Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Respectable attire,” Arquebus said, pawing through the pile. “Not much — sturdy cloth, but it will help in the return to your where and when. It is best to be less conspicuously dressed.”

  “I thank you,” Harris said.

  “And there is a wet rag to wash away the battle dust. I am afraid we do not have time for the full blast for your skin, but this should serve.”

  Harris removed his Columbincus, Hierarchus and the torn asano. His cape fell to the floor. It was in tatters. He deposited his crown, a bent circlet of conontoroy, on the platform bed. He set aside his waddly wazzoo. Finding the wet cloth, he caressed it, pushing his face into the lemony scent, one particular to Mortis House and one he would miss. The cloth felt good on his forehead and cheeks, but even better across his chest and groin.

  He noticed Sir John watching him intently. Then Arquebus touched the gollywi.

  “You were serious in this,” Arquebus muttered. “To have your flesh seared with one of their marks is dedication, I must say.”

  “It’s more than dedication, Sir John. I have a family here with the Cetrone.”

  “It is beautiful. It must have been painful.”

  “Nothing worthwhile is painless. I’ve learned that and now continue my education.” He sniffed, and then inspected the trousers and the shirt provided. “These are unusual.”

  “They are mine, Lord Belmundus.”

  Harris suppressed a grin because, although the trousers were a bit old-fashioned with eyelets to hook on suspenders, the shirt was a lacy affair, with puff sleeves. Captain Hook couldn’t have done better. Still, it would rouse less attention than a battle worn warrior in cape and kilt ambling through New York like Long John Silver. Now he would have only the piratical shirt, some gaudy bling, his cane and a strange swag lamp, which could proclaim him more priest than buccaneer.

  He found the suspenders and thought perhaps a bow tie might be hiding in the stack, but no. He reattached his Columbincus, gripped Friend Tony and latched his waddly wazzoo precariously from a button hook. He abandoned his cape and crown, but then lifted Hierarchus.

  “Here,” he said. “A gift.”

  “I cannot take this.”

  “Not a gift for you, my friend, but for another friend, who I had hoped to see once more before I left this world.”

  Arquebus cocked his head, and then shrugged.

  “For Elypticus,” Harris said, emotion choking him. He glanced away, hiding a spontaneous tear. “I shall miss them all, you know.”

  “Be better cheered,” Arquebus replied, taking Hierarchus. “My son will prize such a sword — a brashun blade from Lord Belmundus. He honored you.”

  “He was the pride of my Danuwa, Sir John, and now he grows like wild grass in the Makronicans. The Gucheeda has made him worldly and wise, I’m sure. He’ll prove a great asset to you when he returns.”

  Arquebus held the sword to his forehead, and then bowed.

  “The time is upon us, Lord Belmundus.”

  Harris sighed, and then gazed about his quarters, a thousand memories rushing him — memories which would crush him in the outlands and deliver Kuriakis’ promised madness. This room would stalk him to the grave.

  “I once asked you about the exit — the portal which would release me. You said you didn’t know. Now I see you . . . you had a memory lapse.”

  Arquebus led his charge out.

  “No lapse, my dear boy. No lapse.” He stopped, and then turned, staring into Lord Belmundus' deep blue eyes. “Portals there are many, but free passage there is none. Only Sceptas and Seneschals can go freely between the worlds. Only Sceptas and Seneschals can grant us free passage in their wake.”

  2

  As they strolled the corridors, Sir John continued his explanation.

  “Think of Mortis House as a glove with many fingers,” he said. “The palm is secure in the Ayelli, but the digits stretch and transform as they pass through the many outlands. I have known this, but knowledge and utility do not equate. In escorting you to your where and when, I am also a passenger in Mortis House’s tentacles.”

  “But I know people — Fumarcans, to be precise, who have slipped into Farn accidentally.”

  “This is true, but it is not free passage. It is a trip over a stone and a fall off a cliff. Like all things under the suns, portals have flaws and every rule has exceptions.”

  They had entered the Scullery Dorgan’s corridor, Harris smelling the cooking aromas. He hadn’t eaten in a day and was suddenly alive to it. But Sir John rushed him along, babbling about how the Sceptas stood sentinel over the portals. To keep them waiting would be disrespectful. But Harris longed for terrerbyrd in cream sauce.

  Suddenly, through the walls came Trones — arms stretched toward Harris, heads bowed, waddly wazzoos shimmering. Some held flowers, while others grasped parcels of food. Harris was touched.

  “They like you, Lord Belmundus,” Arquebus noted. “You have made an impression.”

  As Harris passed them, his heart hitched. He saw the sadness in their faces — swollen eyes and drawn lips. Then one began to sing, a doleful tune, heavy on both heart and ear:

  Ya meni kay-ya,

  Datamon wazzoo besqua tlugagi.

  Spasatosdi misgahu?

  Wazzoo popo fatstahu?

  Soon the hallways hummed with this chanting. Arquebus picked up the pace. However, as they approached the doorway beyond the Scullery Dorgan, an old Cetrone woman impeded the way. She bowed her head and offered a buckskin-wrapped gift to Harris. Trembling, he took it, carefully unwrapping it. He whimpered when he saw it.

  “Selu gadu,” he murmured.

  “Torii sgi na patli kani,” the woman replied.

  “What did she say?”

  “She brings me corn bread, prepared and baked by her own hand, Sir John — a rare gift and an extraordinary effort.”

  Harris touched the gadu to his lips, and then kissed the woman’s forehead. She smiled, and then bowed, stepping aside. The others took up the chant again.

  Ya meni kay-ya,

  Datamon wazzoo besqua tlugagi.

  Spasatosdi misgahu?

  Wazzoo popo fatstahu?

  Harris rushed now, clutching the precious bread in his fist. He limped through the open door and into a small waiting room. Here he found a hard seat and collapsed. He let loose a flood of tears.

  “I do not deserve it,” he wept. “Their kindness is without limits.”

  “It is only bread, my dear boy. You are too affected by the gesture.”

  “I am undeserving of their hymns.”

  “They are a musical people and sing all the time. What did they chant? Did you understand it?”

  Harris pushed Arquebus away.

  “Of course, I understood it.” He gasped, and then moistened his lips.

  “Oh, spark of the world,

  A great lamp is extinguished by your going,

  Who shall save us?

  Who shall lift us to the light?”

  He shook his head, unconsoled.

  “I don’t deserve it. I’ve left the Kalugu in the lurch. I may have started this thing, but I won’t see it through.” He set the bread aside. “They put much trust in me. I’m a nineteen-year old actor, for shit’s sake, who’s lost his way through the looking glass. I’ll be as mad as any hatter.”

  Arquebus stood imperiously, staring at his charge. He then pointed to another door — the way out.

  “Through there, Lord Belmundus. They wait for us on the other side.”

  3

  Harris wasn’t surprised to see the Sceptas Soffira and Miracola standing sentinel by the portal — a round moon door ablaze with crimson light, like a laser oven. He was surprised by Charminus’ absence, but he guessed when she divorced him (if that term could be applied) it was final. He bowed first to the lovely Soffira, she of the flaxen hair and Sir John’s mistress. She grinned, and then pointed to the open portal. Harris looked to Arquebus, who had shut his eyes. So Harris turned to Miracola,
she of ample flesh, who didn’t grin, but waved her hand impatiently for him to enter. So he took a bracing breath, grasped Friend Tony and stepped over the threshold.

  “Sir John?” he murmured.

  “I am here, dear boy. Never fear. You will experience . . .”

  No need to tell him because he felt giddy as the floor stretched like putty through a tunnel. He didn’t move. He just rode the wave, trying to keep his balance as the fingers of Mortis House did their thing. A blinding light struck him and he could only think he was dead and this was the famous light which housed God. But it flickered to dim blue, and then subsided. He took a step and didn’t fall — a good sign.

  “Sir John?”

  “I am still here. Move forward to the first door on your left.”

  Harris stepped cautiously to a plain door, which could have been a door in this world or any other. He pushed in and entered a sitting room. Sir John joined him.

  “Sit and watch the lights.”

  Lights. Yes, the room streaked with lights, like a train passing through communities and cities and day and night and eternity. The pulsing mesmerized Harris and he sat by what may have been a window, except he couldn’t see through it. He suspected he would see the outlands — fragments of other worlds — Plageris, perhaps, with its serpentine inhabitants or maybe the Red Queen’s palace or the Bridge to Terabithia. The light lulled him to slumber. In this state he was beyond fantasy. He could see Littafulchee sitting in the Kaleezo, weeping for her loss. He watched as Detonto bound up Yustichisqua’s wounds. He saw Joella’s veil lift, her eyes tearing at her loss. But central to it all, he saw Hedonacaria, sitting in her casket, dark and dreary, speaking in whispers. He is gone, she said. He is gone, but I shall tell you where he is. He sighed and awoke to see Sir John staring at him, puzzlement on his face.

  “I shall miss you, you know,” Arquebus said. “We have not had anyone of your caliber through these gates in many ages.”

  “Cheer up,” Harris replied. “The next one through might be Justin Bieber.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. You’re not making this any easier, you know.”

  “I am sorry for that.”

  Harris reached out, touching Arquebus’ hand.

  “I didn’t mean that. You have always looked after my interests.”

  “I underestimated you,” Sir John said. “I thought you would be a cock-up from the silver screen — much like Jack Batemore.”

  “Jack Batemore?”

  “I mean, Lord Hierarchus.”

  Harris gasped. He remembered when Jack Batemore went missing. He recalled the headlines. He wondered if he had a headline like that, but he would never know, because he was en route to his own when. He might even arrive early and miss the glamorous Bo Peep at Happy Pings.

  “I could have been as reckless,” Harris said.

  “But you have something that others see — something I did not see until Elypticus drew my attention to it.”

  “The Cetrone call it the spark,” Harris replied. “According to the Whisperers of the chisqua siti, all consorts have it. Therefore you have it too. The Sceptas are drawn to it like a moth to a flame.”

  “It goes beyond that, dear boy. You have managed to shake loose the bounds of their magic. You have seen the truth of Farn. You have brought your own magic to the place.”

  “And I take it away with me.” He glanced to the flickering wall, the pulse lessening. “I’m a thief in the night. I raised their hopes and then, through my vanity, I placed that hope in jeopardy. Now the outcome is nothing more than a game of grusoker.

  Arquebus touched Harris’ hand.

  “We have arrived, Lord Belmundus.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  4

  Harris opened the door, hesitating to watch if Sir John followed him. He did not.

  “Why not jump ship?” he suggested to Arquebus.

  “I cannot.”

  “You’d be free of Farn. Didn’t you wish that also?”

  “Once I did. I deserted a wife and two sons when Soffira drew me across the threshold. They are a distant memory now. I would be lost in this when, even with your guidance, I could not do it. Soffira has been good to me and I have Thirdlings. They still need their father’s keen attention. If you had a Thirdling you would not be so quick to depart.”

  “I have no choice, Sir John, Thirdlings or not.”

  “True.” Sir John raised his hand and gave the sign of peace. “Whatever the book of life has written for your course, think of me and Elypticus whenever you find your mind slipping into the abyss. Remember us fondly, even when your body begins to age and your career sinks into the sea. There is a place where decay is banished and that place holds the memory of your deeds high — an example for all, long after your beautiful head rests in the quiet earth.”

  He bowed. Harris fought back tears, quickly opening the door and emerging into the Victorian corridor he had once known. The creaky old staircase was there with its gargoyle ornaments. He remembered how he had first seen Littafulchee here, floating on her zulus fetching Corzanthe for her mistress. Such thoughts weren’t helping him now.

  Slowly, he descended. When he reached the foyer, the door opened, the grey light filtering across his dickey foot. He emerged onto the porch of 13-13 MacDonald Avenue and stood in Washington Cemetery.

  “My goodness,” he said, sighing. “I can’t believe I’m back, but . . .”

  He trundled down the porch stairs to the rows of grave stones, the prayer rocks still sentinel since the day Harris left. He saw the rusting gate beyond, opened as if to kick him out for trespassing.

  Bing bong. Bing bong.

  He gasped.

  “2Gollies I be,” he muttered, before realizing the signal came from the doors of the elevated train line. “Oh, God.”

  Harris turned around. Mortis House was gone. He trembled.

  “2Gollies I be,” he muttered, unable to keep his footing, even with Friend Tony’s aid.

  Harris Cartwright huddled beside the grave markers, bawling for all the wrong reasons.

  Chapter Ten

  The Prisoner

  1

  Harris hobbled into the SoHo Grand still dazed that he had landed back where he had started like some faulty Parcheesi piece on an insane game board. He had made the trip back from Brooklyn without a hitch and without being recognized. Perhaps his fame had disappeared in the few minutes he had been gone from the scene. He doubted it. There were a few fish-eyes aimed at his puffy shirt and weird brooch, but this was New York, after all, and the average citizen was inured to the bizarre and the unnatural.

  When he entered the Grand, he supposed Tony was still waiting for him for breakfast and the ride up to MTV Studios for the Q&A. All Harris wanted was his bed, but he peeked into the restaurant anyway. There Tony sat tapping his fingers and feet, looking back to the door. He spotted Harris and stood.

  “Where ya been, chary boy? Your wavos rancheros is cold now.”

  Harris raised his hand for silence, and then entered the restaurant, a waiter nodding to him. Harris indicated he already had a place at the table.

  “I was detained,” Harris said, looking at the mess of eggs on a fancy white-on-white china plate. “Couldn’t be helped.”

  Tony cocked his head and surveyed him.

  “You’re different, mate.”

  “You just saw me. How am I different?”

  “You’ve lost weight, and you’re limping like a ‘orny gay ostrich lookin’ for a date.”

  Harris chuckled.

  “I twisted my ankle.”

  “That was some bird you ’ad last night, but where d’ya get the fancy cane and that God awful bling.” He sniffed. “And, I ‘ate to say it, but you’re not perky fresh in the aroma department.”

  “What? I showered.”

  That was a lie, but he did wash the battle scum off and hoped the scent of Farnian lemon lingered. Evidently, not.

  “W
ell, your eggs are all fridgy. So you’ll ‘ave a short stack of something and be ‘appy with it. Sit and eat. We gotta move.”