Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)
Page 1
Belmundus
Book One of the Farn Triology
by
Edward C. Patterson
Dancaster Creative
www.dancaster.com
edwpat@att.net
First Kindle Original Edition, March 2013
Copyright 2013 by Edward C. Patterson
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.
Other Works by Edward C. Patterson
No Irish Need Apply ISBN 1434893952
Cutting the Cheese ISBN 1434893847
Bobby’s Trace ISBN 1434893960
The Closet Clandestine: a queer steps out ISBN 1438220502
Come, Wewoka & Diary of Medicine Flower ISBN 1438227639
Surviving an American Gulag ISBN 1438247230
Turning Idolater ISBN 1440422109
Look Away Silence ISBN 1448651921
The Road to Grafenwöhr ISBN 1460973860
Are You Still Submitting Your Work to a Traditional Publisher? ISBN 1441407383
A Reader’s Guide to Author’s Jargon and Other Ravings from the Blogosphere ISBN 1468071432
Oh Dainty Triolet ISBN 1451535376
Farn Trilogy
Belmundus – The Farn Trilogy – Book I
Boots of Montjoy – The Farn Trilogy – Book II
The Adumbration of Zin – The Farn Trilogy – Book III
Southern Swallow Series
The Academician - Southern Swallow Book I, ISBN 144149975X
The Nan Tu - Southern Swallow Book II, ISBN 1449994202
Swan Cloud – Southern Swallow Book III ISBN 1466499591
The House of Green Waters — Southern Swallow Book IV
Vagrants Hollow — Southern Swallow Book V
The Jade Owl Legacy Series
The Jade Owl ISBN 1440447977
The Third Peregrination ISBN 1441456724
The Dragon’s Pool ISBN 1442170999
The People’s Treasure ISBN 1453850813
In the Shadow of Her Hem — ISBN 1478203064
Coming Attractions
Green Folly
Nicholas Firestone – China Hand series
Pacific Crimson — Forget Me Not
Dearest Flower of My Heart — Mail Call from Two Generations
Plum Flower Journey
For further information contact edwpat@att.net
or visit Dancaster Creative at www.dancaster.com
To the Living Legacy of the Cherokee People
And to my Native American Great Grandmother
Lillian Devereaux Patterson
(Dawes Roll #8721 — M2139)
Acknowledgements
The creation of this work has spanned many years — my entire creative life, in fact, born in my noggin as I walked back and forth to school in the late-1950s and riding the subway in the mid-1960s, realized in many forms — an epic poem, an opera libretto and finally a novella called Adrift in Eternity. I suppose the inspiration came from Voltaire’s Candide. I was not up to completing it in then. Another imaginative strand hit to me in the early 1970s with the completion of an unpublished novel on Native American themes called The Nioche. Both ideas lay fallow but on fertile soil until 2003, when I married them to the protagonist — a young A-list actor who, like Gulliver or Alice, manages to get wedged in a strange world — Farn, a canvas for recurring themes immersed in my Cherokee family heritage and culture. My love of words has engaged me in ways that I scarcely understand, but I have allowed Father Tolkien to lead me into that light. So I offer my readers a passport into this world, born in my imagination.
I would like to thank my friend, Margaret Stevens (Peg) for her constant support and word wizardry. Peg has stuck with me as an adviser and reader through my entire published career. I would also like to thank Sharon Schroeder, who first glimpsed an early draft as a beta-reader back in 2003 and encouraged me to forge on to completion.
I have dedicated this work to a woman I have never met — Lillian Devereaux Patterson, my great-grandmother, who’s presence on the Cherokee rolls has inspired my study of native customs and the Tsalagi language. Despite this, Belmundus is an epic fantasy, meant to engage and entertain my readers. It is not designed as a history lesson or a critical indictment of one people against another. On the other hand, any idea rattling around an author’s head for fifty-five years should be provocative, so be prepared for a jolt.
Adadooski.
Arkmo.
Edward C. Patterson
March 2, 2013
The Three Books of The Farn Trilogy series are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations are entirely coincidental.
“Nine Houses Has Farn
Nine houses rule the world of Farn
Balanced in perpetuum
About Primordius Centrum —
Volcanum holds the firebrands,
Aquilium has the waters’ keep,
In Aolium’s realm the air depends,
While Terrastrium mines the earthen halls.
Montjoy lifts the orb of art,
Protractus totes and measures all.
And Magus weilds the wands of time
While Pontifrax chants the holy rites
To draw the portals twain aligned
Into Zin and Zacker’s care,
Beyond the darkest brightest lair.”
from The Book of Farn — The Realms
To each Elector three branches made
Deigned as sons and daughters born,
Renowned Sceptas and Seneschals
But as towers apart shall grow,
Never fruitful within their bounds,
So to the outlands they must go,
To gather succor into dough —
The life force must they always hoe.
But each may draw a double mate,
And thus may sow and populate,
A harvest to serve and ease their shade —
A scattered horde as duty paid,
Smiling kin for the alliance trade,
But as mules these Thirdlings be,
Until there comes the mending free.
Then a fourth shall bloom in Farn
Uniting houses — the outlands darn
‘til suns and moons reflect no more
And Zin and Zacker close the door.
from The Book of Farn — The Promise and Prophecy
“Dsulasi dona owaynasa,
Ulushoo ita ha yeeyasa,
Awaydeesga akali
Ustigunana digaswosdi”
“My feet go far from home,
I fall because I roam,
I tote my people’s load,
Along the weeping road.”
from a Cetrone Folk Song — the Weeping Road
Table of Contents
Part I: The Audition
Chapter One: Astral Beauties
Chapter Two: Pursuit
Chapter Three: Happy Pings
Chapter Four: An Invitation
Chapter Five: Mortis House
Chapter Six: Plageris on the Bottleblue Sea
Chapter Seven: Kuriakis the Great
Chapter Eight: Yustichisqua
Chapter Nine: The Scullery Dorgan
Chapter Ten: The Cartisforium
Chapter Eleven: The Book of Farn
Chapter Twelve: Promise and Pr
ophecy
Chapter Thirteen: The Shoe on the Other Foot
Chapter Fourteen: The Food of the Gods
Chapter Fifteen: The Scarlet Chamber
Part II: Exploring the Part
Chapter One: Following the Fold
Chapter Two: Learning Lines
Chapter Three: The Weeping Road
Chapter Four: Rehearsing Othellohito
Chapter Five: Mustering the Pod
Chapter Six: Hunting the Tippagore
Chapter Seven: Admiration, Fear and Wonder
Chapter Eight: The Play’s the Thing
Chapter Nine: Danuwa and Taleenay
Chapter Ten: In the Wudayleegu
Chapter Eleven: Garan the Gucheeda
Chapter Twelve: A Game of Grusoker
Chapter Thirteen: Time to Shine — Time to Sparkle
Chapter Fourteen: Trouble at Ryyve Aniniya
Chapter Fifteen: The Judgment of Harris
Part III: Takes and Retakes
Chapter One: The Gulliwailit Bridge
Chapter Two: Wisgi and Charpgris
Chapter Three: In Enemy Country
Chapter Four: The Place Where Death Crosses
Chapter Five: Whisperers and Ferrymen
Chapter Six: Reaptide
Chapter Seven: From the Jaws of Death
Chapter Eight: The Shades of Zacker
Chapter Nine: Defiance
Chapter Ten: The Katorias
Chapter Eleven: Curfew
Part IV: Cut, and Check the Gate
Chapter One: Oh, Home on the Range
Chapter Two: Shades of Yorick
Chapter Three: The Gananadana
Chapter Four: The Pursuers
Chapter Five: Dodaloo
Chapter Six: The Asi-asa
Chapter Seven: Enitachopco’s Say
Chapter Eight: Two Cheeks Upon a Single Face
Chapter Nine: Kanuwudi
Chapter Ten: Journey to Comastee
Chapter Eleven: The Treasures of the Yigoya
Chapter Twelve: Chewohe
Chapter Thirteen: The Spark
Part V: Mounting a Three Reeler
Chapter One: Much To Do
Chapter Two: Like the Rolling Tide Across a Crimson Sea
Chapter Three: The Golden Eight
Chapter Four: Walls of Phitron
Chapter Five: The Mordanka
Chapter Six: The Kanaguda
Chapter Seven: The Gonada Gigaha
Chapter Eight: The Temple
Chapter Nine: The Outlands
Chapter Ten: The Prisoner
Chapter Eleven: The Portal
Afterword
Glossary
Part I
The Audition
Chapter One
Astral Beauties
1
“I’m a star,” he whispered to the young man in the mirror. “A star,” and then chuckled as he thought about a giant gas ball, ignorantly fixing planets in orbit for no other reason but gravity.
Harris Cartwright, born nineteen years earlier and christened Humphrey Kopfstutter, smiled dimly in the mirror. Dimly, because the hotel room shone amber with its upscale ambience — flattering light designed to be so. Still, in any light, this star of stage and screen was a Narcissus; although his reflection sometimes tamed him.
Harris moistened his bottom lip with his upper, and then winked. He shrugged, and then preened, coming closer to his reflection, nearly kissing the glass. Pucker he did; then laughed. His grin exposed a brilliant smile, a gap between his two front teeth — a chasm his mother meant to have corrected when he had landed his first role as a wee urchin in a Dickens remake. However, the gap and his alluring eyes kept the roles coming until . . . well, until the adolescent leaped the gulf between child actor and teen idol; done with ease and without scandal, drugs or an arrest record. Now Harris leaped the second gulf — youthful high school parts to the dashing hero. Still, he could hide his secrets safely from public view — although the public pried.
He winked again, and then turned around on the stool, which faced the dressing table. The hotel was accommodating — equipped for a range of actors from A-list to C, now that the Tribeca Film Festival had rolled in this town. The SoHo Grand, the classiest bed roll in this lower Manhattan neighborhood, had no vacancies this weekend.
Harris stood and stretched. He had slept the day away and, now as evening hugged the New York skyline, he was up for nocturnal festivities — a sneak preview of his new film The Magic Planet to be followed by a Q&A panel and light refreshments. Who knew what would come beyond that? These junkets were regulated to a point, but burst like fireworks when the rockets spent. Harris might take an evening romp with his co-star. The prospects loomed, so Harris stretched, chucked his underwear, and then headed for the shower.
2
The hotel room was small by luxury standards, but the Grand had arisen like morning cream. The warm rooms shimmered with golden walls and amber lighting. All that wasn’t silk, was satin. When not occupied by a nineteen-year old, the king size bed wore an olive satin spread, seagreen silk sheets, a princely counterpane and stately pillows. Now the bedding was tossed asunder as if cats had fought in the sack. Clothes were strewn on the floor in a trail from dresser to bed, from bed to shower. Books and scripts kiltered in piles on the dressing table, and the telephone directory sprawled beside a tray with last night’s room service caking in partnership with this morning’s breakfast. No lunch — evidently.
The shower room opened directly into the boudoir, a glass panel separating it from the minibar. To Harris, the steaming water would be his wake-up call. He wasn’t sure what time it was (and he didn’t worry, because Tony watched those details). However, a schedule would kick in eventually. It always did on publicity junkets. Soon, a flock of studio bullies, who, as well-meaning as they pretended to be, would erase his freedom. They were the paycheck, after all, and who was he?
“I’m a star,” he gurgled, spitting out a mouthful of amber water. He laughed again, the stream plastering his curly hair into black slick. He shook the cascades from his eyes and laughed again, and then ran a soapy cloth over his newfound biceps. His last flick demanded his body beef up from a teenage lanky noodle to a swashbuckling space pirate. He was unaccustomed to the added musculature, although the chicks dug it.
At the thought of chicks, Harris smiled, leaning against the glass wall and letting the shower permeate every pore — every crevice. He felt giddy, his hormones having run the gamut of sexual urges and experiences lately. Still, he refused to declare a preference in public. He couldn’t even admit his affinities in the shower stall, because he wasn’t sure he had a preference — a weather vane at times; at other times, as sure as the partner who shared his bed. One thing was positive. He hadn’t time to ponder the issue now or do more than scrub his groin in this shower-call.
“Maybe later,” he mused, and then hastened to finish, turning the taps and waiting for the steam to clear.
Harris reached for a towel — a preliminary dry, beginning with face and hair, and then creating a silly turban, which didn’t squat well on his noggin. He grabbed a second towel for his nether parts, marrying this more ample terry around his waist into something akin to Pharaoh’s kilt.
“A star,” he said again, and then slid open the glass door.
The room’s chill met him and he noticed something queer. On the shower door, written in the condensation, were letters. He squinted, thinking he might have accidentally etched these sigils, but he hadn’t. These were letters — clear and definite.
C U L8R C M J
“What the fuck?” he said, pawing the initials. “See you later — CMJ?”
He turned, looking for uninvited company.
“Tony?” he called. “Are you here?”
Harris inspected the room, walking over his debris, pushing linen with his feet and picking up his clothes as he went. Opening the closet door cautiously, he expected to encounter Anthony Bentle
y-Jones, his co-star and best friend. A joke, perhaps. However, the closet, devoid of actors, contained only tonight’s wardrobe.
Harris threw off the turban, and then returned to the shower door, hunkering for another inspection before the initials faded. But they were still clear. He rubbed them. They remained. He pushed back, landing on his ass.
“They’re inside. Whoever wrote this was in the fucking shower with me.”
He crabbed back to the bed, took the room in again, and then laughed.
“You’re nuts, Humphrey. Scared by a little soap scum?”
He shook his damp hair, and then sought the dryer.
3
Again the mirror loomed while Harris dried his hair. He inspected his cheeks for blemishes and his chin for the scar remnant — a nick from a sword accident on the last film. It healed nicely — nothing makeup couldn’t hide, and was more pronounced two weeks ago, when he had walked the red carpet in L. A. Tony fussed over the scar so much, Harris thought Mom had tagged along. Mom wasn’t the stage door kind, but she had rules — good rules, which worked well for a child actor transitioning through this Thespian world. Mom’s rules guided Harris to regard acting as a job rather than a privilege. A good thing, because he loved his job. He hated these junkets and the crowd’s rush. The red carpet was his least favorite thing, although he was gracious to his fans and never withheld his autograph.