She spoke with a sense of urgency, her lips trembling with every word, each one of which was flavoured with the spice of passionate longing. Ifunka struggled to keep up with the words but they flowed out of her sweet lips too rapidly for him to retain them in the storehouse of his memory. So deeply had a bond been forged between them, however, that the very gaze of her eyes spoke words of meaning in the depths of his inner fabric. This meaning was one of love, but the outer meaning of her words evaded him. He could only surmise that she spoke using a conditional form, that there was burning involved, and that she loved him forever, or something to that effect. Did she love him? The idea burned brightly in his heart.
“Ftâ khôff okh khon-ish (I will love you forever),” he replied. “I will love you forever. But I am a monk and I cannot touch you. Yûm predhel okh-ish ffi ftâ kha vep-ôn okh… (because I am a monk and I touch you not)”
“Vâmt-ish (can),” she completed his sentence.
She now resorted to miming in order to make herself understood. She extended her hands to represent two beings. Wiggling her fingers on the right hand, she lowered her voice and said “Shaff!”
“Man,” Ifunka translated.
She did the same on her other hand and raised her voice: “Ftom!”
“Woman,” said Ifunka.
Then she joined her hands and wiggled them together, imitating sexual intercourse: “Sheylav.”
“Relations,” said Ifunka.
“Kha sheylav (No sexual relations),” she said, simplifying her speech. “Khâm khû-yish (he is a virgin).”
“Ah, khâm means virgin, yes.”
She next imitated a big fire: “Ftarka!”
“Pyre,” he translated.
She mimed a man or beast being sacrificed and pointed upwards to God: “Yamakhsh.”
“Sacrifice.”
“Khâm okh-ish (I am a virgin),” she explained, pointing to herself.
“Ah, you’re a virgin; very noble of you.”
“Khâm ftâ-yish (you are a virgin),” she pointed at him.
“Yes, I am as well.”
“Ftarka-ffish khâm-zen yamakhsh-ôn ftôn-ish (they sacrifice virgins on the pyre).”
“They sacrifice virgins… on the pyre!”
The blood drained from Ifunka’s cheeks as he realized the implications of what she was saying. The Shaffu sacrifice virgins on a pyre and eat their burnt flesh. She was offering to sleep with Ifunka if he would love her forever.
‘What an innocent request,’ he thought. ‘From the mind of one who knows not the rules of the Holy Tamitvar. Shem! He was taken away by Meyla!’
They were both in the same predicament, being forced by circumstance either to accept the possibility of death or to sacrifice their morality and risk the punishment of the hereafter.
“You want me to sleep with you?”
He was conflicted.
“Rî (yes),” she replied in the affirmative, grasping the intention of his words. “Ftâ khodh-ôn okh-ish (I like you).”
“But why, rva? We’ve only just met. Why do you love me? Vâ okh khodh-ôn ftâ-yish-ô?”
“Yashff ffi shîff eynîm-zen-shivt envakh-ôn okh-ish (I see truth and beauty in your eyes),” she explained.
“Truth, beauty? In my eyes? I see in myself only sin and shame. Even this whole journey, this entire quest to save Brother Ushwan, is a fool’s errand. I have no life—no future. The Theocracy is a sham, but you don’t even know what the Theocracy is, do you? You don’t even speak a word of Tremni! The wider world is out there, rva, and it is full of lies and deception! I’ve really come to throw my life away—cast it into the gates of destiny. I killed those watchmen like dogs, because I am full of pain and frustration. How can I even convince you of the truth? I just want to shed my blood upon the dust and ascend to Ganka! Is that too much to ask… is it, rva? What is there to love in me? Why do you see something in my eyes? Where is my truth? Where is my beauty? I’m a freak. Look at my face. Is there anything natural about this beard? Look at me!”
Tears streamed down his face. Pushing the silver tray aside, rva crawled over to him and wrapped her arms around him; he wept even more, sobbing into her shoulder. She held him so tight—so tight that all the worries of the world melted away within her comforting embrace; pain and misery, hopelessness and despair, left his heart as an abiding sense of consolation overwhelmed him. What wonders could the feminine embrace evoke? What mysteries lie hidden within the arms and breast of womankind that cast away the evil shadows of self-pity and remorse? Such power does the grasp of woman wield, that every care, like morning’s dew, does fade away in light of sun’s brilliance. His face he buried deep within her warm and welcoming bosom as she held him yet tighter. She cushioned her head in her hands and lifted it towards her own, such that the two faces gazed one within the other’s , like one soul staring within the mirror of itself. At that moment, seized within the grasp of passion, he kissed her—her lips like bauff-bee honey, sweet, of soft yet fulsome texture. She kissed him back, her redolent, thick locks of jet-black hair caressing his blushing green cheeks, radiant with boyish youth’s summer bloom. Her cheeks, likewise, were red like rose-blossoms, her eyes alive with a primeval passion that has propelled the course of evolution. Ifunka was on a knife’s edge, ready either to fall into temptation or, if he recovered his senses, to flee from her ensnaring charms. Could this be more than a mere dalliance? Was she anything more to him than a mere trifle? Yet he had confessed his love for her, not mere love but love forever, and she had done the same.
Two virgins locked in embrace born of passion’s spring, which had long been welling up within the aquifers of their hidden longing. She kissed his right cheek, softly, and then down his neck, again and again, caressing his other cheek with her delicate palm. He reached and grabbed her pure-black tresses and held her head gently, kissing her brow. She looked up at him and brought her lips to his again, kissing him fervently, passionately—an experience which far surpassed, in the pleasure it bestowed, what he had fondly imagined when reading the Tale of Yeshga and Yimna, or the poems of longing penned by the illustrious Hashpa of fame renowned. Thus they remained, locked in firm embrace, kissing and petting one another with almost helpless abandon. Yet innocent, child-like, they did not know what to do with themselves. Unlocking herself from his firm grasp, she lay back on the cushions in the corner and stretched out like a newly-blossomed flower. Inviting as her recumbent body lay, her eyes burning into his soul, his reason emerged from the shackles of desire.
“rva, I cannot do this,” he said. “The Great Spirit knows all, sees all, hears all.”
“Ifunka, I love you,” she said in the nasally tone of the Shaffu. “Forever.”
“You… you speak Tremni?”
“I hear you and I speak.”
“You learn.”
“I learn.”
“I want you but it is forbidden. No can do.”
“Kha vâmta (Not can)?”
“Yes.”
“Love is forbidden?”
“No, not love. I love you truly. I love God—the Great Spirit—with all my heart and soul. He created me, just as He created you.”
“He… created the world,” she said.
“Yes, that’s right. You are a fast learner.”
“You learn fast,” she replied, and giggled.
“Your laugh is like sweet music to my ears,” said Ifunka.
“I don’t… understand.”
“rva, we are in an impossible situation. I have come to rescue Brother Ushwan or to die, and I will kill as many people as it takes to achieve my goal; whoever crosses our path will die. What can I do with you? How can I save you?”
“I don’t understand all. But you take me; you take Meyla. Love is all. You my man; I your woman. One man, one woman, forever.”
“You want to be my wife?
You want me to be your husband?”
“You are my husband. I am your wife.”
“I wish it could be so.”
“No monk; Shem no monk. You rva husband; Shem Meyla husband. Monk no; you are man. You are man.”
“I can’t just stop being a monk. I’m ordained. I’m sworn to the service of the Great Spirit. I am a member of the Holy Order of the Brothers of Bishgva. They’re my brothers—Ushwan is my brother.”
“Ushwan is your brother,” she reasoned with him. “I am your woman—I am your wife.”
“You don’t understand. We’re not the same religion, and there’s a marriage ceremony, a ritual.”
“I… Great Spirit… Khan-Vabakh khedhi-yôn okh-ish (I believe in the Great Spirit).”
“Khedhi? You believe in the Great Spirit? What about Asharru, the false god of your people?”
“Kha yashffâ Sharru-yish (Asharru is not true).”
“Asharru is not true?”
“I not believe Asharru. You are true; Great Spirit is true.”
“One God?”
“One God,” she affirmed.
“Well, then, repeat the Spiktomog Kedwayeng, the Testimony of Faith, and then wash yourself completely and change your clothing; then you may enter the Right Religion of the Sacred Tamitvar. Repeat after me:
Tesa lek okt kedi; Tamitvar Kubara okt kedi; okt spiktomo ffel Wabak Kakan Owaman Aretveyengfi Wonff ffakvazinyengfi Tremfitv. Okt spiktomo ffel Votsku envaipatvitvkaimim Hashemaff Ashamad yonffe yashepogyeng edfilant. Ralishwa Affli Tamitvar Kubarayeng okt teko.
(“I believe in one God; I believe in the Holy Tamitvar; I testify that the Great Spirit is the Lord of the Worlds and the Master of the heavens and Tremn. I testify that Votsku is the Seer to whom the Archangel Hashemaff revealed the verses of truth. I accept the Right Religion of the Holy Tamitvar.”)
He repeated each sentence, line by line, and she copied him, even attempting to mimic his exotic accent. When they had finished, he told her to go and wash herself completely. He mimed washing and said “Bath!” which she translated as “Vaish,” and grabbed his hand, taking Ifunka down a corridor and into a large bathroom with a circular bath in the middle and racks of towels and sponges at the peripheries. Ifunka had never seen its like and wondered how such fineries could exist within the depths of savage lands. She called for Meyla, who had otherwise been occupied.
As she pulled Shem from the room, his heart raced within him. What did this fawn-like beauty, this rapturous beauty, so sweet he could devour her whole, want with his pious and religious self? So long cut off from meaningful discourse except, that is, with his turbulent companions and the glorious bard who fell to the clay-men (i.e. the wandering minstrel), he felt a loneliness that few could truly comprehend. He was introverted, alone, wrapped within the walls of his own self, oblivious to the petty trivialities of small talk, indifferent to pleasantries, obsessed with the concerns and ideas which welled up within the spring of his own profound and innovative imagination. He was a mine rich in inestimable gems, a fountainhead of creativity, yet he disliked the boisterous exuberance of others and their ignorant lack of self-reflection. He was reflection personified; he moved within the compass of himself. He did not need the judgement or the regard of others to fuel his own self-image. The contemplative one—this abstracted one—was now drawn away by the current which he himself could not resist, no matter how much the inner-restraint which he had cultivated cried out within the chasm of his enlightened consciousness.
She drew him; her subtle charms, her sultry wiles, her eyes like tvung-deer, her lips like sweet tornish-cherries in their summer yield. Her chestnut hair bounced and jostled with her every step, light like a feather in vernal breeze. Her hands like yarns of woffgi-silk, seductively pulled him through the corridors to her room, up a flight of steps, within the attic. There she lit some ffentwash-fat candles and laid out the blankets of tvung-skin on her humble bed. It was nothing more than a wide, rectangular mattress of braksh-straw covered in a meb-wool sheet and overlaid with skins to keep her warm. They were directly beneath the sloped roof and there was no window, but it was cozy and peaceful, presenting the perfect atmosphere for intimacy to kindle brightly between two naïve lovers in the fullness of youth and under the heady intoxication of love.
She lay down on the bed and invited Shem to do likewise. He lay beside her, his reluctance washed away by the streams of unbridled desire, his eyes locked on hers with profound intensity. Her face, so dainty and elegant, was embosomed within a ring of buoyant, chestnut locks which danced upon her light-green brow and cheeks. Her eyes—an intense brown—bespoke mysteries of love and longing, which Shem seemed to read like a book appearing within the tapestry of his youthful mind. She caressed his cheek with her hand and he reciprocated—fearful, confused. She was not simply following orders from her mistress by offering herself to him. There was intensity in her expression which bespoke genuine affection and infatuation. She was, like rva, innocent of the ways of men, so she seemed almost to be waiting for Shem to take some initiative. He drew closer to her and she did the same, until both were no more than a ffil—a thumb’s length—away from one another. She wrapped her arms around him and he did the same. They meant to kiss but were afraid, instead gazing one at the other in silent fascination.
At last, Shem moved in to kiss her but ended up planting his lips firmly on her brow. She seized his hair in her fist and kissed him firmly on the lips. He could not free himself from her firm grasp, even if he wanted to, which he did not, and felt her tongue within his mouth—something which he could not decide how he felt about. It was a strange, slightly unnerving, experience. She tasted of zasht-berry wine, pungent and, to his unaccustomed taste buds, sickly, yet the warmth of her tongue dancing enthusiastically within his mouth, filled the cup of anticipation.
Suddenly, there was a call—a voice—from below. Meyla released Shem and sat up.
“Meyla, ifta-krâ (Meyla, come)!” came the voice of her mistress.
Standing up, she put her dress in order and turned to Shem.
“Saff (sorry),” she apologized. “Ftâ khodh-ôn kheyâ okh-ish (I love you forever).”
She turned to leave. Shem stood up and followed after her.
“Meyla, don’t leave me… ever.”
She turned and looked into his eyes.
“What you say?” she asked in imperfect Tremni.
“Heika! You speak Tremni! I say, no go, no go, ever.”
“I come,” she replied.
“I mean, I want you always; not leave me ever. Together, you and me.”
He pointed to her and then himself.
“I come you; we go, you and me; not leave,” she said.
“Meyla!” her mistress called.
“Come, come!” said the maid as she took Shem’s hand and led him downstairs to the bathroom.
“Khuff shog-ôn ftâ-yish-ô, vonffey (What do you require, mistress)?” Meyla asked her mistress.
“Flaffru-fto yîff shift-ôn ftâ-yish-ô (Do you want to marry this stranger)?” rva asked her.
“Shem, rî (Shem, yes),” Meyla replied.
“Fâ Sfikhtom-go Khedhva-yeym ffogsh-ôn ftâ ffaidh-ish ffi lekh vaishiff-ôn-ish (then you must say the Testimony of Faith and be bathed),” rva explained. “Ifta-krâ, ffogsh-krâ (come, repeat).”
Ifunka again said the Testimony of Faith while Meyla repeated after him, line by line. Then Meyla filled the bath with water and bathed her mistress and herself while Ifunka and Shem stood outside the room.
“You came to your senses, then?” asked Shem.
“Yes, did you?”
“I don’t know. Of all the sins and temptations of the flesh, women are the most enticing. It’s like I was not myself. I was possessed by some unnatural force.”
“Lust,” said Ifunka. “It’s all-consuming; difficult to resist. The fires o
f passion burn brighter than the sun. Did not Tvem warn us? He said that we should become like a hollow reed, sacrificing all ephemeral pleasure for that which is more lasting. He said that all negative energy could be opposed and overcome by positive energy, which is stronger and more effective.”
“The eighth teaching.”
“Indeed.”
“My positive will overcame the lust within me. It’s not easy, but then it’s not easy to will anything at all and cause that will to result in real actions.”
“‘Honour is higher than flesh,’” Ifunka quoted Tvem. “‘Spirit is higher than matter.”
The two women emerged from the bathroom wrapped in meb-wool towels. They rushed past them and into rva’s bed chamber where they dressed in white night-gowns, clean and resplendent, glowing in the candle-light. They emerged like white roses, blooming beautifully before the wonder-struck eyes of their lovers.
“Beautiful,” said Ifunka.
“Magnificent,” said Shem.
“You like?” asked rva.
“I like very much,” Ifunka replied.
“You like Meyla?” Meyla asked.
“Oh yes, very like; much, much,” said Shem.
“You wife me?” asked rva.
“Oh, right,” said Ifunka, having forgotten the logical conclusion of their religious conversions.
“Ifunka, is this it?” asked Shem. “Are we abandoning our vows?”
“Tvem told us: ‘You’re no longer monks,’” Ifunka replied.
“He didn’t mean that literally,” Shem protested.
“We have two choices, or three rather: we leave now and abandon these girls,” said Ifunka.
“Hardly conscionable.”
“Right, we refuse to marry them but engage in sin with them.”
“I suppose that would be a grievous error.”
“Well, then, the third option is to marry them.”
“So soon?”
“Shem, this might be our last night on Tremn. We might be slaughtered tomorrow or burned on the pyre as virgin sacrifices to a pagan god; or we wed these women now and face the prospect of death later. If the Great Spirit will, we will rescue Brother Ushwan and take these girls back to Ffash Valley where Ffen is even now. We’ll till the soil, start families, repopulate this forest region, away from the foul corruption of the Theocracy and its moribund institutions. We can build a new life. Our destiny hangs in the balance.”
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 6
