by Soyna Owley
‘Sorry. That’s my desperation talking. This is all so mysterious,’ Dr Mohandas said, and then the voices faded.
Floyd shivered. What was Ninipuri? It didn’t sound real, the way Papa had reacted to it. And, why was there sand from the Souks of Durjipore in Farook’s room? It meant that there was some connection to the outside world, the sea and beyond. What was he going to do? And more importantly, was poor Farook okay? He tried to swallow the hard lump in his throat but it stuck, dry and unyielding.
5
Twickenham 3.01 p.m. to Durjipore Souks
Floyd crept down the stairs, careful to skip the squeaky first one after the landing. On the kitchen table lay the day’s copy of the Tranquebar Times.
The headlines screamed: THE FOX FAILS. TOLL OF MISSING CHILDREN RISES TO NINETY-SEVEN. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Farook was now a statistic. Number Ninety-five. There had been two more.
Upstairs, Ma rocked relentlessly in front of her shrine, praying to all the gods in her universe.
‘Maha Kaali, Thuppar Vaali, Maha Kaali …’ her voice floated down.
Good. She hadn’t heard him. He hurriedly packed a stash of tamarind tuckers, two sugar biscuits and a chocolate bar, and put them in his pockets, along with some money.
He ignored the guilty twinge that stung him and shut the back door. He was in the clear—at least for the next four hours. Ma was preoccupied; Papa was at the office. He looked at his watch. A half hour to get to the Souks, another half hour to get back. He could go and return with no one any wiser. He would begin his search for Farook, come back and make a plan for the next day. If he was careful, Ma and Papa would never know.
He blinked in the sunshine. The flowers in the garden seemed particularly colourful today, the leaves greener. Was it his imagination or were the creepers around the house thicker and more flowery than usual?
He closed the garden gate softly and walked by a side canal, jingling the tolas in his pocket. He stepped on to a narrow wooden bridge. The wooden slats swayed under his feet, causing a swarm of gnats to buzz up from the water lilies below. A small bell sounded. The 3.01 p.m. catamaran from Twickenham was getting ready to leave. He ran, tripping over a few times.
A green catamaran gleamed in the afternoon sun like a giant fish waiting to swallow its meal. For only two tolas, one could be chugged to even the remotest parts of the island, along the Gubernaculum. The catamarans were the only mass public transportation allowed on the island. There, he had heard people say, the resemblance to Venice ended. Durjipore was far noisier, more colourful and crowded.
Floyd handed the coins to a harassed conductor with a dishevelled red turban, watery green eyes and sweat rings under his arms. He quickly averted his eyes. A.E.C., he reminded himself. No need to draw attention.
‘Upper deck.’ The conductor waved Floyd away, slapped the wall of their catamaran with his hand and blew on his whistle. ‘RRRRRRRRRIGHT!’ he yelled.
The motor started with a small puff of steam and the catamaran staggered with a splash and sliced through the water. They were on Twickenham Waterway—a busy, long and wide canal that passed through the floating markets and ended at the Souks.
Floyd swayed his way up the spiral stairs, clutching the rail. Silk factory workers on their way home crowded under a faded green canopy, fanning themselves with newspapers as they chatted. A woman unfolded her leftover lunch from its encasing of banana leaves, releasing an aroma of onions and spicy fish. She squeezed lime on it and took rapid bites.
Aha. Floyd spied a space between a diminutive man with a long beard, his nose buried in a newspaper, and a man in a green cape, his face hooded. He squeezed in and leaned back. The man in the cape snored softly. Floyd got a flash of a long, white ponytail and sparkling rings on his fingers.
‘FLOATING MARKETS,’ the conductor yelled. The catamaran sputtered and came to a halt. The Souks were the next stop. Floyd looked at his watch: 3.06. Another twenty minutes or so and they would be at the Souks. He shivered in anticipation. He had never been this far along on that route. The evening vendors were doing a brisk business and their shouts wafted over to the deck.
‘You want pickled cobra? Make you brave and strong … delicious half-hatched quail egg? Good for you, very cheap …’
A gaggle of rafts piled with fruit, flowers, vegetables and fish floated around the parked catamaran. The earthy fragrance of squash blossoms and sweet pomegranates mixed with the sharp aroma of young, green mango pickles.
‘Vultures! Swines,’ the conductor cursed as a small raft bumped against the side of the catamaran. ‘Don’t come so close. You’ll scrape the boat.’ With a long stick, he pushed at a raft piled with dried fish. He screamed another string of profanities at its grinning oarsman, who glided away into a smaller waterway. The customers would bargain from the deck, and then lower a small basket down on a rope with the payment, and the vendor would take the money and put their goods in.
Floyd got up and stood at the deck, breathing in the smells, and looked down at the water. The surface was still, like glass, and as he watched, the murky green water began to clear.
All of a sudden, there was silence all around him.
People were still talking but he couldn’t hear them. All the busy sounds had quietened. Suddenly he saw her. There she was. Clear as day this time—a woman, standing just below the surface of the water, looking up at him. She wore a long, scaly robe and a small, sparkly tiara. Her skin was bluish-white and her silver eyes, like cracked marbles, pierced through him. Her silver dreadlocks cascaded to her hips and she smiled, revealing three rows of very sharp teeth.
Floyd closed his eyes and gripped the rail, his head swimming. When he opened them, the watery apparition had disappeared.
‘Try pamplemousse. Make you handsome for girls …’ a vendor yelled out at him and winked. Floyd smiled shakily, trying to quell his racing heart. This was the first time he had seen her so clearly. Who was she? And why did she keep appearing? Despite the heat, a wave of goosebumps crawled over his body. He sat down on a bench as he tried to compose himself. His heartbeat slowed and he took a ragged breath. A sound made him look around—a whimper. He stiffened. Nothing. He leaned back.
The caped man was still asleep and the other continued to ignore him. There was the sound again. This time, a yelp. He bent his head between his knees to look under his seat and recoiled. A huge brown dog crouched underneath. Floyd jumped up.
The dog crawled out and shook its body; its ears flapped like loose roof tiles on a windy day. Then it stretched and yawned loudly. The size of a small pony, it came up almost to his hip. A long strip of hair ran in the opposite direction from the rest of its body hair and curved perfectly over its spine, ending in a little ‘V’ shape a few inches above its tail. It wore a red collar made of woven leather—a small brass tag showed some strange symbols on it. This dog clearly belonged to someone. But who? And how did it find its way here?
‘SOUKS!’ the conductor yelled hoarsely, and blew into the little whistle around his neck.
The catamaran slowed down, and Floyd gripped the seat. Passengers started getting up from their seats in a flurry. The dog curled itself around his legs. Floyd pulled out a biscuit and the dog wolfed it down.
‘Good boy,’ Floyd said patting the dog on its head. The dog wagged its tail and stared at him.
‘Dogs aren’t allowed on this catamaran!’ It was the catamaran conductor—his eyes bulged and he was waving his hands as he sputtered. ‘How did it get here? I let everyone on myself.’
‘It’s not mine—’
‘A Rhodesian Ridgeback? Not even a Durjipore breed.’ The conductor had an unpleasant look on his face. ‘I’ll turn you in for smuggling in exotic animals, unless you show me the proper papers.’
‘I told you, he’s not mine—’
The catamaran shuddered to a stop and reeled to one side. Floyd slid across the entire length of the bench.
‘Great Garuda. Can’t they be more careful?’ Floyd
said, smoothing his shirt down as he stood up. The dog lay on the deck, its limbs splayed, whimpering piteously.
‘EVERYONE OFF. WE HAVE A SITUATION,’ the conductor yelled.
Floyd turned towards the stairs. He felt a grip on his arm.
‘You’re not going anywhere.’ The conductor yanked his arm. ‘You’re under arrest.’
‘What? You can’t … what for?’ Floyd held the deck rail of the heaving catamaran. ‘If it’s about this dog, he’s not mine.’
‘Telling stories, are we?’ The conductor blew his whistle and pulled a long chain hanging from a bar above. ‘He acts like he’s known you all his life.’ The dog growled at the conductor softly, then nuzzled its head against Floyd’s leg.
People gave him curious looks as they disembarked.
The dog sat down, its head cocked. It whimpered and licked his hand. Floyd tried not to imagine the look on Papa’s face when he got home. This was bad. Very bad.
Two men approached. It was the man in a green cape and the short man he had been sitting next to. They flashed their badges. Floyd groaned. Plain-clothes policemen from the Durjipore police department. Of course, they were patrolling the Souks. Now he’d really gone and done it. He felt a cold hand on the back of his neck as his collar was grabbed. He was hoisted up another flight of stairs as the dog followed, barking madly.
6
It’s Hobson-Jobson—Anything Is Possible
‘You’ll take him then?’ The short man smiled. He had a long, thin scar across his nose. The dog growled softly.
The man in the green cape didn’t say anything, but his grip on Floyd’s collar tightened.
‘Some kind of jiggery-pokery. I tell you,’ the conductor said, hopping up and down. ‘I checked everyone in. Don’t know how he did it. Those unearthly eyes.’
Floyd glared at him. The man shuddered but continued muttering under his breath.
‘Take the urchin and the cur to the storeroom. We can interrogate him later. I’m starving,’ the short man said.
Floyd’s pulse raced. ‘My father’s the chief inspector,’ Floyd said. ‘I’d like to call him.’
The short man laughed. ‘Now that’s a good one,’ he smirked. ‘Everyone knows the Foxwallah boy was kidnapped. Take him away.’
The caped man pushed Floyd up three flights of narrow stairs and into a small room. The door slammed and he heard the deadbolt being locked. The catamaran started again. The dog whined.
Floyd patted its back and to his surprise, the dog yelped. There were two large bumps on either side of its ridge.
‘Funny. I could have sworn those weren’t there a few minutes ago,’ he said, giving the dog his last biscuit. The dog snapped it up and licked his hand.
The room was filled with cleaning supplies, bleach, cleaner, mops and brooms, all attached to the walls. The evening sunlight shone through two large French windows. In the distance, the waterways twinkled against the darkening sky.
He pushed the windows. To his surprise, they swung open easily. His heart sank as he looked out. It was low tide. There was no way he’d be able to escape; he’d be dashed against the rocks in no time. He turned around and spied a door. It opened into a small washroom. He washed his hands in the sink, dried them and came back into the storeroom.
He paced around the room. Think, Floyd, think. He’d missed his chance to make it to the Souks. He wouldn’t be able to find Ninipuri for Ma and instead, he would be in a heap of trouble with Papa. He paced the room, back and forth, until a realization interrupted his thoughts.
The dog had disappeared.
By gum! Had the silly beast jumped out of the window? Floyd stuck his head out but the dog was nowhere to be seen. He turned back inside, his mouth dry.
Whirr … it sounded like a sheaf of pages being turned at great speed. A slight breeze blew over him.
The breeze was blowing from somewhere within the room.
A gust of air struck the nape of his neck. Something was right above his head. Very slowly, his heart thundering, he raised his eyes to the ceiling.
Floating above him was the dog. On either side of the dog’s body, moving in slow waves, were wings. Huge, reddish-brown, feathery wings.
His skin tingled unpleasantly.
Dogs didn’t fly.
The dog woofed, his wings spread over the ceiling as he looked down at Floyd and glided over by the window, blocking the light. This was impossible!
It’s Hobson-Jobson; anything is possible.
Oh, by all the gods in Ma’s shrine. How could this be happening?
Jumping up, he tried to grab the dog’s paw but the dog threw his head back, barked and flitted away elegantly. Tamarind Tuckers. Now what?
The sound of footsteps came up the stairs.
‘Come down, boy,’ Floyd said, his voice shaking. The dog did a somersault in the air and woofed. Floyd grabbed at him but missed as he sailed over Floyd and licked his ear, then flew around the room, knocking a mop over with a crash. Then he hovered by the window.
‘Get down here right now,’ Floyd said with gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice low.
To his relief, the huge dog lowered himself and landed on the ground on all fours, tottering for a second before regaining his balance. Its wings came from the middle of the ridge on his back.
So the ridge held wings! Those bumps he saw earlier must have been the wings straining to get loose. Could they be real? Floyd tugged at them gently. They held fast.
Floyd looked at the door, then at the dog.
All of a sudden the dog swooped under him, put his head between Floyd’s legs and scooped him up. Now he was on the great beast’s back, holding on to its neck.
‘W-what are you doing, boy?’ Floyd said to the dog, shaking.
As if it were the most natural thing, the dog pushed his tense back legs into the carpet. Floyd’s heart raced. For a second the great canine’s body shivered and then, with a loud bark, it lunged out of the windows, its great wings flapping, and sailed into the evening sky. They were flying.
‘NO! Turn around. Go back.’ Disregarding his pleas the dog climbed higher into the air. Floyd clung to him and buried his face in the dog’s warm, furry neck. Oh, by Garuda. Where was this animal taking him? The air swirled around his legs. Below, the fireworks of Hobson-Jobson crackled and sputtered; colours and sparks whizzed by them and exploded in the clouds.
7
Yama Forest
We’re so dead. Dead dead dead.
Floyd squeezed his eyes shut as they flew higher, the dog’s wings cutting through the thin air.
If he’d ever had the slightest doubt that he was unlucky, it was gone.
They flew steadily, clouds streaming past them like escaped stuffing from a down pillow. He trailed his hand through one—it left a wet chill on his arm.
It all felt dreamlike—the criss-cross cobbled streets, the small row houses, the misty waterways and the sleeping catamarans spread out below like a fairy village. A thrill passed through him, despite his fear.
In a few minutes, the air became warmer and smelled of ripe Alfonso mango. They were flying over a glimmering lake. How he wished he had paid more attention in geography class! The dog turned and licked him on his face.
He patted the creature’s head. ‘You are a dog, right?’ he said, huddling into it.
Suddenly, the Ridgeback’s back stiffened and it barked loudly. In the distance, a pinprick of light wavered and then burst into view.
A flame-coloured bird, the size of a small biplane, with deep purple plumage on its head, hovered in front of them. Its silver eyes locked on Floyd as it opened its yellow beak, curved and pointed as a scythe. Floyd gasped. Its shriek was so piercing that he reflexively put his hands over his ears and lost his balance.
He flailed as he plummeted through empty air. The dog swooped under him, staggered from the impact and then climbed the air, its sturdy wings beating. Floyd clutched the Ridgeback’s powerful neck. Great Garuda! What was this monster-bird t
hat moved like oiled lightning?
The bird’s burning feathers, as hot as freshly-hammered iron, brushed the entire side of his body as it swooped by them at terrifying speed.
Floyd felt like he would vomit his beating heart out. ‘Turn around. NOW!’ he yelled at the dog as the bird came at them again.
The bird came towards them. Floyd ducked, but this time instead of going past, it stayed alongside, so close that every feather on its face was visible, its cold silvery eye within a few feet of his own.
Floyd shivered. Was this strange creature a friend or foe? Oh, just swallow us and get it over with, he thought bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut.
The bird flew by them, not making any move. The dog was beginning to pant, his lungs wheezing. Floyd stroked his neck. The poor creature needed to rest.
Abruptly, the dog took a sharp turn towards the bird. Teetering, Floyd flung his arm out and grabbed the bird’s feathers, but immediately let go as a stinging burn shot through his arm. In his tingling palm was an orange feather with a purple tip. It was as long as a cricket bat and the fine down that fanned out on either side could easily cover his chest.
The bird screamed and sliced through the air, dropping several feet in a single breath. It rose just as fast and came at them again. Floyd bit his lip and clamped his legs tight against the dog’s torso. The wind whipped his face. They were descending quickly.
A vast expanse of treetops with bright purple flowers was rushing up rapidly. The trees looked like little umbrellas, all tightly pressed together. The dog whipped towards the huge forest with its low-lying trees, ears pressed back, snout downwards.
Floyd shut his eyes tightly, the wind whistling in his ears.
The colossal bird brushed against the treetops, screaming, but didn’t follow. It couldn’t fit. Thank the gods.
Floyd clutched the dog—they were approaching the ground much too quickly. Branches tore at his arms and leaves whipped his face as they crashed through the treetops. The Ridgeback yelped as they tumbled into a clearing. Floyd rolled over several times and his head slammed against the trunk of a tree, shaking it so hard that its vivid purple blossoms blanketed them, releasing a lavender scent. A jacaranda.
