by Euan McAllen
‘How much?’
The silly man gave a price which meant nothing to the prince: instead he responded by plucking a silver coin from his red velvet purse - the smallest he could find.
‘Will this do?’
The silly man reached up to take the coin. Seeing it up close suddenly made him look all confused, which pleased Mozak immensely. He rubbed it between his fingers and examined its detail, in particular the stamp of the royal mint: the sight of it seemed to fire up myths inside his head. The coin was silver but the stamp was true gold.
‘That will do nicely. On you go - hang on, take this.’
‘What is it?’
‘A ticket. Proof you paid. Hang on to it.’
Mozak made a point of not thanking him and pushed the ticket deep into a pocket.
They moved on and crossed the bridge, taking in the shops which stood empty, some derelict. It was a bridge designed to support life but there was no life here, no evidence of living, just one lonely man collecting the toll.
As they reached the other side and the second tower, another man jumped out of the shadows. This one had been expecting them. He looked just as short and silly as the first but in clothes which were a different colour. This second man carried a strong resemblance to the first; and he carried the same air of swagger, of officious, strictly non-negotiable attitude and lack of deference to everyone who crossed his path.
He stuck out hand. ‘Which one of you paid?’
Mozak raised a finger. ‘Me?’
‘Follow me,’ said the man brusquely and he disappeared into the tower.
Mozak got down from his pony and looked up at Rufus, seeking assurance. Rufus couldn’t give it and just shrugged, bemused. Mozak hesitated at the door before stepping inside. Hadn’t he paid more than enough?
Rufus looked around. He suddenly felt lonely and he couldn’t make sense of it. And as he waited it began to bug him. The feeling cleared when Mozak reappeared, his face twisted up in folds of total bewilderment. If his face said anything it said that this part of the world was not sane.
‘What happened?’
Mozak waived a green slip of paper. It was blank save for a fresh stamp mark, now smudged.
‘He gave me this.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A receipt. For the toll.’
‘What?’
‘I got a refund. It’s a receipt for the refund. I had to give him the ticket.’ Mozak rattled the coins in his hand as evidence. ‘And the weird thing is...’ His voice trailed off.
‘What? Tell me.’
‘He made me sign a book, for the refund, and guess what.’
‘What?’
‘I saw Foccinni’s signature. He came this way. He’s been here.’
‘That’s good then. We’d better get moving then.’
‘Yes we better get moving.’
Rufus saw a smile break out on Mozak’s face and that, weirdly, cheered him up also - which then annoyed him as he was normally happy when the great Prince Mozak was looking truly pissed off. Then the obvious question struck home.
‘Why did he give you a refund? Why didn’t the other guy just not take the money?’
‘Something about statute law,’ explained Mozak. ‘They have to collect the toll - but don’t want to put customers off using the bridge - bad for trade - so they refund. Five rasnetts is what he gave me.’
‘Five what?’
‘Five rasnetts - it’s the local currency apparently.’
Customers? thought Rufus. What customers, what trade? And like Mozak before him, his face twisted up in folds of total bewilderment.
They pushed on, galvanized by the solid reminder of why they had undertaken this journey. Upon crossing the river they reached a proper road, one which was solid underfoot and which was mainly straight. And the walls looked closer together now. They could be seen in all directions. The walls were closing in, slowly, with stealth. Some went up and down hills without interruption. Some were curved. Some were separated by no more than the width of a meadow, and some appeared smaller than others. The great maze was making itself felt. The great maze was beginning to infiltrate their heads with the mystery of its being, size and scope. The great maze was defining the whole landscape and, presumably, directing the lives of all the people living within its boundaries - whether they knew it was a maze or not. Back at the castle it simply was not obvious. Long ago wicked kings must have had trouble sleeping at night. The two travellers had reached a place which was truly different from that which they had known all their lives. But it was still the maze, as built by the Institute of Approved Builders and its army of builders at great expense, and at the command of one single man.
People do strange things thought Mozak as he contemplated just how much effort must have gone into its construction. All these walls, why? Why the fuck did they bother? thought Rufus.
The land was cultivated in places, tamed. Hedgerows divided it up into neat little parcels. They passed by a well at the side of the road. An ancient sign nailed into a high crossbeam from which hung a rusty chain, originally screamed out the message ‘no wishing in this well’. Later some drunken youth had reworked it so that it said ‘no pissing in this well’. Moving on they came across trees which had been recently chopped down, their trunks and branches sliced up and piled up for later removal. A sign, heavily weathered and now almost illegible, said ‘for sale’. Another in a similar state of decomposition declared ‘no climbing’. They came across a collection of neat, snug little cottages: all patched up in so many places that no one part of their construction shared any connection in time with another. Wooden fences, well-maintained, betrayed the presence of hardworking farmers with cattle to enclose. Other buildings they passed were derelict. One was even semi-demolished, its bricks recycled elsewhere.
They saw a lone cow. It was weeping: the flies were making hay; they were making it cry. When Rufus pointed out that fact - the misery so many small flies could inflict upon such a large beast - Mozak laughed, then ignored him, hating the fact that his man was trying to show how clever he was. He fought hard to come up with some clever, witty response, and when he did he turned on Rufus with glee.
‘Who cares? So long as it’s served up, medium-rare, in a thick cherry sauce.’
Then he snickered - because his man had no response to that. Rufus looked away with a heavy heart: Prince Mozak the child could still pop out from time to time.
They saw sheep. Some of the sheep saw them, grew alarmed, and scattered. Others looked on, stupid-looking, as if impressed by the sight of royalty. In time they overtook a man pulling a small handcart. He looked dead to the world and dead to himself. Slowly, but surely, they were re-entering the land of the living.
They passed a vagrant hobbling along on a wooden stick, his make-do crutch. His clothes - more rags than clothes - stank and were infested with a large community of assorted insects who had made it their home. The vagrant looked up, stretched out the palm of one hand and tried, desperately, to give a leisurely smile - as if trying to convince those looking on that he had no care in the world. But he couldn’t smile for dear life: just as he thought he had, his face fell apart. Mozak and Rufus could not look down at him and feel any sense of pity, or sadness, or humanity. They just wanted to keep on moving, and not be distracted, or diverted.
They were being pulled along now, by the Village: the Village was now a large magnet, pulling them in. Mozak wanted to make Village by nightfall. But it was not to be: as the sun began to slip it was clear to both of them that they were still a million miles from somewhere, in the middle of nowhere.
‘We have to stop,’ urged Rufus. ‘We won’t be able to see the road soon.’
‘No. I’m not sleeping rough again. We keep going.’
Rufus couldn’t change his mind, so he fe
ll back and followed on behind - logic being if there were potholes ahead them let the prince be the one to discover them. The dispute resolved itself when they arrived at another scattering of houses. The largest of them was an alehouse and hostelry. A sign - badly painted letters on a rough piece of plank - residing above a bright glowing lantern confirmed this. There was the sound of tethered horses coming from somewhere round the back.
‘Excellent,’ said Mozak and he dismounted in a flourish.
‘Remember who you are,’ advised Rufus as he did likewise.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not a prince. Not here. Remember? Not here. Here you are Marcus.’
Mozak gave him the look which said he didn’t need to be reminded and thumped hard on the door. An elderly, plump woman answered it. She had white hair, and wore a white frock and apron, and had her hair tied back with a white bow (white being a lazy word as it was really all shades of off-white, due to the dirt and stains in residence). She held her oil lamp up high and looked severe, as if looking for trouble. Mozak was not put off - just another miserable peasant - and asked for a room for the night, one with two beds. The woman looked them both up and down and from side to side to check all was in order before responding.
‘I have beds, not rooms. I can give you two beds.’
‘Two beds it is then.’
‘Four rasnetts then.’
Mozak produced his purse and opened it. Seeing the velvet she wanted to touch it with the end of her finger. As he dropped the coins into the palm of her hand she said something about extra charges but Mozak ignored her - he just wanted to fall into bed - while Rufus pretended to be interested in what she was bleating on about.
After she showed them where to tie up their ponies the old woman led them inside, her lamp held up high. Tall candles had been lit here, there and everywhere to hold back the darkness. The air was foul and hard to breathe. But Mozak and Rufus didn’t care: they kept close to her, unconsciously clinging to her like children; not knowing where she was taking them but hoping - trusting - that it was somewhere safe, warm and comfortable.
She led them to a long narrow room, one stacked full with bunk beds. Most of them were empty, and they all smelt, to high heaven, as did their occupants. It smelt like there were dead cats in the room - dead cats being slowly removed from the scene of the crime by maggots, rats and biological decay. The floor was covered in a mix of dirt and sawdust. Somewhere at the back of the room someone started coughing, then someone else told him to shut it, but the coughing continued until it ran out of steam. The flicker of the candles made it feel like a threatening place.
While each stood wondering which bed to grab the old woman disappeared then reappeared in a flash, holding two towels.
‘Rip these and you pay for the re-stitching. And don’t wipe your horses with them.’
Mozak ignored her and grabbed one. She was furious but said nothing. Rufus waited to be handed his and said thank you. The old woman mumbled something about ‘toilet facilities’ down the hall and a tub of fresh clean water from which to draw whatever they needed.
‘There are plenty of washbasins,’ she said proudly, arms folded in close now like she had just been punching the world to death and now needed to give it a rest.
‘Baths cost extra,’ she declared, daring anyone to take up the offer.
Mozak jumped right in. ‘I’m having a bath.’
He expected some mocking retort but none was forthcoming: Rufus was simply glad to take a break from him.
The old woman tried to scare him off when she stated the price (as it was so late she had even doubled the rate) but he was not deterred: money was no problem. Again she disappeared to reappear this time with a bar of soap. She handed it over on the understanding that he handed it back in one piece, and not covered in pubic hairs. The old woman had a thing about other people’s pubic hair: probably because she had encountered so much of it over the course of her career in the hotel business.
She left them to it and together they undressed: Rufus did so without any reserve bubbling up inside to batter his brain; for Mozak it was the opposite. He wasn’t used to undressing in front of strangers - in his view low-life, peasants, dodgy individuals, some probably criminals. Rufus quickly caught on to the pain his little prince was going through and savoured every moment of it. To make things worse one man spoke to Mozak while he was undressing.
‘You dress well. Where did you get those clothes?’
Mozak kept his eyes locked on the floorboards. ‘My tailor.’
That shut him up, thought Mozak. Idiot, thought Rufus.
As Mozak left the room - with just his towel wrapped around his waist - Rufus stuck up two fingers behind him. And that made him feel good, oh so good.
‘Arsehole,’ he whispered.
Someone chuckled and another man spoke up. ‘Where you from boy?’
‘The Castle.’ Rufus bit his tongue. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned that.
‘The Castle?’
The man had raised his voice and suddenly other heads turned, or rolled over, or woke up. All wanted to catch sight of someone who said he was from the Castle. Was he telling the truth or just mad? It all depended upon your mindset. Some believed the Castle did not exist and would never be convinced otherwise. Some believed the Castle did not exist but were open-minded enough to be convinced otherwise if hard evidence was forthcoming. Some did believe, but kept it to themselves. Some simply believed in the myth. One person in the room knew folk who swore that they had met its inhabitants.
Rufus felt threatened, and by what he regarded as his own people: low life, peasants like him. He sat down on the edge of his bed in his underpants; gripping its metal frame like he was sitting on the edge of a cliff, in driving rain, in danger of falling to the rocks below. The blood drained from his face.
The man spoke again. ‘What’s your name boy?’
‘Rufus.’
‘And your mate?’
‘Marcus.’ Rufus stumbled over the word so he said it again. ‘Marcus.’
‘He’s from the Castle? That Castle’s real?’ asked another, particularly ugly looking man.
‘Of course it is,’ replied the first. ‘It’s not a myth. It never was a myth.’
‘What’s he doing here then?’ asked yet another.
This third voice sounded sinister and Rufus didn’t like it. Suddenly he wanted his powerful prince back by his side. He felt outnumbered.
‘Good question,’ said the first. ‘What are you doing here boy?’
Rufus felt his throat drying up. Gut feeling combined with the experience of the bible bashers told him to tread carefully, speak carefully; give nothing away which might cause offence, or alarm, or endanger them, or anything. Self-survival was always at the forefront of his mind: the result of being poor and subject to the whims of the king. He explained, in as few words as possible, that he was just passing through, with his friend, on the way to the village. Just looking for a friend, he added.
‘We’re all passing through this dump!’ shouted a man at the back.
Questioned further, he explained that he worked at the Castle, that he had a job there as a manservant. By this stage Rufus was sweating profusely: too many hard faces eyeing him up, as if waiting for him to make a slip; that plus crippling fatigue was catching up on him fast. The main man asking all the questions decided to give the poor kid a break. The ugly one kept drilling into him, like he wanted to stick a knife into him. A fourth man continued to stare at him because he could not accept that the Castle really did exist. A little relief came when Mozak bounded back into the room, dripping; still gripping his now soaking towel around his waist and clutching the soap in his spare hand.
‘Bloody freezing cold. Bloody well freezing cold. That wasn’t a bath, that was shock treatment, water
torture. Hopped out the moment I hopped in. Never used her bloody soap. Feel like asking for my bloody money back. Bitch.’
Mozak, out of steam, fell silent when he saw his Rufus looking seriously subdued, almost at death’s door. Rufus twitched. He looked threatened. Mozak breathed in deep and puffed out his chest, intending to take charge of their situation.
‘What’s up with you then?’
‘Nothing, Marcus.’
Mozak clutched his towel even tighter and sat down on his bunk bed. ‘Oh yes, Marcus.’
The first man - the main man - turned his focus on him.
‘So you’re from the Castle?’
Mozak, protected only by a towel, dropped his soap and clung to the edge of his bed in much the same way as Rufus. He went on the alert, like when his mother the Dowager Queen or his uncle King Bizi was about to ask him some hard, infuriating question.
‘And what if I am?’
‘Just wanted to know more about the Castle. You’re from the Castle, right? Both of you, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s it like. Tell me.’
Mozak looked at Rufus, wondering what he had said. Rufus stared back, as if to say ‘don’t mess this up’. He looked back at the man who was bothering him.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Is the Castle as big as they say?’
‘I don’t know. It’s big. But how big is big? I just know it’s my castle.’
The ugly one threw in a question. ‘They say the king of the Castle is an evil monster, keeps children locked away for when he’s hungry. Snacks on fresh children they say.’
Mozak was laughing inside while on the outside he was trying to not look dismissive, or in any way like he regarded the man speaking as a total inbred simpleton. A monster? On a bad day yes, thought Mozak. But evil? No.
‘Rubbish,’ he replied.
‘And no one is allowed to leave without his permission,’ said the sinister voice at the back.
That bit was mainly true, thought Mozak. Can’t argue with that.