Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  ‘You know you don’t need to call me that. Call me Anni, like you used to.’

  ‘Anni. Thank you, Anni.’

  But Anni was not listening. She was speeding away, back to her bed; to lie down; to perhaps drink a little, snack a little; to perhaps stroke her pussycat. Gregory watched her go and wondered ‘what the hell was that?’

  ***

  For Timothy dinner with his uncle did not have the same resonance, the same zing, as had breakfast. King Bizi watched him less, ate more. Even Stevie and Pig paid each other less attention. Without looking up the king talked about the next day, and what he had in mind for Tascho. The king told him he was to have the Royal Tutor assigned. A tutor? thought Timothy as he stabbed a roast potato. I don’t need another tutor.

  ‘Why? Can I ask you that uncle?’

  ‘You are the son of a king. You must know how to act like one. You need to know the rules.’

  ‘I can already read and write, and calculate.’

  Bizi paused and looked up, impressed. ‘Really? That’s clever.’

  He could not. Nor could Mozak. Nor the queen as far as he could remember. He sniffed.

  ‘You still need the Royal Tutor. He trains every prince.’

  Timothy dropped his protest and resumed the task of demolishing the large meal which had been served up, deciding that arguing with the king was not in his best interests. He told himself that he must begin exercising - serious exercise - if he was to survive all this food - food which was delicious. And still no one spoke to him other than his uncle. Was he too dangerous to talk to? Or off limits? He could have been back at the Monastery.

  After dinner Bizi, along with Pig, demanded that Tascho join him for drinks. Timothy got through the first two then, feeling heady and light, looked for a way out. He pleaded exhaustion of all kinds and persuaded the king to let him return to his room. Before leaving Timothy asked if he could see Gregory. ‘Tomorrow’ was the harsh reply, when the man was back in his cottage. The recent argument with the Dowager Queen still rankled.

  Tomorrow! thought Timothy. I can wait that long.

  Later, bored in his bedroom, Timothy left Stevie curled up and set off for the kitchens, hoping to find Rufus. He found Tilsa instead: she appeared unhappy to see him again and did not like having to explain that Rufus was not around. Timothy noticed the hostility but thought ‘Sod you. I’m the king’s nephew. You have to speak to me’. He made a polite but very firm request for her to take him to Rufus.

  With arms folded, she complained that she could not leave her post. She was on duty. She had a job to do, she boasted, as if to infer that Timothy didn’t know what a job was. Timothy insisted, repeatedly, until he broke her. At the Monastery he had only ever taken orders. Now he could give them and it felt good, liberating, especially after a heavy meal and alcohol. A foul-tempered Tilsa grabbed a passing Young Scrubber and told her to go take the prince’s brother to the servants’ quarters. Rufus should be there. Timothy noted her precise language: he was the prince’s brother; he was no prince.

  Timothy found Rufus camped out in a small, dirty damp room. He was lying bored on a smelly bed. It was one of many, all identical. Pleased to see his friend, Rufus got up and embraced him. Timothy was not keen on that: Rufus smelt bad; his clothes smelt bad. That aside, Timothy was pleased to see him: he needed a friend in this place. He said he wanted a drink. Rufus said he wanted to read and write. They agreed to do both at once and returned to the kitchen to steal some beer.

  There, with Sweetheart Tilsa never far away and always watching, they sat and drank and tried to talk more about the journey home through the maze. But it had all been said. With a knife Rufus scored the wooden table, leaving his trademark ‘R’, then persuading Timothy to do the same. He scored a ‘T’.

  ‘That could stand for Tilsa,’ declared a beaming Rufus, knowing she could hear. ‘Next time, we need pencil and paper.’

  ‘Yes, next time,’ replied Timothy.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  They drank on, until Timothy was too sleepy to continue. He had to be taken back to his room by Rufus, who in turn staggered back to his own room after a return trip to the kitchen. He had to remind himself that he had been drinking with Tascho, not Mozak. Or Timothy. Whatever. Yes Timothy was a lot nicer, more intelligent than the prince.

  ***

  Late at night, carrying a candle King Bizi made the long hard climb up the spiral stairs to the top of the tower; to the room where his mother was locked away, hidden from sight and scandal. He stopped on the way many times to catch his breath, and to remind himself why he had to make the effort. He checked his thoughts as he knocked and unlocked the door to peek into the room. His mother was sitting by the window as she always sat: staring up at the sky, supported by her thick, long grey hair which grew down away from her, as if trying to escape. Her smell filled the room.

  ‘Mother?’

  No response.

  ‘Mother?’

  No response.

  ‘Talk to me Mother.’

  Finally she stirred and spoke. ‘Son. Have you come crying to me again?’

  She banged her walking stick to protest her frustration. She did not look at her son, preferring the view from the window. The view was her escape.

  ‘No, Mother.’ Bizi stepped into the room. ‘Have you been eating your meals?’

  ‘Eating, why eating?’

  ‘To stay alive.’

  ‘One day I will fly out of this window and be free. Then what will you do? Scream?’

  ‘Yes Mother.’

  Bizi held out an apple. ‘I brought you this. A present.’

  ‘Present. What present? It’s not your birthday.’

  Bizi moved forwards, towards the tigress, and held out the apple. His mother grabbed it without looking, sniffed it, took one large bite and threw it across the room.

  ‘Apple! My son brings me an apple! My son, the king, brings me an apple! Apples are for peasants.’

  Bizi ignored the outburst and sat down to get down to business, to say what had to be said and be gone. Her latest attempt at knitting some incoherent piece of clothing lay discarded on the floor. Bizi picked it up and drop it on the bed beside him.

  ‘I have news.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you in months, years.’

  ‘Yes you have. Only a week ago I came up but you didn’t turn around and pretended not to hear me.’

  His mother laughed. She cackled. ‘How do I know it’s my son now?’

  ‘Simple. Turn around.’

  ‘The moon is bright tonight. It tries to consume me. I have to fight it.’

  ‘You do that.’

  The mad mother finally decided to look at her slightly mad son and turned towards him, scraping her chair across the floor. There was a stillness lurking in her eyes, as if she had given up on the world. Or was it death? Once there had been fire and fight in her eyes, then sadness. Now all that remained was angry detachment and resignation. Saliva dribbled from her mouth. Or was it tears? She looked disappointed, as did her son. But for both of them this was normality. His mother continued to live. King Bizi did not ask for anything more.

  ‘I have news which will interest you I’m sure.’

  ‘Interest me? Why would your world interest me?’

  Bizi came right out with it. ‘Tascho is back.’

  His mother leant forwards, almost falling out of her armchair, to try and swing a punch at her son, the source of her pain. She missed by a mile and he had to grab her before she fell on to the floor. She shook him off as she recovered her position and composure.

  ‘Keep your hands off me. Back from the dead? Don’t taunt me boy! I can still hurt you!’

  ‘It’s the truth, nothing less.’

  ‘No one co
mes back from the dead. Not even me.’

  ‘He was never dead Mother, just missing.’

  It was clear to Bizi that his mother didn’t want to believe anything he had just said. Still at least it was good to see her speaking coherently for a change. Sometimes he was subjected to a nonsensical rant. He left it there, perhaps to try another time, though what was the point? He got up to go, which jolted her into action. She stood up, swaying as she did so.

  ‘Let me hug you my child.’

  ‘Another time.’ Bizi did not want to be hugged by her, not ever.

  ‘When will I be freed?’

  ‘When you are better.’ Which Bizi knew was never.

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Better than you are now.’

  ‘Am I still beautiful? More beautiful than her’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re lying. You always lie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His mother was mad but she could still silence him, still make him shiver, still sting as she held him between her teeth.

  ‘Have you become a proper king yet?’

  King Bizi declined to answer and left the room in a hurry; leaving his mother standing and staring, and trying to make sense of her situation. As he locked the door behind him he heard the shouting start.

  That night, alone in bed, unwilling to sleep, Bizi was held in limbo by his big idea. It reinvigorated him. It stripped away the years. It left him sweating. Yes he would do it. Yes he would show them. He didn’t care now what was said. Sod them. Let them talk behind his back, and hers. Let them protest. He rolled over, broke wind, and finally slipped into a satisfying sleep.

  Anneeni, the Dowager Queen, was also sweating in bed. She had been struck down and there was only one way out, only one road to recovery. And she knew it. She had to reunite with him. She had to hold him, check him over. She had to grow to love him. She rolled over, broke wind, and finally fell into a troubled sleep.

  ***

  His third day at the castle started well, then turned sour. Timothy was reunited with Gregory - or Valadino as they called him here - after a verbal showdown with the guards who initially refused him entry to the cottage. Chest puffed out, he declared himself a prince with the authority of the king. Gregory, watching from a window, was impressed, and slightly disturbed by how much Timothy had changed in such a short time. But he’s only seventeen, Gregory reminded himself. Still plastic. Still to be moulded. Still open to all influences. Gregory ushered him in and together they ate breakfast. They talked about Mozak. Would he return, would things get complicated? asked Timothy. Gregory answered yes to both. Iedazimus was a dangerous man, sometimes stupid, but not that stupid. He wanted to use the prince, not kill him. Timothy left, reassured that Gregory was safe and well. Gregory remained under guard but likewise was reassured.

  A shock hit Timothy later, when he was least expecting it. It nearly made him fall off his horse. Following his uncle he had ridden out far beyond the castle, along the wall of the Maze, to a spot favoured by the king. There, Bizi pointed at his initials scratched into the stone, and likewise those of his half-brother Helmotti, and even Mozak.

  ‘We all did it when we were boys,’ explained the king. ‘Tascho, add yours, now. You are part of the family.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Timothy hesitated. He wanted to make a point. ‘Not yet. When the time is right.’

  ‘When the time is right?’

  ‘When I’m truly, officially, a prince.’

  Timothy expected an argument, a backlash of some sort; at the very least a few harsh words for such insolence but instead all his uncle did was simple nod.

  ‘Very well.’

  Bizi wished to say more and looked around to check he could not be overheard - even though there was plainly no one in sight for as far as the eye could see. They were as alone as two people could be on the inside, or outside, of the Maze. Timothy steeled himself inside, sensing something was coming. Perhaps the queen did not want to see him? Satisfied, Bizi dropped his bombshell and Timothy nearly fell off his horse.

  ‘I have some good news to tell you, a confession to share. It’s long overdue, for which I apologize, quite humbly.’

  Timothy was startled. He did not like the sound of this. The last person who had shared a confession with him had been a young, rather mentally fragile monk who had declared that he was besotted with Timothy. That was the only time Timothy had punched another monk during his time at the Monastery. After Timothy threatened to tell the Chief Monk, his admirer never spoke to him again and instead turned his amorous attentions towards the latest novice to join the Order.

  ‘What news?’ Timothy steadied his horse, thinking it was nervous, when in fact it was him.

  ‘Tascho, I’m your father.’

  ‘What?’ Timothy gripped his saddle tight between his legs, desperate to hold on.

  ‘It’s true. Your mother will confirm it. But for now you must keep this secret - even from her. Tell no one until I have made the official announcement. I will speak to your mother.’

  With the awkward, painful piece said, the gloom on Bizi’s face suddenly dissolved.

  ‘And we will have a banquet, a big banquet, to celebrate your return, your coming of age.’

  Timothy looked at the king with a blank expression and blank mind to match, trying to take in the shock news. He did not know how to react. Say thank you? Ask for proof? Take it in his stride? What would his brother have done. Did Mozak know? Suddenly Timothy had something to say.

  ‘Did Mozak know?’

  ‘No. Definitely not!’ Bizi made a further confession. ‘I always wanted to tell him but couldn’t. Too much history. Too much baggage between us, just too fucking painful.’

  Bizi grabbed his son by the shoulder.

  ‘You Tascho, my son, you are my fresh start. You want to be a prince, be a king one day?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But Mozak, he’s not dead? He will be back?’

  ‘Yes. I will do my best to make it happen. I am making plans.’

  A dark thought suddenly struck Timothy: his father had stood by while king Helmotti had ordered his death; his father had done nothing to stop him. Right now that was too much to bear. He kicked his horse and rode off without looking back, along the Maze wall, perhaps looking for a way back in. Bizi did not chase after him. He had seen the chill on his son’s face and the accusation it advertised.

  In time, with nowhere else to go, trapped by a wall which simply went on and on, Timothy was forced to return to the castle. The castle was his new home and a new weight upon his shoulders. After acquiring a bottle of strong spirits from the king’s cellar, again by pulling rank, he sat on his bed, his boat in a storm, and sipped from it; trying not to choke; trying to shake off the image of his father which had infested his head; and looking around at the room’s contents, trying to pretend that it all belonged to him; and pondering the nature of his parents, and the complexity of royal life. Life in the Monastery may have been austere but at least it was guided by simple, clear-cut rules of behaviour and understanding. Out there God had things organised, under control. Was it normal for him to feel they were a burden? The king was his father but he didn’t feel like a father. But then what was being a father supposed to feel like? And one who was that fat and often inebriated? Timothy argued it out with himself but without conclusion. He no longer felt independent, a free spirit. Now he was just an attachment, to two strangers.

  He did not progress far with his plan to get drunk for he was interrupted by a summons to see the Dowager Queen. Immediately, explained the messenger, a young, lovely looking but stern faced lady-in-waiting. She delivered her message without emotion or note or bias.

  So this is it, thought Timothy as h
e steadied himself and tried to better arrange his clothes and hair. What do I say? he kept thinking as he was led - marched - at a furious pace towards the queen’s chambers. What do I say to my mother? Hello? How are you? It’s been a long time? No, he decided. Best keep my mouth shut.

  On the way, without warning, he was ambushed. A tall, well-dressed, well-fed man of advanced years stepped out in front of him, as if from nowhere, to block his way. The lady-in-waiting did not protest. She did not even appear worried: she simply stopped in her tracks and waited, for orders, from anyone.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Timothy.

  ‘The King’s Chancellor,’ she whispered back.

  Timothy turned, hearing a noise behind him. Another man of similar appearance and age - but fatter it had to be said - had also stepped out of the shadows. The two highwaymen did nothing except look him up and down and over. Then they were gone, without saying a single word.

  ‘Who was that other man?’

  ‘The King’s Secretary.’

  ‘Are they important?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Timothy felt as if he had been stripped of something important, else denied it; or picked up, examined, then discarded like a useless object. He resumed the journey towards his meeting with the queen, his mother, but this time driven by a little anger.

  ***

  When he arrived, the anger was replaced by nervousness and Timothy stood quaking as the lady-in-waiting directed him into the Queen’s room. As he entered so all feeling seemed to drain from his legs, and when the door close door behind him he felt trapped, then immediately confused for the room - a small room for a queen - was empty. He turned to question his escort but she was gone. He turned again, this time towards the sound of curtains being drawn back: and there she was, standing in the centre of the room, his mother the Queen; his mother buried somewhere beneath the costume, the decorations, and the facial make-up. Timothy found it hard to take in. He felt nothing: no joy, no eagerness; no anticipation, no astonishment; not even doubt or disappointment; only numbness. The same question struck again: what was having a mother supposed to feel like?