by Euan McAllen
‘Have the Elders been told?’ He could barely get his tongue round the words.
‘It’s only just happened,’ said the Sexton. Speaking in his calm, cool voice he made it sound like this was an everyday occurrence.
The old man looked at Fargo, questioning, as if trying to read his mind.
Fargo read his thoughts in an instant and barked back. ‘It was an accident!’
‘It was,’ said the Sexton for reassurance.
But the old man was not reassured: there was no panicking, no raised voices, no sense of alarm. It was all too quiet. It felt fake. Their cool, calm demeanour sent a shiver down his spine. He was old but he was not stupid. He backed away from the body with a lump in his throat.
‘I’ll clean this up later. When he’s gone.’
The old man wanted to run but was hampered by the mop and bucket which he could not leave behind. He was tied to them. They were his bread and butter, his bread and breakfast. He retrieved them both and tried to walk away, calmly, with a measure of self-control and dignity, but his legs now failed him. They were shaking. They refused to follow orders.
Fargo, seeing him struggling, came to his rescue (or not).
‘Here, let me help. I’m here to help.’
To the Sexton and Mutz his words sounded innocent enough. To the old man they sounded ominous. He felt himself in danger. His imagination ran wild: had all three conspired to murder the Vicar? Instinctively he knew two of them were quite capable of such an act. Fargo was a renegade from the Monastery, a place where any foul act was possible and sometimes endorsed. Fargo did not ask permission but wrestled the bucket free from the old man’s grasp and led him back to his room, holding him by the elbow; like he was a prisoner who had tried to abscond and was now being led back to his cell by a disgruntled prison guard.
‘It was an accident - I do believe you,’ pleaded the old man.
Fargo said nothing. He deposited the old man back in his room and on his chair. There the poor man began to shake. He felt himself beginning to pee: it felt like the lowest point in his life. It was only then that Fargo finally spoke.
‘Do you?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Do you believe me?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘Good.’
The old man sat, tense, hands between his knees as if waiting to hear the verdict of the court which might clear him or crush him.
‘What are you doing!’
Fargo had opened his cupboard and was retrieving his map, his special map, his prized possession. Fargo unrolled it, ignoring the old man’s rapidly diminishing protests.
‘I just want to see it again.’
Seeing it spread out Fargo’s head began to spin as it filled with new ideas and possibilities. This map was a unique source of knowledge, and hence power, which few others, if anybody, had. This map was power. Unlike the first time Fargo carefully scrutinized its contents and tried to take it all in. There was so much detail: tiny scrawled notes and weird notations - some illegible due to bad handwriting or a defective ink nib. It went on and on, without reaching the end. Too much information. Too much Maze.
In an instant Fargo decided: he was sick of the Village now; sick of its people; fed up with the attitudes of these loathsome, boring little villagers who never stepped outside their little boring heads or beyond the village limits. Good riddance to the job, to the church, to the Villagers. Yes, he would stay for his Open Day: he would give them his sermon along with a piece of his mind and then head off, back Outside. With this map he had buying power. Adolphinus would pay a lot for it. With this map he could buy his way back into the Monastery, back into a senior position of authority.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll complete it.’
‘No thank you. I’ve changed my mind.’
‘What!’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said the old man, accidentally mimicking Fargo. ‘Please give it back to me.’
He reached out to reclaim his property. He got a hand on it and tried to claw it back, but to no avail: Fargo simply snatched it away, out of reach, and pushed him away so hard that the chair tipped over and he fell backwards. Shaken and shocked, the old man crawled away, back on to his pile of cushions, to cower, like a dog which had felt its master’s whip.
‘You can’t just take it like that,’ he cried.
‘Yes I can.’
Fargo was confused: when they had first met, the old man was all enthusiastic for him to take it.
‘It’s stealing!’
‘No it’s not.’
The old man look up at the man who like him had once taken vows and practiced holy orders: a man who was supposed to be just like him. Far from it. God had deceived him. That thought made his blood boil: he wanted to lash out, strike this mad monk. Such outrageous behaviour had to be reined in. He struggled back on to his feet, wishing to try again, to take back his most prized possession.
‘Leave it!’ screamed Fargo as he kicked the old man away - much like kicking away a dangerous dog.
The force of his foot across the old man’s chest and the blast of his voice sent the old man reeling again. He slumped back down, defeated and deflated. He found it difficult to breathe. His over-excited nervous system was starting to kill him slowly. A numbness began to creep up one side of him, slowly strangling him.
Pathetic, thought Fargo, and he left, gripping his prize and his next great adventure; leaving a fatally wounded old man to cry out the rest of his miserable life on a pile of dirty, second-hand cushions. The old man had a second heart attack a minute later from which he did not recover. He was dead in another ten. And during those ten minutes there was no time for recriminations or reprimand, reckoning or re-evaluation; no time for the heartfelt. There was only time to die.
The old man died alone, unloved, to be forgotten by the few who still knew of his existence; far away from his true home and true vocation; marooned in a squat, in the smallest of bedsits, with nothing to show for his life except a clean church and a tidy churchyard. The one thing which had made him special, given him purpose in his final years, and which had made him proud had been stolen from him by an evil man of God. Just as he passed out of consciousness and into the black void of non-existence he turned to God - for the last time - and reached out for his helping hand. But there was no hand, no god, only death. The Sexton would discover his body the next day when he came looking for him - annoyed that the blood stains had not yet been removed.
‘Pity,’ he would say, staring down at the corpse, its face frozen in the expression of terror.
More aggravation: he would have to find another cleaner come oddjobber, and he would have to pay him - out of his wages if he got the Vicar’s job. (He would ask his friend to do the chores for free - the price for sharing his bed.)
***
During the night while Esmeralda slept like a log Mozak was restless and randy. She slept curled up like a baby, hugging her self, closed down. He lay stretched out, his battle weary body electrified by tension; tormented by the lack of relief. Unable to sleep he sat up, clutched his knees, and looked across at the girl who shared his room and his life. He crept out of his bed, afraid he was being watched, judged, to stand over her; to watch her breathe in and out. Esmeralda was all woman. He had to have her. The distance between him and her heaving body could be measured in inches but it was too far to bear. He sprang forward and closed the gap.
He gently shook her awake, wishing her to pay attention, to surrender to her prince. Esmeralda stirred and tore her eyelids open, still half asleep. She fell into a bad mood as she reached consciousness, having had to drop a good dream. As she turned over to meet him face to face her face nearly bumped into his groin. Her prince had a hard on. She looked up into his eyes. He was only just in control.
‘No,’ she said quie
tly but firmly and turned back over to adopt her original position.
She pulled the sheet up around her, wishing to disappear, to go undercover in her underwear. Outwardly she gave the impression that she was playing it cool; unruffled by his advance, his steaming sexuality. Inside she was hanging on for dear life. This was not Timothy. Timothy would never treat her like this. This was Marcus - no Mozak - his brother, his identical twin. But how identical? Timothy versus Mozak: she juggled the two in her mind; felt their weight; stroked their surface to measure their smoothness and symmetry. Not that it matter: by morning she would had forgiven him. After all ‘boys will be boys’.
Message received, Mozak crept back into his own bed, and continued to suffer. Esmeralda took an age to fall asleep again: the thought of letting go would not let go of her. It felt good thinking about it but doing it was a different matter altogether: she was still the girl. Later, in her dreams, she saw the one face of both her twins. She wanted him but dare not take him. When Mozak felt sure she was asleep again, he sought relief with a quick, quiet, efficiently executed wank.
Elsewhere Fargo shivered in the bed opposite Mutz. He mumbled, haunted by another death in his vicinity. But this one was definitely not his fault. Mutz sat up and looked at Fargo, perplexed, seeing a man haunted by demons. He wanted him to stop. Next door Jeno and Tippo snored loudly, each anchored in their own self-contained universe. Mutz could not stand to be in the same room as them so he continued to suffer Fargo instead.
Foccinni slept badly, as did Iedazimus.
Iedazimus spent the night telling the world to fuck off, telling the king to fuck off - and the queen for good measure. Earlier that day Tippo had told him that the Elders had ordered them to leave, immediately; to which Iedazimus’s response had been ‘tell them to fuck off’. He told them all to fuck off: his brother, his sister, the royal family, pretentious noblemen, stupid knights, the Chief Monk, Gregory, even Foccinni, but not Mutz. For some reason known only to him Mutz was not on his ‘fuck off’ list - despite the fact that he had told Mutz’s mother to fuck off.
Foccinni only slept at all because he had sunk a large measure of alcohol. It was an uneasy, embattled sleep made uncomfortable with what the past had served him up; with what the present had dropped him in; with what the future had in store for him. He was a weak man now, no longer in charge of his own destiny. Despite his hunger he had bitten off more than he could chew.
Like the previous night Helmotti slept badly: the past would not go away; the balance of the present had been lost; the future was uncertain again. All that hard work for nothing. He felt back at square one.
***
Mozak awoke abruptly, from another bad dream, one which involved his twin, his twin ghost. He had to get home but he could not remember the way. Esmeralda held his hand as tears threatened to explode. Then he remembered Foccinni opposite and cursed himself. Explaining nothing he pushed her away, dressed in a rush and left the room for the brothel; refusing to be intimidated by the enemy if he met him, and hoping that he wouldn’t.
He banged on Foccinni’s door, dragging the poor man out of his sleep, a sleep which had taken an age to arrive. Foccinni was grumpy at the door and evasive. Mozak sensed a distance, a dissolved friendship when he asked - begged - Foccinni to show him the way home back through the Maze. Foccinni refused, explaining he could not travel with his injury. He could not walk. The excuse sounded lame and Mozak sensed Foccinni no longer wanted to know him. Piqued, he returned to his room, crushed, and fell back into bed. Esmeralda tried to console him but he fought her off until, when the sobbing began to flow, he allowed her into his heart.
‘You’re a prince,’ she reminded him.
Mozak corrected her. ‘I’m the prince.’
He punched the mattress. ‘I have to get home! But I don’t know how!’
Esmeralda offered to go ask her best friend. He might be able to help.
‘What friend?’
‘My friend, the one who rescued you.’
‘Oh him.’
He watched her set off from the window, unconvinced then, left alone, drifted off into inner contemplation. He kept away from the window, not wishing to catch the eye of the enemy. He thought about home: there he was someone, someone important, someone they had to salute, respect; here he was nothing, nothing except an invention called ‘Marcus’. Yes he badly wanted to get back to home sweet home. (He had never thought of it as sweet before, more sour.) He had forgotten why he had left! No he hadn’t, he mused as he corrected himself.
What a stupid, pointless endeavour, he told himself. Should never have left. Should never have trusted Rufus. Peasants: they always let you down in the end. Where was she! He threw a pillow across the room in protest, feeling abandoned. In desperation to kill time before it killed him, he left the safety of his room and took a stroll up and down the street. It only made him feel more miserable. This place was a dump, a place inhabited by miserable people, poor people; people worse than the peasants back home - disrespectful people who barged into him rather than step aside. He retreated into his room, back into his bed, and waited it out.
Meanwhile not too far away the Church had opened its doors to receive guests and the Villagers had crept in; in silence, in drips and drabs; looking left and right, up and down, as if checking that nothing had changed, that nothing had been changed. Having not bothered to wash they brought with them the sweat and smells of the Village. Fargo was privately disgusted but not deterred. They slid into the pews and shuffled along to make space. Fargo was impressed by the number who had come to hear him speak, though the looks he received were blank. The Sexton, floating in the wings, recognised some of them. The rest he guessed had come along to make trouble. Fools, he concluded. Today his church was stuffed full of fools, Fargo included.
Fargo thought he had the upper hand, the whip hand. He thought he had God on his side, reinforced by the power of the Church. He would hit them with the force of his words and the strong beating heart of a soldier who was coming out to fight. But he was wrong. They had not come to listen but to mock, complain, intimidate. He scanned their faces for any sign of curiosity. But none. It soon became apparent that there was only contempt - the trigger being the moment when he opened his mouth and started speaking, preaching, dictating. He did not get very far into his sermon. They began to shout him down.
‘Give us back our bingo you bastard!’
‘Go home!’
‘You, Outsider! Stay outside!
‘This is our church! You leave it alone and fuck off!’
The insults only stimulated Fargo to march on and shout louder than his ungrateful audience. He raised his arms and exulted his audience to reach out, to reveal themselves, to open their hearts to God. But they were not listening: they just kept telling him to fuck off and never come back. Finally he gave up and started to swear back at them. They had refused him so he would refuse them. He threw then poisoned words. They caught them and threw them back. They were Villagers, with simple minds, simple attitudes and a simple approach to life. God was forgotten, kept in denial.
As Fargo’s sermon dissolved into chaos the Sexton became concerned. The joke had gone too far - this joker Fargo had gone too far. When a rotten egg flew past Fargo and splattered against the wall the Sexton decided to intervene and stop the show. He crossed the floor, pointed at Fargo and ordered him to get out and never come back. He knew he had the backing of the crowd, and the authority of the Elders.
‘Get out!’ the crowd began to shout, some mimicking the Sexton, but backing him with all their heart (but no soul).
The Villagers wanted their church back. One stood up and started running up the aisle towards Fargo, looking like he intended to hit him. Only the Sexton stood in the way. The Sexton intervened and held him back.
‘No. Leave him, leave. I promise you that you’ll never see him again.’
‘Swear?’
‘I swear.’
Fargo, out of steam, out of anger, realised the game was up. Yes, time to go. Refusing to be rushed he walked away, down the aisle and through the ugly crowd; looking neither left or right but only straight ahead as the Villagers tried to stare him into the ground. Some spat. The Sexton looked down at the floor. Who would clear that mess up?
Back outside - in sunshine - Fargo was relieved and then pleased with himself: he had given them what for, a piece of his mind (a piece which didn’t mean all that much to him). He had stood up to the barbarians; the pathetic ‘lost nation’ living in the middle of nowhere who had deluded themselves into thinking that somehow their sad, simple lives had significance. They were trapped here in the Village out of their own choice. Let them stay trapped: he had no time for them; God had no time for them. God, he so wished to be out of this place! A piece of horse shit whistled past his head. He ducked then turned to see where it had come from. A small boy ran off laughing.
***
Esmeralda found the Hermit in his usual place by the river. He was stretched out on the grass, possibly meditating, possibly snoozing. Hearing someone approaching he stirred, sat up and smiled when he saw it was her. She sat down next to him and for an extended moment neither spoke, both preferring to watch the river flow by and let time do its worse. Finally she spoke and shared her problem - Mozak’s problem. The Hermit said nothing but pondered her request in silence. He stared across the river at the opposite bank and the lack of response led Esmeralda to believe that he did not want to get involved. That she could understand and stood up, intending to go. But then he spoke.
‘So he wants to get back to the castle?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he wants me to show him the way?’
‘I want you to show us the way.’
‘You’re going with him?’
‘Yes.’