Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  Helmotti had to stamp on his brother so hard that the man could never be a threat again. Bizi had stolen the crown; brought it into disrepute; brought the standing and dignity of the monarchy to an all time low. He had to pay. The consensus rumbled and grumbled around the room like thunder. Lord Fucho was always good with words. (It made up for the fact that he was bad with horses and swords, and poor with wine and women.)

  ‘Stamp on my brother you say? I will not harm my brother. I cannot hurt him.’

  ‘The man is clearly mad,’ argued the Chancellor. ‘That gives me the right as the King’s Chancellor to section him, which removes all rights to the throne, vacancy or no vacancy.’

  Helmotti held up his hand. ‘And is there a vacancy at the moment? Am I not in charge? I’m back. I’m the king. I always was.’

  ‘But until he is legally removed from the throne, you are not officially the king.’

  Helmotti was not having that. ‘I was king when I left. I am back. I am still the king. His tenure was illegal surely?’

  The Chancellor looked like he was chewing on worms rather than words as he tried to explain.

  ‘A law was passed allowing your brother to take possession of the throne as you had vacated it.’

  ‘I was kidnapped. I was dumped in the Maze where I was meant to be killed - by his men.’

  ‘But you never came back. There was a vacancy so his position was made legal. We had to have a legal king. What is a kingdom without a king?’

  A republic, thought Helmotti (and a few others).

  ‘So make it unlegal and make me legal again.’

  ‘Exactly. And to do that I must section him.’

  Helmotti eyed the Chancellor with suspicion. ‘Section him? What does that mean?’

  ‘He is locked up, under supervision.’

  ‘Like his mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Won’t that make his condition worse?’

  The Chancellor looked at Lord Fucho for support but didn’t get it. He simply shrugged.

  ‘Possibly. But does that matter?’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  Helmotti, headache in hand, rounded on his cchancellor.

  ‘You say Bizi is mad, mad enough to be sectioned as you call it. He’s not insane mad, he’s just mad mad because I came back.’

  The Chancellor persisted, for that was his job: to poke, to persist; to patronize, to placate; to prepare the ground to present solutions.

  ‘His behaviour before you returned was that of an unbalanced, unhinged mind. I think all in this room would attest to that.’

  Murmurs of agreement swept around the room like a wave in a rolling sea.

  ‘There was his pig,’ said Lord Fucho.

  ‘His pig?’

  ‘He made a pig his best friend. He led it around on a lead. He kept it in his bedroom. At all times.’

  Raucous laughter erupted which infuriated both king and chancellor. It was throttled immediately. But the damage had been done: Helmotti now felt himself in direct conflict with all others in the room. Conflict was something he had tried to avoid for the last eighteen years of his life. He had had enough. He was exhausted already. And his headache was beginning to really hurt.

  ‘No I will not take this! I lived alone in the Maze for near on eighteen years! Does that not make me mad, insane? Should I not be sectioned as you call it?’

  The Chancellor had no convenient answer to that. A few did, privately: damn it, put Prince Mozak on the throne. We can control him.

  Head down, detached but dedicated, the King’s Secretary had been furiously scribbling away all this time; through thick and thin, like his life depended on it; taking notes to minute the meeting - until Helmotti could take it no more.

  ‘Damn it man, stop writing everything down!’

  The man looked up at the Chancellor for clarification and confirmation. He received it with a quick nod of the eyebrows and stopped - though in silent protest.

  ‘No more on this. I’m tired.’

  ‘We must deal with it your majesty.’

  ‘Another time. I’m tired.’

  And with that Helmotti stormed out, cutting his path through the lump of mostly mindless meat which was this gathering of nobles; leaving the Chancellor and Lord Fucho exchanging looks which said many things, one of which was ‘this is intolerable, he should be more cooperative, show some gratitude’. On his way out Helmotti dropped the Royal Seal. The Chancellor stooped quickly to pick it up and keep it safe. The new king - the old king - the ex-king - was beginning to show a lack of royal decorum, and that irritated him; and he lacked the right perspective, the big picture, which worried him. He did his job to the highest standard possible: the king should do likewise. Such unrestrained emotional outbursts were the standard for this royal family and the Chancellor did not like it. His predecessor - his father - had always warned him that this was a nasty, dysfunctional family.

  ***

  Helmotti needed to calm down, away from the castle. He found himself heading towards the maze: the one thing in his mind which could not possibly have changed. He had happy memories of it. And he was right. There it was: fixed in time; rotting on the spot whilst forever replacing itself; always pointless but always fulfilling a need; it’s puzzle never changing. It beckoned him in with the promise of a child’s adventure and after negotiating many wrong turns Helmotti found his way to the centre. And there was that same old bench: the one put there by his father to replace the one before. He knelt down and examined a specific spot on its underside. Yes, there were his initials.

  Satisfied, he sat to contemplate, with irony, the fact that he was inside again; cut off from the outside again; caught up in other men’s complications and scheming again; in charge of other men’s lives while not feeling in charge of his own. He wanted to stay in here, away from it all, alone; rather than be out there, with all those people, their problems, personalities and peculiarities.

  He stopped himself in his tracks: stop thinking like that hermit, he told himself. You must play the part of the king again, and this time play it well. You must take control again. You must lead again, inspire again, enthuse again. In time become ridiculous again. Talking to himself; arguing with himself; admonishing himself; reminding himself: these were things he had done a lot whilst living the life of a hermit. Time to leave this place, he told himself. But as he began to rise from his seat so Prince Mozak stumbled into view. Mozak froze. His face turned pale. He could not speak - not that he wanted to. When Helmotti rose up to greet him, Mozak turned and fled. When Helmotti reached the outside, there was no sign of the prince.

  ***

  Prince Mozak was loaded down by frustrations which he could not put down. He could not release them, resolve them. He could not dispute them. Like a solitary soldier on the edge of insanity he stormed the castle grounds whilst trying to drive off what he feared to be an encroaching madness. The castle made him sick and the dying daylight dragged him down. He could not calm himself. Only she could. It was unfinished business.

  He caught sight of Rufus. Rufus was looking happy. He called out but Rufus ran from the sound of his name. Mozak gave chase, for no other reason than it was Rufus, once his friend. And when Mozak cornered him he simply let him go for they had nothing to say to each other. They were both out of breath and out of words.

  Next he glimpsed Gregory skulking the grounds and that provided the trigger. In a rush to beat the night he galloped off for the cottage again, to see her again, to make amends (again). She was part of the problem. She had to see what she had done to him. There was no avoiding it. She was the solution.

  He banged on the door and swept in as every prince had the right to do. There was no one to stop him and he found her alone. She was as he had left her: hanging around; hanging on; hanging on to each moment
of time, waiting for something to happen to move her on to a better place. Was the girl sulking? Sulking while he was suffering? He made no apologies for the intrusion for he was the prince and what was she? She was nothing without him. He would be her prince charming. That would cheer her up.

  He waited, expecting her to come to him. But she didn’t. She just sat cold. He didn’t feel required to say sorry for what had he done wrong so he didn’t try. He wanted to say he loved her for that was what she probably wanted to hear - and there was some truth in that - but it felt too over the top, and it would leave him uncomfortable, exposed. He could tell her he adored her - yes that was easier but even as he began to express himself the look on her face gave every indication that he was wasting his time, that any words would only expose him as ridiculous. So he cut himself off. But he refused to leave empty-handed. He had to make his point. He had to stake his claim. And the poor girl looked like she needed to be held. On that he was right. Esmeralda did not resist. Resistance was useless. It was comfort and reassurance she sought and her prince seemed to be offering that: the only price she had to pay was that no part of her was out of bounds.

  Mozak or Timothy or Tascho? She pretended that it didn’t matter: they were the same. Just so long as it was one of them.

  She allowed her prince to play with her hair and rub the back of her neck. She allowed him to grope - how could she stop him - and at first she even liked it. It was an acknowledgement that her body was superior to his. But then he pushed her over on to the bed and allowed himself to let go. He lost it. She didn’t, and struggled, and pushed back, which made him push on harder towards the reward he felt he deserved. She would become his lady, his mistress, a kept woman: that would be her reward. She said no, softly at first, then firmly, but it made no impact. He was not listening. He was faraway, in the land of sex and self-satisfaction. He did not want to come back yet.

  She yelled out. He swore and continued his assault on everything that had ever been good and wholesome between them. Such was his desperation. All previous intimacy between them was now totally corrupted. Only when Esmeralda became absolutely terrified by the aggression and the madness in his face was she able to summon up the strength to fight him off, jump up and run - run for her life from her prince. Mozak fell back, exhausted in mind though not in body, and watched her go, suddenly feeling very stupid, very small, a dirty villain; less a prince more a peasant. He could not stop himself comparing himself with Tascho: Tascho would have done it better.

  He shouted after her. ‘Sorry! I’m sorry! But you can’t keep playing with us like this! Tascho is weak. I am strong!’

  His words never made it.

  Esmeralda ran out of the cottage and ran on. She paused only to straighten her dress before running on, away, towards the Maze. At the entrance, breathless, she stopped, wondering what next. Enter the Maze? No, don’t be silly. But there was nowhere else to run to right now. And in there she could lose herself. She sat down and cried, and waited, for one prince to release her and another to rescue her. Only when it was pitch black did she creep back to the cottage. It was empty. She curled herself up and waited for Gregory to show his face.

  ***

  As Mozak stormed the cottage so his uncle swept into Bizi’s bedroom - once his bedroom - to see how it had changed, and to look for his royal seal. He had to pause to puncture or push down dangerous, bubbling memories of manic sex with Queen Anneeni; once his beauty queen and confidant before the rot set in; likewise her pretty persuasions and pointless promises, and her threats of self-harm when the pain was too much for her to bear. The coat of arms still took pride of place on the wall - but that was how it should be, he told himself. What is a king without a coat of arms? Like a peasant without a coat?

  He wanted to laugh away his cruel joke but was stopped in his tracks and had his breath ripped away for the bed was occupied, by two young women; sisters by the look of it. They bolted upright, startled like squirrels or sheep, or cats, but not dogs. They unwrapped themselves from each other, embarrassed, as if caught out. They looked miserable. There was sex in the air and for Helmotti it was a bad smell. Two young, sexy women - girls almost - alone in the king’s bedroom? That could mean only one thing.

  ‘Answer me. Is one of you his mistress?’

  The sisters both glowered then the misery returned to their faces.

  ‘Are you both his mistresses? Answer me. Now!’

  The strength of his voice startled them and struck them dumb. They looked more miserable while their eyes answered for them both: yes we are.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’

  Helmotti looked around the room. He took in the new carpet, the new drapes, the new curtains: everything new but still it felt old, tired, recycled. Even Bizi’s women looked tired, over used and misused. He felt sorry for them.

  ‘What are the two of you doing here?’

  Neither took in the question: they were too entranced by his presence, by the return of a myth, a legend, a dead king. Lady Parmina finally spoke up (for the two of them).

  ‘It’s you, like they said. You’re back.’

  Helmotti noted with a wry smile that only a king’s mistress could address the king with such informality. They were afraid of everything but not afraid of the one thing they should be afraid of: falling out with their king.

  Her sister was drawn to also speak. When one spoke, the other often found it difficult not to.

  ‘We remember you.’

  Parmina corrected her. ‘Just.’

  ‘We were very young but we remember you. We saw you once, on a visit. You told our mother she had two beautiful girls. You look older.’

  Parmina rolled her eyes at her sister’s stupidity.

  Helmotti was more forgiving. ‘That’s because I am older.’

  Lady Tarmina nodded - still too miserable to laugh. The answer made perfect sense.

  ‘He is alright?’ asked Lady Parmina.

  ‘Who, Bizi? Yes.’

  ‘We heard he passed out, had to be carried out.’

  ‘We wanted to check if he was alright. See if he needed us.’

  ‘In his bedroom?’ asked Helmotti.

  ‘Yes, of course. Why not?’ replied Lady Tarmina.

  The sisters looked at each other, not sure if they had done something wrong.

  ‘We want to help him get better.’

  ‘And how would you do that? In his bed? Or just on his bed?’

  Both sisters turned red, unable to answer.

  Helmotti sat down on the bed, keeping his distance (or so he thought). He wanted to reclaim it. He wanted to feel the mattress. It was a new mattress and it felt good. The sisters wanted to touch him for he was the king now - and he looked good.

  ‘Bizi is in the infirmary if you want to know. If you really want to make him feel better I suggest you go and see him. I’m sure that will cheer him up.’

  The thought of stepping inside the infirmary horrified them both and they moved their minds on to other things - things better worth their time and attention, and perhaps their commitment.

  Lady Parmina patted the bed. ‘This is your bed now your majesty.’

  ‘It’s occupied.’

  They misunderstood him.

  ‘Don’t mind us.’

  ‘We’ll cheer you up.’

  They edged towards him, bit by bit. They wanted their old jobs back: they could do nothing else; they had no other means of support. It was what they did now and there was no turning back - and time was against them. Helmotti did not budge, not wishing to give ground to a couple of harlots with pretensions, nor did he object to their mischievous flirtation for he was too busy fighting the Hermit. The sisters struggled to breath normally.

  Suddenly, like a strike of lightning, he grabbed the nearest girl - for girls were what they definit
ely were right now. He pulled her in close and she accidentally fell into his lap, caught out by his speed and strength. The Hermit had to admit it, she did smell good. He gently pushed her off, leaving her frowning at the false dawn while a big broad smile broke out across her sister’s face. As if to turn his inner tension into a joke he grabbed hold of her sister - gently this time to avoid another collision - and likewise pushed her off. The bed was now clean, free of loose women and the temptations on offer. Helmotti slumped down on the bed, back again to being as bored as hell. He closed his eyes. He had it all to himself and he was beginning to regret it.

  ‘Go now, both of you.’

  ‘Shall we come back later?’

  ‘Or just one of us?’

  Helmotti waved them away.

  ‘Please go.’

  Despite his desperation he spoke softly for they sounded so sweet, so vulnerable, so eager to please. They sounded like little girls. Deep inside the Hermit shouted out ‘are you mad!’ and ‘you’ve let me down!’ Helmotti tried not to hear him. He needed a break from the Hermit. He opened his eyes and watched the sisters dragging themselves away in obvious pain - like two little girls who did not wish to leave the party. They were the king’s mistresses, he reminded himself, in a vain attempt to avoid any sense of guilt or immorality. They kept looking back at him, as if to check that they were not in any real trouble. They were not in any trouble: he was. At the door they lingered, begging with body language to be allowed to stay; to be allowed to comfort him. Their new king looked so sad, so lonely, so needy. It worked.

  ‘Wait!’

  Helmotti’s body quivered with expectation - it was electric - while his head remained in denial and his mouth could only speak the truth.

  They waited.

  ‘Come back, please. One of you.’

  The sisters looked at each other. They drew mental straws. Probably your turn, decided Lady Parmina, for she was tired now and needed a lie down. She left room and shut the door behind her, on her sister. It had been a long long time since Helmotti had held a woman, a time when he had been a broken man. Happy memories of the brothel came back - but it had to be said this fine young woman was far better material, and free of charge. Lady Tarmina sat down beside her king and waited for developments as he began to stroke her hair, play with it, finger it.