Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “By rights,” Arquebus said, “we should return Lord Belmundus to his Scepta.”

  “By what right?” Littafulchee said. “Who is to say he is not already with his Scepta?”

  Agrimentikos knelt. Harris pushed up, Yustichisqua’s ever-ready shoulder available. He stared at this woman, this gracious lady, who embodied beauty and wisdom and starch. What had she meant? It left no doubt, except, if true, his free will had flown south again. Still, he was not under interdiction — no mesmerizing jade ring. Not even the crystal compelled him. Littafulchee’s soul beckoned saying live, my love and be worthy.

  “I shall not be returning to Montjoy,” Harris announced. “At least not as an indentured servant.” Arquebus appeared disturbed by this, turning away. “I meant no insult, Sir John. Each man must find his way. Every role must fit the player. I am miscast as an Ayelli.”

  “But this one fits you better?” Arquebus asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll read the script and decide for myself. My agent’s back in California.”

  Agrimentikos laughed, rising again.

  “Your brothers Hasamun and Posan beckon us to leave,” he said. “We still search for Parnasus.”

  “Parnasus,” Harris gasped. “He’s alive?”

  “We do not know . . . Boots,” Arquebus said, grinning. He kissed Harris' forehead. “You saved my Elypticus and I thank you for it. He is the favorite of my seven. If he died, I would have sought the Pulveris Springs and wept ‘til the end of time. But you saved him and he is safe on a distant shore across the Amaykwohi Sea.”

  Harris bowed. Arquebus arose, and then stared at Yustichisqua.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was wrong to doubt your humanity.”

  Yustichisqua bowed.

  “Do not bow to me,” Arquebus said. “The Ayelli must change someday. My eyes are fully open to our awful situation. I shall await Lord Belmundus’ return.” He stared at Harris. “Play your part well and the accolades will enshrine you in the places we prize most.”

  The two consorts stood at the brink of the Gananadana. The Cabriolins swept by and they boarded. Harris scrambled painfully to the gondola’s edge. He caught his brothers’ waves — all four, surrounded by Thirdlings, who escorted the remnants of the regulati squadron over the kowlinka just as Solus and Dodecadatamus tinged the sky red.

  Chapter Five

  Dodaloo

  1

  “Dodaloo,” Tomatly shouted. He zoomed near Harris’ head, and then somersaulted to the bale, performing a midair jig. “Dodaloo.”

  Harris raised his bulk on his elbow and grinned. Despite the pain, Tomatly’s excitement was infectious.

  “Doodle-dee-loo-doo to you too,” Harris said, laughing.

  “No, oginali,” Yustichisqua said, equally excited. “He sees them.”

  “I see them. I see them.”

  Cosawta pulled hard on the rudder and roared. He sang in a booming baritone voice:

  “Pull me hard and push me soft,

  Drift we ‘neath the morning’s dew,

  Come we from the clouds aloft

  Into the air of the Dodaloo.”

  “Dodaloo. Dodaloo.” Tomatly cried.

  Littafulchee emerged from her spot aft, her buckskins gently sweeping the deck. She poised her hands, her fingers springboards.

  “Dodaloo,” she murmured, and then touched her hand to her crystal.

  Cosawta slammed one palm on the rudder, and the other to his shin. Harris thought the man would join the dance, but again, he sang.

  “Fire me high and blaze me low,

  Rise the steam of kaseegee brew,

  I, my Gananadana row,

  To my heart in the Dodaloo.”

  “Dodaloo. Dodaloo.”

  “Dodaloo,” Harris muttered, tentatively.

  Yustichisqua helped him rise to the gondola’s rim. He pointed. In the distance, a mountain range cut through the Forling.

  “Mountains,” Harris gasped.

  “The Dodaloo,” Yustichisqua explained. “The Spice Mountains.”

  “Home,” Littafulchee hummed. “Just a little way now, Lord Belmundus, and you shall see where the Cetrone have been exiled. Still, we call it home, because my father has made it so.”

  “Your father?”

  “You know of whom I speak.”

  Harris knew. He realized the Scepta and Seneschal had heard the tale of his research trip to the Cartisforium, thanks to Yustichisqua. No matter. The oil to lubricate the mysteries might flow freer without harboring secrets.

  “I do, my lady, but . . .”

  She placed her fingers to his lips and pointed toward the Dodaloo. The peaks were cloaked in blue-green mist, a haven from the Forling’s shifting red dunes.

  “There we shall see to your wound,” she said.

  “It feels better already,” he replied.

  Her perfume intoxicated him. Harris wanted to wrap his arms about her neck and cover her in kisses. But the mood was too merry — bright cheers of Dodaloo, and now a horn tooted — Tomatly producing a recorder, which the Cetrone called a yahuli. He piped a catchy tune as he continued his midair dance. To this melody Cosawta tapped on the rudder, and then on a yuyona, a tom-tom which hung from the canopy. Yustichisqua bobbed his head to the rhythm, and Harris’ heart filled with joy, something which had evaded him for some time.

  “Soon you shall see home, Yustichisqua,” Littafulchee said.

  “I have never seen it,” he replied, and then turned to Harris. “Oginali, I have heard many tales of Cetronia.”

  “You’ve sung them to me, too,” Harris said. “You serenaded me with the history of the Weeping Road, if you recall?”

  “My voice is poor compared to most,” Little Bird said. “But I look forward to hearing the sounds of Echota and of Comastee.”

  “Heigh-ho,” Cosawta shouted over the yahuli, giving two hard thumps on the yuyona. “You shall have selu gadu, Yustichisqua.”

  Yustichisqua closed his eyes, his lips puckering, his tongue moistening them with expectation.

  “Selu gadu,” he murmured. “I have only tasted it once. My mother made it.” He opened his eyes. “Oginali, the bread of Cetronia has no peer, but it is rare in the Kalugu.”

  “Illegal,” Littafulchee said. “There was a time when we grew and harvested fields of selu and pounded the ears’ yellow teeth into a fine powder to make the gadu. But the Yunockers turned the selu fields into quillerfoil, and instead of the gadu, we were forced to the sqwallen.”

  “Selu gadu,” Tomatly shouted, and then played the yahuli like a train whistle.

  “Oginali,” Yustichisqua said, lost in a memory. “I remember the day. My mother came to me and showed me a small package of yellow grain and she smiled.” He paused and sighed. “She always smiled, even in reaptide. But she said to me — Usti, Usti. This day I will find clear water and awidena fat and shall make the selu gadu.”

  “Are you talking about corn bread?” Harris asked.

  “If you say so, oginali, it is so. But it was golden and fine, and hot and creamy with awidena fat. My tongue cries for it.”

  “You shall have it again,” Cosawta shouted, banging the yuyona with rapid thumping.

  “I shall have it,” Yustichisqua said. “And you shall have some too, oginali.”

  Harris smiled. Even though his foot trobbed faster than the yuyona, he could see the anticipation in Little Bird’s eyes blending with the memory of his mother’s secret act. How many times had Harris had corn bread, corn muffins, corn cake and cornflakes and never given it another thought? But now he remembered his mother’s pumpkin pie and felt the warm charge of her absence. He hoped the selu gadu was as fulfilling as his mother’s pumpkin pie.

  “I will love every morsel,” he said to Yustichisqua.

  “It is the taste of home,” Littafulchee added, standing.

  She moved toward Tomatly, and then rested on her heels. Looking to the sky, she raised her hand in pantomime.

  “The wind calls
and the golden ears listen,” she sang.

  “The yellow teeth smile to the suns’ two eyes,

  Then the heads will nod in prayer

  To Memer Hedonacaria’s care

  Who blesses the selu on the vine

  And kisses the waters to make pure wine

  To wash the golden sands to loaves,

  And raise the gadu in our stoves.

  The hot and sweet our tongues to numb

  In the breaking of the crumb,

  Holy gadu, delighted foam,

  The gift of light, of hearth and home.”

  2

  Harris watched over the rim for as long as he could bear it. But weariness overcame him, although the Dodaloo neared. His eyes drooped and the pain returned. He worried about the wound. He would think the throbbing would subside under Littafulchee’s care. However, the foot was bluish and the skin around the punctures still oozed, despite the a fresh bandage and a healthful application of sqwallen. Even the pilocarpinus, which Littafulchee insisted he drink, only made him wearier. So, with the mountains coming ever closer, he slumped to slumber, the horn and drum drifting to white noise. When he awoke, the aroma of pine engulfed him.

  “The Forling is past,” Littafulchee said. “We are in the Dodaloo.”

  Harris sat up, too quickly, his affliction reminding him that the mat was his friend. Still, he wanted to see the change of scenery. Yustichisqua stood nearby, his face rapt with wonder. Harris could see the landscape across Little Bird’s cheeks — the purity of waterfalls cascading down precipitous crevices into pure pools of light. He could see the conifers dancing in Yustichisqua’s eyes and the excitement of hawks hunting over boughs and streams. Then Yustichisqua turned and smiled at Harris.

  “Old man,” Harris stammered, and then nodded.

  Yustichisqua came to him, extending his arms.

  “Oginali, you cannot miss this wonder, even if I hold you on my shoulders.”

  Harris pushed up painfully. Littafulchee hoisted, while Yustichisqua pulled. Then Cosawta gave them a boost, which did the trick. He didn’t stay beside them, the Gananadana more dependant now on a keen rudder. Harris gripped the gondola’s rim and gazed at the panorama. Mist hugged the valleys, the taller trees poking above the fog. The natural cloak kept much of this universe in mystery, but ahead was a craggy peak — shaped like a wizard’s cap. Several other mountains hugged this ridge forming a chain, which melted into the smoky curtain.

  “Mount Talasee,” Littafulchee said. “It can be seen from all points of Cetronia, and throughout the Dodingdaten.”

  “It’s magnificent.”

  “So thought my father, but it is also precipitous and hides its secrets from us.”

  Harris had questions now, but the sheer wonder before his eyes dashed them into the spleen.

  The gondola creaked scaling the heights toward Mount Talasee. The air chilled and the fresh pine aromas blended with juniper and a hint of frost. Harris enjoyed the breeze’s cool blanket because he was off-and-on feverish. Then the Gananadana descended into a valley. As it came across a verdant ravine, a rainbow sprang from the highlands to the rocky cleavage. His anticipation grew. Yustichisqua fidgeted, hopping around the gondola’s rim, looking over the side, enjoying the rush of a river below. Then the aromas changed to sweet baking.

  “Heaven touches me,” Harris said, inhaling.

  “We are not far now,” Littafulchee said. “Echota is over the next crest.”

  The balloon glided through the ravine, the cargo bay mirrored in the rushing stream. The ravine gave way to an expanse, the land falling away into the valley. The waters crashed below in a thin ribbon to a pristine pool. And beyond that, Harris spotted the town — a cluster of tumblers, roofs reminding him of the kaleezos, only brilliantly decorated with symbols — line drawings, heralding to the sky a union of spirit and reason. Far to the west (or east, if Farn held true), another rambling of towers and tumblers stood.

  “Comastee,” Littafulchee said. “The colony town, and beyond this, the infringers — the Fumarca of the Dodingdaten.”

  Harris strained to see the Dodingdaten, a place paramount in his interests. However, it was too distant. Perhaps in the mist he spotted a rampart, but it might have been another ridge. He returned his attention to the approaching Echota, his heart settling his pain. He wanted to land this great behemoth — this big fucking balloon, and have a decent meal of whatever crawled out of the mountains, and wash it down with a cup of whatever blended with the pristine pool. And the selu gadu. Yes, the merry bread of the Cetrone. Then he heard music on the air. Bright and rhythmic. It toyed with his lips and buzzed his ear.

  “Birdsong?” he asked Littafulchee.

  “Bird and bear and dog and tree and blue,” she said. “The clans have gathered.”

  “They have spied the Gananadana,” Cosawta said. “Yes, we shall have a splendid welcome — a big fucking fuss.”

  “As it should be, brother,” Littafulchee said, smiling gently at the Echota roofs. “As it should be for our homecoming.”

  3

  High over the trees they came — came to the song of a hundred yuyona. The home fires burned and the voices rose in welcome — sweet tones of praise pouring from heart into throats. Over the kaleezo roofs they flew — roofs red, roofs yellow and purple and tan and, the highest and most rotund, those blue for the seegoniga clan. Finally, they settled softly in the plaza, the Gananadana caught by a hundred hands, hitching and guiding it. Then the music swept Harris to a moment of ecstasy.

  The Cetrone formed lines grouped by clan. First came the alisoqua, the bear clan in their rich yellow robes and feather bonnets. They spun and sang, some on zulus, others not. They waved their waddly wazzoos wildly about the base of the Gananadana. Then came the chisqua, the bird clan in red shirts and cream white skirts, strumming the great bellied guitars — the Boboli dikano geesti, singing enchantingly. Yustichisqua squeezed Harris’ shoulder at the sight of his clansmen. Then the yahuli band tooted clarion blasts as the geetli, the dog clan swept in, trailing purple cloaks and hoops, which they spun around their waists like dervishes. The music switched to a stately march, accompanied by the golden voices of the tlugu, the tree clan, dressed in soft tan buckskins laced with silver bells, tingling on the wind. This heralded the royal clan, the blue holly — seegoniga, in shimmering turquoise gowns and garters of golden feathers. Egret headdress’ blew in the breeze as the seegoniga swung their waddly wazzoos. The harmony of light brought all the clans to the dance, people branded by the gollywi, the proud sigils of birth and ritual. Such did the Cetrone greet their Scepta and Seneschal home.

  Harris clutched Tony and his Columbincus. He wanted to join in the singing, the dancing and the rich assortment of instrumental expressions, but all he could do was take it in — take it to his heart. These were the downtrodden of Farn, enslaved in the Kalugu, ground to dust by the Yunockers and subservient to the Ayelli. These were the people in their exile, but people still — rich in culture and tradition. These were the people standing about the Gananadana to hail their royalty, and he, Lord Belmundus — the Enemy, stood in their midst. He felt embraced, but also a prisoner again — drawn by different passions into this feathery, watery, breezy world of music and baking aromas. Harris Cartwright had arrived in Echota.

  Cosawta leaped to the bale and stretched his arms, embracing the air. The Cetrone ceased their singing and dancing, bowing curtly at the waist, one foot forward, their hands extended. Harris had never witnessed this brand of homage. He had seen the Cetrone bow — always bowing, but in subservience to overlords. What did that bow mean if this one was the true bow of respect?

  “Brothers and sisters,” Cosawta shouted. “We have come again on the wings of the Gananadana, our belly filled with aniniya for the cause. And I bring other treasures.”

  He pointed to Harris.

  Harris thought Cosawta was indicating Littafulchee, but she stirred, taking Harris’ elbow, guiding him upright, Yustichisqua on his other fla
nk. Harris was at a loss. He was caught by a thousand eyes, who regarded him anxiously. He tried to bow, but Littafulchee tightened her grip and he stopped midgesture.

  “This is Lord Belmundus,” she said. “He is Ayelli.”

  The crowd gasped in unison. Eyes averted in puzzlement.

  “He has the spark,” Cosawta said. “And he is our friend.”

  A great ahhhh floated across the plaza.

  “Who shall tell Enitachopco of our return?” Cosawta bellowed.

  Three chisqua stepped forward, bowed their special bow and departed.