“Old man,” Harris called.
“I am here, oginali,” came a disembodied voice from within the fog. “Stay still and I will find you.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I am, but not injured.”
Harris heard footsteps and suspected those were Little Bird’s. But Cosawta appeared, stretching, and then cracking his neck.
“Welcome to the Didadusi, Lord Belmundus.” He pulled Harris to his feet. “You fall hard, like a wounded dove from an amorous arrow.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harris muttered.
“I have tried,” Cosawta laughed. “But self-gugu requires a longer donger than even this Seneschal has.”
“Longer donger! Longer donger!” came Tomatly’s cry, emerging into the clear.
“Where’s Yustichisqua?” Harris asked.
“I am here, oginali. Torpeda.”
“Torpeda! Torpeda!”
“Is he a fucking parrot?” Harris asked, brushing muck from his asano. He took an unsteady step, and then grabbed Friend Tony to keep him upright. “And what’s wrong with the zulus?”
“I told you, they are blown out.” Cosawta grasped Harris’ shoulder. “You have blown them out.”
“I can’t see how. I didn’t do anything.”
“You are new to your special powers. Unusual things occur when Kuriakis stirs.” He looked skyward as if he could see the green hue beyond the fog. “We will need to hike through the Didadusi forest and over the Nuckasee Hills.”
“He cannot walk,” Yustichisqua snapped.
“He must try.”
“I will,” Harris conceded. “But no guarantees.”
Cosawta looked to Tomatly, and then plunged his hand into the buckskin pouch draped beside his brantsgi canteen. He pulled out a small black device, which Harris recognized immediately.
“A cell phone?” Harris exclaimed. “You have a cell phone?”
Cosawta held up the device.
“A sillifoon,” he said.
“Sillifoon! Sillifoon!”
Cosawta peered at it, and then frowned.
“I fear it has been blown out too.” He randomly pressed the buttons, and then shrugged. “As dead as our zulus.”
Harris stood aghast. A cell phone. He had forgotten such devices had even been invented in this technologically backward corner of Farn. He reached for it.
“May I?”
Cossawta surrendered it. Harris scanned its face, Yustichisqua looking on with fascination.
“What does it do, oginali?”
“It allows the far speech,” Cosawta replied.
“The far speech,” Little Bird stammered, awestruck.
The keypad was oddly made, the numbers unintelligible to Harris, but he assumed there might be hidden features, if he could get the screen to illuminate.
“Where did you get this?” he asked Cosawta.
“Moe Culpeeper,” Cosawta replied. “The Fumarca find use in such things. They insisted I have one, so they could . . . how did they put it: ring me up. I always forget to put it to bed, where the aniniya kisses it, renewing its life. They ring me up to say when they are coming to visit and to tell me of progress. Otherwise, it is a useless thing. It never worked in the Kalugu, because the kowlinka and the strange atmosphere during Yichiyusti dampen its operation.”
“Amazing,” Harris said.
He touched the keyboard and the sillifoon lit, flickering. He pressed a few keys randomly. Then the device buzzed, hummed and went dead.
“I thought we could . . . ring them up in Comastee,” Cosawta explained. “Then they would know we needed assistance.”
“Like calling triple A,” Harris muttered. “Nice try, and good thinking.”
“Glad you approve, Lord Belmundus, but it would be more helpful if you could walk through forests and climb hills.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Harris reiterated, grinning.
“I have tried.”
Harris rolled his eyes, and returned the sillifoon to the Seneschal, before Tomatly reprised a chorus of longer donger.
“What now?”
“I suppose we should rest here for the night,” Cosawta said.
“Is it night?”
“It could be, but . . .” he raised his palms as if checking for rain. “It might as well be night for us.”
Harris looked to the sky, seeing tree boughs instead.
“The fog’s clearing.”
“Maybe. But we should gather around our waddly wazzoos and eat our provisions.”
Harris glanced at Yustichisqua, who looked to the trees uneasily.
“They are watching us, oginali,” Little Bird said.
“Who?”
“The porgeedasqui.”
Harris shuddered, but swung his lamp, joining the others. As they formed this campfire of sorts, Cosawta tucked the sillifoon in his pouch.
“Keep your double Columbincus glowing brightly, Lord Belmundus. The birds are not partial to the light.” He grinned. “They are, however, partial to flesh.”
“To flesh! To flesh!”
Chapter Eleven
The Treasures of the Yigoya
1
The ominous and hungry sounds in the trees kept Harris on edge. However, he kept his double Columbincus blazing, and both Tony and Hierarchus unsheathed at the ready. Yustichisqua held gasohisgi high as if to say just try something, you nasty birds. The waddly wazzoos shone brightly, creating an illuminated zone around the huddled travelers. Still, the birds hoped and watched. Other sounds — forest grumbles and ground tremors, promised other threats.
“The Didadusi holds many terrors, Lord Belmundus,” Cosawta explained. “Our light keeps the porgeedasqui at bay, but there are things that favor darkness.”
“Zinbears! Zinbears!” Tomatly chirped.
“Zinbears?” Yustichisqua gasped, holding gasohisgi higher, as if it made a difference.
“Not so,” Cosawta reassured him. “Zinbears are solitary creatures of the pit. No. I think there might be a gati-bati roaming in these woods.”
“A gati-bati,” Little Bird stammered.
Harris grasped Yustichisqua’s arm, shaking it.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A dragon, oginali — one that walks on two legs and is higher than the trees.”
The porgeedasqui stirred, obviously abandoning their perches, squawking to the night sky. Harris braced himself, glaring at Cosawta.
“What remedy have we for a bati-gati?”
“A gati-bati,” Cosawta replied. “I am afraid if such a beast shows up . . .” He glanced at the now silent boughs. “And something has scared the fucking porgeedasqui off . . . I would say we have no remedy.”
The rumbling increased.
“The lights. The lights.” Tomatly said. “Gati-bati love the lights.”
Yustichisqua sheathed gasohisgi.
“Good idea,” Harris said, doing likewise with Tony and Hierarchus. “Dim our lamps.”
Cosawta shrugged.
“Precaution is a thin wire walked by men with few choices, Lord Belmundus.”
However, he dimmed his waddly wazzoo.
Harris draped his cape over his Columbincus. Suddenly, they sat in relative darkness, illumination peeking from shade and crevice. Harris listened intently. The rumbling subsided.
“Has it gone?” he asked.
“Hard to say,” Cosawta replied. “I have never seen one and only know the legends.”
“Then it could be anything. You could be wrong.”
“I am often wrong, but I compensate for my shortcomings with rash actions. If a gati-bati came upon us, I would happily throw your Taleenay and my steward under its feet and help you escape.”
“You’re a bastard, you know.”
Cosawta laughed.
“That is my pet tludachi’s name. The Fumarca would have called me a shit head.”
“That too.” Harris listened. “Whatever it was, it’s gone.”
“I hear something,
oginali,” Yustichisqua whispered.
Harris listened again. He heard it now. A rattling, like the flapping of wings. Wings?
“Jesus H Christ,” he stammered. “We’d better light up again. Those fucking attack birds are coming back.”
“So they are,” Cosawta said.
Harris quickly uncovered his Columbincus, unsheathing his brashun blades. The waddly wazzoos were fired up again. Yustichisqua raised gasohisgi above his head. They braced for a lumbering aerial attack, because the porgeedasqui had a momentum that would carry them beyond their distaste for light to the feast of flesh they loved so well.
“Hold tight, old man,” Harris muttered.
But Little Bird had thrust himself from the circle and stood with his arms stretched wide, prepared to shield Harris from the onslaught.
“Lie low, oginali.”
“What are you doing?” Harris shouted, trying to pull Yustichisqua down.
Suddenly, the light increased, a wide circle forming above them, and hovering — a blinding light, which brought them into a huddle. Then, the illumination shifted to a spot just beyond the grove.
“What’s going on?” Harris asked, rooting about on Friend Tony.
He turned to Yustichisqua.
“Are you nuts? You could’ve been killed.”
“I am sorry to disappoint,” Little Bird snapped. “I am expendable. You are not.”
Harris felt like beating Little Bird to a pulp. When would Yustichisqua embrace his own worth? When? Harris turned to Cosawta, who grinned and pointed to the settling lights.
“We are saved, Lord Belmundus.”
Harris squinted. Set in a clearing was a vehicle — a long version of a Cabriolin, but not quite. Hopping out were two rugged men, who marched toward the grove.
“What is it?”
“It is a Loribringus,” Cosawta said. “A Culpeeper brothers special.”
“Loribringus! Loribringus!”
“Hey, mates,” came a voice through the shadows. Harris saw Moe Culpeeper standing before them, brother Larry directly behind. Moe held up a sillifoon. “Got your signal on me bog standard.”
“It worked?” Harris asked.
“You bleedin’ right it worked, friend Seppo,” Larry replied. “I mean, it gave us a flash and a direction before it went shonky. But it was enough for a bearing. Your bleedin’ Columbinky was ridgy-didge beyond that.”
“We best get a move on,” Moe said, shaking Cosawta’s hand. “No time for pashing. You got a Gottibotti out tonight and we have no time for dancing in the Never-Never with a big boy opened for lunch.”
Harris hadn’t a clue what Moe said, but he knew what Moe meant and was happy to oblige him. He headed for the Loribringus, delighted it had come. Two other mates were at the driver’s dashboard. They waved, and Harris returned the favor.
“They’d be Bettle and Bum,” Moe said. “Now get in and hold tight. I canno’ say good of these pikers’ driving habits.”
Cosawta leaped into the Loribringus, Tomatly bouncing at his side. Harris needed a hand-up, Friend Tony no aid on steps. Yustichisqua crawled aboard last. He appeared crestfallen. Harris felt guilty for having chastised him — for what? For protecting him?
“I’m sorry, old man, for snapping at you,” he said. “You’re always there for me and I’m missing in action when it comes to you.”
“Not so, oginali.”
“Not so. Not so.”
Harris looked to Tomatly, wondering if he could knock the little Cetrone off the truck. Cosawta settled him, and then turned to Yustichisqua.
“You show promise,” he said.
“I am glad you think so, mighty lord of the Asowisdi.”
Cosawta grinned, knowing sarcasm when he heard it.
“I think you will make the chisqua clan proud, son of Kittowa.”
“He has already,” Harris said.
“But I would become the pride of the seegoniga,” Yustichisqua said. “I have earned a place there. All I need is to perform Chewohe and I shall change my gollywi.”
Cosawta nodded his assent. The Loribringus took off, denying the porgeedasqui their dinner and the gati-bati its kill.
2
Harris was happy to see the Didadusi behind him. The Loribringus hovered above the trees, speeding at a good clip . . . for a truck. It wasn’t fancy — more a flying flatbed, but he noticed the propulsion pads sloped into a coil, unlike Cabriolins. The drivers, Bettle and Bum, steered the vehicle with a fan-shaped navigational device. Power didn’t appear to be sourced from anyone in this glorified buckboard, a fact which surprised Harris. He glanced over the side, expecting to see a wave of furious porgeedasqui or the wake of a massive gati-bati, but the Loribringus flew too fast for sightseeing. However, when they came to the ridgeline of the Nuckasee Hills, the trees fell away and a riot of fanciful roofs mushroomed between two notched peaks.
“Comastee,” Cosawta said.
“Comastee. Comastee.”
The town, as large as Echota, was dominated by a long structure with an exotic covering — looking like thatch from a distance, but as they came nearer, Harris saw it was stone — highly textured stone. A barrel formed the roof’s ridge, terminating at each end in two coils, reminding Harris of seafood — lobster for two, because these gargoyles were red lacquered.
“This structure is the ganuhida ligolu,” Cosawta said.
“It means a long house, oginali,” Yustichisqua noted.
“Good on you, mate,” Moe said. “We’re damned proud of the place.”
“Especially the Yeegoya,” Larry added
“Yigoya. Yigoya.”
“You’re right to say it,” Moe said. “All our best stuff’s in the Yeegoya.”
Harris shrugged. He couldn’t see the building — this Yigoya.
“It is a place to show finished crafts, oginali.”
“A showroom.”
“You got it, mate,” Larry said, patting Harris’ back.
“Good on you.”
The merriment was infectious as the Loribringus descended through the trees, zooming over assorted dwellings — ersatz examples from the four corners of the outlands. Harris supposed Fumarcans lived here, but mostly he saw Cetrone in their various, but distinctive, clan couture. As the truck approached the Long House, Cosawta paced the planks in short strides, as if to leap off the contraption at the earliest possible moment, despite safety considerations. Harris would not join in the leap — dicky foot and all that.
The truck landed with a jolt, the drivers laughing it up and high-fiving it, as if the return to solid ground was never a sure thing.
“Out of the bucker,” Moe announced, sliding over the side.
Yustichisqua aided Harris out, and then took care that the korinkles were adjusted and brashun blades were properly sorted.
“He’s like your Mum, Lord Belmundus,” Larry noted.
Harris nodded, embarrassed by the attention.
“Old habits are hard to break.”
Yustichisqua turned away and walked behind Tomatly, who, zululess, plodded along, the ground being uncommon to him. Harris sighed. He didn’t know why he should be annoyed with Little Bird’s attentions. Perhaps it highlighted the frailty of the foot injury and the dependence upon Friend Tony. Still, even the closest companions can get on each other’s nerves.
Harris waved his hand toward the Long House, but Moe moved them across the plaza to another entrance.
“Come this way to the Yeegoya, where the Coroboree is the main show,” Moe announced.
“The Long House is a Dingo’s breakfast,” Larry added, “if you know what I mean?”
Harris didn’t, but followed them to the barrel portico of the Yigoya.
“Here be fair dinkum and ridgy-didge,” Moe spouted.
“Knock your bloomers off,” Larry crowed.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 61