran to grab a leg and on the eldest brother's call, they snatched Herman the big bunny.

Then the struggle started. For the rabbit was not to be captured. And it sprung its long feet at the children and pawed at the ground and the children hung on for dear life. And the eldest brother looked the rabbit in its big, uncomfortable eyes. And began to question the big beast and accused the animal of all sorts of vile deeds. Like betrayals and eavesdropping and spying and stealing rations and sabotage and poisoning the well. The children got all worked up.

The rabbit's pulse began to slow as the accusations rang through the maze and up to the manor and the bunny stared and sniffed not intaking a single word, its ears lying on its skull. And the eldest brother brandished the big hunting knife that he had found and hidden from his family. The children gasped.

Herman felt the pale stinging blade against his neck.

And let out a shriek that only a dying rabbit can make. The shriek was so loud that the blade cracked. And so did the manor and so did the maze which crumbled around the edges. And among the rubble the rabbit skipped, pounding its feet with a thump of anger at such accusations. And the children grumbled were shocked to discover their Father had slid down from his balcony. He grimaced at their embraces and kisses they bestowed on his bald head. And the eldest brother held out the handle of his blade and dropped it among the rubble, as not to bring attention to his secrecy.

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Jack Ludkey lives in NYC.