Wild Magic

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Faharmoy gestured at the door. “Take it down.”

A Cheoshim ran up the steps and swung an ax at the center panel.

Before he could get in a second chop, the door burst open and a wrinkled little Fundarim jigged from foot to foot in a panic, shrieking, “Nayo. Nay. What are you doing? Nayo. Nay. You want to come in, come. I’m not stopping you.”

Faharmoy snapped thumb against finger and the Cheoshim went back to his place. “You have bees in your house,” the Prophet shouted at the • little man.

“I have chenz trees,” the Fundarim said, voice shrill and quavery. “Come in, heshim Prophet, see for yourself, see that it’s the truth. I make my duty to Chumavayal every week. I am loyal. But I can’t get chenza fruits without bees to pollinate the blossoms. Come see my garden, Prophet. I give a full tithe of the fruit to the Camuctarr. Ask them. Ask the Manasso Receiver, he’ll tell you.”

“You are a silversmith, not a farmer. Why do you do what belongs to the Naostam?”

“I only have two trees and I don’t sell the fruit. It is my pleasure and harms no one. Certainly not the Naostam.”

“Contumacious! Take him.” Faharmoy stepped aside as two Cheoshim ran up the stairs. To the others, he said, “Cut down the trees and bum the hive.”

Faharmoy watched the band march the Fundarim toward the Sok Circle and the flogging post. “Excuses,” he cried to the silent houses, the empty kariam. “It’s always excuses. Why can’t they just say I have done wrong in your sight, Iron Father, I repent and throw myself upon your infinite mercy? Is there SO LITTLE virtue left in the. Land?”

He dropped onto his knees in the center of the kariam, lifted his face to the smoke smudged sky, the red flags of the setting sun, closed his ears to the sound of-axes coming from the house. Tears of sorrow and adoration streaming unheeded past his ears and onto his ashy robe, he began to chant the Iron Litany, the. Praises of Chumavayal.