Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  That news shut him up. It was a while before he spoke again - Esmeralda had to coax him.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Of course not. You must do whatever you must do.’

  That statement made no sense to her but she said nothing. She could see that her best friend the Hermit was thinking hard, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, which to her was odd, seeing how he did his best to avoid the world.

  ‘I can’t remember the way. It’s been a very long time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But his friend Foccinni knows the way.’

  ‘Mozak has asked him but he refused to help.’

  ‘I will persuade him to join us.’

  ‘Us? You’re coming with us?’

  ‘Yes. A prince needs protection, an escort.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a prince. Wonderful isn’t it!’ Esmeralda clapped her hands to make her point.

  The Hermit looked at her, suddenly seeing that she could still be a little girl.

  ‘Yes, wonderful,’ he repeated, as if distracted.

  They snacked and drank their fill before setting off on his horse back to the Village. Esmeralda held on to the Hermit for dear life, arms wrapped around his waist, even though the pace was a slow trot. She was holding on to her new adventure for dear life as it swept her along.

  They stopped off at the forge: Esmeralda wanted to retrieve her best clothes (which were few). The Breamstons made no appearance. There was only Mutz, lingering, wishing to speak to her but unable to find the courage. She disappeared inside the house and reappeared holding a knapsack into which she had stuffed her few personal possessions. Mutz was still there, still looking broken. She ignored him and declared proudly to her best friend that she was ready, ready to go. It was the Hermit who put him out of his misery.

  ‘You want to go home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come with us then.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. You should be home.’

  Mutz smiled. ‘I’ll get my stuff.’

  Esmeralda erupted. ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. The Castle is his home. It’s all he has.’

  ‘The Prince won’t be happy. He won’t allow it.’

  ‘I’ll deal with him.’

  That shut her up. ‘Very well.’

  At that point they were joined by Fargo: it was as if he had been waiting in the wings, waiting to pick his moment. He appeared holding a roasted chicken leg which he had swiped from the kitchen.

  ‘I need to get to the Castle. May I join you?’

  The Hermit turned on him, hand on sword.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Fargo.’

  Mutz jumped in. ‘It’s alright. He’s a friend.’

  The Hermit was not convinced. ‘You’re a Villager?’

  ‘God no. I’m from Outside.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘The Monastery.’

  ‘You’re a monk?’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Why do you want to get to the Castle?’

  ‘I’ve been told to leave here.’

  ‘By the Elders?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Mutz jumped in again, sensing bad atmosphere.

  ‘He’s been a good friend to me. Please let him join us. I’ll vouch for him.’

  I don’t need anyone to vouch for me, thought Fargo.

  The Hermit visibly relaxed: his hand disconnected from the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Very well, on one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘No preaching. No God. There are no Gods at the Castle. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’ Fargo had no intention of doing such. Right now he was sick of God.

  Gathering their goods and gathering their thoughts the group set off to make contact with Prince Mozak.

  While all this went on Jeno and Tippo were watching from the window of their room. They did not recognise the ex-king. They just saw a dirty, long haired vagabond. They could not believe their eyes when they saw Mutz set off with the Blacksmith’s girl and the crazy old, washed up monk. Jeno rushed out and shouted at Mutz to stay put. The Hermit drew his sword and Jeno backed away, not wishing to fight. Instead he spat in the mud to send Mutz on his way.

  On the way, the hermit considered saying hello again - and goodbye again - to his old friend Rosamund. Esmeralda walked alongside her best friend who in turn led his horse by the reins. A few paces back Mutz walked alongside Fargo, both feeling that they had yet to join the party. Fargo stayed close by his younger friend: right now Mutz was his only anchor. From time to time Esmeralda would look over her shoulder to see how close Mutz was and whether he was watching her (or perhaps not watching her).

  Mutz felt energized again, on the march again, into battle, but this time behind a leader he could trust. With every step Mutz took, he felt himself walking further away from Iedazimus, when, ironically, he was walking towards him. Mutz resolved this dilemma by attempting to wipe all history of Iedazimus from his mind. It was an impossible task.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fargo at one point, seeing a troubled Mutz. ‘I’m here when you need me.’

  Mutz thanked him but right now he did not need Fargo. He was heading on, into the Maze, and on the other side was home, his proper home, and perhaps family.

  ***

  Upon arriving back at the lodging house, Esmeralda rushed inside to find her prince. There he was: sitting on his bed looking bored. Mozak looked up - her eyes like those of a lost puppy. When she said ‘they’ were all waiting for him, he became agitated.

  ‘They? Who’s they?’

  ‘Mutz is coming with us, and his friend.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I tried to stop him, honest! But he wouldn’t have it!’

  Mozak rubbed his head in anticipation of an approaching headache. ‘I’ll sort this out.’

  He rushed outside, to be greeting by a crowd. They were waiting for him. For Mozak it suddenly felt like the good old days - if only fleetingly. Determined to take command of the situation he pointed at Mutz.

  ‘What’s he doing here?!’

  ‘He’s coming with us,’ replied the Hermit.

  Mozak turned on him. ‘I didn’t ask you!’

  He turned his sights back on to Mutz. ‘He’s not coming with us. He’s the enemy. That’s my final word!’

  Mozak folded his arms to make his point final, non-negotiable, and stared down at the ground, unable to cope with the looks he was getting. Normally crowds did not intimidate him - and this barely counted as a crowd - but that was before, before his trauma.

  The Hermit folded his arms in return.

  ‘He’s no enemy. He was just misguided, mislead. He’s on our side now. I give you my word.’

  Your word? thought Mozak. What’s your word worth to me?

  ‘Mutz wants to go home, like you.’

  ‘He’s from the Castle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he doing out here?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  At that point Mutz, fed up with being talked about like he wasn’t there, wanted to butt in and tell the pompous prince to butt out but Esmeralda held him back. The touch of her hand grasping his arm was an acceptable distraction and he wanted it to last as long as possible. Had she just smiled at him? Women: he had never learnt to read them, and probably never would.

  ‘Tell him he can come if he says sorry and keeps out of my hair - and he has to mean it.’ Mozak was determined to have the last word on the subject.

  ‘You tell him. He’s standing right here!’

  By now the Hermit had had enough of the prince’s dramatics. Mutz licked his lips
as he waited for the onslaught.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘You want to get back to the Castle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you apologize for your disgraceful conduct?’

  ‘Yes. I apologize.’

  ‘Like you mean it.’

  ‘I mean it.’ Mutz did his best to sound like he didn’t mean it.

  ‘And you swear allegiance to the king?’

  ‘Yes.’ That he definitely did mean.

  The Hermit suddenly interrupted. ‘That’s enough now. Don’t push your luck Mozak.’

  Mozak gave the Hermit his dirtiest look, his most majestic put-down. Who was he to interfere like this? He transferred the look to Esmeralda: it was a look of blame. Mutz also looked at her, trying to fathom out what she saw in such a pompous, irritating clown. ‘Because he’s a prince’ was the answer that struck Mutz as soon as he posed the question.

  Mozak could not look away from the old man - her best friend? The Hermit reciprocated and they locked horns; each taking measurements; each projecting a lower status upon the other; each wishing for the other to be something better. Mozak tried to take him in: the old man’s tanned, weathered skin spoke of a life spent outdoors. It spoke ‘peasant’: a peasant with attitude and terrible hair; a peasant who could only stare rudely; but a peasant who carried a sword. Did the peasant know he was addressing royalty? Yes, that was it: Esmeralda must have told him. So be it, just as long as she didn’t tell anybody else. That was his job. Earlier, Mozak had reminded himself to thank the man for rescuing him: now that all went by the by. He could not bring himself to thank a peasant, especially one as rude as this.

  Esmeralda sprang forward to fill the gap which was opening up. She took a hand from each and shook them both, as if trying to shake life back into both of them. She looked back and forth, wishing for them to become friends and complete her triangle. Instinctively she knew she had to do something to make that happen.

  ‘Mozak, this is my friend, my best friend –’ she stopped, stumped. ‘What is your name?’

  She never felt the need to ask him that question before.

  The hermit suddenly looked vulnerable and clueless.

  ‘Call me Harry,’ he said after a long pause.

  Mozak spotted a lie and his guard went up.

  ‘Harry, this is Prince Mozak. Prince Mozak this is Harry.’

  Neither responded to her laboured words and Esmeralda felt let down. The awkward moment reinforced her notion that ‘men would be boys’ as well as ‘boys would be boys’.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said and let them go.

  Mozak stepped away. Harry held his ground.

  ‘So you can get me home? You know the way back to the Castle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No. But Foccinni can.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yes. From way back. He’ll lead us back.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘He will, trust me.’

  To Mozak the words ‘trust me’ sounded hollow. ‘But he’s injured?’

  ‘I have my horse. It will carry him.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Let’s go and get him now.’

  You like being in charge don’t you, thought Mozak. Then he thought of the brothel, and the enemy within, and the fact that he now outnumbered his enemy two to one. Yes, let’s go get him. He clapped his hands.

  ‘Come, I have business next door.’

  It was a false start: there was still the other stranger; another old man who stood silent, withdrawn - in Mozak’s view another man with secrets. Annoyed again, he turned on the other uninvited guest with a vengeance.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Fargo, a friend of Mutz - and Timothy. We are both from Outside, the Monastery.’

  ‘You knew Timothy?’

  ‘Only briefly - but I think I got to know him well.’

  Mozak missed the questioning look Mutz gave Fargo and relented. ‘Very well you can join us.’

  Fargo was not seeking his permission - and where he came from the title of Prince carried no weight, no authority. However he did not protest, deciding instead to play along: he did not want to make more enemies than he had to.

  Satisfied, Prince Mozak led the charge into the brothel, Harry and Esmeralda trailing. Mutz and Fargo did not move from their spots.

  Rosamund was surprised to see her niece again - and her old friend Harry again. On being told their plans she scooped Esmeralda up in her arms: Harry watched and Mozak stormed on up the stairs. Aunt and niece squeezed each other tight, until there was no more breath to be expelled. Esmeralda made it clear that this was definitely her last visit and this was definitely her last hug.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ said Esmeralda tearfully.

  ‘Good luck,’ whispered Rosamund. ‘You know your mother never had much in the way of luck so hopefully you’ll have it in abundance.’

  As she comforted her niece she hooked Harry with her eyes: look after this child! He raced off after Mozak, which in turn prompted Esmeralda to peel away and race after them both, not wishing to miss out on the adventure. Right now she could not get enough adventure. She needed all the adventure she could swallow: it was her only medicine to alleviate the heartache and pain of leaving the only place and the only people - good and bad - she had ever known. She wiped the tears from her eyes: she did not want her prince to see that she had been crying. Crying was for babies. Crying was for girls.

  When Mozak reached Foccinni’s door he paused for a moment, enough to let Harry, the armed peasant, catch up. Then without explanation he ran on up the stairs, beckoning his man to follow, to end up outside the door of his enemy. Now he was gasping for breath and agitated - as was Harry when he caught him up again.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘The man in there abducted me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s not going to get away with it.’

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘There is no other time - we’re leaving, remember?’

  Mozak drew his knife.

  ‘Put it away.’

  But too late: Mozak thumped the door with its handle and stood back, even more agitated. His nervous system was overloading.

  The door opened slowly and Iedazimus peered out. He had a massive hangover and his body was wasted by too much sex and alcohol late into the night. He looked back and forth between father and son, ex-king and current prince. He looked bewildered then scared. There was fear on his face - which Mozak took as a compliment - fear on seeing ex-king Helmotti. He staggered backwards to reach for his sword - his recently acquired sword. Damn them, damn all royals! He would go down fighting and he would take one of them with him. But his injury meant he could not fight. He yelled out in pain and frustration, and kicked the door close; only for Mozak to kick it open again.

  Sensing an enemy on the run Mozak puffed out his chest, intending to speak. But no words were forthcoming. He was temporarily lost for words. Iedazimus watched and waited - his eyes drawn more to the ex-king than the prince - until finally he ran out of patience.

  ‘Well? Speak boy!’

  ‘Come near me again and I’ll kill you!’

  Mozak blurted out his message: he sounded shaky when in fact he was quite determined. Iedazimus looked past him, at the ex-king, who glared back. The memory of their last encounter was not lost on either of them. He looked back at the prince, the prat of a prince and took a more measured stock of his situation. Save the fight for another day, when the odds were even. He did not want to die today.

  ‘OK.’

  His sudden flat, matter-of-fact response threw Mozak off balance. He was suddenly punching empty air. He
struggled to think of a follow up.

  ‘And apologize,’ he said finally.

  Iedazimus did not hesitate. ‘I apologize.’

  The anti-climax left Mozak stumped. He had nowhere to go. The Hermit tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Mozak-’

  ‘Prince Mozak to you!’

  ‘Forgive me. Prince Mozak. Let’s leave him be. We have more important business elsewhere.’

  With that Mozak allowed himself to be led away - by a peasant of all people - ego intact, prestige reinstated. He passed Esmeralda on the stairs. She stood back as the men flew - squeezed - past her. Mozak threw her a dismissive look, one which shouted from the rooftops that he, the prince - the only prince - was in charge; that he was not to be messed with!

  Foccinni was easier to deal with, an anti-climax, in fact. When he answered his door, he looked listless. On seeing it was the prince and ex-king, he swayed backwards and struggled to maintain his balance. It was like he had been hit by a foul smell. Totally compliant, the bruised and battered Foccinni agreed to the ex-king’s request without hesitation. He wanted to get out of this place as soon as possible. He wanted to be home. He had also grown sick of Iedazimus. He would be nobody’s spy. He had his dignity. He rushed to thank his master for the use of the horse and promised to be downstairs and ready to leave in no time.

  Mozak was confounded by the turnaround. He looked at the Hermit - Harry to some - and wondered what his secret was. But all he could see was a peasant - though a peasant who wielded a sword and who could make things happen. Wishing to be gone now, he turned away and left the building in a hurry. Flying past Mutz and Fargo he returned to his room, to pack his bag and pay the landlady. He thanked her for her food and clean bed sheets, and for looking after the ponies. Madam Overy thanked him for his custom and said please drop by again.

  ‘Unlikely,’ he replied, not getting the joke.

  It had been a long time coming but now he felt reenergized, back in control, the one giving the orders. The Hermit had other ideas, as did Fargo, as did Mutz. Only Esmeralda would follow him without question - subject to interference from her best friend. Aunt Rosamund waved Esmeralda off from the steps of her brothel, her thriving business. Opposite Madam Overy, arms folded, watched her lodger leave, her maternal instincts reengaged. Mozak had left her a tip in recognition of her good service. She had never received a tip before. Villagers never tipped.