With and Without, Within and Without

By Euan McAllen

In the second instalment of the Maze Trilogy, religious fanaticism invades the village at the centre of the Maze: that and strangers from the kingdom usher in a period of change in which chaos rules. Meanwhile, on the outside of the Maze, murder, torture and treachery stalk the politics of the monastery as the despotic Chief Monk pursues the top job. The monastery hospital incarcerates its patients and makes them sicker in body and soul, not better. It is a story of birth, rebirth and renewal; revolution, drug abuse, gang warfare and social unrest; rape, revelations, lies and deceit. But the Maze stands firm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789822014

Book preview

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With and Without

Within and Without

Euan McAllen

Part One: Village Green

The Village people maintained a delicate balance of harmony versus hurt, fury versus a focused frenzy, and shit versus survival. It was at the centre, but it had nothing to give and sought nothing. It was in essence, a pointless place, but it was a place to live. Its inhabitants were, in the main, nothing, and asked for nothing except the chance to survive, to never go hungry, and to never feel cold. They didn’t know it, but a change was coming, in the form of men and women, and new ideas. Change would split it, divide it, and destroy the fabric of its small, isolated community. The Village had been founded by a small group of devout believers fleeing a godless place. Their descendants had nowhere to flee to. They were stuck here, in the Maze, at its centre, at the centre of the storm.

The Village Square was no longer a square. For some that rankled. A piece of it had been bitten off by the Elders and given to the one who went by the name of Timothy – though there were rumours he had another name, another identity. It had been set aside for ‘play’ – whatever that meant. It formed part of the new school set up by this headstrong Timothy: a ‘playground’ he called it, boasting; a place set aside for the children to play in. Why? asked most villagers. Why don’t they just play where they stand? Or better still do some work, learn a trade.

‘We all need to play,’ explained Timothy.

‘No, we don’t,’ was the reply. ‘We all need to work.’

Timothy was happy. He had found a place worth calling home. He had his cause, to educate – no two, to educate and enlighten. He was becoming a driven man: he wanted to take the youth of The Village – its future wealth – and push words and numbers down their throats, and see their brains light up. He wanted them to be able to spell and read, multiply and divide; not be afraid of words or numbers, but understand their meaning; not be afraid to think, to question. And he wanted to see their souls wake up. And he wanted their parents to want it to. (Some didn’t, as he had discovered.) Timothy did not like idiots and wanted to reduce the number. There were too many in The Village – though only one was called the ‘Village Idiot’. As far as he was concerned, The Village Idiot was not the most stupid person in The Village. Others could claim that title.

For his new school, he had obtained funds from the Elders, convincing them that teaching children to read and write and add up was a good thing, something God wished for. They took some convincing.

Timothy witnessed calm cruelty and brittle barbarity in The Village, and foolish conduct without rhyme or reason, which simply inflicted self-harm. He could not face spending the rest of his life in such a place without making some attempt to change things, to raise standards. As things stood, he could not contemplate raising a family in such a place, but he might have to one day, so he had to act fast – as fast as God would allow it. He saw The Village Church failing in its duty and wanted to put something better in its place. He had approached the Elders and asked for permission to open a second church but as yet no decision. He later learnt, after repeated visits to The Village Hall, that a change in the law was required before his request could be dealt with, and the Elders were not noted for changing the law without good reason. Timothy quickly learnt that they explained nothing but decided everything, and often slowly.

Esmeralda had blossomed since their return. She had learnt to love to learn. It was hard on her head but rewarding as with each passing day, week, and month, she felt herself moving closer to being her Timothy’s equal. Timothy had begun to teach his Esmeralda, so she, in turn, could teach others. She struggled but gave it her best, sold on his mission. She did not want to let her man down. She did not want him – or anyone – to think of her as just a stupid peasant girl.

Upon her return, Esmeralda had begun to change: with a good man by her side – one to call her own, one to own – she was more confident. She had left behind the conflict and chaotic characters that had bled her dry. She had found purpose: to make her Timothy’s new school a success; to keep her man well-fed, fit; to keep his faith – faith Timothy had persuaded her was good for her soul – and in time give him a baby. They both wanted a baby. Rufus and Tilsa had told them that having a baby was tough, but a joy.

They had begun to sleep together and have sex, unable to stop themselves after her 16th birthday. (On that day he gave her a very special present: he gave her one and took away her virginity.) The first time for Esmeralda was heaven, but harsh on the body. The second time was still heaven. The third time was less so, but still good. Beyond that it remained good, worth it; sometimes average, but always comfortable; and sex got rid of headaches, she discovered. Timothy was her man, and she would let no one touch him, hurt him, judge him – not while she was around to bark back. She would give him a son; she kept telling herself.

On balance, Timothy was happy that he had made The Village his new home and Esmeralda took pride in the thought that she, a Villager born and bred, had helped to make it happen. She even went so far to think that she had saved him. Although she looked up to him – older, wiser, educated, of royal blood, a man of God – she never felt he was looking down at her, only across.

The children of The Village – or at least those allowed to attend – after some hesitation took to school well, like ducks and dogs to water during a drought. Some not only loved the interaction with teacher and other pupils but thrived on it, much to the astonishment (or envy) of their downtrodden parents. In time, Timothy would give a few of them power over their parents.

Timothy and Esmeralda saw how undernourished many were and persuaded the Elders to release more funds in order to provide for a simple hot snack at lunchtime. Esmeralda would cook the food in the morning, sometimes with the willing help of a brothel girl – a girl who wanted to look after children much more than the needs of grown men. This opened up a rift with the official Village Church. The new vicar, promoted from the position of Church Sexton, was not happy. He felt required to provide a similar service else he would be seen to be failing in his job; to be seen playing second fiddle when it came to charitable causes. He did not want to be outflanked by a teacher, from the Outside of all places. The old vicar would be turning in his grave.

Timothy and the vicar did not get on. There was tension between them: God drew them together and pulled them apart such that the two never felt comfortable sharing the same space. When it came to God, they did not see eye to eye, only ‘his word’ versus ‘his word’. The vicar could not handle competition. He was paranoid that an amateur, failed monk would make him – a professional – look like an amateur.

In the space of a few months, the children of The Village went from being invisible, disregarded, nothing more than a source of cheap labour, to being seen as the future, an investment; from often starving to well-fed. Some parents welcomed the change. Others did not. This ‘Timothy’ fellow and his charity were making them look like failures, like they didn’t care about their own children.

In the early days, the children sat in class in the prescribed lines like soldiers in training; with blank stares, holding small square boards, and chalk – like they might sting. Later, as the new experience sunk in, they began to smile again – for some, it was the first time – and laugh again, and hit each other again when the teacher wasn’t looking. They began to discover that the process of learning did not have to hurt.

Timothy had no problem living in a brothel surrounded by girls who sold sex for a living. Esmeralda sometimes worried that he would; that he would be weak; that he would stray; but such concerns dissolved as it became clear to her – clear by the look in his eye, the clear, unambiguous answer to any question she put to him on the subject – that his loyalty was total, absolute. It made her giddy sometimes: the thought that she could make a man totally loyal – to her, a poor peasant girl from The Village! Moreover, he pitied some of the girls: their backgrounds, their upbringing had pushed them into such work, not their lack of morals. ‘The parents are nearly always to blame’ was one of his constant mantras.

Timothy had left the Castle behind. He did not miss it. Occasionally it invoked bad dreams as if to remind him how lucky he was now, how close he had come to inner self-destruction, and how the other half lived. Many times, deep in isolation, he managed to forget that he was a twin, that God had made him only one half of a greater whole, therefore incomplete. But at least, he constantly reminded himself, he was the better half, and that half felt required to do much good to make up for the great bad his brother was capable of. (When Esmeralda saw pain in his eyes she did not ask what was troubling him, for she knew.) Timothy pretended not to care what might be happening back at the Castle; now his brother ruled – though the thought of exactly those things did prod and poke him silly – usually when he was not busy enough, and when he was alone. The Royal Seal remained hidden out of sight and out of mind, wrapped up in a piece of old cloth. Timothy did not want it to see the light of day, afraid it might escape.

Aunt Rosamund watched over them – physically close up but psychologically from afar – until she concluded that they did not need to be watched, that Timothy was a safe, sanitized, superior pair of hands. She saw her Esmeralda as someone new, someone toughened. The Castle beyond had changed her niece. This Timothy was probably the most decent, dedicated, honourable man in The Village. Leave them to it, she told herself. You have a brothel to run, girls to maintain, girls to protect. You have clients to entice, contain, consume. You need to take their money. They need your sea of sex, in bucket loads. On this subject, Timothy and Aunt Rosamund did not always see eye-to-eye.

Mrs Breamston watched Esmeralda from afar, like a hawk, seeing something that she still regarded as hers: hers to hit, hers to overwork, hers to dangle in front of her husband as bait, and then use as an excuse to punish him afterward, and so dictate emotions in the Breamston household. She constantly reported back to her husband despite the fact that he never took any interest. To him, Esmeralda was history. He was more interested in hitting metal, hard, not people.

They saw little of the ex-king – or Harry the Hermit as they preferred to call him – then nothing: he was gone, just like that, just like a hermit. Esmeralda was angry that he had not said goodbye: no tearful hug, no warm embrace, just gone, into the Maze and all its mystery. The Hermit had been her first true friend: honest, sincere, and truthful; a source of good advice; a shoulder to cry on. (She did not know it, but she had reinvented him.) She feared he might be dead – though not Timothy – and together they prayed that he was well.

Gregory came and went, like a man never satisfied, never comfortable in one place; always in a hurry to get nowhere in particular, but escape something precise; always in a state of discontent and contained fury. He had unfinished business. He had a murderer to catch, the ultimate hypocrite to catch out and hang out to dry. He had children to reclaim. He was happy for Timothy and encouraged his ventures. He saw that Timothy had a grand plan and feared that Prince Mozak, now Prince Regent, also had a grand plan. He saw that Timothy and his God made for a dynamic combination, and one night, when slightly drunk, told Esmeralda so, and then again, and again.

‘You are the luckiest girl in the world,’ he told her. ‘Stick by him,’ he added. ‘He needs you, if not now, then in the future.’

Esmeralda always nodded in silence when Gregory spoke ‘heavy’ and persistently, like he was talking to some stupid girl whom she knew she definitely was not these days. And she always walked away from such conversations with a headache – but also a much-reinforced heart.

This happy couple – always busy, always benign – received regular visits from Rufus and Tilsa, and later their new baby boy ‘Rufus Junior’. Rufus Junior drove Esmeralda crazy, just as he drove his mother crazy, and pushed his father aside. Esmeralda and Tilsa would dote over him, surround him, and hold back the world; pool their emotional energy. Rufus and Timothy would watch and wonder each in their different way; and wait; and Timothy would wish. And Rufus Junior would not have the faintest clue as to the impact he was making. He only knew five things: I must eat; I must drink; I must scream; I must shit; I must sleep. Let the rest of the world deal with it. I’m your problem, not mine.

Isolation had toughened up his parents – Castle life had started the process – and it had glued them together, and Rufus Junior had sealed them in a bottle. There was no going back, only forwards, together. There were arguments, but they were quickly forgotten – or she was right. The Last Builder quickly learnt not to intervene and kept out of the way; never once regretting his decision, and always feeling his age.

Isolation within the Maze protected them but gave them little to talk about – until Rufus Junior arrived. Then what talk there was, was nearly always about him, and what they had just done, or not done, or should do, or shouldn’t do, or wish to do, or must never do. For long periods, they fell into the routine of not talking at all – at least not to each other. The Last Builder would try and salvage the situation by throwing in loose talk here and there, but with little result. The two were simply too busy to talk to each other or had nothing to talk about. Talking aside, the three got on with life: tending crops and feeding the animals; collecting water, hoarding for the future; making meals; keeping clean; making objects of worth; surviving the heat, the cold, the sun, and the rain. And for Rufus and Tilsa: wiping the shit away from their child’s bottom and leaving it clean. But it was worth it, for Rufus Junior was the centre of their universe, their way out of the Maze.

Rufus had helped Timothy in setting up the school: making benches and a blackboard, and fixing it to a wall; making small boards for small hands to hold; hunting down chalk. Esmeralda and Tilsa fed them and watered them just as they fed and watered Rufus Junior. Men: at times, they were just babies. Sometimes smarter. Sometimes sillier. Sometimes full of shit.

Junior’s arrival flicked a switch in both of them. This was a new world. There was no going back. At first, he terrified them, then, in time, when they were sure Junior was not going to die, they learnt to make funny noises, and pull silly faces, and make Junior giggle. Yes, Rufus and Tilsa were as hard as nails, but Junior could shake them to the core, terrify them if he didn’t eat, drink or sleep. They fought anxiety together, sometimes with Timothy and Esmeralda on hand, to give a hand. When they saw Junior’s shit, they thought of all the shit they had taken back at the Castle and were glad – elated – that they were out. Junior would take no shit from royalty.

In the early days in their new home, they talked about the Maze, but that soon dried up: the Maze was what it was and always would be, and nothing else. It was a mystery, man-made. It was a pain when you wanted to get from A to B in a straight line. It was an outrage when you knew C existed, but didn’t have a map to get there. It was bizarre that D was hidden away, unreachable. In the evenings, they would sit – sometimes inside, sometimes outside – and stare at the wall. And the wall stared back. And the passing of time was pushed into second place. It was all about the place, and the time of their lives. And Junior knew none of this right now.

***

It was a late spring day when the Rufus family next turned up at the brothel on a visit to Timothy and Esmeralda. Tilsa, balancing on top of their donkey, cradled her baby in her arms, whilst Rufus led from the front; the protective husband; the proud father. The girls looked forward to their visits: one baby could make the brothel wobble a while, before the harsh reality of business firmly anchored it back down.

The five of them sat together and ate, and drank, and toasted their good fortune. They talked about the weather. They rarely talked about the Maze: yes, it was still there, always the same confounding lump of stonework; still deciding nothing, and always in the way. They never talked about the Castle.

‘Those walls suck,’ exclaimed Rufus.

‘They’ll suck the life out of you if you’re not careful,’ added Tilsa.

The rest nodded in agreement. The Maze was not the work of God that was for sure.

‘When are you two getting married?’ asked Esmeralda.

‘We are married,’ said Rufus.

‘In our church?’ asked Timothy.

‘No. We don’t need another man’s church to marry us.’

‘That’s right,’ added Tilsa. ‘We are who we are, and we’re sticking to it.’

Esmeralda clapped, and Timothy grinned, and the four of them raised their mugs. Rufus Junior giggled. Still, shame, thought Esmeralda. There was something magical about a church wedding.

Timothy showed Rufus around the schoolroom. It now had a more used feel to it since the last time Rufus had seen it. And as was his habit now, Timothy complained about the cost of chalk. He was being ripped off, he complained.

‘I want you to teach Junior one day,’ Rufus said.

‘I will. I promised.’

‘Teach him everything you know?’

‘Everything, and more.’

Rufus didn’t quite like the sound of that, but no matter.

Their women, sharing the baby, discussed cooking and food preservation, and removing dirt, and getting men out of the way – all with the seriousness of two professors at the top of their game. Tilsa asked again, as she had in the past, whether living in a brothel with Timothy was a good place to raise a family. Esmeralda reassured her that it was not a problem, but Tilsa never seemed convinced. Sometimes – but not for very long – Tilsa would allow one of the Brothel girls to hold her baby. One girl wept so badly that Esmeralda had to unclamp her from the baby and lead her away to recover. (Aunt Rosamund knew that brothels and babies did not mix so had mixed feelings whenever the Rufus family visited.)

The four visited the market place together to peer, poke and purchase; and walked past The Village Hall, together wondering what went on inside it. They almost skipped past The Village Church, as if it was tainted as if the vicar might leap out and drag them in to listen to one of his sermons.

And when they went their separate ways again, each felt invigorated, as if a dose of happiness had been injected into their veins. Rufus and Tilsa had fresh things to talk about, whilst Timothy and Esmeralda were left to contemplate how a baby would change their lives forever, and whether they would be able to cope.

***

This time when Rufus and family arrived home, they received a big shock to the system. Their previous world had jumped out of the shadows, from behind a wall, from out of the Maze; to slap them in the face; to pull them down a peg or two; to rattle their cage of domestic duties.

Prince Mozak, now Prince Regent, was sitting in their house – sitting like he owned it – and looking dreadful: unwashed, sweating; smelling like shit. He had the look of death about him. Right now he did not look like a prince – though he was working hard to act like one. Rufus put it down to the stress of responsibility, hard work, and the very act of fighting his way through the Maze – for what reason, he was intrigued to know.

And there was Lady Agnes Aga-Smath by his side, zombie-like, dishevelled and feeling very sorry for herself: she was not the kind of girl who liked camping out under the stars; she was a girl who preferred bedrooms. She was desperate for a bath. She glanced up sharply at Tilsa before retreating: there had better be a bath in this place! She’s no lady, thought Tilsa. She’s a tramp – a tramp with attitude.

Both dreadful, thought Tilsa as she hugged her baby close to her heart. Both dangerous, she thought. They want my baby! And with that thought she started to become hysterical. Rufus had to rescue her and calm her down. That said, neither of them could hold back their tears of moral outrage and primitive fear. Only Rufus Junior kept his cool and remained aloof, for he had no idea of the universe beyond the end of his nose, his throat, his range of sight, the tips of his fingers, and the crack in his bum. The party host, the Last Builder, staggered by their response, shrivelled up in the corner of his own home, looking both guilty and innocent of all that was happening around him. Maze aside, he was not used to a life of complications. He and his dog Shep sat, obedient, looking up; pleading to be patted, or paid attention to in any way. They were ignored by all.

And there were two other men: one a soldier, a fighting man, confident but quiet, almost detached, perhaps still on guard; the other much older, less sure of himself, almost apologetic. One was Captain Mutz. Rufus looked at him, suspicious of his soldier-like stance, trying to place the face. The other was the Royal Doctor: a doctor who looked ill, agitated; a doctor who did not inspire confidence. The four were sipping water and nibbling on cheese like long-term prisoners who had just been released – some gnawed like rats, some nibbled like mice.

Doc had suffered the most. He was the oldest and had been dragged along against his will. Mutz was the strongest, most thick-skinned, driven – and restrained – by a sense of service and duty that left no room for weakness or complaint. Mozak, the Prince Regent was the weakest – though he would never admit it – which was why he was there. He needed to be made better, healed, double-quick, for he had a kingdom to rule. Lady Agnes Aga-Smath was hanging on and hanging in there. She had been at the end of her tether when forced to come with him – her prince, her lover, her headache – on his quest into the Maze; having to leave behind all the creature comforts that she, his loyal mistress, had come to expect.

Rufus looked hard into the face of the royal fart he had once served, who could so frustrate him at times as to make him want to chew his own face off. He still remembered the spots, the spats, the pretensions, the poison, the stupidity, the self-entitlement, the dumb questions, the deliberate insults. This face had changed: it looked particularly hard, unforgiving, unloved – but also fragile? Mozak stared back but said nothing, so Rufus switched his attention on to her ladyship Lady Agnes instead. She avoided contact and kept her eyes glued to the floor. Tilsa continued to hug her child tight, still wanting to scream the situation away, wishing for her house to be empty of these ghosts from her past. Rufus Junior felt the distant thunder of her heart working overtime but did not question it – for questions had yet to enter his mind, a mind still essentially foggy and very forgetful. For him, the past had yet to exist, while the future was something beyond his universe of the present.

To Rufus, it was clear that none of them wanted to be here so why were they here? To haunt him? To annoy him? To insult him? The Last Builder had no answer: he was easily bemused by the little things in life, so the big things simply passed by over his head – much like Rufus Junior, but without the poo. He had fed and watered his unexpected guests and then sat back and waited for Rufus to appear and take charge.

No one spoke. No one wanted to speak first. It was left to Mozak to break the pack ice for even here, far from the Castle, he was deemed to be the one in charge. His greeting and subsequent warm-up talk were hopeless: it lacked warmth, sincerity, even energy; and he mumbled his words like a man coming out of a coma – or going into one. Rufus, unable to take it anymore, cut in, and cut him down with the sharpest of words.

‘You found me then. Why exactly are you here? What do I have that you could possibly want?’

Mozak did not want to answer that question. The others dared not. The doctor began to cough. Mozak ordered him to stop. He couldn’t. He spluttered on and off, looking more and more unwell with each blast from his failing lungs.

‘I think I have a minor fever,’ he admitted.

Mozak gave him a look that could kill even a younger, stronger man.

‘No problem, your Highness. It will pass with rest.’

This was no meeting of friends or minds, but enemies. Mozak was hoping that he and Rufus would have lots to talk about. He was sadly mistaken. Rufus wanted him gone, out of his house. Tilsa wanted him and his woman to rot in hell. Mutz and the doctor were stuck in the middle. Neither had anything to apologize for, for they were there under orders. Mutz felt an apology hanging in the air: it needed to be pulled down, plucked from the tree, and handed over. But he had no permission to do such a thing. He was under orders, as always.

Mozak said he was passing through. ‘Pass-through then,’ said Rufus.

Mozak asked about their new life: were they enjoying it; was their baby making them happy; no regrets? Lady Agnes nodded throughout as her master and lover spoke. Good questions. He was making an effort. He got little in the way of answers. Rufus and Tilsa – and even the Last Builder now – just wanted them gone. Their presence was bringing the place down. Only Rufus Junior remained immune to the gloom. The doctor tried to help things along by enquiring after the health of the baby.

‘He’s fine, fit and healthy,’ said Tilsa. I don’t need your help looking after my own baby, she thought.

Lady Agnes asked if she could hold – or just touch – the baby. No, was the firm answer Tilsa gave her. But ‘no’ was not a strong enough answer for Lady Agnes and she rose from her seat and closed in – in Tilsa’s mind, as if for the kill. Tilsa drew back, maintaining an arm’s length until the woman got the message and sat back down.

Mozak fumbled around, trying to make conversation while he fumbled around his thoughts. He gave Rufus an update on life back at the Castle – it was his version of the truth, no one else’s. It sounded bland as if nothing much had happened. Lady Agnes didn’t care about his lying – lying to himself as well as the world. Mutz did but had sworn allegiance to his Prince Regent. He knew his duty. He stuck to the high standards of moral code and duty he had adopted since becoming a captain in the new army. Their hosts were not impressed. They were not interested. Go back to your fucking castle and leave us alone, thought Rufus. Tilsa thought much the same. The Last Builder felt worn out by the bad vibes and wanted it to end immediately – as did Shep.

Finally, having run out of words, and fed up with trying to be nice and build bridges, Mozak came to the point and made his request. With his arrogance as strong as ever it almost sounded like an order.

‘Take me to Tascho, he is living in The Village, yes?’

‘Yes. And his name is Timothy.’

‘Whatever. I’ll pay you.’

‘I don’t want your money.’

‘Think about it, but quickly.’

‘I will, but I’ll take my time.’

‘Well, I’m not leaving until you do.’

Rufus nearly choked on his words, unable to respond. It was typical bloody Mozak. Tilsa grabbed his arm and held on – perhaps to stop her man attacking the prince.

The mood worsened.

Mutz closed his eyes, wishing to be back home, in his uncle’s house. Lady Agnes remained a zombie, switched off and shut out, and not minding it. It was what she was used to.

Mutz excused himself by saying he was going outside to check the horses and sharpen his sword. ‘Would that be possible?’ he asked the old man. ‘Yes,’ was the grudging reply. The Last Builder did not like men with swords in his home.

‘And sharpen mine while you’re at it,’ said Mozak whilst continuing to stare Rufus into the ground.

Mutz was gone in a flash, followed by the Last Builder.

‘You don’t need me to get to The Village,’ said Rufus.

‘I can’t remember the way. Nor my man, Mutz. I dare not get lost. I need to get there fast.’

‘Fast? Why?’

‘None of your business.’+

‘Wait here,’ said Rufus, doing his best to make it sound like an order. He was determined to take charge, to be king in his own home.

Together, he and Tilsa retreated to the kitchen. His intention was to say no, but she quickly persuaded him that the money would be useful to cover the extra costs of baby care. ‘To raise their child right required money,’ she said. ‘Take the money.’

‘It’s not far so, why not? And he’ll get there with or without your help so you may as well take his money. Better we have it and put it to a good cause than see it used for something awful.’

Her logic and clarity of thought were immaculate – God how he loved that woman! And after all, money is money, regardless of whose hand it falls out of or into, Rufus told himself. He was convinced, easily, and together, head-on, they tackled the issue of how to cope with their uninvited guests in the meantime.

Rufus would take them tomorrow, he announced to an impatient-looking Mozak. Tilsa made it clear that they all had to sleep on the floor – getting her words in before her stuck-up ladyship could start making requests. Rufus persuaded her to hand out all the spare cushions and blankets. Lady Agnes, her confidence and sense of self-importance partially restored, wandered around, examining her stopover with unconcealed distaste. She was after all the prince’s mistress and expected the best.

‘You really live in a place like this?’

Tilsa wanted to thump her, rip her hair out. Rufus had to hold her back and calm her down again. ‘It’s just for one night,’ he kept reminding her.

After insulting her hosts, Lady Agnes next had the audacity to request (politely at first but not for long) and then demand (quietly at first then loudly) a bath. Getting no answer, she was forced to beg – which made Tilsa burst out laughing. After she calmed herself back down, satisfaction written all across her face, Tilsa informed her ladyship – her loathsome ladyship – that there was no bath. Her ladyship would have to stand in a tin tub and pour water from a bucket over her body and scrub fast. ‘Cold water,’ said Tilsa. Lady Agnes looked like she was going to throw up, which made her prince laugh, and Mutz smirk on being told later by his now jolly prince. Alone, Mutz and Doc passed comment on this old man their prince had told them was ‘the Last Builder’. Both agreed: as a descendent of the Maze Builders he came across as totally under-whelming. That night, no one slept well, except Shep, but he was a dog.

***

The next day Tilsa ensured the unwelcomed visitors were up early, and out. Rufus kept his word and took them on their way – after little in the way of breakfast: they got nothing from Tilsa; they got some bread and warm milk from the Last Builder. He led the way, on his slow donkey, in front of four sometimes impatient horses. Mozak and Mutz had memories to fill the time. The mistress and the doctor had nothing to do except hang on in their saddles, follow, keep the faith, and trust that their master knew what he was doing. The subtly changing dynamics of the Maze would occasionally prompt the same external question for all of them, though at different times. Why? Why was it like this? Was it always like this?

They passed by the home of the family in black, quickly. When Lady Agnes asked if they could stop and ask for refreshments, for a hot meal at a proper table served on a plate with knife and fork to match – with the offer of cash of course – she was quickly put down by her prince. They were definitely not stopping there.

‘Too weird,’ said Mozak, remembering that this was where Marcus was born.

‘Very weird,’ added Rufus.

And for a fleeting moment, it was almost like those two were reliving the same adventure. Memories of their first game of football came back to both.

They didn’t know it, but the father of the family was playing the Good Samaritan whilst unbeknownst to him his eldest daughter was playing God with her sex and grooming their guest, their patient. In her mind, it was better to shackle a man to her rather than be shackled to him. They had discovered they were kindred spirits: both full of fire; both driven to fulfil a mission; both ambitious; both closer to God than those around them.

Left alone, they held hands. Their eyes met and locked, and there was an intensity of thought which words did not need to express. No one else in the house saw it. It was their secret. She refused be a girl anymore. He was a sick man, refusing ever to be an average man; his mind ravaged by his unbroken spirit.

Her face had rarely lit up at home, but that had changed since they had taken in the poor, distressed man of God in need of shelter and care. His weak condition was the trigger, the provocation for her repressed soul to start its rebellion and smile again. The child inside had a way out. The colour need not be black. There was a confused world out there, he told her. A world of isolated people who needed his help, his God. She wanted to help him, she said. She would make him better, she promised, and bring him back to the best of health. For now, the world passed them by.

The party spent a night under the stars. Lady Agnes huddled up in the arms of her prince and, hiding under a blanket, trying to pretend she back in the royal bedroom, trying to rebuild her nervous system. Rufus, Mutz, and Doc kept their distance from both of them. Two of them made chat while the other contributed the occasional coughing fit.

When they reached the bridge – a massive construction in the middle of nowhere – and twin towers, an exhausted Lady Agnes was astounded. For a while, it shook her out of her malaise. She had not expected to encounter anything remotely civilised, sophisticated or stupendous here, in the middle of nowhere. There was more to this Maze than met the eye. For Mozak, it invoked more memories of the strange adventure he had once had and all that had happened because of it. Dismounting from their horses, Lady Agnes squeezed Mozak’s arm. He was her prince, her lover, her protector; and she needed to be reminded of that fact. She needed physical contact.

‘Impressed?’ asked Rufus.

‘No,’ she replied.

He looked at her prince and got the nod: the lady was lying.

‘I am,’ said Doc, and he began the coughing again.

Mozak paid the silly toll fee to the silly man in the silly uniform and received his receipt. He waved it at the others.

‘For the refund on the other side,’ he explained. ‘Agnes.’

‘What?’

‘No ladyship now. No lady. You’re just Agnes from now on. Understood?’

She didn’t reply, but he knew she had got the message: her lips were screwed up in protest.

Rufus led them on across the bridge.

As he crossed the bridge, Mutz experienced the weirdest feeling. He had crossed it once, and now he was crossing it again, in the opposite direction. It felt like his life was going backward, back downhill.

On the other side, Mozak signed the book and received his refund. He signed his name ‘Marcus’ – almost with relief, as if wishing to escape his true self for a while: Marcus could be whomever he wanted him to be.

As she waited outside for Mozak to complete his business, Lady Agnes looked around as it dawned on her that the walls were now much closer. They were closing in, like a trap. The Maze was not always the same thing. It changed. It was trying to change her, but she refused to change and gripped the reins of her horse tight as she struggled to stand. She felt faint. But this was not just exhaustion: she felt a fever coming on – possibly the fever. And who was to blame? Mozak of course – her wonderful prince and lover, Mozak. You paid the price, she told herself. You took the goods, so you had to pay the price.

They pushed on, into a new type of land, a cultivated land where soon they would be rubbing shoulders with the people who worked it. When she spotted some, her immediate thoughts were ‘peasants; the world is full of peasants. I hope they get the plague.’ Mozak saw the ‘no pissing’ well, and the dilapidated cottages, and remembered, and tried not to. They saw sheep and cows gathered together in their tight little groups: the sheep always nervous; the cows always suspicious.

Lady Agnes and Doc were struck by the change in scenery: the sudden, step-change back to some kind of civilisation since crossing the bridge. The bridge was an outpost, the doctor concluded, and you had to pay a fee to enter it. Interesting. Perhaps he would get to enjoy this trip which had been forced upon him.

For Mutz, the journey back was not welcomed. He was going back through time, back to his youth, and the lie it proved to have been. He had been forced to leave his new home, his only family, and return to his old – to him a worthless place.

Upon reaching the Inn and their next overnight stop, Mozak gave explicit instructions: they were all to keep their mouths shut, and talk to no one; the word ‘Castle’ was banned. Lady Agnes was in her element for she finally got to have her bath: she nearly drowned in the joy of reclaiming – reinvigorating – her beautiful, perfectly preserved body. She had lost weight, she noticed – no bad thing. There was a lot to be said for physical exercise – the extended kind, the kind which did more than just draw breath. Mozak hoped to make love to her that night, for he was beginning to suffer from lack of sex, but he was to be disappointed: there were no private rooms, it was all just bunk beds. His sore, shattered wreck of a mistress crashed out: less like a log rolling over, more like a tree crashing to the ground when felled, or when its roots could no longer take the strain. Instead, he had to fight off a particularly bad memory: this was a place of thieves; here he had had his money stolen. He wanted revenge but knew that was impossible. He could not just choose someone at random and have them strung up. He had been beaten, which he hated. After claiming his bunk bed, he looked around, threatening anyone who dared to look back at him, as if trying to spot who had stolen his money. Mutz, seeing his dangerous mood, suggested they go get drink and food in the nearby alehouse. Rufus agreed to join them, but only because he wanted a hot meal. The doctor was not asked. He was left to his coughing – made worse by the foul air and those staring like they had never seen a sick man before. But Mutz took pity on him and dragged him along. Hot food slipping down his throat would cure him. He was the only one to think of poor Lady Agnes and told himself to bring her back some food. And it’s just Agnes now, he reminded himself.

The next day, recovered and revitalised after a night spent indoors, in a proper bed, with bellies full of food, they set off, but not before Mozak instructed Mutz to keep his sword hidden. No need to draw attention to themselves, he said. Mutz was careful not to tell him that it already was but just watched as Mozak stowed his away in his backpack.

As they approached the outskirts of The Village, they passed by the signpost which declared ‘Village Limits’.

Rufus pointed at it. ‘We’re here now. Not long.’

They were back in a world – albeit a small one – of community and commerce, a place where people had learnt to – some still had to – live together to survive and flourish. There were buildings in abundance, some with gardens, some with gardens with trimmed hedges and cut lawns.

The more and more inhabitants they saw, the more Lady Agnes’ nerves began to strain again: she saw only loathsome, dangerous, diseased peasants who showed her a complete lack of respect.

‘What is this place? It’s terrible.’ She wanted to go home and was not yet afraid to say so. ‘I want to go home.’

She was almost about to break down and cry.

‘Well, you can’t, so shut up,’ replied Mozak.

That would do it until her next outburst. She would never make a good queen, Mozak told himself, again. The slightest inconvenience, any kind of change, and she cracks, just wants to run away. That’s no use to me. My queen has to have balls.

He rarely had time for her, and today, here, he had no time for her. All his energy was focused on driving off all his bad recollections of the place: the shock of meeting his twin brother for the first time – his dead brother – and the trauma – the indignity – of his imprisonment. With what energy he had left, he tried to think about the coming reunion and what to say, and how to say it. The reaction of Rufus had left his confident bruised. Did everybody hate him these days?

Like his master, Mutz had seen it all before, and like his master, he had bad memories of the place. But Mutz pushed away his own concerns and took it all in his stride. His job was to protect his master, his prince, in whose army he served. And he would need some protecting here. The Prince Regent was very good at rubbing people up the wrong way, making powerful enemies, losing friends, upsetting the servants, or killing off the peasants.

The doctor, always lagging behind, sometimes coughing – as if to remind the others that he was keeping up – was fascinated by what he saw, but frail, so feared any contact. I am a doctor; he wanted to shout out in between coughs. I can help you. I think some of you need my help.

They passed by a man carrying a large bag like his life depended on it. It did: he was carrying a bag of boots and shoes – even silly sandals – for his customers – handmade, and best quality. He kept his head down: they were worth a lot of money, so he did not wish to draw attention to himself.

They reached the duck pond; a sign of benign civilisation for someone had decided long ago that being kind to ducks was a good thing. It was the favourite haunt of ducks because there, every child – bored or benign, or enthused – wanted to throw them bread; and all they had to do was flap and squawk to draw attention to themselves. It was an easy living in the duck pond – until it froze over.

Mozak recognised it. Lady Agnes pointed.

‘Look, ducks!’ she shouted out suddenly, pointing at the obvious like a child on holiday who had just escaped school and homework.

Lady Agnes jumped down from her horse and threw a stone at the ducks, then at her prince. Some ducks scattered and Mozak hissed at her.

‘Shut up woman! And get up here!’

A local swore at them. Mozak swore back, and Rufus swore to himself. They were making a scene – drawing attention. In his previous life at the castle, Prince Mozak’s inconsistencies had always given him a headache, and now it had started again. Rufus wanted out. Bitten by the boss, Lady Agnes swore, then fell back into the safety of silence. As she climbed back aboard her horse, so villagers turned to take in the strange, well-dressed woman on a horse – a woman who swore like a man – a woman with a good head of head, a big bum and large breasts to boot.

One in particular – a young man with a curious look in his eyes, which said nothing, or everything that needed to be said right now – gave her his total concentration, which sometimes could strain him to bursting point. He was sat on a ceremonial bench, one erected to honour the passing of a Village Elder. He had begun to watch them the moment they came into his field of vision and would cease only when they left it. He only slightly turned his head – his eyes did most of