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

by NJ Bridgewater

  Reaching for his belt, Ifunka felt the blade which was still fastened to his waist. He pulled it from the scabbard, slowly, cautiously, careful not to alert the creature to his defensive intentions. It eyed him queryingly, as if it suspected foul play; yet Ifunka stared back, resisting its threat. The stand-off lasted for a minute or so, though it felt like ages. When the beast seemed to have reached the conclusion that Ifunka posed no real threat, it opened its mouth to reveal two rows of gleaming white teeth and a long, three-forked dark-blue tongue, wet with prodigious gobs of saliva and reeking bile. The tongue reached out and touched his forehead. Ifunka reeled with disgust and recoiled from its touch. It hissed and extended its neck upwards—far above the lake’s surface—as if to strike down upon him and deliver a killer-blow.

  Ifunka lifted his sword from the water and raised it above him, hoping that the serpent would fall upon it. The beast lunged. Shem emerged from the darkness and struck the creature’s body with his blade. It screeched and hissed and made its attack on Ifunka, who jabbed his sword into the roof of its gaping mouth, piercing the roof thereof and cutting a hole through the top of its snout. It jerked backwards and knocked Ifunka under the water where he remained for some seconds, scrambling for the surface. Shem lifted him up and they held onto one another as the creature, with both swords embedded in its flesh, flailed about in agony and confusion. Evidently, its usual quarry was not so resistant and could not fight back as effectively.

  “Quick!” Shem urged. “Let’s swim until we reach the other shore!”

  They swam as fast as they could while the serpent descended beneath the water’s surface, defeated. It would not disturb them again… or so they imagined. They continued on until the shore became visible and they could feel the moist ground of the bank beneath their feet. They threw themselves onto the thick, wet mud and hugged its reassuringly-soggy firmness. They had made it—they had escaped almost certain death and destruction on the perilous waters and had come once again upon firm land. Then they fell into unconsciousness through exhaustion and entered the world of dreams.

  A few hours later they awoke, Ifunka first and then Shem. The night was nearly over—only a few hours remained until dawn. The air was still—the lake quiet. They struggled to their feet, coughing remnants of lake water from their lungs and staring, dazed and disoriented, at their new surroundings. They were on the edge of a vast rim of forest, just like the area they had passed through on their way to the lake. They were wet, cold and slightly dehydrated. Ifunka wanted to drink but could not bring himself to touch the water which had just proved to harbour such a deadly predator. Espying something, he motioned to Shem and they walked along the shore towards a mass of flesh lying on its side. It was one of the two ffentbaffs washed ashore, bloated like a furry balloon, its tongue hanging over its open chops like a fat snake. The other ffentbaff was a few okshas away. This one was not bloated like the other. Ifunka felt its chest, still warm, and he could discern a weak thumpty-thump of a ffentbaff heart, pumping its thick blood to every cell and organ.

  “Shem! It’s alive.”

  “What shall we do?” asked Shem.

  “We’ll make a fire, dry ourselves off and the ffentbaffs as well. If we can’t find any food, we’ll have to eat the other one.”

  “Brother, we do not eat flesh. It is not our way. All sentient beings are sacred. We are children of one Father.”

  “Even so,” Ifunka replied. “Nevertheless, this follows the principle of ‘necessity-overrule’, in that necessity overrules canon law in situations of absolute or dire exigency. Now, let us build the campfire.”

  Shem collected kindling while Ifunka gathered dry logs. They placed the logs near the living ffentbaff, set the kindling on top and within the pile of logs, and surrounded them with a ring of stones. Their matches were wet so Ifunka used a small piece of flint and his belt buckle to make sparks, until he had succeeded in kindling a fire. Thankfully, Shem was able to gather some ffobva-berries and was fortunate enough to catch a wiro (also called a kogeffid or ‘flying starch-fruit)’, a sort of floating potato which usually floats just above the forest canopy where it is snatched by intrepid gvuff-lemurs, or caught by archers who knock it down from the sky with a well-aimed arrow. This particular wiro had tangled itself in the branches of a particularly tall tree and been knocked down by a bird or other animal. It has an oval shape and is a large as two hands (of a man), is purple in colour (lighter on the inside) and covered in small root-like floating modules—appendages full of lighter-than-air particles which allow it to float or glide at a certain height, depending on the size of its floating modules. When entangled or knocked, some or many of these modules are popped open, releasing the gas which allows it to fly and causing it to fall like a potato.

  Rich in starch, vitamins and protein, this flying vegetable is a prized delicacy on Tremn. It is said that the kings of old used to cultivate these potatoes in lofty chambers where they bounced off the ceiling, which was made of plates of translucent alabaster with vents to allow the wiros to breathe in fresh carbon dioxide. They absorb dew and air moisture and feed off minerals and particles shed in the air above the treetops—microscopic elements which are sucked up by the fibrous skin which stores the minerals in cell-like storage chambers, funnelling them into the complex cellular structure of the wiro itself. Ifunka and Shem roasted the wiro and split it between them, enjoying its rich, earthy flavour. They drank limpid, pure water from a small stream which fed into the lake and complemented this with the berries—as sweet and succulent as all of nature’s finest fruits.

  When they had finished eating, they chanted some verses from the Tamitvar in thanksgiving to the Great Spirit. The sound of their voices were melodious, making every rock and pebble reverberate with their joy. The words stimulated their innermost beings and calmed their wearied souls.

  When they had finished, Ifunka took a knife and cut off some chunks of the dead ffentbaff’s flesh, wrapping them in zeff-leaves.

  “If we can’t find any other food, we can resort to this,” said Ifunka. Shem was silent.

  Having packed the flesh away, he then checked on the still-living ffentbaff. It was breathing deeply, its fur now dry and its massive nostrils wide open as if it pumped and hoovered up the fresh night air.

  “We’ll have to wake the ffentbaff if we are to continue on our progress,” said Shem.

  “Indeed,” Ifunka agreed. “But it needs some rest. Let’s get another couple hours of rest before we set off. Great Spirit knows why Tvem set us off at night. Let’s sleep till dawn at least.”

  “Agreed.”

  They both curled up by the fire and entered a deep yet troubled sleep.

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  ‘Green Monk of Tremn, Book II:

  The Rise of Plant Man’

  “Shem!” he called.

  Shem awoke with a start.

  “It’s evening! How have we slept so long?”

  “I don’t know. Even Gadffash is still sleeping.”

  The ffentbaff was, it appeared, in a deep sleep, its eyes closed fast, its great chest heaving with every intake of breath and shrinking with every mighty exhalation.

  “Perhaps it is the influence of the keffe akvostavt. We should make haste; we’ve lost a lot of time.”

/>   As they got their supplies together, Shem froze. Ifunka looked at him in wonder. Shem was stiff as a stone, his eyes wide with fear. Turning, Ifunka espied the cause—a set of eyes, glowing white, stared at them through the darkness.

  “What is that?”

  “Don’t speak,” whispered Shem. “It’s one of them...”

  “What shall we do?” asked Ifunka, his heart pounding fiercely. “We can’t surely stay here.”

  “What choice do we have? This stone circle should protect us. If we leave it, those things shall surely get us. To be devoured by the shan is a fate worse than death.”

  “So, what then? Wait here? No, we can’t.”

  He took out his dagger and aimed it at the nefarious eyes. With one, well-aimed blow, he sent the dagger squarely at the creature’s temple. The dagger hummed through the night air as it spun—the eyes vanished and a thump could be discerned, as if something had fallen. Yet, what guarantee was there that this was not some trick pulled by the shan to appear as if it had been struck? They waited several minutes but the eyes did not rematerialize.

  “What think you, Shem? Subterfuge?”

  “We should stay—just to be safe.”

  “We’re already days behind where we should be. Brother Ushwan is probably dead. But we must hope that he lives. We must go on—as fast as we can—these shan be damned!”

  “The eyes are gone—perhaps you’re right.”

  They poised themselves to flee.

  “Now!” cried Ifunka and they sped off into the forest vastness.