Wordscapist, The Myth

A step to the left

Another to the right

Not the one in front though

It’s a fun dance indeed

When every step could be your last

Slick

I was stuck between a pretty girl who had just tried to kill me, a voice in my head that was trying to give me advice in what appeared to be Scottish, and the prospect of a heavenly meal. I could only hope that I got to finish the meal before anything terrible happened. That was the weirdest conversation I’d ever had. What made it all the weirder had been the voice in my head playing interpreter. “Don’t let on that you’re daft!” “Keep yer gob shut, boy!” “She thinks you’re one of theirs, a true wordsmith! Let her believe what she does; don’t ye ruin it!”

I had no clue what any of that meant. But then, through the haze, it all made sense. It was like a distinct and parallel awareness was filtering into mine. The gift of the Word, weaving wordscapes, shaping reality…I started finding words to define what was happening to me. I had no clue where it was coming from, but I started understanding, knowing what it was that I doing… who I was! I was a wordsmith! And I had just wordsmithed a defence that had almost burned this place down.

What the hell was a wordsmith? And where was this coming from? I had no clue. But I had to keep the conflict, the questions, all the doubts, for later. This pretty, young girl had proved to be deadlier than anyone I had ever met before. She had thrown something at me that I barely started to recognise, that I had managed to repel through sheer luck. I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull off something like that again. I wouldn’t bet my life on it, that’s for sure. I had to be careful how I played it. Mr. Voice had that part right. (What the hell was the voice about anyway and why was I listening to its advice!) I couldn’t let her know that I wasn’t privy to whatever secret group she thought I was a part of. It helped that I wasn’t one of the ‘bastards from the Guild’, but then I wasn’t sure what other groups she had problems with. I didn’t want my Greenpeace membership earning me another potentially fatal fireball. I walked to the entrance and picked my bag up. I walked back into the deserted shack, again struck by the extent of damage. I found a slightly charred but still serviceable chair, and settled into it. I could feel the warp itching to jump up, almost calling out to me. I could feel the power coursing through me, the words jumping up in my head. Something had happened, something had truly woken up inside me. Was this power linked to the voice? Was this weird gift of the Word, whatever that was, manifested through a voice? Why the hell did it sound Scottish then! I could see the girl moving around inside; she would pop her head out every now and then, as if she were checking on me. I had no clue what to make of her. I think cluelessness pretty much defined my entire state. Well, I hoped the food was all that my friends had led me to believe. I would get a good Goan meal inside me and then deal with this insanity.

“It’s real enough boy; you’d better brace yourself for all that is to come.”

There it was again. While calm, the voice spoke a language closer to my own. It’s when it got excitable that it grew a kilt and bagpipes.

She came back, with the first of many tray-loads. The food was good, and it was plentiful. I dug in, stuffing my face like there was no tomorrow. At this rate, I wasn’t sure there would be one. The seafood was brilliant enough to allow me to be more philosophical about that. So were the sausages. The meal was perfect and much needed.

I could see her hovering around, watching me. She kept refilling my beer and got me seconds of whatever I asked for. She was extremely curious, but I guess she was politely trying to make up for her lack of hospitality earlier on. I wanted to talk to her, ask her questions. But I figured now was not the time for it. Or maybe the voice told me so. I didn’t know which thought was just me anymore. Heck, I didn’t even know if the voice was me!

I finally laid my cutlery down, sated and stuffed. I leaned back, heard the chair creak, and hurriedly straightened up again. I pulled out my cigarettes and lit up. I could see the distaste on the girl’s face, but chose to ignore her. I drew in the smoke and sighed blissfully.

“So, you didn’t tell me your name.” She offered this with an almost overdone air of casual cheerfulness.

“True,” I drawled, half sleepily, as I dragged out another blissful lungful of smoke, “I didn’t.”

She made a face. I could literally see her make the effort of swallowing a retort. “I’m sorry I attacked you,” she offered in a carefully neutral voice, “so can we please put that behind us and talk? We’re all Free wordsmiths here, and we can’t hold on to grudges.” The forced cheer was back. She was cute enough to carry it off, though. I had to give her that.

“Well, my name’s Slick,” I offered. “Just Slick,” I said before she could ask any further questions.

“Of course it’s just Slick,” she said, almost scoffing, “Free wordsmiths don’t do second names. Stop testing me, already! With your powers, you probably know stuff more about me by now than Papa Loon does.”

I watched her carefully, letting her words sink in. It was like playing my first game of chess, and pretending to be a grandmaster while I did so. I gave her a slight smile, hoping like hell that it looked wise and knowing.

“Get out of here, boy, while you still can. She’ll have you figured out before long.”

Almost in line with that thought, she let loose a flurry of questions, “So tell me, which warren are you from? Are you a Guild defector too? How come I’ve never seen you before? I thought Zauberin was the most powerful one we had. From what I’ve seen of your scape sign, you sure got her beat!”

Zauberin! One of the words from the book! I considered telling her about the book for an instant. “No!” the voice protested. I silently agreed. That would probably blow my cover, if this ridiculous façade could be called that. I should wait for Akto, and see if he was easier to figure this out with. I went over her words again in my head. I was more powerful than Zauberin, and she could see this from my scape sign…I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. I saw her waiting for my response, expectant and impatient. The voice was right, I couldn’t keep this up for much longer. I had to leave.

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” I said, trying to sound mysterious, “I cannot reveal such secrets to you, without passing it by my superiors.” I stood up and picked up my bag. I could see the incredulous look she was giving me.

“Classified?” she asked, her tone reiterating just how much off target I was. Wordsmith jargon probably wasn’t the same as your standard espionage fare; but I really didn’t know any better.

“Yes,” I nodded sagely, “you know how it is. The Guild might catch on to what we’re doing, and we don’t want those bastards to know what we’re up to.” I smiled inwardly at this, patting myself for using some of what she had revealed.

She still looked very sceptical. “You’re leaving?” she asked, looking like she was unable to believe this entire interaction. I was sure this was a whole deal less shocking for her. Hell! The girl threw fireballs just like that; she was definitely used to a lot more craziness than I was. Let her deal with this her way; I had to get out of here.

“Yes, li’l one,” I said, warming up to my act somewhat now, “I have other fish to fry before I meet your Papa Loon. Thank you very much for the lovely meal. I hope to see you soon, at Ringo’s perhaps?”

“That’s Ingo’s,” she said, pursing her lips, “And that will be three thousand rupees for the meal.” She stretched out her hand and glared at me. I might have pushed it too far with the ‘li’l one’. Well, the meal had been worth it, even if three thousand rupees was murderously expensive. I fished out the money and gave it to her. “You can get a refund from Papa Loon later, if you want. He will be back here in the evening around six,” she said, putting the money away, still glaring at me. I gave her a quick smile and walked out. I wasn’t going to risk any more words with that one.

I resisted the urge to turn around and look at her as I walked away. I had managed to get away from that without making more trouble for myself. I’d have to wait and see how long I could keep that up. As I put more distance between myself and the Gypsy Shack, my never-ending sense of optimism was back .There was still the voice to contend with, but I would deal with that later.

I was not in the mood for any more walking in the sand and made my way to the nearest exit from the beach. A couple of minutes later, I managed to find a decent looking hotel. A room was available, though I had to pay a hefty amount for the seedy little place. It was peak season and this happened to be that time of the year when everyone wanted to be in Goa. I was going through my cash pretty fast. I needed to be more careful how I spent it. I paid up a day’s advance and trudged up to my room on the first floor. The room was not much but there was running water and that is what I really needed. I took a long shower, pleased to note that there was no stench of blood or demon on my skin - or in my head. The voice stayed silent, and that’s about as much as you can ask from a strange voice in your head. I decided to let it be for the moment. I got into a pair of shorts and hit the bed, setting the alarm for six in the evening.

My eyes opened as I stretched lazily. I had finally managed to get some undisturbed sleep and I felt pretty good. Suddenly, I realised that something was wrong. It was twilight, but the wrong kind of twilight. I checked the alarm. It was six, but a little birdy chirping outside told me that it was probably six in the morning! I had managed to sleep right through the evening and the night. I felt rested, but at the same time, I felt off. My head did not quite feel right. It felt heavier; more crowded. I could not quite define the feeling. It was like being watched. The voice! I couldn’t think about that now. I had a Loon to catch. I needed to get a move on.

I quickly got dressed and rushed outside. There was hardly anyone about. I jogged to the Gypsy Shack, hoping against hope that Akto Loon would somehow still be there. I got to the beach and saw that some of the shacks were still open, people sitting around and having beer. The party never ended here! I jogged all the way to the Gypsy Shack. As I approached the shack, I saw a bunch of locals sitting on the beach before the shack, chugging the cheap beer that is a local specialty. They gave me suspicious looks. Fitness freaks decked out in tracksuits and jogging at the break of dawn were apparently an anomaly here.

I walked into the shack, still panting from my morning jog; something I had not done in a very long time; the jog that is, not the panting. The interior of the shack was empty except for a man dozing at the counter. He looked like a Latino, albeit a very grizzled and heavily tanned and tattooed Latino. He had long curly hair tied in a ponytail and was dressed in a poncho tied at the waist with a rope, and canvas trousers. I looked around the shack, as I walked towards him. The place looked a lot better than when I had left it yesterday. The girl had done an incredible amount of repair, probably using some of the powers that had caused the damage in the first place. I reached the counter and gently tapped on it. The man immediately came awake, one hand slipping under the poncho in a flash. He saw me standing there and growled out a ‘yes?’

“I am looking for Akto, Aktomentes Loon.”

“You found him,” he said, his voice hostile and his hand still under his poncho. “Dew left a note about you. I don’t know any wordsmiths called Slick in the Free Word. Who are you?”

“If Dew is the one who conned me out of three thousand bucks for a single meal and a couple of pints of beer, then yes, I am the one.” I smiled at the grouchy old man.

He didn’t respond to that one at all. My charm was not making much of a difference on him. “Who are you?” he repeated, his whole body tense and with his hand still conspicuously out of sight.

“I have something that belongs to you,” I said. “I came all the way here to find you and give it to you.”

“What do you have that belongs to me?” Akto Loon had a gift for coming right to the point.

I reached into my pocket to pull out the notebook. I noticed him tense even more. This man was definitely expecting trouble. I passed the notebook to him quietly, watching to see his reaction.

He did not raise an eyebrow as he rifled through the book, flipping pages. After a minute of going through it, he looked up at me. “How?” One word, growled out at me in a very unfriendly tone. I presumed that he had noticed the bloodstains on the book.

“The man who gave me the book died a couple of minutes after I ran into him. He had almost been ripped apart by a demon. The demon caught up with him soon after and then beheaded him.” I said these words with a deadpan expression, wondering at the sheer insanity of what I was saying. However, Akto could not maintain his calm this time. He went pale in the face and took a moment to look at the book again, specifically the last couple of pages. He looked up at me, I could see that the man was shaken.

“What did this demon look like?” I saw that Akto was watching me very closely too.

“Looks like the rotting body of a blonde bombshell that went through a molten glass shower. Screeches for conversation and has jagged glass and claws for fingers.”

“It was a body snatcher. The glass was probably the result of a protection scape Andy tried on it. That was his signature scape. It apparently did not work.”

“A body snatcher?” I asked. Not that I understood ‘protection scape’ any better, but ‘body snatcher’ I definitely needed to know!

“A body snatcher,” Akto repeated, looking at me like I was stupid. “What kind of a wordsmith doesn’t know what a body snatcher is?”

There it was again. For a moment, I considered trying to continue pretending like I knew it all. But then, some instinct drove me to try the truth and I went for it. “The kind who isn’t a wordsmith, that’s who doesn’t know what a body snatcher is! I’ve had enough of this crap, and I told the girl as much. I don’t understand any of what is happening, and it’s time someone gave me some answers!”

Akto looked completely puzzled. The wary look came back on full force, his hand again creeping to whatever lay inside that poncho. “You say you aren’t a wordsmith?” Akto asked, the caution making him sound all the more dangerous.

“Brother, I don’t know what a wordsmith is. I wouldn’t know if I was one.” I injected a bit more sincerity into this one, making it almost a plea. I was walking a fine line here, but it was probably the only way I’d get some concrete answers.

“Dew saw the gift in you,” Akto said, “she couldn’t be wrong. She said you were with the Free Word. Why would she think that?”

My mind was racing, trying to figure this out. He had mentioned a note from Dew. A note wouldn’t have had all the details, and luckily for me, one of the missing details seemed to be the part about how we had a round of fire throwing that almost burned down this place.

“I had no clue what she was talking about,” I said. “She seemed convinced that I was a wordsmith and that I was a friendly one at that. Sure, I’m friendly! I don’t mean anyone any harm. But beyond that, I really am pretty clueless. So please do tell me what the hell a body snatcher is.”

“A body snatcher,” Akto spoke after a long pause, his voice devoid of emotion, his eyes watching me carefully, “A demon that borrows dead bodies to move about while the body lasts. That’s the only way it can exist on our plane.”

I digested these words, trying to fit them into the crazy jigsaw puzzle my life had suddenly become. Andy was the name of the guy who had died, and he had tried protecting himself with a scape. Scape. Wordscape. It was coming together, but I wasn’t sure how. How did a scape protect someone? I had images of buckets of molten glass being thrown on attacking zombies. I heard a whisper of a wind in my mind that was blowing the pieces around, putting them into place. The pattern that was forming was crazy and defied all deduction. I was a logical person, but the conclusions that I was arriving at were beyond all reason. They did not even feel like my conclusions. They did not have the necessary a-ha. I wondered if the voice in my head was capable of meddling with my thoughts as well. And then I realised Akto was asking me something. I looked up, slightly befuddled.

He gave me a long, unfathomable look and repeated his question, “If you aren’t a wordsmith, why did the demon let you live?” I stared back at him. That question had caught me off-guard. To be honest, I did not know. I said as much, “I don’t know. I screamed. I must have scared it off.”

He gave me another one of those looks. “Andy was a gifted wordsmith. You tell me that this demon cut his head off. And then you expect me to believe that you scared it off by screaming at it?”

I took a deep breath, telling myself to calm down. I did not take my advice. In an extremely stressed voice, I started giving Akto Loon a piece of my mind, “Mr. Loon, this is an extremely weird conversation. Here I am in Goa, talking to a gypsy at seven in the morning about body snatching demons. 24 hours back, I had just woken up and was preparing myself for a day at work. And work for me is writing spiels for corporate clients. There are no demons involved, at all! And no, I do not know why the demon did not kill me. I am extremely grateful to it though for not trying. And yes, the cops probably believe that I killed your friend and then ran off with his head. One more thing; I have no clue what a wordsmith is and whether Andy was any good at being one.” I almost screamed the words out, on the verge of hysteria.

I heard the voice for the first time that day. It chuckled. I ignored it.

Akto looked up sharply. “Do the cops know you are here?”

“No. I don’t think they even know who I am. So where I am is not quite in the picture. But yes, there were people who saw me and they probably have given the cops a physical description.”

Akto looked at me, obviously having trouble digesting all of this. “Dew said she saw your scape sign, and that it was more powerful than any she had seen before.” He spoke again in a dead, careful voice. He was saying things to watch how I would react. I realised then that my words were the only thing preventing him from going for whatever he kept going for under his poncho. No pressure!

“I heard that from her too. I have no clue what she was saying. I didn’t want her getting excited and hostile, so I just kept quiet about it.” I decided that this bluff was going to work only if I stayed as honest as I could. This man was dangerous and I had to be very careful indeed to make it unscathed through this conversation.

He went back to glancing through the book, stopping to read some sections. “Breakfast?” he growled out, without looking at me.

I looked at him rather incredulously. Was this the fattening part that came before the slaughter? I gave in. “Sure, why not! That English breakfast on your menu sounds good. I would appreciate it though if you did not charge me season rates.”

He looked up at me and let out a gruff chuckle. “Sit, sit. First we will eat, and then we will talk.” He walked off inside to give the order. I collapsed into a chair and turned my attention inward. In my exhaustion yesterday, I had let the voice be. I had even let myself believe that it was a figment of my imagination. But it was becoming more and more obvious that it was a lot more. It felt almost like a person.

“Just what are you about?” I screamed silently, in my head, “What’s with these comments? I can hear each and every one of them, you know! And you can try to pretend, but I know that these are not my thoughts! I know this is you!”

There was silence again, but it was a different kind of silence. It was the silence of someone listening to me. I continued, at a lower mental volume and pitch, if that makes sense, “I am not used to talking to voices in my head, and if it had not been for the demon incident, I would not even have noticed that something was different. I would probably have assumed that you are just part of my overworked imagination. But now I know you’re there. What are you? What are you doing in my head!”

“Who am I,” the voice gently corrected, “Not what.”

I was dumbstruck. I could not believe it. The voice had responded. I was having an actual conversation with a voice in my head! Before I could continue the conversation, Akto returned. I shot a mental be-right-back at the voice before turning my attention to the gypsy. He came with a huge tray loaded with food. We both sat opposite each other, giving our full attention to the food. Yesterday’s meal was ancient history and I was ravenous again. I steadily worked my way through fried eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, buttered toast and a bowl of fruit, washed down with two glasses of orange juice and a cup of strong, black coffee. Akto was taciturn but his attitude was a tad warmer during breakfast. Perhaps it was the food, or maybe he was warming up to me. I guess I was quite an optimist back then.

I started a conversation, making an effort to loosen things up. I asked him questions about his shack and Dew. He was talkative enough about the shack but completely ignored my questions about Dew. He didn’t want to talk to me about her, and I half understood. I didn’t press the issue. I did learn however that Akto had been in Goa for almost six years and did a lot of ‘business’, apart from managing the shack. He also ran a stall at the Saturday night flea market, whatever that was. I studiously avoided mentioning Andy or the book though. I wanted to ensure he stayed in a good mood. After a bit, somewhere around the coffee, he started asking questions, random queries about my life and work. Somehow, I had the feeling he didn’t like the answers one bit. They were quite obviously completely in conflict with the kind of life a wordsmith would be expected to live. What did wordsmiths do anyway? If I really was one of them, I should try and learn more about their way of life. I could not escape the feeling that he was not too convinced about what I had told him. He was looking for something specific. And I had an uncomfortable knot in my stomach because I suspected I knew what it was.

The coffee was presently replaced with pints of chilled beer. We strode out to the sea and settled in the sand just beyond the waves, swigging beer and staring out at the colours on the sea as the sun rose in the sky.

“Andy was my brother.”

I turned to Akto at these words. They came as a surprise. I had not expected him to bring it up. He did not wait for a reaction. He just kept speaking.

“We are not… were not related. But he was closer to me than my bastard brothers.”

“I’m sorry,” the words came out, hopelessly inadequate and graceless.

“I will not grieve him…yet. I will grieve once I nail Silvus’s hide to my cabin wall.” Loon said the words in a matter-of-fact way. I looked at him to see if he was being metaphorical and then I noticed that he was fingering the edge of a wicked-looking knife. So that’s what the poncho hid! I tried to recollect what the shack’s walls looked like and wondered if there were other such ‘hides’ on the walls. I noticed that he was looking at me, trying to see how I reacted to it. Another test to see if I was with the Guild. First Dew, and now this crazy Gypsy with a knife!

“Who is Silvus?” I asked, trying to move the conversation away from hide-nailing.

“He is Mastersmith of the blasted Guild.” The answer was growled back at me, like it was supposed to be the most obvious thing in the world. Again, the same look. He was watching me, trying to catch me in a lie.

“Akto, I am afraid all these words do not make sense to me. Wordsmith, Guild, Mastersmith, Wordscapist…”

Suddenly, Akto was at my throat and I was flat on my back on the sand, the point of the knife threatening to penetrate my delicate skin. It was another one of those surreal moments; the type that I had read so often about but had never come close to experiencing. Big threatening man pinning me down, knife suspended at my throat, back pressing against the sand, waves coming within inches of my face, cool breeze on my skin. All these thoughts passed through my head in a split second as I considered the possibility that I was on the verge of dying for the second time in 24 hours. What scared me even more was what was happening inside my head. The voice almost screamed in outrage, “How dare he! A norm! Punish him! Come on boy! What are you waiting for!”

“How do you know about the Wordscapist?” Akto growled the words in my ear, distracting me from the voice’s tirade. I was too terrified though, to respond.

“How do you know?” Akto repeated, increasing the pressure on my throat.

It was all a little bit too much to take, but I decided to prioritise. The voice could wait. I had to take Akto’s question first.

“The notebook… I read it in the notebook…” I could not recognise the strangled words said in a voice choked with fear. I realised that it was I who had responded. My baritone had deserted me and I had begun to sound like a thin alto on the verge of breaking into a falsetto. Operatic analysis; I was going nuts!

“Why don’t you just make him into a nice little piglet!” the voice demanded. I continued ignoring it, tough as it was given that it was in my head.

“You tell me you can read Esperanto?” Loon asked, the voice becoming all the more hostile, the knife pressing down an infinitesimal bit more. “You, who are not a wordsmith!”

“Esperanto? I don’t know what that is.” I gasped out. My voice was almost a shriek now.

“The notebook was written in Esperanto; a language you apparently do not know about. And you say you read about the Wordscapist in the notebook?” I felt a fleeting bite at my throat and a trickle of warm wetness.

“No!” I screamed. “Don’t kill me! Don’t… Don’t!” I was beginning to get hysterical.

“Calm down!” the voice was clear and loud in my head. “He is not going to kill you! He is nothing, just a norm. Why would you fear him?”

I had no clue what the voice meant, but it worked. I did calm down, marginally. I spoke slowly, coherently and carefully, “Akto, I have no clue what’s Esperanto and what’s not. I remember that word because it sounded like English. A few others because they sounded like names.”

The knife eased up a bit. I could almost hear Akto thinking that part through.

“Get up,” he said as he got off me. I took a couple of moments to catch my breath. I pushed myself up into a sitting position. I touched my throat and my fingers came away red from the trickle of blood. “You’re crazy. You’re fricking mad,” I said in a strangely dead and hoarse voice, looking at my fingers smeared with my blood. This was beyond unreal!

Akto gave me a long, hard look. “What is ‘fricking’?” he asked.

I could not believe his question. I squinted at him as he stood above me, his form silhouetted against the sun. “I say ‘frick’ instead of the f-word. And it’s none of your goddamn business!”

“F-word?” he asked. This conversation was getting more and more surreal.

“Fuck, man! I do not say ‘fuck’! Is that clear now? You understand?”

“You should say ‘fuck’ when you feel like saying ‘fuck’ instead of saying stupid things like ‘frick’.” He dispensed this advice in a very matter-of-fact way, completely ignoring the fact that he had tried to kill me half a minute ago.

“The man has a point,” the voice said, also rather matter-of-factly. I could not believe this bullshit!

Akto offered me his hand, rather reluctantly. I refused to have anything to do with it. I glared at him as I continued to rub my throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said with great difficulty, “It just felt suspicious when you used that word. I had not mentioned it, and there was no way that someone who did not know anything about the Way of the Word could have heard about the Wordscapist.” Akto looked straight into my eyes as he said these words. The words still sounded too much like an explanation and not enough like an apology. But it looked like the best I was going to get for almost having my throat cut out. I took his hand and pulled myself up. We settled down again, and picked up our bottles of beer, going back to swigging and staring at the sea, trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

“Well, ask your questions,” he said after a while, “It’s obvious that you’re not a wordsmith. Not a good one at least. You let me get close enough to kill you, and your skin is not protected from my steel. No wordsmith worth his salt would have allowed that.”

I digested that. Skin not protected from steel…poetic but scary. I had to figure out how to do this skin protection.

“Well… so what is the Way of the Word?” I asked, absent-mindedly rubbing sand off my elbows.

“You really do not know?” he asked, looking at me carefully. I kept up a deadpan expression and look back at him.

“I still can’t make up my mind about you,” he continued, “You could be lying, but could just be really good at it…wordsmith good. I have a good nose for the gift, and I can feel it in you; strong. You have the stench of a wordsmith on you.” Akto fingered his knife as he looked at me. The sun was in my eyes as I looked at him, and I couldn’t figure out if he was staring at my eyes or my throat.

“Akto, I do not know what you are talking about,” I said, keeping my voice cautiously steady, “That will not change, no matter what you think.”

He gave it some thought, and then went on, “I’ll play along for now. I’ll answer your questions. But listen well, boy. If you are playing with Akto Loon, you will be skinned and fed into the meat grinder. You will be part of the hundreds of pink sausages we sell in our deli.”

My stomach did a little flip at the thought of the sausages I had just had. I stopped myself from thinking about where that meat had come from. I gulped and managed an ‘appreciate it’.

“I do not believe you’re taking this from a norm,” the voice sounded disgusted. “Shut up!” I retorted, careful to keep it in my head. I wanted to hear Akto talk. I wanted to try and make sense of all this.

“For thousands of years, ever since Man discovered speech, there have been wordsmiths, those who can weave reality with words, and there have been norms, those who can’t. You are a norm, or at least, claim to be one. The wordsmiths follow what is called the Way of the Word; a world that is woven around the gift of the Word, and all that had to do with it.”

I felt my stomach dropping as I heard the words. Weaving reality with words…that sounded a lot like what I did with the strange warp. I had never stopped to consider the implications of what I wrought as changes to reality. But it sure sounded like it. It was confirmed now, I definitely was a wordsmith! I could not let Akto know! He would kill me!

“Hallelujah! The boy realises he’s a wordsmith!” the voice exclaimed in mock glee.

Once again, I let the voice be. However, the voice soon reaffirmed my suspicions. Wordsmith. I tasted it in my head. It felt right. Wordsmith. I could do this later. I had to come up with a reaction and quick. Akto was looking at me strangely.

“Considering I know nothing about the Way of the Word, I guess I am not a wordsmith. So I would be a norm?” I was desperately trying to avoid becoming a long string of sausages.

“Norm, a normal. Wordsmiths are abnormal, freaks,” Akto explained. “When nature goes crazy, it allows some men and women to meddle with it. That is what wordsmiths are. Dew sensed it in you, and though I don’t have the curse, I can feel it in you too. There is a small chance that you are a cipher; a wordsmith who has not been discovered by the Guild. In that case you are not lying, and I will not kill you.” Akto said this with his by-now-familiar deadpan expression, looking me straight in the eyes. “But then, ciphers are usually not so strong. Dew made you out to be the most powerful wordsmith she had ever seen. With that kind of power, a cipher would plain explode, not knowing how to control the power and channel it.”

A cipher. There. I had found another word that described me in this crazy world. The Guild, whatever that was, had definitely not discovered me. And I was beginning to realise that I was most definitely a wordsmith. There was some comfort in that. But I could not celebrate yet. I had to find out more. I decided to bluff some more. “First you tell me that I am a wordsmith. Then I am a cipher,” I almost shouted at Akto, getting a little aggressive, “Next you will be calling me the chosen one or something. Akto, do me a favour. Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me what this Guild does. Also, tell me what a wordsmith is, especially considering you think I am one.”

Akto gave me another one of his looks. He definitely specialised in those. I managed to keep my cool and eyeballed him right back. When it came to bluffing, I had few peers.

“The gift of the Word allows you to change reality, using only words. You can change the way people feel; you can change objects; you can make things happen; and in some cases, you can even create things out of nothing. It is like magic, only much more complex. It is not merely knowing spells. It is about using words to shape the world around you. That is what the gift of the Word allows you to do. And anyone with this gift is called a wordsmith.” I gulped as I heard those words. It was one of those moments when all your life comes into perspective and you realise what it’s all about. I wondered how many other wordsmiths there were. I wondered what more I could do with this gift. Not now! Ask more! Find out more!

“And you think I am one?” I asked, trying to give him one of his long, hard looks. It missed by a mile and then some.

“Yes. You have the stench of a wordsmith about you,” he said, “You’re not just a smooth talker; you’re gifted. You might not know it yet though. Or maybe you’re one hell of an actor. I’ll find out soon enough.”

Damn it! He was too close to the truth for comfort. I had to distract him! More questions! “You mentioned magic. You mean to say, magic is real?”

“Magic is nothing but a simple form of weaving wordscapes, using pre-woven scapes called spells,” Akto stopped me with a gesture before I could interrupt him, “A wordscape or a scape is made of the words a wordsmith uses when weaving reality, changing it, sometimes even creating it. Each wordscape is independent in intent, and must be woven using words that have to be uttered by a wordsmith. These words have to be powerful and said right to have the intended effect. Sometimes, some of these scapes are recorded and the words are passed on to other wordsmiths who just repeat them. Thus, they become spells. Do you understand now?”

Memories came back, swooping into the new structure I was learning. It felt right. It was the right word. Wordscape. And wordsmith. I liked the ring of it.

“You are much more than a wordsmith, boy,” the voice commented dryly. Christ! Here I was coming to grips with being a wordsmith, and already I was much more than it. I asked the voice to shut up again, especially because Akto was doing a repeat of his do-you-understand rather irritably.

“Yes, I guess. It kind of makes sense, even if it’s tough to believe,” I muttered, trying hard to come across as a belligerent norm, “So wordsmiths are like powerful magicians who can just create any spell they want?”

“Yes, you could say that. They work with words and the essence of their meaning. They do not need spells except when working on group scapes.” He continued, almost expecting my question, “Group scapes are coordinated efforts where multiple wordsmiths are required to pull off the scape. In this case, they work with predetermined spells to ensure that they are doing the same thing.”

“And the Guild manages all this coordination?” I asked, playing the part of the bright student who suddenly sees it all. Deep inside, I felt a rush as I understood the implications of these words. I was finding it really hard to keep a straight face.

“The Guild controls most of the scapes woven in our world. It controls the entire world that is linked to the Way of the Word. It spots and recruits all those individuals with the gift who can become wordsmiths. The Guild also trains these wordsmiths and employs them in various tasks across the world.”

I felt slightly sick at the thought of an organisation that recruited and trained wordsmiths, and then employed them to do ‘tasks’. “What are these tasks?” I asked, knowing almost intuitively what the answer would be.

“They control the way our world works. They decide what happens and who gets to be in power, which group gets to propagate their ideas and which one gets slaughtered for theirs, which war happens and who wins in that war. The Guild controls the whole world and every power group running a country or company worth two cents.”

I stared at the sea, now bright blue under a cloudless sky and a bright sun. I took a swig of lukewarm beer and let Akto’s words sink in. No wonder I had such trouble sticking to a job. The one organisation that could recruit my talents had not ‘found’ me yet. ‘Controlling the world’ sounded pretty attractive. I had to know more about this setup. I pumped Akto with another question, “This man who died; Andy, your brother; he was with the Guild?”

Akto like me was staring at the sea, chugging his beer. He continued staring at the sea, which was fine by me, as he spoke, “Andy was with the Guild, yes. He could not stick for too long. He had funny ideas about free spirit and independent thought. The Guild does not encourage that kind of talk. Andy joined up with the Free Word, an underground movement of sorts, a bunch of renegade wordsmiths. Joining the Free Word automatically means a death sentence from the Guild. Andy lived a charmed life for six years, escaping multiple attempts on his life. But then he kept upping the stakes. He kept working on bigger things. The last scam he was working was to uncover something illegal Silvus, the Guild Mastersmith, was up to. It was supposed to be a big deal. With Silvus arrested, the Guild would weaken considerably. But then poor Andy ran out of luck.”

More pieces fell into place. The diary, the words, Andy’s death. I believed in free spirit and independent thought too. But I was not anything like Andy, I realised. He seemed to have been a real hero, which I was not. I valued my well-being way too much to want to be a hero. Heroes ended up dead or worse way too often. A thought hit me. “Illegal? Arrested? Do the cops know about the Way of the Word and everything you told me?”

Akto chuckled at the thought, “No. Not your cops. The Guild has another agency doing their coppering. It is called the Continuum Control Corps. Silvus was up to something that would have got him into trouble with the CCC. Andy was after proof when he set out from home a year or so back.”

Both of us spent some more time contemplating the ocean. I could almost feel a third person in the group… the voice in my head. I could feel the comfort and camaraderie you share in a group when engaged in this kind of activity. The sea, the sand, the beer (even if it was warm beer). I did not stop to consider the implications of getting pally with a voice that had invaded my mind and consciousness and that commented on my thoughts and actions with the air of a disapproving school teacher. But I did relax a bit. I laughed aloud at the fact that in the midst of all the crazy things I had discovered from Akto, an opinionated voice in my head seemed perfectly normal. That got me a strange look from Akto, but I waved it away with a don’t-mind-me wave of my hand.

I settled into a more comfortable position, shifting the sand to form hollows for my elbows. However, a nagging thought kept coming back to me. I decided to ask Akto, no matter how silly it sounded.

“Akto,” I called out, letting the word hang in the air, continuing to stare at the sea.

He looked at me in response, waiting for me to complete the unspoken query.

“I guess this stuff is all pretty secret. I hope you are not going to kill me because you told me all this.” I felt pretty stupid saying it, but then it was always better to know.

“I will kill you if I find out that you have lied to me. If not, I will not harm you. If your story is true, you were the last one to see my brother alive. You helped him send word to me. You were there for him in whatever way you could be and you have now come down all this way to see me and give me his notebook. And it looks like you are in trouble with the law because of that incident. It looks like I owe you for whatever you did. You shall stay with me as my guest for a while. In the meantime, I will make my own enquiries about you. For your own sake, let us hope that you have not been lying to me.”

I had lied to Akto alright. I had lied about my gift. I watched Akto swigging his beer nonchalantly. I tasted my beer. It was lukewarm and tasted flat and bitter. I looked at the sea too. Suddenly, the waves weren’t so charming after all.