Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)
Page 63
The brothers looked to one another, and then nodded.
“We have already done it, sir,” Larry said.
“Modifications. Modifications,” Moe echoed as if he were Larry’s Tomatly. “We can go beyond the branchy-wanchies.”
“Branchy-wanchies,” Harris mused. “I like that.” He turned to Yustichisqua. “Are you game for this, old man?”
“I go where you go, oginali. I support what you support.”
“I know that, but . . . are you game?”
Little Bird cocked his head, and then spoke.
“I would love to see . . . I would love to see Tarhippus’ face when he sees the Kalugu fall down around his . . . his fucking head.”
“Then you’re game,” Harris said, squeezing Little Bird’s shoulders. He then turned to Cosawta, and bowed. “Name your poison, sir and this spark will subscribe to it.”
“Truly?”
“Doubt it not Lord Cosawta. Doubt it fucking not.”
And with those words Harris came to perform Chewohe.
Chapter Twelve
Chewohe
1
Although Kuriakis still stirred and Yichiyusti prevailed — the sky muddled green, the Cetrone gave no heed to it as they whispered that the spark prepared to perform Chewohe. Some were excited, the liberation at hand. Others wept openly, their isolated peace to be interrupted. However, none disputed the course as they lit their waddly wazzoos and prayed to Hedonacaria’s spirit to bless the venture.
Harris returned to Echota in the Loribringus amidst fanfare and dancing. Although Cosawta carried the day with grand gestures, Harris sought the refuge of his kaleezo, hoping to see Littafulchee before he was subjected to the mysterious ritual. His hopes were dashed.
Yustichisqua braced Harris, assuring his comfort and confidence. However, the Echotans also treated Little Bird with honor, Cosawta telling the tale of Kittowa’s son protecting Lord Belmundus from the porgeedasqui attack.
“Here has returned a pure chisqua specimen, proudly displaying a warrior’s spirit,” Cosawta crowed. “And he too shall embrace Chewohe.”
Little Bird tolerated the attention, managing to slip away as soon as possible to the kaleezo’s seclusion. There would be a time for grand display, but this was not it. This was the time to prepare — to meditate and to purify. This was the time for Nayowee.
The crone surprised Harris on his first night’s return. She chanted on the threshold and burned a sickening sweet concoction, which almost made him give up his selu gadu. When Yustichisqua confronted her, she rapped him with her cane and hobbled after him in chase.
“Prepare yourself for pain, son of Kittowa,” she groaned. “The passage to manhood is not a sweet dance or a gentle song.”
“This I know,” Little Bird said, deflecting her blows. “But you startled us with your cackle and stink.”
Harris tried to intervene, but soon the old woman poked him with her stick.
“I can take two down at once, I can,” she said. “Now be calm and listen.” She raised a crooked finger to her nose, and then pointed at each in turn. “If you are men and not snalligrogs, you will listen and obey.”
“Just stop beating us,” Harris said. “Our journey’s been long. We need our rest.”
“Your journey has been nothing and rest is for those who sweep mats in the Asowisdi.”
Harris raised his hands in surrender. Yustichisqua cowered, but then stood firm for one last blow, before turning aside.
“Listen and heed,” Nayowee said. “You shall come to my asi-asa after two turns of Solus and Dodecadatemus. Then you shall be purified so you might step into the Galoquodi gasoqualu. Naked you shall come and naked you shall go.” She poked at Harris’ double Columbincus. “The children of asusdu do not wear such baubles.”
“Take care, crone,” Harris warned.
Nayowee laughed.
“You either listen or sleep, but if you sleep, you remain asleep for the measure of your days and waste no more of Nayowee’s time. I do not purify second-guessers.” She stared at Yustichisqua. “And that goes for you too, Taleenay.”
She stepped aside. On the threshold stood Enitachopco, pipe in hand. Harris shuffled back, the Elector’s imposing height inspiring reverence. Behind him clustered his brothers — Coweeshee, Elejoy and Tucharechee. Cosawta ushered them in, Tomatly at his side.
Harris, unsure of his next step, looked to Nayowee, who shrugged.
“In two turns come,” she snapped, and then hobbled past the elders, leaving her sickly stench behind, replaced now by the tart smoke of Enitachopco’s pipe.
Harris bowed. Yustichisqua knelt.
“Be upstanding, my children,” Enitachopco said broadly. “I have come to witness our deliverance and to assure my brothers of the truth.”
The clan heads gazed at the candidates, surveying them head to foot. Then Coweeshee cleared his throat.
“Has my nephew made undue promises to you?” he asked, dipping his pipe in Cosawta’s direction.
“No promises have been made,” Harris replied, sternly. “I assure you, I look forward to the enterprise.”
Elejoy cocked his head.
“Have you been drawn by desire for my niece?” he croaked, winking.
Harris balked. A thornier question. He approached Elejoy, leaning on Friend Tony.
“That I desire Littafulchee it is true,” he said softly. “That she desires me is also true. If this be a reason to perform Chewohe, I would gladly undertake it. But if it were the driving force, you would have heard my decision sooner rather than later. She’s not a promise, my lord. Nor is she a condition. Our cloth has been woven by the hand of love and respect. It’s beyond the matter, although you may dispute it.”
“I shall dispute it not,” Elejoy said.
Enitachopco grinned, nodding his approval. Tucharechee stepped forward, his craggy visage raised in challenge.
“You ring true, young lord,” he snapped, “but I look to your companion.” Yustichisqua cowered again. “He does not appear to be worthy of the rite.”
Yustichisqua stood now, stepping directly into Tucharechee’s path, his head coming up to the tlugu elder’s hip. Looking up, Little Bird scowled.
“Who can be worthier than the son of Kittowa?” he asked. “I am your nephew, sir, and I would be seegoniga.” He pointed to his gollywi — the chisqua brand — a bird scarred blue into his upper right arm. “I would cut this gollywi from my being and take another.”
Tucharechee drew a long knife.
“Shall I oblige you?” he asked, bringing the blade to Yustichisqua’s skin.
Harris shuffled forward, but Yustichisqua raised his hand, halting him.
“I would welcome it, uncle.”
“Then let it be so,” Tucharechee blustered. He glanced to Cosawta. “Oblige him.”
Cosawta grinned, and then grasped Little Bird’s arm. Tomatly danced about and, taking a purple bandanna, wrapped it about Yustichisqua’s upper arm, covering the gollywi. Little Bird appeared confused.
“Son of Kittowa,” Enitachopco said. “You shall always be of the chisqua. But when you have performed Chewohe, you shall have a second mark — a distinction like no other. Then I shall call you Ta-li Yu-do-we, he of the two marks.”
Yustichisqua bowed, and then reached for Enitachopco’s hand. Instead, he received the pipe.
“Smoke, Yustichisqua. Smoke,” the Elector said. “Then pass it to your brother.”
Little Bird trembled, but brought the pipe to his mouth, inhaled, and closed his eyes. He then passed the pipe to Harris, who caressed it, embracing its smoke.
“I am satisfied,” Tucharechee said. “If any in Cetronia doubt that the time has come, let them take their council with the gati-bati.”
Enitachopco received the pipe from Harris, and then raised his arms in blessing.
“My children,” he said. “You stand on the brink of promise — on the precipice of prophecy.” He touched Harris’ head. “Here the traveler co
mes from a different land. He carries the spark to transform us.” He touched Yustichisqua’s crown. “And from our blood flows this river branch. Doubt it not, son of Kittowa. No man walks alone.”
Enitachopco’s brothers came to attention, like tall pickets — a forest of lean buckskins. Together they mumbled until their words clarified:
“Naked shall you come and naked you shall go.”
As they repeated this, Cosawta and Tomatly stripped Harris and Little Bird of their buckskins.
“Forgive me, Lord Belmundus,” Cosawta said, as he released the asano and the loincloth. “I must also secure your brashun blades and take your Columbincus.”
Harris grasped Hierarchus, and then his brooch.
“I will not part with them.”
“Naked shall you come and naked you shall go,” came the chant.
“I am sorry, my lord, but it is a fucking requirement.”
Cosawta tugged at Friend Tony.
“But I need this to walk.”
“You can walk without it,” Cosawta remarked. “A little pitch here and tricky trip there, but you shall manage. I know you shall.”
Harris gave Friend Tony up, but was more reluctant when it came to his Columbincus. In fact, it crossed his mind the Seneschal might keep the rare double brooch for his collection — put it in a cage like one of his rare birds. The jade ring was also difficult to surrender, especially since it glowed in protest.
“Come, come,” Cosawta said. “I am to be your brother-in-law. Family breeds trust.”
Suddenly, Yustichisqua relinquished gasohisgi. Harris relented, but removed the Columbincus himself, gently placing it in Cosawta’s hands.
“Do not have a fucking worry,” Cosawta said. “It favors you and not me. I shall return it unscathed. I do not mean to stuff it in a wadi-wadi and toss it at Montjoy’s mighty walls.”
Harris sighed, resisting no further. He stood naked before the elders. The evening breeze blew through his groin. He was embarrassed. However, he sensed Yustichisqua’s comfort, so all was well.
“Go,” Enitachopco said, pointing over the threshold. “Go to the asi-asa.”
“But we’re not expected for two turns,” Harris said.
“You cannot stay here.”
“But she won’t welcome us there.”
“Go.”
Harris shrugged. He stepped toward the threshold expecting his foot to snag him, but it worked fine now — a little stiff. The night breeze awaited him — he and his Taleenay. So into the murky Yistiyuchi night Lord Belmundus waded to stand outside Nayowee’s yehu for two turns, a spectacle for the crone’s night cackling and curious Echotan eyes for a short, but uneasy, interval.
2
Harris thought to chuck the ritual. Crossed his mind, it did, while standing naked in public — not his idea of a lofty act; although, as an actor, the public had seen less of him, but imagined more. He had never allowed a full-frontal nude scene in his work, but never ruled out the possibility. Time ticked on the option. Now he felt like a porn star or, at the outer margin, a calendar pin-up boy. If Yustichisqua had not acquiesced, Harris would have marched back (as best he could) to his kaleezo, retrieved his asano and his powerful bling and taken up a humbler occupation — selu picking came to mind. But what example would that set as his Taleenay quietly stood or sat or leaned while the clans filed passed, scrutinizing every ripple and crevice.
Harris sat more than stood, allowing his knees to rise, putting his nether parts in the shadows — a guessing distance for giggling children, who hunkered down to peek. He supposed this humiliation served a symbolic purpose within the ritual. Still, when the suns went down and the night breeze whipped, he shivered — no blanket or robe to keep him warm. Then Yustichisqua sidled coyly beside him, two warm bodies drawing heat for one. Then at dawn on the second turn, the cackling from the asi-asa ceased and Nayowee showed herself.
“You are here already?” she asked.
Harris stood, balling his fist.
“You’ve been snickering at us for two days, you bitch. You told us to show up and we have. Now I suggest you undertake the purification ritual so we can finish this business and take our rightful places.”
Nayowee raised an eyebrow — the remains of one. She raised her cane, Yustichisqua cowering. She laughed.
“You have been marinating in the people’s eyes for two turns, Lord Belmundus. You and your Taleenay have been purified enough.”
“So that’s it?”
“Unless, you would like another turn at it. It can be arranged.”
“No. I’m purified.” Harris grinned. “I feel as fresh as a daisy on a mountain meadow.”
“You do?”
“I am fine also,” Yustichisqua said.
Nayowee laughed, raising her arms skyward. There appeared the Gananadana, fully serviced and repaired, Cosawta steering the course, Tomatly dancing about the ropes. Inside the gondola, were two ladies. Harris sighed. Yustichisqua wept. It had begun.
The women of the seegoniga filed passed Harris and Yustichisqua, leading the way through the forest, chanting as they went:
Sacred Sittoquo, we come to take and share
Your holy limbs to mark the way of light.
Forgive us when we snap your core as we dare,
To keep promise and prophecy through the night.
Come we, to the Asaylidodi
To make the Dulohu,
In your wondrous heart of gold,
Galoquodi gasoqualu.
Harris found the way hard, his foot kicking up after an hour of treading over roots and vines. Yustichisqua tried to help him, but Nayowee, surprisingly sprite and agile, whacked him with her cane each time he extended aid. Harris thought Little Bird would turn on the crone, provoking her to curse him, transforming him into some unpronounceable bug. Then from the sky ship came Cosawta’s hoot and holler, littered with acquired street slang. It brightened Harris’ heart. He realized the Gananadana scouted the path so the women would not lose their way. Harris’ heart surged knowing Littafulchee watched him from the heights.
“My angel,” he muttered. “Can any soul go wrong with such guidance?”
“Say you what?” Nayowee snapped.
“I said, old bitch, how can I go wrong with my lady aloft, my friend at my side and your cane at my back?”
“Purification suits you, Lord Belmundus,” she cackled. “Just take care not to trip over your toes. I will not be mending you today.”
“She is there, oginali,” Yustichisqua said, glancing up to the gondola’s underside, and Harris knew he did not mean Littafulchee.
“I hope it’s worth it, old man.”
“Not so old today.”
The path never seemed to end. Uphill, downhill, over rivulets and through tangles until the green sky broadened through the leafless grove of the Sittoquo trees.
“I know this spot,” Harris said.
“Hush,” the crone snapped. “No man speaks here.”
The women danced through the grove, emerging into the Galoquodi gasoqualu — the sacred circle. As the women chanted, they spun, drawing small knives.
Sacred Sittoquo, we come to take and share
Your holy limbs to mark the way of light.
Forgive us when we snap your core as we dare,
To keep promise and prophecy through the night.
Come we, to the Asaylidodi
To make the Dulohu,
In your wondrous heart of gold,
Galoquodi gasoqualu.
Several women surrounded the largest Sittoquo, knocking on its trunk lovingly. Then, standing on shoulders, they cut three short branches from the tree. With each cut, six women wept, lamenting the act, while six others performed the alsagi, a dance which Harris had learned in the Deedaloquasdi, where the children had laughed to see him muddle through it. As the branches were ceremoniously passed from woman to woman, each spat on them, drying them with their buckskin’s hem, the blue dye staining the branches blue. Several othe
r women built a small fire, kindled from their waddly wazzoos.
Nayowee corralled Harris and Yustichisqua near the fire, which raised Harris’ anxiety. Were they going to the stake? Nayowee did not speak, so he dared not. Still, it was clear the ritual had begun.
The Gananadana hovered silently overhead. The women continued spitting and dying until the three branches glowed with an azure hue. Upon reaching Nayowee, she took the blue branches, raising them above her head, and then cradling them in her arms.