by Euan McAllen
***
During the week or so that followed, the folk from the Castle clung on as time tried to devour them, and Esmeralda clung on as loneliness tried to waste her. She missed her Timothy terribly. Without his zeal, she felt life was just nothing more than a routine, a circular tour of the same tasks. Aunt Rosamund and the girls comforted her as best they could, but her gloom could never be lifted, only temporarily pushed underground until it popped up again. Lady Agnes saw it from a distance and, like an older sister tied up in knots, wanted to come to her rescue; but like a younger sister who had been spurned, her ego would not permit it.
Doc beat time by volunteering to take classes, to teach numbers, reading, and writing, and to watch for signs of bad health amongst the children. One day, he saw a wretched-looking child limping along in the street and tried to enquire about his complaint, only for the mother to whip her child away, telling him to clear off. No one was allowed to touch her child, not even the man who called himself her husband. He made friends with the old woman some called a witch, and her companion Simon: one was a friendship based on professional interest; the other was a challenge.
In the evenings, sitting around the fire in the hovel, she called her home, the wise old witch and the wise old doctor argued over ailments versus cures, the madness of the body versus that of the brain; and took from each other the better bits. It was a fair exchange. Coming from different directions, they met at the centre.
They discussed why some were born stupid; why some, not stupid, refused to better their minds. And why were some poor souls born disabled, missing arms or legs, hands or feet? Was it bad blood? A cruel God? And why did some women have beards? Doc told her – in strict confidence – of his royal patients: the mad king in the infirmary; the mad queen in the tower. ‘But to be honest,’ he said, ‘the Castle was not a good place to live a normal life. It was a mad place.’ In his view, the sad decline of the prince over the years was a testament to that.
Lady Agnes, lacking a man, dragged low by her empty bed in her lonely room, gravitated towards her captain; demanding his constant time and attention; fantasizing over what he was like in bed. Mutz did his best to avoid her, saving his best behaviour for his brothel girl: she made him happy and for free most of the time. Lady Agnes did not like him talking to Esmeralda, afraid he was giving away state secrets, exposing the Prince Regent – still her prince – for the brutal bastard he could be and had been.
The only toy she had to play with was the fat farmer: but he would not leave her alone when she tired of him. She kept bumping into him at the bathhouse where he repeatedly told her that she was the best-looking lady in town. (She knew that and didn’t need to be constantly reminded of it.) One day he begged to be allowed to show her his new-fangled windmill.
‘A windmill?’ she asked, intrigued, as they stood outside the bathhouse, now both squeaky clean. Suddenly, he had said something interesting. ‘Something that makes wind?’
Farmer Giles roared with laughter and nearly slapped her hard on the back like she was one of his workers. He just managed to stop himself in time.
‘No, my dear. It uses wind, to turn a wheel.’
‘Why?’
‘To grind the grain – saves me having to pay villagers to do it, and do it slower.’
She agreed to go see it. He had designed it, he boasted and built it.
‘Built it? With your own hands?’
‘No, not exactly. Hired workmen, carpenters. But it was my idea, all my idea.’
When she saw it – after traipsing through his mud, whilst avoiding the cow shit – she had to admit it was impressive: a tall, wooden structure with huge revolving sails which creaked as they turned in the wind. So out of place with its surroundings, she found it slightly intoxicating, and difficult to pull away. It almost had her in a spin. The Prince should see this when he gets back, she thought. He could make it his idea. He could show the court and those stuck-up nobles that he had brains, that he was right to rule. And he would have her to thank. She closed her eyes and saw herself rising in his estimation as they stood together, holding hands, staring up at this thing called a ‘windmill’. Suddenly, she had to admit that this backward, middle-of-nowhere village was not so backward after all. When she opened her eyes again, the fat farmer was grinning at her, like he wanted to pluck her feathers and stuff her into the oven or put one in the oven. She had to get away.
‘Well, thanks for that, think I’ll go home now.’
‘Won’t you stay for tea?’
‘No, thank you, not hungry right now.’
He was not put off and escorted her all the way back to her lodgings, even though she insisted that she knew the way. After that, he was less a toy, more an annoyance.
Determined to stay fit in body and mind, and always ready for a fight, Captain Mutz went running every morning: same places at much the same time; along the fragments of walls which permeated The Village and, some said, had sealed its fate. The fast, fit, and furious-looking man drew attention: boys on the edge of manhood, bored, chased after him; some tried to outrace him. They all sported short hair – so short it barely registered. They shouted at him, demanding to know who he was, but he gave nothing away and ran them into the ground.
One day, he saw the same boys chasing another for sport. This one had long hair and did not look like a member of their pack. They chased him into a corner where he stood up against a wall, gasping for breath. Mutz, also gasping, caught them up and sent them packing with the warning that he ‘did not take prisoners’ and that ‘anything other than a one to one is an unfair fight!’ Laughing, they dissolved away, game over for the day. The boy thanked him, boasting that he could have handled them all by himself. Mutz did not argue with him. They talked, and they became friends for the boy was attracted to the tall, good-looking, confident stranger who called himself a soldier. Mutz told him what it took to be a soldier, and about the noble art of combat. The boy begged Mutz to show him his sword; show him how to swing it, how to slice with it, how to wound with it, how to kill with it. Mutz would show him only some of those things, saying he was not ready for them all.
During this time, the rash continued to spread and aggravate until Lady Agnes could no longer bear it. Refusing to see the doctor, fearing he would tell Mozak, she finally approached Esmeralda, who looked as fed up as her, hoping she might help. It was a case of women in need.
She sneaked up on Esmeralda as she was kneading dough during a bout of breadmaking and tried to pay her a suitable compliment. Lacking any knowledge of how to make bread, she failed miserably – but the obvious misery in her failure to please was enough to break the impasse: misery was something Esmeralda could strongly relate to right now and the dam burst for they had plenty to catch up on, to put to sleep. It was like two sulking sister, at breaking point, suddenly dumping a long-running grievance, and agreeing to start again, afresh. Like sisters sharing the same room, they could not deny their proximity, their shared history.
They discussed their men: the new Timothy versus the new Mozak. What was different? What was the same? The twins sounded completely different, except when they zoomed in on the small, trivial details; like which side of the bed they liked to sleep on; whether they liked red meat or white, on the bone or off; whether they liked or disliked Brussel sprouts; whether they preferred boiled over roast.
Lady Agnes, on the edge of weeping, made a confession: she did not love Mozak; she put up with him.
‘Hate him?’ asked Esmeralda.
‘No, not yet – at least, not outright.’
‘So you are not missing him?’
‘No. Not yet. But you are, obviously. Highly commendable.’
‘Why do you sleep with him?’
Gloom settled on the face of Lady Agnes. ‘For a future. For protection.’
It also settled on the face of Esmeralda, and she confided that she had
missed her period. Lady Agnes did not understand. Was she not happy? Having a child: had that not always been her ambition? She did not reveal that hers was also late. That was a secret which had to stay firmly in one place, out of sight and out of mind until her prince was back.
‘But he’s gone. He may not come back. I wanted it to happen properly.’
‘Things never happen properly, the way you expect them,’ said Lady Agnes, as she took Esmeralda’s hand.
‘We can be friends again now they are gone. The men can’t scramble our brains – our bodies yes, but not our brains. And don’t worry; I’m sure they’ll be back. They are both survivors. They know what they are doing.’
Lady Agnes looked at the dough. Was it supposed to rise?
Finally, she came clean about her rash. She pulled back her clothes and showed off her side and lower back to Esmeralda.
‘It appeared on the way here.’
She tried not to think of the word plague. She tried to ban it from her mind. She did not want word to get out that she was infected goods, past her sell-by date. Mutz, Captain in the Prince Regent’s New Army, was too loyal to be trusted, and Doc, the Royal Doctor by Appointment, was too spineless to be disloyal. No, round here, her only true friend was Esmeralda, she now conceded to herself.
Esmeralda was not alarmed.
‘I’ve seen this before. The girls get it from time to time. It’s probably just stress.’
But Lady Agnes was not satisfied: she wanted a second opinion, so Esmeralda offered to take her to see an old woman who knew about such things. But the old woman did not come free: she had to be paid in money, food, or fuel. Would a piece of jewellery do? asked Lady Agnes. ‘Very likely,’ was the reply.
They saw her the next day, at her hovel. It was tucked away in the corner where two walls intersected – they had become her two walls. Lady Agnes froze when she saw the face. Was this that witch who had freaked her out by the duck pond? With gritted teeth, she handed over the appointment fee whereupon the restless, inquisitive Simon was told to step outside until further notice. He smiled at the girls as he left the room, and waved at Esmeralda for he knew her from when he had done odd jobs around the brothel. She waved back. Lady Agnes, repelled by his presence, kept her distance.
When Lady Agnes explained her problem, she was told to strip down to the waist and turn around. The old woman looked her over. This was a girl who had lived well, eaten well, who had good skin, good hips, and a solid pair of breasts. She could reproduce well. She put the other girls to shame.
‘You’re a healthy one. Good condition.’
For a moment, Lady Agnes thought it was Farmer Giles talking.
‘Do you have the shits?’ the old woman asked her brusquely.
‘No.’
‘Not constipated?’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘Your piss is OK? Right colour, regular?’
‘Yes thank you very much.’
Now she thought she could hear the Royal Doctor talking.
‘Have you been under a lot of stress lately? Travelled a lot. Man, sex hassles?’
Lady Agnes replied with a feeble ‘yes’.
‘It’s just the stress then. It will pass. It always does.’
‘Told you,’ said Esmeralda, wishing to sound upbeat. She tried to take the patient’s hand, but it was knocked aside.
‘Have any of the other girls got it?’ asked the old woman.
‘I’m not one of the other girls!’ exclaimed Lady Agnes, outraged.
‘Really? Well, you act like one.’
With that Lady Agnes covered herself up and stormed out, past a still smiling Simon – smiling as if he had got the joke – and the old woman shrugged at Esmeralda. New girls were always harder to handle than the older ones.
***
Fargo kept a low profile while the new love of his life went about her work for he was officially banned from The Village. He dressed like her father – for he had been given the man’s cast-offs – and would sneak around The Village, mainly at night, and prey upon the church; constantly reminding himself that it should have been his. Like a marooned househusband, he had to sit it out, watching Sinead leave in the morning and come back for lunch before heading out again. She returned each day, exhausted, with a headache but would not slow down. Fargo admired her strength but was concerned by her constant speed through life, like she was rushing to get somewhere before she was dead. Each evening, he had to calm her down before he could get her to eat. Each night he had to lay her down gently on to the bed. He had no experience of children so had no stories to tell her, no lullabies, all he could do was pray – as he always did.
He cooked the meals, washed the clothes; told her what she wanted to hear, that she was doing a fantastic job – God’s work – and hoped one day to be there by her side as they led the sinners along the righteous path. And still, there was no sex between them. He found that tough, and to make things worse, the romance was in danger of becoming sterile.
She preached her message outside the church, trying to grab the interest of those who went in and came out, like she was begging for their souls to make a contribution to hers. The vicar, furious, decided to obtain a banning order from the Elders – but that could take weeks. In the meantime, all he could do was – as politely as possible – tell her to get lost. She did and found other places to preach, like outside The Village Hall and at the market place, before always returning to stand outside his church. In her mind, The Village Church was where the problem had started and where it had to be resolved. The Village Vicar should be on her side. He should show the goodness of heart. He should be more like Fargo. She understood now why her father had turned away from this place. God here was a convenience, not to be taken too seriously. And The Villagers were suffering for it.
‘You should be ashamed!’ she once shouted back at him when he shouted at her to ‘bugger off!’
Negativity passed her by. She was too wired up for it to make an impact: as far as she was concerned, the audience was negative and their negativity was her challenge. She was a positive force. The Village people only had to see it, and open their hearts, and let her in so she could do good. Fargo agreed with her. He always agreed with her. It was easier to get along that way. He wanted to be part of the show, but for now had to keep his head down, stay out of sight.
The Village was new to her. She had only ever been told horror stories about it. Now she saw its misery for herself, but also nuggets of defiance and potential. She attracted the boys – the boys in the gangs. These teenage boys, who hung around in their herds, aimless, drifting, squabbling, heads lacking sense and vulnerable to any exotic input, were ripe for picking and procuring. She resolved to make them hers. She would get them off the streets. She would turn them into her army to fight for the cause, for an army of youth could defeat the older, cynical, worn-out generation. The leader of the Skunks watched her the most and thought it hilarious – the discomfort she created amongst the passers-by. In time, he would consider her fabulous. At last, something – someone – which wasn’t boring.
When Ricardo admitted to his grumpy, grumbling partner – who had now stopped talking about ‘that Timothy’ and now only went on about ‘that brazen girl’ – that she was his sister, a furious Tassilo demanded to know why he hadn’t sent her home, tail between her legs. An equally furious Ricardo replied because he has no such power over her, no such right to tell her what to do. They did not talk to each other for a whole day – during which time a lot of knitting got done, but badly.
***
In time, Sinead approached the Elders and made an application to set up a new church. Three days later, during which time Fargo kept telling her not to get her hopes up, she received a summons to see the Senior Elder, for the application had received a split vote: it would be left to him to decide.
At the requested time, early evening, Sinead approached the gate that led up to the house and gave her name to the guard through the bars. The gate swung open, and she was told to carry on up to the house and knock, loudly, for the servant was a little deaf. She thanked him and hurried on; rushing towards it like it was a mountain that had to be conquered. She passed a man coming the other way, also at speed. He was smiling – though he switched to frowning when he saw her – for his uncle inside, lay up in bed, and did not look well. He was Corbelli Shuman, The Village Cobbler, and he was a man with ambition.
The servant who answered the door was not surprised to see a young girl out of breath and eager to be allowed in. He told her to wait while he went to inform his master. Sinead waited, nervous, unable to stand still, like a pupil outside the headmaster’s office; preparing her defence; wishing to be treated like a grownup. The servant soon reappeared and beckoned her to follow him. He led her up some stairs to a bedroom and knocked. The gravelly struggling voice of an old man uttered the words ‘send her in’ and in she went, to see the Senior Elder sitting up in bed and stroking his beard like it was a pet cat. He was the most important person in The Village, yet somehow, right there and then, he looked weak, fragile, useless even. Here was an old man who could now see the finishing line in sight. Sinead did her best to ignore the image, and in her head clung on tightly to the words she had rehearsed and wanted to release.
The old man told her to stand still at the end of his bed and proceeded to look her up and down. He saw a body absolute in its innocence and virginity; a body driven by a mind absolute in its conviction. He made her turn a full circle to complete the picture before finally getting down to business. He had heard all about her, and had been dying to meet her – before he died, he had joked to himself. Now the joke felt slightly hollow. He told her to state her case and, figuratively speaking, sat back, and watched the show begin. He was stirred, impressed even, by her energy and zeal, and her desire to change the world of The Village, to make it into something better, to save it.