With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  Later that day, the Stanrods turned up: they had come to adopt the baby boy. Miuccia was not impressed: a pair of simpletons as far as she was concerned. For the last time, she tried and failed to change the mother’s mind: the girl wanted to return to work, not raise a child – the unplanned result of a short, meaningless affair, a temporary loss of sanity on her part.

  Miuccia held the baby close, refusing to hand it over to the agitated Stanrods. She had made a decision: she would adopt the baby; she would make him hers. His future would be her future. Her future would be his. She could not be talked out of it. Doctor Varvareo was furious when the news reached him: he had arranged the adoption. He was the father. When he confronted her, Miuccia threatened him with her new weapon: the Chief Monk, her brother. Varvareo backed down, and through gritted teeth, wished her all the best. His child was to be raised by that woman. So be it: such was God’s punishment.

  ‘Look after that baby,’ he said, he begged.

  Miuccia looked back at him as if he was stupid.

  ‘Only a man would say such a thing to a woman or a doctor.’

  She looked down at the baby then back at Varvareo.

  ‘He has your eyes.’

  She had only said it as a joke, but the look on the doctor’s face gave the game away: this was a secret she would keep and use. Her son would have everything he needed to take on the world, and the best, and Varvareo would pay for it. He would pay the price.

  ***

  Timothy had a fever, and his swollen finger would not allow him sleep properly. He drifted in and out of a state of restless semi-sleep where dreams and reality intermingled; each trying to outperform and outmanoeuvre the other – like two punch-drunk boxers trapped in a ring with no way out. All they could do was fight, fight, fight; fight over the mind and body of Timothy – once a prince, once a novice monk, now a nobody. Timothy knew that, and it hurt. Just one word passed through his lips now: ‘Esmeralda’.

  Suddenly there were two men looming over him. Their clothes looked familiar: they were policemen from the monastery. Then it was three men: the Pig Farm Manager was standing by their side. A policeman handed him something: a silver coin? Was he being rescued? Or sold, to be turned into bacon? Was this a dream, or a nightmare? Timothy felt himself being lifted up. He was floating. He was in heaven. It didn’t last: he felt himself lying flat out on a hard, flat surface. He felt himself shaking, rolling from side to side. He felt sick. He passed out. He had been put in the back of a cart and was on the move, back to town.

  Timothy opened his eyes. He was in a cell. He was in hell. And it got worse: the door opened, and Ingel appeared, the most feared man at the monastery. Ingel looked stunned, fascinated, bewildered – with a dash of anger thrown in for good measure. He entered the cell and hovered as if waiting for the right time to strike. Timothy only had bad memories of the man. He would have passed out, were it not for Ingel slapping him around the face until he was fully awake.

  ‘Talk to me. Who are you?’

  ‘Timothy’s brother.’

  Timothy wanted to maintain the pretence, but such hopes were immediately dashed. Ingel grabbed his head by the chin, as if inspecting a sick dog, or a girl on the make, and stared into his eyes. Timothy was both hypnotized and traumatized: the devil was inside him now; stripping away his soul. This was hell on earth: not the pig farm; not even the castle. Esmeralda.

  ‘Don’t dare lie to me. You are Timothy.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, I am Timothy.’

  ‘So who was that I saw at the hospital? Your twin? You have a twin. And you never told me. You lied. You broke the rules.’

  Timothy did not try to defend himself. He could not summon the energy, and talking back to Ingel was something you did not do: that was the first lesson he learnt at the monastery. Esmeralda.

  ‘You look sick. Do you have a fever? You need the hospital. I’ll have you moved.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I see my brother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Your brother is dead.’

  Those words returned Timothy to a state of shock. Ingel saw the swollen finger.

  ‘Does that hurt?’

  No answer.

  ‘I said, does that hurt?’

  ‘Yes,’ croaked Timothy. Esmeralda.

  ‘Good.’

  Ingel suddenly left without saying another word, and Timothy was left hanging, crushed. He waited and waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Then he passed out again, exhausted by Ingel’s act of verbal torture, to begin another nightmare – one in which he saw himself kill his own brother. Esmeralda.

  He dreamed that he was being lifted up again. He was floating. It was dark. Was he on the way to hell again? He woke up. He was lying on a bed in a small room. A woman was sitting by his side, tending to his wounded finger. She dabbed it with a piece of wet cloth. It stung his finger. He tried to pull it away, but she held it tight and proceeded to wrap a bandage around it. He recognised the uniform. She was a nurse. He was in the hospital.

  ‘So you are the real Timothy,’ said Miuccia.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, trying not to cry, wishing he could act tough like his brother – his dead brother.

  ‘A prince no less, masquerading as a monk. No wonder my brother is so angry with you.’

  ‘No. I was never a prince.’

  ‘No? Fascinating. Is Timothy your real name?’

  ‘Yes, at least as far as I’m concerned. But I was born Tascho.’ Suddenly Timothy had a burning question. ‘Please, tell me, have you come across a man called Gregory, or Valadino?’

  ‘Sorry, those names mean nothing to me.’

  She sounded sincere, and Timothy believed her.

  ‘How did he die? My brother? He was here in the hospital.’

  Miuccia tightened the bandage before tying it up.

  ‘That’s not for me to say. I wasn’t there. Infection, I believe.’

  Business done, Miuccia got up and left him to it: it being ‘to rot, to fall to pieces’. Timothy heard her lock the door behind her. So he was back home and in prison. Repeating the word ‘Esmeralda’ until he was blue in the face, he cried himself back to sleep. Asleep was the best place to be. He did not want to wake up. He had had enough. He wished The Maze had swallowed him up. He wished he had never stepped outside, into the Outside.

  Timothy was shaken awake. It was Ingel again. The devil was back. This time he had a tray with him: on it was a bowl of soup and a lump of bread. But Timothy would have to earn his meal: he would have to talk. Ingel wanted to know all about the Inside: The Village, the castle, the kingdom. Timothy begged him for any news of Gregory, but Ingel said he had none.

  ‘What are they like, these villagers? Are they happy, content? All peasants?’

  ‘Not all happy. Not all peasants. The elders are wise, clever people, mostly.’

  ‘Elders? Who are they?’

  ‘They run things. They rule The Village.’

  ‘They are elected?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They elect each other as far as I could tell.’

  ‘They set the taxes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Elders? So they are old people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bizarre. Is there a monastery?’

  ‘No, but there is a small church. The Village has a vicar.’

  Ingel nearly laughed. ‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’

  ‘And a school.’

  ‘A school?’

  ‘My school. I teach the children. I want to give them an education.’

  ‘Very noble. But why? They are all peasants, yes? Teaching peasants is a dangerous thing. Might give them ideas.’

  Timothy
chose not to respond. This was Ingel speaking.

  ‘It has a duck pond,’ he said, desperate to please the man.

  ‘A duck pond.’ Ingel was not impressed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘And a brothel.’

  Ingel smiled. ‘Bet you know that well.’

  Timothy decided not to tell him that he lived there.

  Bored now, Ingel moved on: he wanted to know about the castle. He had to drag the information out of his exhausted prisoner.

  ‘The castle is a crazy place, full of crazy people.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘A crazy royal family. They all hate each other.’

  Ingel did not think that was so crazy.

  ‘They wield absolute power.’

  Ingel saw little difference between the castle and the league of monasteries.

  ‘Do they worship God?’

  ‘No. They have no god. The king’s rule is absolute. And they think they are on The Outside.’

  ‘And the king is your father.’

  ‘Yes. But my brother took over as Prince Regent. The king was declared unfit to rule. He went crazy. He drove me crazy. But my brother is dead. So what does that make me?’

  Ingel ignored the question. ‘And the queen is your mother?’

  ‘Yes. But she’s gone mad, like the king, and his mother. She was kept locked up.’

  Ingel finally released a burst of wholesome laughter. It slightly terrified Timothy.

  ‘Brilliant! So yes, all your family is mad.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I can see why you left.’

  Ingel continued his interrogation until Timothy had nothing left to say, and no energy to say it, even if he did. Ingel wanted to know of any maps, any ancient maps: were there any at the castle or in The Village? Timothy said he had seen nothing, heard of nothing. Ingel asked about Fargo, wanting to know everything, every bit of detail; and wearily Timothy told him his tale of the mad monk. Ingel did not seem all that surprised. Half-satisfied, he left Timothy to suffer in silence or sleep. The boy had nothing left to give for the time being. He had been hollowed out, scraped clean. Ingel had plenty to think about, to wonder about, and to digest: he needed a stiff drink, or two. The universe was suddenly more-complicated. And the only thing which held it together – or apart – were the walls of The Maze.

  He hunted down his sister and persuaded her to join him in a drink – the excuse being to celebrate her unexpected motherhood. He also made it clear that he expected nothing less than total confidentiality from her. These twins had to remain secret: they were dangerous people, and it was a dangerous time. This new secret had to stay their new secret, for the health and prosperity of her and her new son. His sister did not resist. She did not complain. She simply accepted it, without fuss, which surprised him. She simply didn’t care to fight him anymore. She just wanted to protect her baby. Miuccia only had one question.

  ‘Why did you tell him his brother was dead?’

  ‘Because I hate being lied to, taken for a ride. He deceived me, all those years. Gregory deceived me. They used us.’

  Suddenly they were close again; brother and sister in arms again; bound tightly again by a big, new secret to be kept hidden from the rest of the world. How long would it last this time?

  ‘What name will you give this child?’

  ‘My child.’

  ‘What name will you give your child?’

  ‘Our brother’s name.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  Ingel raised his glass. ‘Here’s to our dead brother, Lazario.’

  Miuccia raised hers. ‘Lazario. Rest in peace.’

  ***

  For the first time in nearly two years, Timothy, Mozak and Valadino spent the night together under the same roof. But they did not know it. They were cells apart, walls apart. And all three had suffered change, for the Outside brought the inside out. And a change was in the air. Adolphinus and Ingel had changed for the worse; Sister Miuccia for the better, if only a little better. Paminio and Tibi were willing to change as each sought new opportunities. Captain Dolgar had changed at the expense of ex-captain Mostrum. Mostrum had changed on the outside, but inside he had changed little. It was all change, except for The Maze: that never changed. But change was coming.

  First published in 2019 by

  AG Books

  www.agbooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2019 Euan McAllen

  The right of Euan McAllen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.