Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  Her king had spoken and Lady Tarmina flew from the room in tears, to find her sister. She needed hugging, reassuring. Her sister would have to placate him, clean up the mess, work her way back into his bed for the sake of both of them.

  ‘What is that whore talking about? She’s talking rubbish yes?’

  ‘No.’ Bizi drew a heavy breath. He had wanted it to have come out better than this. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sit down I tell you! You have to hear this from me!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m your father, damn it, listen to me!’

  Finally Mozak’s legs gave way and he fell into the nearest chair, looking as white as a sheet. He had lost his equilibrium. He had finally found his father, but not in the way he had intended.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout at you. It’s a shock. But there’s no beating about the bush. You have to know right away.’

  Mozak could only stare at the pattern in the carpet. A lump lodged in his throat. He could not speak. His world had just shifted again. He could not keep up. He was back with a bump and a bruising, out of one fire and into the next. The heat was too much. He wanted to crawl into bed and hide beneath the sheets. He wanted to crawl into bed with Mummy. He didn’t want this. He wanted things to be how they were before - before he entered the Maze. He wanted to punch his mother. He wanted to kick - kill - the man who stood over him, breath stinking, claiming to be his father. And suddenly it all made sense: their uneasy relationship over the years. The man had not tried to steal him, only tried to get close to him, protect him. But now as it all made sense it all began to fall apart and his head began to extrude the pain it could not contain. He had to get out. He jumped up, pushed past his uncle and ran out of the room; out of the castle; into the grounds and on into the maze: his childhood refuge; that place where no one could find him. He found his bench and sank down on to it, gasping for breath, looking for a way out different from the way in.

  ***

  Tascho did not hang around at the cottage: after issuing his orders to confused guards he left at speed, not wishing - not able yet - to speak to Mutz; definitely not wishing to speak to Brother Fargo. Let Esmeralda suffer them. They were her problem, her friends not his. He fled back to the castle and on into the maze. It was the best place to be right now: simple and safe. There he could switch off, drop out, dig in. Unfortunately he found his brother there, sitting in his spot, head down, asleep. Tascho almost felt sorry for him but he swept aside the emotion before it became too heavy to handle, too dangerous to dismiss.

  ‘You, wake up.’ Tascho prodded his troublesome twin. ‘Move over. That’s my seat.’

  Mozak stirred and shuddered when he saw his own face staring back down at him. He could not escape him.

  ‘This is mine. It’s always been mine.’

  Tascho was too tired to fight. He fell down on to the bench as far away as possible and tried to pretend that his twin was not there. Mozak did the same. They both looked silly, but strangely at peace as they looked ahead and down into the grass. Had peace broken out or was it just a lull in the fighting?

  They sat as only two brothers could after an exhausting fight which had settled nothing. They were stuck with each other’s breath, smell, bad feelings, awkward awareness and an undeniable, insidious reluctance to bond. They knew they could just sit and ignore each other. They also knew they had to talk to each other, make an accommodation, but knowing was not the same as wanting, at least not yet. The change might take only a matter of minutes, perhaps hours, possible days, weeks or worse of all years. Time passing was the dice which pushed the outcome. And when they did finally get around to talking they would find out they had plenty to talk about and, given time, would be pleasantly surprised. And neither would ever feel alone or isolated again. They would become brothers in arms, twin towers of strength.

  Mozak was the first to speak. ‘Did you mess with any of my things?’

  ‘No. Just borrowed some clothes, and boots. I’m wearing them now.’

  Under protest Mozak looked across. ‘You can keep them - never liked them.’

  ‘You can have them back. I’m having my own pairs made - and clothes. You can have it all back.’

  Mozak took that last statement as an insult. ‘So what do you think of my castle.’

  ‘It’s different.’

  ‘Better than Inside?’

  ‘Better? No, certainly not. At least not yet.’

  Mozak suddenly erupted. ‘That man. That awful man is our father! How? How come!’

  Tascho finally looked across at his twin, like he had just suddenly appeared out of the blue. The answer was straightforward, obvious enough, but Tascho decided it was best not stated. Thinking before opening his mouth had been something the Monastery had taught him well. He had a question instead.

  ‘Tell me about our mother. I need to know. Was she always like she is now?’

  ‘No, certainly not! Bizi’s to blame. He turned her into this.’

  Tascho listened impassively as the story of the queen and the kings unfolded. This was one mixed up, dysfunctional family and he was part of it. The past did not feel so bleak now. The present did. And as for the future?

  Mozak caught his mood. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Will I? I hope so.’ Tascho looked up at the sky directly above him, bending his neck back to its limit of tolerance. He wanted it to hurt. ‘God help me.’

  ‘You were a monk? You believe in a God?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘Believing in nothing is weird.’

  Deep down each wanted to know the other better, as brothers should, for brothers had to stick together in bad times. They both had to pick up the pieces of their lives and fit them back together into one solid, lasting whole which could stand the test of time, and family. But that was for later: right now they lapsed back into silence, exhausted, defenceless against the world outside the maze.

  ***

  Later that night the twins ended up in the prince’s bedroom: Tascho resting on one side of the bed, feet sometimes swinging to a secret tune; Mozak slumped in a chair, not wishing to claim the other side, despite the fact there was plenty of room. It was a king-sized bed, fit for a king, or two princes.

  They kept their distance: wishing to remain apart while together; wishing to come together but as distinct parts able to break away whenever the wish arose. They sat close enough just to be able to stretch out and pass between them a small bottle of apple brandy: passing it back and forth as need be or when demand was made, occasionally taking delight in stalling. During the course of the night it would help bring them together and be the trigger to blow them apart. (At which point Timothy would swear to God and Mozak would swear at his god.) They had to talk. They had to get along, somehow. They wanted to talk for real but ‘for real’ would be a struggle - until the alcohol cut in. They were recovering from the experience of having been forced to sit side by side at the royal dining table whilst their father the king proudly surveyed them; looked back and forth between them; pointing his finger when not wiping food away from his mouth, and growling how great both of them would be. They had escaped together at the first opportunity, pleading exhaustion, to end up in the bedroom; armed with the bottle of relief and wishing to escape from the world. (Or at least that bit of it which was outside the Maze - or inside depending on your point of view.)

  Earlier, the twins had watched each other eat; watched the king; watched his pig; watched those watching them whilst pretending not to be watching. And now they sat and watched each other: sometimes openly; sometimes when the other was not watching. Unable to make serious eye contact each kept returning to the other’s hair, or shirt, or cuffs, in fact anything except the face (where there was too much mystery, danger and disco
mfort) - except when the other face was looking away, then they would leap in and grab a quick peek.

  At first, they talked in hushed tones, not wishing to be overheard. Each had something to boast about, a cross to bear: the pressure of being a prince clashed with that of trying to live up to the high ideals of a spiritual life. Voices would be raised later. Sometimes they spoke across each other, not wishing to hear. Other times each allowed the other to speak and be heard. At one point Mozak let loose a furious, loud, foul fart. Later Tascho returned fire with fire. It was the only time that night they laughed together - and about the same thing.

  Mozak complained that his adventure into the Maze had been a total waste of time. Tascho snapped back that his had not. Mozak made it clear that he was proud to be a prince. Tascho reacted strongly by saying that he too was proud. Mozak asked his brother why he kept such a stupid little dog. Tascho replied that Stevie might be small but he wasn’t stupid. He had survived out there in the Maze with no help, surrounded by bullies. The point was totally lost on Mozak.

  Mozak voiced his outrage at being kidnapped, stripped of his dignity and tied down like a dog - or a pig!

  ‘Like a dog,’ he snarled before falling silent, exhausted.

  Tascho commiserated - it sounded authentic.

  ‘The experience will make you stronger,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ was the harsh response.

  They both agreed that the man who had incarcerated them, humiliated them, was an arsehole and must be punished. (Had they discussed it further, they would have discovered a big difference between what each regarded as the right level of punishment.) When Tascho said his name, Iedazimus, the man’s face flashed up inside Mozak’s head. And when Mozak saw the grizzled, fanatical face of Iedazimus, he also saw that of the king, and he felt sick. He looked pale, miserable, and when Tascho asked if he was alright Mozak lied, not wishing to be seen as weak in front of his brother. He kicked a stuffed squirrel across the floor to make the point. Tascho watched it fly. He in turn felt betrayed: he wanted Gregory to sort out the thug, bring him to justice. He expected Gregory to do his duty. For both of them ‘Iedazimus’ was a dirty word and a terrible human being.

  Mozak, needing a fresh start to the conversation, asked his twin about his life at the Monastery. Timothy returned temporarily and was happy to share most of his secrets - and even some of his fears. Timothy came clean and admitted that he had grown up suffering from nightmares. That prompted Mozak to do the same.

  Timothy wanted to know all about his mother, and pushed and pushed for information: this Mozak did not like, and he avoided supplying any detail by keeping things vague - except for his outburst.

  ‘She’s a slut’, he whispered in confidence as the alcohol began to influence. ‘Why did she do this to us?’

  ‘She’s our mother,’ responded Tascho sharply. ‘And we were not around when she did what she did.’

  Mozak glared back, not liking Tascho’s clever words or his high and mighty attitude.

  Timothy also wanted to know more about their father. But again Mozak was guarded and gave little away - perhaps because he was still trying to make sense of it himself. He knew too much - some of it unsavoury - which he didn’t understand (or want to understand). He felt ignorant in front of his twin who was watching and waiting for clever words to come forth. Tascho’s constant demands made him angry inside. The lack of cooperation pulled them apart and soured the conversation, diminishing any warmth it had generated. They switched to talking about girls instead. When it came to girls there was plenty to talk about, plenty to strip away, plenty to rejoice in.

  The twins agreed that girls were difficult creatures to understand, and hard work. Was it always worth the hard work? asked Mozak. Tascho said he wanted to understand them better whereas Mozak said that wasn’t important. And while they chatted they both thought about Esmeralda but never mentioned her name, not wishing to remind the other that she existed.

  Mozak complained bitterly that he had to marry the fat, loathsome Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Why loathsome? asked Tascho. Mozak was forced to concede that he didn’t know. She just was.

  ‘Trust me,’ he told Tascho. ‘She talks too much.’

  Tascho did not mention the fact that he had snogged Lady Agnes, explored some of her more intimate areas. And as for her excessive weight: he found it rather cute, something to hold on to. He asked his brother if he had slept with her.

  ‘No of course not! She’s to be my wife! What do you take me for?’

  ‘My brother.’

  It was a joke which went right over Mozak’s head.

  ‘What?’

  And why did he have to marry her? Tascho asked next. Because the king and queen said he had to, was the answer. Tascho reminded him that he was nearly eighteen.

  ‘Just say no. Tell them no. That’s what I would do. What are they going to do? Disown you?’

  Mozak looked at his brother, bewildered by his gumption and audacity, and unnerved by his dangerous advice. Tascho looked him right back in the eye, knowing that for this moment in time he was totally in charge, that he had the upper hand. And it felt good. His brother had swallowed the advice whole, Tascho could tell.

  Mozak moved on quickly and asked Tascho about his god, but became quickly bored as the explanation which came out of Timothy rolled on and on. That made Timothy lecture him harder, determined as he was to educate his brother, until Mozak shouted at him repeatedly to shut the hell up. Instead he asked Tascho if he had seen his servant Rufus. And if so, was he in good health? Tascho replied simply ‘yes’ and ‘good’. That was enough for Mozak. In fact the whole evening now was more than enough and he fell into a long spell of sullen silence, dragging his twin down with him. They drank on slowly, fighting more and more over the contents of the bottle.

  ***

  That night Esmeralda lay beside Lady Agnes on her bed. The girls had climbed towards each other and cuddled up to protect themselves from the world at large and the dangers within. Esmeralda felt wasted. Her stomach was swollen. After many days spent on rations she had gone crazy and eaten too much rich food in one go, too quickly. She wondered if this was what it felt like to carry a baby. Lady Agnes gripped her hand, squeezing it dry, constantly reminding herself of her vow to protect the poor child. In the castle girls had to stick together (else men would pull them apart). Esmeralda noticed the other girl’s fingernails. They were beautiful. She wanted fingernails like that. Hers kept dirt under them. No matter how hard she tried the dirt never went away.

  When Prince Mozak had asked her to look after Esmeralda, Lady Agnes had jumped at the chance. She did not hold back. She had the chance to play mother, big sister; be the confidant of a lost, bemused, sometimes overwhelmed blacksmith’s girl from inside the Maze and some strange place called the Village. Lady Agnes had always wanted a little sister to go with her little doll and now one had fallen into her lap. She celebrated with wine, persuading Esmeralda to join in. The wine would open her up, expose her to examination.

  Esmeralda thought the room was lovely, and all the things in it lovely (though there were perhaps too many of them); and she said so; and Lady Agnes said it was ‘just nothing really’. (She may have been lying.) There were bunches of flowers everywhere and Esmeralda loved the smell. This was not the smell of the Blacksmiths, or the Village, or the Maze, not even the Castle. No this was the unique smell of Lady Agnes’s bedroom, and it was adorable. Esmeralda wanted a room like this. Why could she not have a room like this?

  They exchanged ages like prisoners thrown together in a cell. Each looked at the other’s bosom, taking measurements but making no comment. Lady Agnes saw a gipsy. Esmeralda saw a queen. Lady Agnes promised her new girlfriend a bath, a change of clothes, even a maid to fix her hair. Esmeralda nearly cried with gratitude. She felt she had truly arrived somewhere. She wished her aunt - and her moth
er - could see her now, and be proud.

  Girls talk.

  Each hung on to the other’s word when they were ready to speak: each let go to let the other in. Esmeralda reflected upon her lonely, empty childhood; about being raised in Village - a hard place for hard lives. Lady Agnes boasted and complained in equal measure about Castle and Kingdom. Her parents had packed her off to the Royal Court she declared, with strict instructions to act like a lady, get noticed, get married to someone above her station. (It was the only time parents got a mention. Neither wanted to talk about parents. For Lady Agnes they were a drag. For Esmeralda they were nonexistent.)

  ‘Hard as nails my parents,’ complained Lady Agnes.

  Whereupon she admitted that the stress of change had made her put on weight, but then added that she didn’t care for she loved food.

  ‘I never used to be this fat. Honest. When I was running around in the woods I had a great body. The farm lads told me so!’

  Esmeralda reassured her new friend that she completely believed her. She admitted that she was afraid she was putting on weight. Love food, said Lady Agnes, and Esmeralda squeezed the hand of her best friend once again. It was a good answer.

  When Esmeralda accidentally mentioned her aunt’s brothel she feared Lady Agnes would be shocked, that she would stop being her friend. But no, on the contrary Lady Agnes was fascinated and demanded that Esmeralda tell all. Esmeralda did so but under protest, not wishing to be reminded of ‘the family business’.

  The subject of sex moved them on to the far more important topic of the royal princes and boys in general, and how boys led to marriage and babies and raising families and all that scary stuff they had to do if they were not going to die a lonely, miserable spinster’s death. They giggled over boys, at boys, despite boys. They laughed at boys. They despaired over boys. They were scared of boys if they got too close but did not want them to be too far away. Each wanted one good boy, somehow, somewhere, sometime soon. The princes fascinated them both. Lady Agnes thought they were identical. Esmeralda disagreed: Timothy was softer she said, and spoke better, and knew more. Lady Agnes disagreed. They agreed to disagree - for they were friends.