Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Exactly when were you going to tell me?’

  ‘After I had returned home, to speak to the Queen, to see if it was safe for you to return. To persuade the king, your uncle, to let you return. You may have to renounce all claim to the throne.’

  ‘Why was I taken away? Didn’t they want me?’

  ‘They did but the king, ex-king now, now dead, wanted you dead.’

  ‘Dead! Why! What did I do?’

  ‘You did nothing. There is an ancient rule: there can never be two princes with equal right to the throne. It could end in bloodshed, civil war.’

  ‘My father tried to kill me?’

  Gregory took a long pause before answering, and the words which came out seemed to tire him out.

  ‘Yes. He was not a nice man: ruthless to the core.’

  Timothy sensed a fundamental shift: suddenly Gregory, always strong, always in command of a situation, always there for him, looked worn out and wasted. Meanwhile, Rufus was fully focused. His attention was total. He took in every word and held them close to his chest, like a good hand of playing cards. Timothy sat back down - on what he didn’t care - and held his head in his hands. It was throbbing now, overloaded, threatening to break down or break ranks. In his previous life he had had too few choices. Now he had too many choices. At least that was how it felt.

  Gregory loomed over him. ‘Have you got a fever?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Let me feel your forehead.’

  Gregory leant over but Timothy brushed the intrusion away.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a prince.’

  Timothy had to change the subject to get his mental breath back. He didn’t change it that much.

  ‘What’s my mother like?’

  ‘She is, or at least was, very nice. A kind, generous person.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘I don’t know how time has treated her.’

  ‘But she didn’t try to stop her baby being killed.’

  ‘She had no choice in the matter. She did protest but it only made her own position worse. They shut her up with threats.’

  ‘How come you know all this?’

  ‘I was there. I was her private secretary, her advisor.’

  Timothy was struck by an awful thought, and an awful question to go with it.

  ‘Will she want to see me?’

  Gregory laid a hand on Timothy’s shoulder. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Come on let’s go there then! I want to see my castle!’

  Rufus thought he had just heard Prince Mozak speak again. Scary.

  Gregory had to put the question, to put his own mind at rest.

  ‘You’re happy we abandon your brother?’

  ‘Yes. We can’t do any good here. We have to get help.’ He turned on Rufus. ‘Isn’t that right Rufus?’

  Rufus did not disagree.

  With that all three sat down together, exhausted by so much happening - consuming them - in such a short burst of time. It was like they had all aged ten years in less than ten minutes, and their bodies and brains could not handle it. Timothy, knowing that he was a member of some royal family in that faraway place called the Castle, struggled to return to a state of calmness. The other two did not fare much better. Timothy could not look his guardian in the face. He said he had done what he did for all the best reasons but still Timothy felt conned, short-changed, an incomplete man, a broken boy. Gregory, feeling like a failure, made his decision.

  ‘Rufus, are you ready to go now, back to the Castle?’

  ‘Yes, if I can find my way to the main road, the one which leads west out of the village.’

  ‘Not easy while the fog is around. We need it to clear. We need to see the sun.’

  Gregory did some quick thinking. ‘We’ll buy food, get water. Then move out.’

  And so Timothy’s next adventure began and Gregory’s restarted, and Rufus found himself caught up again in an adventure of somebody else’s making. But at least he was getting paid.

  ***

  Prince Mozak could not believe he had ended up in such a hole; in some squalid little room - the prisoner of some scum! He was the prince! He felt like a peasant, a dirty squalid peasant. Just a week ago he had had it good. Now he had it bad beyond belief, and all because of some stupid idea, and some stupid twin - who wasn’t supposed to exist! Why hadn’t someone killed him!

  Prince Mozak tried not to think of his servant. Rufus had deserted him. For all he had given him, Rufus had abandoned him. A typical peasant: no loyalty; no bravery; no sense of honour or duty. Prince Mozak thought of home. He wanted to be back home, surrounded by his favourite things; living it up as a prince should. He wished he had never left to go on his foolish errant. It was a pointless adventure: to search for a man who did not now exist, and had never existed for him. Let the dead stay dead. Foccinni should never have mixed with his brain. Foccinni! Where was he! Also gone? Also a deserter?

  Prince Mozak was all alone, forgotten, left to rot; no soldiers to protect him, stand guard over him, salute him; no hot food on demand, no laughter, no wine; no women and wine; no sex on demand; no mother; no father! He wanted to cry. He fought it for as long as possible but in the end he had to cry, and when he did he cried his heart out. He felt himself breaking up. The only relief came when he begged to be allowed to go to the toilet - during which he had to suffer the humiliation of having his every movement watched by an armed escort.

  He expected - demanded - to be rescued at any moment: he had been missing so long they must be missing him now! But as more and more of those moments came and went so his emotional strength collapsed, to leave a feeble-minded, broken soul. He felt shame that he had not fought tooth-and-nail, to the death. He was no warrior prince. He felt like he was dead and already buried. Without creature comforts, without hope, Prince Mozak retreated into a small corner of his mind: the deepest, oldest (youngest?) corner; that part of his mind which was still a child, a baby even. And with the passing of time each second became a painful prick; each minute a tormenting collection of seconds; each hour hell. And in time Prince Mozak simply closed down and switched off.

  Iedazimus on the other hand was switched on, fired up like he had never been before. His gang watched him go slightly crazy at times as he talked. He promised his men gold. He would go and negotiate a prince for gold. But it would mean leaving the Castle for good, no going back: at least not without an army! Such promises made the others feel nervous. But the promise of gold made up for that. With gold they could do what? Take over the Village? Rule it like kings? Return Outside, bribe the Chief Monk to give them free rein? It left Mutz breathless, uncomfortable: a new adventure was starting when it did not seem like the old one had yet finished. He saw a side of Iedazimus he thought did not existed. For revenge, Iedazimus had said. Revenge for what? Mutz did not want gold. Mutz just wanted to go home but he kept that thought to himself and instead encouraged another: he was already implicated in the crime, a willing accomplice, so he may as well receive part of the payoff. Perhaps he could win Esmeralda’s heart with gold? Make her the richest wife in the Village? He had big ideas on a small scale.

  He thought Fargo would intervene on his behalf when he found out. But no, Fargo did nothing. He did not even protest. He was told to stay out of the room, keep his mouth shut and mind his own business. Or there would be trouble, warned Iedazimus. So he did. Let God deal with it when the time was right.

  ***

  Esmeralda walked on and on, away from controls, conceit, crimes and crash; towards space, solitude, substance and sustenance: all the things her new friend promised. She hoped the Hermit would still be there. He was: by the river; sitting on his favourite rock from where he could peer down into the river and watch for fish to bite his hook. Esmeralda studied him before ap
proaching, wishing to be sure he was no fake, not just another man. Almost dreamlike she made him her father, her grandfather, her uncle, and then back to being her friend the Hermit. Her friend looked content, happy with being himself, almost serene; like he knew the answers to everything. She knew she didn’t. She knew she knew nothing at all, which sometimes hurt, which sometimes gave her a headache and made her body run bad. She wished she could be happy with herself.

  On seeing her, the Hermit smiled and gestured her forward to sit by his side. Without thinking Esmeralda ran towards him and he adjusted his position to make space for her. His long mangled hair and matching beard - both sprouting grey - made him look far older than he actually was, which she liked. He was tall, fit, lean, which she liked. He spoke slowly, calmly, with conviction, which she liked the most. He was the sharing kind - as was she, though she had nothing yet to share. She was his new friend, and a friend in need. They embraced each other with their smiles. Around him she had nothing to fear. Around her he could replay his past - but this time with innocence and a sense of moral worth within.

  He tried to get her to join in, to talk, about anything: the weather, the forge, the blacksmith or his awful wife; perhaps even that brothel.

  ‘How has that man been treating you lately?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Has he hit you?’

  ‘No, I don’t let him now.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He just tries to touch me. Likes to touch.’

  ‘Well don’t let him!’

  ‘I try not to!’

  ‘Good.’

  The hermit calmed back down and Esmeralda fell back into silence, and stayed there, content to just look down into the river. The Hermit watched and waited some time before taking the initiative. He laid down his fishing rod, holding it firm in place under his foot, and reeled her in.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  Esmeralda began to shiver.

  ‘Do you want me to hug you?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  The Hermit gave her a hug. It did the trick: suddenly Esmeralda felt a lot stronger, far safer, less vulnerable. But still she could not speak. She just stared out across the river into the distance. He was happy to wait and picked up his fishing rod again. A big black furry beast forced Esmeralda to talk. It appeared in the distance on the other side of the river as a dark, slow moving object on the prowl.

  ‘What is that!’

  ‘Probably a bear.’

  ‘What’s it doing!’

  ‘Looking for food, I guess. Fish most likely.’ The Hermit gave up on the fishing. ‘Come on, time for us to go. I don’t think he will try and cross here but let’s not give him reason to want to try.’

  Esmeralda needed no persuading. They jumped down from the rock and the Hermit led her back to his horse and covered wagon sheltered behind a wall.

  ‘Look up!’

  ‘Why?’ Esmeralda looked up. ‘What’s that!’

  ‘A tree house.’

  ‘A house in a tree? Why?’

  ‘Why not? For fun. And it makes for a good lookout.’

  He invited her to follow him up the rope ladder. As she reached the top he held out a hand and gripped hers firmly, and pulled her up. She thought it felt great. She felt on a high. She felt free of the land. She was no longer stuck. She swung her legs over the edge. She could see so much, even though ‘much’ was much the same, no matter which direction she looked in. She could not see the Village, which was a good thing, a very good thing. Up here she was willing to talk - for up here no one could overhear them.

  ‘I don’t want to spend my whole life at the forge.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t.’

  ‘I want to meet someone.’

  ‘You will. Don’t worry. Give it time. You have plenty of time.’

  ‘I did meet someone but now he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? What, dead gone?’

  ‘Gone outside, his friend said. He was kidnapped but escaped.’

  ‘Kidnapped? Who by? The blacksmith?’

  ‘No nothing to do with him. By one of the others from the outside, their leader I think.’

  Esmeralda waved her words away. They were too confusing. She tugged at her friend’s sleeve instead.

  ‘Get this. He has a twin brother. Looks exactly like him, but better dressed, and longer hair. He’s also been kidnapped, by the same person.’

  ‘What’s his name this kidnapper?’

  Esmeralda thought hard to both remember it and pronounce it. ‘Iedazimus.’

  The Hermit did not recognise the name but it had a familiar ring: it was a Castle name.

  ‘This Iedazimus, is from the Outside, yes?’

  ‘Yes, along with all the others, and Timothy. They arrived a few days ago. Breamston rented them rooms.’

  ‘Timothy? Who is this Timothy?’

  ‘The boy I met, one of the twins.’

  ‘And what is the other one called?’

  ‘Marcus. Timothy was a monk from a monastery. He told me all about it.’

  ‘Timothy and Marcus.’

  Timothy and Marcus. The Hermit replayed their names inside his head as if looking for clues. Timothy and Marcus. Two very uninteresting, uninspiring names, yet they bounced off each other with a strange, almost chilling familiarity.

  Esmeralda was on a roll. She blurted out everything, wishing to hold back nothing from her best friend.

  ‘And then there’s his friend - my friend - Gregory - Gregory Valadino.’

  Valadino! Now that was a name the Hermit recognised, all too well.

  ‘Whose friend?’

  ‘Timothy’s. He fled with Gregory.’

  ‘These twins, how old are they?’

  ‘Nearly eighteen.’

  ‘Where does this Marcus come from? Outside like the other?’

  ‘No. From the Village he said, or nearby. Either way I had never seen him before.’

  Suddenly the Hermit asked a very odd question. ‘Describe the colour of their eyes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said describe the colour of their eyes.’

  Esmeralda closed hers and tried to visualize, to no avail. ‘Dark I think.’

  ‘Brown?’

  ‘Could be, yes. Not blue that’s for sure. I would have remembered blue. Blue is nice.’

  Time to make her request, she thought. ‘Will you help him?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Marcus.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Why do you want to help him?’

  ‘He’s the brother of Timothy?’

  ‘From the Village you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why does he need my help?’

  Esmeralda could not answer that. But then again she could. ‘Because he’s an orphan. They both are.’

  The Hermit was not convinced, but then there was Valadino, and he did convince. He had to see him. He had to see this ‘Marcus’ fellow. Nothing made sense, and add to that eighteen years of fog. Add to that he wanted to have a strong word with the blacksmith bully, to ensure he kept his dirty hands and dirty thoughts off Esmeralda.

  ‘That other man, has he stopped bothering you, asking about me?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t seen him for weeks now.’

  ‘Good.’ The Hermit did not want to engage with old enemies, or make new ones.

  He had had enough of fighting, defending, disputing. He just wanted to fish, forage, roam; do odd jobs for extra food; pop in on his scattered vegetable patches; dig up potatoes, trap rabbits, scratch his initia
ls on walls; keep to himself, for himself, for as much as possible; grow old, gracefully; stay calm; die in peace. He had it all mapped out now. He liked to be alone and get lost, and the Maze was the perfect place for doing that.

  ‘Very well I’ll help,’ he announced suddenly. ‘Let’s have some food.’

  That sounded like a good idea to Esmeralda.

  Together they made their way back down to the ground and back to the covered wagon. There the Hermit unpacked his portable stove. Like last time, this little object of expert design and engineering fascinated Esmeralda. She had seen nothing like it in the Village. And when she had asked him where it came from, his reply was always short and vague: ‘from a friend’. Esmeralda wished she had friends like that.

  ‘Let’s cook a fish,’ said the Hermit.

  ‘Can I cook it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  With all her new concerns offloaded, Esmeralda returned to an old chestnut.

  ‘Tell me again, about my mother.’

  ‘As I said there’s very little to tell. I didn’t know her that long, or that well.’

  (Half of that was true. The other half was a lie.)

  ‘Was she nice?’

  The Hermit smiled. ‘Yes, very nice.’

  ‘Did people despise her because she ran the brothel?’

  ‘No, definitely not. Someone had to do it.’

  The Hermit was lying again. But sometimes lies were better than the truth: a good thing when the truth could hurt. Elsie had done more than just ‘run the brothel’, but the Hermit vowed never to reveal that fact to her daughter.

  ‘Did she look much like my aunt?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So she wasn’t good looking then?’

  ‘Better than average I think.’

  ‘Am I good looking?’

  ‘You’re too young to be good looking or bad looking.’

  Esmeralda folded her arms and legs in protest. ‘No I’m not.’

  The Hermit smiled, wishing to make up quick. ‘OK you’re not, and yes you are, so guard it well.’