Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  Just as wholesome, secure thoughts returned to nurse the Hermit back to health he was interrupted yet again. This time it was the paper thin guard from the forge. Mutz had been drinking and his bruised ego had swollen. It now demanded satisfaction. The bubble had to burst. Without thinking Mutz challenged him to a duel. All the Hermit could do was laugh.

  ‘Clear off. Go home. I don’t have the time for this and I don’t fight kids.’

  ‘I’m no kid!’

  ‘Be quiet please. This is a church.’

  The kid looked hurt, disorientated, so the Hermit told him to sit.

  ‘Sit. I’m not your enemy. I’m Iedazimus’ enemy.’

  Mutz sat down and was questioned at length. The Hermit wanted to know how he had got tangled up with Iedazimus and his kidnapping plans. In return Mutz asked how he knew of Iedazimus. The Hermit said he had ‘bumped into’ Iedazimus at the brothel, and that he remembered the scoundrel from an earlier time: when they were both young, wild and sometimes crazy.

  Within the walls of the church, feeling protected, Mutz found it easy to tell the total stranger everything: somehow behind the long hair and beard was a voice which projected authority and dignity; and the sword was a real, first class sword. Mutz wanted to get it all off his chest, distance himself from Iedazimus’ madcap schemes, and demonstrate that he was his own man - at least now if not before. Slowly, inch by inch, any enemy of Iedazimus was becoming a friend of Mutz, though he did not realise it at the time. Never once did the Hermit give a clue as to his own history. He just sounded sympathetic to Mutz’s situation, as if he had been there himself.

  Then the Hermit dropped his bombshell: telling Mutz he was an exile from the castle, a friend of the dead king; that he remembered Mutz’s parents. He went further and said he remembered a young Iedazimus’ immoral interest in Mutz’s mother, and how his father died. Mutz was astounded. He almost cracked under the weight of new information: king Helmotti had not locked up his father, starved him to death; rather he had put him, his friend, into secret quarantine for the royal doctor to try and cure him of some awful contagious infection. The doctor failed and the king had his father buried in secret, to avoid hysteria breaking out, to protect his family from unforgiving peasants. His mother never found out: she had already fled - with Iedazimus, the Hermit now realised.

  Mutz was seething: Iedazimus had betrayed his trust, and his mother. He had used her, abused her, dumped her and she had committed suicide because of him. (Unbeknownst to Mutz, the new Chief Monk had contributed to her demise.) Suddenly, Iedazimus was not his protector but his sworn enemy. Everything Iedazimus had told him was a lie. Mutz wanted - demanded - revenge, and he wanted it now but the Hermit restrained him.

  ‘Hate driven lust for revenge will consume you before you receive redress. Stay calm. Wait and watch.’

  ‘Watch for what?’

  ‘For that sublime moment when all those wrongs can be put to right and your enemy feels your pain.’

  The Hermit spoke with conviction and Mutz recognised wise words. He wanted to believe him. He got up, said goodbye, and left in a rush; head spinning; trying to find a way back to some sort of self-control. He made his way back to the forge for no other reason than Iedazimus was not there and Esmeralda was.

  ***

  Esmeralda sat and watched as Marcus sipped soup from a bowl. She could not tell how bad or better he was. He would drift off into sleep then awake again, sometimes with in a fit of bad thoughts, as if plagued by some dreadful, soul destroying dream which always lapsed into the same nightmare. He had no wish to get off the bed. He said little but when he did speak he repeated himself. He had sad eyes. He said he wanted to go home. Would she take him home? he asked. Yes, she promised. Promise? Yes, she promised again. He asked where was Rufus. She said she didn’t know. He asked her to go find him. She said that would be difficult but she would try her best. She couldn’t help but notice that calling him Marcus seemed to confuse him, make him think extra hard until it hurt. Did he not know his own name now? He asked her what she did. Nothing much, was her flat, plain answer. She didn’t like the question or the answer but it made him happier for some reason. Like me, was his reply.

  Mutz reappeared, popping his head around the door and looking bashful, apologetic, trying to smile away their differences and misunderstandings. He failed miserably and Esmeralda told him to get lost else her friend would return and sort him out. Mutz got the message and gave up. He went wandering, around in circles; awaiting and fearing the return of Iedazimus. He kept replaying the wild man’s advice and wondered what had happened to Jeno and Tippo. Had they deserted their leader? No, they wouldn’t dare cross him. The arrival of a small, scruffy, underfed boy bearing a message answered his questions.

  The boy flew in, looking for some fellow called Iedazimus, saying he had a message to give from a man called ‘Jeno’. Mutz took it, saying he was Iedazimus, and told him to clear off. He discovered that the two mates had landed themselves in the village gaol. They had been arrested, and would remain there until the fine had been paid - a fine for fighting with the locals. The boy did not clear off but hung around. He expected a tip. Mutz gave in and gave him one but received no thanks. Feeling short-changed, the boy flew off scowling.

  With a heavy heart and cold feet Mutz realised he had to find Iedazimus and pass on the bad news. He headed off to the brothel: in his mind the only place the man could possibly be. He found it hard going: as he drew closer the strain increased, his face became taut. He felt like his body was tied up in knots - knots which tightened as he drew nearer. He found Iedazimus nursing a bandaged hand, low in spirit, which Mutz thought was unusual for him. Iedazimus looked up at Mutz and saw a mirror image: they both looked sick, demoralised. Iedazimus even felt pity for Mutz’s poor state. He thought perhaps it was because Mutz had never seen him like this before. Iedazimus tried to reassure his young friend that he was fine.

  ‘It’s nothing, just a small injury. It will get better in time.’

  Mutz found that the best way to deal with the situation was to talk. He brought Iedazimus up to date with events and watched him explode, discovering it to be fun. Iedazimus was angry with Mutz and even more angry with his mates: they should have known better. Unconsciously Mutz amplified the violence of the crazy man. Breamston had been left a trembling wreck, he said. The crazy man carried a sword and nearly used it.

  ‘I only had a knife,’ argued Mutz. ‘What was I supposed to do? Only pick a fight you know you can will, that’s what you told me once.’

  Iedazimus was forced to agree, which was why holding a prince for ransom now felt like a bad idea.

  After he had calmed down he gave Mutz some silver and firm instruction to go free the others. Mutz thought it strange that Iedazimus did not ask him much about the wild man who had intervened and freed his prisoner, and his threat to return. Then Mutz remembered all that he had been told in the church: there were secrets floating around now, denials and cover-ups. He looked at Iedazimus’ hand and tested his theory.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  ‘I fell.’

  Iedazimus clearly did not want to discuss the matter and that for Mutz was clearly out of character: Iedazimus normally boasted about his latest battle wound, even if he had lost the fight. Iedazimus moved the subject on immediately. He told Mutz to go free Jeno and Tippo, then go tell Breamston that he was quitting the lodgings and taking a room at the brothel instead, where ‘the nurses were better’; otherwise the agreement stood. He told Mutz to instruct the others that they were to watch out for the crazy man, to tell him everything when it immediately happened.

  ‘And the twin?’ asked Mutz, reminding him that the crazy man threatened to return if the twin was threatened in any way.

  That seemed to throw Iedazimus back into a sulk.

  ‘I don’t care. Let him go,’ he replied. ‘He’
s no further use to me.’

  Mutz, standing over Iedazimus, felt like for the first time he was looking down at him, not looking up. He saw a weak Iedazimus, scared of the old castle warrior. Yes, he should bide his time, until he was the stronger of the two. Let Iedazimus continue to bluster, issue orders, make mistakes, make enemies, lose fights. Mutz was happy to carry on watching him from behind his back. Mutz saw a man dodging the truth and weaving lies into his own reality. Iedazimus saw a bruised boy again: nervous, holding back; suspicious? Iedazimus wanted to tell him it was not his fault: his mates had failed him, not Mutz. But Iedazimus was never any good at the emotional stuff. He shied away from it. Mutz would get over it, he told himself. Get over it, he told himself.

  ***

  Back at the forge Mozak was finally seduced out of bed by a determined Esmeralda, angered by Breamston’s wife who told her that the boy must pay for his bed and food if he was to stay.

  ‘We’re not staying!’ shouted Esmeralda back at the bitch.

  ‘And don’t come back!’ the bitch shouted back.

  Breamston was hammering away - bang bang bang bang - all his muscle, force and fury focused on hitting an arc of orange glowing metal into shape. He held it between a pair of tongs, sometimes lifting it to inspect progress. Breamston was in his element: the act of hammering sucked in all his anger and frustration just as much as it gave him a sense of purpose. His piece of metal would end up on the hoof of a horse and he wanted to get it right, for the sake of the horse. As he resumed his attack on the metal his wife sneaked up and tapped him on the back.

  ‘What, woman!’ he shouted without turning. Only the wife would dare to tap him on the back while he was working.

  ‘It’s about Esmeralda.’

  ‘What about her!’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Breamston didn’t pass comment. He just carried on hitting his metal, harder now.

  Esmeralda helped her patient up, and sorted him out, and put him back together as much as he could be reconstructed; and led him back slowly, stop-start in fits, back to his lodgings; pausing on the way to enjoy the sun, to point out places in the Village and to tell him their stories (though he was not listening). Esmeralda found herself constantly patting him on the back and talking to him like he was a child. On the way he kept asking after Rufus and she kept saying she knew nothing. He kept asking his name and she kept reminding him that it was ‘Marcus’. She found herself revelling in the role of combined mother and nurse and taking charge of his life. There were no full-time nurses in the Village. Perhaps she could be the first? He was her patient. She was his nurse. And both played their part.

  Madam Overy was pleased to see him back, and then worried, and surprised to see her instead of the other boy. Marcus said his friend had deserted him, but his new friend could have his bed. Madam Overy looked at Esmeralda, frowned, but said nothing. It was none of her business. Esmeralda looked at Marcus and looked surprised but said nothing. As she helped him into bed he fell like a stone and fell into a deep sleep, exhausted by the trip. Only then did she realise just how broken and fragile her friend Marcus was. Somehow he had managed to find the strength to cross the Village: that impressed her. These twins, Timothy and Marcus, were strong. They had willpower. Willpower had always impressed Esmeralda.

  She looked around the room. It was simple and clean. Making herself at home was not such a bad idea, she thought. She was a big girl now. She could look after herself. And poor Marcus needed her by his side. She could not leave him alone in this state. This Rufus, she thought, how could he simply run off, dump his friend in time of need? If she ever met him again she would give him ‘what for’.

  Come the end of the day, even though Esmeralda was determined to stay, sharing a room with Marcus proved daunting: the act of undressing, even just the bare minimum, and slipping into the bed beneath sheet and blanket felt weird, slightly scary, yet at the same time thrilling. Her sexuality became charged and she wanted to flaunt it, despite no audience. And in turn it charged her and sent her slightly giddy as she spread herself out, near naked, until flesh was exposed; wishing to exercise her power; watching Marcus to see if he was not asleep but in fact watching her, peeking. He was dead to the world. She had a desirable body and she wanted to show it off, have it appreciated by a good looking young man like Marcus or Timothy. Either would do.

  ***

  Another day dawned and Mozak slept on through the morning and on until midday. In the night he had mumbled, tossed and turned; at times shouted out the names of Rufus and Timothy; at one point cursed his mother, father and uncle; leaving Esmeralda to watch from the safety of her own bed, and feeling useless. All she could do was put a cold flannel across his brow. And when he cried out ‘Rufus, where are you damn you!’ all she could say was ‘he’s gone but I’m here’.

  When he was awake she fed him soup and listened to his talk; and agreed with everything he said; and held his hand until he shook her off or fell back into a troubled sleep, whereupon she would wait for the next opportunity to hold it and squeeze it. She looked on as he looked towards the window or at the blank wall or up at the ceiling. At one point she tried whistling to wake him up and shake him up but it didn’t work. When his eyes were shut she looked into them, sometimes searching for Timothy; sometimes finding him; sometimes rediscovering Marcus; sometimes seeing both at once, as one.

  She tiptoed out of the room and tiptoed back in with food or a bowl of hot water. She fed him neat parcels of food on a fork or portions of soup from a large, deep spoon, and he lapped it up. Servant girls were nothing compared with her. Strangely - or not - Mozak didn’t miss his large bed in his large bedroom, or his endless conveyor belt of meals, but then he was not yet back to full health and activity. His body and mind adjusted seamlessly to the new, low energy, domestic regime. They were on holiday.

  His room, which quickly became theirs, was a snug, secret place in which to recuperate, which they both needed to do. Here patience was rewarded. No adults interrupted. No adults told them when or what to eat, when to go to bed, or to listen. Temporarily they were no one, ‘non-persons’; connected to no one else; of equal status, until Mozak later dropped his bombshell. It became their private, adult-free world, in which anything said did not escape its walls. It kept the wicked world out. It let no one in. It gave them firm boundaries, a clearly defined space which belonged to them: no one else had a claim. They could look out of the window when they wanted to; to see that nothing was changing; that they were missing out on nothing. Village life continued to flow past, unchanged, uncaring, uninspiring. It offered Esmeralda no reason to rejoin it.

  Esmeralda made it her job to hold his hand and he grew to like it. He squeezed hers. She wiped his face and he thanked her, loving it. She adjusted his pillow and blanket and he thanked her. By holding his hand, she held him in place. While holding his hand she grew in confidence. While holding his hand she slowly discovered how to turn the fantasy of falling in love into something real, practical. While holding his hand she tried to imagine she was holding Timothy’s. By holding his hand she felt she was passing energy, strength from her body to his, and so saving him.

  She told him stories and he began to listen: this Village was not so boring, not so forgotten; it did have tales to tell. Mozak learnt about the big Town Hall built as the place for all Villagers to gather, talk, take counsel and vote. These days that rarely happened. He was told about ‘Litter Day’ when all would stop what they were doing and just pick up litter, now forgotten by nearly all. He was told the story that the Village church was founded by exiles from the Castle.

  At one point Esmeralda was torn: she had to let go of her patient, leave the room, and go see her aunt. She had to share her news: that she had walked out on the Breamstons; that she was nursing poor Marcus back to health. She was gone before Aunt Rosamund could respond: leaving her to worry; leaving her to curse the wicked
ways of the Breamstons and wishing her sister had not lived such a wild, feckless life; leaving her wishing Esmeralda was her daughter.

  Later, Aunt Rosamund released her frustrations and hatred when she saw Breamston’s wife at a market stall. She stormed in and grabbed the Breamston woman by the shoulder, twisting her round to face the enemy. The woman was not intimidated: Rosamund was the scum of the Village. Rosamund made her point very loudly for all to hear: touch Esmeralda, hurt her in any way, and they would to answer to her. With what? sneered the Breamston woman. She spat at Rosamund’s feet to make her own point. With all the male friends she had made in the Village, promised Rosamund, spitting back. It did not stop there. They retreated a little, but only to start flinging mud at each other. Some bystanders cheered them on. Some clapped when mud hit its mark. The Village Idiot simply took notes while the Village Hangman could not stop sniggering. Only when it looked like they were going to grab each other and fight it out did anyone bother to intervene. No one wanted the brothel keeper injured and unable to run her business. Likewise no one wanted to fall out with Breamston the Blacksmith. Such was Village life: everybody was connected, for good or bad or indifference.

  In the early evening, with a board borrowed from her aunt, Esmeralda taught her patient the rules of draughts and they played on and on until he won his first game; and then, worn out, he took another long sleep. They played knife-handkerchief-brick. They watched the birds land on the window sill and tried to keep count of the different types. At one point Esmeralda had a brilliant idea and scattered seeds across the window sill. The ecstatic birds twittering outside calmed her but were ignored by Mozak. He didn’t get it when she fed them: birds were to be eaten, and only fed just before they were due to be roasted.

  Esmeralda’s thoughts wandered from time to time, even when she was holding hands. She thought about her mysterious friend and wondered what he was doing. When her Marcus asked how he had been freed, she gave little away, just saying that she had asked her friend to intervene. Mozak wanted to meet him, thank him, but Esmeralda said that would be difficult, impossible even: her friend didn’t live in the Village; he drifted; he gave and went without warning. Mozak gave up.