The Telegraph Hill Hedge Maze
In San Francisco, with Julius’ Castle below and Coit Tower above, there is a building, unremarkable except what lay at the top: a snaking labyrinth of custom ceramic planters sprouting with neatly-trimmed hedges, like a garden maze on a country estate. The famed explorer Captain Jeffrey T. Spaulding made his way up the Filbert Street steps, looking for the entrance to the much-whispered-about maze. He checked the invitation in his pocket, the reason he’d made this trip. The invitation was thick, heavy cardstock with a punch-hole pattern on one edge and foil embedded in the opposite side. It was heavy in the middle, like an envelope with a coin inside. Printed on it was the date: July 13, 1931.
“‘The door will be unlocked. Act as if you belong there, and you’ll be allowed up unmolested’,” he read aloud from the card. “From what I hear about these bohemians, I’m not so sure they’d like that.” He cleared his throat when he realized he was talking to himself.
“A nasty habit, that,” he said. “Oh, there I go again.” The way he waggled his eyebrows could have been seen from across the room, if anyone had been there to look. If an eyebrow waggled in a forest and no one noticed, did it make a sound? He hadn’t worked that one out just yet.
“Up the stairs I go. You know, I’m climbing more here in San Francisco than I did in India on that trip with Crowley and the boys? What a magical time. Is ‘magical’ the word? No, I mean ‘cursed’. What a cursed time!” he said, again to no one.
“And boy, did he know from curses,” Captain Spaulding continued, voice echoing in the stairwell as he made the climb. “‘Damn you and your eyebrows’ was the last thing he said to me. Frankly, I was offended. Singling out my eyebrows but not my mustache? Hell, why not give each eyebrow its own punishment? I certainly have.”
“You ever think I talk to myself because I’m afraid of the silences? That’s the beauty of mountaineering, you can listen to your echo for a good thirty seconds, so you don’t have to say as much. Maybe that’s why Crowley— ah, hell. Hell! That would be a great place for an expedition, now that I think of it…” he said, continuing to bounce from thought to thought like a mountain goat on a particularly perilous set of cliffs. Each new flight of stairs brought with it new tangents and topics, new conversational territories to explore, alone.
On the sixth floor, Captain Spaulding found the door to the roof, with a gold plate affixed that read “MAZE.”
“Do you suppose this is it?” he said to himself. “As an explorer, one usually has to put in a little more work. Actually, two, three, even four have to put in the work. And if I’m on the expedition, you’ll probably want a few spares.” He sighed and adjusted his glasses, realizing again that he was talking to himself, without meaning to. At times, it really felt like a second voice speaking back to his internal monologue. He pushed through the door.
On the other side was what he expected to see: A winding maze of circular hedges. In front of the entrance was a podium, with a map of the maze, revealing that it was arranged in a sort of glyph pattern. Below that was a set of candles, apparently meant for lighting on especially dark nights. Below that, a faucet.
“Well, I won’t die of thirst, I suppose,” he said, and pulled out his hip flask. By now, it was empty of whatever booze had been in it, so it was more like a canteen.
“Think you’ll find your way to the center before sundown, Captain?” said a voice from behind him.
“Oh! Hello. I must be going— into the maze, I mean. Say, who are you, exactly?” he said. When he saw her, his famously damned eyebrows nearly leapt from his head. He saw a shapely woman shrouded in a luxurious looking cape and wearing a mask, the kind you might see at a masquerade ball. Hers was bejeweled, with two curved horns sticking out of it.
“If only Crowley were around to see this. If he were, I’d toss him off, oh, about there,” Captain Spaulding said, gesturing with his thumb to the side of the building. “You know you remind me of someone?”
“Oh? Who’s that?” the woman said.
“I think it was a vision I had in the desert. By that I mean, you’re a vision. Of loveliness! Oh, and terror. What’s with the mask?”
“You’re from out of town?”
“Who’s to say? It really depends on which town you mean. Because Lancashire, or Mombasa, or Manhattan, I’m from out of those even when I’m in them—“
“Here. San Francisco. Are we going to be doing this all day?”
“I’d love to do it all day with you, madam…?”
“Madam Satan,” she said, with a purr, and put out a gloved hand.
“Oh, of the San Diego Satans, I should have guessed,” said Captain Spaulding. Madam Satan rolled her eyes, more visible because the mask made them appear to pop out of her skull.
“I’m a local vigilante of sorts. I solve crimes, punish people, fix things, you know the type,” she said. With that information in mind, Spaulding noticed her belt, with rope and other tools attached. There was even what looked like a dagger sheath and an (empty?) holster.
“Most people I meet these days recognize me on sight,” she said. “He did.” She pointed to behind a wall and out popped a small, humble-looking man in round glasses. He was meek, maybe even cute, to a certain eye. Spaulding’s eyebrows shot up again.
“This is quite a picture. And not one hanging in the National Gallery,” he said. “What’s his story?”
“He can tell you. Harold?” Madam Satan said, prodding.
“I’m Harold Hobb,” the meek one said. “I’m a, ah, a shoe salesman. I don’t know why I’m here at all. I came here from Honolulu on a steamer ship. The invitation was slipped into my bag.”
“Hm. Doesn’t quite fit. Maybe whomever is in the middle of that maze needs shoes. You bring any product with you?” Captain Spaulding said.
“No… It doesn’t really work like that,” Harold said.
“Really? Because I see at least two on your person right now,” Spaulding said, pointing at Harold’s feet.
“So are we waiting to go in? You two beat me here — some explorer I am — I figured you’d have gone in and charted your own path,” Spaulding said.
“I’ve been here for two hours. I was starting to think no one else would show up,” Madam Satan explained. “I came here express, gliding down from Coit Tower. It’s an easy enough flight with my cape. But the door there… it has three slots and three locks.”
Harold spoke up. “Each invitation has a weight to it, like a coin is embedded inside,” he said. “Rather than a coin, it appears to be a key. There’s three of us here with invitations, so that means three keys.”
“To Baldpate?” Spaulding said. “Are we missing another four? And boy, do I hope there’s something more interesting in there than some schmuck writer.”
“It would take a hell of a lot more than a schmuck writer to bring us together,” Madam Satan declared authoritatively.
“Well, just who did bring us together? What’s with these invitations, or keys, or what have you? How did such an august citizen like yourself get mixed up in this, Satan?” Spaulding said. “Or is Harold just an innocent baby fly caught in your web?”
“Oh, please. Only if he wants to be,” Madam Satan said. “I was lured to this. A set-up. Some two-bit hood doing a bank hold-up right where I’d been patrolling, exactly when my rounds started? It was a plant. He dropped the money and handed it to me. What about you, Spaulding? Don’t tell me a Maasai warrior gave it to you,” she said.
“No, no,” he said. “I did happen to be in the Congo recently. Miserable place. More Belgians than a waffle house. I was there for the music. Maybe the drugs. Women, too, of course, if they’ll have me, which they usually won’t— anyway. I fell in with an anti-colonial group. This kid reporter in short pants wouldn’t leave me alone. He was looking for diamond smugglers and poaching the wildlife and lord knows what else, I don’t know exactly. But he was a pain in my neck if I ever had one, and I assure you I had. Eventually, he off-loaded this thing onto me.” Spaulding flipped the card in his fingers.
“How long ago was that? Did you come straight here?” Harold said.
“It was about eight months ago,” Spaulding said. “I didn’t know where else to go. The Explorer’s Club gets dull as dishwater after a while, you know.”
“Do you suppose we should head in?” Harold said. He was looking at Madam Satan, eyes absorbed by her glittering form.
“You know, I’m beginning to feel like a third wheel on the proverbial bicycle,” Spaulding said. “But in any case, I agree.”
“It’s the thing to do,” Madam Satan said. The three of them approached the door and stood equidistant apart in front of the unusual “mail slot” style locks. They placed their cards into each, meeting with some resistance. The invitations clicked into place, and a handle emerged from the door mechanism next to each. The invitations-slash-keys were stuck in their respective slots.
“Must be one use only,” Spaulding said. “Reminds me of my first few marriages.”
Harold looked up in astonishment. “First few?” he said.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about the big bad world, baby boy,” Madam Satan said. “Am I the only one eager to see what this maze is all about?”
* * *
The maze itself was less remarkable after the teamwork puzzle it took to get in. Tall hedges and small corridors meant the group of three had to go through it single file. Madam Satan took up the rear — and what a rear it was! — which kept the group in line. Spaulding lead, the natural explorer, and Harold was nestled in the middle, nice and safe. When they hit a dead end and had to turn around, the entire group would back up, with careful, considered movements, like a train or a caterpillar.
“Say, Madam, do you mind if I smoke? What am I saying, you came out of the oven smoking,” Captain Spaulding said.
“Go ahead. I wonder if our host, whomever they are, would like you ashing in their plants, though,” said the Madam from behind.
“Persuasive, but not enough,” Spaulding said, and pulled out a cigar. “You’ve no idea the stress I’m under. I’m trapped in a maze with a couple of lunatics. Oh, sorry, that was a message for my personal security detail.” He puffed on the cigar, and the smoke billowed above them into the pink San Francisco sky.
“What a decision this was,” Harold Hobb said, fretting. “No wonder Barbara left me. I’ve ended up in company like this.”
“It’s not so bad, sweetie,” said Madam Satan. “People like us are a hell of a lot more fun than the stuffed shirts you’re used to.”
“Oh, it’s not that… ever since that ridiculous stunt in LA, people think I’m some kind of a thrill-seeker. I swear, I’m just a regular fellow!” he said.
“Being here I think bumps you up into irregular status, whether it’s Baker Street or Filbert…” Spaulding said. Harold looked at him confused, missing the reference.
Harold kept the conversation moving. “I got caught up in some business… oh, it was just absurd, really. I ended up climbing up a skyscraper, an office building, with my hands and feet. I dangled off with a rope and nearly splattered on the pavement. I’m surprised I didn’t break my neck just from the sudden stop. But I’m good at, ah, taking those sorts of risks, I suppose. You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you look down over a ledge?”
“The one that says, ‘what if I jump?’” Madam Satan said.
“That’s the one. I suppose I’ve just figured out how to listen to it. I can just jump,” Harold said.
“Oh, my. And you’re not afraid? I’ve only been doing what I do about a year and I’m terrified every time,” Madam Satan said.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m scared every time. But I do it anyway. And once I’m in the air, there’s a sensation… I practically feel like I’m flying. I think, I’m going to land safely on the ground, without a scratch. And so far, I have. Give or take a few scratches,” Harold said. “I’ve got good instincts, or something like that. I just know how to land.”
“So far?” Captain Spaulding said. His cigar was between his fingers. “How many times have you done this?”
“Now? Oh… thirty-three times,” Harold said. “It’s become a bit of a compulsion.”
“I knew I liked you,” Madam Satan said.
“Hold it. We’ve come to another door, here,” Spaulding said. After a brief moment of contemplation, he opened it.
Inside, a circular room. Nearly empty. Gaslights were triggered when the door opened, illuminating the room. There was a dusty, disused bar on one side, with green glass bottles and stools with torn cushions. On the other side were card tables, barrels, and crates. In the middle, a sturdy wooden column, an unoccupied plinth. It had a lever on one side, like a slot machine or a reclining chair.
“Looks like some kind of speakeasy,” Spaulding said. “I have a thirsty hip flask here that could use some refilling, too. You two won’t report me, will you?”
“Let’s see if there’s anything here to fill it with, shall we?” Madam Satan said. They approached the central column as a group. After a brief inspection, and a few looks back and forth, Captain Spaulding gestured to the wooden lever.
“Harold, why don’t you take the liberty? I’ve had my fill of mysterious machinery,” he said.
“Is it okay?” Harold said, turning to Madam Satan.
“Of course, darling,” she said. “You’re safe with me around.” She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Spaulding sighed. The inevitable outcome, he thought to himself.
Harold pulled the lever down, and it produced the sound of cranking, clanking internal mechanisms. Out of the column, three articulated sections rolled forward like self-opening drawers, the bottom one jutting out the longest. The internal sounds continued, and a section of the floor, behind the column, rolled away, revealing a descending spiral staircase. Finally, the top of the column opened up, and a small platform rose to the top. A bottle of champagne, in a bucket of ice, along with four glasses.
“Still cold,” Spaulding said, hand on the bucket. “Whoever invited us here, they’re on top of things.”
The drawers were labelled with brass plaques. The topmost was a shallow drawer full of what appeared to be gold coins. “Treasure,” it said. Beneath that, was a an open notebook and several pens and pencils. “Guestbook,” said the middle plaque. On the very bottom, was a bed of white cotton with various pins, coins, and other accoutrements. “Leave a memento for the friendless,” said the final plaque.
“A bit of an anticlimax, no? It reminds me of when we finally got to Stonehenge. You know it’s more or less a rockpile?” Spaulding said.
“I think it’s sweet,” Satan said. She plucked three coins from the top drawer and slid it shut. “One for each of us.”
Spaulding took his and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, if we’re here, we might as well enjoy ourselves. You don’t suppose this champagne is drugged, do you?” he said.
“Oh, hardly,” Madam Satan said. “It’s sealed, for one thing.” Spaulding couldn’t think of a witty rejoinder for once, so he just popped the cork and poured three glasses.
“Here’s to us,” he said. The three of them clinked glasses and took sips. They each signed the guestbook. Spaulding noticed the dates went back years. There were a few names he recognized: Miles Archer, Simon Templar, Arséne Lupin. A who’s who of notables, adventures, do-gooders, and society types.
When they were through with each drawer, Harold pushed it shut until it locked back into place with a click. The memento drawer proved the most difficult. Harold left a business card — if whomever had drawn them here were looking for shoes, they’d have a line on a pair. Madam Satan left a sizable false gemstone that was part of her costume. Spaulding, unsure of what to do, popped a cufflink from his own shirt and deposited it. There wasn’t much difference between two mismatched cufflinks and a missing one, he decided, especially on a patchwork suit that hung together like a ratty quilt.
With the last drawer closed and the champagne drank, the evening seemed to be winding down. The pink-purple sunset sky had turned dark, and the sounds of San Francisco nightlife were echoing up from the canyons below. Spaulding looked down at the staircase door that had opened. There was a brass plaque labelling that, as well. “Goodbye,” it said.
“Well, it’s been a wonderful evening exploring mysterious urban folderol, but I must be going,” Spaulding said. “If you two see me again, don’t feel obligated to interrupt your date.” He smirked, mustache crinkling up his face.
“What—? Why would we be—“ Harold said, confused.
“Oh, don’t worry about him, Harold,” Madam Satan said, both hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “He’s just cursed with the gift of foresight.”
“Should we take the stairs together, or would you prefer privacy?” Spaulding said.
“Actually, if Harold doesn’t mind, I thought we’d take the express route. We’re both in the aerial business, after all,” Madam Satan said. “Plus, he’ll be even more safe and sound attached to me.” She gestured with a length of rope attached to her belt.
“Well, you two are certainly a couple of daredevils,” Captain Spaulding said.
Madam Satan laughed. “I don’t call myself ‘Angel,’ you know,” she said.
“A fallen angel,” Harold said.
“Only as fallen as you want, baby,” Madam Satan said. She put her hand out, and he clasped it. The two of them looked into each other’s eyes.
“Have fun, you two,” he said. “That’s my cue to exist. I mean, to exit. I suppose I’ll do a little more exploring on my own.” He waved and watched as the two of them climbed over top the hedges and took a running leap off the side of the building, Madam Satan’s cape expanding into a glider as they vanished into the horizon.
Captain Spaulding started to walk down the stairs and felt the gold coin in his pocket. That odd texture again stuck out to him. He scratched at the surface and watched as the gold peeled away, revealing flat, gray lead underneath.
“Just like that damn bird statue,” he said to himself. “Actually, the whole thing is for the birds, if you ask me. But of course I’d say that. Birds of a feather, flock together, don’t they? They not only flock together, they jump off the roof together for fun. Maybe I’m not meant for this modern world. Hell, maybe I’m not meant for the ancient world, either. That’s why I never completed my degree in archeology… I never completed anything, to one degree or another…”
His voice echoed in the spiral staircase, back up to the roof and down to the lobby, heard by no one, and the hedge maze on Telegraph Hill was once again sealed away from the outside world.
© Jess Umbra, 2026
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