“Roimelaffsholem roimemavtilei!
Ramtukum gel poltiffavtilei
pamshatvinitsaff Quator Vuciaeshivilei!
Ramutu ramutuvulis, vucia vuciasiv lei,
oucau zepe ramutuemvonilei!”
(“By the dawn when it breaks!
He is the Light which radiates
in the midmost heart of the Fire Eternal!
Light upon Light, Fire within Fire, indeed,
illuminating all things!”)
As he uttered these words, the shan untangled themselves and vanished into the darkness from which they had emerged—a darkness which formed the fabric of their own beings, the essence of their false light.
“Come, Shem! Let’s get out of here!”
Shem lay on the forest floor, looking up at the tree branches and canopy above.
“Brother!” he called. “They had me—I was in their grasp. I felt the coldness of their breath, their fingers and arms.”
“Get yourself together, brother. Come on! Get up!”
Ifunka pulled him up—Shem was loose-limbed, like a rag-doll, unwilling to move.
“Get up before some other beast of the night decides to make us its prey!”
“Bear with me; I have touched beings of pure terror!”
“I’m sorry, but we must go. We need to get as far as we can before daybreak. Then we have a chance of getting to our destination and saving Ushwan.”
“Help me up!” Ifunka lifted him to his feet. “You read the verse well, brother. Methinks the angels heard you sing.”
“Brother,” Ifunka’s eyes welled with tears. “I love you like my own flesh and blood. We’ll make it through the night and, if not, let us die and our souls shall be as one in the Garden of Ganka.”
“Your words melt my heart, brother.”
“Let’s go!”
They ran on, for hour after hour, taking only brief breaks, until they came to a brook, flowing with clear water over smoothly-polished pebbles. There they halted in order to perform ablutions. As they did so, a thunderous rustling of leaves and branches could be heard behind them. Turning, their faces still covered in water, they beheld the serpent from earlier. After licking its wounds, it had evidently decided to pursue its enemies, tracing them through the forest and to this point. Their swords were still embedded in the beasts’ scaly hide. It hissed like a myriad whining kettles and bared its prodigious fangs. Lifting its head, it struck. Ifunka and Shem ducked, dodging its immense head which pounded the ground like a hammer. It struck, again and again, as each time they hid behind a tree or ducked for cover, avoiding the attacks. The beast was relentless—infuriated by its former attackers. Ifunka conceived an idea and whispered to Shem:
“We’ll tangle it. Let’s run a course around these trees, weaving in and out in a circle until it is well and truly tangled. Then you and I will both strike its head with our short knives. We’ll blind it and then crack open the skull.”
Shem nodded. They set about their plan, running in and out between the tree trunks until the creature was wrapped up like a bow. When it had realized its error, it tried to pull back but was locked in. It squirmed and threw its head back and forth. Ifunka and Shem each came up on one side, flanking the beast, and struck with their daggers at its eyes. Leaping on top of the head, they hacked at its skull. Its eyes poured forth a prodigious quantity of oozy green blood, while the skull spurted like a burst tin of molasses. Ifunka pushed the blade down until it had penetrated the thick, membrous brain of the creature. It gasped and then gave up its ghost, relaxing every muscle and sinew into that sleep from which there is no return—the silence of non-existence and quiet dissolution.
“Thus dies the lake-worm,” said Ifunka. “Come, let us fill our water-skins and keep on moving. Who knows what else lurks in the deep forest?”
As they continued walking, Shem thought he could see a figure staring at him in the gloom. It was barely discernible but stood out from the usual background of leaves, trees, and branches. He whispered to Ifunka.
“Do you see that?”
But when Ifunka turned he could see nothing. The figure had vanished.
“Methinks you’re seeing things, brother. We’re weary and troubled from a long journey and have suffered much along the way. I think our eyes have started to play tricks on us.”
“Perhaps,” Shem replied. “But I know that I saw something. What that ‘something’ was is the question.”
They rested by an old and sturdy zeff-tree of wide girth and gnarled roots. As they caught their breath, this time Ifunka saw something move between the two boles, about twenty okshas off. It seemed humanoid.
“There!” he whispered in alarm. “I told you, brother, I told you.”
“We’re being followed, by someone or something.”
“It could be the clay men.”
“Perhaps. It’s definitely not shan. It must be some kind of man.”
“Or demon.”
“Nonsense! There’s no such thing.”
“In Gahimka they dwell near the lakes of fire and brimstone.”
“Yes, but we’re a long way from Gahimka. This is Tremn—the world of men—fixed in the heavens between Gahimka below and Ganka above, the very centre of the universe, where salvation and damnation are both earned. Nay, we are dealing with a man.”
“At this depth of the forest?”
“It could be one of the demon-worshippers, in which case we’ve lost the element of surprise and our cause is doomed.”
“If the Great Spirit wills,” Shem remarked.
They continued on until near the break of dawn when they reached a slight decline. Descending several okshas, they found themselves entering an area of fewer trees and more bushes and shrubbery. Ffigs rolled across the mossy ground while ffubishes floated above their heads. They came to a small pond of pure and limpid water. They cupped their hands and drank from it—it was sweet to the taste, evidently bubbling forth from some ancient spring, its origins deep in the mineral-laden aquifers which proliferate throughout the region.
“Praise be to the Great Spirit!” rejoiced Ifunka.
“Raffal!” concurred Shem. “Let us do ablutions and pray, for the dawn is nigh.”
“Nigh is your bane, monks!” came a voice.
They looked around. No face could be seen.
“Who speaks?” Ifunka called.
“This is my land, so I shall ask the questions.”
“Why should we answer your questions?”
“There is an arrow poised to fire. The bow is taut; my aim is true.”
“There are two of us. Can you kill two men with one shot?”
“I can fire two arrows in one breath. This is my home. I am its guardian. Whatever manner of man or beast ye are, do not cast away your lives for a mere trifle.”
“Passage through this forest is not a trifle!” Ifunka protested. “It is a matter of life and death. What happened to generosity and hospitality? What age is this that a traveller can be so accosted and threatened for the sake of dirt and trees?”
“Thou speakest well, stranger, but common men do not travel this deep within these woods. Only demon-worshippers and unnatural phenomena—shan, giant worms, hideous beasts and brutish clay men wander here, intent on blood and gore; evil creatures. I am the only natural man in these parts. Ye are surely creatures of evil covered in a cloak of semblance, your powers veiling mine eyes from your true reality. Therefore, give me a reason why I should not kill you both now and be done with it?”
Ifunka did not hesitate to answer.
“Wouldst thou kill, O man, that which the Great Spirit hath quickened with a soul? Are we cattle to be so easily slaughtered? Or are we, rather, temples of the spirit made by the Hand of the Almighty, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise?”
“Praised be His name!” the man replied.
“Indeed, ye speak like men and in the name of One that is all good and perfect. Therefore, I shall trust you both and lay down my bow.”
He emerged from behind a tree (a bow-shot distant) and approached them. He was six-foot tall, of light-green complexion, grey eyes, wide, flat nose, large eyes, an arched brow, pointed cheeks and chin, long ears, a smooth face, and incredibly short, tightly-curled dark-green hair. His chest, rippled with muscles, was bare and covered in dried mud. He wore a brown leather loincloth and no shoes. He raised his hand in greeting.
“How now!” he said. “Peace be unto you.”
“And peace be unto you,” they replied.
“I am Jyoff Wagva of the Zatv, of whom I am, verily, the last scion. My house is not far distant. Ye shall stay with me as long as ye need and I shall learn your business and intentions.”
“I am Brother Ifunka Kaffa and this is Brother Shem Effga. We belong to the Holy Order of the Brothers of Bishgva and come from Preteloff Tvada Kay (the Monastery of the Brown Owl).”
“I am pleased to meet you both. I do not know the monastery that ye speak of. I only know this forest and these woods. I have lived here all my life, save for a brief period of travelling abroad, and have witnessed the extinction of my family and clan. Come, I shall tell you of these things and more by my hearth, which is near at hand.”
He pointed behind him with his bow in hand. On his back he carried a quiver replete with deadly arrows. It was made of dark-green leather, perhaps of the hide of a ffentwash-bison, nimffish-gazelle, or other forest-dwelling herbivore. The house proved to be a circular hut with a thatched roof in the midst of a small clearing. The walls were made of cob—dried mud bricks mixed with braksh-straw, and the entire construction was called a tvansh (in standard Tremni), though Jyoff pronounced it differently.
“Welcome to my tvanj, which is what this is called in my dialect, though I know ye call it a tvansh. It’s not much but it’s my home. Enter in peace.”
They ducked and entered the small portal into the singular round chamber. Ifunka and Shem both felt that the house seemed familiar, though they had never visited it before. The story of the forest-dweller in the book which Ifunka had acquired at the Leshka Yeishavt inn in Habka village flashed before his mind. Were they in the same place? The hearth was situated in the middle of the hut, consisting of hot charcoals glowing softly in the peaceful surroundings. Smoke gently lifted up and rose through the porous thatch-work above them. They sat on cushions which were laid out at the circumference of the chamber, giving them just enough ease to stretch out and recline while not becoming too hot through proximity to the hearth-fire.
“I shall prepare some yent-leaf tea,” announced Jyoff as he placed a metal frame over the coals and took a shiny brass kettle, placing it on top of the frame in order to boil some water.
He placed some yent-leaves, which he kept in a small woollen pouch, in a tea-strainer—also brass—which he lowered into the water. He also placed some tviksh sugar cubes into the pot to give it a sweet flavour.
“I’ve never tried yent-leaf tea before,” said Ifunka. “It’s not so common in our region.”
“If it’s anything like gveg-leaf tea, I’ll like it,” said Shem, referring to the tea which Brother Ushwan had prepared for them with sheff-cinnamon some weeks before.
“This is the only tea I know,” said Jyoff. “It’s the specialty of the Zatv.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Zatv,” Shem declared, fishing for more information.
“Now no one shall, for we are a clan which has come to its end.”
“Have you no wife or children?”
“We marry cousins—indeed, are entitled to our cousins for wedlock, yet there are no cousins left. Whom shall I wed?”
“You are celibate, then?” asked Shem.
“I am no monk. I amuse myself in my own way.”
It did not seem appropriate for the monks to pursue that line of enquiry any further so Ifunka broached another topic.
“What do you know about the demon-worshippers of Ffushkar?”
“What do I know about them? The question is, why do ye want to know about them to begin with? What business brings you to these forest depths? And, not to be rude, but your use of ‘you’ instead of ‘thou’ is highly unorthodox. Please refrain from it.”
“We apologise heartily, good sir, but our use of language is different from thine. We come from different regions and are used to different manners of speech.”
“We are here to search for Brother Ushwan, who is lost.”
“Lost?”
Jyoff poured the yent-leaf tea into three small cups, like those used by the desert Arabs to drink coffee.
“Here, drink to your health!”
“Thank you,” they replied as they received the tea in their right hands.
“Here we drink in one go,” explained Jyoff as he downed his tea. “Do likewise! It is the custom.”
“Very well,” said Ifunka.
It was hot but in such a quantity that it did not burn his tongue. Yent-tea invigorates the body, making one ready for good discourse and companionship.
“Very good,” said Ifunka. “I enjoy its rich, earthy taste, much like geff-coffee.”
“Geff? Never heard of it. That is an affectation of the city-folk.”
“No, geff-coffee comes from the Great Desert of Yatvegab.”
“Ah, well, this is Ffushkar. We prefer the leaf of the yent-bush.”
Removing his tea implements, the enigmatic figure gathered some logs from the edge of the room and placed them on the hearth-fire.
“More heat and more friendship,” he said. “The fire must needs burn bright like unto the fire within our hearts. So—” he turned to Ifunka. “Who is lost?”
“Brother Ushwan—from our monastery. He is a dear friend. Some days ago—I have lost track of time—he vanished completely from our monastery. We believe he was taken by the demon-worshippers, for what purpose we do not know, and we have been trying to reach their lair in order to rescue him ever since. We came with another companion, Brother Ffen Weshga, who has chosen to remain with Tem Ffash, the Lord of Ffash Valley. If thou couldst help us to achieve our goal, we would both be eternally grateful.”
Jyoff pondered this suggestion for a few moments, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“I have kept them at bay for many a long year. They came here once, a long time ago.”
“I read something about a house in the forest—a story of an encounter with the demon-worshipers.”
“That was my father, Jyem. He told the tale to a priest in the village of Tvon who related it to others, and he later met the writer of the book ye refer to. I was young but I was also there when the incident occurred. I still remember the light which glimmered in the darkness until a host of men appeared. I remembered their swords glimmering in the darkness and the thick woolsack which contained the body of their victim. I saw them beat that sack while the captive therein cried out. They cast scorn on the Right Religion of the Holy Tamitvar—how they glorified human sacrifice, burning flesh and flowing blood! My father travelled much after that day and settled far away in the province of Ritvator. I, however, returned to this spot and have defended my home ever since. My father told only a portion of what he knew to outsiders. The whole legend of the demon-worshippers he confided to me. Now, if the Great Spirit wills, I shall confide it in you twain, since ye are determined to face these monsters. If it change your determination, so be it. However, if it increase your desire, all the better.”
“We are keen to know what we are up against.”
“As well ye should be.”
The hearth-fire crackled as he spoke. Smoke streamed up to the membrous roof above. His eyes lit up as his face glowed in the fire’s radiance. He looked towards the entrance to his home, as if to see whether some enemy lurked in t
he bushes, ready to attack them.
“These men we call ‘demon-worshippers’ are the members of an ancient clan which has dwelt in this forest since before the Holy Tamitvar was first uttered by the great seer, Votsku, may the Great Spirit preserve him. They have always worshipped a dark creature—a demon we call him, but they see him as a deity—a divine being. This creature is called Asharru, the Evil One, who is a minion of Afflish the Accursed—or so we believe him to be. How he escaped from the fires of Gahimka, I cannot surmise. However, the legend is clear that he dwelt among the clan, which is called Shaffu, and some say he dwells among them even still. These sinful infidels worship his idol, a statue made of precious stone and adorned with gold and jewels. They kidnap and sacrifice the innocent, particularly virgin men and women, and even children, who are killed most gruesomely before their remains are defiled and burned in order to appease Asharru, who delights in the smell of burnt flesh. These brutes lust after blood and perform obscene rituals, bare-breasted and clothed in wretchedness. I cannot say whether your friend be alive, but I fear that he may already be dead.”
“No!” Shem cried.
Ifunka stared into the flames, motionless.
“I cannot give up hope,” he said. “Neither of us can. If we give up hope, then we have nothing. We have travelled too far to abandon our quest. Even if he is dead, shall I not look upon the face of his murderers?”
“Thou art brave, dear monk; foolish perhaps, but brave. Ye should have stayed in your monastery instead of setting out upon the wide world and getting entangled in these evil affairs.”
“Tell us more about the Shaffu,” Ifunka interjected, tired of Jyoff’s attempts to put them off their mission.
“What more shall I tell you? Shall I tell you that I have killed a dozen of them, stealthily, as they came across my land—even as I surely would have killed you both had it not been for your good words. I have seen horrors ye would not believe, in this dark forest where evil deeds are concealed from the light of day.”
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 2
