Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Here? Where?’

  ‘You had him arrested.’

  Bizi put two and two together and almost peed in his pants, something he normally only did when blind drunk. His mouth fell open as the recent - still fresh - images flashed on and off inside his head. He felt he was being tormented by unknown forces. Yet he was the innocent one in all this - mainly innocent. Gregory saw him suffering but did not feel sorry for him, the opposite in fact: let the bastard burn.

  ‘Take him away, back to his cell.’

  King Bizi could not face any more talk right now. To reassert his authority, Bizi looked Valadino straight in the eye.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘We need to talk about this.’

  ‘We’ll talk when I want to talk! Until then you talk to no one - not even my guards. Talk and I’ll cut off your balls. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Gregory did not want to lose his balls. They were impossible to get back.

  ‘But there is something I think I should tell you, right now. You would want to know, right now.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Prince Mozak may not be coming back.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What do you know?’

  ‘He may be dead. His servant told me that he had been kidnapped.’

  This was all too much right now for the king.

  ‘Get him out of here - now!’

  The guards sprang forward and Gregory was scooped up and bundled away. Earlier King Bizi has lost his desire for sex. Now he also lost his desire for food. He felt sick: sick in his stomach; sick in his heart; sick in his head. He almost passed out.

  ***

  Timothy awoke and felt himself embedded in something unfamiliar: a very comfortable bed. It was a massive bed; far too big for one person. It was a double bed - a treble bed. It had a roof, and curtains, and everything! It was more than a bed. This was a bed a person could live in and never leave, thought Timothy. Yes this was total luxury; a bed fit only for a prince, a prince like his brother.

  Timothy looked beyond the bed into the greater space of the enormous room. He was surrounded by a sea of ‘stuff’ - some of which he had never seen before except in books. So much stuff! A shield hung on a wall and a sword to go with it, and alongside them a piece of colourful carpet? Or was it a tapestry? And on the floor sat a rusty old helmet. It looked like it had been kicked around.

  Across two tables sat a collection of stuffed animals: some looked gruesome; some looked sweet; some looked like they were hanging on for dear life. There were a few bows and even more arrows scattered across the floor in one corner of the room. There was what looked like a high perch for a bird - but no bird, stuffed or real. There were rotten old scraps of food left on metal plates: green bread and green cheese possibly; definitely an ancient half-eaten pear. Such a waste! thought a suddenly sanctimonious Timothy as he tried his best to ignore the foul mess.

  There were toys, wooden toys; simple things; designed to soak up an excess of time. Timothy had never had such things as ‘toys’, only access to devices designed to teach, like books and an abacus. He saw no books anywhere in the room and that suddenly made him feel superior. Sensing no danger, he pulled himself off the bed, which was a major effort as he was now exhausted, and crossed the floor - noting the thickness of the carpet - towards a large, solid built wardrobe constructed from the best wood. He pulled back its big heavy doors to reveal clothes. So many clothes! Such a waste! he thought again - but this time not really meaning it, whilst noting they looked like they would all fit him.

  Yes, his suspicions were confirmed: this was his brother’s room - his brother the prince. That phrase would become more bitter each time it sounded off inside his head. He ran his fingers across all the cloth, all the styles, all the stitching. The feeling rankled. He had never had anything remotely like this. Such extravagance! Now he was jealous, and he hated himself for it. This was not his life, but it could have been, if only. God certainly knew how to twist the knife into his unsuspecting, most loyal followers.

  Gregory sat in his cell and contemplated his future, and the future of Tascho - Timothy - and the future of Prince Mozak; and even that of ex-king Helmotti; and to a lesser extent even that of his wearisome little brother. King Bizi sat alone in his most private reception room. For both, the ‘now’ had made a sudden step change, taken a leap forward; and both had to get used to it, readjust, and quickly. Bizi knew he had to speak to the Dowager Queen. He didn’t want to so it took a while to build himself up to the point where he could be bothered to lift himself out of his chair and take the long walk across the castle to where she resided, like a queen bee in her grand nest. He just hoped she was in a good - or a least bearable - mood. He did not want to fight, bitch, or prevaricate, or dredge up the past. He decided to prepare himself for the ordeal with a few stiff drinks.

  ***

  King Bizi knocked and entered the Queen’s chambers - brushing past a nervous maid, without waiting for permission. As usual she was sitting with her latest cat on her lap. As usual the two were snacking. That cat looks fatter, thought Bizi. Was it still able to walk? Someone could have said the same thing about him.

  ‘Always eating,’ he said.

  ‘But unlike you, tiny meals,’ replied the Dowager Queen.

  One all.

  Queen Anneeni was surprised to have a visit from Bizi. What did the fat pig want?

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk to you.’

  ‘That’s stating the obvious. I said what do you want?’

  Bizi felt the bitch level rising rapidly. ‘I said to talk to you.’

  ‘Talk about what?’

  Queen Anneeni took another mouthful, to make the point that she didn’t really want to waste words on him: she would rather chew. Her cat meowed and received a long stroke of its hair for its constant loyalty. Bizi looked at the cat and the cat looked back at him. They did not like each other, and both knew it. Bizi recalled what had happened to one of the previous cats: he had had it butchered in a moment of anger; she had simply replaced it with a kitten and carried on regardless. Bizi took a long look at her and she did likewise: they had plenty to say but these days they never said it. She jumped in first: she wanted - she had the right to demand - a bigger bedroom for a bigger bed and bigger furniture as befitting a queen, and additional staff to manage it all.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I am the Queen of the Castle!’

  ‘Only because I have no wife!’

  ‘But you said you were going to marry me!’ She grabbed a wooden beaker and threw it at him. It missed by miles.

  ‘Shut up woman and listen to what I have to tell you. It’s important.’

  ‘Is it interesting?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘How so? When was the last time you said anything interesting?’

  Bizi slammed the table at which she pecked at her food and the cat jumped out of her lap.

  ‘He’s back!’

  ‘Mozak is back?’

  ‘Your dead son is back!’

  ‘Mozak is dead?’ she screamed.

  The cat ran for cover, perhaps to urinate on her carpet.

  ‘No. Your dead son, Tascho. Your dead son, Tascho, is back.’

  Queen Anneeni tried to shake him off. ‘Don’t talk such cruel rubbish. Go, leave me in peace.’

  ‘You don’t believe me? Come and see him. He looks exactly like Mozak, which he would do of course, seeing as he’s his twin.’

  Queen Anneeni looked at Bizi as if he had gone quite mad. He stared right back to make it clear that he hadn’t; and it slowly dawned on her that he was not playing with her, that he was telling the truth - an awful truth. ‘Tascho’. The so
und of the name reverberated around inside her head with nowhere to land. She had not heard that name said in over fifteen years now. It sounded unnatural.

  ‘Where’s my Mozak?’ she blurted out as she struggled to stand up straight and straighten her dress.

  She wanted to look at her regal best, the right royal part. She wanted them both in her arms.

  ‘I don’t know. I was told he was kidnapped. He may be dead for all we know.’

  As the news sunk in she went pale, as white as a sheet. She collapsed back into her comfy chair, traumatised; like some unknown force had twisted her heart inside out: a force which was hovering, waiting to strike again. She could not speak and King Bizi left the room feeling only slightly sorry for the pain he had caused her.

  ***

  Bizi banged on the prince’s bedroom door and entered without waiting for any response. He was the king: he had been taught from an early age that that was what kings did. He looked around, to see Tascho standing at the far end of the room by the window. Trying to escape? Bizi didn’t know what to do with him. Hide him? Handcuff him? Comfort him? Celebrate him? He looked hard at the twin Tascho. He wanted to touch the boy’s skin, shake his hand - see how firm the grip was - feel his strength, reassure himself that Mozak’s twin was fit and healthy; but was afraid to, afraid he might explode or implode. It was the weirdest feeling. Timothy tried to look anywhere else but was drawn back. This man was his uncle. This man was a magnet. This man was the king.

  Time slowed until it stood still and the two were simply stuck in the act of looking: Bizi trying to see the twin of Mozak and not Mozak; Timothy trying to take in, size up, absorb his uncle into his old, out of date universe. Finally Timothy was driven to speak first as the king continued to stare, unremittingly, like a cow or a sheep, or a wolf. Was this how kings treated their relatives?

  ‘Where’s Stevie?’ Timothy tried his best to sound sure of himself.

  ‘Who’s Stevie?’

  ‘My dog.’

  ‘Oh him. Tied up.’

  ‘Tied up?’ exclaimed Timothy.

  ‘Yes. He’s a dog, right? He’s tied up with Pig.’

  ‘Who’s Pig?’

  ‘My pet pig of course.’

  Bizi looked around the room. He could not remember the last time he had set foot in Mozak’s room. Some things had changed or been moved. Some things hadn’t and were gathering dust and cobwebs (much like his own rooms). He sat down, exhausted. He beckoned Tascho to do the same. Timothy sat down but as far away as possible, at the other end of the table. Again Timothy took the initiative.

  ‘Can I see my mother?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s in a state of shock.’

  Of course, thought Timothy. Stupid of me.

  ‘What’s she like? Is she a good queen?’

  Bizi took care to choose his words carefully.

  ‘She’s like any woman - any mother at her time in her life.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Not in her prime anymore. She’s given birth, done her duty, given her king an heir. She’s watched her son grow up.’

  ‘Does she miss my father?’

  Bizi nearly choked but recovered quickly and did his best to pretend he found it a difficult question.

  ‘I really don’t know. You’ll have to ask her that.’

  ‘So when do I get to see her?’

  ‘Soon. When she’s ready.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘She’s a delicate woman, fragile. She’s a widow. She’s still taking in the news - the news of you. Just be patient.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Sir. Tascho had called him ‘sir’ without any prompt. Bizi liked that. Mozak never called him Sir these days unless forced to. He fell back into silence and it was left to Timothy to move things on. Earlier he had been terrified upon meeting the king. Now he was calmer and faintly bewitched: this king, his uncle, looked vulnerable, ordinary. Still, Timothy reminded himself, he, Timothy or Tascho, must be quite a shock to the system. He made an inviting gesture with his hands.

  ‘Well here I am. Back from the dead.’

  Bizi nodded at the lame joke and tried to see it as funny.

  ‘Back from the dead. Living flesh, and a mouth to match.’

  ‘The twin brother of Mozak the Prince.’

  Timothy simply had to say that. He had to get it off his chest. He did not know what elephants were but he had just shot one in the room, point blank. Bizi flinched as if Tascho’s words had struck his ears like a hammer or a thunderbolt from the sky. Suddenly he had a question: one which would give him breathing space. He could breathe while Tascho talked.

  ‘So tell me, where have you been all this time? What have you been doing?’

  Timothy didn’t know where to start so just jumped in and began swimming for his life.

  ‘I was training to be a monk, at the Monastery.’

  ‘The monastery?’

  ‘Outside. I grew up outside, lived with Gregory - Valadino - until I entered the Monastery. Joined the Order when I was sixteen.’

  ‘Wait, what is this monastery, this monk thing?’

  That was when it struck Timothy that he was talking about an alien land, an alien way of life.

  ‘The Monastery is the home of the Order of Monks, monks who give their lives to the service of God, who try to live a pure life according to his ideals. I joined the order as a novice. I took the vows. Gregory didn’t make me - it was my own decision.’

  ‘What are these vows? Tell me, I’m interested.’

  God, thought Bizi, the boy has his head full of gods. Not a good start.

  Timothy began to recite the vows he had taken; as if he had just remembered he had once taken them; as if he was taking them again.

  I shall not kill. (I have killed, thought King Bizi. Was forced to.)

  I shall not lie. (I have lied, thought King Bizi. Had to, to survive.)

  I shall not covet another man’s possessions. (Why not? thought King Bizi.)

  I shall not desire any woman. (You must be joking! thought King Bizi.)

  There Timothy stalled, not sure whether to continue. His vows sounded rather hollow now.

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Timothy began to scratch his head to relieve the pain. ‘Can’t remember them all now.’

  So much the better, thought Bizi. ‘Continue. Tell me more about this life spent outside.’

  As Timothy recounted highlights of his life - confusing the king with a mixed up timeline - so King Bizi began to be impressed. He found himself comparing the twins, setting them up alongside each other and looking for the differences. This boy had been taught to read, to write, to do sums! He was impressed, very impressed. Could Mozak have learnt as much if he had had the right tutor? His natural cynicism fell away and he began to see Tascho as a boy - a man? - driven by high ideals, by honour, by hard work of body and mind; the only downside being his fixation with, his reliance upon, this one ‘God’, this piece of overplayed fiction residing inside his head. Bizi did not want a fight over it so said nothing. It sounded like Valadino had been a good man; had raised Tascho good, to be a good sort, a decent man - perhaps a man others would follow into battle and beyond. Bizi thought of Prince Mozak. Shame. Up at dawn? Mozak would - could - never have stomached that.

  And when Tascho spoke of the Chief Monk, the more fascinated Bizi became. This man was an absolute ruler, like him! What he said was what they did! Unquestioning obedience! Better than what he had! That man had a god on his side, to rubber stamp every word, every pronouncement, every command. Bizi wished he ruled like that; that his rule was that absolute, that watertight - commanding a community with no balls. A
nd this monk Adolphinus just called himself the ‘Chief Monk’? Was that because he was simply the most important, the most clever monk? And what kept those other monks in line? A lack of balls? No, their god, of course. They had that god hanging over them: watching, listening, taking notes; exacting punishment; screwing with their minds; disturbing their sleep. Their god could send them to hell. Living in that monastery sounded like hell, Bizi concluded. Still, it had obviously made Tascho a strong man. Then it suddenly struck him: Tascho, like Mozak, would be eighteen soon! Same birthday! There was going to be a birthday banquet - it had already been planned - but Prince Mozak was not here, but Tascho was! Crazy times, thought the king. Crazy times. But fun. And he needed fun these days more than ever.

  As Tascho spoke, explained, justified, elaborated, excused and apologized, Bizi wished that the Queen was also there to share the moment. But no, on second thoughts, perhaps not. She was too unpredictable these days - she might want to insult him in front of her son. And then, just as Bizi was settled in, comfortable, on top of the situation and coping with the emotional shock, Timothy turned the tables on him.

  ‘Tell me about my father. Was he a bad man?’

  Bizi felt he had been slapped in the face, yanked from a pleasant dream, forced to do hard labour under a hot sun.

  ‘Your father? Bad?’

  ‘He wanted me dead. That’s what Gregory told me.’

  ‘No, not exactly true. He had to have you dead. Twin princes was simply unacceptable.’

  ‘Was? Is?’

  ‘Was.’

  Saying that word shifted everything. Bizi now recognised he was playing a new game, a game with different rules. And deep down he was happy with that. Tascho was going to live, live the life of a prince. How could it be any other way? He prided himself on the fact (or fiction) that he was not a heartless, evil brute like his brother. Prince Mozak - if the prince reappeared - would have to accept that. Likewise the Dowager Queen: she would have to accept it and shut up. And his Secretary and Chancellor would have to put up and shut up - likewise everybody else who gave a damn. He was the king, and he had just decided to change the rules.

  He had to tell his mother all this, Bizi told himself. This was something worth telling her. It would shake her up a little but that would be a good thing. Or might it make her more crazy? No, she was beyond crazy now. She was in a whole new place. He shuddered at a recurring thought which always cut in to interrupt him during thoughts like these, just when he was feeling good, positive: he, King Bizi, was her son. He looked up to see that Tascho had stood up and was staring at him intensely. Was he being studied? Was Tascho trying to spot the truth? I’m just your uncle! Bizi wanted to shout. Timothy dragged him sharply back into reality.