Full-Blooded Fantasy

by Steve Erickson

  “Two rupees each,” said the storekeeper in a bored voice. Obviously, he didn’t think the ragged boy standing in front of him could afford the price.

  Anand opened his mouth to protest. Why, the store-keeper was charging twice as much as what the pavement vendors would have charged! But he said nothing. The man would only shrug insolently and tell him to go else-where. He hesitated, then took out the meager bundle of rupee notes he had tucked into his waistband and peeled off two of them. He carefully picked the biggest, fattest mango, hefting it in his palm. Wouldn’t Meera be amazed when he showed up with this beauty!

  By now it was late and windier than ever, and Anand had to keep his head lowered to avoid the dust and debris flying through the air. Thankfully, he didn’t feel cold. Why, he thought in surprise, he hadn’t felt cold all day, not since he gave the old man his tea! He hoped the old man had found a place to shelter himself for the night. It looked like it was going to be a rough one.

  The streets were strangely empty as Anand made his way home. Was it because it was dinnertime, or was it this unpleasant wind? The small businesses that lined the street—the printing presses and machine shops—had turned off their lights, padlocked their gates, and sent their employees home. With a brief pang of envy, Anand imagined them safe in their warm, lighted houses, listening to songs on the radio or sitting around a table, eating a hot meal, maybe a chicken curry with rice. After dinner the children would crowd around their father, begging for a story. The mother would bring bowls of sweet milk pudding from the kitchen. That was how it had been with his family, too, before.…

  Anand shook his head to clear the memories. What use was it to long for what was no longer there? He’d better concentrate on getting home quickly. He’d have to start the cooking because Mother wouldn’t be home until much later, and Meera couldn’t be trusted to light the kerosene stove on her own. She couldn’t do much of anything since the bad-luck accident, that’s how he thought of it, had happened to her. He hoped she had remembered to wash the plates and fill the big earthen pitcher with water from the tenement’s tube well. Sometimes when he came home, she would still be sitting on her bedding with a vacant look on her face, and he knew she hadn’t moved from there since morning. But he never had the heart to scold her.

  He passed the cigarette shop, surprised to see that it, too, was closed. Before today, no matter how late he had been in coming back from work, it had always been open, its shiny radio blaring hits from the latest Hindi movies. There was always a crowd of young men around it, joking and jostling around, smoking beedis or chewing on betel leaves and spitting out the red juice wherever they pleased. But today, with its shutters pulled down and locked, the shop looked abandoned and eerie, and Anand walked past it as quickly as he could.

  Right around then he became aware that someone was following him. He wasn’t sure how he knew it. There were no sounds—not that he would have heard footsteps in all this wind. Nor was there anyone behind him when he forced himself to whirl around and look. The street was empty and dark—a streetlight had burned out—and Anand realized that he was at the same crossing where Meera had been when the accident that had turned her strange and silent had occurred. He pushed the thought away from him with a shiver and quickened his steps. There’s no one behind me, no one, he said to himself over and over, and, under that, Mustn’t fall, mustn’t fall. Because then, whatever was behind him would catch up.

  There’s no one behind me. Mustn’t fall.

  He was running now. There was a fog all around him, obscuring the shapes of the shacks and turning the alleys into unfamiliar, yawning tunnels. His foot caught on something, and he went sprawling. The mango fell from his hand and rolled into the darkness. Oh no! Not the mango he’d spent two whole hard-earned rupees on! He scrabbled desperately for it, but felt nothing but asphalt and dirt. He wanted to search more, but something told him it wasn’t safe to delay any longer. Where had the fog come from, anyway? How could it be windy and foggy at the same time? Was this his street? Where was his house, then? He looked around wildly, not recognizing anything. Help me! He called inside his head, not knowing to whom he called. Help! He was ashamed to be acting this way, like a child. The fog in front of him thinned for a moment. Ah! There was his shack with its warped tin door! He had never been so happy to see it. He knocked frantically on the door, calling to Meera to open up, hurry, hurry. He heard her unsteady steps, then the bolt sliding across. He threw himself inside, slammed the door behind him, and bolted it again. He leaned his back against the door, his heart pounding. Meera stared at him, a startled look on her face.

  He forced himself to smile because he didn’t want to scare her. “Don’t worry, Meera,” he said, though his throat was so dry he could barely speak. “Everything’s all right.”

  Then he heard the knocking. Tap, tap, tong. Someone was hitting the door with…a stick? a piece of metal? He could feel the vibration against his shoulder blades. He jumped away from the door and looked around for a weapon, something with which to defend himself and his sister. In the flickering light of the small oil lamp, he could see nothing except an old bonti, its blade dulled from years of cutting vegetables. Somehow he didn’t think it would stop whoever was outside.

  Then he heard the voice, deep and rusty, as if it had been at the bottom of a river for a long time.

  “Anand,” it said. “Let me in.”

  Anand didn’t know how long he stood in the middle of the room, eyes squinched shut, heart pounding madly. But the knocking didn’t stop, as he had hoped. There it was again.

  Tap, tap, tong.

  “Go away,” he whispered through dry lips.

  “Let me in, Anand,” the voice said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Right! Anand thought. That’s what all the evil beings in his storybooks said, the monsters and witches, the dakinis who drank blood.

  “I don’t believe you! I don’t even know who you are!” he shouted. “Go away now, before I yell for the neighbors.”

  “Your neighbors won’t come. They won’t even hear you over the wind. And even if they did, they’d be too scared, because of the killing—”

  “How did you know about the…killing?” Anand asked, astonished, stumbling over the word. No one in the neighborhood spoke of it, not out loud like this, anyway. Like Anand, they all called it “the accident,” as though renaming it could make it into something less dangerous.

  The voice didn’t answer his question. “In any case, you do know who I am,” it said instead with a little laugh. “I’m the old man to whom you gave your tea.”

  Perhaps it was the laugh, or the memory of the old man’s hand, light as a bird’s foot in his hand, but Anand felt less scared. He wasn’t completely convinced, though.

  “Why did you follow me home?” he asked.

  “Don’t you know? You called for me—for us—and we came.”

  “I never called anyone,” Anand said. Then he added, suspiciously, “What do you want from me?”

  “Did you not call for help a little while ago?” the old man said.

  “But that was in my head—”

  “Exactly,” said the man, a smile in his voice. “But you’re right. I do want something. And in return I have something to offer you. But I can’t discuss these things with a closed door between us. Please?”

  Wondering if he was making a terrible mistake, Anand motioned to Meera to get behind him. What if it’s a trick? a voice inside him whispered. Ignoring it, he raised a trembling hand and unbolted the door. It was only when the door had creaked open on its hinges that he remembered that the man had said “we came.”

  But thank heavens, the old man was alone. Perhaps I misheard him, Anand thought. Something about him was different, though. Was it Anand’s imagination, or did he seem straighter and taller? His white hair and beard glowed eerily in the dim light from the lamp as he stepped into the room, and there was a brightness in his eyes. The cloth bag was slung over his shoulder.

  “Th
ank you,” he said with a slight bow. “The wind was becoming rather unpleasant.” As Anand watched, he walked to each corner of the room and made the same strange motion with his hand that Anand had seen him make earlier. Then he sat down on the mat the boy had spread out for him.

  “It’s very unusual for it to be so windy here,” Anand said, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say. He wondered if it had been the old man whom he had felt following him earlier. Somehow he didn’t think so. The old man was strange, but Anand didn’t feel scared when he looked at him. If anything, he felt happy. That was odd. Why should he feel happy looking at this ragged stranger whom he’d never met before today?

  “I’m afraid I’m partly responsible for the wind,” the old man was saying with a rueful grin.

  “What do you mean? Did you…make…the wind happen?” As soon as he said it, Anand felt stupid. People didn’t make winds happen.

  But the old man didn’t seem to think it was a stupid question. “I didn’t,” he replied. “Someone who wanted to stop me did. But before I explain things, is it possible to get a bite to eat? I’m starving. Only had a glass of tea all day, you know, and a few pooris!”

  Anand jumped to his feet, embarrassed. “Of course! I’ll start the rice and lentil stew right away. That’s all we have, I’m afraid.” He hunted around in the corner for the pot. Thankfully Meera had remembered to wash it today. He glanced at Meera, who was unusually quiet. She had crept close to the old man as he talked and was watching him intently. This surprised him. Ever since the killing, she’d been terrified of strangers, and on the few occasions when they had neighbors visiting them, she had curled up on her pallet in the far corner of the room, with the bed-clothes drawn over her head.

  Anand lit the stove, threw a few handfuls of rice and lentils into the pot, and added water, salt, turmeric, and chili powder. In twenty minutes, it would form a bubbly stew. Once again, he wished he’d been able to pick up a few vegetables. And that mango! If he hadn’t dropped it, he could have cut each of them a slice to eat after dinner. He wanted to kick himself for being so clumsy.

  The lamp in the corner flickered and the flame grew small. Anand could tell it was running out of oil. He reached for the bottle to refill it, then remembered that it was empty. He’d been supposed to buy some oil, too, on his way home, but the wind and the fog and the fear had driven it out of his mind.

  The lamp wavered and went out. Now there were only the blue flames from the kerosene stove.

  “Maybe I can help,” the old man said. He rummaged in his bag and came up with the stub of a candle. It wasn’t much, Anand thought as he lighted it, but at least it would last through dinner.

  “I’ve a couple of other things here that you may be able to use,” the man said. He held up a small yellow squash and a handful of green beans, and Anand thankfully chopped them up and threw them into the pot. The room began to fill with a delicious smell. As though, Anand thought, he’d put lots of expensive spices into the pot. They sat in the small golden circle of light thrown out by the candle stub, waiting for the lentils to cook. As they waited, the old man told them his story.

  3

  THE SILVER VALLEY

  “My story begins long before you or I were born,” the old man said, “when this city that is called Kolkata today was a swamp where tigers roamed. It begins six thousand years ago in a hidden valley of the Himalayas—the Silver Valley, as it is called by those who know it. The Silver Valley! Even now it is the most beautiful place in the world, protected by the jagged, icy swords of the mountains that form a ring around it. Only a few people know the secret passes that lead into its fragrant groves and the shining lakes of clearest water from which it takes its name. Here, many ages ago, a group of men with special powers came together with the dream of perfecting those powers and using them to further goodness in the world. They called themselves the Brotherhood of Healers, and over the centuries they taught their powers to other young men who came to them, called or chosen from among many.”

  “What kinds of powers?” Anand asked, fascinated. He wasn’t sure he believed what the old man was saying. It sounded a bit like the fairy tales his mother used to tell him when she had the time for such things. But he was happy to listen to any story that involved magic.

  “Powers of the mind,” the old man said. He put out his forefinger and touched Anand lightly in the center of his forehead. “There are worlds upon worlds of power in there, far beyond what you can imagine. The Healers knew how to draw upon them.”

  “What can the Healers do?”

  “Some can look into the future and advise men and women of what to do, and what to avoid. Some can cure sicknesses of the body and mind. Some transport themselves to places thousands of miles away. Some travel through time to bygone ages. Some know special chants to create rain or storm—or wind and fog—”

  “Like the wind and fog outside?”

  The old man nodded. For a second his eyes shone golden in the candle’s light. “Others can make riches fall from the sky. And once in a great while, a Healer will know how to use the conch.”

  The old man’s words vibrated through the small room. They made the hairs on Anand’s arms stand up.

  “The conch!” He spoke slowly, savoring the sound of the words in his mouth. “What’s that?”

  “It came out of an ancient time, the time of myth, when, it is said, great heroes roamed the earth. These heroes were the sons of gods—and their fathers often gave them magical gifts. Two such heroes were named Nakul and Sahadev. Their fathers, the Ashwini Kumars, who were the physicians of the gods, gave them the conch. With it, Nakul and Sahadev could heal both men and animals and cure the land of famine and drought. At the great battle of Kuru Kshetra, it is said, they even used it to bring dead warriors back to life. But in doing this, they overstepped their bounds, and in punishment the conch was taken from them and buried deep in a valley of the Himalayas, for the gods felt that men were not ready for such a gift. For centuries it lay there, lost, while armies and factions warred across the land, killing and maiming and laying the earth bare.” The old man paused.

  “What happened then?”

  “We don’t know. The early part of the story is written in the Book of Heroes, but then the trail is lost. Perhaps, when time changed and the fourth age of man—the ink-dark Kali Yug that we now live in—began, it was time for the conch to be found again. Maybe it was a hill tribe, digging for roots, that discovered it. They would not have known how to use the conch, but they recognized it as an object of power. Maybe they brought it to a holy man, a sadhu meditating near the source of the Ganges. And perhaps he glimpsed a small part of its greatness and gave it to a favorite disciple, someone with the potential to use that greatness in the service of mankind. All we know for certain is that when the Brotherhood was started six thousand years ago, the conch was already present in the center of the Silver Valley, housed inside a crystal shrine. Around it the Healers built a meditation hall where they met each dawn. Though no one except the Keeper of the Conch was permitted to handle it, each Healer knew how sacred it was, and how potent. They knew that its presence alone made it possible for them to renew their own powers each day. They also knew that these powers were not theirs to use for selfish ends.”

  The stranger’s face grew sorrowful, and he gazed at a spot above Anand’s head as though there were images drawn in the shadows that only he could see.

  “But once in a while there came a Healer who grew to covet the conch’s power and wanted it for himself, to bring himself glory. In the past, when the Brotherhood was stronger and more attuned to one another, such a man would be discovered immediately and reprimanded. And if he did not see the wrongness of his desire and repent, he would be sent away, with a spell laid on him so that he could never return to the valley. But in Kali Yug, the time of disintegration and darkness, the Brotherhood was diminished, for many of the masters felt they were needed down in the plains, to ease the suffering of humanity by min
gling among them. And perhaps we were not as careful of whom we admitted to the Brotherhood, for interest in the healing arts—and indeed the belief in them—had waned. We were badly in need of new students to whom the knowledge could be passed along. And that was how he came to us.”

  Here the old man paused as though he were listening to something. Anand, too, listened, but he could hear nothing but the wind.

  “Who are you talking about?” he asked.

  “His name is Surabhanu, though it is with reluctance that I name him for you. For in spite of the yantras, the protective runes I’ve drawn in the corners of the room, he is sure to hear the echo of his name and sense where I am. And in my present condition, I don’t have enough power left to face him again.”

  Anand looked curiously at the old man. There were so many questions he yearned to ask. He wanted to know more about the valley, to which he was strangely drawn. In its loveliness, it seemed to him the exact opposite of this claustrophobic tenement that he hated so much. He wanted to learn more about the Brotherhood, too. It seemed to be a new and wonderful kind of family, one that spread its protective arms around you and never went away somewhere and left you behind.

  But he chose the most urgent question. “Why does Sura—this man want to find you?” As he spoke, he had a strange feeling—almost as though a slimy tentacle had touched the back of his neck. He shuddered.

  The old man gave him a shrewd glance. “You felt that, didn’t you? That is the finger of his attention, sweeping this area of the city. In spite of the covering I’ve thrown over myself, he guesses I am somewhere here, in the tenements. And when we speak of him, even without saying his name, it creates a certain connection between us. But let me finish the story quickly—I fear time is running out.