Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1)

by Arpan Panicker

Let this tale be true to its beginning, as powerful and as elemental.

  I am a historian with the Guild. I do not have the gift to weave a scape. And even if, by some miracle, I found the fabric of reality responding to my clumsy exhortation, I would be committing a potentially fatal crime if I dared weave so much as a spider web. We archivists are forbidden from weaving. All that we witness is for the eyes of the archivist only and no tale should ever reach the outside world; the multitude of norms who stumble through their lives, clueless of the enormity of the events we witness. I have always been a watcher and analyst of words. I have never been allowed to create. However, with this manuscript I start my own scape; a written scape that will never be more than a tale; that will just record reality and pose no threat to its fabric. But nevertheless it is a scape; a tale of the greatest legend of our times; a legend that came true. And how!

  Nay! Let me do this right. I need to weave this tale in the manner it deserves. I have already mentioned several smidgens without context. As Mastersmith Silvus used to say, “… always set the context. You never know what form words will take if you do not set the context. Words are like a dragon. Till you have forged the reigns and the whip, do not set the dragon loose. Or you just might burn for your sins!” At that, he would burst out into booming laughter. He was a strange one. Things he found funny could well send a sheaf of shivers down your spine. But then, he was right. Context is indeed important, and I shall provide it.

  So let us go back to the beginning. Not 5,000 years back when the first wordsmith stumbled on to the gift, but rather the beginning of this tale.

  ***

  I received the summons early on a Sunday morning in the dead of winter. It was the kind of morning where you decided to wait to see if the afternoon was more civilised before creeping out of the precariously warm cocoon formed by the blanket and the bed. It was the kind of morning where you thanked your stars it was Sunday and you had no place to go. It was the kind of morning that was too good to be true.

  I was talking myself into venturing outside the comforting warmth of my blanket when my Guild phone beeped. I cursed the busybody who was sending out missives at this ungodly hour and pushed the blanket aside. I would have to catch my lazy Sunday some other week. The Guild could not wait. It never did. I quickly tip-toed across the frozen floor to retrieve the accursed electronic leash.

  The message was brief. “You have been commissioned to record a group scape. The synch point coordinates are given below. The quorum comprises all members of the inner council. Please ensure complete confidentiality. Transportation has been arranged and you can expect a pickup at 0800 hours.”

  I had an hour to pack and prepare for a trip halfway across the world on the biggest group scape I had ever witnessed. What a start to a Sunday!

  One frantic hour later, I was lugging my luggage across the foyer to the black limo waiting outside. I had not even had a coffee. My stomach grumbled as I detected a trace of fried bacon in the air, probably from the bistro next door. I studiously ignored the aroma and dragged my bags to the car. The chauffeur gave me an unfathomable look and said in a flat voice, “You can carry only one piece of luggage. A backpack would be advisable. Please be back in 15 minutes.” He promptly climbed back in the car and shut the door, leaving me standing there with my eight pieces of heavy luggage.

  23 insane minutes later, I was back at the car, out of breath, with a backpack hastily stuffed with the essentials of my trade and any clothing I could cram into the crevices. I was gasping and swearing under my breath as I clambered into the car, the door held open by the piece of wood acting as chauffeur. That was when I froze.

  The limo was a big one with space to seat six inside; five of the seats already taken, by five of the Big Six. AJ Silvus, the Mastersmith, was sitting in the front beside the driver. The other four were in the spacious back portion. They moved a bit to make space for me, though it was not really necessary. But then, I guess they did not want to associate too closely with a mere historian. I meekly slipped into position, muttering a ‘Good Morning’. The others weren’t in a good mood either and muttered right back at me. Silvus however was sunny enough for the rest of us.

  “Historian! Welcome to our quorum! House rules apply. You know us and we do not know you. We do the weaving and you record. We are operating at Ultraviolet here. I trust you have read the confidentiality agreement I sent you. Make yourself comfortable and help yourself to that little flask of brandied coffee. We have a long way to go!” He went through this entire spiel with barely a breath and was quite red in the face by the time he was done.

  The booming echo of his words was just dying down as the car sped away. I helped myself to a cup of the coffee and let the combined warmth of the caffeine and alcohol seep into my cold and harried bones. I could feel the silent outrage of the Big Five who I guessed were being treated as cavalierly as I was.

  No one mentioned the fact that I had kept them waiting for half an hour. That was a plus, I guess.

  As I sipped on the coffee, I surreptitiously looked around, studying the faces around me; each of them a legend of their times. And with wordsmiths, times go a long way. The first one to draw the eye was definitely Lily Pendleton.

  The first thing that struck you was her height. She sat there, all folded up into a corner. I had seen her before and knew that she was a good four inches over six feet. And she filled out that frame pretty well too. She had an ageless face, the kind where you knew she had to be over 30, but could not decide whether she was under 40, 50 or maybe even 60. She was staring out of the window, presenting her profile for study. Nice profile. Given all that Lily had done to get to the inner council though, the profile faded into insignificance. This was the woman who had woven the Gulf war and brought down Saddam Hussein before he could unleash his arsenal of WMDs (oh yes, there were WMDs. One fine day, poor Saddam woke up to discover that they had all disappeared). Powerful wordsmith and master strategist, Lily was the type you could count on, if you were foolhardy enough to trust her.

  Right beside Lily sat the smallest man in the council, Jimmy Sau. It was quite a sight to see little Jimmy perched beside the imposing Amazon. Dressed in his trademark long overcoat and nondescript formals, Jimmy seemed to be in some sort of a meditative trance. He was Tibetan and a Buddhist (aren’t all Tibetans Buddhist?). But then, given what Jimmy did, his lack of inches was more ironic than anything else. Jimmy Sau was the master of the Guild Hunting Lodge. The Hunting Lodge was the Guild’s shortcut solution to problems that non-violent weaving could not remedy; in short, an assassination unit. Jimmy was one of Silvus’s prodigies and had risen to this powerful position in a relatively short time. He had led the lodge for about five years, masterminding several key ‘removals’. Quite a few of these he had executed personally. He had also started the biggest renegade purge of all time. Over 20 renegade wordsmiths had been eliminated by Jimmy’s elite hunters in the last couple of years. Guild hunters were feared by all wordsmiths. There were times when a rebelling wordsmith with a strong opinion and a loud voice had been visited by a horror woven up by hunters. Before long, the same wordsmith would be in the recruitment chamber of the Post-Mortis division, talking to the notorious Zyx.

  Almost on cue, my eyes shifted to the lady herself, if ever such can be called a lady. Zyx was one of the prettiest women I had seen in the Guild. She was dressed in a suede brown outfit that fit her rather well. She was flipping through a magazine with half-closed eyes, indulging in little ladylike yawns every now and then. Vaguely oriental with a hint of the Mediterranean, she looked exotic and mysterious. No one knew where she came from, or even what her real name was. I mean, Zyx does not sound like the kind of name bandied about at a baptism. Silvus had produced her like a rabbit out of a hat when he founded the Post-Mortis division; the mandatory retirement-benefit devised for all dead wordsmiths who ended up as shades. She was the Guild liaison for the Post-Mortis division. While the Post-Mortis division was officially run by Landle Blairn
s, ex-Mastersmith and shade-in-charge, Zyx was the Guild’s mortal representative; the one who actually controlled the operations of the spooks unit.

  The remaining two of the Big Five (not counting the Mastersmith) were dozing. Woody Vegan and Samuel Losenbaum. They were from the pre-Silvus era and had managed to survive the inevitable top level purge Silvus instigated. Woody and Sam came from the reliable, rock-solid cut that seniority in the Guild had represented in older, more comforting times. They handled political and corporate operations. While the two did look pretty harmless, they had some of the most powerful men in the world reporting to them. Some of the most crucial government policies and corporate strategies were often initiated by these two benign grandpas.

  These were the five of the inner council. And the man who ruled them all sat lost to the world, his eyes closed, moving his head rhythmically to the music from his iPod; AJ Silvus.

  No one knew what ‘AJ’ stood for. Some said that even his mother called him AJ. Others said that she would not dare, and she too called him Master Silvus. Some voices whispered that he had no mother at all.

  Silvus was the most gifted wordsmith the Guild had known in a long time. He had been ‘found’ at 25, when on the verge of going renegade with an intensely powerful and untrained gift. The Guild did manage to harness his gift and shape it in the prescribed manner. What they did not see coming was Silvus shaping the Guild in return. He wove his way to the top of the Guild in an incredibly short time, with tremendous efficiency and singular ruthlessness. As Mastersmith of the Guild, Silvus rewrote the weaving books. And with the upper ranks staffed with wordsmiths loyal to him, Silvus had little or no opposition at all.

  I allowed myself a silent sigh as I ran out of the pleasantly alcoholic coffee. I was in a car with the most powerful men and women on the planet. This was the group I was spending my Sunday with. I needed more brandy.

  The car took us to a private flying club the Guild used from time to time. A compact but efficient looking plane was waiting for us. We were in and just like that, we were off. The flight was to take eight hours. Breakfast was served and I slowly revived in response to the fried eggs, bacon and toast.

  We were all given dossiers; colour-coded to denote security clearance. The others got thick beige-coloured files and I got a slimmer navy-blue one. The historian was always given information on a need-to-know basis.

  There was a minute of silence before a blast of noisy exhalations. I exhaled slowly myself. I was not the only one who thought this was lunacy! The barely subdued reactions of some of the council members showed that they were pretty shocked too.

  It was an innocuous looking intro page:

  Scape ID: The Wordscapist Scape

  Quorum: AJ Silvus, Lily Pendleton, Jimmy Sau, Zyx, Historian

  Objective: Weave the essence of the Wordscapist lore into existence and channel it to the Mastersmith

  Synch Point Location: ,

  Standard Spells: Covenant Seal, Fractahedron Helix, L’Esprit – Definition, L’Esprit – Assignment

  Scape Details: Not cleared for current profile

  Even as the words sank in, the thought came to my mind; Silvus had lost it! He wanted to become the Wordscapist! The Wordscapist! What was he thinking! Looking at the others, I could make out that the same thoughts were passing through their minds too. Only Jimmy Sau and Zyx looked unperturbed. While Sau continued reading like a good boy doing his homework, Zyx pulled leisurely on a cigarette, flipping through the pages like the folder was just another magazine.

  I looked again at the file. The Wordscapist!

  Myth, rumour, legend; call it what you will, but ever since the Guild has existed, there has been talk of the Wordscapist. In many forms and roles, the Wordscapist has captured the imagination of every member of the Guild at some point in his or her life. It would be difficult to capture the sum total of all the whispers, but I shall try.

  For some reason, the Wordscapist has always been a ‘he’. There has never been any ambiguity there. He is supposed to be the ultimate wordsmith; a man gifted in the art of weaving, beyond all realistic limits. The gift exists in each wordsmith. But the big scapes often need groups of wordsmiths to make them work. The current quorum was an example. The Wordscapist was supposed to be the pinnacle of weaving; a wordsmith who would never need a quorum or standard spells. He would weave freely, creating and modifying reality like a maestro painting confident brushstrokes on a canvas.

  There were many theories on what such a man would be like, and how he would operate. Some say that he is ageless (the gift has of course made him immortal) and others say that it is a secret society of wordsmiths that passes the gift on from generation to generation. One version has him coming to life every 100 years, making sweeping changes to the world and cleaning up after the Guild. There is even a secret cult that prays to him, believing him to be the unnamed God that protects the Guild and sustains the gift of the word within every wordsmith. The versions are numerous. The name though is always the same; Wordscapist. This is the lore that Silvus hoped to capture and make his own. The megalomaniac!

  At this point, the protests got more vocal. Woody and Sam had been conferring with angry whispers. They got up and walked to Silvus’s seat. I could barely hear the conversation in the muted atmosphere of the pressurised cabin, but then it did not take a genius to figure out what it concerned. Woody and Sam were not happy at all about the proposed scape and were making their displeasure very obvious. For a second, I wondered whether I should join them.

  I sneaked a look at Lily Pendleton. She looked tense and apparently in two minds about what she should do. I noticed that she kept glancing nervously at Jimmy Sau. I craned my neck to see what Sau was doing.

  He was not reading the dossier after all. He had his eyes closed in some kind of a meditative trance, muttering some inaudible words. Every now and then, he raised a finger to Zyx, who would say a word or two with an almost bored expression on her face. They were weaving a scape, and from the look on Lily’s face, they were brewing up something nasty. She seemed to have figured out what they were doing. And if Lily Pendleton had broken out in a cold sweat, it had to be something very nasty indeed.

  I was just the historian on the scape. I had no part to play in the proceedings. I just pressed back into the seat and tried to make myself as invisible as possible.

  I could see the argument between Woody, Sam and Silvus becoming very heated. Silvus was standing now and his huge frame towered over them. Woody was trying the good-guy approach, advocating reason while Sam had lost it and was almost purple in the face, shouting loudly. Some of the words reached me. In no particular order, they were ‘maniac’, ‘crazy’, ‘suicidal’, ‘Sign’ and ‘forget it’. Silvus had a particularly evil expression on his face as he glared at the other two. In that one instant, I could imagine the most horrifying tales I had heard about his ruthlessness might well be true.

  Silvus held up his hand to the two before him indicating that the conversation was at an end, and quickly turned around and entered the cockpit, closing the door behind him. Woody and Sam were flummoxed by the abrupt dismissal. Lily quickly stood up and made her way to the rest room. Both Sau and Zyx got up at the same time. I was frozen in terror and did not know what to do.

  Sau said one word that loosed the scape he had been weaving…

  The air seemed to warp inside the cabin as everything stretched. Time came to a standstill, and I could see everything happen in slow-motion. Woody and Sam started moving away from each other. Both of them started speaking; some defensive spells I guessed. Whatever the spells were, they did not stand a chance. The air before them dissolved in a shower of splinters that headed for the two old timers. Sudden, intense sound reached my ears; screeching, shattering, exploding. I could see hundreds of wickedly sharp, transparent splinters suspended in the air, and I knew I was within the time warp created by the scape. An eternal instant later, the warp ended. The splinters exploded towards the two
older wordsmiths. I ducked instinctively. I need not have bothered. Each and every one of the splinters found their bodies. Just like that, it was over. Both of them fell dead to the floor, ripped to shreds.

  In shock, my eyes searched for something else to look at. Anything but the mindless horror I had just witnessed. I saw the page I was studying when all the madness had erupted. One line leapt out at me.

  Quorum: AJ Silvus, Lily Pendleton, Jimmy Sau, Zyx, Historian

  Woody and Sam were not mentioned in the list. They had been brought along to be executed.

  I had just one thought in my mind. The list mentions me. I am safe; for now.

  CHAPTER 2

  A Terrible Sunday Morning

  Choice is a terrible thing

  It makes you think

  It makes you live

  It makes you kill

  And then shows you another way

  Slick

  There are times when life feels like a movie. Actually, more like a trailer. Flash, memory. Flash, reality. Flash, illusion. Flash, disturbing memory. Uh-oh. Erase. Flash. It’s a trailer gone wild. It’s a trailer of a scary movie. Hell, it’s my life!

  I could see my reflection in the train window. Still the same innocent, too-young face trying to look older and more serious. I tried to catch my eyes in the half-visible reflection, to see if I had aged there. No, nothing different there either. I looked just the same, despite everything that had happened. The flashes of the morning came and went, bringing images and words. I had to stop thinking!

  I had my music on and the lead singer of Greenday was asking me to wake him up when September ended. “I hope I’m alive ‘til then,” the words thumped through my head. I did not like them one bit. But then, the words were always there; the one constant in my crazy life.