Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1)

by NJ Bridgewater

  “Frozen?” the old man interjected. “Yow youngfolk is bairns without hides! How come yow to think me frozen when winter not is comen for a time, methinks. Whereunto go yow then, I ask?”

  “Should we answer it?” asked Ffen.

  “I think it is Tremna, a man like us, and an elder. We should always respect elders—that’s what the Tamitvar teaches,” Ifunka replied.

  “Tamitvar, aye, we worship the same but, if yow pleasen, can we not read and have we not men of monkly habit same as yow? Tell us, ne’erless, how be yow yclept?”

  “Yclept?” asked Ffen.

  “Called, how are we called, he asks,” Ifunka explained, his mastery of language and vocabulary serving him well in this situation. “If we are to give our names, Sir, first give yours and tell us what your business is for we do not know whether to trust you.”

  “By thunder! What make of youngfolk is yow what speaken thus to hoary head? I have a mind to put cane to arse for such rude-speakin’, yow vine-fresh, piddle-mongering, dung-shovellers!”

  “He’s insulting us, I think,” said Ffen.

  “Nevermind,” Shem added. “He’s only an old man.”

  “Tell us your name and business, sir,” Ifunka insisted. “I won’t repeat myself again. Tell us or we shall bind you to that tree and then we shall see who is a piddle-mongering dung-shoveller!”

  “Meaning no harm, bairns, meaning no harm,” he protested. “Harmless I am, honestly harmless.”

  “Tie him up, Ffen!”

  “Right, begging pardon, sirs, I am Tuffel son of Buffel of the Wizga forest clan and my business is that I seeken your aid as these be much dangerous parts.”

  “Dangerous indeed!” said Ifunka. “My name is Ifunka Kaffa, this is Ffen Weshga and this Shem Effga and we are monks of the Holy Order of the Brothers of Bishgva of the Right Religion of the Sacred Tamitvar seeking to find a friend who was kidnapped yesterday. You can follow us if you wish, but I cannot guarantee your safety.”

  “Nor can I guarantee yours, young masters,” said the old man with a wicked grin. “Iffen yow was to turn your heads, I beseech yow…”

  The boys refused to turn until they felt the sharp points of daggers digging into their backs, beneath their satchels, at which point they swivelled round to see three bandits, in similarly shaggy apparel, meb-woollen hats, rusty daggers and pointy leather boots. They were all short and dwarf-like with deformed features, one having a bulbous nose which reached almost to his chin, another with overly large eyes that seemed intent on leaping off his face, and the last of the three had a face full of pox-marks and hideous black warts which covered every inch thereof, from his forehead to his chin, from ear-to-ear and even on his meaty throat. The bandits were, it turned out, so diminutive that they shared one large ffentbaff which was sitting on its knees behind them—its large nostrils pumping air nosily and its massive eyelids half-closed, blinking gently in a relaxed mood. It occasionally snorted or swung its head—long, curved horns and all—back and forth or twitched its tale when a ffug-fly settled on its rump.

  “What do you want from us, we who are people of the Great Spirit?” asked Ifunka.

  “We cares not for spirits,” said the bulbous-nosed one. “We is bandits, yow seen. Innit, my hearties?”—the others nodded. “I be named Gurffel son of Murffel and these find straplings be Wub son of Gub and Ffug son of Bug. Yow is met Tuffel son of Buffel. Iffen yow be pleasen, we be taken all them here your belongings, inclusive of your robes.”

  “Har, har, har,” Tuffel cackled. “On your face, Ffug! Give us the spoils, youngens, or we be sticken yow with our bodkins!”

  “We’re at somewhat of a disadvantage, here, brothers,” whispered Ifunka. “Let’s give them what they want and we can flee or overcome them while they’re sifting through the loot.”

  “They’ll kill us surely,” Ffen replied.

  “You credit their wits and intelligence more than I do, Ffen.”

  “Oy!” shouted Gurffel. “We shall have us no soft tongues! Speak like mig-mice again and I shall slice yow open like unto a fat zig-chicken, full of stuffings!”

  “I’d rather not be sliced open, good sir,” replied Ifunka. “So please take all we have. I lay down my gishk so we are thus unarmed and at your mercy, in the name of the Great Spirit who is merciful to all men.”

  “Iffen the Great Spirit ha’ been merciful, yow wun not ha’ met us,” Tuffel opined as he took Ifunka’s sword.

  The other bandits took each satchel and staff and tied them to the sleepy, groaning ffentbaff.

  “Your habit,” Tuffel croaked.

  “That’s downright indecent,” Ffen commented.

  “I ask not your views—only your cloth. Off with it!”

  The boys undressed down to their undergarments which the bandits were not keen on taking.

  “Gurfel, Wub, Ffug, yow wrap up the habits whilome I stick these hearties.”

  As the other villains turned their backs, Ifunka and Ffen leapt onto Tuffel and grabbed the blade while Shem picked up a rock and hurled it at Wub, who fell unconscious. The other two screamed and ran to Tuffel’s aid. Ifunka, meanwhile, held a blade to his throat while Ffen held his arms.

  “Back! Back my hearties!” screamed Tuffel, or rather spat the words. “They’ll poke me through. Do as they command!”

  “Drop your blades, foul villains!” Ifunka ordered. “Or I’ll remove his head; I swear it by the Great Spirit!”

  They dropped their daggers.

  “Now step away from the ffentbaff and stand twenty feet over thataway!”

  They grumblingly conceded. Shem and Ffen mounted the ffentbaff which looked up at them with concern while Ifunka backed away from Tuffel, blade still aimed at his neck. Then he turned away—a foolhardy move, as the small man pulled out a dagger and aimed it at his head. Shem shouted: “Ifunka!” and the boy turned just in time to duck as the dagger soared over his head and buried itself in the bole a tree. Ifunka grabbed the dagger, pulled it free and chucked it, with all his might, at Tuffel, stabbing him in the leg. Thus disabled, the two remaining conscious bandits rushed back towards the ffentbaff just as Ifunka mounted it and, with some effort, the beast lifted itself up with a groan. They were unarmed, however, so Ffen took a dagger and deftly aimed it at Gurffel, striking him right in his left shoulder. Ffug moved back, alarmed as the ffentbaff turned and trotted off in the direction that they had been pursuing before they encountered the bandits.

  “We shall not forget this slight!” Tuffel bellowed. “We shall get yow all and cuts yow and kills yow when that yow be not expecten!”

  His threatening voice trailed off until it became a weak muffle and then silence as the ffentbaff carried on, encouraged by occasional kicks of Ifunka’s or Ffen’s heels.

  “We’ve done it now, Brother. They’ll be after us,” cried Ffen. “Perhaps, but much injured and without a steed,” Ifunka comforted him. “We’ll be days ahead of them now and, perchance, we’ll reach the village of Habka by nightfall.”

  Thus they continued, taking occasional breaks every hour or so to give the ffentbaff rest or to have a snack, stretch their legs, perform all necessaries or obligatory prayers. Supererogatory prayers they did not even consider due to the haste with which they were forced to travel. Eventually, they debouched onto a path leading to the village. Being deep within the profundity of Ffushkar, it was but seldom used but they kept their wits about them nevertheless, with staffs and sword in hand. Shem still had a dagger while the others had been thrown at the assailants. A further half hour brought them within the purlieus of the village, where they could already discern its round, thatched houses with chimneys bellowing thick smoke, the warm glow of hearths shining bright through every window and the glorious moons above, Ffash and Tvash, shedding their peace-bestowing, subtle glow over tree and roof alike within the sparkling, starry night sky. Tremn is a green and pleas
ant world and this was a green and pleasant village surrounded by small farms, narrow yet quaint cobble-stoned paths, a small temple, open market stalls, an inn for travellers, and a small tvagshaff which served as the headquarters or ‘manor house’ of the headman. The village priest had a solitary tower near the temple but most of the inhabitants were apparently simple folk with small houses lining the main paths or situated beside the farms. None of them were adjacent to the forest which circled round, encompassing the whole village in its amplexive vastness.

  As they approached the village, they felt a warmth and tranquillity that seemed to flow from the habitations round about like a flood of water, perhaps because they felt safe within the bosom of civilization and Tremna society. The inn loomed before them—a rotund building, three stories high with black, hanging eaves, round panelled glass windows and wide balconies on the upper floors which seemed to hang precariously over the street below. The windows glowed with the light of many candles and roaring fires while plumes of black smoke bellowed from the many chimneys which dotted the roof. The walls of the inn were painted eggshell-white while the cross-beams were painted jet-black. There was a sign hanging above the main entrance in thick runic letters reading ‘The Roaring Yeshka’ (Yeshka Leishavt in Tremni), below which there was a colourful painting of the same animal standing on its hinds legs with front paws extended and mouth opened wide to reveal its terrible fangs.

  The boys took their ffentbaff to the stables where they were met by a stable boy of no more than ten or twelve who solemnly took the reins and then extended his hand with a cough. He was a poor boy, with thick leather breeches, black tights, leather shoes, a white shirt with a low collar and a leather waistcoat. Ifunka offered him a penny which he resolutely refused, coughing to indicate a desire for more. Ifunka reluctantly forked out thruppence before the capricious boy nodded and took the ffentbaff’s reins. They then headed round to the front of the building.

  The murmur of jocular voices could be heard, the hum of intercourse and boisterous laughs. The boys hesitated at the entrance to the inn proper, fearing lest they should meet anyone connected with their monastery. They were also troubled by their lack of worldly wisdom, having been cloistered in a sheltered habitation for all their lives, far away from all the wiles and craftiness of the wider world. Yet enter they did and, as the door creaked open, the murmur of voices slowly died down until they met with a host of cold, staring faces, gruff forest dwellers with thick, creased skin and shaggy clothes, village farmers with rustic dress, serving wenches with navy-blue dresses and bonnets—some pretty or handsome while others were pock-marked with poky chins and unsightly features, several bards and minstrels, priests, travelling merchants or salesmen, a few boys with their fathers, the publican wiping a ceramic mug with a cloth, wearing a thick, navy-blue apron, long black robe and dishevelled bushy hair, his eyes strong and his brow fiercely frowning, as well as sundry others—bizarre types and rough men, several questionable women and a variety of other miscellaneous individuals who defied classification, causing the pen to halt, take three steps back and leap to its solitary death out the nearest window; much shall my pen be missed as I mourn its loss! They stared and stared for a few moments and the proverbial cat had well and truly caught the boys’ tongues as they too were confounded.

  “Heika?” Ifunka timidly uttered. “How now?”

  “Hmph,” grunted the publican.

  “Monks… boyish bloody monks,” grumbled another.

  “Literates, who needs ’em?” whispered another and then, bit by bit, and syllable by syllable, the hubbub increased and the nattering, nattering, chittering and chattering grew until the normal volume had resumed and words, like notes on an instrument, resounded throughout the earthy, solid chamber. The eyes turned again to friend and comrade, bosom-buddy and companion, acquaintance and mark—for there were many thieves in inns such as this—as the inn’s clientele lost interest in the incongruent arrivals who had clashed with the worldly nature of the place.

  The boys first looked for an empty table or some spare seats but these were difficult to acquire as the various clientele of the establishment gave them unwelcoming looks when they sought to take up a vacant seat. They worked their way right round the bar until they found a small table occupied by two travellers, one a wandering minstrel, conspicuous by his long yet colourful travelling cloak, bard’s hat, mimgeff-lute, perched against the wall, and his unusually welcoming manner. Opposite him, also next to the wall, was a gruff, unpleasant-looking forest dweller, rather similar to the bandits they had recently fled, but evidently not one of them. He wore a wide-brimmed geltv-hat, had a scraggly brown moustache (unusual for a Tremnan), wide brown eyes, ill-looking tawny skin, rough hands full of blisters, unkempt nails, thick, rugged clothes, including a patched-up old travelling cloak, a much-worn tunic, tattered trousers and boots barely attached to their leather soles. He and the minstrel were not engaged in intercourse; rather, each merely eyed his own mug of bitter petv-ale and kept his distance. Personal space was evidently of much importance to the rustics. Light flickered on their faces from the large, wax candle within the niche in the wall, above which there was a painting of a mewing webk-cat with its long fangs, red eyes and light-green fur with bright violet spots. It was balancing on a long branch as these cats tend to live in the forest canopy, hunting small birds, rodents and insects. The minstrel bade them be seated—the forest dweller said nothing and did nothing but stare into the depths of his mug, as if some hidden mystery lay within the foam and ripples of his drink. The minstrel, casually engaged with his potation, smiled but appeared to be waiting for the boys to initiate the conversation. This they were unable to do as a serving wench quickly appeared just as they sat down. She was a buxom lass, a fine specimen of Tremna womanhood, with plain but not unhandsome features, wide ears caressed by her flowing black locks, light-green skin, blue eyes, thick arms and legs, a well-proportioned abdomen, pleasant mouth with thick lips and heaving bosom, the latter of which attracted more attention than it should have done from the ordinarily pious monks. Her sultry smile only served to add to their confoundment as she greeted them pleasantly and asked how she could be of service to them.

  Monks and priests being forbidden to consume ale or other alcoholic substances or any flesh of beast, fish or insect, the boys opted for ffev-berry juice, plates of the Tremnan staple pengiffmi and a bowl of ragvi-nuts to share, these being dried, salted and exceptionally delectable.

  “Are you three staying with us tonight?”

  “Staying with whom?” Ffen asked, alarmed.

  “With us, my lover, with us,” the wench emphasised.

  “Lover?” he said, aghast.

  “You’re not from round here, are ye?”

  “No, you must excuse my friend, we are but simple monks,” Ifunka explained. “We’re not used to your parlance. Could you please clarify, nonetheless, with whom we’ll be staying?”

  “With whom?” she couldn’t comprehend the monks naiveté and simple ways. “Well, with the inn of course. Are ye lot taking bed and board and shall we charge you separate-like?”

  “Ah,” Ffen exclaimed, realising his error. “Bed and board will do, of course.”

  “How many nights shall I put you down for?”

  “Just this one,” Ifunka replied.

  “Breakfast included?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Sharing a room?”

  “Yes, we are together.”

  “Beds?”

  “Well, we shan’t be sleeping on the floor boards,” Ffen protested.

  “I mean to say, three beds or one?” she clarified.

  “We may be brothers, madam,” Ifunka declared. “But not by blood. Three beds shall be quite satisfactory.”

  “By the three moons!” she exclaimed. “Ye speak like a book. Why, if ye was no monk, I’d have your breeches!”

  “But I’m not wearing
any,” Ifunka failed to catch her drift.

  “Even better,” she replied and winked as she went away to carry their orders to the cook.

  “The folk around here are exceeding odd,” Shem commented.

  “That’s funny,” said the minstrel, turning to them. He was seated beside Ifunka and Ffen while Shem was seated beside the scruffy man.

  “Why, might I ask, is that funny?” asked Ifunka. “There are many queer folk in these parts.”

  “Queer?” exclaimed the minstrel. “I think most folk around here would find you lot queer. Even I would, were it not for the fact that I’m a bard and move amongst all sections of the populace. I often visit monasteries. Why, I was over at the Monastery of the Brown Owl not two days past.”

  At that, the boys’ eyes widened, though they tried not to show any alarm.

  “What’s your name, bard?” Ffen asked.

  “My mother gave me a name once but, like most wandering folk, the name don’t stick. Folk call me Shaff1 because I sing mellifluously and my tales flow like honey—Shaff the Bard is my name and I hail from the village of Weffbar, within the far reaches of Ffushkar. Long ago I abandoned that isolated and remote settlement, having caught the wanderlust which impels the most inconspicuous of men to seek out new climes and untold adventures. Apologies, I should have introduced myself earlier. Don’t expect much of a cordial welcome in this inn, populated as it is by the roughest sort, though the villagers themselves are not unwelcoming if you get to know them.”

  “My name is… er… we are brothers from a far distant monastery,” said Ffen, hesitating. “I am Brother Ffesh, this is Ffumga and he is Sheng.” (Thus did Ffen name himself, Ifunka and Shem respectively)

  “Those are odd names,” Shaff remarked. “But folks call themselves what folks will. I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before though. The face is familiar. Where do you hail from, young Ffesh?”