Ffen struggled with this one, as the bard was certain to have travelled far and wide. Ifunka thought of a place, somewhere he had read about long ago, an old monastery that now lies in ruins which the bard was certain to have never heard of.
“The Monastery of Inta Progenitor,” Ifunka asserted.
“That’s not one I’ve heard of,” said the bard.
“It’s far north of here, in Tremael Province.”
“I’ve been to Tremael Province, but you lot have accents from Ritvator Province, namely the areas of Ffantplain and the surrounding towns. Your accents are cultivated, not rustic, as one might expect of monks, but are definitely not northern.”
“We come from this region, certainly,” Ifunka clarified. “But moved up north to Tremael to partake of the blessings of the Monastery of Inta Progenitor, a most ancient and sacred place.”
“Never heard of it, I’m afraid brother,” said Shaff. “Are not monks sworn to truthfulness, honesty and chastity?”
“Bards are familiar with proverbs, are they not,” Ifunka observed. “Have you not heard the saying, ‘Inta Ogepipatv shand tvaonshiv sapyazin kvog, shiviffog kubara skwatoff gelyengshiv wabake vamta reffa: ikffulish envaktoge afton envashkra, om ontvaditvaipatv yashepogyeng’ (Inta Progenitor within whose bosom flowers blossom, holy enceinte within whose environs souls may rest: Set your sights hereon, O wayfarer of the truth)?”
The bard scanned his prodigious memory for a few moments and then replied:
“Indeed, you are right, fair monk,” he said. “I have heard such a proverb and I do believe your tale.”
The taciturn forest dweller snorted, a large blob of spit dropping into his mug with a plop as he did so.
“So, where are you lads heading to then?” the bard asked. “Habka is an unusual village to visit and you are far, far away from your monastery up north.”
The boys looked at one another, trading unsettled glances.
“That’s confidential,” Ifunka stated. “Theocratic business—hush, hush and all that.”
“Intriguing,” said the bard. “I do love secrets. I know so very much, you see, and remember so much. I’m sure I’ll find out what your secret is, one way or another.”
The forest dweller snorted again, releasing yet another blob of spit which trickled over his moustache, across his lips, down to the base of his chin and then into his mug with an unnerving plop. Shem was becoming quite revolted as he glanced occasionally at the wretch. The serving wench returned with their drinks and heaping brakshogim-bread plates full of sumptuous pengiffmi, as well as a bowl of ragvi.
“Enjoy your meal,” said Shaff. “I shan’t be long here. I’m going to retire after I finish my petv-ale. Which room are you lot staying in?”
“I don’t know,” replied Ffen. “They haven’t told us yet. Why should you want to know anyway?”
“I delight in intelligent conversation,” he explained. “Have you looked around you? No offence to the forest dwellers, but the vast majority of the occupants of this fair establishment are drunkards, dullards or sawdust-brained dimwits. The others are a very questionable lot indeed. I’d love to learn more about your ancient monastery and any stories or songs from up north you can share as I am always keen to increase my repertoire. I have thus far memorised five hundred songs, nearly a thousand individual poems and sonnets and well-nigh half a million lines of epic poetry and sagas. Add to that countless proverbs, sayings and stories and you could begin to grasp the extent of my capacious memory.”
“Impressive indeed,” said Ifunka as he began to chow down into his pengiffmi.
“Mmm,” concurred the others as they devoured their meal.
The forest dweller now began to lean forward until his forehead rested on his mug and his limbs lay limply on the table. He began to snore, his thin, wiry moustache quivering with each foul snorting exhalation. Shem was much disconcerted and tried to turn away as much as possible and hum to himself as he ate. A few more sips and Shaff arose to depart.
“Excuse me, boys,” he said. “By your leave, I retire for bed. I shall converse with you all later, if the Great Spirit allows. Adieu and good night.”
“Good night and adieu,” they replied.
Ifunka and Ffen stood up to allow him to pass and sat back down again.
“Strange fellow,” Ifunka commented after Shaff had left. “Moreover, he’s suspicious and his interest in us is beyond ordinary curiosity.”
“Curioser is the fact that he claimed no knowledge of the Monastery of Inta Progenitor and then recalled the proverb,” Ffen remarked. “Bards are more quick-witted than that.”
“I don’t know,” Ifunka sighed. “But let’s not continue the conversation here with all these prying eyes about us.”
“Simple!” Ffen exclaimed, and then he continued to speak in Vocatae rather than Tremni—slowly but carefully—as he was not used to using it in ordinary speech. “Vocataeciu vocacon. Di vocan celciu vocavon celphice heraniato iquisin ca hrheudiscon (We’ll speak Vocatae. These secular plebs won’t understand a word of what we’re saying).”
“Iusep, sephi celphictum ca avarenconso (True, but won’t they find it suspicious)?” said Ifunka who was quite the linguist and easily able to converse in the language.
“Preteleciu le (We are monks)!” Ffen emphasised. “Tum avaro cel hrhoxemvonciu, ithaitum vam. Niatoicine niatonadeic ca icinultaint Vocataesiv leso (They could think we’re praying, for all they know. Are not the bishops’ synods held in Vocatae only)?”
“Vocatae ca aegint… (Vocatae not easy…),” Shem stumbled. “Hrhoxaisivenra ucresip aleg ium voca—ca aegint (I can use it in prayers but speaking—not easy).”
“Liphciu remuz dene cub leci dearra (Let us finish eating and then retire),” Ifunka advised. “Urophicon espu ovutciu vancon. Caemye espu oninva iediaca quadus denor ascedes eldgousivciu nautas cuint arra cub (We have a long journey tomorrow. It is a long way to the unnamed valley and we may have to sleep in the forest another night).”
“Noiticus vear cultrumilemciu phentabav dar pher (The ffentbaff should take us there in one day),” Ffen observed.
“Nialad, avium eldgou cu cub gumanoc le (Maybe, but the forest is thick and dangerous),” Ifunka rejoined. “Caemye laph varnine eldgousiv nat iesqua (There are more dangers in the forest than the yeshka).”
The boys finished up their meals and the serving wench returned to ask if they needed anything else. They declined and informed her that they were ready for bed.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll return with your keys then… And I’ll bring a stick to wake up that old fool.”
She pointed to the somnolent yokel as she spoke before going to retrieve the keys. The boys stood as they waited for her to return. Within a flash, she came back, bearing a long, iron rod which she jabbed into the disheveled man’s ribs, waking him with a start. He leapt from his seat grumbling in a coarse accent and threw some coins bearing the seal of the Theocracy onto the table.
“Fuming wench!” he muttered loudly as he rushed off and out of the door. As he did so, the publican gave him a healthy kick in the posterior, sending him flying out and face-first onto the muddy road.
“No one insults my serving wenches!” he cried. “Flaming lemur-eaters! Sister-wedders! Choke on them worms afore I give you a good hiding!”
He continued to vehemently spew invectives and gesticulate as he returned to his position behind the bar.
“Enra ouvuzipharum ca lusissa delimut vonequaic (Remind me not to raise the publican’s ire),” whispered Ifunka.
“Come with me, brother,” whispered the wench. “By the way, my name is Shiga and, if you need a thing, I sleep in the ladies’ quarters on the second floor, room six. Just knock, especially you, sugar”—she winked at Ifunka.
The boys slowly ascended the creaky old stairs which led them to the first floor of the inn. They f
ound themselves in a long, dimly-lit corridor with a dozen rooms on both sides, each one bearing a number and picture above the lintel of the door, this being for the benefit of illiterates. Their keys indicated door number five which had a picture of a webk-cat above it. They slowly unlocked the door and entered through the creaky door, which shut behind them with a slam. The room was quite bare, with three solid wooden beds—hard and polished smooth—adequate blankets, low wooden bedside tables and a dusty old wardrobe in the corner of the room. There was a window opposite the beds, which gave a view of Habka village and surrounding forest, which stretched on for miles in every conceivable direction. A simple washbasin and jug served for the boys’ toilette with a bedpan beside each bed for other necessary functions. The boys said prayers and made ready to sleep, covering themselves in thick blankets. Ffen and Shem blew out their candles, each of these resting within a niche beside each bed, but Ifunka illy slept and left his candle burning. He was too worried about Brother Ushwan’s fate and was constantly plagued with the traumatic memories of his uncle and aunt’s demise. At about midnight, he arose, donned his sandals and went for a wander about the corridor. At the end thereof he found a small room on the left with a roaring fire. This was the drawing-room in which several other restless travellers were sitting and drinking ffetv-tea or gently chatting. One older gentleman had his nose buried in the pages of a book. He was sitting on the divan which ran right round the room, right next to the fire place, his right arm leaning on some cushions. He had shoulder-length, curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows and a large nose. Ifunka greeted him:
“How now!” he said.
“Yes, alright, thank you,” said the man, unmoving.
“I mean to say, how do you do?” said Ifunka.
“Well, as always,” replied the man.
“I should like to ask…” he continued.
“I should like to read,” interrupted the man.
“Sorry to bother you,” Ifunka apologised.
“No apology needed,” said the man.
“I have no need to apologise,” Ifunka exclaimed.
“Then you shouldn’t’ve!” huffed the man.
“I merely wish to ask where you found that book as I should like to read in order to ease my mind and fall asleep.”
“Book chamber—top floor—on your left—price to borrow: thruppence for the night—one shilling deposit.”
“Thank you,” said Ifunka gruffly.
“None needed,” rejoined the man curtly, never once lifting his gaze from the pages which so engrossed him.
Penny here translates the theocratic small denomination called the patsim. A two-patsim coin is called a patsimdi, a three-patsim coin a patsimsi, and a twenty-patsim coin (i.e. a shilling) is called a patsimad. Ifunka left the drawing room and yet again ascended the stairs until he came to the second floor, where Shiga said she could be found. Half out of curiosity and half temptation, he walked down the corridor and approached room six. He then turned to retreat but his footsteps, which had creaked the panels beneath his feet, had betrayed him and the door swung open to reveal Shiga in a white nightdress which struggled to conceal her ample and ravishing figure. Her feet and arms were bare, as was her head, the long, black tresses caressing her features and her bosom was only half-concealed. She smiled. He turned away.
“Don’t be afearing me, my lover,” she said in her coarse accent. “Han’t you seen no woman afore now?”
“By my troth, not one as you,” he replied—half to himself, half to her. “But turn I cannot, lest Afflish the Accursed drag me down to Gahimka!”
“Afflish be damned!” she said. “What came you up here for to do?”
“I do not know.”
“Fair boy, turn not away.”
“I turn from the fire.”
“Come, let us burn together.”
“My hands are already singed, madam, so let me be.”
And he ran off, she following him. He deftly ascended the stairs to the top floor as he heard the pitter-patter of her feet behind him.
‘What have I gotten myself into?’ he thought to himself. ‘The yeshka-wolf has marked its prey!’
Rushing down the corridor, he found the book chamber, which was illuminated by a single candle within its niche. There were four large cases of books and an attendant who was sleeping on a heff-cushion on the floor. There was no door so he couldn’t lock himself within. Shiga appeared at the entrance, her face dark-green with anticipation, her pupils dilated, her pulse raised and her breathing increased. Steady did she breathe—deep breaths. Her expression became fixed and she held out her fingers like claws.
“Afflish be damned!” she said again.
In the primal Tremna mating ritual, pre-dating the rules and strictures of the Tamitvar, the woman would initiate the process based on the appearance and scent of her prospective partner. The entire process, based on the unique Tremna physiology, will not be discussed in detail here, as it relates to primal urges and biological processes. She grabbed the hapless monk by the arms and pinned him against one of the book cases, beginning to lift her nightdress as well as his robe but, as she did so, a large tome came crashing down from the top shelf and fell onto the cushion on which the book attendant was reclining, waking him from his snooze.
“What? Hey now!” he exclaimed and then turned to the reluctant monk and Shiga.
“What devilry be this! A priestcrafter and a trollop! For shame!”
“Leave off, old man!” she scoffed. “Let Shiga have her way!”
“Not in my book chamber!”
He raised his cane and, she not relenting, he gave two solid blows to her grande derrière and assailed her with several deft prods until she relinquished her hold on the monk and retreated down the corridor.
“Tomorrow we shall meet, my lover, and, by the light of the three moons, we shall be handfasted after the custom of the forest folk.”
“Not sure about that actually,” Ifunka replied.
“Even so shall it be!” she called as her voice trailed off.
“Not really,” Ifunka replied.
“What can I do you for?” growled the attendant.
“Er…” Ifunka was flummoxed. “Can I borrow a book please?”
“Only if ye mean to return it. Else ye can buy it for a shilling.”
“A shilling is a lot, fair sir—oh I cannot think,” Ifunka sat on his knees. “An affront to my dignity.”
“Eh?”
“That confounded wench!”
“That is the way of uncultivated womenfolk—especially in the deep forest,” said the book attendant. “Think not on’t.”
“How can I ‘think not on’t’?” he gasped. “I am a monk sworn to celibacy and this mad webkei has assaulted me most profanely!”
“Bury your woes in a book,” advised the attendant. “That is the way.”
“Perhaps,” he sighed. “Though I think not. Give me any book for the night.”
“Thruppence,” he demanded.
“Here,” he opened his pouch and paid for the book.
Not looking at the cover, he hurried back to his room. Ffen and Shem were still asleep. Locking the door firmly behind him, he sat down on the bed and looked at the cover of the book, entitled A History of Bandits and Criminal Gangs in Ritvator Province. His eyes widened as he gasped. It was the self-same book that Brother Ushwan had borrowed at the monastery and which then had disappeared. He quickly sifted through its pages until he came upon a section in the fifth chapter entitled: ‘The Demon-Worshippers of Ffushkar.’ He read on.
* * *
1 shaff = mellifluous in Tremni.
Chapter VIII.
Forest Depths
At dawn, the boys arose, dressed and made their ablutions before praying. Ifunka was unusually quiet and spoke not a word to his companions, either about the servin
g wench’s insolence or about what he had discovered in the book. He merely gazed out the window at the impenetrable forest which, like a sea of darkest green, surrounded them as a vast ocean flows around a solitary isle. When the companions were ready to go down for breakfast, they found Ifunka still fixed in the self-same posture, staid and unmoving like a statue.
“Brother,” said Shem. “Are you coming?”
“Coming?” he asked.
“To breakfast.”
“There are weightier things in this world than breakfast.”
“‘Tis an ill omen to travel on an empty stomach,” Ffen urged. “So let us eat, pay and be gone.”
“We must leave,” replied Ifunka. “But only after I have shared something with both of you and you have absorbed its significance. Then we must buy some supplies, including weapons. We’ll need them.”
“Why, brother, pray tell?” Ffen insisted.
“You all knew this would be dangerous,” said Ifunka as he stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You all knew; but I fear you didn’t know quite how dangerous. That was kept from us because Ushwan’s books were removed and hidden. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to read the extract which must have caught his attention.”
“But how, brother, as we don’t have the book?” Shem observed.
“Ah, don’t we?” Ifunka asked cryptically. “We do have the book. I borrowed it last night from the book chamber upstairs, on the top floor; that is, I borrowed it after being chased by that mad wench, Shiga, who tried to have her way with me.”
Ffen and Shem were shocked.
“Have her way!” Ffen gasped. “Unheard of!”
“Not in these wild parts! We’ve crossed over, brother, to a savage land where men drown their sorrows in foul poison and women strip men of their dignity. This is a barbarous place, full of bandits and uncouth plebs. We... we belong to a wholly different world entirely. After we have finished our mission—if we complete our mission—we must strive to cleanse this world of the filth and dross in which it is mired, even if we must raise the sword to do so. Forsooth, we shall have to raise the sword even now, against villains beyond the scope of your imaginings—the same foul bandits who killed my uncle and aunt. They lay far distant but every step we take draws us nearer to their lair.”
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 13
