Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Yes, and what of it?’

  ‘Sounds like the monastery. He could be a monk.’

  Foccinni smiled - for the first time in a very long time.

  ‘Yes that would make perfect sense. Stick him in the monastery.’

  Mozak tried to laugh to break free of his despair: it came out as a miserable failure, almost frightening Foccinni with its manic content.

  ‘A monk you say! A God believer! And me a warrior prince!’

  Mozak subsided again before the next question struck him.

  ‘The monastery? What the hell is that?’

  ‘A holy place, an institution. Run by a religious order, monks, dedicated to serving their God.’

  ‘So he’s no danger to me then?’

  ‘No danger? Are you mad?’

  Foccinni looked at Mozak: he may soon be eighteen but he was still living in a boy’s world.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This changes everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you get it? You have a twin brother - the son of the king. He could have been the prince if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘But I’m the prince. Tough. He missed his chance. He should be dead.’

  Foccinni stared hard into his prince’s face. Mozak had just put his finger on it.

  ‘Exactly. He should be dead. There can only ever be one prince, one heir to the throne. That’s why he was killed at birth - or should have been. He must never go back. They will kill him. Or someone might kill you.’

  ‘What!’ Mozak was back on his feet again, this time looking for a fight.

  ‘Forget that last bit. I got carried away.’

  ‘So I’ll tell him. He must stay here. Problem solved.’

  ‘Does he know? Know you are a prince?’

  ‘No. He was very confused upon meeting me. I said my name was Marcus and I was from around the village.’

  ‘Good. Keep it that way - except, shit, this man who knows your secret. What the fuck is he up to.’

  Foccinni banged his stick repeatedly on the floor as he fought with the question.

  ‘What the fuck.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Tell this Timothy to get lost, go home, else he might end up dead. Then fuck off home as fast as you can. I’ll catch you up as fast as I can.’

  A new set of questions struck Foccinni.

  ‘Did you come alone? And how did you find the village?’

  ‘Rufus. I brought him along. And I copied your map.’

  ‘You broke into my cottage?’

  ‘Yes. I waited ages remember? You didn’t come back like you promised.’

  Foccinni forgave him. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Opposite.’

  ‘Of course, silly of me.’

  ‘You chose this place instead?’

  ‘Not exactly. Go back to your room. Stay there. Don’t go out. Go and see your twin early, first thing tomorrow, early when there’s no one about. Give him your message then get back here. Understood?’

  Mozak nodded. He moved towards the door then stopped.

  ‘I need some money by the way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To pay the landlady.’

  Foccinni pointed his stick at a bag on the floor under the bed. ‘Pass me that.’

  Mozak dragged it out with his foot and kicked it towards him. Foccinni reached in and retrieved some coins from a purse.

  ‘There. That’s plenty.’

  Mozak took it without looking or thanking him for the donation. As he was about to leave the room he had one more question - one which was really bugging him now.

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think! The old man with the tattoo.’

  ‘No.’ Foccinni was quick to answer, and emphatic.

  ***

  It was evening and the tavern was filled with locals. Stuck here in the Village it was their only escape: the one place officially allowed to sell alcohol. Here they lived those parts of their lives they could not live sober. Two new faces sat in a corner: one was Timothy, the other was Esmeralda. They sat isolated from the crowd, feeling that they had to join it at some point in the future but unimpressed by what, if anything, it had to offer. Still, they had each other, and that was all what mattered right now.

  He had persuaded her to break ranks, rebel and do something dangerous; in this case join him for a drink, or two: she almost sixteen; she had nothing to fear, nothing to apologize for. That was a cause for celebration he had insisted. She proved more than willing to be persuaded. It was easy. She had always wanted to drink in the tavern. For now Timothy’s intentions were honourable: he just wanted to cheer her up and for her to cheer him up. Timothy just wanted to have a good time - in a place where good times appeared hard to come by. For Esmeralda it was much the same. Timothy was split three ways: one third wanted to get her drunk; another third was happy if she just did; the remainder wanted to protect her. He wanted her for himself, when the time was right, and he wanted to keep her safe from Mutz: now his competitor as well as a friend.

  While he sipped his pint and she her half they struggled to make conversation, assaulted as they were by the volume of noise - noise generated by the disharmony of people arguing, shouting, not tolerating, not listening. Esmeralda tried to laugh when Timothy spoke but her mind was too concentrated on the task of remaining alert; wanting to lose herself but afraid of losing it. Stevie sat at their feet beneath the table, mesmerised by all that was happening around him, but also scared of it: so much unfamiliar noise; so many fearsome faces; too much sensory input for him to handle all at once.

  Esmeralda saw familiar faces now turned ugly by too much alcohol. No matter. This was what grown-ups did she told herself, determined as she was to see it through. She hoped she would not turn out ugly. And at the back of her mind sat the fear that she would be recognised and reported to the blacksmith. Timothy, needing to hear himself talk, spun more of his stories, stretching them out until the truth snapped and they became lies. Esmeralda hung off every word, not noticing the repetition, or not caring. She was just happy to be by his side, and feeling all grown up. He said bad things about some of the other monks - Chief Monk especially. He complained that he had been forced to study too hard, pray too hard, work too hard - but at least they had taught him to read, write and count he admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Show me!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Another time.’

  Esmeralda would hold him to it.

  ‘I will be a warrior for God!’ he declared out of the blue and thumped his beer mug down on the table. He had emptied it in double quick time.

  The beer was not as good as Outside, he concluded. He needed another. Ears folded back, Stevie looked up at his master as if he had been summoned: false alarm, he settled back down again.

  Hugging his second - Esmeralda still sipping her first - Timothy retreated into himself, leaving Esmeralda behind. He had nothing left to say, only heavy thoughts rolling around under their own momentum, begging for answers. He saw the ugliness of it all. Was this how he was going to end up? Living a pointless life in a pointless place? Getting drunk every night in the same crowd? Was this how his twin Marcus had grown up? In this sad place, amongst these sad people? Brother Marcus: the elephant in the room. Sometimes his eyes rested on the door, expecting his twin to walk in, see him, smile and offer to buy him a drink. He wanted to meet his twin again, talk to him, get to know him, learn about life in the Village.

  He had left. He had arrived. He had beaten the Maze. And now he was stuck here, in a new life which in less than twenty-four hours had been transformed. He was a foreign body in a foreign land but he had no other land. Why had he been taken outside w
hile his twin had remained behind? How had his parents died? In pain, in agony? Gregory had some explaining to do. God had some explaining to do - though he knew God was good at keeping secrets. He looked around at the human debris: life in the Monastery suddenly had its appeal. There were some nasty looking faces in here, and the night was still young. Perhaps one of them had murdered his parents? Where can I be a warrior, Timothy kept asking himself. When can I be a warrior? He could feel himself sinking beneath the weight of his predicament. All he could do was stare into his mug and hang on - hang on for something good to happen. What, he had no idea. All Esmeralda could do was sit and wait, and say nothing. She had her own problems: fear of being found out and a self-conscious struggle with the red flush which the strong beer had splashed across her face for all to see.

  Not that far away Fargo stood in the village churchyard, reading the names on to the gravestones and wooden crosses, as if inspecting the dead troops, as if making a list - a list of pointless, forgotten lives which had never set foot beyond the Village. He had to make his mark, he vowed. He had to make a difference. Else what was the point - his point? Struck by the sudden, returning fear that he too might be leading a pointless life he broke out in a sweat. He needed to get high on God. He had to get back inside the church, and pray. He made his way back to the front entrance and found the door locked yet again. Why was it always locked? Did this place have opening times, like some shop? This time there was no sexton on hand let him in so he forced it open. God demanded it be done, he told himself.

  Sneaking inside - like a burglar - he lit a candle and sat down in his now adopted seat. He stared ahead at the altar: such a simple, puny affair. He wanted this to be his altar, in his church: he would turn it into something better, greater; something closer to God. The Monastery may be corrupt but it knew how to do things in style, he told himself. His sermons would be the best ever. They would engulf his audience, sweep them off their feet. He would wake them up, drill into their heads, leave them exhausted but closer to God. And because of him - and only him - they would lead better lives, and the Village would prosper. As he smacked his thigh with joy he heard approaching footsteps: slow, patient; deliberately placed. A voice spoke. To anybody else it would have just sounded tough: to Fargo it sounded threatening but then Fargo, sitting in near darkness, at an unusual time, was an unknown threat. He turned to face his inquisitor, expecting to see the sexton. But no, it was another old man, but one better dressed. Fargo guessed this was the man in charge, the high priest of the Village church.

  ‘May I ask what are you doing in here at this time of night? We are closed.’

  You may ask, thought Fargo sarcastically.

  ‘I needed to be here. I need to pray.’

  ‘You can pray outside. We have our opening times. Please stick to them.’

  ‘A church should never be closed,’ argued Fargo.

  ‘Well this one is. Who are you anyway? I don’t recognise you.’

  ‘Brother Fargo. Senior Brother Fargo. And who are you if I may ask?’

  Fargo regarded himself as the senior of the two. Some local village priest was not in the same league as a senior member of the Monastery.

  ‘I’m the vicar of this church.’

  The Vicar studied Fargo closely. He recognised the signs: an outsider, from the Monastery. Another outcast? Perhaps he should not be so harsh.

  Deciding that bridges had to be quickly built, Fargo stood up and offered to shake hands.

  ‘How do you do.’

  Reluctantly the Vicar took it. He was never keen on touching somebody else’s hand. Infections jumped easily across the palms, especially sweaty ones.

  ‘How do you do.’

  Fargo recognised the smell of alcohol. The old man had been drinking. And then he detected a second smell: the smell of unwashed clothes. He was not impressed.

  ‘You are from the Monastery. Correct?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Will you ever go back?’

  The directness of the question cut through Fargo like a knife. It forced him to answer.

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  The Vicar smiled and picked up the candlestick which held the burning candle.

  ‘Come, join me for a drink? Tell me about the Monastery. A second opinion would be interesting.’

  ‘A drink? Where?’

  ‘In my office. Follow me - assuming you have finished praying?’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  The sarcasm passed Fargo by and he followed the Vicar to the rear of the church and on into the connecting building which was the Vicar’s living quarters.

  ***

  Iedazimus and his gang blew in, looking like they had just bought the place in an auction and now wanted to see for themselves exactly where their money had gone. They made for the bar, placed their order, turn and studied the form. When they caught sight of ex-monk Timothy having a drink with the blacksmith’s daughter, they laughed - Mutz especially, to mask his other reaction. Tippo cheered and Jeno said something into Iedazimus’ ear which made him laugh a second time. With realising it some of the locals already had their eyes trained on them for trouble - and past troubles. One man sitting alone in the corner, sipping his beer like it was life-giving medicine, watched Iedazimus closely. In no time he stood up, outraged that the arrogant sod had returned after being kicked out. He downed the last of his beer and was gone. The Elders had to know. He wanted revenge for his crippled hand.

  ‘You from the Castle?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Us? No,’ replied Iedazimus with his best innocent charm.

  ‘Outside then? Cos you’re not from round here that’s for sure.’

  The barman dared them to contradict him.

  ‘Yes. Outside.’

  That answer seemed to satisfy and the barman left them alone. New blood, he told himself. We could do with some new blood.

  Their focus wandered back to their young companion. Would the boy get the girl drunk? Jeno and Tippo made a bet over whether he would bed her that night.

  ‘He’s a monk!’

  ‘No he’s an ex-monk! And he has a cock and balls just like the rest of us!’

  Mutz now felt sorry for him. Iedazimus and his mates: they were a bunch of thugs - soon to be very drunk, boorish thugs. And he was with them, Mutz admitted to himself. The thought did not sit comfortably.

  Esmeralda looked up, to receive the shock of her life. Instinctively she grabbed Timothy’s arm and hung on. The blacksmith was standing at the door and he looked angry. He swept the floor, searching, until she fell into view. He pushed past revelers to get to her: some swearing and pushing back; some scattering (for it was the blacksmith, a big strong man with a short fuse). Every muscle in Esmeralda’s body tensed - and in Timothy’s. He wanted to take the blame, take the pain for what might happen next, but was never given the chance. Breamston did not ask questions or want explanations. He just wanted retake possession of his charge, his girl, his wife’s house slave. He grabbed Esmeralda, jerked her up out of her chair and pulled her away.

  ‘You. Home. Now.’

  She did not get a chance to catch her breath, and was terrified of what was still to come that night. Timothy sat frozen to the spot, only jumping up when Esmeralda was disappearing out of the door. He wanted to shout ‘stop!’ But his objection failed to materialize. All he could do was watch, like some disengaged onlooker, unwilling to get involved. The gang - Mutz excluded - laughed at the spectacle.

  Only when she was gone from view did he break out of his own, self-inflicted spell. He chased after her, not prepared to see her get hurt on his account. (But she would, if not now then at some point in the future when both were least expecting it.) He stepped out into the dark, to see his girl being dragged along at speed by the hair. She was crying now, like any child would and Timothy be
gan to drown in his own guilt. This was not God’s work but his own. He wanted to intervene, make a stand, tell the miserable git to go to Hell. But he was weak. And as an excuse he told himself he could not upset the blacksmith: they needed his hospitality. The others would never forgive him if they were kicked out on to the street. Yes, Timothy told himself, I have to let it be. Sorry Esmeralda. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

  He had to have another drink so stepped back inside to joined the others at the bar. There he received a round of applause. Mutz bought him a drink and gave him a knowing look as he handed it to him. In return Timothy gave him a dirty one.

  ‘Don’t even think of it,’ he warned.

  Mutz looked offended.

  Breamston dragged his piece of trouble back to the forge, not letting up for one moment, refusing to let go of her. Back home Esmeralda had to suffer the wrath of the Breamston’s wife before she was led - pushed - sobbing upstairs to her room.

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘Drinking, in the tavern.’

  ‘With a boy?’

  ‘With that young man staying here.’

  ‘Slut. Is she drunk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well punish her anyway.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  Breamston was as good as his word. He threw his girl down on the bed with such force that her dress lifted up to reveal her underwear. Breamston saw it - and saw it good. She is not my daughter, he reminded himself. I can see what I like, think what I like, enjoy what I like. With a new devil inside him he sat down on the bed and dragged her backwards by both ankles until he held her securely across his lap. Like on previous occasions she screamed and protested all the way. He threw back her dress and proceeded to smack her across the broad backside. She thought she was ten again. He did not. The devil inside him offered him new fantasies, new delights he could never obtain from his aging, dried up, sometimes detestable wife. The devil inside him took his breath away. When it threatened not to return he felt faint.

  But Esmeralda had grown. She was bigger now and she wouldn’t take it - not with Gregory back again to defend her, not with her new friend the Hermit to care about her. She fought off her attacker. She kicked him away and retreated to the far end of the bed where the pillow offered her a little comfort. She gave Breamston a wicked look, a look of condemnation when she realised he was drawn to the touch of her body, the sight of her intimate places. You disgust me, she thought.