“Maybe we could go out.”
“When kanuwudi has passed.”
Harris shook his head and walked faster, ignoring the comment. He headed for the door.
“Oginali, you cannot go until kanuwudi has passed.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck for kana-fucking-wudi.” He turned on Yustichisqua. “I’m climbing the walls. And I’m getting fat.” He pinched his waistline, which yielded nothing, but to Harris it did — an imaginary layer of potential flab — the blossoming of a new and unwanted him. “So you can follow me or lead me or stay here and pick lint out of your ass, old man. I’m taking a walk or a limp or maybe I’ll go learn how to do the village dance.”
He turned and propelled toward the door, quite efficiently using his new friend — friend Tony. He grinned and grabbed at his independence, but when he reached the threshold, it was blocked.
“Going somewhere?” came the rasping voice of Nayowee.
“Shit,” Harris barked. “It’s old Mother Hubbard.”
Nayowee had a cane of her own. She poked at him until he turned and fled back to his bed, cursing with every step.
“I am glad to see you abandon your flying sandals — a lazy man’s excuse for locomotion,” she snarled. She hit Friend Tony with her cane. “Solid stick,” she cackled. “I suspect there is more to it than wood.” She turned to Little Bird. “Perhaps a bit of brashun.”
“Yes,” Little Bird snapped, quite unimpressed by the old woman. “He is still the Didaniyisgi and an Ayelli lord. He must carry his symbol of office. You said — make a cane, and so I did.”
“And you did,” Nayowee said, mimicking Little Bird’s last say. “And very well too, which I would think was beyond your ken and kittle. But even Nayowee can be wrong on rare occasions.”
“I’m going out,” Harris said, standing again.
“Yes, you are,” Nayowee snapped, pushing him back down with her stick. She then turned, threatening Yustichisqua, who had moved to retaliate this disrespect. “If you value your waddly wazzoo,” she replied, “you best heed me. I can cure any harm I might bring to you, but I can also walk away and let you fade beside the lamp.”
Yustichisqua paced, but then sat beside Harris. They appeared like two schoolchildren kept back for detention, the crone lecturing them on tardiness or misspelling.
“Yes, you are going out,” Nayowee explained.
“Is kanuwudi passed?” Harris asked.
“You said so,” she remarked. “As I approached I heard you shout that kana-fucking-wudi has passed. So it must be so, if that is what you intended.”
“I did.”
“Then it is so, but . . .” She pointed her cane at his nose. “Lord Belmundus, Echota is not a pleasure park for your condescension. Even our nobility are useful.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? I want you to exercise your injury well. I want you to fill your lungs with fresh air, but teach your body the ways of this people.”
Harris looked to Yustichisqua, who chuckled.
“What’s so funny, old man?”
“She means for you to work.”
“Yes,” Nayowee affirmed. “Dig something. Learn to speak. Do solid things. Make gugu.”
“Gugu?”
“You must be good at that. It is good exercise.”
He looked to Little Bird, who blushed, but then slid his right index finger into the fist of his left hand going back and forth.
“Oh,” Harris declared, grinning. “Gugu.”
Nayowee laughed. She shuffled away, kicking the zulus as she passed.
“I shall be watching you, Lord Belmundus. Kanuwudi has passed and I shall be watching you.”
Harris twisted about looking after the crone as she trundled over the threshold. He then turned to Yustichisqua.
“Well, I hope she’s not watching all the time. It would certainly take the punch out of gugu.”
Yustichisqua laughed, and then helped Harris up, assuring Friend Tony’s firm stance.
2
In the days which followed, Harris had the time of his life. At first he progressed about his kaleezo’s immediate neighborhood, drawing stares. Children whispered about his limp and men pointed to Friend Tony with admiration. Soon, Harris ignored their curiosity. He was accustomed to this as an A-List actor, who drew more attention just crossing Santa Monica Boulevard, only now he didn’t wear a disguise. In his position, he couldn’t hide from his neighbors. They knew who he was and wanted to know more. But he fastened his attentions on them and their activities. This settled the question. Soon, they regarded him as just another outlander — much like the occasional drifter from the Dodingdaten.
Harris pushed beyond the boundaries to the fields edging Echota. Here the selu was grown and he observed the tlugu clan tending the tall stalks, which grew toward the suns. Yustichisqua guided Harris through the stout rows, where he greeted the workers, men and women, picking the long ears. The crop was similar to corn, except the ears twisted into three husks, each a different color — yellow, purple and ruby. The silks reflected this and each pod looked like a voodoo rattle. The men reached for the ears, twisting them from the stalk, tossing them into a basket, which children dragged on dollywaggles. The women shucked the husks, separating the spiral ears into three sacks — yellow, purple and ruby. They sang, as all Cetrone did, rhythmic tunes born deep in the soil and secure in the light. Harris reached for a husk and, to his delight, a young tlugu maiden showed him how to shuck it properly. He tried his hand at it and, joined by Yustichisqua, worked beside the dollywaggle with a feeling he had earned his evening portion of selu gadu.
In an adjacent field, geetli folk dug byudra root. Harris found this more back breaking, but he learned the art of the buggeroo — the sharp digging tool, which managed, when pressed properly, both to lift the turnip-like rhizome from the soil and cut it from its roots cleanly. Another army of dollywaggles received the byudra. Harris found this work more tiring, but enjoyed sitting around in a circle, chewing a raw one, which he found pleasant, if not tart. His first bite raised gales of laughter from the geetli men, who were chastised for it by the geetli women. Harris also liked their songs better than the selu harvesters’ — a steady beat to match the digging and a chorus of whoops to ease the dollywaggle’s push and pull.
“I like these in a pie,” Yustichisqua said shaking a byudra tuber. “When we were fortunate to get a byudra in the Kalugu, we guarded it with care, because the Yunockers also like the taste and they would take it. Five byudras, with plenty of caliseegee, makes a fine pie.”
Harris imagined his mother’s hot apple pie, and even more, a New York version with a thick wedge of sharp cheddar melting across the latticework. He sorely would have liked some pie. His wish came true, because, within a day, he explored the glories of the adanadasga — the Echotan bakery, alisoqua run and operated. Here the selu gadu was made — the kernels wrought into fine flour, and then mixed with spring water and awidena fat. The women shaped and pounded the loaves, while the men stoked the ovens. Hot as Harris found the adanadasga, he was intrigued by the industry — the uniform size of each loaf and the perfect rise before being popped into the ovens. Then they were stacked in lines in tall perpadranum — baskets sufficiently open to cool the bread for consumption. Harris manned the line, taking on his mash of selu meal, pushing it, shaping it and finally making a mess of it, much to alisoqua delight. Little Bird found it amusing, but did not offer to make it better. Finally, gentle hands came from behind Harris, taking his arms and guiding him through the process. He grinned as the loaf took shape. Perfection.
“I made bread,” he exclaimed as if it were the first loaf in creation.
He then turned to thank the woman, but she was departing quickly.
“Littafulchee,” he gasped.
He started after her, but Little Bird stopped him.
“She has been watching you, oginali, but I do not think she means for you to touch her again until . . .”
&n
bsp; “Yes, yes,” he stammered. “You’re right.”
“You must finish your bread, because it is not gadu yet. Just a popkin pleading for the fire.”
Harris grinned. He was encouraged by his help mates, and even more pleased by his lump of selu dough. He looked for a gorsatsgi — the Cetrone equivalent to a pizza paddle, and, with the master alisoqua baker’s assistance, slid his creation into the hot and fiery furnace. He turned to await the outcome only to be presented with a gift. Byudra pie.
“See, oginali. They like you here.”
Harris grinned, grasping the plate.
“Get two forks, old man and we’ll make short work of this.”
3
Perfect pie. Perfect selu gadu¸ although Harris suspected even if the bread imploded, the alisoqua would have declared it a high-scoring ten. Over the next three days, he watched for Littafulchee observing him and, although he knew she tracked his moves, she kept circumspectly hidden. Nayowee was not as circumspect. While Harris was learning how to cure awi-eeni skins into asano in the chisqua tannery, Nayowee popped out from behind the stinkpots and accosted him with her cane, poking his leg, coming dangerously, if not injuriously, near his balls.
“You are working well, I see, but you must not undo my good mending, Lord Belmundus.”
“I know what I’m about,” he complained, having almost cut the awi-eeni skin too deeply. “You commanded me to learn, and learn I have.”
“Making a great show of it,” she cackled. “I’d like to see you make asano all day and night for a week, and then tell me what you have learned.”
“If you wish it.”
Nayowee poked the awi-eeni skin with her fingers.
“I do not wish it, nor do I command you. Your fear of me commands you.” She laughed, and then came close to him, whispering. “And you are showing off for the maiden, I know. I know. Best road to gugu.” She laughed hysterically, putting the chisqua tanners off their stride. “But from what I see, if you made all our asano, we would need to go naked for the lack of quality.”
Harris cocked his head.
“Your work is fine, oginali,” Yustichisqua snapped.
“What would you know about it, mighty Taleenay?” Nayowee asked.
Yustichisqua pushed the cane aside and stared down the old lady.
“I have handled the finest garments on the Ayelli and know the quality of every manner of asano. You only know the warts on the end of your nose.”
“Yustichisqua,” Harris said, worried they might be turned into slithering bollinganga.
“I shall leave you, Lord Belmundus,” Nayowee snapped, turning, pushing the tanners aside. “You are in good hands.” She turned. “At least, this one will not steer you astray of the mark.”
Harris bowed curtly to her, noticing a shadow near the entrance and guessed who it might be.
After tanning, Harris observed the seegoniga building kaleezos and repairing the same. Houses in Cetronia were called yehu, although Harris had come to call them kaleezos only to learn this was the term for slave quarters. The construction was the same, but the intent was different. Still his own yehu was dubbed the Kaleezo, in deference to his ignorance and also because he liked the demeaning imprint it leant his brand. Too long this Ayelli lived in palaces. He learned the many uses of jupsim, a substance he was already glad to know — a coating which had saved his ass in the Forling. He watched Tomatly buzz around the deflated Gananadana, brushing a new coat of the stuff along each rib and rim.
Finally, after three weeks, he visited the Deedaloquasdi — the Cetrone school, where children of all clans learned language, writing, courtesy and tradition. He found the place infectious and the children loved him. Rarely did big people visit and here there were two. Harris mimicked their recitations and listened carefully to the wisdom from their teacher, a young seegoniga named Wanona, a pretty thing, with a smile the children came to caress with trust.
Harris exercised with the school, a morning drill of jumping jacks and zulu rolls, mixed with handstands and, most beneficial for him, a hopping routine, which made him fall at first — the children loving it. They jumped on him and tickled him. Best, he loved to dance the alsagi, a slow, swaying number, with hand gestures, which told the story of the waddly wazzoo. He was happy to have his own lamp now and could find the rhythm of light. The accompanying chant was simple to learn:
From the center of the world
Comes the lamp which lights the way
To the edge of darkness swirled,
Separating night from day,
Rock away lantern in shadows through
Pure heart of fire, waddly wazzoo.
Waddly wazzoo.
Waddly wazzoo.
However, what Harris loved best at the Deedaloquasdi was Yustichisqua’s attentions to Wanona. It was evident Little Bird was smitten by the school teacher’s smile, much like the children, but beyond it. When Wanona ran her language drills, Yustichisqua would stare guilelessly at her, and, better still, she winked at him, sending the Taleenay into rapturous sighs. Harris gathered him about the shoulders, squeezing with approval.
“She is mine,” Little Bird whispered.
“Have you spoken to her yet?” Harris asked.
“No need, oginali. She is mine.”
Harris detected a need to provide amorous instruction — the gentle art of courtship, which he assumed could be adapted to the Cetrone way. However, Yustichisqua explained.
“I am fortunate, oginali. Wanona will be my mate if I decide to make Chewohe.”
Harris grinned, but soon considered the situation. Yustichisqua had been promised this maidenly prize by the powers that be, if he performed Chewohe. But Little Bird was predicating his decision on Harris’. How’s that for additional pressure? Harris was fighting a losing battle.
“I think it’s time for me to pay a visit,” Harris said.
“To my cousin?”
“Yes.”
“But she may not see you, oginali.”
“She may not, but surely Cosawta will.”
Chapter Ten
Journey to Comastee
1
Harris had been considering Cosawta’s invitation to see the Culpeeper brother’s inventions. He meant to consult Nayowee, but after the incident in the tannery, he wanted to avoid the mistress of the asi-asa. This was wishful thinking, but fiction or not, he endorsed it. Harris anticipated a visit from Cosawta because he had frequented the kaleezo during kanuwudi, but the Seneschal stayed away.
“He might be traveling again,” he suggested to Yustichisqua.
“How so, oginali? Tomatly repairs the Gananadana.”
“True.”
So Harris sought Cosawta in his haven — the Asowisdi — the House of Light, a grand yehu — Echota’s tallest building, spiraling above the trees. Enitachopco shunned it, and Littafulchee prefered to make her quarters in the seegoniga clan house. But Cosawta, true to form, had erected this monument to his unbridled position. Considering the Seneschal rarely dwelled in Cetronia, Harris wondered why this high-maintenance dwelling was required. Chutzpah, he supposed. Soon, he’d learn the secret.
As he approached the Asowisdi with Yustichisqua, a sharp, but familiar odor bit his nose.
“I know that stink,” Harris muttered.
“It is charpgris, oginali.”
“Tiger piss?” He halted, raising a hand, preventing Yustichisqua’s progress. “You didn’t break a bottle of that shit, did you?”
“I do not carry it. No need. No Yunockers. Perhaps it is worn by the Seneschal’s Dodingdaten companions.”
“Fumarcas?”
He considered the Culpeeper brothers and their lack of bathing. But nothing human could ever approximate charpgris’ stench. There could be only one explanation.
They looked to one another, and then to the Asowisdi’s threshold. Two seegoniga warriors stood guard. Upon recognizing Lord Belmundus, they opened the doors. Harris tugged Yustichisqua forward, nodding to the guards as h
e passed them. He entered into a spacious antechamber, wary, because the stink intensified.
“What is this place, old man?” Harris asked.
“I have never entered the Asowisdi, oginali. I think Lord Cosawta lives apart for strange reasons.”
“Perhaps I should’ve sent him word to visit me.”
Suddenly, a roar — a distinct feline calling card, came from behind the next array of closed doors. Yustichisqua clutched Harris, or could it have been the other way ‘round?
“Perhaps we’ll come another day,” Harris suggested.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 59