“Perhaps.”
As they turned to leave, the inner doors opened, revealing the Seneschal imperiously standing on the threshold. Under leash, he held two tludachi, which pulled him forward upon seeing the visitors. Harris decided this visit might have been a bad idea. The tludachi roared in turn, and then together. Harris bolted as fast as his foot and Friend Tony would permit. Little Bird beat him to the exit. The guards laughed.
“Lord Belmundus,” Cosawta shouted. “Do not worry. These fuckers are my pets — as tamed as awidena in the meadow.”
The cats snarled, but when Cosawta tugged on the leashes, they calmed, withdrawing to his heel, sitting beside him like two stuffed armrests. He roared, and not unlike his tludachi pets.
“They need exercise,” Cosawta explained. “I have many furries and slinkies in this shit house. That is why it is so accommodating. Would I need such amplitude for me alone? I have been in the Kalugu. But these little fuckers need a place to roam.” He clapped, and the two guards attended the beasts, each taking a leash. “Give them an ample walk. Take them to the pogo-pogo pen for a tidbit.”
Harris approached, cautiously. Yustichisqua walked in his shadow.
“You don’t have many visitors, I suppose,” Harris said.
“Bitch and Bastard,” Cosawta exclaimed.
“Excuse me?”
“Their names.” Cosawta clamped his arms about the neck of the male, rumpling its mass of lavender fur. It purred at his touch. “Bastard here.” He then stroked the female’s head. “Bitch does not like hugging.” Bitch yawned, while Bastard snorted, and then made a small roar — a muffled sound, which Harris found discouraging. “I’ve mated them, Lord Belmundus. I have little tludachi’s throughout this shithouse.”
“Pisshouse,” Harris replied, sniffing.
“So you say.” Cosawta replied. “I am quite accustomed to the perfume. It suits me.” He laughed again, releasing his pets to the guards — not guards after all, Harris realized, but two of many zookeepers. When Bitch and Bastard were out of sight (not before glancing back and displaying their saber teeth), Harris came to Cosawta’s side, bowing slightly. Yustichisqua managed to step in a load of tludachi shit.
“Torpeda,” he swore.
“Lots of that about,” Cosawta said. “Be glad you are not wearing zulus today.”
He laughed, and then guided Harris through the inner doors.
A vaulted chamber was hung with caged birds, arising perhaps forty feet. Keepers tended them. Harris didn’t feel any safer, remembering the scarlet tanager-like birdies when he learned how to fire his Stick. Those nasties — called porgeedasqui, had attacked him. Birds in Farn had a vicious streak, so Harris kept his eyes on the cages, hoping they were locked.
At the chamber’s center sat an overstuffed red cushion ringed with bowls of sqwallen. The Seneschal was sequestered here beyond a menagerie. However, he didn’t appear to be under the drug’s influence.
“Take care,” Cosawta said, throwing himself on the cushion. “Do not kick over my supply of relaxation. Sqwallen is rare in these parts, this batch cured for me, in particular, by Tomatly.”
“Does he also administer the pilocarpinus?” Yustichisqua asked.
“Ah. You are bold before your Seneschal.”
Little Bird bowed, but didn’t appear contrite.
“I have no tolerance for sqwallen,” he replied.
“Understandable from one who knows its allure and its . . .”
“Its curse.”
“Just do not kick the bowls or get tludachi shit on my cushions.”
Little Bird stepped back.
“We’ve intruded on your solace, Cosawta,” Harris said, preamble to stammering an apology and making an escape. His gaze still darted between ceiling and cages. “Perhaps we should meet in my kaleezo as we have in the past.”
“No, no,” Cosawta said. “You had to see my shithouse sooner or later.” He tapped the cane. “I see you mend well. Still, you need this device.”
Harris grinned, stepped back and grasped the hilt firmly. He drew Tony from its scabbard, the brashun blade shimmering. Cosawta stood. The birds went wild — cackles and caws, squawks and hoots. Harris raised the sword, expecting to make chicken salad.
“They think you are attacking me.”
“Oh,” Harris said. He sheathed the sword. Calm was restored. “Such devotion.”
“Yes,” Cosawta replied.
He glanced down. From beneath the cushions slithered three bolligangas, each as thick as an elephant’s leg and as long as an Amazon map. Yustichisqua went for gasohisgi, but Cosawta raised his hand.
“Retreat slowly,” he suggested. “These are not as trained up as Bitch and Bastard are.”
Harris moved back now.
“We’ll be going,” he said.
“Slowly,” Cosawta replied. “And back out.”
“We still need to talk,” Harris said as he padded backwards, supported by Friend Tony.
“I know why you have come, Lord Belmundus, and I shall be happy to escort you to Comastee to see what I have longed to show you.”
Harris nodded, glanced back at the door, where Bitch and Bastard were returning from their pogo-pogo meal, blood still dripping from their canines. He hesitated and thought Little Bird would lose his constraint on gasohisgi.
“Steady, old man,” Harris muttered as the beasts passed within a foot on each side. Harris grinned at them. He thought he saw a gleam in Bastard’s eyes, which said dessert. “Steady, old man.”
Cosawta sat again, reaching for his sqwallen. The bolligangas coiled around his legs, their tongues caressing his knees. One inched up his arm and shared the sqwallen. Cosawta kissed its head, and then raised the bowl to Harris.
“Tomorrow at dawn, Lord Belmundus. I shall meet you and your bold Taleenay before your kaleezo. Wear zulus and pack a korinkle of whatever tickles your fancy. I promise you, I shall be alert, and free of this shit by then.” He slurped the mush, pushing the snake aside. “Tomorrow I shall take you to Comastee where your fucking eyes will open wide to the wonders we have wrought.”
Reaching the antechamber’s threshold and clearing the tludachi, Harris turned and hobbled as fast as he could through the doors, Yustichisqua muttering behind him.
“Torpeda,” he spluttered. “I stepped in it again.”
But the air freshened as they put the Asowisdi behind them.
2
Cosawta showed up the following morning, sober and without his pets. Instead, Tomatly attended him, impatient to begin the journey. Harris met the Seneschal outside the kaleezo, Yustichisqua still frosty from the previous day. Cosawta didn’t seem to care.
“You handle yourself well on zulus, Lord Belmundus,” he noted. “But I am glad you still tote your brashun blades.”
Harris clutched Friend Tony and nodded toward Hierarchus, which dangled from his belt. A korinkle was slung over his shoulders. He had to adjust his stance, because he wasn’t accustomed to carrying this load while hovering on zulus. Yustichisqua carried two korinkles, the overspill of necessity.
“How far is it to Comastee?” Harris asked.
“Far enough,” Cosawta replied. “But the country is fair and the weather is fine.”
He lifted off on his zulus, Tomatly waving for Harris to follow. The experience was novel. Until now, the highest Harris had flown on zulus was over a big puddle in the Yuganawu — a short flight. Generally, he drifted no more than a few feet from the ground. Now he followed the Seneschal and his attendant over Echota’s colorful rooftops, dodging tree branches and clan totems. Below him, the budrya diggers were up and at it. A few waved, but Harris feared dropping Friend Tony, so he didn’t return the greeting. Yustichisqua flew beside him.
“Do you know where we’re going, old man?”
“Comastee.”
“I know that. Do you know the way?”
“Never have I been there, oginali, but I know it is on the other side of Mount Talasee, through the Usquanigo,
up the Itsayusi Yuweya and over the Ama Udali to the Didadusi.”
“You don’t say,” Harris said, shaking his head. “Why don’t I just nod off. You wake me when we fly over the rainbow.”
“If we are fortunate, we shall see one.”
Harris didn’t pursue the explanation. He recalled seeing a rainbow on their first approach to Cetronia from the Forling. His only fear now was that Yustichisqua would tell him the name of the phenomena — probably a long-ass word like bibiddybopiddybo. He learned later it was simpler (although long) — yunogolada. Fortunately, rainbows were rare.
The Usquanigo turned out to be a valley — the Valley of Mystery, although Harris didn’t know what mystery it held. Through it ran the Itsayusi Yuweya — the Green River, and it was green in the shadow of Mount Talasee’s formidable walls. Pine aroma intoxicated the riverbanks and Harris was drawn to memories of pleasant outings at Yosemite. In fact, Mount Talasee’s precipitous ridge reminded him of El Capitan.
“It is beautiful, oginali,” Yustichisqua said. “I had heard tales of this valley, but never could I imagine it to be so lovely.”
“Lovely, it is! Lovely, it is!” shouted Tomatly at the fore. “But in the waters many dangers dwell.”
“Let’s not go there,” Harris said.
Cosawta laughed.
“If time permitted, I would cast a line into the stream and add to my fucking atsadi tanks. Good torgentli swim and hunt within these waters.”
“Something to feed your bolligangas?” Harris asked.
“Ha! One torgentli male could swallow a bolliganga whole.”
Harris glanced at the rushing green waters, expecting the emergence of a fish so large it could ingest a python-size bolliganga — a fin or a silvery bulge beneath the verdant rush. But the river seemed bucolic — an invitation to picnic on its banks.
Cosawta dipped, pointing to a lush copse of broad-leafed trees — elders, perhaps. Harris was shy a botany lesson, so elm or elder was much the same to him. He supposed if he had known the Cetrone word, he would forget it as fast as he heard it.
They landed, Tomatly trotting ahead to a shady spot. The wind rustled and birdsong burst within the tree boughs. The diminutive Cetrone opened his korinkle, producing his waddly wazzoo. He chanted and danced, whipping the lamp around until the birds arose like locusts, abandoning the branches.
“Porgeedasqui,” Yustichisqua said.
“Not boon companions for lunching,” Cosawta explained.
Harris wasn’t hungry; nor was he tired. Zulu travel was easy, despite the accusations of Nayowee on laziness. The lunch conversation was light, mostly because they chomped on mongerhide and drank brantsgi. Still, Harris was wary to ask about the locale, fearing a barrage of new Cetrone vocabulary. He had already forgotten the stuff Little Bird spluttered to this point in the journey, replacing the geographical references with his own — Mystery Valley, Green River, beastie fish and nasty birds.
Cosawta belched, and then stood.
“Enough,” he announced. “We have fucking far to go.”
He sprang to the air, Tomatly beckoning the nasty birds back to their branches. Harris gathered his korinkle and followed. Yustichisqua lingered to piss, but soon flew again beside his oginali through Mystery Valley over the Green River.
Soon, they avoided the riverbanks.
“Sittoquo! Sittoquo!” Tomatly shouted, and then placed a finger over his lips for silence.
Harris looked to Yustichisqua for an explanation.
“The Sittoquo is the sacred tree, oginali,” he whispered.
“Sacred? How so?”
“They grow near the portal of Zin. Enitachopco planted a grove near the ceremonial grounds where Chewohe is performed.”
Harris immediately looked toward the grove — the Sittoquo. They were a twisted crop — gnarled boughs and metallic leaves — ominous, like the portals of Zin. Beyond them, a circumferential clearing was littered with stakes and water troughs — the Chewohe ceremonial grounds, he presumed.
“Tell me more,” he said.
“You will know when you decide,” Cosawta said, his gruff whisper cutting the breeze. “It is not proper to speak in places where the Sittoquo can hear you.”
“Hear you?”
“You will know when you seek the knowledge, Lord Belmundus.”
Harris swallowed hard, and then stared down at the trees — an ugly crop, like arboreal versions of Nayowee, waiting for his words to spin into gossip, passing it along the bough tips and the sharp edges of the leaves. Harris guessed he had found the valley’s mystery. He kept his speculation to himself, because the flying party left the ceremonial grounds and approached a wide part of the river.
“The Ama Udali,” Cosawta said.
A pool — no, a lake spread before them, reflecting both sky and mountain, but commanded more attention than either. Along its banks massed mounds of white crystals — blanched sand or quarried quartz. Harris couldn’t tell which.
“What’s that crust, old man?”
“Ama.”
“Salt?” Harris knew that word and should have been able to parse it with Udali, the word for lake. “A salt lake.” Where were the Mormons — their tabernacle and their mystical underwear? “Amazing.”
3
Harris glanced down at the waters, his image reflecting back. The distance was sufficient to ripple the picture, but the lake pristine enough to clarify it. Yustichisqua’s imaged raced beside his, while Cosawta and Tomatly’s led the way. Exhilarating.
Schools of fish darted below the lake’s surface, a large predator’s shadow pursuing them. Was this the dreaded torgentli? Harris couldn’t tell. However, he hoped it didn’t fly or leap. Whatever owned the shadow, it glided swiftly through the brine. Then, as the school detoured, the shadow in pursuit, Harris observed a green glint — a flicker from his hand. He looked to his ring finger. The jade signet glowed. His double Columbincus radiated to full brightness. Hierarchus flickered also, and Tony tugged from within the cane’s hollow.
“What the fuck?” he muttered.
“Oginali,” Yustichisqua said, having a similar experience with gasohisgi.
Suddenly, the lake smudged, green bile clouding its purity. The reflections muddied and miasma steamed from the surface. Cosawta dropped back, linking his arm into Harris’. Tomatly did the same with Little Bird.
“What’s happening?” Harris asked.
“Shit if I know, Lord Belmundus,” Cosawta replied. “It must be related to your Columbincus — the great double stab of power.”
“Yichiyusti! Yichiyusti!” Tomatly exclaimed.
Cosawta glanced skyward.
“Ah! That too. He stirs.”
The heavens changed to the green sky of Yichiyusti.
“Kuriakis,” Harris gasped. “Is he here?”
“No,” Cosawta replied. “But when the great muffin stirs, the air turns foul and nature reciprocates. The Ama Udali does not like Yichiyusti and, from what I observe, it does not like your array of power — ring, brooch and swords. You are a lightning rod, Lord Belmundus, I suppose. But what the fuck do I know?”
They were losing altitude fast as the fog thickened.
“What’s wrong with my zulus?” Harris asked.
“I believe you have blown them out.”
“What?”
“Yichiyusti! Yichiyusti!”
Tomatly tugged at Yustichisqua’s arm, because Little Bird began to fall. Cosawta steadied Harris.
“Are we going for a swim?” Harris asked. “Because I saw one of those monster fish, and he looked hungry.”
“The torgentli do not need hunger to bite your ass and chew your balls,” Cosawta said, half laughing. “But I sense land ahead. Tomatly?”
Tomatly raised his waddly wazzoo, the lamp shooting a beacon through the mist. Harris watched it disappear, lost in the soup. Tomatly laughed like a hyena.
“Tlugu! Tlugu!”
“Trees, oginali. We no longer fly over water.”
“We no longer fly,” Cosawta said, grasping Harris fervently as they plummeted, the ground suddenly coming up.
Harris landed chest first — better than leg first. Still, it was not a gentle landfall. He groaned, spitting out clumps of mud — salty. The lake must still be nearby. He had lost touch with Cosawta and couldn’t see much, the fog clinging to him like his sweaty asano. However, the various apparatus still glowed — ring, brooch, sword, and Tony danced inside the cane’s hollow.
Harris sat up and took a quick inventory. His waddly wazzoo was still safely kindled on his belt. His korinkle stayed latched to his back. He tugged at Tony’s hilt, sliding the sword out. It glowed. Then he heard the forest grumble — birds and toads and whatever slithered in this place.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 60