by Euan McAllen
‘Leave me alone.’
‘What?’
‘I said leave me alone. I want to be alone.’
Rufus wanted to remind his prince that this was their room, not his. It contained two beds not me. But seeing the state of him he decided it was probably best to leave him be. Let him stew. I need to walk around a bit, thought Rufus. Walk off this bad head.
Alone, Esmeralda sat in self-induced melancholy, surrounded by the taunts of her childhood: a jumping rope tied up in a knot; a stick but no hoop; a knitted puppet glove, ripped open; a half finished dolls house, standing empty; a yo-yo but no cord; a spinning top which always fell over; a snapped ink quill. She started to cry, just a little, just like the little girl she thought she had left behind. She cried because she was afraid of the future, afraid for the future, saddened by the past and the present combined. Just as she started to cry she managed to finish crying: she refused to cry, even when she wanted to. Crying was for cry-babies. Crying was for little girls - and big girls. She didn’t want to be a girl anymore.
She looked out of her attic window, to stare at the same bit of sky she had stared at a thousand times before. She looked down, to see the new boy on the block Timothy loitering, stretching out his arms and sucking up the fresh air with big deep breaths. She wanted to be by his side. She wanted to be excited. She wanted a little dog like Stevie - exactly like Stevie. Why did Mrs Breamston hates pets so?
She looked again: this time Timothy was with another man; the strange one, the one who had asked her if she believed in God. Timothy did not look happy - nor for that matter did the strange man. They were talking: both excitedly; both erratically. The man stepped forward, wishing to provide comfort. She saw Timothy step back, wishing for none of that. The man reached out and tried to capture Timothy’s arm, as if to reel him in, as if to escort him off the premises. But Timothy was too nimble, too quick for him, and walk away at speed. She heard them shout at each other with increasing loudness. It was not nice. She didn’t like people shouting at each other. It unnerved her.
‘Why won’t you come and pray with me? I found a church. We have a church! We should set a good example! We should stick to together!’
You can stick it thought Timothy.
‘Too much on my mind right now!’
‘Like what!’
‘Like what happened to my parents!’
You fool! thought Timothy.
‘Let me help you!’
‘No thank you!’
‘Remember you can always share your thoughts with me in total confidence!’
‘Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind!’
‘I’ll catch you later then!’
‘Fine! You do that!’
Good for you thought Esmeralda. Don’t let the adults bully you.
Brother Fargo was very disappointed with Timothy and walked away in the opposite direction, thinking how to best win his trust, his confidence, his loyalty, his heart. Was young Timothy fleeing God? Was that why he had come to this miserable place? A son of the Monastery was giving up on God? That would not do. That was simply not acceptable. We must be united, he thought; stand united, for we are outnumbered right now. I must build an army and Timothy must help me. And with an army, we can take this village. That church is a troubled place, thought Fargo. (And because of that he would look for trouble; he would cause trouble; he would be trouble.) Encouraged by his own thoughts - his growing addiction to his growing vision - he headed off back to Church.
After killing time wandering around in circles or stopping to stare at the odd, scattered remains of ancient maze walls, Timothy slipped back to his room. He needed to lie down. His body was not exhausted but his head was. Everything - everybody - had been too much today and the day still had lots to run, much to give, much to take.
Brother Fargo returned to the church, his new home, to be closer to God. This time he had to share his space: a village parishioner sat in prayer. He was a young man, a sweet young man noted Fargo. He smiled as Fargo slipped into the pew opposite and Fargo felt forced to return the gesture - he really wanted the place to himself. In time the sexton appeared from behind a pillar. I know what you’re up to, thought Fargo. You’ve come to spy on me. You question my motives. The young man and the sexton exchanged big beaming smiles: like a husband and wife who had not seen each other for a while. As if on cue the young man stood up and followed the sexton out. Fargo, suspicious, twisted round to see them step out into the sunlight - together, the sexton’s arm slung across the young man’s shoulder. Fargo recognised the signs. He had seen such things before. The only question was, how far did it go? And in the Village did they expel you or hang you? He filed away the experience under ‘useful information’ and returned to the business of praying - or to honest, snoozing - only to be disturbed by a tap on the shoulder. It was the old man.
‘What?’
Fargo sounded irritated.
The old man apologised, said he wanted to show him something: urgent he said when Fargo tried to shake him off. Relenting, Fargo allowed himself to be led out and around to the rear of the church. There the old man pointed proudly at a storage room. It was where he lived, he explained and persuaded Fargo to follow him inside, tugging at his cloth. It was a large room, made small by all the rubbish it contained at one end: church supplies stacked up high; gardening tools scattered across the floor; bits of fencing posts propped up in a corner along with odd cuts of fencing panels; roof tiles; a stepladder; bits of rolled up carpet.
At the other end - the tidy, clean spacious end which the old man claimed as his alone - were laid out across the floor a large number of cushions of all shapes, colours and sizes. They were his bed. There was a small table and chair; a small stove and a small cupboard containing his few possessions. As the end of his life grew ever closer, this was all what the old man had to show for his life. It did not amount to much. Most of it he had begged for or borrowed, but never stolen. There was one item though which was special, unique, which he had created alone; through long endless days on foot, out in all weather, whilst coping with hunger, thirst and sometimes self-doubt. The old man kept it rolled up and hidden away at the back of the cupboard. He wanted to show it to the fellow monk.
It was a map, incomplete, sketched out on a large piece of vellum with black ink. Here and there it was adorned with little simple pictures - doodles almost - depicting highlights such as big trees, wells, rivers, hills, areas of bog and gaps in walls, even the sign of human habitation. The Village was clearly marked at the centre and the old man pointed at it proudly.
‘You know what this is?’
‘A map.’
Fargo tried not to sound impressed. He preferred to impressed others.
‘But a map of what you are asking yourself?’
‘A map of the maze - or a least some of it.’ Fargo pointed. ‘That is the Village.’
‘Very good. This is the Village here, as you can see, and this is the Outside.’
The old man pointed at the edge of the map. ‘And this is our monastery.’
He ran his finger along the marked route which ran between the two.
‘And this is how to get between the two. Beautiful isn’t it?’
Fargo had to admit it, he was impressed.
‘That’s good. That’s very good. How long did it take you to put this together?’
‘Three summers. There’s still much missing. It doesn’t reach the Castle. And the Maze just kept on going - the number of times I had to turn back.’
‘You must be very proud of this.’
‘I am. Yes I am.’
The old man suddenly looked very intense. He looked Fargo straight in the eye. Fargo took a step back.
‘What?’
‘I want to complete it - as far as the Castle. Find a way to the Castle. Record it. So I ca
n extend the map.’
‘I’m not going to the castle. I’m staying here. I have God’s work to do, do here.’
The old man was baffled.
‘But this is God’s work? This is God’s greatest work? This is his greatest challenge. I gave up everything to take on this task.’
‘Why?’
‘Complete the map and we are all free, free from control of the Maze.’
Free the world. A lovely expression thought Fargo. I can use that.
‘Sorry but no. I would like to help but I have other plans right now, other ambitions.’
The old man grabbed his fellow monk by the arm.
‘Change your plans! This is much more important!’
Not for me it isn’t, thought Fargo and he tried to shake off the old man but he would not let go. If anything he tightened his grip: for an old man he had a strong grip. Fargo lashed out and accidentally struck the man on the face. The old man staggered and nearly fell. Fargo grabbed him just in time and helped him recover his balance, apologising profusely.
‘Sorry, forgive me. That was unintended. I didn’t mean it. Honest.’
Fargo had come close to striking a monk before, but never followed through. The old man staggered away and sat down on his bed of cushions, stunned into silence, the wind knocked out of him. He had not expected such a reaction from a monk of the Monastery. Standards had dropped, he told himself.
Fargo decided it was time to leave. He apologised again, and made his exit quickly. As he walked back past the side of the church he stopped and looked in through a window to see the sexton and his friend sitting side by side at a desk. Were they were holding hands? No, thought Fargo. Yes, thought Fargo, resolutely correcting himself despite the lack of evidence. He continued to watch them, hoping for more evidence of something untoward, but nothing happened. No matter, he thought. There will be other days. Satisfied he had a scoop, he went on his way. There was more of village life to explore.
***
Iedazimus wandered into the Village to find the brothel, not wishing to ask for directions, preferring instead to rely upon memory. Nothing had changed as far as he could tell: these people still looked cold, lifeless, hard done by. They looked like prisoners. He wanted to move on fast. He wanted his true life back, and he would fight anyone who stood in his way.
He found the brothel just where he had left it. On the outside nothing had changed, as for the inside, well that was a different matter. He paused before entering, remembering the good, rollicking times he had had in there - though he was short in detail. He was older now, on his way to being worn out. Could he wear out the girls or would they wear him out? Would they laugh behind his back? And had Madam changed much? Would she embrace him or kick him out? He had to find out, so stepped inside.
There was the room on the left and the one on the right. He poked his head inside each: both were empty; there was the same old desk. He headed to the rear of the building where he knew he would find the kitchen and scullery. There would always be some girl cooking, eating or washing. And there was, except this girl was a middle-aged woman with her hair drawn back tight by a hairgrip. Iedazimus sneaked up and grabbed her by her hips while she stooped over a pile of dirty laundry. He wanted to surprise her. It had been a long time.
‘Boo!’
‘Whoa!’ She straightened up, her body electrified. ‘Stop it.’
‘Elsie?’
The brothel keeper turned and shook off him off.
‘I’m not Elsie. Who are you?’
‘What happened to Elsie?’
‘What’s it to you?’ The brothel keeper had the eyes of a fox and the voice of someone who worked in the legal profession.
Iedazimus decided a small lie was in order. ‘She was an old friend of mind. I was passing through, wanted to say hallo.’
The brothel keeper was not convinced. No one just ‘passed through’ the Village. No matter.
‘Elsie is dead.’
‘Oh. Shame.’ No matter. ‘And who are you then?’
‘Her sister.’
‘I don’t remember you?’
The answer came quick as a flash, and with a cutting edge.
‘I don’t remember you.’
Fair enough, thought Iedazimus. I’m starting to like this one.
‘Well never mind.’ At that point Iedazimus dropped the pretence. ‘Are you open for business?’
The brothel keeper took in the face and the clothes - well-made clothes. He was not from the village.
‘Show me your money.’
Iedazimus showed her his money. She was impressed but took care not to show it.
‘Very well. Follow me.’
The brothel keeper led her client to the front room, there to book him a slot and take his money. (As he was an Outsider she charged him a higher rate.) She asked if he had any preferences.
‘Meaning?’
‘Any type of girl?’
‘No. Just as long as they are clean, healthy.’
The brothel keeper took that as an insult and showed it in no uncertain terms.
‘They are all clean and healthy,’ she snapped.
Iedazimus raised a hand in surrender. ‘No offence meant.’
‘None taken,’ she replied in total contradiction.
Before she called a girl down a question was begging to be asked.
‘You knew my sister?’
‘Briefly. When did she die?’
‘Ten years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Don’t be, thought the brothel keeper. She brought it upon herself. Back to business she thought, shunning bad memories. She went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up at the top of her voice for one of her girls to come down. Her loud booming voice impressed. Iedazimus liked a forceful woman.
A girl appeared, slowly creeping down the stairs. She had been disturbed from her sleep. Before reaching the bottom, she stopped, stared at Iedazimus for what seemed an age then told him to follow her up. Iedazimus rushed up and followed her into her bed. There he took charge.
Nothing was said - the girl was not paid to talk, just to do - and while Iedazimus made love his mind wandered off the point and he began to think of home, true home; and whether it had changed much, and whether he had changed much; and whether it would welcome him back; and would he have to start from scratch? The only certainty was the king: the cruel, cretinous king still ruled. He opened his eyes and piled on the pressure as the girl groaned beneath his weight. Reasonable, he concluded, as he rolled off and allowed her to breathe properly. Next time on top, he promised himself. He had an hour booked but left after only twenty minutes - in one sense satisfied, in another, not.
Outside on the landing, as he adjusted his clothing, he looked down to the first landing to see Timothy climbing the stairs. The little sod was creeping up the stairs. Iedazimus stood back against the wall, wishing to surprise him. Monks - hypocrites! Except this wasn’t Timothy. Wrong clothes! It was the other one. And this one wore far better clothes. This was no village boy. The gravest suspicions reared up again, this time with complete clarity and total disbelief. He waited with bated breath as the twin kept climbing towards his appointment with a prostitute.
When Timothy’s twin turned the last corner and reached the top, Iedazimus leapt forward and in a flash grabbed him by the neck from behind. He drew his hunting knife and held it at his throat while at the same time covering his mouth. Mozak, in a state of shock, grabbed the banister to prevent himself falling down.
‘Who the devil are you! Tell me or I’ll slit your throat!’ (Iedazimus had no intention of slitting his throat.)
‘Marcus. Marcus.’ Mozak stumbled over the word. It was like his mouth was full of grit.
Grabbing him by the collar, Iedazimus forced
the boy to turn and face him.
‘Marcus who?’
‘Marcus, just Marcus. I don’t have a second name.’
‘Why not?’
Mozak had never thought so quickly in his entire life, but then never before had his life depended on what he said next.
‘My family are peasants. They just have names.’
That seemed to satisfied his assailant: Mozak tried to look away from the eyes which were drilling into him.
‘From where? Where are you from?’
‘From here, from round here.’
Iedazimus pushed him back until his arm was fully outstretched and looked down at the clothes. These were the clothes of a rich man. There were brass buttons on the waist coat: he had once worn similar, a long time ago, back at the Castle. Castle! These were the clothes of a Castle nobleman, the Castle aristocracy! Iedazimus pulled his catch ‘Marcus’ back in close, until he could smell his breath; noses almost touching. His knife hovered over one of his prisoner’s eyeballs.
‘You’re lying. I can tell. You are lying,’ he hissed. ‘You’re no Marcus and you’re no villager.’
Mozak was about to faint. He was afraid to blink. He wanted his mummy. He wanted her bad, like he had never wanted her in a very long time.
‘Tell me who you are. You’re from the Castle yes? I know you’re from the Castle.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Mozak, transfixed by the knife, terrified it might slip.
‘You’re Timothy’s twin.’
‘Yes’, replied Mozak, even though that hadn’t been a question, just a statement of fact.
Iedazimus thought hard, back to his younger self, back to the reign of that bastard King Helmotti. And then he remembered the rumours. And then he remembered the queen’s features. And here they were again, almost.
‘Tell me who you are. Or I’ll kill you here and now.’ Again it was a threat he had no intention of carrying out but it worked a treat.