Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “We need Nayowee,” Littafulchee announced. “Lord Belmundus has sacrificed much to come. While crossing the Yinaga, he was attacked by gasuntsgi. He harbors their fire.”

  Another gasp, and three alisoqua stepped forward, performed the bow and departed.

  “Send a light to Comastee,” Cosawta said. “Bring a flame to the Dodingdaten. Tell the peoples of Watoge and Nuckasee that the time has come. Announce to the Toqua and the Sittiquo that we prepare to fulfill our destiny. Let Keowee and Tricentee join the council. The day has come and soon the skies above Mount Talasee will fill with new birds to cross the Yinaga and return our children home.”

  The drumming recommenced — the dancing too. The plaza moved to a joyous choreography — moves developed in the dim dawn of time and learned from the cradle. The dance flared capes and skirts. Feathers flew to the high trees.

  Harris was overwhelmed. He trembled, held upright only by Littafulchee and Yustichisqua’s tight grip.

  “You must not fall,” Littafulchee whispered. “Your ease is coming, but until then, you must let your double Columbincus shine above their celebrations.”

  “I will try,” Harris replied. It was becoming an effort now. Then, while he watched the enthusiasm of the clans and their celebration, he had a perilous thought. “Am I on the menu?”

  Littafulchee chuckled.

  “You have already been consumed, my love,” she said. “That happened when you stepped into Mortis House. You have been a mighty feast since.”

  Tomatly buzzed about distributing the Gananadana’s waddly wazzoos to their proper owners — the royal crew and Yustichisqua. The lamps flared at their owner’s touch. Then, through the hurley-burley in the plaza, the three alisoqua returned, their feather bonnets shaking as they ran, a stretcher held between them. Behind, hobbling on a cane, came an old woman — seegoniga by her dress. Her hair was gray and long, partially sweeping the ground. She used her stick to clear the way, her hand waving away dancers.

  “Is this my ride?” Harris asked.

  “It is,” Littafulchee said, as the stretcher was set before the Gananadana, the three bearers kneeling.

  The old woman marched over the litter to the edge of the gondola. She bowed, almost imperceptibly, because she was so bent as to be bowed already.

  “Lord Cosawta,” she muttered, her voice like a shop saw. “I have been summoned.”

  “If you please, holy Nayowee,” Cosawta replied, “we seek your hospitality.”

  He indicated Harris, who nodded. Nayowee turned sharply toward Harris, shaking her cane in his direction.

  “Come forward, you of the Ayelli,” she rasped.

  Harris tried to walk, but the foot was paralyzed. Yustichisqua propped him up, while Tomatly led the way, his waddly wazzoo trailing a gentle gray smoke. Littafulchee moved Harris forward, slowly. Nayowee impatiently banged her cane on the stretcher.

  “Here, here,” she said. “Put him here.”

  Cosawta stepped forward now, his waddly wazzoo brightest of all. The crowd hummed, a soft hymn thrumming the air. Harris felt it as balm. He looked at the stretcher, which beckoned him to rest and slumber. He gazed into Nayowee’s terrible eyes. They were crimson and sap green and her nose was as crooked as an eel. He had glimmers of being baked in an oven like Hansel and Gretel. As he approached the stretcher, the voices grew louder, the song forming a relentless melody — a short tune of five or six notes, repeated over and over in graceful beauty.

  “Easy, my love,” Littafulchee said, helping Harris to the stretcher.

  “I am here, oginali,” Yustichisqua whispered. “I will not leave you. I will not, and I say true.”

  Harris grasped Little Bird’s hand. The world was in that hand. He felt drowsy as Nayowee stuck her face in his, her blunt breath as sappy as her eyes. She examined his mouth, and then his arms, and then touched his Columbincus.

  “Yes, yes,” she muttered. “This will help you fine. But for this, you would not be here in Nayowee’s care.”

  “Do you say true?” Harris muttered.

  Nayowee looked to Littafulchee.

  “He speaks like one of us,” she cackled.

  “He is one of us,” Littafulchee said. “Holy Nayowee, save this one . . . for me. Save this one.”

  “Ah,” she said, continuing her examination. “I see the situation. Gasuntsgi or no gasuntsgi. This one has been bitten where he already mends and, under such auspices, miracles can be performed, my lady.” She suddenly looked toward Cosawta. “We go to the asi-asa. But I am tired and it is far for me to walk after my coming. I am not usually summoned, you know.”

  Cosawta bowed — the special bow, and raised Nayowee in his arms, her cane braced on his back, her long tresses trailing in the dust.

  “To the asi-asa,” she growled.

  The song continued as the alisoqua raised the stretcher and carried Harris behind Cosawta and his human cargo. Harris felt the world fading — the melody of six notes bathing him in light and slumber as the stretcher swayed.

  “I am here, oginali,” came the voice, now in a dream.

  “Do you . . . say . . . true?”

  “I say true. I say true.”

  Chapter Six

  The Asi-asa

  1

  Harris awoke, surprised that he had. His dreams were filled with color and music and no more. Faces eluded him. Voices, if he could remember them, babbled in Cetrone. He seemed to rock in the Gananadana again, but the sights were vacuous — the aromas, smoky. When his eyes opened, he saw a smoky canopy above him — a conical tent, which barreled down to form a rotunda, lit at intervals by waddly wazzoos. His chest heaved, drawing in the sweet lingering smoke.

  “Yustichisqua,” he muttered, turning his head, looking for Little Bird.

  “Yustichisqua,” came a gravelly voice. “Be still, and make no fuss.”

  It was the old woman, who hovered beside him, her spidery fingers twisting a nest of kindling, the smoke weaving between her knuckles. She blew the smoke toward him.

  “Inhale it,” she said. “Take it in your chest and let it do its work.”

  Harris resisted at first, because the smoke was like drinking pure honey. But it was too heavy to be resisted. Soon, he breathed easily and felt its wondrous power.

  “My foot?” he stammered, suddenly realizing he couldn’t feel it. “My foot?”

  “It is still there, you gosaka gaheeni,” she cackled. “Although you should be concerned, I suppose. I thought to chop it off and make your toes into a necklace. Now, that would make Nayowee’s day, to have a chain of Ayelli toes dangling from her gobbler’s neck.” She laughed again, and blew more smoke at him. “Be easy, Lord of the Spark. Nayowee is a good and loyal subject of Zacker. When a Scepta pleads for something precious to her, I oblige.” She frowned. “But it took much of my effort to allow your foot to remain. Sad to say, it will never be as it was, to run and hop and play at your Ayelli games. No, no. But it will take your weight again, once your vitals are restored to balance. Inhale. Breathe Nayowee’s smoke and the ages shall kiss you with their healing, they will.”

  Harris found himself floating again — the Gananadana swaying above the Forling, then into Dodaloo, and then onto the plaza. He heard the clan chants greeting their leaders home. Pleasant visions now — not just colors and vaporous aromas, but sweetness and warmth. He drifted and slept, locked in another world entirely. Such was Nayowee’s cure.

  2

  When Harris’ eyes opened again, the asi-asa was dim, the smoke dissipating. He was groggy, but his breathing had improved. He had to pee — fiercely. Yustichisqua was there on cue, without being called.

  “Are you better, oginali?” Little Bird asked, anxiously. “Your color is better.”

  “I need to pee, old man.”

  “Again?”

  Again? Harris thought. But he supposed Little Bird had accommodated him while he slept.

  “Help me up.”

  “No need.”

  Yustichisqua s
lid a porcelain pot under the blanketing, and Harris found heaven. As he sighed in relief, Yustichisqua fumbled with a parcel, anxious to show Harris its contents.

  “I’m finished,” Harris said. “What do you have there?”

  Yustichisqua slipped the pot out, covering it with gauze. Then he wiped his hands and raised a golden loaf of bread above his head as if it were a prize.

  “Selu gadu,” he announced. “It is still warm.”

  Harris pushed up, his lips moistening as he drank in the aroma of sweet corn. Yustichisqua broke off a piece, and then broke that piece in two. He slathered the two halves with a buttery substance, and then bowed to it. He handed one half to Harris, but held his hand up.

  “Do not eat yet, oginali.”

  Harris just wanted to pop it in his mouth and savor it, but Little Bird raised his waddly wazzoo, shining the lamp over the bread.

  “Selu awudoli sgi-aniyo lunikwo, arkmo.”

  Harris blinked.

  “Arkmo,” Little Bird prodded.

  “Amen,” Harris said, and then without further delay, wolfed the bread. “Yes, yes. It’s everything you said it would be.”

  “There is plenty, oginali. You can eat it slowly and there will still be more.”

  Harris grinned, golden crumbs pouring from his maw. They laughed.

  “Up,” Nayowee cried. “If you can devour selu gadu obscenely and find a moment of merriment, you cannot be loitering in my asi-asa.”

  The old woman thrust her fist into the selu gadu, taking a huge chunk and gobbling it, her several teeth managing fine.

  “You are to leave here, oginali,” Yustichisqua explained. “A kaleezo has been prepared for us.”

  Harris gazed to his foot. It looked like a piece of alabaster, but he wiggled his toes. The pain had subsided, but full feeling had not returned.

  “Am I healed?”

  “No,” Nayowee rasped; “You shall never be fully healed. You should be dead, you should. But I am the best healer in Farn and when my lady asks me to keep you alive, I will oblige her.”

  Nayowee hovered over the foot, poking it with her stick.

  “You exhausted my stock of pulverkempin and ruptus weed. Very rare and hard to find.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Lord Cosawta will need to ascend Mount Talasee to replenish my supply.”

  Harris bowed.

  “How can I repay you, my lady?”

  “Do not call me a lady, fine stick of an Ayelli. I am a potter’s daughter from the extinct kibanaquo clan. The seegoniga have adopted me, and they remind me of the fact every chance they get. Royal mucketymucks. Never a moment out of their sight.” She waved her hand dismissively. “As for payment, I shall send you a gufawpup, payment upon receipt. Now, get up and let me see how you fare.”

  She poked him with her cane. Yustichisqua helped him to his feet. Harris was dizzy — to be expected after the ordeal. He couldn’t tell whether his foot held him or not, because he couldn’t feel it. He knew it was there, but it tingled slightly and was wooden. He tried to take a step and almost fell.

  “Steady, oginali. I shall catch you.”

  “Let him fall, if he must,” Nayowee said. “He shall be a mass of bruises before the week is out. You must fashion a cane for him.”

  “A cane?” Harris muttered. “I don’t want to walk like . . .”

  “Like an old woman?” Nayowee cackled. “I have managed for over a thousand years and have used this cane for half that time.” She turned to Yustichisqua. “Fashion a cane to make him proud. One he can use to bash over your head when you fail to bring him his pot.”

  “I am his Taleenay, not his Trone,” Little Bird snapped.

  “Is that what they call it now? Fancy words. Well, who am I to stop the course of fancy words. Just make it so or I will show you how I make a Taleenay hee-haw like an assinoki.”

  Yustichisqua buttressed Harris, and then nudged him toward a bench.

  “Sit and rest.”

  “He has been resting for too long,” Nayowee said. “It is best he practices how to use his gammers.”

  “How long have I been resting?” Harris asked.

  “Long enough.”

  “For thirty-seven moons’ rises, oginali.”

  “Thirty-seven days?” Harris took a step, and tottered to the bench, landing on his ass, barely. “I’ve been out of it for over a month?”

  “You have been tended well,” Nayowee said. “And many have come and gone through this asi-asa, cooing and blowing smoke on your behalf. I have not had a moment’s rest.” Nayowee pushed her face into his. “When I first saw your foot, I was overjoyed. Long I had wanted a necklace of Ayelli toes. If the seegoniga did not regard you as a lost treasure, I would have saved your foot, but taken those toes.” She swept her hands to his feet. “Maybe two . . . as payment.”

  “Leave my fucking toes alone.”

  “You say that now, but for many days and nights I had the opportunity.” She clutched her chest. “It would have been a fine necklace hanging between these ancient breasts. They would call me fashionable again. But . . . but I shall be compensated in better ways. So keep your toes, and be gone with you.”

  Harris shook his head. He didn’t know whether to take these words for truth or bandied bullshit. He was overwhelmed by questions.

  “Where is your cousin, Yustichisqua?”

  “Which?”

  “Littafulchee.”

  “Ah. She is waiting in the kaleezo.”

  “Waiting for me?”

  “I am not sure what she does. She is always a mystery to me. As for Cosawta, he waits outside.”

  “Visitors,” Nayowee said. “Always visitors.”

  “He has come daily to see you, oginali. You are awake now and should see him.”

  “I cannot keep him out,” Nayowee said. “You — Taleenay, tell them to come in and be brief. Take the piss pot out with you.”

  “Them?” Harris asked.

  “He comes with others,” Little Bird said.

  Yustichisqua retrieved the selu gadu, placing it on the bench, and then gathered the pot, pushing past the old woman, who snarled at him.

  “Yes, Lord Belmundus, your Taleenay will make you a fine cane, I am sure of it.”

  Harris pressed his left hand to his Columbincus and his other to Tony, which trailed beside his good leg. Nayowee hobbled to a large cauldron at the opposite end of the asi-asa. There she chanted prayers and threw scraps of meat into the roiling liquid. Harris glanced down at his toes and shook his head, thinking of the weenies his mother used to throw into the bean pot. He was glad to have his toes, useless or not — better on his foot than in a stew or around the crone’s wrinkled neck.

  3

  Cosawta entered the asi-asa, ducking to avoid hitting his headdress on the door flap. Two shorter men walked beside him, removing their hats and waving them beneath their noses — a sweat house not much to their custom, Harris supposed. They were dressed the same, like barkers at a fair — dirty plaid trousers, sweaty white high collared-shirts, and skimmers, which they now briskly waved to clear the air of smoke.

  “Not much of a bed sit here,” one said. He sported a handlebar mustache, unkempt and dotted with undergrowth. “Bit of a Dunny, I’d say.”

  “No Dunny budgies, I was hoping. But one can’t say it,” replied the other, clean of mustache, but heavily pocked on one cheek.

  Odd fellows.

  Harris wondered what language they spoke. It had a British twang, but the words were foreign. Cosawta swept his hand in a gesture of welcome, but more as a presentation element.

  “This is Lord Belmundus, lads,” he said. “Best fucking find in Farn.”

  The two gents cocked their heads — each in a different direction, and then looked to each other, before returning their skimmers to their heads, and doffing them like gentlemen in waiting.

  “I’ll be Gobsmacked,” Mr. Mustache said. “If it isn’t London to a brick.”

  “As sure as me old Fella finds it a piece of
piss,” Mr. Smoothie said.

  Both bowed, and came forward. Harris lurched back, because they stank of rum and body odor. Evidently, wherever Cosawta dug these fellows up, they didn’t believe in a bath. Of course, Harris sat in a cloud of sweat house smoke, which trumped the visitor’s potency. They had indicated as much, or so he thought.

  “He’s a power house,” Mustache said.