Wordscapist, The Myth

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.

For a junkie on a constant high, Antony walked fast. As I staggered along with him, I looked up at the sky and silently asked whoever was up there if I should be grateful or scared for whatever help this brotherly pothead would give me.

What followed was a twenty-minute walk and impromptu tour. We walked down a narrow road with a variety of curio shops and restaurants lining it. I could smell the sea but could not see it. I wondered where the beach was. And then, at one point, Antony plunged into an even narrower lane that shot off from the road we were walking. Two minutes later, we were on the beach.

It was like entering a different world. Up ahead was the bright azure of the Arabian Sea, and the beach was filled with people. There were enough sights, sounds and smells here to drown a person. I doggedly kept after the scurrying Antony. Walking on the sand was not easy, especially with my heavy backpack feeling considerably heavier by the minute. However, the sight of the sea helped. In all my life, there was nothing I found as relaxing and pleasing as the sight of the endless blue of the ocean. I could sit for hours on end on the cool sand and watch the waves crash against the shore. The sight of the sea made everything alright. I somehow did not mind the thought of a disrupted life if it had brought me to the ocean.

All this while, Antony drawled on. He pointed out shacks to me, stopping to call out his greeting to bikini clad sunbathing women, turning to me to wink meaningfully. He staggered around, talking to every other foreigner on the beach. Amidst a sea of near-naked bodies, I looked extremely out of place in my sweatshirt, jeans, trainers and backpack. My sunglasses were the only saving grace, considering everyone sported a pair. I started wishing fervently that I had stopped to drop the bag off at a hotel room and change into more comfortable gear. Soon, the warmth and the humidity coupled with the sheer effort of trudging through the sand got to me. I was sweating so hard I was afraid I would keel over from dehydration. We passed shack after shack, all of them looking the same, with easy-chairs laid out, covered with beach towels and sunbathing tourists. Menus were listed on boards, promising fresh lobster and calamari that had just been brought in from the sea. Lots of waiters ran around, passing around beer and food. There was a lot of noise as families and noisy gangs of teenagers played around in the water, splashing and screaming. It was a surreal world, and after a point, it all blended together into a tourist collage. By now, Antony’s words had faded into a kind of a lulling drone. Thankfully, I spotted a board in the distance announcing the world that the Gypsy Shack was nigh!

A minute later, we were there. I grabbed Antony before he could walk past the shack and pointed to him that we had reached the destination. He took a few seconds to inspect the board, and then announced to me that we had reached the shack. Conversation with this fellow was getting slightly tiresome. “Antony, thank you so much for bringing me here! Give me your number and I will call you the moment I need your help again.”

Antony smiled broadly, “Antony brings you to Gypsy Shack,” he announced proudly, though belatedly. He leaned over and whispered hoarsely in my ear, “Antony helps you. Now you help Antony. A little something. You help Antony. Ok?” I sighed. In Goa, nothing was for free. I pulled out a 50-rupee note and slipped it to Antony. “Thanks brother,” I said, patting his back.

He looked at the note incredulously. “You give me fifty? Antony helps you like brother and you give him fifty? One hundred at least. Come on brother!”

I looked at him, half-bemused. “Antony, you have to be kidding! You want hundred bucks for walking me to the biggest shack on Baga?! If I knew this place was so big, I would have asked you to stay put and found the place myself. Get going now ‘brother’. I need to find Aktomentes Loon.”

Antony gave me an injured look, and then philosophically accepted the bargain. “Ok. Antony wish you luck. You meet Akto, but be careful, ok? Gypsy people slightly mental. You never know when they…” he made a little swishing sound accompanied by a stabbing gesture with his hand. I sighed again. That fit right in with the rest of my crazy life.

“Thanks Antony. You get going now before Akto…” I made the same swishing sound along with the little gesture, “… you.” Antony stared at me with his eyes wide open. Then, with a fearful glance thrown at the Gypsy Shack, he hurried off without even a final goodbye. I had seriously scared the poor pothead. I looked up at the board again. I whispered to myself, ’I am here. Where are you, Aktomentes Loon?”

“You want beer?” a voice came from below. I looked down to see a little guy, a little over four feet in height, dressed in the floral shirt and black pants that seemed to be the uniform for the waiters in the bar next to the Gypsy Shack.

Before I could refuse, a voice came right from inside the Gypsy Shack, “Leave my customers alone! Go away, before I set Papa Loon on you!” Papa Loon! How many Loons could be there in Goa! I turned to face the owner of this voice.

The first thing I noticed was her eyes; those beautiful eyes that looked right into my soul. They were framed in a frown directed at the object of her ire, but that could not quite cover the laughter that was so much a part of her. The eyes had a pert little pixie nose below them and pouting lips that apparently didn’t approve of whatever she saw in front of her. She was young, definitely a couple of years younger than me; petite with a heart-shaped face framed by long dark hair. Strands of her hair moved in the breeze and the warm Goa sun lit her up like some kind of an angel. You get the picture - I was smitten.

Her frown dissipated as the little man ran away, and she turned to look at me. The play of expressions on her face in that moment would stay with me forever. The irritated look gave way to a fake cheerful smile of welcome that immediately moved to sheer shock and almost fear. Her eyes widened as she staggered back a few steps, quickly muttering a few words, her hands coming up almost in defence. The most thing incredible thing happened next; as I saw a warp appear before her, her hands almost shaping it up. I hadn’t dreamed up that entire incident with the warp after all, when I was reading the bloody notebook. And it wasn’t just me who could do it! There was someone else, and hers was prettier than mine!

“Defend yourself, you eejit!” the voice in my head shrieked, for the first time abandoning all pretence of being me. Defend myself? I didn’t know what the voice meant, and looked in confusion at the girl. Her warp had become fiery and huge, almost obscuring her from sight. And suddenly, my own warp came up in response to words that I spoke without thinking; Shield, protect, repel… The words had come with such clarity and direction, almost as if they had been directed or shaped by someone else.

Things went a little blurry for a second as my warp expanded to cover my whole field of vision, and then in an instant went back to being small and unobtrusive. I blinked a couple of times, my warp still swimming in front of me. The girl had disappeared into the relative darkness of the shack. I propped my bag beside the entrance to the shack and took a couple of cautious steps forward. My vision had cleared, but the shack in front of me still looked pretty smoky. It wasn’t me; everything was actually pretty smoky. As I stepped inside, I saw that everything looked freshly charred, smoke curling from burn marks on the furniture. What had happened in here!

And then I saw her again. She was laid out on the sand that passed for the shack’s floor, slumped against a table. Her form had left an untouched outline on the smouldering piece of furniture. She looked stunned and terrified. I realised that I had somehow managed to fling this girl 20 feet whilst also almost burning down the place. My warp did that! Some first impression! I took another step forward, and suddenly there was the voice in my head again, shrieking at me, “Shottie, bampot! That wee lassie will blow you up if yer not canny!”

I didn’t understand half of that, but finally had the confirmation I needed. The voice was not me. “What the hell is happening,” I muttered to myself as I cautiously stepped forward.

Dew

It was the last day of my life as I knew it. I remember how it started. I just didn’t know it back then.

I was running through a checklist. The day was dawning and it was time to head back to the shack to relieve Papa Loon until Matilda could come in to start her shift. She refused to start early, and Papa Loon shut down with the sun. I usually offered to help for those couple of hours to ensure they didn’t kill each other fighting during the handover. But before that, I had to make sure that everything that had to be done had indeed been done. Savio and Mario, two of the norm helpers, ensured that everything happened smoothly. They were Papa Loon’s men. I sat back in my makeshift chair of wooden cartons as I watched the norms set up the final parts of the stall.

I found it difficult to think of them as just norms. These were the guys I had grown up with. I remembered Savio and Mario playing soccer with the other boys while Andy da and I watched from the road overlooking the field. They were much bigger now, and drank beer while watching soccer instead of playing themselves. But still, I knew these guys. And yet, everything was so different. I was a wordsmith. And that made me different. There had always been a trace of respect and fear in the way the boys had behaved with me. Honestly, I didn’t mind, given just how rowdy they were with the other girls my age. I had been spared all that and more. I was Papa Loon and Andy da’s adopted daughter after all. That was enough weirdness to ensure that most norms gave me a wide berth. But I had never been out on a date either. Being from a gypsy family was bad enough. But Andy da was one of the Goan Free wordsmiths. To the local norms, for some flummox inducing reason, that translated into him being close to the Russian mafia. That kept the boys away. Tourist norms, unaware of the history and intending to get friendly, went through a crash course with one of Papa Loon’s bouncers. It was ironic that I was probably the one girl in the neighbourhood quite capable of taking care of myself, and I never really had to. It was good, in a way. I was in charge despite my age and had no authority issues. But then that, along with the fact that I was a Free wordsmith, ensured that I didn’t have many friends. I rarely met anyone my age, and when I did, they were of the hard-eyed fanatic class of wordsmiths the Free Word usually attracted. I had my share of angst, but wearing it as a burning ribbon on my sleeve wasn’t quite my style. I noted that the norms were almost done with their work. It was time for me to check mine. I got up, tying my hair back with a band. It would probably be all out and bothering me again in a couple of minutes. I never quite managed to tame it. I should try weaving something up for it.

I walked around the flea market’s narrow aisles, strangely spacious in the early hours with hardly a soul around. There were enough boards pointing to our shack to ensure other norm vendors didn’t suspect our real purpose here; the convention. But what I was looking for were the invisible weaves leading Free wordsmiths to the location. There was the one on the entrance gate, quite satisfyingly woven into the night market board, merging with its loud age-old aura. Through my signature scape I could see its faint glow, invisible to everyone else.

I walked into the parking lot and there was another weave, nudging Free wordsmiths in the right direction, melded into a huge tree in the centre of the lot. For some reason, this one nudged norms to the public facilities at the other end of the market. I had to fix that or there would be utter chaos with every norm rushing straight from the parking to the barely sufficient restroom facilities at Ingo’s. I quickly brought up my scape view to look at it. As space warped and gave me a view to the guide centre, I noticed something I had never seen before; a tinge of mossy brown-green all around the place. There were faint striations that were barely perceptible, moving much like near-invisible flotsam in the eye. It blended with the earth and greenery, but still coloured everything a different hue. This was not something I had done; it seemed to be everywhere. And yet, it affected my scape in the weirdest way possible. I wondered if someone was working mischief. I ran a quick probe to search for anyone else working the gift in the area. Nada. I was the only gifted one there. The day was getting brighter, and the tinge dissolved into the light until I could barely see it. I decided to ignore it and ran a double weave on the guide sign to take out the norm anomaly. No more restroom urges. I stood back to admire my handiwork. Neat and efficient, as Andy da always used to say. I was slow, but I was reliable. I allowed myself a tiny smile as I walked back to the stall. Time to wrap up. The night market wasn’t until the next day, but I always tried to prepare way ahead of time. I hated leaving things to the last minute. I looked around the place as I walked past the empty stalls. I could hardly believe that the next evening would see the most powerful Free wordsmiths in the world flocking to this place. I wasn’t sure if I would get to see all them together, but I would definitely try to catch one or two of them for a quick chat. Isis always said that I should try and get at least two minutes with one of them if I was planning to become a battlesmith. I would probably learn more in that brief spell than months with any regular wordsmith would teach me. I had met Zauberin and Mother Gaia before, though they had hardly noticed me. I half shuddered with excitement at the thought of meeting Lonigan or Necros. That would be totally cool! That was the calibre of battlesmiths the Free Word needed, and that’s what I was going to be like. Eventually. Slow but steady.

I wished Andy da was around. But he was out of Goa on one of his secret saboteur missions. That had left the responsibility of setting up entirely to me. Everyone else on home turf would only be arriving hours before the event, along with the rest of the big names from other parts of the world. Managing all the logistics by myself (with the help of the norms, of course) had turned out to be almost too much pressure to handle. The security scapes, the norm handlers, the boarding logistics, the discreet scape signs….There had been so much to do! I reached the stall and noted with satisfaction that it was ready. I could go tell Papa Loon now that the stage was set for his bunch to take over. And then some sleep before the night, when I’d do some final checks and ensure that everything was undisturbed. I sent the norms off with some scape-enhanced words to make them feel good about getting the job done and to ensure they slept well. Quickly locking down everything, I rolled out my bike, and took off to the shack.

The town had already started stirring and there were people everywhere. Goa in December was a completely different place. I wove through the traffic as I swung into Baga and reached the parking just before the shack. I parked my bike and wandered to the shack. It wasn’t the cool sand of dawn, but it still felt good. I ducked inside, hoping Papa Loon hadn’t already launched into his morning crank. It was already way past the end of his shift.

I found him asleep on the counter. There was no one in the shack. These were the slow hours. The tourists wouldn’t come out until the sun was high, undressed appropriately to try and catch as many rays as they could. I dropped my bag behind the counter and shook Papa Loon gently to wake him. He came awake instantly, that catlike reflex that was such an integral part of him. I saw his hand shoot to his side where I knew his favourite blade rested in its sheath. He saw it was me, and his whole body relaxed. “Fool girl, scaring me,” he growled, his voice heavy with sleep, “you’ll get yourself killed one of these days, sneaking up on me like that.”

“Sure,” I stuck my tongue out at him, “you keep working on that. All the sharpening in the world isn’t going to help you past my scapes!”

He gave me a terrible looking scowl. He had a natural aversion to wordsmiths, but couldn’t stay mad at me. Andy da and he were the closest I had to parents. Andy da and Papa Loon were as close as brothers, and Andy da was probably one of the most powerful wordsmiths of our time. Papa Loon’s irritation was more with the Guild - that spilled over to a lot of wordsmiths, and sometimes his foster family got some as well.

“That lazy cow sent a note with Gomes,” Papa Loon said, referring to his beloved business partner, Matilda, “she will probably come in after lunch. I asked Gomes to come around breakfast to help you out till then. Catch some sleep here, if you want to.”

I winced at the thought, as I watched him throwing a couple of his things into a sack to take with him. Much as I loved the shack, sleeping behind the counter during busy season didn’t sound very attractive. I didn’t say anything though. Papa Loon had definitely hit cranky hour, and I just wanted him to get out of here as soon as possible. I could probably set up something small to discourage people from coming into the shack so that I’d be relatively undisturbed.

“And don’t mess with the shack. If I see the collections dip below normal, you’ll have some answering to do, understand?” Papa Loon growled, glaring at me.

I acted innocent and grinned at him. When in doubt, act cute! It always worked.

He shook his head, giving up. “Take care, Dooly, I’ll see you at Ingo’s tonight.” With those words, he trudged out of the shack. I gave it a couple of minutes, and then set up a quick scape near the entrance that would nudge people to other shacks nearby. I got back to the counter, set up a couple of cushions to make myself comfortable, and settled into a deep nap.

Even as I woke up, I knew I had overslept. I’d been planning on getting just an hour’s nap, but the sun outside was way too bright. It was close to lunch. The shack was still empty. Gomes wasn’t here either. The scape I’d put up had probably nudged his feeble mind away too. Crap on toast! I would be in so much trouble with Papa Loon for this!

I ran to the entrance, quickly saying the words to undo the no-entry scape I’d put up. I saw Raj from the neighbouring shack talking to one of the tourists, fresh out of a plane, train, or bus, bag still in tow. I had to start getting business in, starting with him!

“Leave my customers alone! Go away, before I set Papa Loon on you!” I shrieked at him. That got him running away in a hurry. And then I turned to the tourist, focussing my full charm on him. He was probably one of the young Indian guys; I’d do the pretty girl act and have him here for a good couple of hours, trying out the menu one item at a time.

That’s when I saw him, really saw him. My scape view came up almost immediately, almost by itself. His scape sign flared so bright it blinded me. He was the most powerful wordsmith I had ever seen, more powerful than Gaia, Andy da, or even Zauberin! He seemed more powerful than all of them put together! I had no clue who he was. To a Free wordsmith, that meant only one thing. The Guild!

I started muttering the words to bring up my elemental attack…

Draw on the sun,

Draw from the Earth’s heart,

Even as I wove, I staggered back, realising the sheer futility of what I was doing. I was attempting an attack against an incredibly powerful wordsmith, someone who could vaporise me in an instant. The thought numbed my legs, my hands, my mind. I urged myself to focus, to weave! I couldn’t give up, not without a fight! That’s not what Andy da would have done. I had to keep going!

Smoulder, burn, consume

To my words, shape thy intent

I completed the scape, making a mess of it, my scape sign flaring uncontrollably. I gave it my all and cast it out at him; this would probably be my only shot anyway. I screamed out the release word.

“Fajro!”

I saw my scape reach out to encompass him. He looked almost confused, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I had him! Then, almost casually, I saw his hands coming up, his lips moving. Something powerful hit me and I was flung back. I was covered in intense fire for an instant, my scape protection preventing me from being consumed by my own element. I hit something hard, and landed on the sand, completely winded. For a couple of scary seconds, I couldn’t breathe. My training kicked in then, and my lips shaped the words, feeding energy to my body. In a whooping rush, the air came in. I lay where I had landed, breathing the smoky air in huge gulps.

Vaguely, I registered the damage the explosion had done. Papa Loon would kill me. That didn’t seem very likely though. The wordsmith stepped towards me very cautiously, walking through the shack. For a second, I considered preparing another attack. As I watched him walk towards me, the words came to my head. But I didn’t speak them. I had just thrown an incredibly powerful, almost out-of-control scape at him and he had just bounced it off, pitching it right back at me. He would have known that it wouldn’t kill me, being my element. That was just a warning, almost kind in intent. Any more hostility from me would probably lead to worse reprisals. I clenched my teeth and waited for him to come to me, bracing myself for the worst. If he was indeed from the Guild, I would die before I would betray the Free Word! I knew the words every Free wordsmith learned, preparing for such an eventuality. I could only hope that my implosion scape would take him too, giving some meaning to my sacrifice. He stepped closer, still looking extremely cautious and tentative in his movements, and I saw him properly for the first time. He was Indian, or maybe South European or Latin American. I couldn’t quite make out. It struck me again that he was very young. He looked around my age, maybe a little older. He couldn’t be over 25. I knew that the gift of the word slowed aging, but that usually kicked in after the wordsmith turned 30. How the hell had someone so young become so incredibly powerful! What devilry was this!

Another couple of steps and the dim light of the shack allowed me to see him more clearly. He had straight, dark hair, brown skin, and pleasant features. Nothing out of place or extraordinary, but the whole was definitely better than the sum of the parts. I could see the tension in his face and his body, and wondered why he was worried. Couldn’t he see that I was just a rookie smith and wasn’t even trying to counter anything he had planned for me? As he moved closer, I scratched out the ‘nothing extraordinary’ part. His eyes were light, almost glowing in the darkness. I think they were hazel, and I fancied I could see the green and brown swimming in them. At that thought, I brought up my scape view again. His scape sign, his aura, was incredibly bright. It was also brown and green, the same hues that I had seen earlier at the market. His presence and power had somehow managed to affect my scape, even when he was far enough away that I couldn’t detect him. How powerful was this man! As I looked closer I realised there was a kind of a duality to his aura. The brown and the green were distinct. It was almost like two identities. Again, I didn’t understand. Whoever, whatever, this man was, he was beyond my comprehension. I could only hope that death would be quick. I braced myself as he came within a couple of feet of me, his face cocked to one side. I wanted to screw my eyes shut, but I’d rather face my death. I glared at him balefully, willing him to do his worst.

“Why did you do that,” he asked, “and more importantly, how did you do that?”

My glare faltered at that. I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. I just looked at him stupidly, wondering what this was about.

He repeated the questions, louder this time. Oh god, he thought I couldn’t hear!

“I don’t understand you,” I rasped, my voice thick with the smoke and the recent hard landing.

“You just threw something like fire at me, with no provocation from me. Why did you do that? And how did you do that? How did you throw fire like that?” he said all of this quite slowly, like he was talking to a kid.

I stared at him, bewildered. His question was way too dense for me to understand. Why was a powerful wordsmith asking me how I had cast a scape?

“Is it a language problem?” he asked, again speaking slowly, “You speak English?”

“I speak English very well, thank you,” I said, “and I can hear you and understand your words, so stop speaking to me like I’m slow.”

“Well, then answer my question.” he threw that right back at me.

I didn’t even know where to start with the answer. I decided to take the easy part first. “I didn’t recognize you, but I could see your gift. I took you for a hostile, and attacked. I’m sure you understand that much.”

He looked completely befuddled. “That makes no sense,” he said. “You took me for a… hostile? You could see my gift? What do you mean by that?”

At this point, he again cocked his head to one side, as if he were listening to something. He kept doing that every now and then, a stream of expressions flitting through his hazel eyes. It was mostly irritation though. As if he didn’t like what he was listening to. I had the growing feeling that I had a crazy on my hands here. A powerful, crazy wordsmith! Perfect!

“I’m not answering any stupid questions. If you’re trying to be careful or if this is some kind of new Free Word code that I don’t know, I want out of this conversation. I’m Dew, and I’m a Free wordsmith, initiated three years back. If you’re from the Guild, be done with whatever you will do. If you’re a Free wordsmith, help me up and stop acting weird!” I went through that hard and fast, my temper flaring. There was only so much I could take before I lost it.

He seemed bemused at that. He then stepped up and gave me a hand. I took it and pulled myself upright. I saw him quickly move back the moment I straightened up, still cautious. Why was this insanely powerful man scared of me? He didn’t respond to my rant, but then, he hadn’t tried to kill me either. Maybe, with the helping hand, he was indicating that he was with the Free Word. Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t an immediate danger to me. I figured I’d rather have this conversation standing up or sitting on something more comfortable than a broken, smouldering table. My body ached from the hard landing. If it hadn’t been for my scape protection, that fall would have probably broken every bone in my body. I turned to glare at him again, and noticed that he was gone. He had gone to the display menu and was looking at it with interest. Really!

I saw a bunch of tourists headed to the shack, and then change their minds after looking at the state of the place. Papa Loon was really going to kill me. I groaned at the thought.

He turned around to face me, his body tense again. When he saw that I wasn’t trying anything, he went back to the menu. “Do you just try to kill all your customers or do you feed them as well?”

I stared at him with disbelief. I didn’t know what this guy’s deal was, but I was definitely not going to play along! “Are you telling me that you came here just to eat?”

“Actually,” he drew that out as he looked for something in his bag, “I came here looking for Aktomentes Loon.”

“Akto isn’t here,” I said, relief flooding me. If he was looking for Papa Loon, he was definitely a Free wordsmith! “You can pass on the message to me, whatever it is. He is usually here only at nights, so you need to be here between dusk and dawn to catch him. Or you could meet him at Ingo’s tomorrow night. All you guys are meeting there anyway, right?”

He looked up at me cautiously, pausing his bag search. “I’d rather talk to him directly. Where can I find him now?”

“He’s sleeping now,” I said, walking around the counter. If he was one of ours, I might as well feed him. “I wouldn’t recommend waking him up. You mentioned food; do you want get brunch while you’re here?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Are you going to try and poison me now?”

“Nope,” I smiled at that, “I don’t want to piss you off any more than I have. I’m sorry about the attack, but then, you shrugged it off easily enough. You know how it is. We have to constantly look out for those bastards from the Guild.”

His face had softened a bit when I smiled, but he watched me carefully as I spoke. It was as if I was speaking a foreign language that he was trying really hard to understand. His English was reasonably unaccented, like he knew it well. I couldn’t quite figure this guy out, and why he was acting so strange. But then such were powerful wordsmiths; quirky and unpredictable. I guess this one was almost normal when compared to someone like Necros.

“I am pretty hungry, it has been a long journey in from Mumbai,” he said. Mumbai, that’s where he came from. Probably flew in from Europe or America. Except that powerful wordsmiths rarely flew, especially the ones in the Free Word. They almost always teleported to stay under the radar, keeping their movements secret from the Guild. Curiouser and curiouser!

“Well, I’ll see what I can fix up for you; any preferences?” I asked, noting the way he was so fascinated by the menu.

“Sure! I’ll take the battered calamari, the Goan sausage curry, the surf’n’turf, the pork vindaloo and rice. Also, I’d like some buttered, garlic bread on the side. And yes, some cold beer as well, please.” He reeled this off, but continued looking at the display menu, as if he was considering adding to the list. That was an awful lot of food. I guess that kind of power took a lot of sustenance. Well, if I could get him to pay for this, the morning would not be such a loss after all! I took off to the kitchen, pulling out my phone to call Gomes and tell him to get himself over as soon as possible. I would need backup to get this spread together. As I walked out, he called after me, “You do have dessert, don’t you?”

“Yes!” I shouted back, walking on. I sighed to myself; this was going to be a lot of work.

Just for a moment, as I walked into the kitchen, the thought occurred to me. Could it be that he was a powerful Guild wordsmith who was using a glamour to befuddle me? Could glamours be used on wordsmiths? I discretely muttered up an identification scape. It was a standard Free Word scape that helped us identify wordsmiths whose allegiance lay with the Guild. I brought up my scape sign and saw tendrils of his aura all around me, even though I had walked right into the next room. I tied the scape to his scape sign, and waited. There was no flare of warning. He wasn’t with the Guild. He was safe. I could relax. And even as I did, the thought came to me right away…he was cute!