“Thank you, Parnasus, my loyal Danuwa.”
Parnasus turned to bow, but stopped, frozen to the spot. Harris shrugged, but also turned. He was struck by a green flash — a mesmerizing glow from a hand he knew too well.
“My lady,” Parnasus said, now bowing.
“Charminus?” Harris muttered, kissing the jade ring.
She stood beside a pure white steed, a foal of the great beast Nightmare. She was dressed in black denim and wore the look which had drawn Harris into this world.
“Harris Cartwright,” she said. “You have gone astray. I am here to put you right.”
Harris felt weaker than he had all day, even after the massive blast from Hierarchus. He grasped his waddly wazzoo and trembled.
“Parnasus,” he muttered weakly. “Return to the Gonada Gigaha. Tend to Detonto and Yustichisqua. Assure that an Ayelli continues to break the treaty, because I am done for.”
He heard Parnasus scurry away, and then was lifted onto the Scepta’s steed and flown away from the battle.
Chapter Eight
The Temple
1
Harris recalled Tarhippus’ words — you have been abandoned by the Elector and I am no longer constrained to capture and bring you to judgment. So why was Harris slung across the white steed’s back like road kill, while Charminus drove hard up the hill, over the Zinbear’s lair, across the invisible gate and into the gardens. When Harris had passed over the great riff — boundary to Montjoy and Ayelli, he thought to push off the horse’s rump, voluntarily falling into the Zinbear’s jaws. He had been saved from the Yunocker assault, but it felt like desertion to him. He didn’t deserve to be saved. Worse, he no longer craved the luxuries of the Ayelli, if he had ever craved them. He was no longer Charminus’ to command, but evidently the jade ring still kept its hold on him — magic, pure and complicated.
Harris, weak and bruised, smelling worse than a Zinbear, caught the scent of the Roses of Scaladar and thought of his lady-wife, now separated from him by the Forling and the clutches of this Scepta, who claimed him once again. But did she? Why would she? He was useless to her. He hadn’t kindled her. He was sure another could be drawn from some outland — perhaps Oz or Wonderland or the Way of the Mountains and Seas. Any Mad Hatter would do. Yes, a push off from the horse’s ass would solve Harris’ heartbreak. He would fall into darkness, a fate he deserved for deserting his friends in the Kalugu. He worried now for Yustichisqua and Parnasus and Detonto. Did the Gananadana safely land in the Gonada Gigaha? What of Captain Buhippus? For a man to assault his own brother to save the man who had caused his fall was a mighty demonstration of loyalty.
As Harris drifted, the warm breezes of the Ayelli wafting across his cheeks, he found himself lost in a jade cloud — his thoughts unsettled — paranoid and depressed. He lost all sense of being and direction. Where was he? Did he care? Everything dear to him had been lost. What more could Farn take?
Jolt.
The white steed landed, and Harris was suddenly aware again. He was at the reflecting pool, approaching the portico of the temple — the Temple of Greary Gree. The horse slowed, and then halted at Charminus’ command. She dismounted, holding the ring steady, controlling her former consort as if it were necessary. Harris was weary and, even if the opportunity came, he could barely muster a dickey walk. A run-for-it was out of the question. Besides, where would he go? He slipped from the steed, landing as cautiously as he could, and then turned to the Scepta. She cocked her head.
“Harris Cartwright,” she said, lowering the ring. “You shall no longer see me. But before I consign you to your fate, I shall show you the truth.”
Harris, puzzled by this speech, winced. He stepped toward her, Friend Tony propping him. He nodded to her, reverentially, but not a full lordly bow. Then she grinned, and in that grin he saw a visage beyond the goth-girl and the denim. Her face was deeply lined, arroyos forming beneath her eye sockets. A wrinkled staff dotted with pockmarks decorating her forehead. Her crimson lips were black. Her jowls hung in leathery folds like a turkey’s wattle. Her breasts hung like pawn balls from her black denim jacket. He balked. Had this been the creature who had drawn him into this world? Is this the succubus from Grimm and Zohar — Lilith the enchantress, tempting him beyond his limits?
“Charminus?” he stammered.
Although appalled, he wasn’t repulsed. That he had shared himself with this creature was undeniable, but the façade, which magic accorded, to make her and her sisters alluring to the eye and male passions, was gone, lost in a halo, clinging to her like an outer garment briefly raised for his sight only.
“You were good,” she said, her voice a rasping saw. “You are a beauty and a wonderful performer on all stages, including mine. I would take you back from that she-witch, who tempted you from my side. I could keep you for an eternity, but know this, Harris Cartwright. Farn’s troubles go beyond you and me and even the petty squabble between Trone and Yunocker. So my wishes for your destiny cannot be taken into consideration.”
Harris trembled. This was honesty from a woman who had been dishonest in most things. It took the shedding of her radiant form to bring her to truth’s light. He was suddenly endeared to this hag, who stood gauntly, but proud, yet humbled before him. It was a rude awakening, but not for him.
Charminus raised her ring, and Harris’ mind clogged with lies again. She transformed into the Scepta, the darkly divine object of desire she had always been. Yet, her allure was nothing to him now.
“I release you, Harris Cartwright.”
She pointed to the temple’s portal. It opened, revealing a somber light. When it did, his waddly wazzoo began to glow. Sadness overcame him. He didn’t hate this woman, but pitied her. She was more entrapped than ever he had been. He bowed to her.
“My lady,” he said. “Lord Belmundus will remember you always.”
“Would that you could forget me, Harris Cartwright. Would that you could forget.”
2
The vestibule, dim and foreboding, afforded Harris little comfort. However, in an array and their full regalia, stood his fellow consorts as sentinels. Silence prevailed. Harris thought to rush them, embracing each. But what could he say? Could he ask their forgiveness for crimes he didn’t commit? He had left their company and no more. Except Tappiolus, he had bonded with them. They had borne him no grudge. But here they stood like the palace guard — alabaster statues, demure and patrician.
Harris approached them, hobbling and battle worn, his eyes squinting, trying to catch glimmers of encouragement. None came. The consorts stepped aside when he reached the archway, which separated the vestibule from the Temple’s rotunda. Here he paused, scanning each face. As his eyes met each, they turned their faces away. He noted an expression of disgust on Agrimentikos’ lips, as if the chief consort meant to deliver a chastisement, but put it aside in favor of one more fervent. Arquebus pouted.
“Sir John,” Harris said.
Arquebus shook his head, and then looked down. Posan and Hasamun bit lips and twitched noses. Only Tappiolus made a menacing gesture.
“Boots,” he quipped. “I see you have become a barbarian.” He swept his hand noting Harris’ battle scarred asano. He then tapped the waddly wazzoo. “Totally native,” Tappiolus said, spitting.
“Totally,” Harris replied, displaying his gollywi.
“I should demand you as my Trone,” Tappiolus snapped, pulling Harris toward him by his Columbincus.
Harris pulled his nemesis even closer.
“You would never sleep again,” he growled, and then pushed back.
Tappiolus desisted, catching a glance from Agrimentikos.
“Lord Belmundus,” Agrimentikos said, softly. “You are wanted within.”
“Am I still Lord Belmundus?” Harris asked.
“That remains to be seen, but you shall not fall by these hands or by any of our race.”
Harris nodded to Agrimentikos and scowled at Tappiolus. He proceeded under the archway in
to the rotunda. He had been here before in dreams and visions from the Cartisforium. He knew the Temple held Cetronia’s deepest secrets — dark ones. He gazed along the walls scarcely noting the ornate carvings and statuary. That Kuriakis the Provost of the Arts had attempted to enliven the place was clear. The attempts failed, at least in Harris’ opinion. A mortuary it was and would always be. Through a thin veil at the opposite side he spotted Joella sitting on a grey stone throne. At first he thought it was just another statue, but her rosy cheeks gave her away. Still, she was silent and immobile.
At the rotunda’s center, a platform held a sarcophagus. Harris knew this tomb. It belonged to Hedonacaria, Littafulchee’s mother. The spot was sacred — revered by all Cetrone, and yet they never approached it closer than climbing the hill on Brunting Day. Harris bowed his head, and then approached the resting place. He gazed at the effigy of the holy woman. A tear welled, knowing this remnant was his mother-in-law — a pawn in the politics of Farn. He sighed, and then raised his waddly wazzoo over the clasped hands of the effigy.
“Mother of the nation,” he chanted. “Mother to my wife and wife to my father, see me here before you. I have been unworthy of the task set for me, great mother of Zacker and daughter of Zin.”
He heard a stir, and turned.
“Father?”
Kuriakis approached.
3
“You call me father, Boots,” the Elector said, softly. “Yet you evoke another father beside great Greary Gree.”
Harris swallowed hard, and then bowed.
“You’re still my father.”
“Am I, Boots?”
Kuriakis looked toward Joella, who cast her eyes down. Harris wondered what the man would do. He was a giant and could crush him with one blow to the head. One kick in the balls would send Harris to Kingdom Come. But the Elector just encircled the tomb, staring at Lord Belmundus, taking in his full measure.
“You look like a Protractan bug,” Kuriakis snorted. “I see you have been in battle. You limp and wield two brashun blades and have doubled your Columbincus. Normally that would please me, Boots. But you also sport a Cetrone lamp and the brand of the Blue Holly clan. Clearly your allegiance has changed.”
“I am the consort to Scepta Littafulchee of Zacker.”
“Zacker!” Kuriakis exploded. “Zacker does not exist. It is kept in check. It is my mandate to do so — anointed by the Primordius Centrum to keep the balance of light and dark, to never allow the conflict to arise again. Never!”
Kuriakis turned. Harris wasn’t sure of his next course. Should he humble himself at the Elector’s feet, apologizing for embracing the peoples of the Dodaloo — for making Chewohe and falling in love with a maid who, unlike Kuriakis’ daughter, wasn’t a hideous hag cloaked in a halo of lust?
“Boots,” Kuriakis said, more kindly. “You have disappointed me.” He turned. “I favored you.”
“And I thank you, father.”
“Even when you were misguided by elevating that Trone to a position he could not handle, I supported your actions as novel and liberating. Little did I know you would become intoxicated by these small concessions.”
Harris stood tall now, sucked in his breath and raised a single, poignant finger.
“I’ve acted according to my conscience, father. I can’t stand by and watch one people enslave another.”
“So now we stand by and watch both peoples destroy each other.” Kuriakis grimaced. “I have not intervened in the little war you have started because it will come to terms when the last of each tribe fall into a sea of their own blood. I have a greater threat at hand — a shadow streaming from the barren lands of Zin — a shadow which takes advantage of the instability you have caused.”
“I did not . . .”
“How could you? Why could you? I kept you entertained with tasks, which pleased you so you would kindle my daughter and provide the Ayelli with Thirdlings by the dozens — chances to fulfill the promise and the prophecy. But instead you blindly challenged the equilibrium of Farn.”
Harris looked toward Joella, who covered her face with a veil. He then glanced toward Hedonacaria’s tomb. It shimmered, as if the war for balance was fought beneath its lid.
“I am to die,” Harris said. “Like Hierarchus.”
“I did not kill Hierarchus,” Kuriakis replied. “He was never suited for Farn. He stole from me. He sought escape, but not with his soul and skin intact. He sought to tote treasures back to the outlands, which would enrich a life he had forfeited. He fled to Cetronia to fleece the Trones of their patrimony. That he is dead is no surprise and that you found his brashun blade is even less so.” Kuriakis clenched his fists. “I shall not kill you, Boots. You shall not die, but you shall be punished.”
Harris knelt.
“Death would answer my soul’s call, father. I’ve wronged you, but I’ve abandoned my people and my wife and my friends. How I can live beyond that, I can’t know.”
“Then life is your punishment, Boots. You shall be returned to your place and when in the outlands, at the precise time of your drawing.”
Harris glanced up, not believing what he heard.
“Truly?”
“Truly. But do not think this is a reward or a gift. I must rid Farn of you and restore the balance. But hear me. You will keep your memories of this place — of the events and the people. Of your beloved Littafulchee and the Cetrone you have abandoned. You will live with the memory constantly and in a place where no one will believe you. I suspect you shall go mad. I suspect it, truly.”
Harris grasped his Columbincus and glanced toward Joella. She was gone. The prospect of returning home was exhilarating, yet the thought of never seeing Littafulchee again or knowing the fate of the Kalugu, wrecked the prospects. It would be different if he were returned as a blank slate — on his way to MTV Studios for a Q&A. But how does one just drop one paragraph and go on to the next, still knowing the lost paragraph existed — details complete? How?
“Death might be preferable,” Harris murmured.
“You are honorable, Boots. Nothing has changed you in that respect. But my judgment is final. You shall be returned with memories intact. As for me, I will stir as a sign of agony for you. The sky shall turn green and all will endure Yichiyusti.”
Harris could say no more. Arquebus stood beside him now, helping him to his feet.
“Sir John?”
“Lord Belmundus,” Arquebus said. “I am to conduct you to Mortis House and beyond.”
Harris grinned.
“I’m glad it’s you.”
Kuriakis stirred.
Chapter Nine
The Outlands
1
Harris’ old quarters in Mortis House had been neglected — dimly lit and cobweb gray. Arquebus escorted Harris by Cabriolin to the portico, and then led him through the museum that represented the career of Lord Belmundus. Here his gifts, enshrouded in dusty displays, gave no pleasure or assurance now. Harris was miserable, where he should be on the pinnacle of joy. He had reached his goal, after all — escape, although Farn called it exile.
“I suppose I must leave everything behind,” he murmured to Arquebus, reviewing the many appreciations encased in glass.
“You may take whatever you wish, Lord Belmundus,” Arquebus replied. “It matters little. Relics are different in the outer lands.”
“You call me lord still,” Harris said.
“Of course. In Farn a name is not extinguished, nor its heritage. Honor and shame live on in tandem. You shall always be Lord Belmundus.”
Harris touched his Columbincus.
“And this?”
“It is still yours, but it is nothing more than a pretty thing, and might be considered gaudy in some circles.”
Harris managed a fretful grin.
“You say this to a man from Hollywood, where starlets parade with the Hope Diamond and men pierce their nipples with Tutankhamen’s scarabs. A gaudy double brooch would scarcely be noticed.” He rais
ed Friend Tony. “And this?”
“You will need that to support your battle wound, which you shall also take with you.”
“Battle wound? I wish it were so, Sir John, but my foot suffers of complications from a gasuntsgi bite. Attacked by the fucking Easter bunny, how d’ya like that?”
“I am sorry for your pain, Lord Belmundus — brother. Truly I am. But you once told me you would escape at all costs and it appears your schilling is up, dear boy.”
Harris smiled. A Trone entered carrying a stack of linen. Harris, startled, momentarily hoped Yustichisqua had returned. He’d take him in any form now, and if he truly belonged to him in true Farn manner, he would take Little Bird to the outer lands. But this wasn’t his faithful friend. Instead, the Trone placed the stack on the platform bed, bowed reverentially and departed.
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