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

by Arpan Panicker

  De Vorto’s habit of responding to my thoughts was not so irksome now, especially because he did not sound as condescending as before.

  “You mean to say there are more wordsmiths out there in the world than the members of the Guild or the Free Word?”

  “I know as much about the Guild and the Free Word as you do. In our days, wordsmiths were rare, and most of them were hailed as wizards and witches. There was no group as such, though every now and then I would hear about a bunch of them trying something or the other. The druids in particular were always up to brewing potions, trying to imbue some soup or the other with their gift.”

  “Soup?!”

  “You do realise that mere herbs and animals cooked together can at best cure a cold. Everything else was done with words.”

  “Hmmm,” I digested this quietly. Magic was real after all, though words seemed to be the real source of power and not the rest of the paraphernalia.

  “Right you are. The staff and the wand were mere channelling devices, with the wood and the precious stones helping store spells and power words that could be used later.”

  “And what else can be done with this gift?” I asked, half-tentatively.

  “What else can be done…Let’s see…” De Vorto’s voice grew dead serious at this. One by one, flashes of memories came back to me, half discovered by my conscience, half flung at me by De Vorto. “You can get everyone to like you. You can live a rash life without ever succumbing to the insane risks your days are filled with. You can grab your life and twist it any way your whimsy wants to take it. With a little more effort, you can do the same with another’s life. You can make or break a person with a few words. You can make your friends believe they’re much better than they are, pushing them down paths they could barely fathom. You can consign your enemies to the pits of hell or to a life of slobbering stupor. You can charm the stockings and every other article of clothing off any woman who takes your fancy. You can pretty much do anything you want. Don’t you know what the gift can do, Slick my boy? You have gone about your petty little life weaving away like an adept, shaping the norms and the world around you to your fancy.”

  I saw the memories play out as De Vorto threw out statements, each one a bigger slap than the previous one. My words came back to me, only now with the full realisation of how exactly they were linked to the events that followed. And suddenly, like it was yesterday, the memory came back.

  It was a warm day. I could remember the sweat dripping down my 14-year old face, trickling along the fuzz that passed for a stubble. I was angry. I was furious. The memory brought back the intensity of the emotion. I was shouting at a kid. I vaguely remembered some childish quarrel, the details of which were completely irrelevant. What I remembered were the words… my words. “You're going to be sorry! You will never sleep again! Don't think you’ll get away! You bastard! You will have nightmares! Worse! As you scream to escape your nightmares, monsters will crawl out of your dreams! They will take you down with them to deepest pits of hell! You will…!” This is where I stopped. The boy was genuinely horrified. And it was not my childish threats that were scaring him. I blinked as I noticed that the air in front of me had gone dark. It twisted and bucked like something was trying to break through. It coiled and twisted into a diabolic question mark, as if waiting for me to finish what I was saying. I realised that I had run out of steam. The kid however was petrified, waiting for me to finish what I was saying. I should not have said what I did. But sweet lord, I did not know. I did not know!

  “You will… you will… die,” I whispered, unable to stop my childish vindictiveness. My stomach sank within me as I saw the gnarled knot of air going crazy. The kid gasped and took a step back. I reached out a hand trying to stop it. Too late. The demonic swirl swooped straight into his head. There was a blip in reality and I blinked again. The kid blinked too. Both of us looked around us. It was still the same, sunny day and we were both still in the school playground where it had all started. He stared at his hands and touched himself to check if he was still alive. A nervous giggle escaped me. He glared at me. “You are crazy,” he declared, his voice hoarse and devoid of all energy. And then he turned around, stumbling, and took off. I was left standing alone, a meaningless smile of triumph pasted on my face. I had the feeling I had done something I did not begin to understand.

  The memory faded away, leaving me numb as always. The other snippets came flowing out from the attic of my memory into my mind. The boy had withered away before my eyes in the days following that fight. I would see him every day at school, his face drawn, his eyes red from no sleep. He would glare at me each time he saw me looking at him, but he would never say a word. There was too much fear in his face. He did not dare start another fight. I tried to feel good about it. I had scared him silly. But, my stomach kept sinking each time I saw him till it could sink no more. It was almost like I knew what was coming. One day, he was absent from the first class. When he did not turn up till lunch, I went to the bathroom and shut myself in the loo for an hour, tears running down my face as guilt wracked me. That afternoon, one of the teachers came into the class to ask if any of us knew where he was. He had disappeared from his room in the middle of the night. They had found the room a mess, with traces of slime, ash and his blood all over the place.

  I had spent many nights howling into my pillow, tortured by my imagination trying to answer the question, “What had come for him that night?” The papers and news channels did not make it any easier for me. It was sensational news and for years triggered what-could-have-happened articles and shows. Every time, the nightmares I had cursed him with came back with a vengeance to haunt my nights.

  The memory still hurt. Other memories sneaked in too, shouldering each other for space in my mind. A succession of faces. All those people. All the times my temper had caused trouble. No, not my temper. The words. Always the words. It never did get so bad again, but there was no comfort in that. I had killed that kid. It might as well have been me crawling out of a hell-hole to drag him down with me.

  “… You will die!”

  And then there were others...

  “… You will live your life out as a vegetable, your feeble brain and overgrown body useless to you!”

  “… Of course you’re pretty, my love. Why do you think I thirst for one look of those gorgeous eyes?”

  Each time, with growing realisation, I had known exactly what I had been doing. I was using words to change things. So that was what had happened to the kid. A creature from hell had indeed come to drag him away. The college bully had not been mentally paralysed by an epileptic fit. It had been me. The girl had ended up prettier, but had also grown vain and petty. Again, because of me. The numerous instances where my words caused one thing or another came back to me full force. I had done good, but I had wreaked chaos as well. I had been using my gift throughout. At some level, I’d known it too. I had known what I was doing, even if I had not truly believed.

  “All that can be done, and a lot more,” De Vorto added softly, as my memories faded into the distance. “You have used your gift, even if you did it without fully knowing what you did. Wordsmith, you have not acquitted yourself well in the way of the Word. You have been petty and foolish. You acted as a child would, wanton and irresponsible. You did a little good, but small charmscapes cannot erase what you have wreaked. You have taken much more than you have given.”

  My chest and throat tightened until I could barely breathe. Again, the objectivity brought on by the meditative state prevented inane outbursts and denials. What good were any of those against a presence that could sense each and every one of my actions, my intentions, and moreover the consequences of my deeds. De Vorto knew more about what I had done that even I realised. And in his voice, I could sense a distaste that was all too real, all too justified. I sensed the sheer monstrosity of what I had done, the extent of the destruction and hurt I had wreaked. I hadn’t been a good guy, after all. I had never been a good guy. I ha
d been a selfish, inconsiderate sonofabitch who had gotten away with murder. And I honestly had nothing to say in my defence. Except, perhaps, that I hadn’t known what I had been doing. I hadn’t known I could cause the harm I did. It had been more wishful thinking than anything else. But to wish for such things!

  “Yes, I’m glad you see that. I don’t really have anything more to say about this, then. I’ll leave you to your thoughts for a while. Later, when you’re more at peace with yourself, we will talk about what we must do, what lies in the future, for both of us. Things cannot be undone, but you can try and make amends by doing good with your gift, by helping me do good.” I didn’t protest this time. I didn’t yet have the capacity to think of doing good or making amends. And neither did I have the strength to fight or debate anymore. I couldn’t take any kind of a stand and had no surprise arguments. For once, I had lost completely. I had been let down, betrayed by my own self. I guess I did need the time off after all.

  “Go out for a while, boy. It will clear your head. Walk, see the sights, feel the air and the sea on your skin. It’s not so bad. And you’re not really a bad person. You’re just human. And in your human weakness, you asked for things without realising what you would get. Don’t flog yourself too much, not yet. Right now, focus on feeling and seeing with your gift. Go on now, go out.”

  Again, I didn’t protest. I got up quietly and walked to the dirty, cracked washbasin to wash my face. As I ran the water, I looked up into the mirror. I saw a stranger in the faded and dirty mirror, weary and old, with eyes much older than his years. The eyes…

  “De Vorto,” I called out aloud, my voice quivering with a sudden surge of fear.

  “Yes?”

  “Why has one of my eyes turned green?”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Trail of the Wordscapist

  There are so many ways to weave

  And so many threads to choose

  The pattern emerges with time

  As the weaver is drawn into the loom

  The Historian

  Zauberin did not leave me much time to come to terms with what was happening. We soon had a team pick us up from the warehouse, which turned out to be in an isolated part of Goa, a state on India’s western coast.

  It was the first time I had been to India. I had been on scapes to the east, but they were more often in China and South-East Asia, for some reason. India had often been viewed as a Free Word stronghold and the Guild rarely sent teams out here. It made sense that my stint as a Free Word Historian should start in India.

  The team that came to collect us brought a couple of huge SUVs. The people were all norms, but were apparently well-versed with the ways of wordsmiths. I even saw some packaged recording equipment, top-of-the-line stuff. Zauberin had obviously been planning this one for a very long time. I wondered what she had intended to do if Silvus hadn’t tried to knock me off. I wouldn’t have been so agreeable about switching teams then. I gulped as I realised that I was to be a part of the Free Word’s rebellion whether I liked it or not. Remembering Zauberin’s telepathic missive, I reminded myself that she could easily read every thought in my head, even if I was protected against scapes. I decided to keep my thoughts neutral and politically correct. I wish I had had some training in thoughtlessness like wordsmiths do right at the beginning of breathsmith training.

  The roads hugged the coastline for the most part. Once in a while, we would enter hills, and soon enough, we would exit them through long, dark tunnels dimly lit by spooky, yellow lights. Every now and then, we would pass small villages and towns, but for the most part there weren’t too many houses around. The cars kept up a furious pace throughout. We were headed to the heart of Goa for a Free wordsmiths rendezvous that had been scheduled, quite coincidentally, for that very evening. I tried striking up a conversation with the norms in the car, but they ended up being quite surly. Perhaps language was a problem. Apart from English, my knowledge of languages extended only to Europe and the Far East. I didn’t know Hindi, India’s national language. And even that would not have been of much use. India, I had read somewhere, had 28 different states (at last count) and most of them had their own languages and numerous further dialects. Perhaps the men spoke Goanese or whatever was spoken in these parts. The article had claimed that India had around 425 languages and somewhere between 1600 and 1700 dialects. I wondered how the tourists managed. A couple of hours of hard driving later, we entered Panjim, Goa’s capital. The roads got more crowded, and deteriorated as well. The cars had to slow down a bit, as they swerved into narrower lanes from the highway. I looked out keenly, trying to get a sense of the country. It was crowded, noisy and extremely colourful.

  We stopped briefly for a tea break, while one of the norms inspected the wheels on one of the SUVs; the one Zauberin was in. She didn’t emerge though. Little thick glasses of steaming tea were handed around. I took one sip of the scalding hot liquid and abandoned my stubby glass. The thick, sweet liquid was nothing like tea and caused my insides, already shaken by the swerving trip through the hills, to protest violently. I quite liked the place, though. It was green and it was cool, though in a strange way, it was also humid and warm. I didn’t need my heavy jacket, which I had been wearing for the wet and cold morning in Galapagos. I shuddered as I thought of my close brush with death. Brushes actually, if you counted Sign’s visit and Silvus’s execution order as separate incidents.

  I climbed back into one of the SUVs and we took off for the last leg of the journey, wherever that led us. Nobody thought it important to let me know what the plan was. I thought we had left Panjim, but wasn’t really sure. Was Mapusa different from Panjim or within Panjim? But given where my life was, geographical location was the least of my concerns. I was with the most wanted member of the Free Word, hunted by the CCC and the Guild for multiple crimes against the Way of the Word and large scale Continuum tampering. I was also being taken to a meeting where I was to meet other such controversial wordsmiths, who would collectively fetch enough bounty to bid for the First Wordsmith’s scape-staff, should it ever be put up for sale. I wondered how much bounty would be offered for my balding head. However large that amount might be, I was sure I would find the concept more scary than flattering. But with such big names around, I didn’t have to worry about being hunted. They would probably look for me only after they had hunted down every last Free wordsmith.

  We finally turned into a narrow lane that was labelled Baga. One last harrowing turn later, we stopped outside a place that claimed to be the Gypsy Shack. Zauberin unfolded from her car, unruffled by the drive.

  “Come along, Historian. Get a hand-held. You might want to record some of these parts for flavour.”

  I half bridled at this. The Guild, for all its faults, treated historians with respect. We were specialists who only recorded scapes with import that qualified them for the archives. We weren’t treated as mere cameramen who recorded every time wordsmiths had a gossip. Before I could protest, Zauberin had moved on and one of the norms was handing me a handheld recorder and a pack of batteries. I sighed as I took the equipment. I could throw a fit, but I didn’t think it would do me any good. These were extraordinary circumstances and I would probably be required to do worse than this before the dust settled, if it ever did.

  I slipped the batteries in and started the camera. I looked at the viewfinder and turned it around, testing it for light. I pointed it at the norm who had given me the camera and was waiting, watching me rather impatiently. “Smile!” I said, as I started a test recording. I might as well have asked him to roll over and play dead. I sighed again, as I turned around and followed Zauberin. I found myself tripping over a patch of sand before I entered the Gypsy Shack. I saw Zauberin talking to someone - he might have been the owner of the shack, or a caretaker. I was leaning more towards bouncer though. He looked like one of those muscular Latinos who had been left in the sun for too long. Tanned almost dark brown, the man’s muscular arms were covered in tattoos. He also had long, cur
ly hair with lots of grey in it, tied in a vague ponytail. He was wearing a brown poncho that he had tied around the waist with what looked like sailor’s rope and canvas trousers that flapped around. He was dressed in beach slippers, same as almost half the people I had seen so far in Goa.

  I turned the camera on them, looking through the viewfinder. I stated date, time, and location, and moved in closer so that I could catch the audio for whatever inane conversation was happening between Zauberin and the stranger. I focussed on the man as he was talking and took a couple of steps forward. The first words I heard and recorded were anything but inane. “He was very powerful, Mistress. Pardon my impertinence, but Dooly, Dew, said that he was even more powerful than you.”

  Slick

  I took a quick shower and changed into light, comfortable clothes, trading in my heavy shoes for comfortable floaters. I completely avoided looking at the mirror throughout this entire period. The sight had shaken me more than I would like to admit. It hadn’t helped that De Vorto was completely stumped by the change as well. He had had blue-grey eyes when he had a body of his own. I had plain brown eyes, though they were a lighter brown than most Indians. There was no trace of green anywhere. And now, in one of my eyes, my right eye to be precise, there were striations of green radiating from a black pupil that now suddenly looked quite sinister. My other eye remained the original light brown and only served to highlight the contrast with the newly brown-green eye. It mocked me, loudly declaring the alien presence within me.

  The eye-colour issue served one purpose; it completely distracted me from the conversation I had had with De Vorto and how it had left me feeling. I slipped my money and my passport into my jacket and zipped up my bag. There wasn’t much of value in it now. I was getting out of the room and out into the open. De Vorto’s advice of catching some fresh air sounded pretty good to me. As I clattered down the stairs out on to the narrow street, I really did start feeling a little better. It was a carnival out there. The lanes were jam-packed with people, even though it was only late afternoon. I walked past the stores looking at the different offerings on display – but it was the people who made it fascinating. I kept looking at faces and the expressions. Snatches of conversations came to me as I passed people. With the foreign tourists, the voices were louder, the expressions more exaggerated, the excitement more intense. The Indians, on the other hand, found the foreigners more fascinating than the sights and sounds that Goa offered. Me, I was fascinated by everyone and everything. Even more than I thought I would be. Somewhere down the line, I realised that the fascination was partly due to De Vorto too. I tried to imagine what all this must feel like to a man from the Scottish highlands of the 16th century. I couldn’t. But I could feel his excitement, his wonder. I walked, moving from one lane to another, from one market to another. I did not buy anything. I just looked and absorbed. I was the window through which De Vorto experienced the world. It took some getting used to though, having two sets of comments and reactions to everything. Though he was silent for the most part, there was a surge of emotion every now and then, or a whispered word or two that showed how he felt.