With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Come back!’

  Lady Agnes pretended not to hear him and headed on towards a big, old oak tree, and some kids who sat on its branches, there to wait for her man Mutz.

  ‘Bitch!’ said Giles when she was out of earshot.

  He choked on his lust for her body and reproductive capacity; and what he could do with it; and what it could produce with the input of his seed. He wanted to tie her down, harness the energy which flowed out of her; chain her in a cell of domesticity – chain her like he had chained the bear. But the law (as it stood, and it didn’t need to stand still) did not allow him to do so. Perhaps when it came to Outsiders the law could be changed? But Farmer Giles was obstinate (and stupid when it came to an understanding of the opposite sex) so would not give up. No cow had ever beaten him. And no bull had ever had the bollocks. Sweating and red-faced, he stormed off; trying to pretend it hadn’t mattered. One day he would have his fierce fornication.

  When Mutz finally appeared, Lady Agnes made a fast track for her man: the great, strong, dependable Captain Mutz; near perfect in all the important things except duty. He was far too perfect in that regard, for he refused to desert his prince and take her home.

  Even before the bar opened, fights broke out or were nipped in the bud. Drinking had started earlier as some had brought their own supplies, wary of what Farmer Giles would charge; just as some had brought their own food, to picnic in style whilst watching the mayhem unfold around them.

  A fight nearly broke out between the Blacksmith’s wife and Aunt Rosamund: they absolutely hated each other. Mrs Breamston had it firmly set in her worn-out, fossilized head that the dirty, disgusting brothel keeper had stolen her girl, her housemaid. And she hated the fact that the brothel-keeper ran a successful, thriving business, while her husband didn’t; and that the woman was free, beholding to no man, while she wasn’t.

  As verbal sparks flew across the narrow divide, and fists threatened, Mutz had to step in and hold back Aunt Rosamund. Likewise, Breamston had to restrain his wife. Esmeralda tried to pretend that it was not happening. She hated to see her aunt abandon all sense of decorum and act like the worst sort of disturbed peasant. Esmeralda wished for only one thing that Timothy was back by her side. In truth, she wished for far more: that Timothy was not the twin brother of a prince in a castle far away on the outside of the Maze; that he had not entered the Maze to take his brother to the outside. Which outside was inside? She could not remember. And she did not want to, which was why this year, more than any previous, she wanted to forget herself at the Fete.

  A noisy bunch of angry men came marching across the fields on to the scene, determined to spoil the party: they had once worked for Farmer Giles, and then one day, without warning, he had sacked them. They carried a banner on poles. It carried the message: a decent wage for a decent day’s work! They shouted insults like ‘don’t buy his pork pies, it’s chicken shit’; ‘his windmill took our jobs’; ‘Giles doesn’t pay tax, why should we’.

  Onlookers clapped and cheered them on their way. Children looked on bemused, never having seen such behaviour before by grown men, and not understanding the change in the atmosphere. When The Village Hangman saw them, he was drawn to laugh, before quickly correcting himself: this was a deadly serious situation. It stank of law-breaking to come. He had to be on his guard.

  It was awhile before their ex-employer saw them, but when he did, he exploded inside, like a fireball; while on the outside he stared in silence, stunned, as his battered brain frantically tried to string together some thoughts and connect them up with good, choice, threatening words which he could fire off at the scum who had invaded his pitch. Giles shot a look of pure hatred at the two ringleaders. In return, they cheered, seeing that they had the desired effect. They were determined to spoil his big day, big time. Sad scum thought Giles.

  His men began to assemble behind their boss, wondering if and how to react; awaiting his direction, but not wishing to get involved. (The use of violence had never been part of the job specification.) And these men facing each other knew each other mostly; likewise their women. It was far too intimate a gathering. And it was all the fault of Farmer Giles. He wanted to beat the brains out of this scum and wanted his men to do it, quickly. He did not want his big day spoilt.

  After they had run out of grievances and accusations to shout about, the sacked workers taunted their replacements; begging for a fight, whilst at the same time confusing them with questions like:

  ‘Why do you work for that git? You know he’s a tight-fisted bastard!’

  ‘Does your family still talk to you?’

  ‘Look at us! You’ll end up like us, you cretins!’

  And Giles hated it all: it infiltrated to the core of him; it reduced his standing amongst the poor village peasants, and more importantly, amongst the Elders. He was losing face, fast; and, to add insult to injury, on Fete Day of all days. Without hesitation, he set his dogs (underpaid, overworked, often insulted, rarely thanked) onto the enemy at the door.

  It was not a fair fight: his men lacked the heart; the sacked workers had nothing to lose and were bitter beyond any bad emotion like fear or trepidation, which might be stirred up. Gile’s men fought only not to get beaten, to save face. The opposition fought to win, at any cost, even if that meant walking away wounded; perhaps to become Village Cripples. For them, it was a fight worth pursuing. It was the only way to get back at that fucking Farmer Giles.

  The Skunks and Skinned Heads gathered tight together – differences temporarily forgotten – and looked on, enthralled, over-excited, some wishing to join in. This was entertainment of the best kind. This was men behaving badly: grown men behaving really badly; men acting like the stupid, small kids they had once been, time having only really made them taller and heavier. Grimble saw he had a lot of catching up to do. The leader of the Skinned Heads thought much the same, but with slightly more emphasis on ‘silliness’. Festez, his latest recruit, was scared but hid it well. Sinead studied the picture hard and stored away the images of violence for a rainy day.

  Farmer Giles stood frowning, arms folded, like a general analysing the flow of battle, and he was not happy. He was not winning and it was making him look stupid in front of those who had gathered to watch the sport. He needed another injection of muscle; with more determination, more hate, more killer-instinct. He did not want this scum to succeed, to ever think about stepping back on to his land – his land! In a hushed, private conversation he persuaded The Village Hangman, with the promise of money, to set his men on them and run them off his land. His land! The hangman agreed (but only after a tough negotiation over fees).

  The Hangman’s men changed the whole dynamic, and the audience was disappointed, seeing now that the show would soon be over. The protestors being outnumbered, fled; some with tails between their legs; finally paralysed by fear and accumulation of physical injuries; their banner left abandoned in the mud. Kids swarmed all over it, jumped on it; only to run away fast when Farmer Giles stormed towards it and jumped all over it, determined to make it sink from view into the mud. After calming down (relatively speaking), he ordered that it be taken away and burnt. He needed a drink. His fete had been spoilt: the herd had been disturbed, rattled, and it would not calm back down. ‘Bring out the bear, now,’ he told his head man. ‘Get the dogs ready.’

  Like others, Doc was drawn to the spectacle, but in his case it was to be ready to clean up the mess on the battlefield. But his services were not sought: the wounded either fled or refused his offer of help. So be it, he thought. Just like back at the Castle. Lady Agnes and Captain Mutz stood by his side: both had seen the like of it before. She was only slightly alarmed, though she did cling to Mutz’ arm. Mutz was not. He was however struck by a sense of guilt when he saw Festez trying to act tough in front of his new mates, lapping up the violence for pleasure or to impress, and suffering because of it. Swallowing poison ne
ver did you any good, thought Mutz. Gregory had told him that once. Or was it Iedazimus?

  His discomfort increased when Festez’ sister, standing close by, threw him – him, Mutz, an honourable captain in an honourable army – a look loaded with accusations and disappointment. She was judging him, and he didn’t like it one bit. He walked away, shaking off his lady. She let him go, sensing an angry Mutz. But Mutz could not escape so easily: Festez’ sister made a beeline for him, marching across the grass like any good soldier with a mission. When she caught him up, she poked him in the arm to snatch his attention (away from nothing).

  ‘Happy now?’

  Happy about what? thought Mutz.

  ‘You have nothing to say?’

  He didn’t, so she walked on; away from the nasty crowd; out of the field; away from the fete; back to her home; there to wait for the next episode to begin in her life and her brother’s life; to wonder if it would be bright and beautiful, or dirty and downhill, or broken and burnt out too early. So much to think about, but all she could do was wait, and watch, for she had no help. (Not even the sound of her own voice, for nowadays it barely registered with her not-so-little brother.) And to think, she had once changed his dirty nappy; once hugged him until he was warm; once kept his demons at bay; once helped him to finish his food; once played games with him; once helped him get to sleep. She corrected herself: not once but often. Lack of gratitude: it was the curse of men. Never marry, she told herself, not for the first time. It wasn’t worth it. Many had warned her: life was cruel in the Village, and now she understood how cruel it could be.

  When Farmer Giles ordered the bar to be opened for business, a cheer went up, for cheap booze now began to flow. Men grabbed their wives for a grope, or the wives of their brothers, or the sisters of their wives, or old girlfriends. Some grabbed their daughters by mistake; and some on purpose. Some got slapped away hard. Others were rewarded for their persistence. Women, single and married alike, flirted and flouted their worth.

  As bladders filled to capacity, so village people began to relieve themselves, but not always in the designated area: some pissed up against a tree, men alongside their sons or dogs; some pissed where they stood, hoping – pretending – that no one was watching. Some did it in the fake maze, perhaps wishing to protest about the real thing. With that in mind, some also did a shit there. Some had shit for brains and could never dump it. They would have to carry it around like heavy luggage until the day they died, never knowing what was weighing them down.

  Some couples, intoxicated or just frustrated, made love behind the bushes or in a ditch: quick enough to not be seen, or missed. It was quick, dirty sex. (And it was dirty, what with the mud.)

  After knocking back a few stiff drinks, Farmer Giles ended up standing on a table, unsteady, with another drink in his hand, and announced that the bear-baiting was about to begin; and that there were still tickets left. He was happy again. He had made good money today, the traders less so: for a lot of time and energy – today had been no holiday for them – their takings had been slim. Later, huddled together over their beers, they would agree to boycott next year’s fete, if it meant Farmer Giles again.

  There was a rush to get a good spot, and Farmer Giles led the way: his men pushed back the crowd to let him through. Lady Agnes, holding her two tickets, dragged Mutz along with her, against his will. Esmeralda declined to join them, and Doc was nowhere to be seen.

  Some villagers thought this Bear Baiting show was free.

  ‘Free?’ shouted one man at another. ‘Don’t be stupid – that Giles does nothing for free. You should know that by now – unless you’re an idiot, like him.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like The Village Idiot, stupid.’

  ‘I’m not stupid!’

  A fight was avoided by the wives stepping in quickly to pull their husbands apart.

  Despite his protests, Mutz wanted to see how the bear was faring and pushed his way to the front, Lady Agnes in tow. He could not ignore it. Here was a fine, majestic animal, being put on display for many who were not so fine, and definitely not majestic. If he was king here, he would have that farmer arrested and flogged, and the bear set free. Deep inside the soldier, a joker laughed: but they don’t have kings here, you idiot!

  The dogs were as ready as ever, bursting to break free, but the bear was not. The creature which was chained to the post was a pitiful sight, not the worthy opponent the audience had seen previously. The bear was not malnourished, just brittle. Farmer Giles had fed him well; unlike his human captive, about which he had no interest other than keeping alive for the money. The bear did not understand the concept of suicide, but he wanted to die. The bear did not want to come out to play. The noise was deafening. The crowd was bent.

  The bear had once had it all: the freedom to roar; freedom to roam; opportunity to kill. Likewise, its fellow prisoner, the failed monk, had once had it all: the freedom to roar (the word of God); freedom to roam (inside other people’s heads); opportunity to convert. Their gaoler, the fat farmer, still had it all: freedom to roar, freedom to roam, and opportunity to kill. The bear had once dominated those around him, as had the failed monk, as Farmer Giles still did.

  It was a one-sided fight. Even the dogs smelt surrender, and their bark lacked bite. Some turned and looked at their master for direction for something was not right. Giles urged them on, as did the crowd, except Mutz and Lady Agnes: Mutz because he saw the suffering and could not abide it; Lady Agnes because she saw the suffering of Mutz. Without warning, overcome by nausea, he jumped over the barrier into the ring. He had it in his head that he, the great and good Captain Mutz, had a mission he could not refuse: to save a beautiful creature from an ugly crowd.

  Applause broke out, and he was cheered on (except by a stunned Lady Agnes). Was this maniac about to fight a bear? Giles panicked. He did not want a dead man on his patch, on his day, and not this man.

  ‘Get that idiot out of there!’ he screamed at the top of his voice.

  His men jumped in after Mutz, dragging him away under protest, just as he was about to make contact with the bear’s claws. The bear thought him no better than the dogs which ran around in circles confused. The crowd cheered even louder, and Lady Agnes crept away, wishing not to be seen. Mutz exchanged the dirtiest of looks with Giles before walking away, each trying to look down on the other with moral superiority, and each failing. The uneasy truce continued, as would the payments: business as usual.

  Mutz had however succeeded in killing the moment and Giles pulled his dogs off: better to save his bear for a better day. He did not want his prized asset to be stripped bare. The decision went down badly with The Village people, and he was booed and hissed. In retaliation, he threatened to let his dogs loose on them. The crowd dispersed; some having had enough for the day; some to head back to the bar and get blind drunk; the rest making their way towards the bonfire and King Scarecrow.

  Sinead was shattered, all the toffee apples were gone, and wanted to leave but Grimble insisted she stay for the burning, for the bonfire. He bought the last two pork pies and demanded she eat one. After two small bites, she refused to eat anymore, saying that it was too ‘gristly’, which he didn’t understand. Giving up, he consumed it at speed. After all, a man had to eat even if a woman wouldn’t.

  Time to start a fire.

  ***

  The Village people headed for the duck pond: some at their leisure, some at speed; women in a row, arms locked; drunks were stumbling as they steered a course; children were skipping, and some were holding on to their mothers. Most men carried torches, to be lit later by the bonfire and for the bonfire, with which to lead them back home. Some men were dressed up as ‘ancient builders’, without knowing what such myths had ever looked like, which made them look stupid to some. Some played pipes; some banged drums; all were trying to outperform each other. Some carried swords, shi
elds and wore tin hats, determined to dominate. Others wore headgear depicting wolf heads, determined to be noticed. All came with one purpose in mind: to see the king burn. The king had to burn.

  Around the pond, dead dogs and cats had been stuck up high on spikes, along with a dead man – or rather his skull. No one knew who he was, or had been, and no one cared, but year on year he attracted attention, and all without saying a word.

  A crowd built up around the bonfire and the King Scarecrow who commanded it. He was tied to a wooden post, waiting to be sacrificed, and satisfied. Some in the crowd licked their lips in anticipation while he stared down at the crazed partygoers with his manic grin as if he had the last laugh. They wanted to see him burn. Burn! Burn! It was a chant which ate into each and every soul. Here was the excuse – the medicine – to let rip all anger, all frustration, and all restraint which bedevilled their lives. They could not burn each other – or the Elders – but they could burn King Scarecrow and wipe that stupid smile off his face, until next year. King Scarecrow was there to be hated, victimised, and scorned. The bonfire was there to be enjoyed, celebrated.

  Along with this year’s selected Elder, Farmer Giles was given the honour of lighting the King Scarecrow. The Elder did not hang around long: he appeared suddenly out of nowhere, as if by magic, said a few words (which few heard) then, sharing the ceremonial torch with Farmer Giles, proceeded to light the kindling at the feet of the king; whereupon he slipped away, quietly and without trouble, leaving the farmer to say whatever he felt still needed to be said. Farmer Giles had nothing to say. He just shouted ‘yes!’ again and again, until the crowd shouted it louder. There was chanting, and it was crude.