“Greetings!” he said in a somber, somewhat intimidating tone, his croaky voice rattling in their ears. “I am the Abbott—Entva Intof. State your names for the record, children, before we proceed to judgment and punishment, which you all most certainly deserve.”
He laid particular stress on the Tremni word dabra, meaning ‘deserve’. The boys each stated their names and ranks as the Abbott glared at each one while shaking his beard in a pondering manner. A scribe recorded the boys’ names as well as everything that was said in the session. Ifunka was visibly nervous but his friend, Ffen, was less so, because he had been at the monastery longer and, furthermore, avoided the Abbott’s icy stare. When they had finished, the Abbott sat silently for a while as the children became increasingly nervous which, perhaps, was his intention. Whenever he broke the silence, he spoke with a sharp and cutting tone.
“What are you accused of?”
The boys looked at one another—even fat Gashiff seemed alarmed as none of them could think of what to say in answer. Ifunka, at last, ventured to make reply.
“Please, sir,” he pleaded. “We know not the exact crime.”
The word crime (i.e. oshvant in Tremni) practically stuck in his throat. The Abbott’s eyes raised.
“The temerity!” he burst out. “Impertinence! Speak when spoken to, such and so forth!”
Ifunka could not make heads or tails of the Abbott’s reply.
“Impertinence?” he asked, not knowing the meaning of the word, nor the meaning of temerity.
“You speak again!” the Abbott’s green cheeks became darker green with anger. “Did I say speak or did you speak of your own volition? Answer the question or hold your peace forthwith!”
“Please, sir!” Ifunka continued.
“It pleases me not!” the Abbott exploded, standing up from his stool. “It is not pleasing at all! Thou, Ifunka Kaffa, art forthwith and immediately consigned to the monastic dungeon, there to remain until such time as I do please to release you, which now I do not. Nay, it pleases me not that thou have any freedom, nor that thou continue to speak in my presence. It pleases me that thou remain in a place of correction and edification until I please otherwise!”
He stressed the word ‘please’ (gumon in Tremni) whenever he uttered it. Ifunka shrank from his stool and nearly collapsed in shock. His friend, Ffen, was frozen with fear and stared ahead with lifeless gaze while the fat boy, Gashiff, sweated profusely and breathed heavily. The other boy, Wigash, bit his fingers in a nervous and frantic manner. What became of the others, Ifunka did not know because, when he had recovered his senses, he found himself being escorted from the room by the same doorman they had earlier encountered, being taken down the stairs and outside into the fresh, revivifying morning air. He was then marched up to the northern extremity of the monastic compound, on the very edge where it met the great forest of Ffushkar. Here they approached a large mound of earth covered profusely with moss and lichen-encrusted stones and pebbles. Climbing up to the top of this, they found an oculus (i.e. a skyward, man-made opening) in the top of the mound, indicating that a large structure lay beneath. This, it appeared, was the dungeon spoken of by the Abbott. The doorman shouted down into the dungeon as he knelt beside the oculus: “Heika! An impertinent boy to stay at the Abbott’s pleasure, until further notice.”
“Heika!” a voice returned.
After a minute or so, Ifunka could hear the sound of grunting, as if someone were engaged in great physical exertion. A head appeared through the oculus, that of a rugged old man with a sallow complexion, lanky limbs, wiry fingers and a thin, grizzled white beard. His deep-set eyes were underscored by dark green lines which illy suited his pale skin. He was a somewhat sickly looking figure, conditioned by countless decades of servitude beneath the surface of Tremn, conducting imprisoned monks to and fro, up and down—a burden which he bore with that measure of dignity which he was capable of mustering. He wore a black robe and carried a large set of keys which hung from a cincture (i.e. a rope-belt), jingling and jangling as he moved.
Climbing over the edge of the oculus, he got to his feet and then moved over towards Ifunka and clasped him with an iron grip. Not saying a word, he pulled the boy towards the gaping hole and wrapped a rope about his waist, another being already attached to his cincture and then, with a swift and dexterous movement, they descended together into the depths of the dungeon. Looking up, Ifunka could see the oculus rapidly retreating from sight and darkness quickly enveloping him.
When they reached the bottom—most abruptly—Ifunka found himself in a gloomy warren, with corridors extending in twelve different directions. There seemed to be lights but they appeared hazy and indistinct until his eyes had adjusted to the pallid gloom. Then the lights began to appear bright and distinct. They seemed to burn gently, perhaps consuming some slow-burning mineral or gas. The conductor then led Ifunka down one corridor which was low and narrow, capacious enough for the young boy but necessitating a great deal of bending on the part of the tall and lanky jailor. At length, after many twists and turns, they reached an unoccupied cell that would be the pitiful boy’s home for a long time to come. Each cell had a strong metal net secured on all sides, which could only be removed by inserting a key into the metal ring which encircled the round cell-entrance. It could then be pulled back with ease. This being done, Ifunka was escorted into the cell and, without uttering a single word, the jailor secured the net and left the child to his own devices.
Surprisingly, the cell did not seem to be more uncomfortable and forbidding than the monastic cell he had occupied the night before. On the contrary, it seemed cozier, perhaps, and more natural. The walls were made of stone, it was true, but the cell had been carved out of rock so one was given the feeling of being embosomed within an earthly womb. The net was made of metal but it was a glimmering bronze, delightful to behold. The cell glowed with a calm, tranquil radiance and the hard bed was hardly unusual by Tremna standards. The toilet consisted of a hole in the ground, over which one might squat or aim (for relief of the first kind) and there was a stool and solid stone desk, the latter forming part of the same solid mass of rock from which all the cells were carved. Ifunka sat on his bed and reflected for a while before deciding to rest. When he awoke, he was unsure of his location and quite disoriented. In the cell, there was no indication of time or place, so its passage could not accurately be measured.
There was some means, however, as soon became evident when a thin, waif-like boy appeared. He moved slowly down the corridor carrying a tray of food. His sunken eyes, prominent cheeks, frizzled hair and sallow complexion indicated a meager diet and little exposure to the golden rays of Vukt. He had a rather sad countenance and looked down as he moved like a lifeless automaton down the passage and into Ifunka’s cell. His feet, upon inspection, appeared to be chained together and he had an iron collar on his neck—a symbol of his imprisonment. The boy did not even look up as he removed the net-barrier which sealed the cell. He handed the tray with a similar indifference and then re-sealed the cell before proceeding to walk away. Ifunka could scarcely register what had taken place. When the boy was about to leave, Ifunka addressed him.
“Heika! Hey there!” he called out. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
The boy paused and slowly turned round until he faced Ifunka. He still did not look up, thus appearing as if he were half-dead. Gradually, he raised his head and cautiously stared at him. When their eyes met, Ifunka could see sadness in his face and sought to reassure him with a friendly glance. The boy turned away, however, and walked off hurriedly, in order to avoid further interaction.
Ifunka examined the tray which contained only the most basic and flavourless of foods, gapkim (‘maize mash’ or ‘maize mush’ as it should rather be called), made from gobish-maize and served on a brakshogim bread plate. It was accompanied by a small, dry roll of whole-grain bread and a small goblet of water. Simple and bland though it wa
s, Ifunka savoured every bite as he did not know when his next meal would be. He wondered, as he ate, who the pitiful boy that he had seen was and why he did not deign to reply to him when addressed. He mused over these things for some hours before a gong broke the silence to indicate the time for midday prayer, called kashatvin, which he performed dutifully for, though he had been much mistreated since his arrival at the monastery, he had also discovered a faith that now gave him great comfort and solace in his isolation. The form of midday prayer differed little from the dawn prayer, except in that it was slightly longer, with ten rather than five verses from the Tamitvar being read. The instructions for how to perform this prayer, as well as the afternoon, evening and midnight prayers, were written in a small booklet which lay on the table. Ifunka’s ability to read was minimal but he had heard the verses recited by Ffen earlier that morning when he gave additional instruction on the method of prayer before they left to see the Abbott. In that absolute solitude in which he now found himself, Ifunka felt the Great Spirit’s awesome glory even more acutely, even as if he stood, it seemed, within the courtyard of His Presence. Each time he performed the movements, they revealed new meanings to his mind and filled him with an energy that he had never felt before coming to the monastery. He could not describe it in words—not only because of his limited vocabulary but also because of the ethereal nature of the experience, which existed beyond the scope of human or, indeed, Tremni expression.
At night, the waif-like boy returned to give him the evening meal, which was much the same as the afternoon meal, only less fresh. Apparently, the evening meal was the afternoon meal re-heated. The flavours were even blander than before, if such were possible, and it stuck to the roof of his mouth as he struggled to swallow the stodgy concoction. Only severe hunger could force him to swallow each morsel. The water scarcely helped to wash it down as one cup could hardly suffice—nay, rather, a torrent was needed to wash down such a thick and gritty mush. Nevertheless, he appreciated having food as he well knew that he could be alone and abandoned in the forest or even dead, like his uncle and aunt; so unpleasant food was better than no food at all. The waif-like boy had come and gone as before, completely ignoring Ifunka’s attempts at communication. When he had finished eating, the gong rang and he prayed again (which the Tremna call kashashom, the afternoon prayer). Then he went to bed and tried to sleep. He awoke again to say the evening and midnight prayers (kashammanoffob and kashofftishatvin respectively). When he returned to bed, the lights in the corridor went out and he was left in pitch blackness—Stygian darkness—the like of which he had never before experienced, as his uncle and aunt had always kept the hearth-fire burning. The hearth was the centre of every Tremna home and its focal point, and only in the southern, desert regions of Yatvegab did the Tremna extinguish the fire during the day. He held his blanket tightly and made a silent prayer to the Great Spirit that this little boy, this tiny creature might be given some hope and solace. He did not know if the Great Spirit would heed his supplication, but he hoped against hope anyway and kept praying until he gave into tiredness and faded from the blackness of his surroundings into the world of dreams. Ifunka then had an unsound sleep until dawn, when he arose to pray again before waiting for breakfast.
In the morning, an idea came to Ifunka as he was still lying on the hard, cold bed. He thought of a way to force the serving boy to speak to him. When the gong rang, he did his ablutions and prayed, supplicating the Great Spirit to help him to attain his goal. When the waif-like boy arrived carrying the breakfast tray, Ifunka stood ready. Then he grabbed the boy’s arms, holding him tight. The boy, alarmed, dropped the tray and struggled like a frenzied animal caught in a snare. But Ifunka held firm and was resolute in his determination to make the boy speak. The boy twisted his arm and tried to break free but could not escape. At length, he was subdued and remained motionless. Ifunka asked him his name but he would not reply. Rather, he stared at the wall with a stony silence and determination that greatly unnerved his captor.
“Speak!” Ifunka shouted at last, his patience exhausted. “What is your name? I’m hear all alone-a boy of your age. I don’t even understand why they’ve put me in prison. I need to speak to someone. Will you not answer me? Answer me! Answer me!”
He shook the boy to no avail and then released him. Ifunka rushed to the corner of the cell, between the solid stone desk and the cold wall to its left, curled up into a crouching position and sobbed. His last hope, he felt, had been exhausted by the icy indifference of the waif who tormented him through his silence. He shook with pent-up anger, frustration and silence. Then he heard a movement, like footsteps, and looked up to find the waif standing over him with glazed eyes as if he had been moved by Ifunka’s display of pitiful despair. The boy continued staring for a while as Ifunka looked up at him, his eyes still welling with tears and his face stained dark green from weeping. Then he spoke, tremulously and with great caution.
“Name…. name…,” he said, stammering as he spoke. “Mine is Shem, prisoner—many years-crime—must not speak—only serve meals—must not speak—Shem—Shem!”
Ifunka arose, burst into tears and embraced Shem, his newfound friend. Shem still remained as unmoving and frozen-in-place as before, save that a tear rolled down his bony cheek and splattered on the stony floor.
After some time, the two boys sat on the bed. Shem sat silently while Ifunka began to relate the circumstances of his life—short as it then had been—with all the power of expression which his limited vocabulary allowed him. Shem listened, or appeared to be listening, patiently and with concentration. When Ifunka finished his narrative, Shem remained silent for a few minutes and then tremulously began to speak. His words came out in a stuttering, stammering manner, as before, as if he were relearning how to speak.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said. “So sorry… your uncle… your aunt… so sad. I’m an orphan too… My father… my mother… so sad. Monks find me… monks take me… I not speak… they beat me… I not read…. can’t… they beat me… I wet bed… they beat me… I beat beater monks… they put me here and say not speak to prisoners… only serve food and books… no more.”
“How long have you been here, Shem?”
“Not know… can’t count… long time!”
“Don’t worry, Shem,” he reassured him. “We’ll get out of here, I promise you. The monks here may not be nice. They’ve become cruel and unjust, but I’ve heard the sweet words of the Tamitvar and I know the Great Spirit is real. His power is everywhere. I feel it. He will rescue us.”
“Where… Great Spirit?” Shem asked, his eyes lighting up.
“I don’t think He’s in any place but His power touches everything. I feel it in my bones and in my heart and it shames my mind.”
“Tell more, Ifunka… You give hope.”
“The Great Spirit saved me from the murderers who killed Uncle Matuka and Aunt Kabishta. He saved me and brought me to this monastery. Then He put me in this prison for a reason. I don’t know why, but I will study the Tamitvar to see if there is an answer within.”
“Books… Ifunka?” asked Shem, changing the subject.
“What of them, Shem?”
“Once a week I bring books… every cell. You want today?”
“What books may I have?”
“I have… list.”
He reached into his robe and pulled out an old piece of parchment upon which a copious list was written. Some two or three hundred titles were available, ranging from works of history to theology, including Tamitvar commentary, genealogy and pedigrees, grammar and rhetoric, natural science, philosophy and even some works of poetry, anecdotes, sagas and legends. Ifunka had never read one book, let alone had access to so many, yet a desire took root in his heart—a longing for knowledge which had previously been stifled by his limited means and background. He wanted to learn to read and then absorb whatever knowledge he could. With Shem’s help, he selected som
e basic books, including A First Tremni Reader, which allows one to trace out each rune and had pictures to show the corresponding sound, allowing one to learn how to read on one’s own, The Roots of Grammar (a brief grammar book), Stories and Parables for the Tremna Boy, and My First Wordbook, being a basic vocabulary of the Tremni language. With these noted down on a separate scrap of paper from Shem’s pocket, Ifunka’s new friend left him for now. After an hour or so, however, he returned bearing the requested books and Ifunka set about the laborious task of, firstly, learning to read each letter and then words and phrases and increasing his vocabulary in order to understand the stories and other texts. From the Wordbook, for example, he read:
lip – ship doshtitv gel tveff shep kultafuneh matvesh itvavt alegavt, oreileh, golegeh. Ffokataizivt ultharitv. Heraff shipyeng yugiffitv. Homaffsh: ‘Anafotv okt lipantilei vairofi gizemefihivt hadash Wabak Kakanyengunka’ – Ishmael, tvedant Ilitva Ardefi Patsipatvefi Tremyengyengzivt, eninff lekan, baff siyan, shi.
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 5