The waiter came, pad poised and ready.
“I’ll have . . . just kawee with selu gadu.”
The waiter shrugged.
“Coffee and toast with butter,” Tony chimed in. When the waiter withdrew, Tony pulled Harris into the chair and leaned forward. “What’s with you, mate? What the bleedin’ fook is a ka-wee and the Sadie gateaux. Some fancy cake? We don’t ‘ave time for it.”
Harris stared at him. Then he remembered he had a pocket full of selu gadu and hungered for it, but he didn’t dare take it out here. He didn’t know how to answer Tony. You’re right, mate. I’m different. Oh, so different. Since you last saw me, twenty minutes ago, I’ve been shacked up with Goth Girl, hunted for Tippagore, acted in a Japanese-Shakespearean play, ruled the marketplace, almost died in the desert, got married and led a rebellion. Sorry I’m late.
“Say something,” Tony said.
Harris dipped his head to his chin and struck his Columbincus. Of course, nothing happened, but the gesture was weird enough to make Tony shudder.
“I’m sorry,” Harris muttered. “I can’t do this?”
“What? Breakies? MTV? Life in general, you sodden dick pussy?”
Harris pushed up from the table, grabbing Friend Tony. There was nothing more to say. His heart was breaking and he needed his bed — perhaps forever. He turned and trundled out, Tony’s protests falling on deaf ears.
2
The room was miraculously clean — the bed made and fresh towels on the rack. This wasn’t its state when he left, but at these prices, housekeeping kept an eye when the room stood vacant. Suddenly, he imagined a dozen invisible Trones rushing in, making the bed, vacuuming, tidying the wardrobe, folding the towels and polishing the mirror. He shook his head, trying to release these thoughts.
“It’s beginning,” he muttered. “The madness.”
He knew it had begun earlier in the portal, but now Sir John wasn’t here to help him through it. No one was here. He also imagined going to MTV for the Q&A and, when asked a routine question about his career, answering in Cetrone and other Farn gibberish. That would be one for the record — on tape and on YouTube within an hour. Young star speaks in tongues unknown on this planet or on any other. It could double as a publicity stunt for The Magic Planet, but it wouldn’t fool the cast and crew. McCann would have his balls. He’d never work in Hollywood again.
“I’m not going,” he stammered, and then bounced at the bed’s edge.
His foot ached and he was hungry, not for wavos rancheros, but for his gift — the sacred food of the Cetrone. He edged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the buckskin packet. Lovingly opening it, his lips trembled. When this bit of bread was gone, he would never taste selu gadu again. Oh, there was old-fashioned corn bread, but not this. They ate sqwallen in Mortis House. This bread was a rarity and baked with absolute love and devotion. Each bite would caress him. He chipped off a piece. Raising it to his lips, his tongue caught the first morsels. Divine. In the sweet moist texture came Littafulchee’s kiss, with its tart afterglow. In the buttery warmth, dwelled Yustichisqua’s devotion, attending to his oginali’s every whim and want. In each swallow lived Cosawta’s feigned cursing, Elypticus’ moral fiber, Melonius’ growth, Parnasus’ bravery and Buhippus’ sacrifice. It was too much for him. Harris swallowed hard and wept.
Then he realized also in his pocket was his cell phone — the sillifoon, dead in this world beyond the branchy-wanchies. He slipped it out, studying its dead keypad. Then he glanced to the bed stand where a real phone sat. He grabbed the receiver and dialed. He was surprised he remembered the number, but his fingers did, despite the veil his memory had taken. He waited as it rang.
“Hello,” he whispered, anxiety in his voice. “Mom. Is that you? Yes . . . Yes, it’s me. Oh, I didn’t realize what time it was. Sorry, but . . . but, I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to say . . . Yes, I know. I know. Nothing’s wrong. I’m doing okay, you know. Q&A, carpets, press, lights, just . . . flying about and seeing stuff and learning stuff and . . . and you know.” He sniffed, and then wiped his nose. “No, nothing’s wrong. I know it’s early, but I’ll be busy in the next few days and might not catch up with you. Is Sarah there? Oh. Hope she has fun. I’ll catch her later.” He pawed the selu gadu. “You know, Mom, I had the most wonderful corn bread the other day and . . . Corn bread. No, I didn’t call you to tell you about corn bread. I just wanted to say . . . Well, we haven’t said much to each other lately — you seeing Thad — and me being all over creation.” He put the receiver to his Columbincus and stifled a tear. “I’m back. You didn’t know I was gone? Well, just for a moment, you know. It only takes a moment. No, I’m okay. Hanging out with the Bentley-Jones guy and . . . No we’re keeping out of trouble. Anyway, just called to say I love you and . . . goodbye.”
He listened for a moment, and then hung up the receiver. He took another bite of selu gadu, and then grabbed the sillifoon. He turned, staring at the mirror — that constant reminder of his mortality. He shook his fist at it, and then hurled the sillifoon. The glass cracked.
“Shit,” he said, tripping over Friend Tony to retrieve the sillifoon. “I’ll pay for that one.”
He stared into the glass. There were two Harris’ now — two stars and, to his current apprehension, both were in decline. He clenched his fists, slamming them onto the dressing table. The two images were cracked in different places, much like his soul. Kuriakis was right. This would be his punishment — to remember it all until he could no longer live with his fellow creatures.
Harris Cartwright stood erect, and then touched his Columbincus. It was a dead thing, but it still inspired him to action. He glanced back at the phone, the real one which had connected him to the other coast. He would not go to MTV today.
Chapter Eleven
The Portal
The rusty gate was still ajar, the wind rattling the lock. Harris hung on the slats looking to the patch of ground where Mortis House had stood, briefly and twice to his memory. It would never appear there again. But somehow this felt more like home than anywhere else. He gazed at the line of tombstones — the Jewish Cemetery named for an American president.
“Ghosts,” he muttered, and then pushed the gate opened and trundled to the first line of stones.
He had read these before. This time, among the Vernicks, Finckelsteins, Sterns, Zuckerbergs and Rothbergs, he might find a ghost — a lingering spirit to show him the way. If not, he was resolved to bury his madness here. He wouldn’t share it with this world. It was better to let his memories consume him until some mourner reported seeing a strange drifter talking to the trees and peeing in the open graves. Then the men in white uniforms would collect him — gratefully, and he’d sleep forever taking the sqwallen dutifully, by the bowlful — glassy-eyed and addled until old age devoured him or some loved-one corralled him from public view.
He knelt before Zuckerberg’s grave — a polished marble monument, with several prayer stones stacked at the corner. He wondered if he could pray and, if he did, whether God would hear him. It was lust which had brought him here the first time and madness the second, so why would prayer help him now? Hypocrisy. Still, he supposed praying for the long-lost and rested J. Zuckerberg, whom he had never known, couldn’t disturb the universe. So he clasped his hands, bowed his head and mumbled The Lord’s Prayer.
“Oginali.”
He started. Madness would not leave his prayers alone, he guessed. He shook his head and began again.
“Oginali.”
He looked up and nearly collapsed.
“Little Bird?”
Before him stood the ghost of Yustichisqua — had to be. But then the specter touched him.
“Oginali. 2Gollies I be.”
Harris bolted up, grabbing the figure, pressing him into his arms.
“It can’t be you, old man.”
“It is, Dinatli. I am here.”
“But how?”
Yustichisqua turned Harris around, facing th
e spot where Mortis House had stood. There, in full canopy, was the Gananadana.
“Good day, Sisterfucker,” Cosawta called.
“Good day! Good day!” came the Tomatly echo.
Harris also spotted Detonto in the gondola.
“It can’t be.” His excitement was boundless. “How?”
“Portals there are many,” Cosawta said. “Free passage there is none. But I am a Seneschal and control the portals of the worlds. My mother, Hedonacaria, appreciated your prayers and listened well. She has told me where to find you.”
Yustichisqua pulled Harris along.
“Oginali, I understand you will not want to leave your outland world, because you always wanted to return here. But just as 2Gollies I be, you have two homes too. I am sure you can come back here when you are homesick. But . . .”
“But we need you now, Lord Belmundus,” Cosawta crowed. “You have kindled my sister and my niece will not be a bastard like my sons.”
Detonto bowed.
Harris was stunned. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m to be a father?”
“It will be a daughter, if Nayowee is correct, and that bitch is never wrong.” Cosawta laughed. “Get your ass aboard before the winds change and the portal shifts. I would not want to land in fucking Terrastrium.”
Harris came aboard. He hugged Detonto, who broke it off quickly. Harris waved to Tomatly, who took the waddly wazzoo and added it to the others for propulsion.
“Second thoughts, Lord Belmundus?” Cosawta asked.
Harris grinned.
“None whatsoever.”
“A father you shall be, oginali,” Little Bird said. “And I shall be an uncle.”
“Yes. Yes. I can’t think of anyone better.”
“I might qualify,” Cosawta said, not unkindly. “Bring us up, Tomatly.”
“Up. Up.”
Harris gazed into Yustichisqua’s eyes. Questions hung there.
“What?”
“Nothing, oginali. I only wonder who has dressed you? We must certainly attend to that before the battle is rejoined.”
“I missed you too, old man. I missed you too.”
And so the spark returned to Farn to save the world entire.
Afterword
And so the spark returned to Farn to save the world entire; and in the next book, Boots of Montjoy, the tale will continue with many promises and prophecies — battles and endearments. The balance in Montjoy has changed — and thus it has in Farn. The realms are restless and the pit is stirring. Settlements are made, but will diplomacy succeed? Much for us to ponder as Lord Belmundus drifts in the Gananadana through the elusive portal to the foot of the Gulliwailit Bridge. Until then . . .
Glossary
Adadooski
Hallelujah
adanadasga
bakery
adatowetodi
kiss
adesegua
a pig
Agrimentikos
Consort, Krypto Melos
alisoqua
the bear clan
alsagi
Cetrone waddly wazzoo dance
Altacantris
a councilor
Ama Udali
Salt Lake
Amaykwohi Sea
the great lake of Farn
A-ni-lo-li-ga
thank you in Cetrone
aniniya
a power gem
Aolium
Realm of Air
Aquilium
Realm of Water
Arkmo
Amen
Arquebus
Consort, John Briarcliff –
asano
a skirt (or kilt)
asaylidodi
an oath
asdoyuwi
sausage
Asgay
wife
asi-asa
a healing place
asinoki
a jackass
asorba
pine
Asowisdi
The House of Light
Asses-assis
asi-asa
assinoki
jack-ass
asusdu
light
Atliyidee
stringed instruments
atsadi
predatory river fish
atsilu
darkness
atsinonunu
wound
Augustii
Zecronisian free agents
awidena
a lavender sheep
awi-eeni
deer
Ayelli
The conquerors of Montjoy
Banetuckle
the Place of Desperation
banibara
a granite building block
bed sit
bedroom
bettlebuds
mites
blundaboomer
a new fangled gun
Boboli Dikano Geesti
big bellied guitar
bobyfysmagu
hooray
bolingara
a cheap wine
bollinganga
a constrictor snake
boobooyaks
asses (backsides)
Book of Adjustments
the Tariff list
boomer-boomer
megaphone
borabas
phitron boots
borripsuns
a flashlight
Borsa-pu
the fifth island in the Makronican archipelago
branchy-wanchies
the internet
brantsgi
a better class of wine
brashun blade
an alloy of Columbincus and aniniya
Brega Bay
the port of Dodingdaten
Brisvegas
Brisbane
bronskers
aniniya lamps
Brunting Day
a sacred holiday
bucker
buckboard
buggeroo
byudra digging tool
Buhippus
captain of the Yunocker guard
bull catonin
the pancreas of the meadow ox
bupka
a kind of bread
bush oyster
snot
busker
a flip-flam man
Byllymycky
the Chief three of the Zocor council
byudra
beets
Byybykyyip
the open market
Cabriolin
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 76
