The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2)

by NJ Bridgewater

  Ifunka and Shem were dazzled by their beauty and stunned that such creatures of grace and perfection could exist among a race of demon-worshipping infidels. How could savages produce such specimens of rapturous gorgeousness? How could such foul creatures have conceptions of modesty, to the extent that their women were covered up even within the fastness of their dwellings, when modesty itself is an inculcation of the precepts inscribed within the holy verses of the Tamitvar, spoken by the tongue of Votsku who saw and communicated with Hashemaff himself? So disturbed were they that their conflicted emotions, born of passion and fear, consumed them entirely and they both dropped their staffs and gazed at the women in abstracted wonder. They, for their part, froze and stared wide-eyed at the home-invaders, terrified by their potential intent, the long-haired one grasping her maid’s hand firmly with her right, tremulous and disturbed.

  “Khuff, khuff ftâ-ga shift-ôn-ish (what, what do you want)?” the mistress cried. “Yeff Predh-bara-yeym okh-ish. Ftam-ôn eleyn okh-ish (I am the daughter of the High-Priest. I have money).”

  “I am Brother Ifunka Kaffa,” said Ifunka, unable to fully comprehend the woman. “And this is Brother Shem Effga of the Holy Order of the Brothers of Bishgva. We are followers of the Right Religion of the Sacred Tamitvar. Our brother monk was captured by the people of this city, the Shaffu; we have come to liberate him. Are you one of the Shaffu?”

  He extended his hand to the woman in greeting but she jumped back, her maid embracing her.

  “Do not fear! Even if you are one of them—we can liberate you as well, not only from this accurséd city, but also from the shackles of unbelief. All your sins, all your impurity shall be washed away when you embrace the Right Religion. You will become a daughter of truth and worthy of admittance into the Gardens of Ganka, the exalted Paradise, where rivers flow in abundance and angels sing their lofty, sweet melodies in realms of eternal and absolute bliss.”

  “I don’t think she understands a word, brother,” Shem interrupted him. “Look at her, trembling with fear; she’s one of them. She’s an infidel—let’s tie them up and be done with it.”

  “No!” he turned to Shem. “We’re infidels to them as well, remember? She’s like a gisht led astray by a wicked yeshka in gisht-skins! We can save them both from their sins and take them back with us!”

  “As what—wives???”

  “Is not Brother Ffen married?”

  “Against his will! We’re still monks! Are you blind with lust and passion?”

  “If this be blindness, I embrace it. Look at those, yes, like two tvung-deer, so sweet and innocent.”

  “You’re thinking with your ozetv and not your mind, brother.”

  “Vâ ftâ-ga kheyff-ôn-zen-ish? Kha kheyff-krâ! Kheyff-go dheym-ôn okh-ish (why are you two fighting? Don’t fight! I hate fighting)!”

  “She… she wants us to stop fighting.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ifunka.

  “Look at her facial expression. She’s upbraiding us!”

  “She’s brave to stand up to her potential abductors so. She has fire in her belly.”

  “Kha kheyff-krâ (Don’t fight)!” she repeated.

  “Listen,” said Shem. “Kha is ca, the Vocatae word for ‘not’. Kheyff is kaffain, the Tremni word for ‘fight’. Krâ is our imperative suffix, -kra. She’s saying nif kaffainkra (‘do not fight’).”

  “Yes,” Ifunka was excited by this discovery. “Okh, she keeps saying okh-ish. Okh must be okt (‘I’) and-ish must be the copular suffix, -itv (‘to be, exist’), ‘I am’. What did she say before, yeff something?”

  “Yeff (daughter)!” she cried. “Yeff Predh-bara-yeym okh-ish (I am the daughter of the High-Priest)!”

  “Yeff—perhaps it means yep (‘daughter’),” said Shem. “Predh? Perhaps pret, the archaic Tremni word for ‘priest’.”

  “Predh-bara must be pretkubara (‘priest’)… priest what?”

  “-yeym… perhaps –yeng (‘of’), the genitive suffix,” said Shem.

  “Ah, yes, she’s saying okt yep pretkubarayengitv (‘I am the daughter of the priest’),” Ifunka surmised.

  “Okay, so their language is not far distant from ours. We can get information from her; perhaps to find Brother Ushwan.”

  “Ushwan?” asked the mistress. “Khaffshik kel vish-ôn ftôn-ish (the infidel whom they found).”

  “Khaffshik!” Shem cried. “Do you call our friend—our brother—an infidel? How dare you!”

  Shem picked up his staff as if to thrash her.

  “Yai!” she screamed in fear. “Kha vep-krâ khaffshik (don’t touch me, infidel)!”

  “Now you call me a khaffshik?!”

  “Shem, calm yourself. We call them oshokipatve (‘infidels’), so let’s not take offence at that. They oshok (‘cover’) the truth and deny the holy word. These two, however, are simply ignorant. If we speak to her—to them—we could save their souls.”

  “Well, then, brother. If that is what we must do to satisfy your conscience, let us do it. Right, then, let’s try to speak to them. Shem Effga okh-ish (I am Sheff Effga).”

  He placed his hand on his breast to indicate that he spoke about himself.

  “Ifunka Kaffa okh-ish (I am Ifunka Kaffa),” said Ifunka. He did the same.

  “rva Yeff-Khalam-Sharru okh-ish ffi khô, Meyla Yeff-Ashka-Hafta khô-yish (I am rva Yeff-Khalam-Sharru and she is Meyla Yeff-Ashka-Hafta),” replied the mistress.

  “Excellent, we have introduced ourselves,” said Ifunka triumphantly.

  “Khuff ftâ-ga shift-ôn-ish (what do you two want)?” she asked.

  “She wants to know what we want,” said Shem. “Shift must mean ‘want’. I’m assuming –ôn is a suffix, rather like the Vocatae –von, indicating a present or active participle. She’s basically asking what we ‘are wanting’ or are ‘wanters’ of. Ushwan okh ffi okh…”—he gestured to Ifunka.

  “Ftâkh (we),” she corrected him.

  “Ushwan ftâkh shift-ôn-ish. We want Ushwan,” Shem continued.

  “Khû khâka ftâ-ga-n-ish-ô (he is your brother)?”

  “Yes,” Ifunka nodded. “Khû khâka ftâkh-an-ish. He is our brother. We are monks, um… ftâkh, no, the predicate should come first, I think, in your language. Um…”

  He pointed to Shem and himself and then performed the wegvash, keeping his hands shoulder-length, palms facing upwards, and then the beffesh, bending over with hands touching knees, imitating prayer.

  “Predhel-zen (monks),” said rva, helping him.

  “Predhel-zen ftâkh-ish,” he said. “We are monks.”

  rva, the mistress, looked at Meyla, her maidservant, who was bemused, and then back at the two monks.

  “I don’t think she’s met monks before, eh Ifunka?”

  “I think you’re right, Shem.”

  “Ifta-krâ, predhel-zen, shubay-zen okh-an ftâ-ga-yish (come, monks, you are my guests).”

  “I think she’s saying, ‘come, monks, you are my guests,’” Shem interpreted.

  “Well, then, yes, we accept,” said Ifunka, not knowing how to say the equivalent in Shaffi.

  “Heleyd-krâ (sit),” she motioned for them to sit.

  The two monks sat on the opposite side of the room and rested their backs on the exquisite yet comfortable cushions. The mistress herself, rva Khalam-Sharru’s daughter, sat on their right, on the adjacent side of the wall, in a cross-legged posture, her gown covering her feet and knees. She motioned for Meyla, Ashka-Hafta’s daughter, to fetch some refreshments. Ifunka quickly became uncomfortable as he noticed that rva was staring right at him—deeply—her eyes meeting his, almost seductively, or were his baser passions playing tricks on his higher consciousness? His heart burned within him; he felt it raging like a far-flung blaze, conquering his reason, challenging his self-restraint. What power could two eyes hold over his staunc
h reserve? Those same feelings which overcame him when he first encountered Maina Shiboff, the farmer’s daughter, returned from whence he had banished them during his long-suffering and self-abnegation. How he had fought against his very flesh, its natural disposition, its hormonal urges, as a boy! How he had wished he could take Maina in his arms, disrobe her and lay together with her in carnal satisfaction! Yet that vision, that hope of everlasting Ganka, kept his roaring heart in check, dampened his internal flame and quelled his lower nature. Now, however, the lower was gaining ground on the higher, reaching out from the dungeon where it had been confined and pouring forth, with tinctured hue, into the crystal waters of his abstemious disposition.

  The mistress remained silent, intent only on Ifunka, her eyes fixed, her breaths constant; Shem felt as if he had melted away into nothingness, so much had she ignored his very existence. After a few minutes of this ‘stare-off’, Meyla returned with a silver tray bedecked with plates of nibbles, what looked like a teapot, saucers and tea-cups—they hoped it was tea she was serving and not something forbidden. The maid placed the tray before them, within reach of both rva and the monks.

  “Khatvish-krâ (eat),” Meyla said as she offered the food to them.

  There were three plates, one of white biscuits, covered in powdered icing sugar, one of blue, fudge-like cubes, and another of yellow meb-cheese balls.

  “Shiz ftâ-ga shift-ôn-ish-ô (do you two want to drink)?” asked Meyla.

  “Shiz? Drink? Yes, but drink what?” asked Ifunka. “Khuff shiz?”

  “Fôn (wine),” she replied.

  “Fôn? Like ‘wine’? Sorry, kha, kha,” he said firmly.

  “Kha (no)?” Meyla was shocked at his refusal.

  The ‘teapot’ was actually a carafe of wine.

  “Hamta fôn-ish (wine is good),” Meyla insisted.

  “No, kha hamta fôn-ish (wine is not good),” Ifunka explained. “Predhel-zen ftâkh-ish (we are monks).”

  “Fôn kha shiz-ôn predhel-zen-ô (monks do not drink wine)?” Meyla asked.

  “Rî (yes),” replied rva. “Fôn kha shiz-ôn ftôn-ish. Shaz her-krâ (they do not drink wine. Bring juice)!”

  Meyla rushed back to the kitchen and fetched a pitcher of red liquid—deep red.

  “Zash-shaz (zasht-juice),” she said as she filled two silver goblets of the stuff.

  Ifunka tasted it.

  “Ah, juice,” he said. “Zash must be zasht-willow!”

  “Zasht-willow juice, interesting,” said Shem.

  “Hanav-ôn ftâ-ga-yish (do you two like it)?” asked rva.

  “Ah, rî… hanav-ôn okh-ish (yes... I like it),” Ifunka replied.

  “What’s she asking?”

  “Hanav, from Vocatae anaux. She’s asking if we like it.”

  “Ah, of course. Rî, rî,” Shem concurred. “Very hanav, thank you.”

  “Very much hanav?”

  “I’m improvising. Our tongues are similar; she’ll get the idea.”

  “Okh… fôn shiz-ôn okh khon-ish yôdh predhel kha okh-ish (I... I will drink wine because I am not a monk),” said rva as Meyla poured her a glass of wine. As a servant, she could not herself drink while on duty. rva drank with relish, smiling at Ifunka as she did so.

  “Look, brother, how do we know she’s not married?” said Shem as the thought occurred to him. “Her husband could be on his way home.”

  “I hardly think she’d be so bold if she knew we’d be discovered at any moment.”

  “Perhaps that’s her plan.”

  “And then what? The husband will surely kill, or at least thrash, her for having us in her house. No, look at her eyes. She desires me… she wants me. But why; she knows I’m a monk.”

  “That girl back in Habka village knew you were a monk as well.”

  “We’ll never speak of that incident again.” He paused. “And her name was Shiga.”

  “So you remember her name, then?” asked Shem with a chuckle.

  “Hush!” Ifunka whispered angrily.

  Meyla poured her mistress a second cup of wine and then refilled the goblets of the two monks with more zash-shaz (i.e. zasht-willow-berry juice). rva winked.

  “She winked at me,” said Ifunka, almost enthusiastically.

  “She probably had something in her eye.”

  “No, she did, I’m sure of it.”

  “Meyla,” her mistress called. “Dhey-krâ, ftôn-am dheyk-krâ (dance, dance for them).”

  Meyla moved to the centre of the room and, much to the monks’ amazement, began to dance. It was erratic, sensual; she gesticulated wildly, spun round, shook her hips, increasing in speed as she did so, until it reached a high tempo and she threw herself forward and crouched down.

  “She dances as if possessed by some ethereal beat we cannot even hear,” Ifunka commented.

  “Can’t we hear?” asked Shem. “I can almost hear it, as if her movements bring the music into being.”

  She rose again and continued dancing. Shem seemed entranced, just as Ifunka was mesmerized by rva’s eyes. Suddenly, she stopped and Shem clapped and slapped his hands on his knees enthusiastically. Meyla smiled.

  “Well done, my darling, well done!” he said.

  “Darling?”

  “I misspoke.”

  Shem’s cheeks were flush.

  “Khû ftâ shift-ôn-ish-ô (do you want him)?” rva asked Meyla.

  “Rî (yes),” she replied innocently.

  “Nâ khâm-zen gukh-ôn ftôn-ôm aff-îm ftôn khon-ish (if they remain virgins, they will be killed).”

  “Gin-ôn okh-ish (I understand),” Meyla replied.

  “Brother,” said Shem, worried. “What do they want with us?”

  “Khâm? What is khâm?” Ifunka pondered. “I… I can’t work it out quickly.”

  “Khû aftem-krâ (take him)!” rva ordered.

  Meyla reached down and grabbed Shem’s hand.

  “Ifta-krâ (come)!” she said firmly as she pulled him up.

  Entranced by her beauty, he could not protest as he was drawn away and out of the room.

  “Shem!” Ifunka cried as he bounced to his feet.

  “Sha, sha, sha, sha!” rva shushed him quickly, rising to dispel his alarm. “Kha nash-krâ (don’t be afraid).”

  “Don’t be afraid? What is she going to do with Shem? Where is she taking him?”

  “Okh-ifft taftâ ftâ-yish. Okhsh-zen-shivt taftâ ftâ-yish. Shandh okh-an-shivt goff ftâ-yish (with me you are safe. In my arms you are safe. In my bosom you are happy).”

  Her words were soothing, calming.

  “What… what do you mean?”

  “Ifta-krâ (come),” she said in a gentle tone, invitingly.

  “Come? Come where? I’m here.”

  “Okh-shivt (to me),” she replied.

  “Ftâ-shivt? To you? Why?”

  He suspected her intent and it terrified him.

  “Look, rva, predhel-okh-ish. I am a monk! Do you know what that means? I can’t be with a woman—ever! Gin-ôn ftâ-yish-ô? Do you understand?”

  “Gin-ôn okh-ish (I understand),” rva replied. “Yûm vâ (But why)?”

  “Why? Because we serve the Great Spirit alone. He is our God; He made everything, don’t you understand? The trees, mountains, valleys, you and me, our forefathers, even Afflish himself. Even your Asharru is His creature. All power, all might, all sovereignty belongs to the Great Spirit, Who rules over all things, Who sees all things, Who hears all things, Who knows all things. Even now, in this room, He sees us and hears our words. I can’t speak your language, but do you get something—anything—of what I’m saying?”

  Her face betrayed confusion.

  “Kha gin-ôn okh-ish (I do not understand),” she said.

  “You don’t understand? Alright, let’s mime for a bit a
nd learn some words. Make”—he mimed making something with his hands.

  “Khulff,” she translated.

  “Spirit”—he mimed a soul leaving a body.

  “Vabakh.”

  “Great”—he spread his arms wide.

  “Khan.”

  “World”—he stretched his arms to make a circle in the air and spun around.

  “Areft.”

  “God,” he said as he mimed an all-powerful being zapping the wicked with bolts of lightning. He simulated the sound of each bolt: “Tsu, tsu, tsu.”

  “Tesh.”

  “One”—he indicated one finger.

  “Dhi.”

  “Excellent, and… serve, like Meyla. Meyla serves”—he mimed Meyla presenting the silver tray.

  “Khûmey.”

  “Yes, so… Tesh dhi-yish (God one is).”

  “Dhi Tesh-ish (God is one),” she corrected him.

  “Sorry, dhi Tesh-ish. Khan-Vabakh khû-yish. Areft khulff-ôn khû… (God is one. He is the Great Spirit. He create the word...)”—he did not know the past tense.

  “Areft khulff-ôn khû mon-ish (He created the world),” she completed his sentence.

  “Excellent, yes. He created the world. Khû khûmey-ôn okh-ish. I serve Him.”

  “Gin-ôn okh-ish (I understand),” she said.

  “You understand me? Excellent indeed. Where shall we go from here?”

  By speaking in Tremni, as well as Shaffi, Ifunka was hoping to teach her the basic structure and sound of Tremni, so that she could also acquire it.

  “Yeff Khalam-Sharru, Predh-bara, okh-ish. Oleym ftâ vish-ôn ftôn-ish, ftarka-ffish ftâ yamakhsh-ôn ftôn khon-ish, yôdh khâm ftâ-yish. Khâm okh-ish fikh yûm khâm-go lish-ôn okh khon-ish, nâ okh khodh-ôn khôff ftâ khon-ish (I am the daughter of Khalam-Sharru the High-Priest. When they find you, they shall sacrifice you on the pyre, for you are a virgin. I am a virgin also, but I will give my maidenhead to you if you will love me forever).”