Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  Helmotti generated lots of excuses for what he was doing, for what he wished to do. The girl’s vulnerable, lonely, like me. It’s my duty. A king must have a mistress. It’s tradition. I must hold her, keep her warm, reassure her, build her confidence. (And so build his.) Treat her gently, for as long as possible, was his last intentional thought, after which things became hazy. He wanted her to take him to another place. She waited for him to take her there. The buried, repressed part of him, the part which had lived life to the full in his youth, was set free again, to demand again, to take what his brother had taken. The big bad bed began to rock again and Helmotti forgot all about his royal seal.

  ***

  In the King’s Cellar Mozak sat sipping wine by candlelight from a bottle he had broken into. He did not wish to be discovered let alone disturbed. But it was not to be: heavy plodding footsteps down the stone steps destroyed his calming solitude. He geared himself up for the task of sending the problem packing but when he looked up and saw Helmotti, his new uncle, the new king, the dead king, his dead father - almost a ghost in the candlelight - he nearly dropped his bottle. He did not need this right now. He did not need it any time.

  ‘Careful,’ said Helmotti.

  Mozak froze: any words directed towards him which sprang from the mouth of this man - he’s my uncle, Mozak had to keep reminding himself - struck his core, there to torment or simply irritate. Here was the man who was a complete stranger again; who was also his uncle; who had once been his friend, his rescuer, his confidant; who had once been an old man with a beard who lived a strange but it seemed honourable life lost in the Maze; a man he had once thought of for years as his father. Here was a man who was everything and nothing all at the same time: a man who was now king instead of his father; a man who put his own inheritance in doubt. That was a lot of man. All of this made Mozak angry: angry that he was confused; angry that he had been deceived, lied to, all these years by all sides.

  He wanted Helmotti to know it, but didn’t know how to say it, explain it, so he continued to sip and pretend that the man wasn’t there, that the man wasn’t important. It didn’t work and Mozak simply tied himself up in knots. As a temporary release, an attempt at normalised relations, he offered his uncle some wine from his bottle. The man thanked him as Mozak filled his mug. There was lots more where that came from.

  Helmotti sensed the animosity and a craving for silence so skirted around the prince - his nephew now, once his son, once his friend, still a soul in distress - and looked around at the racks filled with bottles of wine. He could still recall which contained the best harvest of grapes. Funny what you remember, he told himself, as he struggled with his options: leave now and say nothing; say something and leave; wait and see if Prince Mozak wanted to talk; drink until drunk. He decided this was a time to keep his mouth firmly shut until otherwise directed. He sipped his wine and stared into the candlelight. Good wine. Must have been a good year. He could not remember the good years, the golden years. They had been squeezed out by all the bad ones. He had not been long back but already it felt like a lifetime - a second lifetime - no a third, each one more diminished than the one before. He felt like a very old man.

  Where is Tascho? thought Mozak. There should be the two of us here, side by side. He’s weak. I am the warrior. I have to do the fighting while he goes after the women.

  Mozak finally spoke when the silence began to ache. He had to scratch it for relief.

  ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘Me? No. I swear.’

  Mozak was not convinced.

  ‘Let’s talk,’ said Helmotti, spotting a crack in the ice.

  ‘No let’s drink. I don’t want to talk. I want to drink.’

  ‘Let’s drink then.’

  Mozak gave his uncle a strange, sideways look. He was expecting some kind of fight but none was forthcoming. The empty space gave him nothing to grab on to. It threw him off balance. He wanted a fight. He wanted this man to leave him alone. Mozak was eight again, inside screaming to be left alone; outside forced to put up with what life - mainly family - was throwing at him.

  The darkness surrounding them pushed them together for they huddled around the candlelight. Mozak was uneasy with the close proximity. All his life he had been missing this man, dreaming of this man. His life had been turned upside down by his futile quest to solve the riddle of his father - his fake father now - and now he was here he could not easily dismiss him, put him back in his box. He was family. He was his uncle. The child with the tantrum still jumping around inside Mozak wanted the past back and the future bottled; a past where he knew his father, even if his father was dead. At least he was a strong warrior then, a hero, a king of kings. That dead father beat his living father hands down. Bizi could not hold a stick to Helmotti. Helmotti could beat Bizi with a stick, or a sword - just as Mozak thought he could beat Tascho in a straight fight, with a sword. Helmotti saw pain and held himself in check, not wishing to inflame the situation. He was struck by the realisation that attachments could not simply be cut then reconnected. People were complicated, like that maze.

  They drank, avoiding talk; each biding his time; each trying to extract maximum contentment from a situation which offered a perfect blend of solitude, sparse scenery and free alcohol. It could not last. Time would not stand still. The ‘now’ had to move on, second by second. Mozak could not hold it in. It was strangling him.

  ‘Why did you come back?’

  ‘I’m not sure now. Thought I might be needed.’

  ‘Needed? Who by? You were supposed to be dead?’

  ‘Tascho perhaps, or you.’

  Me? I don’t need anyone’s help - certainly not yours. The words thundered around inside Mozak’s pulsating head.

  Mozak read out the charge sheet.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me back there? In the maze?’

  ‘I did not plan to be my former self. I did not want to be discovered. I’m a coward. Just wanted to see my old home again, see what had changed, see how people had changed, and check you and Tascho were safe before I left again.’

  ‘You are going to leave again?’ It was another charge on the sheet.

  ‘That was my intention, originally, but now I’m king again and Bizi’s not fit to rule, so now, no. At least I think no. At least not for now.’

  Helmotti shook off the taxing question. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Mozak saw the weakness and did not like it, even though Helmotti was not his father. He exploded, like gunpowder, and his voice thundered around the cellar as its solid stone construction refused to soak up the sound.

  ‘For my entire life I was led to believe that you, who was dead, was my father, while my uncle, an idiot, was exactly that, my uncle. Now it turns out my uncle is my father and my father is my uncle. Do you have any idea how pissed off that makes me?’

  ‘No. Or at least only a little.’

  ‘Piss off!’

  Anger and belief collided, leaving him crippled. He wanted an enemy to attack but could not see one. Mozak thought the man - this unknown man - was taking the piss: he threw aside his bottle - it went spinning across the floor before smashing into a wall - and leapt up to make the most theatrical, most aggrieved exit possible. Helmotti also stood up and placed his hand upon his nephew’s shoulder. But that was crossing the line. It was an infringement too far. It ignited Mozak’s nervous system. He shot off, not wishing his new enemy to stay his old friend. In his mind you had to be one or the other: there was no middle ground - the exception being his brother, his twin brother. He was the exception which made the rule. His father and uncle made the rule hurt.

  Rushing back up the stone steps towards freedom he tripped and banged his knee. He yelled out in pain and clutched it, refusing at the top of his voice Helmotti’s offer of help. Taking help from that man was unthinkable: it would be too much pain to
bear.

  ‘Just leave me alone!’

  Helmotti understood and left him alone; alone to hobble back to his room in agony - on the way grabbing a servant boy by the scruff of the neck and ordering him to go fetch the doctor. He fell on to his bed, mad at his knee, mad at himself, mad at the world. His kneecap had capped him.

  ***

  That night Tascho come Timothy fell into a welcoming solid sleep despite still feeling the worse for wear. Sleep did it for him. It woke him up. It reduced the size and weight of the world to a small nugget of pain, like toothache, with a single perspective and a simple challenge: accept the pain, ignore it; it will not last. Instead of being under it all he was on top of it all. The price for this were a few nightmares to flush out the devil: they had to be endured before they could be discarded; none the weaker, none the wiser, but better built. From the black he could bounce back into the blue.

  Timothy was standing to attention in front of Adolphinus the Chief Monk but he was not afraid. The Chief Monk had no more hold over him. God did not allow it. Timothy knew that now. Tascho simply laughed and Adolphinus looked cross and Ingel, his Senior Religious Observance Officer, looked worried for the Chief Monk was not being taken seriously. (There had to be rigid respect for authority, especially when it was God’s authority.) It started as a calculated laugh, then became a manic laugh, the laugh of someone who had nothing to lose; but it calmed again, and transformed into a laugh of joy, the laugh of someone who still had lots to give and get.

  Tascho saw Lady Agnes Aga-Smath in the gloom. She had been promised a prince but he refused to be a prince anymore. Was she prepared to marry a poor man from out of the Maze with no money, no prospects, who was about to return back into it? Could the lady live the life of a poor peasant? He suspected not and laughed at his own joke. No, he would set her free. She could go find another prince to seduce and secure.

  Timothy saw Helmotti the Hermit - or was his name Harry? Here was a sad old man; a man it seemed who was capable of good deeds; a man forever burdened by his past, by his family and by his inheritance. Helmotti had liberated him from the castle. Timothy had to thank him for that. After eighteen years time to forgive. ‘Forgive.’ God had instructed him to do that many times. Well now he was doing it, big time. And it felt good.

  One nightmare almost broke him. Iedazimus was leaning over him, staring down, smirking, looking stupid; his eyes wide open and fired up; sometimes grinning like a stupid version of the devil. Timothy dreamed that his kidnapper, that hate ridden scoundrel Iedazimus had come to take him away - away from his family, his friends, his god - back into the Maze, there to dump him in the middle of nowhere to be left for dead. Tascho wanted to strike out but could not move his arms. His mind and body were being tortured. But in his sleep he could still shout out. Enough Iedazimus, be gone! I will suffer you no more!

  The nightmare ended when Iedazimus put a finger to his lips as if to say ‘don’t make a sound’. The sudden termination of his smile signified that Timothy was not to make a sound or any kind of protest if he wished to stay alive. Timothy did wish to stay alive - and as it was a dream it required no sacrifice on his part. Iedazimus scared him but could not touch him. And then Iedazimus was gone.

  Now get back to sleep, thought Tascho. No more nightmares. No more deliberations. No more uncertainty. No more pain. No more panic. When I wake up tomorrow will be today and today will be yesterday, to be forgotten. And like a candle he blew himself out and slipped into a healthy, body building sleep - one devoid of dreams and nightmares. Next door his father was in a far worse state.

  Bizi was a baby again: a bruised, broken baby; a hungry, hurting baby; a clueless, constrained baby. The world beyond his fingers, toes, eyes, lips, nostrils and ears was a fermenting fog out of which, without warning or justification, he was receiving nasty shocks. All he could do was hang on and hope that he would continue to exist without too much pain or panic whilst attempting to join up his random, spontaneous thoughts into something coherent, something useful, something which could define him as still sane, still worth a life. But he was a baby now so his chances were slim. Bizi was a baby again and no one cared.

  Esmeralda was a baby again and no one cared until Gregory stumbled back into the cottage. He was weighed down with ugly thoughts of the Dowager Queen - an ugly queen deserved ugly thoughts he told himself in the hope of making himself feel better. He had once been her servant, albeit one with the title ‘advisor’, but a servant nevertheless; and in her eyes a servant he remained, despite all that had passed between them. She had refused his help. He was a free man now.

  He was surprised to see Esmeralda still awake. She could not sleep, she explained. He did not ask why. The reason was obvious: she had been crying, crying her heart out. He sat down next to her and took her hand.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong?’

  He guessed it involved one of the princes, or both.

  Esmeralda looked down at the floor. ‘I want to go home, now.’

  Back there? thought Gregory.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Even at such a low moment her steely resolve rang out and Gregory recognised the hard core within Esmeralda. He had seen it develop as she grew up. He had seen it in her mother and her aunt. She might be thinking she could not take the knocks of life but it was clear to him that she could.

  Very well.

  Esmeralda caught the mood and her eyes lit up. ‘You’ll take me back?’

  Now he felt a knock. ‘Go back, me?’

  Gregory suddenly felt unsure, and Esmeralda saw it. She squeezed his hand now. The shoe was on the other foot.

  ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t force you.’

  You won’t force me, thought Gregory. At any other time he would have burst out laughing.

  ‘I’ll find my way home. I will, even if it kills me.’

  Gregory shuddered. ‘Don’t say such a thing. Not even in jest.’

  She let go of his hand and together they lapsed into silence, each contemplating the future whilst stuck in an unpleasant ‘now’. Esmeralda had no idea what to do when or if she made it back to the Village. Get a job at the brothel? That could be the first step on the road to hell. But she could not stay here, a refugee, hanging on to the lives of others - others who seemed to care less and less about her. She was, after all, just a poor girl from the Village.

  ***

  The next day Timothy felt fully recovered and revitalized by extended periods of deep sleep. Back in his clothes, he stood by his bed and stretched out his arms and fingers as far as they could go: savouring the moment of relaxation before leaving the Infirmary. Repairs completed, he had resumed thinking, and with a rested mind clarity was easy to muster. He reached his decision in an instant: he had to leave; he had to get out. He had to disentangle himself from this place, from these people - these people who were family. This is a crazy world, thought Timothy, and I refuse to get caught up in it. He had reconnected to the person he once was and was determined now to remain that person. He refused to lose his religion. God help him.

  Tell Esmeralda right away? Yes, before she was gone. And Mozak? Yes, he had to know - know right away. And Gregory of course. Lady Agnes? Maybe. Maybe not. Would it break her heart? No, she had no heart to break. And his mother? There was no avoiding that. It had to be done. With a heavy heart Timothy left the safety of the Royal Infirmary to return to the crazy castle; there to get the king’s permission to leave; there to reconnect with Stevie.

  He saw Stevie first and Stevie went crazy. That part of his life was still good, thought Timothy, still reliable. Next challenge was the king, for which he had to wait to be granted an audience: the Secretary and Chancellor had their king cornered. On their way out they gave Prince Tascho a dismissive look. Timothy felt they already knew. Were there spies inside the infirmar
y? Inside his head?

  Anxiously he approached the king, the man who could still terrify him, but his mood quickly changed for the king, his uncle, looked strangely lacking in energy and fight. He looked pre-occupied, anxious, lost. He was holding a piece of paper like an unexpected large bill, a final demand - which in a way it was.

  Timothy suddenly felt able to speak up but before he could open his mouth Helmotti closed it down. He waved the piece of paper at his nephew.

  ‘That scoundrel Iedazimus is back and he has him.’

  ‘Has who?’

  ‘Who do you think, Bizi!’

  Timothy went weak at the knees. ‘Iedazimus is back?’

  Helmotti pinned him to the floor with a piercing look which demanded total attention, total submission.

  ‘I received this note from him, via the doctor. He wants payment, in gold, for your father’s safe return. Did you tell him Bizi was there?’

  ‘No! Never! He’s my father. I hate Iedazimus. I had no idea he was back. He kidnapped me!’

  Helmotti vaguely recalled that fact, as told to him by Esmeralda, but feigned ignorance. It was less work that way.

  ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘He kidnapped me, me and Gregory, at the Village. But we escaped, obviously.’

  Timothy decided it was best not to mention that Iedazimus was once an associate of Gregory, possibly even once his friend. Helmotti could see he was begging to be believed, and put him out of his misery.

  ‘I believe you. Did he harm you?’

  ‘No not really. But he may harm my father. You will pay the ransom?’

  ‘Of course! He’s my brother!’

  ‘Sorry.’