Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1) (19 page)

     The roads hugged the coastline for the most part. Once in a while, we would enter hills, and soon enough, we would exit them through long, dark tunnels dimly lit by spooky, yellow lights. Every now and then, we would pass small villages and towns, but for the most part there weren’t too many houses around. The cars kept up a furious pace throughout. We were headed to the heart of Goa for a Free wordsmiths rendezvous that had been scheduled, quite coincidentally, for that very evening. I tried striking up a conversation with the norms in the car, but they ended up being quite surly. Perhaps language was a problem. Apart from English, my knowledge of languages extended only to Europe and the Far East. I didn’t know Hindi, India’s national language. And even that would not have been of much use. India, I had read somewhere, had 28 different states (at last count) and most of them had their own languages and numerous further dialects. Perhaps the men spoke Goanese or whatever was spoken in these parts. The article had claimed that India had around 425 languages and somewhere between 1600 and 1700 dialects. I wondered how the tourists managed. A couple of hours of hard driving later, we entered Panjim, Goa’s capital. The roads got more crowded, and deteriorated as well. The cars had to slow down a bit, as they swerved into narrower lanes from the highway. I looked out keenly, trying to get a sense of the country. It was crowded, noisy and extremely colourful.

     We stopped briefly for a tea break, while one of the norms inspected the wheels on one of the SUVs; the one Zauberin was in. She didn’t emerge though. Little thick glasses of steaming tea were handed around. I took one sip of the scalding hot liquid and abandoned my stubby glass. The thick, sweet liquid was nothing like tea and caused my insides, already shaken by the swerving trip through the hills, to protest violently. I quite liked the place, though. It was green and it was cool, though in a strange way, it was also humid and warm. I didn’t need my heavy jacket, which I had been wearing for the wet and cold morning in Galapagos. I shuddered as I thought of my close brush with death. Brushes actually, if you counted Sign’s visit and Silvus’s execution order as separate incidents.

     I climbed back into one of the SUVs and we took off for the last leg of the journey, wherever that led us. Nobody thought it important to let me know what the plan was. I thought we had left Panjim, but wasn’t really sure. Was Mapusa different from Panjim or within Panjim? But given where my life was, geographical location was the least of my concerns. I was with the most wanted member of the Free Word, hunted by the CCC and the Guild for multiple crimes against the Way of the Word and large scale Continuum tampering. I was also being taken to a meeting where I was to meet other such controversial wordsmiths, who would collectively fetch enough bounty to bid for the First Wordsmith’s scape-staff, should it ever be put up for sale. I wondered how much bounty would be offered for my balding head. However large that amount might be, I was sure I would find the concept more scary than flattering. But with such big names around, I didn’t have to worry about being hunted. They would probably look for me only after they had hunted down every last Free wordsmith. 

     We finally turned into a narrow lane that was labelled Baga. One last harrowing turn later, we stopped outside a place that claimed to be the Gypsy Shack. Zauberin unfolded from her car, unruffled by the drive.

     “Come along, Historian. Get a hand-held. You might want to record some of these parts for flavour.”

     I half bridled at this. The Guild, for all its faults, treated historians with respect. We were specialists who only recorded scapes with import that qualified them for the archives. We weren’t treated as mere cameramen who recorded every time wordsmiths had a gossip. Before I could protest, Zauberin had moved on and one of the norms was handing me a handheld recorder and a pack of batteries. I sighed as I took the equipment. I could throw a fit, but I didn’t think it would do me any good. These were extraordinary circumstances and I would probably be required to do worse than this before the dust settled, if it ever did.

      I slipped the batteries in and started the camera. I looked at the viewfinder and turned it around, testing it for light. I pointed it at the norm who had given me the camera and was waiting, watching me rather impatiently. “Smile!” I said, as I started a test recording. I might as well have asked him to roll over and play dead. I sighed again, as I turned around and followed Zauberin. I found myself tripping over a patch of sand before I entered the Gypsy Shack. I saw Zauberin talking to someone - he might have been the owner of the shack, or a caretaker. I was leaning more towards bouncer though. He looked like one of those muscular Latinos who had been left in the sun for too long. Tanned almost dark brown, the man’s muscular arms were covered in tattoos. He also had long, curly hair with lots of grey in it, tied in a vague ponytail. He was wearing a brown poncho that he had tied around the waist with what looked like sailor’s rope and canvas trousers that flapped around. He was dressed in beach slippers, same as almost half the people I had seen so far in Goa.

     I turned the camera on them, looking through the viewfinder. I stated date, time, and location, and moved in closer so that I could catch the audio for whatever inane conversation was happening between Zauberin and the stranger. I focussed on the man as he was talking and took a couple of steps forward. The first words I heard and recorded were anything but inane. “He was very powerful, Mistress. Pardon my impertinence, but Dooly, Dew, said that he was even more powerful than you.”

Slick

     I took a quick shower and changed into light, comfortable clothes, trading in my heavy shoes for comfortable floaters. I completely avoided looking at the mirror throughout this entire period. The sight had shaken me more than I would like to admit. It hadn’t helped that De Vorto was completely stumped by the change as well. He had had blue-grey eyes when he had a body of his own. I had plain brown eyes, though they were a lighter brown than most Indians. There was no trace of green anywhere. And now, in one of my eyes, my right eye to be precise, there were striations of green radiating from a black pupil that now suddenly looked quite sinister. My other eye remained the original light brown and only served to highlight the contrast with the newly brown-green eye. It mocked me, loudly declaring the alien presence within me.

    The eye-colour issue served one purpose; it completely distracted me from the conversation I had had with De Vorto and how it had left me feeling. I slipped my money and my passport into my jacket and zipped up my bag. There wasn’t much of value in it now. I was getting out of the room and out into the open. De Vorto’s advice of catching some fresh air sounded pretty good to me. As I clattered down the stairs out on to the narrow street, I really did start feeling a little better. It was a carnival out there. The lanes were jam-packed with people, even though it was only late afternoon. I walked past the stores looking at the different offerings on display – but it was the people who made it fascinating. I kept looking at faces and the expressions. Snatches of conversations came to me as I passed people. With the foreign tourists, the voices were louder, the expressions more exaggerated, the excitement more intense. The Indians, on the other hand, found the foreigners more fascinating than the sights and sounds that Goa offered. Me, I was fascinated by everyone and everything. Even more than I thought I would be. Somewhere down the line, I realised that the fascination was partly due to De Vorto too. I tried to imagine what all this must feel like to a man from the Scottish highlands of the 16th century. I couldn’t. But I could feel his excitement, his wonder. I walked, moving from one lane to another, from one market to another. I did not buy anything. I just looked and absorbed. I was the window through which De Vorto experienced the world. It took some getting used to though, having two sets of comments and reactions to everything. Though he was silent for the most part, there was a surge of emotion every now and then, or a whispered word or two that showed how he felt.

     I spent the rest of the day wandering around the place, walking, thumbing down rides or taking buses from one part of North Goa to another. I did not linger in any one place for too long, and it soon became my mission to cover maximum ground. It might have been some subtle suggestion on De Vorto’s part that made me do it, or it might have been my own restlessness and desire to run away from it all. I walked and climbed and trudged over all kinds of terrain that day, trying to exorcise the restlessness with sheer exhaustion. Market-beach-church-café-beach-hill-pub-meadow-beach. The afternoon flew past and I got progressively more tired, and at the same time, relaxed.

     As the day came to an end, I found myself lying on a beach - I don’t remember which one - as I saw the sun sink into the sea. The child in me expected a hiss of steam as the blazing ball touched the water. I could hear De Vorto’s faint chuckle at that thought. But it was pleasant and not mean, and I let it pass. The sunset was rather beautiful, and the beach not as crowded as most of the other beaches I had visited. There was a moment of peace as I sank back to my elbows, just appreciating the view without any thought.

     “Boy,” he spoke after a long time.

     “Do you have to call me that?” I asked, only half-annoyed. All said and done, the man was half a millennium older than me and he of all people could call pretty much anyone a boy. Unless she was a girl, I guess.

     “Remember Akto’s invitation? I think you should go. I sense there might be things happening there.”

     “Isn’t that reason not to go?”

     “It’s time to find some answers, Slick. And neither of us is aware of what’s happening in the world of wordsmiths. Don’t worry about your safety. You’re a powerful wordsmith yourself, and you have me inside you now. And my power too. Between us, I’m sure we can best any wordsmith the Guild or the Free Word can throw at us.”

     “Why does this sound like we’re going into a battle?”

     “Because we just might be. However, we’ll try and keep it as peaceful as we can. Come now, let’s go.”

     I pushed myself up reluctantly. I had quite forgotten about Akto’s invitation. It felt like a lifetime ago. But then, I guess I was better off turning up than not. He still half suspected me of being mixed up with his brother’s murder.

     I brushed the sand off and started walking. I stopped to ask someone the way and learned that Ingo’s was north of here. I even hitched a lift to a place half-way there on a dilapidated scooter, the old gentleman in front riding at a speed that made me half-wish I had walked. I was dropped off at a bridge over a quaint little creek. It had gotten rather dark and the bridge was pretty isolated too, with hardly a soul around. I walked along the creek in the direction of the market, as directed by the old man. I soon came to a fork, and took a turn based on an approximate estimation. But with me, approximation and direction are not a good combination. I soon lost track of where I was going. I took wrong turn upon wrong turn, and soon I reached a place where you just have to take a U-turn. I tried retracing my path. But to one genuinely lost, retracing a path is nothing more than an academic concept, almost impossible to execute. I could sense De Vorto’s growing irritation, but I guess he was pretty helpless too.

     I reached side-streets and back-lanes and whatever godforsaken paths lie beyond such forgotten places. Darkness ruled here, and there was not a single light to be seen. Even the crickets had gone silent. I was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable with the way I found darker, scarier lanes with every turn I took. I realised that I had not passed a single house or a cottage for a long time. Apart from some desolate fields on either side of the lanes, and trees on the fringes of these fields, there was nothing else around. I finally saw a silver gleam through a copse of trees. I stumbled through the undergrowth, hoping that it was what I thought it was. It was! I had finally found the shore. I quickly oriented myself and figured out where I needed to go. I knew the direction I had to pursue now (which itself was a great feeling), and decided to walk along the beach until I found an exit road away from the beach. With that rare exultation one feels in such situations, I started singing at the top of my voice as I traipsed along the sand, lost in the beauty of the beach at night, the sand glowing an otherworldly silver.

     “Ouch,” said De Vorto.

     I ignored him and continued singing. I went through a medley of songs, each song adding to De Vorto’s discomfort as they caromed around my head. Somehow, that made the singing all the more enjoyable. Soon, I saw a sight that added to my joy; a group of people sitting to one side of the beach. Civilisation! I could not be far from a road that would take me to my destination. I increased my pace and soon reached the group. They were locals, and they were drinking beer. This was clearly the main pastime for most people in Goa. I recognised some of the people from outside Akto’s shack. I did not quite like the look of them, but decided to ask for help nevertheless. Any port in a storm and all that.

     Most of the guys were looking at me and there were some words being exchanged that were sure to be about me. They were talking in the local language, Konkani, and there was nothing I could understand. I was still dressed in a shirt and jeans, a complete anomaly in the land of shorts, ‘I love Goa’ tee-shirts and beach sandals. I called out to one of them, “How do I get from here to the Anjuna beach road? I need to get to Ingo’s.”

     The men ignored me and I repeated my question, slowing the words so that they would understand me. They continued to ignore me, and this irritated me. I shouted at them, repeating my question, emphasising key words like ‘Anjuna’, ‘Ingo’s’ and ‘Night Market’. One of them finally got up and approached me, calling out something to those behind him. There were some chuckles and a couple of others also stood up.