by Euan McAllen
‘Were you?’
Gregory ignored the swipe.
‘No. After that he would always give me shelter for the night when I was passing through. In exchange I gave him company, and presents of food and other stuff on his shopping list. Fascinating man, but very private. Carries the stories of the builders who put these walls up.’
‘Will he put us up tonight?’ asked Iedazimus.
‘No. Too many of us. I asked but no.’
‘OK on we go then,’ said a defiant Iedazimus. He didn’t sound particularly disappointed. ‘Full speed ahead, no loitering.’
And so on they went, and the walls crept further apart, and grew higher, as if inviting them on, as if tempting them with surprises if only they kept on going, which they did.
A river was the next big hurdle. It cut through the Maze and blocked their path. Grateful for the excuse to rest all but Iedazimus slumped down on its bank of rich green grass in what could be described as a small field. There was a sense of achievement in the air: they had reached an unexpected river, if not yet the expected Village. Iedazimus stood at the river’s edge, contemplating and wondering what Gregory was going to say in his defence for they appeared stuck, with no way round. They crunched biscuits and chewed on dried beef and drank from the fast flowing river. Only one more day from here, announced Gregory cheerfully. The announcement fell flat.
Timothy tugged on his sleeve.
‘I can’t swim,’ he whispered.
Gregory reassured him. ‘Don’t fret, you won’t have to. There is a bridge upstream. That’s where we cross.’ He looked up at Iedazimus, the bane of his life. ‘Did you hear that? We cross upstream, over a bridge.’
Iedazimus turned and looked at Gregory like he was the most clever but most irritating pupil in the classroom. He said nothing and instead sat down alongside his best mates.
Tippo thought he had spotted fish, swimming upstream. Jeno called him stupid. They removed their boots and socks, and rolled up their trousers, and jumped in to paddle about like big kids with attitude. Mutz followed suit, wishing to join in the fun and recharge his feet. Next was Iedazimus, and for once he looked happy and carefree - even very approachable. Gregory watched them all: feeling superior he was unable to let his hair down and join in. Despite wanting to badly, Timothy also declined to join in the fun: reason being he wished to show solidarity. Fargo sat detached, not interested and not understanding why.
Boots back on, they resumed the journey, upstream. They found the bridge as promised and crossed. It was old but rock solid, built to last: crossing it felt good, almost symbolic, though no one could fathom out why. Even Iedazimus looked cheerful, upbeat. On the other side of the river the walls were suddenly even further apart. Now it felt more like a walk in the countryside, and through fields - small fields enclosed by walls. But on this side of the river the Maze still maintained its grip; its walls herding them one way then the next. Fargo looked forward to reaching the Village and making contact with its isolated inhabitants. Likewise Timothy: he wanted to discover his roots. Iedazimus and his mates were looking forward to hot food and a decent bed; hopefully some good beer; perhaps even some loose women. Leaving the bridge behind they climbed a gentle gradient, and each felt he was leaving something behind, and moving onwards to something new - or very old.
***
The tranquil mood which settled was ruined by the sound of dogs, wild dogs; dangerous dogs; hungry dogs; feral dogs who did not respect or fear human beings. They closed in. They crept up close; sniffing the air, growling softly; some snarling, menacing, terrifying; some slightly terrified. The dogs leading the pack were fearsome whereas those trailing were nervous, like foot soldiers forced to follow their leaders. To some the humans smelt of fear. To others they smelt of danger. And at the very rear, all by himself, trailed a small puppy-like dog who didn’t really want to get involved but had to if he wanted to stay in the pack. The pack was all he had. It was his family. He did not want to be expelled, left to survive alone.
The dogs surrounded the humans on three sides - close but not too close. They pushed the humans back until they were up against the wall. Knives came out and Iedazimus and his mates spat at the dogs and goaded them on to do their worst. Timothy and Fargo said prayers while Gregory just watched, pretending to be unaffected by it all.
Timothy’s prayer was answered: he saw a crack in the wall. It started off small at the base but widened as it spread upwards. It provided footholds and handholds for climbing up, so without thinking and without asking Timothy did exactly that. He climbed up to the top of the wall and - gasping for breath - scanned the horizon. He was disappointed: distant walls blocked the view in all directions. It was abundantly clear that he was trapped inside this vast, never-ending maze. That aside, the sight of so much stone, shaped and constructed by a massive army of builders over decades - and possibly generations - was mesmerising. It made him feel insignificant and pushed aside the sound of mad dogs and manic men. Why build these walls? he wondered. Why a maze? Isn’t life already complicated enough without making the land a complicated place? Why can’t we move from A to B in a straight line? Who wants to stop us? His thoughts were cut down by the sound of Iedazimus screaming up at him.
‘Coward!’ he screamed. ‘You’re no soldier, just a fucking failed monk! You’re nothing!’
At which point a dog got too close: Iedazimus grabbed it by the neck and stuck his knife into one of its eyes. The dog fled, whimpering, in a state of shock; shaken by so much severe pain the like of which it had never experienced before. Once it had stood on a very sharp stone but that was nothing compared with this horror. Humans really were dangerous, cruel and evil; not part of the natural world. He would avoid them all from now on. His suffering did not go unnoticed by other dogs: disturbed they backed away, turned, and fled the scene. Jeno wanted to chase after them. Tippo had to reign him in. Iedazimus told him not to act so stupid. Fargo gave a prayer of thanks for which Iedazimus gave him a dirty look. Gregory breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
The little one, the dog with the innocent, puppy-dog face stood shaking with his back against the wall. He was surrounded by mad, bad humans; abandoned by the pack; stranded, possibly about to die a dog’s death. He was stuck in no man’s land between the world of dogs and men. Stung by Iedazimus, and against his better judgement, Timothy climbed down and tried to pretend that he had not heard the man’s tirade against him. Mutz looked back and forth between the two, as if war had finally been declared. Gregory pretended it hadn’t happened: best to keep things simple.
Seeing a living animal in need of help, Timothy crept towards the dog, wishing not to scare it. He wanted to make friends. He needed a new friend. The dog tried to back away but he had nowhere to go. He was right up against the wall: the wall did not give you space to move; sometimes not even space to think. He quivered with anticipation of something horrible about to happen to him. But Timothy just wanted to stroke him on the head, and when he just that did the dog felt better. Then Timothy stroked him under the chin and the dog became convinced that this human might just be a friend. So not all humans are ere the same, he concluded. Timothy and the dog needed each other: that was understood between them. Timothy fed him one of his biscuits, ignoring advice not to, then a second.
‘Don’t waste our food on that dog!’ yelled Iedazimus.
‘It’s my biscuits,’ replied Timothy.
Gregory smiled to himself, glad that his Timothy was finally standing up to the thug. The boy would need to hold his own with bigger egos and stronger personalities; and fight, and win; and perhaps one day give up God.
Timothy vowed to adopt the dog. He would protect him, nurture him, give him a home, and most importantly give him a name. Timothy persuaded him to stay at his side when they moved on - not too difficult a thing to do as the dog did not want to be left alone, abandoned. He wanted - needed - someone to fo
llow and this friendly young human with a strong scent and smell of the outdoors was as good as any other dog.
That evening as they sat and ate, Gregory promised them they were nearly there. If they did good speed the next day they would reach the village well before nightfall. That night the dog slept close up to Timothy, taking a dog’s share of his body’s warmth. That night Gregory thought hard about what might happen when they reached the Village, and all the things which had ever happened to him in that place - some things good, some bad. That night Iedazimus contemplated his next move. He wanted swords, helmets, horses - he had to have those. He wanted to return to the Castle as a soldier, in style; looking like a conquering hero even if he had conquered nothing. That night his best mates Jeno and Tippo switched from being mainly negative to mainly positive for they were almost half way there. That night Fargo contemplated the first move of his new mission in his new life. That night Mutz slept like a log. He was going home. Mother would be proud.
***
It all changed the next day: they approached a tunnel which cut into a hill. It was dark inside and it smelt disgusting, like raw sewage. Gregory explained that this was a short cut to the Village: either that or a long exhausting climb up and over the hill. Iedazimus did not allow a vote: he would decide, and he decided upon the tunnel. As they shuffled towards the darkness and the smell they were greeted by an awful, high pitch wail - the sound of someone being tortured or a witch being roasted on a spit. The sound echoed along the tunnel, gaining strength. It stopped them in their tracks. They waited but nothing happened. Reminding himself that he was the leader and could not show fear, Iedazimus demanded they follow him in. Timothy stepped into line first, to prove that he was no coward, no dog in tow. He was followed by Mutz who had the same intention; then Jeno and Tippo, but only because they were slow off the mark. Gregory and Fargo brought up the rear. Knives were drawn. Minds were concentrated.
A woman appeared out of the shadows, pushing what looked like a small wooden wheelbarrow. In it was a red-faced baby, wrapped up; a baby which burst out screaming again; and on the wheelbarrow were two candles, which she quickly blew out to save on wick. When she saw the band of vagabonds blocking her way she nearly had a heart attack for they looked desperate. She tried to reverse when the nearest approached her. He put away his knife.
‘Apologies, we did not mean to scare you. I was not expecting a woman.’
‘What were you expecting? A man?’
Iedazimus ignored the criticism. ‘Is this the way to the village?’
‘Of course it is. Where else would it go?’
A typical villager, thought Gregory. Charmless.
The woman pushed on past quickly, wishing to be gone, resentful of these bedraggled men who were watching her every move as if in judgement of her looks and appearance. Iedazimus pushed on.
‘Come on, let’s get this over with, onward to the Village!’ he yelled, to make it clear that he was up for any fight.
Timothy picked up his new four-legged friend and held him tight, stroking him constantly as he was consumed by the gloom, the pitch black, and the damp, bad air. He feared that he was walking through shit; that nasty insects would drop from above into his hair, his face, down the back of his neck; that Stevie would make a run for it; that the Village would be like this; that he would not cope when he arrived. The tunnel sucked the heat from his body and made his skin feel sticky. The others were suffering the same.
‘Just keep on going straight ahead,’ advised Gregory, trying to sound upbeat. ‘The worse you can do is walk into a wall.’
So they staggered on, one hand stretched out, occasionally tripping over themselves or each other; swearing; slipping on mud and cobblestones. A hard climb up and over a hill in sunshine suddenly felt like the better option. Stevie whimpered all of the way but he did not try to jump ship: safety lay in his new master’s firm embrace. His master was his future - and he handed out biscuits.
As they broke back out into now glorious sunlight and invigorating fresh air - all shivering - Iedazimus stormed ahead for they had a proper road ahead of them. He wanted to be free of Gregory, if only for a while. He did not care if the rest did not keep up. He made it a challenge: who could catch him up, and how quickly? But no one would play his game, not even his best mates. There was plenty of daylight left. Why rush? Iedazimus was forced to stop and wait. As for the Village itself, expectation was heavy in the air but no one expressed it or shared it. It was the big elephant in the room - in the Maze.
***
An hour later they reached the Village - whereupon Fargo thanked the lord and Stevie urinated up against the side of a post. The Village did not impress. It looked run down, else cobbled together: rubbish littered the street; there was the smell of shit, and not just horse shit. They saw two men dismantling the remains of a wall, conscientiously building a neat pile of blocks of stone. They watched the strangers trudge past and returned scowling looks when their hard work was put under scrutiny. The wall was being recycled: it would end up as an extension to a house owned by one of the Village Elders.
They passed by what looked like a church. Is that really a church? thought Timothy. It looked dilapidated. He did not sense the presence of God in this place. This is no village, thought Timothy - and others - this is a town. His enthusiasm upon arrival had sunk. This was where he was born? What kind of people lived here? God-loving, god-fearing people? Fargo saw what he saw but reacted in a different way: he saw opportunities; he saw a future for himself, a new future for the villagers, a future in which he would be at the centre, providing the sustenance, the leadership. He felt he had arrived at a large table upon which a large feast of broken souls had been spread out for his consumption. Soon he could begin God’s work. Soon he could rehabilitate himself. Iedazimus took it all in, remembering what it had been like all those years ago - a lifetime ago. Likewise his best mates, but with less clarity, less success. Stevie became nervous and Timothy had to reassure him: too many humans; too many humans making too many strange noises; too many alien smells; too much sensory input. He stuck close to Timothy’s leg while Timothy repeatedly patted him and spoke to him like he was a little brother.
Iedazimus put a pertinent question to Gregory.
‘To the blacksmith, yes? For lodgings?’
‘Yes, makes sense.’ (That had always been his intention.)
‘You know where to find him?’
‘Yes I remember.’
‘He can get us horses?’
‘Yes.’
‘And swords?’
‘Yes.’
‘And helmets?’
Gregory began to tire of the questions. ‘Yes, if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s what I want. I am a warrior - me, Jeno, Tippo, Mutz, we are warriors.’
Mutz perked up when he heard his name.
‘He should do all that, if you pay him enough.’
‘I will pay him enough don’t you worry.’
Iedazimus shook his purse of gold and silver to wind up Gregory. He had done well Outside. Gregory ignored him.
‘Stay close,’ he said to Timothy. ‘Don’t get lost.’
Stop fussing, thought Timothy. You sound like someone’s dad.
Gregory led them on to the blacksmith’s. They passed by houses, some poorly maintained with overgrown gardens to match; and hedges, some left to sprawl, grow ragged, some trimmed. They passed by tramps and drunks; bored, bone idle teenagers; skinny dirty kids in recycled rags; struggling mothers with defiant children; brainless men, also bored rigid; the elderly - nervous-looking, as if getting old in the Village was a dangerous thing to do. It was only early evening but already the drinking had started. Fargo took in the faces, and took notes. Here he saw a reason for his existence, his rebirth. He saw massive room for improvement. Yes, God did have a plan for him.
The blacksmith was at home. There was smoke coming from the chimney and candlelight flickered at the windows. It was meal time. Gregory could see the family sitting at the kitchen table: there was Breamston, always in charge at the head of the table; looking stern and important as Mrs Breamston distributed the meal; and there was their girl - their adopted girl - looking on like some underpaid, overworked, disenchanted housemaid. Nothing had changed. Something should change, he thought.
He signalled at the others to hold back while he approached. He tapped hard on the window and the Breamstons all looked up, startled. The blacksmith frowned, as did his wife. The girl, a girl teetering on the edge of full womanhood, produced a big smile. Without hesitating or asking permission - she did less and less of that these days - she jumped up and ran to the door. Outside she greeted Gregory, her oldest friend; giving him a heartfelt hug of affection, the kind of simple hug only an innocent child could give a grown man who was not her father (no rules, no entanglements, no pre-conditions, nothing untoward, nothing outstanding - just the joy of the contact and the connection of two souls who shared a history). Her new audience threw each other glances: Mutz & Timothy in particular, for the girl come woman was attractive, a future seductress.
‘You’re back!’ she exclaimed, excited, as if she knew what was to come.
‘Yes I’m back,’ replied Gregory, in a voice intended to calm. She needed to be calmed.
He introduced her, knowing that she was the centre of attention and dazzling them all.
‘This is Esmeralda.’
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling at them all with equal measure. She wanted to welcome them all to her home.
No one returned the greeting, which bothered her. Were these men and the one ‘still a boy, man’ too tired or too shy, or just cynical. Timothy managed only a weak smile: she didn’t catch it. Mutz kept staring at her, as if undressing her. Fargo watched them both devour her figure and decided he should keep an eye on them, especially Timothy: he would struggle to contain sexual desire and temptation. And he should know. He also stared at her, but only because she reminded him of a young, bashful Adolphinus.