by Euan McAllen
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good. I sometimes worry I was not.’
Adolphinus took a look at his master, as his master’s voice began to dry up.
‘I think that’s enough for now. Time for bed?’
No answer was forthcoming, so Adolphinus took it as a yes.
‘Let’s get you to bed then. You have the best bedroom in my monastery. It has the best bed.’
‘I’m not drunk.’
‘No, your most esteemed excellency.’
Bushcatti’s guards also drank to excess that night: descending on the nearest tavern like an invading army, their presence was felt, to the extreme. They had time to fill in abundance, and the consumption of alcohol was the only way to fill it. They drank their boredom away, and their violence in. They requisitioned a corner of the tavern; sat, drank, and told stories to each other, and to anybody who was prepared to listen.
They set the mood. They stole the show. They could not be touched, only tolerated. Their banter was too overwhelming to be ignored. Anybody who gave them a bad look received ten times worse back. Their uniforms inflamed passions – a woman could not resist a man in uniform – while their talk of wild escapades and adventures, and rubbing shoulders with the most powerful people in the land took prisoners – mainly women. You were either attracted to them or repelled. Their searching eyes and wolf-like smiles targeted the young women in the crowd and flushed them out, to the fury of those local men who had failed to do likewise. Unchained, they wanted to hunt down girls and give them what for. It was a competition. Only the tavern-keeper was indifferent: he was happy for the extra business.
***
Late at night, Ingel sat sulking with self-restraint in his chair, unhappy that he had been excluded from the top table. To make matters worse, he had suffered a visit from his cocky cousin, Dolgar, the recently promoted Lieutenant of the Guards. Dolgar wanted to see his aunt – said his mother wanted to know how she was. Was her condition better? Ingel had panicked and said he would make arrangements. Now he was stuck. He could not tell Miuccia. She would be furious, which made her insufferable.
Craccus, his pet crow, stared out from behind the bars of his cage, watching its master; as if looking for his master to make a mistake; as if looking for a way to turn the tables on him.
‘What are you staring at? Got something to say?’
Craccus squawked and looked away as if finding the human tiresome and irrelevant. He was bored beyond shit. If he could shout he would shout, ‘stupid human, let me fly!’
‘No, didn’t think so. Just a stupid bird. Why do I put up with you?’
Craccus squawked again, and turned back on his master, to resume his one-crow vigil. The fact that he had been placed in a cage had not diminished his sense of importance or self-confidence. Craccus could be contained but never beaten, never intimidated, and deep down Ingel respected him for that.
There was a hard tap on the door, and then two more, each harder than the one before. Adolphinus come to apologize? Of course not. No, at this time of night it would be his sweet loathsome sister, come to taunt him or beg a favour or plead loneliness. She didn’t wait to ask for permission to enter but pushed open the door, enough to stick her head a little way into the room. Ingel glowered.
‘What do you want?’
‘Are you decent?’
‘Yes, I’m decent. I said, what do you want?’
Miuccia slid into the room, in his eyes like a ghost gliding on ice.
‘What I always want, to see how my little baby brother is faring. What with today being such a tough day. Hello, Craccus. Has my brother been good to you? Has he fed you today?’
Craccus squawked and turned away as she approached as if sensing something unnatural. She stuck a finger through the bars of his cage, pulling it away before he had the chance to peck it to pieces. Ingel smiled: he wanted to do the same. Satisfied, she moved on, to annoy on her brother: before he had the chance to rise up out of his chair, she stroked the top of his head and ruffled his hair. She could touch him like only a big sister could. He fought her off, as only a little brother would.
‘Baby, you look hurt, exhausted. Bad day? Visit from the high almighty not going so well? Been beating up too many monks?’
‘I’ll have you know I’ve been up since dawn. Busy since dawn.’
‘That’s a normal day for me.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
Ingel watched his sister as she closed in on his desk. His sister was nosey, always nosey; always touching, always feeling. She reached out, intending – perhaps pretending – to disturb the sheets of paper neatly placed there.
‘No, don’t touch those.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why. It’s confidential, monastery business. So don’t touch.’
‘Your business is my business. You’re my little baby brother.’
‘Your business is sick people.’
‘Touchy.’
Still playing her game, next she switched her attention to the pencils neatly stashed in a jar and zoomed in, like a bird of prey, like a crow; rattling them until they had the desired effect of rattling her brother.
‘Stop that. You know it annoys me.’
‘That’s why I do it.’
But she stopped anyway. She knew how far to push her brother.
They were brother and sister, but they were fire and ice – each sometimes fire, sometimes ice, but never the same at the same time. They were hell and high water. They could jump inside each other’s head, and crawl around, causing the head to ache.
When they were together, the temperature dropped and they would pull on each other or push each other away; always looking for balance, resolution, or victory but never finding it; so remaining always in a state of nervous anticipation, and emotional exhaustion. They were each other’s emotional punch bag, and cushion, and delusion, and torn up teddy bear. They gave and took in unequal measures. And hanging over them were their shameful, family secrets which kept them tied up in knots, unable to break free.
‘How is she?’ asked Ingel.
‘Same. Always the same. Always hard work.’
‘That’s your job. That’s what you get paid for.’
‘She’s been asking after you.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
Ingel gave a heavy sigh, and his sister laughed at his vain attempt to appear insulted.
‘I must see her sometime. It’s been a while.’
‘Why? You’ll only upset her.’
‘You upset her, but you see her.’
‘But I’m her nurse. And together we only upset her more.’
‘I will see her. You can’t stop me.’
‘She won’t like it.’
‘Tough.’
‘Actually, there is a reason why I’m here, little brother.’
‘Not to taunt me?’
‘No. I’ve got better things to do, like saving lives.’
‘You, saving lives. Give me a break.’
‘I have a new patient, a novice who says there’s some nasty bug going round the monastery? Why weren’t we told?’
‘What’s that? Rubbish. No such thing. I would know about it. The chief would have been told. He’s making it up.’
‘Well, that’s what he said, said he caught something bad.’
‘He said? Who said? Who are we talking about?’
‘A novice by the name of Timothy.’
‘Timothy?’
The name and the memories it invoked caused a shock wave to roll through Ingel, leaving him stranded. Timothy. Timothy was back. Looking for Gregory was he? He had to tell the chief, fast. First thing in the morning. Yes, that would nicely spoil his breakfast.
‘T
imothy,’ he whispered out loud, back to himself.
Bad mistake: his sister was suddenly on the alert. Here was something interesting.
‘You know him?’
‘Yes, I know him. Troublesome kid. He won’t last. Is that all?’
‘By your , you are in a foul mood tonight. What’s got to you?’
‘Nothing. Leave me alone. Go save your sick.’
‘Very well.’
On the way out Miuccia stopped by the cage. ‘Goodbye, my darling. Keep an eye on him.’
Craccus squawked and looked away again: this human was truly tiresome.
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘You know. Just leave.’
Miuccia left, smiling on her way out, knowing it would be a long time before her brother would be smiling again; knowing he would not get a good night’s sleep. Another small victory.
***
Adolphinus rose early, at the break of dawn, and slipped out of the monastery unseen, to make his way to the hospital. There he cornered a nurse. Surprised, she asked if he needed to see a doctor. The look he gave her said definitely not, and he demanded access to the Records Room. There, he made her wait outside while he went inside, unaccompanied, which was against all the rules - but then he was the Chief Monk and this was his hospital.
Inside, by candlelight, he searched through the ‘F’s until he found the patient records for ‘Frago’, his brother. He whipped them out and hid them under his cloak. He left in haste, wishing never to see the place again, telling the nurse that he expected total confidentiality from her. Anything less, and she would end up in trouble, deep trouble. The nurse nodded in agreement. She had got the message.
Back in his private quarters, he reread Fargo’s file, and shuddered, before throwing it into the fireplace, ready to be burnt, and damming his mad brother one more time – hopefully for the last time. To hell with Fargo.
His dark thoughts and anger were disturbed by a visit from Ingel: a visit from his SRO this early in the morning was always a cause for concern. Ingel shuffled into the room, at this time of day expecting his chief to still be in bed, but then the big boss Bushcatti was here, Ingel reminded himself. As usual, his manner of disengagement and total self-importance irritated Adolphinus.
‘Well, what? What do you want?’
Ingel gave him the bad news and then had to calm his chief down.
‘That Timothy, that disgraced monk back here?’
‘He was only a novice.’
‘Whatever. Back here? Why? What does he want? And why now?’
‘I don’t think he wants anything.’
‘He’s come to blackmail me, hasn’t he? Bushcatti is here, so he’s come to blackmail me. He’s come to blackmail me!’
‘No. I don’t think so. He’s in the hospital.’
‘In hospital? Why?’
‘Why? Because he’s sick. I think he came back for treatment.’
Like so many times before, Ingel had lapsed into open, outright scorn and there was nothing Adolphinus could do, except pretend not to notice.
‘Treatment? For what?’
‘I don’t know. Some bug he picked up.’
‘He’s not pretending? He’s not looking for Gregory?’
‘I’ll check it out, first thing.’
‘You do that. That’s why I pay you.’
Is that why you pay me? thought Ingel.
‘No, on second thoughts, just move him. Have him moved to a private room. I don’t want him talking to anybody, and I don’t want him walking out. He doesn’t leave until I let him. Understand?’
‘Understood.’
‘Right away. Now.’
‘Right away. I’ll have it done right away.’
‘I’ll see him later when I have the time. I have to attend to the chief first.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now go, leave me alone. I’m exhausted.’
Ingel frowned. ‘Exhausted? Already?’
‘Yes, exhausted. Why am I repeating myself? Go, leave me alone.’
Questions: Ingel always had to answer him with a question. He was the only man in his monastery who dared to do that, time and time again like it was a game to him. It was too much sometimes. Ingel was not a man of God. He had to go. He had to get that promotion. He needed an escape from Ingel, his oversized SRO with his oversized ego. Ingel almost slammed the door behind him as he left the room. He always did his best to keep his chief out of trouble, but never a word of thanks, never any sense of gratitude.
Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti awoke late, with a hangover, to be greeted with a busy schedule by a chief monk barely able to hide his impatience: Adolphinus was not in the habit of being made to wait. He had to be seen, Adolphinus told him. He had to meet the people. He had to see the sick people. It would make them feel better. Bushcatti refused to do anything until he had consumed a large fried breakfast. The agenda that day was a whistle-stop tour of the monastery, its grounds and gardens, even its graveyard – even the dead had to meet the great chief of all chiefs – followed by a tour of the hospital. ,
Proudly, Adolphinus paraded his chief in front of his monks. Bushcatti did not know it, but for some he was a fairground attraction. As the great man passed them by, monks stood back and bowed their heads in deference, hands clasped as if in prayer or asking for forgiveness. In return, the great man gave a slight nod here and there and touched some on the shoulder while imparting one of his standard blessings. All the while, Adolphinus kept one step behind, beaming with satisfaction at their good behaviour. Not one of his monks looked like they had a hangover – unlike his guest – and he could not detect the slightest trace of alcohol on the breath of any of them. Ingel had done his work well.
Though many thought they were being scrutinized, their souls examined, Bushcatti was not, in fact, taking any interest: looking through and beyond was his way, to avoid too much sensory input, for it quickly tired him out; that and keeping a smile at all times. All monks looked the same to him these days. Going through the motions was an action he had perfected over the years. He was interested in the monastery, for it was the oldest, the first, and it guarded the entrance to the Maze, but its monks? No. He had met more than enough monks for one lifetime – mostly one dimensional, mostly boring. At first, he did stop to speak to a monk at random, to ask how they were, and moving on before they really had a chance to answer. But that soon stopped – too tiring for a man with a hangover.
Bushcatti walked on as if adrift, without purpose or direction; his chief monk guiding him on, steering him left or right or straight ahead, as and when required. And never once did his personal assistant let him out of his sight; and he kept taking notes, which came to annoy Adolphinus greatly. This is not an inspection, Adolphinus wanted to shout at him. It’s a tour, of a great monastery, the first, and the best. You do not have to rate it. It is not a tourist attraction. Just appreciate it! Appreciate my stained glass windows, you moron! Adolphinus wanted to grab the little man’s little notebook and tear it up. Only when they wandered through the Great Cloister did Paminio stop writing and look up, seriously distracted, truly impressed for the first. Its fan vaulting grabbed his eye, like overhanging branches bearing fruit but out of reach to a hungry man.
At his host’s invitation, Bushcatti joined the monks for morning prayers (which, at Adolphinus’ strict instruction, had been delayed). With their special guest present, the most important man in the world, the monks prayed at their very best, as did their chief monk. Bushcatti did what he could to make a contribution, struggling as he did to kneel down, articulate, and then get up. Luckily, he had Paminio on hand as a substitute for the hand of God.
Moving on, Bushcatti was led down a secret, special corridor; one intended only for the exclusive use of the chief monk, allowing him
to move quickly and unseen from one end of the monastery to the other. Combined with its spyholes it allowed him – and his SRO – to spy on its inhabitants. God saw everything, but in this place, the top two men in charge also saw quite a lot.
At the first spyhole they encountered, Adolphinus stopped and invited his chief to take a peek. It was a classroom: novice monks, seated in rows, were hard at work learning basic numeracy; a monk, moving slowly, sometimes stopping, hands clasped behind him, was watching them closely. A monk had to know his numbers. Numbers were at the heart of business, and the monastery was as much a business as it was a holy establishment. Bushcatti was impressed. Paminio was not. Another gave him a view of the bakery: a monk was teaching his latest intake on how to make bread. Another was a spyhole into the novice dormitory. As Paminio discovered, it was empty right now.
Outside, needing fresh air, the chiefs visited the graveyard and paid their respects to the deceased monks buried there: monks who had died without family to take their bodies away; monks who had become quickly forgotten once dead. Finally, having earned a much-needed rest from so much walking, the two chiefs retreated to the monastery gardens: there to sit, chat and take stock; there to watch the abundance of vegetables, herbs and flowers growing; personal assistant Paminio having finally been ditched. That was followed by another late lunch and a quick snooze for Bushcatti before the visit to the hospital – for which his price was a meeting with its most important patient, Fiolotti, the previous chief monk.
Fiolotti had his own room there. He was a permanent guest, for he was permanently disabled, living his life in a wheelchair. To add to his woes, he had recently suffered a heart attack which had left half his face paralysed, making comprehensible speech difficult and laborious. Bushcatti felt compelled to pay the man a visit, and pay his respects, having avoided him on his previous visit: the sight of one of his chief monks stuck in a wheelchair had stuck in his gut. It was not natural.
***
The late arrival of the chiefs at the hospital caused chaos: staff had given up on them and dispersed. It took some effort from the Chief Accountant to reestablish order. The doctors – all monks, devoted to restoring broken bodies – were quickly rounded up and made to stand in line to greet the great man, their great spiritual leader; and shake his hand – assuming he wanted it to be shaken. Both Ingel and Paminio looked on with a look of disdain and cynicism as the Senior Doctor, Doctor Varvareo, grovelled and heaped praise upon the great chief. In parallel, the Chief Accountant assembled his Assistant Accountants into a line. Stuck out on his own as if loathed by all was the ‘Body & Bed’ Manager, also known as the ‘B&B Man’.