Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “That doesn’t cheer me one bit.”

  “I thought it would not, but you must know such buildings are barely buildings — more like vessels or conduits to the outlands.”

  Harris pondered this, deciding it made no sense. This man’s yakkity-yak raced too easily, relegating truth to the sidelines. The man might be a magician or perhaps the Wizard of Oz — a humbug, after all.

  “You said you were drawn,” Harris said. “What does that mean? Is it like abduction? Have I been kidnapped?”

  “No. In fact, you have been saved.”

  “Saved?”

  “To be drawn here is to be spared.”

  Spared?

  “I’m lost, not saved.”

  “It is a difficult concept to grasp. Perhaps you need more time to ponder things. As for myself, I was drawn from your world — from a different time and another land.”

  Harris sighed, and then turned back to the sea. He wasn’t getting a straight answer. He looked over the waves trying to spot the beast again — this thing called the misancorpus.

  “You’re British?” he muttered.

  The man came close to his ear.

  “An Englishman, sir. The British business came later.” He grasped Harris’ shoulders and turned him. Then, he bowed as if receiving an audience’s adulation. “I am Sir John Briarcliff, the principle player at Her Majesty’s Theatre Royal — everything from Hamlet to Caliban.”

  “You’re an actor?”

  “A Thespian, to be sure. Now I grace a different stage — a different role — part of being drawn and . . . saved. I am called now Arquebus, the second consort to the Scepta Soffira, the youngest daughter of the Elector of Montjoy.”

  Harris was dumbfounded. Although he perked up at the name Montjoy, it was the only word he recognized, but brought him no consolation.

  “Whoever you were and whatever you are,” Harris snapped, “I want none of it. I want out of here . . . now. I’ve a life and it ain’t here.”

  “I am afraid there are no options available other than the one they afford us, Mr. Cartwright.”

  Harris whirled out of Sir John’s grasp.

  “Mr. Cartwright? How do you know my name? What happened to dear boy?”

  “Be calm, sir,” Arquebus replied. “Just as I was drawn by the Scepta Soffira, you were drawn by the Scepta Charminus.” He bowed again. “I have been sent to be your compass — to help your transition.”

  Harris’ eyes bulged. He spit, turning abruptly and marching back to the tidal sweep.

  “Not too close, now,” Arquebus shouted. “Beware the misancorpus.”

  Jabberwocky, Harris thought.

  He didn’t care if the beast wallowed ashore and swallowed him for dessert.

  3

  Harris prowled the shore, sobbing and flagging his arms. He thought about his mother and sister and California and red carpets and Tony. Misery engulfed him. Tears burst their dikes, coating his cheeks as surely as the bugs slathered the water’s margin. He couldn’t digest any of this. All he had wanted was . . . well, a roll in the hay with a sexy and mysterious lady. But he still didn’t recall the sex part. The exhaustion was there, but never the fireworks moment. Was it worth this trip into the Twilight Zone? Now he was supposed to swallow a crock about being drawn to serve the Queen of the Night who snatched him away in a drug-induced hallucination. He didn’t really believe that this Arquebus — Sir John Briarcliff, actor from a different century, actually existed beyond imagination. Still, it felt real. Gulls and serpent and bugs and double-suns . . . and an actor bowing for applause.

  Suddenly, he felt humming — from the sand.

  “What new devilment is this?”

  He laughed, because it was a line from The Magic Planet. He halted and turned quickly to see what followed him. Arquebus did, now in an open-air contraption — the platform cylinder, which Harris recognized as a hovercraft, humming along on a hush of green mush emitted from its bottom.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You must not stray,” Arquebus called.

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “For an actor, you certainly have mastered the red light district’s vernacular.”

  “As I said, I don’t give a fuck. Why not leave me alone, Sir John?”

  “It is no use, my boy.”

  Harris raised his eyebrows.

  “You can call me Harris.”

  “How Dickensian,” Arquebus said. “I knew Boz. I performed the best Fagin to his recollection. Standing ovation from a full house. Do you know the stage’s pulse?”

  “I’ve been there,” Harris quipped.

  “I am so glad, because unlike Scepta Soffira, who prefers stage Thespians, Scepta Charminus leans towards the Magic Lantern stars.”

  “They collect actors?”

  “I am not sure the word collect is the most appropriate one; but if you see fit to regard it as such, you had better keep it to yourself. As for the third sister, Scepta Miracola, she has two consorts from the Asian theater.”

  “Are you telling me I’ll be surrounded by . . .”

  “Men of the trade,” Arquebus beamed.

  He landed the hovercraft, and then stepped out.

  “What is that thing?”

  “An advantage, my dear . . . Harris. We call it a Cabriolin.”

  “We call it that?”

  “The people of Farn.”

  “Farn?”

  Sir John came close now. He looked into Harris’ face, and then placed an arm about his shoulders.

  “You have fight within you, which is commendable, especially for a consort of Scepta Charminus. You shall need it. My mistress is the gentle sort. Still, Farn is your new home.”

  “Not so,” Harris said. “I won’t stay here.”

  “This is not Farn. This is Plageris on the Bottleblue Sea — a stopping point on your journey. It would have been best if you had stayed in Mortis House until we reached the Ayelli overlooking Montjoy City. But you emerged and saw and . . . well, you are here now and what else could I do but begin your indoctrination?”

  “Farn?” Harris snapped. “And where is Charminus?”

  “You never ask that question. She will find you when she seeks you.”

  Harris looked for the first time at this so-called friend. He saw a face — classic and stage worthy. It may have been drawn from the Victorian age, but it was lithe and elastic.

  “If you met Charles Dickens, you must be ancient.”

  “Yes, as you shall be to your co-consort, who was drawn from an age beyond you.”

  “What?”

  “The days go friendly upon us here. We are not immortal like the Electors and many other denizens in Farn, but we do enjoy the aging process’ cessation. There are many much older than I who might look like my younger brother.”

  Harris trembled now. He thought about his many glances in the mirror, tracking his face as it matured. It was by no means old, but he knew one day he’d look there and see the epitome of King Lear or Prospero and without the benefit of makeup. But the Farn plan was not compensation for losing all he knew and loved and wanted — his dreams, his fans, his friends, his sister, his . . . mother. That thought convulsed him to tears again.

  “I must leave here,” he sobbed.

  Then the trumpets sounded.

  Chapter Seven

  Kuriakis the Great

  1

  The horns belched — sharp trumpeting followed by drum beats and kazoo tunes. Harris shaded his eyes, watching the distant sand roll toward him.

  “What is it, Sir John?”

  “Kuriakis comes with the Pod.”

  A line of strange hover crafts — Cabriolins, emerged from the dust devil. The drivers wore wind-swept capes — a colorful lot — silver, gold, purple, morning-glory and marigold. Some shook rattles. Others struck tom-toms, floating beside the trumpeters, bleating black ram horns. At the procession’s center, a giant sat astride what might have been a horse, except the jet-black beast sto
od twelve feet at the withers. It had horns and red eyes that flashed at the marauding idiot birds swarming around the crew like gnats. The ebony creature rocketed, its hooves not touching the sand, like the Cabriolin brigade. The runners floated above the strand, green fire wreathing their feet.

  “What a spectacle,” Harris muttered.

  The horse rider, draped in silver, his helmet squared to his cheeks, carried a long ivory staff, which danced with blue lightning. He raised it, shooting a bolt toward the sky. Then, dropping without warning, a large bird dipped to the dust line.

  “Hunters,” Harris muttered.

  The Pod were hunters and the bird, the prize. The prize was losing this contest, especially after three Cabriolins ascended the heights and ran beside it. The bird snapped and swerved and dipped, but the Cabriolins kept up.

  “We best lie low,” Arquebus said to Harris. “We must not interfere with my lord’s sport.”

  Harris shook his head and stepped forward, prominently, despite the warning. The prize became clearer now. At first, Harris thought it be might another variety of strange pelican, but as it drew closer, he saw a flying reptile.

  “Pterodactyl,” he muttered.

  “Terrerbyrd, my friend,” Arquebus said, tugging Harris back. “It will surely spear us if we remain here. If luck prevails and the byrd spares us, my brothers will run us over. If the Cabriolins miss us, our lord’s steed, Nightmare, will surely mow us down.”

  “I guess we’re fucked,” Harris said, unheeding.

  He snapped free of Arquebus’ hold and marched toward the Pod, his neck craning up to view the terrerbyrd. He calculated that the Cabriolins were high and would miss him, but the runners might give him a slam. Then he saw the horse — Nightmare. It shape shifted between raging bull and irate stallion. It snorted red steam — steam as red as its eyes. The rider appeared fierce also, his eyes no longer set upon the prize, but on Harris.

  What fool is this? came a voice.

  The voice rattled in Harris’ brain. He wished he could answer it, but he wasn’t telepathic, although he heard the question as if he were. He banished fear. Finished with it, he was. What more could they do to him? The rider was distinctly the authority here. Sir John could babble about the whys and wherefores, but he didn’t hold the key to the exit. So this rider — the voice in Harris’ head, was the man of the hour — if he were a man. Harris couldn’t tell. He could be the devil himself.

  “Hey,” Harris shouted, shaking his fists. Arquebus moaned warnings. “Hey! I’m no fool.”

  Laughter rattled around his head. But perhaps the rider was right. Arquebus yelled, but the racket drowned his voice. The terrerbyrd swooped. No pigeon, this, but as big as a Piper Cub, gliding directly at Harris, its long snout open to clip him, but more likely preparing to cut him in two.

  “Sir John,” Harris called, his fear suddenly returning.

  Too late to enlist help. Running wouldn’t serve in the short course, so Harris slammed to the ground, lying flat. A gust blew above him and a jaw snapped. He rolled sideways when the byrd tried to catch him. He peered into its dead, hate-filled eyes. This set Harris’ adrenaline flowing — the last push needed. Everything in this world had been against him. Time to fight back.

  When the terrerbyrd finished its pass, Harris stood.

  “Get down, Harris,” Arquebus shouted.

  Harris turned. The Pod approached frantically, Nightmare galloping on a green cloud.

  Fool, came the voice again.

  “I’m no fool,” Harris shouted, and then proceeded to prove the voice correct.

  When Harris turned back toward Mortis House, the terrerbyrd had landed, its claws scratching the strand angrily. Its towering wings folded like laundry and it clumsily hopped toward Harris with intent. Harris ignored the collective warning shouts from Arquebus and the Pod. He even ignored the voice in his head.

  “You son of a bitch,” he shouted at the byrd. “You think you’re hot shit and can take a chunk outta me.”

  Harris hobbled as he walked, loosening his right shitekicker. It was tight, but his swelling anger helped him rip through the laces and yank the boot off. He swung it over his head.

  “Get the fuck out of here, you escapee from Jurassic Park,” he screamed, and let the boot fly.

  It hit the terrerbyrd on the snout, dazing it. The creature kiltered left and right like a windmill attacked by a lance. It raised its snout and cawed to the wind. The Pod moved forward, and the byrd hopped toward the waves, and then took flight.

  “You sorry son of a bitch,” Harris shouted. “Go home to your Mama and leave me the fuck alone.”

  Harris turned, facing the Pod. The voice in his head was now a roaring laugh. It embraced him like a champion.

  2

  Arquebus pulled Harris to his knees, Harris resisting. He hadn’t given in to the terrerbyrd. Why should he give an inch to something infinitely smaller? Although Nightmare and its rider, might be fiercer.

  “Respect, Harris,” Arquebus muttered. “You must bow before our lord.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir John. You might have forgotten you’re a Brit and should only bow to Queen Lizzie, but I’m red, white and blue and standing tall.”

  Six Pod members pursued the terrerbyrd, jetting over Harris’ head. Others remained, including four dressed similar to Arquebus. They surveyed Harris with disturbing interest as if trying to find his true measure through his skin. Harris locked his gaze on each in turn — an attempt to shake off their stares.

  “Harris, you must observe protocol,” Arquebus snapped.

  “Let him stand,” the rider said, removing his helmet, handing it to the waiting runner.

  Harris assessed these runners as servants. The others remained a mystery, but he noticed the group that pursued the terrerbyrd was younger, sporting a different garb — crimson tunics, silver breastplates and short leather caps like old-fashioned football helmets.

  “If you wish it, father,” Arquebus replied, and then bowed.

  Harris cocked his head. His own father had died when he was three, so he never accorded any man the paternal honors. He didn’t think he’d start now.

  “Why is he unfettered?” the rider asked Arquebus.

  “He awoke prematurely and decided to explore. He is inquisitive, beyond fettering . . . in my opinion.”

  “Fettering?” Harris muttered, frowning.

  “A term to describe the confinement imposed until we have reached our destination,” Arquebus explained. “You were never scheduled to visit Plageris until you knew more about your situation.”

  “No harm done,” the rider said. He laughed again.

  The four men in the Cabriolins laughed on cue. Arquebus nervously joined them, but Harris recognized this as protocol.

  The rider dismounted aided by two runners. A giant, he was commanding by virtue of size. His ivory staff flashed when striking the ground. Harris felt every vibration. The rider wasn’t old, but mature — craggy even; yet refined. Emeralds speckled his braided gray beard. On his right hand shone a colossal jade ring. Harris recognized the shepherd’s crook sigil as a twin to the one on Charminus’ ring.

  “So you are the new one,” boomed the man.

  “New one?” Harris replied.

  “Do not speak unless you know what you are about,” the man chided. “You may think you know, but you stand before me bootless under Solus and Dodecadatamus, wondering about things beyond your ken.” The man grinned. “But be of good cheer. Your confusion will be short-lived. Plageris is foreign even to the people of Farn. When you are settled, the mysteries shall fall by the wayside.”

  “I have begun his clarification,” Arquebus said.

  “To no avail, I presume.”

  The man raised his hand — the right one, extending the ring toward Harris.

  “Kiss it,” Arquebus whispered.

  “Is he the pope?” Harris snapped. “I’m not Catholic.”

  “It does not matter, Harris. Do not be prickly in this.”


  “Prickly?” He gazed into the rider’s eyes. “You know I’m a stranger in this land. I don’t mean to stay here. I’m depending on you to show me the way out.”

  “The way out?” carped one of the Cabriolin drivers. “This may seem like theater, but be assured, there is no way out.”

  This man, in a bright-yellow cloak, left his Cabriolin, bounding toward Harris.