The Redmadafa
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Besides, even if I could, ragooles, and the Southern Celestial
Guard heavily guard the air—they would see us coming. And,
the route by sea is more treacherous than the sky. There are beasts lurking beneath the water that I’m afraid of.”
Seven smiled and climbed back onto a column. “Beast for
beast,” he muttered, in a long drawn out voice. As he disappeared into the cave, his voice echoed:
“Stand aloof, at Dead Man’s Drop,
Quarter ‘til noon, whistle the tune;
A ripple, a wave, out of the cave,
Count to three, anchors away.”
* * * * * * *
Thunder Juice Town was quiet. The marketplace was closed and
streets empty. Adults and children exited through the Northern
gates and made their way up to the Temple of the Sun dressed in
their Sun Day attire—long red robes with black sashes. Sun Day
was the day people worshipped “Ra” the Sun god. People who
had grown up in Juicy, who did not know or believe in The Augur
built a large temple with an ornate altar to Ra on the outskirts of town. Everyone great and smal , rich and poor gathered there to
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engage in all kinds of revelry—except those who believed in The
Augur.
Usha served as High Priestess of the pagan temple. She had
served in it from a young age and assumed High Priestess nine
years ago. She had a large staff of eunuchs that served her day
and night. They carried out her orders with great fervor and their devotion to her was without question.
Usha meditated in her chamber waiting for everyone to
assemble and take their place. Hundreds of hand-hewn idols
adorned her chamber; they were stacked on desks and pedes-
tals all around the room. Candles stood on top of smooth rock
basins. Teardrops teetered down their side, forming wax water-
fal s that edged off the sides of the stones. Small colorful charms and trinkets dangled from hooks in the window and ceiling, and
were draped over idols, stands, and anything else that would hold them. Each one sparkled in the candlelight casting an array of
colors throughout the room. Potions littered the tabletops in her back room and incantations lined the bookshelves. Long strips
of colored silk hung down from the ceiling kissing the granite
floors—blue shadows flickered as they waved gently off the floor, tossed about by a breeze from the window. The sweet smell of
calamus filled the room.
Outside, six shaggy long trunks, in single file, raised their
trunks and blew. Beside them, six moogles stood opposite each
other beating drums. Six Ragooles stood at the entrance while
six hundred and sixty-six human girls danced around them with
tambourines streaming with long red ribbons striped with gold.
In the center of the main room was a large looking stone,
round and smooth—its eye watched all who entered her cham-
bers. Usha, levitating above the ground, heard the sound and
opened her eyes. Solid black eyes slowly turned to blue. Her
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THE REDMADAFA
servants entered the room and dressed her in elaborate ceremo-
nial garments. They ushered her down the hal way glazed with
red roses and stationed her behind the thick golden curtain laced with red velvet and trimmed with red and black rubies.
The crowd chanted “Ra,” over and over waiting for Usha to
emerge and start the beastly ceremony. The thick curtain drew
open revealing her ill-omened form standing in the middle of
a large arched column. Fire erupted from the mouths of the
ragooles standing opposite each other with their wings ful y
extended creating a tunnel of fire. Usha stood backwards with her legs and arms crossed while she floated down the fiery tunnel.
She stopped at the edge of the stairs and twisted around. With
her arms raised high, and in a cackled voice, she shouted, “You
have fallen from heaven to give us light, Oh morning star, son of the dawn. Speak to us Ra and give us a sign that we may fear your great name.”
She walked over and grabbed the offering tied to a large ash-
erah pole and slit its throat. She filled a small golden goblet inlaid with black onyx stones with its blood and poured it out on the
stone altar and waited.
Silence fell across the crowd.
Little children climbed atop their parent’s shoulders to see
the altar.
Rumbles oozed from the ground and crawled up every leg.
Hearts grappled with fear, as minds, intoxicated with endor-
phins, raced with fantasies.
Fire engulfed the stone altar and spewed high into the air.
Worshippers fell to the ground and bowed over and over
chanting, “Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra.”
A dark demonic form appeared in the mist of the fire. It
leaped into Usha causing her body to convulse at its presence. It 151
Dr. Gary Warren Foshee
picked her up parallel to the ground spinning her body ‘round
and ‘round. She stopped over the altar and rested on its smoldering surface. The fire subsided as the worshippers, in a spel binding trance, focused on the altar. Four moogles approached the altar
and slipped two large bronze poles in each end. They lifted the
stone and carried her back to her chamber—the curtain closed
behind them.
Located in the southwest corner of town was The Gal ery, the great temple of The Augur. Beasts, creatures and humans, all that had been rescued from the valley of bones, set aside this time to gather together and give thanks to the One and true God—His Majesty:
HIS MAJESTY
The Gallery was the temple where new life was birthed,
a symbol, a beacon, a jewel of the earth. Fifty majestic
towers dawned on high, from all directions, drawing
me nigh. All in universal and cosmic display, pointing
the way in spectacular array. At night, each tower il u-
minated the sky, a city on a hil top, no one could deny.
Piercing the darkness revealing the slope, with glorious
rays of eternal hope— and glory shone and shone, shone
and shone, shone and shone.
The temple brilliant and skillful y made, from precious
stones his tender hands had made. A large central dome
adorned the sanctuary, circled by 12, governed, by the
son of Mary. Twelve arms flowed from each shiny dome,
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why, oh why, do my little ones roam. Gardens, sculp-
tures, porticos and cisterns, were scattered throughout,
their praises glistened— and praises rejoiced and rejoiced,
rejoiced and rejoiced, rejoiced and rejoiced.
Hundreds of corridors faded away, no need to fret or be
dismayed. Leading up to the doors large cobbled stones
lay, inviting, they were, no fee to pay. At the end of each
step large statues prayed, to The Almighty Eagle that had
formed them by clay. Enormous hal ways of columns
and glass, filled with jubilee, all leading to mass— and
jubilee danced and danced, danced and danced, danced
and danced.
The stairs half circled around to the top, a mighty thresh-
old he alone could cross. Beneath the crystal floor out
of the cleft, healing tears, from The Augur wept. A split
rock from which headwaters
flowed, The Redmadafa,
oh, how it glowed. Water from a rock, how could this be?
Only by sovereignty— and victory shouted and shouted,
shouted and shouted, shouted and shouted.
Purple pearl doors strong and straight, opened to those
with unmovable faith. The windows and ceiling all told
the story, of the countless souls that had entered His
glory. Amber arches and icicle columns rippled the aisles
tranquil and solemn. All the way down no need to fal-
ter, there before me was his glorious altar. The sun fled
from his presences, the moon hid asunder, His Majesty,
oh what a wonder— and glory and honor rose up, kissed the sun and moon goodbye, and took their rightful place.
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The orchestra assembled and took its place, as little creatures bustled with smiles on their face. Music thundered from the outer
courts as mushrooms drummed, flowers hummed and grasses
strummed. Water clapped, trees snapped and rocks tapped. Bugler
Fish played, Thunder Beasts swayed and little children serenade.
The melody resounded throughout the streets, as everyone
stood to their feet. With angelic voices the choir sang, perfect harmony from their mouths rang:
Your Word formed the universe
Your hand’s carved out the galaxies,
Lord Almighty.
You hold the world in the palm of your hand
You formed the earth and dry land,
From the sea.
Majesty, Majesty,
We worship you.
Your presence fil s this place
We are covered by grace,
Your Majesty.
A young girl stepped out of the choir and moved to the front and continued:
When I look to the sky
I see your face,
Smiling back at me.
When I walk in the night
I hear your voice,
It comforts me.
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THE REDMADAFA
The choir joined back in:
Majesty, Majesty,
We worship you.
Your presence fil s this place
We are covered by grace,
Your Majesty.
A young boy stepped out of the choir and moved to the front and
continued:
You made every creature and man
We’re all a part of your plan,
At your command.
You are the Potter I am the clay
You knew me before I was made,
Your glory on display.
The choir joined back in swaying side to side:
Majesty, Majesty,
We worship you.
Your presence fil s this place
We are covered by grace,
Your Majesty.
Onuka, a moggle and high priest of the temple looked out
across the crowd. He majestical y rose and sauntered over to the ambo. The old silver back, well along in years, knew it was time.
With wisdom he laid the ancient scroll on the ambo and opened
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it with his deeply contoured black hands. He walked out, cleared his throat, and in a deep, low-rumbling tone, boldly declared:
The Boiling Pot
“Last night as I lie in bed I fell into a deep sleep. A celes-
tial being came and carried me to a place once bright
and clean, but now in ruin. Before me stood a Boiling Pot
fashioned by a skilled craftsman. The pot glowed red as
fury boiled over, igniting the fire beneath—scorching my
face. As I watched, smoke leached out down the sides of
the pot and waged war with the fire…extinguishing it.
The once bright and glowing pot froze as smoke turned
to ice and became one with the ground.
A voice said to me, ‘Onuka, do you see this Boiling
Pot, once hot and bright, now before you cold and trite:
my children are neither; they have become lukewarm.
They love the things of this world and have forsaken
their first love. Tell them Onuka, did I not leave the nine-
ty-nine to find the one; I have not forsaken them. Tell
them Onuka, did I not deliver them when they called
my name; I still love them. Tell them Onuka, did I not
forgive their debts; return to me and I will forgive them
once again. Light the fire, boil the pot! Tell them Onuka.’”
Onuka paused.
He walked across the altar collecting his thoughts. He had
served as High Priest for several years and had served many of
the faces in the crowd since they were children.
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“I have served this temple for many years. I’ve seen The
Augur, day after day and night after night leave this flock
to search the highways and byways, and the most deso-
late places to find lost souls. Like a cedar tree’s topmost
shoot, he breaks them off and carries them back to The
Redmadafa.
He harvested where he has not planted. He gathers
where he has not sown. Most of you sitting here today
were despised and without love when he passed by and
saw you kicking about in your blood. ‘Live!’ he said to
you. He took you in his talons and brought you here to
Thunder Juice Town. He planted you like a willow tree by
abundant water. He caused you to multiply like a plant in
the field; you grew and became the most beautiful jewels
of the land. And, if that weren’t enough, when he saw
you were old enough, he covered your nakedness with
his love and you became his most beloved.”
He walked down the steps and slowly paced up the center
aisle, his gaze piercing the heart of every individual.
“Yet, as I walk these hallowed streets my mouth is speech-
less with disappointment. As I attend the festivals and
new moon parades, my eyes are blinded with shame. As I
listen in the marketplaces, my ears are deafened with dis-
gust. My heart is broken—Broken I say! Broken, because
streets that once flowed red, as his children spread His
Word, now run yellow as the cower and churn. Yellow
bellies as far as the eye can see. All of us have turned and
gone our own way.
‘ The Boiling Pot,’ a pot that once glowed red because 157
Dr. Gary Warren Foshee
his children were not ashamed, has now become stag-
nant as they blaspheme his name. Lukewarm people who
sit around and drink thunder juice and listen to lies until
their ears are intoxicated and overflowing; only to awake
and lust for more.”
Chains of guilt yoked necks in holy reverence.
“Has it been so long? Have you forgotten the valley, the
Shadow of Death? Rekindle the fire. Fan into flame the
spark. Boil the pot once again, before it is too late.”
He walked back up the steps and stopped. He turned around and
looked at the ceiling with his arms raised high.
“The Augur…is coming. He is coming back—”
He lowered his head.
“Soon.”
* * * * * * *
A face peaked through the cracked murky window. Little green
eyes followed every glimmer of light, scanning the street for any sign of him. This was Rammer’s nightly routine. He often waited
up at night to see his Dad. It was us
ual y the only chance he had to talk to him. His Dad worked late most nights and the nights he didn’t work late he spent at the tavern.
The door creaked opened and in trudged a distinguished
looking man, late as usual and oblivious to his surroundings.
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Rooter went straight to the kitchen to fill his bel y before
hunger bugs ate through his stomach and escaped into the night.
Rammer, still awake, climbed down from the window and stum-
bled out into the front room. He sat for hours by the window
waiting for his Dad to get home.
In the kitchen, thunder juice bottles littered the counters.
Dishes and trash peaked out of the sink. Little creeptails replen-ished their reserves; they scurried back to their holes with cheeks full of tasty morsels and crumbs.
“Hi Dad, did you have a good day at work?”
“Where’s your mother? This place looks like a squealer’s den,”
asked Rooter in a raised voice. “Has she been drinking all day
again?”
“Asleep I guess.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
Without missing a beat, Rammer walked into the kitchen. “I
raced in The Little Round About today.”
Rooter rummaged through the ice hole pushing multicol-
ored jars of creatures aside looking for his favorite, hungry bug killers.
“Don’t you have to qualify for that?” He pulled out a jar and
closed the door with his foot.
Not surprised and ful y expecting the answer he received, “I
qualified weeks ago Dad, don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do,” mumbled Rooter with his mouth half full of
honey buzzers. “How did you do?”
“I almost won. I was winning with about a hundred yards
to go—”
He opened a bottle of thunder juice and sat down on the divan
with the jar of honey buzzers under his left arm. He propped his legs up on a small carved stump and asked, “What happened?”
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“I…tripped over a rock,” ‘Thanks to you,’ he thought to
himself.
“Again?”
“I guess I’m just clumsy,” he said.
“Maybe you should try a different sport. Where is the paper?
Your mother didn’t throw it out again did she?”
Maybe you should keep your word and show up next time,
thought Rammer, handing his father the paper. He so wanted his
Dad’s attention and approval but all he ever got was criticism and rejection. Shifting the blame to himself was the best way he found to cope with his father’s rejection.