by Euan McAllen
‘Mum, please come down!’ shouted the daughter.
‘Quiet! Go home!’
‘I’m not going without you!’
‘Nor me!’ shouted the son.
‘Quiet, both of you, or I’ll give you both a slap!’
With that, her kids gave up and fell silent. When she was in this mood, Mum would do what she would do. Dad had never stopped her, so what chance did they have?
From her vantage point, Rigger’s wife could sit overhanging the monastery wall and look down into its gardens. As a child, she had been fascinated, intoxicated by what it contained; by what it offered, by what it possessed. As a child she had wanted so much to enter it, to explore, to smell the flowers, to pick its fruit but people like her – peasant stock – were not permitted.
She saw the tops of carrots, and cauliflowers, and cabbages. She saw rhubarb and tomato plants. She wanted to steal it all. Compensation! Cooking! And then she saw the main man, the big chief, drift into view. He was walking slowly, along a gravel path, hands clasped behind his back; looking like a very important man should look. The big chief owed her: an apology and compensation. She would have both she decided.
With her knife stuck inside her belt, she clambered down on to the top of the wall and edged along it until she reached a point where she could jump down on to a bench below. She ignored the calls of her daughter. She was that child again: feral, wild, scared of nothing, not even boys; knowing nothing; oblivious to sex; but this time armed with a big sharp knife. She would have her day today. She would show her useless husband what a wife was capable of.
Adolphinus did not hear her. He did not look up. He was lost in his thoughts. He was lost in his wicked plots. He was at a loss. On the outside, he looked like a man without a care in the world. You lucky bastard, she thought. Your life is wonderful while for me and my family it’s shit. Crouching down behind a bush, she watched as the big chief walked past oblivious to her presence.
‘You! Yes, you Chief!’
Adolphinus spun round, at first looking angry. Then he held up his hands as if to ward off the devil; a look of fear on his face now for confronting him was some mad woman holding a knife.
‘You owe me money! Compensation! And an apology!’
Adolphinus refused to shout back: raising his voice in any circumstances was not what a man in his position should do. It was demeaning. He decided to play it cool – cool and composed.
‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about. You are not allowed in here. Leave immediately, or I will have you arrested.’
‘Yes, you do. Don’t pretend you don’t!’
Adolphinus looked over her shoulder and suddenly looked relieved: two security guards were rushing towards her. Neither bothered to draw a sword: they just fell on top of her, kicking the knife out of her hand. They bundled her away. One guard put his hand over her mouth to try and stop her screaming. She bit his hand.
‘Bitch!’
‘I want my money! You owe me compensation!’
‘Lock her up,’ said Adolphinus. ‘Let Ingel deal with her.’
‘What was that?’ shouted a guard.
Adolphinus was forced to shout back.
‘I said, lock her up! Let Ingel deal with her!’
‘Right you are, Chief!’
Adolphinus shook his head and turned away from the disgraceful, distasteful scene. He walked on, pretending that all was back to normal. But it wasn’t: now even his treasured gardens provided no peace, no refuge from the world outside. More than ever now, he wanted to be gone from this place. He had grown tired of it all and all its people. He had outgrown it all.
***
Mozak sat slumped in his new prison cell: a small room; a room in the compound, with only a bed and chair for company; no faces of crazy patients to entertain him; no sweet young nurses floating past. He had kicked the chair around so many times, it had snapped a leg and now, like him, sat limp. He was mad with his continued confinement and with himself for having acted so stupid. He was a leader: a leader was not allowed to act stupid; a leader had to get results. And he was mad with Valadino for confusing everything, for removing old certainties. And he was mad with Timothy for bringing him to this place then just leaving him here, to rot, in hell. His brother had abandoned him. He must have run by now, back into The Maze, back to The Village and the good life. ‘Family always let you down in the end’ was now his mantra.
Breakfast arrived on a tray, delivered by an orderly. The man said nothing as he tried to hand the tray over to the patient. But the patient simply stuck up two fingers, so he left it on the floor, and left, whereupon Mozak kicked it across the floor.
‘Fuck your food; I’d rather starve!’
Starve then, thought the man as he went to make his report. He didn’t give a shit.
The crazy caretaker next appeared, yet again with bucket and mop. Mozak recognised the mop: he wanted to smash it over the stupid man’s head. He was told to clean up the mess and behave himself.
‘Go fuck yourself!’
The crazy caretaker did not respond. Like the previous man, he just left, and Mozak, still sat on the bed, arms folded, assumed he had won a battle if not the war; except two orderlies appeared: two tough guys. They had not come to examine the patient and provide treatment. They had come to rough him up until he capitulated, apologized and promised to clean up the mess. Broken, stripped of all dignity, Mozak cried buckets as he dipped the mop into the bucket. Here he was, performing a task no prince should ever be forced to do. His only consolation was that no one would ever get to hear of it. He had to keep reminding himself that he was a prince, a Prince Regent; not prisoner scum, wiping the floor clean.
***
Rigger, still stuck in bed, and still too lazy to crawl out of it, was disturbed by his daughter and youngest. She was crying a lot. He was crying a little. Rigger moaned and rolled over.
‘No, not again.’
‘Dad, they’ve got mum! They’ve arrested her!’
Rigger sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘What? Who’s arrested her?’
‘The monks.’
‘Why for fuck’s sake?’
‘She broke in, over the wall.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No. She went there with a knife.’
‘A knife? What, to kill someone? That stupid woman! Good riddance then. Teach her a lesson. They might knock some sense into her. I never could. Might get myself a new wife.’
‘Dad, you don’t mean that!’ shouted his youngest.
‘Just a joke,’ replied Rigger, trying to sound apologetic. ‘Someone make me breakfast.’
‘And me,’ snapped his son.
‘That means me, I suppose,’ said his daughter.
‘Probably.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I say so.’
‘Mum’s been arrested, and you don’t care! Make your own breakfast!’
With that declaration, she left the room in a huff and in a hurry.
‘Bloody women. Son, can you make breakfast?’
‘No.’
‘No, of course not. Where’s your brother.’
‘Out begging.’
Having run out of options, Rigger was finally forced out of bed.
At the kitchen table, sitting opposite a daughter who refused to talk to him but was happy to eat his breakfast, and a son who complained about the sausages, Rigger chewed slowly on a burnt sausage; afraid to inflame the pain in his mouth; afraid that at any moment he would be stung in the head by a bolt of pure agony exploding in his mouth. The arrival of his best mate was a welcomed distraction.
His mate had great news: a march had been organised, through town and on to the monastery gates; there to protest at the tax rises and assaults by its guards on t
he honest, law-abiding citizens of the town. And the tradesmen had promised to join them: once they had ratified an official march at their union meeting. The meeting was currently ongoing. Rigger could not wait.
‘Meetings. Why does that lot always have to have a meeting?’
‘They have a union,’ said his mate. ‘That’s what unions do. It’s probably a union rule.’
‘Rules? Who needs rules. We don’t need rules.’
‘But that’s because we’re peasants, isn’t it?’
Rigger shook his head. ‘I’ll finish my sausages and then join you. Want one?’
His mate shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’
The news prompted his daughter to talk to him again. ‘Can I come?’
‘No. You stay here and look after your brother.’
‘He can look after himself. He’s not a baby anymore.’
‘But I want to come,’ pleaded his youngest. ‘I’m no baby!’
‘That’s what I just said stupid!’
‘Shut up! Both of you! You can’t come. It will be dangerous, no place for kids. And your mum’s not around to keep an eye on you.’
‘Dad!’
‘No. Now shut up both of you or you’ll get a slap!’
Rigger threw down his fork, having given up on his sausage.
‘Come on, mate, let’s get out here. Let’s make trouble.’
***
Rigger and his mate joined other peasants gathered at the main junction in the centre of town. They were waiting for the tradesmen to join them, and complaining that they were late – though no time had been agreed, and no one knew what the time was. The tradesmen duly did arrive, having voted overwhelmingly for a non-violent protest march whose duration would be one-hour maximum, then back to work.
The two groups did not mix, and tensions immediately arose when the tradesmen presumed to march in front of the peasants. After an exchange of hostile banter, an agreement was reached whereby the two groups would march up the street in parallel: trade on the left; peasants on the right; and not a woman in sight. This was no place for women. They had been told to stay at home, and prepare a meal, for the men would be hungry when they got home.
Citizens were on the march, to protest against the state: for the first time in living memory, the people were dead set against the organised religion which ran their lives. The monastery which had the monopoly on God, and sold it to the people, was now the enemy. For the first time in living memory, the tradesmen had voted to strike, withdraw labour, and march in protest – but only for one hour.
As they marched, arms interlinked, the tradesmen chanted their union song, only for it to be drown out by the noise of the raucous rabble which was the peasants. Some were there to have a good time; some a bad time. A few were drunk. Amongst the peasants bickering and fistfights broke out between men who could not suspend their mutual hatred for the duration of the march: the trigger was one man standing on another man’s foot, or bumping into him (by accident or design) and not saying sorry – or saying it like he didn’t mean it. Some held hands in solidarity but soon stopped when others noticed, and started to take the piss.
Rigger walked alongside his mates, swearing, and cursing and laughing: one of the lads again; no women in sight; mouth hurting again, but what the fuck. It was time for the monastery to hurt; for those fat, overweight, self-serving monks to hurt. Time to give their chief a kick up the backside, or toothache. And he wanted his fucking money back!
The protesters headed up the hill towards the monastery, full steam ahead; heads spinning with dreams of conquest, or in the clouds. Then suddenly it had to stop abruptly, at a point where the street narrowed. Impatient men on both sides of the street began shouting at the hold-up.
Rigger heard the words ‘cripple’ and ‘beggar’ being shouted. He pushed his way to the front to get a look in. And there he saw his son, trying to cross the road whilst holding the hand of a blind man. The two were blocking the way.
‘Hurry up there, you fuckers, if you don’t want to get hit!’ someone shouted.
‘Get out of our way, you peasant scum!’ shouted a tradesman. ‘Do your begging somewhere else!’
‘Or get a fucking job!’ shouted another.
Rigger was incensed and rushed forward to be by his son’s side.
‘Don’t you shout at him like that, that’s my boy!’
‘Well, get him out the way then!’
‘He’s got just as much right of way as you, arsehole!’
‘Are you kidding us?’
One of his mates did Rigger no favours.
‘Get him out here, Rigger. This is no time and no place for cripples!’
‘Fuck you, arsehole!’ Rigger grabbed his son’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go home. We don’t need this shit.’
‘What about my friend. I can’t just leave him. He’s blind.’
‘He can come as well. We’ll take him home. He’s got a home hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. His dad sends him out, begging, like you.’
‘Good, cos he’s not staying with us.’
With that, father and son left the field of battle. Rigger would not be protesting today – which was no big loss as on most days he could always find something to protest about.
When the march reached the monastery, the protesters were now shouting ‘down, down, down with taxes!’. The peasants began kicking on the main gate, shouting ‘where is the chief?’ Much to the dismay of the tradesmen. They wanted this to be a dignified event. The peasants wanted to ‘stick it up the arses’ of the monks on the hill, and the biggest arse of all, the Chief Monk. A few peasants shouted, ‘don’t rape our women!’ lowering the tone even further.
Then, without warning, the doors opened, and the Chief’s security guards filed out to form a defensive line, a solid barrier against the mob. It was clear by the expressions on their faces and the body language that they would not take any shit today. Then Adolphinus appeared, looking tense and troubled; flanked on both sides by senior monks (looking much the same). A monk rushed forwards and positioned a small stand in front of his chief. Adolphinus stood on it, straightened his robe and steadied himself, ready to address the crowd. A hush fell, and the crowd waited for him to speak. Adolphinus did his best to look the part: the part of a man in command, in control; a man not intimidated by a hostile crowd. He took a long, deep breath and tried to stand majestic, knowing he had to take this on and win. He had to go to the next level if he was to succeed as Chief, Chief Monk.
Adolphinus spoke like a man who had God on his side, but little in the way of conviction or confidence. He tried to come across as sympathetic to their plight and concerns. He made it clear he had heard them, and that he had listened. He promised that his successor would reexamine all existing taxes with a view towards complete restructuring of rates, which would mean some taxes would be lowered. But, he added, the civic expenditure would also have to be revisited and adjustments made to accommodate a revised tax regime. ‘There can never be something for nothing,’ he declared. ‘That was not the way God worked. There are no short cuts in life, only hard work,’ he declared. ‘Work, and you shall receive,’ he declared. ‘I have worked all my life,’ he boasted. The peasants did not understand what he was on about. The tradesmen did, but did not think to – or could not be bothered to – tell them what it all meant. ‘He would not stop: we have laws for a reason,’ he declared; ‘we must all abide by the law,’ he declared, but by now no one was really listening.
When Adolphinus requested they all now disperse, the tradesmen were willing to oblige and disband; to head back to their homes or workplaces or the nearest tavern; the peasants were not. The peasants were not happy: they felt short-changed. They left the scene, but only to split up into smaller groups which then proceeded to cause mayhem. This was their day, and they were going to
make the most of it: the peasants had arrived; they were going to be heard. Trade might give up and bugger off home, but they had come out with the intention of causing mischief, doing a bit of looting, and perhaps some vandalism, just for the fun of it.
A satisfied Adolphinus stepped back inside his fortress, thinking the worse of it was over and that things would get back to normal. They would not. The peasants went on the rampage. Fights broke out between peasants and outraged tradesmen: the town was being trashed; no respect for personal property; business would suffer.
Some started a bonfire in the marketplace, and danced around its flames, drinking bottles of hard spirits looted from a nearby stall. Its owner was left sitting on the ground, nursing his wounds. He had fought to defend his stock: alcohol was his life. Scuffles broke out between market traders and peasants, as the traders fought to protect their stock. Other traders tried in vain to put out the fire but were fought off by the drunken mob. In the end, it burnt itself out, much like the drunken peasants. Some sustained head injuries – and some sat down, feeling dizzy and bleeding blood.
‘We should do this again sometime,’ said one drunk peasant to his mate.
‘Well, I’m up for it.’
Some ransacked the food bank, angry that peasants were kept poor that they had to go begging for free food handouts – and even more angry when they found it empty. Still empty! Shouted some. They just want us to starve! The lone monk on duty tried in vain to persuade them to leave, to come back another day when the bank was restocked. He received a black eye and fled back to the monastery to make his report.
Some invaded the monastery gardens and began to trash the place – mainly out of jealousy – some filling their pockets with the best vegetables. Potatoes that would never see the light of day. Tomatoes were ripped off and flew through the air, like red cannonballs, to explode with bloody intent over the black robes. Cucumbers and melons followed, but with lesser effect. It was an assault on vegetables. Dinners had been dished in the dirt, and decimated.