Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1) (7 page)

     I fell on my knees, shivering from head to toe. Breathless sobs escaped me and soon I was crying and screaming, trying to vent the horror. After a while, I started running out of steam.

    A quarter of an hour later, I was done. Feeling much better though a little numb, I picked myself up. I walked slowly to the window where I had installed a couple of cushions on the ledge. I propped myself up against them and sat looking out at the view. I could see the lake that lay close by. I lit a cigarette. I looked back at my flat; a sparse but tastefully done up studio apartment that I had set up over five years. I loved this place. This had been home to me through all my madness and happiness. It came to me in a flash that I had to leave, and soon. I had to abandon all this and go. I had no clue where. I took a long drag on the cigarette. The smoke was tainted by the metallic smell of blood that still clung to me. I needed a shower.

     I quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. Soon, I was scrubbing like hell to get the blood and smell off my skin. The demon’s stench however refused to go, and I finally concluded that it was all in my head (which is a lot harder to do than you would realise.) I had been nowhere close to the demon and could not possibly smell of that decaying horror. That train of thought did not stop me from overdosing on deodorant and aftershave when I finally stepped out of the shower. I got dressed in my basic survival wear; jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. I had to pack. I pulled out my backpack, the old faithful that had accompanied me on many a trek. I quickly roll-packed all essential clothes and other stuff I did not want to leave behind. There were many tough decisions. Many books, CDs and other knick-knacks had to be abandoned. “I’ll come back,” I kept telling myself. I checked the time. It was more than an hour since I had reached home. I had to move on.

     My hands were shaking. I lit another cigarette. Where was I to go? The question came back again. I could not go back to my folks in these circumstances. I had too much pride to run home with my tail between my legs. I could not pull any of my friends into this mess. The truth was, I did not trust any of my friends enough to be able to tell them what had happened. That was when I saw my bloodied clothes lying in the corner. The notepad was sticking out of a pocket. I picked it up.

     It was still gibberish. Well, gibberish spotted with miscellaneous words I understood that were somehow worse than gibberish. Like the word ‘zauberin’. That one was German, and it meant ‘sorceresses’. Not that I know German, but I had come across the word in a chat room. But the rest of it was not German. It was not really French either, though some of the words resembled French. Maybe it was Italian, but then I thought I knew enough Italian to know what was not Italian. All in all, it was a lost cause. I had no clue what language it was written in.

     I flipped the pages. There was quite a lot of stuff written in neat, tiny handwriting. I saw the word ‘demon’. There’s also a ‘faerie’ in there. What was this book; the 21st century edition of the Grimm’s Brothers’ tales? I turned a couple more pages. One name leapt out at me; Silvus. I remembered the dead man muttering the name. It had sounded like ‘Silver’ back then. From what I could remember of the delirious words, I suspected the dead man had not liked Silvus too much. I continued flipping. Some more pages later, I noted ‘Guild’. So it had not been ‘guilt’ after all. I was going to give up on the cryptic booklet when one word caught my eye. It was in quotes and used many times. Wordscapes. I said the word out aloud, and immediately, the air started swirling in front of me. I almost dropped the book in surprise. It was as if there were a warp in the space in front of me, twisting and turning, almost waiting for me to say something. I said the word again, watching the warp warily. Wordscapes. The warp spun a bit more, as if to say, “Yeah, I heard you! What next?”

     Wordscapes. I did not say it again, but what could it mean? A picture painted with words? Strange. And why the appearance of this bizarre warp? I’d seen a demon rip off the head of a stranger, so the mere appearance of an odd shimmer in the air wasn’t going to phase me.         And then, I came across a variation of the word…Wordscapist. Even as I read it out in my      head, I could see the warp freezing to a standstill. I decided to give this new word a shot. I took a deep breath and said it aloud…”Wordscapist.”

     The warp recoiled, almost as if it were gasping. It then rapidly coiled up on itself with a curious sucking sound, and all but disappeared into a dark black spot, suspended in the air. I leaned forward, trying to get a closer look at the dark spot. There was a moment of rapid, silent motion, followed by the quietest explosion ever. The last thing I remember was being thrown backwards, but only inside my head…

***

     I eventually came to. I opened my eyes, half afraid of what I would see. My head was spinning and felt really heavy. I picked myself up, feeling disoriented. I looked around, half-expecting the room to be completely destroyed. But it was exactly in the shape I remembered it to have been, which was pretty wrecked to start with. At least it was no worse. I closed my eyes and tried to recall what had happened. I vaguely remembered an explosion. Apart from the fact that I had been lying on the floor, there was no other clue to this mysterious event.

     I remembered the word, and I tried saying it again. Wordscapist. Something stirred in my head at the sound of it, but no strange warp in the air appeared. I repeated the word again. No effect. I clearly remembered saying the word aloud, seeing the warp become a black hole and then a supernova. And then I had passed out. Sigh. My memory was on an acid trip of some sort. I guess I had just passed out from exhaustion and shock and my mind had cooked up an incredible explanation while I was unconscious. I warily picked up the notepad that I had dropped in the midst of all this drama. I quickly flipped through it, almost reluctant to see anything more I could understand or enunciate! I reached the last page. There was a small note there, in English.

If found, please deliver to:

Aktomentes Loon

The Gypsy Shack

Baga Beach

Goa

Finder shall be rewarded.

     It was one of those moments. The coin dropped. I knew my destination. I was going to Goa. This Aktomentes character (not Act two, Akto…that’s who the dead man had been asking me to reach…another revelation) had some explaining to do if he wanted his precious notebook. I had to find out what this was all about, to preserve my sanity if nothing else. I needed to understand. I stole another glance at the clock. Almost 90 minutes since I had reached home. I needed to get a move on!

     I picked up my backpack, looking around me. I guess I owed myself a vacation. I had enough in liquid savings to cover my back for a couple of months at least. And the promised reward might just pay for my trip. And more than anything else, it would keep me away from the cops and buy me time to come up with a plan. My apartment would be alright without me.

     I walked around the flat, picking up a couple of odds and ends and stuffing them into my already overflowing backpack. Finally, I gave up and accepted that I was leaving a lot behind and there was no alternative. I hefted my backpack and walked out. “I will come back,” I told myself again, as I locked the door. Somehow, I knew they were just empty words. I had a strong feeling that this was the last I would see of my beloved apartment and everything I was leaving behind.

***

     The memory faded out as I came back to the present. I went back to staring out of the window. I could make out random shapes jumping at me from the darkness beyond. The night was half past, and barely a few hours remained before I would reach Goa. I had never been to Goa. I had always wanted to go to Goa. It is strange how wishes tend to be granted.

     I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep. I knew I needed it, but I could not relax. I was petrified that the demon’s face would come to me in a nightmare and the sheer horror of it would stop my heart. “Pleasant thoughts,” I told myself, “pleasant thoughts.”

CHAPTER 5

A Warm Welcome

The first sight lies prettily

The second sight warns of dire things

To go beyond the first and heed the second

Is all about wondering

Is it worth it after all

Slick

    The moment I woke up, I knew something was wrong. Something felt different. It was like knowing there was a sharp pebble somewhere inside your shoe though you couldn’t tell exactly where. It was waiting for you to put your full weight down before wedging itself against the most sensitive spot in your heel. Only, the feeling I had was inside my head. Something was wrong up there. Not surprisingly, my first thoughts were of the demon. Had it somehow managed to get inside my head?

     “No.” the answer came.

     It was a little too loud and clear for it to be the voice in my head that I had conversations with. This was another voice. “No?” I asked. “Then who is this?”

     No response to that. Whoever it was seemed a little shy. I was losing it!

     I looked outside and realised we were drawing into the Panjim station. It was time to get off and here I was having a conversation with a voice in my head. I grabbed the backpack and quickly got off the train.

     Everything felt different. There was a lot of noise and colour in the air. There was also a certain languid atmosphere. I tried to define what I was feeling in words. It was like a heady mix of drugs, combined to give the perfect high. I had half a mind to try and bring back that little warp and see if it felt any different. But the memory of the extreme reaction I had when trying out the words from the diary was still too fresh in my mind. I decided to leave it for later. I felt an echo of approval in my head at the decision. It was a strange feeling. But I had to let it be for now.

     I refused many offers of help from porters and other locals. I needed to get to Baga beach, wherever that was. A few queries later, I was told I needed to take the bus to Calangute and hike from there. A toothless old man told me that the nearest bus station was a short walk away and at the same time offered to drop me there in his pending disaster of a taxi. I refused and chose to walk. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the bus, on my way to Calangute.

     I settled into a window seat at the first opportunity I got. The bus was crowded and there was a lot of jostling and loud conversation. There was some quaint Goan music playing on tinny speakers and the entire atmosphere was cheerful. I looked out of the window at the lush green landscape. It was beautiful, and the sights kept my mind off my troubles. An hour later, the rickety bus drew into Calangute. I got off the bus, gratefully stretching my limbs and lighting a cigarette. I was aching for a shower and a proper bed, but I wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible. There were dozens of people standing around the bus stop, looking for directionless tourists. I guess I qualified and I was soon besieged by offers for help. Every person had ‘contacts’, could get me a bike or a car for hire, a hotel room for ‘affordable rates’ or even companionship if I wanted to party. I walked purposefully away from the melee, but was followed from place to place by eager locals. I finally stopped at a small hotel and ordered some tea. The owner shooed the crowd away and gave me a cup of scalding, hot tea and some much needed peace.

     As I carefully sipped the steaming but tasteless liquid, I saw a board pointing to Baga Beach. It was pretty close after all. I could walk down. I paid up and hefting the backpack onto my abused shoulder, I started walking in the indicated direction. I had managed to shake off most of my pursuers, but there was one man hurrying after me like he had been waiting for me for hours.

     “Hey man! You want bike? You want hotel room? You want fix? Tell me, tell me!” The man stuttered out these words as he walked up to me, grinning like I was his long-lost brother.

     “What?” I asked, a bit dazed at the sudden barrage.

     “Fix man! Joint! Weed! Grass! Pot! Mary-You-Anna!” He went through the synonyms, ending with what sounded like an obscene proposal for a threesome.

     “Ummm… No thanks. I am just looking for the Gypsy Shack.”

     “This guy seems ok,” the voice in my head spoke up.

     I did a double take inside my head, if you can imagine that. What the hell! I would deal with this later. I could see the man looking at me weirdly. I smiled at him, “Could you help me find this place?”

     “Gypsy Shack?” he asked and then spaced out for a few seconds, his face a picture of furious thought, as if he was trying to figure out the meaning of life. “Yeeesss,” he drawled, “Akto’s place! You want meet gypsies man? You want gypsy stuff?”

        “Dude!” I grabbed his arms and looked him in the eye, trying to get beyond his weed-induced stupor, “What is your name?”

     He stared at me, trying to figure out this extremely complex question. Finally he smiled as the answer struck him, “Antony!”

     “Good! Now Antony, listen to me,” I tightened my grip on him, “I need to meet Akto. I do not want any stuff now, or later for that matter. I do not do marijuana. I’ll let you know when I need a bike or a room, but that is for later. Right now, I need to meet Akto. Could you take me to Akto?”

     He looked at me for a while as if trying to figure out what language I was speaking. Then he hugged me, “Anything man! You are like my brother. I will do whatever you want. You want meet Akto, I take you to Akto. Come, come!” He grabbed my hand and started walking.

     “No marijuana?” the voice asked me. That did it! If the voice had just been me, it would have known that. This voice was someone - or something - else. It did not know me! “What are you?” I hissed furiously. Antony was some way ahead and did not hear me. The voice seemed not to hear me, or chose not to. There was no response. I realised Antony was drawing away and sped up. The voice could wait.