by Euan McAllen
‘You keep this secret, all of it, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Or I’ll kill you, right?’
‘Right,’ croaked Foccinni, not wishing to die.
The Hermit suddenly lightened up and pointed. ‘What happened to your foot?’
‘I slipped.’
‘Round here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened to your face?’
‘Argument with my brother.’
‘You planning on going anywhere?’
Foccinni had no clue. ‘No, not for a while. Not with this bad foot.’
‘Good. Stay here. I may want to speak to you again. And you talk to no one!’
‘No one. Understood. No one.’
Foccinni wanted to ask the ex-king what he had been doing all this time, how he had been killing time. (The word ‘killing’ was not a good word to use.) But he decided against it, at least for now: asking questions rather than answering them didn’t feel right, right now.
The Hermit jumped into a new subject. ‘Tell me, how is the queen?’
‘The Queen? I cannot say. I rarely see her. I never speak to her.’
‘Is she still slim?’
‘Not exactly. The years have not been good to her in that respect.’
‘She is fat then?’
‘Yes.’
The hermit laughed. Foccinni wanted to join in but didn’t. Better to play it safe.
On the other side of the door, Iedazimus had heard more than enough. He slipped away to digest it all. It was a lot to swallow. Tell the others? Bide his time? There was no gold to be had from this broken old man. So ignore him? Get reinforcements, attack, kill him? Would the others kill a man in cold blood? Would they kill the ex-king? Would they go weak at the knees? Iedazimus felt a massive headache coming on. He tried to remember why he had started the whole show. He just wanted to go home - yes that was it. Home sweet home. But the Maze was in the way.
Iedazimus could not continue to walk away. He suddenly did a u-turn. Do it now. Kill him now. Remove the complication. You have the advantage: an old man is a pushover. Time for the ex-king to be truly declared dead, and he would be the one to do it. Iedazimus smiled. He would return to the Castle as the king-slayer, the natural leader of the revolution. He would be elected its first ever president. The royal family would be expelled, written out of history; made to work for a living; forced to chop wood, plough the fields and milk the herd. Iedazimus gathered pace, knife drawn, blood up, head hurting with intention and imagination.
He saw the mad, hairy old man approaching. He kept his eyes focused on the ground. Closer. Closer. Closer. Ever closer. Do not look up. He had to look up. The old man was almost upon him. For a fleeting moment Iedazimus felt himself in the presence of a king and reality was suspended, but only for a second or two: Iedazimus shook it off and reality returned. This was just a decrepit old man pretending he could still handle a sword, still act like a warrior. Unable to control himself Iedazimus smirked as he passed by. He drew his knife, drew a deep breath, and turned; only to see that the enemy had already turned and had his sword drawn.
No matter, Iedazimus told himself. He did not need an advantage, just clear thinking. Unfortunately with his hangover that was not to be had, instead all he had was a bad mix of fog and excitement. No matter, Iedazimus told himself again. He raised his knife then hesitated. Could he kill this sad, broken shell of a man, a man who had lost it all? He would never find out. The enemy raised his sword. The sword was bigger. Suddenly, the knife felt tiny, useless, but still Iedazimus, the proud warrior, lunged forward and made his challenge. Weak in the head (and a little at the knees) he heard himself apologizing.
‘Sorry but I have to do this.’
‘Do what?’ replied the Hermit, sounding strangely calm, but then he had been raised to fight with a sword since the age of ten.
And the sword swung out, knocking the knife out of Iedazimus’ hand. Iedazimus, stunned, watched it fly through the air. He looked back at the old man, wishing to start the confrontation again and get it right this time; else be elsewhere. He was speechless for now the old man was holding the tip of the sword at his throat. This was not how it was supposed to be.
‘Well do what? Or have you lost your voice?’
Iedazimus stared back like an idiot. He tottered backwards and fell to the ground. The sword was now touching his throat. He dared not move. He dared not breathe. All he could do was focus on the tip of the sword and wonder how he had got it so wrong. Kings should never be taken for granted, said a voice at the back of his mind.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Iedazimus.’
The Hermit nodded. ‘I see.’
Iedazimus saw a man trying to restrain himself; a man on the edge of an explosion. Iedazimus thought he was going to die. With his hands he tried to squeeze the ground into submission. His heart was beating way too fast and wanted to explode. For the first time in a long long time Iedazimus suddenly felt like a very ordinary, fragile man. But he did not die. There was no fatal blow. Instead the Hermit stamped hard on his opponent’s hand, his fighting hand, leaving it useless - possibly for the rest of his life. There was the sound of joints cracking, possibly bones breaking. It was a cold, calculated movement, and very effective. Iedazimus cried out in pain and whimpered. He would never forget this moment, nor the man who had struck him down.
‘If I ever see you again I will kill you. Understood?’
Iedazimus understood.
‘Understood.’
The Hermit backed off and walked away, satisfied but mentally exhausted, having fought with himself as much as with the enemy. He hurried off back to the forge. He had a son to free, or so they said.
***
Back at the forge, at its entrance, Esmeralda held back, waiting for her friend to reappear. He would put things right. But she could only bear to wait so long: finally a cocky, impatient Esmeralda sought out Breamston the Blacksmith, to confront him. She found him and began to boast that her new friend was on his way. He would stand up for her. He would rescue Marcus. As a result she suffered the Breamstons at their worst. Breamston blew his top. She had spent the night with the man. Egged on by his vindictive wife, he wanted to hit her. He demanded to know if ‘the dirty old man’ had touched her. Esmeralda denied it vehemently, feeling insulted - not that Breamston cared about the answer. His wife wanted to kick her out there and then. Send the girl back to the brothel! She can find work there, like her mother!
Breamston was less keen: the girl was free labour, an unpaid servant. He didn’t want to let that go. The Breamstons compromised (sort of) and agreed to locked her up again. But Esmeralda fought and screamed like she had never done before. Like a wild animal she bit her master’s hand - the hand which fed her - and in return he slapped her until she was subdued. Mrs Breamston slapped her harder. It was two against one and Esmeralda was outnumbered - but they failed to lock her up. Breamston gave up and returned to his forge. Mrs Breamston did not give up but returned to her kitchen anyway. The fight would continue.
Mutz heard it all and saw some of it but did not protest or intervene. He kept his distance and having heard the word ‘rescue’ thought it best to stand guard over the prisoner. That was what Iedazimus would expect him to do.
In time, the hermit arrived at the forge (he had visited the place as a younger man). At its entrance he noted nothing had changed, other than the rubbish piled up. He heard the blacksmith hammering away at a piece of metal as if his life depended on it. He approached and, before the blacksmith could respond, asked him to sharpen his blade. He held out his sword in both hands, like a peace offering. The blacksmith saw it as a threat but took it as requested and began to sharpen it, hoping the sooner the job was done the sooner the scary vagrant would be gone. So this was her friend?
A danger to others or to himself? As he concentrated and focused in Breamston recognised the sword. It was old, almost ancient. Its engravings were the work of high art and craft. The sword spoke of history and battles won and lost. Breamston kept his thoughts to himself. He did not want to know. He did not want to provoke. Castle folk had always been trouble. Meanwhile the Hermit watched his every move while Breamston pretended not to notice.
Like a dog, Esmeralda scented the Hermit’s presence and rushed towards him from out of nowhere. She had been hiding. She had been sobbing - but not because of the Breamstons.
‘Mutz won’t let me see him.’
‘See who?’
‘Marcus.’
The Hermit wanted to hold her, hug her better, but he held back. He asked a question.
‘Where is he?’
Esmeralda pointed. ‘Over there.’
The Hermit demanded his sword back and, rearmed, walked towards the door in question. He banged on it with extreme force.
‘Esmeralda I said go away!’ shouted a squeaky Mutz.
‘Open the door now or I will kill you.’
The Hermit spoke calmly but inside he was boiling. Not bothering to wait he kicked the door open. Mutz was cowering inside, beside the bed on which ‘Marcus’ lay moaning.
‘I didn’t touch him I just had to watch him. I didn’t do this. Honest.’
‘Get out.’ The Hermit pointed the way out with his thumb.
Mutz left smartly, not looking for a fight. Not wishing to appear a total coward he stopped to linger outside. He felt stupid and feared reprisals from Iedazimus - though he hoped Jeno and Tippo would receive a greater backlash for leaving him alone to hold the baby. They should have known better. They should have been here. Mutz wished he had a sword to fight with, and was thankful he didn’t. He tried to stand close to Esmeralda, wanting to make up, explain, but she pointedly ignored him. He was the enemy.
The Hermit stared down at the captive prince while Esmeralda rushed in to untie him. Prince Mozak looked like a baby: vulnerable, sleepy, almost dead to the world. Prince Mozak did not look like a prince. But he did have his mother’s looks. As Esmeralda released him from his bonds, Mozak began to stir and move his arms and legs, but slowly. The freedom of total movement had yet to make an impact. He rubbed his wrists and rotated his neck from side to side. He did not want to get up, or complain, or demand action, or even say thank you. He simply wanted to stay in bed. He stared up at Esmeralda. She was holding his hand and brushing his hair away from his eyes. She looked like she cared. He could not remember the last time a female, young or old, had done such a thing in such a way. He liked it.
The Hermit continued to stare at the prince, saying nothing and maintaining his distance. Suddenly he turned and left - leaving Esmeralda to pick up the pieces. She looked like she knew what she was doing and he did not want to spoil her moment. She had earned it. Back outside he was accosted by the blacksmith who felt obliged to confront him. Breamston was holding a sword (the one meant for Iedazimus) but was afraid to raise it against a warrior from the Castle - and one who looked mad. The Hermit raised his in return and gave every indication that he was prepared to fight, to the death if necessary. He had a look in his eyes which said he didn’t care how far it went.
From the safety of her kitchen Mrs Breamston appeared at her husband’s side.
‘Do something! Stop him!’
But Breamston ignored her, as he often did in times of crisis. Breamston recognised those eyes now and did not want to cross this man. His wife, furious, grabbed at his arm but Breamston shook her off. Esmeralda appeared at the door so Mrs Breamston turned on her, blaming her for everything; for bringing this armed maniac into her home; for turning her husband into a coward; for diminishing her own sexuality until it no longer existed. She tried to grab hold of the bitch Esmeralda, wishing to hit her. The Hermit’s firm cool voice stopped her in her tracks and left her quaking.
‘Don’t you ever touch her again.’
He did not need to say more. His few choice words had struck her down. She spat at the ground. It was meant for Esmeralda, and for her husband, and for herself. Wishing to hide, Mrs Breamston walked away, back into her kitchen, to try and lose herself in some domestic chore - cleaning would do it. She made a wish: let Esmeralda die in some horrible accident. Esmeralda felt the woman’s utter, seething hatred and knew she had to get out of this place, now, as fast as possible.
Mutz, unable to deal with what had happened, and was still happening, sneaked away, back to the church; preferring the company of Fargo and his God to being stuck with his own thoughts and inaction. He would stop off for a few drinks on the way.
The Hermit had no desire to hang around. He had played the knight in shining armour. He had made his point. Now he wanted to disappear back into the shadows. He wanted to remain dead. He did not want to speak to his son. Was Mozak his son? The poor prince lying on the bed looked like no son of his, but then he had been tied up for days. The Hermit was confused. He needed a piece of God, a piece of the action. He thought about paying a visit to the church. He knew the Village had a church. It was proud of its church. He had been there many years ago. Yes, he decided, visit the church then get out; back into the Maze; back into the wilderness where his mind could remain clear, whole, beyond criticism. First though he had to say goodbye to Esmeralda: that would be hard, for her. But she was safe now, that he felt sure of. That bastard blacksmith and his wife would never dare touch her again.
Before speaking to Esmeralda he had a private, quiet word - a very long word - with Breamston, making it clear that if he touched Esmeralda or the boy Marcus again, or obstructed them in any way, he would get to hear about it; and he would return; and he would take no prisoners. The Hermit reminded Breamston that at the castle he had killed many men, sometimes for no reason other than the fun of it. Breamston believed him, absolutely. He understood, perfectly. He just wanted to be a simple blacksmith, he protested, left alone to do what he did best.
The Hermit told Esmeralda he had to go, leave, get out: the stress was becoming too much to bear. He would still be camped by the river. She was safe, he told her: he had spoken to the blacksmith. He promised her they would never touch her again. But she could come and find him if she ever felt threatened. Esmeralda said she understood, and that she would miss him. She asked how long he intended to stay at the river. A while longer, he said, saying nothing more. He asked her to help get Marcus back to his friend Foccinni at the brothel. Foccinni would look after him, get him home.
Esmeralda gave him a tearful goodbye and a farewell hug while at the same time directing her thoughts towards nursing her broken Marcus back to health: Marcus, the twin of Timothy, she reminded herself. She reassured her best friend that she was not afraid of the Breamstons. She could fight them now and win each time. She held up Marcus’ knife to make her point. The Hermit was impressed: Esmeralda had the blood of a warrior running through her veins. The Village was becoming too small for her. He wished her luck and said goodbye. Deep down, he could not tear himself away. He had to stay within reach. There was too much unfinished business.
***
Across the Vicar’s desk the Vicar and Fargo sat opposite each other, opposing forces pretending to be on the same side, on the side of God. As Fargo spoke - sometimes preaching - the Vicar floated in and out of the one-sided conversation. Fargo was excited: he had a proposal. He wanted to organise a ‘Church Open Day’. He felt his plan had God’s backing, and declared so. The Vicar did not object. He did not oppose. Also he did not mention that it would clash with Village Bingo night. Bingo was the highlight for many in the Village. For some it was their only reason to keep on living, and to visit the church. Bingo brought the Villagers together, if not closer to God. In the Vicar’s mind, that was no bad thing. He did not share any of this with Fargo. Let the tiresome monk have his ‘open day’. Let
the man with his message from God burn himself out.
At times like this, Fargo was not sure what to make of the village vicar: he was too willing, too friendly, lacking in resistance. Fargo knew there was tension between them, competition, near conflict - conflict over God and how to employ him. He had no clear idea what the Vicar truly thought of him and the Vicar liked to keep it that way. The Vicar sat back and smiled, and reached for the bottle, and smiled at Fargo’s great plan to reinvigorate the community. The Vicar was reminded of a busy buzzing bee. Let it wear itself out and drop dead, he thought as he continued to smile. He even lent Fargo his official seal, wishing him all the luck.
Fargo, not wishing to start drinking so early, left him to it. Drink yourself to death, he thought as he closed the office door behind him. He had an important task to attend to: he had to write out a number of leaflets for posting around the Village. It would take ten copies, he calculated, each stamped with the official seal of approval. (He would stop after six.) With the church seal in his possession - if only temporarily - he felt like he had taken a step up the ladder. He didn’t want to give it back. Perhaps a drunk vicar would forget he had given it to him? Probably not.
The Hermit found his way to the church. It still stood there, unchanged, unchallenged; imposing, intruding upon the simple mind. Was the same vicar still leading the charge? The Hermit did not care to know. He entered, paused to recover his breath, and sat down in a dark corner; wishing to be left alone, to think alone, to let this alternative god enter his head and heart (like last time but this time perhaps to stay for nothing else seemed to work as well). He was not left alone for long. He was approached, interrupted by some idiot who wanted to make him feel at home, share his sorrow, help him resolve any personal issues. The Hermit looked him straight in the eye and told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off. His laid his hand on the hilt of his sword to make his point. The man, Fargo, backed away, apologizing. Just when he had settled back down into a mental calm the Vicar approached him. Same vicar, thought the Hermit, and looking worse for wear. The Vicar did not recognise him and like Fargo was told to fuck off. After that the Hermit was left alone.