Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Perhaps I’ll make it to Cetronia by Christmas,” he said, and zipped out of the Cabriolin

  Zulu travel was slow, by comparison, but slow-go was better than no-go on any day. The heat raged now, so he adjusted the cloak to cover his head. The jupsim was insulation still — no air conditioning, but cooler by any standard. The dunes were high. Without the zulus, he would have taken all morning just to clear one. As it was, the weight of the korinkle and the skins kept him low to the ground. In fact, as he reached the crest, he wasn’t sure he’d clear it. He stopped to survey the landscape from here.

  He sighed. Dune after dune and nothing more. No mountains in the distance and he was far from Montjoy’s walls — a good thing perhaps, but it completed his solitary confinement. His foot ached and the slight hum of the zulus made his soles itch. He was thirsty, but didn’t want to guzzle the wine or the booze, fearing depletion and perhaps unwanted drunkenness. Water’s what he needed, because he sweated profusely, even under the jupsim cloak.

  Down this dune and up the next and down and up — countless times. Each dune was much like the next. One thing absent were the critters. Perhaps he had ventured into a zone even the fauna shunned. As he pondered this, the answer came to him — all at once. He reached the bottom of a dune — a valley with many blind spots — boulders and scrub. He thought it would be a good time to rest, when from beneath him, a claw rushed up — a porcorporian, which had patiently waited for room service. If Harris was lucky, he could have veered aside and avoided the mandible, but no such luck. Surprise was complete and his foot — the bum left one, was caught in the creature’s claw. Agony.

  Harris tumbled over, the korinkle flung to the dunes and Tony tossed aside. The awidena skins crashed to the ground, splitting open, the wonderful liquor feeding the red sand. Harris choked back tears. He wiggled his foot, but it was snagged. He reached for Tony, but it was beyond him.

  Dragged. The porcorporian tugged Harris, but he turned over on his back and, with his phitron boot, slammed the beast in the nose — if it was a nose. It winced, loosening its grip. Harris was still stuck, but another twist of his foot and the makeshift ties on the zulu fell away, leaving the porcorporian with an aniniya sandal, and nothing more, Harris scrabbled through the sand, reaching Tony. But the porcorporian attacked.

  Harris stood, barely balancing on one foot, wielding his sword with both hands. He struck the thing, drawing green blood. It was maimed, but still determined to feed. It made a clicking sound — enragement, no doubt. Harris prepared to engage the thing again, but soon had double trouble. Two tludachi roared from the dunes. They galloped down, the red sand puffing before them, their saber teeth bared for the attack. Harris prepared to greet them with Tony. He struck his Columbincus trying to coax the brashun blade to shoot fire or brimstone or just a projection to scare the damn things away. He would have settled for old I Luv Lucy reruns. Nothing. He raised the sword. At least he’d get the lead tludachi and perhaps that would deter its partner. But as the beast approached, a shadow cast over them. A pair of tusks ripped through the lead Tygger, and a trunk dispatched the other. Another shadow stomped, and the porcorporian was pulverized beneath a gigantic stump.

  Harris stood transfixed, his mouth agape, Tony loose in his hand. He looked up at this newcomer, his breath hitching, trying to determine whether this was still a contest for dinner. The pain in his foot flew up his thigh to his groin and his belly. He was overcome and tottered. The beast cast a wide shadow over him as he collapsed in a full-fledged swoon.

  The Tippagore had arrived.

  Chapter Two

  Shades of Yorick

  1

  Pain’s reality stirred Harris from another dreamless sleep. He had vague recollections of night’s passage and another sunsrise. His head wasn’t clear. He sat in the sand, brushing his cloak and clutching first Tony, and then his Columbincus.

  “The korinkle,” he stammered, and then swept the ground. Then he remembered. “Lost. And my wisgi.”

  He had a raging thirst, which matched his utter pain — the foot throbbing, so much so he could see it pulsating, blackening under a roadmap of veins. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and then looked about. In the distance he saw the bull Tippagore, an apartment house-size beast, filtering the sand for nourishment, much like a whale filters plankton. Then he heard a grunt, turned and saw the bigger member of the species — the female, as tall as the bull, but like a freight train. Her tusks and horns blazed in the sunslight. At first Harris panicked, remembering the power of these beasts and their crushing defeat of the other critters. However, when his eyes met the female’s, he knew. This was the Mama Tippagore — the one he had saved from Kuriakis’ staff. She must have found herself another mate, because her sheltering shell protected a new crop of Tippababies. Yes, this was the one, and she remembered.

  “Damn,” Harris said, managing to rise painfully. He bowed, and the beast nodded. “You remember me, my lady. You do. Well, speak of casting bread upon the waters.”

  This loaf had returned ninety fold, like a freight train. She returned the favor, saving his life. He bowed again.

  “I thank you.”

  The Tippagore nodded again and moo’d — a deep moan, melodious and befitting a Valkyrie, but Harris couldn’t recall a sweeter thank you in his life. Suddenly, the pain shot to his knee and he keeled over, using Tony to keep him from plowing into the dune. His thirst overcame him and he began to choke. Madame Tippagore swayed in alarm and called to her mate, who answered with a booming hark. Then the female moved toward Harris. He thought she might accidentally crush him with good intentions. He pushed back, falling on his rump. Mama beast raised her foot, flipping her shaggy shell up, revealing the latest crop of pups, all drinking copious amounts of Tippamilk. Harris staggered. He couldn’t believe the intent. She had extended an invitation.

  Slowly, he crept, hopping on one zulu, dragging his gasuntsgi foot behind him like a Somerset-Maugham throwback. As he approached, he gazed into the beast’s eyes — beautifully blue and tender. He shuffled beneath the moving tent. The babies had hooked their adolescent tusks to Mama’s hide, and sucked her teats like lords and ladies at a banquet table. He glanced back at Mama, and she waggled her head — a clear be my guest.

  Harris slipped beneath the shag, and once there, the rug engulfed him. He tried to find purchase to steady himself, but he didn’t have tusks. But he did have Tony.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered, and then slid Tony into a flap of flesh. Mama groaned, but didn’t evict him. “Gracious lady. Gracious, gracious lady.”

  Once in position, Harris hooked his arm around Tony’s hilt. The flap tightened. The stench was akin to the monkey house at the zoo, but he had tolerated the indelicate odor of charpgris, so he could survive this. He heard the array of babies sucking and moaning with delight. The thought of being weaned at his age was not so terrible considering his thirst. He felt for the nipple, Tony’s glow guiding his hands.

  “Big,” he murmured, squeezing, a warm thick trickle coursing his cheeks.

  Harris kissed it, and then engorged this wonder of nature, which saved his life. Mama grunted, trumpeting her approval.

  2

  Swaying. Gentle swaying rocked this new found baby — this waif cast upon the Forling sea. As the cow trundled the red sands, like a ship upon the waves, Harris found comfort. Even his foot seemed to throb less. The drink had been sweet and he had had his fill of it. His stomach growled less, although a rumble danced through his bowels, perhaps in thanks. He still heard his brothers and sisters caressing Mama’s wonders. He was in heaven. Perhaps he had died and this was heaven — his reincarnation as a beast. For the first time in some while, he dreamed — pleasant remembrances of his sister at play and his mother sitting on the pier in Santa Monica, the sun blazing over her floppy hat. Then the wind blew and she held the rim. Humphrey, she called. Don’t go too far. I’ll take you on the Ferris Wheel in a moment, dear. Just let me rest here. The sun is warm and feels
good. Be good for Mama. Be good.

  “I am good, Mama,” Harris murmured, his eyes half-shut in Tony’s glare. “Mama.”

  He had a new Mama now, at least for the moment — a day and a night, as she trundled over dune and valley, filtering the sand bugs and digesting the source of the sweet milk, which gave him life. He caressed her, kissing her, ashamed he had pierced her with his blade. But he felt stronger now, although he didn’t want to leave her shelter, but he had no choice, because the swaying ceased, and the flap opened. The suns’ glare near blinded him, but he released his legs and tumbled to the sand, taking Tony with him. His foot ached, but the pain seemed less. It was still useless to propel him far. He limped severely, but managed to come face to face with the Tippagore.

  Both beasts were there — the cow mooing, the bull snorting. Harris bowed awkwardly to both. He couldn’t thank them enough, nor would thanks be appropriate, because these creatures had returned a favor. But Harris wasn’t sure if he was part of a new family or whether this was where the train stopped. Then, the bull reared and spit, a chunk of flesh falling at Harris’ feet. He jumped back, nearly falling. It was a leg bone and haunch, chewed at the edges, but with enough skin and fur to be identified.

  “Tludachi,” Harris muttered, cautiously approaching it.

  The haunch had enough meat on it for a small village, but there was also rot. The bull nodded, and then turned away, seeking its meal of choice — microscopic critters in the sand. Harris speculated. porcorporians probably ambushed the tludachi and feasted until Mr. Tippagore chased them off, harvesting a haunch for his human guest. Harris crouched beside it. He reached under the skin, a mass of sinew and muscle — not appetizing. But he knew if he didn’t imitate an animal and chomp down, he’d be dead by tomorrow. So, he knelt, bringing his face to the shin. He gagged, a stench so foul to conjure outhouse images. He started with a lick, his tongue stretched and trembling, if a tongue could tremble. The taste was metallic, but he had got to first base, so he dipped his face close, his nose poking through the sinews. Putrid. It was like diving head first into a dumpster. Then he counted mentally to ten and bit down, ripping a chunk of flesh and skin and fur, a flag waggling from his teeth. He chewed and choked. He swallowed a little, the gristle stopping in his throat. He shook his head, his eyes tearing. His chest heaved and he spewed the slop to the red sand. He coughed and spit, holding his stomach.

  “Great,” he gasped. “Now I’ve got a belly to match my fucking foot.”

  He looked back at the haunch and choked again. But as he held his chest, the Columbincus shone brightly and, as if answering it, Tony lit like a candle. Harris grasped the hilt, amazed at this action. Then he plunged the brashun blade into the haunch, where it smoldered. A few minutes later, he had roast tludachi and settled down to a meal.

  3

  Harris never returned to the Tippagore’s hospitable teat. Water would be a problem, but he managed to wring enough blood from the haunch to satisfy his needs for the evening. When the Tippagores moved on, however, he packed as much meat as he could carry, using the jupsim cloak as a makeshift korinkle, and followed them. They were easy to lumber behind, because . . . they lumbered. He hoped the bull might scavenge another meal for him, but he supposed he could spear something with Tony, now that he could get it to throw a flame. It wasn’t much of a flame, but it was a start and could boil water for tea if he should happen to meet Thomas Lipton. If pressed, he was not above flirting with Mama to see if the flap would rise and the milk bar open again. More important, the Forling fauna stayed clear of the Tippagores.

  A passing exigency, Harris tried to plan his next move, but it wasn’t promising. The beasts were slow and didn’t seem to belong to a herd. There was no Tippatown on this map. They were also moving in a circle. Solus and Dodecadatamus indicated the mountains were in the opposite direction. The priority, however, was the foot. It flared at least ten times a day, forcing Harris to pretzel in agony. But he did attempt to activate the sole remaining zulu. At first, it was an idiot’s effort, like riding a pogo stick in the mud. But after two days of trying, Harris could stay aloft on one zulu like the clown on the unicycle. Unfortunately, the minute the rabbit-bitten foot flared, the pain would knock him asunder and he’d need to rest after each episode.

  For four days, Harris semihovered and crunched behind the Tippagores. Then the liquids ran out and the thirst returned. The meat was gone the next day. He began to fall behind, and then he could no longer keep his balance on the zulu. He thought to use Tony to cauterise the wound. Cutting his foot off was an option. If he could withstand the pain and not pass out, cauterization would be a blessing. Then the pain would pass and so would this wild thinking. As he fell farther behind, his new family didn’t wait. They accepted the inevitable. So did he. That night he saw eyes flashing in the darkness and knew the margin grew wide and the critters were here.

  “So, this is how it ends,” he said to the dawn, with no Tippagore in sight.

  He glanced to the dunes. His thirst pinched his throat. His stomach belched fire. His foot went beyond pain. Then he saw the eyes — the flashing nearby. Tludachi or gasuntsgi, he wasn’t sure. He knew it wasn’t a porcorporian. Those bastards would come at him from beneath the sand and go for the belly. Perhaps it was a new terror. He stared at the eyes, and then realized they pulsed. His Columbincus seemed to answer them. His curiosity piqued. So he tried to get to his zulu and meet this new horror head on.

  Surprisingly, the zulu held him and he slowly cruised to a cleft in the dune, the red sand shifting over a clump wedged beneath it. He hopped to the ground and crawled toward it.

  “Damn,” he stammered. “I know this.”

  He touched his Columbincus, and then scrambled to the mound, clearing it with his hands. He gasped, sitting back. It was a skeleton — rib cage. Tludachi? A meal, perhaps?

  “No,” he said. “Human and . . .”

  His fingers pried through the cavity. He brushed the sand from the spine. A skull rolled to his knees. He stopped it from rolling down the dune. He lifted it briefly, and then thrust his hand into the rib cage, grasping the pulsating gem which he had mistaken for an eye. It was . . . a Columbincus. He raised it to the light, examining it.

  “The Eye and two wavy lines,” he muttered, and then looked to the skull. “So here you are . . . Lord Hierarchus.” He sighed. “Here you are and . . . and here am I.”

  4

  Harris drew the skull to his chest, hugging it close. He began to weep, rocking as he sobbed. He stared at the skeleton and the flickering of the Columbincus clutched in his hand. The road had ended. The desert’s expanse had claimed him as it had his predecessor. He wondered what Hierarchus looked like, now as he embraced his skull. Images of youth and slyness overcame him. The impurities of existence washed through his soul. Here was a man with the spark, but the spark didn’t keep him from this finality.

  Harris rocked, gasping. He licked the tears from his cheeks and shook his head.

  “I don’t want to die,” he muttered, the full force of the Forling pressing his mind. “I don’t.”

  Then he looked to the sky and shouted:

  “I’m only nineteen, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want to die. I don’t . . .”

  His throat clogged and he dropped the skull. Tears prevented him from watching it roll.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t want to . . . die.”

  Then anger replaced abandonment and, despite the pain, he stood, wiping his nose and his eyes. He faltered, unsteady on the dune. He glanced down. The rib cage still flickered. He swallowed hard, and then poked through the cavity, where another object lay near the surface. He grasped it and yanked. Glowing in his hand was a brashun blade, a twin to Tony.

  “His sword,” Harris stammered, still sniffing. “Much good it did him.”

  Still, he raised it to the sky as if to pierce the suns.

  “I shall call you Hierarchus, doomed though I be.”

  His hand trembled. He glanced at the s
econd Columbincus again and decided to snap it beside his own. The clasp was sticky, but he had acquired the knack, and clasped it beneath its twin. Then both Columbincus’ flashed. He had never seen such a reaction from his. Tony also flashed, as did Hierarchus. Suddenly, Harris was spun about like a firecracker, falling to the sand. He retrieved the second sword, because he had dropped it, and when he scrambled for it, the brooch ceased to glow. However, he no longer wore two Columbincus’. Instead, he had an enormous sapphire-colored gem pulsating on a single brooch — a double stone. The prospects scared him, fearing he had somehow polluted his own lifeline. Then he remembered he hadn’t much life left. He sat with a thump beside the remains of his predecessor and looked to the sky again. The dust had kicked up and visibility dwindled. A glimmer of hope crossed his mind and he longed for his surrogate family — the Tippagores. So he rolled to his knees, secured his scant truck and switched on the zulu to begin a painful descent. When he passed the skull, he felt like kicking it like a soccer ball, but he hadn’t a free foot for it.