Chapter Four
2269 Words
Chapter Four
Rendaz—an iridescent jade-green pearl in a star system of the far reaches beyond Arcturus covered in red sands, ancient acacias, active volcanos, and blossoms larger than an elephant’s ear, is double the size of Earth, with two suns, two moons, and one vast ocean. Its sea brims with sea dragons, elder leviathans, and singing orcas. Rendazian rivers are populated by the wisest and most loquacious fish and water mammals, and the lands are inhabited by all manner of talking creatures, many now extinct on the blue planet Earth. Beautimus thanked the Goddess she lived on Rendaz, and not Earth.
This exceptionally beautiful morning, and the Wasenia Festival put Beautimus in a bright mood. Beautimus could barely contain her excitement. She wolfed down a bowl of dragon fruit and walnuts, and headed off to the Mantis Compound. She found Samuel clinging to the bark of his home, a silver mulga sapling. He wore a white cape of gossamer fabric spun from spider webs, attached to it a stiff lace collar giving him the appearance of a pompous miniature emperor.
“Well, don’t you look dapper,” Beautimus said.
Samuel’s journey to the Wasenia Festival might seem odd to those who knew him because he’d been a confirmed, lifetime Non-Believer. Like most on Rendaz, Beautimus followed the ways of The Goddess. Those who honored The Goddesses, and worshiped Mother Nature, as Beautimus did, referred to themselves as Believers.
Samuel, a founding member and Treasurer of the Wayflower Society for Rational Thinking, the district branch of a larger planetary atheist organization, disavowed the existence of any deity. A hard-core scientist specializing in Quantum Agriculture, he focused on protein plant cultivation and blue corn physics, fervent topics for the mantis. “You have heard about recent developments in blue corn silk string theory, haven’t you?” He’d ask at parties, then prattle on about alternate dimensions, quarks, spins, and waves in relationship of blue corn to the universe until the person to whom he spoke would make a polite excuse to get as far away from Samuel as possible.
“Give me a minute,” Samuel said. “I’m not quite ready.”
Samuel primped in front of his broken chip of mirror propped against a leaf. His brother, Michael M. Goodwings, hopped onto the leaf and shook his head. “Mornin’ Bea. My vain brother making you late to the festival? What the hellzabob are you doing, Sam? We’re scientists. We’re atheists. We don’t waste our time on dung like this.” Michael turned his head to Beautimus. “No offense,” then back to Samuel. “What’s up with you going to the Wasenia Festival?”
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. Haven’t you seen the hot women who go to these things? And, you do know they serve mead at these festivals, free mead, buckets of it. Do I need say more?”
He jumped in an elegant arc onto Beautimus’ head. “I’m going to catch myself on fire with that ‘ole time religion in the form of some of fine mantis leg and a few dozen thimbles of hooch. See ya’ later, Buddy.”
Beautimus let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re so irreverent, Sam. If the elders heard you they would…”
“….aw c’mon. I’m just having a little fun.”
“Yes, indeed. A little fun. Well, let’s get a move-on. I want to have time to browse the vendor booths before the ceremony—and do watch for my star.”
He took light steps to avoid the gold pentagram Agnes painted that morning between Beautimus’ eyes. The squirrel expended considerable effort to get it right, dipping her paw into the gold dust pot then, with meticulous attention, drawing the star to ensure fine and straight lines.
Within a few minutes, the two friends commenced bickering.
“Sam, I’m proud of the turkey buzzards for standing up for their rights, for speaking their truth.”
“Only because you’re a bloody idealist who doesn’t think anything through. I’m taking a ‘wait and see’ position on this one.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’m going to wait and see if all their protesting really makes a fuggin’ difference. Didn’t you even bother to read the news today?”
“Of course I did, you cynical bug. The Wayflower Quacker specifically stated the Butterfly Counsel Selects Golden Eagle Tribe to Lead Wasenia Festival Flyover, edging out the Turkey Buzzard Tribe entirely. They are standing up because they feel discriminated against. Wouldn’t you? I support the buzzards’ protest. It’s brave and noble.”
“I may be a cynical bug, Bea, but I’m also a smart bug. Sorry. I think their protest is futile and silly.”
They passed a murder of crows roosting in a catechu tree. “You two at it again?” One cawed.
“It’s not always like that, Sam, sometimes things…”
“…I’m saying unlike you I don’t think the universe is made of daisy petals and bunny fluff so all anyone needs to do to change the world is stand on a corner holding a sign. I don’t buy a few bare-headed feathered creatures marching in righteous indignation are going to get what they want, or otherwise make a damned bit of difference.”
Clarence Jonas, Esq., a komodo dragon with the firm Darrow, Darrow and Jonas, his tail slashing from side-to-side, scuttled toward a group of protesting buzzards carrying signs in their wings: “Buzzards Are Beautiful. Eagles Are Arrogant” and, “Buzzards Deserve The Right To Fly.”
“In the end,” Samuel said, “the only one who will win anything is that pox-marked pumpion lizard. He can’t wait to get his filthy bacteria-laden teeth into what promises to be the biggest speciesism trial in Wayflower.”
“Sam, say what you will. I believe a group of committed citizens who stand firm in their truth and act on their convictions can make a difference.”
“Whatever you want to believe is fine with me. I respect your idealism, but I don’t share it. I wish the buzzards well, and I hope one day you’ll stop being so naïve.”
“I hope one day you’ll stop being an ass.”
The two friends passed a congregation of plovers wading in a fen. One cried out to them, “Happy Wasenia Day. May you be blessed by the warmth of the stars.”
Beautimus bowed her head slightly, knocking Samuel off balance. “And, may you be blessed by the warmth of the stars.”
The odd brown chicken appeared again in a nearby patch of clover, and unabashedly stared at the duo.
“Do you know that chicken, Sam?”
“What chicken?”
The fowl had vanished. Beautimus pondered a relationship between the chicken, her visions, and the White Light Glyph.
The brown chicken emerged from behind a peony bush. When Beautimus attempted to address the bird, it scurried a few yards away and ducked behind a boree tree.
Samuel tugged on Beautimus’ ear. “Is that the chicken you’ve been talking about? Wonder who she is?”
“I don’t know. She followed me to the river the other day, and she’s been tailing me since.” Weary of the chicken, Beautimus refocused her attention on the festival instead.
“Sam, you know the Wasenia Festival is huge. All the districts sponsor celebrations to honor our suns, Purmoso and Racine today, as well as all the other stars who ‘graciously share their luminosity’ as the words to The Star Song say.”
“So, the festival is a big deal. Does that mean there’ll be more mead?”
“Hahahaa. Is that all you ever think of, Sam?”
“No, not all.”
The exasperated hippo took a breath, then attempted to redirect the conversation. “Lady Rhianna is presiding over the ceremony again this year.”
“Really? That old bird still kickin’ it at the festivals?”
“C’mon, Sam. She’s barely 310-years-old. She’s not exactly on her deathbed.”
“For a blue crane, 310 years is long in the beak.”
“What makes you think cranes have a shorter lifespan than anyone else?”
“Everyone knows cranes, especially blue cranes, are susceptible to Avian Shadowfever.”
“Don’t you think I’d know it if Lady Rhianna were ill?”
Years before, a few moons after Beautimus’ mother died, Rhianna stepped in and assumed the role of Old Mother. She did her best to instruct Beautimus in the ways of a Wise Woman. Although bright, Beautimus exhibited no traits whatsoever of a stellar student. Rhianna scolded her for inattention.
“Listen to what I’m telling you. This is critical information you must learn well if you are to ever practice magic or be named Wise Woman.”
Although the kind and patient Rhianna stuck by her until she’d completed her early spiritual training, Beautimus never believed herself good enough. She thought she didn’t have what it took to be a Wise Woman. “I’m a history teacher, an oracle reader, a mediocre writer and nothing more.”
Beautimus felt nonetheless pleased about the prospect of catching a glimpse of her old friend and mentor, with whom she’d not interacted with in quite a long while, at least not since Rhianna had been ordÁined High Priestess of Wayflower. Beautimus hoped to talk to Rhianna about her recurring visions, and the Anam Glyph. Then, she realized Samuel still yammered away.
“…and that’s precisely why last year we experienced the highest yield of blue corn in Wayflower history,” he said.
“Is that so? Why?”
“I just told you. Haven’t you been listening? I’ve been talking for ten minutes about the molecular structure of the soil and subatomic particles. I can’t believe you haven’t heard even one word of…never mind. I’ll go over it again. A proton is comprised of two quarks up, one quark down, and is a subatomic particle. But, you know that already, don’t you?”
An exhalation of larks flying overhead called festival greetings to a colony of chinchilla. Beautimus and Samuel, engrossed in their conversation, paid them no heed.
“Not exactly, Sam. I don’t know much about the science behind…”
“…we’ve generated an energy transfer of beetle dung wave packets broken down into a quantum scale. We infused beetle excrement protons into the molecular structure of the soil… and…what nutritional term does the word ‘proton’ remind you of?
“Uh, protein?”
“Exactly. Through the process of infusing the soil with dung proton particles we are now able to increase the protein content of blue corn kernels, and a higher yield per acre. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure, Sam. Simple. So—what about jasmine wine? Making any this season?”
“Only if I can get the hydrometer or saccharometer scale denoting the density of specific gravity right this time, you know, the brix.”
If the talk about subatomic particles hadn’t gotten to Beautimus, the brix thing had. “Sam, why is it quantum physicists have such a goddessdamn tough time answering a simple question?”
The second he launched into a response, Beautimus changed the subject yet again in hopes of extricating herself from Samuel’s scientific nattering. “I read an interesting article in Rendazian Nature about the beautiful color of hummingbird’s tongues…”
“…ah, yes. Two recent studies explore hummingbird tongue design and function, specifically how their tongues are engineered for nectar retrieval. Hummingbirds are….whoa!” Samuel’s head snapped around.
A group of attractive praying mantis women buzzed by in their festival finery distracting Samuel from his prattle. One, named Cheeky, with the well-earned reputation for spreading her wings for any male who wanted her, wiggled her hindquarters at Samuel. He straightened his shoulders and flexed his muscles. “My, my, are you ever lookin’ sweet today, Cheeky. How ‘bout given me a little sugar?”
“Sam, is it going to be like this every time you see a mantis woman today? If you persist in behaving like this, you can hop off now and fly to the festival by yourself.”
“I told you mead wasn’t all I thought about, Bea.”
From behind a bluebush wattle tree, the brown chicken clucked. The hen ducked further in an awkward attempt to conceal herself. When Beautimus stepped closer, the chicken busied herself with a buckwheat stalk.
“Who in hellzabob is that?” Asked Samuel.
“I don’t know, but Beard warned me about her, and she gives me a bad feeling.”
***
A filthy brown rat with a missing tooth scuttled between Beautimus’ legs and ran in front.
“There goes that clapper-clawed-swag-bellied-son-of-a-guttersnipe-thieving-pack-rodent, Heatherton. I know exactly why he’s going to the Wasenia Festival. Hold onto your satchel today, Bea.”
“So, you don’t trust him, then?”
“Very funny. I’m only warning you not to let him get anywhere near anything you value. That pack rat steals everything he can get his filthy ruttish paws on.”
Thundering around a bend, Chance Rockefeller, a surly t-rex, ran right into a small kangaroo. He plowed her over, and when she bumped her noggin on a rock she cried out. Beautimus and Samuel rushed to her side. “Are you okay?” Beautimus asked.
“I’ll be fine.” The kangaroo rubbed her head. “I don’t understand why Chance is so…”
“Because he’s a skelpie-limmer bully, and a muck-spout cumberwold if I ever knew one,” Samuel said. “He didn’t even stop to see if he’d hurt you.”
Beautimus nudged the kangaroo to her feet. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
A rustle overhead in the branches of a broad-leaved nealie tree caught Samuel and Beautimus’ attention. A single brown feather drifted to the ground.
“Bea, your chicken is with us,” Samuel said.
When Beautimus looked up, she saw only leaves and nealie branches. “Well, she’s gone now. Maybe without her we can enjoy the rest of our journey.”
***
The fairgoers, in great spirits, called greetings to one another, made music, danced, and laughed. With the exception of their encounter with Heatherton the rat, and Chance the t-rex, Beautimus had not enjoyed a nicer day in quite some time. She spied a husk of hares dodging the legs and tails of larger festival travelers. One rabbit bounded in a panic to Beautimus and Samuel. “Ms. Bea. Sam. Have you heard?”
“What’s going on?” Beautimus said.
“Ms. Priscilla, Lady’s Rhianna’s House Chimp.”
“Something’s happened to her?”
“She left the Blue Crane Compound last night for the Sacred Watering Hole to prepare for Lady Rhianna’s arrival. She never made it. A few hours ago, a mew of capons happened upon her body under a needlewood tree. They found her all bloodied, dead, her throat bitten clean out.”
- Writer
