“I’ve heard them speak of it.” Mowara craned his neck for a better view. “From what I’ve been able to observe, they’re all addicted to it. It alters them in strange and subtle ways. They call it ‘coffee’ and believe it bestows on them special powers, diough I’ve no proof of dial. Maybe it’s some kind of collective ritual delusion whose social function is of paramount importance. See?”
As they looked on, the assembled monks raised their cups in unison and mumbled some sort of hypnotic chant, of which Buncan caught only the solemnly intoned words “Brighten your day” and the meaningless “caffeine.” Following mis brief ceremony they returned to their conferencing. Try as he might, Buonferencing. Try as he might, Buen-collective demeanor as a result of consuming the liquid. Any glow or enhancement they felt must be wholly internal.
The windowed boxes were something else, something tangible. He wondered at the complexity and staying power of the spell that caused the images displayed therein to change so rapidly. Often two or more of the monks would put their heads together and whisper furiously before tapping on the knobby panels. The unnatural activity raised prickles on his spine.
Listening intently, he thought he could make out some of the sorceral terms Mowara had mentioned during their first meeting, words like “haploid dispersion” and “mitochondria! enhancement.” There was frequent mention of the long necromantic term desoxyribonucleic acid.
“They’re concocting some great misfortune to throw against Wurragarr,” Mowara whispered. “We have to stop mem, we do. This all has to do with implementing the corporate plan.”
Buncan frowned. “ ‘Corporate plan’? What’s that?”
“I’ve heard them speak of it often. It’s the foundation of their sorcery, me framework for all the iniquity they work.”
Squill made a face. “Sounds like somethin’ that should be stepped on to me.”
“ ‘As a cold sound to it, it does.” Neena’s whiskers twitched involuntarily.
“You were right, Mowara.” Buncan rolled the shoulder the galah was perched on, trying to keep the muscles loose. “This evil does extend beyond your country. It needs to be stopped here, now, before it can grow and infect other parts of the world. Or even other worlds,” he added, mindful of Jon-Tom’s place of origin.
“Don’t want no bloody corporate plan pollutin’ the Bellwoods,” Squill muttered darkly. “Wotever it is.”
“Look, they’re doin’ somethin’.” Neena nodded toward the opening.
The monks were rising from their oddly upholstered chairs. The window boxes had gone blank, their glass faces now dark and imageless.
Raising a hand for silence, the figure standing at the head of the table solemnly addressed his colleagues. His words were clearly audible to the quartet huddled in the narrow corridor.
“We shall now vote.”
At that command they all threw back then- hoods and stood revealed in the steady lamplight as representatives of the same tribe, though many individual clans were represented.
Hares, Buncan realized. They were all hares.
“Why hares?” he found himself whispering aloud. “Why should they be the Dark Ones, the dabblers in evil? Why them?”
“I know. I know because I’ve listened to them rage, because I’ve watched their frenzies, I have.” Mowara’s beak was close by Buncan’s ear. “It’s because they’re sick of being thought of as cute and harmless. Ten thousand years and more of accumulated resentment has pushed this lot over the edge, it has. They’re tired of being cuddled and stroked by everyone else. It’s respect they want, and they ami to get it through sorcery.”
Puzzlement mottled Neena’s expression. “But they are cute and cuddly. ‘Tis the way they were designed. They can’t ‘elp it, the bloody fools. Would they rather be like the skunk tribe, wot nobody wants to get near? Wot’s wrong with this lot?”
“I told you,” Mowara whispered. “They’re so mad they’ve gone bad. Collective self-loathing. I think it’s one reason why they’re so set on creating new creatures, I do. Twisting and warping reality. Their anger has driven them insane.”
Buncan found himself staring at the nominal leader of the ten. His fur was predominantly dark brown, with white, unhealthy-looking splotches. With his wild eyes and buck-teeth that had been filed to sharp points, he looked anything but cute and cuddly.
“We will throw the blasphemers back!” he was declaiming.
“Fling them over the falls!” another added enthusiastically.
“This, too, can be incorporated into the Plan.” The leader ran a finger along the edge of the strange table. “Once this band of simple villagers has been defeated, there will be none to stand against us in the mountains. We can make servants and slaves of those who survive, and use them as the base for our planned corporate expansion. Mergers and takeovers can then proceed apace.” He let his gaze rove over his followers. “All those in favor?”
“Aye!” the chorus of acolytes resounded.
The leader nodded his approval. “See that it is so recorded in the minutes.” Lifting both hands, he tilted back his head and closed his eyes. His colleagues did likewise as he intoned The Words.“Stock manipulation. Insider trading. Currency exchange”
The room grew dark save for a singular greenish glow which seemed to emanate from the ceiling. The assembled monks murmured softly to themselves.
“They’ve certainly tapped in to something,” Duncan whispered. “Some kind of gloom-laden power I’ve never encountered before.” He wished silently that Clothahump were there.
Mowara shifted nervously from foot to foot on Buncan’s shoulder. “That’s Droww doing the invoking. He’s the biggest fanatic of the lot.”
The chanting rose in volume and the greenish glow intensified, until with a triumphant shout of “Leveraged hostile buyout!” the assembled monks vanished in a cloud of bilious smoke.
Buncan exhaled slowly. “That’s very impressive.”
“Where’ve they got to?” Neena wanted to know.
“Not far, not far, if experience is an indicator.” Mowara shifted to Buncan’s other shoulder. “To the Vault is my guess, it is, to prepare some special poison. Come, and we’ll find them.” Spreading aged but still competent wings, he fluttered off back up the corridor.
They had to avoid a single, pitiful guard: a transformed sugar glider whose wings hung about her in tatters. A prehensile tongue dangled from the misshapen head of what had once been a graceful gazelle. The sight turned Buncan’s stomach.
“Tread softly here.” Mowara settled once more onto Buncan’s shoulder. “This is the kitchen where decay is prepared.”
The corridor opened onto a vast chamber dominated by a lofty bowl-shaped ceiling. Lamps glowed in holders set high on stone walls. They stood on an upper floor looking down into a circular pit within which slablike tables and numerous cages were visible. The tables held much elaborate thauraa-turgical apparatus fashioned of glass and metal.
Buncan recognized the monks from the Board room. Hoods back, they were bustling about the exotic apparatus and cages, mixing fluids and measuring powders. Droww stood at an intricately inscribed wooden pulpit which supported a huge, open book. There was also a knobbed panel attached to its own small window. This pulsed with light and unseen schematics. The leader of the Kilagurri monks gripped the sides of the podium while watching his faithful at work.
“There, in the back.” Neena gestured insistently at the far side of the pit. “By the Black River itself!”
Buncan let his gaze follow her lead. She was pointing at the last row of stacked cages. These held not deformed monstrosities, not unfortunate travelers, but cubs: the young of numerous tribes. Even at a distance he could make out an infant flying fox and immature osprey huddled fearfully together. Both their wings had been clipped to forestall any chance of their flying to freedom.