With and Without, Within and Without Read online

  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 a
s 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.)