by Euan McAllen
A crowd had gathered, keen for a piece of spectacle; always looking for something to happen; always on the lookout. Along with monks and novices, there were tradesmen, peasants, doctors, and nurses, the B&B man, and even the hospital accountants.
The Rigger family was present – daughter excluded – not to cheer; not to be impressed, but to fume and point the finger and make demands. Rigger wanted his compensation. His wife wanted retribution. They saw Dolgar standing proud as punch – proud of what he had done! They could not stand it. It made them want to throw up. And was he in charge now? Where was the captain fellow?
Mostrum was not there. He had resigned from the Guards and was now sat drinking in the tavern: no longer a guardsman, a soldier, he was contemplating his new role as a ‘Religious Observance Officer’, as Ingel called his men – policemen for naughty monks in his opinion. He knew they drank and slept with women and sometimes smoked strange weeds. Did they also sleep with their boys? He would love to catch one in the act. How would the sanctimonious Adolphinus explain that?
Also not present was Senior Ward Sister Miuccia. Adolphinus did not notice and did not care. Ingel did notice, but also did not care. No longer on friendly terms, he assumed. Must talk to her about Mother? Let Dolgar see her?
Doctor Varvareo was present: alongside his doctors, he watched the show with little expression; politely clapping when there was clapping around him. He was hoping that Adolphinus, in his new role, might provide more funds for the hospital. The Chief Accountant and his men stood alongside in their own little group, uncomfortable with having to mix with the crowd, the common people. (They regarded ‘Trade’ as much common people as the peasants.) They showed no expression, and their clapping was only enough to meet the minimum requirement in the most efficient way possible. Like the Senior Doctor, the Chief Accountant also hoped for an improvement in cash flow. The B&B man stood between them, like a referee.
Rigger Junior thought he was there to beg, until his dad sternly slapped him down, and told him to stand up straight; stand proud, like all Riggers; stand smart, like one of those guards; and stop coughing. You are on show today; Rigger told his son. We are not here to beg. (Rigger would do exactly that for he wanted his money back, and compensation.) His youngest stood mesmerised, his imagination running wild.
‘Dad.’
‘What now?’
‘I want to be a soldier, like one of them.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You’re a peasant.’
His wife would not stop staring at Dolgar. She wanted to stare him into the ground, shrivel him up until she could trample him underfoot. But never once did Dolgar look at her. He never even knew she was there. Her daughter had hidden herself away, still nursing her wounds; still haunted by the thought that she may have accidentally led him on, wound him up, given him ideas.
Rigger’s mates, and their mates were by his side, giving support for the news of his daughter’s rape had spread. Some pointed at Dolgar, and called him a dirty bastard; but not too loudly, not wishing to be heard. Some tradesmen whispered amongst themselves that a guard who reported to the Chief Monk had raped a peasant girl. Dolgar did not notice any of it: he was too busy enjoying the limelight; soaking up the glory and the sunshine. Mostrum was gone. He had fled. Mostrum was out of his hair. He had made it. He had it made. He was in Heaven.
Paminio was also present; also enjoying the spectacle of the new captain lining up his men and saluting their new chief. Mostrum was gone, out of it; a piece of history now; harmless, pointless, defenceless, and without purpose. Paminio felt he had won a great victory. He hated Mostrum, and now Adolphinus obviously hated him too. Good riddance to the man, the idiot, the brute. Go work on a farm. Go learn a trade. But whatever you do, get lost and never show me your face again. He could work with Captain Dolgar, of that he felt sure. It was one consolation for what was otherwise an extremely unsatisfactory – perhaps dangerous – situation: he had checked Bushcatti’s signature on the succession document. It appeared wanting. He did not recognise the ink used. Had a really dirty trick been played on him? Would a Chief Monk – a man who lived a life of the highest moral code – really forge that signature? ‘Yes’ was the answer which kept returning to rattle around inside his head. But what to do? Nothing. All he could do was nothing. All he could do was watch the spectacle; smile, cheer, and clap; stay out of trouble and hang on to his well-paid job. Leave politics to others: he was a personal assistant, a good one, so stick to that.
Well away from Paminio, Tibi stood stiff alongside his guardian Fiodor; thinking of his dad suffering in hospital; thinking a little of Timothy, hoping he was safe, hoping he was having another good adventure, wishing he was with him. He kept his distance from Paminio and Ingel. His gloomy manner suggested something was wrong, but Fiodor never noticed: he was totally fixated on Adolphinus. Something had gone badly, terribly wrong. Had Bushcatti lost his mind? Had he gone mad? So many monks go mad. Had he stuck two fingers up at the League and jumped? Monks going mad was not uncommon, but Bushcatti had never come across as anything except logical, pragmatic, cynical, self-indulgent but never mad.
Deep inside his own little shell of deceit, deception, dismay, and disgust, Ingel watched the comedy, and his cousin, and Paminio, and Adolphinus, and not least the crowd. He watched just about everything, and he did not like any of what he saw; and like many others, he cheered and clapped, just enough. Overnight, Ingel had become even more unpopular. Adolphinus had ordered that he was to be sworn in as a monk, as soon as possible; for which senior monks had to fast-track his training. It was clear to them that the insipid Ingel was to get the job of Chief Monk, not one of them. Some began to wonder if the monastery had lost its way. If so, would the League lose its way under the leadership of Adolphinus?
Swords were drawn and raised high as if to stab the sky. Trumpets blew, and the voices of the guards rang out as the oath was sworn, and Adolphinus nearly produced tears. For him, this was a glorious moment; to be savoured, to be recorded; and he expected it to be the first of many such moments to come – hundreds, thousands even. These men were his men now, and they would do as he said exactly, no questions asked. Even their new captain. Even their new captain? The name ‘Dolgar’ now automatically made Adolphinus nervous. But for now, he had to live with him, suffer him. There was no instant medication to hand. Perhaps later, in the future, when Dolgar started to make mistakes.
It felt like he had just adopted a child – a multi-headed monster of a child. Now he felt he was wearing thick armour. Now he felt he could take on the League and make it his own. Perhaps he could go further and take on The Maze, and conquer all its secrets. That would make him a chief, unlike any other – the ultimate chief – a king chief. Intoxicated by his own thoughts, he began to wobble, threatening to pass out. Luckily, the vigilant Ingel was standing alongside him: he took an arm and held Adolphinus steady, just like he had held him steady many times in the past.
When Mostrum heard the roar of the trumpets and the cheering of the crowd, he spat on the floor. When he heard jeering, boos, and insults, he spat on the floor. Ingel had to dig up the dirt on Dolgar, so he could dish it out. In the meantime, working for Ingel in this town, at least he could hide his fall from grace; and Dolgar would be gone, elsewhere, out of sight if not out of mind. He could not go home. So make this shit-hole home for now. He spat on the floor again – this time getting a dirty look from the man behind the bar.
With the oath sworn and the ceremony ending, Adolphinus turned to face the crowd; to wave, to give thanks for their support (even though he had received none) and to promise to continue to serve them well (which he never had). Rigger saw his chance and moved in, shouting, gesturing; ignoring his bad back and tooth.
‘My money! Compensation! I demand it!’
He burst out of the crowd like a pimple, startling Adolphinus and many others, Dolgar most of all. He gripped his drawn sword tight.
/>
‘I must speak to you sir, my lord, sorry your Most Esteemed Excellency. I have a serious grievance, sir. A wrong which only you can right.’
Rigger paused for effect, wishing for the crowd to be quiet.
‘One of these men here stole my money! My money! And raped my daughter! My daughter!’
The shock rippled through the crowd. Many swore, hissed, and booed. Someone shouted ‘lower our taxes!’ And others repeated it. Adolphinus was outraged. His captain was on high alert. Ingel and Paminio, and a few tradesmen were very unhappy with the situation. Rigger went for broke.
‘I must have my money back. Your predecessor gave it to me as a gift! And I must have compensation for the damage done to my daughter, for her distress, for my family honour!’
‘Family honour!’ shouted his wife. ‘Compensation and retribution!’
‘Shut up, woman, I do the talking.’
Some in the crowd laughed. Even his two sons giggled. Some repeated his words, and hers. Adolphinus waved him away.
‘Another time. This is not the time or place. Go.’
‘I won’t go.’
Rigger was too stupid to see he was up against a far more powerful force and heavily outnumbered. He was driven by money, and the lack of it. It was all he could see and smell right now. He didn’t even notice his toothache anymore.
‘Go!’
Adolphinus had nearly screamed, and Dolgar got the message, saw an order – and an escape hole for himself. He waded in with two of his men. They scooped up Rigger like he was a corpse and carried him away, to dump him out of sight of their chief. Rigger hit the ground hard and squealed in pain – extra loud for all to hear. His wife and youngest ran after him. His eldest, Junior, did his best to catch them up. Rarely was the Rigger family so united – and as usual, it was in defeat.
The crowd booed and hissed and threw insults into the wind; and the word ‘rapist’ was shouted out, over and over. Dolgar pretended not to hear and retreated quickly. As politely as he could he bundled his chief back through the gate, back into the safety and sanctity of the monastery. It was clear now to Adolphinus that the town did not like him – but he had never liked the town. Things were equal now. His retreating guards spat and swore at the crowd. One stuck up two fingers in defiance. One blew his trumpet. They still had their swords drawn, and some wanted to do serious damage with them. This crowd – this town – had to be taught a lesson in good manners and respect. This was their new master, the new Chief, Chief Monk; to be protected, and each had just sworn to do that and never fail in their duty. Show over, the crowd slowly dispersed, to ferment their growing unrest, to organise. Talk of rape would stoke the unrest. And now these rampaging soldiers had sworn loyalty to that bastard, Adolphinus.
***
Sister Miuccia needed relief, escape, someone to talk to. In bed, rather than allowing her to sleep, her body had tortured her. She needed to cool her body down, so she made a visit to the hospital chapel; there to drop a coin into the collection box as a down payment for the soul of Adolphinus to be damned; for Adolphinus to suffer misery, misfortune, or be sacked for incompetence. She wanted him to hurt as she was hurting. She sneaked into the cold, draughty, empty chapel as mad as any of her mental patients, and it took a while for her to calm down: this was an internal battle in which God did not take sides. Her intent was not to disgrace herself before God, but prove she was still worth listening to.
Kneeling, she prayed: for those troublesome patients to get better and be gone, out of her hair; for her baby brother to see the errors of his ways; for Mother to recover and shut up, and forget, or just shut up. (She did not want Mother to die just yet for there were unresolved inheritance issues.) She prayed for the nurses, for they were her nurses: God demanded that she protect them, nurture them, educate them, and turn them into the best of human beings, just like her. Finally, she prayed for all the idiots who ran the hospital, and for those who got sick, and those sick patients who ran out of money. She did not ask God for forgiveness for engaging in sex with that demon soul. Instead, she asked ‘why didn’t you stop me making a fool of myself again?’ and ‘why do you protect him so much when he is far from perfect?’ and ‘why did you promote him?’
She was alone with God. She had him all to herself. This calmed her and helped her reinstate her normal, default condition of self-satisfaction and self-belief; of smug superiority and ripe, ruthless retaliation; of rabid resistance, and determined denial. She did not want to be disturbed, so when she was, she looked up and around, clearly advertising her displeasure with the intruder. This was her chapel, for now, her god. She did not want to share. All that evaporated when she saw who it was and a smile broke out across her face, followed by a red flush. It was that nurse, the one she had spied half-naked; the one who was happy to scrub her back. She could still recall the moving image of flesh and played it over and over in her mind. It was a visual mental feast.
Sister Miuccia watched as the girl dropped a coin into the collection box then signalled for her to come to join her by her side. In this cold chapel, sharing body heat could only be a good thing, the logical thing. Together they could pray. Together, they could hope for a better life for a better world. She wanted them to hold hands, but not like sisters. But would that be too much, too soon? She had to find out, and soon, else she would go mad, and she was not getting any younger. The nurse returned the smile and knelt down beside her, hands glued together in the act of prayer – no holding hands yet.
Miuccia could smell her girl. (Sometimes when the nurses’ dorm was empty she would wander around the beds, stopping to sniff the bedsheets.) The girl smelt good, clean, honest. Her skin looked so clean, so unblemished that Miuccia wanted to lick it. She wanted to taste the salt on the skin. Through the uniform, Miuccia could picture the naked breasts, the chest, the armpits, the stomach, the bellybutton for she had seen it all before, and had taken pains not to forget it – though seeing it all and not being able to touch had been, and still was a pain. She knew what was down below, but still, she wanted to see it, touch it, stroke it, and consume it. She needed relief. She had earned it! It was her right! She wanted the youth and innocence contained in the human body kneeling next to hers. This was her nurse!
She saw her chance. God had heard her. God was on her side. The nurse separated her hands as she adjusted her kneeling position. Praying to God was hard on the knees. Miuccia reached out and took the nurse’s hand, smiling to reassure her slightly-alarmed victim that all was well, and would even get better. The nurse did her best to smile back; not wishing to refuse or insult her boss, the ward sister; for she knew the woman had a bad side. This was the hospital chapel after all, and Sister Miuccia was just being friendly; like a true sister, a big sister. This encouraged Miuccia to squeeze the pretty hand. She could feel the sweat. No matter. Just wash afterward. Why was her dear little nurse sweating? The chapel was a cold place, and the draught was blowing strong.
The nurse wanted to be let go, so to go, but she felt trapped. She kept thinking, what could happen? What could happen? What, what, what? Sister Miuccia, the senior ward sister, was not doing anything wrong; it just did not feel right. Miuccia, cocky now, went for broke and pulled the hand – their embrace – towards her, up to her lips, and kissed the back of the hand. Such a pretty hand. Such pretty fingers. It tasted sweet, not sour. A tremor ran through her body, and suddenly she felt so much better; stronger and desperate for sex – any sex of any kind, she didn’t care right now.
The nurse freaked out. She pulled free and pushed herself up on to her feet, readjusting her uniform while apologizing along the way. She was gone in a flash. A junior doctor – a nice boy of a man – had done the same recently but this was scary, unnatural; and in the chapel; before God? What to do? She had to work for, and with, this woman to heal the sick. If she had upset her, she could be sacked. She hurried away in tears as the ramifications hi
t home hard. A few minutes later, back in a safe place with another nurse, a new golden rule hit her, and she adopted it forthwith: never undress with that woman in sight. All women were not born equal.
Come dusk, exhausted by her exhausting patients and picky, pedantic doctors, Sister Miuccia needed another form of relief, another physical outlet. She could not hurt Adolphinus directly, but by chance she found another part of him she could hit: the prayer book he had given her when they were young lovers; when he was a senior monk, just promoted, and she, a struggling nurse supporting a struggling mother, and a stupid, struggling baby brother.
It had been a statement of his love for her, or perhaps payment. It had been signed by the great Chief Monk Fiolotti no less. She still could recall Adolphinus’ exact words: read it, read it all, for it will make you a better person. And she could recall her immediate response: how fucking patronising. But she forgave him, and they went to bed to have pretty good sex. She had only read the first few pages before giving up and putting it down. It was a boring book, a tedious read for a tedious god. It begged to be read and was always ignored. The book ended up sitting by the side of her bed; thumbed once in a blue moon when there was absolutely nothing else to do, or think, and sleep was not yet possible; a place to put her mug. (Remembering that, and her bed, she now also remembered the nurse in the adjacent bed and the crush she had had on her.)
So, come dust when all was quiet and shut away, Miuccia wandered down to the riverbank clutching her black book; to the river which flowed into The Maze. There she sat, digesting the view, soaking up the silence; wishing to be a virgin again; wishing to start over again; wishing to rewrite parts of her past; wishing to throttle her baby brother, and wishing not to; wishing to drug her mother to death, a painless death, and wishing not to. Wishing for that young nurse to fall in love with her; wishing for both her and Adolphinus to be twenty years younger, more even, children perhaps; wishing for God and his universe to be something completely different. Could children fall in love and still maintain their innocence? So many wishes. Too much for one god, and she knew it.