“It has neither boundary nor center,” remarked the old man to the left, who had a twitch, his cheek dancing with each syllable.
The third man was silent.
“Approach me, Lord Belmundus,” Enitachopco commanded.
Harris hobbled to the center, cautiously, yet drawn by the blend of lavender and roses. He caught Littafulchee’s glance and felt easier. Little Bird guided him, assuring a steady approach.
“You asked me: How do I find you?” Enitachopco said. “To that I make reply.” He drew again on the pipe, letting the smoke curl from his lips like steam from a volcano. “I am the saddest of men,”
Harris sighed. He sensed truth, but that didn’t make the prospects brighter.
“I’m sorry to hear it, my lord.”
“I am also the most joyous of our race.” He grinned, and then snapped his hand, grasping Harris by the chin, drawing him in — face to face. “I am in the company of like souls. Sometimes sad. Sometimes glad. But never more than what we are and what we shall become. And here you are — the promise for the future. I see it in your eyes and know it by your trace. So you ask me: How do I find you? To this I reply: You find me better now for your coming. You find me content in the knowledge that I shall return this dreadful night to he who shadowed my heart. He who still shadows my heart.” He released Harris, who tumbled backward, landing on the spot opposite. “That is how you find me, Lord Belmundus, now that I have found you.”
“The passage of time and the journey of wind are subtle brothers,” said the green feathered man.
“Light and dark are two cheeks upon a single face,” added the twitchy fellow.
The other warrior kept his silence — his poignant silence.
2
Littafulchee moved to the wall, returning with her waddly wazzoo. She signaled Yustichisqua to retrieve the other lamps, setting them in the center beside their owner’s right knee. This left the kaleezo in darkness, save the center, where the glow recalled a hundred campfires for Harris. He wondered when the marshmallows would be brought forth and the S’mores ritual commence. Instead, Enitachopco raised his waddly wazzoo, or rather, the light from within it — separated, levitating above Harris.
“Light and dark are two cheeks upon a single face,” the Elector intoned, and then sighed again. “We are a broken people, Lord Belmundus and would be mended. But this mending is slow, like the dimming of stars and the growing of mountains. Yet mend we shall.”
The lamp light drifted over the green caped warrior.
“Coweeshee,” Enitachopco said. “My brother and clan head of alisoqua¸ the bear.”
Coweeshee grunted. Harris nodded respectfully. The lamp light drifted over the man with the twitch.
“Elejoy,” Enitachopco said. “My brother and clan head of geetli, the dog.”
Elejoy raised his pipe and sneered. Harris nodded, and the lamp light moved on, illuminating the silent warrior.
“Tucharechee,” Enitachopco said. “My brother and clan head of tlugu, the tree.”
Tucharechee remained silent and did not stir. Harris followed suit and did not nod. The lamp light returned to the center, hovering above Enitachopco.
“I head the Cetrone and was Elector of Zacker,” he said. “I keep my rule over the seegoniga, the blue of the evening star and the holly bush.”
He raised his hands and the light drifted back into his waddly wazzoo. Harris, seated, bent at the waist and tried to touch his head to the kaleezo’s floor. Then, he looked up, gazing at Littafulchee.
“But who leads the chisqua, the bird clan?”
All present sighed, a hollow gust, which stole any joy which may have lurked within the circle.
“Dead,” Enitachopco intoned. The clan heads raised their arms — even Tucharechee. “May the Primordius Centrum hold him close to the eternal hearth.”
Yustichisqua wept. Harris touched his arm, but Little Bird covered his face, tears cascading relentlessly.
“Old man,” Harris said, reaching for his friend’s shoulders. “I’m sorry if . . .”
“It is cleansing for him to weep,” Littafulchee said.
Harris regarded this strange assembly, arms raised or faces covered. These rituals were beyond him. But he asked the question and this was the answer.
“I’m sorry to evoke the memory of the lost clan head,” Harris muttered. “Forgive me.”
Yustichisqua uncovered his eyes, wiping his tears.
“No need for your sorrow, oginali,” he said. “He was called Kittowa, and he died in the Kalugu. I do not remember him, but I recall my mother’s weeping.”
Suddenly, the truth dawned on Harris.
“He was your father?”
“You say true, oginali,” Little Bird said.
“My youngest brother,” Enitachopco replied. “And it is good that his son has finally returned to us.”
“A sad reminder in our midst,” Coweeshee said.
“You bear his image like moons reflecting suns,” Elejoy echoed.
Then the silent one — Tucharechee, stirred, pointing at Yustichisqua.
“You must perform Chewohe and be worthy of him.”
Yustichisqua bowed low, his face buried in his hands again.
“Does he think he can return to us, to be our blood and not perform Chewohe?” Tucharechee snapped.
“Chewohe is a choice, brother, and our nephew must consider his position,” Enitachopco replied. He extended his pipe to Little Bird. “Come, smoke and consider.”
Yustichisqua stirred. He crawled toward the Elector and took the offering. He puffed three times, weeping with each inhalation. Then he turned to Littafulchee.
“Cousin,” he said. “I weep not because I must perform Chewohe. I weep because my oginali must do the same if destiny befalls him, and I would be of the same clan as he.”
“Ah,” murmured the clan heads, shaking their hands, comprehension removing doubt.
Doubts, however, clung to Harris.
“What is Chewohe?” he asked. “And why is it my destiny to perform it?”
“It is not your destiny to do anything beyond being our guest,” Enitachopco said. “But if the spark is to grow, you should consider becoming my daughter’s consort. In that choice lays the ritual of Chewohe.”
Harris looked to Littafulchee, who raised her hands towards him. He wanted to rush across the space and gather her into his arms. But just as he had the thought, his jade ring shone — an echo from Charminus, a faint call to her bed across the Forling’s expanse. He covered the ring, but the light danced between his fingers.
“She still owns you,” Littafulchee said.
“She has never owned me,” Harris snapped. He looked to Enitachopco. “No woman has ever owned me. Scepta Charminus charmed me and evoked her spells when she called me to her hayloft. I never remember the experience.”
“But I do,” Littafulchee said. “I served her and, in that, I served you.”
Harris felt guilty. As Trone, this woman — the one who now had captured his heart — his true heart, had seen him buck naked and servicing the buxom daughter of Kuriakis — day after day into night after night. In fact, Littafulchee had witnessed Tappiolus at it also. Harris glanced to Yustichisqua, who shrugged. Little Bird had also been a witness. Harris felt ashamed.
“I am a wanton spirit,” he muttered.
“No,” Enitachopco said. “Few can resist Kuriakis’ daughters and the web they weave. How many Thirdlings have you spawned by her?”
“None,” Harris replied.
“Regard that as a favorable omen,” Coweeshee said.
“She sought your spark, but could not draw it,” Elejoy echoed.
Tucharechee returned to silence.
3
Harris considered this. Tappiolus had fathered a passel of Thirdlings and, although he had been at it longer than Harris, the fertile Scepta should have caught fire with at least one of Harris’ sperm buds. He never considered the reasons for this, because he was so inur
ed by sex with Charminus. He was content to retreat and recover from his weariness — to return to the Myrkpykyn and his scheme at the Kalugu. Now the lack confronted him. Perhaps this shortfall was his fault.
She sought your spark, but could not draw it.
What did that mean? And what was Chewohe? Harris imagined a painful ceremony, involving circumcision or hanging from the Tree of Woe. But he was already circumcised and the Forling was his Tree of Woe.
“You ask me to decide on this Chewohe ceremony without knowing the details?” he asked Enitachopco. “Is there a book? Do you have a branch of the local Cartisforium on this side of the desert?”
Enitachopco touched Harris’ arm with fingers so icy they chilled him to the bone.
“Fear not, Lord Belmundus. Whatever the ritual entails, it is not central to your decision to carry your spark home.”
Harris pushed the hand away.
“How do you know I have this spark? Everyone tells me I do, but I’ve never seen it or even felt it. And don’t tell me it’s my interaction with the brashun blades or my Columbincus. I’ve seen others interact — even Thirdlings. Hell, Yustichisqua can light gasohisgi with little effort.”
Enitachopco glanced at Yustichisqua, who drew his dagger. The clan heads grinned with approval.
“Who’s to say he doesn’t have the spark too?” Harris protested. He realized he bordered on rudeness, and settled back. “I’m just saying, I’m ignorant of this witchy-woo stuff. I may be from California, but I have a foot in Missouri.”
Enitachopco pointed to a waddly wazzoo, which had been set between his and Littafulchee’s. It burned dimmer than the others.
“The lamp’s light comes from a single source,” Enitachopco explained. “We keep that light.”
Harris knew this from his research trip. He had seen Enitachopco take the light from the Primordius Centrum. He had witnessed him ignite the lamps of his children at Greary Gree.
“It is a sacred light,” Harris murmured.
“It dwells in a thousand lamps kept alive by the children of Zacker,” Enitachopco said. “When a lamp is extinguished, the covenant is broken and the soul rends. My children in the Kalugu smolder their light each night at reaptide. My brother and his wife, the parents to this dear child, lit their son’s lamp, but their lamp no longer burns.” Enitachopco sighed. “There has been only one lamp ever extinguished and relit beyond the Primordius Centrum.” He touched the waddly wazzoo. “Behold Talqwah’s lamp.”
Harris twitched.
“Talqwah?”
He recalled now. When Yustichisqua stabbed Talqwah’s lamp with gasohisgi, the light was extinguished. Talqwah pleaded with the whisperers to rekindle it. They said it was impossible. But when Harris touched it, it came to life again. Was this their proof?
“But how could I acquire such skills?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t remember shooting fire from my hands at home — even as a party trick.”
“Your kind dwells in the light of a volatile world,” Coweeshee said.
“They build engines to work for them and rely not on their inherent powers,” Elejoy explained.
Tucharechee leaned forward, pointing with his pipe.
“You must perform Chewohe and fulfill your destiny.”
“Choice,” Enitachopco said.
“Choice,” Littafulchee echoed, extending her arms again.
Harris glanced at the jade ring, the gift from Memer Joella, given with a different hope in mind. He covered the stone again with his hand. Suddenly, he longed for the asi-asa and Nayowee’s grousing. He would have enjoyed another round of the Culpeeper brothers and their arcane chortling about their Seecoys. He would have welcomed even a day of reviewing cases at the Myrkpykyn, with Garan interpreting the chicken scratch and the Danuwa ushering the petty petitioners into the courtroom for the Didaniyisgi’s rulings. As compelled as he felt to oblige this new supplication for his sperm and spark, this was not the essence he came to admire when he had glanced into that long gone and faraway mirror. Lord Belmundus had a choice, but he now sat crippled before a one-eyed Elector, who insisted on his say. That say was not quite over.
Chapter Eight
Two Cheeks Upon a Single Face
1
“Choice,” Enitachopco said. “Choice has been our savior and downfall since the first ember kindled in these humble bones. It is choice again which decides the contour of the tide, Lord Belmundus. Your choice.”
Harris sighed. He was in Las Vegas at the Blackjack tables, but with slimmer odds, because the upturned cards were as dicey as the downturned ones. It was unfair to place this choice on his head. At least Charminus wanted only one thing in endless supply. The fate of all existence didn’t rest on his roll in the hay with her. Yet, perhaps it did.
“It’s unfair,’ he muttered.
While the brothers grimaced, Enitachopco eased into his accustomed sigh.
“Unfair would be to deny you a choice, sir,” he replied, cocking his head.
Littafulchee grinned. Her choice seemed settled. Harris needed more information on which to base his decision, but he had a hunch this was all he would get. Still, Enitachopco, sensing needs, raised the pipe, puffed it, and then turned it toward his guest. Harris took it tentatively.
What would the surgeon general think?
Harris grasped the bowl loosely and the long stem tightly. The smoke already crept up the length, tugging at his lips. He inhaled, a cool blast filling his lungs like honey on pancakes. He grinned. He didn’t expect this. Like sqwallen, this stuff would make him high — an easy target for manipulation — putty in the Elector’s hands. Still, it relaxed him and clarified things. He returned the pipe to its owner.
“My own choice has dogged me until this time,” Enitachopco said. “Grimakadarian assured the outcome and I, the fool, followed him to this oblivion.”
“Out of darkness comes the light,” Coweeshee said.
“Into darkness goes the light,” Elejoy added.
“His choice did us in,” Tucharechee muttered, tapping his forehead. “Go with correct thinking.” He pounded his chest. “Ignore the songs of passion.”
“He must choose,” Littafulchee remarked, “but he need not choose today.”
“Still, he must know,” Tucharechee said.
“Yes, I must,” Harris snapped. “I don’t believe in buying a pogo-pogo in a poke.”
Enitachopco smiled, and agreed, his shoulders easing into his robes, his eye blinking.
“Two keepers were there,” he said. “Two. One for the keys to the door of darkness and the other the keeper of the key to the door of light.” He nodded to each brother in turn. “Grimakadarian, to darkness — I, to light. But not all things in darkness are dark. Not all things in light are light. My darkness slept within me, but Grimakadarian’s light walked beside him.”
“I don’t understand,” Harris said.
“My mother,” Littafulchee replied.
“Hedonacaria?” Harris muttered.
The three brothers bowed their heads, while Yustichisqua nodded in prayer toward his waddly wazzoo.
“The darkness consumed Grimakadarian’s mistress, the Memer Borshalit. But light shone bright upon their daughter, Hedonacaria. I was young — but twenty eons old. I saw her lustrous robes — her wondrous breasts, and I was struck by the light from the darkness. She was drawn to the dark of my light. I wished her for my own. So . . .”
“So, he used the key of light to open the door to darkness,” Tucharechee growled.
“A sin beyond understanding,” Elejoy added.
“All for the passion of the dark maiden who walked in light,” Coweeshee explained.
“I had made my choice.”
“A choice giving the dark one an excuse to emerge into Farn and demand his place among the Electors,” Elejoy said.
“It caused a fracas, which has gone unhealed until this day,” Coweeshee added.
“Which is why choice is an evil thing and blind dictation is best,”
Tucharechee concluded.
Harris mulled this over. Suddenly, the light of darkness (or the darkness of light) dawned on him.
“You started the war?” he asked Enitachopco.
“I caused an imbalance leading to eons of unrest and turmoil,” the Elector explained, the sigh gusting again. “I claimed my Memer. We loved each other deeply. She had my babies — the children of Zacker, but . . .”
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