by Dyrk Ashton
“So a woman of legal age is not allowed breakfast in bed? I’ve been in America all this time and I still learn something new about this queer country every day.”
He’s in a particularly good mood. That hasn’t happened much lately. He’s always polite, but he has been more and more despondent of late. She doesn’t know why for certain, but he works for some rich guy Fi has never met and the man became ill a few years ago, a slow but progressive condition of some sort. That was about the time Edgar began to seem down.
Fi isn’t sure what her uncle’s title is, some kind of property manager for his employer’s homes--plural--the guy has houses all over the world. Edgar arranges to have them cleaned and maintained and pays the household bills. The reason he moved to Toledo was to oversee the restoration of the man’s most recent acquisition, one of those huge old stone mansions along the river south of the city.
Edgar lifts a rumpled bath towel from its perch on a chair, holds it between forefinger and thumb as if it’s disgusting. Fi gives him a look and he folds it.
“I know very well that you have been indulging me and my brekky routine all these years because you think I like it,” he says. “The truth is, I do, and that’s exactly why I do it. This may come as a surprise, but what you prefer has never been my greatest concern.”
“Obviously!” She makes as if to throw an English muffin at him. She doesn’t, of course. She’d never mess up his only suit before church, even if it does look like it was made in the 1920s. Which actually makes it kind of cool. “It’s good to hear you finally admit it,” she says.
He settles into the chair. “I know you’re growing up, dear, as you have made so very clear on every possible occasion since you were ten. Very soon you’ll move away to attend medical school, then have a residency, a job, meet a man (a good man or not, probably not), become married, relocate to someplace exciting and exotic, or more likely terribly mundane, and have thirty-seven horrible children.”
“Oh God!” Fi exclaims, then covers her mouth, having taken the Lord’s name in vain in front of the only person she knows who might actually care.
“I doubt you’ve done Him any harm,” says Edgar, glancing at the ceiling. “I will, however, say an extra prayer for you this morning, young lady.”
“Sorry Uncle.”
Edgar shrugs. He’s religious, but other than saying grace before meals he never speaks of it. He gave up asking if she’d go to church with him years ago. She always said she had to study.
“So, how are you faring with classes?” he asks. “And work?”
This is more like the conversation she’s used to having with her uncle. Simple, impersonal, to the point. “Classes are good, work is fine.”
“Good, good. And your boyfriend?”
She chokes on a piece of egg. How could he possibly know about Zeke? And he is not my boyfriend! All she can manage in reply is a muffled, “Huh?”
“Peter, dear,” Edgar clarifies, “the elderly gentleman you’re always taking flowers to. And dates, is it?”
She relaxes. “Figs. He loves figs. He’s okay, I guess. He smiled again last week.”
Peter is very old, a patient at the hospital where Fi works for her internship. He’s “taken a shine to her,” as her uncle puts it. He really has, actually, as much as he can, and because of that the hospital has assigned her to him full-time. Well, part-time, since Fi only works three or four days a week. The fact is, she’s the only person Peter responds to, as limited as it is. She’s “taken a shine” to him, too. He seems so lost and alone. On the rare occasion when she can get him to look at her, her heart leaps. When he smiles, which is rarer still, it brightens her whole week.
“Kindness is the best medicine, dear, and I know you’re giving him that.” He notices the digital clock on her bed stand. “Goodness me, is that the time?” He pulls out his pocket watch. “No, actually it’s one minute behind.” He stands, stuffing the watch away. “I must be off. You can leave the dishes,” then he adds with emphasis, “in the kitchen sink, Miss Fi. I’ll do them upon my return.”
“I’ll do the dishes, Uncle.”
Edgar grabs his chest. “The Lord be praised, miracles do happen!”
Fi points her fork at him. “Get! Out with you! Begone!”
“Well, if that’s the thanks I get,” he snorts. He pats his thigh and Mol rises with a groan, heads into the hall. Edgar pauses, hand on the doorknob. “If it truly be your heart’s desire, dear,” he says kindly, “after your 18th birthday I will trouble you with breakfast in bed no more.” He places his hand on his heart, “I solemnly swear,” and pulls the door shut softly.
Now that she hears it, Fi isn’t sure she likes the sound of that after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Order of the Bull 2
Tanuki and his caravan of monks, pack animals and wagons pass through a gate in a wall of white stone. Ten feet high and three feet thick, it was originally built by The Bull himself. The monks maintain it fastidiously to this day.
The wall circumnavigates the entire prefecture owned and controlled by the monastery, known locally as Taurus Minor. It is officially termed protected land and a nature preserve where hunting and trespassing are strictly forbidden by Turkish law. When the flying machines became prevalent, the Order made claims they scared the wild leopards and the area was declared a no fly zone. To this day it’s monitored by radar operated by the government but funded by the monastery.
One doesn’t live as long as most Firstborn without obtaining significant wealth and pervasive tendrils of influence. It happens almost naturally. Aside from the Order’s longstanding sway in Turkey, Tanuki himself has powerful contacts in Japan, having financed through anonymous holding companies much of the key technological growth that has made that country an industrial power since what the watoto refer to as World War II. His personal fortune is significant, but the Order of The Bull, easily the oldest of its kind in this world, has a net worth equal to the Vatican. The only reason they don’t have more is they don’t need more, and decided long ago that to seek affluence for the sake of affluence is counter to the Ways of The Bull.
The Turkish people and authorities never venture into Taurus Minor without permission, out of a mixture of obedience to the law, respect, and superstition. There are rumors of the place, fables and old wives tales claiming an ageless power dwells in these mountains--and they’re right. The monks don’t proliferate such stories, but they don’t quell them either.
Recent technological advances are proving particularly troublesome, however. Anyone can access satellite photos of anyplace from anywhere. Reality TV of the cryptid and supernatural-investigation persuasion is ubiquitous--and a thorn in the side of anyone who might have ancient secrets they’d like to keep.
Tanuki and his troop climb higher into the steppes, marching through pastures, meadows, and harvested fields, waving to shepherds tending their flocks along the way. Squat stone homes crop up here and there, with youngsters playing near streams or feeding chickens that scratch about in stony yards. At the edge of a serene lake a group of young men wrestle, all wearing bright green pants with cuffs rolled up below their knees. They break from their grappling and hail merrily. All the while the land continues to rise toward the base of the mighty Kaçkar Dağları, the Kaçkar Mountains, sometimes called the Turkish or Pontic Alps, severely contoured with peaks and crags of jagged limestone. The highest, at almost 13,000 feet, are frosted in snow year round. How that mtoto general from Athens, Xenophon, or any of his 10,000 soldiers, survived their forced retreat from Mesopotamia over these mountains is still a mystery to me, Tanuki reflects, even though he’d seen them do it, and even helped in a small way by pointing out the safest paths.
The outskirts of the village proper appears and the muffled thuds of the animal’s hooves become clip-clops on cobblestone. There are none of the shining painted domes and spires of Byzantine, Seljuk, or Ottoman influence here, like those seen on the Mediterranean side of the country.
Simple homes and shops jut along inclines to right and left like crooked teeth, squares and rectangles of white stone with flat roofs, arched windows and doors, though a few of the public buildings are roofed in red tile.
The sun is setting across the plains to the west, the last of the diffused daylight receding as a thin cloud cover moves in. Light snow begins to fall, white confetti floating gently from the sky, celebrating the return of Tanuki and his company of monks. Villagers grin and wave as they scurry about preparing for night. These are the Oblates, faithful watoto affiliated with the Order of The Bull, as their families have been for generations, but not monks themselves.
One last steep rise to a final plateau at the base of the mountain and they reach the monastery walls. Thirty feet high, ten feet thick, the stones each the size of a delivery truck. Tall gates of hardwood timber from far away forests open without so much as a creak, and are parted completely by the time they reach the entrance.
Inside the monastery they’re greeted by joyful monks who hasten to help with the ponies and mules. As the doors of the gate swing closed, Tanuki’s mtoto cloak, including his fur coat and hat, fade away. He’s now simply Tanuki, in Trueface.
Here, the disorder of the village layout is left behind. The monastery grounds were designed by The Bull, an architect, stone mason and master builder himself, according to a strict and logical plan, and are perfectly kept. The paths are paved with white stone, lined with lamps fueled by natural gas piped from wells on the monastery property, the buildings an eclectic mix of exotic architectural designs: circular structures with flat roofs, Nagara-style buildings shaped like beehives, mound-like stupas, stepped ziggurats, tall towers with spires, high-windowed halls with columns and domes, an open ampitheatrum, even a modest pyramid. The Bull constructed these buildings in part to honor the various heritages of the monks, but also because he likes to try his hand at all manner of stone-craft.
The monks with the wagons and pack animals head for the Cellarium, the monastery storehouse. Tanuki follows. He isn’t expected to help, but they’re always delighted when he lends a hand. Besides, he has items he wants to make sure get repacked for direct delivery to The Bull and The Rhino, and a couple of very special gifts he’d rather handle personally.
* * *
Tanuki adjusts his backpack and purse as he steps from the Cellarium walkway to the wide central path leading straight through the monastery grounds. Snowflakes melt on smooth paving stones lit golden by the lamps. Tanuki looks up to let the flakes tickle his furry face. Dark narrow clouds scoot across the backdrop of night. A break reveals a clear moon, still nearly full, its craters sharply defined. The snow glitters in its silver light. Another cloud bank draws over it like a curtain and it’s gone.
On his way up the path, Tanuki strides past the Armory. All that is kept there are wooden staffs, with which the monks train vigorously and are quite adept, and some light armor from ages past. On the roof of the armory stands the Gong Pagoda, a two story open structure housing a round bronze gong, eight feet in diameter, and a twenty-foot long tubular gong made of steel that hangs vertically from the rafters of the second floor, down through a hole to the first.
The path dead-ends into the largest and most impressive building in the monastery--the Temple of The Bull. Rectangular, the far end flush with the sheer rock face of the mountain, it’s built in the Greek Doric peripteral style and looks much like the Parthenon of Athens did before it fell into ruin. There are no windows, and unlike Grecian and Roman temples, no decorative friezes depicting mythological battles on its exterior. Those are displayed inside the temple, and there’s nothing mythical about them.
An iron portcullis rises with a clinking of chains and the massive doors swing inward. Two Sentinel Brothers hasten to opposite sides of the entrance and take their places, facing each other. They tap long staffs on the floor and bow in unison as Tanuki enters, snow swirling around him.
The youngest of the two monks greets him with cheer, speaking in Japanese, “Master Tanuki-san, welcome home.”
Tanuki takes the monk’s hand in both of his. “Greetings, Ebo. I hear congratulations are in order.” He speaks in English with a Japanese accent. “You have a new young one, I understand. A boy, and a namesake. Is he well?”
“Little Ebo is very well,” replies Ebo appreciatively. “Thank you for asking, Master. We are truly blessed by Apis.”
Tanuki is suddenly serious. “He doesn’t have...” he pulls the man close, “you know... horns?” The older monk laughs.
Ebo blushes and gawps, “Oh, no Master, no horns.”
“Hooves? A tail, perhaps?”
Ebo shakes his head, embarrassed.
Tanuki pats Ebo’s hand. “That’s good to hear. You just never know.” He grins and bows to each of them, then continues into the expanse of the hall.
The older monk delivers a teasing punch to Ebo’s shoulder. Ebo blushes again. They close the doors and push linen towels over the snow-wet floor with their feet.
Inside the hall, rows of columns march along the length of the room on the right and left. Attached to each is a glowing gas lamp. This is the naos, the main hall where assemblies and prayers take place, large enough for all the ordained monks to gather. The only furnishings are a few stone benches along the outer walls, but in the center stands a larger than life bronze casting of Asterion, 20 feet in height, smooth and shining in the lamplight, seated on an unpretentious, squarish throne of white marble. Tanuki grins every time he sees it. Asterion has always been skeptical of idols or monuments. On the rare occasions that he allowed representations of him to be displayed, he insisted they not depict him in his true form, only as a natural bull, such as in the Hindu representation of Nandi, or as the head of a bull, as in the ancient Egyptian depictions of Apis. The monks were very persistent, however. Year after year, generation after generation, they petitioned him, respectfully, to allow just one. Something modest, perhaps, but something. Finally, Asterion acquiesced--and they commissioned this. When it was unveiled with great ceremony and rejoicing, Asterion just shook his big head and retreated to his lair.
So, there he sits, the big Bull, staring down at me with his ears forward beneath gilded horns, his eyes seeming to follow my every move. Tanuki walks toward the statue in a zigzag, as he’s done a thousand times, just to see if the eyes really do follow him. Of course they don’t, but still...
After they freshen up and don their best monkly garb, three of the monks will be bringing goods from the bazaar to be taken up to Tanuki’s Brothers. To pass the time, he peruses the frieze relief sculptures on the walls that would normally be seen on the outside of such a temple. Asterion sculpted them millennia ago, with a little help from monk apprentices. Arges and Tanuki worked on a couple of them. The Bull put those in the darkest corner in the back. Tanuki can’t blame him. They aren’t very good. Though Arges still likes to grumble about it.
Tanuki wanders in the gaslight and shadows to the shuffle of his bare feet, click of his toenail claws on slick stone, soft hiss of burning lamps and huffing flicker of flame. The friezes are wrought in the Greek style, but if an outsider were to consider them to be based on myth, they would observe there are figures represented from stories around the world. There is Zeus of the Greeks, but also the Roman god Jupiter. Then Romulus and Remus, but Abel and Cain as well. Odin and Thor, Shiva and Ganesh, Anubis and Sekhmet, captured forever in all their immortal glory. Titans, Giants, Aesir, Vanir, angels, demons, Deva, Asura, bhutas and ganas. A veritable who's who of the panoply of gods and demigods, and hundreds of lesser creatures of lore. Thunderbirds, spiders, snakes, bears, bats, dragons, centaurs and ape-men, in addition to trolls and dwarves, gremlins, goblins, ghouls, flying fiends of the sky and monsters of the deep blue sea reflect in Tanuki's gaze. Most prevalent are half-men/half-beasts of a staggering variety, including a dozen configurations of human/canine and human/feline.
But these images aren’t taken from ancient mtoto imaginings or far-stretched truths. T
hey are genuine reminders of the First and Second Holocausts, the loss of friends and family, the cost paid by the Deva Firstborn for mtoto survival and their triumph over the Asura--the “unfriendly” Firstborn who twice attempted to exterminate or enslave all watoto on this earth.
The friezes depict natural human men and women as well, the watoto, from the primitive to the modern, homo habilis to homo sapiens, and all those in between, fighting alongside some of the Firstborn and against others. Fighting for their very existence.
“Watoto.” Tanuki rolls the word around on his tongue. It’s the term the Deva Firstborn have used for the humans, for all the homo species, since they first came into being. It still exists in Swahili and means the same thing it’s always meant: “babies.” The singular form is mtoto, for “baby.” When Tanuki was young, he asked his father why they called the humans watoto. Father told him it’s because the homo genus evolved so recently, they live such short lives, and are so very fragile. Then he added with a wry smile, “And because it’s fun to say.”
The Asura Firstborn call the humans parvuli (plural) and parvulus (singular), which are words that remain in Latin. Most of the meanings aren't nearly as nice as “babies.” “Young,” “small,” “slight” and “child” aren’t so bad, but as an adjective, parvulus has the connotations of “tiny,” “mean” “petty,” “cheap,” “brief, “unimportant,” “trivial,” “less than,” “insignificant,” and “unequal.” Ugly and cruel, like the hurtful names many watoto call each other today. Tanuki sighs. If they’d only realize they’re all the same--and just how lucky any of them are to be alive.
Tanuki comes to the friezes he and Arges crafted of themselves. He shakes his head, making little “tsk tsk” sounds with his tongue. Nope, not very good at all. Then, in the farthest corner of the hall, are the two that always affect him the most. The first is one of the few representations of Asterion seen in the monastery other than the statue. It is of him grappling with his arch enemy (other than Baphomet, The Goat), The White Giant, Mithras, whom The Bull slew in hand-to-hand combat during the Second Holocaust. The next portrays a fearsome horned “dragon” on its knees, reaching up with a clawed hand, trying to dislodge what looks like a natural mtoto male clinging to its back with his arms locked around its neck. A breeze wafts through the hall. The lamps flicker, causing shadows to dance across the dragon and man, making them quiver, pulse, come alive...