by Euan McAllen
The flames took hold and crept up towards the king, but still, he grinned down at the poor stupid village people: they might burn him, but they could never banish him. They might run from him, but he would always catch them up, even here, in the heart of the Maze. He was indestructible. He was king. They were just poor peasants, just village people. He would be back next year.
‘Death to the king!’ The Villagers shouted, as the flames slowly licked him to death; slowly dissolved him, back into the earth on which The Village had been built. When King Scarecrow collapsed into the bonfire, wild cheering broke out. Only then was there truly a sense of relief, and the drink resumed its flow, in one direction, down. The Village people burnt the king because he had ejected them as they had rejected him and fled his kingdom. Their forefathers had despised the king and refused to serve under him. Amongst the crowd, The Village Hangman watched his brother while his brother the blacksmith watched him, and the blacksmith’s wife watched them both.
Esmeralda, Lady Agnes, and Captain Mutz stood at the back of the crowd, their thoughts preoccupied with royalty. Staring up at King Scarecrow, they were both drawn to him and repelled by him. They were not part of this crowd. They were not celebrating. For all three of them, ‘King’ had a very different, very personal meaning. He was flesh and blood, not fiction; not a scarecrow; not a figure of ridicule.
Lady Agnes was startled by a tap on the shoulder. She turned and froze: it was Farmer Giles again; the man who could never take no for an answer. She looked towards Mutz for an answer to her dilemma. He shuffled uneasily on his feet. He did not want a fight.
Farmer Giles, smiling, held out what looked like two mugs of beer. He offered her one and asked her to join him in a toast. To avoid a scene, she took the mug and held it like it was infected.
‘To what?’ she asked.
Despite the simple question, for which he should have already have known the answer, Farmer Giles looked confused.
‘The fete? The bonfire?’
Again she was suspicious, and again she declined the offer. Her response agitated Farmer Giles to the extreme. He pushed her to drink which only made her dig her heels in and Mutz tense up, not wishing for the fight. Fete day was not a day for fighting.
‘She’s not thirsty right now. My lady will drink it later.’
‘Later is no good for me.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ said Giles and he walked away, miserable again, on the lookout for something or someone to kick.
‘Here you have this,’ said Lady Agnes, and she passed the mug to Mutz.
He took a look and a sniff: it looked like beer; it smelt like beer. He took a sip: it tasted like beer. Being thirsty and seeing as Farmer Giles had no intention of poisoning his ladyship, Mutz emptied the mug, almost down in one.
Heads fried and battered by weed, Sinead and Grimble stood almost in a trance as the spectacle unfolded. Sinead saw demons in the flames. They outnumbered her. They had set their sights set on her – her, the only pure person in the crowd. She saw Hell. Shaking, she hung on to Grimble’s arm. She wanted to continue her fight for that was her mission: to destroy all demons; to save all souls. Despite the fear, she was electrified. She felt closer to God than she had ever felt before. God had made her superhuman, she told herself. But I must eat more, she told herself. Eat! She glanced across at a vacant-looking Grimble. Must have less sex. Less sex! Less sex, please, she begged. In her rapidly churning mind, she saw her brothers back at the farm; having no fun; looking alert but miserable; looking for a chance to do something other than that which they did all the time. She added them to the list of people to be saved.
She saw her brother again – her brother the sodomite – with that devil, The Village Vicar, that other sodomite. She wanted to push them both into the flames, into the arms of the demons. She saw The Village going up in flames, and saw herself as the only person able to save it. The Village Hall had been a warning, a wakeup call; telling her to prepare for judgement day. She saw people out of their heads, never for once thinking that she was out of hers: she was rationality, surrounded by insanity and immorality. She was an island in a sea of sin, a rock against which its waves smashed themselves.
‘Sinners repent!’ she shouted, but she never heard herself shout the words for she fainted into the arms of Grimble.
‘That crazy bitch again,’ muttered one man to his wife.
‘She should be locked away,’ his wife replied.
Others muttered their agreement.
Grimble and his gang carried Sinead away from the bonfire, away from the crowd and staring eyes, and laid her down to rest on some grass. A worried Simple Simon, on hearing the commotion, brought her cold water. Grimble took it and pushed him away while his gang fell back and looked on, worried; worried that Grimble would enter one of his famous foul moods.
The water proved useless, but the smelling salts Simple Simon borrowed from the witch did not. Sinead sat up and saw the devil leaning over her, a manic grin on his crazy face; determined to draw her blood, suck her brains out, eat her body, defile her body and spit her out for the crows to jump on and peck away at the pieces. A hand was thrust out towards her – no a claw! She lashed out and hit it away. The contact of her flesh – pure – with his – evil – stung her. She kicked out with all the energy she could bring to bear, jumped up, and ran off. Grimble ran after her; to capture her; to calm her back down, while a stressed-out Simple Simon stared on bemused. She was his friend. She was usually so nice to him. Such illogical behaviour from such a clever person as Sinead made no sense. He looked at his offending hand then at his clothes. Had he worn the wrong clothes today? Then he saw the dirt under his fingernails and smelt something bad on his cuff – that sort of made sense.
As the bonfire burnt itself out, and its flames crackled themselves towards extinction, and wood collapsed into white ash, and the darkness of the night began to intrude and reassert its twilight zone, so the crowd began to disperse; back to normality, back to routine; back home or to the tavern. A few remained to watch the last glowing embers as if trying to hold on to some special, most private thought or feeling; as if too tired of life to face yet another day stuck in The Village, stuck in the Maze. Faces fell. Arms dropped and drooped. Hearts slowed. Time seemed to have stopped. It would require restarting.
Nearby the relic of a once-great wall continued to make its presence felt. The Village people could demolish a wall but never the Maze. The Maze dominated all, for their entire lives, from the cradle to the grave. The Villagers knew it, but avoided brooding about it. Better to feed and fornicate, laugh and litter, shit and sleep, live, and let live. The Maze was their stone king, their stone God. Stone did not burn.
The thought of leaving, of breaking out, was never a thought for the vast majority; and rarely a thought for the few. It was only ever attempted once in a generation: easier to live with what you knew; whom you knew; the rules you knew; the leaders you loathed. Better to stay within the tribe you saw all around you. Other tribes might eat you whole (as convenience food). In the centre of the Maze you were cut off, but you stayed protected: no one could find you, usually.
Late into the night, drunks dispersed from the tavern and other drinking dens; to roam the streets or collapse in their homes. A little damage was inflicted around The Village. A few frustrations were let rip. Insults were exchanged. Cats and dogs were kicked. Children were slapped. Voices were raised in defiance. Other voices shouted them down. Skunks and Skinned Heads wandered around; sometimes tripping over each other and spitting as each claimed the territory and demanded respect. It was the night of the Fete: it was to be expected. No one knew that the Ancient artefacts were stolen from the church – no one except he or she or those who stole them of course.
Like many times before, the dependable Captain Mutz escorted his lady back to her room that night. They had both been dri
nking; both homesick; both trying to think nothing of kings and princes. This time, however, he stalled at the door, not wishing to tear himself away. Immediately Lady Agnes knew something was up. She could smell it. It was not a dead rat – no, something far tastier, far sexier. She looked her captain straight in the eye. It was a come-on. There was nowhere for her soldier to hide. He looked her straight back and made a full, unambiguous connection. He did not want to hide. Was he all hers now? she thought – time to take him prisoner.
‘You want to come inside?’
‘Yes,’ he croaked.
The noise of passing drunks shouting at their little world to keep off momentarily spoilt the atmosphere, but the two were soon back on track. And as Mutz stepped into her room he did not wait for instructions, or hints, or the slightest word, he just grabbed her, pulled her in close, ran his fingers through her hair, then began to undress her with a fury which astounded and pleased her. This was going to be good! She had him! She had the father of her baby! He would take her home now. She would make it so.
‘Take me home please, Mutz,’ she mumbled as he fought his way towards her intimate parts.
But Mutz gave no response, pretending not to hear. A ‘no’ would only dampen proceedings.
The chill of cold air hitting her exposed skin felt delightful. His hands felt rough but delightful. His lack of respect for her body was to be expected, but delightful. Her soldier was delightful. (While her prince was dangerous.) Then suddenly, it all stopped. Mutz had seen the rash.
‘What the fuck is that!’
Lady Agnes looked down. The rash had spread. She had simply got used to it. She refused to answer and instead urged him on. But a bucket of cold water had been thrown over his head. He was awake again, in charge again. He remembered his duty as a captain in the king’s army; his loyalty to the Prince Regent, sworn under oath. He could not shag the mistress of the Prince Regent; however much he craved her body. No, this was all terribly wrong. Mutz apologized, using as few words as possible, and fled the room while Lady Agnes looked on, fuming, mad as hell.
‘Take me home!’ she shouted and slammed the door behind him.
***
A banging on the front door pulled Sinead from Grimble’s bed, for he was still dead inside his own head. His mother, she thought. Come to kick me out. She hates it now I have freed her son. But when Sinead opened the door standing there was not Grimble’s evil mother come to taunt and torment her but her own father – almost evil in her eyes. He stood there like he hated being there. And behind him stood her big brothers, likewise. Her old life had come crashing back in. She was under attack. She was outnumbered. She was ten again. Instinctively, she knew what was about to happen – she was going home – and stepped back, intending to resist with every ounce of energy in her body.
The angry father grabbed his angry daughter before she could open her mouth and placed his cold, dirty hand over it. His sons rushed in and grabbed her, closing down all opportunity for struggle, for protest. She became a body with zero degrees of freedom.
Father stared into his daughter’s eyes, both condemning her and trying to work out where he had gone wrong. He stared at her slightly colourful clothes – another unforgivable deviation and dereliction of duty. Something had gone seriously wrong, but he did not consider for one moment that he might be fully or even partially to blame. He was always blameless, just as he always saw just black or white. Sinead stared back, defiant, refusing to be scared; refusing to be his daughter.
‘Enough of this! You are coming home with us, where you belong!’
He spoke like a judge – one overflowing with moral superiority and the indignation that morality was not omnipresent – convicting the despicable, immoral prisoner.
He did not allow his daughter to answer. All she could give in her defence was muffled moans while her brothers stood taut, awaiting further instructions; trying to remain detached, remote, but failing. A sister was always a sister, as a brother was always a brother.
The family bundled her away, into the back of their cart, where, when securely bound with rope, Father finally allowed his failure of a daughter to speak; demanding an answer to the question which had to be asked for there was a reckoning to be had.
‘Is he in there?’
‘Who?’
‘What do you mean who? Don’t insult me, girl! Is he in there! Answer me!’
‘Fargo? No.’
‘No? Where is he then?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone.’
‘Gone. I should have guessed.’
His sons exchanged glances: having guessed correctly.
Secretly relieved that a battle with the man – the child snatcher – did not have to be fought, Father calmed down a little and gave orders for them to set off for home, at speed; before this vile Village woke up; back into the Maze; back into the shelter of its obscurity. He was taking his daughter home, only because Mother had insisted he go find her and rescue her from the devil. She had demanded it, over and over, until his ears bled; refusing to back down. Mother would let nothing come between her and her children: they were her flesh and blood; Father had just provided the sperm.
During the trip back she was mostly ignored: right now she was blacker than the black sheep of the family. The only time she was spoken to was in order to issue instructions. On the inside, her brothers remained neutral: she had just acted like any stupid girl falling for the first stupid man. On the outside, they were fully behind their father for he set the rules, and pretended to be just as angry, just as unforgiving, just as disappointed – and all without looking their sister directly in the eye for that was too uncomfortable. They did, however, look at her body when she was not looking, seeing it now as something corrupted, something alien. Sinead could never be their sweet little sister again (just as they could never again be her big, bullying brothers).
During the trip back, Sinead fumed and cursed, loudly, as if to intimidate. She was being taken away from her new home, her village, to put back in a cage; there to serve only him, her father, under the pretext that she was serving God – his god, not her god. She did not resign herself to fate, but she did resign herself to her predicament. She vowed to run away again at the first opportunity. She would refuse to eat. Let them watch her die, and blame it on themselves. Exhausting herself – and already much exhausted by the previous day’s events – she passed out. When she awoke, she was still deep within the Maze, living in silence for there was no talking, not even between father and sons. They just wanted to get home, for there were routine and normality.
And when they arrived home, Mother was pleased to see her alive, but not much else. Her daughter’s weight loss shocked her. Her daughter’s lack of remorse shocked her. Her daughter’s urge to continue the fight, the rebellion, shocked her. The words she had for her daughter were few and far from forgiving; only rebuking, reprimanding, retaliatory. But her daughter was still her daughter, and she begged her daughter to see sense, to eat, but Sinead refused both, demanding to be set free, threatening to flee. So she was tied down on her bed.
Father loomed over her, not wishing to get too close. He had only one question to ask her right now. Had she slept with the man who had stolen her heart before running away with it? ‘No,’ replied Sinead firmly, for she was telling the truth. ‘Not until they were married,’ she explained. And they had never married. Father believed her and left it at that, turning her over to her mother, for good. He wanted nothing more to do with her. Sinead was his daughter now in name only.
A clumsy attempt was made to force-feed her. Sinead fought back, like a witch being tied to the stake, spitting and cursing until the aggrieved couple gave up and left her alone, with the instruction to repent her sins. Back home, it was the only time she would laugh again.
***
The apparition returned, with clarity and co
nviction this time. With space and time and no agenda under her control, its return suited her unbalanced state of mind. It spoke to her like no other could - not Grimble, not Ricardo, not Father, not Mother. It was a wise face, full of history and lined with experience, but unapproachable. He loomed over her again. His eyes locked on to her, cutting her off from the sights, sounds, and smells of the world around her; and (as always) from her childhood. She had been reduced to a single point in time and space, with only this old recording to fix her to a point. Her world-weary apparition held back her collapse into nothingness.
His mood was dark. He claimed he was the king, the only king. Like the first time, when a nervous little girl, she was both scared and fascinated. He had much to say, but said little and gave little away. Such a little girl was the wrong audience. Each time, from the first time, Sinead never saw an angry man, only a god. He spoke slowly, with reverence for his own voice, offering advice before disappearing in a flash.
Run. Run around. Then run away. Escape this. Grow up fast. Dominate or be dominated. Be sure of your friends. Treat all others as the enemy. Be a princess, princess. Rule the world else it will rule you. Then the unexpected laugh. Then he was gone. The apparition always ended with a laugh, as if to wipe the slate clean. It sent a shiver down the back of her brain. But she took it in. Many times, her younger sister would creep into the room, to stand and watch; in time no longer seeing her sister, just a ghost. She did not want to grow into a girl like that, she decided, and ran from the scene into the arms of her distraught mother, as if running from Hell.
Sinead was back in Hell, the one she had grown up in, and grown tired of, and so grown out of. She entered a dream and refused to leave it. There she held on to only two things for sustenance: her God and the righteousness of her convictions. Sometimes she was a little girl again; fighting the flu, some bug; feeling worthless after being bullied by the boys: except this time Mother’s help was not at hand. (Help from Father never existed.) Sometimes she was the martyr to her cause, and stronger for it, in a state of sublime unconsciousness. It was dark: dark inside her and beyond her. And when she was flooded with light, it was still dark inside her. Her mind, weakened by a weak body, did not fight time nor did it take notice: hours became minutes; minutes lasted hours; the cycle of the day was ditched in favour of the dream world.