by Euan McAllen
‘You’re disgusting!’ she shouted, hoping to scare him by advertising his secret to the whole wide world.
Breamston wanted to smack his wicked girl - his new temptress - across the mouth to shut her up but the bare, raw honest truth was too much to handle. He could not fight back - at least not now for right now he was stuck in a fight with the devil. He threw her the dirtiest look possible and left the room. Outside he paused, caught his breath, and remembered to lock the door. Back downstairs the awkward look on his face alerted his wife - always watching, always suspicious of anything and everything which could infiltrate or disrupt her life, her home, her reputation - but of what she had no clue. Later the obvious suspect would become clear to her.
Fargo and the Village Vicar faced each across the desk, drinking, talking, exploring, dissecting. The bottle, 90% proof, stood between them, simultaneously keeping them both apart and together. It was a loaded weapon which each could use on the other. For now Fargo restrained himself and refused the top up, preferring to watch the unrestrained Vicar, to see how much he took from the bottle. He was looking for defects - cracks - in the other man’s soul. Unbeknownst to him, the Vicar was doing exactly the same.
Fargo quickly developed a feeling of contempt for the bumbling wasted man. The Vicar’s big eyes made him look stupid. Fargo was quick to label him an idiot even though when he spoke it was only in one direction: down. He spoke with an authority which to anybody listening suggested he knew everything about everything and the newcomer nothing about nothing. And as the Vicar droned on so Fargo hit the bottle. He needed a drink. The Vicar probed Fargo about his life at the Monastery and his reasons for leaving, and turning up here. Fargo was careful to duck detail, to let loose only a precisely filtered description of events. He was not here to confess. He was here to conquer. He told the Vicar of the secret police, the arrests, the strict control of everything - all intensified since the current Chief Monk took over. Corruption now lay at the heart of the Monastery, declared Fargo. He painted himself as a victim, but one with a mission - that drew a laugh from the Vicar before he realised that his guest was deadly serious.
And the contest began.
Fargo declared his ideas for the church, for ‘reinvigorating the people’. They received nothing more than polite indifference. The two men of the same God ended up arguing about the nature of their God, his omnipresence, his demands upon human life, their mortality, the Maze he had created to cause confusion and discontinuity. At one point Fargo could help but turn his guns on the Sexton, and his unnatural close friendship with another man. He feigned ignorance in such matters as he insinuated and suggested something immoral, unnatural; hoping to plant a seed of doubt in the mind of this ‘small town’, village vicar; hoping to create division; hoping to get the Sexton sacked. It was a shock to discover that not only did the Vicar know, but he didn’t care! He simply didn’t give a damn!
‘People are what they are,’ said the Vicar as knocked back more alcohol. ‘God is in charge of such things. I leave these things to him.’
Fargo would never leave the church that night. He would pass out, with the Village Vicar monitoring his decline.
Further into the night, as beer swamped his body and brains, an idea took shape inside Iedazimus’s tired mind: a silly one at first but one which grew more serious each time he looked at the sad, wasted Timothy and saw his powerful brother the prince. He looked across at his best mates: would they back him? Of course they would once they knew who was who. Like him they had old grievances to redress. They had nothing to lose, everything to gain. And as for his young protégé: he would do as he was told. Do it! Iedazimus told himself. Before you sober up - before he sobers up.
Timothy gave himself up to drink. God could not help him right now, so God remained tucked away. He entered a haze: a happy place, a place without a past to protest or a future to fear; just the ‘now’, a simple slice of time which went on and on for as long as he kept on drinking, and which asked for nothing but which gave him everything - which was nothing. For he wanted nothing right now, nothing except to remain drunk, in the fog, content, all cares in the world vaporized. He did not remember insulting the overbearing Iedazimus, or antagonising his new friend Mutz, or passing out; or being carried back to the forge in the arms of Jeno and Tippo - now overexcited by the thought of a whole new game to play back at the Castle. He did not feel the rope as his hands were strapped to his bed. He did not see Gregory for Gregory was nowhere to be seen. He did not hear Mutz protest or see Iedazimus put a blade to this throat until he backed down and reaffirmed his loyalty to the man who had raised him, protected him, buried his mother with due honours. Timothy simply passed out. Mutz took one last look at him before leaving the room. So this was what a prince looked like?
Gregory knocked on his brother’s door. ‘Foccinni, it’s me.’
‘Go away.’
‘I’m sorry I hit you this morning. Things got out of hand. I should have told you.’
‘I said go away.’
‘Very well,’ said Gregory, and away he went.
‘Foccinni, unable to sleep that night, was left to grapple with a host of questions and accusations. It hurt that his brother had kept possibly the biggest secret ever from him. And what about the man with the tattoo? Was he the ex-king? And was his brother protecting him? Foccinni felt like becoming a hermit himself.
Rufus stared at the bottle. Now it was empty: time to fall asleep. He looked at his prince one last time before turning over and turning in.
‘So what happens now?’
‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’
‘And what about him?’
‘What about him? Leave me alone.’
Mozak rolled over and pretended to go to sleep. Rufus did the same, except he did fall asleep, to dream of home and his sweetheart. Was she missing him?
Later night Mozak would have nightmares: his twin has taken his place at the castle; he is dressed as a prince; he is riding the prince’s horse; he is in bed with Lady Agnes and she is liking it; his mother the queen has discarded him, disowned him; he has been reduced to the status of a simple peasant and banished from the castle by the king; he is now an impostor.
Breamston nudged his wife awake just as she was drifting off. He needed sex but she was not in the mood and pushed him off before turning over.
‘Put the candle out,’ she insisted.
***
Timothy slowly awoke from a foul dream; one driven by turmoil and turbulence, questions and qualms; with a head which was thinking at a far slower rate than he wanted it to, and which refused to cooperate. He wanting to rub his eyes open and back into life. But when he found himself unable to move he dragged them open, to find himself shackled to the bed post. Rattled by this, he began to rattle the bedpost in protest. Stumped by the lack of freedom he looked around, to see Gregory in the same predicament. They had been tied up!
‘Gregory I can’t move! Gregory what’s happening!’
Gregory, already well awake, continued to stare up at the ceiling. ‘We’re in a spot of trouble that’s what’s happening.’
‘Why, what have we done?’
‘Not what we’ve done - more who we are.’
Upon hearing his master’s voice Stevie ran in, tail wagging, having just enjoyed a healthy session of ‘start of the day’ urination and bowel movements. A number of walls had now been earmarked as exclusively his. He jumped up on to the bed and scrambled over Timothy, keen to make contact with his face. Once there he began to lick it.
Timothy protested and shook himself from side to side. ‘No! Stevie no!’
Stevie took no notice.
‘Untie me Stevie untie me!’
Stevie, not getting the message, continued to look stupid and drooled over his master’s unhappy face. He was happy to see his master awake at last.
‘The rope Stevie. Here.’ Timothy rattled the rope as best he could whilst trying to avoid having his face washed by dog drool.
Gregory watched them both as if totally detached from the situation, as if a member of the audience.
‘I don’t think he’s getting it.’
Giving up on that idea Timothy then tried to throw his dog off, but little Stevie was made of stronger sterner stuff and held on. He thought he was playing some new game and loved every moment of it. Then salvation: Mutz appeared at the door, looking like he had also had a bad night’s sleep. (He had, but not because he had drunk too much alcohol.) He looked as guilty as hell even before he had been accused of anything - which, ironically, triggered an accusation.
‘Did you do this!’ Timothy wanted to scream the question but throttled back, conscious that making a lot of noise was not a good thing to do right now.
Mutz put an index finger to his lips, begging for silence. He took one quick look behind him then crept on in. In an instant Timothy was free. He rubbed his wrists and in the smallest, tiniest voice possible apologised for accusing a friend.
‘I didn’t do this,’ whispered Mutz.
And then, without waiting for a response, he was gone.
Timothy untied Gregory and in unison they rubbed and stretched their bodies back into some feeling of normality.
‘What’s happening Gregory? What do we do?’
‘Get out of here. That’s what we do. Get out of here, fast. You are in grave danger. Come on.’
‘Who did this?’
‘Who do you think.’
‘Iedazimus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. No time for that right now. We must warn Marcus.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s your twin.’
‘Don’t understand. Iedazimus has never met him?’
‘Please, save questions for later. Come on.’
With lightning speed they grabbed their belongings and ran out outside into the cold, damp air of an early morning fog. It was a shock - but it cleared their heads in double quick time. Gregory grabbed Timothy by the arm just as he was about to grab Stevie and hold him safe.
‘Hang on.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t say but rushed back inside, to reappear seconds later with the piece of rope which had bound Timothy to his bed. Kneeling down he begged Stevie to chew on it, try to eat it even. Stevie willingly obliged, thinking it was food and just as he was beginning to enjoy the fun of it Gregory snatched it back and threw it on to Timothy’s bed. With misleading evidence planted to deframe the obvious suspect, the two fled the scene, like robbers in reverse. (Though Timothy did steal a knife from the kitchen, and a lump of bread.)
***
Next door Mutz had sneaked back to his place on the floor and was pretending to be asleep. He only opened an eye when he saw the others, crippled by heavy hangovers, beginning to stir. He watched Iedazimus crawl out of bed and wrestle with himself: brain versus brawn as he forced himself up on to his feet and proceeded to uncrumple himself. He spat and broke wind. Mutz could not believe this was the man he had once looked up to - missing the irony that he was on the floor looking up at him. This was the man he had regarded as a role model, his only role model. Was it him who had changed or Iedazimus? Perhaps both? This adventure was beginning to lack all grace and style, and focus. The only good thing to have happened so far was meeting Esmeralda. She was definitely worth a trip into the Maze.
Iedazimus straightened up and peered around at the others. They all looked worse for wear. Then he remembered the night before and shot off, to return moments later holding a piece of soggy, chewed up rope, and looking very very mad.
‘Damn it they’re gone! Jeno, Tippo, get up! They’re gone!’ He looked down at Mutz. ‘Did you hear anything?’
Mutz pretended to be stirring from a bad dream. Having lived under the turbulent wing of Iedazimus for many years, feigning ignorance was a skill he had learnt to exercise from an early age.
‘No.’
‘His bloody dog chewed the rope!’ Iedazimus sat back down, feeling buggered.
‘Bugger.’
The outburst fuelled his already massive headache. He had no clue what to do about the unexpected turn of events. Go after them? Where? Cause a scene? Did Gregory have secret friends in this place? Like his brother? No, let it go. Concede defeat, after all it had been done on a whim: the real prize was still out there to be had. And as a consolation prize he had found a map on Gregory, a map to the Castle. As he had always suspected: the man had lied to him. Gregory always lied to him. The map back to the Castle: that was a true prize; that made him a free man. Gregory would flee back outside, forever on the run, else be eaten up by the Chief Monk. Good riddance to him. After all these years he had no more need of the smug, patronising, holier-than-thou Gregory. Time to move on, and in one direction, home. Iedazimus suddenly laughed out manic loud, alarming those around him. Breakfast: that is all that matters right now, thought Iedazimus. Breakfast. Reassuring the others that all was fine, he forced his gang up to their feet and told them the good news; inviting them to join him for breakfast to celebrate.
‘What if the Breamston woman isn’t up yet?’ asked Mutz.
‘Then we kick her out of bed.’
Luckily for her - or perhaps him - she was; and they sat slumped, and banged their knives and forks until the big fried breakfast was duly served up on the kitchen table by the sour, surly looking blacksmith’s wife - whereupon they got stuck in like cows at the trough whilst nursing their delicate heads. All except for Mutz who was feigning his hangover, having managed to sneakily avoid drinking as much as the others by sleight of hand. Mutz noticed no sign of Esmeralda.
‘Where is Esmeralda?’ he asked a harried Mrs Breamston.
‘None of your business,’ was the snap reply.
‘Has she done something wrong? Is she in trouble?’
Mrs Breamston glared at the insolent boy. ‘I said none of your business.’
Mutz decided not to pursue it - though he wanted to pursue Esmeralda. The woman might set her blacksmith on him. He returned to his food, especially the fried eggs and bacon, and finished his plate off quickly, determined to go and look for the girl. He wanted to be the one to break the bad news that Timothy was gone. And in doing so he hoped that she would forget him, let go of him. And he hoped that she would instead turn her attentions towards him. He was still here, for her. He could promise her excitement. He could be her shining knight.
Mutz did not have to go far. He looked up at the windows and there she was! Looking out at the world like some lonely imprisoned princess. She looked miserable. Did she already know Timothy was gone? How? Impossible. He waved up at her: that snapped her out of her gloom and she waved back, smiling. What a smile, thought Mutz, and it was meant for me, just me. Tough luck Timothy, she’s mine now. Esmeralda yanked open the window.
‘Please can you help me down?’ she pleaded.
Esmeralda pointed at the roof below, the roof of the single storey extension to the main house.
‘Of course,’ replied Mutz in his best, most manly voice possible, confused why she couldn’t just use the door.
‘What’s wrong with the door?’
‘They locked me in. Punishment.’
‘Punishment? What, for going for a drink?’
‘Yes, they’re very strict. Alcohol is the devil’s drink.’
Explanation done, she began to climb out of the window, like a tomboy, and clamber on to the roof. Mutz didn’t know what to do - in the end he didn’t have to do anything, other than watch her scramble across the roof then make ready to jump down. At that point she looked nervous.
‘I’ll catch you don’t worry,’ he promised.
&n
bsp; She looked down hard at the ground, then him, then jumped, and Mutz was as good as his word. She fell into his arms. Holding her body sent electricity surging through his veins: Esmeralda was pure sex. He struggled to control himself as he eased her gently to the ground - his hard on clearly advertised. Esmeralda pushed him off once she was back on her feet: this was too much familiarity of the kind that sent cold shivers down her spine. This Mutz was no Breamston but even so: men were men.
‘Thanks,’ she said as she straightened her dress.
Mutz did not waste time. ‘Bad news I’m afraid. They’re gone.’
‘Gone? Who’s gone? Gone where?’
‘Timothy and Gregory. Both gone. I don’t know where.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Nasty fallout with Iedazimus, our leader.’
That seemed to crush her spirit. She looked lost. I’ll save you, thought Mutz, though from what I know not.
‘Gone home? Outside?’
‘Yes probably. I can’t think why they would stay here.’
‘They fell out with that Iedazimus fellow? What happened, a fight?’
‘He took them hostage.’
‘Hostage! Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mutz hated having to lie to her but he feared Iedazimus more and Iedazimus had sworn him to secrecy.
Esmeralda looked devastated. Mutz wanted to console her but never got the chance to weave kind caring words for Breamston appeared. He was in an agitated state.
‘You girl! What are you doing out of your room!’ He looked at Mutz. ‘You. Did you let her out!’
‘No!’ Mutz looked at Esmeralda. ‘I mean yes. Yes I did. And what are you going to do about it?’
‘Kick you out that’s what I’ll do about it!’
‘I don’t think so. Iedazimus won’t stand for it.’