by Euan McAllen
Ingel snapped: she wanted to see too much of him; she wanted to take too much of him. He could not share – at least not like this. Her body was still delicious, but her mind was suddenly dangerous. A switch suddenly flipped inside him, and he felt damaged and disgusted - with her and with himself. This was too easy. She was too easy. She was throwing herself at him. This girl was trying to turn him into a savage, into a sex addict. He was not an animal. He was not her sex=machine. She could not play games with his mind and body. He pushed her off.
‘Get out.’
‘What?’
Stunned, Laylinia reached out and tried to take his hand. Ingel backed away, back to his table.
‘I said, get out! Now! Get out of here now, bitch!’
To make the point, he threw a knife at her.
Terrified, Laylinia fled, almost wetting herself. Craccus, squawking like a maniac, flapped his wings and attempted to fly away. But the cage, as always, stood in his way: he was stuck spending the rest of his life watching and listening to his jailer, a human maniac, whilst pretending to be sympathetic.
Ingel finished off the wine and dragged himself into bed in a vain attempt to calm himself back down; to get back to that safer place where his mind could cope, conspire. But he had sex on the brain, and it was torture. Finally, he surrendered, and gave himself relief, cursing the girl for making him subject himself to this demeaning act.
***
Evening, and Bushcatti crept out into the night; his red robe replaced by black; a hooded cloak was providing the necessary disguise; a piece of paper mapping out his destination. His captain was by his side, also cloaked and hooded. Outside the monastery, and exposed, Bushcatti moved through the streets like a ghost or death on patrol; his captain struggling to match the slow pace he set. Bushcatti knew where he was going exactly, and did not rush. He avoided contact with other passers-by. It was assumed the two were just monks out on the town, perhaps on the prowl for cheap female company.
Evening, and free of his master’s demands, Paminio went on the prowl; seeking out one particular spyhole, like a bee drawn to nectar; the one which sneaked a view into the novices’ dormitory. The lonely child within him demanded it. The adult within him could not refuse. Some of the boys were talking, at each other and over each other. Some were arguing. Some were pushing and shoving. Some were playing games on the floor. Some were undressing for bed. Of those, one, in particular, transfixed Paminio. The boy had a beautiful body and a beautiful smiling face, and he moved with grace and confidence as he slipped into bed – as if declaring that he was better than all the others. He made Paminio giddy. He made the child inside want to reach out and make a friend. Paminio had to look away, run away, and fade away. But it was a struggle to tear himself away. He did so in the end when it became too much to take. Too much - too much for a man to handle. He retreated to his room, disowning himself, and locked himself away; to pray; to pretend that he had done nothing wrong. Suddenly, without warning, without knowledge, Tibi had an admirer, the ultimate admirer.
Bushcatti didn’t know that he was being followed, that Ingel was keeping him under surveillance. One of Ingel’s men was always on the watch, for no other reason than Ingel wanted to know everything there was worth knowing about men more powerful than him. Information was power. Facts could be thrown at the enemy like darts: some poisoned, and some hitting their mark.
Bushcatti’s simple map did not fail him and he found the house: the house of Fiodor. He knocked on the front door – it opened almost instantaneously – and he was invited in. Captain Mostrum was told to wait outside. Mostrum never saw who it was – not that he cared. Nor did Ingel’s secret policeman loitering on a street corner just out of view.
Bushcatti and Fiodor greeted each other with the minimum of effort; like crusty old colleagues; like secret resistance fighters now weary of the war; like team players battling on; but not like true friends. They sat down at the kitchen table, ready to talk business. They were not alone: Timothy, having heard the disturbance at the door, had sneaked halfway down the stairs to take up a position. He could hear every word, and every word stunned his senses.
The two men did not engage in small talk: this was business. They only talked of important matters, world-changing matters. Bushcatti explained that he wanted Adolphinus to succeed him, and had made the offer, which had been accepted. Adolphinus was the best of a bad bunch, and the Maze was close to his heart. Bushcatti explained that he planned for his nephew to be the next Chief Monk, and asked that Fiodor give the young man support and guidance.
‘He does not have the best of brains but is totally loyal to the cause. As a senior monk, he is adequate, not outstanding. He is not good with numbers or other monks for that matter. Business bores him. He is no politician. He will struggle, I know it. He does not get it, the subtle workings of organisations. He does not understand people well, but he is part of the cause. He will need all the help you can give him.’
‘I will not let him down. Rest assured I will not let you down.’
‘Good. That is a load off my mind.’
Fiodor stared straight ahead, across the table, straight at Bushcatti, pinning him to the chair.
‘You intend Adolphinus to be your successor?’
‘Yes. Why? You think him not suitable? If so, speak up.’
Fiodor did not hold back: Adolphinus was a risk, a risk-taker. He had broken the rules laid down by the Builders. He had compromised The Maze completely. He had entered it. He has let others enter it.
‘Who? Who entered?’
‘His own brother, his own mad brother, a senior monk no less.’
‘Mad? You say mad? Angry mad or mad, mad?’
‘Mad, mad. So mad, he was put away.’
‘So there is madness in the family. That is not good. I need some water. Please. My throat is dry.’
Fiodor obliged. ‘It gets worse.’
‘Worse? How can it get worse?’
Fiodor explained: Adolphinus had let Castle folk out; out to live on the Outside. For years!
‘Castle folk? Who were they?’
‘Little people. No one of consequence.’
Timothy held his breath. He could not move. He dared not move. He could not think. He did not want to think. Outside in the street, Captain Mostrum stood frozen, leaning against a wall; in a foul temper because he could not drink and he could not sit down. Ingel’s policeman was long gone: he had had enough, and he had enough to make his report the next day. Finally, Timothy withdrew to a safer place and hid himself, his head filled with big questions and no answers in sight. Who was this man, Fiodor, who had provided refuge? Could he be trusted? How did he know the Chief, Chief Monk? And how did he know so much? Which side was he on? Inside or Outside? Timothy had to give his head a rest.
Bushcatti left with a bitter taste in his mouth; with much to think about; all his hard work wasted; his plans scuppered. And he had been lied to – though lying chief monks were nothing new. He woke his captain up with a whipping from his tongue and returned to the monastery, much in need of sleep – after a drink or two.
***
Next day was Peasant Aid Day, the day on which the Chief Monk was required to meet the ordinary people, the poor people; the people in need of help or with a grievance; and listen to their protests and requests, and generally ignore them. Originally intended to give aid to only peasants, nowadays tradesmen could also partake. As the Chief, Chief Monk was in town, this year the job fell to him, like it or not. He did not like it. Secretly, Adolphinus liked it that he did not like it. Bushcatti had been cold and frosty towards him that morning, refusing an invitation to share breakfast with his host. They had barely exchanged words all morning. Adolphinus did take to being snubbed. He put it down to ‘grumpy old-sad-man’ syndrome and the weight of the office.
In the Greeting, the two chi
efs sat in silence at the high table, in two shades of red; surrounded by the black of monks. Outside local citizens gathered in the courtyard, under the watchful eye of Ingel’s religious observance officers, there to keep an eye out for troublemakers and conmen. This year they were reinforced by Bushcatti’s personal security guards: they herded the crowd like cattle – bigger this year because of the special guest in town – into an orderly queue. This did not go down well amongst the tradesmen who were forced to queue with the peasants, and not given priority. Neither Bushcatti nor Adolphinus wanted to smell the shit of ordinary people: just pay them off with a favour, a promise, a kind word and make them go away.
When the show began, Bushcatti put on a show of kindness and compassion, and keen interest – all faked. Normally, Adolphinus would have done the same – perhaps less effectively – but this time he kept himself in check, bottled up; revealing nothing except perhaps a little boredom; speaking only when absolutely required; happy to let his chief do all the work of appeasement. Let his chief earn his keep. Tradition demanded the pretence of unity.
Adolphinus sat smug, aloof: he was better than anybody else in the room – except for his chief, who was just a little better than him, but not for long. Like his chief, Adolphinus wanted to conserve, contain, while part of him was itching to strike out, try something new, and leave his mark for others to wonder at after he was gone. For Adolphinus, moral authenticity and superiority included the right to define the hardship of others, and not simply surrender to their constant complaints and cravings. In his mind, poverty was a state of mind, and only weak minds suffered from it. The monastery was their salvation – that and God. God was not there to indulge. God was there to insist. The people and the peasants should be grateful for the attention. In his opinion, some were deserving, and some were not. Some were just on the make. The problem was deciding which was which. If in doubt, don’t bother. They will always come back next year.
Paminio and Ingel stood at the back of the room, apart from the monks; watching proceedings with a wry, weary detachment; both conscious of the politics and the fraud behind today’s ‘meeting the people’ event and outburst of favours to those both regarded as scum. Wishing to make a friend, to ingratiate himself with the man he was now willing to give the benefit of the doubt, Paminio confided that his master had decided that his nephew – his stupid, useless, cretinous nephew – would take up the post of Chief Monk when it became vacant. Ingel thanked Paminio for telling him but otherwise gave no reaction: the miserable, insulted Ingel kept his feelings to himself. As an afterthought, he offered again to get Paminio a girl - a juicy girl who would ask no questions - but again Paminio politely declined. ‘No problem,’ said Ingel. He could relate to that.
A gruff, grumpy-looking, slovenly man approached the high table like it was dangerous. His clothes were dirty. What remained of his hair was greasy, stuck to his head, impervious to rain or wind. He carried a stench with him like the two were inseparable. Both chiefs did their best to stop breathing in. Adolphinus could look away. Bushcatti could not.
The man took off his cap. One good sign at least: the man understood subservience. He spoke slowly, chewing over every word as if what he had to say was so important it had to be carefully cooked and even more carefully consumed. Both chiefs wanted him out of their hair as fast as possible.
The man said he was a bricklayer, first-class, and proud of it. He said he had been a bricklayer all his life. He said his dad had taught him. He said his dad was a bricklayer, also first-class, and had been all his life. He said his dad had a bad back but was still laying bricks as he was proud to be a bricklayer. He said bricks were his life. He said that as a kid he had played around with bricks: stacking them up high; stringing them out in long, perfectly straight lines; toppling them; hoarding them. He said he lived to build and mend brick walls. The two chiefs got the message, but there was no stopping the man’s verbal diarrhea. He said his granddad had been a bricklayer, all his life. He said his great-grandfather had been a bricklayer, the first in the family. Finally, Bushcatti had had enough. He could take no more of this sanctimonious crap. He raised his hand and cut the man off, politely insisting that he – a bricklayer to be admired for his passion - get a move on. Time was short. There were many more wishing to be seen and heard. Why was he here? What exactly did he want? Adolphinus was less charitable: just what the fuck do you want you boring shit, he thought, hoping that God had not heard him.
His rhythm interrupted, the man stalled and twisted up his cap then, just as Bushcatti was about to say something, began speaking again in his slow, numbing voice. This man, this first-class bricklayer, did not have any friends. He only knew other bricklayers – who in turn were forced to know him when a wall had to be built. When he spoke like this, they could simply ignore him. Bushcatti did not have that option. It was Peasant Aid Day.
The bricklayer said he was deeply unhappy with the rise in the cement tax: it would hurt him. The man said his father was deeply unhappy with the rise in the cement tax: it would hurt him. The bricklayer said all the bricklayers he had spoken to were unhappy with the rise in the cement tax: it would hurt them. He said that meant paying more for cement even before a brick was laid. He said customers were not willing to pay extra for bricks, or brick-laying. He said brick walls would be more expensive. He said the brick building would suffer. The obvious had been overstated, and both chiefs were going numb as mental fatigue set in. The man said bricklayers had to have cheap cement: it was the food of bricklayers, and without food t,hey would starve. And not just bricklayers, he said. Bushcatti raised his hand and waved him down before the man could go on and on, and on; afraid he might start rambling on about the importance of cement or its correct use in the construction industry.
Adolphinus looked up in total surprise as his chief agreed with the poor man: yes, the tax rise was a bad idea; his chief should not have made such a thoughtless change to the tax system. Bushcatti wanted to be remembered as a good Chief, Chief Monk; one with a heart and soul; one in touch with the working class; and he wanted to embarrass Adolphinus. It was simple revenge for a big lie.
‘You are right, my man. The Chief Monk of this monastery should not have raised this tax. I will ask him to correct the mistake. Now go, back to your bricklaying which you clearly love so much. You are a credit to your profession. We need more bricklayers like you – first-class and dependable. Walls do not build themselves.’
Adolphinus, appalled and angry, gritted his teeth and gripped the arms of his chair. He stared down at the table, while he was forced to listen to the bricklayer’s long drawn out words of thanks. The man thanked the chiefs, again and again, backing away as Bushcatti waved him off. He put on his cap and shuffled off to share his good news; secretly pleased that for a while he would be the centre of attention amongst the town bricklayers. And bricklaying would continue as normal. And walls would continue to be built. And his bricklaying dad would be proud of him.
The next man complained that his woman was not bearing him children like she promised she would. Could the great man, the chief of all chiefs, help? Bushcatti said, ‘sorry but no, he could not.’ This was the most private problem. He would have to go directly to God for assistance and marriage guidance. Perhaps his woman needed a change of diet, Bushcatti suggested in all seriousness. Perhaps he was working her too hard. The man was dismissed and left feeling extremely dissatisfied. Next.
Another man, obviously extremely dim, said he had seen a witch. A witch. A witch no less!
‘Calm down,’ said Bushcatti. ‘You are safe here. How do you know she was a witch?’
‘I just knew,’ said the man.
‘Where and when did you see her?’ asked Bushcatti.
The man could not remember. Not much he could do to help then, said Bushcatti. Come back if and when he remembered anything, said Bushcatti, before dismissing him. Next.
The next man, a tra
desman, asked if the monastery could give him a loan to buy a second oven for his bakery business. ‘Yes, a business loan was perfectly possible,’ said Bushcatti, and he looked at his Chief Monk, requesting that he follow it up. As always it would be a loan with interest: loans handed out by the monastery always came with interest to be paid. Next.
Meanwhile, outside the queue began to disintegrate as insults, jibes and bad jokes escalated into arguments with the personal security guards: these in turn escalated into confrontations and scuffles. Peasants, in particular, did not like being shoved around, told to stand in line and shut up by a bunch of stuck-up, pompous outsiders. The guards wanted to give the rowdy peasants a whipping. Tradesmen, in turn, did not like being treated like peasants. Deputy Dolgar tried to calm the situation but failed miserably.
The guards were in a foul mood because they – the best of soldiers - had been reduced to the status of second-class security guards. Also, growing impatience amongst those queueing affected the mood: the waiting had never been this long; some had jobs to go to; one, a cripple, could not stand for long, and thought he deserved special treatment – a guard threatened to smack him if he didn’t stop complaining. Some locals walked off in disgust, some with bruises from fistfights, and some with new scores to be settled. Meanwhile, back inside, Adolphinus was impressed: he had to admit it, his chief was good at playing authentic; he was very good. Anxious as ever, Adolphinus now felt like an amateur.
A peasant complained that his brother, the black sheep of the family, fancied his wife, and may even have slept with her. ‘Love your wife more,’ insisted Bushcatti, ‘and wash more,’ and immediately dismissed him. Next. A tradesman said his son was sick, but he could not afford the full hospital fee. Could he get free treatment? He had always paid his taxes on time. Of course you have, thought a cynical Adolphinus. ‘Or failing that, a discount?’ ‘I cannot speak for the hospital,’ said Bushcatti – giving a good impression of a man visibly upset – ‘but I’m sure a loan is possible. Make an appointment with my chief,’ he said and dismissed the man. Next. Another peasant complained that his wife snored loudly: so loudly that he had once hit her to shut her up; so hard that she lost a tooth. Bushcatti dismissed him immediately and without comment. Next.