Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

Home > Other > Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) > Page 1
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 1

by Edward C. Patterson




  Belmundus

  Book One of the Farn Triology

  by

  Edward C. Patterson

  Dancaster Creative

  www.dancaster.com

  [email protected]

  First Kindle Original Edition, March 2013

  Copyright 2013 by Edward C. Patterson

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.

  Other Works by Edward C. Patterson

  No Irish Need Apply ISBN 1434893952

  Cutting the Cheese ISBN 1434893847

  Bobby’s Trace ISBN 1434893960

  The Closet Clandestine: a queer steps out ISBN 1438220502

  Come, Wewoka & Diary of Medicine Flower ISBN 1438227639

  Surviving an American Gulag ISBN 1438247230

  Turning Idolater ISBN 1440422109

  Look Away Silence ISBN 1448651921

  The Road to Grafenwöhr ISBN 1460973860

  Are You Still Submitting Your Work to a Traditional Publisher? ISBN 1441407383

  A Reader’s Guide to Author’s Jargon and Other Ravings from the Blogosphere ISBN 1468071432

  Oh Dainty Triolet ISBN 1451535376

  Farn Trilogy

  Belmundus – The Farn Trilogy – Book I

  Boots of Montjoy – The Farn Trilogy – Book II

  The Adumbration of Zin – The Farn Trilogy – Book III

  Southern Swallow Series

  The Academician - Southern Swallow Book I, ISBN 144149975X

  The Nan Tu - Southern Swallow Book II, ISBN 1449994202

  Swan Cloud – Southern Swallow Book III ISBN 1466499591

  The House of Green Waters — Southern Swallow Book IV

  Vagrants Hollow — Southern Swallow Book V

  The Jade Owl Legacy Series

  The Jade Owl ISBN 1440447977

  The Third Peregrination ISBN 1441456724

  The Dragon’s Pool ISBN 1442170999

  The People’s Treasure ISBN 1453850813

  In the Shadow of Her Hem — ISBN 1478203064

  Coming Attractions

  Green Folly

  Nicholas Firestone – China Hand series

  Pacific Crimson — Forget Me Not

  Dearest Flower of My Heart — Mail Call from Two Generations

  Plum Flower Journey

  For further information contact [email protected]

  or visit Dancaster Creative at www.dancaster.com

  To the Living Legacy of the Cherokee People

  And to my Native American Great Grandmother

  Lillian Devereaux Patterson

  (Dawes Roll #8721 — M2139)

  Acknowledgements

  The creation of this work has spanned many years — my entire creative life, in fact, born in my noggin as I walked back and forth to school in the late-1950s and riding the subway in the mid-1960s, realized in many forms — an epic poem, an opera libretto and finally a novella called Adrift in Eternity. I suppose the inspiration came from Voltaire’s Candide. I was not up to completing it in then. Another imaginative strand hit to me in the early 1970s with the completion of an unpublished novel on Native American themes called The Nioche. Both ideas lay fallow but on fertile soil until 2003, when I married them to the protagonist — a young A-list actor who, like Gulliver or Alice, manages to get wedged in a strange world — Farn, a canvas for recurring themes immersed in my Cherokee family heritage and culture. My love of words has engaged me in ways that I scarcely understand, but I have allowed Father Tolkien to lead me into that light. So I offer my readers a passport into this world, born in my imagination.

  I would like to thank my friend, Margaret Stevens (Peg) for her constant support and word wizardry. Peg has stuck with me as an adviser and reader through my entire published career. I would also like to thank Sharon Schroeder, who first glimpsed an early draft as a beta-reader back in 2003 and encouraged me to forge on to completion.

  I have dedicated this work to a woman I have never met — Lillian Devereaux Patterson, my great-grandmother, who’s presence on the Cherokee rolls has inspired my study of native customs and the Tsalagi language. Despite this, Belmundus is an epic fantasy, meant to engage and entertain my readers. It is not designed as a history lesson or a critical indictment of one people against another. On the other hand, any idea rattling around an author’s head for fifty-five years should be provocative, so be prepared for a jolt.

  Adadooski.

  Arkmo.

  Edward C. Patterson

  March 2, 2013

  The Three Books of The Farn Trilogy series are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations are entirely coincidental.

  “Nine Houses Has Farn

  Nine houses rule the world of Farn

  Balanced in perpetuum

  About Primordius Centrum —

  Volcanum holds the firebrands,

  Aquilium has the waters’ keep,

  In Aolium’s realm the air depends,

  While Terrastrium mines the earthen halls.

  Montjoy lifts the orb of art,

  Protractus totes and measures all.

  And Magus weilds the wands of time

  While Pontifrax chants the holy rites

  To draw the portals twain aligned

  Into Zin and Zacker’s care,

  Beyond the darkest brightest lair.”

  from The Book of Farn — The Realms

  To each Elector three branches made

  Deigned as sons and daughters born,

  Renowned Sceptas and Seneschals

  But as towers apart shall grow,

  Never fruitful within their bounds,

  So to the outlands they must go,

  To gather succor into dough —

  The life force must they always hoe.

  But each may draw a double mate,

  And thus may sow and populate,

  A harvest to serve and ease their shade —

  A scattered horde as duty paid,

  Smiling kin for the alliance trade,

  But as mules these Thirdlings be,

  Until there comes the mending free.

  Then a fourth shall bloom in Farn

  Uniting houses — the outlands darn

  ‘til suns and moons reflect no more

  And Zin and Zacker close the door.

  from The Book of Farn — The Promise and Prophecy

  “Dsulasi dona owaynasa,

  Ulushoo ita ha yeeyasa,

  Awaydeesga akali

  Ustigunana digaswosdi”

  “My feet go far from home,

  I fall because I roam,

  I tote my people’s load,

  Along the weeping road.”

  from a Cetrone Folk Song — the Weeping Road

  Table of Contents

  Part I: The Audition

  Chapter One: Astral Beauties

  Chapter Two: Pursuit

  Chapter Three: Happy Pings

  Chapter Four: An Invitation

  Chapter Five: Mortis House

  Chapter Six: Plageris on the Bottleblue Sea

  Chapter Seven: Kuriakis the Great

  Chapter Eight: Yustichisqua

  Chapter Nine: The Scullery Dorgan

  Chapter Ten: The Cartisforium

  Chapter Eleven: The Book of Farn

  Chapter Twelve: Promise and Pr
ophecy

  Chapter Thirteen: The Shoe on the Other Foot

  Chapter Fourteen: The Food of the Gods

  Chapter Fifteen: The Scarlet Chamber

  Part II: Exploring the Part

  Chapter One: Following the Fold

  Chapter Two: Learning Lines

  Chapter Three: The Weeping Road

  Chapter Four: Rehearsing Othellohito

  Chapter Five: Mustering the Pod

  Chapter Six: Hunting the Tippagore

  Chapter Seven: Admiration, Fear and Wonder

  Chapter Eight: The Play’s the Thing

  Chapter Nine: Danuwa and Taleenay

  Chapter Ten: In the Wudayleegu

  Chapter Eleven: Garan the Gucheeda

  Chapter Twelve: A Game of Grusoker

  Chapter Thirteen: Time to Shine — Time to Sparkle

  Chapter Fourteen: Trouble at Ryyve Aniniya

  Chapter Fifteen: The Judgment of Harris

  Part III: Takes and Retakes

  Chapter One: The Gulliwailit Bridge

  Chapter Two: Wisgi and Charpgris

  Chapter Three: In Enemy Country

  Chapter Four: The Place Where Death Crosses

  Chapter Five: Whisperers and Ferrymen

  Chapter Six: Reaptide

  Chapter Seven: From the Jaws of Death

  Chapter Eight: The Shades of Zacker

  Chapter Nine: Defiance

  Chapter Ten: The Katorias

  Chapter Eleven: Curfew

  Part IV: Cut, and Check the Gate

  Chapter One: Oh, Home on the Range

  Chapter Two: Shades of Yorick

  Chapter Three: The Gananadana

  Chapter Four: The Pursuers

  Chapter Five: Dodaloo

  Chapter Six: The Asi-asa

  Chapter Seven: Enitachopco’s Say

  Chapter Eight: Two Cheeks Upon a Single Face

  Chapter Nine: Kanuwudi

  Chapter Ten: Journey to Comastee

  Chapter Eleven: The Treasures of the Yigoya

  Chapter Twelve: Chewohe

  Chapter Thirteen: The Spark

  Part V: Mounting a Three Reeler

  Chapter One: Much To Do

  Chapter Two: Like the Rolling Tide Across a Crimson Sea

  Chapter Three: The Golden Eight

  Chapter Four: Walls of Phitron

  Chapter Five: The Mordanka

  Chapter Six: The Kanaguda

  Chapter Seven: The Gonada Gigaha

  Chapter Eight: The Temple

  Chapter Nine: The Outlands

  Chapter Ten: The Prisoner

  Chapter Eleven: The Portal

  Afterword

  Glossary

  Part I

  The Audition

  Chapter One

  Astral Beauties

  1

  “I’m a star,” he whispered to the young man in the mirror. “A star,” and then chuckled as he thought about a giant gas ball, ignorantly fixing planets in orbit for no other reason but gravity.

  Harris Cartwright, born nineteen years earlier and christened Humphrey Kopfstutter, smiled dimly in the mirror. Dimly, because the hotel room shone amber with its upscale ambience — flattering light designed to be so. Still, in any light, this star of stage and screen was a Narcissus; although his reflection sometimes tamed him.

  Harris moistened his bottom lip with his upper, and then winked. He shrugged, and then preened, coming closer to his reflection, nearly kissing the glass. Pucker he did; then laughed. His grin exposed a brilliant smile, a gap between his two front teeth — a chasm his mother meant to have corrected when he had landed his first role as a wee urchin in a Dickens remake. However, the gap and his alluring eyes kept the roles coming until . . . well, until the adolescent leaped the gulf between child actor and teen idol; done with ease and without scandal, drugs or an arrest record. Now Harris leaped the second gulf — youthful high school parts to the dashing hero. Still, he could hide his secrets safely from public view — although the public pried.

  He winked again, and then turned around on the stool, which faced the dressing table. The hotel was accommodating — equipped for a range of actors from A-list to C, now that the Tribeca Film Festival had rolled in this town. The SoHo Grand, the classiest bed roll in this lower Manhattan neighborhood, had no vacancies this weekend.

  Harris stood and stretched. He had slept the day away and, now as evening hugged the New York skyline, he was up for nocturnal festivities — a sneak preview of his new film The Magic Planet to be followed by a Q&A panel and light refreshments. Who knew what would come beyond that? These junkets were regulated to a point, but burst like fireworks when the rockets spent. Harris might take an evening romp with his co-star. The prospects loomed, so Harris stretched, chucked his underwear, and then headed for the shower.

  2

  The hotel room was small by luxury standards, but the Grand had arisen like morning cream. The warm rooms shimmered with golden walls and amber lighting. All that wasn’t silk, was satin. When not occupied by a nineteen-year old, the king size bed wore an olive satin spread, seagreen silk sheets, a princely counterpane and stately pillows. Now the bedding was tossed asunder as if cats had fought in the sack. Clothes were strewn on the floor in a trail from dresser to bed, from bed to shower. Books and scripts kiltered in piles on the dressing table, and the telephone directory sprawled beside a tray with last night’s room service caking in partnership with this morning’s breakfast. No lunch — evidently.

  The shower room opened directly into the boudoir, a glass panel separating it from the minibar. To Harris, the steaming water would be his wake-up call. He wasn’t sure what time it was (and he didn’t worry, because Tony watched those details). However, a schedule would kick in eventually. It always did on publicity junkets. Soon, a flock of studio bullies, who, as well-meaning as they pretended to be, would erase his freedom. They were the paycheck, after all, and who was he?

  “I’m a star,” he gurgled, spitting out a mouthful of amber water. He laughed again, the stream plastering his curly hair into black slick. He shook the cascades from his eyes and laughed again, and then ran a soapy cloth over his newfound biceps. His last flick demanded his body beef up from a teenage lanky noodle to a swashbuckling space pirate. He was unaccustomed to the added musculature, although the chicks dug it.

  At the thought of chicks, Harris smiled, leaning against the glass wall and letting the shower permeate every pore — every crevice. He felt giddy, his hormones having run the gamut of sexual urges and experiences lately. Still, he refused to declare a preference in public. He couldn’t even admit his affinities in the shower stall, because he wasn’t sure he had a preference — a weather vane at times; at other times, as sure as the partner who shared his bed. One thing was positive. He hadn’t time to ponder the issue now or do more than scrub his groin in this shower-call.

  “Maybe later,” he mused, and then hastened to finish, turning the taps and waiting for the steam to clear.

  Harris reached for a towel — a preliminary dry, beginning with face and hair, and then creating a silly turban, which didn’t squat well on his noggin. He grabbed a second towel for his nether parts, marrying this more ample terry around his waist into something akin to Pharaoh’s kilt.

  “A star,” he said again, and then slid open the glass door.

  The room’s chill met him and he noticed something queer. On the shower door, written in the condensation, were letters. He squinted, thinking he might have accidentally etched these sigils, but he hadn’t. These were letters — clear and definite.

  C U L8R C M J

  “What the fuck?” he said, pawing the initials. “See you later — CMJ?”

  He turned, looking for uninvited company.

  “Tony?” he called. “Are you here?”

  Harris inspected the room, walking over his debris, pushing linen with his feet and picking up his clothes as he went. Opening the closet door cautiously, he expected to encounter Anthony Bentle
y-Jones, his co-star and best friend. A joke, perhaps. However, the closet, devoid of actors, contained only tonight’s wardrobe.

  Harris threw off the turban, and then returned to the shower door, hunkering for another inspection before the initials faded. But they were still clear. He rubbed them. They remained. He pushed back, landing on his ass.

  “They’re inside. Whoever wrote this was in the fucking shower with me.”

  He crabbed back to the bed, took the room in again, and then laughed.

  “You’re nuts, Humphrey. Scared by a little soap scum?”

  He shook his damp hair, and then sought the dryer.

  3

  Again the mirror loomed while Harris dried his hair. He inspected his cheeks for blemishes and his chin for the scar remnant — a nick from a sword accident on the last film. It healed nicely — nothing makeup couldn’t hide, and was more pronounced two weeks ago, when he had walked the red carpet in L. A. Tony fussed over the scar so much, Harris thought Mom had tagged along. Mom wasn’t the stage door kind, but she had rules — good rules, which worked well for a child actor transitioning through this Thespian world. Mom’s rules guided Harris to regard acting as a job rather than a privilege. A good thing, because he loved his job. He hated these junkets and the crowd’s rush. The red carpet was his least favorite thing, although he was gracious to his fans and never withheld his autograph.

 

‹ Prev