Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  Yuyoyi atsilu,

  Osda asusdu.

  Galoquodi yuwanigalu

  Asaylidodi soogasdi.

  (Bad fire,

  Good light.

  Sacred branches

  Oaths are smoked.)

  She turned to Harris and Yustichisqua, nary a quip nor insult upon her lip.

  “Dance, my children, out of respect for the sacred branches, and so the sweat may oil your hides for the cleansing.”

  Harris wasn’t sure what she meant, but the women clapped and chanted rhythmically. Yustichisqua began to dance — shyly at first. Soon he muddled his way through his version of the alsagi.

  Harris stared at his dickey foot and hoped it would serve this task. His toes cried out for rest and recuperation. Still, he managed it. Step-by-step, he twisted and twitched, finding the beat in the fire’s glow.

  “Faster,” Nayowee said.

  Harris turned with each clap, sweat beginning to flow.

  “Faster,” Nayowee commanded.

  Harris tried, but his foot conspired against him. But before he could fall into the holy blaze, Yustichisqua grabbed his hands and twirled him around, the dance transformed into a whirling reel.

  “Faster.”

  The women clapped, while the candidates performed a whiplash frenzy, pumping cascades of perspiration across their purified skins. Breathless, Harris halted, panting — reaping the wind, holding firmly to his knees. If he should plummet groundward, Yustichisqua assured they would do it as a single entity.

  “Yes,” Nayowee shouted, and then looked aloft.

  She handed two branches to the women nearest the fire, while she stepped toward Harris, waving the longest and bluest. She tapped him on the head.

  “Now?” he asked.

  She gestured for silence, and then drew the branch across Harris’ chest, sharp bramble thorns cutting his skin, perspiration blending with his blood. This stung, but he dared not cry out — no man permitted to speak in the grove. He tensed while Nayowee continued to streak his body with cuts — his belly, legs, arms and then his back now were striped with crimson. Little Bird whimpered as the assistants played the same ritual upon him. Nayowee hesitated when she reached Harris’ injured foot.

  “No,” she said. “I will spare you that.”

  She turned, raised the branch and called skyward.

  Galayidu gollywi seegoniga

  Yuyoyi atsilu sgi osda atsilu.

  Yuma ama udali quo

  Adatowetodi atsinonunu.

  (Brand of the seegoniga

  Make bad fire good.

  Then in the lake waters

  Kiss the wounds to healing).

  Before Harris could think further, a searing burn hit his left shoulder. He turned to cry out, but caught Nayowee’s admonition. He trembled as he watched Yustichisqua receive the fiery brand also.

  Cattle, he thought. We are cattle now, marked for sale to the Primordius Centrum.

  He thought he’d pass out, but held fast, fearing to look at the mark. But he smelt his own flesh like a steakhouse special. He clenched his teeth. Yustichisqua was pushed into him. Harris clutched him as they moved out of the clearing and through the grove until they reached the lake’s edge — the Ama Udali.

  3

  Abandoned on the bank, Yustichisqua wept.

  “We must enter the water, oginali.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. It seals the wounds. We would die otherwise.”

  “Truly?”

  Harris perused the lake — calm enough. He recalled evils in this lake — a predatory fish called the atsadi and snapping turtles — terrapinsgi. But one quick plunge and the rite would be over. How bad could it be?

  He eased Yustichisqua off the bank, then, stepping with his bad foot first (being clear of cuts), he entered the glade. But the next step held truth, because this was a salt lake.

  Harris winced.

  Yustichisqua wept.

  “It is painful, oginali.”

  “I know. Hold tight, old man.”

  They clutched each other, moving deeper into the water, pain searing — a thousand firebrands worse than the one which had made its mark upon their shoulders. At waist level, Harris stopped.

  “I don’t know whether I can do this, Little Bird.”

  Tears streaked down his cheeks.

  “I shall die, oginali.”

  “No, old man. We’ll live, but I think we must come closer to death before we come closer to life.” Harris gripped Yustichisqua tightly. “Take a deep breath. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  Harris counted to three, and then plunged, the lake covering his head. He took Little Bird with him. The pain whipped every wound, the salt biting chest and back — even assaulting eyes, where no cut had transgressed. The pain was so intense, if an atsadi threatened him, he’d tear it apart with his teeth. Let the terrapinsgi bite his ass. He’d beat its shell into maracas.

  Harris pushed up from the bottom.

  “Holy God,” he shouted. “What did I do to merit this torture?”

  He pushed toward the shore, but Yustichisqua had not reemerged. Harris panicked.

  “Little Bird.”

  Bubbles only.

  “Little Bird.”

  Harris frantically beat the surface, the pain replaced with terror. Tracking the bubbles, he dived under, searching through the murk. Then he saw him — his Taleenay near lifeless drifting in the brine. Harris tugged him, dredging him to the surface.

  Yustichisqua bobbed, and then gasped, his eyes rolling back. Harris dragged him out, struggling to the bank. He tried to recall CPR lessons — mouth to mouth, but Yustichisqua suddenly came around, spitting gobs of lake water onto the bank, coughing like a consumptive. Harris embraced his shoulders, and then took him into his arms.

  “Little Bird, Little Bird,” he moaned. “Speak to me.”

  Yustichisqua gasped, trying to smile, but burbled more water.

  “It still hurts,” he choked. “Inside and outside, I hurt, oginali.”

  “We hurt together,” Harris said, rocking him, and looking to the sky. “We have not been defeated. We made it. Breathe. Breathe deeply.”

  Yustichisqua caught his breath, steadying with each gasp.

  “Oginali,” he wept. “You almost lost me.”

  “Never,” Harris said. “What would the Didaniyisgi of the Yuyutlu do without his Taleenay?”

  “I am your Taleenay.”

  “You are, old man. You are . . . what’s the word? Tell me the word?”

  “Dinatli.”

  “Yes. Dinatli — Brother.”

  They embraced as only brothers could, naked on the bank and as equals under the green sky in the shade of the sacred Sittoquo.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Husgi and Asgay

  1

  Harris awoke upon the lake’s bank, aching and pained. His gollywi throbbed, but when he gazed at the scabbing mark of the blue holly, he grinned. He was now seegoniga, more than by the word of the Gurt Ryyves. As he gazed at the brand, he sighed, thinking of his Danuwa. Poor Melonius forced to the pits of Terrastrium. And how did Elypticus fare in the far-off islands with Garan?. Did Parnasus still live? Then Harris heard heavy breathing beside him. At least his Taleenay was at hand. More than Taleenay now. A Dinatli — a brother, who shared with him this painful ritual. How far Yustichisqua had come from a silent Trone in the shadow of his lord to this brave equal, sprawled on the Ama Udali bank.

  Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sky — a silhouette casting a rose scent. Harris sat up. The person before him held open a buckskin, inviting him to embrace it — to cover his crimson stripes and his tender gollywi — to hide his nakedness from the world for the first time in three days. He tried to rise, but his foot was uncooperative. Then the robe-bearer hunkered down, wrapping him in suede.

  “Lord Belmundus,” she said.

  “I know your scent. I long to dwell within it.”

  “You shall dwell in me as my husgi, and I
as your asgay.”

  “Husgi and asgay,” came another voice, a feminine charm — a second lady holding another buckskin, this one over Yustichisqua.

  Harris looked at his lady and she, at him. She hugged him, and then lifted Friend Tony, Hierarchus and the Columbincus like presents given for the first time.

  “With these, I shall array you — the honor and signs of the spark within you. The spark that shall be in me.”

  Harris grinned and embraced Littafulchee.

  “My lord,” the other said to Yustichisqua, covering him with the buckskin.

  Little Bird stirred, and then, opening his eyes, sat up abruptly.

  “Do I dream?” he stammered. “Did I dream that you called me your lord?”

  Wanona kissed his forehead.

  “You are my husgi for all times to come and all times to pass,” she said, wrapping him. She held gasohisgi. “And to you I return your symbol of authority.”

  Yustichisqua grinned, taking the dagger, kissing it, and then kissing Wanona.

  “I am a lucky old man,” he said.

  Harris covered Littafulchee in kisses. He reached for her breasts. She did not stop him. His Columbincus glowed as if in tune with his erection. But this was not the place for passion. He knew it could not cure his many pains. Coupled to recovery, passion would smack of consolation rather than love. Littafulchee must have sensed this also, because she gently pushed him away, and massaged his neck, causing his eyes to roll and his heart to race.

  “We must be away from this sacred place,” she whispered.

  “We’ll consecrate a new place more holy than this briny glade,” he agreed.

  She kissed him again.

  Yustichisqua and Wanona were in the throes of passion. Harris didn’t want to interrupt it; nor could he. He looked into Littafulchee’s eyes. They danced wildly — smoldering and beckoning. However, as Lord and Lady of the Cetrone, they exercised restraint. They were not each other’s reward. They were the destiny of the people. However, Little Bird was no such icon, so his passion roared as Wanona mounted him on the bank. He wailed like a young tludachi until they both collapsed into each other’s arms. Harris grinned as if the climax had been his own. And who was to say it wasn’t?

  2

  “Husgi. Husgi. Asgay. Asgay.”

  The parrot of Tomatly’s voice came from the rise above the bank. He hopped and danced, singing a merry and lascivious song. If Harris had a translation, he would have called downright pornographic. It made Wanona blush. Yustichisqua cropped his buckskins securely about his groin.

  “Dinatli,” he said to Harris. “Dinatli¸ I am very happy.”

  “For that I am happy too.”

  “And do you not shine for your own happiness?” Littafulchee asked, pouting.

  “I’m over the moon,” Harris said, grabbing her, dragging her to the ground, showering her with kisses, despite the pain. “I’m over all three moons.”

  Suddenly, a shower of stones — or nuts, something akin to acorns, pelted the couples.

  “What the . . .”

  Cosawta laughed beside Tomatly.

  “Brother,” Littafulchee called. “Is that necessary?”

  Cosawta continued to throw the acorns, a few catching their targets. Harris tossed one back, but Littafulchee stopped him.

  “It is for good luck,” she said,

  “And fertility,” Cosawta added, throwing another fistful.

  “I see,” Harris said. “It’s like throwing rice.”

  “If you say so, husgi, it is so. But it is an honorable tradition.”

  Harris managed to get to his feet, raising his arms, Hierarchus dangling from one hand and Friend Tony from the other.

  “Then take your best shot, Lord Cosawta.”

  “We are brothers now,” the Seneschal said. “I shall call you Sisterfucker.”

  “No you won’t,” Harris protested.

  “And why not? It is a statement of truth and what else would I call my brother-in-law?” Then he raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, we have not the time for it now, since you have exercised restraint. I certainly would not have.”

  “Brother,” Littafulchee scolded.

  Cosawta glanced at Yustichisqua, and then threw a fistful of acorns at him.

  “I can see this one is a true Cetrone. No restraint here.” He howled. “Good show. But the Gananadana waits.”

  “Gananadana. Gananadana.”

  Wanona helped Yustichisqua up, brushing him off, adjusting his buckskin and fastening the dagger to the drawstrings. Littafulchee straightened the Columbincus, snapped Tony into it’s cane sheath, and secured Hierarchus on a golden belt around Harris’ waist. He kissed her again.

  “I shall attend to your wounds,” she said. “I have a balm from Pajoquota — from the edge of the sea, near the Dodingdaten. It promotes quick healing and is less noxious than Nayowee’s lotions.”

  “I look forward to it,” Harris said, then grinned again. “I look forward to your fingers plying over every . . .”

  “I shall work my miracles upon you. Trust me.”

  Harris gazed at this woman — a beauty, who knew her own mind and might not always share his. But he didn’t want a pliant wife. Wife? Asgay. Had he come so far so fast? He hadn’t planned to marry until perhaps age thirty-five, when his career would be sagging or veering to a different set of roles — more Lear than Hamlet. Then it would be a big bang media affair — public not invited, but somehow they’d get a view. But didn’t he just have such a wedding, with blue branches and salt water and most of Cetronia looking on? Then a thought stirred him.

  “Where’s my jade ring?”

  Littafulchee frowned. She turned aside.

  “You miss the glow of the Ayelli?”

  “No. But it was a gift.”

  “It is a summoner,” she said turning, holding it up in her right hand.

  The ring glowed. Harris stared at it. It did summon him.

  “She calls still,” he muttered. “But it was given to me by Joella.”

  “As kind as the Memer of Montjoy might appear,” Littafulchee replied, “she gave you this to bind you to her daughter. It was not the gift. You were so bound.”

  Littafulchee shook the ring, and then threw it toward the lake. Harris gasped, as if something was cut from his body. He watched the green glow turning in the breeze. It fell to the water, but before it hit, jaws emerged, breaking the surface, catching it — swallowing it, and then taking it under.

  “The atsadi,” Harris said. “That fish has taken my ring.”

  “Let it,” Littafulchee replied, holding his shoulders. “Let her call a monster from the deep to her bed. You are my husgi. I need no ring.”

  Harris glared at Littafulchee’s crystal bauble, which danced from her headband. He thought it might be glowing — calling as strongly as the jade ring had. But then he realized, it did not. His draw to her was below his Columbincus and definitely further down. He embraced his new asgay with fervor.

  “Come, now,” Cosawta shouted. “The Gananadana waits.”

  “Gananadana. Gananadana.”

  “Oginali,” Yustichisqua said. “The sooner you come, the sooner you can be one with her.”

  Wanona tugged her man up the bank.

  “There is much to do,” she said.

  “Yes,” Harris said. “There is much to do.”

  He escorted his consort up the bank, his back turned on the lake, but in the ripples he thought he heard a fish . . . belch.

  Part V

  Mounting a Three Reeler

  Chapter One

  Much To Do

  1

  Harris enjoyed his new suite of rooms in the seegoniga clan house, especially since they contained his heart’s joy. The clan house, a maze of halls and chambers, sprawled through a forest clearing, each court crowned by a high kaleezo roof. Harris had little time to explore, torn between preparations for the impending invasion and the attentions from his wife. As exciting as the former
could be, the latter pinned him like a butterfly. He would rush about business — weapons training, invasion planning and the supply line, only to break off and disappear through the winding corridors of the clan house and into his asgay’s arms. Here he forgot all promise and prophecy — all flash and pother. He would have clung to Littafulchee’s breasts, engaging her with kisses and more, without interruption or disturbance, but for her urging him that there was much to do.