Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Not all. They hear us and know. And the spooner will be at hand.”

  “The spooner?”

  At that, one waddly wazzoo shone brightly from the far end of the hall.

  “Who stirs there?” came a gruff voice.

  “Do not answer, oginali.”

  Harris obeyed, walking toward the light. An old Cetrone stood in the aisle.

  “I said, who stirs there?” He waved his waddly wazzoo. “Who . . . Oh, it is you Augustii Ricktus. How odd that you have come so late and in such weather. And so close to reaptide. And you have brought an assistant.” The Cetrone came closer, holding the waddly wazzoo higher. He had a crooked nose and wispy hair constrained by a dirty purple headband. His buckskins had seen better days. “And you have two sacks. How did you manage to get them past the mordanka? Or have you struck a new bargain?” He shook the light. “Have you . . .” His breath hitched. “You are not Ricktus Morphinus. Where is the Augustii spinctus? Is there a new arrangement?”

  Harris let the cowl slip. It was time.

  “You are not even Zecronisian,” the man snapped.

  Little Bird also uncovered.

  “Hold your tongue, Talqwah,” he muttered.

  “Yustichisqua? You here?” Talqwah drifted back on his zulus. “And disguised. What foolery is this?”

  Harris let the sack fall and rushed the spooner of the chisqua yehu. The cloak slipped farther, revealing the Columbincus. Talqwah gasped, and then tried to bow.

  “You are Ayelli,” he stammered. “You cannot be here.”

  “I’m the Didaniyisgi of the Yuyutlu.”

  “Lord Belmundus,” Talqwah yelped, pushing back. “We will be undone.”

  “Enough, Talqwah,” Yustichisqua said.

  “You know you cannot be here, Yustichisqua,” the spooner said. “You do not wear zulus and your eyes are clear of sqwallen.”

  “I am not the only one free of the spell,” Little Bird said.

  Talqwah raised his waddly wazzoo, swinging it about as if to signal, but Little Bird drew his dagger and thrust it into the lamp’s base. Talqwah, horrified, dropped it and crouched on the floor.

  “Profanity,” he stammered.

  “I am sorry, uncle, but you left me no choice.”

  “Uncle?” Harris asked.

  “This is the clan house, oginali. We are all blood kin.”

  “You are not,” Talqwah spit, getting to his zulus and moving toward the dormitory.

  “If you raise the alarm,” Yustichisqua said, “the regulati will come before reaptide and we shall all be put in the Porias.”

  Talqwah grunted, but returned. He retrieved his damaged waddly wazzoo, mumbling as he inspected the knife hole.

  “I cannot believe you would do this, Yustichisqua. I cannot.”

  “I am sorry. The Yodanado can bless it again and all will be fine.”

  Harris hunkered down to Talqwah.

  “I mean no disrespect and bring you no harm.”

  “You bring us our death, Lord Belmundus. You seek passage to the outlands, like the other one had. But it is not here.”

  “Lord Hierarchus was here? The Treaty has been broken before?”

  “We do not speak of him.”

  “Tell him,” Yustichisqua said. “I would do it, but I do not know.”

  Talqwah diverted his eyes from Harris.

  “He brought us much pain,” he murmured.

  Harris grasped the spooner’s shoulders.

  “I’ve seen pain, sir — much pain — here — tonight. Don’t blame others for your inability to stand up to these demons. Don’t blame me or any other.” He shook Talqwah, who scowled. “Did Lord Hierarchus break the treaty?”

  “Yes,” Talqwah growled. “But the regulati did not announce it to all Montjoy. Lord Tarhippus commanded us to silence. No more was said about it.”

  “Until now.”

  “Why have you come?” Talqwah asked, pushing back on his zulus. “Have you come to barter the zulus and make your profit? If so, give me your cargo and I shall dispose of it as I will. But leave — you and the renegade.”

  “We have come to see the Yodanado,” Yustichisqua said.

  “You want to enter the siti?” Talqwah asked. “Impossible. They will not see you. They do not bless renegades. They do not sanction the tainted.”

  “I shall see for myself.” Yustichisqua displayed his waddly wazzoo, holding it high in his left hand. In his right hand, the dagger threatened again. “I remember the way to the siti. Step aside, uncle.”

  “You would not dare,” Talqwah grumbled. “It is too close to reaptide.”

  “We do dare,” Harris replied, not having a clue where the siti was or who the Yodanado were. But Yustichisqua had a plan and it was better than arguing with an old man in a room filled with drugged Cetrone on the brink of reaptide, whatever that was. “And you shall lead us.”

  “But my lamp is . . .”

  “My light will show the way,” Yustichisqua said. “We will not leave you here to bargain with the regulati for your skin at our expense. We shall dispose of our cargo in our own way and in our own time.” Little Bird brandished the knife. “You may complain of me to the council and have me stripped and beaten, but for now, do as I say, uncle, or I will have one less relative to call me renegade.”

  Harris, shocked by Little Bird’s gumption, took up the sack and pushed the spooner forward. Talqwah reluctantly floated toward the back wall. A beaded curtain hid the way. He pushed through it, and quickly went beyond Little Bird and Harris.

  “He will escape us, oginali,” Yustichisqua said. “He has always been wily. That is why he is the yehu spooner. I will run ahead and keep him from slipping away.”

  Harris nodded and pushed through the beadwork. The room on the other side was pitch-dark. He saw the faint twinkle of Talqwah’s damaged waddly wazzoo and Yustichisqua’s brighter light pursuing. He also heard the padding of borabas. But he lost his bearings in the dark. There could be surprises which zulus would skirt, but clodhoppers could not — a box, a chair, a footstool — vermin, perhaps. He tried to keep pace, the third leg a deterrent, because it came loose and promised to trip him. Then both beacons disappeared. He panicked. He felt his way forward, one hand extended, until it hit another beaded curtain. He pushed through into light — into a larger hall.

  Yustichisqua had halted, corralling his uncle. He waited for Harris to catch up. The old spooner complained, offering several reasons not to go farther. Harris reached them, slamming the sack to the ground.

  “I can’t take this get-up anymore,” he said, wiggling out of the cloak. “And this leg is so far up my ass, I might marry it.”

  “Oginali,” Yustichisqua protested. “We need to remain Augustii spinctae to escape.”

  “Do we?”

  Little Bird considered, grinned, and then shucked his cloak also. Emerging before the spooner of the chisqua yehu were two noble specimens perfectly primed for the executioner if reaptide should sweep through.

  “That’s better,” Harris said, adjusting his sword, Stick and his Columbincus.

  He shouldered the sack again and nodded to proceed. Little Bird held high his waddly wazzoo, revealing a barrel vaulted hall, hung with triangular tiles in rainbow colors. When the light struck them, they chimed as if caught in a breeze. Talqwah sighed. Humming drifted from a distant place. Not so distant, Harris realized. Perhaps from the next hall.

  “What lies beyond that panel?” he asked Yustichisqua.

  “The siti,” Little Bird said, bowing his head. “The temple of the Yodanado — the Whisperers.”

  Talqwah trembled, shaking his head.

  “You are our undoing, Lord Belmundus,” he said. “They will not sacrifice the clan for your curiosity. Not even for two sacks of zulus.”

  “Then we shall all die together,” Harris said. “I have it on good authority that any day is as good as any other.”

  Talqwah slid the wall panel aside, revealing the siti.

 
; Chapter Five

  Whisperers and Ferrymen

  1

  Harris crossed the threshold into the siti. Although dim on the periphery, it appeared to be a rotunda with a glass dome — the material reminding him of the Gurt plastic, mopyn, because it scalloped overhead, catching the storm, the rain washing in rivers. In the siti’s center were seven conical-shapes — tepees or volcanoes, each six feet tall, topped by a sleeping head. Harris realized these were Cetrone — impressive Cetrone, their buckskins stiffly forming each cone, a banded head inanimate at the summit. Old heads and feminine.

  “The Yodanado, oginali,” Yustichisqua said. “The Whisperers, sacred to the chisqua yehu.”

  “And not to be disturbed,” Talqwah snapped. “Do so at your risk.”

  Yustichisqua ignored him, approaching the array, humbly, but with his waddly wazzoo raised. Talqwah muttered, and then turned to leave.

  “Stay,” Harris said. “If they decide to punish us, you’ll share in the pain.”

  “You are our bane, Lord Belmundus.”

  “I’ve lived so long to be so honored.”

  As the light struck the Yodanado, Harris regarded the crones — cheeks cracked and worn — lips as thick as Goodyears and hair, ashen. Each wore a different crystal at their headband’s peak. They could be sisters — weird sisters perhaps, recalling the Scottish Play, but these were seven in number — not three.

  Suddenly, one opened her eyes in a flash. Her pupils were yellowing.

  “Who calls Euforsee? Who disturbs my run with the wolves?”

  The others opened their eyes, but did not speak. Yustichisqua bowed, trembling.

  “It is I,” he stammered.

  “Yustichisqua, son of Killowa and Talapinkwalp, who left these halls to serve the Ayelli. Much I have heard about you. Much that disturbs.” She grinned. “Much that pleases.”

  “I have come to ask . . .”

  “You need not tell me. We know why you come. You have brought the interloper.”

  Harris stepped forward and bowed, assuming he had earned a new title — a dubious one, but one befitting his current treaty-breaking status.

  “I’m here, great one,” he said.

  “I am neither great nor one,” she said. “I am Euforsee, the voice of my sisters, who choose to speak through me.”

  The heads nodded in unison. Harris thought they spoke. He heard the humming again, but didn’t comprehend it. Talqwah slipped between Harris and the Yodanado.

  “Forgive me, Euforsee,” he grunted. “They forced me to show them the way. They broke my lamp.” He lifted it. “Bless it so it might be restored.”

  “Ah, spooner Talqwah. Such wounds to the lamp are hard to repair.”

  “Hard?”

  “It has been punctured by a brashun blade.”

  “Brashun?” Talqwah gasped, and looked to Yustichisqua. “What have you done?”

  Yustichisqua drew his dagger, staring at it.

  “Brashun?” he stammered. “I had no idea.”

  “It is not your blade,” Euforsee said. “It was a gift from another, who wears a sword of the same metal.”

  Harris grasped the hilt of his sword, but dared not draw it, afraid to offend the crone.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Lord Belmundus,” she replied. “Ayelli are not permitted here.”

  “I know, but something compelled me to come.”

  Suddenly, the entire Yodanado cackled, a disturbing humor, stirring fear in Harris’ soul. Was he a source of amusement? He didn’t recall telling a joke.

  “I compelled you,” Euforsee said, suddenly stern and commanding. Her crystal shone bright white. “I, Euforsee of the chisqua Yodanado compelled you to come here, as I compelled the other one to cross the Deetsuneeli. He stood where you stand now and looked into my eyes. I saw the abyss that was his soul and knew he was not the one I sought.”

  Harris came closer, the light drawing him.

  “What do you see in my eyes, Euforsee of the chisqua Yodanado?”

  “Magic,” she said. “I see the universe unleashed. I see Zacker rise and Zin fall. I see the one I seek.”

  She closed her eyes and went silent. Harris trembled. He had no idea what these words meant. However, Yustichisqua had crumbled into a heap, shivering. Harris hunkered down to him.

  “Little Bird, are you ill?”

  “Never ill, oginali. She speaks to me. She sings to my soul.”

  “Sings?”

  “She tells me to assure your safety in all things. She charges me to be your Taleenay and your Noya Tludachi.”

  “You’re that already,” Harris said.

  “Yes, by my choice. But now I am compelled to do it until I close my eyes. Until my waddly wazzoo fades into the darkness of Zin.”

  “Lord Belmundus,” Euforsee chanted above the humming and the storm. Her eyes were open again. Harris stood. “You seek a way to return to your world.”

  “Is there a portal here?”

  “No portals here except those built by the enemy, and they lead to reaptide.”

  “There must be a way back.”

  “There are many ways to return and you shall find them in time, but know this. If you seek a way home, you have already found it.”

  Harris’ hand went to the hilt of his sword — the brashun bladed gift from the Elector. The move was visceral. He could easily swing at these talking volcanoes and lopped their heads off into a sticky pile. But he stayed his hand. Disappointment caused the move. Disappointment caused him to stay it. Sadness engulfed him.

  “It is a happy time for us,” Euforsee said.

  “Happy,” Talqwah snapped. “My lamp has gone out.”

  “Fuck you, Talqwah,” Harris said, sick of the old man’s temperament. “Your lamp’s out because you were a pain in the ass. My lamp’s out because I was too dumb to zip up my fly. I would have done better to overdose on some wacky shit and be a sensational headline on Twitter.”

  Talqwah wept. Harris felt bad. He shouldn’t have taken it out on the spooner. He tapped his shoulder, trying to console him. Then he touched the dead waddly wazzoo and a spark grew from his fingertips. The light spawned an ember and the lamp sizzled — a faint kindling.

  “My lord,” Talqwah said, bowing, and then kissing Harris’ hand. “You are the bright light. You have the spark.”

  Harris sighed. He didn’t understand this, but felt a surge of unfathomable happiness.

  Euforsee spoke, her voice filling the siti, overtaking the thunder and lightning:

  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 bonds,

  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.

  Harris stood.

  “Promise and Prophecy,” he stammered.

  Then he heard a song from a remote corner of the room, the voice sweet and feminine — the tune enough to break his heart.

  In the mountain’s meadow shade,

  Sighed a sad, but lonely maid,

  Gazing at the cloudless sky,

  Dreaming worlds to multiply,

  Lighting lands with glowing love

  From the lamp of truth above.

  Faraway mountain, faraway glade,

  Sighs thi
s most unhappy maid.

  Beyond the Forling sings a heart

  From her true love far apart,