Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  She spoke again.

  ‘What is he doing here? He’s never visited me before?’

  ‘I’m Timothy - I mean Tascho. It’s been eighteen years grandmother. I’m back.’

  The mad old woman once known as Lady Tamatellini erupted.

  ‘How dare you! Don’t play me like a fool Mozak!’

  ‘I’m Tascho.’

  ‘Tascho is dead!’ She turned on Helmotti again. ‘Son get him out of here!’

  ‘I came to give you news of your son.’

  ‘My son?’

  ‘Bizi. Your son?’

  Has the woman forgotten about her own son? thought Helmotti.

  She waved him away. ‘Get out! I don’t want to hear his name. Leave me be!’

  Helmotti raised his hands in surrender.

  ‘Come on let’s go. We’re making things worse.’

  Timothy needed no persuading. Tascho was already gone. And he was leaving.

  As they left Lady Tamatellini had one more thing to shout.

  ‘Helmotti, look after yourself!’

  ‘I will!’ he shouted back as he closed the door behind him.

  Lady Tamatellini looked out of the window up at the sky. Where was the moon? She had been waited for it to reappear. It was late.

  Uncle and nephew crept back down the stairs, like children who had just seen too much of the wrong thing - like their parents fighting or making love. At the bottom of the tower, back in the sunshine, Timothy protested.

  ‘She shouldn’t be locked away like that - like an animal, alone, uncared for. It’s inhuman, simply inhuman. And she’s my grandmother!’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Why not move her into the infirmary? She can be cared for there, kept under supervision. Perhaps cured. Being locked away up forever would drive anybody mad.’

  ‘Yes I agree.’ Helmotti sounded heavy-hearted, like a man weighed down by every problem in the world he had returned to.

  ‘Go sort it out with the doctor. I’ll arrange an escort.’

  Timothy was surprised that it was as easy as that: his spontaneous suggestion was accepted in full, without further discussion. So much for the cruel king who always had to have his own way. This was not that man. Life in the Maze must have done him the world of good. Would this place make him bad again? thought Timothy. Like it’s making me bad?

  ***

  Sitting down and about to eat, and with Lady Tamatellini still playing tricks with his mind, Helmotti received an unexpected visit from Gregory and Esmeralda. They both had something important to say but both kept their distance. Gregory looked particularly fraught, Esmeralda just forlorn. He looked at Esmeralda, with his best ‘Harry The Hermit’ face possible, to persuade her that he had not changed, that he was still approachable and listening. But Esmeralda did not approach: instead she watched with interest the way he held his royal knife and fork.

  When ordered to speak Gregory said that they were leaving, to return to the Village - at which point Esmeralda’s eyes widen and she looked at Gregory with total gratitude written across her face. This was news to her as well as Helmotti. He nodded and wished them well. Gregory did not have to explain or justify: Helmotti understood perfectly well why they wished to escape this place. All the decent people are leaving, he thought.

  ‘Are you leaving with Tascho?’ he asked Esmeralda.

  ‘Tascho is leaving?’ Esmeralda bite her tongue: she preferred to call him Timothy.

  ‘Yes. He hasn’t told you?’

  ‘No.’ She looked hurt.

  ‘Please, read nothing into it. He only told me this morning. And since then he’s been busy, with me.’

  ‘What about his marriage? To Lady Agnes?’

  ‘Marriage? There will be no marriage now.’

  Esmeralda felt giddy as she swallowed what felt like a vast lump of air in one go. She nearly choked on it. And the ground beneath her feet suddenly shifted leaving her unsteady on her feet. She wanted to lie down but she was in the presence of a king so she held fast.

  Helmotti had a request to make, but held back for Gregory seemed to be bursting to say something more. His nervousness was clearly ready to erupt.

  ‘Gregory is there something else you wish to tell me?’

  Gregory responded by scraping away at his upper lip with his lower set of teeth. Finally he managed to say yes, but it was a struggle.

  ‘Yes.’

  But nothing more followed and Helmotti became impatient. His hands had formed fists on the table and his knife and fork were pointing straight up at the ceiling.

  ‘Well are you going to tell me then?’

  ‘Yes. Sire. I have something to tell you, to report.’

  ‘Well report it then. Out with it.’

  ‘It’s about, Bizi.’ Just in the nick of time Gregory had remembered to not say ‘king Bizi’.

  ‘You know about the kidnapping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Continue.’

  Esmeralda looked at them both, back and forth, seeing her oldest friend and her newest friend locked in a very uncomfortable conversation. She wanted to hold both their hands and bring them together. She wanted all three of them to be back safe in the Village.

  ‘I know where he’s being held.’ The words had to wriggle out of Gregory’s tight-lipped mouth. They were easy to think but hard to say.

  ‘You know? How is this?’

  In an instant the gap between them closed as Helmotti dropped his knife and fork, stood up, and closed in on Gregory. Gregory in turn took a step back in fright, nearly tripping over Esmeralda in the process. He began to sweat and crumble. He spoke fast.

  ‘My brother told me. He asked me to pass on his deepest regrets and most sincere apologies to you. He is deeply sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Sorry for what? How does he know?’

  ‘He told Iedazimus that king Bizi was being treated at the infirmary. It was a slip of the tongue, an accident. He had no idea Iedazimus would go and do such a thing, kidnap a king.’

  The sound of his own voice saying the word ‘king’ bothered Gregory more than it did Helmotti.

  ‘And how did he find out? Was he spying?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. I give you my word. My brother is no spy. He’s a fool, not capable of doing clever things. He is - was - staying with the doctor, for recuperation. The doctor is an old friend of his.’

  ‘Is he sincere about this? You believe him?’

  Gregory looked his king directly in the eye. It was make or break time.

  ‘Yes Sire I do. Absolutely. I’ve always known when my brother was lying to me. His lies never get past me.’

  Helmotti looked convinced, satisfied and Gregory could breathe easily again. He wanted to go home now - wherever home was now.

  ‘Very well. Tell him he has nothing to fear from me. Telling me promptly cancels out any wrongdoing. You tell him that, yes?’

  ‘Certainly Sire, and thank you. Thank you.’

  And with that Gregory looked more cheerful, as did Esmeralda. She took his hand and held on to it for it looked as if he was just about to take his leave. Helmotti stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘And where is he then?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. At the abandoned copper mine on Rimrock Hill.

  Helmotti sat back down on the cushion which had recently been placed on the royal dining chair at his command. (Bizi carried a cushion of fat. Helmotti did not.) He looked very unhappy, very preoccupied - possibly with the fact that he was now feeling very unhappy. A worried Esmeralda let go of Gregory’s hand and grabbed on to his arm instead, as if needing a steadier anchor in a sea which was growing rougher by the second. Helmotti began clicking his fingers as he stared down at the plate of food. Finally, he looked up, his mind made up, an
d barked an order at the servant who was standing at the far end of the room.

  ‘You! Go get me my chancellor, and the captain of the guard. Quickly now!’

  The man was gone in a flash whereupon Helmotti looked at Gregory.

  ‘We’ll head out tomorrow, well before dawn, in the dark. Get there at dawn. Catch them asleep. How many? Do you know how many? Does he know how many?’

  ‘Don’t know. But I’ll ask him. He’s back at my cottage now.’

  ‘Go and find out now. And report back here. Quickly!’

  ‘Understood Sire.’

  Gregory turned to go but paused when it was clear that his Esmeralda was not doing the same. Helmotti waved him away.

  ‘Go. We still have talking to do.’

  Esmeralda looked at Gregory to reassure him that she wanted to stay and so he left, to leave the girl from the Village alone with the man from the Maze who would be king.

  Helmotti was the strong king again: a king in command, on top and driving events. Harry the Hermit could only sit back, watch and wonder, and remember those bad, dark times past. Helmotti fell into silence as he mapped out his coming adventure and fight; reminding himself, convincing himself that he was capable of acting the hard man again, the warrior again, the killing machine again. Esmeralda could not wait any longer: she had a question and she could not contain it.

  ‘Where is he now, Timothy? In his room? I want to see him.’

  Helmotti shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s at the infirmary I think.’

  ‘The infirmary! Is he sick again?’

  ‘No no, nothing like that. He’s there making arrangements.’

  ‘Arrangements?’

  ‘For his grandmother. She’s not going to spend anymore time in that dreadful place.’

  ‘What dreadful place?’

  ‘The tower.’

  Esmeralda looked left behind. Then Helmotti remembered something he wanted to ask.

  ‘Speaking of sick people,’ he said, ‘Esmeralda, may I ask a favour?’

  ‘A favour?’

  Why did a king need a favour from her of all people?

  ‘Please go and see our prince, Prince Mozak. He’s stuck in bed with a swollen knee. He needs cheering up, what with his brother deserting him. He’s struggling right now. And you’re the one to cheer him up I think. If you’re leaving, leave on a good note.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ replied Esmeralda. How could she possibly refuse?

  ‘How did he hurt himself?’ she asked.

  ‘Running away.’

  ‘Running away? From what?’

  ‘From me.’

  Helmotti’s reply sent a shiver down her spine. She looked horrified. Where was her Hermit? She had to go see Mozak, see him right now. She didn’t know it but Gregory wanted to see him too. He wanted to say goodbye and good luck, and offer him advice on the future, and explain the past, but knew that was simply impossible. Some things could never be said, never be told, never be written down, never be revealed. Some things - like the Maze - simply were what they were and would always remain so.

  ***

  Esmeralda crept up to the bedroom door, held her breath and sexuality in check - though she didn’t want to - knocked firmly and waited for a response. When it came it was slow, subdued, sad in nature. She announced herself loudly and with false cheerfulness (accidentally mimicking Lady Agnes) she entered the room, still unable to breathe normally. Mozak watched her roll in like a bright moon appearing at the window: taunting, tempting, trapping, and even tasty; shining light into his dark, dull dungeon of a room. The wounded, grounded prince licked his lips as he urged her on towards his bed - like a wolf or a wicked witch or a wounded soldier retrieved from the frontline.

  In a mad rush she explained the reason for her visit, wishing for no misunderstanding or wild expectation to creep up on her.

  ‘I just wanted to see how you were. The king told me of your accident.’

  Mozak hated hearing the word ‘king’ spoken like that but moved on: remembering his low point in the Village, he did his best to look vulnerable, lost, broken, in need of her help. He drew her attention to his strapped knee and suggested she touch it to feel how bad it was. Esmeralda did as requested as she too remembered their time together in the Village - such a bad time, such a great time. Physical contact lasted barely three seconds. But it was plenty for her.

  ‘It looks bad,’ she said, for something to say. ‘Does it feel bad?’

  ‘Very bad. But I can take it. I’m strong. I’ll get over it somehow.’

  As Mozak spoke he heard himself stealing his mother’s best lines. So that’s how it’s done, he thought.

  The girl was hovering with uncertainty by his side now. He had her within his grasp now. She had crumbled slightly, and perhaps would continue to crumble into his hands - like gold dust, or potter’s putty. Putty in my hands, he thought. I’m getting good at this.

  He refused to reveal any details as to the why and how of his accident.

  ‘Just ran too fast,’ he said.

  Subject closed.

  Esmeralda could not resist being drawn in and taken back in time. The Village experience pulled them back together. She wished to help him again, heal him again, feel his hurt and prove her worth. Mozak beckoned her closer in, down next to him on his bed. He repositioned a royal pillow for her to lean against - a pillow to cushion the blow of what he hoped to achieve. Sit comfortably and I will begin, he thought with mischievous intent. He had been told stories as a child: some of them wonderful; some of them wicked; some of them warnings; some of them very weird.

  He stared across at her with his best hung over, hung-up expression. For both of them it all came back with a vengeance: his torture and trauma in the village; her bedside vigil; his fever, fears and fantasies; his talk and tantrums; the soup and sleep; the games and gratitude; her resurrection of his crushed soul; her sex versus his sincerity, his versus hers. She took his hand. She felt required to forgive him. She corrected herself: no, she wanted to forgive him. She felt sure of that now. Forgiveness is a good thing, a good deed. Had Timothy told her that? Or had she thought it up? Had Harry the Hermit told her that? Or had it been Gregory? No matter. Forgive. Forget. Move on?

  His hand was sweaty, not nice to hold. No matter. Forgiving should not be made too easy, else what was the point? But she could not say it; only infer it, speak it with her body language - a sometimes powerful language when directed at a male. That proved more than adequate and Prince Mozak got the message. He was suddenly much more cheerful and animated. He wanted to grab her and hold on but his bad leg put pay to that: sudden swings of the body were not permitted. He wanted to scream in frustration. So close. He wanted to cry a little instead: just a few tears to move things along.

  With great effort, he managed to squeeze out a few and Esmeralda responded in kind. He wanted to say sorry, so he said it. Half of him meant it. The other half resented it. He leaned towards her as much as he could. She leaned in to close the gap. They were touching head to head as well as hand in hand. From afar it looked like a meeting of minds.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, gracefully: spoken like a true prince.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ she replied: spoken like a true princess.

  Green light: Mozak fell against her chest. His head landed on a breast. She didn’t mind. It felt natural. She even enjoyed it: her body was a temple; it had a disciple; it was being worshipped for simply being there. He tried to wrap his arms around her waist, wishing to hug her, hoping to drive her crazy. But it proved impossible so he took second best and stuck it out with his head clued against her breast. There were worse places to be in the kingdom right now.

  Suck on this Tascho and Timothy! he thought. Wicked thoughts were such wonderful things, he realised. And again he thought of his mother
- and even a little of the big bum, big mouth Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Esmeralda was stuck now, a little afraid to move. She concentrated all her efforts on balancing her breathing and her thoughts. She did not want negative thoughts creeping up on her. She wanted Timothy’s thoughts now.

  Steeling herself Esmeralda decided to break the deadlock. Slowly, gently, choosing her words carefully, she explained that she was leaving, for good, back to the Village. That made Mozak stir and shift. It made him want to sit up straight. It made him want to shout. She knew she had unsettled him: she had all his attention but none of his feeling. He had smelt a rat, like it had just sneaked into the room: a dirty, stinking rat.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ he murmured, like a ten year old child to a mother who had no choice but to go.

  ‘I have to. I can’t stay here any more.’

  ‘Why not? Stay with me? I’ll look after you. I’ll feed you! I’ll protect you! From everybody!’

  ‘No. Sorry but no.’

  Her mind was made up. She would resist him as she had learnt to resist Breamston.

  Mozak didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. I’ll go after her, he thought. I’ll win her back, he told himself. She’ll fall for me, he promised himself. That’s what men do, he reminded himself. The men go after the women. Then, in an act of celebration she could not contain, Esmeralda revealed that Timothy was also leaving.

  ‘I’ve just been told. Did you know?’

  Mozak smelt the rat again and lied. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  The words slapped her in the face and Mozak looked away, at anything. He pulled away. He wanted to create distance between them - even if it was only inches - enough to make his point. Inches would do it. Esmeralda felt a chill descend. She wanted to detach herself, unbuckle herself, remove the chains; get off his bed; get - race - out of his room; move on, far away; start a life; move on up; raise children; live long; die happy; perhaps even be remembered. It was a long list which could only be matched by a long life dedicated to hard work.