The Boy Lost in the Maze

Description

From the UK Children’s Laureate comes a spellbinding YA novel in verse blending the ancient myth of Theseus and the Minotaur with the quest of a modern-day teen in search of his father.

Theo, a seventeen-year-old London schoolboy with a single mother, is desperate to track down the father who left them, whom he scarcely remembers. At school he discovers Greek mythology and the ancient story of Theseus, a fatherless son driven on a similar search. As Theo focuses on Theseus in a series of poems he composes, it becomes clear the two journeys echo each other in uncanny ways. Theseus must conquer his enemies—a psycho Cyclops, a tree-bending murderer, a monstrous pig—while Theo is tricked and double-crossed, confronting obstacles ranging from a search-agency scam artist to a depraved lawyer. Poet Joseph Coelho brilliantly interweaves the boys’ stories, following them through dangers, horrors, and false successes, revealing that Theo must be as resourceful and strong as his mythical hero. In a unique twist, readers are asked to take a role in picking which option the heroes should pursue when facing choices on their path to manhood. The two alternating stories, along with stories from the Minotaur’s perspective, fuse into one in a riveting climax, as the protagonists meet in the heart of the labyrinth.Previous collaborators Coelho and Milner (The Girl Who Became a Tree) offer a vulnerable, nuanced look at masculinity via a teenager’s search for his father paralleled with the Greek myth of Theseus. . . Coelho presents an insightful, multidimensional interpretation of a millennia-old myth.
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

The language is beautifully wrought. . . Besides being gorgeously realized, the story gets high marks for originality, which is high praise, indeed.
—Booklist (starred review)

Written in verse with nods to the classic Choose Your Own Adventure genre, this clever, well-paced novel leans into its interwoven format. . . . The tale of the Minotaur is relayed in a particularly refreshing and poignant way. Milner’s moving ink illustrations bolster an already vivid story. Thoughtful and well executed.
—Kirkus ReviewsJoseph Coelho, an award-winning poet, playwright, and author of picture books and nonfiction, was selected as the UK Children’s Laureate in 2022. His books include Werewolf Club Rules; Overheard in a Tower Block; The Girl Who Became a Tree: A Story Told in Poems, which was short-listed for a Carnegie Medal; and Ten-Word Tiny Tales. He has also written picture books such as Luna Loves Library Day and If All the World Were. Joseph Coelho works regularly as a performance poet, and his plays for young people have been performed by various British theater groups. A staunch ambassador for libraries and for diverse and inclusive new voices in poetry, Joseph Coelho lives in Kent, England.

Kate Milner is the author-illustrator of the award-winning My Name Is Not Refugee and It’s a No-Money Day, which was short-listed for the Kate Greenaway Medal. She is also the illustrator of Joseph Coelho’s Overheard in a Tower Block and The Girl Who Became a Tree: A Story Told in Poems. Her illustrations and prints have been shown in London galleries and national touring exhibitions. A former librarian, she lives in Bedfordshire, England.PROLOGUE
The Oracle

Time moves in spirals;
we are flotsam on Time’s sea.
Time moves in spirals
and repeats its tragedies.
 
This story is about two boys,
separated by centuries,
parted by myth,
divided by reality.
 
Two boys hoping to be men.
Two boys severed from their fathers.
Two boys searching a maze of manhood.
 
One in ancient Greece
from a time of magic and mythos.
One in modern London,
a city of delusion and gloss.
 
I am the Oracle,
your thread through this maze
as two boys start their journeys.
No step will escape my gaze.
 
Let me hold your hand
through these dark and winding lands.
Let us discover together
what it means to be a man.
 
CHAPTER 1
Theo
 
Theo First Hears of Theseus

I’m doodling again,
geometric patterns and swirls.
Mr. Addo doesn’t mind.
He lets me doodle—
knows it helps me think.
 
Mr. Addo is silent again. He does this thing
when he forgets words—
presses thumb and forefinger
to the bridge of his nose and massages,
as if memory is a small furry thing
behind the eyes that needs coaxing.
He massages and ignores
our word offerings
until memory squeals to his stroking.
 
“Manhood—Theseus’s story
is about manhood—
about fathers and sons,
about nature and nurture,
about legacy and destiny,
about parents and their children
and what it means to be a man.”
 
I nearly say something
before remembering
the happy-family kids around me—
the two-parent kids,
big-house-in-Putney kids,
been-on-a-plane kids,
have-the-full-Sky-package kids.
 
I rest my head back on my arms
and listen to Mr. Addo tell Theseus’s story.
I scratch a poem title
into my book . . .
 
Theseus Killed Them!
 
Theseus Killed Them!

“Your father is a king,” said his mother.
“Just lift this heavy rock—
he left some things for you
to prove you’re kingly stock.”
 
Beneath the rock he found:
sandals and a sword.
Sandals for a journey,
a sword for the criminal hordes.
 
Theseus walked his father’s road
but the way was filled with tests.
He had to battle six enemies
and prove he was the best.
 
The first was Periphetes,
who was a little dim.
Theseus took his bronze club;
Theseus killed him.
 
The second was Sinis,
who killed with a bent-tree limb.
He ripped his victims in two;
Theseus killed him.
 
The third was a pig
who’d been causing quite a stir.
She was the Crommyonian Sow;
Theseus killed her.
 
The fourth was Sciron,
who gave his victims a surprise swim.
He’d feed them to a monster turtle!
Theseus killed him.
 
The fifth was Cercyon,
a king who wrestled for a whim.
He’d wrestle strangers to death;
Theseus killed him.
 
The sixth was the innkeeper Procrustes,
who liked everything to be trim,
forcing guests to fit his bed!
Theseus killed him.
 
When the killing journey was done
Theseus found his father’s kingdom grim,
the young yearly killed by the Minotaur . . .
so Theseus killed him!
 
All About the Minotaur

We have to choose
a subject for our
English coursework.
 
I choose
        to write about Theseus.
        Everything is just about him and the Minotaur.
I choose
        to delve into his journey to his father.
 
I choose
        to start reading
        everything I can about him.
 
Everything is all about the bull.
Everything is all about the Minotaur.
Everything is about muscle and horns.
Everything is about bestial strength,
                                                                blood and bones.
 
I choose
        to make my coursework
        a series of poems
        about his search for his father.
 
“Why Can’t I See Dad?”

I’ve noticed a silence
whenever I ask about my father.
Unspoken whisperings
mumble behind my mother’s sealed lips.
 
I last saw him
in a mudslide of argument.
Told never to open the door to him,
                                        to stonewall his calls
                                                and brick up his letters.
 
Seventeen now and feeling the weight
of a father’s absence.
Manhood’s become a rock
I cannot lift alone.
 
It’s more than the clichéd stuff,
the girl stuff,
the body-changing stuff.
It’s an energy thing.
A sit-back-and-relax-with-Dad thing.
A kick-off-your-sandals-and-trade-sword-stories thing.
 
But my mother’s silence is immovable
as I try to pry up the edges
of her secrets.
 
Offerings

Years of sacrifice,
years of feeding
quivering concerns
into the flaring snout of my mind.
 
I wanna see my dad
                But he left us
I don’t need him
                But I miss him
If he cared, he’d call
                Who can I ask . . . ?
If he cared, he’d send a card
                Who would understand?
What parts of me are like him?
 
There Is a Stone in my Chest

Mark and I map the future
on a rainy walk home after school.
 
He wants to be a journalist.
His dad will teach him how to drive,
he’s already picked his universities,
his parents will be at the open houses,
his dad lets him sip raindrops of whiskey
on sleepless nights.
His dad tells him how to talk to girls,
how to be respectful,
how to listen
like leaves listen to morning dew.
 
My mum tells me . . .
        “You don’t have to go to university—
        no one in our family has. You’ll drown.”
My mum says . . .
        “Splash your name onto the council housing list.”
My mum says . . .
        “Not another drab open house—
        I’m not going again.”
 
Dad would want me to go.
On his hailstone visits
he’d complain to Mum . . .
“Why can’t this boy read?”
 
                       Because no one taught me how.
 
There is a stone in my chest
when I think of my father.
A stone I cannot lift.
A stone that settles its weight
when I visit the barber’s alone,
when my body blooms.
There is a stone in my chest
that I cannot lift.CN

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