by Euan McAllen
Suddenly, out of nowhere, anger exploded from the poorly prince. It rolled over Esmeralda, flattening her. He reached out to push her away and in doing so accidentally squashed her nearest breast. He had been duped. He had been played for a fool. He had been outnumbered in the fight: two against one. Unfair! Unfair! Tascho - that Timothy - had stolen her from under his nose. His brother was no prince. Princes did not play dirty - at least not against each other. And they were related! His pathetic peasant brother could never be a proper prince like him. Esmeralda was alarmed. And her breast hurt. She wanted to comfort it.
Time to go, she told herself. I must go, she told herself. I must be strong, she told herself. I must go now. Now. Go now.
Seeing her chance Esmeralda slipped off the bed and made for the door, seeing no need for words or explanation. None was needed. Mozak wanted to jump out of bed and stop her running away. He also wanted to kick her up the backside and on her way. He also wanted to kick himself.
At the door she had second thoughts and paused to say goodbye and good luck in quick succession. She put on her best (feminine) voice possible. And there was nothing Mozak could do except watch and listen - or throw something at her. He grabbed the nearest thing within reach - a candlestick holder - and threw it at her. It missed as she darted out.
‘Bitch!’ he barked, but only after she was on the other side of the door, hoping that she had not heard him.
Winning her back might still be an option - and one hell of a challenge.
Outside Esmeralda wanted to run but was unable to. She did her best to not cry and almost succeeded. She did not want to be weak. She wanted to see Timothy, badly, and hoped that he wanted to see her, madly. For that she wanted to look her best, be her best, and so wiped away the tears. As she drifted along the castle corridors the great Lady Agnes Aga-Smath jumped into her head unannounced. Esmeralda did her best to eject her. Lady Agnes could look after herself. She felt sure of it for Agnes Aga-Smath was a lady, a lady of the Castle.
***
King Helmotti was sitting on his throne, alone in his throne room, alone with his thoughts. Outside a guard stood still. Sealed off, Helmotti looked sad, sold out, sucked into something he did not like the smell of. But no one saw it. His sword had recently been returned to him: sharpened and polished, and begging to be used. He ran a finger down one side of the blade and thought back. He ran it perpendicular across the lethal edge and thought forwards. The sword was begging to be used. He was back in the land of constant fighting and he was not liking it. He and his sword had come a long way together. He felt safe with it by his side. He placed it back in its scabbard. He did not want to use it. He did not want to be used.
He stared into the space surrounding him - the walls seemed far away - and breathed in its chilly air. No maze here. Nothing to stop him, direct him, control him, protect him. He had complete freedom. He could pick any direction. He was king again. He had enjoyed silence deep within the Maze but out here it did not feel natural. It was so quiet he heard the guard break wind. It made him smile.
His wandering thoughts latched on to the twins. He could not simply let go of them. He was bound to them. They shared history - the emotional kind - the kind which could not simply be written down in a book, put away and forgotten. The history of one’s family followed you throughout your entire life and haunted you as you approached your grave: so he thought.
The King’s Secretary appeared as requested. Walking slowly, calmly, he approached the king; not wishing to appear enthusiastic; not wishing to seem uninterested; wishing to be treated as an equal. Helmotti was already growing to dislike his Secretary: each time the man looked at him - up and down - it felt like he was being marked down for performance, gravity, timekeeping and general demeanour. (It could take years for the King’s Secretary to like somebody, kings included.) Added to that Helmotti was getting the impression that the man didn’t like being ordered about. Did the King’s Secretary think he was his own boss?
Dignity was everything, and so the man was carrying documents as a reminder of his importance. It took a beating when the king, without warning or warm words, issued explicit instructions: Lady Tamatellini was to be relocated to the Infirmary, and placed under supervision, as soon as possible.
‘But Sire, the lady is Bizi’s mother. Bizi put her there, for good reason.’
‘It may have been a good reason but it was the wrong reason. And I’m the king now so I want her out of that miserable place, now.’
‘But the woman is mad Sire?’
‘We are all mad in this place!’
‘Does the Chancellor know?’
‘He does not need to know just do it! She should not be locked up in there! It’s a disgrace! The poor woman needs proper medical attention!’
The King’s Secretary was thrown into turmoil. Too much change. Stung, he backed away, on the surface showing due respect whilst inside fuming. Was the man going mad?
***
A despondent Prince Mozak received an unexpected visit and with it an unexpected shock. It was that woman who was now his grandmother: the mad woman in the tower who was the mother of his father - a man now possibly also mad. Mozak had only the vaguest memory of her and that was not a nice memory. And now here she was, back to frighten him. She was in his room, smelling the place out; looking dangerous, deceitful, much like her son. Only the fact that the doctor and his helper held her in a firm embrace reassured him that he was safe - safe in his bed. On the king’s orders the Royal Doctor had brought her to see him, to try and convince her that because this was Mozak, the other had to be Tascho, alive and well. It was never going to work.
Her long grey hair and fierce face both fascinated and scared him. Would his mother end up looking like this? Like a witch? Would he end up mad if he stayed in this place? The woman stood stiff and stared him down. He wanted to escape under the covers. When she had had enough of staring into his face she switched her attention to his bandaged leg, but was not impressed.
Finally she spoke, spitting out her words like pieces of rotten nuts.
‘You are not him.’
Mozak looked at the doctor for an explanation but the man had none to give. He did not want to get involved. As if trying a break for freedom she tried to shake off the two men but they held on firm and refused to relax for one moment.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘to that nice place you promised me.’
A relieved doctor apologized to the prince and led her away, to the ‘nice new place’ as he had called it, leaving Mozak to his own devices, which were few. He hoped never to see the mad woman again.
***
Helmotti was lying alone in Bizi’s room, on Bizi’s bed, wondering whether to call for Lady Tarmina and hating himself for it. He was in a running battle with the Hermit inside when he was surprised to receive a note from Queen Anneeni, an invitation to join her for dinner. No explanation. He accepted, not wishing to eat alone that night, not wishing to be drawn into other temptations. He needed all his energy for the day ahead.
Upon entering the queen’s chambers Helmotti discovered it was a candle-lit dinner, with just one maid in attendance - the queen’s favourite because she saw and heard and remembered nothing. She just served and occasionally smiled, when she remembered to. The Dowager Queen looked as if she had made a great effort to impress, to lose those years - those desperate years. Why, he didn’t care to know. He thought he recognised a dress from the distant past. Impossible, he thought. She’s bigger, wider now. She had had the dress let out in many places.
Trying to seduce him with a new look? It was laughable but he stopped himself from laughing. That would be too cruel. Let her enjoy her moment. He contained himself with a wholesome smile instead. It went down a treat and he put it all to one side, determined to enjoy the food. A good dinner would nicely send him off to sleep. With a bright bold smile she gestured him to si
t down opposite and partake. Like her face the table had been laid out in style. Helmotti tucked into smoked ham and cheese, and remarked upon the good vintage of the wine, and was content to let her play her silly games. He would not be joining in.
With her eyes always upon him, the Queen tried to look into him, down into his heart and soul. But Helmotti was having none of it and closed down, eyes down. Food, yes. Talk, possibly. And talk there was. The Queen talked on, desperate to reel him in. She needed his protection, his support, his emotional bond. She needed a man, a powerful man. She needed a king again for she was a queen. And this king was her husband! He was older, softer, more malleable so it would be easy she had convinced herself when planning the event.
With difficulty good times were remembered and replayed. There had been his blundering but determined courtship to steal her away from Bizi; her infatuation; their secret sessions. There had been her father: a man disliked and mistrusted by his father the king. But love, sex and frustration had prevailed. As he listened and chewed over her words as he chewed over the food Helmotti began to feel sorry for her. He felt required to make a toast. Perhaps it would shut her up.
‘To the grand old days.’
He avoided using the word ‘good’. He could not bear to say it.
Their glasses touched. It would be the only time they would connect that night and it would prove to be the high point of the evening. They stumbled on with the Queen driving the talk. ‘Remember that time you fell from your horse, drunk, trying to impress me?’
‘Yes. Did I?’
‘Yes.’
Helmotti searched his memory. ‘Didn’t I fall on to a stable boy?’
‘Yes. You injured him.’
‘And you fell down some stairs once, drunk.’
She laughed. He smiled. They recalled their excesses; their wild days; their student days when they were supposed to be learning something of the world they lived in, not dismissing it or provoking it. She felt intimacy was approaching but she was deluded. At any hint of intimacy Helmotti withdrew to a safer position, forcing her to work harder to promote a positive, almost lovable atmosphere across the table while he buried himself in his food. Meanwhile the Hermit within kept shouting ‘No! Keep away from her, that woman is dangerous!’
Helmotti sensed the situation was turning ridiculous as she persisted with her onslaught. The sad woman was flogging a dead horse with a gruesome whip. The girl was still in love and making overtures for eternal union. The boy had moved on to other loves, and was impatient to be elsewhere. And then she made matters worse by reaching out and clasping his hand firmly. Helmotti felt he had been arrested. He had to work hard to set himself free. Her hand was sweaty.
She made matters worse when she raised the subject of Tascho. She simply was not having it: the boy must not leave. At which point things rapidly went downhill. Her son had to stay. Helmotti had to make him stay. She demanded it be so. You demand nothing you stupid woman, thought Helmotti.
‘Sorry but no. I’m not getting involved.’
That response made her furious. She banged the table. He had to intervene! He was king now!
‘He’s my son. He must stay!’
Helmotti struggled to remain in control of his temper. The Hermit had his head buried in his hands.
‘Tascho is his own man. I will not interfere. In fact, I think it’s a good idea.’
The Queen was puzzled for a moment before exploding with even greater rage - the rage of a volcano.
‘You used to interfere in everything!’
Now the gloves were off and Helmotti wanted to punch her. Just like the bad old days.
‘Time to go,’ he insisted, afraid he might just punch her. ‘I must get an early night.’
Queen Anneeni wasn’t having it. She stood up and tried to block him in, almost knocking over the table. A candle fell to the floor and carried on burning, creating a pool of wax and burning out of control. The maid had to rush forward and stamp her boot over it. Helmotti pushed the queen away, swore and walked out; rattled and sore, desperate for fresh air.
‘You’re a fake!’ he wanted to shout.
Suddenly the day ahead felt like relief. Fighting bad men was straightforward stuff. With women it was difficult to stick the knife in.
The Dowager Queen was left feeling insulted, stupid, out of date, washed up, pointless. She felt like she had just aged a mile.
‘You’re a fake!’ she wanted to shout.
The roast was left, forgotten, to go cold. Later the maid would reheat it and enjoy it with the unfinished bottle of wine and a few friends.
***
While king and queen sat apart in stalemate elsewhere Timothy and Esmeralda huddled close together in union, with Stevie at their feet. They picked at some bread and cheese, apples and pears. They were restless for change. They were the young ones. They had their whole lives ahead of them - a daunting prospect, which both recognised. What had passed to date would, with the passing of the decades, diminish into sketchy fragments of memory and physical remains; yet also define them, possibly until death. The present was their biggest investment as it led into their future. The past was their biggest headache, as it was for all, young or old. The past had once existed. It could not be undone.
Neither said it. Neither had to say it but they were a couple now. No more ‘me’, only the ‘us’. They were reconciled, within themselves and with each other. They were as close as two souls could possibly be and they were heading out again; together, side by side; out into the void again; propelled on by the wish for life, the energy of life, and the fear of life. Only the rescue mission and Lady Agnes caused a ripple and a stir. Esmeralda did not want her man to ride into danger but Timothy was adamant. He had to do this. He had to rescue his father. Sometimes fighting was the only option. As for Lady Agnes, Esmeralda was dismayed that Timothy had not yet told her that the marriage was off. She demanded that he do the decent thing and tell her, face-to-face, and apologize for breaking her heart. Her heart? thought Timothy. What heart? He did not fight it and promised to do so when he returned, for tonight was out of the question: he had to go to bed early to be up early to be ready to ride and fight.
Stevie sensed excitement in the air. He jumped up into Timothy’s lap and refused to budge so they took turns to stroke his head and scratch him under the chin and look him in the eye. It made all three of them happy. The sadness was gone. Only problems remained, and obstacles, and threats. Once free of the Castle Timothy wondered if he would ever see his brother again.
Right now his brother was alone in his room, trying to cope with a sadness which had grown. It caused a lump in his throat and in his stomach, and in his head. He felt cut off, cut out, a second rate prince. He was back in that village again; lost again; fragile again; marooned again. Fearing kidnap he had had a guard placed outside his door.
Meanwhile their grandmother was also celebrating a new beginning. She had a new, comfortable bed in a new room with a new view to enjoy; and the new people around her seemed to be honestly interested in her well-being. It cheered her up. Reality suddenly felt like a better place, a good place to be - for her son it was slipping away fast. As his cold body shivered in protest he kept his eyes shut tight, and clenched his teeth, and tried to ignore the world around him whilst trying to take back control of his raging delirious mind. Death felt very close, close enough to be a relief.
He was being tortured and taunted by Iedazimus; by wicked words, scorn and spite; by smacks across the cheeks. Iedazimus wanted him to pay for the death of his father, but the lack of response only fuelled his own rage and hurt. He wanted to degrade Bizi, deny him dignity - except that Bizi barely knew what was happening to him. He was barely able to connect with reality. His version of it was a collection of distortions and fragments whirling around inside his head - none of it making any sense. Iedazimu
s’ mates, Jeno and Tippo, became concerned about the behaviour of their leader. They took turns to watch him, fearing he might throttle their hostage to death. When Iedazimus produced a knife and held it at Bizi’s throat they persuaded him to put it away. A dead Bizi was no use to them - worse still they could end up dead.
***
It was the day of the rescue and long before dawn, by lantern light, the men of the raiding party gathered, their morale boosted by hot pasties and beverages. They checked their weapons and horses, and waited for the king to give the order to ride out. Stood amongst them was Timothy, shivering in the freezing air, trying to look the part of a formidable fighting prince. Some were barely awake: they were on autopilot, ready to kill or be killed and not caring which. It was too early in the day to care about such things yet. They were still zombies.
When Helmotti gave the order the men climbed swiftly into their saddles and rode out of the main gate into the night, led by their king and prince. King and prince: together they led the charge into the blackness of the night. The lanterns lit the road around them - the road which would take them all the way to Rimrock Hill. There was no talk, only heavy thoughts. Later rain would fall, making it a miserable muddy day, but for now it was simply pitch black and freezing cold.
Each man kept his thoughts securely locked away and in check - and that included the king and prince. Visible emotions were concealed by the darkness. Each fighting man wanted the business over and done with quickly, smartly (and those who knew him trusted Helmotti to do exactly that for he had a reputation). None of them wanted to be heroes and none of them wanted to get hurt. The only exception to this was Lord Fucho. He had insisted on joining the rescue mission: honour demanded it, he had said; kings could not be treated like this, he had said. There are limits, he had said.
The Hermit took a back seat, leaving Helmotti in charge, giving him free rein to do his worst, hopefully for the last time. No one could save his brother except King Helmotti. No one was allowed to hurt his brother except him, King Helmotti. Helmotti wanted his brother alive: he did not have to be well, just alive, and in one piece, then Helmotti could leave this place for good, and be at peace with himself.