Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “A pretzel, oginali?”

  “A strange twisted food from my land — a salty and crunchy snack. We’ll probably want some before the night’s out.”

  Harris felt hands on his shoulders, tugging at his cape. They hesitated. Then Harris remembered.

  “Ah. Columbincus.”

  He fumbled with the thing, but now it was more a companion, having come alive on cue. He wondered how it would be when fully initiated. Once removed, Yustichisqua slipped away the cape, and then attended to the tunic and the asano. This left Harris standing in the golden jockstrap before the mirror. Yustichisqua went to undo it, but Harris held to it fast. Little Bird retreated.

  Harris glanced at the shimmering reflection.

  “Who am I?” he mused.

  Here he was — Harris Cartwright, formerly of stage and screen, naked to the world except for a golden swath. But who was he, really? He had never been truly Harris Cartwright. That was the wraith who filled many skins — many costumes and personas. Was he just another run-of-the-mill Joe — Humphrey Kopfstutter, the product of a Californian divorce? Now he was a champion. A protector of another spirit — a vibrant one, who knew nothing but sorrow and care.

  “Who am I?” he mused as he peered into the glass. “I’m Lord Belmundus; and . . . I’m a star.”

  And at that moment he became one and would be so for the remainder of time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Food of the Gods

  1

  “Oginali,” came a whisper.

  Harris hardly stirred. Exhausted and hungry, he wanted to sleep late. Yustichisqua’s alarm clock voice roused Harris to look for the snooze button. He rolled over and almost fell from the platform. Then he sniffed. A sweet aroma captured him, and he turned, this time with eyes opened and saliva flowing.

  “Is that a muffin?”

  “A muffin, oginali? No, it is a stewganasti.”

  Harris sat up.

  “It doesn’t look nasty to me. Give me some.”

  “Take it all, oginali.”

  Little Bird pointed to a marble pedestal where set a tray filled with stewganasti of all sorts, and hot steaming brew — coffee perhaps. And was that bacon and sausage? Harris pulled some nasty muffin to his mouth and munched. Heavenly — as far from nasty as he was from slumber.

  “You were brave to make a Scullery Dorgan run, Little Bird.”

  “Not so, oginali. The food was here when I awoke.”

  Harris suspected Arquebus might have sent a doggie bag, probably hearing about the previous evening’s scuffle. Harris hopped over to the tray. He didn’t recognize a thing.

  “Is that coffee?”

  “Kawee? Yes, oginali. And delicious hawiya yukayosu, hawiya asdoyuwi and suweechi.”

  Little Bird poured the kawee, and then dumped gray stuff in it, which Harris took to be milk, probably from an unpronounceable member of the bovine family. This was soon confirmed, but it could use sugar.

  “Sugar?” Little Bird shrugged.

  “Sweeter.”

  “Ah. caliseegee.”

  “Yes, that.”

  Little Bird opened a small crock of orange gravel and quickly plopped a handful into Harris’ cup of kawee. Harris sipped again, and then grinned.

  “I’ll need to learn what things are called here.”

  “Whatever you call them, they become.”

  Harris lifted the cup.

  “Then this is a Montjoy Latte with Orange Sweet Shit.”

  Little Bird smiled, hiding his face like a girl and tittered. Harris gladdened at Little Bird’s improved mood.

  Harris concentrated on the various hawiya, which he learned later was the term given to anything derived from the adesigua, which the Montjovians called the pogo-pogo — but pig by any other name was still bacon and sausage. These meats were salty and spicy, and complemented with terrerbyrd omelet — the aforementioned suweechi dish. If he ever got back to California he’d have a ball ordering in IHOP — two double sunnyside up suweechis with a sidecar of extra crispy hawiya yukayosu and a cup of kawee, hold the orange sweet shit, if you please.

  Little Bird ate from a different bowl, stuff which looked like oatmeal, but dry and unappetizing.

  “Is that sqwallen?” Harris asked.

  “Yes, oginali.”

  Harris reached over, swiping the bowl. He gathered delectibles from the tray onto a plate.

  “You eat what I eat.”

  “Then will you eat sqwallen?”

  “Not if I can help it. How dare they bring me the tasty nasty muffins and make you eat crap.”

  “But she brought it.”

  “Who? Scepta Charminus?”

  “No. The one who serves her.”

  Harris put his plate aside and sipped his kawee, struck by the thought of the one who serves her. He knew her — the Trone with the superiority complex. But she couldn’t be bad, because she brought them food.

  “Then it came from the Scepta,” Harris said. “If her maid brought it, Charminus sent it.”

  “No, oginali. I believe . . . well, her servant acts according to her own wants and wishes. I say true.”

  Harris grinned.

  “How do you know? Who is this Cetrone? What’s her name?”

  Little Bird frowned. He set his plate aside and turned back to his sqwallen. Harris thought to swipe the bowl again, but perhaps there was something in this feed the Cetrone required — craved. However, Harris craved to know the Trone maid’s name. He couldn’t tell why.

  Little Bird finished quickly, and then went about setting out clothes — more elegant than yesterday, if it were possible.

  “They will be here soon to escort you to the ceremony, oginali. I must prepare you.”

  “Where’s the shower room?”

  “You wish to bathe?”

  “Well, I’m not putting on rich duds over a smelly body.”

  Yustichisqua brought his nose into Harris’ armpit and sniffed.

  “But you do not smell.”

  “Like hell, I don’t. I’m more like Lord Bigdungass than Lord Belmundus. So where’s the shower?”

  “Very well,” Yustichisqua said. “Remove your Columbincus and I will prepare you.”

  Harris unsnapped his brooch, an act easier to master, and stripped before Little Bird could do it. Hot steam and gushing water would be a blessing. However, once naked, save for the golden jockstrap, Yustichisqua raised Lord Belmundus’ arms. A light beam struck Harris — a blinding white flash. His skin tugged and tickled and tinged. Blue light followed, spiraling over his shoulder, wrapping him in tentacles. It lifted him, turning him like a cement mixer until a red light scanned him from below, pelting him with a material akin to gravel. It hurt.

  “Get me out of this,” Harris complained

  “But oginali, you must wait for the green light.”

  It came — a rush of green, a funnel which pinched him, tossed him and drip-dried him. When it concluded, Harris was dumped to the tiles. He was clean, befuddled, and not amused, still looking forward to a real bath, which he guessed would evade him until he rented a cabana at the edge of the Bottleblue Sea, or as they called it, the Amaykwohi.

  2

  Arquebus arrived first with three Thirdlings. Harris recognized one to be the cowboy Cabriolin driver, Elypticus. Harris wondered if the other two were sons of Arquebus also. All three bowed, while Arquebus waved his hand spaciously. Two Trones carted in a large basket of fruit on a low cart, which the natives called a dollywaggle.

  “Peaches,” Harris said, grinning at the prospects.

  “No, Lord Belmundus,” Arquebus said. “They look like peaches, but they are hiloseegi fruit. Some are bitter, while others, sweet. You never know until you select one.”

  “I thank you.”

  “They are not from me. They are a gift from Agrimentikos, who shall be here shortly with the others. I had cargo Trones assigned to me, so I granted the boon and had them dollywaggle his gift here.” He reached beneath his Columb
incus and withdrew a green leather pouch. “This is my gift to you.”

  Harris opened his hand accepting it.

  “Should I look?” he asked.

  “You should. It is not much.”

  Harris unhitched the pouch and dumped a palm’s worth of coins into his hand.

  “Money.”

  “That it is. There are sixty yedalas. Not a king’s ransom, but it will help you if you should choose to gamble or visit Xyftys, the Gurt tailor.” Harris bowed. “My advice to you is a more valued gift.”

  “Oh,” Harris said, reading the subtext. “So the word’s got about?”

  “That you have called out Buhippus in the line of his duty, yes.”

  “Buhippus? Is that the black sashed one or the turkey feather dude?”

  “Black sash, and the captain of the Palace Yunockers. I am afraid that you have angered Tappiolus.”

  “He has my permission to boycott my big whoop-dee-do ceremony.”

  “He cannot. He will be here with the others and as civil as a python in the undergrowth. Today you are the golden consort. No one will dare reprimand you or . . . your property.”

  Arquebus stared at Yustichisqua, who averted his eyes.

  “Little Bird,” Harris snapped, as commanding as a drill sergeant. “Keep your eyes up. Stand to your full height. I won’t have you as a groveling shadow.”

  “Yes, mast . . . yes, oginali.”

  Little Bird stood tall, nervously, but abandoned the groveling. Arquebus shook his head.

  “Sir John,” Harris said. “Can I call you Sir John in private?”

  “We are not in private, Lord Belmundus. My sons are here and your Trone is within earshot. If Sir John is in the vicinity, he might hear you. But then again, he might not.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Need I remind you I’m the golden consort today? I’m even sporting my best bling.”

  “Need I remind you, you have no concept of today’s events.”

  That was true. Unlike the elaborate course Harris had undertaken in the Cartisforium on Farn history and geography, no one had sat him down to explain the Investiture Rite. Maybe it would be worse than the sandblasting shower.

  “I assume I’ll meet the family, or so you said.”

  “Yes. You say true. However, it shall occur in the Scarlet Chamber.”

  With this, the three Thirdlings bowed and the two Trones shuffled on their zulus.

  “What’s so special about the Scarlet Chamber?”

  “It is comparable to Buckingham Palace,” Arquebus said. “Only no established protocols to follow. You will be left to your own devices.”

  “Surely there must be protocols,” Harris said. “This place is like a Chinese checker game. There’s a regulation for every tick of the clock.”

  By omitting the scorecard, a consort, golden or otherwise, would have every opportunity to be his own undoing. Was that it? Harris guessed it was the point or the test.

  “There are protocols. You need to discover them, Lord Belmundus. You need . . .”

  The doors opened and four gentlemen entered — gentlemen whom Lord Belmundus had met before — the hunting Pod, now dressed to the nines. They wore similar silken tunics, capes and kilts (asano), only in different colors and accessories — gold, silver, ruby, and jade. When they walked, they sparkled like Tiffany’s window. Behind each trawled a Trone — eyes downcast and contrite. They toted boxes — the gifts, Harris assumed, and he was correct in this assumption.

  First to come forward was the senior consort, Agrimentikos — he of the Mediterranean look. Draped in a jade-crusted cape, his conical cap dazzled. Agrimentikos raised his arms in welcome. Belmundus bowed.

  “I thank you, lord,” Harris said, pointing to the peaches, which were not peaches.

  “I grow them myself,” Agrimentikos announced. “Once your digestion becomes accustomed to them, you will be regular for an eternity. What a gift! What a gift!”

  He laughed and turned about, his brother consorts bowing to him. He had been here the longest, drawn from a traveling company of Thespians who had given a performance of Oedipus Rex to an unappreciative crowd of Macedonians, as Agrimentikos would tell you. During the performance, he noticed a divinity in the amphitheater — a golden-haired Helen of Troy, who dazzled him. So overwhelmed by her, the Chorus overtook his apostrophe and he stood gaping before the few awake members of the audience. She came to him again and again, this vision of beauty, until he followed her to the Temple of Mithridates Major and awoke exhausted, but delighted in Mortis House. He had served and serviced Scepta Soffira ever since.

  Agrimentikos clasped his co-consort Arquebus about the shoulders.

  “He appears to be a rare acquisition, brother. Look at his profile and beauty — his youth. And he shall play Cassioshima. You have given him the piece, have you not?”

  “Yes, brother. He has had it since yesterday.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Agrimentikos strutted about like a man imagining even the pillars as audience. Harris thought the man a trip-and-a-half and a bloated old fart — but not so old, perhaps thirty-one or two, which by ancient Athenian standards fell far short of Medicare.

  Tappiolus stepped forward, grinning like . . . well, a python in the undergrowth.

  Here it comes, Harris thought. A lecture on calling out Boohippy or Bulrushes or whatever the fuck his name is.

  However, Tappiolus was pleasant and pointed to his Trone, who raised a long box to the golden consort.

  “For me?” Harris asked. “You shouldn’t have. It’s not even my birthday.”

  “Why would I not present you with a gift on your day of days, Boots?”

  Day of days. Good one. Hiss. Hiss. Hiss.

  “Considering we already have had some differences of opinion . . .”

  “Not true, brother. However, this gift will square things up between us.”

  Harris pawed the box, and then lifted the lid. Inside was a . . . a Stick — a beautifully crafted weapon of Farn with a silver band about the base and a gold one near the muzzle. Harris wondered if this was one of a matched set and, once taken, he and brother Tappiolus would go back to back, step ten paces, turn and fire.

  “It is lovely, brother,” Harris said. He snapped the Stick from its housing. It was light and balanced. “I’ll be careful not to aim it at anything.”

  “It does not matter, yet. You cannot use it until tomorrow. Then I shall have the privilege of showing you its proper use. I and my captain of the guard, Buhippus. I believe you have met Buhippus.”

  “Can’t recall the fellow,” Harris said. “But I look forward to it.”

  He bowed, just as the last two consorts stepped toward him. They strode in tandem like a binary program. They were Oriental and the co-consorts to Miracola, who Harris recalled from the stained-glass windows as being . . . ample.

  The first consort bowed — Hasamun, handsome and feminine — no more than twenty-five in appearance, but since he had been drawn from the Mikado’s court theater near Kyoto while on an entertainment run north to the Shogunate at Edo castle, he was a sight older than he appeared. Hasamun had seen Miracola as a lustrous moon in the mists over a nighttime glade. He worshiped her immediately. He had been summoned by the Tokugawa warlord that evening to perform the ghost of Kumasaka in the Noh play of the same name. But he failed to show, greatly angering Tokugawa Ieyesu, because it was a three-man play, and one-third of the company had gone missing. Fortunately, a giant carp arose from the castle’s koi pond and swallowed Hasamun — swallowed him to Mortis House.

  Hasamun extended a flat box to Belmundus — a similar box in shape and size as Tappiolus’. Before Harris could accept it, the second consort came forward, with a twin box. Posan, older than Hasamun and Chinese, was a performer-playwright. He had been renowned for his drinking capacity and entertaining prostitutes into the wee hours of the morning at local wine pavilions. However, when the Mongols put an end to his Sung lords, Posan had been summoned to perform for
the great Khan, who enjoyed a bit of untoward culture with exotic turns. Posan was rarely up to the task, preferring rice wine than the chopping block. He first saw Miracola’s face on every pastry he ate and in every wine bucket he lifted. Soon this woman obsessed him and he brushed a play about her — even performed as Miracola before the Princess Wei-ch’i-k’ai-lung-fan. The play flopped and he fled the henchman. Fortunately, he hid in a fortuitous well and, when hoisted out, he was in Farn.