“How can you ‘feel’ a way?” Shem asked.
“The trees are connected in a great web through their spirit. In the spirit world, they are like stars within a firmament, but the firmament is one. When a tree dies, its light goes out, like a dead star, and the energy and form thereof disappear into the firmament, giving rise to the substance which forms new stars. This is only an analogy of course.”
“So you enter the spirit world?”
“We never leave the spirit world—it’s all around us: in the flowing waters of the sea, in the pebbles on the ground, in the lofty lemurs and swift-descending gvain. Every living thing has a spirit and we’re all living within the spiritual firmament. You can’t see it with your eyes—you feel it with your own spirit.”
“If this be true,” Shem tried to reconcile this concept with his own religious beliefs. “Then why is the Tamitvar silent on this matter? The Tamitvar is the Word of the Great Spirit given in full through the Angel Hashemaff. If we follow the Tamitvar, our reward will be Ganka—the All-Highest Paradise. If we turn away and reject the Tamitvar, our abode will be Gahimka, where Afflish the Accursed dwells.”
“Olem kondaffogipatv spiktominom, pishka kentakipatv ffaid gvosheh. Tamitvarzivt etv woganefi ffokvinishefi kentakipatv envakt; yagshefi gomefi lotvila kengiffkim kondaffogipatv envakt. Woganeshnish metsuogfi, yashepogfi, wamogfi, akva kengikimitv—losh nif preteloffzivtof ffanazivtofitvyum, pamsha kodipatveyengzivtyumitv (Where the poet speaks, the zealot must keep silent. He cannot see the fire which burns within his soul. The zealot sees in Tamitvar but words and pages; the poet sees the gems and diamonds hid within. All wisdom, truth and knowledge beneath the words concealed—the key is not in monastery or temple, but in the lover’s heart),” the bard declared in the utmost eloquence of diction.”
Shem had never heard such mystic poetry and was completely confounded while Ifunka and Ffen pondered the words deeply, repeating them again and again within their minds.
“Come, my friends,” said the bard, waking Shem from his reverie. “We must be off. I saw a vast tract of forest heading southwards with a stream crossing through our path—I don’t know its name. Then follows the valley which Ifunka mentioned. I cannot see what lies within. The exact distance I cannot estimate either but it should take us at least the whole of today and perhaps the morrow. I fear though…”
“Fear what?” Ffen did not like the sound of the bard’s sudden drop in tone.
“The poems and sagas tell of beings which live in the deep forest—dark spirits and fearsome creatures, deceptive creatures which lure a man to his doom or send him astray.”
The three men trembled at these words.
“Moreover,” he continued. “The boles lie close together, their roots entangled in gnarled embrace, their branches thick, bulbous and twisted, knotted and interlocked with others. Darkness casts the forest floor in gloom and shadow—even at midday. The fruits of the bush, where they exist, are poisonous. The predators are many and the waters of stream or brook are brackish and unpotable.”
“May the Great Spirit keep us safe!” Ifunka cried, to which Ffen and Shem concurred with a heavy cry of “even so, even so” which is raffal in Tremni.
The ffentbaff moved swiftly through the forest, brushing against the thick, leafy boles. The gvuff-lemurs above jumped playfully from branch to branch and the wigwaffs (leaping snakes) rustled through the leaves and stems of the canopy. They continued for hours, pausing only for half an hour to eat and pray and carried on till sunset. By then, the forest had grown thicker, such that the ffentbaff now proceeded with great labour, squeezing its woolly hide between the narrowing boles. Another hour and they found themselves stuck—unable to proceed as the beast could not squeeze through the remaining gaps. The beast struggled and struck the boles with its mighty hooves and pushed on each one with its enormous head but the firmly-rooted trees would not budge. At last, it relented and sat down on all fours, breathing heavily and occasionally snorting, as was its wont.
“Come on, old boy!” Ffen urged, giving it a heavy kick, but the ffentbaff only grunted and released a loud, goo-blasting snort and twitched its wispy, short tail.
“There’s no use!” shouted Shaff. “We’ll have to go by foot the rest of the way.”
“We can’t leave the ffentbaff! How will we get home?” Ffen protested.
Ifunka thought for a moment and then solemnly replied.
“Ffen, brother, I don’t think we shall go home. Even if we survive this perilous journey and rescue our friend, which we might not succeed in, we have uncovered uncomfortable truths about the Theocracy—truths which make our survival problematic. These bloodthirsty whoremasters will find some case against us, label us as heretics or dissidents and put us to death.”
“The shegbash!” Ffen exclaimed.
“Shegbash?” asked Shem.
“Have you not heard of it?” Ffen asked. Shem shook his head. “It is an ancient method of disposing of criminals who have committed capital offences, viz. heretics, dissidents, apostates and blasphemers. It’s a terrible way to die.”
“In what way?” Shem asked, his curiosity piqued, as all boys’ is, by tales of blood, guts and glory.
“The shegbash consists of three stages of punishment. The offender is first stripped naked in the public stadium and beaten and flogged by the punishers who use wooden rods roughly shorn in order to plant splinters in the victims’ flesh followed by a seven-tipped whip on the ends of each of which there is one thin, delicate hook which delivers fine, slicing blows that rend the flesh of each victim, appearing like the scratches of a malicious webk-cat.”
“Then,” Shaff took over the description. “The unfortunate victim is made to bathe in gobish-maize oil which seeps into every wound and orifice. He or she is then tied to a spit and roasted over an open flame for five minutes or until the skin crisps and the fat begins to boil—yet the poor victim is removed before death and then smothered all over with sweet digsha-sauce and lowered into a sheg-worm pit. There the worm slowly ingests its victim, who drowns or is slowly dissolved and digested in its stomach fluids.”
Shem’s face went pale at this description while Ifunka stared off into the distance, trying to pierce through the forest thickness.
“Let’s leave the ffentbaff,” he said decisively. “Whatever fate lies ahead of us in the Great Spirit’s hands. We shall, in any case, achieve a place in Ganka, where rivers flow, in the all-highest paradise. Whatever death or glory lie ahead, let us steel our resolve and gird up our loins.”
“Even so!” the others rejoined as they gathered up their things and let the ffentbaff go free. It indifferently watched them as they proceeded into the darker reaches of the forest, as the sunlight became more difficult to ascertain and, in any case, nightfall loomed and they were eventually cast into the utmost gloom and pitch blackness. They responded by lighting torches which barely seemed to scratch the black veil which surrounded them, as if the darkness were a tangible and palpable thing that lay thick about them.
Another few hours passed before they set up camp in a small clearing or, rather, an area of less density of trees with the sky still obscured from view, next to a large boulder. There they kindled a fire, ate some shkiff-rolls from their supplies and relaxed. They were quiet and seldom spoke, as if the darkness weighed heavily upon them and stopped their speech. The kay-owls hooted, the lemurs rustled the branches and twigs, leaves and other undergrowth snapped and crackled beneath the paws or feet of predatory animals which rushed to and fro in the darkness. Occasionally, eyes could be seen—yellow slanted eyes—and the glimmer of dainty fangs in the glow of the campfire. The companions were each alert, gripping their weapons securely and ever ready for flight. They thus passed the night restlessly, unable to sleep and afraid to set up a watch lest the watchman fall asleep and they be again assaulted by a great, grizzly yeshka. In the morning, they could discern the tr
ees and boulder but still the light failed to penetrate the canopy and the exhausted, travel-weary boys collapsed and fell into a deep sleep, awaking at around 11 o’clock in the morning to find their campfire exhausted and a tvung-deer with its nose in Ifunka’s bag, munching on some shkiff-rolls. He rushed to shoo it away and it released a loud “burr”—its distinctive cry—as it did so. They plodded on—mile after mile—or rather, kobotv after kobotv, as the trees became thicker and the canopy denser and more enshadowing until they found themselves squeezing through the forest thickness, rubbing against the boles with their torsos. Exhaustion set in and they were about to collapse when the bard discerned the sound of water.
“Friends,” he called. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” Ifunka was absolutely shattered and could scarcely hear anything at all.
“Fresh-flowing water not far distant!”
They struggled on for half a kobotv until they could hear a loud rushing sound which filled their hearts with delight.
“We’re almost there!” Ffen called out.
“What a relief!” said Ifunka.
They burst through the trees onto a bank and well-nigh stumbled and tumbled down into the rushing water of the forest river. Thankfully, they held their feet firm.
“It’s the river I had seen!” exclaimed the bard. “Fresh water to drink and bathe in!”
“Praise the Great Spirit!” Shem rejoiced.
“And all the lesser spirits!” added Shaff.
They carefully descended the steep bank and then began drinking the sweet, pure water with cupped hands. The river was dark, the canopy reaching over it to keep it within the reach of its shadow. Occasional small fish could be seen near the surface but, otherwise, all was silent. When they had drunk their fill, they replenished their water-skins and took off their robes in order to bathe in their loincloths. Ifunka felt completely refreshed as the cool water streamed over his limbs and washed away the sweat and dirt from their journey, soothing the scratches accumulated through much rubbing against the solid boles, and relieving the tension which had built up in much-worn muscles.
“I think we should set up camp here,” Ffen suggested. “We can make a fire near the edge of the river. If we start a fire in this forest, everything will burn down. Not a tree will remain on the morrow, so close are they!”
“Good idea,” Ifunka concurred. “Let’s collect some firewood and kindling after we dry off.”
As they continued these preparations, they were unaware of a presence, or presences, within their proximity—something or someone was watching them. By the time they had finished dressing and started the campfire, the sun had once again set and left them in almost total darkness. The campfire illuminated their hands and faces and cast a glow even on the water’s edge but, beyond the limits of its luminescence, they were completely, and perhaps blissfully, unaware of their surroundings.
“Your tree spirits have led us true so far,” Ifunka opined. “We are taught that communicating with the lesser spirits—those of animals and plants—is a form of polytheism. What think you, bard?”
“Truly, I think your monastic teachers are over-zealous in their instruction and hold too literally to the Tamitvaric text. Is communication worship? Are we not communicating now? Do you call that worship?”
“We are men though,” Ffen joined the debate. “We have immortal souls, not lesser spirits.”
“Granted, the ignorant worship trees, stones and animals,” replied the bard. “That is polytheism. I simply feel the tree spirits. It’s a kind of intuition. They say, if you sing to plants, they grow faster and if you curse them, they grow stunted and weak. Every intention, good or bad, influences the world around us as we are all connected in one great web of life.”
“What say you, bard?” Shem changed the subject. “Will we succeed in our mission, despite all the odds?”
“You’re the holy men, are you not?” he retorted. “Why ask you me? I’m no soothsayer.”
“The odds, surely,” Ifunka added. “You must have an opinion.”
“We are not well-travelled like you,” Shem explained. “I try to keep myself as safe as possible, avoiding danger while securing profits by travelling through as many towns and villages as possible. It’s hard work but an enjoyable occupation. I rarely venture so deep into the forest where danger can be found in abundance; nor do I seek quarrels with banditti. Our chances, I believe, are slim indeed. If we are not eaten by forest animals or slaughtered by robbers, and even if we survive the armed assassins whom you seek, we are likely to get lost and perish from exhaustion or starvation. Remember, we do not even have a ffentbaff now!”
“If the Great Spirit so wills,” said Ifunka fatalistically.
“Let’s have more pleasant stuff!” Ffen suggested. “A song from the bard—or a poem?”
“How about a story?” suggested Ifunka. “I’m sure you have a host of stories.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “A mighty host—and for such a night as this, full of gloom and obscurity, only a terrifying tale will suffice.
The companions huddled round the fire as they listened to the bard. His face became stern and tense, he frowned and the flickering campfire cast a ruddy glow which accentuated the deep lines surrounding his mouth and his furrowed brow. He breathed deeply and began, in a low, powerful baritone voice:
“There dwells within the forest deep, a race of men unlike our own; with vicious glee they seek and find the wandering wayfarers lost and far / Their yellow eyes and tawny flesh, like sickly snakes they slither forth; They cut and rend the hapless knave, who strays within their dwelling-ground. / One day a boy of ten and six was wandering in the woodlands deep, whereupon he espied a river fresh and drank his fill with much delight. He saw not hand which grasped his throat, nor arms beclawed and canines poised, to sink deep down within his flesh and draw up springs of blood galore. / No trace remains of boy or beast; this story came through dream of bard, who heard the screams one deep, dark night and saw the boy in vision true. / So heed this story, venture not, into the depths of forest wild; The beasts are real and shall you hunt, until you see them at your throat. / So keep watch e’er and stay on path lest death descend upon you fierce.”
Ifunka, Shem and Ffen were frightened to their core.
“Let’s keep watch tonight!” Ifunka urged. “And then be gone from this terrible place on the morrow!”
“Have I frightened you?” Shaff chuckled. “I thought as much. There are hundreds of such stories, my friends. Minstrels have been telling them for ages as they draw attention and are exciting. Half of them are probably fabricated; the other half are based on rumours and conjecture.”
“Let’s to bed, in any case,” Ffen urged. “Ifunka, brother, would you take the first watch?”
“Certainly, brother,” Ifunka consented.
The others wrapped themselves in warm blankets and, having set up their tent, fit themselves tightly within. It was opportune, then, that one companion should remain outside the tent; otherwise, their sleep might be too comfortable—or uncomfortable rather. As Ifunka warmed himself by the fire and pondered over the next steps in his journey, he was distracted by the rustling of branches in the surrounding forest. He was only conscious of danger, however, when he noticed the curious behaviour of the gvuff-lemurs, which began to call out loudly, one to another, in high-pitched screeching voices, before swinging from branch to branch up and away from the vicinity of the river. Ifunka got to his feet and began surveying the dark surroundings which were now all too quiet—eerily so. He took a dagger and small shield in hand and steeled himself. The bard’s story revolved in his mind, each word and detail pulsating with every heartbeat, throbbing in his panicked heart.
They came suddenly, like shadows swiftly flying across a wall, bursting out of the forest fastness, swooping down upon the unsuspecting wayfarers. Bodies covered in white feathers,
brown arms and legs and huge, contorted faces, almost comical yet hideous, displaying a fierce, fixed expression of cruel animosity—of ferocious rapacity. Clothed in shadow yet brilliant in the gloom, they grabbed each companion with their beclawed hands and wrapped him tight in thick vine-cords, stuffing zeff-leaves into each mouth, thus muffling their panicked cries. Swiftly moving, deadly steps—muffled cries sounded softly in the cool night air. Birds and lemurs hid themselves from the terrifying apparitions which moved away from the river and towards some hidden lair. The fate of the companions would surely be horrible, the captors’ very contorted features bearing witness to their evil character. Reaching the mouth of some underground warren, they were dragged down through confined spaces, tunnels hewn from clay, wending their way between the roots of the trees until they reached a large, round chamber with a low ceiling made completely of light brown clay, lit with small wax lamps which illuminated the ghostly faces of the dozen or so creatures which circled the room. The companions were dragged right into the centre as the ghastly figures began to sing in a deep, throaty chant as one among them banged on a deep, leathern drum. The beings pulled out jagged-edged knives fashioned of bone, just as Ifunka went unconscious from fear and exhaustion. The beasts carried on.
Chapter IX.
The Valley
One by one, the creatures shoved the companions into the centre of the chamber until they were each in the middle thereof, surrounded on every side by hideous countenances. Then the drumming abruptly stopped and the chanting paused. The chief among the creatures—for he was the most bedecked in ornamentation and had the largest head, evidencing his chiefliness, arose, though not to a standing posture, for that was impossible due to the low ceiling, but rather to a stooping posture. He then waddled over to the companions and unsheathed a flint blade which he had concealed within his leather girdle. He raised the blade above his head until it almost scraped the ceiling and started to speak—if speak be the appropriate word, for rather did he seem to babble—the sounds which issued forth from his lips resembling the calls and hoots of a geish. Perhaps that was the intention or perhaps it was simply a method of intimidating victims. In the case of Ifunka, however, it backfired. Far from being intimidated, he was incensed and, seeing an opportunity, threw his body forward, knocking the chief off balance and sending him and the knife flying. He had also simultaneously dislodged the zeff-leaves from his mouth and could thus shout to his friends: “Now, brothers! Make for it!”
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 15