“Ummm… No thanks. I am just looking for the Gypsy Shack.”
“This guy seems ok,” the voice in my head spoke up.
I did a double take inside my head, if you can imagine that. What the hell! I would deal with this later. I could see the man looking at me weirdly. I smiled at him, “Could you help me find this place?”
“Gypsy Shack?” he asked and then spaced out for a few seconds, his face a picture of furious thought, as if he was trying to figure out the meaning of life. “Yeeesss,” he drawled, “Akto’s place! You want meet gypsies man? You want gypsy stuff?”
“Dude!” I grabbed his arms and looked him in the eye, trying to get beyond his weed-induced stupor, “What is your name?”
He stared at me, trying to figure out this extremely complex question. Finally he smiled as the answer struck him, “Antony!”
“Good! Now Antony, listen to me,” I tightened my grip on him, “I need to meet Akto. I do not want any stuff now, or later for that matter. I do not do marijuana. I’ll let you know when I need a bike or a room, but that is for later. Right now, I need to meet Akto. Could you take me to Akto?”
He looked at me for a while as if trying to figure out what language I was speaking. Then he hugged me, “Anything man! You are like my brother. I will do whatever you want. You want meet Akto, I take you to Akto. Come, come!” He grabbed my hand and started walking.
“No marijuana?” the voice asked me. That did it! If the voice had just been me, it would have known that. This voice was someone - or something - else. It did not know me! “What are you?” I hissed furiously. Antony was some way ahead and did not hear me. The voice seemed not to hear me, or chose not to. There was no response. I realised Antony was drawing away and sped up. The voice could wait.
For a junkie on a constant high, Antony walked fast. As I staggered along with him, I looked up at the sky and silently asked whoever was up there if I should be grateful or scared for whatever help this brotherly pothead would give me.
What followed was a twenty-minute walk and impromptu tour. We walked down a narrow road with a variety of curio shops and restaurants lining it. I could smell the sea but could not see it. I wondered where the beach was. And then, at one point, Antony plunged into an even narrower lane that shot off from the road we were walking. Two minutes later, we were on the beach.
It was like entering a different world. Up ahead was the bright azure of the Arabian Sea, and the beach was filled with people. There were enough sights, sounds and smells here to drown a person. I doggedly kept after the scurrying Antony. Walking on the sand was not easy, especially with my heavy backpack feeling considerably heavier by the minute. However, the sight of the sea helped. In all my life, there was nothing I found as relaxing and pleasing as the sight of the endless blue of the ocean. I could sit for hours on end on the cool sand and watch the waves crash against the shore. The sight of the sea made everything alright. I somehow did not mind the thought of a disrupted life if it had brought me to the ocean.
All this while, Antony drawled on. He pointed out shacks to me, stopping to call out his greeting to bikini clad sunbathing women, turning to me to wink meaningfully. He staggered around, talking to every other foreigner on the beach. Amidst a sea of near-naked bodies, I looked extremely out of place in my sweatshirt, jeans, trainers and backpack. My sunglasses were the only saving grace, considering everyone sported a pair. I started wishing fervently that I had stopped to drop the bag off at a hotel room and change into more comfortable gear. Soon, the warmth and the humidity coupled with the sheer effort of trudging through the sand got to me. I was sweating so hard I was afraid I would keel over from dehydration. We passed shack after shack, all of them looking the same, with easy-chairs laid out, covered with beach towels and sunbathing tourists. Menus were listed on boards, promising fresh lobster and calamari that had just been brought in from the sea. Lots of waiters ran around, passing around beer and food. There was a lot of noise as families and noisy gangs of teenagers played around in the water, splashing and screaming. It was a surreal world, and after a point, it all blended together into a tourist collage. By now, Antony’s words had faded into a kind of a lulling drone. Thankfully, I spotted a board in the distance announcing the world that the Gypsy Shack was nigh!
A minute later, we were there. I grabbed Antony before he could walk past the shack and pointed to him that we had reached the destination. He took a few seconds to inspect the board, and then announced to me that we had reached the shack. Conversation with this fellow was getting slightly tiresome. “Antony, thank you so much for bringing me here! Give me your number and I will call you the moment I need your help again.”
Antony smiled broadly, “Antony brings you to Gypsy Shack,” he announced proudly, though belatedly. He leaned over and whispered hoarsely in my ear, “Antony helps you. Now you help Antony. A little something. You help Antony. Ok?” I sighed. In Goa, nothing was for free. I pulled out a 50-rupee note and slipped it to Antony. “Thanks brother,” I said, patting his back.
He looked at the note incredulously. “You give me fifty? Antony helps you like brother and you give him fifty? One hundred at least. Come on brother!”
I looked at him, half-bemused. “Antony, you have to be kidding! You want hundred bucks for walking me to the biggest shack on Baga?! If I knew this place was so big, I would have asked you to stay put and found the place myself. Get going now ‘brother’. I need to find Aktomentes Loon.”
Antony gave me an injured look, and then philosophically accepted the bargain. “Ok. Antony wish you luck. You meet Akto, but be careful, ok? Gypsy people slightly mental. You never know when they…” he made a little swishing sound accompanied by a stabbing gesture with his hand. I sighed again. That fit right in with the rest of my crazy life.
“Thanks Antony. You get going now before Akto…” I made the same swishing sound along with the little gesture, “… you.” Antony stared at me with his eyes wide open. Then, with a fearful glance thrown at the Gypsy Shack, he hurried off without even a final goodbye. I had seriously scared the poor pothead. I looked up at the board again. I whispered to myself, ‘I am here. Where are you, Aktomentes Loon?”
“You want beer?” a voice came from below. I looked down to see a little guy, a little over four feet in height, dressed in the floral shirt and black pants that seemed to be the uniform for the waiters in the bar next to the Gypsy Shack.
Before I could refuse, a voice came right from inside the Gypsy Shack, “Leave my customers alone! Go away, before I set Papa Loon on you!” Papa Loon! How many Loons could be there in Goa! I turned to face the owner of this voice.
The first thing I noticed was her eyes; those beautiful eyes that looked right into my soul. They were framed in a frown directed at the object of her ire, but that could not quite cover the laughter that was so much a part of her. The eyes had a pert little pixie nose below them and pouting lips that apparently didn’t approve of whatever she saw in front of her. She was young, definitely a couple of years younger than me; petite with a heart-shaped face framed by long dark hair. Strands of her hair moved in the breeze and the warm Goa sun lit her up like some kind of an angel. You get the picture - I was smitten.
Her frown dissipated as the little man ran away, and she turned to look at me. The play of expressions on her face in that moment would stay with me forever. The irritated look gave way to a fake cheerful smile of welcome that immediately moved to sheer shock and almost fear. Her eyes widened as she staggered back a few steps, quickly muttering a few words, her hands coming up almost in defence. The most thing incredible thing happened next; I saw a warp appear before her, her hands almost shaping it up. I hadn’t dreamed up that entire incident with the warp after all, when I was reading the bloody notebook. And it wasn’t just me who could do it! There was someone else, and hers was prettier than mine!
“Defend yourself, you eejit!” the voice in my head shrieked, for the first time abandoning all pretence of being me. De
fend myself? I didn’t know what the voice meant, and looked in confusion at the girl. Her warp had become fiery and huge, almost obscuring her from sight. And suddenly, my own warp came up in response to words that I spoke without thinking; Shield, protect, repel… The words had come with such clarity and direction, almost as if they had been directed or shaped by someone else.
Things went a little blurry for a second as my warp expanded to cover my whole field of vision, and then in an instant went back to being small and unobtrusive. I blinked a couple of times, my warp still swimming in front of me. The girl had disappeared into the relative darkness of the shack. I propped my bag beside the entrance to the shack and took a couple of cautious steps forward. My vision had cleared, but the shack in front of me still looked pretty smoky. It wasn’t me; everything was actually pretty smoky. As I stepped inside, I saw that everything looked freshly charred, smoke curling from burn marks on the furniture. What had happened in here!
And then I saw her again. She was laid out on the sand that passed for the shack’s floor, slumped against a table. Her form had left an untouched outline on the smouldering piece of furniture. She looked stunned and terrified. I realised that I had somehow managed to fling this girl 20 feet whilst also almost burning down the place. My warp did that! Some first impression! I took another step forward, and suddenly there was the voice in my head again, shrieking at me, “Shottie, bampot! That wee lassie will blow you up if yer not canny!”
I didn’t understand half of that, but finally had the confirmation I needed. The voice was not me. “What the hell is happening,” I muttered to myself as I cautiously stepped forward.
Dew
It was the last day of my life as I knew it. I remember how it started. I just didn’t know it back then.
I was running through a checklist. The day was dawning and it was time to head back to the shack to relieve Papa Loon until Matilda could come in to start her shift. She refused to start early, and Papa Loon shut down with the sun. I usually offered to help for those couple of hours to ensure they didn’t kill each other fighting during the handover. But before that, I had to make sure that everything that had to be done had indeed been done. Savio and Mario, two of the norm helpers, ensured that everything happened smoothly. They were Papa Loon’s men. I sat back in my makeshift chair of wooden cartons as I watched the norms set up the final parts of the stall.
I found it difficult to think of them as just norms. These were the guys I had grown up with. I remembered Savio and Mario playing soccer with the other boys while Andy da and I watched from the road overlooking the field. They were much bigger now, and drank beer while watching soccer instead of playing themselves. But still, I knew these guys. And yet, everything was so different. I was a wordsmith. And that made me different. There had always been a trace of respect and fear in the way the boys had behaved with me. Honestly, I didn’t mind, given just how rowdy they were with the other girls my age. I had been spared all that and more. I was Papa Loon and Andy da’s adopted daughter after all. That was enough weirdness to ensure that most norms gave me a wide berth. But I had never been out on a date either. Being from a gypsy family was bad enough. But Andy da was one of the Goan Free wordsmiths. To the local norms, for some flummox inducing reason, that translated into him being close to the Russian mafia. That kept the boys away. Tourist norms, unaware of the history and intending to get friendly, went through a crash course with one of Papa Loon’s bouncers. It was ironic that I was probably the one girl in the neighbourhood quite capable of taking care of myself, and I never really had to. It was good, in a way. I was in charge despite my age and had no authority issues. But then that, along with the fact that I was a Free wordsmith, ensured that I didn’t have many friends. I rarely met anyone my age, and when I did, they were of the hard-eyed fanatic class of wordsmiths the Free Word usually attracted. I had my share of angst, but wearing it as a burning ribbon on my sleeve wasn’t quite my style. I noted that the norms were almost done with their work. It was time for me to check mine. I got up, tying my hair back with a band. It would probably be all out and bothering me again in a couple of minutes. I never quite managed to tame it. I should try weaving something up for it.
I walked around the flea market’s narrow aisles, strangely spacious in the early hours with hardly a soul around. There were enough boards pointing to our shack to ensure other norm vendors didn’t suspect our real purpose here; the convention. But what I was looking for were the invisible weaves leading Free wordsmiths to the location. There was the one on the entrance gate, quite satisfyingly woven into the night market board, merging with its loud age-old aura. Through my signature scape I could see its faint glow, invisible to everyone else.
I walked into the parking lot and there was another weave, nudging Free wordsmiths in the right direction, melded into a huge tree in the centre of the lot. For some reason, this one nudged norms to the public facilities at the other end of the market. I had to fix that or there would be utter chaos with every norm rushing straight from the parking to the barely sufficient restroom facilities at Ingo’s. I quickly brought up my scape view to look at it. As space warped and gave me a view to the guide centre, I noticed something I had never seen before; a tinge of mossy brown-green all around the place. There were faint striations that were barely perceptible, moving much like near-invisible flotsam in the eye. It blended with the earth and greenery, but still coloured everything a different hue. This was not something I had done; it seemed to be everywhere. And yet, it affected my scape in the weirdest way possible. I wondered if someone was working mischief. I ran a quick probe to search for anyone else working the gift in the area. Nada. I was the only gifted one there. The day was getting brighter, and the tinge dissolved into the light until I could barely see it. I decided to ignore it and ran a double weave on the guide sign to take out the norm anomaly. No more restroom urges. I stood back to admire my handiwork. Neat and efficient, as Andy da always used to say. I was slow, but I was reliable. I allowed myself a tiny smile as I walked back to the stall. Time to wrap up. The night market wasn’t until the next day, but I always tried to prepare way ahead of time. I hated leaving things to the last minute. I looked around the place as I walked past the empty stalls. I could hardly believe that the next evening would see the most powerful Free wordsmiths in the world flocking to this place. I wasn’t sure if I would get to see all them together, but I would definitely try to catch one or two of them for a quick chat. Isis always said that I should try and get at least two minutes with one of them if I was planning to become a battlesmith. I would probably learn more in that brief spell than months with any regular wordsmith would teach me. I had met Zauberin and Mother Gaia before, though they had hardly noticed me. I half shuddered with excitement at the thought of meeting Lonigan or Necros. That would be totally cool! That was the calibre of battlesmiths the Free Word needed, and that’s what I was going to be like. Eventually. Slow but steady.
I wished Andy da was around. But he was out of Goa on one of his secret saboteur missions. That had left the responsibility of setting up entirely to me. Everyone else on home turf would only be arriving hours before the event, along with the rest of the big names from other parts of the world. Managing all the logistics by myself (with the help of the norms, of course) had turned out to be almost too much pressure to handle. The security scapes, the norm handlers, the boarding logistics, the discreet scape signs….There had been so much to do! I reached the stall and noted with satisfaction that it was ready. I could go tell Papa Loon now that the stage was set for his bunch to take over. And then some sleep before the night, when I’d do some final checks and ensure that everything was undisturbed. I sent the norms off with some scape-enhanced words to make them feel good about getting the job done and to ensure they slept well. Quickly locking down everything, I rolled out my bike, and took off to the shack.
The town had already started stirring and there were people everywhere. Goa in December was a completely diff
erent place. I wove through the traffic as I swung into Baga and reached the parking just before the shack. I parked my bike and wandered to the shack. It wasn’t the cool sand of dawn, but it still felt good. I ducked inside, hoping Papa Loon hadn’t already launched into his morning crank. It was already way past the end of his shift.
I found him asleep on the counter. There was no one in the shack. These were the slow hours. The tourists wouldn’t come out until the sun was high, undressed appropriately to try and catch as many rays as they could. I dropped my bag behind the counter and shook Papa Loon gently to wake him. He came awake instantly, that catlike reflex that was such an integral part of him. I saw his hand shoot to his side where I knew his favourite blade rested in its sheath. He saw it was me, and his whole body relaxed. “Fool girl, scaring me,” he growled, his voice heavy with sleep, “you’ll get yourself killed one of these days, sneaking up on me like that.”
“Sure,” I stuck my tongue out at him, “you keep working on that. All the sharpening in the world isn’t going to help you past my scapes!”
He gave me a terrible looking scowl. He had a natural aversion to wordsmiths, but couldn’t stay mad at me. Andy da and he were the closest I had to parents. Andy da and Papa Loon were as close as brothers, and Andy da was probably one of the most powerful wordsmiths of our time. Papa Loon’s irritation was more with the Guild - that spilled over to a lot of wordsmiths, and sometimes his foster family got some as well.
“That lazy cow sent a note with Gomes,” Papa Loon said, referring to his beloved business partner, Matilda, “she will probably come in after lunch. I asked Gomes to come around breakfast to help you out till then. Catch some sleep here, if you want to.”
I winced at the thought, as I watched him throwing a couple of his things into a sack to take with him. Much as I loved the shack, sleeping behind the counter during busy season didn’t sound very attractive. I didn’t say anything though. Papa Loon had definitely hit cranky hour, and I just wanted him to get out of here as soon as possible. I could probably set up something small to discourage people from coming into the shack so that I’d be relatively undisturbed.
Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1) Page 6
