by Euan McAllen
Then suddenly she was in a new dream, one not of her own making: there was the sound of men shouting, women screaming. And then, suddenly, it all changed: she was being untied, shaken awake; forced against her will to leave her dream. She opened her eyes under protest; switching to relief when she saw Grimble smiling down at her like a conquering hero - which was what he was right now exactly. It was a special moment, for he rarely smiled. He helped her to sit up and pushed her hair back into its correct place. He asked how she was; like he had missed her; like he was seriously concerned; like he loved her; like he couldn’t live without her. Sinead was suddenly back in Heaven - her heaven, the one where she was in charge and set the rules.
She knew she had to show gratitude and thank him, so she threw her arms around him; shattering his defences; forcing him to let his positive emotions let rip for a change. Grimble nearly dissolved in the sea of positive emotions they both were generating. But somehow he held on - deep down, in the pit of his soul he was still stone - and pushed her off.
‘Later, we need to get out of here.’
Grimble was in charge now. He had his mission to complete. His Sinead was the victim, and he was the hero come to rescue her. (She had no problem with that and played along to his heart’s content.) He got her up and out, explaining (proudly) and boasting (loudly) how he and his gang had come after her, entered The Maze for real and beaten it; how he had got directions from the man on the toll bridge; how they had scared her brothers shitless; how they had done her father in.
‘Done him in? What do you mean?’
‘We beat him a bit to scare the shit out of him - and those twats.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Just bruises. He’ll recover. He won’t mess with you again.’
‘He won’t try and stop us?’
‘Definitely not.’
Sinead looked away, not wishing to know the details, but glad that Father had been made to pay for a change.
‘My mother. You didn’t touch her, no? Tell me you didn’t touch her.’
Grimble looked at Sinead, his girl, his princess, somewhat aggrieved. ‘Of course not. I don’t fight with women.’
‘How did you know it was him?’
‘That idiot told us.’
‘Simon?’
‘Yes, Simple Simon. He saw them carting you off through The Village. Came and told me.’ Grimble chuckled. ‘Men in black,’ he said. ‘Funny. When he said men in black, I knew who it was straight away.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Of course. Let’s go.’
Sinead grabbed his hand. ‘You’ve done me proud. I know I can always rely on you to do the right thing.’
‘I know. And me.’
Sinead saw it clearly: the Maze had not killed her Grimble, it had made him stronger, able perhaps to break out, but with nowhere to break out to. She saw that as her task, her mission. She saw her father, hurting, almost traumatized. He was the weaker one now, while she had grown stronger. He had no hold over her anymore. Only reality held her back now. She turned to her knight in not-so-shiny armour.
‘I need some weed. Did you bring any?’
‘Soon,’ replied Grimble. ‘When we’re away from here.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Grimble always kept his promises to his crazy bitch now.
And so they left, for good; Grimble leading from the front like all good leaders; his Skunks, fearless now, close behind; his woman by his side - but not for very long as she could not walk. So they stole a horse from her father and placed her upon it; to escort her home, like a queen. The sons looked on horrified, but not daring to protest, while their mother just wept and clung to herself to stop herself shaking. She blamed herself. Her sons would blame her. Father would blame her. The family would never be the same again. No more daughter, she thought. No more Mother and Father thought Sinead. Just me and my Grimble; my fearless, loyal, lethal Grimble.
Later, at rest in the Maze, they would smoke weed and drift; and watch the walls climb higher and higher around them until they threatened to fall down on them and leave them dead, as flat as the earth; never to be found, never to be missed; just consumed by the Almighty Maze and the god who had built it.
***
Poppy took a beating from her dad. She had said the wrong thing: that she was clever. When he got angry with her, she made a worse mistake: she said he must be stupid because he had never gone to school. She ended up sore all over. In the classroom, Poppy held it all in as long as possible because she wanted to learn until, as class ended and she had to go home, it all fell apart. She fell down sobbing, and by chance, it was left to Lady Agnes to pick up the pieces, Esmeralda having rushed off home. The extracted confession made Lady Agnes angry.
‘Why did he hit you?’
‘Cos I know too much. I can do long division.’
Lady Agnes didn’t know what that was and got the poor girl to show her. She was impressed. She had never divided anything in her life, except men.
The girl’s physical state prompted Lady Agnes to take her to Doc. She learnt from Esmeralda that he was with the witch. With purpose and defiance, Lady Agnes walked her new interest through The Village; always protective, on watch; no make-up this time. And as she walked, it dawned on her that no one cared about the state of her face - her now imperfect face. Many peasants living in this foul place carried scars and wounds of past battles. No one took any notice of her: a mother with her child, some assumed. It made her step bolder but not quicker, for the small steps of the small girl set the pace. The girl held on tight, totally trusting, and for a moment, Lady Agnes felt like her mother and acted like one; threatening anyone who gave them a bad look with a threatening stare back. Mother with child refused to be intimidated.
Lady Agnes approached the legendary Corner Shop, as Esmeralda called it, with caution, not sure what to expect; reminding herself to ask about lotions but avoid talk of the other. The poor girl was exhausted. She could walk no more. Lady Agnes found The Village witch in her garden, tending to her wealth. The old woman stood up stiff and brushed away the dirt as the poor girl up the duff approached.
The old woman listened with intent as Lady Agnes explained the reason for her visit: not looking for treatment but looking for a proper doctor. The old woman felt mildly insulted as Lady Agnes spoke, which made dropping her bombshell a sweet moment. The doctor was not here. He had left, to go attend to Farmer Giles. From a distance, Simple Simon watched everything that was happening. The little girl watched him. Both had been pushed to the margins. Smiling, the witch sent Lady Agnes packing, off to Farmer Giles; wishing her luck, and love, which made Lady Agnes turn and look back, puzzled. The little girl waved her off, hoping to see her soon.
Lady Agnes approached the farmhouse with caution, preferring to see the windmill than the fat farmer who refused to leave her alone. When Farmer Giles saw her coming he greeted her with open arms, and a chair to sit on, for she looked exhausted; and offered her a glass of cold milk from his best cow (he lied) for she looked like she could do with a drink. Did her face still hurt? No matter: looking at the face was an irrelevance in the pursuit of babies.
Lady Agnes ignored the milk and made it quite clear that she was only here because she needed to see the doctor. He was needed elsewhere.
‘The man’s busy right now. You’ll have to wait.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘No, just wait here. I’ll go and get him.’ Giles held out the glass. ‘Drink this. It will do you good. You’re tired.’
She was, but she didn’t want to drink milk which came from the farm of Farmer Giles. Again he was too insistent. Again he was too tense. Again she was suspicious. She went to get up, at which point he tried to hold her down and make her drink. Lady Agnes fought like an alley cat, which infuria
ted Farmer Giles. She screamed and kicked out and shook him off whereupon Doc appeared, and she was saved. Farmer Giles, having given up, waved his hand at them both, telling them to get out.
‘Fuck off the lot of you.’
They did exactly that, quickly.
‘I’ll release him!’ he threatened, standing at the door.
Neither Doc nor Lady Agnes wanted to be reminded of the prisoner and didn’t look back, let alone respond. Giles went and sat down. He wanted his money back.
The poor little girl, meanwhile, had caught the attention of The Village Hangman: not to be captured but rescued. Her parents had become worried. The mother had gone to the school then, with no sign of her daughter, panicked and rushed off to find The Village Hangman. She demanded he go and investigate: the girl from the brothel ran the school; girls were kept at the brothel against their will; girls grew up at the brothel; despicable things happened at the brothel, for money. But that is what a brothel does, thought The Hangman as he listened to her drone on: but he promised to investigate, for any opportunity to hassle Rosamund the brothel keeper was not to be missed.
There, the circumstances were explained to him by one nervous Esmeralda and a brothel girl not wishing for trouble. Satisfied, The Hangman headed off to find The Village Witch, looking for trouble. He hated her, and any excuse to drop shit on her was welcomed. The old witch had never shown him respect. The Hangman and the Witch had a history of mental violence towards each other. They had often played the game of ‘who can out-stare the other?’
At the Corner Shop, he was surprised to find Farmer Giles. The farmer was at his worst, demanding money but not getting it, while the dumb village shit ‘Simple Simon’ looked on scared and clueless - no change there. It was a good scene to watch and The Hangman enjoyed it for as long as possible before he was noticed and forced to join in.
He demanded to see the woman from the brothel, one Lady Agnes, and the girl she had stolen. Wearing a look which said ‘I don’t want to do this’, the old woman produced a small, tired-looking, nervous girl, but no Lady Agnes.
‘Gone to find the doctor,’ she explained, sneering.
‘Too many doctors in this place,’ retorted Farmer Giles.
The Hangman agreed.
Farmer Giles looked at the girl - she was about to cry - then at The Village Witch. Was she about to cry? He pointed a finger and got his revenge.
‘The old witch had been hiding the girl,’ he said. ‘She was going to put a spell on her, change her into a witch,’ he said. ‘When she grew up, the evil woman was going to give her a potion to make her fall in love with the idiot over there,’ he said, pointing. The Wicked Witch wanted to raise a family of witches.
‘And the money?’ asked The Hangman. ‘Why were you arguing over money?’
‘She was trying to bribe me. We were arguing over the price.’
Farmer Giles folded his arms and lowered his voice - and head - in shame.
‘I’m sorry. But you know me and money. Can’t resist the stuff.’
That made perfect sense and was enough to convince The Hangman that the obnoxious man was telling the truth. He arrested The Witch and, after slapping her down hard for daring to struggle, he led her away; telling Farmer Giles to get lost, and the girl - now biting her fingernails - to follow him, stay close. He looked forward to throwing the witch into Holding Cell Two. Simple Simon watched, dumbstruck, not knowing what to do, or say, or think. He was stuck in shock.
Farmer Giles took one last contemptuous look at the phial for which there was no refund. It was almost empty. He beckoned at the idiot to come to him. Simple Simon did as instructed, though cautious, like a cat who sees the nasty neighbour hold out a bowl of cream. Giles pushed the phial almost into his face.
‘Here, take this. It’s medicine. Go find a woman. Make her feel better. She’ll thank you for it.’
Simple Simon took it, immediately, without question, for it looked like one of his keeper’s bottles. Medicine? Could he be a doctor?
***
Sinead and the Skunks arrived back in The Village, changed by the experience. The adventure had given the Skunks confidence to be more reckless, not to give a damn. The Village was smaller: they were bigger, and Grimble was a proven leader. He should be an Elder, some argued. The rest soon stopped laughing. They had crossed the Toll Bridge in both directions, without paying. They had stolen from others in their sleep. No one at the inn had dared to cross words with them. During the adventure, it had dawned on them that they possessed serious power. But how to use it? And on what? The Skins? Probably.
Sinead, despite her physical exhaustion, was wilder in the head, madder. Her demon father had been crushed. He was out of her life, as were all her brothers now. She just left a little room for her mother and little sister. Mother had never meant her harm. She had just been weak and was probably weaker now. She only had herself to blame, thought Sinead.
When she discovered the tent slashed, she nearly went berserk. Grimble and one other had to contain her, restrain her. He promised that those responsible would pay. There were only two suspects: the vicar and the Skins. With difficulty and much perseverance, he persuaded his mad bitch that they should head out to the treehouse to cool off, perhaps smoke the last of the weed.
Their treehouse was a second shock. It had been torched, like King Scarecrow. The tree was dying. God’s vengeance, thought Sinead. But not my fault. His fault. Now it was Grimble’s turn to blow his top. And the gang blew theirs. This was the one thing the gang itself owned.
‘Go get them,’ said Sinead.
And they did.
The Skunks hunted down the Skins and cornered them. There was nowhere to hide in The Village. When Grimble questioned his opposite number, the leader of the Skins just laughed.
‘Of course, we did it.’ He looked at his latest recruit. ‘Sounds like you did a good job, Festez.’
Festez had to smile, though he was terrified, and it showed. The Skunks all had him in their sights, as did his sister: she had followed him again after he refused to stay in his room, but was now afraid to approach the storm. She wanted to snatch him up and hide him away from those who were snatching him away from her. But she was powerless, and she knew it. She cursed the soldier from beyond The Village. The Maze should have kept him out. It had failed in its duty. It had failed her. She turned and walked away, not wishing to witness the event to come.
‘Stand next to me,’ said his leader, as his gang closed ranks, smelling a fight in the air; united by the colour red and the belief that they were soldiers.
He threw another insult at Grimble. ‘Anyway, it’s not your treehouse. You don’t own it. You just found it.’
That was it. War was declared. Total war.
‘And did you attack her tent?’ Grimble demanded to know before the fighting started.
‘Tent? That stupid tent on that pile of crap? No.’
Grimble had no problem believing him, and when he later told his mad bitch, she also believed him. Her tent was part of a different war, a far more important one.
The leaders went in first. The gangs followed their leaders. There was no interest in negotiation. There was no battle plan. They all wanted to fight, to explode; to feel alive through their orchestrated anger combined with continuous frustration. They jumped up to take the heights. They jumped down, fists flying. They ran around, to hit and avoid being hit. They fought off the fear. They made sudden manoeuvres, to outmanoeuvre. Each had to let it all out to let something in. And in between the hurt, the fighting was also a game; and a game to be enjoyed by others: those who watched from a distance urged the gangs on.
‘Break a leg!’ ‘Smack him on!’ ‘Don’t run, you coward! Hit him!’
Some, noses and necks out of joint, walked on past, fast; furious that no one was stepping in to stop it. Where was The Hangma
n?
When the Skunks and Skins ran out of energy, and blood, and concentration, and the accumulation of hard knocks became too much to bear, the fighting collapsed; to become nothing more than the exchange of verbal gunfire, of insults and invitations to resume, of denigrations and denials, until even words became too much to shout.
It was a no-score draw, and for now, the gang members went their separate ways; to lick wounds; to convince themselves that they had won a great victory, despite having nothing to show for it. Back home, Festez refused his sister’s offer to attend to him, to nurse him. He was not her baby. He wanted to be back out there, back in the gang, back by the side of its leader. She didn’t understand, he told her. Deep down she did, and she was heartbroken. The last of her family was slipping away.
A recuperating Sinead received a visit from her friend Simple Simon. He was concerned for her. He has missed her. She let him in and watched him fawn all over her. He was there to serve her, he said, so she told him to make her some soup. Simple Simon jumped at the chance for he liked to cook: the old woman had taught him. Seeing her poor state, he added his medicine to the soup and watched as she lapped it up, smiling.
Sinead looked at her admirer, also smiling, gratitude in his eyes, and told him to stop looking at her, which he did. Not smiling, Simple Simon told her that the vicar had vandalized the tent. She also lapped that up, thanking him, and telling him that he was no fool. It was what she suspected, and she planned her revenge whilst waiting for Grimble to return.
***
Vicar Tassilo was struggling to complete his sermon, to light the fire in his soul. He wasn’t listening. His much-reduced congregation wasn’t listening. They were mostly there because there was nothing better to do; because they wanted to see how he was; some because they hoped to persuade him to bring back bingo. Bingo was fun. His sermons were not, but it was all they had to stay sane.