by Euan McAllen
‘Please, I beg you, tell me about him, my father.’
‘What can I say?’
What could he say? Bizi didn’t want to upset the poor boy. He did his best to paint a reasonable picture of his half-brother (and used it as an excuse to paint himself in the best possible light).
‘He was tough, a tough act to follow. He ruled well at first but then he lost it.’
‘Did he love my mother, treat her well?’
‘At first yes. I think so.’
‘How did he die?’
‘I’ve no idea. There was a revolt. He was kicked off the throne. He fled, assumed dead.’
‘And you took over?’
‘Yes. I was asked to,’ said Bizi firmly as he seamlessly switched from a half-truth to an all-out lie.
‘Why not his son, my brother?’
Bizi wanted Tascho to shut up now but he didn’t want to fall into the habit of speaking to him in the same way as he often spoke (down) to Mozak. He wanted it to be different with Tascho. Tascho was an inspiration, a revelation as to how you grew up made all the difference.
‘His son was too young, just a baby. And I was older than my brother. I should have been king in the first place.’
Bizi clapped his hands together. For the time being talking was done. No more heavy stuff. But Timothy jumped in with one quick, final question.
‘Where is Gregory? Is he OK?’
‘Gregory?’
‘Valadino.’
‘The man’s fine. I’ve been talking to him.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘You can see him later. When he’s back at his cottage.’
Bizi was done with the big talk. He wanted to keep it small, within his control. He looked around and recognised objects from the past. He explained their history, noting that nothing seemed to impress Tascho much: not the sword and shield; not the suit of armour which had seen battle.
‘Can you shoot an arrow straight?’
‘I’ve never used a bow.’
Bizi clapped his hands together with joy. ‘I’ll have to teach you then!’
Teach me? thought Timothy. Teach me what? How to be a prince? The proud part of Timothy wanted to refuse, snub such an offer. The rest of him was begging for it to happen, and happen quickly.
King Bizi rose up to leave. He had had enough for one day. At the door he suddenly turned on Tascho. He had one more important thing to say.
‘Get out of those ridiculous clothes.’
Timothy looked down at his clothes. He had always taken them for granted. Now they felt uncomfortable, a problem to be shed. Bizi pointed at the wardrobe.
‘Take something of Mozak’s. He’s got plenty to go round. He won’t miss anything.’
And still Bizi did not leave the room. He kicked the suit of armour, to rattle it (as he was rattled).
‘Can you ride a horse?’
‘Just about.’
‘Tomorrow, you and me, we go riding.’
Timothy could only nod in agreement.
‘Hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go to the kitchens. Get some food. Ask for anything you want. Just tell them.’
‘I don’t know where it is?’
‘I’ll have someone escort you. Wait here.’
Timothy had no intention of going anywhere. And with that the king finally left the room. He looked in some sort of pain as he left. King Bizi wanted the wall to come down. He wanted no walls between him and Tascho, nor between him and Mozak for that matter. But the wall between him and Mozak was massive right now and solidly built, built to last.
***
A short, plump servant boy led Timothy to the kitchens. He never spoke once and walked just slightly ahead of his charge. Timothy was led along cold deserted passages, some lit in places by candlelight, others still reliant upon the fading sunlight. It could have been the Monastery. He was led down uneven steps to the ground floor and to a place which Royalty rarely visited. As they drew closer a smell - a vile smell - grew stronger and when the servant pushed open a big double door and pointed inside, the smell of cooked food, rotting food and human sweat fermented by the heat of the ovens nearly bowled him over. It took his breath away and his nose felt like it was on fire. Hungry, he clenched his nose tight shut and stumbled on in. Heads turned and elbows nudged and Timothy received curious looks from all. No one welcomed him. He was stranded, like a man who had come to enforce the law with regard to pub closing times.
Rufus was there, receiving a free meal care of his sweetheart Tilsa. She worked in the kitchens when she was not working her father’s farm - which was more often than not these days for the kitchen work paid better. Like most others in the room, she gave the prince’s twin an extended look of curiosity - but unlike the others it also contained an element of fear; fear of what affect this maverick was having on her Rufus. Was her Rufus being charged up, changed? Or had the change already been done and there was no way back for her Rufus?
Rufus jumped up from his table and leapt to his friend’s defence; racing towards him, grabbing him; smiling and shaking him, until Timothy shook him off, and wishing him well. He invited Timothy to sit by his side. His sweetheart did not look pleased with that: she folded her arms as if waiting for a naughty boy to return to the table and finish his dinner.
Rufus slapped Timothy on the back. ‘You hungry? Is that why you’re here in this dump?’
‘Yes.’ Timothy replied almost under his breath.
Rufus pointed at a vacant stool. ‘Join me. Tilsa, serve up another bowl.’
As if in a trance, Timothy was led to the table. He sat down where indicated, conscious that he was constantly being stared at, examined. He remembered that he could ask for anything but was in no mood to ask anybody for anything. He was content to eat whatever Rufus was eating: which was a very acceptable, tasty beef stew.
‘Did you make this?’ he asked, looking up at the girl Tilsa and trying his best to be friendly.
‘Yes.’
‘Nice.’
‘Thank you.’
Her every response sounded like it had been prised out of her against her will, as if she did not like using up her words on him. Timothy noted the frosty response but accepted it. Rufus also noticed it and gave her a dirty look from behind Timothy’s back. It was no skin off her nose.
Timothy looked around at all that was happening: a typical kitchen; at the end of a long day still serving up food for the masses. He tried to take it all in whilst ignoring the smells, the heat and the bad language: scruffy staff with dirty hands; dirty kitchen implements; everywhere fat, grease and oil mixed in with blood and dirt; vegetable scraps rotting on the floor; rotten fruit squashed underfoot until flat as a pancake; flies buzzing around game and joints of meat hanging from hooks, or over plates of food (the flies almost ruled the place); a cook’s assistant sneezing into a pot on the hob. Timothy did not want to eat in this place again: like the royal family he did not want to know; he did not want to see too closely the process by which food ended up cooked and on his plate.
Then he saw Stevie! And he was pleased. He nearly jumped up to go retrieve his best friend then an instant later realised Stevie had his head down and was happily eating - alongside the pig. They both looked happy despite being tied to a post. Timothy did not like seeing Stevie tied up, but then again a lead might prove useful in this place. If a pig could be allowed to run wild then what else might be around? Hunting dogs? Killer eagles? Drunk, nasty knights with sharp swords and too much time to kill? Timothy told himself to take Stevie back with him to his room. Stevie could share his bed. There was plenty of room. That would be nice.
Timothy and Rufus recounted highlights of their adventure together. They spoke as old mates who had survived a war and were closer because of it.
During this time Tilsa sat close by her man, gripping his arm, as if holding on or holding him back. The look on her face suggested fear that the twin was slowly stealing her man, her only man; that he was taking her man to places she did not want him to go. Meanwhile Stevie and Pig continued to snack and sniff each other, and explore all accessible floor space as set by the length of their leads - at King Bizi’s insistence leads made from the finest leather.
Rufus suddenly laid in with a heavy question. ‘So what’s happening? Upset the apple cart yet?’
An exhausted Timothy found the directness of the question hard to take. He did not respond but simply smiled, which was good enough for Rufus. When Rufus next asked - firmly this time - about when he would get his next lesson ‘about learning’, Timothy, tired and with food hitting his head, could barely think it through.
‘Sometime.’ It was the best reply he could produce.
‘Sometime? Meaning what?’
‘When I get my head back together. I promise.’
Rufus was happy with that and let it be. He looked like a dog which had not only been promised a bone but had seen it and smelt it. His sweetheart Tilsa did not like this exchange. Why did her Rufus need to write his name? When would they ever need a book? To start a fire perhaps when the wood was damp?
Finally, Timothy had had enough. He refused an offer of a beer with Rufus - and a suggestion that they both get drunk - admitting that he needed to go lie down, on his bed. ‘His’ bed, thought Tilsa, not the prince’s bed. Rufus was disappointed but understanding, which for him was a rare combination, and something his sweetheart noticed. She put it down to this twin Tascho - or was it Timothy? She didn’t know what to call him. Rufus had confused her.
Timothy thanked her one last time for the stew and bread, got up and left quickly before Rufus could say another word. He untied Stevie, who leapt into his arms, stroked him, hugged him, scratched his nose and took him back to his bedroom to show him the fantastic bed. Tilsa didn’t want to see him again. Rufus definitely did.
‘He’s not very polite, your Timothy,’ she said.
‘He’s got a load on his mind woman. He could be a prince.’
‘Speaking of which how’s your plan to rescue your master, the real Prince, coming along?’
Rufus ignored her jibe and demanded she bring him a mug of beer, steal it if necessary.
***
That night, Royalty did not sleep well. All took an age to slip away from the physical world into the private world of slumber, dreams, heartless hauntings and haunting heartache as their brains turned on them as they turned in on themselves - the ultimate cannibals. King Bizi’s head buzzed with complications, expectations, peculiarities and possibilities. The head of the Dowager Queen throbbed with the pain of discovery, made worse by sexual frustration. The head of Tascho come Timothy throbbed and buzzed and did handstands as everything inside it kept falling apart after each futile attempt to rebuild inside it something coherent, lasting. The reconstruction could take seconds or minutes. Time passed without Timothy having any sense of how it was passing. He just knew it was dark and that he was buried in a bed in his brother’s room, perhaps imprisoned in a castle in a land at the other end of the world.
He was stuck in a maze. Prince Mozak slept under the stars, torn from his home; missing his big bed and home comforts; perhaps even missing Rufus when not cursing him; impatient to get home, to reinstate himself, to regain his self-importance. At times, a blackness would descend to try to break his spirit: the hangover and echoes of his imprisonment refused to go away. At the very least it consumed his energy. He could feel it but could not fight it. The Hermit, Ex-king Helmotti, slept soundly despite the disruption to his life and the challenges ahead. He and the prince had exchanged words during the day and it had gone well.
For others, it was different. Rufus slept like a log; like a well-fed, well-pissed dog. Gregory sat slumped and looked out of his tiny cell window, unwilling to fall asleep while he was locked up like a common criminal. He was still able to think and thought on as he fought through life. Esmeralda, Mutz and Elder Brother Fargo all slept soundly, in a trance, exhausted by one adventure and waiting for the next to start. Foccinni struggled to sleep: the pain running through his body would not permit it.
***
The next day, the castle buzzed like a beehive poked with a stick. Servants and courtiers stopped to stare at Tascho as he passed by on his way to breakfast with the king; to size him up, take the measure of the boy-man; to inspect him for weaknesses and differences from the real thing; and to wonder at the small dog. The same silent servant from the previous day led the way. Timothy was beginning to appreciate the fact that he said nothing and just ‘did’.
Timothy sat at the table with Stevie at his feet, lead wrapped around a table leg. His uncle sat opposite with Pig likewise tied up. Timothy, holding on still to his previous life, started to recite a prayer but a furious Bizi told him to cease in no uncertain terms.
‘No, not here. Not while I’m king.’
A cold sensation ran down the back of Timothy’s neck and on down his back. No praying here then, at least not in public. No problem. He could live with that. God would understand even if the Chief Monk didn’t. He smashed the yolk in his fried egg with a piece of toast and dipped it in. He ate minding his manners and with an attempt at decorum: such was his monastic experience. The king ate at speed, and with a high degree of chaos and imprecision. He would raise his eyes to look at Tascho while in return Timothy would lower his and pretend to be thinking about how to slice up his bacon. He still looked bad, under the weather, so when they were done eating the king had him sent back to his room for a check up by the Royal Doctor. He wanted the lad to be strong enough to ride a horse. He did not want him to be seen falling off, or worse still dying.
Just as Timothy settled back on to his bed the Royal Doctor arrived in a rush and told him to stand up in front of him, in nothing more than his underpants. Timothy was reminded of the medical check he had undertaken as part of the entry procedure back at the monastery. He stood stark as the Royal Doctor encircled him; sometimes strutting, sometimes stuttering; sometimes poking his body with a finger. The anxious animated man splashed a strange smelly concoction of oil, water and other mystery ingredients across Timothy’s face then asked him to describe his reaction. Timothy didn’t have one, except to say it smelt bad, which seemed to satisfy the Royal Doctor. The Royal Doctor told him to clench his stomach muscles.
‘Why?’ asked Timothy as he was suddenly punched in the stomach without warning.
‘That hurt!’ he screamed.
‘How much? asked the Royal Doctor.
‘Enough to hurt,’ said Timothy viciously.
‘Is it still hurting now?’
‘Yes.’
The Royal Doctor waited a few minutes, taking time out to do a quick circuit of the room, as if looking for ill people. He returned to the question.
‘Is it still hurting?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Good.’
The Royal Doctor next asked him when he had last eaten meat, and how much. Timothy told him about the previous night’s stew, and asked if bacon and sausages counted. No, said the Royal Doctor. And before that? Timothy could not remember.
‘Well eat more meat,’ advised the Royal Doctor, ‘and more eggs. And don’t try to keep up with the king when it comes to drinking.’
Timothy had no issue with that.
‘And plenty of butter on bread and toast, and jam.’
Likewise Timothy had no problem with that.
The Royal Doctor asked if he had ever stared up at a full moon.
‘Sometimes,’ admitted Timothy.
And had he ever felt depressed?
‘No, not really. Depends if I am already tired or depressed and happen to look up.’
>
The Royal Doctor did not like that answer: it was too smart, especially for a boy not yet a man.
‘Never mind, I’ll take that as a no,’ he said and clapped his hands. ‘Good.’
Job done. In the world of the Royal Doctor everything was either ‘good’ or nothing - which may or may not mean bad or sad or dreadful. The Royal Doctor left, satisfied that he had earned his keep, and possibly a bonus.
With the all clear from his doctor King Bizi took his Tascho horse riding. He had been looking forward to it. Timothy had not. Bizi gave the reins of one of his best horses to Tascho and said ‘try this’. If he liked it, he could keep it for life.
‘For life,’ thought Timothy. In a strange way that sounded like a prison sentence.
The royal pair trotted out of the castle gates with Timothy holding on and King Bizi holding back. They trotted around the castle grounds: Timothy hanging on all the way and trying to return conversation as the king commented on the weather and the harvest - both last year and this year. Bizi moved on up to a canter and encouraged Tascho to do the same. He did, a little. Bizi took him across the fields of his youth (places where he had chased after many a young wench, or after his half-brother, or from his half-brother, or simply hidden from the politics of the castle), demanding Tascho keep up as he increased his speed. Timothy tried but failed.
And when Bizi slowed right back down and Timothy caught him up, and thought he was safe, the king poked the backside of his horse with a knife and sent it flying off. Bizi took off at a gallop and caught up Timothy who was hanging on for dear life. He tried not to pee in his pants, but failed. Some peasants looked up in consternation, horror almost, as the king and a terrified prince galloped past. Some had to jump out of the way fast. Finally they stopped and Bizi slapped Tascho on the back saying that he had done well. Timothy was not so certain. He wanted to be back safe in his room. He wanted a bath.