My Amazoness from Pellucidar 3 of 6

My Amazoness from Pellucidar Part 3 of 6

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During the journey to our/her destination, Missy proved to be a veritable fountain of vital information. She taught me what to watch out for in terms of hazards. Of which, consisted mostly of the various stalking techniques of the predators of Pellucidar.

In addition to that, she taught me much about the plant life and their uses. What bush was good for a makeshift toothbrush, which tree sap was good as soap (sandbar sand being a poor substitute), what leaves to chew to freshen the breath (she seemed particularly keen on showing me that).

Also, what plants were edible, what weren’t, and most important, how to differentiate. Such information has proven useful to me in the years (?) since. I owe much to her.

But, we also talked about other things. Inevitably, the subject of religion came up. Mostly, I found myself interested in adding to what little I’d gleaned about hers.

Both of us found it odd that her ‘Mara’, and my ‘Mary’; Methods of praying towards, seemed almost exact in form, yet polar opposites in content.

One time we compared our respective prayer counter. She allowed me to examine her ‘Jiary’, and I allowed her the same for my Rosary. They were like our respective prayers; Similar, yet so very different. At one point, I almost made the comment about hers being a blasphemous version of mine. But I held off.

The differences between the two? Mine had the standard 59 beads, hers had 10 more; both of ours ended in a metallic medal. Mine was a metal shield. (Shield of the Faith). While hers was a metal spiral, (Spiral-Sinistral).

The most notable difference between the two? Our respective crosses. Mine, of course, was the standard Crucifix (t-shape). While hers, was a Crux Decussata (x-shape), otherwise known in my world, as the Saint Andrews Cross.

My Crucifix held a symbolic figure of Jesus, (Our Lord and Savior) nailed to the cross, facing outwards. While her Crux held a symbolic figure of someone named Juanita. She was tied facing inwards in a crouch, almost as if she were presenting her buttocks receptively.

Despite that nerve-racking revelation, I was able to continue to compare notes. While those of my faith, often hoped to receive a vision from the BVM. Seldom, if ever we did.

While with hers, Visions of the Mara were rather commonplace.

“In fact,” she mentioned, “the whole reason I didn’’t hurry away and leave you behind. Is because my sleep prior, Mara came to me in a dream. There, she informed me that I was to meet someone who would have to pass a test with me. If that person did, they’d be instrumental in the advancement of my personal quest.”

“What quest is that?” I asked.

“To find a suitable mate. Despite the opinion of your Scholar, I’m not going to pounce on the first male who comes along.” She smiled.

“As well you shouldn’t.” I shot back. Then I changed the subject. When I did, I couldn’t help but notice that she seemed rather pleased with my opinion.

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Later on, I asked her for more information concerning the Prelate.

Even though she was rather sensitive about who or what it was. I got the notion that it was something I was going to have to deal with, sooner or later.

“A Double-Span of Grips ago, (100 years, more or less),” she began to explain, “The cult of Mara was just getting started. And the Prelate wasn’t in existence then. Just the Order.”

“Ah,” I replied, nodding, “They (the Order) I know about. Even then, they didn’t take well to Mamono.”

“Decidedly not. But that’s the way they’ve been, since forever.” She paused and thought about it.

“Once the current Maou rose to power. Long may she reign. Eventually, she and they came to a sort of truce. A mutual non-aggression pact. Each side, Mamono and Order, generally avoiding each other as much as possible.”

“Then the Cut of Mara began. At first, all was as usual. Then, when human women learned of it. They became enamored of it.”

“Why? Why would human women become fascinated with a religion that Mamono followed?”

“Mara preaches love, tolerance, and empowerment for all peoples. Particularly females, Mamono or not.”

“Well that explain it.” I mused, “Considering the Order’s history with same. From what little you’ve told me about it; Mara’s cult sounds similar to what my people’s Cult-of-Mary was originally.”

“Originally?” she asked. “What happened to yours?”

“Our Church Fathers, subsumed it and made it inferior. Subservient to them, and to a lesser extent, our God.”

“The Order attempted to do the same here, and failed. Miserably. Mara had no intention of allowing it. Subsequently, the Prelate, who were once a small band of self-abasers, rose to power.”

“Let me guess. Rising on the notion that not only that they themselves needed abasement. But more importantly, they preached that women needed it most of all.”

“Indeed.” Missy sighed frustratedly, as we shared a moment.

“Typical of Men.” I commented and shook my head. “Our overly fragile egos, leading us to cause pain and suffering to others. All because we can’t be bothered to deal with our feelings.”

“And you don’t? Have a fragile ego that is?” she challenged.

“Of course I do. I just choose to try and deal with it in a mature manner.”

“I wish more men here were like that.” She commented. Then she went on to describe in detail, just how asinine the Prelate were in their actions.

I’m not sure if you, dear reader is aware? But the history of religion on Earth, has been rather vicious when it came to punishing females. True, not all of the witches tried in the Medieval Witch-Trials, were female. But most were.

Christianity inspired the creation of, The Scold’s Bridle, the Pear of Anguish, Dunking, Exposure. *ahem*. The list goes on and on.

 For what went on in Olde Earth, even that, disturbing as it was, paled in comparison to what the Prelate conjured up for their day to day treatment, of their women. Missy’s descriptions, left me nauseous.

Despite the fact that I’d yet to meet any adherents of the Prelate. I decided that I didn’t care for them one whit.

She patiently answered all of my questions, as I did with her questions concerning my world and our religions.

She then told me that she appreciated the fact that I wasn’t anything like a Prelate.

Anything in particular she liked, why?

It turns out that my ability to cry, along with my saying such things as: please and thank you. These were utterly beyond the grasp of the Prelate. Such was considered to be feminine, and therefore weak.

“Wait a sec,..” I began, but thought better of it. I tried again. “Hold on. Do you happen to know, if these Prelate folks? Are they in the habit of shaving their faces?” I inquired, as a thought came to me.

“Yes, they do. They do everything they can, to avoid having a sleep’s worth of hair adorning their chin.” She replied, I began to laugh.

“I’ve always found such to be ridiculous. I never understood why folks do that!” I smiled.

“Do what?” she asked, smiling yet not knowing why.

“Why on one hand, they claim to be against men appearing ‘womanly’. Yet are also determined to scrape off the very hair, that distinguishes them as male! They end up looking like women!” I snickered.

When I said that, Missy stopped in her tracks. Then her eyes lit up with wonder, her jaw hanging. After a second, she closed it with a snap of realization.

“I never thought of that!” she guffawed. Then she bowed her head and snapped her hair around, as she began to laugh uproariously. She had a good laugh. I decided I liked the sound of it.

“Yes!” she cried as she slapped her hand on her knee. “Yes. They do.” She turned and looked at me with an expression I’d not seen on a woman since before my wife died.

“Thank you. I’ll remember that!” she said as she wagged a finger at me. I gave her a ‘you’re welcome’ smile.

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Time.

Inevitably, she asked about what it was I meant concerning ‘Days’, and ‘Nights’. She had no problem with the equivalent ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’. What she had a problem with, was their regularity.

Oh, her and the locals had their own concepts of time. Past, present, future. But all in all, it was marked by Sleeps in the Short term. Or notable events like kingdoms rising and falling, or who seized power where and when, for Long-term. Centuries in scope.

What I managed to glean. Was that their time concepts were more ‘-ish’ in nature. When I say an hour, I mean an hour-ish. Namely due to the fact that not everyone there had the same need for sleep length. Etc.

1 Mark = ¼ Bowl = 1 hour
2 Marks = 1 Watch = 2 hours
4 Marks = 2 Watches = 1 Bowl
1 Sleep = 4 Watches = 8 hours-ish
1 Clutch = 8 Sleeps = 1 Week-ish
1 Bundle = 4 Clutches = 1 Month-ish
1 Basket = 3 Bundles = ¼ Tun = ¼ Year-ish
4 Baskets = 1 Tun (Year-ish)
1 Span-tun = 5 Tuns = 5 Years-ish
1 Grip-tun = 2 Spans = 10 Years-ish

And so on.

She had no problem with grasping my concept of hours. Sandglass timers were rare. While water-drip-bowls were common.

Apparently, the panoply of Moons overhead, had no predictable pattern of movement. Most strikingly, their number changed! It was common knowledge that there were short intervals of over a dozen, with longer intervals of none at all. It was quite bewildering to us both.

Yet, I ended up displaying an unknown talent with them.

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A couple of sleeps later, during a quiet period of our walking. Suddenly, I got a sense of trepidation, and came to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. I didn’t answer her at first, as I looked all about us. She wasn’t impatient, thankfully. Finally, I turned to her and spoke.

“A Dark is coming. We need to prepare for it.” I stated, absolutely convinced that I was right. For a moment, she opened her mouth to say something. Thought better about it. Paused for a bit, then spoke.

“When?” she asked, looking at me with a mixture of suspicion, and inquisitiveness.  I paused, and thought about it.

“Within a Mark, two at the most.” Then I said something that shocked her.

“It will be a long one, at least a Sleep. We will need plenty of wood for a fire. I suggest two.” I replied, still feeling that strange sense. I knew it sounded like I was crazy. Yet I felt that I was right.

In the end, she didn’t argue. She chose a copse in front of a line of closely set trees. Within it, we put Pepper at the far end, near the thickest set of trees. We then built two fires between the meadow and Pepper, and sat down between the fires, back to back.

As I predicted, the Eclipse begun. I heard her gasp audibly when it did. But we didn’t say anything more during our mutual Watch. We didn’t dare.

The Darkness was especially dangerous then, there on the Plains of Pellucidar. The usual strange noises and cries began.

 Various,..things,…rushed at us at least twice. Between her martial art skills, and my Jo-staff, we managed to dissuade them. Whatever they were. Though both of us ended up with claw mark cuts.

Which we didn’t attend to, until after the Dark ended. By an unspoken agreement, we knew that it’d be better to wait.

Later, after we resumed our journey. She wanted to know how I knew. All I could tell her, was that it was something I’d been unaware of prior to arriving to this world. Nevertheless, it manifested itself a couple of times more, prior to our separating.

“That.” She began, smiling. “Is a useful talent. It alone, would make you an asset to any Ring.” She said. Then when she turned away, I heard her say something.

“I would keep thee.” She whispered, barely audible. I didn’t know what she meant then. But, since she obviously didn’t intend for me to hear, I didn’t pursue it.

It was only after we’d parted company, that I learned what that phrase was. According to Amazoness lore, one says that to a prospective lover or mate, to indicate your interest.

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Several sleeps later. I got the gumption up to ask her something.

“I take it the Prelate, is the reason why you acted the way you did? Back when we first met. You seemed quite willing to leave me hanging and all.” That caught her off guard.

Eventually, she answered.

“yes.” She whispered. Then something occurred to me.

“You first thought my Rosary, was a Trophy. Why?”

“Because, that is what many of the Prelate do. Capture us Marans. Torture us, then kill us.” She answered, distressed.

“Good God!” I replied in disgust. “What is it about the Cult of Mara, that the Prelate would do such a vile thing?”

“What we’ve been able to glean, is that they’re most offended by the way we Amazoness act. When it comes to choosing a husband.”

“Which is?”

“Voluntarily.”

“How can that be a problem?”

“You don’t understand. When we take a male for a husband, they have to volunteer to be one.”

“Oh?!” I asked, surprised. “Then that means that the women are in fact in charge.”

“Yes, it’s traditional. But, couples can still separate, for whatever reason. Provided they’ve not had children. According to the Prelate, women and children are property of the Man.” She grimaced. I couldn’t help it then, I spit a wad of saliva in agreement. She continued.

“Apparently what really gets their blood boiling? Is what we do with the permanent pairing. The Male has to submit to be a slave to his wife. In all things.”

“Really!” I blanched. “That seems extreme.” I commented. She took umbrage.

“It’s our way, in fact it is what Mara had Juanita do,…” she began defensively.

“No, no, no! That’s not what I mean.” I interrupted. “Let me clarify.” I sighed, thought about it, and continued.

“From what you tell me, their women are considered slaves. Involuntarily, I assume?”  She nodded, looking up at me carefully.

“I have seen such hypocrisy before, with religions on my world. They have such evil double-standards. What they demand for themselves, they deny to others. Apparently, the Fragile-Male-Ego goes hand in hand with Male-dominated religion.”

“So, what do you mean?”

“I say, it should only be fair if the roles were reversed. They should get a taste of their own medicine. So, to speak.”

“Are you saying, that uou wouldn’t have a problem with that? Being a slave to a woman?”

“Why shouldn’t I?’ I smiled, “Even though my wife and I’s marriage vows, had her essentially committing herself to me. I still felt it was my duty to behave the same way we her. We were slaves to each other’s needs.”

“Truly? You’d submit to a woman?” she asked again. I didn’t note then how intrigued she was then.

“If she truly cared for me? Why not?”

“Would you do it now, if you could?” she asked casually.

“I don’t know. I doubt someone would want an old nag like me. Falling apart like I am.” I quipped, she laughed.

“Ok. What if you were younger?” she asked. “Just for the sake of the argument?” She added quickly. I replied as honestly as I could.

“Marriage isn’t really so much about the individuals who come together. It’s about being there for the children they create. My age would be irrelevant.”

“Still, hypothetically speaking, if you could. Would you?” she persisted. I thought about it for a while.

“Yes.” I answered finally. “Yes, I guess I would.” I sighed at the thought. “Still, I’m too old to be engaging in those kind of reindeer games.” I smiled. She was silent for a long while. Then she turned to me and spoke.

“What’s a reindeer? And what kind of games do they play?” she asked in all innocence. I could feel my eyes bugging out.

That took me a while to explain.

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 We didn’t always talk, or walk together. If she were annoyed at me, invariably she let me know. But other times, I understood that she was used to walking alone.

My having been married for so long, I’d long since memorized the tell-tales of a woman needing her space. Missy’s, were only slightly different from my Samantha. Usually she would stop making eye contact and become taciturn. barking out monosyllabic answers, or grunts.

When I finally noticed, I’d never make a big deal out of it. I’d simply keep Pepper between the two of us. Then I’d continue walking and keeping Watch.

Inevitably, Missy would get over whatever was bothering her. Then she let me know she was ready for company again.

Domestication. It’s not just for horses.

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There were other chores to pass the time.

Taking care of Pepper was the biggest. The standard for any kind of horse: insuring she had enough fodder, keeping Watch over her reactions, avoiding briar patches, resting her when appropriate. Etc.

At the end of the ‘day’, it was removing all of her cargo, hanging her saddle blanket to dry, then checking her hooves for stuck rocks. After that, we would give her a good curry combing, brushing, and rubdown. The usual.

Then there was the cooking.

Necessity required me to take over that chore. If anything else, to avoid the inevitable heartburn Missy’s cooking afflicted me with.

Of course, she preferred it. But then so did my wife. As I made sure to make her breakfast in bed at every chance.

Now, whether or not Missy was a natural ‘water-burner’, or if she was by intent. I didn’t care to speculate. But to her credit, she didn’t mind doing the cleaning up after.

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Often, she lectured me about various plants: How to identify which were good, bad, and/or useful. The differences between the Demonic variety, and their Mundane equivalents.

There were literally hundreds, if not thousands of good tips. All of them useful. I’m afraid that I can recall only a small fraction of her imparted herbal lore.

But I retained enough knowledge, to keep me from dying foolishly. Like I nearly did with that Jiar tree.

Oh? That Jiar tree that I managed to entangle myself with?

Apparently, in order to free myself, all I had to do was seek out and find the Jiar-Flower’s equivalent of a clitoris.

Yes, that’s exactly the way she described it.

A clitoris.

Then ‘tickle’ it.

“AHEM!”

After she patiently waited for me to finish laughing, she gave me a fascinating lecture concerning the Jiar Flower/Prisoner Fruit tree.

Apparently, her Jiary?

Was named in like fashion to my Rosary. In fact, that parallels between the two, were uncanny. Almost as if someone had deliberately parodied the Rosary. But I get ahead of myself.

As the Rosary is named the ‘Crown of Roses’, so too is the Jiary. I.E. the ‘Crown of Jiars’. The petals, stems, and leaves, all of them have innumerable burr-catches on their surfaces. Which meant a number of them could be woven together into a fairly sturdy ‘daisy-chain’.

Now the Jiar ‘fruit’, (Prisoner-fruit) is ill named.

This is because it doesn’t actually contain any seeds. Instead, it and the plant that produces it, is akin to what many would call the Sundew, or the Drosera.

The ‘fruit’ acts like a lure. Similar in function to the esca of the Angler Fish. It, depending upon the size of the plant and the flower, lures an animal within reach of the flower, there to be caught and encompassed. Just like I had been.

There are two varieties of the Jiar. The Mundane and the Demonic. Luckily, I’d been ensnared by the less lethal, demonic variety. Where I would’ve ‘enjoyed’ a short bout of having my Spirit Energy, ‘harvested’, then released.

As opposed to the Mundane variety. Where my carcass would’ve remained under, to this day.

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My first impression of Missy’s navigational skills. Was that she was leading us seemingly at random.

Nothing, could’ve been further from the truth. With no small amount of patient tutoring on her part, I eventually learned to see the Markers, indicating where others had traveled before.

After searching back through my memory, I realized that during my journey from that ‘Cave’ all the way to my Jiar-Ensnarement. I’d inadvertently passed by dozens of markers. Which left me despondent for several hours.

Then I brightened, when I realized if I had noticed them. I probably wouldn’t have met up with Missy.

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Then after the grassy plains of Pellucidar had slowly given way to the temperate forests of Lural-Az. We arrived at her intended destination.

Along the way, the nature of the forests changed from the usual rough and tumble, to an orderliness not found in nature. There were rows and rows of lumber trees being grown orchard like.

Then, after Missy oriented herself, we eventually came upon a farm-house. It was situated in the middle of a number of tilled fields and nut-tree-orchards. Scattered amongst those fields, were a number of humans working them.

Most of whom just stopped and stared, as we passed by. Choosing instead to ignore our repeated waving. Once it was clear what our destination was. One of them ran ahead to announce our arrival.

We were met at the gate to the farmhouse by Missy’s benefactor.

As we approached, he chose to remain silent. Staring at us balefully. During which, I’m sure he examined me, as much as I examined him. Both of us getting the other’s measure. I didn’t sense any hostility. Just wariness.

He was a tall, skinny man with thinning arms. Those arms sported skin flaps, that resulted not from the standard American Fat-wings. Instead withered muscles. If I had to hazard a guess? I’d have pegged his age as, late 80’s, early 90’s.

Despite that advanced age, He still had a full head of hair, which flowed down from the crown of his head, only to stop at mid shoulder. His skin was a dark leathery brown, which bespoke of long years underneath the blazing sun. He had a beard of sorts, what back home I’d have called a Fu Manchu. A mustache with connecting sideburns, leaving only his cleanshaven chin exposed.

It was only later that I realized, that Missy and he bore an uncanny resemblance. Cousins? Once or twice removed perhaps?

Finally, when Missy, Pepper, and I came to a stop, silence reigned. I glanced over at Missy, fully expecting her to say something to get the conversation started. But she chose not to. Instead choosing to look back at him haughtily.

Apparently, it was up to either him, or I to get the ball rolling.

“Mah!” He grunted finally, breaking that silence.

“What do yah want?” he demanded gruffly, not to Missy. But in my direction. I snuck another glance to Missy to see if she was going to take charge. Instead, she bowed her head. Clearly it was up to me.

“I owe Missy here,” I said equally gruffly, indicating the Amazoness to my right. “A favor.”

“Hmph!” he snorted, “What’s that tah me?”

‘So, that’s the way it’s gonna be eh? Two can play that.’ I decided.

“Her horse’s shoes were installed by an idiot. I don’t suppose you know of a non-idiot with a forge nearby?” I sneered, staring not quite back at him.

In my peripheral vision, I saw his eyes flare indignantly at my provocation.  After a moment, he got his anger under control, and then he almost smiled.

“Ayah. That I do.” He huffed once. Then he frowned. “Don’t know if ah can hammer like ah did of old.” He replied.

“I wasn’t asking if you could. I was asking if there was a forge, I could use.” I replied, then I smiled

“Think yah know something bout shoeing?” He demanded, still not looking at me, as he folded his arms and shifted his stance.

“Yes.” I stated flatly, as I mirrored his actions “That I do.” Then I paused.

“Though it’s been awhile.” I admitted.  My admission finally got his attention. He raised an eyebrow, and seemed to soften just a bit. He unfolded his arms and extended a hand. I took it. He had a ton of callouses, I had fewer.

“Amzi Amaury.” He said, introducing himself. “Folks call me Amz.”

“Samuel Adams.” I replied, “I prefer to be called, Sam.”

“All righty Sam, Missy, Pepper.” He continued, “Follow me.” He ordered. And so, we did. Though after a few steps, I realized something.

‘How’d he know? What Pepper’s name was?’

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He showed us his forge out back, in his barn. He had all of the necessary tools. Including a few I’d not seen before.

All of them were free of rust, though the hinges of all of his pliers were stiff from disuse. He seemed impressed when I asked what the extra tools were for. When I pointed them out.

“Ain’t doing nothing.” He shot back, “Other than to show who has enough sense tah ask.” He said as he retrieved them and stowed them away.

‘A test.’ I realized. ‘More to follow, no doubt.’

He showed me where he stored his coke, to feed his bellows driven forge, and where he kept his stock of iron bars. Then he sat himself comfortably down onto a saw horse and leaned back against the wall.

 He then raised a hand to indicate that I should go ahead and perform. I just nodded back and got to work.

It took me a short while to figure out the use of a pump-bellows. I was used to using an electric blower. But there was no chance of finding one here.

Thankfully, my 4-H mentor had insisted on my learning how to man a pump. Now, I was grateful he had. Not so much way back when. Pumps are a lot of work.

While I was waiting for the fire to warm up, in between bellowing the pump, I got started on Pepper’s shoes.

First, after turning around with her first hoof between my knees, I began working with a small hammer and wedge. Quickly, I was able to loosen the shoe, then with a plier I removed it.

Atop the anvil, I tamped down the nails until they came out. Then I tossed the bedraggled thing aside. Out of reach of an accidental impalement into the frog of Pepper’s hoof.

I then chose an appropriate scraper and began to clean her hoof. I was mostly concerned with the dirt and detritus that had accumulated since her last shoeing.

Since it’d been such a piss-poor job, she had a lot to clean and level. Every now and again, I’d pause and inspect her frog for any fungal or bacterial infections. Thankfully, she had none.

After that, I used a nipper to bevel the outer edges of her hoof. Sort of like what you ‘do with your own finger nail. Then, I commenced with a careful filing to ensure that her hoof wall and sole was smooth and flat. The last thing she needed was any chipping. I did all to prepare it for an appropriate shoe.

Then I went back to scraping out the worst of the sole and frog, and then back to filing. I alternated several times, until I was satisfied.

When I laid out a Hoof-stool, she showed me that she knew the drill. She automatically put hers onto it without prompting.

After bracing its legs with my feet, I then began filing down the front and sides of her hoof. As always as I did in the past, I did my best to insure a smooth finish and a beveled edge. As a sharp edge was prone to cracking. Which is never a good thing. For anyone.

Then I began with the pounding on the shoe itself. I’d test-fit the shoe onto her hoof, and check to see if It rocked. If it did in the slightest, then back to the anvil, it’d go. That always takes a while. Which seemed to be beyond the ken of that lazy arsed Spartan fellow.

Once satisfied with that, I went ahead and beveled the edges of the shoe to my satisfaction. I commenced with the careful matching of the shoe to the hoof, watching for any last second mistakes.

Finally, I started pounding nails through the shoe into her hoof, alternating sides and holes like you would with a car tire. I made sure that the side of the hoof matched the shoe. Normally I used as many as five on each side of the hoof, but here apparently, they only used four.

‘When in Rome.’ I thought.

After that, it was the hoof-stool again. The icing on the cake details. A lot of pinching and filing. Making sure for the long term that not only did the hoof/shoe join looked good, but also to insure a good seal.

Just as I was done with that, and was about to get started on the next. Amz came over and inspected my work. It took him a few minutes.

“Hmph!” he grunted, then motioned at me to continue. I did the same with the following two. He inspected and grunted after. The fourth and last was a bit more of a challenge.

By that time, the forge was properly heated. All because Pepper’s poorly installed shoe had caused a couple of problems. Most of which I could deal with, but her shoe had been left cracked, rendering it useless.

 Which meant, that I had to hammer one of Amz’s bars into an appropriate shoe.

That took a while.

A long while.

In the middle of it, I guess Amz got a little impatient with my (apparent) lack of progress. I’d given the shoe an appraisal every now and again. But I was seldom satisfied. After the fourth inspection, I was about to pop it into the forge to heat again. When he grabbed the tongs away from me.

“Damn it! Sam!” He barked angrily, “Yah shoeing a horse, not milking a cow! This good enough!” he insisted gruffly.

“Yessir Amz.” I replied quietly. “It may be good enough for the likes of you,…”I began, as I gently retook ahold of the tongs, “or for the likes of that Spartan character,” I continued as I jerked the tongs away from him.

“But it’s not for me. I only do jobs proper, or not at all.” I said coldly. He seethed back at me for a while.

“Fair enough!” he growled. “Yah do it yahr way!” he sneered. “Just a word of warning.” He added. I nodded. He continued. “We don use THAT word round here!” He growled. That word being- Spartan.

“Yes sir.” I smiled. He grunted.

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After I got done, and started cleaning up. Pepper was rather happy with her new set of properly fitting shoes.

I felt a surge of long absent pride at the sight of her then. She was acting like a frisky colt. As I, Missy, and Amz watched Pepper’s frolicking. Amzi grunted once and turned and said to Missy.

“Seems yah found a good un.” Amzi said, pleased.

“Will he do?” Missy replied coyly.

“One way, find oot.” He shot back cryptically.

“What are you two talking about?” I asked, they both turned to me.

They then explained, that Missy, at Amzi’s behest, and Mara’s directions, had been sent to try and find someone who could take over Amzi’s job of shoeing horses for the locals.

The ‘S” word they didn’t use there. Being the primary motivation. Amzi had gotten tired of hearing the locals complaining about him.

So, I was offered the job of taking over as Farrier for Amzi. I’d work there as Farrier when need be, and take care of other chores, when the Farriering went slack. Of course, I still had to work through a probationary period. Which would end when Amzi deemed it so. Six months estimated.

“Fair Enough.” I shot back. Happy to have not only a home, but a trade as well.

And with that, Missy took her leave and headed on out. There was much I wanted to do before I had to say goodbye.

But it was best for her to just leave. The Prelate being the bigger danger of course. Amzi’s farmstead, was apparently located too close for comfort to the local Prelates. Sooner or later, one of the farmhand’s tongues would wag.

I knew I wanted to give her a farewell kiss. I got the sense she would’ve welcomed it as well.

But, according to Amazoness traditions, kisses were only reserved between Parents and Children. Battle Comrades, or Lovers. Since I didn’t fall under any of those categories, we ended up just waving good bye.

I sadly watched her as she and Pepper faded into the distance. I was scared that despite our seeming connection, and heartfelt talks, that I’d never see her again.

Which would probably have been just as well. Seeing that she was young enough to be my daughter, if not granddaughter.

‘But that’s life.’ I thought, Then I went to work. As there were a lot of chores for me to assist with. To distract myself from the pain.

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“A horse is a horse, of course of course!
And no one can have sexual intercourse,
with a horse of course!
Unless of course! The horse of course!
Is the infamous Mister Ed!” I sang out in as best an alto as I could manage. But my voice cracked at the end.

Then, when I get my emotions under control, I finish off in a bass, “Ooooohh, Wilbur! You’re sooo Big!” in my best ‘Mr. Ed’ voice.

“So, what do ya think Rosco? Are ya gonna talk to me now?” I asked my horse as he continued to clip-clop along in his wagon harness. After a second or two, he turns his head to give me the side-eye.

“Thhhpphhhh!” He snorts, and tosses his head, then resumes his fascination with the trail ahead. I stare back at him for a second, frowning. Then I join him in his fascination with the trail we’re both walking on.

“Aaaahh!” I snort. “I guess not.” I gripe. Then I’m silent for a few seconds.

“If you ever feel like talking. Please let me know. Would you?” I added, as I did my best to keep my spirits up.

“One good thing though!” I pipe up suddenly. “I’ve got you to talk to. Otherwise I’d have gone crazy by now.” I snark, as I pat the side of his neck.

He nickers low in his throat then, unamused with my sense of humor.

How do I know this?

Well he and I’ve been working alongside each other for the last four years. Yes, I know what it is I just said.

Years.

The locals call it a Tun. 1 Tun = 1 Year. So, therefore the last four Tuns have been good for me and Rosco. More or less. More at the beginning, less of late.

Yet despite all of my woes, I’ve managed to keep my financial feet underneath me. Mostly by my staying busy and productive. That’s one of the benefits of not being a layabout. In my opinion.

Though it’d be accurate to say, four and a quarter Tuns, if you count the time since I saw Missy and Pepper melt away into the distance.

Unfortunately, since then, I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either. Oh yes, I’ve bumped into other Amazoness, and from what I’ve been told, both she and her Ring have been doing well.

“What was it that one Amazoness said?” I asked Rosco, “You know which one I mean. The one who was fascinated with ‘how nicely rounded’ my ass was? Missy’s got her own Ring now, and she’s Chieftain of it! How wonderful is that?” I finished, half expecting Rosco to answer.

He does, sort of. He belches.

“I’ll take that as an affirmation.” I reply, and keep walking.

For me what was supposed to be a six-month probationary period, ended early. After only two and a half months, if you can believe it.

Why? Spartan.

Now, despite the fact that word got out rather quickly. That Amzi had himself a new ‘apprentice’ of sorts. Business was slow at first.

That’s because news in this province, (Lural-Az) only travels by the speed of: Word of mouth. Which, if it’s not a scandal, invariably means: SLOW.

If your horse is suffering from a piss poor shoeing, then you’re not going to doing much in the way of traveling. Including visiting the new Farrier. Which required me to have the patience of a hawk.

Then, like an avalanche, the next thing I knew. I was shoeing horses more often than not.

In fact, our (Amzi and I’s) Farrier business picked up to the point, that Spartan himself decided to make an appearance.

He was upset by his clientele abandoning him. So, he wanted to file a complaint with the management about this ‘unfair business practice’. His words.

“What be yah here for?” Amzi demanded, once the errant Spartan showed on his doorstep. “I nah seen hide nor hair of yah, nigh on 8 Tuns.”

“Nuncle. My apologies.” He said, all of his chins quivering. “I just remembered I’ve not paid proper respect to you for too long.”

“Ayah. That ya’ve not!” Amzi growled. His lips set in a line. “Yah just ‘happened’ to decide to show ‘spect’ now?  Even if were born inna Dark, Spart, I nah born in the last un. Git ye gone!”

Let me explain. ‘Being born in the Dark’ is a significant event for folks born in this world. It happens so infrequently, that it becomes almost mystical in nature. For example, Lural-Az society assumes that any girl born in the Dark, will become an Amazoness later in life. Sure as eggs is eggs.

“Nuncle!” Sparan cried then, as tears began to well in his eyes. “How can you do this to your own flesh? Taking the side of an Outlander? And a Mamono lover to boot!” He said, pointing to me. As soon as those words left his mouth. I saw Amzi’s eyes grow cold. What little tolerance he had for his nephew, vanished.

“Spartan Amaury!” Amzi hissed then. “Never darken mah doorway again!” He said, and turned his back on his nephew. Banishing him.

But what did Spartan do upon receiving that pronouncement?

Any man would’ve been upset by it. That’s for sure. But, a real man would’ve accepted that humiliation silently.

 Now, I’ve cried a few times myself, and I’ve no bones to pick with those who do.

Spartan? He had himself a full-blown temper tantrum. He was kicking and screaming, rolling around in the mud, acting like a six-year-old denied a piece of candy.

Even I was embarrassed for him, almost enough to feel sorry for him.

But when I recalled the amount of pain he had caused to the innocent horses he helped lame. Some of whom had to be put down because of the infections caused by it?

I had no sympathy for him and his loss of income.

Amzi ended up having me, and another of his workers ‘escort’ Spartan to the edge of his lands.

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So, business became better for us. For a while at least, I had a lot of catching up to do, fixing Spartan’s problems. Inevitably, the surge tapered down. Why?

That’s because in a place like Lural-Az? There weren’t all that many horses to begin with. Combine that, with the effect of Spartan’s laziness. That number became less.

Which meant in order for me to make an honest living. I felt that I needed to take my show on the road; to other nearby provinces. Places like Darel-Az, Korsar-Az, and even to the benighted archipelago; Bandar-Az.

They too lacked sufficient numbers of Farriers. Sojar-Az, the capital, had conscripted most of the available iron workers to supply their endless war against their neighbor country, Zoram. A Mamono country, that had begun to embrace the Cult of Mara. What a coincidence.

“Strange thing that, eh Rosco?” I began again, this time he swivels an ear to listen. I smile. “Why are there no Mamono Farriers?” I asked rhetorically.

I learned the answer from a Centaur; That the Chief God, in one last act of spite against the Great Maou, had somehow ‘tainted’ all of this world’s supply of Iron. Mamono were now unable to touch it without harm, let alone work it.

“Which is bad news for the Centaur, the Unicorn, and the Nightmares.” I recalled, frowning.

“Dwarfs could’ve at one time. But since they’ve all been converted to full Mamono, they’ve lost that ability. I guess that’s one of the downsides of being absorbed into the ever-expanding Dark Empire of Makai.” I mused, mostly to myself. Rosco didn’t care. He couldn’t hold a hammer with his hooves.

So, I did my best to fill in that gap. Thus Rosco, our wagon, and me.

Every Basket (3-months-ish), I’d go and visit Amzi. To pay him my apprentice fee. Including the fee for his investment in my venture. Wagons and horses didn’t come cheap here after all.

True, he did have them both on hand. But they weren’t sitting idle.

For all of his faults, Amzi seemed surprised that I dealt honestly with him. I never cheated his measure.

I think he was impressed. Particularly since I felt that his fee, always came before my food.

Oh, I never stinted on Rosco’s fodder. Of course not. I’m no fool. He always ate. Like I said previous. A man needs to take care of his obligations. Rosco was mine.

I tried to hide my stinting, but Amzi always seemed to know. Every time, he invited me in for dinner, and fed me well.

“You know Rosco?” I piped up again, breaking the silence.

“I know we could’ve made a lot more money. By settling down in Sojar-Az. But I don’t regret not doing so.”

Ah, yes. Sojar-Az. The spawning grounds of the Prelates. It turned out that Missy had gotten them all wrong, concerning their treatment of all things feminine.

It was worse than what she described. Nauseatingly worse.

“Rosco. I’m ashamed for my species.” I said, finally. “Humans are idiots. We all claim to want honesty. Yet when we encounter honest folks, like the Mamono. We destroy them.” I sighed.

I’ll admit that I had hoped that the human-folks of Lural-Az, would actually make a good show of living up to what they preached.

But as usual, with every other religion. I found them wanting.

“Correction!” I perked up as I held up a finger. Rosco shied away from me when I did. I had to spend the next few minutes consoling him for my uncommon behavior.

“Every other religion,…” I began again, this time quieter, “save for the Cult of Mara.” I said cheerfully. “They actually try to practice what they preach. Even if what they preach involves fornicating. A lot.” I grinned.

“Unlike the Prelates.” I murmured; as my thoughts turned sour then.

“Rosco?” I asked him finally, “Would you think less of me, if I decided to quit? Not shoeing horses, not that! Instead, I’m thinking we should go instead to Pellucidar.” I said, and left it hanging.

Rosco didn’t say anything at first. I’m sure he was just as shocked as I was with my newfound honesty.

‘I want to quit; obligations be damned.’ I thought then. ‘I want to seek out service in Pellucidar instead. What would Amzi say if I did? I’m so afraid that he would not allow me to. I can’t break with him. After all, when we leave this Vale of Tears, we leave with nothing save our Honor.’ I thought sadly, feeling like it was a choice of Scylla or Charybdis. The original choice. Not the latest.

Yes. The first couple of years. Rosco and I did well.

Unfortunately, like human societies everywhere, suspicion always fell upon the Outsider.

Oh, I’ll admit, I didn’t help my cause.

Despite numerous invitations, I never attended any of the Prelate church services. Like a good human male should have, according to them.

Even if I had. It wouldn’t have been enough. Inevitably, I’d be pressured to re-marry. I’d have had to choose a wife from one of the mentally-broken human women.

I always compared them with Missy, and I decided that I couldn’t do that to them. I simply could not, would not, help perpetuate their cycle of female degradation.

Nor did it help, that I consorted with the Mamono.  Centaur, Unicorn, Nightmare; all of them did better with the shoes that I prepared for them.

The result of which, earned me a positive reputation with the Nihar-Az Centaur tribe.  Oh, yes. Centaur needed shoes. Not just for themselves. For they too had horses. It’s not like they’re going to use themselves as pack animals.

Humans don’t, why should they?

I did my best to keep my dealings with the Mamono a secret. Because If the Prelate ever learned of it, I’d have been invited to a cook-out. One I’d not walk away from.

But there was one other, more important reason, I had to be especially careful. I had discovered a way to neutralize the ill-effects of the aforesaid, Chief-God’s curse.

Even worse? I treated Mamono the same way I treated my human customers. Fairly and with honest work.

Which isn’t an easy thing to accomplish, when it came to humans. They were always trying to cheat me out of my fee. I’ve lost count of the number of folks who would cry poor-mouth. To try and beg off the fee I’d have charged.

Then they’d pretend they didn’t know me, when I bumped into them at the nearest tavern, after.

Then, came the very day when I decided to resume my praying to the Virgin. There, in what I thought was a deserted house. a customer walked in on me.

Awkward. And more than a little dangerous.

My explanations about the subtle differences between the Cult of Mara, and the Cult of the Blessed Virgin Mary? All of it fell on deaf ears.

The local Prelate banished me. The rumors followed, and business dropped some more.

As luck would have it. About that time. A courier managed to track me down. She delivered a message addressed to me, from Amzi. I’d been summoned. No reason given.

Amzi needed me, so that was enough. Despite my eagerness to return. I had a major problem with visiting him.

Just before I began my last tour of the local provinces. Amzi’s widowed sister, Adira, came to live with him. She was younger than I. But still old enough to know better when it came to remarrying.

She was also the reason, why I never stayed any subsequent night with Amzi. The last time I did, she demonstrated that she was not old enough to know better in other aspects of male/female interactions.

Namely, she attempted to ‘interview’ me. To ascertain my suitability for a husband. In the middle of the night.

I’d have preferred a more honest courtship. Someone who valued honesty as greatly as I did.

Someone like Missy. Even as young as she was.

Or so I thought at the time.

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When I arrived at his farmstead, Amzi wasn’t immediately available. He had me wait in his den, for what seemed the longest while.

Eventually he did. I was shocked beyond measure, when Adira wheeled him in on the Lural-Az equivalent of a wheelchair. Then after bowing, she walked off, leaving us two alone.

Before I could speak, he waved off my concerns.

“Don wanna hear it.” He growled at me; half his face slackened. Upon that, I swallowed my questions. I then sat in silence with him for a long while. Then suddenly he spoke, out of the side of his mouth.

“I be seein’ me Dullahan, Sam. She be here. In this room. Nah! Don bother to see.” He commanded, as I attempted to look around.

“They be coy. Only their intended can.” He half smiled. I bowed my head, and tried not to cry then. I understood what he was trying to tell me.

“So Sam?” He started up again. “Adira not nuff for yah?” He asked, snidely. Which was his usual style. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t get me wrong Amz.” I shot back with a smirk. “Adira is a nice young lady. But that’s the point. She’s young. She needs someone more her own age.”

“That so?” He grinned. I knew that grin, all too well by then. He knew something I didn’t. Something important.

“Yah prefer older eh?” he asked, I nodded.

“Why let Missy go? This fool see way yah look at her.”

“Hold on now, Amz. What are you going on about?” I demanded. His grin got wider.

“She nah told yah?” He inquired, puzzled.

“Told me what?”

“She my twin. Ha’Mark older.” He replied and started to laugh. Which left me in shock. His laughter soon turned to panting, then he started coughing. He wouldn’t stop, so I went and fetched Adira.

 Once she returned, he waved her off. Eventually, he made her leave, intending to speak only to me.

“How?” I begged, once I had the power to speak again. “You’re,…well,…old.” I pointed out. He half-grinned.

“Me mah was Amazoness. Back then, as male, I nah allowed stay.” He breathed.

“Here I was, thinking I was too old for her.” I mused. Feeling regret at the lost opportunity.

“Mamono. Long life. Look good longer. Fuck better.” He rasped. It was then that his eyes focused on something to my right. When I turned to see what it was, I heard him speak.

“Hello Dully.” I heard him whisper. Then, I felt a chill breeze that ruffled my hair. When I turned back, he had already passed.

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Old age. It happens to the best of us. As I knew, it would eventually take me as well. Sooner, if I didn’t find a suitable blood-thinner replacement.

Ayah, I did find a suitable sub a while back. But the source was only available deep in Sojar-Az. I didn’t dare go back, now.

Then, later that day, during the wake. I learned two things I never knew about the crotchety old bastard.

(1) he was a lot older than I gave him credit for. Converting his sleep count into Earth years. I estimated he was about a hundred and fifty, give or take. Considering he was still chasing skirts up until his stroke. I was rather impressed.

(2). When I gave my condolences to his sister, Adira. She smiled at me and went to retrieve the moneybag. The one he always dropped my payments into.

When I saw her doing that. I automatically pulled out his latest payment from my belt and began to count it out.

“No!” Adira said, giving me a sad smile.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“He wanted you to have this, when he died.” She sniffled, as she dropped the moneybag in front of me, and sat herself down alongside me.

“Why?” was all I could manage, as I lifted the moneybag. It was heavy.

“He appreciated your honesty.” She said as she began to cry. I comforted her the best I could.

Once she was stable again, I offered her the bag. Then half, then at least something. She waved them all off, claiming that since she had the farm now, she already well off.

Both of us carefully avoided the subject of her still being a widow. I don’t think either of us wanted to part ways on a bad note.

“What are you going to do now?” she wondered. I thought about it. Then it came to me.

“I’m gonna go and find Missy. Tell her the news. She deserves to know.”

“Yes please Sam. She does. If you find her, give her this.” Adira said as we parted. I didn’t know what it was, but it seemed pretty important. Whatever it was, it was surprisingly heavy in its bag.

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So, here I am. An hour later, motivated on getting out of Lural-Az right quick, and into Pellucidar proper.

I had been reduced to singing dirty ditty’s to Rosco. All the while hoping beyond hope that he’d take the hint, and start talking to me like Mr. Ed.

I’ve seen stranger things occur on the road. Don’t get me started.

It would’ve been nice to have someone else to talk to. Someone who wasn’t trying to either convert me, or kill me. Or both, as the Prelate was in the habit of during the last few Bundles.

And Spartan? He was bound to return and demand a portion of Amz’ estate. I definitely didn’t want to be around when he did.

As I knew he was determined to throw me under his wheel of misfortune.

How did I know that, you ask?

Because by that time. He had become an Order Priest.  Apparently, every other profession expected him to do an honest day’s labor.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in the habit, pardon the pun, of bad-mouthing priests. But, once again, the way the Prelates treat their women? I will readily make an exception.

So, what did he do upon entry?

Did he work on improving himself?

 Did he go into seclusion to reflect upon his mistakes and seek redemption?

Oh no. Instead, he made friends. He networked himself into a web of cronies. Worst of all? He engaged in backbiting. Rumor mongering. Character assassination from the shadows.

Can you guess who his favorite target was, during the last couple of Tuns?

Me.

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