Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  The Dowager Queen said nothing and Timothy began to sweat. He was feeling it now: feeling afraid. Afraid of his own mother? Why fear his own mother? Or was it fear of rejection? She looked both beguiling and belligerent, and as she stared at him she stripped him naked; and Timothy felt it. He felt new born, defenceless, mute. He did not feel any warmth, any welcome coming from her, just distance. He did not know that the Dowager Queen always hid her emotions when the occasion demanded. And this was such an occasion. Likewise the Dowager Queen hid inside her costume. She did not welcome her long lost son with open arms. She did not step forward to embrace him. She could not open her mouth. She kept it clenched shut and stood rigid, and gazed at a past which had erupted back into the present to test her.

  Here, standing before her, was Tascho. Not Mozak? Dressed as he was in Mozak’s clothes it was hard to tell. Queen Anneeni raised a finger and indicated that he was to do a 360 degree turn. Timothy struggled to execute it, just as when his uncle had made the same demand. She was looking for differences and similarities. The only difference which truly struck her was his body language: it spoke of anxiety, exhaustion - fear? She began to feel sorry for him - sorry for her long lost son - her long lost son who had been given the worst possible start in life: the king had wanted him dead for no reason other than he existed.

  The extended silence became a solid wall, impassable. Mother and son both felt it but neither could break it. Neither was willing to try. It kept them apart until suddenly it collapsed without warning, like water, and the Queen rushed forwards to grab her little boy. The force of her embrace - a force powered by the guilt she tried to contain deep within her - nearly knocked him over. She pulled him to her breast and began to weep. Timothy found himself resisting: resisting the embrace of the Dowager Queen, not his mother for she was elsewhere. She was still hidden beneath the layers of clothing and decoration. He kept his eyes closed and held himself steady (he could not help but notice that her breath sank) while the Dowager Queen kept repeating his true name: ‘Tascho, Tascho, Tascho’. Timothy desperately wanted to adopt it but still he felt like a ‘Timothy’ and could not easily discard it. ‘Timothy’ had been his name, his identity, all his life. To discard it would be to discard the past. He was not yet prepared to do that.

  He waited for her to speak, so he could reply. He was looking for an opening, the chance to call her ‘mother’; else he was deluding himself, and in fact could not bring himself to call her that, at least not yet. He had never called anyone ‘mother’ or ‘father’ before. Starting now would not be that easy. Old habits die hard, especially when the replacement is hard to take up. When she did speak it was only to apologize: for she wished to cut short this first reunion. She could not speak to him yet. She was too distraught. She promised to see him later, soon, after she had had a lie down; to rest, to compose herself. Secretly, Timothy was relieved: also preferring to take things forward in small steps, little by little, to avoid being overwhelmed by it all. He needed a drink.

  When she relaxed and let go he backed away quickly, avoiding eye contact, and mumbled a half-hearted, barely coherent ‘thank you’. The lady-in-waiting ushered him out and led him back to his room where he collapsed onto the bed. She was gone before he had the chance to ask her her name, or offer her a drink. So instead he picked up where he had left off and continued with his drinking; except this time the fresh image of his mother fought for attention and interfered with the positive effects of excess alcohol, the image of his father having faded for the time being. Until very recently, Timothy had had no mother or father. Now he had them both and their combined weight threatened to squash him. And to make matters worse this was not his room but one borrowed from his brother Mozak. He had to escape it. He went walking, exploring; returning foul looks to anyone and everyone who dared to look at him in anyway which showed a lack respect. He did not care how they took it: he was the king’s son.

  ***

  Timothy drifted into the maze, wishing to lose himself and shake off the castle. Inside the maze the castle was on the outside and he was safe, inside. But the solid walls of green leaf, comforting before, now overwhelmed him, disorientated him. They spun him around, offered no way out. He carried on walking, sometimes up and down the same stretch, until finally he slumped down on the ground, exhausted; wishing to fall asleep, just fall asleep; wishing never to wake up, at least not in this place. Back at the Village? No, not that place. Back Outside? No, not that. Best stay in here then, inside this maze. He was ready to roll over and fall asleep, for he had finished the bottle - or rather the bottle had finished him. He threw it to one side and looked around, fascinated by a view which was all green. He could not think anything which demanded clarity for his thoughts collapsed into a mad muddle - which was exactly what he had set out to achieve. He was in limbo, trapped or secure inside the maze, with no idea how to get out. But he was in no rush to leave. Could he stay in here forever? Where was God! he shouted. But as usual no reply.

  He began to feel cold, worse still hungry. He tried to get up but fell back down, defeated by legs which refused to cooperate. He felt his head roll, or was it the sky moving around? He tried again and this time a helping hand appeared out of nowhere. It was a girl. Esmeralda? No, not here. He felt himself being lifted up. He was floating along again. He was on the move again. He was going somewhere again, through the maze. The girl spoke but he could not register the words, her well spoken words - with one exception: ‘Tascho’. With her help he staggered back to his room, hanging on to her body all the way. It felt sturdy, plump. Here was flesh to entice, perhaps incite.

  Carefully, the girl lowered him down on to the bed, reminding herself that this was the prince’s bed - a bed she had once thought would also be hers by now. Perhaps it could still be? She could not bear to think about it - or the prince who had vacated it. She fetched a jug of water and filled a mug, and sat back to watch the mysterious twin navigate the contents down his throat. It was a hit and miss affair, much of it running down the outside of his neck. After taking his fill, Timothy collapsed back onto his pile of cushions and stared up at the roof of the bed before slipping off into sleep. The girl remained by his side, not wishing to leave; mesmerised, spellbound by this alternative version of Prince Mozak which had returned to the Castle instead of him.

  When Timothy awoke a large chunk of time had passed him by and now the room was filled with the gloom of early evening: and still she was there, the girl who had rescued him.

  ‘Who are you?’ He had to know her name.

  ‘Lady Agnes Aga-Smath.’ She said her name with pride.

  ‘I saw you before. You were following me. Did you follow me again?’

  ‘I was worried.’

  ‘Worried? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because you’re the brother of the prince?’

  ‘You’re a friend of Mozak?’

  ‘Friend? No. But I was meant to marry him.’

  Timothy sat up, suddenly interested. Anything that belonged to the prince was of interest to him. And this girl - or this woman - belonged to him?

  ‘Is he coming back? Or is he dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he’s being held for ransom. But no demands have been made yet, at least not as far as I know. He’s trapped in the middle of the Maze.’

  ‘Held? Who by?’

  ‘By a scoundrel - a refugee from the castle.’

  ‘Scoundrels. Yes there are lots of those round here.’

  Lady Agnes curled up, as if wanting to retreat from the bad feeling her own words had created. Timothy wanted to hold her, comfort her, and so be comforted himself; nothing more.

  ‘Here, come sit by me.’

  She hesitated, as if carefully thinking things through - perhaps she was - but then relaxed, and did as instructed. Timothy felt good again. He felt he had another ally in this place - and one better than Rufus: she was a
girl, plump and sexy, with breasts which were more than a match for those of Esmeralda. Esmeralda? How she was getting on? And as for Mozak, surely his life was not in danger? That Iedazimus was a thug, a bully, but surely no killer?

  ***

  That night a naked Queen Anneeni lay flopped out across her bed, like a beached whale; draped in a bed sheet; perspiring, agitated, distraught. She had lost a son, then lost another, then gained one. It was all very unsettling. Do not feel guilty, she told herself. Do not act guilty, she told herself. You are responsible for none of this. It was the action of a cruel heartless man. Always the men. Startled, she sat up, suddenly alerted to the sound of boots stomping their way towards her bedroom via the back passage - a right of way reserved for the exclusive use of the king. It was Bizi, the bastard. It had been a long time since he had come that way.

  She heard the crash of metal as Bizi - probably drunk - stumbled into the suit of armour which stood guard outside her door. In panic she pulled on her nightdress and dressing gown, wishing to conceal every part of her body. What did that man want with her this time of night? Sex? Surely not? What was she thinking. A ridiculous thought. She held her breath as he belched on the other side of the door then banged on it before entering. He stood before her, wobbling slightly, staring her down; making a prisoner of her in her own bedroom. She guessed he had come to talk about Tascho. She hugged herself tight, stared back, and waited for the words to come. These days, the only thing which past between them were insults, insinuations, recriminations, and disingenuous compliments about the other’s state of health.

  ‘Stop staring at me like that woman. I’m not after your body.’

  Queen Anneeni sat perplexed, as if about to be given the results of a health check by the doctor. Bizi looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  ‘So what do you think of him?’

  ‘What do I think? What do you care?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘He’s my child. I think only the best of him. What else would any mother think?’

  ‘He’s in good health, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He can ride a horse well enough and he shoots well, very well. He will make a good prince don’t you think?’

  ‘I supposed so yes, if that is what it takes to be a good prince. But what do you care what I think?’

  Bizi collapsed into the armchair, weary and not looking for a fight. The poorly padded seat sagged under the strain of his massive weight and threatened to give way. The queen did not like the impact he was having on what was a private family heirloom, passed down by her mother. She wanted to but she did not protest.

  ‘The boy can read and write. Can you believe that! Mozak can’t do that, or you.’

  ‘Or you.’

  ‘But he believes in a god. That won’t do. No, that has to stop.’

  ‘Stop? I’m not sure it works like that.’

  ‘Like what? What are you talking about woman?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ You don’t have a clue, she thought.

  King Bizi continued in the same vein.

  ‘I’m proud of him. I think he’s a match for Mozak.’

  The mention of Mozak prompted a return of her fears.

  ‘Mozak, he will come back?’

  ‘I don’t know. No ransom has been demanded yet. But that’s irrelevant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  King Bizi looked hurt. ‘I intend to rescue him, of course.’

  ‘You’re going into the Maze? Is that wise? Is it allowed?’

  ‘Not me personally. Valadino has volunteered to lead a raiding party.’

  Valadino, thought Queen Anneeni. Of course.

  ‘He swore an oath that he will do his utmost to bring our boy back. It’s his way of making amends he said.’

  Making amends, thought Queen Anneeni. Yes, that was a good way of making amends. She needed to speak to Valadino urgently.

  Bizi returned to his favourite subject. ‘I think he’s proud to be my son.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I told him.’

  ‘You told him!’

  ‘Yes. Why not. It’s about time.’

  ‘About time? You never told Mozak and now he’s gone!’

  ‘I could never tell Mozak. Too much baggage. But with Tascho it’s different, a fresh start.’

  Queen Anneeni jumped up onto her feet - a confident angry queen again who could hold her own with the king - such that her dressing gown fell open to reveal her large bosom beneath. It was well exposed and a delight for any man to view. But Bizi took no noticed. He had seen it all before, squeezed it all before, smelt it all before and ravished it all before. His lust for her had begun to sour the moment it had tasted sweet. Years ago they had made love many times on this bed, and in it; sometimes twice a day. Then the rot of repetition set in, along with the stench of the great lie they were forced to live; while Bizi had to watch his son grow, never able to declare himself, crippled by the weight of the huge deceit.

  ‘If he knows, who’s he going to tell! Soon everyone will know! We’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘You might be. I won’t. I’m the king.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me first?!’

  ‘Because I’m the king that’s why - I don’t have to ask - and you would have said no!’

  ‘You’ll live to regret this.’

  ‘No I won’t. You might but I won’t. You were the wife of the king. You committed adultery. I double-crossed no one. I committed no treason. I carry no shame.’

  King Bizi suddenly felt a lot better for having said that.

  ‘Anyway, that’s why I intend to make a formal announcement, tomorrow, at noon.’

  ‘What!’ Queen Anneeni wanted to rush forward and strike Bizi down, stamp on his face. She wanted him dead. ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Yes, I can. I’m the king.’

  ‘It will be a scandal.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You should care!’

  ‘Why? I’m the king and I want my children back.’

  ‘Why do this? You despise me so much that you have to humiliate me in public?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’m proud of my sons and I want the world to know they are my sons. That’s why I’m doing this.’

  ‘Curse you! Curse you, Bizi!’

  ‘Calm down woman you’re overreacting.’

  ‘Overreacting? You’ve turned me into an adulteress, a common whore. You’ve stripped me of my dignity.’

  ‘You did that yourself when you decided to change sides, seduce me.’

  That was too much. The Dowager Queen, the fading light, the has-been, snapped. She grabbed her chamber pot and threw it squarely at her tormentor. Her aim was perfect and King Bizi was soaked in the queen’s cold stinking piss and stung on the forehead by the impact of the pot. Furious, and wiping his face, he jumped up and grabbed her by the neck; intending to smack her hard across the face and put her back in her place: her place being that of a broken, discredited queen; the unpopular widow of a dead, unpopular king.

  ‘Go on do it you bastard.’

  But Bizi didn’t follow through. He could not hit the mother of his children: though in the past, their turbulent past, he had. He was older now. His temper was less able to command the level of emotional energy it required to take physical control. And she was older, more susceptible to breakage.

  ‘Get used to it,’ he said.

  It was all he could think of saying. And with that he left the room, happy never to return, happy never to speak to her again; leaving the Dowager Queen to contemplate her position, her public persona in this new world; leaving her begging for someone to save her soul.

  ***

  I
n the Great Hall, the high and mighty gathered to wait, whisper and wallow in their own misfortunes. Some gossiped. A few even conspired. It had been years since the king had summoned together all the knights and nobility for a full assembly. Some had not seen him in nearly a decade and were shocked by the change in his appearance. The king - this ignoble, illegal king - had gone downhill: that was the verdict of many. When he arrived, pig on a lead, all eyes turn on to him, and on the pig. Some wanted to kill it, stick it on a spit and watch it roast. Those who had only heard about it were astonished.

  So it was true: the king was going mad. If he looked mad right now, it was only because he was mad with all of them. And behind the pig trailed the now famous Tascho, the lost prince, the unnecessary spare the previous king had wanted out of the way. A few felt sorry for him. Most didn’t. One prince was bad enough. The king looked nervous. The lost prince looked nervous. Only the pig looked unaffected. As King Bizi mounted the steps towards the throne, urging on his son to follow, Pig pulling on his lead, the sound subsided, the whispers trailed off, and an earnest silence descended across the entire hall. Most present expected this to be nothing more than a declaration of what was now already widely known: that Prince Mozak’s twin had returned from the dead. They were shocked when the king went further.

  Timothy stood stiff, subdued, as if awaiting the verdict of the jury; conscious he had been reduced to nothing more than an object of interest. The world was staring him down, stripping him of his sanity. He felt giddy. He wanted to flee, hide. He did not want this. He wanted Gregory to rescue him from this nightmare but Gregory was nowhere to be seen. He stared down as his father triumphantly declared that the princes were his sons; that he was their true father; that his half-brother, the younger brother, should never have been made king; that one day one of his sons would be king.

  He chose not to mention the Dowager Queen. Bizi relished the look on the faces as his words flowed out across the crowd and smacked each of them in the face. These bastards think they know everything, he thought. He caught sight of his Chancellor and Secretary standing at the back, separated from the rest of the crowd as if by an invisible wall. They could barely conceal their anger. He had insulted them by not telling them in advance. You two bastards think you know everything, he thought.