Shem awoke to find himself tied with his arms behind his back and his feet shackled. He was much bruised and scraped but otherwise in good condition. He looked around to see where Ifunka was but could not find him. He saw only the two girls—Meyla, Arwa—and Khalam-Sharru and Ushwan, similarly enchained, standing to his left and right respectively. They were on a wooden platform constructed in the middle of a square and surrounded by thousands of onlookers who eyed him (and the others) intently. It was still not yet sunset, but the sacrifice was being prepared. The Sage, Shem’s erstwhile friend, could be seen pacing back and forth on the platform, ensuring that each of the prisoners was well-secured and that all arrangements had been made satisfactorily.
“Excellent!” he said. “All is ready. The sacrifice shall commence in two hours.”
“Two hours?” asked Shem. “Shaff—my friend—don’t do this.”
“Shem, Shem, Shem!” the Sage replied. “Food for the worm! The mighty ffaika shall rise from its dungeon lair and consume you and your friends. May the last thought you have be of betrayal and despair. Then shall you realize that the Great Spirit does not exist and Asharru is your true god!”
“What of the poem you read to us all those days ago?” asked Shem. “You said: ‘All wisdom, truth and knowledge beneath the words concealed—The key is not in monastery or temple, but in the lover’s heart’. Where is your love; where is your heart, Shaff?”
“These words are mere trinkets which I collect within the treasury of my mind,” he replied. “I am the collector of truth and wisdom. I am the judge of right and wrong, knowledge and ignorance. I am the Sage, the knower of things as yet unknown to mortals such as yourself. Asharru speaks through me; I am his mouthpiece and pawn. What do you speak to me of mystic sentiments for? Will they save you? Will they engender within me some petty sentiment or sympathy? Will they bring up some nostalgia for our brief friendship—itself a subtle lie? I think not. Accept your fate, which is to be eaten by the worm.”
“Fate?” asked Khalam-Sharru. “I am a high-priest of Asharru, yet even I know that there is no fate. You can still release us, Sage; we only wish to go on our way and live in peace. We have no desire to spread your secrets.”
“Oh, but you’ve done worse than that already,” the Sage asserted. “Have you not released twelve captured virgins who are, even now, on their way to the rest of Tremnad? What do you say to that? You have already revealed our secrets! Yet we shall find them, slaughter them and all the villages where they dwell. Whole settlements shall be wiped off the face of Tremn!”
“You can’t do that!” cried Shem. “Is this what your god wants?”
“Indeed,” replied the Sage. “He delights in blood and burnt flesh. He desires that all khaffshiks shall die and meet their eternal punishment—a punishment they are born to endure.”
“Let Meyla and Arwa go at least,” Shem pleaded. “They have nothing to do with this.”
“They are guilty by association,” the Sage replied. “Are you happy with yourself? You have doomed them to this fate. Furthermore, your ‘rescue’ of the thirteen virgins has doomed thirteen other souls from our own people who shall now be sacrificed—virgins—innocent young men and women who shall die in place of those you saved. You have condemned them to death by your actions; think on that!”
“Where’s Ifunka?” asked Ushwan. “You’ve got to tell us that at least, old chum!”
“Oh, we have special plans for him!” said the Sage.
“Fiddlesticks!” Ushwan shouted. “Utter tosh! Tell us where he is! What’s his fate?”
“Who is the mastermind of all this—who is the most responsible?” the Sage asked rhetorically. “He will be punished specially—for his special part in these crimes. Now I must leave you all for a while but, worry not, I will return to watch your gruesome deaths.”
The Sage left them to stew in their misery.
Ifunka was beaten—defeated. His body was bruised and broken, his spirits crushed, his flesh disfigured. With his last ounce of strength, he recited the kashffitod—the prayer in difficulties—the words slipping painfully off his wearied lips: “Ay Wabak Kakan! Kam Tai, hari nif aftokti tvanfa, ffitodefi akshefi shotomefiyo aftokti Tai tatvkrafa, Kalf Nahonlasht, Yikwafftaka, Owaman ffakvazinfi aretve lotvshivfiyeng!”
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” said the Sage, who had returned to gloat.
“Great Spirit…” muttered Ifunka.
“I’ll give you one final gift,” said the Sage. “An audience with the great god himself, Asharru.”
“What….?”
“You will see that he is not only real but glorious, his splendour blinding your eyes with the rays of his magnificence.”
“Great Spirit… is one.”
“Ha! Will you say that in the face of the real god?”
“Yes…”
The Sage raised his wooden staff and whacked the monk squarely in the face. Ifunka grimaced and spat a gob of blood which dribbled down his chin and onto his already-bloodied chest.
“Pain and suffering is the eternal reward of the khaffshiks!”
“There is… one God!” he said with great effort.
“One hour remains until the sacrifice. Prepare yourself, for you shall not die until after you have witnessed the death of all your friends and thirteen innocents who will replace the khaffshiks that you freed. They are of our own people, young and innocent, whose lives you have now robbed. Then, and only then, when every last hope and happiness is removed from before your eyes, Asharru himself shall take your life and dispatch you to your eternal punishment. Is that not sublime, false monk?”
Ifunka did not answer.
“Asharru shall visit you when he pleases. Otherwise, I bid you adieu until the sacrifice. Fare thee badly, khaffshik!”
Ifunka was left alone for a while. His thoughts raged, tossing and turning like furious waves in a sea storm. He thought of the mysterious owl, the ‘Watcher’ who had spoken to him before. Where was that supernatural being now? Had it forgotten him? And what of the Great Spirit? The Great Spirit should surely protect him, but it seemed as if had been completely forsaken. In his heart of hearts, he called out to Votsku, to Hashemaff, to the angels above, to his departed uncle and aunt—to anyone; but no answer came.
After a while, he heard footsteps—light footsteps like those of a woman. Then, suddenly, a dazzling beauty appeared before him; a woman of ravishing beauty stepped into the cell and appeared before him like sunlight at the break of dawn. Her features were all perfectly-formed and balanced, his hair black and silky smooth, reaching to her waist; her dark-green eyes were hawk-like, piercing; her skin was forest-green and smooth. She was dressed in a flowing, red skirt which reached the tip of her ankles, revealing well-manicured toes and delicate feet raised up by high-heeled shoes, her thin waist bare and her bosom concealed within a red, silken top which hung from her body like a serviette covering a cherry tart. She wore a ruby-encrusted gold necklace, diamond-covered bangles and earrings. Her skin was redolent with a sweet, musky odour, and every move and her gait was elegant and refined. She walked towards him—slowly, cautiously—and then cupped her hands beneath his chin in order to hold his face.
“What ails you, lover?” she asked.
“Who…. you?” every word pained him like a thorn in his side.
“What are words when passion speaks?” she said. “For the sweet-nectared flower, there is no question of the bee’s identity.”
“What… in Gahimka???” he swore.
“Now, now—finer language than this is fitting,” she advised him. “For I am a lady of the divine effulgence. I am the highest maidservant of Asharru himself—even the High-Priestess. My thighs have robbed a thousand virgins of their dignity and held within their tight embrace the manhood of the living deity himself.”
“Blasphemy…” said Ifunka.
She looked deepl
y in his bruised eyes.
“Do you desire me?”
“No…”
“Your mouth says one thing but your eyes say another. Man is an animal—ravenous, hungry, desirous, full of passion and rage. You are all of those things, corruptible and weak. Woman is the weakness of all men.”
“Not… I…”
“So you say, but what do your thighs say? What does your breath say? What do your eyes say? They say you want me. They say you need me more than a yeshka desires flesh or a dying man one drop of water.”
“My wife…”
“She shall soon be dead and so shall you, but I shall live—I shall continue as the days roll on and the mountains sink to dust. When the seas boil up and mighty Vukt consumes its planets—even then shall I stand alongside my lord—Asharru ascendant—who shall consume stars and star systems in his engulfing wrath! Think then that once you were within me—once you filled my cup with your essence. I am the sea which consumes the essence of countless men. Within me, you shall always be remembered. What think you, khaffshik?”
“No!!!” he cried.
“I could take you if I wished, but I prefer to conquer men willingly. Even now, your resistance is weakening, and your bloodied thighs bend beneath the force of my radiant beauty.”
Ifunka shook his head defiantly.
“This is the ruby of attraction,” she continued. “One of the treasures hidden within the caves that lie nested beneath this city. Khanshaff was built on this very site because of the powers which are hidden within the ground. The ruby gives me immortality of the flesh and power of attraction over others. No one can resist me.”
She pressed the ruby against Ifunka’s forehead. His mind exploded with passion, his thoughts benumbed, his mind and conscience diminished.
“Feel my power! Feel my charm!”
Ifunka could not resist the ruby’s influence. He neither spoke nor resisted as she kissed his forehead and lips.
“You taste of khaffshik blood and sweat,” she said. “Guard—unshackle this one and wash him. Cover him in tvung-deer musk and gebnav-rose water and send him to my chamber.”
The guard appeared but looked confused. Irritated by his lack of comprehension, the High Priestess repeated her request in Shaffi and left: “Poftekh—fto garchodalff-krâ ffi khû vaishiff-krâ. Vûl-ftung-ifft ffi shogi-gevnâv-ifft khû shôkh-krâ ffi offlîzefft-em okh-an khû tâl-krâ.”
The guard did as requested, unshackling the weak protagonist, washed him down with a bucket of water and replaced his clothes with a long, silken robe. He took Ifunka to the chamber and placed him on the bed, covered him in musk and rose-water. Then, tying the wounded man’s hands and feet, he left the chamber and locked the door. The water had revived Ifunka somewhat, stimulating his senses and stimulating his power of reason. He sat up and tried to free himself from the ropes which bound his hands and feet. He struggled, biting the ropes, pulling at them and trying to rub them against the corner of the bed. His exertions, however, were unsuccessful, leading him to roll off the bed and onto the hard, marble floor, which sent jolts of agony through his already-bruised and battered body. Lifting himself up, he managed to get to his feet, hopping all the way to the door. Finding it locked, he then hopped to the window, looking to see if there was some way he could escape through that portal. Suddenly, the door opened, and the High-Priestess came in, dressed in a white, silk robe, similar to his own, revealing the contours of her sultry body. Ifunka looked at her with disgust, his eyes enflamed with rage born of hatred for the Shaffu and their manifold injustices.
“Have you forgotten the ruby?” she asked. “Do you think yourself powerful enough to overcome its influence?”
“If the Great Spirit wills,” he replied. “But whence does this ruby gain its potency?”
“You’re mining for information, I see. Well, let’s just say it comes from the heart of the system of caves which lie beneath the Ffâna. The Sage also, derives his power from a jewel—the emerald of insight, which he wears around his neck beneath his clothes. None of this knowledge, however, will avert your fate, my rabbit. I will feast on your life-essence just as the worm shall feast on your flesh and bones.”
“If I am to enjoy your body,” Ifunka replied. “How I can do so with my feet and hands tied?”
“Do you hate to be dominated, my lover?” she asked. “It is no shame to be overpowered by one as ravishing as myself.”
“But you deprive me of the delights of feeling your body with my hands, of grabbing your thighs and breasts.”
“Well, then, I shall release you,” she said. “So that your pleasure shall be complete, and I may struggle with you in mutual embrace.”
She untied him slowly, while kissing his hands and feet, the brilliant ruby dangling from her neck. As she stood up before him, he felt the ruby’s influence radiating against his breast—but she was short, at least a foot shorter than he, so the ruby did not face his temple as it had before. The influence, therefore, was not complete. As she pressed her body against his, and began to disrobe him, he quickly grabbed the ruby in his hand and tugged hard, pulling her neck in the process. The chain did not break, however, and she pulled backwards, trying to free herself from his grasp. They struggled against one another, each pulling hard to escape the other. She punched and bit him while he jerked the chain again and again, sometimes choking her and sometimes digging it into her neck until, at last, he managed to pull it over her hair, scraping the skin on her forehead and nose in the process and ripping out some of her silky-smooth locks. She screamed and slapped him in the face, punching his shoulder and head-butting him in the chest. Ifunka was knocked backwards, dropping the ruby in the process. She jumped on top of him, pinning him down, and grabbed his neck in her hands, trying to choke him to death. With his right hand, he managed to punch her in the chin, knocking her off of him, such that she tumbled sideways, colliding with the bed. Ifunka picked up the ruby and made for the door.
“No!” she screamed. “You shall not escape me thus, khaffshik! That door is locked!!!”
She leapt to her feet, grabbed a metal lamp and threw it at Ifunka’s head, bashing him on the temple. Ifunka fell to his feet and held his face and forehead in agony. She rushed up to him, grabbed the lamp again and hit him over the back of the head, causing him to bleed profusely. Ifunka fell backwards, half-conscious.
“You just can’t make it easy, eh, rabbit?” she said, her voice bubbling with anger and passion, his lips drooling. “Shall I punch you again or shall you relent?”
“Infidel,” he muttered.
She slapped his face and grabbed his hair in her fist.
“Take it like a man,” she said, pinning him again, attempting to pull off his robe.
Ifunka reached with his left hand for the ruby. He managed to grab hold of the edge of the chain and pull it towards himself. Grasping it in his hand, he felt the carved edges of the ruby and held it tightly. Lifting the ruby, he placed it on her forehead. Her eyes opened wildly as she realized what had happened.
“No, you cannot control me!” she cried.
“It’s too late, I’m afraid,” Ifunka replied.
“No, I am the High-Priestess… I have the power… I rule over my victims.”
“Now, you are my victim,” said Ifunka angrily. “Get off me!”
She stood up and wrapped her robe tightly.
“Help me up.”
She lifted Ifunka up.
“Now, you are going to take me to the Ffâna!”
“Why???”
“Take me to the caves… show me where the ruby and emerald came from.”
“No, even I do not know where they came from. These were discovered before I was born.”
“Do not delay! Take me there or I shall kill you.”
“Kill me? Kill your lover?”
“You are not my lover! Arwa is my lover
!”
“Listen, rabbit, I shall do as you ask, if you spare my life.”
“Perhaps. Take me there, help me to find other jewels such as this and I will use them to destroy your false god and free my friends.”
“There is no time for that!” she warned him. “Less than an hour remains until the time of sacrifice. Your friends shall be killed before you reach the place you seek.”
“Even if I go to my friend directly, I will be killed before I can release them. There isn’t any other option! Take me to the caverns now! There’s no time to lose!”
“Very well, but the guards shall be suspicious.”
“Give me a weapon—a sword.”
She reached under the bed and grabbed a ffutish-blade.
“That’s been there all this time! You could have killed me with it.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she laughed, throwing him the sword.
“Stay ahead of me; pretend to hold me in your power.”
“That’s not difficult,” she replied.
He concealed the sword beneath his robe and followed behind her, hand-in-hand. She took him down the corridor and into a stairwell. They descended seven flights of stairs until they reached the bottom-most floor, which was lighted only by a singular torch. Grabbing the torch, she lighted another and handed it to Ifunka.
“You can let go of my hand now,” he said.
“I know—but I rather like it. Can’t I?”
“I’d rather not—I am a monk, after all.”
“Very well.”
“So, we’re already inside the Ffâna?”
“Indeed, on the bottom-most floor thereof, where it meets the cave-system. These are ancient—little-touched by the Shaffu. We built our whole city above these caves at the command of Asharru, countless thousands of years ago.”
“Don’t you see?” said Ifunka. “Your power derives from a ruby—the Sage’s power from an emerald. Do you really think Asharru is a god? His power must also derive from a precious stone. If I can find another stone, perhaps I can defeat him.”
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 12
