by Euan McAllen
‘Money? I don’t want your money. What would I do with your money?’
‘Spend it,’ Mozak whispered to himself.
‘Here,’ said Tibi. ‘This is the address of my godfather. You met him once. Tell him I sent you. Tell him I gave you my word that he would look after you. Remind him that you saved my life once. He should remember you. You were drunk at the time.’
‘He supplies the Monastery if I remember?’
‘That’s right. Food, drink.’
‘And girls.’
‘Yes, as you say, girls.’
On that note, they parted company: Tibi promised to come and visit him at the first opportunity, then disappeared back inside, to pray.
***
Timothy led the patient away in the dark, back down the hill and on to the hospital. Mozak now wore a robe and felt ridiculous. Along the way, Timothy reminded him of the rules: a monk did not swear, did not curse, did not take the name of God in vain; a monk took prayers twice a day, even when sick, especially when sick; a monk was expected to be calm and thoughtful at all times. Mozak, recalling their time together at the castle, wanted to be sick: the hypocrisy was too much.
When they reached the gates of the hospital, Timothy stopped and held Mozak back by the arm.
‘It won’t take long.’
‘What won’t take long?’
‘For that rash to pass. That’s all it is, a stupid rash.’
‘Fuck you. It could be something serious.’
‘If you had the plague, you would be dead by now.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Very well. Now you’re on your own. Remember, no swearing in there. And be polite to the nurses. Show them respect. They are the ones who will save your life – assuming it can be saved.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Fuck this. Look when you are discharged, come find me at this address.’
Timothy handed his brother the piece of paper.
‘How do I find it?’
‘Ask someone.’
‘Very well.’
‘And remember who you are. You are me, a novice monk tell them. Don’t embarrass me. Be a good me.’
‘Piss off.’
With that, Timothy gave his brother one last look – a look of denial – and walked away. Mozak gave his brother the same look and walked off in the opposite direction. As he passed through the gates into the inner courtyard, he held his breath, now feeling really ill.
A nervous, pale-faced, Mozak entered the building, through a door above which a sign said, ‘enquiries’. A nurse, in a hurry, scurried past him. He grabbed her by the arm and demanded help. Annoyed, she shook him off and pointed at a set of double doors. They had their own sign. It said ‘All-comers, Enfeebled’.
‘Book yourself in there,’ she said, and then she was gone.
Mozak marched on, shivering; determined not to make a mistake for, as far as he was concerned, his life depended on his every move. He entered a large room. It smelt disgusting: it smelt of sick, of sweat, of undesirables. A man waved him forward and demanded to know why he was here.
‘To get better,’ said Mozak without any hint of sarcasm.
The man didn’t take it that way and growled. ‘Don’t be smart with me. Tell me exactly why you think you need treatment.’
‘I have a nasty rash, refuses to go away. And I may have caught something really bad.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Saw some people with a nasty bug, and they died.’
The man, unimpressed, took the necessary details, then demanded payment for the bed. No payment, no bed: that was the rule. Mozak handed him a gold coin.
‘Will that cover it?’
‘Yes.’ The man glanced around, then slipped the gold piece into a pocket.
‘Print your name clearly there and sign beneath.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because I’m telling you to. You’re entering into a contract with this hospital.’
‘Contract? What sort of contract?’
‘An agreement, terms, and conditions, covering your stay here, what we are and are not liable for.’
Mozak grimaced but said nothing. Instead, he concentrated on printing his new name, like Timothy had shown him, and scrawled something that could pass for a signature. The hospital accountant looked at his handiwork and was clearly dismayed.
‘That is awful spelling. I thought they taught you lot how to read and write.’
‘I’m ill, not feeling well. My hand shakes. Do you want to see my rash?’
‘Do I look like a nurse? In there. Someone will see you. I look after the money. And take this.’
The man held out a small slip of paper. It had a number stamped on it.
‘What’s this?’
‘Your bed number.’
Mozak found his allotted bed and crashed out on it, exhausted. He looked around. The room was full of sick people, sad people – too sick for his liking; he could catch something if he wasn’t careful. He saw death written across the faces of some; on others resignation, vague interest, or boredom. What attention he did attract soon died away and the other patients returned to their own tired, recycled thoughts, or pain. Mozak turned away and resolved to keep his head down. Now he was desperate to get better, and fast, and get out. The thought of sharing the same room with these people – breathing the same air – made him feel sick. As a nurse passed by, he grabbed her by the skirt.
‘Excuse me. Nurse. Nurse?’
‘What is it?’ She slapped him away hard.
‘I must have my own room. I can pay.’
The nurse stopped, turned around, and looked down at him as if he had lost his marbles.
‘You’re a monk. This is the Monks Ward. You stay here.’
‘I said I’d pay.’
‘This is not a hotel.’
She walked on. She had more important matters to attend to. Secretly, she despised the monks. Secretly, she was a non-believer. They thought they had the right to rule the world, with their sense of smug, moral superiority. God always excused them for their sometimes outrageous behaviour. She did not. One of them had got her sister pregnant, and refused to recognise the child or provide for it in any way. The monk had been a complete and utter bastard. Her sister had never been the same.
A hospital orderly who was not quite right in the head walked up to Mozak, and stopped sweeping with his broom.
‘Who are you?’
‘Go away.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I said, go away.’
‘Who are you?’
‘For fuck’s sake. My name is Timothy. Now go away!’
‘Who are you?’
‘What? Are you deaf? Timothy. I’m fucking Timothy. Now fuck off!’
The man walked away and resumed his sweeping.
Mozak wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep but was afraid to do so, afraid he might not wake up. But he could not fight total exhaustion, and suddenly he went out like a light. He did not sleep for long, no more than a few minutes for a nurse shook him awake.
‘You can’t go to sleep yet, not until you’ve had your initial examination. That’s the rule.’
Before he could reply, she was gone, and as nurses flew past, Mozak struggled to stay awake. They had no time for him yet. He saw men in white robes, some holding clipboards. They were the monk doctors, and they were in charge, and they made it clear that they were. They attended to patients in their beds and, against the rules, some of them attended to nurses in their beds.
Mozak noticed one nurse who was older than all the others. She was the best dressed. She was slim. She looked sharp. She had teeth. She could bite. She stormed through the ward with a boldness which the othe
r nurses did not have, barely pausing. She was just passing through, making mental notes. She was the Senior Ward Sister, and as such, she held absolute power over all other nurses. She even scared junior doctors. The Senior Ward Sister saw everything. She took in all that was happening around her – or not, when it should be – and gave nothing away until she was ready, never a hint. Without warning, she would simply erupt, and direct her fire at some unfortunate nurse, or patient who was still sick when he should have been up and gone.
Disrobed, laid flat out on his bed, Mozak underwent examination by a young nurse: a good-looking nurse in his estimation, one worth a chat up. She said nothing as she inspected his body. He said nothing as he inspected hers – that which he could see. (For the rest he used his imagination). She told him to roll over and proceeded to prod his rash with her index finger (protected inside a glove).
‘Does it hurt when I do that?’
‘It itches, which hurts. It never stops itching.’
‘You’re very underweight. Have you gone off food, stopped eating?’
‘I’ve been travelling, living off snacks.’
‘Have you had sex recently?’
‘What? What are you talking about, woman? I’m a monk or will be. You saw my robe.’
‘I said, have you had sex recently?’
Mozak, flat out, stood down. ‘No. Not for a week or so.’
‘Does your partner have a rash?’
‘No. I don’t think so. She would have told me. I’m sure she would have told me.’
The words stuck in his throat, and the nurse looked far from convinced.
‘I have to shave your head.’
‘What? Why?’
Mozak wanted to tell her in no uncertain terms that he was a prince, a prince regent. A prince had to have a good head of hair. He had to look his best at all times. But he knew that was impossible.
‘Delousing procedure. It’s standard.’
‘Great.’
He nearly said ‘fucking great’, but managed to stop himself just in time.
‘Tell me, what’s that smell, that strange smell. Sour. Really gets up your nose.’
‘Disinfectant.’
‘Did in what?’
‘Disinfectant – keeps everything clean – a sort of strong soap.’
Meanwhile, while Mozak stewed, a nervous Timothy knocked on the door of the one named Fiodor, Tibi’s godfather. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach, for he did not find it easy these days to take something on trust. When the door opened, he stood back from the man who appeared. He was clearly not happy at being disturbed.
‘Yes? What do you want?’
Timothy recognised him. He had seen him many times at the monastery, doing ‘business’ as they called it, usually with Ingel, the Senior Religious Observance Officer.
‘My name is Timothy. A friend of Tibi, a good friend. I was a novice monk here not too long ago.’
‘Timothy? You’re the one he kicked out.’
‘Yes, that Timothy.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Tibi said you could give me a room? I can pay. He said to say; he gave me his word that you would. He said to remind you, that I saved his life once.’
‘OK. OK. A room? That’s possible. Cash in advance though.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Fiodor looked him over with unconcealed curiosity, and Timothy began to shift nervously.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Travelling.’
‘Travelling? Travelling where?’
‘Here and there, across the league, other monasteries. I wanted to see the world.’
‘And now you’re back.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You didn’t enter The Maze did you?’
‘No. Not there. Why would I? It’s against the law.’
Fiodor made it plain he did not believe him. Timothy made it plain he didn’t care and stuck to his story.
‘You thirsty, hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better come in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is that hand OK?’
‘No. I need to wash it.’
‘Come. Follow me.’
His wound cleaned but still hurting like hell; Timothy sat down where instructed: his host, Fiodor, had knocked up a quick meal. Timothy watched his every move, then in return, Fiodor watched him eat.
‘So you have never been in the Maze.’
‘No. Thanks for the food, good ham. But I’m tired; I’d like to go to my room?’
‘Yes, of course, sleep, you look exhausted. The spare room is on the top floor. It’s the only room.’
‘Thank you, and goodnight.’
‘Goodnight. Timothy.’
Timothy did not sleep well that night: his hand hurt; his head hurt; his own reason for being did not feel secure. It was the same for Mozak. Both twins were in trouble. Timothy thought of Esmeralda: he wanted her in his dreams, but she did not appear. Something dark in his dreams disturbed Mozak so much that he opened his eyes to escape the bad, bad feeling. He nearly screamed. There was a witch staring down at him, almost mocking; sucking out his life force, and seeming to be enjoying it. It was Miuccia, the Senior Ward Sister.
‘So you’re not dead yet.’
‘Dead? No, I’m not dead.’
‘Nurse says you have a nasty rash.’
‘Rash. Yes. That’s just part of it. I haven’t been feeling well. There was something bad going round. Think I may have caught something.’
‘Going round? Going round where?’
Mozak panicked and grabbed at the most obvious answer.
‘The monastery. Something’s going around the monastery.’
Miuccia was not pleased to hear that news. She would have strong words with her brother: he should have told her; she should have been kept informed. He never tells me anything, was her constant complaint. She returned to the subject in hand.
‘You need a laxative.’
‘A what?’
‘A laxative, to flush your body, remove the toxins, refresh it.’
‘I’ve no idea what that means.’
‘Good. Nurse! Laxative for bed twelve. Immediately!’
‘Yes, sister!’
Mozak blinked, and she was gone, just like that; back into the shadows, to be replaced by another face: this face was warmer, younger, and gentler. Immediately he began to feel better and smiled in anticipation of getting to know her better. She did not return the smile.
‘What’s your name?’
‘We cannot hand out that information. Hospital rule.’
‘You can make me better?’
‘Perhaps. If you’re going to recover, this is the place.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank me when your rash is gone.’
‘Will it hurt, this laxative thing?’
‘I wouldn’t say hurt as such, it will just exhaust you. And it’s freezing out there right now.’
‘Out where?’
‘Outside, in the latrines.’
‘I don’t need the toilet.’
‘You will. I’ll be back in a moment with your medication.’
Mozak took another look around the ward. Nothing had changed. This place was timeless. Some of the patients looked broken, beyond repair. Some looked like they had been butchered, limbs now missing. Some looked like they had given up on life before life had given up on them.
There was a noise, the sound of wheels screeching, like a cart or wheelbarrow. Mozak looked across the room to see a small man pushing himself through the doorway on what looked like a tiny trolley. The man had no legs. (But still, he had a heart.) The ha
lf-man pushed himself along with all the impatience of a man wishing to get somewhere important, and on time; and with the disgust of a man who felt the journey was a complete waste of time and effort; and the fury of a man who felt he had been tricked into doing it. When the nurse returned, Mozak simply had to ask.
‘Nurse,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘That man over there. He has no legs, yet he still lives?’
‘He’s a lucky man.’
Mozak was none the wiser.
‘Now sit up, head back, and open wide. I need to administer your laxative.’
Mozak did as instructed, and the nurse poured a precise measure of thick, white liquid out of its large brown bottle and into a large spoon. It had the consistency of glue.
‘It looks like milk, creamy milk,’ said Mozak.
‘It’s not milk.’
‘You sure?’
‘Believe me; it’s not milk. Now, swallow, slowly.’
Mozak gulped it down. It tasted awful. As it slipped down, it felt like he was turning inside out.
‘The latrines are through there, just follow the signs. It’s clearly signposted. Be careful of the chamber pots, some of them might still be full.’
‘This stuff is supposed to be good for you?’
‘That’s what Sister says, and she’s always right. And take your blanket. It’s cold in there, and you will be stuck on the seat for a long time. Don’t leave until you are fully flushed.’
Mozak, not wishing to brave it out, did as instructed.
***
The next morning, Ingel blew into the office of the Chief Monk, not bothering to wait after knocking for he was late. Adolphinus was pacing up and down at his window, looking anxious. Ingel noticed that Adolphinus had tidied his desk, and all the books had been put back in the bookshelf. He knew exactly why.
‘You look anxious Your Excellency. Why so anxious? This is not his first visit.’
‘This one is different. Word has it he will shortly announce his retirement but has yet to announce his successor. And he suddenly wants to come and see me.’
‘I see. So there’s a good chance he may want to choose you?’
‘Exactly so, Ingel, a good chance. Is this not the oldest monastery?’