by Euan McAllen
‘Please stop it I’m fine.’
The very fact that he would not let her touch him, inspect him, convinced her that he was not. She could not let him leave, to re-enter the wilderness of the Maze, to live the life of a poor peasant. What was he thinking? Was the boy mad? So she was off again, begging him to stay, demanding it. It was her right to tell her son what to do. She was his mother. She was the Queen.
‘Don’t you run away from me again! I need you here, always!’
Her flood of futile words wrapped up in furious emotions made no difference and in frustration she kicked a pot of dried flowers across the room. It left a trail of dust and dirt. For Timothy that was the clear signal to cut dead the conversation and leave - leave the room at least. She grabbed at his shirt and he ended up dragging her along the floor towards the door until she was forced to let go. He gave a polite ‘by your leave’ (a phrase the Royal Tutor had taught him to use when wishing to insist without upsetting a king or queen) and slammed the door in her face. Orphan, he thought. Let me be an orphan.
But the Dowager Queen was not giving up so easily on her son. She followed him. He upped his pace, refusing to break into a run. He would walk, calmly, with dignity - unlike his manic mother - head held high. She broke into a run - intermittent but enough to keep up with her quarry, enough to grab her baby before he shook her off again. This is stupid, he thought. This is castle life, he thought. The queen is chasing a prince through the corridors of power. No dignity. No depth. No purpose. No God.
So on they went; the Dowager Queen out of breath and struggling to keep up with her son; the prince wondering how to shake her off. Blinded, oblivious, a danger to herself, she knocked aside a distraught lady-in-waiting who tried to restrain her, pacify her. She kept calling out his name - the other name he hated hearing now - and begged him to stop, to come to her arms. He ploughed on relentless and regardless for he had a way out: the maze; the garden maze. In they went: mother and son in open conflict. Inside he managed to lose her and slipped out, leaving his mad mother to wander and stumble, yell and curse until the same shaken lady-in-waiting came to her aid and led her out; back to the soft sanity of her bedroom where she fell into bed exhausted and feeling hollow. Yet again she had tried to climb out of her hole only to fall back in. She only had herself to blame.
To some, the Dowager Queen had sounded insane, and they were worried. To others she had sounded her usual self and could not help but laugh. First Lady Tamatellini, then King Bizi, now Dowager Queen Anneeni. The royal family had become one big joke - a joke all had to suffer in silence.
‘Why do we let these crazy idiots rule us?’ asked one fed-up manservant to his mate.
‘Don’t ask me,’ shrugged the other as he passed back the smoke they were sharing during their shift break. ‘It’s always been so.’
A relieved Timothy made his way to the cottage - his refuge now - needing Esmeralda and Stevie to be by his side; to fortify him; to remind him of what mattered; to make him feel good. And they did, in volumes. They were thrilled to see him again. Esmeralda fell all over him - and for some reason which he didn’t understand checked his hair. Stevie tried to crawl up his leg. He had to fight them off. He avoided fighting off the kisses which were smothering him. Timothy felt he was being physically assaulted - but in the nicest way possible. He had to admit it: being the hero did feel good.
After things calmed down and the three of them settled down to enjoy the pleasure of thinking nothing, doing nothing, seeing nothing, having nothing to say, Lady Agnes Aga-Smath popped up to destroy the moment. Had he told her yet? asked Esmeralda. No, confessed Timothy. Esmeralda was adamant: he had to go back there now, right now, and tell her. She demanded it. Do the decent thing, she said, and broke free of his embrace to make the point stick. Timothy was in total agreement. There was no putting it off. And it wasn’t as though he was scare of Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Was he? Esmeralda offered to go with him but he said that was not a good idea. He decided to take Stevie with him, as reinforcements.
Far away Parmina and her sister Tarmina - two little lost ladies - appeared out of the blue at the Infirmary, wishing to see their king, their ex-lover. They had to beg and beg and keep on begging to be allowed to see him until the doctor finally relented. There was only so much battering he could take, and the screwed up sisters had squeezed his hands dry. It was the only way to be rid of them. But all that effort was pointless for when they finally did get to see their king they wanted to be gone, shocked as they were by his wretched state. He could have been a peasant at death’s door. And to think they had once slept with this body which heaved and twisted and jerked and smelt awful. And when his mother wandered in and saw them standing, gawping, gasping as if at a fairground attraction she chased them off - not that they needed any encouragement for they could not bear to be within sight of him. Like children who had stumbled into a wasps’ nest they fled to lick their wounds whilst craving attention for their terrible situation.
With Stevie straining at the leash Timothy slipped back into the Castle, wishing to avoid all and sundry, and found Lady Agnes in her room, as usual demolishing a meal like it was her last supper. She smiled and threw a cushion at her prince, and invited him to sit down and share her supper - or was it dinner? Her prince declined and explained calmly, with a maturity beyond his years, that he could not stay; that he could not marry her; and explained why. Lady Agnes didn’t give a damn about the why. She threw down her knife and fork. Inside she was kicking and screaming like a ten year old who has been told that her holiday to Disneyland has been cancelled.
But she said nothing, refusing to show him she cared. Instead she just stared straight at him; the pure hatred on her face drilling into him, towards his soul. It made him feel ill. He held his breath, waiting for the verbal backlash. But it never came.
When she did finally speak, all she said was, ‘Go, go now, I don’t want to see you again.’
Already she had switched her thoughts, her ambition, her dreams back on to Prince Mozak. Here was a true prince to be had - and in the final analysis the better prince. And the more she thought about it the more she was glad. She didn’t want a coward, a runaway, for a husband. Mozak was stupid sometimes, but never the coward. And she didn’t mention Esmeralda once. She could not bear to say that name. That peasant girl could go to hell - or back to that wasted village in the middle of nowhere.
But she had to ask. ‘Is it because I’m overweight, fat even?’
‘No, not at all.’
Hadn’t she listened to a word he had said?
As he closed the door behind him, Stevie playing up for his wished to stay, Timothy wished her good luck for the future. In return she told him to fuck off. Perhaps she could keep Stevie, as a souvenir?
***
The Hermit was hiding himself away in the maze, sipping spirits from a bottle whilst staring at his royal seal - recovered at last - like it was some foreign object, its use unclear. He was loathed to throw it away but he wanted to be rid of it, for good. He was exhausted. He was recovering from yet another long protracted rant, this time from representatives of the landowners association - angry, discontented landowners. The king had to do something about the peasants. They were refusing to work. They were making demands. Demands! Like what? the king had asked. Demands for better hours, better housing, rent reductions. Some even wanted paid holiday! And there had been sightings of some crazy man - a man from the inside - stirring them up, filling their heads with dangerous religion.
The Hermit knew who that was and didn’t want to get involved. He wanted out. Let these people sort out their own mess. And good luck to the peasants. He had promised to look into it and he took immediate action, but not what they were expecting: in private he summoned his Chancellor and abdicated, there and then, without warning, without regret, without apology.
The Chancellor was sent reeling, then he was furiou
s. Chaos again! And it was down to him again - always him - to clean up the mess. He nearly suffered meltdown as he stormed out, barking that the throne room was now out of bounds, that Helmotti could not wear the crown, that he had to hand over the ring and royal seal. Helmotti did not mention that he had his own back again.
And so now here he was, sitting by himself in the garden maze; homeless again, stateless again. Logic told him he had done the right thing. Logic told him he had not failed for it was not his fight. But by leaving like this, so abruptly, he was throwing the kingdom into chaos. Was his brother able to rule? Had he left him permanently broken? He had regained his crown, and now dumped it again. He felt stupid. He felt a coward. He had no direction. He had no purpose - but then he wanted no purpose, no direction: that he had learnt over time in the Maze. Logic was weak. It was crushed by despondency and the contents of the bottle failed to promote a positive feeling. Then Timothy stepped into view, only to take a step back.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.’
The Hermit beckoned him to sit at his side. ‘Come, share this.’
Timothy sat as instructed but refused the offer. And watching his uncle drink he could tell something was wrong. He knew what unhappiness looked like.
‘Look at my hand.’
Timothy looked. ‘What?’
‘No ring. I’ve abdicated. I’m leaving. No coming back.’
As the news struck, Timothy felt strangely relieved. They locked eyes, as if both now shared some secret, which had to stay in here, inside the maze.
The Hermit looked at Timothy hard. ‘You don’t look surprised?’
‘No I supposed I’m not. Your leaving, makes perfect sense to me. It’s why you ever decided to come back, that’s what gets me.’
‘To see my family, see my sons safe. See what had changed. Thought the change would do me good.’
‘Did it?’
‘No.’
‘And Bizi is our father?’
‘So it turns out.’
‘Who knows?’
The Hermit suddenly looked confused. ‘Knows?’
‘About the abdication.’
‘Oh. The Chancellor of course. I told him - he was furious. I nearly laughed. And a few others by now, probably.’
‘Does Mozak know?’
‘If he doesn’t he soon will.’
That will send him in a spin, thought Timothy, and with that they fell into an awkward silence until the Hermit looked down at his royal seal - the one he could never use again. This time it was final.
‘Here take this,’ he said as he pushed it towards his nephew.
Timothy pulled back and waved it away like it was infected.
‘No. Give it to my brother. He’ll appreciate it more than me.’
But the Hermit was not having it. ‘Here. Catch!’
He lobbed it towards Timothy who felt compelled to catch it - snatch it out of the air - afraid to let it fall to the ground.
‘Keep it. Keep it safe. It’s mine to hand down, to my heir, and as I apparently have no son I’m giving it to my nephew.’
It was Helmotti speaking, not the Hermit, and he sounded bitter.
Timothy was left holding the baby. ‘I don’t want it, really. What use could it possibly be to me?’
‘Keep it.’
This time it was an order. The bottle was speaking.
‘Hang it around your neck, out of sight, like I did all those years.’
Timothy complied, and immediately felt uncomfortable: the cold metal against his skin and the extra weight was a constant reminder that it was there.
‘Promise me you’ll keep it safe for me.’
‘I promise.’
‘Promise in the name of your god.’
‘I said I promise.’
The Hermit did not tell him that this was the original: the other seal was a copy, a fake. (His father had had a second made, to keep his brother happy.) Again they sank into silence, and more alcohol was consumed - Timothy doing his best to look away - which in turn liberated the Hermit from his thoughts, thoughts he could now share.
‘Take care of your brother - I mean be careful of him. Watch him.’
‘What do you mean? My brother would never want to hurt me surely?’
‘Just because he’s your brother don’t think you’re safe. Don’t trust him. Don’t think he won’t cross you, won’t deny you, destroy you even if you prove a threat. Brothers do not make for best friends.’
‘Threat? I’m no threat to anyone. He knows I’m leaving.’
‘Look at me and Bizi. He stole my crown, my kingdom, my queen. He had me abducted, tried to have me killed!’
The Hermit paused upon reflection. ‘But to fair I did deserve it.’
Timothy did not want to hear this.
‘Ironic really. He save me. Brought me back from the edge of insanity. Back to the place of reason. The Maze changed me. I was forced to slow down, reflect, accept I did not control my destiny. I had to constantly choose: this way or that? I found it invigorating. I found a new life and look at him now, the crazy fool - a fat fool. How did he get so fat?’
Ate too much? thought Timothy.
Suddenly the Hermit perked up.
‘Can’t wait to get back, back inside there. Back to the drama.’
‘The drama?’
‘The drama, the edge of living. Never knowing where your next meal is coming from. Always on the move. No schedule. No crowds. Nothing to weigh you down. Total freedom.’
Timothy looked at his uncle. The man looked happy.
‘If you get married, have a family. Don’t be like me, or my father.’
Timothy promised not to, despite not knowing what they had been like. And he didn’t want to know. Some things were best left unsaid.
Satisfied, the Hermit tipped the bottle upside down and watched its contents drain away into the grass before casting it aside. It rolled away to end up hidden under a hedge, lost forever - unless of course the maze was dismantled, which was unthinkable. Timothy was glad to see him do it.
‘Is that the last of it?’
‘The last. I promise.’
They relaxed. They had an understanding, like father and son.
***
It was early evening and a starving Rufus rushed into the kitchen to tell Tilsa, still his sweetheart, the shock news that the king, the new king, the previous king, had abdicated; and to scrounge a free meal. But she had no time for him right now. Her sister was with her, shattered, in tears; sharing her bad news with family: the farm had been looted, mobbed, robbed! By peasants! A gang of filthy peasants. They had stolen the best hanging hams, cheeses, chickens and eggs, even their pet pig Percy whom they had not yet had a reason to slaughter. The peasants had sworn at their mother, called her a slut, a peasant with pretensions! One had punched their poor father in the face when he tried to fight back, tried give them a piece of his mind.
‘What sort of world are we living in?’ she sobbed as Tilsa hugged her and encouraged her to sip some soup.
We have to get out of this place, thought Rufus. It’s falling apart. No law and order. A different king for a different day. He smelt the soup. It smelt good. It had meat in it. Now was probably not the best time to ask for some. But he was starving.
Still starving - and clutching his stomach - he sat down next to the sobbing girl, took her hand, and tried to say the right thing.
‘Fucking peasants,’ he said, even though he regarded himself as one. ‘Our own people! Stealing from us!’
His sweetheart quickly corrected him.
‘They’re not our people Rufus! They’re peasants. We are farmers! From good farming stock!’
Her sister flung aside his hand and Rufus quickly apologized,
whereupon his thoughts returned to food. He was starving, and indicated as such in no uncertain terms. His Sweetheart finally took pity on him and served him up a meal from the dregs lying around the kitchen. She watched him throw it down: she also had news but decided it should best wait, until she was sure, until she felt sure her Rufus could handle it. He on the other hand decided, finally, that his old news could wait no longer. He told her about the job offer. She had to sit down. She had been struck down by the man who said he loved her.
***
It was not late but Prince Mozak was tired. He was fading fast. He wanted to fall asleep but held himself awake, gripped by the expectation of a visit from the King’s Chancellor. He - the only prince now - had summoned the man to explain to him what the hell was going on! His father had been sectioned. Could he be unsectioned? Should he be? Was his father fit to rule? Could he also be made to abdicate? So many questions spinning around inside his head. Right now, there was no king. No one was in charge. What the hell was going on?! His knee was throbbing, but Mozak barely noticed it as his head felt like it was going to explode.
When the Chancellor did finally appear he looked haggard, stressed out. He was carrying a large rolled up document under his arm as if it was the most precious object in his possession. Right now it was and he was afraid to drop it. Earlier he had stood over it for what felt like an eternity as he waited for the ink to dry - ink put down by the King’s Secretary. Despite the rush it was a beautifully crafted document.
The abdication document? thought Mozak. To show to him? Made sense. For it to be legal there had to be paperwork. He slumped down into a chair at the table, in expectation of a long, hard, drawn out argument to come. He kept squeezing his knee to make the pain go away. He had a suggestion, an offer to make and was expecting a hard fight. But there was no fight. The Chancellor beat him to it: he gave the prince exactly what he was hungry for, almost.