by Euan McAllen
‘I want to go home,’ she declared at one point.
‘But there’s so much to do, to see,’ insisted Esmeralda.
‘Like what?’
‘Well there’s The Maze.’
‘The Maze?’
‘Not the real one silly, the wooden one. It’s a game.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And there’s the big bonfire to come. We have to see that. We have to see him burn.’
‘See what burn? Giles?’
Esmeralda’s face twisted up as she tried to work out whether to laugh or be shocked.
‘No, the big scarecrow. They call him King Scarecrow. And now I know why.’
Lady Agnes was not listening. ‘I want to go home to my castle.’
She had had enough of kings.
Mutz pretended not to hear her. He was sick of hearing that complaint from her, over and over, again and again. Where was the Prince Regent when he needed him? In a bed surrounded by nurses? Was he drunk, flat out on some floor? Or lost in the Maze? He thought of Timothy. Was he coping? Esmeralda was also thinking of him. Where are you, Timothy? I really need you here. There’s fun to be had here, and you’re not here to share it with me!
A young mother cradling her newborn attracted the attention of other women who wanted to see it, hold it, even love it. Esmeralda and Lady Agnes were drawn towards her, as were girls from the brothel. They all went weak at the knees, and slightly crazy in the head: Esmeralda because she wished for a safe pregnancy, and the delivery of a perfect, healthy baby for her man; Lady Agnes because one part of her was still undecided, while another part was begging her to say yes, to commit to something wonderful; brothel girls because here was something they desperately wanted, but assumed they could never have. Where are you Timothy? Thought Esmeralda. I need you here!
In keeping with tradition, a wooden maze was constructed out of fence panelling as a game for children: enter one end and escape out the other; perhaps while being chased by an adult dressed as a witch, or an Elder. The wooden maze drew in all the kids: they had to rise to the challenge and beat it. Some entered it as if it was a baptism of fire: some voluntarily; some with the persuasion or pushing of their parents; some because they saw others rushing in, and not wanting to be left behind, or fearing being labelled a coward. And it attracted many adults, for it was one way to get back at the Maze proper. It was a place in which to lose oneself, to forget about a miserable, constrained life in this miserable, confined place they called The Village.
Simple Simon ran into the maze, he wish to escape, or to explore, to find himself. He would be disappointed, just like last year. But he would not give up. Only an idiot would give up. He spoke with other kids wandering around in a daze who like him had no idea about what, or why, or who; only that it was now, and here; and if you tried hard enough it could be fun; and if you showed fear, it would eat you up.
Farmer Giles did not enter the maze, not wishing to look silly if he looked lost; not wishing to drown in the snotty, grubby, noisy offspring of The Village people.
In time, when the queue had gone, and Doc was sitting exhausted but pleased with his performance, his new friend Ingella approached him like a child seeing a lollipop left on a tabletop, unclaimed. She looked around a few times before making her claim. She said hello, once, twice, then again just to be sure. Doc said, ‘hello’ back each time. She smiled more and more as words were exchanged. Ingella was very impressed with his nature, and that he had one, and told him so, and that took years off him.
Kids climbed the trees and stared out at all that was happening around them, and down below at other kids who wanted to get in on the act. In time, driven by thoughts of their treehouse, the Skunks did the same, until ordered down by The Village Hangman’s men. They thought it peculiar and found it disconcerting to have such big boys – grown men almost – up a tree shouting, clapping, swearing at the crowd, breaking wind and sticking up fingers. Grimble did not join in, partially because he wanted to stay at Sinead’s side, partially because as leader of the gang, he wanted to show dignity at all times.
From a distance, Mutz spotted red, strangely familiar: it was the Skinned Heads gang, dressed in what he could only describe as a uniform; and they looked like they were looking for trouble. Initially, he was impressed, then horrified as to what it suggested: that he held so much power over these wayward lads. They were not soldiers to command but boys to contain. He had a vision of castle soldiers, about to kill and be killed. He saw the wounded, limbs hacked off, heads battered, until death was at the door, and received as a welcomed relief. He saw boys desperate to be men, really bad men, the worst kind of men, and he wanted to turn back the clock. Where was Timothy? He would know what to do. Where was Prince Mozak? It was his fault.
To keep the peace, the two gangs agreed to three games of skittles. It did not go well. There were accusations of distraction tactics and foul play; that the balls were rigged; and some of the skittles fell over by their own accord without being hit, as if by the hand of God. There were no winners, only sore losers, and a bored Sinead. Fed up with the noise the other side could make, the gangs drifted apart. Later, they would come together for a tug of war showdown. Simple: one match, one winner; nothing to confuse the result.
At Grimble’s insistence, Sinead followed him into the maze. She thought it stupid, a toy for children. She felt like a prisoner being escorted around the block, or towards the block; towards suffocation; towards a resolution, she was not seeking. Her brother still burning in her brain; she hoped it was sodomite-free.
Inside, Grimble changed. He became hell-bent on kicking out at the twists and turns which seemed to infuriate him. He wanted to kick down the stupid fences which passed for stone walls inside this stupid, crap imitation maze which was supposed to entertain him, test him. Sinead goaded him on. She wanted him to break out so she could break-in.
Suddenly the fighter Grimble crumbled. He had to have a smoke. He produced his weed – it was hers now as much as his – and suggested that they get lost for a while (which they already were, in all senses). As they sat and smoked, leaning against the fence, staring up at a blue sky, Sinead boasted that she would knock down the maze and build a better one: taller, it would reach Heaven, as it would reach the ends of the world. Grimble just wanted to burn it down. They felt hemmed in. They had to think about where to go next, how to get out, and they did not take to the task. There was no pleasure in it: the challenge was too simple, but the right answer was hard to find, and their reaction was overcomplicated.
Head going to pot, Grimble produced a penknife and carved his initial ‘G’ with pride and defiance into the wood. He began to carve a complimentary ‘S’ but Sinead stopped him sharp and snatched away the knife, determined to do it herself. Grimble did not resist or complain. He just watched her, as he often did now, like he was watching someone both repulsive and sexy, a friend and foe, a lover and hater, but someone definitely better than anything he might pretend to be.
Two small children, a girl, and a boy, holding hands, ran up, smiling, and said hello. In unison, almost with one voice, Sinead and Grimble told them to fuck off. Sinead was prepared to smack them if they didn’t obey her immediately. She brandished the penknife at them, and they ran off, terrified.
The tug of war between the two gangs took an agonizing age to arrange as the two gangs argued incessantly over how many were to take place, and whom to include as age was an issue. The leader of each gang was included by default, of that there was no question.
Mutz was drawn to watch, and found himself standing beside an excited young girl, a very skinny girl: the one some called ‘the crazy girl’ or ‘the crazy bitch’. He could not help noticing that she had her eye on everybody; that she seemed to be taking notes; that she was both there and not there. He saw two sides in the tug-of-war, his and the other, and wished it could always be as simple a
s that: no confusion of any kind; always a straightforward, winner-takes-all, fight of equal numbers without initial advantage. But that was never to be. And this was just a game.
It was a game which took both sides to the edge of exhaustion; which drew in an audience mainly of kids; which resulted in a win for the Skunks over the Skinned Heads. Grimble was jubilant and grabbed his Sinead around the waist intending to give her a big, long, wet kiss; only to withdraw at the last moment in a state of slight shock. He had felt not a woman but skin and bones. He felt revolted: he had almost kissed a corpse.
After much consumption of food and a little cider, Ingella came up to Doc boldly, as he was shutting up shop, and asked if he would join her in the maze.
‘In the maze?’ Doc asked, slightly scared.
Ingella pointed. ‘Yes, way over there. You can see the children coming out?’
Doc peered into the distance and relaxed. ‘Yes, sorry. Of course. I would be delighted.’
He heard himself speaking in his best possible voice, the one reserved for his king or Prince Regent, and it dawned on him that Ingella was changing him.
They went in together, as two people. They would come out as a couple, holding hands, and unafraid. For a joke, wishing to make him laugh, Ingella pushed her doctor against a fence and ran on ahead, demanding that he try and catch her. She was careful not to run too fast, and to make sure he saw her turn every corner. She wanted him to catch up and grab her, in the nicest way possible.
Back outside, as Ingella walked away, waving and smiling like a little girl, Doc felt, for the first time, that he had arrived home – after leaving home. All he needed now was a nest. He felt ten – no twenty years younger. And it was down to her, no question about it.
Farmer Giles was in his element: Fete Day was the day to make serious money. And it would reinforce the fact that he was definitely the richest farmer in The Village, possibly richer than most Elders (hence his ability to bribe some when required). Soon he planned to join their ranks. To him, The Villagers were inferior and the Elders smugly superior, but stupid, but also a necessary irritation: after all, who else was going to keep the peasants in check? He would make a good Elder, he told himself.
He worked his way around the grounds of his fete and what he regarded as his crowd, wishing to milk them for all their worth much like he milked his cows. He was on the prowl for those not having a good time. He almost leapt on some, telling them to do so, for he had put a lot of personal time and effort into making the big day a success. And to be fair, he had.
Giles had placed his best men around his precious, brand new, state-of-the-art windmill; not wishing ugly, clumsy village people to get anywhere near it. It attracted the attention of some, but in no uncertain terms, they were told to clear off. The men forced to do this deed hated him for it, for it made them unpopular with people they knew, family even. One guard had to hold back his over-excited brother who tried, again and again, to storm past and gain entrance. He wanted to see the view from the top. Only when he was pushed to the ground did he take the warnings seriously and clear off, cursing his brother who had ‘sold out to that fat farmer’.
His pork pies sold well, despite the price: they were good, making some conclude that he wasn’t such a rip-off merchant after all, though he would always be an arsehole. And there were bread rolls and butter – bread baked that morning. What had got into the man? Had fat Farmer Giles found a good side? Or God? Had that crazy girl converted him?
‘Go try the bingo,’ he preached. ‘Win a prize. Feel good.’ Some bowed to his pressure and did so, just to make him go away. They won nothing. The same man at the back nearly always won, and always the big prizes. And if not him, then the other man. Both looked like farmworkers: large, fit, suntanned, weather-beaten with a touch of surliness and gloom splashed across their faces.
One cunning villager soon cottoned on and suspected that they were both plants, both in the pay of Farmer Giles. But he would not confront the man, for the man – or his men – could squash him. Instead, he would take his discovery home with him, to share it out like a piece of cake, as and when the moment was right. He stopped playing after five rounds and dragged his wife away when she refused to stop.
Tassilo watched from afar, not wishing to join in. He saw something second-rate, hollow. This bingo was nothing like Church Bingo: it was far less comfortable, far from cosy, far from friendly, far from sociable. It had no soul. The benches were wobbly, and the table was the wrong height. He was struck by a sense of guilt. It came in the shape of an emotional bullet: perhaps he had made a mistake, he thought, and should reinstate Church Bingo; but only if they paid the tax to improve the church. He thought of cushions: more cushions might tempt a bigger audience, and persuade them to sit for longer while he spoke.
Many complained under their breath, but kept on playing, just in case they won something. They gave Farmer Giles a broad smiling whenever he passed by. The unlucky ones were slapped on the back.
‘Won anything yet?’ he enquired as he squeezed an elderly woman’s fragile shoulder.
‘No,’ she replied whilst trying to ignore the pain.
‘Well, keep trying, I know you will. Your number will come up soon. I’m sure of it.’
To her that sounded vaguely like a reminder of death; and her numbers didn’t come up and never would; and she would win nothing that day.
Esmeralda finally persuaded Lady Agnes and Mutz to play the maze; almost insisting, as if she had a debt to pay as if needing them to undergo the same experience she had many times in her youth. But she declined to join them, deciding for no good reason that three would be a crowd in there.
‘Don’t expect much,’ she advised.
‘I never do,’ retorted Lady Agnes, which made Mutz frown.
And in they went, Lady Agnes holding onto her captain’s arm. Both tried to enjoy the puzzle, but in no time, it was an insult to their intelligence. It was water when she wanted wine. It was milk, not meat.
The fencing could be kicked down: the stone walls of the real thing could not. The distances and alternatives could be gobbled up in minutes – seconds if you ran – whereas the Maze could break you. For her, this wooden maze was at best a bit of fun. The true Maze was murder. That said, something was recharging her batteries: it was probably her loyal Captain Mutz, and inside that maze, she never let go of him for one moment. She had him all to herself.
Lady Agnes was ten again; free of breasts and sex again; chasing after small boys again with the intention of kicking them. Perhaps she was twelve again and waking up to the world again. Either way, in here she was undetectable, let off the leash, mother-free. Captain Mutz was now her toy soldier to do as she commanded. (She commanded nothing, and he did nothing, except stay in step.) She could laugh out loud, but something held her back.
She remembered running around the garden maze; sometimes for the sheer joy of it; sometimes chasing a prized prince; and being chased, and being caught, and being caught out; and chasing for dear life, for she had wanted a very special husband. She nearly burst into tears, and Mutz felt her arm shaking, but he did not want to ask what was wrong, thinking he would hear the same old answer yet again.
She let go. She had to run, run for her life. But in there she could not run very far or for very long. Quickly becoming out of breath, she had to stop and wait for Mutz to catch her up, shouting back at him as he shouted out for her. She wanted to be back home, back amongst her elite, but this time didn’t bother to complain, not wishing to spoil the moment of temporary escape from The Village, if not the Maze. She took his hand this time – an arm was not enough – pretending to be afraid that she was lost. It was his job to take it at such times, and he knew it. He could not wriggle out of it. He tried to think nothing of it. He wanted to get out of the maze. He had to take a piss. It was urgent. It was the perfect excuse to shake her off.
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nbsp; A small girl bumped headlong into Lady Agnes’s knee. She was running scared as she had lost sight of her big sister. Lady Agnes took her hand and discovered her name, and calmed her, and led her out; to watch her run away, with envy for fat Farmer Giles was hurtling towards her bearing another gift.
Farmer Giles spotted his quarry loitering at the exit from the maze, no bodyguard in sight, looking like she could do with a drink. This was it! he thought. Here we go. He felt he was holding his fate in his hands, on Fete Day of all days. He saw the irony in his thoughts and exploded with laughter, which made a few spin around in alarm. He edged forward; cup in hand, half the bottle of potion in the cup; his last chance and ultimate dream in the potion. He prepared his best manner; took a deep breath; and spoke as he blocked her way as if his life depended on it.
‘Drink? You look thirsty.’
He tried to come across as not aggressive, just concerned. He tried to look like she had done nothing wrong, that he had forgiven her for her previous outburst. As a rule, he did not like meat, which was difficult to swallow, but in this case, he was prepared to make an exception.
Avoiding eye to eye contact, Lady Agnes looked down into the cup and smelt a rat: the gesture was too insistent; the smile too forced; the timing too perfect. Remembering her prince, she sensed a wicked wolf. There was no love in the air that day for Farmer Giles: there was hate, in abundance, and not just from Lady Agnes. He had been reduced to a big lump of quivering fat which kept popping up in front of her and made her want to vomit. She said nothing and squeezed past him, determined to continue on her way; careful to avoid even the slightest physical contact; like he was a dead, decaying, maggot-ridden accident of an animal. Giles watched her walk away: he did not understand it; he could not accept it. What was the big deal?