“It’s all right, Aunt Gina,” said Viven, wishing they hadn’t opened their mouths in the first place. “He didn’t really harm us, anyway.”
“No, Viven, you don’t know these Future Stockers. They are a curse.”
“A curse?” asked Viven.
“Yes . . . when I was young,” she continued, her eyes teary and red, “my uncle, your grandfather, h-he met one—the next day, he was m-murdered!”
“What?” Viven had never known this.
“Yes, that was wh-what happened.” Aunt Gina was weeping now. “Th-these Stockers are to be blamed for everything bad.”
She stood up and, wiping her tears, went out.
Manu stared at Viven, big-eyed.
“Are you going to die tomorrow?”
Viven and Manu spent the rest of the day taking baths. (They had gained a nasty stench after coming into contact with the Stocker.) Aunt Gina was quiet most of the time, talking only to call for meals, and her eyes remained bloodshot. Manu wasn’t very talkative either, not his usual preference. Viven suspected he was wondering if he, Viven, was really to die tomorrow. Viven himself thought it was unlikely, though he had an unpleasant feeling in his gut for the next day, anyway.
***
What Happened to Bablu
That night, a man staggered on a road of Tempstow village. He was weak, terribly weak, but not devoid of hope.
Armando had a big cut in his stomach, and his swollen thigh only suggested the bone had fractured, but he kept going, inching on like a snail. His mauled body was ablaze with a fire of pain, but he was not prepared to succumb to it, not just yet. At least not before he reached the Descendant.
Suddenly Armando thought he had heard a voice. He stopped and looked around. The night was dark, and the crescent moon that floated amongst the clouds did little to pierce it. No, there couldn’t have been anyone, not in the dead of the night; it had most probably been only his imagination.
Armando trudged on; he knew the little energy left in him was draining. He smiled at the thought, although his blood-smeared lips pained: his life would no doubt end in the next couple of hours. All these years he had been striving to attain immortality, the only reason he had abandoned Luidhor, his blood-brother, why he had taken to serve her . . .
Peculiarly enough, death seemed a funny business now. And, anyhow, it mattered little to him; all he wanted was a small amount of time in which to deliver the warning.
Armando’s heart beat faster. He could sense the Descendant was only around half a kilometre away. Then his heart fell. This would be a long half-kilometre. Spitting out a bloody bog of phlegm, he forced his bruised-up reluctant legs to move on, that had themselves come to a halt. Armando ruefully imagined what it would have been like if he still had his tattoos on his body. He could have gotten himself to the Descendant in no time at all. Tattoo-less, he considered it a sheer miracle that he had slipped from the Assurs’ clutches with only a handful of wounds, though they would prove fatal.
“Armando,” a female voice whispered, which made his already shivering body shudder.
He recognised well to whom the voice belonged. He shook his head. His mind was playing tricks on him. No wonder he was hallucinating; too much had happened to him that day. She couldn’t know where he was despite her infinite powers . . . Still, as a precaution, he quickened his pace, although that worsened his suffering.
“You think you can succeed?”
Armando gasped, fear enveloping him. No. It was only his mind. He warily looked around again; no one. Muttering a quick prayer, he continued on the Descendant’s trail.
A few minutes passed, the stars blinking down at the substitute for any ghost, struggling his way on the Tempstow road, urging himself to carry on.
“You can’t let go,” Armando kept telling himself. “You will make it . . .Make it.” Though a part of him, and a rather large one at that, never gave up the idea that he might collapse on the road any moment now.
His fears merged into reality the next minute. He couldn’t fathom where it came from, but suddenly a sharp pain erupted on his back, accompanied by a loud cracking noise like that of a whip. Armando trampled face-first to the ground and moaned like he had never before, wriggling over and over like a worm, the dust sticking to his face and wounds.
“So, what do you say now?” said the female voice he was now sure was no figment of his imagination.
“Go away, you filth!”Armando groaned.
“Go away?” said the female voice. “You want me to go away? And filth you call me?” She paused for a second, and then continued. “So sad! I only came to sing you a lullaby before you sleep! Um, anyway, ahem.” She let out an artificial cough. “Listen . . .”
She broke into a melodious song. Ah, melody it was! But only as melodious as poison could be. The tongue she sang in was one that Armando had heard for years but couldn’t understand a tad bit. Still, the song caused Armando more and worse pain than his body or soul had ever been exposed to in life . . .
Long before the female voice stopped, life had already abandoned Armando’s limp body.
***
Viven awoke early the next day to the freshness of the morning and cheerful chirping of birds outside the window. For some time, he remained in a dreamy state, staring dizzily at the ceiling, thinking of Meela, enjoying the moment.
Then he started, jerking to a sitting position, all that had happened yesterday fleeting to his mind’s eye . . .Aunt Gina, Mr. Doof’s twin, the Stocker.
An icy cold overcame his body. The unpleasant feeling in his gut had never left, only disturbing him more.
He had always somehow believed he would accept death when it came to him, but now, with a supposed death day—today, already fixed, he felt spooked. Were he given the chance to choose his manner of death, he would have opted for an unexpected and sudden one, totally out of the blue.
Something purple flickered in the corner of his eye. Viven turned his head. It was a purple cat, sitting on one of his schoolbooks on the table. Viven blinked.
The cat wasn’t there! It was like it had vanished into air. Had he been imagining? he wondered, but not a moment ago, he was sure the cat was there. So, where had it gone?
Was this some sign of what was forthcoming?
Viven swallowed. He had to stop thinking about this.
Breakfast was a grim affair that morning—not the usual cheer of everyday. There was scarcely any sound; the only available were of spoons and dishes being moved, and of chewing.
Viven wasn’t enjoying it. There had been many occasions like this in the past, mostly due to some fault of Manu. All of them seemed to drag for eternity.
“Um, Aunt,” he began; Aunt Gina looked up at him vacantly. Viven lingered for a while, scanning his memory for a topic, before he found a good one.
“Er, yesterday, you sent us to get the Goigpaise book. Are guests going to come?”
“Oh, that?” said Aunt Gina, sipping her tea. “Yes, my friend and her son.”
“Your friend?” Viven asked.
“Yes, her name is Nandi. I met her yesterday in the bazaar and invited her here. The last time I met her was three years ago.”
“You mean Bablu’s mum?” said Manu. He appeared eager since Aunt Gina was at last speaking.
“Yes, exactly,” replied Aunt Gina.
“So when are they coming, Mum?”
“Today. Nandi said around noon.”
Noon soon arrived, and with it, the guests. Around a quarter past twelve, a horse-drawn carriage came rattling along and stopped at their gate.
Besides the driver, there was a lady and her son in it. Nandi was a tall, gaunt woman of sharp features; the boy, Bablu, though, was short and obese, and of Manu’s age.
Everyone had gone out to receive them, and Aunt Gina, especially, was delighted.
“Nandi!” she called out as Nandi and Bablu got down from the carriage.
“Gina!”Nandi cried, and they hugged.
“I’m
so glad you came!” said Aunt Gina.
“Oh, Gina, you know we came across a dead man!” said Nandi, furrowing at the memory.
“Dead man?”
“Yes, there was this dead man not very far from the gate of the village. You know of him?”
“You are the first one from whom I am hearing about it.”
“You haven’t? It looked like somebody had murdered him. There was blood all around the spot. Some men were preparing to take him to the cemetery.”
“Really? Oh, the gods! I live in this village and know nothing about what’s going on!” Aunt turned toward Viven and Manu. “You two heard about the dead man?”
“No,” Viven replied. Both of them hadn’t gone out of the house that day, it being hot outside since it was the middle of summer. Tempstow was the biggest village in north Belaria, and it was a little surprising news of the dead man hadn’t reached them. It often took a whole day for news to travel from one end of the village to the other end. And the east gate, through which Nandi and Bablu had entered the village, was far from their house.
“Well, Nandi,” said Aunt Gina. “Let’s go inside now . . . I’ve got loads of other stuff to talk with you. Boys, help with her luggage.”
“So sweet of you, my dears,” Nandi said as Viven and Manu picked up her bags. Then they all went inside.
After lunch, Aunt Gina and Nandi got to cooking Goigpaise—the dream dish. They were to serve it at night only, but since Goigpaise needed a lot of time and was a tedious procedure to prepare, they were required to start early.
The boys spent their time playing Trimpato, the most popular board game in Belaria. They discovered that Bablu was a great Trimpato player. Viven watched in amusement as every game ended with Manu hitting himself on the forehead with his hand in utter defeat.
But Bablu had a weak point of being rather goofy. Manu tried to put it to use, playing pranks on him in hopes of settling the scores, but in vain. Manu’s pranks, simple as they were to Viven, were beyond Bablu’s understanding range. He would look at Manu most of the time and say a confused, “What?”
However, the Stocker of yesterday kept returning to Viven’s mind. They later got to know from a villager who lived some distance from their house that the man who had been found dead wasn’t someone from the village, and Viven couldn’t help but wonder if the man’s death had something to do with the Stocker he and Manu had encountered.
Around eight, dinner time, Aunt Gina and Nandi proudly announced the completion of the special dish on the menu—Goigpaise.
Everyone was thrilled; Manu composed a rhyme on Goigpaise, drumming with spoons on the dining table. Viven added a few lines to it as they waited for the dream dish to be served.
And when they finally had their Goigpaise-full-bowls in front of them, Nandi raised her arm and said, “On the count of three: one, two, three! To Goigpaise!”
“To Goigpaise!” they cheered after her. The next moment saw everyone spooning Goigpaise into their mouths.
Viven leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting relaxation grasp him all as he savoured the soup. He saw great things, marvellous ones, and of indescribable beauty, far surpassing any earthly splendour. Who knew, he might have been with the gods themselves!
Viven never knew how long he remained in that blissful state until it withdrew from him. He then took another spoonful of Goigpaise, and the marvels returned in seconds. And each time it was over, a spoon was everything needed to revive it. The glory and splendour went on and on, never ending, forever . . .
That night, Viven went to bed thinking only of Goigpaise. His mouth watered as he recalled its taste. Oh, the lovely dish that made one tour the Heavens! Neither Stocker nor death held importance or any of his concerns. Those were trivial stuff.
***
“Manu! You know you shouldn’t have done that!” said Nandi, glaring at Manu in suppressed anger.
“But . . . but I did nothing!” Manu said in response. “It was the cat’s fault!”
“What cat?” Bablu wailed, clutching his buttocks. “There was no cat! You did it!”
“No, Bablu. There was a purple cat. You tripped on it, not on my leg!”
“Purple cat?” Aunt Gina said. “I have never seen a purple cat anywhere in this village my entire life! Do purple cats even exist?”
“Why don’t you believe me, Mum? There was a cat and Bablu tripped on it while he was walking backward.”
“You told me to walk backward so you could make me fall!” Bablu said as tears streamed down his face and his cries rose louder.
After breakfast, Viven had barely gone to his room, intending to brainstorm a plan to somehow meet Meela and talk to her. His classmate Baddil, whose house was located not far from Meela’s, had told him of seeing Meela sometimes go to her friend Krina’s place during the evenings. Maybe Viven could catch her on one such trip. But then he had heard the commotion and rushed to see what happened. Manu and Bablu had been playing outside on the lawn when Bablu had gotten hurt, apparently a prank of Manu that he had lost control of.
“Shut up, Bablu,” Nandi yelled at her son. “You are not going to die!”
“I think it’s paining him,” said Aunt Gina. “He fell on some stones after all. And you, Manu, what sort of prank were you playing on Bablu, eh? Say sorry to him.”
“I DIDN’T DO IT!” Manu yelled at the top of his voice, and ran out of the house.
It was a good two long hours before Manu returned home and sneaked into Viven’s room.
“Bablu’s in my room,” he said, and sat on the chair beside the door.
“What really happened to Bablu?” Viven asked after letting some silent minutes pass.
“What I told Mum,” Manu replied. “He tripped on a purple cat and thought it was me.”
“A purple cat?” Viven said. A picture flashed in Viven’s mind of the purple cat he had seen, or thought he saw, the other morning. There were few pet cats in the neighbourhood, and Viven knew nobody with a purple cat. But he didn’t think Manu was lying since he never lied about a prank to Viven. Maybe it was the same cat he had seen.
Both Bablu and Manu followed a no-speaking rule toward each other. The next day, the guests packed up and were ready to leave for town, on the account that Nandi could not afford being away from business too long. The two boys had to be persuaded by their mothers to shake hands and exchange “byes,” which there was little need to say. They did as though the other’s hand was covered in pig poop.
Manu took on a gayer shade after his rival’s departure, and Viven was happy for him; he had grown tired of Manu’s lonesome and quiet behaviour of late.
“See? That Stocker you met was a bad sign,” Aunt Gina said that night, over dinner.
“Well, Viven is still alive, Mum,” said Manu.
“Shut up, Manu. Don’t speak such things.”
“The man who died wasn’t from our village, though, Aunt,” said Viven.
“He wasn’t,” said Aunt Gina, “but I don’t think he would have turned up dead near the gate of our village had that Stocker not come here. I can only wonder why King Agarz hasn’t banished these Stockers to the Tropagian forest. They can scare whatever dwells in the north, then.”
“Mum, don’t you think it’s time somebody went to the north and found the demons that dwell in Tropagia?” said Manu dreamily with a burp.
“There are no demons there,” said Aunt. “Your great uncle led the expedition to Tropagia and proved no such things exist there.”
“All his crew members died, though.”
“It’s still a forest, Manu. It’s dangerous even without demons.”
“I would like to go there one day,” said Manu, and from the way he gazed at the ceiling, Viven could bet Manu was already in Tropagia in his thoughts.
Just then, someone rapped on the main door.
“Mrs. Bezera?” a man’s brawny voice said from outside. “Mrs. Gina Bezera?”
“Who could it be?” Aunt said.
<
br /> “Let me see,” Viven said, and went to open the door. A strong putrid stench, like that of some insect, greeted him the moment he did so.
A uniformed soldier stood outside, holding a club in one hand and a paper in another. Beside him were about six other soldiers, lower-ranking as their differently hued uniform said. They looked impatient, some scratching their armpits and groins, and the intimidation in the air was thick for Viven.
“Yes?”
Viven wasn’t able to say beyond the word. The soldier hit him on the head with his club. Viven dropped unconscious.
***
In Nascat
When Viven was next conscious, he was no longer in their house at Tempstow. The corner he was lying in belonged to a small damp and enclosed room that just had a single window with bars, and a firmly closed tiny door.
Sitting on the floor by him were Aunt Gina, who was massaging his head, and Manu, who gazed, with a nasty curiosity, at a bone-sack of a woman in shackles in the other corner. Both Aunt Gina and Manu were thin-faced and crack-lipped, and their despair was clear.
“Aunt Gina,” Viven said weakly. She turned her eyes at his face.
“Viven.” She smiled. “You are awake.”
Viven sat upright with much effort. It was difficult—his head hurt so badly.
“Where are we?” he said. “Those soldiers . . .”
“They say they have brought us to Nascat,” said Aunt with a furious grimace. “They blindfolded us all the way, and I am not sure if it really is Nascat. We reached here inside a day’s journey, and Nascat’s far away from Tempstow. But then, it can only be Nascat, right?” Aunt grimaced harder. “They call themselves soldiers and do this to ordinary people!”
“In Nascat?” said Viven. With the blaze in his head, it took time for him to take in the words, “You mean the prison of Nascat?”
Aunt Gina nodded.
“But why? Why did they bring us here?”
“They won’t say,” said Manu aloud, turning away from the old woman. “They have kept us here one whole day and still won’t explain why they brought us here in the first place!”
The Sword of Tropagia Page 2
