Into The Maze

by Euan McAllen

  From her window, Queen Anneeni watched what little she could see in the flickering light of the lanterns. She could easily make out Helmotti for all the other men were assembling around him: he was the force, the centre of attention, the dynamic, the energizer; and she wanted to feed off him. Instead she was trapped in her room, feeling worthless and useless. She spotted her son: lingering and looking for direction. He was the last to climb into the saddle and he carried his sword awkwardly, unused to its weight. She felt sorry for him. He was a fish out of water. She wanted to reach out and give him a big hug to send him on his way.

  Prince Mozak saw much the same from his window as he balanced on a crutch, but he did not wish his brother well. He saw a strong, determined Helmotti and wished to be transported back to the time when he believed Helmotti was his father - dead but still his father - and life was relatively simple and undemanding, free and wild; where little was required in the way of thinking; when his biggest hang-up was his betrothal to the one and only Lady Agnes Aga-Smath.

  He could still have her, he told himself. She would not say no to a prince. Come to think of it a well raised, healthy lady would be a more suitable match than a poor peasant girl ignorant of the ways of royalty and of dubious background. And he could always have a mistress (or two) on the side. Lady Jane sprang to mind, though there were other possible candidates.

  In the cottage Esmeralda sat up in bed, unable to sleep, exhausted with worry. Stevie was curled up on her bed. He had no trouble sleeping for his was a dog’s life. Elsewhere, hidden away in a private corner of the Castle, the King’s Secretary and Chancellor sat together at the fireside, sipping apple brandy, also unable to sleep. They fretted like old women, arms folded; defending against all invisible critics the King’s Banker and his refusal to provide ransom funds.

  And they exchanged heated comments about the recent reappearance of republican graffiti, and reports of peasants striking for better wages, lower rents and paid holiday. Disturbing, they agreed. Very disturbing. Theirs was not a happy lot. And both could not believe Fucho’s decision to join the rescue party. Neither had ever considered him the hero type, the fearless fighter. Why would he risk his good health to rescue a man he despised? Strange times indeed.

  The raiding party made one stop: at the Infirmary where the Royal Doctor was dragged out of bed and ordered to join them.

  ‘My brother Bizi will require your best services I’m sure,’ explained Helmotti.

  The Royal Doctor was not pleased.

  And on they rode, some still zombie-like, and as they headed south so the sun crept towards them, and in time the sky began to glow, from the ground up, and the pitch black began to falter, and wane and retreat. In time a drizzle descended, as if designed to sap the spirit of the raiding party. After a couple of hours into the journey the lanterns could be distinguished and about another half an hour later Rimrock Hill could be seen in the distance, morning mist lapping at its base. It brought no cheer, only trepidation.

  They had arrived at dawn, some guards half asleep in the saddle, and were greeted by the sight of a red flag hanging limp. It was the flag of the Republican movement. It had been raised up a pole, recently erected above the hut which had once housed the workforce. A few recognised it and spat at it. Timothy, seeing the reactions, did not care to ask what it meant. In his previous life it would have made Helmotti’s blood boil. Now he just smiled ruefully. It looked ridiculous out here, in the middle of nowhere. Who was here to see it, salute it? Some of the guards offered to pull it down at the first opportunity but Helmotti said no.

  ‘Don’t waste your energy. Let it fly until no one notices it anymore.’

  At the base of the hill they dismounted, stretched their arms and legs, and tethered their horses to some small stunted trees. Rimrock Hill was a desolate place, abandoned, its treasure of copper ore removed long ago. The silence and solitude of the landscape gave them clarity but no meaning as they prepared themselves for the fight ahead. Helmotti suggested to Timothy that he mind the horses along with the doctor but Timothy refused. He would not miss the action. He wanted to see it through, be in the fight - so that he would never wish to experience such a thing again. That was his intention and his motivation, and Helmotti understood it perfectly. He felt proud of the boy who might be - but probably wasn’t - his son.

  When all were ready Helmotti gave the signal and they began to climb the hill; up its path, slowly, taking their time; not wishing to arrive out of breath; careful not to disturb the stones; careful not to splash through puddles. It took an age but was worth it for they arrived calm and in control of the situation.

  There was a single man on guard outside the main hut, asleep. They trounced him and smothered him before he could call out. Helmotti had him bundled away. Just the one guard? thought some. Amateurs: they were dealing with amateurs. This raised morale and as they drew swords they licked their lips and waited for the signal to burst in. If there was to be killing they wanted it to be over and done with quickly so they could go home and back to bed. Some began to think of dinner. Or back in time for lunch?

  Helmotti put a finger to his lips and called for total silence and total concentration. They were about to go in. Nobody, Timothy included, dared to breathe. Everybody, Tascho not least, gripped their swords tight. Like the seasoned professional he was, Helmotti slowly pushed open the door and peered inside. There were men flat out on beds, all fast asleep: a second rate bunch of brutes he concluded; barely a fair match for a fight in his estimation. This would be easy work - which did not please the wild warrior within: he wanted a hard fight, not a walk over. The Hermit on the other hand was relieved.

  Helmotti threw the door full open and together with his men burst in. They surrounded the sleeping enemy: the men were thrown out of their sleep, their dreams abruptly cancelled. Faces turned away from the comfort of the pillow to be met by the point of a sword. Heads reared up. Eyes popped out to stare in disbelief at the unfolding event while their bodies began to tremble. Some wished it was just a dream. Others wanted to change sides. Timothy saw the fight within Helmotti and felt it rise up within himself. It was not a bad feeling and he hated the thought that he was enjoying the position of power, and on the moral high ground - the highest point around - and yet he - or perhaps just Tascho - was loving it. God had never felt like this. God had never allowed him to feel like this before.

  There were only two faces he recognised: Jeno and Tippo. They looked up at him, wide-eyed and begging for mercy, knowing that he was the only one who could make it happen. He returned a cold stony stare, saying nothing and having nothing to say. Helmotti caught the exchange.

  ‘You know these two?’

  ‘Jeno and Tippo, friends of Iedazimus. They work for him.’

  Helmotti held the blade of his sword at Jeno’s throat. Jeno was afraid to swallow.

  ‘Speak. Where’s my brother?’

  ‘With Iedazimus,’ croaked the terrified man.

  ‘And where is he? Tell me now, or die now.’

  There was no disputing the intention in his voice or the sharpness of the steel and Jeno answered fully without hesitation.

  ‘In the tunnel. Both in the tunnel. The tunnel which leads to the mineshaft.’

  Upon hearing those words Lord Fucho rushed out.

  ‘I’ll go see he’s safe!’

  He was gone before he could be stopped and Helmotti was not pleased.

  ‘Fucho!’

  As they were bound and led away Jeno and Tippo looked towards Timothy, hoping he might put in a good word for them, but Timothy looked away in disgust. He could not stop himself. The word ‘scum’ entered his head. Worse still it felt good. God forgive him.

  Beyond the entrance the tunnel sank into darkness, save for one lonely torchlight in the distance. It was a beacon, a clue. It promised something for in its weak orange light lay Bizi; tied dow
n on a stretcher, body shaking; barely alive, barely kicking. Lord Fucho, choking on the stale foul air, found him in under a minute. He stared down at the ex-king but said nothing, and did nothing to free him. Instead he grabbed the torch and carried on, to hunt down Iedazimus. It was his mission. Iedazimus was now his enemy.

  A few minutes later a second torch entered the tunnel, carried by Helmotti who was shouting out his brother’s name. Like Fucho he found him in no time. Bizi was shaking, as if in the grip of the devil, and trying to speak. Helmotti knelt down to reassure him and untie him. Bizi moaned, startled by the physical contact of a stranger, and once he had an arm free he used it to lash out. He scratched his unknown assailant across the cheek with his long fingernails. Helmotti backed away and wiped away the small trickle of blood, saying nothing - though he did want to punch his brother in the face for being so ungrateful. Forgive him, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, the Hermit reminded him. Helmotti did so, but under protest. Next he heard a noise: the sound of Fucho shouting for help. Helmotti leapt up just as Timothy and one other man entered the tunnel.

  ‘Over here!’ shouted Helmotti. ‘Look after him!’

  And with that he headed towards the sound to find Fucho lying on the ground; clutching his stomach; his face bruised; his smart clothes covered in dirt and dust.

  ‘He tried to kill me!’ groaned Lord Fucho.

  ‘What did you expect?’ replied Helmotti, for which Lord Fucho had no reply.

  Suddenly, they heard Iedazimus’ voice. It was weak but defiant.

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  Helmotti swung round and spotted the head of Iedazimus poking up out of the ground. He had fallen into the mineshaft and was now dangling; hanging on by his fingers for dear life to avoid falling on to the sharp rocks a hundred or more feet below. It was an almost comical sight. Helmotti walked over to join him in his predicament and looked down, saying nothing, showing nothing, promising nothing. Iedazimus looked up, expecting nothing. He was stuck between death and death. He thought of his father and cursed the Royal Family.

  Without warning Helmotti took one final step forward and stood on Iedazimus’ hand, then proceeded to twist his boot back and forth until Iedazimus could bear it no more. He screamed out in agony and fell to his death. For Helmotti the unfinished business was finished and he walked away, a changed man again. He wanted to go home - and home meant not the Castle. Too much change in one lifetime was not a good thing. He wanted to be the Hermit again, for good, for always. Nothing else would do. He looked down at Fucho, still struggling to get up onto his feet. He did not offer a helping hand.

  ‘He didn’t want to be saved,’ said Helmotti.

  Lord Fucho nodded in agreement whilst at the same time feigning ignorance at what had just occurred.

  More men with torches appeared and Helmotti directed them to carry out both Bizi and Fucho, back into the light, back to the hut. He told them to fetch the doctor then sat down, suddenly exhausted - more in the head than in the body. Mission accomplished but with no sense of satisfaction or reward. Back to the Castle. Back to bed. Back to the dead.

  Timothy approached him, calm but curious. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Iedazimus attacked him.’

  ‘Where is he, Iedazimus?’

  ‘He fell.’ Helmotti pointed without looking up from the ground. ‘Down there.’

  The wooden words were a strong hint for Timothy to cease bugging him with questions. He rushed back to be by his father’s side. He stayed with him, even helping the doctor as he tended to his royal patient. Torture, the doctor concluded. Distressed by his state, a part of Timothy wished his brother was there to share the pain. Later Bizi recovered some consciousness and clarity. He saw his Royal Doctor hanging over him and assumed he was still in the Infirmary. He refused to leave and started screaming, forcing a reluctant Helmotti to order that he be bound and gagged for the journey home. Outside, it had begun to rain. It was going to be a miserable day.

  ***

  The journey home was a crawl, limited as it was by the speed at which Bizi could be carried. The prisoners were made to carry him, in alternating shifts. And then there was the rain and the mud. There had been victory but there was no celebratory mood, only exhaustion, and no sign of gratitude from the man who had been rescued. Along the way weary, black-eyed peasants, curious or contemptuous, stared as the procession passed by, forcing them off the road and into the ditch. Some recognised the old king alongside the new. Some were confused. Some saluted out of respect. Some, when it was safe to do so, stuck up a finger and swore.

  Only one person in the party was happy and that was Timothy: happy that the horrid business was over and done with. Now he could leave this rotten, ridiculous place, and with no loose ends to gnaw away at his conscience. Lady Agnes Aga-Smath had slipped from his mind - though she would barge her way back in.

  Bizi was taken directly to the Infirmary where, soaked through and silenced into submission by his own broken body, he was reunited with his mad - now furious - mother. Lady Tamatellini was furious that her son, the king, had been treated in such a way; with such disregard; with such contempt. She began to scream then, when her voice gave up, switched to weeping and pulling on her hair. She tried to punch the doctor then an orderly before being restrained. She was given a hot potion - one of the Doctor’s finest concoctions - which hit her head like a brick and made her sleepy, but even then she had to promise - swear - to stay calm before being given freedom of movement again.

  Subdued by the power of dodgy medicine Lady Tamatellini sat down at her son’s side and felt his forehead. The signs were bad and she demanded it be wiped, and again. And again!

  ‘Wipe it, damn you, and don’t stop until I tell you to!’

  She held his limp hand and listened out as he mumbled to himself in his semi-conscious, almost catatonic state. Meanwhile, the nurse tending to him was a nervous wreck.

  ‘I wish so much for you to get better. I don’t want you to end up like me.’

  Bizi kicked out at random as his body, still raging, fought back against a dying, useless lump of a brain. Her words never reached his brain. Next to him she looked sane. Mother and son, reunited as equals for the first time in a very long time, had come full circle for he was her vulnerable little baby once again: he had to be protected, fed, nurtured; have his mouth and bottom wiped.

  ‘Come my little Bizi let’s play that game. Let’s clap our hands.’

  The mad mother began to clap her hands in time to a tune, at which point Helmotti, Timothy and Lord Fucho left her to it; in the safe hands of the Royal Doctor; unable to watch the sad drama which was unfolding. They could not stomach it. They continued on to the Castle with the prisoners: they were to face the justice of the Judge (if he could be found, and found sober) and possibly summary execution depending on what mood he was in.

  As they approached the castle wall Timothy pointed.

  ‘Look. There. Someone’s been leaving messages.’

  Words, some misspelt, had been daubed in big letters of white paint across the wall, spelling out phrases such as ‘peasants matter!’, ‘workers have rights!’, ‘where’s the pig?’, ‘what price a pig?’

  ‘Who would have done that?’

  ‘Peasants I guess,’ replied Helmotti sardonically.

  ‘Peasants can’t write?’ said Lord Fucho, unconvinced.

  A guard, the only one who could read, laughed at the jokes about the pig. Helmotti told him off in no uncertain terms. Only he was permitted to make fun of his brother.

  Together, standing side by side, the king and his prince reported the success of their mission to an anxious Chancellor, Secretary, and Banker, and a small gathering of nobles (a mix of those who were truly concerned and those who felt they should be seen to be concerned). Even the Royal Librarian and Tutor were present. The news spread like wildfire whil
st king and prince gorged themselves on a hot, hearty meal. (Lord Fucho’s request to join them was politely but firmly refused by Helmotti. There was something he didn’t like about the man.) Then, refreshed, king and prince paid a visit to Prince Mozak to share the good news, to reassure him that all was well, to complete the circle. A family calamity had been resolved.

  Mozak did not take it well - it being not the news but the intrusion of his brother and his ‘half an uncle’, the man who had crushed his own brother. As they stood side by side, standing smart, heads stuffed full of success, Mozak felt he was missing out on something, that he had been denied. Tascho was stealing the man who was once his father - his alone, never Tascho’s. They were sharing a secret and he was not part of it. And both were working hard to be nice to him - that really irritated. They wanted to know how he was - as if they cared. How was his knee? Better? Better, admitted Mozak through gritted teeth. He wanted to swear at them both, tell them to fuck off, and it was driving him crazy. He wanted to put his upstart brother back in the box and throw the box out with the rest of the rubbish. Twins were a bad idea.

  Seeing he was in no mood for conversation or celebration, and sensing they were not welcomed, king and prince left smartly.

  ‘He’s becoming a miserable sod,’ remarked Timothy.

  Helmotti was quick to response.

  ‘He would be. His brother is stealing the limelight, taking all the glory.’

  ‘No I’m not!’ Timothy was adamant. ‘And anyway I’m leaving, he should be glad!’

  ‘That’s not how it works. Believe me, I understand these things.’

  The news had spread quickly: it beat its path to the Dowager Queen long before king and prince could. Timothy wanted to tell her the news, and wanted his uncle to be there by his side for support. But she was not having that: she wanted to speak to her son alone, in private, so Helmotti left him stranded, happy to oblige. The news had left her cold. She did not care about the health of that bastard Bizi. Bizi was the past. Tascho was the one what mattered. He was her future. Without warning she rushed forward to grab her baby, to check for damage, but he pushed her away.