Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  He said more, complaining that she was never there; that she didn’t care about where he had been, what he had seen, what he had done, what he had killed or caught. His mother only really cared about being the Queen, and how she was seen to be the Queen. Despite her fractured, troubled upbringing Esmeralda did not hold bad, deeply embedded thoughts towards her mother, only a sense of longing and sadness. And then it struck her, in seconds maturing her by five years or ten, that his brother Timothy had suffered none of this.

  Mozak stuttered on about how, when he was a child, the Queen - sometimes ‘the Queen’, sometimes ‘my mother’, Esmeralda noted - had hated to hug him, forgive him, take him for walks, eat breakfast with him. Esmeralda learnt that his mother had only ever hugged him when he stamped and screamed. Esmeralda had no idea what it all really meant, or what she had missed. She knew it mattered to him though and that mattered to her, so she did her best to appear concerned.

  Sick of his relatives, Mozak spoke affectionately of his favourite horse, now dead, and his second favourite horse, also dead. Esmeralda mentioned her dead mouse but it wasn’t in the same league - as she could tell from the look on his face. With pride he described the Castle maze and how, as a child, he had loved to run around inside it, trying to end up lost; and that he would take her inside it one day. Esmeralda did not envisage that day ever coming. And as for mazes: she was not particularly fond of them. It seemed to her that such things cut people off, isolated them. She thanked him anyway, but not before he rushed on to tell her about how his uncle would chase his mother through the maze - the Castle maze Mozak explained to a confused Esmeralda. Did he still chase her? asked Esmeralda. No, definitely not, was the sharp reply.

  Mozak was back in his element again: living life in a bed; no responsibilities, no effort; just receive, take; no need to think, just sleep, fidget or scratch. This heaven may have extended the time he truly needed to remain in bed and recuperate. Why rush things? Why bother? He was a prince, he kept telling himself. Let this nice, sexy girl wait on me. At one point he was persuaded to get his hair cut. It was too long, too greasy, too dirty, too disgusting in both her opinion and his. Esmeralda arranged for the landlady to cut it for a small fee.

  When Mozak ran out of happy thoughts to share Mozak the Prince returned to complain that so much was expected of him: from day one it had been no fun; just pressure, pressure, and more pressure. (Privately Esmeralda took issue with that: compared with her life it sounded like fun. She sensed he was protesting too much.) He had had to learn to command, to wield a sword, to fight from the front, to shout orders from the top of his voice, to watch out for enemies behind his back, to watch his friends around him, to never make friends with the peasants. At that point Esmeralda interrupted - determined to get a word in - and asked if he had a dog back at the Castle. ‘Dogs’ was the blunt reply. Mozak said he had lots of dogs, explaining that a prince always had a pack of hunting dogs. Esmeralda tried to picture little Stevie in her mind but failed. She pictured Timothy instead, for that was far easier.

  And then there was his coming marriage, Mozak the Prince confessed. He didn’t want to get married at eighteen - for Esmeralda eighteen was a long way off - but he was being forced to: forced to marry fat, big-mouthed, fat loathsome Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Esmeralda was shocked by his language - and reminded that she was putting on weight. Did all boys hate fat girls?

  Finally, needing a rest - for he was tiring her out - Esmeralda offered to wash his clothes and the offer was accepted. Left alone, Mozak suddenly felt lonely, but he could not work out why. After a while the feeling (combined with boredom) prompted him to finally get out of bed and stretch his legs - and take a long piss in the toilet bowl. Looking out of the window he received the shock of his life: there was that monster again, his enemy, staring back at him from the window opposite, from the brothel, a look of anger smeared across his face. Mozak he stood his ground, like he had been taught, and tried to put on a brave face. Iedazimus saw his escaped prisoner staring at him, mocking him; grinning like an idiot, but then all princes were idiots. Then he saw the blacksmith’s girl come and stand at the prince’s side, to also stare back at him like an idiot. Fools. The world was full of fools. Only when he sat back down did they feel free to move away.

  The encounter blew Mozak out of his comfort zone. All laziness evaporated. Momentum was restored. The shock cleared his head and his body felt alive again, and ready for action. But also fear and uncertainty returned. He had to get home. He had to leave straight away. When he told Esmeralda of this she asked, without thinking, without regret, whether she could come with him. Of course, he replied, without thinking, without regret. Neither of them thought of Timothy. It was just them: Prince Mozak and Esmeralda.

  Esmeralda had to leave Mozak alone for a second time: for she had to share her news with her aunt Rosamund. She had to find closure, and as she left the room so Timothy re-entered her thoughts and a sense of guilt wriggled and wormed its way back into her head. She shook it off but by the time (a very short time) she had made contact with her aunt she was confused again. When she saw Prince Mozak she thought of Timothy and when she thought of Timothy she wanted to see Prince Mozak again.

  Her aunt Rosamund listened and, worried, offered her niece a permanent home at the brothel. Right there and then Esmeralda wanted to say ‘thanks but no thanks’, but not wishing to hurt her aunt’s feelings she lied, saying that she would think about it. Her aunt did not believe her but before she could respond they were interrupted by a new girl who had just signed up: anxious, she wanted to ask her employer for advice. Esmeralda recognised her from a few years back and in return the girl pretended not to recognise her. Esmeralda could not bring herself to say hello. Such associations could prove to be too painful. Right there and then Esmeralda said ‘thanks for the offer but no thanks’. She was off to see a Castle, with a prince. And after that? She didn’t have a clue.

  Back together, while they waited for his clothes to dry, Esmeralda and her prince contemplated the future: for Mozak that meant the trip home; for Esmeralda that meant the trip of her life. They were interrupted by a knock on the door. They looked at each other and Mozak gestured for her to open it. It was Mutz, looking serious. He stalled when he saw the twin on a bed behind Esmeralda, almost naked. Mutz thought of Timothy. Timothy he had liked but his twin was a moron. Why was she sharing a room with him? Why was he in his underwear? She deserved better, he told himself. She deserved him.

  Mozak, alerted to danger, sat up straight, a sudden look of pain in his face, as if he had been poked with a sharp stick. He slid off his bed and headed towards the enemy. Luckily for Mutz, Esmeralda stood in his way. She spoke first, wishing to control a situation which could easily get out of hand.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Came to see how you were.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Saw you leaving the brothel, so decided to follow.’

  ‘Well you found me so now you can go.’

  Her response stung but Mutz was not put off.

  ‘I thought you should know, Breamston is going to rent your room out.’

  ‘I don’t care. Please leave.’

  Mutz put his hand on the doorframe, as if to stake out his territory, as if to make a claim.

  ‘She doesn’t care so piss off you scoundrel,’ said Mozak, staring back at him and ready to strike.

  Mutz had intended to say sorry to the prince for his part in his imprisonment, but not now, not ever.

  ‘Probably best you go,’ said Esmeralda.

  Mozak, snarling behind her back, held up a stiff, solitary finger. Mutz wanted to hit the creep but Esmeralda stood in the way. He stood his ground, not willing to leave so easily - make it painful for them, he was thinking, so less painful for him.

  ‘Are you deaf? She told you to leave so fuck off! Get out of my room!’

 
‘Your room?’

  ‘Yes, my room, so fuck off!’

  ‘You fuck off.’

  Mozak tried to push past Esmeralda but she barred his way. She was determined to keep the two apart.

  ‘You really should go,’ she advised. ‘Best for all of us.’

  Right now she was both the youngest and oldest person in the room.

  Mutz, recognising the pointlessness of the situation, gave her one last look: one which still held on to hope; just in case there was something in her face, in her eyes, which was still worth chasing. But no. Nothing. She remained impassive, unresponsive. He turned and left, finally giving up on his infatuation, and grabbing on to resentment instead. As Esmeralda went to close the door Mozak grabbed it first and slammed it shut.

  ‘Cretin.’

  ***

  It was early evening, and in the church the Sexton appeared on schedule to perform his usual duties of locking up. He was not surprised to see Fargo still loitering, except this time the man was standing over his seated young friend; hand over his shoulder. Hypocrite, thought the Sexton.

  Mutz had already been there an hour or two: seated in the front pew; sometimes staring ahead, sometimes up. Earlier the Sexton had spoken to him briefly, and had learnt of his ‘girl trouble’. He had tried to comfort him, help him put it into context, but to no available. His comment that ‘women are a waste of space, a drain on the capacity of men to be men’ did not go down well. So the Sexton had left him to sulk and suffer alone. (He had no time for men who acted like boys.) Now here was dodgy Fargo consoling him: in the Sexton’s view, drawing him in, into his dark world of extreme, twisted values; trying his best to extract the poison of resentment which flowed through the body of his young friend, but at a price. Fargo did nothing for free, that was the Sexton’s conclusion.

  He re-examined the letter he held in his hand, and in particular the wax seal he had managed to reapply to hide the fact that he had already opened it. He had to work hard to stop himself from grinning. Finally, after reinstating the correct composure, he approached them both; whispering Fargo’s name to catch his attention, as if to make him feel like he was performing some act of immoral liaison inside God’s house.

  ‘What is it?’

  Fargo did not want to be interrupted. He had a damaged soul in his grasp and he was squeezing it and teasing it tight.

  ‘Did you manage to put your leaflets up around the Village?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fargo rounded on Mutz suddenly. ‘You did put them up didn’t you, like I said?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mutz faintly. ‘Just like you said.’

  ‘So all set for tomorrow?’ asked the Sexton cheerfully.

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  Fargo was suspicious now of the Sexton’s sudden, keen interest.

  ‘Nothing. Just hopes it goes well. Did you get a good reaction from those who read it? From those who could read it.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fargo emphatically, having blinded himself to the truth.

  Mutz remembered the strange looks and angry consternation the leaflets had generated, but said nothing. This was nothing to do with him.

  ‘Oh, and I have a letter, from the Elders.’

  The Sexton tried to hand it over to Fargo with a measure of graciousness but Fargo was too quick and simply snatched it up. He ripped it open, ignoring the seal and its clue that confidentiality had been compromised.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked the Sexton, sounding serious whilst laughing inside.

  ‘Piss off,’ replied Fargo as he took in the contents.

  Not only had the Elders rejected his application but he had been told to leave the Village as soon as possible.

  ‘As soon as is convenient please,’ someone had written. ‘Your presence is causing aggravation and disruption amongst our parishioners.’

  Fuck your parishioners, thought Fargo and he screwed up the letter and threw it aside as he walked away. (Someone has to pick that up, thought the Sexton.) He did not walk very far: he stopped within seconds for he had not decided where to go, and he did not want to step out of the church - that would look like retreat.

  ‘Must be bad news,’ said the Sexton under his breath - and another broad smile broke out.

  Luckily Fargo did not see it for he was in the mood for violence.

  Then, as if on cue, the Vicar staggered into the church from the passage which connected to his private quarters. He leant on the pulpit like a man come to watch the circus clowns. He looked at Mutz shrivelled up in a corner - arms folded, legs stretched out, staring up at the ceiling - before focusing his attention fully on Fargo. He had a bottle in his hand - he had started early. He smiled, then grinned, unable to contain himself. He looked like an idiot. The other three looked at him, waiting for him to say something. They all had different opinions and experiences of him but right now they all thought he looked like an idiot, a sad idiot.

  They’d rather have an idiot in charge than me, thought Fargo.

  Was he always like this? thought the Sexton.

  You’re in charge here? thought Mutz. What the hell is going on?

  ‘Bad news?’ asked the Vicar, mimicking his sexton as he tried to stand steady and not drop his bottle.

  He could not stop himself grinning as he thought of the naivety and pomposity of this sad mad, exiled monk. It just made him feel so good. He exchanged glances with the Sexton and Fargo was quick to catch the mood: they were sharing a joke - and the joke was on him. And then it struck him: the Vicar already knew, the Sexton possibly. The Vicar had been playing a game at his expense. Fargo exploded. He wanted to hit the Vicar. He wanted to hit both of them.

  ‘Fuck you Vicar! Fuck you both!’

  Mutz jumped to his feet and backed away, sensing that a fight was about to break out. The Sexton also backed away, but faster; hands up in protest, as if to say ‘please don’t hurt me it wasn’t my idea!’ The Vicar was not so fast in his head or on his feet. Fargo stormed towards him.

  ‘You knew didn’t you! You spoke to them! What lies did you tell them!’

  The Vicar tottered backwards, suddenly sober, smile gone. He saw a demonic Fargo, a man intent on killing him. Mutz wondered what was happening here in the house of God. The Vicar tried to navigate, blind, back out through the door. He clipped a paving stone on the uneven floor and slipped. Fargo tried to grab him: perhaps to rescue him, perhaps to punch him. The Vicar hit the ground, and the back of his head smashed against stone, as did the bottle. The bottle smashed into pieces which scattered in all directions whereas the head received just one crack. The Vicar passed out. Blood appeared and trickled its way across the smooth surface of the ancient stone floor. Not for the first time - but it had been a long time - there was blood in the church.

  Fargo fell down on to his knees, cursing (trying not to curse God). He grabbed the Vicar’s arm and slapped his cheek, and began to shake him, wishing to shake him awake.

  ‘Clumsy idiot! Wake up! Get up!’

  But the Vicar did not respond. He was lifeless. The Sexton bent down and put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. In total contrast to Fargo he sounded calm.

  ‘I think he’s dead. You can stop shaking him.’

  But Fargo was momentarily deaf. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. Dead.’ How many more times must I say it?

  ‘I didn’t do it!’

  ‘I know. I saw. Calm down. He fell. He was drunk.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Do? We don’t do anything. It’s not our job. We just found him like this. We report the death to the Elders and they’ll send someone to deal with the body.’

  Fargo stood up, knees and head shot through with pain. He had wanted the Vicar dead in his dreams and now the Vicar was dead. Was t
his a present from God or a warning about what to wish for, or was his life simply cursed? He thought of his brother. His brother had been blessed.

  As he and the Sexton looked down at the body, each retreated into their own thoughts. Both secretly regarded it as grotesque, as a joke which had gone too far. Fargo thought he had a second chance. Divine inspiration: they would have to give him the job now. Wasn’t he the only qualified man in the Village? The Sexton thought he now had the job in the bag, the job he had been waiting for for so long. And it was about time: he had been patient; never criticizing, never complaining; always on time. He had earned it. They had to give it to him!

  Mutz popped up behind them to see what was going on. Upon seeing the body and the blood he went weak at the knees. His lungs sucked in so much air they made him feel giddy. He wanted to throw up. Shaken to the core, he had to sit down. Fargo rushed after him to set the record straight.

  ‘He tripped. He was drunk. These things happen.’

  But Mutz wasn’t listening. ‘Oh my God!’

  The church suddenly felt cold.

  Sitting down suddenly felt like a good idea and the others copied him. All three began to dine on a meal of silence and introspection. It stopped when the old man appeared on the scene. Entering through the main doors he held his mop in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. Sensing something was wrong he stopped whistling and his cheerful mood evaporated. He put down his heavy bucket, spilling water.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Mutz spoke softly and pointed. ‘There’s a dead body through there.’

  The old man dropped his mop. Legs shaking, he edged forward to investigate. He had lived a long life. He had seen dead bodies before, but still he hated the sight of them. When he saw the Vicar lying flat out in a pool of blood he nearly had a heart attack. The Vicar had been good to him. He held on to the doorway as if for dear life as his brain ached to assimilate the situation, to adjust to the new state of the universe.