by Euan McAllen
‘Give us our bingo back!’ was daubed on the main church door. For some rioters, it was just a matter of bingo and luck.
‘Let us rule ourselves,’ shouted one rioter.
‘Yes, self-rule! We can do it!’ shouted another.
‘How?’ whispered the wife of the first.
‘Fuck knows,’ replied the wife of the other.
A mob gathered outside the brothel, trapping those inside. Some threw mud. Some threw insults. Some threw stones. Aunt Rosamund became seriously worried: for herself, for her niece, and for her girls. The Brothel had always been regarded as a village necessity if an unpalatable part of village life. Now it was attracting open hostilities, any number of enemies. Helmotti did his best to reassure the others that the brothel was defendable: he and Mutz had their swords; the crowd only had words. Words could not harm them.
Aunt Rosamund locked the doors, front and back, and did her best to calm her girls, and her niece, who was stretched to breaking point and afraid of losing her baby. Esmeralda felt for her baby. Lady Agnes felt for her and hers. Both remembered the siege of The Castle, and this did not compare, yet somehow it was all the more frightening, for it was closer, more intimate, almost personal. As Esmeralda held on to Stevie, so Lady Agnes had to hold her tight, as she had to hold her stray. Teeto was equally terrified of the mob outside, but no one held his hand. Some girls became hysterical and had to be calmed down by their mistress. Others, undeterred, opened their windows, stuck out two fingers at the mob and emptied the contents of their chamber pots over the heads of those who got too close.
During all this - and after - Lady Agnes had one powerful thought which would not let go, would not be satisfied: he had to take her home, now. When this danger was past, Mutz had to take her home! He could no longer refuse! Prince Mozak would expect nothing less.
Against all the odds, Doc was the least fazed, the least worried. He could only think of the safety of another. He could only think of the injuries to come. How many? Would the injured allow him to treat them? And Ingella: was she safe? Was she worried about him? Shame they had locked up The Witch: she knew a thing or two about how to treat a wound.
When windows were smashed, Helmotti decided he had taken enough. He and Mutz drew their swords and stood at the door, threatening anyone who approached or threw another stone. They looked like they wished for a fight: none in the crowd were, and its energy and enthusiasm to attack evaporated. The crowd crept away, preferring easier pickings. Now with the time and space to reflect, some could not understand why they had attacked the brothel. Hadn’t they paid it a visit on their stag night? Didn’t it perform a useful service? Didn’t it give tired wives a day off? Farmer Giles crept away, satisfied. Aunt Rosamund looked at the smashed windows: hourly rates would have to increase to pay for repairs.
When the danger had passed, Doc was the first to leave: off to find Ingella, to see that she was safe. When he appeared at her door, he found her a nervous wreck.
‘Nothing to worry about now,’ he said. ‘Your doctor is here.’
He held her hand. He calmed her. They both trembled as the sounds of a few troublemakers invaded their little heaven. But the trembling was not all down to that but as much from their new physical intimacy, and raised awareness of each other’s fragility. Her brother looked on, when not peeking out of the window into the street, slightly less scared for seeing them in that state of innocent union. He too felt stronger.
Within sight of Grimble’s front door, the brothers of Sinead waited, their rage packaged up into a simple mantra: ‘vengeance is mine’. They intended to teach the savage a lesson he would never forget. And afterwards, they might pray for his soul. Their wish was granted: Grimble came around a corner, looking both excited and exhausted. At first, they thought they had caught him alone, but no, it was not to be. The rest of the Skunks were a few yards behind him. And when Grimble saw the brothers of black and grey, he was suddenly alive again, awake again, and looking for a fight again. Suddenly, they were the catch and realising this, they turned and ran, to be chased by the Skunks, whooping and yelling, and smelling blood.
The brothers ran at top speed until they found the crowd and were able to melt into it. Looking behind them, they saw their pursuers laugh as they slowed, stopped, waved them goodbye and turned away, no longer interested. The game had been won.
‘Another time. We’ll come back another time,’ said Eli.
Jonah did not reply, for he did not believe him. What would they tell their father? The truth? Or a convenient lie?
There was no time for reflection (or disappointment) as their attention was quickly redirected on to the crowd around them, and its savage, self-destructive behaviour. They saw many sins being committed. They both agreed: Father was right. The Village was a place of savages, and little else. And their sister had become one of them, a savage. She had given herself to one savage, and then another. They agreed: she had a death wish.
Jonah suddenly froze: a hand had brushed against him; tried to enter his waist pocket. He checked the pocket: his coins were still there. He swung round to see a redhead boy walking away fast. He followed, never getting too close. The boy was a pickpocket - a good one. After seeing the boy commit another offence, Jonah ran up and grabbed him by the hair. Red hair was always trouble: so Father had told him, and it was true. He forced the boy to hand back his latest theft to the grateful owner, then marched him off towards the village prison.
There Jonah found The Village Hangman, and pushed the pickpocket forwards into his arms; intending to explain the crime, that he had made a citizen’s arrest; only for The Hangman to push the boy aside. Before Jonah could explain, he was grabbed by the collar and dragged off to Holding Cell One; his brother protesting loudly. He was thrown inside, to join the party. It was a tight squeeze.
Eli confronted The Hangman, demanding that the outrageous injustice be rectified immediately, and an apology given. This was not the best approach: The Hangman grabbed him by the neck and threatened to snap it in two if he didn’t ‘piss off sharp’. He wanted to arrest the annoying little shit, but the cell was full. He could not squeeze another in. Instead, he sent him packing, promising to kill him if he ever saw him again in The Village. Eli fled, traumatized. His brother would have to save himself.
The Village Cobbler was found by The Village Idiot, sitting in front of his ransacked shop; head bleeding; mumbling to himself about souls, soles, shoes and shoe sizes. The Village Idiot took pity on him and helped him up and, seeing his distress, his lack of focus and clarity, took him to see the Doctor - no witch being available for medical assistance.
‘This is our village?’ asked Simple Simon.
‘This is what happens when life gets out of control. Not good. No, not good.’
***
When the mob was gone, and the street was quiet again, Lady Agnes decided to take her stray home. She was determined, and she wanted to do it alone, refusing Mutz’ offer to accompany her. She took the boy’s hand. It felt good: gripping a hand more nervous than hers. She asked him his name and immediately forgot it. She told him to lead the way home.
‘I can go home now?’
‘Yes. If you know the way, do you?’
‘I think so. From the playground I do.’
‘Very well. Let’s go there then.’
They set off for the school at a leisurely pace. Lady Agnes would not be rushed. She did not know they were being followed.
When she reached the school playground, she had to go no further: the boy broke free of her grip and bounded forward into the arms of his mother. Their fingertips were the last things to break contact. Lady Agnes watched the reunion, fascinated, and wanted to cry, to cry for another human being. She could not remember if she had ever done so before for such a reason. Had her mother ever cried over her? She didn’t think so, but maybe she had reinvented the p
ast to explain her present thick skin and hardness. She hoped the mother was a good mother. She hoped the boy would grow up to be a good man. She had never hoped for so much before.
She watched them walk away - not even a thank you - and as she turned to do the same, felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. It was Farmer Giles, wearing a wolf’s smile as a greeting. Got you! It said. As she tried to fight him off another pair of hands grabbed her from behind. Her hands were pulled back behind her waist and tied, tight. Her legs and feet were bound, and she was carried off, like the carcass of a dead cow. Farmer Giles found her tossing and turning, and her frustrated attempts to shout out, greatly entertaining. Should have done this before, he told himself. It was a riot.
Without ceremony, Lady Agnes was dumped in a stinking cell, dirty straw spread across the floor, and untied. She wanted to scream her head off, but her throat had dried up, and anyway what was the point now. She looked across the room to see two dirty, foul-smelling, wasted souls, given up for dead: the priest and the bear. She was afraid Giles was going to rape her there and then, but no: he just pulled on his cap and walked away as if bored.
‘Keep her fed and watered,’ he ordered -no point talking to her until she had calmed down.
‘You can’t leave me in here, with this scum! I’ll slash my wrists!’ she screamed.
Giles stopped and turned, vaguely interested. ‘Go on then.’
Lady Agnes looked around, quickly realising she couldn’t. And if she could, she knew he knew she wouldn’t.
‘My knights will come after you!’
‘Really.’ Giles was not impressed. ‘Please, will you do me the service of taking a bath if I have one prepared?’
Before he heard her reply he was pulled away by important new: there was trouble brewing at the windmill. It was on fire. He ran out outside swearing. His windmill was more important than Lady Agnes.
Sinead tried to sit up. She had heard a commotion outside. There was trouble - troubled souls. She felt their hurt, and she wanted to help but they had locked her away. God was punishing them. Later, when free again, she would save them. This was God’s will. She tried not to look at The Village Witch for every time she did, it seemed like the old hag could read her thoughts: something which, if true, scared her. Suddenly the door was thrown opened, and both heads looked up in anticipation of something awful. But it was Grimble. Grimble had come to rescue his crazy bitch. (The guard had taken one look at Grimble and decided not to intervene: the man looked mean, mad, and almost diabolical. One crazy guy for one crazy girl.)
Sinead did not look grateful. She did not seem to recognise him. She sat limp, as if in another world. Grimble looked at the witch, accusing her of putting a spell on his girl. He growled and rubbed his head like it was a massive itch. His look threatened to kill her.
‘Did you do this?’
The old woman denied any involvement, any meddling.
‘I did nothing. She brought it on herself. Nervous exhaustion. Seen it before. Take her home. Put her to bed. Lots of sleep. Then when she’s awake and hungry, all she can eat.’
The old woman made no further comment and kept as far away as she could from the two crazies: one threatening to explode; the other about to explode.
Grimble swept up his crazy bitch in his arms and took her home; never once mentioning her brothers’ appearance, for she looked poorly, wasted, exhausted; The Village Witch he left locked up despite her furious protests. After they were gone, the old woman cursed them both. Grimble put Sinead to bed and watched her fall asleep as her head hit the pillow. My Sinead, he thought. I must protect her, revive her. She keeps me alive.
Mutz became worried: Lady Agnes had been gone a long time, too long. The soldier in him sensed something bad. Without telling the others he left the brothel and headed off for the farm of Giles, his chief – and his only - suspect. On his way, he came across the Skins, loitering, longing for intent. Festez was amongst them, trying to look their equal. A thought struck Mutz: give them a mission. They were pleased to see him, and he found it easy to rally them with the promise of a noble adventure: to rescue a maiden, a princess almost.
‘Prove to me you are soldiers now.’
The Skins in their red coats all wanted to do that and fell into line. Captain Mutz was delighted: he now had the only army in The Village. Together they marched on the farm.
Mutz swept into the farmyard, looking for a fight, but there was none to be had. The place was deserted. The Skins were half disappointed, half relieved not to have to fight anyone. They could go back to The Village honour intact, mission accomplished. The Skunks were just street hooligans, whereas they were soldiers.
Instinctively, Mutz knew where his lady was, and there he found her, in a cell next to Fargo, and as mad as hell. He received no thanks for rescuing her: Lady Agnes just complained about how long he had taken, and how she had been made to suffer. She was adamant: Mutz was to tell no one of this episode. The experience was too humiliating. Mutz agreed: Prince Mozak would regard it as a dereliction of duty; he would lose his job.
She took one look at the scruffy kids who were with him and turned away, unimpressed.
‘I want to go home now. I mean proper home.’
‘I agree.’
‘What?’ She was stunned.
‘I agree. It’s too dangerous to stay here now. If it’s not rioting, it’s kidnapping. We go home.’
Lady Agnes went weak at the knees and had to be helped out of her cell. She sat down and was given fresh water, during which time Mutz took a long, hard look at the bear and made a decision: the bear must go free. When the others were a safe distance away, let the bear go free. He could not stomach, leaving it locked up: seeing such a magnificent beast brought low by lowlife was too much to bear. When he made his intentions clear, Lady Agnes thought her soldier had gone soft. Festez thought he was setting a good example.
Alone, Mutz opened the door to the cage and stood back. The bear did not move. It was not asleep, but neither was it fully awake, alert. It just stared at Mutz, not wishing to move for the act of moving required too much energy - and a reason to move. Mutz looked at Fargo in the next cell: the same impulse hit him. He had to free the poor miserable thing, let it live. He was leaving The Village now: let the poor priest have his freedom back. He unlocked the cell and stood back, but Fargo also did not move. He just stared with blank expression at the man who, having taken away his freedom had now decided to give it back, like he was some kind of god. Mutz left in a hurry, unable now to apologize. Let them define their own destinies, he thought. He had his to worry about.
Elsewhere, Farmer Giles had his own worries: everybody who had once worked for him hated him; those who still worked for him showed little in the way of enthusiasm to carry out his orders; orders being to put out the fire; to capture those who had dared to set fire to his windmill, his most prized possession, his future, the future of flour manufacturing. Small-minded villagers, he told himself. Can’t see the future. Can’t cope with the success of others. Sod them.
The Giles windmill was saved by rain, heavy rain. It soaked The Village and extinguished all outstanding fires. It dampened those souls still left with a fight in them and made them trudge through mud in search of the next rave. It brought relief to many: they had the perfect excuse to say ‘enough, I’m going home’.
***
No one wanted to face the next day, except possibly Lady Agnes Aga-Smath, Captain Mutz, ex-king Helmotti, and his friend Teeto. They all wanted to leave at the first opportunity. But the next day had arrived, and with it came altercations, recriminations, and retribution. Neighbours avoided conversation and instead considered conspiracies. They could not - would not - look each other in the eye: some because ‘they had’; some because ‘they hadn’t’. Time marched on, but The Village stayed put, and poorer for the experience it had not invited. It was never
going to be the same again. Elders and traders were afraid to show themselves. And The Maze remained intact, and in control, and in touch with all the lives of those stuck slam-bang in the middle of it.
The mess had to be cleared up, and repairs had to be made, with or without an apology. There was a cost which had to be paid. Holding Cell One was bursting: those arrested needed to be processed quickly; fines had to be issued and collected. This would prove difficult, for The Village Hangman was threatening to resign if he didn’t get a pay rise, and his men were demanding an overtime bonus, else they would go on strike. They had all made enemies of friends and family and demanded redress.
The Elders, still traumatized, held a special meeting at the house of their Senior, which, despite best intentions, quickly descended into a blame game: everybody blaming each other for what had happened. They squabbled like children. They argued like teenagers. They recalled the ‘good old days’ like stiff-minded senior citizens. Tempers flared until fists flew. The Senior Elder was dying, but no one had any time or sympathy for him right now. Some envied his ignorance about the awful situation they were expected to put right. Some wanted to kick him out of bed.
The traders tried to disrupt the meeting; demanding compensation for damages to premises and stolen stock. The Elders promised to take it under consideration. One Elder suffered a nervous breakdown and retreated to his own house; to slip into his own bed; refusing to leave it, ever. The meeting was officially ended with nothing resolved, and one bloody nose. The Elders were trapped, and they knew it. They had to live side by side (almost) with people who now hated them, despised them and, worse of all were unlikely to do what they were told without very good reason and vested interest. This was no more their village, but it was the only village. There was no escaping it.
In panic - afraid that they were about to lose not one but two of their kind - Doc was ordered by the Elders to attend to the one who had collapsed into bed. He found nothing physically wrong: all he could do was recommend plenty of sleep and lots of soup when the man revealed an appetite. But he made a good impression, and he was offered a job: official Village Doctor. It was a new post, and he would be the first to ever fill it. His salary would come of out of the standard village tax. Free healthcare, the Elders decided, would go down well with the peasants, and it would work as long as not too many of them got sick, and for not too long. Not a problem argued one: they live short, sharp, stressed-out lives. They are too busy working to get sick.