© Copyright 2017 by Nicholas James Bridgewater
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Dedication
To my wife, Grace, without whose support this book could not have been written.
Also, many thanks to my mother, Carolyn, who helped to edit this book, my father, Leslie, who taught me to pursue my innate creativity, and my son, Jalál, whose constant love inspires me.
Map of the Continent of Tremnad on the Planet Tremn:
Table of Contents
Dedication
Map of the Continent of Tremnad on the Planet Tremn:
Introduction
Chapter I. Deathblow
Chapter II. The Novice
Chapter III. The Young Planting
Chapter IV. The Village Girl
Chapter V. Initiation
Chapter VI. Brother Ushwan
Chapter VII. Beasts & Cutthroats
Chapter VIII. Forest Depths
Chapter IX. The Valley
Chapter X. Wedded Bliss
Chapter XI. Mimra
Chapter XII. Dark Dwellings
Thanks!
Preview of ‘Green Monk of Tremn, Book II: The Rise of Plant Man’
Introduction
I want to thank you for downloading the book, “Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure”.
Green Monk of Tremn is the story of Ifunka Kaffa, a green-skinned alien boy from the planet Tremn who was abandoned by his mother and raised by his uncle and aunt, only to see them slaughtered at the hands of vicious assassins. This is the story of how Ifunka becomes a monk, facing unimaginable trials and ordeals. One day, his friend goes missing and he sets out with two other companions on an epic journey of adventure, mystery and intrigue. The three boys battle with their emotions, discover new truths and fight against terrible monsters and evil forces. It is a journey through the darkest of woods and hidden cities, through ancient kingdoms and lost valleys. It is a journey which you will never forget!
Thanks again for downloading this book—I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter I.
Deathblow
“Many do not understand, young Ifunka,” said the old man, his smooth face and bright, green complexion a testament to his pure Tremnan pedigree. “Why a boy like you should have a beard, let alone one as bright orange as the fiery sun when it declines its head past the rim of the world before it undergoes its night journey in the realms of the underworld. It is because of this beard that your parents left you, because they did not understand what the Almighty Great Spirit intended thereby in fashioning you in such a manner. But I hold that love for all critters is the essence of the Holy Tamitvar, so I took you in—and your aunt and I love you dearly, despite that cruel disfigurement upon your head. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
The man was solemn and wise, his deep-sunken eyes indicative of thoughtfulness, while his broad forehead betokened determination and the deep-set lines in his brow displayed signs of wisdom. His frame was sturdy and wide, as was his head, sitting as it did upon broad shoulders and a thick trunk with muscular arms and thick, builder’s fingers. He sat upon a wooden stool, two feet off the ground while little Ifunka Kaffa, a bright boy of three, sat on the floor on a straw cushion, upon the wood-planked floor-boards within the warm and cosy log cabin. A fire burned slowly and amiably in the hearth at the centre while his aunt sat tending the fire. All the while, she watched her husband and the unfortunate boy engaged with the soft tones of familial converse. The warm glow of the hearth-fire cast shadows upon the walls with its flickering amidst the dim light that radiated from its midmost heart. It flashed—as the soul flashes with inspiration—and it burned like the fire of passion that consumes men’s breasts. Ifunka, in the midst of this dancing display of light and shadow, appeared as but an inconsequential creature wrapt beneath the sheltering shadow of his uncle’s expansive form.
The boy was only three, a mere handful of years, yet he had already felt the sting of rejection and the icy coldness of solitude. If it were not for his uncle’s solicitude, he would now be nothing more than a dead and withered shell cast into the depths of the hungry forest, left to the cruel indifference of the elements and the ferocity of the creatures which inhabit the deepest regions of the Great Forest of Ffushkar. This was the custom of the Tremna, or at least those of the Old Central Kingdom (which was established by King Ishmael in ancient times), however cruel it might be. Those children who displayed signs of mutation or imperfection were deemed children of Afflish, the evil spirit which is in perpetual warfare with the Great Spirit, the God of light and power. Facial hair was common only in the most elderly Tremna, those of one hundred and twenty years or more, and even then the custom was usually to shave, except for monks and priests who were forbidden to do so. Elderly kings who were penitent for some sin or another and elderly prisoners were also bearded, the latter by the command of the prison-wardens.
Thus poor Ifunka Kaffa, whose large, bright eyes betrayed a quickness of understanding and deep, spiritual nature, and whose otherwise handsome and radiant features displayed the finest qualities of Tremna physiognomy, was deeply troubled, as much as a boy can be, by his abandonment and how any parent could reject the product of their own selves. Is it not like a man who despises his own hand and cuts it off? Is not a parent like a seed and the child a tree? The seed must eventually die but the tree takes root and is the result of the seed. From that tree, many more seeds will be scattered, and each is a part of the former. These were thoughts which often occurred to young Ifunka. That such wisdom should be possessed by a tender sapling like he was a testament to the goodness of the seed from which he had sprung. So how could the good seed despise the tree that it had produced? His uncle’s answers failed to satisfy this problem.
“Why do you focus on what is negative and much-laden with pain?” the uncle continued. “Your mother loved you in the womb but, when you were born, she saw the beard upon your face and knew that the custom required abandonment. Your aunt and I have been merciful unto you as the Almighty Great Spirit is merciful to all men, but you must understand the ways of the world and the laws and traditions of our people. You are a child of Tremn, our glorious world, which the Great Spirit has stocked in abundance with lush vegetation, the best animals and the most fruitful of seas. Goodly men and right religion do we find under the shadow of a just government, even the Holy Theocracy of Tremn. So there is much reason to rejoice and be happy and to overlook the indifference which your mother, in accordance with custom, displayed towards you.”
The boy sat and pondered these things as his aunt prepared some ffetv-bush milk tea with sugar. The soft, rich aroma of ffetv combined with the sweet smell of burning kaptitv-logs hewn from the lofty kaptitv-tree, which provides shade and shelter in forest villages. The hearth’s flame cast dancing shadows on the log walls and the smoke gently drifted upwards and sifted through the thatched gesh-straw roof that filtered the smoke but proved poor insulation come winter. Uncle Matuka began to hum an old tune from his youth, which his wife took up unconsciously. To it were added words that spoke of long-lost days and golden memories which the swift passage of time had so cruelly
stolen from their grasp:
Konsh, ffush, amma, ffakvafi,
ush koffi weshke novtonitv.
Wabffe atviruff, washke perkuff,
shem koffi beshke novtonitv.
Atvalat osheffa kont okvenishnifunka,
koffi gent enime kontvonitv.
Shifon amma tvaon kalak abashovtka,
nenash ffent tvaon kalak afkaovtitv.
Kultvume ramk saffki umainfi,
babaon kod kont, mamaon dah kont,
babawaon aneff, mamawaon okvefi,
deyashitv aft galeitvaf, kod kont.
Konsh, ffush, amma, ffakvafi,
halsh novt enime krai kontvon deya,
wabffe atviruff, washke perkuffreffur deyafi,
atvalaton kod oktunka shev afkaovt heya.
The moon, the wind, sun & sky
Are always moving in their spheres.
The drifting clouds, the rolling waves,
Flowing always in their channels.
But my sweet darling without compeer
Is always fast before mine eyes.
Her beauty’s sun shall never set,
Her winsome smile shall never die.
The days of sprightly youth and cheer,
My father’s love, my mother’s kiss,
Grandfather’s knee and grandmother’s arms
Are passed away but thou art near, my love.
The moon, the wind, the sun & sky
Though they pass before my aged eyes,
And drifting clouds, pass over rolling waves,
My darling’s love with me shall never die.
Even as these words fell from his lips and caused his blessed wife to blush as much as her green complexion would allow, a silence began to overcome them—a deafening silence that overpowered them, like the intolerable calm before a roaring and cataclysmic storm. The wind seemed to have paused for breath and the hearth-fire ceased to crackle. The tea sat calmly in its pot as each member of the household was gripped with a sense of foreboding, as if imminent danger awaited them. Perhaps they each had a sixth sense—an awareness beyond the visual human capacities, which extends beyond the reach of time and space; or perhaps there is a sudden awareness of death which is granted to those who are beneath its shadow. At any rate, Uncle Matuka stood up and grasped the haft of his sturdy axe, its steel blade glistening in the light of the fire.
“Keep quiet, both of you!” he ordered. “Danger is upon us!”
As he said these words, he crept towards the large, wooden door that held the wilderness at bay, each footstep creaking under his leather, wide-rimmed great boots which reached to his knees. Each plank seemed to moan under the pressure of his hefty bulk, long accumulated through the sumptuous meals his wife prepared each evening, in conjunction with his penchant for sugar-water, mead and mouth-watering honey loaves. Even now he half-thought of these as he contemplated the doom that lay beyond the gate. He paused beside the great door, sweaty, thick fingers gripping the solid koft-wood haft, his bulbous nose, brow and cheeks glistening and his eyes wide with alertness. His heart pounded with adrenalin, his chest heaved with heavy breaths. They heard faint sounds, maybe even the pitter-patter of stealthy feet in the undergrowth. Uncle motioned for the two to hide.
Aunt Kabishta took Ifunka to the ladder leading into the cellar. They descended rapidly and she quickly opened the lid of a great barrel of pickled kutv-knobblies, a type of particularly knobbly cucumber-like vegetable that grew in the forest. She sealed the lid fast and rolled the barrel until it fell down into a cistern below. There was a tremendous ‘plonk’ as it splashed down before violently wobbling and bobbing up and down, to and fro in the water. Aunt hid herself in a cupboard before the great door swung open and a horde of assassins, clad in black raiment with veiled faces and razor-like ffutish-swords, burst in, tearing past Uncle into the home, scarcely noticing that he stood behind the open door. Suddenly he threw his entire weight into his opponents, crashing into each one, swinging his axe with all his might as several dropped dead, their bodies rent asunder. Others he knocked into the hearth, causing them to burst into flames and run out of the house to roll about in the bushes and put out the flames. Soon he was overcome, however, by sheer force of numbers and fell victim to their flesh-rending blades. Not one to cry out in ordinary life, the sound of his bellowing wail as he was stabbed, hacked and shorn to pieces, was truly pitiful. The man, who had once stood so large and imposing a figure, became nothing more than a pile of meat, bones and blood which gradually spread out across the wood planks and seeped into the earth and the cistern below. Some drops even fell upon the barrel in which Ifunka was secreted.
They violently searched the house as Aunt Kabishta grasped a broom for protection. Her brow dripped with perspiration which glistened on her fulsome bosom and her heart pounded like a drum, beating out the relentless march to the valley of death—but death was not far off and each moment gave her fresh tidings that she would soon be delivered from the plain of mortality. Suddenly, the cupboard swung open and the black-clad assassins seized her violently, tearing her dress as they did so. She was bound and gagged before being placed in a black gisht-wool sack and hoisted onto a carrying-pole. She screamed and jostled all the while to little avail as she was carried off.
“Sheydh yamakhsh-îm khô-yish,” said one among them in a foreign language, before reverting to Tremni. “She is meet sacrifice!”
“Is there no brat here?” another asked before he was hushed by his comrade.
“Shush, lest you scare him off, because ramag yishaff wish-ôn ftâkh ffaidh-ish.”
The assassin then began an exhaustive search while the others led away the captive, discovering the opening which led to the well. He peered down, noticing the solitary cask in which Ifunka was closeted. Its occupant remained silent, having heard the commotion and screams from above, each delivering a chilly blow that sent tremors through his thin and bony frame. Just as the assassin began to attach ropes in order to descend to the water below, the cask started to move, as if by the Providence of the Great Spirit, pulled by some hidden current, until it bobbed its way through a passage into a tunnel, through which an underground spring fed the well. The assassin—undeterred—continued to descend until he had reached the same passage.
As the assassin entered, his clothes thoroughly soaked wet, the water began to rise. He continued on regardless, catching sight of the bobbing cask until the water had risen so high that he had no more space to breathe and was forced to turn back. As he did so, however, he found that he had gone too far. His lungs began to burn and his body convulsed before suffering the final pangs of death, a death of such searing pain and agony that the blackness and silence which followed proved an immense relief before his spirit was gathered into the nethermost abyss of Gahimka. Ifunka and the cask drifted on into the darkness, far from danger and the assassin’s deadly blade.
Ages seemed to pass as Ifunka sat cramped within the tiny, damp space, his limbs aching and his back bent. The cask smelt of old, musky shkometv rinds, a round blue fruit which is dried and kept in barrels to ferment, and kutv-knobblies which floated about him in the briny brew. The smell made him nauseous and he often felt like retching and vomiting as the cask bobbed to and fro on its seemingly endless journey beneath the soil of Tremn. It seemed as if he were a date-seed cast upon a violent and tumultuous ocean, thrown up at every moment by the thunderous wrath of Neptune. For one who had only ever lived in a forest for the sum of his short life, such treatment was far from tolerable. But no matter how hard he whacked the walls of his prison, he could not manage to convince it to stay still and allow him a peaceful passage.
His mind burned with the thought of his uncle and aunt who
se screams still echoed in the vastness of his infantile mind. They had been his only family—they were his friends. In times of difficulty, through moments of loneliness, through nightmares and anxiety, he had always turned to them for support. Uncle had taught him everything he knew and was like a father to him. Perhaps it was because his own children had died in childhood; perhaps it was just his innate kindness which made him look upon Ifunka as a son. He had so often sat on his uncle’s broad knee and listened to stories from ancient times and the poems of the great Tremna bards and poets. They would go on long walks through the forest depths, during which Uncle would teach him all the names of the arboreal species and the medicinal properties of various berries, fungi, leaves and roots.
They would sometimes go to Laffka hill, which lies some ten kobotvs from their home (one kobotv being about half a mile in length). The hill juts out from the otherwise flat landscape of Shivka Forest, which lies at the southern corner of Ritvator Province within the Old Central Kingdom of Tremn. It is surrounded on all sides by forest and has long been regarded as a sacred site. As such, no building was ever raised upon it, except for a simple stone altar that was used by the heads of each household, clan leaders and priests during the seventeen sacred festivals and holy days and on the Day of the New Year, when Tremn completes its rotation around the sun. On most days, however, it is a solitary and peaceful spot and Ifunka and Uncle Matuka often pitched their tents upon it. He remembered one night when he and Uncle Matuka looked up at the stars as they lay upon the soft, green grass upon the hillside. The cool breeze wafted the sweet scent of tornish-cherry blossoms from the surrounding forest. As they gazed at the immensity of space and pondered the slow but steady movements of Tremn’s two large satellites, Ffash and Tvash, and the third, smaller satellite, Obish—lagging behind the others—Ifunka felt absolutely dwarfed by the magnitude of the heavenly bodies. The sheer number of stars which, however much he tried, evaded his attempts to number them, belittled his small and insignificant singleness. The blackness of the heavenly dome swallowed up all his thoughts and dreams while the burning bright stars consumed his being in their radiating brilliance. Uncle pointed out the names of the brightest of these and showed how each one formed part of a mighty constellation, such as the Dying King, whose head was separated from his body, and the Great Gatviff, a mighty bear-like creature with deep blue eyes and fluorescent green fur.
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 1
