Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Where is he!’ shouted someone at the back of the hall.

  ‘Walking his pig!’ shouted another voice, also hidden away out of sight.

  The Queen pretended not to hear. Prince Mozak did not and suddenly looked like he was looking for a fight whereas Tascho just wanted to slide under the table and slip away unnoticed. Their mother acted like a wounded bird, or a wounded warrior, but always the protective mother. She did not let them out of her sight even though they did not move. The twins were stuck to their chairs, having to pretend that all was well with her, with him, with themselves. Finally, sensing enough time had past, she rose to take charge of proceedings and stamp her authority, at which point there was a commotion at the door.

  Gasping and laughter and disbelief broke out in abundance. It was King Bizi, on a stretcher, being carried in by two women - infirmary nurses - and two men - the infirmary gardener and a medical orderly. They pushed on past the throng and up to Top Table. An apple, thrown from out of the crowd, sailed over the head of the king as he passed by. He was deposited slowly and with great precision into his chair - the king’s special chair - to the sound of whistles and jeers. His eyes were bulging and his breath was most foul. Mozak got the worse of it and turned away. The Queen looked devastated. The twins lapsed into a state of shock. They were united again.

  ‘I am here! Now the party can start!’ declared Bizi with an angry snarl.

  For the Queen the party was over but the pig kept turning for the dog had yet to tire.

  King Bizi looked around, threatening anyone who did not settle down, calm down, show him respect. He glanced at the dog turning the pig. When he felt sure the hall was all his, he ordered the princes to stand up and show themselves off to the world. Mozak jumped at the chance and jumped up. Tascho dragged himself up on to his feet. His mother grabbed his hand and held it tight. (She wanted to grab Mozak too but he was beyond her reach.)

  King Bizi began his speech, but did not get far into it.

  ‘Today is a special day for me. Today, my sons come of age. Today they are adults. And today we also celebrate their reunion. Separated at birth, Tascho was to be murdered, butchered (Bizi did not mince his words) on the instructions of a loathsome, despicable king. My half-brother, I am ashamed to say.’

  There was a commotion at the end of the hall. Somebody was banging on the closed doors. It interrupted his thoughts. He struggled to reconnect with them. He stared around the hall: some of them wanted him gone, he knew it; some of them wanted him dead, he knew it. He looked at the pig. It bothered him. He looked at Tascho and something bothered him. Then he remembered.

  ‘And today I am proud to announce the engagement of my son Tascho to one Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. They are to be married, as soon as possible.’

  He threw his other son a dirty look for letting him down before looking out across the crowd again, daring anyone to break into laughter. The words entered Tascho’s brain and splintered it. He was sent reeling and nearly fell from his chair. This was too much - much too much. Mozak looked at him as if to wish him ‘good luck, you’ll need it’. And the pig just kept on turning.

  Tascho saw Lady Agnes jump up from her chair. She disappeared from view, which was a relief, only for her to grab his arm, which was not. He felt her lips smack his cheek. He felt nauseous. He did not return like for like. He could not bear to look at her. He could only stare into the abyss which was the plate in front of him, an empty plate. His reaction did not bother her, for she had her catch and she did not care what condition it was in. Mozak watched them both, not caring. He looked down at Esmeralda and saw that she cared - that he did care about. Would winning her heart be easier now or harder? Surely now she was his? What else did she have except him?

  The interruption grew worse: there was a serious commotion at the doors. Bizi, angry, was about to vent his fury at such disrespect, only for his mouth to fall open. He nearly shat in his pants. They were roasting Pig! They had killed his only friend and confidant! Swine! They were going to kill him too! He grabbed his steak knife and looked around for sight of his attacker. Then the doors blew open and Ex-king Helmotti blew in. For a second time Bizi nearly shat in his pants. Helmotti was clean shaven, well-dressed, upright, dignified; looking more like a king than his brother Bizi. And he held a sword in his hand like he was meaning to use it.

  Some recognised him immediately and gasped, and nudged their neighbours. Some began to whoop and cheer him on.

  ‘Helmotti’s alive!’ someone shouted. ‘And Bizi’s dead!’ someone else shouted back.

  Those too young to remember looked on bemused - the twins included. A woman - an ex lady-in-waiting who had seen better days - fainted upon seeing Helmotti. She had slept with him just prior to his disappearance. Lord Fucho led the charge: banging his tankard on the table he began shouting in time to the tune of his thumping.

  ‘Here comes the king! Here comes the king! Here comes the king!’

  Most others joined in. A few didn’t, but only because they were still not sure which way the wind was blowing. The twins hated it. The Queen pretended to hate it, just in case Bizi was watching her - but he wasn’t, he was passing out. And most of all Helmotti hated it.

  Helmotti looked at Bizi only once: the one look said it all. Bizi could not look away from the storm which was his brother. He was both terrified and entranced. All that had ever been good between them was now buried beneath the rubble of time’s passing, for good. All that had been bad between them now provided the justification for all that was happening and might happen. Helmotti pointed at his brother who had passed out and slipped out of his chair.

  ‘Get him out of here, back to the infirmary.’

  Two of the soldiers who accompanied him duly obliged and dragged Bizi away, handling him roughly, not so much like a king, more like a sack of potatoes. Lord Fucho was quick to rush forwards and block their way, gesturing that they had missed something, something important. In a swiftly executed but still delicate motion he slipped the ‘Royal Ring’ from Bizi’s finger and carried it across the floor to Helmotti who received it like it was something hot, dangerous. He fingered it as he examined it and only slipped it on to his own finger to be free of an impatient Fucho.

  Helmotti sat himself down in the king’s chair and looked around, daring any one to question his right to sit there, to be there. The Queen and her sons stared back rigid. Esmeralda stared up, trying to reconcile the new face with the old. When he finally spoke he spoke softly.

  ‘This is my banquet now, to celebrate my return. Let the party begin.’

  And somehow it did - slowly, in fits and starts, with alcohol providing lubrication and lift and light relief. Lord Fucho made a toast and the majority of those present ended up having a good time: much better in fact than that originally envisaged for the unpopular, insane, King Bizi had just been toppled - toppled by the man he had once toppled. Poetic justice at its best, thought some. Irony at its worse, thought others.

  As the celebrations proceeded some noticed, and commented, that Helmotti was not celebrating. He just sat there, looking exhausted, despondent, like he wanted to be elsewhere despite having just arrived. Esmeralda wondered what had happened to the person she had known under a different name, and all her memories which included him became scrambled up as she scrambled to reapply meaning to them.

  Almost under protest, and without enthusiasm Helmotti exchanged a few words with the Queen but not the princes. They sat almost lifeless, trying to control, mask, contain their confusion and anger: for Mozak it was mainly confusion; for Tascho, anger. As the Hermit, Harry, Helmotti had make friends with Mozak under false pretences when all the while he had been the man Mozak had, for his entire life, thought was his dead father. Yes, Mozak was very confused, and angry for being confused. Tascho was angry for a very simple reason: this was the man who had once wanted him dead - a baby, dead! His fiancée Lady A
gnes wanted to comfort him but he was having none of it. Esmeralda wanted to comfort him but could not show it. Dowager Queen Anneeni watched all three, hoping that things would remain calm; wondering what she would do if they didn’t. Take sides? Leave? Retreat back to her chambers? No, not there. The king’s bed was a better place to be now.

  When he could take it no more, Tascho stood up and left; without explanation or due regard; without apology or guilt. In an instant Mozak was up on his feet and followed his brother out of the hall. He didn’t know why he was doing it but it felt better than being left behind.

  ‘Let them be,’ said Helmotti to Queen Anneeni.

  ‘And who will let me be?’ came her reply.

  ***

  Elsewhere Fargo, once another man’s brother, sat at the centre of a large mass of peasants: some rank, some roused and rebellious; peasants whose expectations had been raised to a new high level, a high which could never be fulfilled by one man or one god. Fargo from the Maze was their high priest. They crowded in and fought to hang on to his every word, his every pronounced pause. They had to catch their breath whenever he decided to catch his. Fargo had the starving masses eating out of the palm of his hand and he was loving it. He was in Heaven. They were stuck in Hell, he had decided, and only he could pluck them free. He was their salvation. Not all of those present had been hypnotized, persuaded, consumed: a few were present simply because they loved a good circus and a good clown - and there was nothing else to do.

  Fargo had come a long way since leaving the monastery. There he had been forced to abide by, and preach his brother’s book of rules. In here he set the rules. In here he was his own boss. And it felt great. Yes God was definitely on his side, the winning side. Fargo was on a roll, all the way downhill.

  ‘The men who own you, control your lives, keep you in poverty, who tell you when to work, when to rest, where to sleep, what to eat, what to think are right now stuffing their faces and drinking themselves stupid with the results of your hard labour. They chew on meat while you chew on vegetables. They drink beer and wine while you make do with water from the well.’

  I drink beer? thought one. I chew meat? thought another. My woman draws the water from the well, thought a third. I like my roast parsnips, thought many. One man at the back of the crowd stopped chewing on his chicken leg and chucked it over his shoulder. A dog grabbed it. Another dog tried to grab it off him. Like their peasant masters they fought like dogs.

  ‘They consume in a day what you consume in a week - a month! They get fat off the land while you remain thin. Right now they are laughing at you, at your misery! Right now they are celebrating their grip on power, on privilege and on you, the hard working people of this land.’

  Fargo took a long pause and looked around the room; scanning all the faces, scratching at their souls - some frozen, some freaked out - before delivering his punch line. A few looked at each other: up to now they hadn’t considered themselves miserable, just knackered.

  ‘And it will be the same for your children if you stand by and do nothing!’

  Fargo looked straight up, as far as his neck would allow, and raised his fists high for maximum visibility.

  ‘God! Help us! Now! What do I do? What must I do?’

  He closed his eyes and gasped for breath. He had rehearsed it well beforehand. Others held theirs, especially the women and children. After playing the moment for all its worth he opened them again. He had his answer. It would require sweat and tears, and for some the ultimate sacrifice. So be it: life was cheap; principles were an expensive, long term investment.

  ***

  Once outside, beyond the smell and sin and swine of the banquet, Tascho broke into a run. He ran for his life, away from the wife. He ran towards the maze, any maze. The green maze was the closest. He heard Mozak calling out behind him, telling him to stop but he would not stop. He would not give way. Instead he ran faster, until his lungs and legs could give no more nor take no more. He shuddered to a halt at the entrance to the maze and began gasping for air. There Mozak caught him up but before he could utter a word, protest, Tascho pushed him aside and flew on in. Tascho had to get to the centre. He had to let go of that which was behind him and embrace that which awaited him, at the centre. It would be nothing or everything (but not much in between). Mozak was drawn to follow.

  Tascho lost his way the moment he stepped inside and left the outside behind. Every option looked the same. His memory did not serve. All the green was the one colour of green. There was no respite. One hedge could have been the next, or the one behind. Left was right. Right was left. Right was remote. He felt left for dead. He stumbled on, as fast as his legs could bear it; heart and lungs pumping; brow burning; face frozen in total concentration on the challenge to reach his destination without passing out. What he left behind left him behind. He looked up: just soft sky above. He looked down: just hard ground below. Nothing in between except confusion, and the colour green. He shuddered to a halt, wanting to scream, at which point someone grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. It was not his mother. It was his brother.

  ‘This way. I’ll get you there.’

  Tascho tried to shake himself free but Mozak would not have it. He would not let go of his brother.

  ‘Let me go! I don’t need your help! I can find it!’

  Mozak remained resolutely calm, refusing to be drawn into his brother’s hysteria.

  ‘I don’t think so. Let me take you there.’

  ‘I have to get there by myself.’

  ‘No you don’t. Tascho you’re going round in circles. Come on, this way.’

  Tascho submitted - if only temporarily - to the charm and allowed his brother to lead on. And in no time they reached the centre of the maze. There Tascho fell to his knees and began to sob. It had all been too much. He had to let some of it out. Mozak loomed over him, unhappy that his brother - a prince no less - was crying, crying like a baby. Princes did not cry.

  Mozak was also being torn apart but he refused to cry about it. He wanted Harry - Harry the Hermit - the man who had rescued him - the man he had befriended - the man now revealed as king Helmotti - the man he had thought was his father all his life - to still be his father, not Uncle Bizi - sorry Father Bizi. But Helmotti had wanted his brother dead. All very confusing. He knelt down to join his brother. This at least was straightforward enough: his brother was suffering and needed his support.

  They clasped hands. They were conjoined twins now: one body, inseparable; no more you and me, you versus me, you rather than me; just the two of us, against the world, a world which would never cease to confuse or confound. But still Mozak could not stand the crying.

  ‘Stop crying Tascho! Princes do not cry!’

  Princes did not cry. They may cry out in pain or displeasure but they did not cry. Only girls cried (and the occasional woman as he had discovered). He had never cried, Mozak told himself. He was lying to himself.

  And suddenly Tascho stopped crying.

  Together they lifted themselves up and collapsed together down on to the bench, Mozak now as exhausted as his brother. A calm descended and Tascho was the first to speak.

  ‘I don’t know why I came here. I must have been mad. Should have stayed at home.

  ‘This is your home. This is our home.’ No matter what, Mozak would always defend his home.

  ‘I was happier out there, outside, at the monastery. I had a vocation, a calling.’

  ‘Your God thing.’

  ‘Yes, my God, thing as you call it. Now, I’m a prince and I hate it.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Tascho turned on his brother and looked him straight in the eye. ‘You’re a prince. Are you happy?’

  Mozak wanted to reply with an emphatic ‘yes’ but he stalled - stopped by something both from within and without. Tascho smiled: he h
ad been caught out. But before he could follow up with a knockout blow they were interrupted by the sound of female voices; alarmed voices; voices fighting for prominence; bickering voices. It was Esmeralda and Lady Agnes. The twins exchanged a look which said just one thing: there is no place to hide.

  Esmeralda appeared first, in full flight. She rushed forwards towards her Timothy - Tascho be damned - but he pushed her off when she tried to embrace him. He would not even allow the slightest touch. Right now even the slightest, smallest, most fleeting physical contact with her was too hot to handle.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  Lady Agnes, with a better sense of the situation, held back, arms folded. She was prepared to wait for her moment - if such a moment were to ever come. Mozak got to his feet and took charge.

  ‘Best you two go. This is not a good time.’

  Esmeralda was distraught. ‘But I can’t just leave him here like this!’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  She held her ground and looked at Tascho - pleading with her tearful eyes - but he had nothing to give and refused to get involved.

  ‘Go now!’

  Lady Agnes unfolded her arms and tried to envelope Esmeralda with them. ‘Come on girl let’s go.’

  Esmeralda fought her off. ‘I’m not a girl!’

  ‘Well whatever, let’s go. They obviously don’t want us here. This is a bad time. We have to respect that.’

  The words were words of wisdom and as such they struck: Esmeralda conceded defeat and allowed herself to be led away - though under protest. With every step she looked back, hoping for her Timothy to reappear and beg her to stay. But he didn’t, and Tascho wouldn’t. Mozak kept his eyes on Lady Agnes: he had to admit it, that girl was good in a crisis. Back outside Esmeralda threw off Lady Agnes and ran off, for dear life; back to the cottage; back into the safe arms of Gregory. Inside, after a long pause, the twins resumed talking.

  ‘I’m trapped,’ said Tascho.

  ‘No you’re not.’