With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  Not long after the encounter with the sister of Festez, Mutz met the Skinned Heads, the gang which Festez wanted to join. He was keen, desperate almost, for Mutz to meet them, having promised them a real soldier. Mutz could not refuse his friend. They were expecting him. Festez told him that to join, he had to pass an initiation task, but he didn’t know what it was yet, or how difficult.

  Mutz reassured him. ‘You’ll do fine. There’s a soldier in you somewhere, I know it.’

  And Festez believed him.

  When the Skinned Heads met Mutz they were dismissive at first – their egos meant it could not be any other way. But very quickly they became mesmerised as he told them tales of his life as a soldier and a captain in the king’s army, in a castle far, far away (keeping details simple but bloody). So impressed was their leader that he offered to stand aside – become his lieutenant – if Mutz would join them, and lead them.

  Mutz laughed, thanked them, and said no, impossible; explaining that he did not intend to be around for long. However, seeing a bunch of bored kids, he did promise to spend time with them while he was ‘camped out’ – as he put it – in The Village. If they were willing to learn – they were, some of them shouted – he would teach them how to be good soldiers; how to forage; the art of concealment; how to plan an attack; how to defend a position; how to impress the women. He saw it all as a bit of a joke. They didn’t. They took it all very seriously. They wanted to be stronger than the smelly, long-haired Skunks. They wanted to be feared. And here was the man to help them do it.

  The leader asked about the uniform.

  ‘Uniform?’ asked Mutz. ‘What uniform?’

  ‘We must have a uniform. Isn’t that what you told him?’

  Mutz looked at their latest recruit. Yes, he had.

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right. Get yourself a uniform. Something simple, but clear, so you stand out. That will make you an army, not a gang.’

  Meanwhile, Esmeralda clung to Stevie, or her aunt, or her recent memories of Timothy, as she clung to her baby deep within. Her baby to be was her only connection to Timothy now, and to protect it she kept herself to herself. For her, there were only the Brothel and the School; the big girls and the small girls; the girls who had missed their chance and those who still might have one.

  Esmeralda often retreated from the world with a hard-won jar of honey. Her body craved it. She stuck her spoon in deep; twisted, and pulled; then twirled and twirled until the honey dripping reduced to a trickle she could manage; then negotiated the spoon into her mouth. It stayed in her mouth an age, as she sucked off all the honey. Lovely. Stevie would watch, fascinated, but get nothing for his good looking.

  The Elders had mixed feelings toward the state of their Senior’s health: some did not want him to die, afraid of who might succeed him; others wanted him gone, quick. In public, however, it was a united front. The man’s health was not helped by the constant visits of his nephew. Corbelli wore his uncle out with the same constant demand and would not let up. He wanted his promotion to Elder signed, sealed and delivered: ‘in the bag’ for when the vacancy arose, which would be soon.

  ***

  It was evening, in the tavern, and Lady Agnes stood limp in miserable silence as the fat farmer droned on about what little he knew about The Village. Then she woke up: Farmer Giles had suddenly said something interesting; something about having access to something ‘amazing’, in The Village hall; something about ancient artefacts stolen by The Village founders – the first Village Elders. He had a spare key; he boasted in hushed tones. She agreed to join him for a peek, giving Mutz a look for reassurance as she walked out into the dark and cold. Mutz nodded and sank the rest of his beer. Captain Mutz was never off duty.

  Giles plodded on ahead, like the best bull leading the herd. Lady Agnes followed on behind, as if under arrest. She followed him to The Village Hall, and around to its rear, like a dog being tugged along on a lead. This had better be good, she told herself. She looked around once, twice, but saw no sign of loyal, dutiful Mutz. He’s having another drink, she thought, and dismissed him – and nearly bumped into Giles. He had stopped to retrieve his bunch of keys from his trousers. He jingled them and looked around once before quickly unlocking a door. He hurried her inside, like one of his dogs. Lady Agnes bit her lip and did as requested, wishing to be gone from here as soon as possible – and gone from The Village.

  The inside of the building was dark, dusty. The room contained what looked like discarded junk. It had that forgotten feel, but then it was only the unfrequented rear: all the action went on at the front, in the main hall, for that was the point of The Village Hall, to put on a show.

  The Village Hall had stood for many generations, in the same place; polished, the centre of attention; always begging attention and a place for others to draw attention. Its doors opened and closed as people flowed in and out on a regular basis. It was a hub of government and surveillance. It received both high praise and criticism. It was the meeting point for business; for pleasurable conversation between those capable of conducting such a thing; for conspiracy; but rarely for intelligent debate. It was the home of village officialdom. It looked impressive, as had been the intention when built. It held court to powerful people: a small set of people drawn from a small set of The Village population. It demanded respect, and in the main got it. The Village Hall projected the power and authority of the Elders, and held its secrets. That had always been its main reason for existing, and hence it was a quality construction, far superior to all the buildings surrounding it. Only the homes of the Elders matched it.

  The two intruders – one fatter than he had ever been, one slimmer than she had ever been – passed through the first room into another, smaller room. It also required unlocking. It too was dark and dusty, but it was empty save for a horizontal display cabinet and a few chairs. Everything looked old and worn out, and was covered in a thick film of dust. Giles looked happy. Lady Agnes looked alarmed and held back. He lit a couple of candles and pushed back the curtains which half hid the cabinet. He wiped the dust from the glass with a sleeve of his shirt and peered in. Giles felt very good about himself, in total contrast to the once great, confident, daring Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. With a heavy hand, he pulled her in towards his prize.

  ‘Look,’ he said, not letting go.

  To make his point, he laid his arm across her shoulder. Lady Agnes felt like she was being attacked by a snake, but was unable to protest or wriggle out of his grip.

  ‘Look in there.’

  She looked where directed while at the same time wanted to punch the man. His close proximity was toxic. She could smell the cow dung. She saw familiar objects, but old and rusty: a helmet, much like she had seen around the castle, made for a king; a hunting knife, decorated and encrusted with precious stones; a ring, good enough to reside on the finger of a queen; and the fragment of a map, an ancient map of the Maze.

  ‘Well?’ barked Giles.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Impressed?’

  Lady Agnes tried to react as if impressed but couldn’t find the heart for she had seen better (except for the piece of map) and said so, which made Giles fume. She would have to change her ways if she was going to be his wife. He began to overheat, and his rate of sweat production increased. Lady Agnes wanted to leave, right now, hating the fact that she was alone in this near dark room with a sweaty, creepy Giles.

  She pointed at the ring. ‘I’ll have that, though.’

  ‘What, the ring? Don’t be stupid.’

  The ancient ring reminded Giles of weddings – his wedding, or rather the lack of one. He decided, now, in an instant, that this was the right moment for an ultimatum. He had her alone, off guard, vulnerable, perhaps scared – which was no bad thing. (His workers were scared of him, and that seemed to work well most of the time.)

  ‘Listen to me.’

/>   ‘I’m listening,’ replied Lady Agnes sarcastically.

  ‘No more delays. Let’s get married, now, yes? Else I let him go – and I tell everyone.’

  Lady Agnes looked horrified at the words he had just spluttered, and a sick feeling invaded her stomach. The fat farmer had wasted his words. She did not waste hers: she stared right back into his face, wishing to cut right through him. Sod Mutz. Sod Mozak for that matter. Sod all men.

  ‘You’ve got it badly wrong. I could never marry a man like you, a farmer. A farmer from a miserable village in the middle of nowhere? Are you mad? I’m a lady. I must marry a prince. Don’t you get it? I’m only here because I’m stuck here. I would be mad to spend the rest of my life stuck in this hole married to one of its farmers. I’d rather die.’

  The mix of insults and raw truth was too much for Giles to digest. He lashed out and struck the poisonous woman across the face. She fell to the ground, knocked out by one blow, taking a candle with her. Giles spat on her clothes and stormed off in disgust. It took just the flame of a candle, let loose to jump, to start something big. It was nothing more than an idle butterfly, flickering, and fluttering without a plan, but it would shake the community to the core. Such was the destructive nature of fire and its effect on the human condition.

  Lady Agnes was suddenly ripped from the very worst of enforced sleep, into a nightmare of pain as a flame licked her face; as if introducing itself and the damage it promised to do. She struggled to her feet while kicking at the burning curtain and ran, for her life; out of the building and into the arms of Mutz. Never had she been so glad to see him, hold him, and feel his thumping heart. Why was Mutz not the Prince Regent? He would be so good at the job for he was a good man. At that moment in time, she fell in love with him, but seconds later fell out of it, telling herself not to be such a damn fool. Mutz led his lady away slowly, carefully, with comforting words; back to the place they now called a kind of home. She had yet to notice that her hair was singed in places.

  Mutz wondered what the hell was happening. He felt he had failed badly in his duty. The Prince Regent would not forgive him. He might be demoted. Fuck them both, he thought. I should have stayed outside or inside, but not here, not in this mess, not in the middle of this fucking, accursed maze. Ignoring his lady’s protests – she did not want to be left alone – he went to find the only doctor in town: the Royal Doctor.

  Meanwhile, the fire spread and appeared at a window, where in time it was spotted and the alarm raised. The Village people gathered. Some looked on as if a show had been put on for their benefit. Some watched, glad; some were sad. Some looked around, looking for someone to take the lead. Is anyone going to do anything about this? Some looked around, to see if anyone was watching them. Some had never before seen a fire in such an important place. The Village Hall was not supposed to catch fire: it was too special to catch fire, too protected. But here it was, on fire, like any other building. How had the Elders allowed such a thing to happen? Were they incompetent? Would the church catch fire? Would The Village catch fire? Could they catch fire? And a question grew big in some minds: had someone started this fire? We need it to rain, thought one villager.

  A few Elders arrived on the scene – the younger ones – and stared in alarm. They stroked their beards as if deep in thought, when in fact they simply wanted to look calm and in control of the situation. The one with the smallest beard stood on two wobbly wooden crates which had been stacked badly and began to issue orders, badly.

  ‘Put this fire out!’ he shouted. ‘Now! Before it takes hold. Don’t just stand there gawping, looking stupid! Haven’t you lot seen a fire before!’

  Some hadn’t. Some jeered. Some turned away. Some threw stones at him. He slipped and nearly sprained an ankle. For the first time in a long time, an Elder was caught off balance and looked really stupid; definitely not in control of the situation. Some laughed while the mixed responses assaulted the senses of the Elders and stunned them into silence. Some grunted their protests. Some shouted at the top of their voices, not caring who heard them. Some walked away in disgust.

  ‘Drop the tax, and we’ll put out the fire!’ someone shouted.

  The older generation, driven by a deeper, stronger sense of civic duty, went and fetched buckets of water; some with their offspring who had been persuaded to do likewise, or kicked out of bed and told to help else suffer the consequences. Breamston, the blacksmith, and his wife also appeared on the scene, with buckets of water on a handheld cart. Fire and water were major players in part of Breamston’s life.

  The Village Hangman appeared with his men and galvanised a bigger, better response with the threat of beatings. Space opened up around him like he was infected with fire, or plague, or the devil. The Village Hangman had never courted popularity, only souls to hang. He stood impassive, ready to save the day. Then a stone hit him on the back of the head. He spun around, furious, looking for a fight; looking for someone to arrest; his public image compromised. He saw his brother and, like the Elders, the man looked vulnerable, if only for a few seconds.

  Tassilo and Ricardo appeared, almost at the same time. Tassilo prayed for a quick resolution. Ricardo watched him pray. Tassilo would not stand close to Ricardo and politely moved away whenever Ricardo edged closer towards him. For now, the gap would not close. Please, God, make it rain, thought Tassilo.

  The Skunks and the Skinned Heads both appeared and, forgetful, almost mingled, fascinated as they were by the spectacle and commotion. Seeing The Village convulse was fun. Simple Simon also made an appearance, almost unnoticed, and enjoyed what he saw, until someone hit him – then he didn’t enjoy it so much. But he stayed, to see how a fire worked when it became a large fire. It had never occurred to him that buildings could burn like the fires you sat around to keep away the cold and dark. A vagrant, half asleep, always hungry, never satisfied, shuffled on to the scene. He stopped and stared, wondering what all the fuss was about then carried on his way for he had greater concerns to deal with, like how to stay alive.

  The Village Cobbler, the Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker, and other assorted tradesmen also gathered in a group to stare up at the fire, and worry about the cost to put things right. Could The Village afford to put it right? How would this affect business? Perhaps some would burn their boots and need replacements? The tailors saw extra business coming their way but were careful to not gloat about it. It was never good to be seen to be making too much money too quickly.

  The artefacts – all bar the map which was destroyed – were recovered by The Village Hangman and handed over to the Elders. After careful inspection, they were handed over to the Vicar who was told to clean them and lock them away in a secure part of the church. Tassilo was glad to oblige, for this could only add weight to the importance of his church. Later though, upon reflection, the thought that the whole village knew where the artefacts – possibly the most important objects in The Village – were being held began to worry him badly. He needed comfort.

  ***

  Lady Agnes was traumatized. Her face stung. Her hatred for The Village reached a new high. She hated her room. She hated the air she had to breathe to stay alive. She hated her face. She hated her rash. She hated Mozak. She hated herself. She sobbed: she would never be Queen, never; the Prince Regent would cast her from his sight, forever, forever. A crazy, dangerous thought sprang into her head: perhaps she should marry the farmer after all. No, was the unequivocal response. That would be the ultimate act of madness and pure hell. You are still a lady, she told herself. Still a lady amongst peasants. Is there not more to me than my face?

  Doc was little help. All he could do was offer cool words and cold water while a watchful, silent, emotionless Mutz looked on, and Lady Agnes shouted at him to make the pain and the damage go away. His little bit done, Doc left her in the hands of her capable captain and went off to find his friend the witch, to ask her to come to the ai
d of their patient, and apply all her knowledge and expertise, no expense spared.

  Esmeralda made an appearance and tried to reassure her friend that time would heal, but she failed to bring much in the way of comfort. She served only as a reminder of how they had switched places: once the confident, focused Lady Agnes had been the strength and comfort; now Esmeralda played that part – though she may have been acting. Lady Agnes made it clear that she wanted to go home and lock herself away.

  ‘I want to go home now!’ she cried.

  Mutz, his defences up, did his best to ignore her verbal battering. Esmeralda pretended not to hear. She wanted her to stay, and so too Captain Mutz until Timothy was back (to pick up the pieces). The two agreed to let their lady rest. Let the doctor take care of her. Each gave her one last look of something approaching pity before creeping out of the room. The usually powerful personality of Lady Agnes Aga-Smath was possibly no more. Would she rebound? Would she be able to face up to the Prince Regent with that face? Mutz didn’t want to know. He was just a soldier. He just wanted to fight.

  Lady Agnes could bear being alone but could not bear to touch her face, not even with the lightest touch of the end of her finger. It was too painful, both physically and mentally. I am still the one and only Lady Agnes Aga-Smath, she kept telling herself. They cannot take that away from me. She kept repeating the boast until she fell asleep. It would be a bad, short-lived sleep. She would awake in the middle of the night and lie still, eyes open, trying not to think. But think she did: she wanted to burn The Village down; she wanted to see Farmer Giles burn, slowly, on a bonfire made from the pieces of his dismantled windmill, whilst he was forced to choke on pork pies.

  ***

  After the fire, the Elders convened a special meeting, concerned that it may have been started on purpose. An anti-tax protest? Suggested one. Definitely! The others all agreed. Outraged, they voted overwhelmingly to increase the tax to not only pay for its repair but leave some over for their own use. The Senior Elder was not informed, in case he decided to veto it. Upon reflection, they decided to allow payments by instalments, though with interest.