“He speak to us?”
“Yes, but not in words—more in feeling. It’s like when I look in your eyes and you in mine. You feel what I want to say without me saying it.”
“Yes,” she said.
“There, you see? Now, let me show you.”
He got up and performed his ablutions, directing her to do the same. Then they performed the kashroim—the dawn prayer—together, with her copying each of his movements. He said each line of the prescribed verses slowly so that she could copy. When they had finished, he asked her:
“What do you think, then, of prayer?”
“Good, good. When we do it again?”
“There are five prayers: the kashroim, said at dawn, the kashatvin, said at midday, the kashashom, said in the afternoon between midday and sunset, the kashammanaffob, said in the evening, and the kashafftishatvin, said at midnight. These five times are times of remembrance. The prayers differ slightly at each time, the kashashom being the longest, but you will learn with time. You or Shem can teach Meyla the proper method.”
“Yes, Ifunka, my love. I make you food.”
“Ah, very well, thank you. You are too kind.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant she had already made it or was going to make it, but he thanked her nonetheless.
“Husband, all is for you.”
“As I am all yours.”
rva accompanied Ifunka to the secondary reception room where he joined Shem for breakfast. Meyla was busy watching Khalam-Sharru.
“What’s the plan?” asked Shem as he finished his meal, which consisted of sweet bread, called shîmva (shimwa in Tremni), warm milk (as the monks were forbidden wine), honey and zasht-berries.
“We have to free Brother Ushwan before the sacrifice later today. How far are we from the dungeon and temple?”
“Meyla tells me one kobotv and about ten okshas. We’re at the edge of the city and we must make our way to its centre.”
“In that case, we must dress in the garb of the Shaffu until we reach the dungeon, take out the guards, free Ushwan, return to this section of the wall, scale it and flee back into the woods with Meyla and rva.”
“That’s going to be challenging. We don’t look or act like Shaffu and we barely speak any Shaffi. How are we going to manage it?”
An idea occurred to Ifunka.
“We use Khalam-Sharru.”
“Are you mad? He’s our enemy. We tortured him last night!”
“I spoke to him. I believe he can be convinced if it means his daughter’s life.”
“I think you are right,” agreed rva in her best Tremni, which she had been practicing for several hours since waking up.
“Your Tremni improves by the minute, rva—or should I say Arwa?”
“Arwa?” she struggled to pronounce the name, especially the ‘w’ sound.
“Yes, the Tremni equivalent of your name.”
“If you want,” she replied, ever agreeable, extraordinarily so for a sixteen-year-old.
“Come, let us confer with your father, Arwa, and see if he accepts our plan.”
They headed to the reception room where Khalam-Sharru and Meyla were both awake.
“Good morning, Khalam-Sharru,” said Ifunka. “I trust that you slept well.”
“For one in bondage, yes,” he replied.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes… but enough frivolity. Your brother dies today. Have you made up your mind? Do you wish to leave peacefully with rva and Meyla, abandoning Ushwan, or do you intend to proceed with your rescue plan?”
“What do you think?” asked Ifunka.
“Very well, then you must release me or kill me, or leave me to be found, days later, starved and dehydrated.”
“I have another plan,” suggested Ifunka. “Look, if you don’t accept my plan and play your part, not only will you die but your daughter will be captured and killed.”
Khalam-Sharru’s eyes were wide with shock.
“Listen, all of you,” said Ifunka earnestly. “This is how it is. Shem and I will don Shaffu attire and rva will accompany us, as she is a trusted member of this community and city, speaking on our behalf. If we are captured, she will be captured and implicated.”
“Never!” cried Khalam-Sharru. “You twisted and dishonourable khaffshiks!”
“Calm down,” said Ifunka in a placating tone.
“Alternatively, the girls remain here—innocent—whatever happens, and you accompany us to the dungeon, help us to gain access and we leave with Ushwan unharmed. As an accomplice, you will be killed if you don’t come with us back to our civilization. Those are your options. Choose wisely.”
Khalam-Sharru considered for a moment and then nodded his head, his eyes betraying shame and remorse.
“Good,” said Ifunka. “Untie him, Shem. He can help us to dispose of the bodies.”
They unloosed his bonds and began to remove every trace of the watchmen. Their clothes they burned in the hearth-fire and the naked corpses were chopped up, wrapped in cloths and thrown into the rubbish bin—a large wooden container which was daily emptied and collected by the city cleaners. They also disposed of the blood-stained carpets, burned their bloodied clothes, and washed and donned Shaffu attire. All of this took the space of two hours.
“Excellent,” said Ifunka when they had finished. “There is but one more thing to attend to before our plan gets into motion. rva, Meyla, Shem, Khalam-Sharru, today is either our day of victory or the day we die, all of us, either to the worm or the pyre, or the watchman’s axe. Shem and Meyla, you are both married and I congratulate you on this consummation. It behoves every man, before he dies, to wed, so that he may taste the delights of womanhood while yet alive in the flesh, while to do so unlawfully, that is, without the bounds of wedlock, and the bonds thereof, is to incite the wrath and terrible indignation of the Great Spirit. Therefore, I wish to wed my dear Arwa, formerly known as rva, ere we depart to our destiny.”
“I would be honoured to marry you both,” said Shem. “You are, besides Ffen, my oldest friend, so I welcome it. I only ask you, Khalam-Sharru, to give your consent.”
“I do,” he replied reluctantly.
“Very well; begin,” said Ifunka.
Shem proceeded with the ceremony and the couple recited the marriage verse, after which Meyla and Khalam-Sharru clapped. They ate yet more sweet bread and milk to celebrate and then made ready to leave.
“Are we going yet?” asked Shem. “You haven’t consummated your marriage.”
“Oh, is that so?” asked Ifunka.
rva laughed.
“I’d almost forgotten.”
“A monk to the last,” laughed Shem, teasing him. “Full of more reserve and shyness than a school-boy in oversized robes.”
“I was such a school-boy once, pure and innocent,” said Ifunka. “I never thought I’d touch a woman, let alone ‘in that way’. I also never thought I’d kill a man—yet here we are. I should probably stop calling myself a monk. I’m more a vigilante than a monk, or a lone soldier.”
“More like Ishmael in battle, hewing the necks of the infidel Biknogs in glorious war,” said Shem.
“It’s kind of you to say that.”
“Get to it, then, Ifunka, consummate your marriage.”
He took rva’s hand in this. She kissed farewell to her father, whose eyes welled up with tears, though as a man he was loath to show them, and they headed to her bedchamber.
“Here we are,” said rva, her face wreathed in smiles.
The sixteen-year-old girl was in the full blossom of her youth, her eyes full of hope and expectation, her body fresh and ready for whatever the world had to offer. For her, this was the beginning of her life, not the end of something past. Suddenly, a bell rang, resonating throughout the city.
“What is that?�
� asked Shem.
“I can’t be—time is moving faster than I anticipated,” said Khalam-Sharru.
“Time moves at the same speed everywhere,” replied Shem.
“I mean,” said Khalam-Sharru. “That we have been taking our time. It’s the third hour before midday.”
“And what is to happen at midday?”
“The Council of Thirteen is meeting.”
“So?”
“So! I am on the Council. By then it will be apparent that three sets of watchmen have vanished, a member of the Council of the Forty-Nine has vanished and all hell shall break loose. Watchmen will flood the city, searching all houses, strangers will be arrested and interrogated, and the sacrifice may be expedited.”
“Then we have no time to lose!”
“Yes, while your monastic brother is engaged with deflowering my precious daughter!”
“I’ll get him,” said Shem.
He climbed the stairs and called through the door.
“Ifunka, brother! We have little time.”
“Shem—do you rather want us to burn on the pyre?”
“To be honest, brother, the worm doesn’t seem like a much better option.”
“Brother, I’d advise that you put the worm aside for now that we may attend to the matter at hand.”
“Ten minutes, my friend, and the matter at hand will be attended to.”
“Very well,” Shem conceded.
He returned to Khalam-Sharru and Meyla.
“He’s thinking with his ozetv again, I’m afraid,” he explained. “Ten minutes, he said.”
“Right, Meyla and rva will stay hear armed with swords in case the house is invaded. You and Ifunka are dressed in the garb of scribes.”
Shem was dressed in a long, black overcoat, velvet-black doublet and breeches and white stockings. He also wore a black, brimless cap and black, leather shoes. Khalam-Sharru was dressed in the black robes of a councilman with Tyrian-purple overcoat and a high, meb-skin hat—the same colour-with a long, black tassel. His waist was girdled by a Tyrian-purple sash and his feet were adorned with sandals. He carried an ebony-black sceptre of authority in one hand and, at his side, was armed with an ornate silver-handled curved dagger in a silver bejewelled sheath.
“You will have to use these two knives as your defence,” Khalam-Sharru advised, handing Shem two daggers to put in his black leather, silver-buckled belt. “I will give Ifunka the same, once he is ready.”
“Before we leave, let us pray,” said Shem.
“Do as you will,” said Khalam-Sharru.
“Great Spirit!” he sat on his knees. “Protect Meyla, rva, Khalam-Sharru, Ifunka and this servant, from evil and mischief. We seek only thy will. We desire only thy glorification and praise. We kill, not out of hatred, but in accordance with thine all-conquering justice and equity. Lead us to victory over the infidels and forgive us our sins and the sins of our forefathers. In thy holy and exalted name; Raffal!”
“Raffal,” repeated Meyla, meaning ‘even so’.
Rising from prayer, which Khalam-Sharru had judiciously abstained from—he being a priest of Asharru—they descended the stairs and waited for Ifunka near the entrance of the building. A few minutes later, Ifunka could be heard to descend the stairs and was dressed and ready-to-go. Khalam-Sharru handed him the dagger.
“Where is rva?” her father asked.
“She is ill-disposed at present.”
“Understandable. Now then, neither of you speak on the way. I will do the talking but you will kill the guards when we reach the dungeon. I will then escort you, along with Ushwan, back to this house. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” said Ifunka.
“Excellent. Then let’s go.”
They opened the door and stepped out onto the streets of Khanshaff.
Chapter XVII.
Khanshaff
The sky was overcast, rain-laden clouds moving gently over the deep-red forest and lofty walls and houses which composed the secret city of Khanshaff, nestled, like a polished ruby, resplendent within the heart of Ffushkar. The houses were all rather similar: two, three or four stories high with balconies and round windows, laden with vines and hanging flowers. The streets were full of Shaffu who appeared perfectly Tremna except in their apparel and a preponderance of dark hair contrasted with bright green skin. Ifunka did his best to conceal his red hair and keep a low profile. He noticed that it was mostly men who moved about the street with few but older women around. It was apparent that most Shaffu women lived relatively sedentary lives within their capacious dwellings; this saddened Ifunka somewhat. Shem was awed by the symmetry and beauty of the city—a city which harboured such evil and unrighteousness. They moved through alleyways and around bends, swiftly and discreetly, avoiding main thoroughfares and plazas. They passed through the edge of the market, where fruit and vegetables, sandwich-vendors and pots-and-pan shops were frequented by old ladies and black, green and brown robed shoppers and businessmen. So busy were they that barely anyone glanced at the three swift-moving figures who paced through the tangled streets with a purpose. Within no time, they had reached the centre of Khanshaff. The Council Headquarters—a round, tvagshaff-like structure of hewn granite surrounded by dozens of watchmen vigilantly staring in all directions. The Temple—Ffâna as the Shaffu call it—was opposite the Headquarters.
They paused behind a corner, looking out at the plaza. Ifunka and Shem were full of trepidation, as this was a make-or-break situation.
“How are we going to get past those watchmen?” asked Ifunka.
“I said not to speak. If anyone hears us speaking Tremni, we’re all dead,” said Khalam-Sharru. “We walk coolly and calmly towards the building. I will speak to the guards—you keep quiet. If all goes well, we enter and then go down to the dungeon. Understood?”
The monks nodded. He signalled and they walked out onto the plaza, in full exposure to the guards and passersby, who eyed them intently. The moments that they passed through the crowd and up to the gate were excruciating—they seemed to move slowly—painfully slowly. When they reached the entrance, the watchmen greeted him:
“Marakh-fach, ftâ hufft-ôn ftâkh-ish (councilman, we greet thee)!”
“Ftâ-gei hufft-ôn okh-ish (I greet you),” he replied. “Iftâff ifta-yôn okh mon-ish khaffshik shâkh-fach envakh (I’ve come here to see the infidel prisoner).”
“Dift-krâ, khaff Sharru-yeym-shivt (come, in the name of Asharru)!”
The companions entered the Council Headquarters, which were bright and spacious, lit with myriad candles, as well as natural light passing through its manifold windows. The floor was adorned with a mosaic of variegated geometric designs while the entrance-hall was ringed with fearsome statues of robed watchmen with no faces, axes and swords ready to attack. They reached a stairwell at the far end of the hall and descended three flights, until they found themselves in a corridor leading to a single wooden door guarded by two special guards dressed in bronze armour with cuirasses, spiked helmets, greaves, gauntlets and leather belts. Their armour dazzled resplendently in the subtle, flickering glow of the wall torches. They approached the guards slowly, cautiously, aware of their disadvantage in arms and armour.
“Ftâ-gei hufft-ôn ftâkh-ish (I greet you),” Khalam-Sharru greeted them.
“Sharru khan-ish (Asharru is great)!” they replied.
Ifunka felt like saying ‘The Great Spirit is Greater’ but held his tongue.
“Khaffshik shâkh-fach shift-ôn envakh ftâkh-ish (we want to see the infidel prisoner),” said Khalam-Sharru.
“Eikhu khaffshik-ô (which infidel)?” they asked.
“Predhel (the monk).”
“Ftûkh (forbidden)!” they replied.
“Ftûkh (forbidden)???” he exclaimed. “Flevâ okh-ish khôr-ôn ftâ-gei-yish-ô? Marakh-fach okh-ish (do you know who I am? I am
a councilman)!”
“Khôr-ôn ftâkh-ish (we know),” they replied without emotion. “Yûm shîkh Metshu-yô khavâ-yish (but the Sage has commanded this)!”
“Khuff ffogsh-ôn Metshu mon-ish-ô (what did the Sage say)?”
“Predhel vâmt-ôn envakh eft khû-yish (no one can see the monk but he).”
“Hamta (very well),” said Khalam-Sharru.
Pulling out a dagger, he swiftly plunged it under the cuirass, piercing the guard’s bowels and kidneys. Before the other guard could cut him down, Shem and Ifunka drew swords, swung at the guard, one blow hitting his calf, which was only protected by leather leggings, while the other bounced off the cuirass, serving only to imbalance him. The guards both fell to their knees, dropping their pikes. Khalam-Sharru picked up one and plunged it into one guard’s neck, bathing the corridor in a sea of blood, while Ifunka added to the expanding pool of sticky stuff as he slashed the other guard’s shoulder, cutting part of his neck, including his jugular vein in the process.
“The first time I’ve shed the blood of my own kind; I’ll not forgive you for that, monks.”
He grabbed the keys off one of the fallen guards’ belts.
“We are all one species and one kind,” said Ifunka. “The children of Inta.”
“We are the children of Asharru,” Khalam-Sharru retorted.
“So you say,” replied Ifunka. “Though I don’t believe it.”
“Let’s be careful; there may be other guards within.”
Khalam-Sharru opened the creaky, old wooden door and entered the dark dungeon. It was a small cavern, of natural formation, containing thirteen cells, lit by torches along the wall between each cell, which had round entrances barred diagonally with copper bars. The prisoner, hopeless and dejected, lay on the cold, hard beds of solid rock and stared at the ceiling of their cells. Ifunka and Shem searched each one until they found Ushwan—a lean, despondent version of himself, withered like a dead leaf, his eyes fixed on a dripping stalactite which formed a yellowish cone with rippled skin, rather like a spiky gourd.
“Ushwan,” said Ifunka in a gentle tone. “It’s us.”
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 9
