Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1) (2 page)

     “Louise…?”

    “Oui…? Qui est-ce ?”

     “You do not know me, chérie. But rest assured, we will get better acquainted in the time that comes. Enough about me, let’s talk about you! You’re here in this city looking for some… adventure; a fresh, sensual experience… n’est-ce pas?”

(his gift stirred matter, as reality stirred in anticipation. the misty tendrils of time-space quickening, waiting for words to tell them what shape to weave)

     “Who is this?” Louise was startled. Demons were sensitive to wordscapes and could feel the shift in the world around them. Louise’s fear added to the heady mix of the scape.

      “I’m the adventure you have been so unconsciously searching for the past three years of your life Louise. You’ve left quite a trail, but still have not found what you’re looking for. That search, ma chère, is over.”

(the direction had been given. the scape was directed at the demon’s mind, at her concept of reality. The tendrils moved with speed that defied time and space)

     “But… how? Comment tu sais… vous savez?” The scape was working its magic and Louise was more than a little befuddled.

     “The ‘tu’ is indeed so much more endearing. Why would you bring a ‘vous’ between us? Or anything else for that matter?”

     “Monsieur, state your purpose or hang up. I do not talk to strange men who act familiar in such an inappropriate manner.” She was fighting it. But a wordscape is always an impossible foe to beat. It curls around you, pulling you into the reality it defines.

     There was the sound of warm, rich laughter. “Now Louise, shed the pretence! Fine, I’ll humour you. Meet me at the square before your hotel. All your questions will be answered. However, be warned that you are watched. They are wise to your antics. And if it weren’t for the lure of much bigger prey, your adventure would have been brought to a regrettable end much before you got anywhere close to Europe. You might even have been stopped in Australia, considering Amra is on the case.”

     A gasp!

     “Ah! You know her? Good!” The voice on the phone grows firm. It was time to close the game. “Then I do not need to say anything more. So, the square in 15 minutes?”

     “Impossible! I need to get ready!”

     “The red dress will do chérie. Just bring your exquisite self to the square in 15 minutes. And we’ll figure out this mess. And do not bother to bring any of your toys. They won’t help.”

     “Toys! Monsieur, I hope you know what you’re doing. I am not someone you can…comment dire…ah…mess with.”

     “I do not mess.” There was a smile in that. “Come soon, chérie. Let’s play.”

(in a sudden swirl, the invisible tendrils swooped and as the scape wove itself to completion, she forgot the alarms that had gone off in her head at the first sign of weaving.)

     The woman in the red dress comes back with a start to the present. Her loss in concentration has caused her camouflage to fail. A couple of men have paused to stare and smile at her. Irritated, she starts walking to another part of the square. Just as she starts negotiating her way across the lane, her nostrils flare as she catches the whiff of subtle but unmistakably masculine cologne. Priding herself on her knowledge of scents and perfumes, she is surprised to realise she has no clue about this one. She starts to turn to see where the fragrance is coming from.

     “Don’t turn, don’t say anything. Just act normal.”

     The voice on the phone! Louise makes a mighty effort to restrain the urge to turn and see this mysterious man.

     “Normal! What is normal about any of this?”

     “Louise, everything will be explained. Come now. Let’s go take a stroll. There is a café I want to take you to. First dates after all are such lovely affairs!”

     He places a hand on her waist and starts leading her forward. She turns to look at him. She sees a clean cut, pleasant looking man with an exotic tint to his skin. In spite of nothing remarkable to his frame, looks or his clothes, he still exudes an air of complete self-assurance. He looks at her and smiles. She can’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but can feel them smile too. She nods her head and starts walking with him. Café or no café, she is going with Mr. Mysterious. She could feel her heart begin to quicken with the excitement of a situation where, for once, she was not in control. This was going to be some ride! She would go along with his games for a while. And when she tired, she would take him. This one would be a veritable feast!

     Both of them seemed oblivious to the two men hurrying in their wake. To the rest of the world, they look like just another couple in Venice, the city where love can indeed be felt in the air.

     “Where did they disappear?”

     “I don’t know! What the…!”

     The voice, much colder now, and definitely angry, speaks again. “You boys are going to regret this! Find the bastard now!”

     They hear a woman scream. They turn and run towards the noise. People start converging to the source of the sound. They quickly make their way through the crowd. In a professional way, they jostle just the right people in just the right places to make maximum ground. Soon they break through to the eye of the storm, the end of a cul-de-sac. The body of the woman in the red dress lies there. Only, she is not so beautiful anymore. She looks very plain, and very, very dead; like she has been that way for a long time.

     One of the men bends to examine her body and sees a little note slipped into a fold of her dress, and quickly pockets it. There are sounds of the authorities approaching, distinctly loud. The men disappear into the crowd.

***

     The two men are standing in a small, bleak room. A very petite woman sits before them, looking over a huge desk.

     “So… You lost him.”

     “Amra… You already know that.”

     “Give me the note.”

     The note exchanges hands; from a sweaty, slightly trembling one to a small, cold and very firm one.

    She passes the note beneath her nose, sharply inhaling the faint scent of extremely distracting cologne. “Bastard,” she says under her breath, but without rancour. She unfolds the note.

Amra! It’s a pleasure as always to work with you. Louise was getting ahead of herself. Succubae do tend to go crazy when they are let loose by their summoners. Such a trail, Amra. Your definition of ‘acceptable losses’ is getting more and more unacceptable by the day. I do not need to remind you of the sheep you are supposed to guard.

Stop chasing me, Amra. You will never catch me. However, if you’re ever to consider marriage, do let me know.

     Amra raises one thick eyebrow. Does he dare!

I know this retired Hungarian butcher who would be most interested in a tiny, tight-arsed, cold bitch for a wife. He does tend to get behind on the meat-carving at times.

     She flushes a very delicate red.

Enough personal insults. I’m sure you would love to fling some at me too. What I really do want to tell you is simple enough. Louise and her ilk have to go. I do not know why you’re letting them run amok when your gang should and could have cut each one of them down way back in the 19th century. But you need these demons to do your dirty work. That will stop Amra.

I need to close this love letter now. My words do not come cheap, as you know. And there is so much to be done. I am after Smithy next. I’ll see you wherever his skinny derriere turns up. So be good and try to do what you really should be doing, instead of chasing poor innocent wordsmiths who are just trying to make the world a better place. Who knows, you might even get Smithy yourself!

Love

The Wordscapist

     Amra takes a deep breath.

     “He is right, you know. We really should be chasing down those soul-suckers, instead of wasting our time on him. In our field, we could use all the vigilantes we can get.”

     “Winston, I shall hire you as my personal adviser when I come upon such bad times as to need your counsel. For now, Gabriel and you can make your way to Kathmandu. Rope is done with her term and will brief you on our friend the Abominable Snowman, and everything you need to know to handle him for the next 12 months.”

    “Bitch!”

     “Make that 18 months. Go now, before I decide I want to send you as the Yeti’s food and not his watchers.”

    Two very sullen men make their way out of the room.

     Amra leans back in her chair and reads the note again. And again. She inhales the fast-fading fragrance on the note once more.

     “Laugh while you can, you son of a bitch. You will soon be mine. And when I have your balls in a vice, you too will scream. And let’s see how much your words will help you then.”                

CHAPTER 1

Prelude to a Scape

It does not start with Once Upon a Time

It does not end with Happily Ever After

It is a tale nevertheless

Lend me your ear, friend

Here is the blade

There is the box

Historian

     In the beginning, there was the word.

     Let this tale be true to its beginning, as powerful and as elemental.

     I am a historian with the Guild. I do not have the gift to weave a scape. And even if, by some miracle, I found the fabric of reality responding to my clumsy exhortation, I would be committing a potentially fatal crime if I dared weave so much as a spider web. We archivists are forbidden from weaving. All that we witness is for the eyes of the archivist only and no tale should ever reach the outside world; the multitude of norms who stumble through their lives, clueless of the enormity of the events we witness. I have always been a watcher and analyst of words. I have never been allowed to create. However, with this manuscript I start my own scape; a written scape that will never be more than a tale; that will just record reality and pose no threat to its fabric. But nevertheless it is a scape; a tale of the greatest legend of our times; a legend that came true. And how!

     Nay! Let me do this right. I need to weave this tale in the manner it deserves. I have already mentioned several smidgens without context. As Mastersmith Silvus used to say,
“… always set the context. You never know what form words will take if you do not set the context. Words are like a dragon. Till you have forged the reigns and the whip, do not set the dragon loose. Or you just might burn for your sins!
” At that, he would burst out into booming laughter. He was a strange one. Things he found funny could well send a sheaf of shivers down your spine. But then, he was right. Context is indeed important, and I shall provide it.

     So let us go back to the beginning. Not 5,000 years back when the first wordsmith stumbled on to the gift, but rather the beginning of this tale.

***

     
I received the summons early on a Sunday morning in the dead of winter. It was the kind of morning where you decided to wait to see if the afternoon was more civilised before creeping out of the precariously warm cocoon formed by the blanket and the bed. It was the kind of morning where you thanked your stars it was Sunday and you had no place to go. It was the kind of morning that was too good to be true.

     I was talking myself into venturing outside the comforting warmth of my blanket when my Guild phone beeped. I cursed the busybody who was sending out missives at this ungodly hour and pushed the blanket aside. I would have to catch my lazy Sunday some other week. The Guild could not wait. It never did. I quickly tip-toed across the frozen floor to retrieve the accursed electronic leash.

     The message was brief. “You have been commissioned to record a group scape. The synch point coordinates are given below. The quorum comprises all members of the inner council. Please ensure complete confidentiality. Transportation has been arranged and you can expect a pickup at 0800 hours.”

     I had an hour to pack and prepare for a trip halfway across the world on the biggest group scape I had ever witnessed. What a start to a Sunday!

     One frantic hour later, I was lugging my luggage across the foyer to the black limo waiting outside. I had not even had a coffee. My stomach grumbled as I detected a trace of fried bacon in the air, probably from the bistro next door. I studiously ignored the aroma and dragged my bags to the car. The chauffeur gave me an unfathomable look and said in a flat voice, “You can carry only one piece of luggage. A backpack would be advisable. Please be back in 15 minutes.” He promptly climbed back in the car and shut the door, leaving me standing there with my eight pieces of heavy luggage.

     23 insane minutes later, I was back at the car, out of breath, with a backpack hastily stuffed with the essentials of my trade and any clothing I could cram into the crevices. I was gasping and swearing under my breath as I clambered into the car, the door held open by the piece of wood acting as chauffeur. That was when I froze.

     The limo was a big one with space to seat six inside; five of the seats already taken, by five of the Big Six. AJ Silvus, the Mastersmith, was sitting in the front beside the driver. The other four were in the spacious back portion. They moved a bit to make space for me, though it was not really necessary. But then, I guess they did not want to associate too closely with a mere historian. I meekly slipped into position, muttering a ‘Good Morning’. The others weren’t in a good mood either and muttered right back at me. Silvus however was sunny enough for the rest of us.