“Anything’s possible, I suppose,” the boy replied.
The other two silently reflected on the implications of the story, particularly those relating to the Theocracy.
Having finished his narration, and the boys having finished their tea and muffins, they rose to go. Brother Wiffka stopped then, saying:
“Just a moment, please let me speak to Ifunka.”
The others politely left the room, closing the door behind them, and waited. Ifunka sat back down as the Brother eyed the tea grains at the bottom of his cup. They sat thus for a few minutes until the monk scratched his chin and looked up with a thoughtful mien.
“You know, Ifunka,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about the story you told me—about the murder of your aunt and uncle. Frankly, I’m worried. I have searched through all the theocratic dispatches we’ve received over the last five years and cannot find any notice of wanted criminals such as these. Either there is a discrepancy in your story or there is an unreported and most insidious group of bandits operating not too far distant from here. What do you have to say on the matter?”
“I’ve told you what happened already, brother,” Ifunka replied. “I’ve often wondered who it was.”
“Well then,” said the monk. “We’ll speak no more about it now, at least not until we find some information on the matter. As for you, think now of preparing to become a novice, young planting.”
“It’s a hard commitment, is it not?”
“All things which are worthwhile are likewise hard. You know the saying: ‘Ease devours the soul but difficulty sows the seed’. You will have to give up and wholly forsake womenfolk and the pleasures of the flesh, but your reward in Ganka will be great indeed, dwelling for aye near the throne of the Great Spirit.”
“What need have I of womenfolk?” asked Ifunka.
“Just remember,” warned the monk. “Keep your wits about you and do not fall into any traps. I bid thee farewell for now. I’ll see you soon.”
Leaving the monk’s cell, Ifunka joined his two companions who discussed what they should do next, before Ffen would have to go to prayers or begin his duties for the day.
“They’ve got me on agricultural duty,” he said. “Six hours a day I plant or till the fields and, oh, there are so many fields! There’s fifty of us but it’s still quite intensive. Never mind, though, it’s all in service to the Great Spirit. Service is worship, is it not?”
“Well said, brother,” Ifunka replied. “So what shall we do before your duties commence?”
“There’s a meadow just beyond the monastery, on Shebga Way,” Ffen replied. “The flowers are beautiful this time of the year and it’s quite a pleasant spot to sit and breathe in the fresh spring air. Sometimes I just lie there and watch the passing clouds above and imagine what each one represents.”
“That sounds like heaven, doesn’t it, Shem?”Ifunka exclaimed. “After so long caged within that abysmal dungeon! How many days and nights, if they can be called such, did I sit back and dream of the open air, the celestial horizon above, the blue expanse of heaven during daylight and the starry sky at night, with the heavenly orb brilliantly shining against the black void beyond. Are there truly any delights greater than this, that one should be free—truly free—and breathe the fresh air and see the vastness of the world around us and the heavens above us? Come then, let’s to the meadow!”
The three boys scattered along the path that led out of the monastery grounds, passing by the dungeon that Ifunka and Shem had for so long occupied. They both evinced a look of serenity which their unquenched pain and suffering could not belie. Yet, despite the anguish which was still latent in their breasts, they gazed heavenwards, the very image of which brought them a feeling of exhilaration. The sun shone happily through the clouds and a mild breeze enlivened their cheeks, lightly wisping their hair and monastic garments. Wultva-budgies, colourful blue, green and violet-feathered birds with resplendent plumes chirped and danced and tweeted throughout the softly-rustling branches of kaptitv-trees that lined the way. Pastoral scenes of abundant tranquillity were everywhere evident, monks driving ffentbaff-oxen, soft-speaking monks discussing a verse of the Tamitvar as they walked along the path, farmers or country peasant-folk coming to the monastery to trade, buy goods or request prayers, webk-cats leaping, pouncing and bounding on the grass after some real or imagined prey, and the sweet melody of the wandering Tremna bards who daily passed through the monastic grounds, mimgeff-lutes in hand, singing gently as they went on their way to another village or hamlet where they might ply their trade and obtain victuals or, perhaps, receive the favours of some besmitten damsels who fall prey to their woos and sweet melodies. The mimgeff-lute is a six-stringed instrument made of tornish-cherry wood with a round drum and long neck. The bards did not always get along with the monks as they sung of battles and sagas of history, of the kings and Empire which existed before the glorious theocracy of present and were thus seen as somewhat subversive, not to mention their illicit portrayals of courtly love, romance and sensuality so frowned upon by the authorities. Yet freedom they had to ply their trade as no restrictions were placed on artisans and musicians, so long as they paid their annual tithe of one fifth of all their income.
The three boys sat down on the soft grass and just relaxed, breathing in the fresh air, soaking up the light of Vukt’s rays as it warmed their cheeks. After a while, Ifunka got up to stretch his legs. He then took a stroll on the path which adjoined the field and splashed his feet in some puddles along the way. At length, he looked up and saw a figure approaching, a girl dressed in the traditional attire of a farmer’s daughter, viz. a light blue bonnet and apron and long, dark blue dress reaching to her leather boots. She was driving a small meb-goat in the direction of the monastery. Ifunka could barely see her face, obscured as it was by the rays of the sun which shone upon her with angelic effulgence, brilliantly dancing off her robes and soft cheeks. As she approached further, he could make out the discriminating features of her visage, the small and dainty nose, short ears around which soft-flowing hazel locks weaved their path, large, brown eyes like pools of delight, a delicate brow, thin eyebrows, fulsome cheeks and lips and a roundish face complementing thin and delicate fingers, a small frame and lady-like posture that made her appear as an exquisite gem set within an unworthy mount.
It was then that she looked up from her meb-goat and her gaze met his, sending reverberations of excitement throughout his body. She smiled subtly and, oh, what a smile it was! It was as if the eye of heaven had looked upon him with its glory. Into her movements, her delicate curves and refined graces he was drawn, until nothing remained before him save her vision and those welcoming lips which warmed the fibre of his being. He smiled in kind, but, oh, what an awkward smile it was. He blushed, if Tremna can blush, and moved back a step, tripping on a rock and falling backwards in the process. He landed in a puddle which splashed over his face, rendering him a sorry figure indeed and much perturbed. The girl laughed with a laugh of innocence and good fun, but it was a kind laugh, not one which was ill-intentioned.
“How now, boy!” she said, her voice as smooth as milk, as she offered him a hand.
Still stunned, both by his own embarrassment and the girl’s overwhelming charm, he said nothing. His eyes were wild like a stunned tvung-deer and he remained motionless.
“What, can’t you take a girl’s hand, or will my touch spoil your piety?”
“Eh, what is um…,” was as much as he could bring himself to reply as he took her warm and delicate hand. Just touching her, he felt a buzz of excitement, as if a revitalising energy coursed through his veins. His heart pounded, his mind flashed and he leapt up with a gentle tug from her hand, such that he almost fell onto her in his enthusiasm.
“Whoa there, boy,” she cautioned him. “I’m a catch, perhaps, but a virtuous maid as well. Now, bespeak yourself! What is your name?”
“Funka
, Ifunka I mean, sorry,” he said tremulously. “Kaffa.”
“Which is it, then, Funka, Ifunka or Kaffa?”
“Ifunka Kaffa,” he tried to enunciate as clearly as his nerves allowed.
“That’s a lovely name,” she said. “Mine is Maina Shiboff and I am, as you can well see, a farmer’s daughter, a simple village girl, my father being Wedner Shiboff, who is well known for meb-goat-rearing in this region.”
“Oh, a shepherd, then?”
“No, a goatherd and a shepherd are different things, but he is a farmer, first and foremost, as we produce the most exquisite sish-tomatoes. I take it you are a monk?”
“Me? No, just a planting, that is to say, a pre-novice.”
“Oh, sorry, not really anything then.”
“I am something,” Ifunka retorted. “And I will be somebody one day. Brother Wiffka told me so. I’ve been through so much and I have learnt so much.”
“Well then, learnéd planting,” she said with a coquettish grin. “If you take the pious route, you might make bishop one day and have many priestly wives to visit, or you could end up a simple, celibate monk. In either case, I’ll see no more of you.”
“Do you want to see more of me?” he ventured.
“I can see enough of you right now, Ifunka Kaffa,” she replied. “And you can see enough of me. Whether or not that is enough for both of us, time can only tell. But surely I’ll wed a farmer’s son and you can dream of buxom beauties in your cell at night.”
With that, she giggled slightly and then continued on her way, leaving Ifunka miserable and embarrassed.
“By the way,” she added, turning round after she had passed him. “If you want to dream of this buxom beauty, you have my permission,” and she winked and carried on to the monastery.
Ifunka’s cheeks burned with passion and he stumbled off into the bushes, tripped on a branch and fell smack flat on his face which, unfortunately, was now half-immersed in a wet, brown ffentbaff-patty. He choked and spat as he recovered himself and got back to his feet. His friends, seeing the boy’s confusion, rushed to his aid and asked what the matter was.
“A girl,” he replied. “Buxom beauty! She said I could dream of her at night.”
“Oh,” sighed Ffen. “Maina Shiboff! Forsooth she is a tease! All the farmers and cow-herders of the district have tried to woo and court her but she rebuffs them all. The poor broken-hearted fools fall head over heels in love with her and well-nigh go mad with unrequited passion!”
“What shall I do, Ffen?” Ifunka was exasperated. “Her beauty has smitten me.”
“Leave such things behind. Girls only lead to trouble, especially through temptation.”
“But she’s perfect in every way, don’t you see?”
“How many boys have thought so, Ifunka? You’re not the only one. She’s a village girl—a farmer’s daughter. She’ll marry some strapping young beau with cheese for brains. We’re of a different make entirely—religious folk who delight in prayer and meditation. She delights in country dances, petv-ale, and gossiping with other girls. What connection do you have with someone like that?”
“You’re right, of course,” Ifunka sighed. “Books will be my passion and prayers my solace.”
“Is it so bad?”
“No, this is a tranquil life—a happy life; lonely but happy. I’ll become a novice when the ceremonies begin.”
“Well done, brother,” said Ffen. “I hope you’ll consider the same, Shem?”
Shem stared off into the distance, silent and remote, and did not respond. Suddenly, they heard the banging of boffka-drums and bells and heard the clapping of hooves. A procession appeared on the road which led to the monastery—twenty or more ffentbaffs carrying senior theocratic officials and priests bedecked in gold and green silk finery, bejewelled mitres and thick, gold-burnished, diamond-encrusted maces. The officials who led the procession carried standards bearing the metvek of the Holy Theocracy of Tremn. In the middle of the procession could be seen the gold-embroidered litter of the Bishop who was, it seems, ensconced therein.
The three boys rushed to the edge of the field where it met the path in order to catch a better glimpse of the passing cavalcade. They just managed to catch the end of the train but immediately jumped onto the road in order to follow it back to the monastery. The glistening gold-burnished white armour of the rear guard shone resplendently in the sunlight, nearly blinding the poor boys who then tripped on the indentations in the path made by the heavy hooves of the ffentbaff which bore the inordinate weight of their jewel-embellished and often armoured burdens. One of the guards looked back at them and grunted before turning back ahead. When they arrived at the monastery, the cavalcade proceeded to the main tvagshaff and stopped at the entrance thereto. The litter was lowered and the veil thereof slowly removed. The three boys rushed to catch a glimpse of the Bishop, who slowly emerged.
Chapter V.
Initiation
The Bishop exited the litter with a grace and dignity becoming of his exalted rank, his thick, emerald-green robes, embroidered with intricate geometric patterns sewn with golden thread and embellished with finely carved gems, rubies, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds. Above this, he wore a thick, unhooded robe of the finest gisht-wool, jet-black and flowing. His hands were adorned with a dozen rings, some fingers having several each, glittering gold and diamonds, gemstones: agate, blue sapphires and resplendent crystals. His sandals were also emerald green and embroidered while his exceedingly tall, emerald-green headdress was curved with a long tassel that rested on his shoulders, and his round, corpulent face, hairless and damask-green with deep-set, dark brown eyes and a strong, jutting forehead, seemed the very picture of theocratic excess and authority. His prominent yet wide nose heaved when he breathed in, like a hoover sucking up a heaping pile of dust. His quizzical eyes darted back and forth, while his sweaty palms clutched a long staff upon which he rested his excessive weight; this was hewn of a black wood, like ebony, from the lofty limbatv-tree. The bishop hobbled forward, his assistants quickly flanking him to lend further support, lest he ever trip and tumble on his own corpulence, accumulated as it was from the finest cakes and pastries of Ffantplain. Ifunka was sickened by the appearance of the man, who stood like some gaudy figure in a humorous musical, shorn of any inherent value or spirituality. He was like a toad dressed up in the habiliments of a man, upon whom tasteless, tacky adornments had been hung for the perverted amusement of a puerile imagination.
“That is not a man of the Great Spirit,” Ifunka whispered to Shem and Ffen. “Look at him! A man of the Great Spirit—a priest—does not wear gold and diamonds or carry himself with haughtiness and pride. Look at his eyes—dead like a corpse! And his girth! A true priest is modest, not a glutton! A real priest would be thin, with bright eyes and cheap clothes, free of pomp and finery!”
“Look!” Ffen whispered. “In the litter!”
A dainty figure of the feminine type nimbly exited the litter and rushed off to the tvagshaff, accompanied by two guards. She was wrapped in an extensive cloth—a full body veil or shugva—evidently to conceal her identity.
“A woman! Surely,” Ffen remarked. “He shouldn’t bring a woman with him! This violates all the monastic codes!”
“And one who is covered from head to toe,” Ifunka observed. “No woman of upright character would conceal herself in that manner. She’s a harlot of sorts.”
“Death!” Ffen could not contain himself. “That’s what this pretender and his veiled woman desire. By the Holy Tamitvar! Is it not pious to give death to those who profane our faith?”
“Indeed,” Ifunka concurred. “If Brother Wiffka’s story has taught me anything, it is that this ‘Holy’ Theocracy, this so-called ‘holy theocracy’, is a shambles. Solis wants it destroyed, and vipers such as this bishop must taste death!”
“Why death?” asked Shem, his voice tremulous. �
�Killing is wrong!”
“I know, Shem,” replied Ifunka. “But look at the man; Look at him! He makes a mockery of our religion! Does not the Tamitvar say: ‘kumkaim Wabak Kakanyokum adutyo afkakimilei, halshkum lektovfileifi, kumkaim Wabak Kakaneimkum kod lekoffileifi, halshkum afkakimilei’ (he who turns away from the Great Spirit is dead, though he lives, and he who loves the Great Spirit is quick, though he dies’?”
“‘Ukeffkaim Wabak Kakaneim nif nashavteilei: keffge effeyzin Gahimkayengilei—novt lotvila koffilokt okadotv lektvovtilei; gelff garatog darlishkaipatvyengilei’ (those who fear not the Great Spirit: These are the companions of Gahimka—they shall surely dwell therein eternally; this is the reward of the hypocrites),” Ffen cited.
“Monks… monks don’t kill,” Shem pleaded.
“Not today,” said Ifunka, cryptically. “But we are gardeners and the gardener must pluck the weeds from his garden. The Tamtivar does say: ‘Wabak Kakanam kentakkra’ (be zealous for the Great Spirit) and ‘Kudkumonunka novteimkum yagshovt’ (with His Hand shall He smite them).”
“Not with our hands,” Shem continued.
“Then with what?” Ifunka argued, his tone lowering. “Where is the Great Spirit’s Hand if it is not the hands of His servants?”
“Anyway,” Ffen endeavoured to change the tone of the conversation. “We need him for now. You must needs be initiated as a novice monk and he is going to perform twelve initiations tomorrow. You must ensure that you are one of the chosen dozen. Only through monkhood can we reach the highest plains of Ganka.”
“Let him live till then,” said the zealous boy. “Only till then; then shall we act, with or without you, Shem.”
The boys contrived to watch from a distance of about thirty paces, as the Abbott, Assistant Abbott and the most senior and elder monks of the monastery came out to greet the bishop, bedecked as they were in their finest garmenture, robes flowing like rain sparkling in a spring shower. The musk of their perfumed garments wafted in all directions, while a deacon swung an incense-bursting censer back and forth, diffusing the air with its sickening odour. The boys practically reeled over with its potency and made a hasty retreat to a further distance from the tvagshaff, such that the cavalcade now appeared like so many toy soldiers proceeding into a doll’s house. When the last of this comical parade had entered the tvagshaff, Ffen took his leave to go about his monastic chores and Shem and Ifunka were left alone.
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 7
