by Dyrk Ashton
They hear a scraping sound as they approach, like stone being drawn along stone in long even strokes. It’s accompanied by humming, in tempo with the scraping, slow and low. The sound of contentment.
Tanuki stops ten feet from Asterion, who’s facing the opposite direction, crouched over a long column of marble. The monks silently line up next to each other behind Tanuki, each holding their hands folded before them. Now they see the source of the scraping sound. Asterion is carving flutes into a new column, using nothing but the thumb-hoof of one enormous hand.
“Aster, I’m hoooome,” Tanuki says in English.
Asterion ceases humming, but they hear his breathing. Deep, extended breaths, the sound of air passing through a mountain fjord or wind making its way between the trees of an open forest.
Tanuki clears his throat. “I mean... Your Majesty, I have arrived.” Asterion hates to be called “majesty,” “highness,” or any other kingly term, but Tanuki can’t help himself. “And we have guests. Scheduled guests.”
Still facing away from them, Asterion rises and claps dust off his hands, which sends a sound like cinder blocks being banged together booming through the hall.
“The Little Brother returns,” he welcomes Tanuki in proper British English. He turns around--and there he is, The Bull, in the flesh.
Tanuki hears stifled gasps from the monks, who remain meekly behind him. He can’t blame them. Even after all the years I have known him, Asterion still has to be one of the most impressive beasts on this earth.
At just over eight feet tall, The Bull towers above Tanuki and the three monks, a monument of muscle, hoof and horn. His face and broad head are those of a natural bull, his horns creamy white with swirls of silver-gray, a full five feet long apiece, ending in fine points that face straight ahead. The lobe of his furry left ear is pierced, where a faceted blue garnet held by a sturdy golden stud glitters in the lamplight. He surveys them with his great brown eyes. Tanuki always feels transfixed by that gaze, framed in those horns, like Asterion is pointing at him or reaching to corral him--and The Bull rarely blinks.
From the waist up he’s built like a competitive mtoto weightlifter--but not the fat kind--with a V-shaped torso far more massive than any human’s could ever be, and a neck so thick it’s practically no neck at all. Short black hair that shines deep red in early morning and late evening sunlight covers his body. His legs are like those of a man, though much bigger, and his feet end in cloven hooves where his toes would be. A single hand could easily wrap around Tanuki’s whole head. Each of the fingers end in a single pointed hoof, like half of a cloven hoof. When Tanuki and the monks had approached through the hall, they had seen a dorsal stripe, sometimes called finching, running down the middle of his back, the same creamy white color as his horns.
The Bull has been known by many names over the epochs, and inspired myths and religious practices throughout the world. He was Apis in the Nile River delta of pre-history, Nandi to the earliest peoples of the Indus Valley, and in the Levant he was worshipped as Moloch (a name later besmirched by Baphomet The Goat, when he turned The Bulls followers to human sacrifice beneath Mt. Olive), to name a few. Most of the monks of the Order are descendants of disciples of The Bull from all three regions. He is also the fabled Minotaur, falsely vilified by wretched King Minos. Constellations have been named after him, as well as a sign in the western Zodiac. It’s no coincidence the vast mountain ranges that cross eastern Turkey, of which the Kaçkar Mountains where Asterion, Tanuki, and Arges now reside are a part, are called the Taurus and Toros Mountains. The name The Bull prefers, however, his Truename, by which he was known to the ancient citizens of Crete and has always been recognized by his fellow Firstborn, is Asterion.
The monks of the Order of The Bull know every name by which he has ever been identified and the story behind each of them. It’s with this knowledge and the blood of generations of followers of The Bull in their veins these young monks now face their “god.” Tanuki turns to them. Well, maybe not “face.”
All three monks have hit the floor and assumed the pachanga-vandana, the prostrate position of five-point-rest, bent forward on their knees with forehead, elbows and palms touching the floor. Tanuki looks back to Asterion, who rolls his brown softball eyes and heaves a deep sigh. The Bull is not particularly fond of the more submissive practices of the monks. He tolerates them only because the priests insist it’s necessary. Tanuki shrugs his furry shoulders.
“You have returned from your foraging, Little Brother,” says Asterion. “With friends.” He sees what Tanuki has tucked under his arm. “And a rug.”
“A gift for Big Brother,” Tanuki responds.
Asterion tilts his head to point across the hall with one horn. In front of the hearth, Arges lies on his side facing the fire, snoring softly. The young monks are so enamored with The Bull they haven’t even noticed.
Tanuki steps to the side, setting his carpet on end. Asterion approaches the prostrate monks.
“Young partisans,” he addresses them.
All three of the monks speak at the same time, in English, taking their cue from the language being used by The Bull, “Your Majesty.”
Tanuki holds his tongue and maintains a straight face as Asterion shoots him a look. Asterion tried, centuries ago, to dissuade his followers from all such subservient terminology and conduct, but it was a disaster. They moped, believing they’d somehow displeased him, that he didn’t love or need them anymore. Asterion finally gave in. “Sometimes I wonder who’s truly in charge around here,” Tanuki heard him say.
Asterion continues, “My friends, good citizens and faithful servants. Please rise.”
The monks stand apprehensively, careful to avert their eyes. The Bull looms over them, only a few feet away.
“See me. Look into my eyes,” he bids them, reaching to place his enormous hands on the shoulders of the two outermost monks. They crane their necks to do as he says.
Well, look at one eye, anyway, Tanuki suggests in silence, they are pretty far apart.
Asterion shifts his gaze to each of them as he speaks. “May you live with good health, discipline and love, with time and plenty, but none to spare. Reach and be reached, aid and be aided, learn and be learned. So it is spoken, so it will be done.”
The monks repeat together, their voices quaking, “So it is spoken, so it will be done.”
Asterion leans close and exhales onto each of them in turn. They breathe in deeply as he does so. When he’s finished, their cheeks are flushed, eyes gleaming, faces radiant with moisture.
It’s an ancient belief, beginning with the Apis monks of Egyptian Memphis, that the breath of The Bull bestows vigor, long life and fertility. Maybe it’s true. Even if it isn’t, Tanuki can’t help but feel happy for the youngsters. To all in the Order it’s the highest of honors, and Tanuki is surprised that Asterion has done it for these mtoto whelps on this informal occasion. Maybe the old Bull’s softening, Tanuki wonders.
Asterion steps back, places the palms of his hands together in añjali-kamma and bows to them. They return the gesture.
Tanuki addresses the star-struck youths, “There is one more thing.” He beckons them to follow and leads them to the far end of the Lair where columns line the wall just like those along the length of the hall, but these are just twelve feet tall and their tops support an upper wall, well below the ceiling. Tanuki pulls lightly on a thick rope of woven hemp. A crack forms in the center of the wall beyond the columns--which isn’t a wall at all but a heavy weighted curtain made to look like the stone of the hall inside, the surface of the mountain outside. The curtain opens all the way to the sides. Beyond the columns a broad terrace is revealed, open to the sky. Tanuki leads the monks out onto it, beyond the ceiling that extends part way over the terrace. Snow still flutters down from thin clouds, the full moon a light misty ball above. The floor of the terrace extends another thirty feet beyond where the ceiling ends. The monks approach the edge tentatively since there is no ba
nister or handrail. They look down and catch their breath. Though it is night, the lamplit monastery can be seen a thousand feet below, and beyond the wall, the lights of the village.
“On a clear day,” Tanuki tells them, “you can see to the ends of Taurus Minor and beyond.” The monks grin, wordless at the thrill of their good fortune.
Asterion crafted the terrace and opening in such a way that, from the outside, one would have to be at the same elevation as the hall to see the columns, let alone into the hall itself. A hundred years ago this was all they needed for privacy. The hall stood open to the elements for millennia. Now a helicopter could approach easily. A small one could actually land on the terrace. Even though the vast estate of the Order is a no fly zone, Asterion had a few decades ago erected the camouflage curtains. “A brilliant idea, Aster, and practical,” Tanuki remembers telling him. Arges had grunted and groused, his usual response.
Tanuki takes a deep breath of the fresh mountain air and looks out into the night. His eyes are much better than the watoto’s, especially his night vision. He can see far into the valley, and it is sublime.
Shortly after The Deluge, Asterion and Arges had left their respective islands in the Aegean and Adriatic Seas with The Bull’s most loyal followers. They explored throughout Anatolia, moving progressively north and eastward before choosing this location to make their new home. The monastery was nearly completed when Tanuki joined them. A group of shepherd monks found him wandering the cold steppes, forlorn and alone. Recognizing him for what he was, a Firstborn, they brought him to The Bull, who knew him as a friend and ally from the Holocausts and welcomed him with open arms. Arges grumbled, of course, but Tanuki has been with them ever since.
From this terrace they’ve seen the history of Turkey unfold. The rise and fall of the Hittites, the Trojan War, the Hellenic migration, the birth of the Phrygian kingdom of Mithridates, the Mysian invasion, the long period of Hellenic civilization of Aegean Anatolia, the reign of Croesus, the ascent and decline of the kingdoms of Ionia, Lycia, Lydia, Caria, Pamphylia, and the Assyrian empire of Urartu. Then came the Persian invasion, the retaking of the region for Greece by Alexander, the incursion of the Celtic Gauls and their establishment of the kingdom of Galatia, the founding of the Kingdom of Pergamum, the coming of the Romans, the rise and fall of the Byzantines and Seljuk Turks, the Mongol invasion under Ghengis Khan’s son Ogedei, the supremacy of the Ottoman Empire, the Russo-Turkish rivalry, and the Crimean War. Except for a few instances they simply watched them come and go like the tides. The recent mtoto wars they call World War I and World War II didn’t affect them in any way.
Leaving the curtains open, Tanuki ushers the monks back through the main hall and down the hallway to the elevator. They bow silently, but as soon as the door closes he hears a muffled whoop of joy. Tanuki smiles and heads for the main hall. They can be a delight, the little watoto.
* * *
Tanuki returns to find Asterion lifting the column he was working on when they arrived, as if it’s nothing more than a cardboard tube.
“Well, how did I do?” Asterion asks, standing it against the wall and wiping stone dust from his hands with a Turkish cotton towel. He isn’t accustomed to visitors, and Tanuki is pretty sure he forgot about the visit today. Well, not forgot, Firstborn have nearly flawless memories. More like he let it slip his mind.
“Majestically,” Tanuki replies. “A little out of character, don’t you think?”
“Too stoic? Too stern?”
Tanuki just looks at him.
“I was caught a bit off guard,” Asterion confesses. “I’m not sure what came over me.”
“Feelings, perhaps?”
“Bah,” Asterion waves him off. “Perish the thought.” Then he approaches and stoops close, hands on knees, and whispers as much as he can with his ponderous voice, “Is it accomplished?”
Tanuki smiles and pats his purse, “It is,” then reaches inside. “But first, I have something for you.” He pulls out a small package wrapped in plain paper, tied with string.
“You remembered,” says Asterion, taking it.
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Tanuki,” then more formally, in Japanese, with a bow of his impressive head, “Dōmo arigatōgozaimashita.”
“Anata wa hijō ni kangei sa rete iru (You are very welcome),” Tanuki replies.
“So,” Asterion’s voice returns to a whisper, “it is all prepared, as we hoped?”
“Oh yes.”
“And you have the papers?”
“Are you actually excited, Aster?”
“Noooooo.” Asterion stands straight. “We can give it to him later, or tomorrow. He’s sleeping now, anyway.”
“Like that matters.” A mischievous grin spreads across Tanuki’s face. “You know me.”
Asterion crosses his great black arms and smiles. “I do indeed.”
Tanuki raises his voice to well above a conversational level. “Why Aster, you’ve made us a new couch! I have just the thing!” He snatches up the rug. Whistling obnoxiously, he carries it across the hall to where Arges lies on his side in front of the lit hearth, facing away from them.
Asterion moves to a hand-carved cello stand near the wall twenty feet away. His stride covers the distance in a few steps. He lifts the instrument, which is about twice the size of a regular cello, specially made for him by Matteo Gorfriller himself in the early 1700s--also a gift from Tanuki. The Bull knows that Tanuki had to special order the strings as well. That’s what is in the paper-wrapped package.
“I just bought this today,” Tanuki continues, still overly loud, as he stops near the sleeping Rhino, “at the bazaar.” He cuts the twine that binds the rug with one short claw.
Asterion strolls over with his cello as Tanuki unrolls the rug along Arges’s massive body. He eyes the carpet. “It is very nice.”
“Don’t tell him yet,” Tanuki says, “it’s a gift for Arges.”
“Oh yes?”
“For his cat-naps. I mean, rhinoceros-naps. His old rug is getting pretty ratty. Between you and me, fairly ripe as well.”
Tanuki stands with hands on hips, inspecting Arges. Lying down, the top of The Rhino’s side is level with Tanuki’s eyes. His thick hide is light reddish-gray, wrinkled, rough, creased and plated, with patches of course red hair on his shoulders and back. Lying there, he looks like a long mossy boulder.
“Is this new sofa a work in progress?,” Tanuki asks The Bull.
Asterion is content to play the straight man. “Why do you ask, Tanuki?” He eases himself into a stone chair that faces the hearth, leans the cello against his knee and unwraps the new strings.
“Well...” Tanuki rubs Arges’s back, pats it, pushes on his shoulder a couple of times. Arges grunts but doesn’t move. “It’s a little lumpy.” Tanuki tugs on a tuft of Arges’s back hair. “I’m not sure about your choice of upholstery, either.”
Using both hands to help himself, Tanuki hops up, scrabbling to get his belly atop Arges’s side. “Er... ugh.” He pushes himself to a sitting position, turning to face The Bull, who is replacing the snapped and curling D-string on his cello. Tanuki kicks his short legs like a child in a grown-up’s chair, his heels swinging into Arges’s back. THUMP-thump. THUMP-thump. “And it’s kind of high. For me, anyway.”
A deep voice grumbles from the “sofa.” “Get your hairy ass off me, fuzz-nuts.”
“Ahh!” Tanuki bounds from his perch. He hits the carpet and spins, raising his hands toward Arges in a defensive karate stance. “Aster! You’ve made a talking couch!”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” Asterion replies.
Arges stirs. “Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha.” He pushes up on his hands, turns to glare at Tanuki with his one big eye, fringed by long reddish lashes above and below.
Tanuki shrieks, “Ack! It’s alive!”
Arges pulls his legs under him, looking much like a natural rhinoceros, then stands upright on two legs.
Tanuki recoils. “Eeeek!�
�
Hunched and yawning, Arges scratches his butt, the sound of rock on sandpaper. He keeps his eye on Tanuki. “Asshole.”
Asterion grins. “You’re on your own, Tanuki-san.”
Arges looks to Asterion. “You encourage him.”
The Bull makes a face of complete innocence, feigning shock at Arges’s wild accusation. Tanuki crosses his arms, looking up at the hulking beast before him.
Arges, The Rhinoceros, has none of Asterion’s athletic definition. At just over seven feet tall, he’s shorter than The Bull but stockier all the way around, bigger boned, thicker skinned and heavier, the same thickness from sloping shoulders to hips, with short fat arms and squat columns for legs. His hide is wrinkled and pebbled, tougher than steel and rougher than unpolished stone. Tussocks of coarse red hair, like the fur on his back, sprout from his upper arms and chest. His head is long and broad, kind of like a human’s, mostly like a natural rhino’s, with his mouth low on his face, thick square lips and a broad flat nose with flaring nostrils. A short fat horn projects from his forehead, with another shorter one above it squatting forward on top of his hairless pate. His ears, much like a natural rhino’s, rest high on his head, bristling with hair. They have a wide rotational range and he can move them individually, which Tanuki finds disconcerting, mostly because his own ears are nowhere near as articulate, nor as keen.
The Rhino’s eyes, if he had two, would be quite close together. His one remaining eye, lustrous brown like varnished walnut, is much larger than a natural rhino’s would be. His other eye had been lost to an evil Asura Firstborn, plucked out in battle when Arges was sorely wounded during the Second Holocaust. The preternatural healing capacity of even an older Firstborn does not extend to the complete regeneration of lost organs or limbs. A thick heavy lid hangs over where the missing eye had been. It doesn’t weep, twitch or blink. In fact, it almost appears as if he never had an eye there at all.
