by Euan McAllen
The sinister voice continued. ‘They say all the kings were cannibals.’
‘Look he didn’t - doesn’t - eat anybody - just dead animals. No peasants, and certainly not children, or babies, not anything human. My uncle is not a cannibal. None of them were.’
Rufus became worried: Mozak was sounding angry.
‘Your uncle?’
‘Yes, what about it?’
‘Your uncle is king?’
Mozak froze and broke out in a cold sweat. Rufus jumped in quickly to salvage a dangerous situation.
‘Stop talking nonsense Marcus. Your uncle is not a king. He’s mental, a day-dreamer. His uncle cleans out the king’s shit bowls every morning.’
Rufus forced out a limp laugh. ‘Your uncle’s full of shit Marcus.’
Marcus wanted to laugh it off but couldn’t even produce a grin.
‘That’s right,’ he conceded, croaking. ‘My uncle is full of shit.’
And then for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he felt better for saying it.
‘Your uncle works for the king?’ asked the main man. ‘What’s he like?’
‘My uncle?’
‘No you stupid clot, the king.’
‘The king? Well he’s...’
Mozak stalled and again looked at Rufus for help. But this time poor Marcus was on his own.
‘The king is the king.’
‘But what’s he like? Tell us. Is he wicked, evil?’
‘Does he eat babies?’ asked the ugly one.
Mozak blew up. ‘No the king doesn’t eat babies. He eats everything else on the plate but not the babies. I’m sure of that. And he drinks. He drinks like a fish, like there’s no tomorrow. He can drink anybody under the table. Yes he’s an arsehole. And his farts are disgusting, I mean really disgusting, foul, really foul.’
That produced laughter from the audience. Even Rufus was able to smile again.
‘I remember one time, celebrating his birthday, he jumped up on the table and started bawling at his mistresses, telling them they had to get their act together. That really pissed them off. He threw a whole roast chicken at them. It was hilarious. Then he slipped and fell off - luckily they caught him, else he probably would have split his big head open and died. Which would have been a real shame.’
‘You were there? At the king’s birthday party?’ It was the sinister one again, now sounding even more sinister.
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’
Rufus had to jump in again to rescue his prince.
‘Stop the bullshit, Marcus. You were never there. Stop trying to impress everybody. You’re a daydreamer. You’re just a poor little peasant like me - low life, scum. Your uncle shovels shit - just like you will one day.’
‘Piss off Rufus.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with shovelling shit. It’s a safe job. Everybody shits you know Marcus. Everybody shits. You know that.’
Marcus stared at him, like he wanted to grab him by the throat and squeeze the talk out of him. Rufus stared back like he was telling him to ‘fuck off’. He was too tired to fight. He had had enough: he slipped into bed and wrapped himself up in his sheets.
‘I’m going to sleep. I’ve had enough for one day.’
It was a hollow boast: Rufus was in no mental state yet to fall asleep, not while he was surrounded by stalking wolves.
The main man had one last question for Marcus. ‘Does he have an army?’
‘Army? No. No need for one he says.’
‘Does he have a queen?’
‘Queen? No. Just his mistresses.’
‘No queen? No children?’
‘No, no children.’
‘Who will succeed him? What happens when he dies?’
‘I don’t know. Sorry but I really need to get some sleep.’ It sounded like a limp excuse but it was in fact the truth. ‘I’m seriously shattered. I’m going to sleep. No more questions.’
And with that Mozak threw his towel to the floor and jumped into bed double-quick. Like Rufus he wrapped himself up in his sheets, like Rufus refusing to come out. Some of his clothes slipped to the floor - the dirty disgusting floor - but he had ceased caring. And still they wouldn’t leave him alone.
Another voice suddenly cut the silence like a sharp blade. ‘Those are nice clothes.’
Mozak trembled. Servants he could order out of the room. Here he was stuck. Here he felt naked. (He was naked.) Had he blown his cover?
‘Thank you.’
The sinister man spoke again. ‘How can you afford to wear clothes like that? Those are expensive clothes.’
‘He’s royalty!’
‘No, definitely not!’
Mozak was stuck again and prayed for Rufus to bail him out. It felt like an age before it finally came, from underneath the sheets.
‘He stole them. Didn’t you Marcus? You little shit. Like you stole my cheese wedge.’
Mozak was thrown. Cheese wedge? Where the hell did that come from? He tried to think about anything other than the fact that here he was, a prince, stuck in some god-awful, infested room with a bunch of peasants and a Rufus who was now mocking him. He wanted to punish them all but here he was Marcus and home was far away.
‘Sorry about that. I was hungry.’
‘An apology - about time. Now let me get some sleep.’
Sleep, thought Mozak. That was a good idea.
Under the sheets the prince was no longer a prince and the peasant was no longer a peasant. They were just two fragile souls, far from home. Later in the night, unable to sleep, Mozak stuck his head out, to see a cockroach climbing up the wall no more than a foot away from his face. He retreated back under the covers, the cover of darkness. Best to remain hidden right now.
***
They awoke to an empty room: that unnerved them. It was like they had missed out on something important; like they had been left behind. They dressed quickly; avoided talk; took a dump in the shit hole; washed and left in a hurry; not once looking back for they had something close and tangible now to look ahead to. They continued on their way, propelled along by the thought - the carrot - that their destination was within grasp. They were almost there, at the Village, where, what next exactly? Mozak had no plan and Rufus knew it.
The road was busy now. It was a highway of community and commerce. They overtook slow moving pedestrians, and in turn were themselves overtaken by men on large powerful horses. They had reached the outskirts of the Village and now there was a continuous line of buildings along both sides of the road. They had front gardens with trimmed hedges and places to park any four-legged animal. The buildings existed at the expense of the walls: they had been dismantled in places, their bricks recycled to provide housing. People could pass through the gaps with ease. There was no maze here, just the inconvenience of scattered fragments of walls which performed no purpose: they kept nothing out and nothing in. They reached a crossroads, where a roadside sign said ‘Village Limits’. And still the road went on.
‘This isn’t a village,’ remarked Rufus. ‘this is something much bigger.’
Mozak was forced to agree with him.
They saw two young men sitting at the side of the road, side by side, as if waiting for someone to give them a lift. Mozak stopped to ask directions for the centre of the Village. The man he spoke to gestured at him to cease speaking. Mozak, peeved at being told what to do, watched while the man produced a pencil and notepad. Then he gestured Mozak to speak again.
‘Speak slowly please so he can write it down,’ said the other man.
Puzzled, Mozak repeated himself slowly as requested. The man passed the notepad across to his companion who read it eagerly, smiled, and pointed the way.
‘Straight ahead, that way. Keep on going until you hit the m
arket square. You can’t go wrong.’
His voice sounded weird, out of tune. He sounded a bit simple.
Mozak tried to ask him a follow up question but he was waved down.
‘No, no, you must tell my friend. He will write it down for me to read.’ The notepad was handed back.
‘Why?’
‘Sorry but I can’t hear you. I’m deaf.’
Mozak turned back to the first man. ‘But you can hear me?’
The man nodded and waved his notepad. His friend replied instead.
‘He can hear you, just can’t speak. He’s mute.’
Mozak decided not to ask his next question. The process was too laborious. He had wanted to ask about lodgings, but it could wait. He thanked them for their help and moved on quickly, a compliant Rufus in tow.
As they approached the Village centre - this was no village, this was a small town, perhaps even a large town - they passed a large duck pond. A small boy, holding on to his mother’s hand - or rather she was holding him to stop him falling in - was throwing bread at the ducks. The sight of bread reminded them of food, and that made them hungry. When they reached the market square they found it busy. They had arrived.
‘Now what do we do?’ asked Rufus.
‘Get something to eat?’
‘Good idea. Won’t argue with that. Fresh fruit. I need to eat fresh fruit.’
To Mozak that sounded like a good idea. He pointed out a nearby stall selling fruit and vegetables. This was a whole new experience for him - shopping for food - and he was looking forward to trying it.
‘I could buy some apples.’
‘And bread,’ added Rufus.
‘Of course.’
‘And cheese.’
‘That to.’ Mozak shook him off before it turned into a shopping list. ‘Apples first.’
While Rufus held the ponies he approached the stall and made his selection, which he received in a brown paper bag. The price which meant nothing to Mozak.
‘Will a rasnett cover it?’
‘Of course.’
The trader held out his hand in eager anticipation - if all his customers were this free and easy with their money he could retire early - while Mozak reached for his purse.
It wasn’t there. His purse was not where it was supposed to be. He checked again and again and all over but to no avail. It was gone. He had lost it - or some scum had stolen it. He looked over his shoulder at Rufus, a look of pain on his face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s gone. My purse is gone.’
‘Gone? What do you mean gone?’
‘Gone. What else do I mean? Gone, stolen.’
Mozak waved away the apples and the trader, pissed off with the time wasting, turned away in disgust. It had been too good to be true.
Mozak looked lost. Rufus had an idea.
‘We must find Foccinni, immediately. He will help us out. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ mumbled Mozak. He sounded broken.
‘We find lodgings first, then go find him. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘He has to be round here somewhere. Yes?’
‘Yes.’ Mozak was a lost child. ‘How do we do that?’
‘We ask anyone who rents out rooms, takes in lodgers.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘It’s a village, can’t be that many.’
‘No, can’t be that many.’
‘And your name is Marcus, right?’
‘Yes my name is Marcus.’ Mozak suddenly seemed to revive. ‘Yes my name is Marcus. I know. Stop nagging. You’re worse than my mother.’
‘No one is worse than your mother.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
Mozak decided to let that one go. This was not the time or place.
Taking the advice of a market trader (a different one) they found the house of ‘Madam Overy’ and rented a room despite the fact they could not cough up a deposit. She had taken pity on them and accepted their promise that they would pay her by the end of the week. She was the cheapest, which was why her establishment was opposite the brothel. The smell of cooking sent them both into a state of shock.
‘You can share my lamb casserole,’ she said. ‘On the house. Normally I charge for meals.’
She looked Mozak up and down, impressed by his clothes. ‘You from the Outside?’
‘Yes,’ replied Rufus quickly, before his prince could let the cat out of the bag.
‘My name is Rufus and this is my friend Marcus.’
Mozak looked at Rufus: he had used the word ‘friend’ like he meant it.
They were shown to their room and, left alone, proceeded to bounce up and down on the soft beds and rediscover the joy of laughter. After enjoying their landlady’s hot casserole served with a large lump of bread, they headed out into the big wide world of the Village; armed with knowledge of the other two boarding houses - both more expensive than hers, insisted Madam Overy. They agreed to split and take one each.
Part Two: Outward Bound
In an iron bedstead deep beneath a massive duvet a young man was cocooned alongside an older woman. Both were asleep. Both were feeling good: she in her recycled dream; he in his new. It was daylight outside and the light was strong due to the snow which had fallen in the night, but it could not wake them: but the man standing at the end of the bed could. He looked like a monk, a holy man, a man of the cloth, but looks deceive: he was something far more sinister. He was a special kind of monk: a monk whose sole duty it was to monitor all other monks and the wider community. His job was to police, not pray.
Tipped off, he had crept into the room. He had come for the novice monk, to take him away to answer for his super-sized sin. He grabbed the boy (in his book no way a man yet by any measure) by the foot and shook him awake. Timothy opened his eyes, startled beyond belief, like God has crashed in through the ceiling. The prostitute stirred and moaned. She did not want to be disturbed. But she was. She opened her eyes and looked annoyed: as usual it was the men who were the problem.
The police monk beckoned with his favourite finger. ‘You, you come with me.’
Timothy did not resist or argue. He knew he had no choice. He knew he was in big trouble. He looked at the woman as he put on his robe. Was it worth it? he asked himself. Yes, he answered. Well worth it. I felt alive.
The prostitute watched him leave as he was led away under arrest. She felt sorry for him. Another one bites the dust, she thought, and tried to get back to sleep.
He was marched back up the hill to the monastery. The police monk said nothing. Timothy said nothing. As he was led into the monastery he entered a different world: one of strict moral values and precise rules strictly enforced at all times and on time; for in here God was strict and unforgiving. It was time for prayers but Timothy was not allowed to attend: he had to face a different kind of music. He had to face the Chief Monk. He was frogmarched towards the man’s office, along the many passages and past many doors which could drive a man or monk dizzy. Other novices who passed by him avoided eye contact. On the outside Timothy the vulnerable suddenly felt very isolated, very undesirable. On the inside, Timothy the rebel wanted to curse God for inventing the curse of sex.
The police monk knocked on door and on hearing the faint sound of ‘enter’ pushed the door open, gently. He prodded Timothy in the shoulder blade, and almost pushed him into the room. He swung the door shut behind Timothy leaving him alone with the Chief Monk. The Chief Monk did not look happy. He took time out to look Timothy up and down, as if trying to understand what was standing in front of him. He shook his head like the boy had just been rejected from heaven.
‘Come closer. Here, stand at my desk.’
The desk looked far away and T
imothy crept towards it as if it was in danger of biting him, or exploding, or revealing God. It was a big desk for its worktop had to cater for a lot of business.
‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself? You have let down the order. You have let me down.’
Timothy tried to speak but his throat refused to cooperate.
‘Your guardian will be very disappointed. You should be ashamed.’
Timothy tried to nod in agreement but his neck also refused to cooperate - just like every other moving part of his body refused to cooperate. Such was the ability of the Chief Monk to inflict fear and paralysis. The Chief Monk glared into his eyes. Was there good in this boy? Was he any good? Was he worth the investment?
‘Do you feel ashamed of yourself?’
This time Timothy managed to speak. ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
Unfortunately, he spoke with what sounded like a touch of defiance and the Chief Monk banged the desk with the outstretched palm of his hand - not being one for making fists.
‘Well I don’t think so.’
The man took a deep breath before delivering his punch line.
‘This is one infringement too many. You have broken too many rules and this one is the most outrageous, the most unforgivable. I am a forgiving person but I cannot forgive this. You cannot remain here.’
‘What? I don’t understand?’
Timothy truly did not understand. He was not the only novice monk to have broken the odd rule here and there. And he had heard rumours that monks had visited the brothel - as that thought struck him it occurred to Timothy that such infringements must have happened before the current Chief Monk had taken up office.
‘Well let me explain. You are clearly not meant for the monastic life. There is a fire in your spirit and it is out of control. Your soul does not sit at ease. It is confused. And you are a bad influence on others. You must go. You must leave. In fact you must leave right now.’
‘Leave? Now?’
The announcement stunned Timothy. His head began to cave in and he struggled to stand.
‘Now.’ The Chief Monk looked away as he waved his problem away. ‘Go.’
He barked at the door. It opened and Timothy’s escort entered the room.