by Euan McAllen
The only consolation was that there was less mud and vegetation to trudge through and more in the way of solid, well laid paving stones. At midday they encountered another alcove into which they all squeezed and huddled up for relief from the rain. They were sardines again. They tried to talk, make conversation but a strange, slowly growing sound put pay to that. It was the sound of a distant rumble. Perhaps they were close to a river, a waterfall? someone suggested. They were not far off the truth: it was the sound of lots of water, tonnes of the stuff - tonnes of water smashing against walls as it rushed towards them. Perhaps it knew the way out.
‘Hold on!’ shouted Iedazimus. ‘Grab something! Grab each other!’
Grab they did and Timothy found himself holding on to Gregory for dear life (as he had done many times before in his life). Gregory tried to grip on to the wall - there was nothing to grip on to. Best mates Jeno and Tippo held on to each other and Mutz held on to Iedazimus, unintentionally mirroring Timothy. What really would save them though was the fact that they were squeezed up tight in the alcove: like the best sardines they could not be easily prised out.
The surge came sweeping down the passageway, like some malicious god had opened the gates of some watery hell. It hit them hard but it swept no one away. Instead it simply slammed them against the wall, leaving some badly bruised. And then it was gone. The water subsided and normality returned, except for the extra mud it had dumped, and the massive soaking. It was like they had just been dumped in a cold bath. Iedazimus ordered them to carry on while Gregory persuaded them to carry on with the promise of proper shelter not too far ahead: just another hour’s walk (perhaps two), he promised. He would lead them to a hut which he had used many times.
Not long after the flood Timothy fell into a deep hole. The hole had been covered over by a sheet of wood which had gone rotten over the years. Some had stepped on it, some over it. The sheet was hidden beneath a coating of earth, moss, grass and weeds, such that it blended in perfectly with the surrounding ground. Unfortunately Timothy was the last in line and was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He stepped on it and snapped under his body weight. Down he went, yelling out, into deep dirty water. Mutz turned and tried to grab Timothy before he disappeared. But he didn’t disappear. His head remained visible: he was up to his neck in dirty, foul, freezing cold water.
Iedazimus lambasted him, calling him an idiot, useless.
‘He’s no idiot!’ Gregory shouted back.
Suddenly Iedazimus laughed, as did his best mates - Timothy just looked silly. Mutz didn’t want to laugh and Gregory couldn’t. Timothy raised his arms and Mutz pulled him up and out. He laid sprawled out like a beached whale which had given up the will to live. Just for the pleasure Iedazimus called him an idiot again.
‘Stop that!’ shouted a ferocious Gregory. ‘Timothy’s no idiot! He can read and write - can you?’
Iedazimus looked at his partner in crime, stunned, surprised, not understanding why he had hit such a nerve. Jeno flipped over the sheet of wood. On its other side it had once said ‘danger, men at work’, but they would never know that.
Late afternoon, they reached another junction, bigger than the last. In the middle of it stood a well and to one side a small hut. It was a solid construction, built of stone, but with a roof which had been patched up many times over many years. But the roof did keep the rain out and those inside dry. Spirits raised, they made a fire with wood they found neatly stacked inside the hut and Iedazimus produced a small bottle of cooking oil which helped things along. It was time to cook.
They cooked sausages - all hooked on the sight of them spitting fat and popping open - and dried themselves off - not totally, but enough to make them feel a lot better. They passed around some bread, wrapped it around the sausages - one sausage each - and devoured it. It tasted great. And suddenly the world - this secret, closed off world of the Maze - felt like a much better place. Iedazimus and his best mates sang old castle songs - even Gregory joined in - while Timothy and Mutz looked on in silence, feeling slightly bemused. (Timothy found some words too heretical for comfort.) Inside the hut, as they settled down, they noticed names scratched on the walls and messages to loved ones, or friends; and boasts of number of bricks laid or the amount by which the wall had been extended in just one day.
Mutz posed a question.
‘The walls, they are further apart now, no? Or is it just me?’
Timothy agreed with him, and Gregory confirmed it.
‘Well spotted. They will become further apart - and taller - as we approach the Village.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ protested Timothy.
‘I wanted to see who would be the first to notice!’
Mutz did not take that well and turned on his master. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Iedazimus shrugged him off. ‘Didn’t occur to me. The Maze is what it is. It’s been a long time.’
Mutz and Timothy withdrew to a far corner of the room, as if driven by the generation gap to maintain some distance, while Iedazimus cornered Gregory and the best mates staked out another corner.
‘It’s good,’ said Iedazimus.
‘Good? What’s good?’
‘Going back the other way, after all this time. Wonder what it’s going to be like when we get back. Do you think much will have changed?’
‘Who knows. Perhaps everything has changed. Perhaps nothing. Probably somewhere in between I guess.’
Iedazimus satisfied, got up and stepped outside to stretch his legs. The new freedom prompted Timothy to whisper a question to Mutz.
‘So why are you going there, to the Castle?’
‘I was born there. I’m going home.’
Lucky you, thought Timothy. I have no roots.
‘Your mother and father are there?’
‘No.’
Timothy was confused. ‘No?’
‘They are both dead.’
That killed the conversation for a while and Timothy turned back to his own thoughts and the questions which were being asked inside his head, and which he could not answer - or didn’t want to, at least not yet.
Finally Mutz restarted the conversation. ‘So why you with us?’
‘Going home.’
‘The Castle?’
‘No, the Village, to find out about my parents.’
‘Don’t understand.’
‘I’m an orphan. Gregory is my guardian. He got me out of the Village when I was a baby.’
Mutz looked ruefully at the walls of the hut which surrounded them - just as the walls outside the hut surrounded them. They were surrounded on all sides.
‘My mother got me out of the Castle when I was a baby - or rather a little boy. The Castle is an evil place.’
‘Castle is evil?’ asked Timothy.
‘Evil. Ruled by evil kings and queens. The king killed my father, so Mother fled with Iedazimus.’
‘If it’s evil why go back?’
Mutz looked at Timothy - for the first time as if he was stupid.
‘I go where Iedazimus goes.’ Desperate for a change of subject he put a new question. ‘You’re a monk, but you were expelled from the monastery?’
‘A novice.’
‘Expelled? For what?’
‘Sleeping with a prostitute.’
On hearing that Mutz slapped Timothy on the back - suddenly he had a soul mate along on the trip.
‘Nice one!’
Timothy smiled, proud now of what he had done. It was the first time he had smiled since entering the Maze. G2 caught it and he too smiled - fearing that a smile might never return to Timothy’s face.
Now it was Timothy’s turn to change the subject.
‘So what do you do exactly?’
‘Work for Iedazimus.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Anything and everything he tells me.’ The words sounded tired.
‘Anything?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘How much does he pay you?
Mutz twisted uncomfortably. No one had asked him such a direct question before.
‘He doesn’t pay me anything. I get pocket money.’
‘What?’
Pocket money at your age? thought Timothy.
Mutz felt required to explain quickly, to preserve his dignity.
‘I get free food and lodging instead. He took me under his wing.’
‘He’s your guardian?’
Timothy was fascinated now: he wasn’t the only one living on the favours of others, beholding to others; needing at least one other.
‘Sort of, but it’s never been stated as such. Iedazimus took care of me after my mother died. I grew up with him.’
Timothy didn’t like Iedazimus but now he had to equate him with Gregory, and put him on the same pedestal as an honourable, trustworthy person who took care of others for no other reason than it was the right thing to do. Timothy found that confusing. Tired, wishing to asleep, he said a prayer, thanking God for saving them from the flood, and him from the big hole of water, and for putting a roof over their heads. He grew louder and more insistent that God listen such that Iedazimus, stepping back inside, caught on and intervened, furious. On the spot he banned all prayers and any mention of God.
‘We have no need for your God out there, in here. None of this is down to him. The Builders did it, did it all.’
Gregory took the same position as Iedazimus when it came to the matter of God or gods and when Timothy turned to him to protest he received no support.
‘He’s right you know. This is not the place for your god. There’s no God in here, inside the Maze. You better get used to it.’
Timothy was not convinced, but kept his mouth shut.
***
They awoke to good news: sunshine! No rain! And suddenly everything felt much better. They pushed on, to soon discover that now even three could walk side by side with space to spare: now there was room to breathe and the walls less overbearing, less intimidating. After a long stretch of walking, and even a little chatting, past a few more junctions the walls suddenly parted and they stumbled on into a large area populated by trees. They looked like apple trees, or pear trees, or something close. The sunshine and the smell made it a sweet place to be; a place offering rest, relaxation, and a free meal.
‘Blast!’ cried Gregory out of the blue.
‘What?’ asked Iedazimus.
‘We’ve made a mistake.’
He was immediately corrected. ‘No. You made a mistake.’
‘We’ve come the wrong way.’
Iedazimus corrected him again, more harshly this time. ‘No you’ve come the wrong way.’
‘So what!’ roared Jeno. ‘Fresh fruit! Come on!’
‘Hang on there’s a sign in red,’ said Mutz, pointing.
It said ‘reserved, not for human consumption’ in big red letters.
They all saw it and read it but Jeno chose to ignore it. He yanked a big red pear-shaped apple from the nearest tree. The branch shook with indignation. Famished, he consumed it in seconds, barely chewing it, then grabbed a second; at which point a shrill voice rang out.
‘Don’t eat the fruit! It’s poison! It will give you stomach ache, the shits.’
They all turned towards the voice, some drawing their knives. Instinctively Timothy stood close by Gregory.
‘Who the hell is that? Who are you! Show yourself!’ shouted Tippo.
Through the trees they glimpsed a body slumped on the ground. An arm, waving, gestured at them. Iedazimus, being the leader, felt obliged to take the initiative and approach. He saw an old man in the garb of a monk - a monk from the Monastery.
‘Who the hell are you?’
Like every good monk the old man gave him a full answer.
‘Brother Fargo. Senior Brother Fargo, Class A, Monk Inspector.’
‘Where does this go?’ asked Gregory.
‘Nowhere. It’s a dead end.’
‘Thought so, we have to turn around.’
‘Will someone help me up?’
Timothy leapt forward: giving aid to a fellow monk in need was an automatic response wired into his DNA.
‘Can you walk?’
‘I think so, with help. The worse of it is over.’
‘I’m Timothy, from the Monastery.’
‘I know. I’ve seen you there.’
‘Come with us. We’ll get you out of here.’
Fargo reacted with a hint of panic. ‘Back outside?’
‘No, on to the Village.’
‘Very well. I can’t stay here.’
Iedazimus cut in again, determined to take back control.
‘No leave him! I don’t want him with us. Not another monk - and an old man!’
‘Excuse me sir but I’m only fifty-five.’
Timothy fought back, showing open rebellion for the first time. ‘I cannot abandon a brother in need!’
Gregory backed him up. ‘We bring him along. We cannot leave this man here, lost. He could starve to death. It’s non-negotiable.’
A grateful Fargo began giving thanks to God: that made Iedazimus stare up at the sky in exasperation. He had no choice except to accept the new situation. He spat on the ground to make his feelings clear.
‘Keep that man - that monk - out of my sight.’
And with that he stormed out of the orchard, followed swiftly by his best mates, and a reluctant Mutz. Jeno rubbed his stomach in anticipation of something awful about to happen to it. Iedazimus charged ahead regardless, back the way they had come. He had to stop in his tracks when he reached a junction and wait for Gregory to catch him up. He stood smarting: being dependant upon others was something he always hated.
At first the monk Fargo struggled to keep up and needed support from Mutz and Timothy - one on either side. Iedazimus would repeatedly stop and shout at the three of them to keep up. But in time the act of walking quickly to revitalised Fargo’s limbs. (He had simply been lying down too long; not moving and feeling sorry for himself when not feeling angry, or betrayed, or unloved.) He was able to first do away with Mutz’s help and then Timothy’s. He thanked them both. Iedazimus did his best to rip the two annoying monks from his mind. It did not help matters that they exchanged gossip through whispers about what or whom no one knew.
Their next stop was an ancient tree which Gregory knew well. It meant that they were on the right track, but it saddened him that it had finally crashed to the ground; reason being rotten roots. It was like discovering an old friend who had finally succumbed to death, in private, without witness. And again Gregory got them lost and they had to double back. A tired, hungry and furious Iedazimus wanted to hit him. He only just managed to control himself while Jeno did his best to calm him back down to a workable if not sensible level. Mutz was openly critical of Iedazimus’s behaviour which greatly surprised him and which, ironically, also calmed him down. Young, loyal Mutz had never crossed him before - and so vehemently. Iedazimus put it down to their new adventure. It was hitting them all. Fargo did his best to spread a little peace and happiness - which impressed Timothy but which enraged Iedazimus further. They carried on - the right way this time - everybody just hoping to get to the Village without further incident.
***
The now rather fragile group spent that night sleeping rough, under trees this time and on thick, well-established grass which looked like it supported sheep, or horses; goats even. There were traces around of all kinds of shit: it was here, there and everywhere and you had to tread carefully. The next morning, moving on, they stumbled across a large m
onument at another intersection. Its big bold inscription read ‘in memory of the noble class of stonemasons who built this maze on time and to budget’.
As each absorbed the presence and power of the message a noise issued from behind it. It was the sound of shears cutting back grass and weeds - anything which was not allowed to grow there. Next they heard a man talking, to himself. The grass round the front of the monument was already cut short and there was the scattering of cut grass, pulled weeds and torn ivy. This monument had not been forgotten like so much else in the Maze: quite the opposite, it was well maintained.
They all held their breath except for Gregory who knew what was coming: an old man - a bit older than Fargo - stuck his head round the corner. He looked nervous but then smiled when he saw it was his friend Gregory - with friends, he assumed. Gregory smiled back and moved forwards to greet him. The old man stopped smiling when he saw how the others were reacting. They were watching him intently while words were exchanged - Iedazimus especially, and he looked the meanest.
The old man retreated back behind the monument to put his shears into his wheelbarrow along with his other gardening tools. Gregory accompanied him, wishing to talk. It lasted nothing more than a minute or two but it felt longer to those not engaged in the conversation. They reappeared, the old man pushing his wheelbarrow. He was done with gardening for the today - this crowd of shabby, dirty strangers had made sure of that. Without stopping he simply carried on past them all as Gregory waved him goodbye. No one thought to stop him, or interfere in anyway: he was part of the natural scenery; they were not.
‘Who the hell was that?’ Iedazimus demanded to know.
‘A builder, possibly the last. Lives alone, a hermit’s life. Doesn’t like meeting people. Wants to stay secret.’ Gregory looked up at the monument, as if for inspiration. ‘He’s looked after this all his life. Sees it as his duty. Scrubs it clean. Keeps the weeds at bay.’
‘Why?’ asked Timothy.
‘Why? It keeps him alive, gives him a purpose in life.’
‘And how come you know him?’ asked Iedazimus.
‘Met him by chance once, when I thought I was lost.’
