Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1)

by NJ Bridgewater

  So he finished bathing and returned to the hamlet. Lord Tem was standing next to two ffentbaffs, fixing their saddles. They had already been laden with provisions while sacks of food, weapons, bedding, water and other necessities had been heaped on their ample, prodigious backs. Ffentbaffs are large, muscular animals capable of carrying several thousand pounds in weight. More than ten feet tall, or slightly more than three okshas (Tremnan cubits), and twice as long, covered in a thick arrow-resistant hide covered in dense brown, black, grey or dark-green hide—varying dependant on the breed. Stubborn yet determined, gentle yet monstrous when roused, they make formidable beasts of burden and vicious-menacing steeds during battle.

  Tem turned as Ffen approached, greeting him warmly.

  “My son,” he said warmly.

  “Father,” said Ffen, embracing him.

  “We’re about ready to go,” said Ifunka. “Are you sure you’re staying?”

  “Well…” said Ffen, but Tem cut him off before he could continue.

  “Come, I’ll escort you to the other edge of the valley.”

  So Ffen kept mum for a little while longer as the companions walked alongside the ffentbaffs down a path leading to the other edge of the wall. Shig pranced and jumped along following them. The girls were still in their cottages resting. Passing beyond the gate, they again entered thick forest like that which they had passed through when they first entered the valley. They passed through what appeared to be a cemetery, with scattered tombstones all around, carved with the names of Tem’s forebears. Tem stopped when he reached a large, marble stone. Like most Tremna tombstones, it was circular and flat, resting on the ground. He bent down and kissed it. His eyes welled up with tears.

  “Monk,” he gestured to Ifunka. “Say a prayer for my son, my beautiful Hem.”

  He burst into tears.

  “Bless my child!”

  Ifunka approached the grave and raised his hands high to heaven, palms open.

  “Ay Wabak Kakan! Wabak ffada Tremyengotv amlishkra, Hem Ffash Kvad Ffashyengfi, tva yakvikrafi ffleshfa tolaksh nahonim pespuoge Gankayengzivt tva natva deafflishmin

  (O Great Spirit! Forgive the spirit of this son of Tremn, Hem Ffash of Ffash Valley, and bless him so that he may ascend to Thy presence in the heights of Ganka.”)

  “Even so,” said Tem as tears streamed down his aged face.

  “Even so,” repeated Ffen and Shem.

  They continued on until they reached the slope leading out of the valley.

  “Here we must part,” said the lord. “Ffen, you may bid them farewell.”

  “Actually, father,” he said, unsure of what response would meet his suggestion. “I should like to accompany my friends. I will return to my wives, your daughters, when I have helped Ifunka and Shem to find Brother Ushswan.”

  “You repay my kindness, my generosity and hospitality, with this?” the lord was aghast. “I have given you my daughters with no request for dowry, no payments, and you repay me with such blatant disregard?”

  “That was not my intention,” Ffen protested. “I love thee as a father.”

  “Be that as it may,” Tem continued. “You shall not leave!”

  “I shall not?”

  “You shall not!”

  “Do you mean to make me stay?”

  “I do not need to.”

  “But I shall be made to stay?”

  “You shall.”

  Ffen paused. “How?”

  “You think me just an old man, don’t you?” said Tem angrily. “That I am incapable of defending myself or asserting my will? I am a lord and my will shall be done. For more than a thousand years we have kept this valley secure and I can also keep what is within this valley within it.”

  “There are three of us,” Ifunka argued. “So how can you force all three of us to remain—even if you are a champion fighter?”

  The old man laughed, raised his cane and then struck it on the bole of a tree three times, saying: “Shuf, shuf, shuf!”

  It was not a word but a call and Ffen did not like the sound of it. After a few moments, there was a shuffling sound and the cracking of twigs was accompanied by a thump, thump, thump, which resonated throughout the forest. Then there was a fierce growl and the hum of panting. Finally, three immense yeshkas appeared, each one wearing a huge leather collar, studded with iron spikes. They were vicious and menacing but, nevertheless, they were evidently tame and under the lord’s watchful control. As they approached, the stench of their breath blasted into the companion’s faces, nearly felling them with its awful potency. So horrible were they, so full of pent-up rage and ferocious savagery, and yet this small man, this feeble lord, held them under his command.

  “Sit, sit!” he called and the beasts lay down, swishing their long, agile tongues, which hung out of their giant mouths like serpents heaving back and forth with every breath while dousing the soil with prodigious drops of fetid saliva.

  “What wizardry is this?” Ffen was amazed. “How hold you these beasts at bay?”

  “This is my kenning,” replied Tem triumphantly. “My secret craft. I shall teach it thee in time but not yet. Now thou shalt attend to my daughters and serve me as thy father and liege lord.”

  “And if I persist in my determination to leave?”

  “Then these three beasts shall make widows of my beloved daughters and shall rend your friends in many pieces. Nay, they shall crack open your very bones and suck out the marrow therefrom; they shall snap every sinew and crunch every limb until nothing but spattered blood and entrails remain for the vermin to sup upon.”

  “I see,” said Ffen, his heart sinking. “I’d heard some villagers say that marriage is a prison. I didn’t believe that that was literally true. In very fact, I am a prisoner!”

  “We are all prisoners of one kind or another,” said Tem ponderously. “Is not this world a prison keeping us away from the pleasures of Ganka high above? Are not our very bodies cages for the soul, preventing us from flying high? The only release from this prison is death; death is the pathway to freedom. I long for death; I seek its sweet embrace, for death is not the end—it is the beginning of eternity.”

  “There is a punishment as well,” Shem observed. “‘Idoyo kvefftipatvkaim, patrike Gahimkayengzivt lektvavtilei, lotvila gukffavtilei—upf akyahahilei’ (for the evil-doer, who shall dwell in the flames of Gahimka, remaining therein forever—a terrible end).”

  “Would you count me among that number?” asked Tem, his eye keenly focused on Shem. “Because I deprive my son-in-law of liberty? You are monks, surely, so you know that true liberty comes from obedience. Real freedom exists within limitations: the son or daughter must obey his parents, the wife defers to her husband, the man obeys his lord or chieftain, the chieftain submits to a duke, and the duke to a king or emperor—and even the king must obey the Great Spirit, Who is the Ruler of all. Ffen is my son-in-law and, by virtue of entering and taking up residence in my valley, where I am the lawful lord, he is subject to my authority—an authority which I have been given by the Great Spirit. To operate within the compass of one’s own sphere, to respect one’s limitations, is true and abiding freedom.”

  “Even so,” Ifunka admitted. “Does not the Tamitvar say: ‘makvozinimfi ffudarazinimfi aushauteimfi ffilakogeimfi ffokshkratvalei’ (likewise, show kindness and hospitality to guests and neighbours)?’”

  “Have I not fed you?” Tem balked. “Have I not given you rest and comfort, shelter and protection? Have I not given Ffen my own daughters—pure virgins—untouched by any other?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Ffen. “But now you threaten us with death and destruction!”

  “There is no compromise here,” Tem continued. “Submit to my will, Ffen, or face the consequences.”

  “For the sake of my friends, I will stay,” Ffen replied. “For I love them deeply—and always shall.�
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  “We love you too, brother,” said Ifunka, his eyes welling up with tears.

  “And I as well,” said Shem as tears streamed down his face.

  “Our love is one which few can comprehend,” Ffen added. “We are brothers—not of the flesh but in spirit. What higher love is there than this? I bid you two farewell and good luck. May the Great Spirit aid you in finding Brother Ushwan, if he still be alive, and may you both return to me some day.”

  “If the Great Spirit wills! Farewell, brother,” said Ifunka.

  “Fare thee well,” said Shem.

  As they mounted their steeds, Tem called off the yeshkas and pointed the two companions in the direction they should take.

  “Keep a straight course until you reach the lake. The deep forest is dangerous and there are worse beasts out there than mere yeshkas. There are worms foul beyond description, warrens of clay-masked savages, deceptive predators of all kinds and cutthroat bandits of the worst kind. Take care.”

  “We shall,” said Ifunka as the ffentbaffs sped off and out of the valley.

  They passed into an area of dense forest, which the ffentbaffs navigated with dexterity, squeezing past boles and ducking under low-lying branches (as the riders did as well, of course). Eventually, however, a path became discernible, which curved south-eastward. It was nothing more than a beaten, dirt track, barely distinguishable from the surrounding undergrowth, but evidently used but rarely. They continued on the track for several hours, wondering when it would stop curling and the trees would give way to open sky. Then, suddenly, the forest began to recede and they came upon a small clearing abundant with derelict huts made of cob (a mixture of sand, clay, water, straw and earth beaten and dried to form the structure of the walls) and wooden roofs. There was no sign of life, as if the inhabitants had all been spirited away, suddenly and without warning. Ifunka and Shem dismounted and split up to search the huts. They found evidence of previous habitation, such as beds, pots and pans, knives, clean clothes and sundry other items. The metal-ware, however, was rusted and everything was covered in a palpable layer of dust and dirt deposited over a considerable period of time—several years perhaps.

  “Very odd,” said Ifunka. “I think this hamlet has been abandoned.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Shem commented. “For why would they have left valuable items behind? It’s as if they upped and left, without carrying anything. In these dangerous and sparsely inhabited woods, that would be a sure recipe for death and despair.”

  “It could be,” Ifunka replied. “That they were kidnapped—all at once—by a significant force.”

  “The clay men,” Shem suggested.

  “Of course! There must be isolated warrens of them throughout Ffushkar. We’ll have to keep an eye out lest we end up as their latest victims.”

  “Then let’s not delay,” Shem urged. “We must reach the lake by nightfall; otherwise, we’ll be doomed.”

  They remounted the ffentbaffs and spurred them on. The beasts grunted and lifted their burdens before moving past the hamlet and back onto the trail, which they continued to follow for several more hours, until Ifunka espied something in the forest, to the right of the path.

  “Shem,” he called. “Look over there!”

  His voice became a whisper.

  “Where?” Shem asked.

  “Shhhh,” he urged. “They’ll hear us.”

  “What is it?” Shem whispered. “It’s the opening to a warren.”

  “How can you tell?”

  They had paused their ffentbaffs.

  “Do you see the hole between the two rocks? The ground is raised all round it as it descends gradually to an underground warren. There might be a guard watching the entrance. We should move at once.”

  “Agreed.”

  They kicked their heels and the ffentbaffs gently started down the path again. As they proceeded, however, they heard a strange call: “Ha, ha—nak, nak, nak—ha, ha!” Ifunka turned back and saw a band of five clay men charging through the forest towards them, spears drawn, fierce masks scraping thick boles and low-lying leaves and branches. They were naked, except for short grass-kilts, and their bodies were layered with dried clay, giving them an unnatural, monstrous quality.

  “Hai, hai!!!” Ifunka screamed, commanding the ffentbaffs to go into full gallop. “Run, run, run!!!”

  “They’re fast! We won’t make it!”

  “Tem gave us throwing daggers and short javelins; in the leather bag on the right of our saddles.”

  Ifunka pulled out several throwing-daggers and chucked them at their pursuers. The speed and motion of the ffentbaffs and the quick and deft movements of the clay men caused all but one of these to miss their mark. The one which hit home only imbedded itself in the clay of one pursuer’s mask. Ifunka and Shem then took out some lances. These were more accurate and easier to aim. Ifunka aimed at the nearest of the clay men and threw it straight into his chest, impaling him right through. The body fell backwards and tumbled, knocking another clay man over. The other three, aware of the danger, ducked and swung left and right, narrowly missing the subsequent throws. The fastest of the runners grabbed hold of Shem’s ffentbaff, gripping onto its thick hide, and swung onto its rump. He held his spear aloft. The clay man’s contorted clay face, wide, flat nose, huge, fierce eyes with massive pupils (small holes in each allowing the wearer to see through) and wild hair terrified the poor monk who had drawn a bodkin with which to defend himself.

  “Ifunka!!!” he screamed.

  The clay man hissed and growled as he crawled slowly towards his intended victim. When in range, he aimed his spear ready to give a death blow to Shem, who was frozen in terror, suddenly a blade whirred through the air and struck the clay man’s mask, rending it in twain to reveal the sickly yellow face and red eyes of the man beneath. The blade had lodged itself in the crown of his head, from which a torrent of blood gushed forth in profusion. His face was locked in an expression of shock, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets and his sharply-filed teeth bared. The creature’s hands were still locked in place, gripping the ffentbaff’s hairy back. Shem kicked the corpse, which fell backwards and violently collided with another clay man, knocking him squarely into the bole of a limbatv-tree. Only one clay man now remained in pursuit.

  “You got the fiend!” Shem congratulated Ifunka.

  “Thank the Great Spirit,” he said. “One more to go though.”

  The remaining clay man, remarkable for his speed and agility, grew nearer and nearer to Shem’s ffentbaff, which was in the rear, trying to grab hold thereof or, if he got the chance, to maim the ffentbaff and thus cause Shem to fall into his carnivorous clutches. Shem desperately swung his bodkin over the beast’s rear, trying to injure his pursuer. At last, the two ffentbaffs and the clay man burst out of the forest, debouching onto a gradually-descending bank covered in rich grasses and bushes, which evidently led to the lake. Ifunka knew they would soon plunge into open water and all of them, ffentbaffs, monks and clay man, would be drowned.

  “Shem!” he called. “Leap onto my ffentbaff! He’ll keep following yours and both he and the ffentbaff will plunge into the lake!”

  “I can’t!!!” Shem screamed. “It’s too far!!!”

  He didn’t even turn to look at Ifunka.

  “Jump, Shem, and I’ll turn my ffentbaff away from the lake!”

  “It’s not possible!” Shem cried.

  “We don’t have much time!” Ifunka pleaded.

  Suddenly, and from out of nowhere, a small, spherical pebble flew through the air with a whining whoosh and hit the clay man right in the centre of his brow, leaving a hole in the mask as it did so. The clay man staggered backwards and fell over. Ifunka and Shem halted their ffentbaffs, pulling hard on the reins. The steeds reared back and tossed the two monks into the air, causing them to come crashing down a few cubits from
the clay man who, dazed and confused, lay staring at the sky. Ifunka approached him, sword in hand, and nudged the clay man with the back of his blade. The clay man’s arm swung upwards, grabbed the blade, and pulled it out of Ifunka’s grip.

  “Yah, yah, shish, shish!” he cried as he dexterously leapt to his feet, tossed the sword into the air, and caught it by the handle. He had lost his spear when he fell, which now lay several cubits to his left. Shem had lost his bodkin when he flew off his mount, leaving both of the monks unarmed. The clay man swivelled right and left and right again, surveying his enemies, deciding whom to attack first. He tore off his mask to reveal a hideous, bald head, red eyes, a contorted nose, angular cheek bones and a dagger-like, pointed chin. He growled and hissed, as was the wont of clay men, saliva oozing out of his open mouth, spilling down his chin.

  Swifter than lightning, someone dealt a powerful kick to the fiend’s face, knocking him backwards. He leapt up again, unable to determine who had struck him. Ifunka and Shem, equally baffled, had only seen a blurred figure leap into their frame of vision, deal the kick and bounce off. Perhaps he—or it—was now hiding behind one of the many bushes which proliferated throughout the surrounding declension. The clay man was evidently disconcerted; Shem and Ifunka were stunned. ‘Was it friend or foe who had now entered the scene?’ they wondered.

  As the clay man again raised his sword to attack, his hand was whacked by a staff wielded by a fast-moving figure which now became discernible. An old man, bearded and berobed, could be seen swiftly and deftly swinging a long staff with both hands. One blow hit the clay man in the calf, bringing him to his knees, while another upward blow struck him in the chin, knocking him again to the ground. The enemy immobilised, the old man leapt onto his chest and dealt shattering blows to his ribcage and skull, which both cracked loudly, delivering the monster his quietus. The dead man’s tongue hung out of his mouth, dripping with foamy bile, his eyes wide open, evincing terror and confusion. The man stood over his enemy for a few moments, whispering, as if he were saying a prayer for his fallen foeman.