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

by Arpan Panicker

  “Well, my name’s Slick,” I offered. “Just Slick,” I said before she could ask any further questions.

  “Of course it’s just Slick,” she said, almost scoffing, “Free wordsmiths don’t do second names. Stop testing me, already! With your powers, you probably know stuff more about me by now than Papa Loon does.”

  I watched her carefully, letting her words sink in. It was like playing my first game of chess, and pretending to be a grandmaster while I did so. I gave her a slight smile, hoping like hell that it looked wise and knowing.

  “Get out of here, boy, while you still can. She’ll have you figured out before long.”

  Almost in line with that thought, she let loose a flurry of questions, “So tell me, which warren are you from? Are you a Guild defector too? How come I’ve never seen you before? I thought Zauberin was the most powerful one we had. From what I’ve seen of your scape sign, you sure got her beat!”

  Zauberin! One of the words from the book! I considered telling her about the book for an instant. “No!” the voice protested. I silently agreed. That would probably blow my cover, if this ridiculous façade could be called that. I should wait for Akto, and see if he was easier to figure this out with. I went over her words again in my head. I was more powerful than Zauberin, and she could see this from my scape sign…I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. I saw her waiting for my response, expectant and impatient. The voice was right, I couldn’t keep this up for much longer. I had to leave.

  “I’m afraid that’s classified,” I said, trying to sound mysterious, “I cannot reveal such secrets to you, without passing it by my superiors.” I stood up and picked up my bag. I could see the incredulous look she was giving me.

  “Classified?” she asked, her tone reiterating just how much off target I was. Wordsmith jargon probably wasn’t the same as your standard espionage fare; but I really didn’t know any better.

  “Yes,” I nodded sagely, “you know how it is. The Guild might catch on to what we’re doing, and we don’t want those bastards to know what we’re up to.” I smiled inwardly at this, patting myself for using some of what she had revealed.

  She still looked very sceptical. “You’re leaving?” she asked, looking like she was unable to believe this entire interaction. I was sure this was a whole deal less shocking for her. Hell! The girl threw fireballs just like that; she was definitely used to a lot more craziness than I was. Let her deal with this her way; I had to get out of here.

  “Yes, li’l one,” I said, warming up to my act somewhat now, “I have other fish to fry before I meet your Papa Loon. Thank you very much for the lovely meal. I hope to see you soon, at Ringo’s perhaps?”

  “That’s Ingo’s,” she said, pursing her lips, “And that will be three thousand rupees for the meal.” She stretched out her hand and glared at me. I might have pushed it too far with the ‘li’l one’. Well, the meal had been worth it, even if three thousand rupees was murderously expensive. I fished out the money and gave it to her. “You can get a refund from Papa Loon later, if you want. He will be back here in the evening around six,” she said, putting the money away, still glaring at me. I gave her a quick smile and walked out. I wasn’t going to risk any more words with that one.

  I resisted the urge to turn around and look at her as I walked away. I had managed to get away from that without making more trouble for myself. I’d have to wait and see how long I could keep that up. As I put more distance between myself and the Gypsy Shack, my never-ending sense of optimism was back .There was still the voice to contend with, but I would deal with that later.

  I was not in the mood for any more walking in the sand and made my way to the nearest exit from the beach. A couple of minutes later, I managed to find a decent looking hotel. A room was available, though I had to pay a hefty amount for the seedy little place. It was peak season and this happened to be that time of the year when everyone wanted to be in Goa. I was going through my cash pretty fast. I needed to be more careful how I spent it. I paid up a day’s advance and trudged up to my room on the first floor. The room was not much but there was running water and that is what I really needed. I took a long shower, pleased to note that there was no stench of blood or demon on my skin - or in my head. The voice stayed silent, and that’s about as much as you can ask from a strange voice in your head. I decided to let it be for the moment. I got into a pair of shorts and hit the bed, setting the alarm for six in the evening.

  ***

  My eyes opened as I stretched lazily. I had finally managed to get some undisturbed sleep and I felt pretty good. Suddenly, I realised that something was wrong. It was twilight, but the wrong kind of twilight. I checked the alarm. It was six, but a little birdy chirping outside told me that it was probably six in the morning! I had managed to sleep right through the evening and the night. I felt rested, but at the same time, I felt off. My head did not quite feel right. It felt heavier; more crowded. I could not quite define the feeling. It was like being watched. The voice! I couldn’t think about that now. I had a Loon to catch. I needed to get a move on.

  I quickly got dressed and rushed outside. There was hardly anyone about. I jogged to the Gypsy Shack, hoping against hope that Akto Loon would somehow still be there. I got to the beach and saw that some of the shacks were still open, people sitting around and having beer. The party never ended here! I jogged all the way to the Gypsy Shack. As I approached the shack, I saw a bunch of locals sitting on the beach before the shack, chugging the cheap beer that is a local specialty. They gave me suspicious looks. Fitness freaks decked out in tracksuits and jogging at the break of dawn were apparently an anomaly here.

  I walked into the shack, still panting from my morning jog; something I had not done in a very long time; the jog that is, not the panting. The interior of the shack was empty except for a man dozing at the counter. He looked like a Latino, albeit a very grizzled and heavily tanned and tattooed Latino. He had long curly hair tied in a ponytail and was dressed in a poncho tied at the waist with a rope, and canvas trousers. I looked around the shack, as I walked towards him. The place looked a lot better than when I had left it yesterday. The girl had done an incredible amount of repair, probably using some of the powers that had caused the damage in the first place. I reached the counter and gently tapped on it. The man immediately came awake, one hand slipping under the poncho in a flash. He saw me standing there and growled out a ‘yes?’

  “I am looking for Akto, Aktomentes Loon.”

  “You found him,” he said, his voice hostile and his hand still under his poncho. “Dew left a note about you. I don’t know any wordsmiths called Slick in the Free Word. Who are you?”

  “If Dew is the one who conned me out of three thousand bucks for a single meal and a couple of pints of beer, then yes, I am the one.” I smiled at the grouchy old man.

  He didn’t respond to that one at all. My charm was not making much of a difference on him. “Who are you?” he repeated, his whole body tense and with his hand still conspicuously out of sight.

  “I have something that belongs to you,” I said. “I came all the way here to find you and give it to you.”

  “What do you have that belongs to me?” Akto Loon had a gift for coming right to the point.

  I reached into my pocket to pull out the notebook. I noticed him tense even more. This man was definitely expecting trouble. I passed the notebook to him quietly, watching to see his reaction.

  He did not raise an eyebrow as he rifled through the book, flipping pages. After a minute of going through it, he looked up at me. “How?” One word, growled out at me in a very unfriendly tone. I presumed that he had noticed the bloodstains on the book.

  “The man who gave me the book died a couple of minutes after I ran into him. He had almost been ripped apart by a demon. The demon caught up with him soon after and then beheaded him.” I said these words with a deadpan expression, wondering at the sheer insanity of what I was saying. However, Akto could not maintain his cal
m this time. He went pale in the face and took a moment to look at the book again, specifically the last couple of pages. He looked up at me, I could see that the man was shaken.

  “What did this demon look like?” I saw that Akto was watching me very closely too.

  “Looks like the rotting body of a blonde bombshell that went through a molten glass shower. Screeches for conversation and has jagged glass and claws for fingers.”

  “It was a body snatcher. The glass was probably the result of a protection scape Andy tried on it. That was his signature scape. It apparently did not work.”

  “A body snatcher?” I asked. Not that I understood ‘protection scape’ any better, but ‘body snatcher’ I definitely needed to know!

  “A body snatcher,” Akto repeated, looking at me like I was stupid. “What kind of a wordsmith doesn’t know what a body snatcher is?”

  There it was again. For a moment, I considered trying to continue pretending like I knew it all. But then, some instinct drove me to try the truth and I went for it. “The kind who isn’t a wordsmith, that’s who doesn’t know what a body snatcher is! I’ve had enough of this crap, and I told the girl as much. I don’t understand any of what is happening, and it’s time someone gave me some answers!”

  Akto looked completely puzzled. The wary look came back on full force, his hand again creeping to whatever lay inside that poncho. “You say you aren’t a wordsmith?” Akto asked, the caution making him sound all the more dangerous.

  “Brother, I don’t know what a wordsmith is. I wouldn’t know if I was one.” I injected a bit more sincerity into this one, making it almost a plea. I was walking a fine line here, but it was probably the only way I’d get some concrete answers.

  “Dew saw the gift in you,” Akto said, “she couldn’t be wrong. She said you were with the Free Word. Why would she think that?”

  My mind was racing, trying to figure this out. He had mentioned a note from Dew. A note wouldn’t have had all the details, and luckily for me, one of the missing details seemed to be the part about how we had a round of fire throwing that almost burned down this place.

  “I had no clue what she was talking about,” I said. “She seemed convinced that I was a wordsmith and that I was a friendly one at that. Sure, I’m friendly! I don’t mean anyone any harm. But beyond that, I really am pretty clueless. So please do tell me what the hell a body snatcher is.”

  “A body snatcher,” Akto spoke after a long pause, his voice devoid of emotion, his eyes watching me carefully, “A demon that borrows dead bodies to move about while the body lasts. That’s the only way it can exist on our plane.”

  I digested these words, trying to fit them into the crazy jigsaw puzzle my life had suddenly become. Andy was the name of the guy who had died, and he had tried protecting himself with a scape. Scape. Wordscape. It was coming together, but I wasn’t sure how. How did a scape protect someone? I had images of buckets of molten glass being thrown on attacking zombies. I heard a whisper of a wind in my mind that was blowing the pieces around, putting them into place. The pattern that was forming was crazy and defied all deduction. I was a logical person, but the conclusions that I was arriving at were beyond all reason. They did not even feel like my conclusions. They did not have the necessary a-ha. I wondered if the voice in my head was capable of meddling with my thoughts as well. And then I realised Akto was asking me something. I looked up, slightly befuddled.

  He gave me a long, unfathomable look and repeated his question, “If you aren’t a wordsmith, why did the demon let you live?” I stared back at him. That question had caught me off-guard. To be honest, I did not know. I said as much, “I don’t know. I screamed. I must have scared it off.”

  He gave me another one of those looks. “Andy was a gifted wordsmith. You tell me that this demon cut his head off. And then you expect me to believe that you scared it off by screaming at it?”

  I took a deep breath, telling myself to calm down. I did not take my advice. In an extremely stressed voice, I started giving Akto Loon a piece of my mind, “Mr. Loon, this is an extremely weird conversation. Here I am in Goa, talking to a gypsy at seven in the morning about body snatching demons. 24 hours back, I had just woken up and was preparing myself for a day at work. And work for me is writing spiels for corporate clients. There are no demons involved, at all! And no, I do not know why the demon did not kill me. I am extremely grateful to it though for not trying. And yes, the cops probably believe that I killed your friend and then ran off with his head. One more thing; I have no clue what a wordsmith is and whether Andy was any good at being one.” I almost screamed the words out, on the verge of hysteria.

  I heard the voice for the first time that day. It chuckled. I ignored it.

  Akto looked up sharply. “Do the cops know you are here?”

  “No. I don’t think they even know who I am. So where I am is not quite in the picture. But yes, there were people who saw me and they probably have given the cops a physical description.”

  Akto looked at me, obviously having trouble digesting all of this. “Dew said she saw your scape sign, and that it was more powerful than any she had seen before.” He spoke again in a dead, careful voice. He was saying things to watch how I would react. I realised then that my words were the only thing preventing him from going for whatever he kept going for under his poncho. No pressure!

  “I heard that from her too. I have no clue what she was saying. I didn’t want her getting excited and hostile, so I just kept quiet about it.” I decided that this bluff was going to work only if I stayed as honest as I could. This man was dangerous and I had to be very careful indeed to make it unscathed through this conversation.

  He went back to glancing through the book, stopping to read some sections. “Breakfast?” he growled out, without looking at me.

  I looked at him rather incredulously. Was this the fattening part that came before the slaughter? I gave in. “Sure, why not! That English breakfast on your menu sounds good. I would appreciate it though if you did not charge me season rates.”

  He looked up at me and let out a gruff chuckle. “Sit, sit. First we will eat, and then we will talk.” He walked off inside to give the order. I collapsed into a chair and turned my attention inward. In my exhaustion yesterday, I had let the voice be. I had even let myself believe that it was a figment of my imagination. But it was becoming more and more obvious that it was a lot more. It felt almost like a person.

  “Just what are you about?” I screamed silently, in my head, “What’s with these comments? I can hear each and every one of them, you know! And you can try to pretend, but I know that these are not my thoughts! I know this is you!”

  There was silence again, but it was a different kind of silence. It was the silence of someone listening to me. I continued, at a lower mental volume and pitch, if that makes sense, “I am not used to talking to voices in my head, and if it had not been for the demon incident, I would not even have noticed that something was different. I would probably have assumed that you are just part of my overworked imagination. But now I know you’re there. What are you? What are you doing in my head!”

  “Who am I,” the voice gently corrected, “Not what.”

  I was dumbstruck. I could not believe it. The voice had responded. I was having an actual conversation with a voice in my head! Before I could continue the conversation, Akto returned. I shot a mental be-right-back at the voice before turning my attention to the gypsy. He came with a huge tray loaded with food. We both sat opposite each other, giving our full attention to the food. Yesterday’s meal was ancient history and I was ravenous again. I steadily worked my way through fried eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, buttered toast and a bowl of fruit, washed down with two glasses of orange juice and a cup of strong, black coffee. Akto was taciturn but his attitude was a tad warmer during breakfast. Perhaps it was the food, or maybe he was warming up to me. I guess I was quite an optimist back then.

  I started a conversation, making an effort to l
oosen things up. I asked him questions about his shack and Dew. He was talkative enough about the shack but completely ignored my questions about Dew. He didn’t want to talk to me about her, and I half understood. I didn’t press the issue. I did learn however that Akto had been in Goa for almost six years and did a lot of ‘business’, apart from managing the shack. He also ran a stall at the Saturday night flea market, whatever that was. I studiously avoided mentioning Andy or the book though. I wanted to ensure he stayed in a good mood. After a bit, somewhere around the coffee, he started asking questions, random queries about my life and work. Somehow, I had the feeling he didn’t like the answers one bit. They were quite obviously completely in conflict with the kind of life a wordsmith would be expected to live. What did wordsmiths do anyway? If I really was one of them, I should try and learn more about their way of life. I could not escape the feeling that he was not too convinced about what I had told him. He was looking for something specific. And I had an uncomfortable knot in my stomach because I suspected I knew what it was.

  The coffee was presently replaced with pints of chilled beer. We strode out to the sea and settled in the sand just beyond the waves, swigging beer and staring out at the colours on the sea as the sun rose in the sky.

  “Andy was my brother.”

  I turned to Akto at these words. They came as a surprise. I had not expected him to bring it up. He did not wait for a reaction. He just kept speaking.

  “We are not… were not related. But he was closer to me than my bastard brothers.”

  “I’m sorry,” the words came out, hopelessly inadequate and graceless.

  “I will not grieve him…yet. I will grieve once I nail Silvus’s hide to my cabin wall.” Loon said the words in a matter-of-fact way. I looked at him to see if he was being metaphorical and then I noticed that he was fingering the edge of a wicked-looking knife. So that’s what the poncho hid! I tried to recollect what the shack’s walls looked like and wondered if there were other such ‘hides’ on the walls. I noticed that he was looking at me, trying to see how I reacted to it. Another test to see if I was with the Guild. First Dew, and now this crazy Gypsy with a knife!