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

by Arpan Panicker

  “No! No goodbye!” the words left me almost before I could stop them. I was completely flummoxed. I’d given her the truth, and she had brushed it off as hogwash. It was ironic that this was happening to me, someone who had passed off hogwash as the truth so many times! I was acting like a total imbecile in front of a woman I found extremely attractive. I tried to make some swift repairs to my already irredeemable image, “Dew, that is the truth. It might sound insane, but really, if I was a powerful wordsmith, I would have come up with a better cover story! Going by that logic alone, you need to cut me some slack and at least try to believe that there might be some truth in what I’m saying.”

  She gave me a long, hard look, reminding me of the ones Akto had shot in my direction all morning. “You know, that is a completely crazy story. But I will go along with it for now. However, I need you to come with me to meet Akto and the rest of the Free wordsmiths. We can’t have you roaming around and murdering people like this. Before the warren, the whole truth will be out for sure. For your sake, let’s hope you’re not lying. Let’s go.”

  She stomped off, and for a couple of seconds, I was left staring after her. And then I quietly followed her. That was where I had been headed anyway. Only now, my chances of making it through the night alive were looking even bleaker.

  CHAPTER 10

  To Hunt a Wordscapist

  The spider wove

  Her perfect web

  The fly played its part

  And blundered right in

  A moment later

  Chaos broke loose

  The fly it seems

  Had forgotten its cue

  The Historian

  Zauberin believed in hiding in a crowd. The meeting was to happen in a tent at the Saturday Night Market in Anjuna, a place that was bound to be jam-packed with crowds of rabid shoppers and hippies high on marijuana. I was to bring along my mobile equipment, ready for recording the minutes of the crucial meeting of the Free Word where war would be declared on the Guild. I could not help feeling a shiver of apprehension go down my spine at the sheer magnitude of what this crazy group was attempting. A revolution against the Guild was an incredible concept.

  We got there a couple of hours before midnight, which was the designated time of the meeting. The ‘gypsy’ Zauberin met earlier was playing host. I wondered at the concept of letting norms in on the secrets of the Way of the Word. In the Guild, the very thought of something like that would have earned you instant execution! Historians were not regarded as norms because of their responsibilities, but in the ‘gifted’ sense, we were norms ourselves. So in a way, it felt good to know that there was someone else around who could not twist reality. It made me feel slightly more at ease at the thought of meeting some of the most powerful and rowdy wordsmiths the Way had ever known.

  I was herded by one of the guys who drove us there to one of the tents. It was surprisingly quiet inside. I was left alone in the tent to set up my equipment. I wondered if there would be any scape-weaving, and then decided to just set up basic recording equipment. If a scape was announced, I would use my handheld recorder to figure out what the rest of the equipment could not capture.

  I was checking the angles on different cameras when the strange looking gypsy called Aktomentes came in. He nodded to me and opened a cooler, pulling out a couple of beers. He offered one to me, but I politely refused. The beer was a local brand and looked highly suspect. He shrugged and returned one beer to the cooler. He cracked the crown cap open with his teeth and settled down in a corner, chugging the beer like his life depended on it. So much for ‘someone like me’. I went back to my equipment calibration. After a while, a pretty young girl stomped in, clearly worked up about something. She called the man ‘Papa Loon’ and then rattled off something in a language that sounded like a mix between Spanish and Italian. I could just about make out the words ‘wordscape’, ‘wordsmith’ and ‘cipher.’ Aktomentes, apparently also known as ‘Papa Loon’, didn’t waste a moment and rushed out, closely followed by the girl. There was high drama afoot!

  A couple of minutes later, Zauberin came in. She looked around and nodded on seeing my preparations. She made herself comfortable on a little stool in a corner. It was fascinating to see so much woman fit into so little space. I wondered whether I should tell her of the exchange I had witnessed, and then decided not to. It was bound to come out sooner or later.

  Soon, the others started arriving. I could only gape as I watched them walk in. I had seen their faces on wanted posters and Guild pamphlets. These were the legendary renegades of the Way. There were saints and sinners, killers and spooks, those who looked really normal and others who were eccentric as hell. Zauberin took me around making quick introductions, which mostly comprised exchanging names and handshakes. They all used their scape-names, their real names abandoned along with their Guild IDs and associated lives.

  The first one was the Healer. He had made quite a lot of noise before defecting to the Free Word. He specialised in using wordscapes as a healing therapy, even on norms. He had created several spells to cure tumours of all kinds and was rumoured to be close to engineering a rune that could cure any virus-driven illness. The Healer had refused to work with the pharmaceutical industry, disgusted by their price control and elitist strategies. He had quit the Guild to practise undisguised healing. He had become a miracle man to the norm masses who led severely limited lives bound by what science could define and achieve. He had been hunted by the Guild ever since for jeopardising their secrecy. The Healer had proved to be elusive though, and had escaped several traps and assassination attempts by the Guild Hunters. I wondered at the motivation of a man who so empathised with norms. But ironically, these very norms were clueless about his world. He was dressed in local attire, which I learnt later was called a kurta-pyjama. He nodded a brief hello as he continued to mutter a spiritual energy scape that he was known to sustain at all times; a meditative and protective measure.

  Watching him with amusement was Gaia, the oldest renegade in the group. I had read of her escapades in the archives, going back more than a century. She hardly looked like a centenarian. She would have passed for 50, albeit a very matronly 50. Gaia led the Free Word’s environmental wing, engineering hundreds of sabotages, flummoxes and even assassinations every year that dealt crucial blows to industries dealing in any business that hurt the environment. Several Guild wordsmiths involved in corporate control had been inducted into the Free Word or terminated, as appropriate, at the hands of this crazy woman. She was one of those who was rumoured to be capable of killing a person, actually many people, to save one butterfly (if the butterfly was lucky enough to catch her fancy). She had gaily-coloured dreadlocks and was dressed in a free-flowing gown that flattered her physique. She took a moment to smile and give me a quick hug of welcome, and then went back to studying the Healer with that same strange look of amusement. I was still recovering from the surprise of the hug when Zauberin manoeuvred me to the next wordsmith in the line. I would have preferred to miss this one. Lonigan, or Lone-Gun as he was better known, was the Free Word’s answer to the deceased Jimmy Sau. Assassin par excellence and a maverick who insisted on operating alone, Lonigan added a notch to his scape staff for every Guild Hunter he brought down, in homage to the legendary gunsmiths of the Wild West. He was a lean whip of a man, corded and coiled like a snake readying to strike. Dressed in black shirt and jeans, he looked every inch the deadly killer he was. He looked at me with his watery, pale-blue eyes, offering no other acknowledgment.

  “Don’t mind Lonigan. He likes to spook people out.” Zauberin said with what was meant to be a comforting smile. It did not quite work. The next person in line did not help either.

  Necros was the spookiest wordsmith I had ever met, by far. If Lonigan was the Free Word’s Jimmy Sau, Necros was its Zyx. Necros, as the name would imply, was a necromancer. It was not clear to me whether Necros was a man or a woman, but for the sake of narrative, I shall assume it was a ‘he’. He was h
eavily made up, with kohl-shadowed eyes, blood red lips and slicked back hair. His gnarled scape-staff was adorned with a ram skull, and a robe that looked like it was made of raven feathers added to the effect. I shuddered as I wondered how many dead people he had brought back to undead-ness and demon-hood using that staff. I had heard of demon attacks on Guild wordsmiths that had Necros’s signature all over them. He hissed a greeting and smiled, revealing teeth filed to points.

  “I guess I should not mind him either?” I asked Zauberin, trying a bit of sarcasm.

  “Necros?” She asked, “Why would you mind him? I thought he was rather nice to you.”

  I did not know if she was joking. For the sake of my own sanity, I assumed that she was. Next in line was a nervous looking kid who would apparently need to wait for a year or two before he could drink in a pub. I was not fooled. The Guild and the Free Word had almost come to an open war over the Silent Kid. The Kid, as he was called, was the only mute wordsmith who had made it from the trainee ranks of inksmiths to the hallowed ranks of apprentice breathsmiths. He had been kidnapped by Zauberin before he could be made a full-fledged Guild wordsmith; or so it was said. There had been rumours that the kid was the Wordscapist, because he was considered a thoughtsmith. Most wordsmiths assumed he was one because he could not really speak. But then it was discovered that he did mouth the words, though no sound came out. It had sparked many studies that challenged conventional wisdom about how wordscapes worked. The Kid was a gifted wordsmith though, and was sure to be a valuable addition to the Free Word. I could not help wondering if the loosed scape had come to this kid in its hunt for fulfilment. But then, Zauberin would hardly have been so warm to him. She would have handed him over to Sign in a flash.

  There were three more Free wordsmiths in the tent. I didn’t recognize them. They were the normal looking ones. I wondered if it took strangeness to achieve fame or notoriety. I stored away their names for future reference though; Isis, Wind and Chains.

  Zauberin turned towards our host, “And this is our beloved Akto; Aktomentes Loon; Andy’s blood-brother; a norm, co-conspirator and our magnanimous host.” Loon hardly nodded at me and proceeded to whisper to Zauberin. I wracked my brains for the name ‘Andy’. A moment later, it struck me. Andy or Andrew Wallachian had been one of Silvus’s inner circle. His defection to the Free Word had come as a shock to everyone. It was rumoured that Silvus had gone all out in his hunt for Andy, breaking many CCC laws in his quest for vengeance. Andy however had remained untraceable. However, I soon forgot all about Andy when I saw Zauberin’s expression. She drew back to give Akto a serious look and asked him in a low voice, “Are you sure?”

  His words were audible this time, “Dew saw him at it. She mentioned that the spirit was one of the people of the mounds. She tried to stop it and failed. It would have killed her if he hadn’t called it off. That too with a couple of words, like it was his pet or something. The scape was powerful, mistress. The CCC is probably on its way to the spot. We might need to split up sooner than we had planned.”

  Zauberin looked at Akto for a long moment, digesting his words. Each one of the Free wordsmiths was looking intently at them. The people of the mounds were faerie that eluded Wordkind for centuries and were even hostile to them. A wordsmith who could summon the fey ones was unheard of!

  “How dangerous is he?” Zauberin asked, just a hint of fear in her words. I felt a thrill of terror running through me. I could understand Zauberin being terrified by Sign. But now this mysterious wordsmith made her uncomfortable too.

  “He’s a strange one,” Akto replied. “Dew managed to bring him here without a struggle. I met him, and he seemed terrified of me; couldn’t stop me from taking him down and nicking him with steel. Dew does think he’s dangerous, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

  I could see the determination come back into Zauberin’s eyes. Anything Akto wasn’t afraid of, the great Zauberin could definitely face! Her voice was grim: “Bring him here. I would like to meet this gifted cipher.”

  A murmur ran through the others at the words. Lonigan and Necros exchanged a look. I couldn’t understand what was happening. How could a cipher summon the faerie, no matter how gifted he was! One of the words being murmured reached me; Wordscapist! That’s when my mind finally completed putting two and two together. This was the man Sign wanted!

  “Kid,” Zauberin called out to the silent one, “I need you to go and set up a Sign scape for me, just as I taught you. Summon Sign for me.”

  There, that was the confirmation I needed! The Kid’s eyes widened in terror. He did not protest though, silently or otherwise, and quietly left the tent. It felt though like he left his silence behind. Everyone simply froze at the name of the elemental. There was no doubt about it now. This was the rumoured Wordscapist. I could see the shock in their faces, including cold-hearted freaks like Necros and Lonigan. The legend of Wordkind was going to walk into this room!

  Akto hurried out and came back a few moments later with a young man. The cipher was undoubtedly young, and he looked petrified. A quick look around the room at all the people standing around staring at him only added to his terror. The young girl followed them into the room, quite agitated herself.

  “You say your name is Slick?” Zauberin asked in a voice that did not bode well for the young man.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice shaking, but still deep and firm. He was putting on a brave front.

  “Where did you learn to use your gift, Slick?” Zauberin asked, curious at this oddity; a cipher who could use his gift. The others were curious too. Wordsmiths were recruited at a very early age. Some however went undiscovered because of a latent gift and ended up as ‘ciphers’. Most ciphers usually lived out their lives as norms and were rarely discovered. There were some who would stumble onto their gift in an emotionally charged state. More often than not, the first use would involve a huge hole in the Continuum caused by an all too powerful scape, leaving behind the poor cipher’s smoking remains. Some would survive their first scape party, but would be immediately hunted down by the Guild and the CCC with extreme prejudice. A cipher that could use the gift and sustain it over time was rare. Silvus had been one such example and had made it into the Guild. However, he had since tightened Guild laws to ensure that all ciphers were executed, irrespective of how much control they had over their gift. The prevalent belief in the Guild was that anyone who could use his gift without following the set path was a threat to Wordkind. I did not know how the Free Word went about it, but in the current circumstances, the young cipher’s chances did not look too good.

  “I never learnt. This was the first time I’ve done something like this. I just happened to be in a tight situation where my fists could not rescue me. My life was at stake. I guess the gift just came to my rescue. I can’t explain it!” The young man went through his explanation quite calmly. But it didn’t make sense. The gift, as he put it, wasn’t a coherent entity that made choices like that. It just existed. It was indifferent to the state of danger the wordsmith was in.

  “The gift came to your rescue,” Zauberin purred, her eyes narrowing. “Go on, this is very interesting. How did you use this gift to summon one of the people of the mounds?”

  “The people of the mounds…I heard Dew say that too. See! I had no clue I was doing that. Maybe I’m possessed by the ghost of an old Scottish wordsmith or something! No?” He offered this tentatively, almost like a peace offering. Again, he was too convincing for his own good. Anywhere else, he might have pulled it off. But here, he was in a room full of wordsmiths.

  “I see you know enough to recognise the people of the mounds as coming from the Scottish fens. I guess this ghost is also educating as well as possessing you.” Zauberin’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Gaia chuckled at that, but no one else said anything. I threw a quick glance to Lonigan and Necros, but just got two very scary deadpans.

  The boy went silent, his brows knitting, his eyes glazing over, as if in deep thought.

  “S
top lying,” Zauberin suddenly snarled, making almost everyone in the room jump. Strangely, the boy didn’t react. “I need the truth! I know what’s happening with you! I know all about the change you have gone through in the last 12 hours! I want you to tell me! I want you to confess!”

  “No, I can’t do that.” the boy muttered, looking like he was speaking to himself. “Are you crazy!” he hissed, after a pause. Suddenly, his eyes focussed as he realised what he had said. “Oh shit!” he backed off a step as Zauberin’s hard features morphed into a predatory smile.

  “So, now you’re having conversations with this voice. Nice! So, is this voice teaching you to weave, Slick?”

  “No! I just stumbled into the words by luck!”

  “By luck!” Zauberin snorted in disgust. She turned around to look at Dew, who was watching all this with a look of horrified fascination. “Dew, you saw him weave his scape, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, milady. I was there.” The girl’s voice was quiet and terrified. I couldn’t understand what was happening there.

  “Did he use the set path or any of the axioms that a wordsmith would use?”

  “No, milady. He wove completely freehand, like a master wordsmith would. His style was very strange though. He specifically summoned one of the aos sí (there was a buzz at these words. I did not understand them, but the wordsmiths did). He then assigned the faerie a name and form that was pretty unconventional and extremely dangerous. When I heard him weave, I thought he was just aiming to scare the norms who were attacking him. I was pretty surprised to see the entity coming to life. And moreover, I was shocked at the sheer power of the imp. But he did not know what he was doing, milady. It was obvious. He was screaming at it to stop instead of weaving a termination. That is when I realised that he was not a proper wordsmith. I stepped in and tried to stop it. I’m still training, but I threw a water spell at it. It worked for a while, but the faerie was too powerful. It worked through the element in no time and came for me. A fully charged battle wand didn’t help keep it away. And then, just like that, he called it off. With one power word. I didn’t know what to make of it.”