The word “labyrinth,” for me, conjures up a world of myths and mysteries.

Foremost in my brain’s word association center is the Greek myth of Theseus, the Athenian prince-hero who enters King Minos’ labyrinth at Crete to slay the Minotaur.

Conveniently, the king’s daughter Ariadne had fallen in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of string to unwind as he searched for the half-bull, half-man monster, on the condition that he take her back to Athens with him. Once he had killed the beast, he was able to follow the string back to the entrance.

And did he and Ariadne live happily ever after? Hardly. On their return journey, he abandoned her on the island of Naxos.

Stephen King used the Minotaur and the labyrinth as the central metaphor for his 1995 novel, “Rose Madder.” It’s far from his best work, but he paints an illuminating picture of one woman’s liberation from a maze of domestic violence. Her abusive husband’s transformation into a real monster was as scream-worthy as the page in “The Shining” where readers learn what “redrum” means.

But embedded in this shroud of mystery surrounding labyrinths is the wonder of traveling our own convoluted path and the anticipation of what we’ll find. It seems most people who put feet to canvas will tell you that the journey itself is its own reward. Instead of a monster, they find peace. And they don’t need a string to find their way.