by Euan McAllen
Rufus finished first and licked his plate clean before coming out with another question. ‘So what are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?’
‘What am I doing here?’ It was a simple question but it seemed to stop the old man in his tracks. ‘Yes what am I doing here?’ He turned to Shep who was lying on the floor, eyes closed. ‘Shep?’
Shep looked up, mouth open, and waited for something to happen. Perhaps a bone would fly his way, or a bit of half chewed, dodgy meat (dodgy to humans anyway). He had no answer for his master.
‘I live here. Yes that’s what I’m doing here. Yes, I’m living here.’
‘You built this place?’ asked Mozak as he scraped together the remains on his plate into one tidy pile and negotiated it into his mouth. He made a point of not licking his plate.
‘Me? No, certainly not me. I think it was my great great great grandfather, or possibly his sons, or both, probably.’
‘Why?’ asked Rufus.
‘Why what?’ The old man gathered up the plates and put them on the floor for Shep to lick clean. But there was little left to lick and Shep look disappointed.
‘Why is it there? Why did they build it these people, these builders?’
‘My people. The Builders. The Institute of Approved Builders. They built it, to budget and on time. They built just about everything.’
‘But why?’ Rufus asked again.
‘I think it was to protect the community.’
‘Protect the castle, that makes sense,’ said Mozak.
‘No. Protect the community from the Castle.’
‘What?’ Mozak sounded outraged.
‘It was a threat to the peace. It was a wild place. It had banished God.’
Mozak was defensive. ‘Well it’s a nice place now, very pleasant.’
Rufus was not having that, and out here he could say what he liked. ‘Pleasant? The castle? Come on you are kidding me.’
The old man saw a good argument brewing. He hadn’t heard a good argument in a long time. Arguing with himself - or Shep - just wasn’t the same.
‘Tell me more boys, tell me more.’
And with a sudden enthusiasm the old man rushed into another room and returned holding a bottle and three glasses. ‘Can’t remember the last time I needed three of these.’
He placed the glasses on the table, neatly, in a line, and carefully filled each one in turn. ‘Here try this. My best moonshine. Join me in a drink. A toast to something.’
His guests grabbed a glass each. He sat himself down at the table and watched them compete to see who could empty their glass first. He rushed to refill their glasses, hoping for some great entertainment ahead.
‘Tell me more about the Castle. What’s it like these days. Still a wild place?’
Prince Mozak told him one thing while his rebellious manservant contradicted him. Mozak said life was great and Rufus said he was lying: life was shit. And the old man laughed as the pair tore into each other. Only when he asked about the king did the pair agree: the king was a bully, a bastard, brainless, and he ate too much. The old man was shocked.
‘You say that even though he’s your father?’
Mozak stood up, slightly shaky but still in command of his thoughts. ‘That man is not my father even though he acts like he is sometimes.’
He sat back down, slowly, feeling like he had just made a fool of himself in front of the whole world.
‘He’s my uncle, rather half an uncle.’
‘Half an uncle? How does that work?’
‘He’s my father’s half-brother.’
‘He’s king now,’ added Rufus, seeing a chance to stir things up.
‘Meaning?’
Rufus turned to Mozak as he threw back more moonshine. ‘You want to tell him?’
The answer had to be yes. Mozak didn’t want some dumb servant telling his story.
‘My father was king once. A long time ago. But he’s gone now.’
‘Gone? Gone where? The Village? Outside?’
‘I don’t know. Dead probably.’
Outside? thought Rufus. You mean inside?
The old man saw a glimmer of pain and topped up the prince’s glass again; likewise for Rufus at his insistence, then finally for himself. He hadn’t got drunk in ages, possibly years. Or months? He couldn’t remember. How long since Shep had been a puppy? He couldn’t even remember that. And then the penny dropped.
‘You are here to find out what happened to your old man?’
Mozak corrected his loose language. ‘My father the king, yes.’
‘Do you want to find out?’
‘What do you mean do I want to find out?’ Mozak wanted to stand up but his legs couldn’t be persuaded.
‘I mean perhaps it’s best you don’t know.’
A suspicious Rufus cut in. ‘How can that not be best? Better to know than not know surely?’
‘Not always. What if he died horribly? Under extreme torture? Perhaps burnt alive? What if he simply ran away?’
‘I need to know if he’s dead, definitely dead, regardless of how.’
The strength of his statement impressed Rufus, reminding him that this was serious stuff, not a self-indulgence. There was a depth to the prince which rarely revealed itself.
‘I wish you luck.’ The old man saw a fallen hero, a tragic figure. ‘Sounds like you don’t like it all that much at the Castle, despite being a prince.’
‘It’s all I know.’
The old man looked at Rufus. ‘And you, same for you? Doesn’t sound like you like it there much either.’
‘I just don’t like being a servant, a grot, working for a bunch of toffs.’
Mozak protested. ‘I pay him well.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘Why are you with him? Are you his friend?’
‘Me? No way.’
Mozak looked insulted, not that he had any reason to be. It was the honest, expected answer one would expect from a servant.
‘So why?’
Rufus threw back more moonshine. He wanted it to keep on coming. ‘For the money of course.’
That prompted Mozak to throw back more too. He also wanted more. They were neck and neck. The old man pushed the bottle forward.
‘Help yourself. I’ve had enough.’
They did exactly that. If he thinks he can get me drunk, thought Rufus, he’s going to be disappointed. Shep raised his head. He thought he had heard the faraway sound of another dog, possibly a dog having a lot of fun. But no. He lowered his head again. The talk faltered and the bottle on the table became the centre of attention, an object of curiosity for the prince and his servant, an object of enticement and opportunities.
‘You don’t have to work for him you know.’
Rufus looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
Mozak looked worried.
‘Come and work for me!’ The old man sounded ecstatic. ‘I could do with an extra pair of hands. I’m not as young as I was. Struggling.’
Mozak protested. ‘He works for me!’
‘That’s right, I work for him.’
‘That’s a shame, a real shame. Could do with the help. I’m getting old. Could do with someone to talk to. Isn’t that right Shep!’
Shep looked up, but still nothing was being tossed his way. He lowered his head to the floor and resumed waiting for something interesting to come his way.
‘Think about it. There’s no rule which says you can’t change jobs. A job is not for life.’
Mine is when I become king, thought Mozak.
There was an extended pause before Rufus responded.
‘How much do you pay?’
‘Pay? I can’t pay. Free food and lodging - and you get to keep th
e farm when I’m gone.’
Rufus knotted his eyebrows. Suddenly this mad old man was starting to make sense. He looked out of the window. He imagined his sweetheart strolling towards the house, beaming, carrying two buckets of milk, perhaps carrying his child. He imagined his children running around in the garden and making lots of noise. He imagined paradise. He imagined freedom.
Nervous, feeling slightly threatened by what he saw as silly talk, Mozak broke up the party with the lame excuse that they were tired and needed to get some sleep for an early start. As if yanked out of a comfortable dream the old man offered them use of the barn: its bales of straw made for a comfortable bed. Before turning in Mozak remembered to ask for directions to the Village: the old man gave them, reluctantly; something about following the line of the wall until they reached a gap; then through that, then continuing along the wall until an intersection. Mozak showed him the map and the old man pointed at the place where they would rejoin it. Satisfied, Mozak thanked him for his hospitality and dragged Rufus - metaphorically speaking - away and out to the barn.
‘You’re not taking him seriously are you? That talk of a job?’
‘Me? No, of course not. He’s weird.’
The tone of the answer left Mozak unconvinced. ‘Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, you would go fucking mad.’
‘Yes you’re right, probably right. My head’s spinning. Let me go to sleep.’
‘Me too,’ lied Mozak, now working hard to keep Rufus onside, onboard, committed to his cause. ‘Yes let’s sleep. Early start tomorrow.’
Rufus fell onto a bed of straw and crashed out while Mozak took a little longer to do the same. The old man’s question had wormed its way into his head and it wasn’t leaving.
***
A groggy Rufus was shaken awake by the firm hand of his boss. It was barely dawn. There was more dark than light.
‘What? I’m sleeping.’
‘No you’re not. Come on, we’re off.’
‘It’s still dark.’
‘No it’s not. Listen.’
‘What?’
‘Bird. You can hear a bird. We’re going now.’
Rufus, accepting the rules of engagement, rolled out of sleep and stood up; rubbing himself free of straw and shivering in the cold. He looked like someone who had just been harvested. He didn’t fight the decision. Prince Mozak was his paymaster, and Prince Mozak was determined to find out if some man was is dad, or if his dad was truly dead. He decided that he had it better: he had never had a dad to lose; he was an orphan.
‘Why the rush?’ he asked.
‘I don’t trust him. He’s too friendly. He got us drunk last night.’
Rufus corrected him. ‘We got us drunk last night.’
‘Whatever. We have to keep moving. We mustn’t become lazy.’
Mozak’s forceful words won Rufus over and he was suddenly engaged. This was what adventures were supposed to be like. They crept out to retrieve their ponies, unaware that the old man had given them a pile of hay to chew on before he had gone to bed. He was a kind old man as well as a lonely old man.
At the last moment before riding off Rufus dashed back into the kitchen and snatched up any useful food he could find. He did not consider it stealing, more survival. Shep looked up and Rufus patted him on the head as he gave him some of his master’s dried beef to shut him up. Mozak did consider it stealing and told him so. Rufus retorted that peasants had to survive: princes just had to supper, shit and sleep. As they trotted away in the half-light Mozak worried that the crazy old man would come chasing after them, in his underpants and wielding a pitchfork. Rufus on the other hand contemplated the job offer.
They passed by a number of gravestones, each one perfectly cut from stone and bearing an eye-catching description, intricately chiselled. Each was the gravestone of a Builder. They followed the wall as instructed, and found the gap in the wall as promised. A rough but tough path ran up and over a pile of packed earth which in turn sat on debris constructed from scattered stones and broken bricks. The gap was big enough to let the ponies pass through. It had been there a long time: grass had established itself. Back down on the other side they continued to follow the wall. For the first time they notice a subtle difference: the wall was not so high, not so thick, not so daunting.
In time they stopped shared the stolen bread and dried beef, and as they chewed over their food and thoughts so each became aware that something was not quite right: they could hear a faint but familiar sound, a sound which raised their moral. It was the sound of a horse and cart, followed by the sound of a man encouraging the horse. As he came into view they saw he was dressed in black. He wore a big broad black hat and even a black tie. The only thing which wasn’t black was the shirt: that was white. The man gave little reaction when he spotted them. Almost the opposite in fact: it was the most natural thing finding two big boys sitting in the middle of nowhere and snacking. He drew his horse to a standstill and stared down at them like they should have been in school.
‘What are you two doing here?’
‘Trying to get to the village,’ said Mozak.
‘The Village.’ The man spoke the words with distain and looked around. ‘Well it’s not round here. You are well off course.’
‘We know. We got slightly lost.’
Slightly? thought Rufus.
The man in black looked them up and down as if scanning for defects. ‘You won’t get there today from here. Do you need a stop over?’
‘Sure,’ said a grateful Mozak quickly.
‘I can let you stay over, and food.’
Mozak and Rufus exchanged glances. He looked like a normal man.
‘Great. Thanks. That’s nice of you.’
‘Not for free though. Nothing is free in life.’
Rufus agreed. ‘No it’s not.’
Mozak wanted to say ‘yes there is’ just to contradict him.
‘You’ll have to work the farm to earn it. You understand?’
‘Understood,’ said Rufus quickly.
‘Come on then.’
And with that the man in black flicked his whip at the backside of his horse and continued on his way. Mozak and Rufus smartly mounted their ponies and followed on behind.
He led them home to his farmstead where he was greeted by his loyal loving, subservient wife. She too was dressed in simple clothes of black and white. She also saw two big boys who should have been in school, or working.
‘Who are these two?’ she asked her husband severely.
‘Temporary workers, staying one night.’
She looked satisfied. ‘Good. There’s plenty to be getting on with.’
That admission gave Mozak a bad feeling. He would be expected to do proper work, like Rufus; alongside Rufus, like they were equals; like he was able to do menial tasks. He looked at Rufus, with the idea that perhaps they should simply risk it and push on, but Rufus looked content, even happy with anticipation. He dropped the idea: it was a lost cause.
The black and white couple did not delay: time was something their Lord told them never to waste but use. The wife offered the boys a bowl of hot broth and watched them consume it at speed.
‘Where are you two headed?’ she asked.
‘Village. We’re trying to get to the village.’
‘The Village! That foul place! Why do you want to go there?’
‘Looking for someone,’ said Mozak, for once thinking ahead and deciding to hold his cards close to his chest. ‘Just looking for someone.’
‘And I’m helping him,’ added Rufus.
‘And where you from?’ asked the man.
‘The castle.’
On hearing that word the wife was off again. ‘The Castle! That wicked place! It’s a foul place!’
Mozak nearly drop
ped his bowl. The woman was screaming at him.
‘Run by an evil king!’ shouted the man.
‘A place God has given up on!’
It was a double-act: each outburst encouraging the next to take it to a higher level.
‘We fled,’ said Rufus quickly, sensing danger. ‘We ran away from the king, the evil king. It was a foul place, no place for a decent life. We wanted nothing to do with it.’ He turned to his prince. ‘Isn’t that right, Marcus.’
Marcus? thought Mozak. Who the hell is Marcus? Then he got it.
‘That’s right. We ran away, to search for a better life - like my friend. He fled to the village. We are trying to find him.’
‘He made a bad choice,’ said the man in black.
His wife agreed. ‘A very bad choice. You won’t find it in the Village.’
‘It’s our starting point. We may not stay there long,’ explained Rufus, not wishing to endanger his hot dinner and warm bed.
‘Our ancestors fled that castle. They abandoned the kingdom of evil.’
‘And our grandparents left the Village because it had become too immoral.’
The man looked Mozak up and down hard, openly suspicious. ‘Why are you wearing fancy clothes? Fancy, dirty clothes?’
‘My uncle forced me to wear them.’
Good answer, thought Rufus. He can think on his feet.
The awkward conversation was interrupted by two large burly lads bursting in from outdoors and slamming to an abrupt halt.
‘Father, who the heck are these two?’ asked one.
They were both drawn to Mozak.
‘Why is he wearing fancy clothes?’ asked the other.
‘My uncle forced me to wear them.’ Mozak was defiant. He was in a room outnumbered by peasants.
The lads were the sons in the family and their mother introduced the foreign workers to them. The sons were to put them to work, show them what to do (and keep an eye on them, make sure they didn’t take too many breaks). The sons wore the same colourless clothing and shared such common features that they could have been mistaken for twins, even though they were born fourteen months apart. And they looked very much like their father, who in turn looked very much like his wife. Mozak kept scanning back and forth across the family faces, looking for differences. Rufus had to squeeze his arm to stop him doing it. The sons took exception when Mozak asked if they were twins. Definitely not, they protested. They were totally different in every way, each declared with an air of self-consciousness, and in denial of the exact opposite.
