He allows me to lay him on his bed. With his great and fierce head resting on his pillow, a thick blanket pulled up to his chin, he always sleeps for some time after the disappearance of the youths. Sometimes it’s hours, other times days. Often, after I leave him, I turn back before reaching a bend and regard him. With all but his face under the bedding, he could almost be a real bull, whole and complete. If only his true father, the snow-white bull, could see him now, I think to myself.

It is during these times that I find him in other rooms of the labyrinth. Though I am but one, he is many. In one chamber he is arranging flowers in a white vase. In another he is swimming, attempting with great effort to keep his heavy head above water, resting frequently at the side of the pool, his great round eyes looking toward the sky. In yet another he is pretending to walk up the nonexistent stairs and admonishes me to hurry, hurry or you’ll miss the marvelous concert on the second floor.

As I see it as my duty to provide comfort to the prisoner, I play along. I say, “Will the famous so-and-so be playing first chair?” or “Shall we pick more flowers tomorrow out in the fields beyond the palace?” or “Your father’s servant says that dinner is almost ready and he is most eager to have you join him in his private dining hall.”

This last one is a variation on one of his favorite games, or little plays. For like a play, it is something real and something unreal, all at the same time.

Sometimes I play his father, the king, and at other times he does. Sometimes I play his mother, and other times he wants to. One time, during an especially long period of sleep, the chamber bloomed with Asterions, each making its own courtly gestures, pantomiming conversations with imaginary guests. Even dancing, bowing, pretending to eat on plates with forks and knives, as humans do.

In my off-hours, when I am sleeping, not nearly so deeply or as long as my prisoner, but deeply enough to dream, I see a parade of youths passing by me. Each looks into my eyes with the saddest expression you could imagine. Each says, “I want to live. I have just begun. I want to walk through to my future. I want to master a trade, marry, have children of my own. I want to grow old and feel the sun on my face in my own courtyard. Help me.” And to each one I must turn away. Sometimes I wake, my pillow wet with tears. Whether they are tears of the youths or my own, it is impossible to tell.