“After the warfare,” Elejoy said.
“After the turmoil,” Coweeshee added.
“After all was said and done and the land burnt and many places spoiled,” Tucharachee moaned. “Then the ground trembled and belched forth its arbiter and its harsh conviction.”
“The conditions for peace were exacting,” Littafulchee said.
“The Promise and Prophecy,” Harris murmured, trying to recall it, chapter and verse.
The brothers nodded. They had driven the point home. Lord Belmundus had connected the dots and understood the full weight of the twilight — the blend of darkness and light, which engulfed the House of Zacker even as it sank into the Cetronian depths.
“We are banished, as you know,” Enitachopco said. “We were exiled from our beacon hill and downtrodden by the enemy Yunocker. The Elector of Montjoy has custodianship over us and, although Kuriakis is an easy tyrant, he embodies time’s tedium. He preserves order, assuring neither darkness nor light predominates in Farn.”
“Order he keeps,” Harris said. “But the Kalugu is an abomination.”
“There are those who would not agree with you,” Littafulchee said. “Even some in Cetronia.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Believe it,” Elejoy remarked. “Even in this council we are not of one mind.”
Tucharechee grunted.
“Many suffered to come here,” Coweeshee explained. “Those who refused the journey, split our union — our good face. They became Trones and their descendants were born into the servitude of the Kalugu and suffer the heavy laws of the enemy. In Cetronia some view the nonconformers as renegades, who drew the reaptide by their own fatal choice.”
Harris trembled. How could anyone witness the reaptide and blame the victim. Victims have often been blamed for their fate. He knew this from outland experiences and a solid grounding in twentieth-century history. He played a child in a concentration camp, after all. It was still a rueful notion in many places — in unlikely places and held by people who should know better.
“Where are your hearts?” Harris asked. “How can you ignore the plight of those who suffer at reaptide?”
“All have kin there,” Tucharechee said. “I would lead warriors across the Forling until the red dust burned the skin from my feet. I would pound the Kalugu walls to a nub and free our kin. But I am but one of five.”
“Of four,” Elejoy said.
Tucharechee grunted.
“Brother, be at ease,” Coweeshee concluded. “We await Lord Belmundus’ choice.”
“Back to that,” Harris said.
Silence, natural to this council, resumed its place. Enitachopco returned to his pipe, while his brothers muttered. Yustichisqua tended his waddly wazzoo. However, Littafulchee came forward, touching Harris’ shoulder. He enjoyed the touch, but knew it was not meant as encouragement, but to steady him.
“I had a sister,” Littafulchee said.
“I saw her image in the Cartisforium,” Harris replied.
“This I know, but you have never asked about her.”
“There are many things I haven’t asked, my lady. Many things which go beyond my caring — given the priorities.”
Litttafulchee glanced down. Harris thought he might have insulted her — an insensitive remark against a long-gone sister. Enitachopco tapped his pipe in his palm.
“Hetafulchee was from the darkness in my heart,” Enitachopco said, sadly. He tugged away his eyepatch, pointing to the empty socket. Ghastly. “Light and dark are two cheeks upon a single face. My eldest daughter bore her grandfather’s mark. So he claimed her.”
Enitachopco sat back. Harris could swear tears rolled down from this missing eye. Littafulchee comforted her father, but the brothers turned their backs with a single uniform gesture.
“She is with him still,” the Elector wept. “Grimakadarian took her — his own granddaughter, as his Memer. There she sits at his hideous side, stoking the cold shades of night beyond the dark portal. But . . .” He leaned forward, his finger pointing to his eye socket. “But each night she calls me through the darkness. She says Papa. Papa. I am cold in this grave. Hear me and be warned. He desires to come forth again and devour everything beneath his foot. Papa. Papa. I would be the queen of death for Farn and the inlands and outlands and lands for as far as light is chased. Papa. Papa. Be warned.”
Suddenly, Enitachopco smiled, covering his eye crater again. He fastened onto Littafulchee’s shoulder and stood. He was a full seven feet, a silvery ghost in his ancient buckskins and his feathery crown.
“So the light shall rise again, because we have been given the Promise and the Prophecy as a settlement between Zin and Zacker,” he intoned. “One daughter has called me from the darkness and . . .” He clasped Littafulchee to his breast. “And one daughter has called me from the light. Thus my two cheeks make one face again to confront the long night of Zin. And you, Lord Belmundus — you are the spark — the new kindling in a plan which has no pattern nor rhythm, much like light itself, shimmering. You are the water to lave the desert to full bloom.”
His brothers stood — each a colossus. They neither comforted him nor rallied to his plan. They nodded to Harris in turn, each gesture packed with a stern commandment to make a choice soon.
Enitachopco grasped Harris’ hands, and brought them up to his lips. He patted them before kissing each finger, and then led his council and their waddly wazzoos through the kaleezo’s portal. Harris stood in near darkness with Yustichisqua still puttering with his lamp and Littafulchee standing remorseless in her father’s wake.
2
“Well,” Harris said nervously, “we should light those bronskers so I don’t trip over my fucking bum foot and land on my ass.”
“I shall do it, oginali.”
“Wait,” Littafulchee said. “There is much to digest and it is best done in dim light. Too much is revealed in the bronskers’ false candle.”
She stretched her arms like a bird, and then pitched her head back, looking to the dark ceiling. Her chest heaved as if preparing for a ritual. Harris stood stunned, staggering in waves of rose scent, like a bee seeking pollen.
“Yustichisqua,” Littafulchee said.
Little Bird came to her side, and then released her robe, pulling it apart, revealing her shift. He carefully placed the buckskin aside, and then continued to undress her until she stood naked before Lord Belmundus. Harris gasped. Her beauty went beyond reckoning. Her silkened skin danced in the waddly wazzoo’s dim light. Her breasts were full, a harvest for his taking, but he hesitated, struck dumb by awkwardness.
“Behold me,” Littafulchee said.
“The light brushes you, my lady,” Harris whispered. “It doesn’t do you justice.”
He looked to Yustichisqua to light the bronskers, but Little Bird remained beside the waddly wazzoo. Of the three remaining lamps, two were bright enough to reveal the Scepta’s contours — enough to highlight the gollywi branded between her breasts — the blue holly mark of the seegoniga. But Harris would see more, his eyes wandering to her waist and thighs. But there the darkness prevailed.
“I would see you in a better light,” he whispered. “Let Little Bird light the bronskers.”
“If you wish to see what your choice will bring, my love, you must shine your light upon me.”
Harris took that as an invitation. He shimmied in his robe until only his Columbincus held it fast to his shoulders. He unclasped the brooch, letting the robe tumble.
“Old man,” he stammered.
Yustichisqua did what he had done so many times, removing Lord Belmundus’ belt and swords, releasing his blouse and asano, letting it slip, until the beauty of Harris’ manhood arose in all its glory. Still, despite these revelations, Harris made scant progress to win this maiden, who still kept her arms apart, keen to allow his eyes to drink in whatever the light afforded. But the invitation halted in the shadows.
Harris sighed deeply. To take a single step wo
uld unman him, invalid now beyond his stunning appearance. He cocked his head, sulkily, tempting Littafulchee to take the next step, but she remained adamant. Suddenly, Harris clenched his fists, intending to beat his chest like an ancestral primate, but as he raised his arms, a tremor whipped his wrists, seeping up to his elbow, and then to his neck. He winced, opening his hands, an unrelenting pressure released like a new kind of orgasm, unknown to him, and yet like the real thing. From his fingers shot golden plasma, striking the ground and the third, dormant waddly wazzoo. The lamp — his lamp, shook, a glow kindling within, and then — without. It dazzled, so brightly the entire kaleezo illuminated — the wall inscriptions, the decorative ridgepole, the stellar fresco on the ceiling — all brilliantly bathed with the light of this single lamp.
Harris stepped backward, nearly falling. Yustichisqua went to a heap, covering his face, weeping. Harris hoped for joy. Littafulchee brought her arms together, and then turned slowly, allowing Harris to see her fully and without shame. He reached for her, but she avoided his touch.
“You are heaven,” he muttered.
“No, Lord Belmundus,” she said, reaching for her shift. “I am a promise for your consideration. I am no man’s reward. I am the child of light and destined for your spark, if you will share it.”
“Chewohe,” he muttered.
“It is your choice,” she said. Yustichisqua attended her again, wrapping her in the shift, covering her breasts lovingly — the gollywi disappearing behind this curtain. “You will be loved by the Cetrone despite your decision, and I shall never think the worst of you should you choose to hold tightly to your freedom.”
She raised her arms, Little Bird replacing her buckskins, fastening her barrel buttons. As Harris’ waddly wazzoo diminished, she hunkered near him, touching his naked chest. Her fingers were warm. Harris’ heart raced. He clutched her hand.
“May I steal a kiss?” he asked.
Littafulchee grinned, and turned to Yustichisqua.
“Cousin.” Little Bird nodded, and then turned his face away. This assured, Littafulchee nodded to Harris, whispering. “Lord Belmundus, you may taste my lips, if it pleases you.”
Harris leaned forward, touching her chin. Her eyes drank him in. He was falling from a mountaintop. He drew her close, bringing his lips to hers, tasting them again as he had briefly in the sustiya. But this was not a picnic. This was a compact sealed — a down-payment on a decision he had almost made — his choice conceded. Would he think better of his freedom after she departed? He didn’t care at this moment, but sipped her like nectar quaffed — he the bee upon the roses, stealing pollen for the hive. Then, it was over.
“It is good,” she said.
Yustichisqua turned and came to Harris’ shoulders, grasping them in restraint. Harris thought this a wise move, because without Little Bird’s soft reminder, Lord Belmundus would have drifted from gentle lover to randy ram in a flash. This was not foreplay, but a liberty granted — the soft light of a lover’s consignment. He nodded, and reached for his asano. Yustichisqua obliged him.
As near darkness returned, Littafulchee withdrew, her waddly wazzoo swaying in her departure. Not another word was exchanged. Harris was drained — exhausted as if he had been with Charminus for the usual fortnight.
“Shall I light the bronskers now, oginali?”
“No, old man. I think I’ll sit here half-naked in the dark for a while. I have much to consider.”
Yustichisqua gathered his lamp and went into the next room, leaving Harris sitting in the dimmest light of all, much like a star gone nova.
Chapter Nine
Kanuwudi
1
Harris was on the mend or, as the Cetrone say, kanuwudi. This recovery process was important, because every Echotan respected it once it was declared, and declared it was by Nayowee, and then Enitachopco. Handbills printed in strange Latinesque letters were posted through the town stating that Lord Belmundus had made a deep sacrifice to come to Cetronia and must be allowed this period of kanuwudi before his purpose would be revealed. The Echotans discussed this purpose openly and didn’t admit knowing it. However, if the Elector was concerned for his guest’s recovery, every amenity and consideration would be accorded.
Cosawta visited many times, monitoring Harris’ progress, chattering about finishing kanuwudi, and then attend to the business of inspecting the Culpeeper brothers’ various inventions. Harris felt up to it, except their workshop was not at Echota, but at Comastee, over the mountains and through the woods — a bumpy journey for a man experiencing locomotive difficulties. However, Cosawta, as impatient as he appeared, followed the edict of kanuwudi.
“My father advises me not to push you too fucking hard, Lord Belmundus.”
“Time for that later,” Harris remarked.
The kaleezo had been aired and freshly strewn with aromatics, most scents beyond Harris’ linguistic abilities to pronounce or even remember. The only one he recalled was a potent fuchsia nosegay called pupernisgi, which choked him. He requested its removal and Yustichisqua complied. The bronskers were lit and a steady flow of native foods arrived on schedule, supervised by Yustichisqua, although ported by lads from the various clans — each clan taking a turn. Harris supposed, since the foods were various — never the same on any given day, these were clan favorites and perhaps identity traces. He never quibbled with a dish. He ate every morsel of flesh passed beneath his nose, be it gritty, pulpy or tender. Most dishes came with an assortment of vegetables, mostly mashed and earthen in color (and sometimes in taste). The purple stuff was the best. Nonetheless, he insisted on a daily ration of selu gadu, and fortunately all the clans ate this bread as their staple, although even these came in a variety of textures, shades and toppings. He felt the pounds going on. His actor’s instincts kicked in. He had to get moving or he’d be like one of those Hawaiian royals, too fat to move on their own — carried by two dozen doyens. Much could be said for kanuwudi, but too much recovery might require a subsequent kanuwudi — recovery from the recovery.
Despite Cosawta’s visits, the confined life grew tedious for Harris. Sleeping was good. Eating was fine, but watching the suns’ dance on the kaleezo’s walls and the halo from the moons didn’t suit Lord Belmundus. He pondered much and wondered long. He considered Chewohe and wondered why no one pressed him to decide. Perhaps it was proscribed during kanuwudi. Thinking about it, however, was not banished, especially when he drifted to Littafulchee’s indelible image standing in the bright light of his waddly wazzoo, her breasts radiant and beckoning.
She had not visited him since that night, nor did he expect it. Absence would raise the stakes. He had fallen down the rabbit hole once — as Moe Culpeeper would have declared. Harris must be circumspect. Love and passion were real, but were they transient or permanent? Who could tell what brand marked any given romantic opportunity? His relationship with Charminus was simple — a contract with only one signature and not his. He knew the stakes, even if Cetronia didn’t unanimously subscribe to Enitachopco’s plan. Destiny was destiny, but that didn’t make it a contract — as illogical as ice cream on spaghetti. Harris held absolute rein on his destiny. Everyone courted kismet, but no one needed to subscribe to it.
Still, Littafulchee didn’t come and he longed for her. Yustichisqua did come, because he lived in the back room. However, after he attended to Harris’ needs, Little Bird did as little birds do. He flew to other activities beyond Lord Belmundus’ knowing. Yustichisqua returned to supervise feeding and assure that Harris exercised. The zulus were handy to get about the kaleezo, and Harris had become an expert, learning the vicarious contours of balance. However, the injured foot needed a workout. So Little Bird appeared one day with a cane.
“I feel like an old man, old man,” Harris said, taking the cane in hand. “This is light.”
“Hollow,” Yustichisqua said.
“I don’t think it’ll do.”
“Yes, yes.” Yustichisqua tugged at Tony. “I made it so the brashu
n blade would fit inside. It will be sturdy enough and the cane will now serve two purposes.”
Harris grinned, unfastening Tony, slipping it into the hollow tube. The hilt locked into place.
“Good thinking.”
“And you still have the other one for fast action, if need be.”
Harris touched Hierarchus. He leaned on the cane and hobbled. The foot was stiff — pain no longer the issue, but his limp was prominent. If he ever returned to life upon the wicked stage, he’d be playing Long John Silver or Richard III. But youth is impervious to such bleak thoughts, and Harris considered the cane and the foot and the limp a passing inconvenience. He didn’t think he’d be hobbling ‘til the grave.
“Now I can give it a good workout,” he declared.
“But you can use the zulus also, oginali.”
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