With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  ‘But there is still the backlog with regards to burials.’

  ‘But mass burials are making a difference, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  The Chancellor switched his attention to the King’s Banker - his banker now, in his opinion, and in charge of his money.

  ‘And the state of the treasury?’

  ‘Still bad. We have not recovered our losses. Many taxes are still outstanding. The word is, some are refusing to pay you.’

  ‘I know. But let’s be clear, tax avoidance will not be tolerated.’

  That firm statement by the Chancellor pleased the banker no end.

  The Chancellor fired his next question at his secretary. ‘Is the list finished, complete?’

  The man pushed the list across the table. ‘Complete. Names and unpaid tax amounts as requested.’

  ‘Good. I will send the army out to start collecting.’

  ‘And what if they refuse to pay?’ asked his banker.

  ‘Then I will send out the whole army to chase tax-dodgers.’

  Satisfied with his own answer, the Chancellor looked down at his agenda.

  ‘Moving on to the next item. With regard to the question of Lord Fucho. Do You have any feedback?’

  His secretary studied his notes and the carefully crafted thoughts he had captured on paper.

  ‘Opinion is divided. Yes, he committed an act of treason, and according to the rules, he should hang. But some are saying he is noble and can only be hung by royal command; not by you, with all respect. A noble can only be put to death by the King, Bizi, if the Prince Regent is not available. Most nobles regard you as a temporary measure until royalty is reinstated. If you hang him, many will see that as setting a dangerous precedent.’

  ‘Enough!’ The Chancellor was furious. ‘And what if he is dead? And the throne is unoccupied? Someone has to make these decisions - and it’s fallen to me, the King’s Chancellor. I didn’t ask for this job, you know.’

  Secretly, the other two thought he had.

  The meeting was interrupted by news which could not wait. An army sergeant had just come from the garrison to report that Captain Mutz and Lady Agnes Aga-Smath had returned and were now being held at the garrison. His lieutenant was awaiting orders. The Chancellor ordered they be brought to him immediately, under guard. And with that, the meeting was closed.

  The pair shuffled in: Lady Agnes looking furious and trying to shake off her guard; Mutz looking dazed, almost in a dream, as if he had been stripped of his rank. The Chancellor raised his eyebrows on seeing the state of her: the prince’s mistress looked like shit.

  Lady Agnes caught his mood and lashed out. ‘This is outrageous! Who do you think you are!’

  ‘I am the King’s Chancellor, that’s who I am. And I am in charge. You have no authority here, so I suggest you shut up, woman, if you know what’s good for you.’

  She turned to Mutz, expecting him to say something, to save her, to at least react; but nothing.

  The Chancellor switched his attention to the army officer, for he was the important one.

  ‘You, Mutz, stand to attention, man!’

  Mutz did not respond as ordered. ‘You are not my commanding officer. I only take orders from my prince.’

  ‘The prince is dead.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me! And you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. He is dead. You will swear that before my council.’

  ‘I’ll swear nothing. He is not dead. He is on the Outside.’

  Lady Agnes threw in her lot with her captain. ‘The prince is not dead!’

  Two troublemakers, thought the Chancellor. I will not have trouble here.

  ‘Take them away. Put her in the tower. Put him in solitary confinement. He is no longer a captain. He has disgraced his rank.’

  As they were led away, Mutz looked at his lady and Lady Agnes looked at her man - like lovers being torn apart. Meanwhile, the Chancellor considered sealing up the entrance to The Maze: let trouble stay inside The Maze; trouble like Mozak, or Tascho.

  Part Two: Sick, Religion

  Sheep.

  Simple sheep. Sheep and their simple shit stood in the way of royalty. To leave The Maze, and all its suffocation, conspiracy, and control, the terrible twins – they were feeling terrible now, but for completely different reasons – had to wait for simple sheep to pass, whilst avoiding the looks of their simple shepherd and the attentions of his more alert dog. Then, once the sheep were out of the way, they would have to tiptoe through the shit. Mozak was fuming, and he could not stop scratching his rash, which brought Timothy great cheer.

  At the entrance, when they thought they were finally free, the wait continued while the shepherd spent what seemed an age deciding his next move. Mozak wanted to punch the man in the face so badly that Timothy had to restrain him. Then, satisfied, the man had his dog move his sheep on; on to the distant hills whilst he held back. At this point, Mozak now wanted to strangle him to death. Timothy felt much the same.

  And then, finally, they were out, out of the Maze; back Outside. Timothy felt relief, and anticipation; and then anxiety. He looked at his brother. What was his reaction? There was none to be seen: Mozak was too exhausted to have feelings. Timothy was in little better shape: they were both sore, sore from old wounds and new; some physical, some mental. They had survived mud, wild dogs, soaring tempers, and boredom beyond belief. Their feet hurt. Their brains had switched off, unwilling to suffer the same old thoughts, and switching back on was not so easy. Timothy had a piece of torn shirt wrapped tightly around one hand: the result of a dog bite; the result of his stupid brother confronting wild dogs in the Maze, but leaving him to suffer the consequences. And still, Mozak had not said sorry. He didn’t care. That hurt, like his hand hurt.

  Mozak, overwhelmed by the moment, nearly fainted and Timothy had to lower him gently down to the ground. It was the first decent act he had done for his brother in days. Mozak thanked him – the first decent thing he had said in days – and waited for his head to clear. He had arrived, into a whole new world, another outside. No castles here. No kings and queens. Just him, Prince Regent, to be cured. He looked up at his brother. Timothy looked sad as if vanquished.

  ‘Why so sad? This was once your home. Are you not happy to see your old home?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The reply puzzled Mozak and concerned him. He needed his brother to be strong, not weak. His brother had to take charge. His life was in his brother’s hands.

  The Maze had disheartened Timothy, confounded Mozak, and slowly crushed both of them. It had done its job, as it always did. Mozak didn’t get it. Why so small when once so large? Timothy didn’t either. At times it was the only thought which united them. The Maze had kept them tight together when they had kept pulling apart. They had shared an adventure but little else. At one point, delirious, Mozak had started to scream, shouting that the Maze, shrinking, was trying to squeeze him out of existence. Timothy had to calm him down, gently, like leading a blind man who had lost his stick down some very tricky, irregular stairs.

  During their time together, desperate to talk and not be ignored, Mozak had constantly returned to his least favorite subject: women. Women both tortured and tickled him, he explained, again and again. He didn’t understand them, he admitted. They didn’t understand him, he moaned. Timothy refused to take any interest, but still, his brother droned on. Surely there had to be more to it than sex? Mozak had asked. Yes, was Timothy’s straight, unequivocal answer. But he had refused to elaborate. As for family, that was a topic that was never once talked about: the subject was still too sore; parents were a pain.

  Timothy had done his best to carry his Esmeralda with him in his heart and in his thoughts: her smell, her v
oice, her hair, her laughter; the touch of her fingers on his flesh; the feel of her body next to his; the various expressions which ignited across her face, which lit her eyes; in short the whole spirit and essence of her. It had been hard work, what with Mozak as a constant distraction. He had worried much of the way. Was Esmeralda in control, coping? Was she struggling? Was she out of her depth? Mozak had dared to ask much the same of his castle and kingdom, afraid that the answer was a resounding ‘yes’. As for Lady Agnes Aga-Smath, he had tried to leave her far behind, only for her to keep popping up inside his head, to annoy.

  Along the way, the brothers had stopped to rest at the ancient monument, with its inscription ‘in memory of the noble class of stonemasons who built the maze on time and to budget’. Mozak had pretended not to be impressed, then to add insult to injury he had pissed up against it, leaving Timothy feeling furious and disgusted. That was when the talking all but stopped, and instead, they submerged themselves in the crawl of the journey, in the puzzle of the Maze; longing for escape – from it and from each other.

  Timothy had been driven on, in a hurry: not in a hurry to secure his brother a hospital bed, but in a hurry to see his Outside again; that place of sophistication; that place where he had been raised, to think, to be strong; that place where God was strong, in charge, and enforcing the highest standards of human interaction. He was back, against his better judgement, out of necessity; but now here, he wanted to take something away, and say goodbye for the last time. He wanted to make contact with the Outside one last time, to let go on his own terms, as his own man. Closure. He was looking for what some called closure, and he was scared he would fail.

  For Mozak, the sight of the Outside was nothing less than incredible, inviting, infectious. He suddenly stood up and grabbed his brother’s arm and held it tight. He felt vulnerable. Timothy felt superior and wanted his brother to know it.

  ‘Welcome to the Outside,’ he stated, plainly, wishing to show strength. ‘It won’t bite you.’

  Like the Maze bit me, he nearly added.

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘This is it, brother.’

  By now, having come all this way, Timothy was convinced that Mozak had no plague, just a nasty rash but, try as he might, he could not persuade him so. Mozak was not having it. He wanted the best money could buy. So with a heavy heart, Timothy led the way on to the monastery, and its dormitories; there to seek out an old friend, a novice monk by the name of Tibi. They crossed fields and climbed the hill, constantly stopping to catch their breath.

  ‘Why on a fucking hill?’ asked an exasperated Mozak.

  ‘Because it’s the Monastery,’ replied a stony Timothy, unhappy at having to state the bleeding obvious. ‘Where else would it be?’

  They came across a young man, standing badly, begging, bowl held out in anticipation of a good deed; saying how he needed medicine for his leg. He was their age but looked older; broken by years of hardship. He was coughing. Timothy, seeing the deformed leg, could not ignore him. Mozak could.

  ‘Give him something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the decent thing to do – and you have the money. You have plenty of money.’

  Mozak was unimpressed for he had seen worse, but to shut his brother up, he dropped a piece of silver into the bowl.

  ‘There boy, don’t spend it all at once.’

  The eyes of the beggar lit up, and he gave thanks, again and again until Mozak told him to shut up.

  ‘Happy?’

  The question was aimed at Timothy, but it was the beggar who answered first.

  ‘Yes, sir, very happy. Very happy sir. Very happy. I can get medicine, for my leg. The pain in my leg, it’s killing me, sir.’

  And his dad would be very happy when he handed him the piece of silver.

  The twins pushed on, and as the monastery came into full view – and the view was astounding – Mozak was struck dumb by its magnificence, its grandeur, its overwhelming physical presence. Invigorated, he ran ahead, wanting to explore. He was a big kid again. He wanted to see inside the great building, to see what all the fuss was about, to see how his great castle compared. Suddenly, his castle felt second rate, a poor pile of stones. He vowed one day to pull it down and rebuild it. He deserved better.

  ‘No,’ said Timothy, ‘absolutely not.’ Mozak had to stay hidden. There could only be one ‘Timothy’ on the outside.

  ‘And here is the hospital?’

  ‘No, that’s down in the town.’

  ‘What! So why the fuck did we come up here then. Get me to fucking hospital, before I die!’

  ‘You’re not going to die.’

  ‘Hospital!’

  ‘Monastery first! You need to look right. You need to look the part.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You need to look like me, a novice monk. And remember you must act the part. No swearing. No cursing.’

  ‘I will be on my best behaviour – just as long as they make me better.’

  ‘I mean it. And drop that attitude.’

  ‘Attitude? What do you mean attitude? I’m the Prince Regent remember. I’m expected to have attitude. It’s how we rule. Not that you will ever understand that.’

  ‘No, out here, you are nothing. You have no authority. You hold no power over others. You cannot command things to happen. You cannot be Mozak, or Marcus, just me. You can only be me, Timothy.’

  The twins exchanged dirty looks until Timothy, letting Mozak win his fight, stared up at the high walls, and the lamplight spilling out of the windows. They brought back memories and bore down on him; as if scrutinising; as if asking where he had been all this time; demanding his soul be up to scratch. It is! Timothy wanted to shout. I never let go of God. And I’m back! Timothy was reminded of all that had once been good in him, and all that could be again. Timothy remembered, and Timothy wanted to forget. Mozak, feeling lost, began to scratch again in anticipation of the remedy to come.

  Suddenly their attention was snatched up by the sound of soft, sublime singing. It was far away, but it felt close, too close for comfort. Timothy recognised it at once. It was the choral choir. They were practising. The sound of their singing brought back the sweetest memories. It reminded him of the golden moments of his previous life, and he played the melody inside his own head. He looked across at his brother and was surprised to see him entranced, frozen on the spot. Perhaps for the first time, he thought - rather uncharitably - soft words had penetrated that hard, brutal brain. Perhaps the savage could be civilised. He suspected not, but still, he smiled. Mozak caught sight of it, and it wound him up.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well stop it. Get me to the hospital. If I can’t see inside, get me to the hospital. I feel terrible. Here take this.’

  Mozak produced his bag of gold and silver coins.

  ‘No point me hanging on to it. Someone will try and steal it.’

  ‘You trust me with this?’

  ‘I have to trust someone, and you are my brother.’

  ‘Very well. But here, keep some of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Medical fees. It’s a flat rate for monks, novices, as least it was when I left. And they charge for bed and food. Now hide, over there. I need to speak to an old friend. You cannot be seen, understood? There is only one Timothy.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m not stupid.’

  When Mozak had retreated a safe distance, into the shadows, Timothy banged on a door and was greeted by a disgruntled servant. He asked to see the novice Tibi.

  ‘Is Tibi still in residence?’

  ‘Yes, but these are not visiting hours,’ the man complained. ‘I could get in trouble.’

  Timothy cut to the chase and handed him a silver coin.

  �
�It’s an emergency, tell him. Tell him, Timothy is back.’

  Satisfied, the servant told Timothy to wait, and then closed the door on him. Then Tibi appeared, and his face fell, for he saw a ghost.

  ‘Timothy. My god, Timothy. I thought you were dead. I never expected to see you again. You’ve changed. You look different. And what did you do to your hand?’

  ‘Stupid dog.’ Timothy smiled. ‘You look exactly the same, only closer to God, I presume?’

  ‘Same Timothy. Smart arse. Where have you been?’

  ‘Here and there, travelling.’

  ‘Did you enter the Maze?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  Tibi took him at his word.

  ‘But now I’m back, and still in one piece.’

  ‘Thank God. I missed you. I really missed you.’

  ‘I missed you.’ Timothy was lying, but for the right reason. ‘Has anything changed?’

  ‘Changed? In this place? Of course not.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. Look Tibi; I need to ask a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘Come on; you owe me a favour.’

  ‘Sounds more like blackmail.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it might sound like that.’

  Mozak, hugging the shadows, was impressed.

  ‘They won’t let you back in. You know that, don’t you? His Excellency would never permit it.’

  ‘I was always out of favour with Adolphinus. But no, not that. I just need a robe. You can get me a robe, yes?’

  ‘A robe? Well, yes, I suppose so. Now?’

  ‘Right now. And a place to stay. I have some unfinished business, and then I’ll be gone. Someone you can trust.’

  ‘Gone? Where?’

  ‘Here and there, travelling. I have another life now, a life on the road.’

  ‘Wait there.’

  Tibi shot off and returned with a robe, as worn by all novices, and a piece of paper. He was keen to talk more, but Timothy was not, for they were not alone.

  ‘You look sick,’ said a concerned Tibi.

  ‘I look sick? I feel fine – well, except for this hand. It hurts. Sometimes it really hurts. Here, take some money for that.’