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

by NJ Bridgewater

  “Tell us, brother,” Ffen urged. “What is it that you’ve found? Where is this book?”

  Ifunka produced the volume from beneath his pillow. It was a red, leather volume with delicate, gold-leaf writing on the spine and front. He flipped through the book until he came across the pages he had found before, marked with a thin strip of fabric which had placed on the relevant spot the previous night. He ran his finger along the words and read out loud for Shem and Ffen who listened attentively.

  The Demon-Worshippers of Ffushkar

  Rumours persist that a group of bandits, wholly evil and sinister, dwell within the depths of the Great Forest of Ffushkar. Their exact location is not known as any who come in contact with them inevitably end up dead. What exactly happens to the poor victims, no one has known nor can anyone tell, at least not until now. I recently met one old homesteader who lives in a small thatched cottage in the depths of the forest whose name and exact location I will not reveal for fear that the bandits take vengeance upon him. He told me the following tale—a tale which will harrow your blood and make your soul to tremble—may the Great Spirit vanquish the spirits who torment the souls of man! One day, the old man was sitting on the porch of his house, staring out into the forest vastness which surrounded him. He saw a light which glimmered in the darkness, which grew and grew until he saw a great host of men wrapped in black, tight-fitting garments, so that it appeared that the very night itself was moving. The eyes of his enemies sparkled in the darkness, their long swords glimmered in the dying embers of the fire which burned in his front garden. They approached him silently, stealthily, some carrying torches and others sacks of goods. Two of the bandits dragged a thick wool sack which moved and wriggled as if something lived within it. They approached the man and motioned for him to bring them food and water, which he did.

  When they began eating the victuals, he noticed that the thick wool sack began to release a muffled cry. The bandits took out long wooden batons and began to beat it all over until it started to whimper and shudder and then fell silent. The man observed all of this with astonishment but was too afraid to utter a word in protest or inquiry. As the men continued eating, they began to whisper amongst themselves. The man was now some feet away, sitting behind a tree stump, holding his legs and observing silence, lest he offend the evil-doers. Nevertheless, due to the exceedingly crisp air and the silent surroundings, he could easily ascertain what the bandits were saying. One amongst them was heard to mutter, ‘If only they’d just keep silent when we transport them’. ‘They are not true men like us,’ another commented, ‘For we worship the true deity—he that devours the bodies and souls of men. What do they worship?—a spirit which has no body or personality’. ‘Foolish are the followers of the Tamitvar!’ another agreed. ‘I cannot wait for the sacrifice to begin’, said the first. ‘I hunger for the fumes of burning flesh and lust after the blood which drips down the altar’. ‘You are a keen one, Teg, yet I too long to see those writhing bodies dancing in the flames—may the Lord of Fire bless us abundantly’. ‘Yea, may he bless us and curses be upon the Tamitvar and the false spirit!’

  The man was stricken with amazement and fear, for he had never heard such blasphemies uttered by any tongue upon the face of Tremn. Then he remembered a legend that he had heard as a child—an old folk tale—which spoke of the demon-worshippers of Ffushkar, the ones who capture innocent men, women and children from their beds as they’re sleeping and drag them off to the depths of the forest, the very heart of Ffushkar, where they sacrifice them to the demon gods. This was only a folk tale, or so he thought, but now he was witnessing the reality of it—he was face to face with those same demon-worshippers and, for all he knew, he could be their next victim. Fearing for his life, he quietly sneaked back into his house, gathered several belongings and his axe and leapt out the back window of his cottage. He ran through the forest as quickly and deftly as he could and did not stop for six days, until he reached the village of Tvon in the eastern fringe of the Great Forest. There he told his tale to the local priest who listened intently and then informed him that he had been much mistaken. In fact, he was informed, these were merely vagabonds who had kidnapped someone for ransom and what he had heard was the figment of his own imagination. He told his story to many others until I met this same man a year ago in Ritvator. He told me that he had briefly returned to his home in the forest, only to find no trace of the bandits who had once been there. Fearing for his safety, however, he changed his name and has taken up residence somewhere else, which I will not disclose in this volume. Suffice it to say that I credit his tale and believe his account.

  Ffen and Shem gasped as they listened and trembled a little, knowing now that these demon-worshippers were real and that they were on a mission to find these same bandits and retrieve their friend from their evil clutches. How they would achieve their goal, they scarcely could imagine. Each companion was silent for a while, unable to fully grasp what they had each learned and benumbed by its terrifying impact. They quietly packed up their belongings and left the inn, intending to purchase some supplies from the nearby market. As they were headed in that direction, however, they heard a friendly call from behind. It was Shaff—the very bard they had encountered the previous night. He rushed up after them as if he was afraid that he would lose them.

  “Heika!” he called. “Where go you intrepid travellers? I was meaning to visit you last night but fell straight to sleep when I sat on my bed last night. Are you going to leave without giving me the pleasure of your conversation?”

  “Sorry, friend,” Ifunka replied. “I did not realise that you expected to speak to us today. We are not leaving yet—just heading to the market.”

  “Shopping, eh?” he remarked. “I could use to buy a few supplies myself before I head off.”

  “Where are you heading to?” asked Shem.

  “That’s a good question,” replied Shaff. “I was meaning to speak to you all about that very same point.”

  “What point is that?” Ffen asked, perplexed.

  “Never mind, let’s do some shopping and then I’ll explain,” he replied.

  They walked to the open air market which was lined with wooden stall where farmers sold fruits (such as ffev, shkometv and sish) and vegetables (such as wish-root, gobish, and shwev-peas), as well as a variety of clothing (tunics, hose, undergarments, dresses and aprons, travelling cloaks, breeches and shirts) and accessory items. They stocked up on dried foodstuffs, rope, matches, knives and kindling and then went on to peruse the large weapons stall which was manned by a gruff, dark-complexioned individual with brown eyes and forest-green skin. He was short, rough in appearance and was wearing a variety of straps and belts which held daggers and other cutting or slashing implements. He eyed each one of the companions suspiciously but kept silent. After they had selected several short swords (called gishk), a hook and net, and some small, thin poking daggers (called ffut), as well as three wooden shields, the gruff merchant demanded his price.

  “Four shillings!”

  “Bit steep isn’t it?” remarked Shaff.

  “Who asked yow?” rejoined the merchant. “Four shillings is all I takes, y’hear!”

  “Right,” said Ifunka. “As you wish. You’ve almost cleared us out but here you go.”

  “Yow is travellers, ain’t yow?” asked the merchant. “Yow ain’t seen any merchants such as I comen up this way, has yow?”

  “Not that I can recall,” Ifunka replied nervously.

  “You hain’t seen Gurffel, Ffug, Wub, or Tuffel has yow?”

  “We have hardly seen a soul.”

  “Aye? A lot of weapons that yow be purchasen.”

  “Look, could we just pay and leave?”

  “Aye,” he huffed as he accepted the coins.

  They moved on, disturbed that they had just met an acquaintance of the bandits.

  “So, I thought we could speak a little,
” ventured the bard.

  “How can we be of service to you, friend?” asked Ifunka.

  “I should like the pleasure of accompanying you on your journey.”

  “I don’t think that will be possible.”

  “Come now, couldn’t you use the company? I’ll even sing you some songs gratis.”

  “Much as we appreciate it, I’m sure,” said Ffen—he was skeptical by nature and less than keen on the bard. “We are travelling on a special errand which must be completed alone.”

  “Oh really?” exclaimed Shaff. “Is that why you need so many weapons?”

  Ffen looked at Shem and Shem at Ifunka but they did not reply.

  “I take that as a tacit yes,” Shaff continued. “Look—” his mien was serious. “I know you are hiding something. I am a good judge of character and can weigh the truth on the scales of reason. So confide in me or, by the heavens above, I shall go back to that merchant and tell him that you slaughtered his kinsmen!”

  “We didn’t kill them!” Ffen realised that he had revealed too much. “How did you…?”

  “I didn’t,” said Shaff. “But you’ve fallen into my trap. I surmise that you did encounter the merchant’s kinsmen and fought against them. How did you get here?”

  “By ffentbaff,” Ffen replied.

  “But it’s not your ffentbaff, is it?”

  “How did you guess that?” Ifunka was shocked.

  “You are three young monks—you’ve obviously left your monastery without permission. I can tell that because you are not well-supplied already. You must have encountered the merchant’s relatives in the forest where you either killed or incapacitated them and stole their ffentbaff. Your mission is dangerous because you need weapons, so it must either be a personal vendetta or a rescue mission. Am I correct?”

  “Indeed,” Ifunka couldn’t believe his ears, nor could the others.

  “Well then,” said Ifunka. “Now that you have found us out, what do you intend to do to us?”

  “I intend to do nothing to you, brothers,” replied the bard, utilising a fraternal familiarity which was out of bounds for men who were not ‘of the cloth’. “I intend to accompany you on your adventures and record your saga everlastingly in rhyme or prose. Your exploits will live on even after you have all returned to dust and your souls have flown away to the upper realms of Ganka.”

  “A glorious vision!” remarked Shem.

  “Indeed!” agreed Ffen.

  “Alright,” said Ifunka. “It appears my brothers have warmed to your proposal. Let me fill you in a little.”

  He apprised the bard of the dangers that they would face and of the information that he had found in the book. Ifunka had now returned the book and each companion was ready to leave. They had only to fetch their ffentbaff and make ready to quit the village. They were proceeding to do so and Ffen had already taken the reins of the ffentbaff when, quite unexpectedly, they saw the fulsome figure of Shiga approaching like a woman on a mission. Her locks swished to and fro as she moved towards them. Ifunka started when he saw her, leaping onto the ffentbaff with one swift bounce.

  “Onwards!”

  “Eh?” cried the bard as he also mounted the beast, the others grabbing onto its thick fur and clambering up as quickly as they could.

  “The wench!” Ifunka cried. “She’s after me! Let’s get out of here!”

  The ffentbaff moaned its deep, camel-like moan, before shaking lightly and lifting off its knees into full standing position. Shiga rushed in front of it and stood with determination, staring Ifunka in the eyes.

  “I will have what I have come for,” she demanded.

  “And what’s that, exactly?” asked the bard.

  “Only what every woman desires and I deserve,” she cried. “So dismount, monk, and we will wed after the ancient fashion.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ifunka replied. “You see, we’re rather busy and it would quite break my vows which, as you might imagine, I take very seriously.”

  “What are vows?” she screeched. “What are vows? They are words alone, spoken lies which have no value. What do you mean by vows? They’re nothing but vanity! I speak of love—of passion and desire. What is greater than this?”

  “The Great Spirit is greater!” Shem rejoined.

  “Pfft!” she spat.

  “Move forward!” Ifunka kicked the beast, which grunted and moved to just within a foot or so of the woman’s face.

  “Now, now, my dear,” counselled the bard. “Are you so attached to this young monk that you will detain us here or force us to use compulsion to extricate ourselves from your grasp?”

  The serving wench pulled out a small knife which she had hidden beneath her apron. The ffentbaff, instinctively sensing danger, growled and lifted its massive tusks, pearly-white yet razor-sharp. Thick globs of goo spilled onto the braksh-hay covered floor as it raised its hackles menacingly. The wench poised herself to strike—the ffentbaff likewise. She struck first, her blow barely piercing the thick skin and mane of the beast. It responded by shaking its head, knocking her flat on her back in the process. Like a hippopotamus, the ffentbaff is a herbivore, but a dangerous one when threatened. She lifted her head and, undeterred, raised her knife.

  “Strike!” yelled the bard.

  The ffentbaff swiftly swooped down and, catching her under its chin, knocked her into the wall, hitting it with a loud crack.

  “That knocked her out!” Shaff triumphantly declared. “Let’s be off!”

  “I’d rather you hadn’t shouted ‘strike’,” said Ifunka.

  “Did you fancy her after all then?”

  “I… was flattered, surely,” he replied. “But I am a monk—and a pious one at that.”

  They coursed out of the village and headed out into the thickness of the Great Forest of Ffushkar.

  “Which way are we going?” asked Ffen as he stared quizzically into the mass of trees and branches which obscured the way.

  “South?”

  “That’s a bit vague,” Ffen remarked. “The ffentbaff is heading that way I hope but should we not stop it and get our bearings for a while?”

  “We should pray for guidance,” advised Shem.

  “Well, my friends,” the bard opined. “Prayer is good—though I am not a religious man. South is the general direction but I am a traveller and I know that vague ideas of direction lead one into a quagmire.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Ffen.

  “Halt the ffentbaff,” came the reply.

  Ifunka pulled on the reins and the great beast grunted and paused. Shaff dropped down and began looking round with a sense of purpose.

  “Shem, you may pray while I do what I do.”

  Shem raised his hands in supplication and chanted the kashffitod (‘prayer in difficulties’):

  Ay Wabak Kakan! Kam Tai, hari nif aftokti tvanfa, ffitodefi akshefi shotomefiyo aftokti Tai tatvkrafa, Kalf Nahonlasht, Yikwafftaka, Owaman ffakvazinfi aretve lotvshivfiyeng!

  (O Great Spirit! No refuge do we have but Thee, so deliver us from difficulties, pain and afflictions through Thy Name, the All-Powerful, the Lord of all the heavens and the worlds therein!)

  While Shem thus chanted the same words several times, the two other monks sat in silence, meditating on the holy words. Shaff walked slowly, pacing to and fro as the autumnal leaves crunched beneath his leather boots. He approached a particularly large and ancient leff-tree and placed his ear and cheek against its stately bole. He closed his eyes and became completely still. His hands clung to the bark as if he were hugging the tree in passionate embrace. His breathing slowed down until he appeared to almost blend in to the forest, merging in oneness with the tree. When the monks had finished praying, they became cognizant of the bard’s unusual behaviour—behaviour which they had never witnessed before. It struck them as almost pagan—a kind
of ancient ritual which, perhaps, pre-dated the Tamitvar.

  Ifunka watched the bard intensely, trying to comprehend his behaviour. The bard was completely motionless, fixed to the tree bole, his breathing slow but deep, his nostrils flaring wide with each spiration, eyes closed, cheek pressed against the rough bark. He was still and time stilled itself with him; the monks, finishing their supplications, became transfixed by the bard’s unexpected reverence.

  “I have heard of such things,” Ffen whispered. “They say that some wandering minstrels speak the tongue of the trees and can hear their whispering. Some say it is magic—black magic—while others way it is the practice of the ancients who worshipped the tree spirits before the Tamitvar was revealed and the call of ‘Wabak Kakan ffaid ffarutogkumonhivt parlaktkimilei’ (the Great Spirit is to be worshipped alone in His singleness) was proclaimed by the Holy Seer through the inspiration of Hashemaff.”

  “It’s not magic,” Shem observed. “Magic is the art of the pagans who use the evil spirit to try to overthrow the natural order.”

  “Do we know if the tree spirits are good or evil?” said Ifunka.

  “What is evil?” Shem asked. “It is intention surely and trees have neither will nor intention. Their spirits are not rational.”

  “Then how can he be talking to them?” Ifunka argued.

  The bard opened his eyes and turned to the monks with a smile.

  “I have heard the wisdom of the trees,” he announced. “The path appears before my eyes.”

  “Shall we sketch a map?” asked Shem.

  “No, the map is within my mind,” he replied.

  “How do you speak to the trees?” Ifunka asked as the bard climbed up onto the beast.

  “Speak? Perhaps that’s not the best word. The mouth speaks—the spirit communicates—without words, syllables or sounds. I touch the spirits of the trees with my inner being and feel the way.”