“How now, brothers!” they greeted in customary Tremna fashion. “What news! Heika! A bearded troll! What business has such a creature in a house of God?”—they were evidently referring to Ifunka Kaffa.
“Worry not, brothers!” replied Brother Wiffka. “This is a goodly creature, a hair-faced young man who wishes to join our order, if the Great Spirit allows. Come! Let us enter before too long.”
“Enter then, in peace,” said the doorkeepers.
As Ifunka stood under the archway of the great door, he noticed the intricate runic carvings that represent the various letters of the Tremni script, called ffokatai, as the original script originated in the Vocatae language, the most ancient tongue, the language of the members of the Legion on high in the old, pre-Tamitvar religion of Tremn. The boy could barely read as he knew only how to spell his name, Ifunka Kaffa, but very little else. Above the runes he saw pictograms carved into the lintel above the door, these being the ancient writing system used before the Old Central Kingdom was established, said to have developed in the ancient city of Tremael. These represented animals, objects and people, telling a story from the ancient history of the planet. When he had cleared the door and entered the interior of the monastery, he found himself within a spacious antechamber which extended ten yards in all direction, within which there were circular wooden shrines carved out of the resilient givzash-trees which still lived in their carven form. The tree survives off sugar water poured on the roots, allowing the shrine to retain its vivacity and continue growing—though it grows at an incredibly slow rate, meaning that the carvings remain intact for centuries.
“In each of these living trees,” the monk explained. “There is a vegetable spirit which mirrors forth the attributes of the Great Spirit. Carven into each one is a shiffgatv—or chapter—from the Tamitvar. Each chapter is divided into a number of verses, arranged into groups of five verses each, called a tvin. Do you know how many shiffgatvs are in the Tamitvar, boy?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know sir,” he said sheepishly.
“You don’t know! But are you not a believer in the Great Spirit?”
“Yes, but I haven’t read the Tamitvar, if you please.”
“That shall change, I assure you! For how can a man know right from wrong or the meaning of life without perusing the shiffgatve of the Great Spirit’s all-encompassing and pervasive Word? The Tamitvar was not written. It was spoken by Hashemaff, the Angel of Light, when he appeared over nineteen nights to the great Seer and High Priest, Votsku, who chanted the verses to his son, Amta, who wrote them down on tablets of clay. Each night,” he said, pointing to the various tree-shrines. “He revealed one shiffgatv, but only fourteen were written down. The remaining five are hidden until the end of time when the Seer shall return to disclose them. That is why you see fourteen tree-shrines. Do you understand, Ifunka?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. It is well that you do. Tonight we shall chant one shiffgatv after dinner. We chant one in communion each evening and we are now on the seventh one. Every nineteen days we start again from the beginning so that we can follow Votsku’s noble example. On the last five days we meditate in silence to reflect on the mysteries which lie hidden beyond the ken of man. Then we repeat the cycle once more.”
Ifunka felt the delicate craftsmanship of the lettering in each shrine, tracing with his fingers the intricate lines of runic script. The texture and sweet smell of the wood stimulated his senses while the hum of distant chanting provided a spiritual ambience that filled his inner being to its brim. He knelt down and laid his bearded face upon the inscription, eyes closed in reverence as he placed a kiss upon its sacred words. Brother Wiffka nodded as he watched, pleased that Ifunka manifested signs of spirituality appropriate for one seeking the role of monkhood. When he had arisen and returned to the monk’s side, Wiffka led him through the antechamber to a long corridor.
“You shall meet the Abbott on the morrow,” said Brother Wiffka. “For now you shall remain in your cell, pondering the Great Spirit’s gracious Providence and bounty. At the seventh hour, you shall be summoned to the evening meal, which shall last one hour. This is to precede evening prayer and meditation, in which we shall commune with the Creator who gave us life. Then you shall know the bond which unites each one of us and sets every limb and member afire.”
This prospect pleased Ifunka, who was so shaken from the trauma of the evening past. He longed to feel whole again and receive the assurances of a higher power—a supernal creative force. As the monk opened the door, he peered in and saw the modest trappings that would now deck his new home and place of pious seclusion. The cell was wrought of cobbled stone, overhung by a vaulted ceiling, narrow in its width and quite short, fitting one sturdy, wooden bed with ease and a small shelf built into the wall above the bed, containing three books only: a small, leather-bound Tamitvar, a volume of prayers and meditations, and the monastic code of the monastery. These books would, along with the robes laid out on the cushions of the bed, and the sandals by its side, be his sole possessions, if such they could be called. The bed, as with all Tremna beds, consisted of a short, raised table, about a foot off the ground, covered in a sheet, upon which were placed an assortment of large, cushions, along with some smaller ones. The concept of a mattress was foreign to the Tremna, who preferred the firmness of the frame above the comfort it provided. One had to simply lay out cushions in such a manner that they could rest the head and buttocks on diverse pillows while keeping the back flat and straight. As uncomfortable as this sounds, the Tremna were used to it and had excellent posture and a magnificent bearing and gait. Satisfied that the boy understood his surroundings, the monk left him to rest and pray until the appointed hour for supper.
Unable to compose himself for prayer, Ifunka lay down his head and drifted off to sleep, oblivious of everything around him, as the sweet silence of the monastery encompassed him. Ifunka awoke suddenly to the sound of a boffka-drum, a large square hide drum carried by the senior monks who bang them with a black wooden stick. This was accompanied by the banging of a brass gong, carried by a novice who followed the senior monk through the corridors, waking any hapless monk who had dozed off before supper. This awakening ritual, called the ffangkapf, precedes every meal and the dawn and dusk, midnight and midday prayers, as well as any other signal and important event. A novice knocked at the cell door and Ifunka emerged, still quite dazed and sleepy.
“Where’s thy robes, brother?” asked the novice, not much older than himself. “Put on thine habiliments and come at once to the novice and plantings’ dining chamber. I am thy ralishkim ramantyeng—planting trustee. I shall lead thee.”
Ifunka quickly donned the robes of a ramant (i.e. ‘planting’ or ‘pre-novice monk’), which consisted of a bright green cap, light brown robes, leather sandals and a bright green cape and hood. He did not have a staff, which was only given to junior and higher monks. He was then led through a series of passages to a cellar door. Proceeding to descend two flights of stairs, they reached the warm, underground chamber known as the novice dining chamber. It was heated by a great hearth and a number of bauff-beeswax candles, shining with the blue radiance released by the thick, dark-blue wax and the dense, blue wick made of webk-cat whiskers, a mild and ubiquitous animal whose fur and whiskers prove to be incredibly combustible. The novices, each called a metvabt (i.e. ‘sapling’), and pre-novices sat at round tables, symbolic of equality and unity, with their planting trustees at their right. A pre-novice then came round and served each one an edible, purple bread plate made from braksh-wheat. Upon this plate, called a brakshogim, they served pengiffmi, a traditional mixed vegetable meal consisting of the five staples of Tremn, i.e. boiled braksh-wheat, a sticky yet wholesome cereal which provides a great store of energy; sliced wish-root, a pink tuber, thick, meaty and full of protein; shwev-peas, green peas similar to those of Terra—only bigger, with a tougher skin and full of all the essential vitam
ins and minerals needed by the average Tremna; purple ffev-fruit, a large berry, the size and shape of a golf-ball, full of soft, edible seeds, sugary and very sweet—one of these sufficing as part of a meal or as an energy snack; and red maize cob, called gobish, which is slightly sweet and contains some starch and protein but chiefly serves to facilitate digestion. This was garnished with selected herbs, called tegbaff, and a sour-cream made from ffentbaff-milk, called shegav. This dish was served with wooden goblets containing a sour yoghurt drink called tvog; sweet tvog, called tvosh, being reserved for more senior monks. The meal was preceded by a short prayer, invoking the Great Spirit:
“Ay Wabak Kakan! Tai aftokti monra yumig fotvam. Tai aftokti monra itviffkim aftoktiyeng okalogyoam. Tai aftokti monra lektogamfi afkaogamfi, eluntvamfi ikwilamfi, gwopfogamfi reyogamfi, moffogamfi goffogamfi. Tai aftokti monra keffgeam, ay Wabak Kakan!”
“O Great Spirit! We thank thee for this food. We thank thee for our being-brought-out-of-nothingness. We thank thee for life and death, richness and poverty, happiness and sadness, fullness and hunger. We thank thee for these, O Great Spirit!”
The novices and pre-novices passed the time talking about the life of the monastery and why they had decided to become monks. Ifunka, at first, was ignored due to the stigma associated with facial hair in young men but, at length, the others at the table softened in their stance towards him and began to ask him about his story. This proved to be a matter which excited much interest, such that novices and pre-novices at adjacent tables began to lean in to listen, some even spilling their tvog in the process. The plates being edible and the food being eaten by hand, there was no need to clear up, save only to replenish each goblet with more wholesome tvog, before they were served with dessert, placed with no dish before them—only the aristocracy and upper echelons of the clergy having dishes. This consisted of a cheesecake pie, topped with thin pastry and ffev-fruit seeds. The pie being sufficiently small, each of the assembled diners managed to eat the whole thing, though some with greater ease than others; a few leaned back in their chairs holding their bellies with some discomfort—one even being so inconsiderate as to fall backwards and make an unpleasant smacking sound on the stony cellar floor.
One of the novices, however, a large, rotund boy whose puffy green cheeks poorly complemented his bowl-shaped coiffure, appeared like the bloated stem of a horrendous toadstool. He sat, mushroom-like in appearance and attitude, evincing the same personality and qualities as the lowliest of fungi. His face displayed marks of crossness while his eyes betokened a dullness of wit which tried, in vain, to comprehend the existence of facial hair on a boy of Ifunka’s age. This dimwit’s expression of distaste slowly evolved into a scowl, especially as his portion of food diminished and he began to lick his fingers and palm in earnest with his hound-like and greedy tongue. Ifunka scarcely noticed his persistent staring, concentrating as he was on the more amiable boys beside him. The mushroom-like boy was sitting at another table opposite his, on the far side thereof, meaning that he had to stare fixedly over the shoulders of the other boys at his table and the ones facing Ifunka. Evidently, facial hair had aroused quite so much animosity within him that such a feat of visual dexterity was possible even for one whose other senses were so thoroughly benumbed.
As Ifunka was half-finished recounting his recent adventures to several avid listeners, a leather shoe hurtled across the room and hit him right smack in the face, sending the boy tumbling backwards over his chair and into the stone wall behind him. This jolted one of the candle sticks which dripped hot wax onto the poor child’s hair. Confused and bewildered, he remained, for some moments, half-conscious on the cold floor with his back resting on the wall. Some companions arose and faithfully kneeled beside him to give him comfort while other boys looked accusingly at the table opposite from which the shoe had originated. That table, however, remained coolly silent as no one ventured to betray the boy who had so adroitly thrown it. Rather, each one looked down at the table as if pondering the craftsmanship that had produced such a smooth and polished surface or, perhaps, counting the number of crumbs which adorned it. The rotund boy, in particular, seemed the most abstracted from his surroundings as he counted his fingers and observed whether each nail and knuckle was in perfect working order.
“Who did that?” Ifunka called out as his own voice resounded within the cavernous chamber.
“It was none of us what done it!” observed a boy from the guilty table, demonstrating a considerably lax attitude towards the rules of syntax.
“He deserved it,” said another. “Though I’m not he what done it.”
“And just how did he deserve to be thus molested?” said Ffen, Ifunka’s planting trustee.
“Look at his face!” said the accusatory novice. “Just look at it! He’s a bloody freak!”
“I am not a freak!” Ifunka protested. “You have hair on your head. I have hair on my face. What is the difference?”
“It’s not natural,” said another. “You’re infecting the rest of us with your freakishness. We’re monks, not freakish spectacles!”
“You are not monks, none of you!” the planting trustee retorted. “You are saplings at best and plantings at worst. Have you not read the Tamitvar? Is this how we are to conduct ourselves.”
All the while, the rotund novice remained silent, his blank expression and unintelligent stare allowing him to go unnoticed, as if he were a part of the furnishing. His companions, however, stood up and defended him with great alacrity, their accusatory fingers pointing at poor Ifunka. Raising goblets in hand they screamed and roared as the goblets flew across the room and pummelled the poor boy who cowered, holding his knees. Some of the other novices from his table were also hit by the flying goblets, including the planting trustee, who nose began to bleed. His own goblet in hand, he rushed forward to defend the honour of his table as each of his supporters followed behind, leading to a general brawl between the supporters and opponents of the two tables. Boys from other tables in the room joined in, each taking sides as they threw punches, smacked each other with goblets or hurled chairs across the chamber. Some leapt into the air and slammed down on an opponent, while others delivered fierce kicks that knocked down an enemy. The fight lasted for some time while Ifunka kept to himself in the corner and began to sob and pull at his unfortunate beard.
The melee was interrupted when there was a loud bang on the door. Each boy paused in mid-motion, some with chairs in hand, others with goblets, others clinging onto an opponent’s robes or hair. It seemed as if the whole room had been frozen in time. There was a second bang on the door before a boy rushed to open it and was nearly ploughed down by the Assistant Abbott who burst into the chamber with staff held high. He quickly surveyed the room with disapproving glances before motioning for two senior monks—his assistants—to enter with large, wooden paddles in hand. These, as Ifunka was to learn, were known as the bum-thwackers, devices designed for paddling the unfortunate posteriors of any student found to have broken monastic rules. In this case, it was a most serious violation of the code of the Tamitvar, which enjoined kindness, forbearance, gentility and consideration on all its adherents. Such serious violations of kindness deserved the unkindest of chastisements in return.
“What!” the Assistant Abbott bellowed in his deep, stentorian voice. “What indeed are you all doing! What prevarication! What foolishness! What disobedience! What blasphemy! What, what, what!”
It seemed as if his list of whats would continue ad infinitum. Indeed, so disturbed was he that his whats were quickly reduced to an incomprehensible series of growls and whines as he began to bang the bottom of his staff on the stony floor. He finally burst out and struck one of the boys nearest to him, sending him over several others, knocking down three others like bowling pins, while everyone else remained fixed in position. Then he motioned to the two senior monks who had been holding their bum-thwackers in eager anticipation. They sallied forth an
d began whacking the behinds of every young novice and pre-novice who stood in their path—these cringing in pain or falling over with shock. A few fell headfirst onto one of the tables, knocking themselves unconscious in the process as the maddened monks were overtaken with zeal, like the Viking berserkers of old on Terra.
When this paroxysm of rage and punishment had subsided, every boy was, to a greater or lesser degree, sore and most regretful—all, that is, except Ifunka who, by extracting himself from the conflagration, had come out of it unscathed. The senior monks still hurried to and fro, thwacking any planting or sapling who looked to be suffering too little until not a one remained standing and each one clutched his knees or behind or rolled around on the floor. The great lump of a novice who had instigated the crowd was in considerable discomfort owing to his great girth and the large surface area of his hind quarters, allowing both senior monks to attack him at once, which they seized the opportunity of doing with some relish as they delighted in punishing errant children. While he sorely regretted his actions, he did not lay the blame on himself but, rather, bitterly resented Ifunka—his new nemesis—and resolved to avenge himself.
Approaching the poor boy, the Assistant Abbott addressed him curtly, warning him of the consequences of breaking monastic regulations:
“I am told, boy, that you are Ifunka Kaffa,” he said. “Tomorrow, you and Gashiff are summoned to my chambers, along with your planting trustee and his planting, as you are all subject to punishment. In this house, violations of the Tamitvar shall be dealt with severely and punishments meted out according to the measure of justice. Each shall be punished according to the level of culpability. Understood?”
Ifunka nodded. After the Assistant Abbott had left, signalling the end of dinner, the boys exited the chamber and ascended several flights of stairs until they reached the central courtyard, in the midst of which was a large and amplexive yeshmelek-tree, at least a thousand years in age, its copious branches scarce allowing a view of the starry sky above. Monks of all ages filed into the courtyard until it was well-nigh full of solemn, robed men with bowed heads. The plantings, however, looked upwards, dazzled by the heavenly expanse and the magnificent tree which dwarfed them. The Assistant Abbott appeared again, this time clad in white raiment, which shined with dazzling luminescence in the light of Ffash, one of Tremn’s three moons. This gave him an almost ethereal quality, as if he wore his spirit as a robe, its brilliant qualities shedding supernal splendour on all mundane and coarse beings. In the midst of such a silent and reverent mass, Ifunka felt a tremendous sense of belonging, belied as it was by the experience of dinner. Yet here, when all base passions were subdued, a tremendous feeling of unity seemed to reign—a unity of minds as well as sentiments—what might be called ‘spiritual unity’. This ineffable sense of unity the Tremna call sapyabav, meaning ‘peace-flower’, connoting the unity and peace of flowers in a meadow or rose garden. The Assistant Abbott, walking slowly and with great reverence, approached the tree and kissed it, with his forehead touching the mighty bole. He then turned swiftly and, with hands outstretched, addressed the assembled worshippers:
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 3