In the confusion which ensued, Ifunka reached and picked up the knife with his hands (which were still tied together) and used it to slice through Shaff’s bonds. Shaff quickly used the same knife to cut Ifunka free. When their guards tried to restrain them, Shaff dealt a firm blow to the neck of one of the beasts with the flint knife, causing blood to spurt out in profusion as his enemy gurgled and suffocated on his own lifeblood. The blade sank through its skin easily—too easily—and then its whole face slipped off and onto the ground, revealing a yellow-complexioned Tremna with ugly but not-unhuman features. It was a mask!—and a clay one at that. All of the enemies were wearing masks. Shaff’s actions sent them into a rage for their magic had been spoilt. Shaff quickly cut through Shem’s and Ffen’s bonds and they scurried up the shaft which had delivered them into the chamber some time before. Their enemies followed in hot pursuit. Shaff stabbed them back, sometimes killing one, at other times delivering a blow to a shoulder or clay mask, but the enemy kept on coming relentlessly.
“Go on!” Shaff called out. “I’ll stay behind and keep them at bay.”
“They’ll murder you!” Ifunka called back. He was at the head.
“No, I’ll fight them all to the death. They’re only men with masks—cowards; or I’ll die, if the Great Spirit so desires.”
“Farewell then!” Ifunka called.
“Farewell,” rejoined the others as Shaff stopped and turned to hack at and parry the blows of the subterranean felons.
At last, as the three brothers reached the surface, they could hear piercing screams, though whether these belonged to friend or foe they could not surmise.
“Quick, we need to get far away!” Ifunka called out.
“Yea so,” Ffen agreed as they rushed through the forest.
It was about midnight—the forest was almost pitch-black, though the sound of rushing water guided them back to the river and their camp. Quickly, they gathered supplies which they had left behind when kidnapped, waded across the river and rushed through the forest, barely pausing to catch a breath, and continued on for hours and hours, fearing lest their enemies might be in hot pursuit. They were not, however, as no sign could be seen of them and there was not a soul or footstep or cracking twig—no noise save that of their own footsteps, the sound of their breath and the pounding of their hearts within disconcerted bosoms. At last, they agreed to pause and rest. Ffen and Shem were almost in tears. Ifunka—traumatized himself—could not express his grief openly.
“We’ve left him behind!” Ffen cried. “We’ve left him with those things!”
“We had to,” replied Ifunka. “We had to—or we’d all be dead now!”
“He can’t be dead,” said Shem. “He can’t—”
He was choked with tears.
“He is, and we have to accept that,” said Ifunka decisively.
“But...” Ffen could not say anything further.
“Let us pray for him—whether he be dead or quick,” Shem suggested. “Let us do at least that.”
“It will have to wait,” Ifunka replied. “We are still too close to that lair. We have no guide now but we must continue on until we reach the valley. There we’ll have two on watch at one time, armed to the teeth and ready for anything. We must steel ourselves for whatever might come on this journey.”
So, consenting with Ifunka’s words, they pressed on throughout the night until dawn broke as the forest canopy thinned and beams of sunlight pierced through the leaves and branches, which light soothed the sun-starved green skin of the companions, allowing them to photosynthesise energy within their skin. Continuing on for another hour or two, the terrain began to slope gradually until they found themselves in a clearing which bordered on a large valley covered in dense forest—or so it appeared to be from their viewpoint. What lay within the valley they could not surmise. On either side there were huge boulders which made going around the valley impossible. Of course, one might go through the forest round about but they risked getting lost and going off course.
“The valley,” Ifunka gasped. “Shaff was right. We’ve reached it.”
“Let’s not risk it,” Ffen urged.
“There’s no other way,” replied Ifunka. “See the boulders? We’re fenced in. There’s no way round without getting lost as the forest grows denser along either side.”
“The valley itself is covered in thick woodland,” observed Shem.
“Indeed,” said Ifunka. “but there is no other direct way. This is our path; but let us rest a while, arm ourselves and keep watch.”
They set up camp, ate some shkiff-rolls, drank some water and roasted some wish-roots. They also ate some fruit, juicy ffev-berries and succulent blue shkometv, which was now over-ripe and soft. Ifunka and Shem then took watch for two hours while Ffen rested. Next, Shem rested for another two hours and, finally, Ifunka took over. It was now midday and the sun shone at its zenith, casting the verdant valley in a bright glow. Soft white clouds slowly sailed across the deep-blue sky as Vukt stood gloriously in all its celestial majesty.
After he awoke, they all performed prayers and ate lunch before determining to descend into the valley. The slope was steep, such that they had to cling onto tree branches as they descended, trying not to slip or slide as they proceeded downwards. Suddenly, there was a rustling in the branches so each man drew his weapon and paused in a defensive posture. The rustling grew louder as something approached until, without warning, a furry animal leapt from a branch and plunged onto the sloped ground in between them. It was a jade-green geish with bright yellow eyes and long claws—a species they had never seen before. It opened its tiny mouth to release a soft gurgling burrop, burrop sound and motioned with its paw, as if it were beckoning them to follow it.
“This geish is asking us to follow it,” Ifunka observed. “Let’s do so. Perhaps it will lead us through the forest to the other side.”
So they continued downwards, following the geish’s lead, until they reached the base of the valley, where the trees, contrary to appearances from the valley’s edge, were sparsely distributed and the ground was carpeted with a soft-green grass that waved to and fro, caressing their legs. The air smelled sweet, the effect of sweet roses in the gebnav-bushes thereabout. Gentle forest animals (of the kind children often take as pets) scampered through the grass, including fat, violet vent-bunnies with long, floppy ears, green eyes and long, agile tongues with which they ‘tasted’ the air. Twelve-legged ffish-serpents with rainbow-coloured scales slithered between the rocks which lay near the roots of the trees, avoiding the cream-coloured ffishgogs (‘serpent-swallowers’)—or ffigs for short—which resembled so many leather balls that rolled slowly, following the serpents around; when one came upon its prey, a circular orifice would open and ‘suck up’ the snake with a hoover-like suction, devouring it whole—after which, the prey would swish about, slowly dissolving in the digestive juices of the peculiar animal. The serpents themselves are relatively harmless, feeding primarily on wubgi-worms, berries and insects. The serpent-swallowers are often used by children to kick about in a game called yagffig (i.e. ‘ball-ffig’) where the ffig is kicked between two or three teams into a net made of gisht-wool. Ffubishes floated through the air, wultva-budgies chirped and warbled in the branches and yet more geishes swung from branch to branch. The one which was guiding them, however, continued to urge them on, insistent that not a moment more be wasted in idle appreciation of the beautiful surroundings.
They continued to follow the geish’s lead along a well-worn path—man-made it seemed—through the forest until they came to a swift-flowing brook, over which a stone bridge had been built. Now they were certainly close to Tremna habitation! The geish swiftly crossed over and shouted: burrop, burrop! calling for them to follow. This they did. On the other side of the bridge, the path was laid with cobblestones; yet more evidence of Tremna handiwork. Losing track of time and space, they kept on going a
long the path, cognizant only of the geish and its insistence. The path wound round trees and over bumps in the way. At some points it narrowed and at others widened until they were quite wearied of the journey and altogether desirous of halting for a breather. The geish, unsympathetic, eyed them with evident irritation as they paused to catch a breath. Picking up a pebble, the geish hurled it square into Ifunka’s forehead, dazing him for a moment as his friends stood shocked at the creature’s impudence.
“This confounded creature!” Ifunka cried. “If I weren’t a monk!”
“Leave the poor thing,” said Ffen. “He’s only little.”
Next it hurled a pebble at Ffen, this time hitting its target in the cheek.
“Blast it!” he exclaimed. “Let’s thrash this wretch!”
The geish burroped and then hit Shem for good measure, though Shem responded only by rubbing his forehead slightly and remaining silent. The geish carried on, leading them deeper and deeper into the valley, until they reached a high stone wall, about nine Tremna feet high (one pena or ‘foot’ being equal to about fifteen Imperial Terran inches, and three feet being count as one oksha or Tremnan cubit). The wall was all of granite blocks which must have been quarried from mines some distance away. There was a single gate made of bronze with large bolts lining its edges and a keyhole one cubit from the ground. No indication was there of any means of entry, nor of any device for alerting the inhabitants to their presence. The geish, however, undeterred by these omissions, deftly assailed the wall with its delicate paws, ascended to the top or rim thereof, and looked down on the monks with evident self-satisfaction. It scurried back and forth in a demonstration of agility, poise and balance, all the while showing off its superior skill to the hapless humanoids below. Tiring of this exercise, it leapt over the wall to the far side and was gone, leaving the monks dismayed and not a little indignant at the way they had been so impudently served by a creature of inferior existence.
“That little brute,” Ffen bursted out vehemently. “Leading us here to an impassable wall and locked gate. What shall we do, brothers?”
“Patience, brothers,” advised Ifunka. “There is always a way; trust in the Great Spirit.”
They waited and waited until they could stand no more and decided to sit down and set up a fire to keep them warm. They spent several hours solemnly gazing into the flames, unable to comprehend the traumatic events they had just escaped from. Their friend, so recently acquired, had left a deep impression on each one of them. Shem, whose thoughts were like a closed book welded shut with iron clasps of childhood trauma and isolation, had, for a short while, opened up his heart and begun to embrace the bard as a brother—even if he was all too quiescent to express himself openly in that regard. Shem was no idle prattler, engaging in thoughtless verbiage, that species of verbal inundation which spills forth from the sullied lips of so many Tremna (and Terrans likewise); nay rather, he spoke only when the pool of reason welled up and overflowed, washing the banks of understanding with the crystal waters of intuition. Introversion—indeed, if it may be so called—was a blessing to Shem and far from a disability, as it allowed him to contemplate and express himself with an understanding which his countrymen sorely lacked. Rather than introversion, it might be called contemplative comprehension, what the sages in ancient times called athura in Vocatae.
Shaff, extrovert though he be, or was, seemed to possess a raw wisdom which typifies the mystic—a wisdom which unshackles the chains of orthodoxy, which reduces mountains to dust and causes the inner bell of the soul to vibrate and resound. Thus had he affected Shem deeply and his loss was more than Shem’s inner being could withstand in silence, such that he could barely hold back the tears which welled up in his eyes as he stared into the crackling twigs and branches.
Ifunka had grown used to Shaff and missed him but, more than this, he blamed himself for the bard’s loss, as he was the leader, the driving force behind their mission and had allowed the hapless bard to accompany them—or so he reasoned. Ffen, on the other hand, was singularly focused on the obstacle before them. Task-driven and detached, he searched the flames for any shred of inspiration which might deliver a solution. He wondered if the geish might return and lead them to an alternate route or whether they might find some means to construct a ladder or otherwise scale the wall. They could perhaps fashion the rungs from tree branches, though this would take considerable time and effort.
Such considerations, however, proved unnecessary for, of a sudden, the sound of metal scraping against the far side of the gate could be heard and the clang and scraping of iron keys inserted into the keyhole. It appeared that soon the door would be opened and they would be admitted to a new habitation. Whether friend or foe lurked beyond, they could not surmise, so Ifunka silently motioned for Shem and Ffen to bestir themselves and make ready for a defensive attack should the gate-opener prove treacherous. The door slowly swung open and, much to their surprise, the geish emerged triumphantly grinning as he came to greet them by raising his hands high and burroping.
“The little devil came back!” Ffen rejoiced.
“But who opened the gate?” Ifunka asked. “That is the real question.”
Just as these words spilled out of his mouth, a short, old man appeared, leaning upon a knobbly cane or staff. He was dressed in a white robe which shrouded his feet and went up to his wrists, covering his hair in a thick hood. His face, however, was visible; a medium green complexion, long, large nose, round at the tip, bushy white eyebrows over hawk-like, rather small black eyes, pointy cheeks, a long chin and scraggly snow-white beard indicating age and wisdom. His ears were long and hairy, his fingers thin and wiry, his forehead prominent and genteel. His mien was intense but not intimidating, his poise and gait elegant, though his movements were somewhat slow and cautious. He slowly approached the three monks as they stood motionless, stunned. ‘Who was this odd man,’ they all wondered as he came closer and closer, until he was practically standing on top of them—impossible though that be. He looked up at Ifunka, who was at least a foot taller than the old man, and then walked over to Ffen and Shem, surveying each one in turn. At last, he positioned himself on a tree stump and sat down.
“Heika!” Ifunka called out to him.
The old man remained silent.
“How now?” again no response.
“Hello and good day, Sir!” ventured Ffen.
“I respond only to ‘Peace be upon thee.’”
“That’s a rather archaic greeting,” Ffen muttered to himself.
“Be that as it may,” the old man replied. “I am an archaic fellow and peace is all that I desire. It is the greeting usual and common in my time and it is the greeting which will be used at this time.”
“Well then,” said Ifunka. “Peace be upon thee.”
“And upon thee be peace,” the old man replied. “And peace be upon you twain.”
“And upon thee peace,” Ffen and Shem replied, unused to the formula.
“Now you may say ‘Good day’,” instructed the man. “Go on…”
“Good day,” they replied.
“And good day to you all,” he repeated.
“Well, welcome then!”
“Thank you, Sir,” Ifunka responded. “My name is Brother Ifunka and these twain are Brothers Ffen and Shem.”
“All of one make are ye,” said the man cryptically. “Fashioned of the same piece of cloth. Look at you, children of the Theocracy!”
“Do you oppose the Theocracy, sir?” Ffen made bold.
“Oppose? There is nothing to oppose. It is merely tattered chevron stretched over a frame of baked clay. One flame would suffice to set it all ablaze and reduce its haughty substance to paltry ash.”
“I’m afraid I don’t catch your drift, Sir,” said Ffen.
“What is theocracy?” came the reply. “It is a humbug—a nothing invented and conceived in the minds of fall
ible men, not in the unsullied text of the infallible Tamitvar. I have as much regard for theocracy as I do for a ffug-fly settled on a heap of dung.”
“Well said, Sir,” Ifunka remarked. “We feel the same way as you.”
“If you have not come on the Theocracy’s behalf,” said the man. “Then what brings you to this forlorn abode?”
“We come,” explained Ifunka. “In search of a friend who was taken—a fellow monk stolen away by abject bandits—a secret organisation hidden in the depths of this forest. We merely pass through your valley on our way there.”
“Yes, I see,” said the man. “Though I feel—I know not why—that another of your company is missing.”
“Yes,” replied Shem. “Shaff the Bard. He was taken by strange beings who wear clay masks and dwell in labyrinthine warrens below the forest floor.”
“Oh, the hitvah—the ‘clay men’,” the man’s eyebrows raised. “You three are lucky to have escaped their clutches.”
“Who are they?”
“They are a lost tribe—never civilised, never taught the Tamitvar. They can be found all over the forest but are seldom seen. The clay masks they wear to frighten their enemies.”
“What do they do with their enemies?” Shem asked, gulping tremulously as he did so.
“They eat them, of course,” replied the old man rather matter-of-factly. “Then they dry out the skin and stretch it over their drums. They file down the bones to make knives and needles. The hair they use in headdresses, the skulls become drinking vessels and the teeth are shaped into beads to adorn their wives’ necklaces.”
Green Monk of Tremn, Book I: An Epic Journey of Mystery and Adventure (Coins of Amon-Ra Saga 1) Page 16
