by Euan McAllen
‘Guard what?’
‘Your body.’
Suddenly the two had stepped into the mud of an uncomfortable exchange and they both went quiet, wishing to crawl away, move on to firmer ground.
Afterwards, as it getting late, the Hermit allowed Esmeralda to sleep over in his wagon. He moved some belongings out to maximise the space between them. He gave her his best blanket and made do himself. That night he did not sleep well and as a consequence nor did she. Esmeralda watched her best friend shiver, toss and turn. She wanted to help, but didn’t know how.
***
Back at the forge an unhappy Mutz had to get away. He chose a long walk, alone this time, unable as he was to track down Esmeralda. He could not bear to be near the prisoner. The sight and sound of his suffering was a drain. Likewise he could not bear to be in the presence of Iedazimus. Iedazimus had let him down.
He walked around the Village, looking for anything of interest whilst ignoring the hostile looks he sometimes provoked. He ended up standing in front of the church, looking up at its bell tower. Being the most substantial building around it never failed to grab the attention of passer-by’s. Mutz stepped inside, not because he was looking for God - he had had enough of him on the outside - but because he hoped to find Fargo inside. He just wanted to chat. There were two others: sitting in the pew nearest the door. Mutz watched them for signs of movement. There was none.
Fargo was talking quietly but forcibly to another man, even holding his arm down. When he saw Mutz lurking at the door the man broke free of Fargo and the conversation, and disappeared through a side door. Those seated at the rear also left quickly when Mutz entered. Mutz edged forwards, out of the sunlight and into the gloom.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.’
Fargo waved him in, his enthusiasm unchecked.
‘Come in come in. Never expected to see you here.’
‘Was just passing.’
Mutz looked around and up, impressed by what he saw. A lot of time and effort must have gone into making this building something special. In his opinion it was the only decent building in the Village.
‘This must be very important to them.’
‘It was. Not sure it still is.’
‘Who was that man I saw just now? Is he in charge? Is it his church?’
‘No. He just works here. He reports to the vicar. It’s his church.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Of course, of course.’
Mutz took the nearest seat in a pew and Fargo sat down beside him at breakneck speed, as if to trap him; wishing to give him all his attention, even if Mutz didn’t want it. Mutz soon discovered he could not stretch his legs: it was proving to be very uncomfortable - religion was always uncomfortable. He got up and immediately Fargo looked agitated.
‘You leaving us already?’
‘No, just can’t sit here, too squashed.’
Fargo also got up.
‘Sit at the front,’ he suggested. ‘Nothing in front of you except the altar.’
Mutz did as suggested, though sitting so close to the altar put him on the defensive. He felt himself being pulled in, manipulated, when all he had wanted to do was pop in for a chat to kill time. Throughout his life he had only paid God lip service, gone through the motions to keep the Monastery police off his back. He did not want this washed up monk to think he was here looking for God; to apologize, to make up for lost time. Fargo sat down again, behind Mutz this time, as if trying another tactic; as if to force Mutz on to the stage and into the spotlight; as if to instruct him, coerce him; as if to catch him off guard.
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding most of the time?’
‘Not hiding. No.’
Fargo sounded like he had been slightly insulted - but Mutz didn’t care. To avoid Fargo talking about God, Mutz came straight to the point.
‘What do you think about what Iedazimus has done. You happy with it?’
‘Happy? No, certainly not. He’s been here, what, three days? And already he’s kidnapped some local youth. Outrageous.’
Fargo slapped his thigh for dramatic effect.
‘Why don’t you do something? It’s low, dishonourable. And I’m part of it.’
‘Do something? Like what? I’m outnumbered. I’m a man of the cloth, a man of peace. But I did say something, made it clear what I thought.’ (He hadn’t.)
Fargo gave a heavy, almost theatrical sigh.
‘But it was no use. You cannot persuade, deal with a man like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well you know.’ Fargo could not tell if Mutz was for or against Iedazimus, so played it safe.
‘No I don’t. I always thought he was honourable, decent. But now I don’t know what to think.’
‘Exactly. He’s capricious, without principles, which means he can never be trusted. You can never trust a man who keeps changing his mind, his side. You can never be sure if he’s your friend one day or your enemy the next.’
Mutz would not go that far. Choose between friend or enemy? Iedazimus might not always act like a friend but Mutz did not see him as an enemy. Iedazimus had been a close friend of his mother, and had raised him after her death; though not quite like a son, more like a distant nephew suddenly dumped on him when he wasn’t expecting it. Mutz began to look despondent, which gave Fargo the perfect excuse and opportunity to jump in with his own form of medicine: God.
‘Our only true friend is God. He’s the only friend you can always reply on. He’s always there for you, and he always has your best interests at heart - even when you don’t know what those are.’
No preaching, please monk! thought Mutz. I don’t need this right now. But he did, he just didn’t like admitting it. Distrustful of the Monastery and its sometimes robotic monks, Mutz had kept it at arm’s length, and so too God. But he had never totally disinvented him, denied his existence. Letting go might mean never getting him back. God was allowed to be there, in the distance, just in case Mutz needed him one day. (He wasn’t sure if this was such a day, preferring self-suffering, self-sufficiency; preferring to work things out for himself. He had been brought up tough, told to fight, ask questions later.)
‘So why isn’t he here for this kid, a kid being held for ransom.’
‘For ransom? He didn’t tell me that. Ransom from who? One of the villagers? I don’t like the sound of that. I’ve got to live with these people.’
‘And me!’
‘I thought you were going on to the Castle?’
‘Change of plan I think.’
Fargo decided to put him on the spot. ‘You do believe in God, don’t you, Mutz?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I need your help.’
‘Help? What kind of help?’
‘Help me with these people. Help me save their souls.’
For want of something to do - and to delay answering - Mutz began to rub his teeth with his tongue. He didn’t have the strength at this point to refuse the request. On the other hand if he was going to be stuck here in this place, a good job, an important job might be no bad thing.
‘How can I help you?’ he finally asked.
‘Help me get the locals to church, to worship, to reconnect with their god. Round here, they’ve mostly seemed to have forgotten. I need manpower.’
‘What about the vicar? It’s not your church. What’s he going to think?’
‘It’s not my church, you’re correct. But it might not always be so.’
Just like a monk, thought Mutz, scheming already.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Mutz and with that he got up.
Fargo clicked his fingers.
‘Remember Iedazimus could drop you just like that.’
Mutz was quick to get out of
the door, back into the sunlight; pretending not to have heard Fargo’s final comment ringing in his ears. It refused to die.
That evening Mutz found himself stuck with the job of keeping watch over the prisoner. First Iedazimus had slipped away to the brothel, leaving Jeno in charge. Next Tippo had decided to go get wasted and demanded Jeno join him, leaving Mutz in charge. To make matters worse, Fargo reappeared. Mutz had to choose between the lesser of two evils: sit looking at the pitiful Marcus and pretend not to care (and keep reminding himself that this was not Timothy); or sit in the other room with the fanatical monk, and pretend to care as he droned on. Later on in the night, unable to take any more of the moaning, pitiful prisoner, Mutz retreated back to the other room and a spare bed. He fell asleep easily enough, only to be awoken by Fargo tossing and turning and talking loudly in his sleep; sometimes fighting for God, sometimes fighting God.
***
The Hermit brought his wagon to a halt on the outskirts of the Village. Leaving it hidden, and after securing his horse, he produced a sword from amongst his few possessions: an old sword; a sword with history; a sword which had spilt blood, which had cut short conversations; a sword which had once commanded respect. When Esmeralda saw it in his hand she suddenly saw a different man: a more dangerous man but one still on her side. That made her feel good, important, safe; almost untouchable. Esmeralda now had her shining knight and together they walked on in silence, the sword attached to his belt. She felt like a princess. Now she just needed a prince. Any prince would do.
The closer they got to the heart of the Village, the greater the weight each carried: different weights, different reasons. The Hermit demanded Esmeralda take him to the brothel, where the stranger was staying; the man from the Castle with a keen interest in him. Esmeralda begged him to go straight to the forge but he refused. Brothel first.
There, a moody Esmeralda introduced him to her bemused aunt Rosamund. She begged him to be quick, to get to the forge as soon as he was done. Her aunt did not know what to say or how to respond to an armed vagrant with long hair and a badly trimmed beard. Did he have the money? Was he out to cause trouble? Would any of her girls get into bed with him? All she could do was look at her niece and wonder what the hell was going on. Esmeralda did not hang around so did not witness the effect on her aunt when the Hermit revealed himself. The two knew each other.
Aunt Rosamund, once recovered, was glad to see the old rascal again: still alive and kicking, and apparently in good health despite his nomadic lifestyle.
‘The years have treated you well Harry.’
‘And you.’ The Hermit looked around. ‘This place hasn’t changed much.’
‘It doesn’t need to.’
‘True.’
‘You come back to stay? To see me?’
‘No. Just passing through. Business to attend to. Here to be precise. Need to speak to your lodger. The one from the Castle. He’s been asking Esmeralda about me. Is he here now?’
‘He’s here all the time, convalescing.’
For old time’s sake Rosamund gave him the room number: either that or he would just hang around and frighten the girls - or the clients. And they left it at that. Let the past stay buried. There was too much else in the present awaiting burial. Both had moved on, though not necessarily to a better place or with better things to do. The hermit had one other question. He asked about Rosamund’s sister, Esmeralda’s mother.
‘Did she ask about me much?’
‘No. There was no point.’
‘She has a lovely daughter. She would have been proud.’
‘Yes she would have been.’
Leaving things on that poignant note the Hermit went on his way, to confront the man from the Castle, and possibly from his past. He didn’t know that he was being followed: as Iedazimus crept down the stairs nursing a sore head he latched on to an interesting conversation and a strangely familiar voice. This was no villager. It was enough to make him stop, turn around, creep back upstairs to hide, then stand outside the room of special interest.
The Hermit knocked on the door, firmly, and heard a body lumber across the floor inside. Foccinni got a big surprise when he finally opened the door. There was a mad, hairy man facing him - a man with a sword hanging from his belt. Had he been sent by Bizi to kill him? Keep a grip, Foccinni told himself. This is no killer knight. This is a vagrant with an old sword. Foccinni tried to shut him out but the Hermit stuck his foot in the doorway.
‘Can I come in?’
‘No!’
‘Well I’m coming in.’
The Hermit was as good as his word and in he came, shoving Foccinni aside. The pain which hit his ankle made Foccinni want to cry out but somehow he managed to hold it back and suffered in silence.
‘How dare you! Who the devil are you?!’
‘You’ve been asking about me, so here I am.’
The reply took the words right out of Foccinni’s mouth. He was mesmerised by the long tangled hair, and the beard, and the look of certainty and confrontation in the eyes - eyes which sat in a chiselled, weather-beaten face. The mad man looked like he was on a mission.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
Foccinni did mind but knew there was only one answer to give.
‘No.’
He sat down on his bed and watched with growing unease as the mad man took the chair and kicked off his boots, as if settling in for the long haul, as if making this room his. The boots had mud but Foccinni decided not to complain. The Hermit held his eyes firmly on Foccinni and Foccinni began to sweat under the pressure of such unexpected close examination.
‘So what is this all about?’ Foccinni nearly choked on his few feeble words.
‘So why are you here? Why are you interested in me?’
‘I was wondering who you might be.’
‘To report back to the king?’
‘No!’
‘The prince then?’
‘Yes.’ Foccinni spoke softly.
‘How is he?’
‘How is he?’ Foccinni looked caught out, flummoxed. ‘The prince is fine as far as I know.’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Foccinni.’
‘What’s your family name?’
‘Gustlic.’
This lunatic was sounding very smart, which Foccinni found disturbing.
‘So you’re the brother of Valadino?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know he is still alive?’
‘Yes.’
Foccinni felt himself being stripped clean of his personal life, his privacy. He was not so much undercover as overexposed. And the answer to the original riddle was clearly becoming apparent. But at the moment he was too scared to put the question. You did not ask a king questions. You only answered them, and quickly - like he was doing now. Foccinni felt thoroughly intimidated and the elephant in the room grew bigger and bigger, and louder and louder. It became unbearable, intolerable.
‘And he’s here, yes?’
‘Who, my brother? Yes.’
‘No the prince.’
‘Sorry, yes.’
‘And did you know he has a twin?’
It was the fiercest question yet: the one which dared the responder to return anything but the honest truth.
‘Now I do. But I only found out two days ago.’ Foccinni sounded like a knight who had failed miserably in a mission for his king.
The Hermit rolled up his sleeve to reveal his tattoo: his famous tattoo; the one which only kings were allowed to wear.
‘You were asking the blacksmith’s girl about this. Well here it is. You know who I am, don’t you?’
Foccinni gulped and his foot began to throb. ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Don’t call me that. I left all that rubbi
sh behind long ago.’
‘What should I call you then?’
‘Good question.’ The Hermit looked at the floor, as if it needed a clean. ‘Harry. That’s my name.’
Name sorted, the hard questioning continued.
‘Valadino fled outside didn’t he, all those years ago?’
‘Yes my Lord. Sorry. Yes.’
The Hermit leant back and stared up at the ceiling: he would have been angry back then; now he found it comical and sad, even ridiculous and tragic.
‘Well that makes sense then. He disobeyed my orders. Well good for him.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’ The hermit fixed his uncompromising, unwavering stare back on to Foccinni. ‘Your brother is very good at telling lies.’
‘Yes. He even told me a few.’
The hermit, sensing a disingenuous statement, suddenly looked tired, weary of all that had just been said.
‘So, we have two princes again. What fun. What if Bizi finds out - how is that son of a bitch these days? Still in bed with my queen?’
‘No. They barely speak to each other. His best friend is a pig they say. Some say he’s going a bit bonkers.’
‘Serves him right.’
‘You angry?’
‘Me? No. Why should I be angry?’
‘No reason.’
Foccinni desperately wanted to remove his bandages and feel his ankle - scratch it better. He just wanted to go home, even if he had to hobble all the way. The Hermit kicked the floor and started up again.
‘You know one of the twins is being held don’t you?’
‘No?’
‘Mozak I think.’
‘What!’
Foccinni tried to leap up from his bed to demonstrate his outrage. But of course he couldn’t so he thumped the pillow instead, for little effect.
‘I didn’t know that, honest!’
‘It’s alright. Sit down I believe you. Some rogue from the Castle is holding him I think.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Sorry? Why?’
‘Well, he’s your son?’
The Hermit sniffed. ‘It’s been a long time.’
He leaned forward towards Foccinni. Foccinni leaned back.