Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  Rufus had a question which was bugging him. ‘You say this village is a wicked place?’

  ‘A foul place,’ replied the woman.

  Whatever, thought Rufus. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘People there have no morals. They lie, cheat, steal. And there’s even a brothel! Women selling their flesh!’

  A brothel, thought Rufus. Must hang on to that thought.

  ‘For sex?’ asked a mocking Mozak.

  The woman turned as white as a sheet and left the room. Rufus wanted to kick his stupid prince.

  ‘Well done,’ he whispered under his breath.

  A brothel? thought Mozak. I would have to pay for it?

  ‘No more questions. Finish your broth. Time to get down to work, the lord’s work,’ said her aggrieved husband.

  The only reason he didn’t look unhappy with the mentioning of that awful place was because he never looked happy these days. God had not intended him to be happy in life. God had decided that long ago. (Also it was useful for a complete stranger to demonstrate to his wife that talking about sex was a perfectly normal thing for men to do.)

  Broth finished - that had been lunch for the family - Mozak and Rufus were led out to work: no time to hang around and chat. Rufus got given a dry stone wall to repair whilst ‘Marcus’ got lumbered with digging a deep drainage ditch. It was a shock to his system: using a spade, hammer and spike to break up roots and embedded stones, and remove the heavy soil. He kept grumbling to himself when left alone, and tried not to look put out whenever a son came checking up on him. That was when he wanted to tell the git - the black and white inbred git - to fuck off. What kept him going was the thought that he would be rewarded with a nice meal and warm bed, and perhaps a bath if he asked nicely. They owned him a hot bath.

  What also kept him going was the other thought that Rufus was probably suffering more whilst building a wall from heavy lumps of stone, with his bare hands. Rufus was suffering, but not for that reason. He had attracted the attentions of a nice looking girl, a sister of the ‘non-twin brothers’ as he thought of them. But he could not touch. He could not chat her up. She was interested in everything he did and the way he did it. She wanted to know everything about him, so Rufus lied to his heart’s content - and in the process accidentally crept into areas of truth. Because the girl looked exactly like her brothers, and her parents - including the clothes - whenever she smiled at him Rufus felt the entire weight of the family bearing down on him. Creepy. He was saved by the act of trapping his thumb under a heavy stone as he heaved it into place. She retreated from his swearing, covering her ears. Shame, thought Rufus.

  During the day Rufus took the opportunity to confirm directions to the village, presuming that Mozak would forget to ask. Mozak did the same thing, for exactly the same reason. They learnt that there were clearly defined tracks, then roads, leading through the maze to the village.

  At the end of what felt like a very long day, knackered, and just when they thought dinner was due, Mozak and Rufus were challenged to a game of football by the brothers.

  ‘Football?’ asked Mozak. ‘What is football? Sounds like gout.’

  One of the brothers ran off and returned promptly with a precious, homemade football. They explained the rules - Rufus was intrigued, Mozak was suspicious - and set up goalposts using old buckets.

  ‘We stop when Father rings the bell for prayers and whoever has scored the most wins, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ echoed Mozak.

  Rufus spotted the scornful reply but it passed the brothers by. For them the spoken word was a blunt thing: you said what you meant and you meant what you said, just like the words in the bible. That was the way it was.

  Prayers? thought Rufus. Shit.

  ‘What if the score is equal? Quits?’ he asked.

  The brothers looked at each other as if this was a totally pointless question, which it was. They seemed to do everything the same, like a mirror image, or a complete duplication of human thought and action.

  ‘We carry on until the next goal is scored.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  And so the four began to kick the ball around, with the sister watching. In time she was joined by a younger sister, who looked just like her. In time they would look just like their mother. And in more time they would look almost like their grandmothers. Now he was running around and sweating the older sister was starting to like Rufus again. She caught his eye again but though she had reached the age when she should have been sexy he could see, sense nothing. He blamed it on the clothes she was, he assumed, forced to wear. The black drained her of the essence of life, he thought, just as it looked like she now had the chance to start living it. She had a nice pair of breasts and he was keen to explore them - knowing he didn’t have a chance in hell. What a waste, he thought. She made no impact on the one called Marcus. (To Mozak she was just another peasant.)

  At first, the ‘Castle side’ played badly, woefully. Their performance was dismal. They did not appreciate the concept of passing - or seeming to be about to pass - and its inherent benefits for fooling the opposition. The girls clapped and yelled out each time the home side scored. The ‘Castle side’ became angry as the score continued to climb against them. They were being overwhelmed. Exhausted, they demanded a five minute break, during which time they discussed tactics. Resuming, something clicked and the prince and his servant began to play as a team, think as a team; look and pass or pretend to pass as a team; suddenly veering left, or right, or pretending before going straight on. They started to score, big time, and in time closed the gap. They didn’t win - the brothers took the match extremely seriously - they lost, but by a decent score for a team which had never played the game before. Their dignity remained intact. And they could tell from the solemn faces of the winning side that anything less than a total wipe-out was a hollow victory.

  Sod them, thought Rufus. Arseholes, thought Mozak as he asked if he could have a bath before dinner.

  ‘Nothing fancy,’ he said.

  The brothers laughed into his face and responded by offering him a bucket of water and flannel. Mozak accepted, knowing this was their only offer, and washed himself down. His bare torso was a gift to the older girl, as was Rufus’ when he followed suite - more so. Refreshed and feeling good, the pair sat down at the kitchen table. They were looking forward to a good, well-earned meal. But first they had to endure the sermon and prayers.

  ‘What have we learnt today?’ asked Father, eyes closed, hands clasped; Mother nodding like she already knew the answer.

  Mozak and Rufus threw each other furtive glances and were careful to contain their inflammatory thoughts. Best they didn’t respond, each knew that. Instead they sat and scratched and listened with heavy hearts and screaming stomachs as the children vomited nice, comfortable, constrained answers to that question and the follow-ups. Next, satisfied, Father read passages from some black leather bound book he called the ‘bible’ whilst Mother and the Children quoted them, word perfect, repeatedly, ad nauseam, until not only had the message got home but it had made off again, like a bored wasp. And not once were Mozak and Rufus thanked for all the effort they had put in that day. That really pissed them off. Later that night, undercover of blankets and darkness, they would agree that this family of black and white was quite mad, and that thank their God they were only staying the one night. Finally, just before the meal was placed on the table prayers were made - hands clasped, eyes down - and a song of praise was sung to celebrate God’s bounty. It was out of tune.

  Give me a banquet, thought Mozak. Give me banquet scraps, thought Rufus. When at last the food did appear, Mozak was greatly disappointed. Rufus thought it barely adequate. (It united them both.) But they were so hungry that such reactions dissolved in the instant they got stuck in. Uninhibited, they wolfed down the food, incurring dirty looks from the family of
black for eating too much too fast and with too much enthusiasm.

  It was stew, well stewed, containing the remains of lots of potatoes and not much in the way of seasoning. It came with dark, almost black bread which was so hard you could smash a window with it, or knock someone out with it. Mozak felt like doing both. Rufus was less critical, more peeved that he had put in so much hard work for what, this?

  While eating they had to fend off tricky questions from the children as to what the castle was like, and why they were running away. Despite the fact that their parents did not want to talk about ‘that castle’, nothing was done to close the subject down. Perhaps they wanted their brood to be convinced of what they had been taught by an injection of corroborative statements from independent witnesses. All they did was give the two vagrants the occasional dirty look, as if to remind them whose house, table and food this was.

  Not our fault, Rufus desperately wanted to shout out. It’s your bloody kids asking all the questions. Mozak left the act of answering to Rufus, conscious that he was playing the part of Marcus, a nobody. Let clever Rufus take charge and fight them off with his wits: he was too busy eating the food he detested. And eat he did, helping himself to second helping of the awful stew without asking first, after realising that no one was intending to serve him. He was that hungry. Food and sleep: that was all he wanted right now.

  The bed they were allocated was only meant for one. They would have to lie down from opposite ends and try not to kick each other in the night. Their room was an extension to the house, and smelly, with a large double door which opened out on to the outside. Its floor was covered in dirt and bits of grass. Straight away Rufus recognised the smell of pigs and ancient pig shit. Mozak didn’t know what it smelt of but agreed that it smelt bad.

  ‘I think they kept animals in here,’ explained Mozak as they settled down to sleep.

  ‘Makes sense to dump us animals in here then,’ retorted Rufus.

  ‘Let’s get out of here first thing.’

  ‘Agreed. Before any of them are crawling about. And take breakfast with us.’

  ‘Agreed. Just in case they didn’t plan to give us breakfast.’

  ‘Agreed. They never mentioned breakfast.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  That exchange felt really weird for both of them: agreeing with each other, repeatedly, easily. Is he finally showing me some respect? thought Rufus. Is he finally showing me due respect, thought Mozak.

  Mozak had one last question before he passed out. The fact he desperately wanted to ask it kept pulling him awake.

  ‘Why does everyone keep saying the castle is wicked, wild?’

  ‘Well it is, isn’t it,’ replied Rufus firmly. ‘Now leave me alone I have to sleep.’

  ***

  Come the crack of dawn it was Rufus who was up first and he took great pleasure in shaking his boss awake. Mozak struggled to move a muscle: his body was stiff, really stiff; every muscle ached. He felt like he had missed out on sleep entirely. To cap it all Rufus would not stop shaking him.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here, quick, like we agreed.’

  Mozak pushed him away, repeatedly, until finally he relented and dragged himself to his feet on legs which did not wish to support him.

  They crept around, and out, and filled their pockets with food before making off on their trusty ponies. They pushed on at speed, wishing to put distance between themselves and the crazy black and white people. But they soon slowed to a more gentle pace when the ponies began to protest. With distance so a feeling of lightness returned. They didn’t know it yet but a bond now existed between them. It was a fragile thing: it might snap; but it was there, where before there had been nothing.

  They discovered the river as promised - they were back on their map. It ran close to a wall in places, as if fighting for a way out. A bridge crossing was located somewhere downstream. They dismounted, stretched, rubbed their backsides, scratched their balls and gave their ponies time to rest, time to drink, time to shit. They heard a noise and turned towards its source. Beyond some boulders - boulders smoothed by centuries of river flow - they could just make out the shape of a big brown bear. He was trying to catch fish swimming upstream. He hadn’t seen them. He had raw fish totally on his small but sharp mind.

  ‘I say!’ exclaimed Mozak.

  He looked at Rufus, expecting him to share the thrill. But Rufus looked, what, scared? Was his Rufus scared?

  ‘Shit,’ said Rufus, confirming Mozak’s suspicion.

  ‘He’s a beast, no mistake!’

  ‘Certainly is.’

  Rufus looked at the ponies. They didn’t appear concerned either. It must just be him - the only intelligent one amongst them.

  ‘I’d love to kill it.’

  ‘It would probably love to kill you, especially if it doesn’t catch any fish. Let’s go, before it sees us.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Mozak began to creep towards it.

  ‘What are you doing!’

  Mozak picked up a large smooth stone. Time and water had turned it into a beautifully rounded object. Its weight gave it a sense of gravity. Mozak turned it over in his hand a few times while a growing fear bubbled up inside Rufus as it dawned on him as to exactly what his stupid prince had in mind.

  ‘Mozak, no, what the hell are you doing!’

  ‘Get the ponies ready! And it’s Prince Mozak to you.’

  The fear hit his gut. The stupid, idiotic Prince Mozak was about to do something really, really stupid and get them killed. Rufus knew he couldn’t stop him. You could not stop kings and queens and their stupid offspring from doing the most stupid things. That was in the nature of things. And as those thoughts stormed a path through Rufus, so Mozak carried on creeping towards the big brown bear, like he had a death wish. Rufus held on to the reins as ordered, then, as an afterthought - a thought for self-survival - jumped up into his saddle whilst holding the other pony steady. Still they remained undisturbed. They were chewing on the fresh growth of grass by the riverbank: lovely.

  Mozak, closer now to the bear - a bear growing more and more irritated by its inability to scoop up a simple, stupid slimy fish - stood up straight, took aim, and threw his stone at the bear with all the force and accuracy he could muster. Luckily for all concerned, he missed. But it landed close enough for the bear to stop fishing and look around for the splash, faintly aware that he was no longer alone, that he no longer had the place to himself. Some hairy little two-legged monster was hassling him. He saw Mozak and heard him holler as he scarpered at high speed back to his pony. It had been ages since Mozak had felt this good.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he screamed.

  ‘Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s get out of here.’

  They made off, to the sound of one pissed off, growling bear as it lumbered towards them. It didn’t have a chance. The boys - they were boys again now - were gone.

  ‘That was a really stupid thing to do.’

  Mozak wasn’t having that. ‘No it wasn’t. It was fun, and only slightly dangerous. Haven’t you ever provoked a bear for sport? Or killed one?’

  ‘Funnily enough, no. We peasants don’t get to have such fun.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s find that bridge.’

  ‘You should learn to live a little.’

  Fuck off Mozak, thought Rufus.

  They found the bridge and were immediately surprised at how big it was, how extravagant. It dominated the surroundings. Built of stone, it seemed an excessive construction, just to cross a river, deep inside the middle of nowhere. There was a small square tower at each end, each topped off by a red tiled roof. They were twin towers. They shared the same purpose. Once powerful symbols of trade, they now stood forlorn, serv
ing only to house the gatekeepers, who in turn served nobody except the rule book. As they approached, grudgingly impressed by its almost obscene grandeur, a short stocky man stepped out of the shadows and raised his free arm. In the other he was holding a spear. He wore silly, brightly coloured clothes, and a silly hat to match. He looked both very silly and very serious at the same time.

  ‘Stop there if you please.’

  Rufus stopped. Mozak carried on regardless. He was a prince: this man didn’t know this of course so he forgave him.

  ‘I said stop please.’

  ‘Why? I want to cross the bridge,’ said Mozak in the most calm, authoritative voice he could muster.

  ‘Because this is a toll gate. You must pay the toll to cross.’

  Mozak halted and Rufus caught him up until they stood side by side, as if at the head of some great army, as if preparing to make war (or perhaps a tactical retreat).

  ‘Gate? What gate? There are no gates. Why should I pay him? It’s a bridge in the middle of nowhere. Why should I pay him?’

  Rufus shrugged off his master’s exasperation. ‘Just pay him I suppose. It’s not as if you can’t afford it.’

  Mozak had to admit that Rufus was right. Money was not the issue. So perhaps there was no issue. He calmed back down.

  ‘OK’.

  He looked down at the silly man - one more silly man, to add to the many that infested Court: some of whom were as silly in the head as they looked; some of whom were not silly in the head but dressed silly because the rules of court etiquette demanded it.