Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  Breamston drew breath. The kid was right and he knew it. He pointed a finger at Mutz.

  ‘You, you keep away from her.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I said no!’

  Mutz took Esmeralda’s hand and was pleased to feel her hold on to him for dear life. He had her in his grasp. He felt a small victory, over both Breamston and Timothy, even though Timothy was gone and not in the fight. Breamston gave Esmeralda a long hard stare, one which promised he would not forget, and was gone, to start up the forge.

  Alone again with Esmeralda, Mutz did his best to sound in control.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk, we need to calm down.’

  ‘OK,’ she replied, glad as she was to get away, anywhere.

  They walked side my side. He didn’t know where. She didn’t care. Beyond the forge, not wishing to get lost in the fog, they followed a wall, until that wall ran out, at which point they followed another. She didn’t want to talk. He did. She didn’t want to hold hands. (She made that quite clear.) He did. She didn’t need to be impressed. He wanted to impress. When he said ‘Timothy was my best friend’ she didn’t care. He began to annoy her by pushing too hard to be nice, by trespassing on her personal space, reducing it. Whenever she had to sound nice for him she did it with the minimum number of words and the least amount of fuss. She did not wish to come across as rude, or ungrateful: she just wished he would back off; not try so hard; give her less attention, give her a break.

  The break came when Esmeralda stumbled and fell. Like every good knight Mutz hurried to put the situation right and recover her composure, her station. He went down, bending his knees to the limit, until he was kneeling like any good mother getting as close as possible to her toddler child. Almost face on face and breathing into her mouth, he asked if she was hurt in anyway.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Esmeralda, now exhausted by his presence. ‘I just slipped. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Let me help you up.’

  ‘It’s alright. I’m fine. I can manage.’

  Ignoring her Mutz grabbed her by the arm and shoulders and lifted her up, like he was lifting up an old woman - somebody’s forgotten granny. It happened so fast it made her feel slightly giddy.

  Esmeralda felt forced to thank him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help.’

  Leave me in peace, that would help, she thought.

  Mutz took her hand as if, like some patient in bed, she needed to be held and reassured that all would come good in the end, that she would fully recover; and he smiled. He received no smile back. He got nothing back. She wriggled free.

  ‘Sorry, I have to go.’

  Mutz’s face knotted up. ‘Go where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Esmeralda turned and walked away, back the way she had come, all the time wishing to run - but that would be seen as running away.

  ‘Hang on!’ he stuttered.

  But Esmeralda never looked back, never slowed.

  No matter, he thought. Give it time. She’s just a girl.

  ***

  After taking one last look at Rufus for reassurance (even though Rufus had none to give), Prince Mozak walked on, towards the forge, to do his deed. He appeared out of the fog and nervously knocked on the door, the same door he remembered from his previous visit. Just yesterday? he asked himself. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  He was disappointed. No one answered. He called out, softly at first then slightly louder with each repetition. He pushed the door open just enough to peek in. Nothing. The room was empty. Giving up, he turned to go, only to be confronted by three bad looking, foul-smelling men. This did not look or smell good and before he could protest two of them grabbed him. The third kicked open the door.

  ‘Stick him in here, like last time, and this time watch him all the time.’

  Iedazimus spoke like the twins were the same one person. It left Mozak confused, disorientated, such that any intention to scream for help evaporated. The curse of the twin? His twin’s enemies were now his enemies? He was thrown on to Timothy’s bed and his wrists were bound together, likewise his ankles. Iedazimus was taking no chances this time. He had the prince. The prince had just fallen into his lap like a present from... what, the Gods? Finally Mozak rediscovered his fury and found himself able to protest. He screamed and struggled, but it was all too late. Iedazimus punched him in the stomach to quieten him down.

  ‘How dare you! Do you know who I am!’ moaned Mozak.

  ‘Yes’, replied Iedazimus calmly. ‘So shut up or I’ll knock your teeth out.’

  Mozak went quiet, not wishing to lose his teeth, not wishing to have a mouth like Uncle Bizi.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Iedazimus, mischievously.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘No. No reason. But I guess you’ll found out in time.’

  Mozak spat at his jailer. ‘My uncle will have you hung for this you cretin!’

  ‘Will he? That mad uncle of yours? And how will he find you? With luck?’

  ‘The king is not mad!’ In public Mozak always felt it was his duty to defend the royal family.

  ‘Just shut up now, or I’ll kill you.’ Iedazimus was growing tired of the royal pantomime.

  He had no intention of killing the prince: the words just slipped out, but they crushed Mozak completely. He shut up.

  ‘You’ve made your point: a pissed off prince. Get used to it. Princes have enemies just like their kings and queens.’

  Iedazimus laughed at what he was about to say next:

  ‘Or their twins!’

  Mozak’s face turned as white as a sheet.

  ‘Is he dead? Did you murder him?’

  Iedazimus smiled.

  ‘May have done. What’s it to you? You never knew him, except for a few hours, perhaps for just a few minutes of his inconsequential pointless life. He had God on his side. Just be glad you don’t have God on your side. You never know what’s going to happen when God’s around. Isn’t that right Mutz?’

  Iedazimus looked around. Where was he? Jeno and Tippo shrugged. At the best of times they didn’t have a clue. Iedazimus suddenly froze. Someone - the voice of a young man - was calling out for Marcus.

  ‘Watch this one’ he said, and darted out through the door.

  He followed the trail of sound through the fog to its source, now walking away. He grabbed a young man by the neck.

  ‘Who are you? You know Marcus?’

  Rufus froze and bottled up. Iedazimus drew his knife and demanded answers. Rufus spluttered as he spoke.

  ‘I’m a nobody. I just work for him. I’m his manservant. I don’t want no trouble.’

  ‘Well if that’s true then get the hell out of here!’ With that Iedazimus pushed Rufus away.

  A trembling Rufus had to ask. ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘None of your business! Now go! Get out of here if you don’t want me to slit your throat!’

  Iedazimus held out his weapon, ready to strike. Rufus got the message and fled, back into the fog. I’m not a coward, he kept telling himself. I am not a coward. The crazy man had a big knife, the kind that kills! He was going to use it, on me! What am I supposed to do? Is the prince dead?

  ***

  With nowhere else to go Esmeralda ended up back at the forge. There she was drawn to look in Timothy’s room: she just had to be sure. But when she peeked her head around the door she received a huge shock: there was his twin, flat out on the bed, tied up. The sense of menace was all too apparent: that nasty ringleader was sitting facing him on the other bed, watching him like a cook watches his roast; watching him like Breamston watched her. When he saw Esmeralda his response was instant, non-negotiable.

  ‘Get out girl!’<
br />
  Esmeralda fled, but not very far. This place was her home, not his, she could do whatever she liked - within limits. Catching her breath she took up position at her spy hole and listened in for anything useful, anything illuminating.

  ‘What’s it to you!’

  The voice sounded a little like Timothy’s.

  ‘It’s my home! And I’m going home! Whereas you’re not!’

  ‘What? You can’t keep me here forever!’

  ‘Yes I can. Or I could have you killed. Like your brother.’

  There was no reply to that and Esmeralda backed away. She had heard more than enough. She wanted to go see her friend. The fog was lifting. Yes, she would go see her friend right now, just after she had filled her stomach with bread and milk - that did not go as planned. She was ambushed in the kitchen by a furious looking Mrs Breamston wielding a bread knife. She wanted her piece of trouble locked up again. She wanted the girl to not grow up. She wanted her husband to grow old. She called out for him. Breamston came tumbling down the stairs.

  ‘What now?’

  His wife pointed at Esmeralda with her knife. ‘Lock her up. She still has to serve her punishment.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Esmeralda. ‘Not again! No more!’

  Breamston pointed at Esmeralda. ‘You, come on.’

  ‘But they tied up Timothy! And the other one, Marcus!’

  ‘None of our business,’ said Mrs Breamston.

  ‘None of your business,’ said Mr Breamston.

  Esmeralda looked at them both. They had once raised her - raised in the loosest sense of the word - but now they were the enemy too. It almost came as a relief: to finally settle the question of where she stood in their lives and where they stood in hers. With nothing left to hold on to she shot out of the door - Breamston trying in vain to grab her arm on the way - and ran. She ran for her life. She ran from the blacksmith, and from his wife. She ran away from the forge. She carried on running until she had left the Village behind. There she slowed to a walk, a hurried walk, and followed the scattered pieces of walls as they slowly coalesced back into the continuous whole which made up the Maze. She was back in the Maze, back in the wilderness of the space within the Maze and looking for some way out - wishing to be rescued.

  ***

  Wandering, lost in the fog, Gregory and Timothy found themselves in the grounds of the church; concealed by the fog; surrounded by dead people, and croaking frogs. Taking time out to take stock Gregory sat down on a patch of grass and leant against a gravestone. He looked tired - tired of life almost. Timothy watched him sink into deep thought, and felt left behind.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Let me think.’

  Unimpressed, Timothy left him to do his thinking. He picked up Stevie and looked around for the nearest comfortable spot to make his own. Gregory tried to think it through; logically, rationally, ignoring all the twisted emotional baggage he had to carry. Iedazimus had stolen his map. Would his brother help him? Could his brother help him? No, useless. Go back? Outside? Risk it, go on? If so, tell Timothy now, or later? Would delay make any difference to the impact? Would Timothy ever forgive him or would he hate him for the rest of his life? He across looked at Timothy - once a baby, now nearly a man - hoping for clues.

  Timothy sat hugging Stevie, rubbing his fur, scratching him on the head. He stared at the spread of wooden crosses in front of him. Dumping Stevie to one side - which Stevie did not like one bit - he got up and went to inspect them. They all seemed to have died the same year. Plague perhaps. Pillage? The crosses bore strange, unpronounceable names - except for two, two which stood side by side. These two names were very familiar: they were the names of his parents. The discovery stung. It knocked the wind out of him. It took him a while to learn to breathe normally again, during which time he nearly passed out. So they had ended up here, in some forgotten corner of a forgotten church in a forgotten, miserable part of the world - just as Gregory had said. He called out for Gregory who promptly told him to keep his voice down and not attract attention.

  ‘Look, here they are.’

  Gregory struggled to his feet and looked down at where Timothy pointed, and said nothing. Timothy looked up. It was like they did not register.

  ‘Didn’t you know they were buried here?’

  Gregory was caught in another of his lies. Continue the lie, or cut it down and come clean? He was exhausted. He felt defeated by his own clever plan. So for now this lie continued.

  ‘No. As I said, both dead.’

  ‘Look at their ages. He was old enough to be her father!’

  Gregory nodded. He could not dispute the dates carved into the wood. Luckily he did not have to say more on the subject for they heard a noise. Somebody was approaching fast; stumbling through the grounds of the church; breathing hard and fast. They heard the person trip and fall; drop a bag; swear and curse the fog. Without thinking Timothy bounced back on to his feet, ran forward and pounced. It was Marcus’ sidekick, looking like someone was out to kill him. Sitting on him, Timothy drew his new toy - the knife he had stolen from the kitchen - and held it over his opponent’s face. (He had learnt a lot from watching Iedazimus, and having his own knife was a must.)

  ‘You! Are you following us!’

  ‘No. Just lost. Trying to get out of this fucking place, this fucking fog.’

  Rufus screwed his eyes up, broke out in a sweat, and pleaded.

  ‘Please be careful with that.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rufus.’

  ‘Where’s Marcus!’

  ‘Taken prisoner, at the forge.’

  By now Gregory was standing over both of them, but looking like he was in a different world from the others; like he had far more pressing problems.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I don’t know his name, some nasty looking bastard with a big knife.’

  ‘Iedazimus. He wants the twins. Where are you going? Or should I ask trying to get to?’

  Gregory knew the answer, but felt required to get confirmation. It would seem odd if he didn’t.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Home? Where is home?’

  ‘The Castle,’ confessed Rufus. ‘To get help,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Castle?’ said Timothy. ‘You’re lying. You’re from the Village. You said so.’

  Rufus was stuck. He could not move himself further away from the knife. In fact it had got closer. Time to get back on track, he decided. The deception had no further use now.

  ‘Because that’s where we’re from. We - Marcus - was lying.’

  ‘Lying? Why?’

  At that point Gregory cut in and took command.

  ‘His name is not Marcus. It’s Mozak. Prince Mozak. Isn’t that right Rufus?’

  Rufus nodded, totally submissive. He had been punctured. Timothy rose to his feet, eyes lit up in consternation. Rufus, sensing the worst was over, also got up, but slowly, and brushed away the earth, sand and bits of vegetation.

  ‘Marcus is a prince?’

  ‘Mozak, not Marcus,’ said Rufus.

  ‘Shut up you!’

  You sound just like your brother thought Rufus.

  ‘Yes, the prince,’ said Gregory.

  ‘And he’s my brother - which makes me what?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Gregory. ‘Not sure I can answer that right now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before!’

  ‘Sorry. Perhaps I should have done. I just couldn’t bring myself to.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Thought it might hurt too much. Thought it might twist you up, crush you, turn you crazy.’

  ‘Well it’s hurting now!’ Timothy looked back at the crosses. ‘And those two are who?’
<
br />   ‘Nobody. Sorry. I took their names to give you a story. I just wanted you to be happy out there, content with your past.’

  ‘A fake past. Are you fake Gregory? Are you fake?’

  ‘No! I just wanted to protect you. Give you a good start in life. That’s all I ever wanted to do.’

  ‘Protect me?’

  ‘I could never let it be known that you were from the Castle - and royalty. I had to make something up, protect you.’

  ‘Protect me from who?’

  ‘Adolphinus for one. He tried to poison me remember? God knows what he would have done with you.’

  ‘Me being a prince?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s complicated. Look what Iedazimus tried to do. And now he has the real prince.’

  ‘He threatened to kill him.’ Rufus wasn’t sure now if he had actually said that so quickly withdrew the statement. ‘I think that’s what he said.’

  ‘He won’t kill him. He’ll use him. I don’t know how but he knows he has the prince.’

  Rufus looked at Gregory. ‘Who are you? How come you know so much?’

  ‘I’m from the Castle.’

  Rufus was not convinced. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘Left eighteen years ago.’ Gregory looked Rufus straight in the eye. ‘Tell me, honestly. Can you find your way back?’

  Rufus rose to the challenge. His ego would not let it be any other way. Out here (or in here) he did not have to be a servant.

  ‘Yes I think so. I took notes.’

  ‘Notes? What, written down?’

  Rufus tapped the side of his head. ‘No, in here. A much safer place.’

  ‘Can you lead us home?’

  ‘And why should I?’

  Timothy looked at Gregory. He did not like the tone of this castle upstart. Probably a peasant.

  ‘I’ll pay you, that’s why.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Rufus would have done it for free - since he was going that way anyway.

  ‘Payment on delivery,’ added Gregory.

  Timothy had unfinished business, and grabbed Gregory, dragging him off until he thought they were out of earshot. They were not, and Rufus could listen in on every word. He checked his bag, pretending not to hear them speaking, arguing.