Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 05

"What is it?" his sister asked, only to see the focus of the commotion at the same time as Gideon – although the expression she affected was quite different.

"It's . . . a monk!" Gideon whispered. "A real Hopi monk!"

"So?" scoffed Tayanita. "Those . . . fucking Hopi have been begging at my people's door for generations. Their preaching hurts the ears of our spirits. And they're pacifists," she said, openly scornful. The art of warfare was a well-developed cultural aspect of Cherokee, Chocktaw, and many other clans who had settled in the Okie Kingdom – the saffron-clad Hopi missionaries' reluctance to participate, and indeed their practice of condemning the practice of warfare, were looked upon with open scorn. "They don't fuck, neither," she added with contempt. "How can you trust a man o' god what don't fuck?" she asked, as if that was a crime against nature.

"Catholic priests do not marry," Gideon pointed out, gently. "Surely you've met some Atlan or Louisianan Catholics, haven't you?"

"Yes, but they only say they don't fuck," she pointed out, crudely. "If my friend Atoya's experience at the convent school in Baton Rouge is any guide, their attention to their vows is at best nominal. The fucking Hopi monks," she said, nodding in the direction of the old man who had caused such a ruckus, "they tend to really not fuck. Or fight. Or eat meat. Or drink," she added, finishing her brandy.

"And that offends you?" He was always amused at the surprising prejudices his sister demonstrated. The inter-clan rivalries of the Red Indians were almost as amusing to him as the similar rivalries between the Empires of Europe and their fetid aristocracies.

"I have no argument with their religion," she said, carefully, "but their society is foreign to my people. They were in too close a proximity to Near Cathay, and took up their religion without looking to their other cultural gifts. That's fine, such as it is – but they can't keep it to themselves. They have sent out missionaries for hundreds of years – everywhere. As far as the Saltless Seas, and the Ocean of Grass. To my people's original home in the Appalachians, even."

"I've always heard the Hopi monks were fortune tellers of great repute," Gideon observed, chuckling at his sister's annoyance. "Aged mystics in their bleak mountain caves, doling out wisdom and mystical offal to everyone who can reach their peaks, that sort of thing."

"If only that was th' extent," his sister snorted, curling her lip derisively. "Don't need to go all the way to Hopiland t' get your fortune. Plenty o' holy men around Tillassi and Guthrie, sick on peyote and spouting mystical nonsense. Everywhere, I expect. I've seen their likes, the wild men from the Open Plains, and the medicine men of the swamps of Louisiana. Mostly a bunch of charlatans and harmless fanatics. Love spells and speaking to your ancestors and the like.

"But the Hopi monks come and they preach and they preach and they preach – more than a body can stand! I have no more desire to take refuge than I do to be saved from Perdition," she said, defiantly. "Reincarnation or resurrection, neither hold my attention as sufficient as ascension."

"Do you think I could get him to tell me my fortune?" Gideon asked, impetuously, not taking his eyes off of the wizened old man. "I've always loved that sort of thing. A Roma witch once read my palm in Cheapside, then offered to get her daughter to suck me off for half a crown," he mused. "Cheeky wench said I'd challenge the titans of the earth and become a force to topple empires. She did not believe so much that she would reduce the price for the fellatio, however. One would assume a toppler of empires would be due a discount."

"You can ask," she admitted. "'Bout the fortune tellin', that is, not the bargain cocksucking. Almost all of them bald-headed johnnies got some magic beads or sticks or such. They throw lots, some pretend to prophesy, and some will examine your head. But it's their damn begging bowl that's in your face before you can take a breath."

"I'm going to ask," Gideon decided, sliding out of his chair. "And do be good to Bonney, won't you Sissy? If you are going to fuck a wild creature, you cannot expect it to become tame overnight."

"I know, I know," she replied, glumly. "He ain't my intended or anything. We're just good friends who rut occasionally. Still, hurts my feelin's. We get back to the hanger by the skin o' our teeth, and finally see your ship in the sky, and the bastard has the nerve to be all fucked out when I want him!"

"Well, in his defense, we were staring death in the face," Gideon offered. "Any moment we could have been consigned to doom."

"Like that ain't his life every other day?" she asked, scornfully. "He's gonna find a grave afore he finds a cane, that 'un. Still, he shoulda known better! He does! He knows I get worked up in a sky-fight an' need to . . . blow off some pressure!"

"Just don't make him suffer overmuch. I have need of men such as he. And, apparently, so do you."

"I'll make up with him," she agreed, sullenly. "But that don't mean we're pickin' out wedding blankets!"

"I'm certain he'll be relieved to hear you say that," Gideon agreed. "Off to hear my oracle!"

"Superstitious idiot," he heard his sister whisper under her breath. Gideon didn't mind – he had a minor fascination with the occult, and having his fortune told by an authentic Hopi Buddhist Monk in an authentic German beer-hall on the dusty plains of Oklahoma was just the thing to tickle his fancy. He made his way through the crowd, mostly curious Germans and a few guilty-looking natives who were apparently back-slid Buddhists, to where the man was standing.

Hans, the burly barkeep, was standing imposingly in front of the Indian, arms akimbo, a hard expression on his classically Teutonic face.

"Ve vill haf no trouble from your kind!" he said, adamantly. "If you don't like beer, don't preach against it unter mein roof!"

"Peace," the wizened monk said, bowing submissively – yet with great dignity. "I wish only to beg—"

"He is a holy man," one of the stoic Choctaw mercenaries said, quietly but sternly. "He should not be harmed."

"Oh, let him stay, Hans!" a German chemist insisted, drunkenly. "It vill be good sport!"

"If efan one uv mein patronz complainz . . . " Hans said, warningly, raising a fat finger at the man.

"I say," Gideon said, interrupting the rotund Saxon before he could complete the threat, "old man, I've heard it said that your sect can see the future and tell a man's fortune. I'll see you well paid if you would do me that service." For emphasis Gideon jingled his wallet.

"Do not insult the holy brother," the Choctaw infantryman said, looking at Gideon menacingly. While he had to admit the potency of such a gaze, the truth was that Gideon had long learned to ignore such stares from natives – if nothing else, enduring his sister's glares had hardened him. "He is not here to do tricks for White men. He speaks the path of the Awakened."

"Nor would I ask him to do tricks," Gideon soothed. "I have the same respect for all holy orders. But a man likes to have a glimpse of what Destiny has in store for him, and his sect has a reputation for oracles. Helps in planning your afternoons."

The big Choctaw started to respond angrily, but the monk held up a wrinkled hand wrapped in his turquoise rosary and the man desisted in an instant. Then he turned gracefully to Gideon and bowed. "I would be pleased to relate this man's dharma to him," he said quietly, in strangely-accented English. "All walk the path towards Nirvana, even the Whites." Gideon shot the mercenary a triumphant look as he led the monk through the crowd and towards a small, unoccupied table.

"Can I buy you a drink, Brother . . .?"

"I am called Sumki," the old man said as he sat gingerly in the rough wooden chair. "For I seek."

Gideon was certain that there was a long and complicated story behind the name and the old monk's mysterious manner, but he was anxious to hear his oracle. But there was the matter of hospitality to attend to. "Of course you do, old man. But do you seek a drink, is what I'm asking."

"I will have water," the monk conceded with a nod of his brown, bald head.

"Well then," Gideon said, excitedly as he clapped his hands together, after ordering for them both from a passing barmaid, "I'm Captain Gideon Becker, Brother Sumki. I'm curious – where did you learn your English? It's passing good."

"I was a guide for the monastery when I was a boy," he explained. "I traveled with many English and learned their tongue. French, Spanish, and Dutch, as well. "

"Brilliant!" Gideon nodded, sliding several silver coins – enough to pay for a month's worth of meals – across the rough wooden table until they rested near to the monk's elbow. "Pray, what do the Fates have in store for me?"

With a quiet sigh of patience the old man opened a simple cloth bag at his side, long faded from dust and sun – much like the man himself, Gideon noted – and withdrew a number of items. First was a small doeskin bag which proved to contain a multitude of odd trinkets, the second was a colorful native doll, like a child's toy, and the third was a handsomely decorated scroll case. "Every man has his dharma," the monk intoned as he opened the bag of lots. "And every man may know his dharma if he but ask the intercession of the spirits. When the great Muna Lama set me upon my path many years ago at the great monastery at Orayvi, he gave into my hand powerful medicine: the Kachina of Taatayi Kokyang Wuti, the Awakened Spider Woman."

"She looks . . . formidable," Gideon acknowledged, as he admired the strangely dressed wooden doll. "Does she . . . talk?"

"Kokyang Wuti brings the whispers of the Spirits and the Buddhas to my ears," Brother Sumki explained patiently in halting English. "She is the middle between Man and the Spirits. It was to her that Pahana brought the sacred scrolls first, so that she could bring them before all of the spirits and convert them to the path of the Awakened One." The old monk rattled off the folk tale as if it was the History of the Roman Empire, not a lot of native superstition. "But she says no words with breath."

"Well, as long as you can hear her, then, I suppose," Gideon chuckled. "So, what does she say?"

"She answers your questions," Sumki explained patiently. "Hold her gently in your hand and whisper your words into her ears. Then I will divine with the stones and hear her answer."

Gideon beamed indulgently, picking up the gnarled little wooden doll with exaggerated care, whilst imagining the proper way to phrase what he most wanted to know. He closed his eyes, imagining himself at some ancient Hellenic oracle, the gods themselves standing by to answer him. Finally, he leaned forward and whispered, "What course will lead me to love, riches, and fame?" into the doll's tiny ear.

Satisfied, he placed the poppet in front of the monk and waited. He had kept his whisper low enough that it was unlikely that Brother Sumki had heard a word of his barely-voiced inquiry, so he had little expectation that the alleged holy man would be forthcoming with any but the vaguest generalities.

With eager curiosity he watched the monk spill a little cornmeal on the table in front of him, wave a hummingbird feather through the meal until it was swept into a surprisingly complete circle – no doubt the old wizard had done this ritual many, many times in the past. "The sacred hoop is dharma's wheel," he said, reverently, then chanted something in Hopi or Chinese – Gideon didn't know enough about either culture to tell the difference. "We pour down our questions like the rain," he recited, and followed it with another long string of native gibberish. "Come unto us and speak the path of this man's dharma!" he intoned in a dramatic voice as he rattled the stones and bones within their pouch, throwing them the moment he spoke the last bit of the incantation.

Gideon eagerly bent forward to see what the tiny objects had divined for him – and was at a loss. There were five small stones of various hues, a translucent crystal, a tiny wagon wheel, a grain of maize, a clay feather, a copper coin and a twig. If there was special significance to any of it, it escaped him – it looked like the contents of the pocket of any eight-year-old boy in Brighton.

Brother Sumki noted the placement of each of the elements, and then drew forth the scrolls secreted within the case at his elbow, nodding significantly when he found whatever passage the oracle called for. Three more times he repeated the rite, before he replaced the tools of divination in their pouch and brushed away the cornmeal with some prayer or other.

"Well?" Gideon asked, impatiently, at the conclusion of the ritual.

"The spirits have much to say about you, Gideon Becker" the man said sagely as he eyed Gideon as if he was seeing him for the first time. "Let he who has ears and the sense to listen attend me: you are to be a great man, if you follow the dharma the spirits have laid before you. "

"Is that all?" Gideon demanded.

"The spirits say a great journey lies before you," the monk replied, serenely. "A journey of great importance, in many distant lands.".

"Well, since I'm an airship captain, that's hardly a novel horoscope," he sniffed. "Do you have anything more . . . specific? Fame and glory, for instance," he offered.

"You will make the cloud that destroys the dreams of kings," the monk said, as if in a trance. "You will capture the sun within a mighty spear of light. You will slay your enemies with your command. No man will be able to assail you. The kings of the nations of the earth will cry out against you, but you will not bend. Your name will be on the tongue of the multitude that will see in you a savior. You will strike at empires and they will bend to your command. Nations will serve you."

Gideon chuckled in surprise. "Oh, I find I quite like that fortune! Well, I can't imagine such a fate, but far be it for me to argue with the almighty spirits! Fortune? Am I destined for the workhouse in my dotage?"

"Great wealth of material things will be yours, and you will play with the jewels of the earth like they were toys. Gold and grain will be in great supply and you will want not. Yet you will care not for your treasure, for you will find greater riches than can be kept by a man."

"Fame, then wealth," Gideon smiled. "If I didn't know better, Brother Sumki, I might think you were gilding this oracular lily with every breath just to flatter me! What of love, then? Shall I die a bachelor?"

"Many will you sample before you discover your fate. You find your heart under a stone. You will see beauty in the eyes of one who does not. Your spirit will clash with your woman until the skies themselves ache. You will marry," he said, slowly – almost reluctantly, Gideon decided. "But the one you will wed is already long a bride, and carries three sisters on her brow. You shall know her for her skill at arms, for you shall not best her in contest. Blood will be spilt before your heart finds the mate to your spirit. Great misfortune, death, war follow in the footsteps of your union. And in finding your heart, you shall restore the broken sacred hoop of your blood by binding it with your friendship," he pronounced, and then grew silent.

"That is quite a fortune, then!" Gideon sighed, more than a little disappointed. It had been colorful enough, but he had really been hoping for something like: Go to France and build your airship, where you will meet an attractive noblewoman who is heir to some imperial throne willing to extend your exile in the most pleasant of ways.

Unfortunately, the Hopi monk was no more efficient in his pronouncements than the Roma sorceress had been. Or any of the other fortune tellers, medicine men, shaman and fakirs he had visited over the years. They all seemed to promise the same thing: riches, fame, and love, all in generous portions. Yet it never seemed to materialize. True, he'd been lucky at his trade of sellsword, and had acquired a small fortune in that trade, but it was dwarfed by his father's holdings, for example. It must be an occupational mandate of the soothsayers guild, he mused, to trade only in heady superlatives when fleecing their flock.

"It is as I have said," Brother Sumki bowed. "I spare you nothing of my visions."

"You didn't mention a violent death, I noticed," Gideon observed.

"Such is beyond the knowing," the man shrugged.

"Nor a reconciliation with my father," he added.

"I speak what I hear from the Spider Woman. The spirits show us our dharma only as much as they desire, and only what we truly need know. I say what I see, nothing more," the monk said, serenely. "Those words were for your ears, not mine. Only you can give them meaning."

"Thank you," Gideon sighed, placing a thick golden Louisianan Dollar in the monk's bowl on top of the silver already there. That was far more than a month's wages, even by the prosperous standards of Oklahoma, but Gideon didn't mind the expense. The reading had been highly entertaining if nothing else and the man seemed sincere, if a little addled. Well worth the cost – and some of his men had Buddhist inclinations, so the open display of largesse to the monk would be popular with them. Of course that meant he would have to be just as generous with the next Catholic priest or Protestant preacher they chanced upon to please the Christians among his men, but he had no trouble with that. Like his sister, he ascribed to no specific faith, Christian or Heathen, save his own code of honor and a sense of filial piety. Perhaps he might regret not cultivating a religion, he mused, in this most dangerous of trades, but Gideon cared not where he spent eternity, provided the company was good.

As he rose and glanced toward his ship's corner, he saw that most of his folk had already retired for the evening. A few mercenaries were deep in their cups, and three engineers were playing cards, but of Tayanita and Bonney, Wolf Rider and Black Joe and the others with whom he fancied sharing the result of his augury, there was no sign. With a sigh he left the beer hall and into the gas-lit evening.

The road between the city center and the airship fields was brightly lit, like all of Oklahoma's cities. The amazing profits from the Helium trade made the raw natural gas it was extracted from nearly a waste product – nearly all of the native homes were fitted for gas pipes for heating and cooking, and the King had invested lavishly in iron streetlamps, more than he had seen in any moldy European city. They provided him ample lamination to cross town on foot without fear of molestation by the occasional footpad, had his sword and pistol been inadequate protection. At this late hour, the rickshaws that carried the well-to-do were long gone from the cobbled track . . . but the whores, he saw, were quite awake.

The road to the airship yard was positively studded with whorehouses and pleasure palaces where an airman or an engineer could spend his time and money in this lonely place. Unlike some other cities he'd seen, they seemed prosperous and happy at their trade, not tired and desperate. While a majority were native girls or half-breeds, there were plenty of delicate French and robust Negro whores from Louisiana, some Celtic and Norse ladies from the Northern countries, and even a few American lasses from Philadelphia and New York, who had come west to seek their fortune with their twats.

But the house he favored was Madame Lei's Orchid House, which was stocked with only the finest Celestial whores from Near Cathay. There was something about the diminutive, fair-skinned women he found alluring, from the way they sucked his cock to the noises they made when he fucked them.