With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  When all was done, and the doors to the Greeting Room were slammed shut, Bushcatti left, exhausted, his feelings mixed. Adolphinus left, less exhausted, but his feelings stretched. Ingel and Paminio followed them out, both impressed by the great man’s performance. He was a great performer.

  ***

  Over another late lunch, after Bushcatti had taken a long nap, the frostiness continued, and Bushcatti refused to engage in even light conversation. It was all in the eyes: Bushcatti said everything that had to be said with his eyes when words were not available or not willing. Adolphinus could not understand it, and it was driving him mad. Finally, he threw down his fork, demanding answers, demanding satisfaction.

  ‘What? What is it? What have I done wrong? How have I upset you? Tell me.’

  No formal address: the knives were out. Bushcatti, the chief of all chief monks, did not like people addressing him as if they were his equal.

  ‘You know what you did wrong exactly.’

  ‘I know?’

  ‘You lied to me. That’s what you did wrong. And to pretend that you didn’t know only adds insult to injury.’

  Bushcatti sounded like a wounded lover, and Adolphinus began to feel sick inside for he had once wounded a lover. He felt a chill begin to consume him, and he desperately needed to wrap himself up in a blanket of his own, particular, unbreakable truth.

  ‘Lied? When?’

  Bushcatti stopped pulling his piece of chicken breast apart and looked up from his plate. He looked disgusted. He held his knife and fork in the vertical position; each hand now in the fist position, and ready for a fight. He breathed in and out slowly, trying to calm himself. The Chief, Chief Monk must always appear calm, in control.

  ‘You did not tell me about your brother.’

  Adolphinus went pale, and his heart missed a beat, and he lost all appetite for food. He dropped his knife and leant back in his chair as he was struck by a massive headache. It was a storm inside his head. He needed a nurse, a special nurse.

  Fargo had buggered up his life again. The curse of Fargo. He wished Fargo had never been born. He hoped Fargo was dead now. He hoped he had died starving, in pain; alone, forgotten; lost somewhere in the Maze; unburied, his flesh devoured by the insect kingdom; his soul swallowed up by mud. God rest his soul.

  ‘Your behaviour is unacceptable. And there have been other transgressions, transgressions which cannot be ignored by me, or any of the chiefs, or forgiven.’

  Adolphinus knew what was coming and grabbed at his glass of wine. He needed a large, stiff intake of alcohol.

  ‘You have broken the rules of the Maze. And to think, you are the official guardian of the entrance to the Maze. I trusted you. We all trusted you. You are not a man to be trusted, that is clear now.’

  The Maze, that fucking Maze, thought Adolphinus as he threw back more wine. Always that fucking Maze.

  ‘I cannot hand over power to a man who has kept such secrets from me, who has sinned. I have no trust in you. I have no faith in you. I’m sorry, but you are not suitable for the job. And how many secrets do I still not know about?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  It was all Adolphinus could say. Say more, and he might start crying into his glass.

  ‘And it’s not just about me. If such secrets became public knowledge, it would destroy you and damage me, and damage the high standing of all chief monks. The Chief Monks would want blood.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You have wasted my time, a lot of time. A lot of time I don’t have.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that. It’s wearing thin.’

  Adolphinus had to say it one more time. It had stuck in his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Suddenly a question popped up inside his head: a simple question about paperwork.

  ‘Have you signed the succession document?’

  ‘No, I have not, not yet.’

  ‘It is with you?’

  ‘Yes, I intended for you to add your signature of acceptance before I left when I was absolutely sure. It can only be signed once as you well know. I am not permitted to change my mind. That is tradition. Choose once. Choose carefully. That is the tradition.’

  Adolphinus, no longer listening, asked to be excused and, before his chief had excused him, was up out of his chair. He felt the need to throw up. He felt the need to hide in his bedroom and never come out. He felt the need to have sex with a woman – any woman, any body which would receive his and allow him to eject all his sins.

  ‘Remember the salt tax must go up more, to pay for the cement. We need those taxes.’

  ‘You need those taxes,’ snapped Adolphinus on his way out of the room.

  Bushcatti shook his head in disbelief and returned to his important task of eating and drinking until his stomach was full. A full stomach would switch off his brain, and a brain switched off did not think. He was sick of his own thoughts right now. All he asked for from God was a happy retirement, a succession without controversy, a chief monk who was up to the job. All he wanted to do was to retire to his estate and suck the last remaining juice out of his life, and gorge on his best memories, and die with a smile on his face, and never be forgotten. God, was that too much to ask?

  ***

  Accompanied by his personal assistant and his captain, and his captain’s deputy, with two guards bringing up the rear, Bushcatti made an unscheduled guest appearance at the Free Fast Food Bank – without their chief, some monks noted. The monks staffing the bank that day were startled by his unannounced arrival – an intrusion to some (headed as it was by the fierce-looking captain of the guard on the lookout for security risks, for signs of danger to his master). Their Chief, Chief Monk acted like he owned the place, which did not go down well with those monks who had dedicated their lives to making the bank a success.

  Neither Paminio nor Captain Mostrum wanted to be there, to come into such close contact with poor peasants. It was one of the few things on which they were united: both did not believe in charity. It was the lazy approach: the poor should work themselves out of poverty, not rely on handouts. Give the poor free handouts, and they would not bother to work. They would just keep coming back for more. Unlike his captain, Deputy Dolgar was intrigued: he was interested to see how the mob behaved in such a situation.

  Paminio surveyed the scene of excess: piles of food and piles of clothes. Too much, he decided. Such a sight could drive a poor, starving man crazy. A poor man should never see how much a richer man had at his disposal. Captain Mostrum looked around at the same and thought the same. Who was stupid enough to give all this stuff away? The monks, presumably. Stupid monks. No, God did not make you clever. Captain Mostrum and his guards – Dolgar being the exception – did not understand the concept of charity; only conflict, confrontation, conquer and capture, and celebration. Dolgar understood it but did not like it.

  Bushcatti, however, did understand the point of charity: it was a useful tool; it kept the poor subdued, satisfied, dependant upon the system; it made people like him look good; it ensured that the monasteries were regarded as moral institutions; it ensured their protection.

  There were small bags of flour, apples, and pears, potatoes and parsnips. There were fresh greens from the monastery gardens. There were chunks of cheese, and sliced ham, and streaks of bacon, and scraps of raw meat. There were piles of clean clothes: all shapes and sizes; all previously worn; some torn, some seriously worn out. You could pick and choose, and if it didn’t fit, you could bring it back, as long as it had been washed. (Some smart peasant women did a reasonable trade in third-class clothes and rags.)

  Meat was rationed out: the meat was never too much for the monks of the monastery, but too much the peasants. A peasant was not expected to just live on meat: he had to consume fruit and vegetable
s as well. A healthy, balanced diet would bring a peasant closer to God. (And he would live longer; perhaps improve his lot; perhaps learn a trade; perhaps earn a decent wage; perhaps pay his fair share of taxes. Delusional thinking, thought Ingel when Adolphinus had shared such thoughts.)

  Outside, the hungry huddled together; one behind another, in a twisting, turning, shivering line; forced to queue; forced to accept the smiles and gracious comments of the fat, God-driven monks. When the bank threw open its doors and opened for business, the poor peasants flooded in; looking around, on the lookout for a bargain; all on the take; some simply, honestly starving and in need of charity. When it came to charity, it was a free-for-all.

  A sign hanging from the ceiling greeted the poor with a heavy, heartfelt message:

  ‘Welcome. If you are hungry, God will feed you. If you are cold, God will clothe you. If you are missing God, you will find him here. In return, you must find work. You must welcome work. For work will free you from poverty. Work is freedom. Food is fuel. Give thanks for the food here today.’

  Adolphinus’ predecessor had come up with the idea of the sign. Adolphinus, upon his promotion, had stolen it and pretended it was all his idea.

  Bushcatti saw the poor peasants pour in, out of control; like a stampede from Hell; like an army of flies invading a lump of rotting raw meat. He wondered if he had made a mistake. Some were storming the food counters, trying to break through the barrier of defending monks – aggressive monks, in some cases, who kept pushing the peasants back and shouting at them to form an orderly queue. Some peasants ran towards Bushcatti, the great man, hoping for something special. His nerve nearly failed him. He looked at his personal assistant whose similar nervous disposition confirmed his fears. Captain Mostrum, always on guard, always alert when on duty, wanted to draw his sword to warn the peasants that nothing except the best behaviour in front of his master would be tolerated. He had his men outside: if necessary, he would use them. Any trouble and these peasants would feel the sharp edge of his sword. Pain was a good persuader. He kept his hand on his sword handle at all times. Dolgar stayed calm and waved them away. It worked: the peasants were warned off, preferring to do business with the monks they knew.

  Outside the guards, stuck on sentry duty, spat and swore at the peasants who were making their way in and seizing the opportunity to spit and swear at them – just the two of them, outnumbered, but better-armed. Some resented the way the guards had virtually commandeered their local tavern and their women. It was hostile territory, but the guards had known worse.

  Bushcatti wanted to make a good impression, the best; to leave his mark; to make it clear he was a good man as well as a great man, and he had to outdo Adolphinus when it came to demonstrations of good deeds. So he instructed the monks to calm things down, to bring order, to halt proceedings, so he could make a short speech to the poor and needy.

  ‘Listen to me, all of you. Yes, you there, even you. Listen to me, my friends. I have come a long way, but now I am here. I am here because you are here. You are here because God has a purpose for you. And God is here, in this room, with you, with me. I am here, with my brothers, to improve your lives, through God, to improve the lives of you, you poor peasants but no less important to God than the butchers and bakers, the bricklayers and stonemasons, the blacksmiths and carpenters, the wheelwrights, the farmers. So take what you need, only what you need, and thank God for his charity.’

  While he spoke, the monks were on high alert: watching out for those faces which were too familiar. Repeat offenders were sent away and told not to come back for a month. Bushcatti, uncomfortable at the thought of just standing around doing nothing, and looking like a spare end, decided to hand out the goods personally. Yes, that would bring him closer to the people. He could already smell them.

  Rigger was there today, as an escape from his bitch of a wife who had assaulted his senses and done his brain in until his head bled; until he caved in and agreed to go get some free food. She wanted food. For her, food was everything. She lived for food – more than she lived for sex. (She got little of that these days from her pathetic, miserable husband.) She could never have too much food: the more, the better; the fresher, the better. Better fat than thin – especially when winter was on its way.

  Rigger drew close to the great man, charmed and enticed by the great man’s redder-than-red red robe. It was something special. The man wearing it was something special. On seeing Rigger, the senior monk present drew closer, as if to provide protection, as did Captain Mostrum. For safety’s sake, the peasants always had to be outnumbered. Bushcatti could smell him coming, and this one smelt bad but he had nowhere to go: he was pinned up against a food counter. A test by God, he told himself. Get used to it. Accept it. Peasants will always exist.

  The great man is here today, thought Rigger, trying not to stoop; trying to ignore his bad back and the throbbing pain in his mouth; for me, he thought. The great man is here for me. The great man wants to help me, see me right when he could be elsewhere – a great man. Rigger did not engage in small talk. He came right to the point and pointed at the sausages.

  ‘Can I have some of those?’

  ‘Certainly, my good man.’

  ‘Six?’

  Rigger knew he was pushing it, but this great man had not been here before.

  ‘Ten? Ten would be nice. My family is starving. We never get to eat sausages.’

  The monk cut in. ‘Only four, you know that. Only four I’m afraid, Your Excellency. The sausages must go round.’

  ‘You heard him. Only four, my good man. Sorry. Live in peace with four sausages.’

  A great man, thought Rigger. A fair man. This was a man he could believe in. Great men did not mislead the people. Great men gave it to them straight – like he gave it to his wife. He wanted to reach out and kiss the hand of the great man.

  The monk cut four sausages from the string and handed them over to the pushy, predictable peasant. Rigger grabbed them and hung them around his neck where they would be safe.

  ‘And some apples. Some apples please?’

  ‘Certainly, my good man. How many?’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘We can give him six?’

  The monk nodded. Six was fine.

  Bushcatti reached for a paper bag – the first time he had ever picked up a paper bag – from a pile and filled it with six apples; some bruised; some housing a single maggot.

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ cried Rigger. ‘Thank you sir!’

  It was as if the fruit had been handed to him by the hand of God.

  ‘And some cheese? A big slice of cheese from that one there.’

  Rigger pointed at one particular block of cheese.

  ‘Cut this man a slice of cheese.’

  The monk nodded, and did as instructed, slicing off the standard portion. He put it in a paper bag and handed it over – or rather, Rigger snatched it away.

  ‘Enough now,’ said Bushcatti. ‘There are others also in need. Go. Enjoy. And let God help you find your way to a better life, a life which doesn’t rely on handouts.’

  Great words, thought Rigger. Great words from a great man, despite the earlier bullshit.

  ‘I will my Lord, I will. I certainly will. Bless you, my Lord. Bless you.’

  Bushcatti waved him away: he did not need to be blessed by a peasant and did not appreciate it.

  As he turn away – broke free of the great man – an idea hit Rigger like a slap in the face from his bitch wife: an idea to make money.

  ‘My Lord, forgive me, one last thing, I beg you. I beg your help.’

  You are tiresome as well as smelly, thought Bushcatti, still managing a smile.

  ‘Yes? What is this last thing? This last thing, mind you.’

  The monk was suspicious.

  ‘Do not overstay your welcome, peasant. Do
not hog the time. There are others waiting to meet His Excellency.’

  ‘Speak, man, quick about it,’ said Bushcatti, maintaining the pretence that he cared.

  ‘My eldest son. He’s a cripple. Bad leg. He’s had it tougher than most. Now he has a nasty cough, a bad pair of lungs. Getting worse. It could kill him: he’s not strong. I have no money to take my boy to hospital. Can you spare a little money to spare his life? Just for one of your clever doctors to take a look?’

  Rigger was in full flow.

  ‘He’s a cripple, sir, but he has a heart of gold. He prays everyday to get better even though he knows, in his heart; his leg will never be as long as the other. It breaks his mother’s heart. He’s never done anyone no harm, my son. He’s a lovely boy, my son. And he’s never lazy. Always helps his mum round the house. If you don’t believe me, my lord, come to my house. It would be an honour.’

  Bushcatti could not think of a worse nightmare: entering a peasant’s hovel. And he did not like to think of cripples let alone meet them, so he bought off his unsavoury thoughts with money. This place was a bank, after all. And he wanted to leave his mark; be remembered as a good man, a generous man, a benevolent man in this corner of the world; and a better man than the contemptible, crooked Adolphinus. He turned to the monk in attendance.

  ‘This is a bank. You keep money here?’

  ‘No. We only store food and clothes here, and water; water for the monks. It can be a thirsty job.’

  ‘You have money on you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Give him what he needs, enough to see a doctor. Enough for his poor, crippled son to see a doctor.’