INARA AND ZIZOU GO TO BRESWANA

• Concept by Snigdha Sengupta-Haji
• Illustrated by Nithesh Xavier

Breswana was a sprawling village that sat halfway up an impressive Himalayan mountain. The mountain, peppered with large boulders and vast forests, provided a stunning view as a welcome to any visitors. 

It was this view that greeted Inara and Zizou as they sat atop their ponies, on their way up to the village. They still had a long way to go, and their ponies were beginning to get a little tired.

“Should we let them rest for a bit?” asked Inara.

Her pony snorted in agreement.

“Let’s find them some water,” Zizou suggested.

They tied their ponies to a branch in some shade and walked down the path a little while, looking for a stream or pond that the ponies could drink from. Shortly, they heard the rushing roar of flowing water, and knew they were close.

“It sounds like the water is this way,” Inara said, “but the path leads away from it. I think we’ll have to leave the path.”

“But Nana said never to leave the path no matter what,” Zizou warned.

Inara hesitated. She always listened to what Nana said, but on the other hand, her pony, Saaki, was very thirsty.

“We’ll just go a little way in, we won’t be long,” she reasoned, and began to walk into the forest.

“Inara, wait!” Zizou shouted, but followed her in anyway.

The forest was very dense and made walking very difficult for the two siblings. They were surrounded by all kinds of trees and shrubs with colourful flowers, prickly thorns and glistening leaves. Both Inara and Zizou got scratched many times while they made their way, but they did not complain. It was for the ponies, after all.

Eventually they reached a clearing and saw a beautiful stream cut its way through the rocks above. It flowed into the clearing by way of a mini-waterfall, forming a pool near where Inara stood. Relieved, they quickly filled their water bottles and drank their fill. Once their thirst was quenched, they filled the bottles again and began to make their way back.

The forest was all around them once again. Zizou saw berries and mushrooms and lots of brightly coloured offerings hanging from the trees and his mouth began to water. But he remembered that in forests, many brightly coloured plants are poisonous, and so he resisted. He couldn’t wait to get home and taste Nani’s butter chicken.

Inara was beginning to feel tired and was wondering how it was taking them so long to get back. Was it because they were walking uphill that it was taking longer? Or were they walking in the wrong direction? She began to feel a little scared and held Zizou’s hand for comfort.

Suddenly, they heard a great rumble all around them. The ground began to shake and all the trees began to sway, shaking loose fruits, nuts and other objects.

“Earthquake!” Inara screamed, and began to run. Zizou followed her as they ran wildly in search of the path. Soon, the rumble died down and the ground stopped shaking, so the siblings stopped to catch their breath. While resting, Inara noticed that they were standing at the entrance to a cave and pointed it out to Zizou.

“What do you think is in there?” she asked. She remembered Nana’s many stories of bears and leopards in these woods, and wondered if they lived in caves like this.

“Could be a mother bear with her cubs,” Zizou said, obviously thinking along the same lines, “Better not to disturb them.”

Inara agreed, but was curious about it nonetheless. She gazed into the dark opening of the cave, hoping to get a glimpse of whatever was inside. After a few eventless moments, she thought she saw something huge and black move inside the cave.

She gasped and looked harder, trying to make sure, but it was too dark to tell. She stepped forward tentatively, but just as her foot came down, there was an incredible sound!

The ground began to shake once again, and little rocks and pebbles began to tumble down the mountain. Inara and Zizou quickly took cover behind a large tree and protected each other from the rocks. The rumble was the same they had heard while returning from the clearing, but now it sounded much closer. In fact, it sounded like it was coming from inside the cave!

Soon, the noise died down again, and the siblings made their way uphill and found the path. Their ponies were agitated and scared, and snorted with relief when they saw their friends approaching with water bottles in their hands. Zizou poured the water into two bowls and set them before the ponies and they drank deep and long until there was no water left.

And so they were on their way again, getting closer and closer to home. Before long, they saw the rooftop of their house peek out of the treetops. As they approached, they heard the clip-clop of another pony making its way towards them.

From around the corner, a strong, chestnut brown pony with long, flowing black hair appeared. On it was a man with a hat on his head, a stubble on his chin, and a smile on his face.

“Hi, Moti,” he called to Inara.

“Nana!” she screamed, and spurred her pony towards his so she could hug him.

Nana embraced both Inara and Zizou and then shepherded them home to meet Nani, who was waiting impatiently on the doorstep.

Dinner was a feast as Nani filled their plates with all kinds of their favourite foods. They had butter chicken, barbecue mutton, fried eggs, rice, and yakhni. After eating to their heart’s content, Nani asked them what they wanted for dessert.

“Ras Malai,” shouted Inara, excitedly.

“Butter,” shouted Zizou.

And so ended the first day of their adventure.

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The next morning, they woke up to tea and toast, their favourite breakfast (and, of course, lots of butter for Zizou) and were joined at the breakfast table by Khali. They had lots of fun telling each other funny stories and giggling and laughing the whole time.

“So, how was your pony ride? Did Zaidaan and Saaki behave?” Khali asked.

“Yes, they were wonderful as always,” Inara said, “but I’m afraid we are getting too big for them, they got very tired on the way up here.”

“I’m not surprised, given how much you eat,” Khali said, watching Zizou swallow a scoop of butter and lick the spoon clean.

“”We had to go looking for a stream to give them some water,” Inara said, “And then the earthquake hit and scared us.”

“Earthquake? What earthquake?” Khali asked.

“Well, while walking back to the ponies, there was a loud rumble and the ground and trees began to shake. It was very scary,” Zizou explained.

“That’s strange, we didn’t feel anything up here,” Khali said, mystified.

“It happened twice,” Zizou declared.

Inara remained silent, appearing to be deep in thought.

Later that day, as Zizou and Inara were climbing trees in the orchard, Zizou noticed that his sister seemed a little distracted.

“What are you thinking about, Inara?”

Inara hesitated.

“Come on, you can tell me anything, you know that,” Zizou said.

“Well, do you remember the cave we saw on our way up?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear anything weird when you were there?”

“I couldn’t hear anything over the earthquake. Only the rocks falling and the rumble from the ground shaking.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she said, speaking in hushed tones, looking around to see if anyone was listening, “I don’t think that was a rumble at all. I think that was a growl.”

“A growl?”

“Yeah, I think that sound came from an animal. Maybe a bear, like you said.”

“I don’t think a bear can make the ground shake no matter how loudly it growls,” Zizou said, doubtfully.
He glanced at Inara and saw that she was hesitating once again. “What is it, Inara? Out with it.”

“Erm… Well… I kind of don’t think it was an animal either,” she said, uncertainly.

“That’s what I said.”

“I think it was a person.”

“A PERSON?” Zizou shouted in surprise, forgetting to keep his voice low.

“Shhhhh!” she chided.

“Sorry, sorry, but why would you think a person would make a sound like that? And why are you convinced it isn’t an earthquake?”

“Well, firstly, if it was an earthquake, why didn’t anyone else feel it? And secondly, before the sound came, I was watching the cave entrance, and I thought I saw something move inside. I can’t be sure, because it was too dark, but I don’t think I’m mistaken.”

“But that could be anything. A bear, a leopard, maybe even dog or a pony,” Zizou pointed out.

“That’s true. But when we were hiding behind the tree, I thought I could hear a word being spoken. I think whoever was in that cave was making the sounds, and was trying to speak.”

“Are you serious? I didn’t hear any of that! What was he saying?”

“I’m fairly certain I heard it say ‘Hunger’.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Nani called them in for lunch. Both Zizou and Inara were unusually quiet during the meal and kept exchanging significant glances with each other.

After lunch, Nana and Nani went for their afternoon nap and Khali went off to the school to teach her classes. Zizou and Inara huddled together in the courtyard to discuss what to do with the rest of the day. They were both thinking of the same thing.

“Do you want to go and check the cave again?” Inara asked, finally.

“How will we find it? We nearly got lost the last time.”

Inara smiled. “I left a marker on the tree where we re-joined the path. I think I know how to get there,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Okay, but if we are doing this, we’d better go prepared. Who knows what we will find,” Zizou said, “We need to take food, water and something to scare the beast or man or whatever it is inside that cave.”

“What can we take?” pondered Inara.

Glancing around, Zizou grabbed a thick staff that was lying in the courtyard and held it aloft.

“This should do nicely,” he said.

Inara snuck into the kitchen and started loading her bag with all kinds of treats and snacks and sweets from the larder. Soon they were ready and set off towards the cave. Thanks to Inara’s marker, it was easy work finding the spot, and before long they found themselves at the cave entrance again.

“What do we do now?” Zizou asked.

“I don’t know,” said Inara, shrugging, “Can you hear anything?”

Zizou shook his head.

“Inara, are you sure you heard a person? Because it would be really dumb of us to come all the way out here looking for a bear.”

Inara had a determined expression on her face. “I’m not sure, Zizou, but I want to be.”

Saying this, she picked up a rock and threw it into the cave before Zizou could stop her.

Nothing happened.

The siblings looked at each other uncertainly, and then Zizou called out.

 “Hello? Anybody here?”

 Hearing no response, Inara walked into the cave, unafraid. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness, but once they were able to see a bit, she felt her heart pounding with excitement.

“Zizou, come quickly!”

Zizou ran inside, but had to wait till his eyes adjusted as well before he could see what Inara was talking about. As the gloom lessened, his excitement grew as the implications of what he saw struck him.

The entire cave was littered with bones from different animals, discarded seeds from berries and fruits and empty husks from nuts. The animal bones ranged from the very small to the very large.

Zizou and Inara stared at each other, anticipation and trepidation flowing through them. There was no doubt about it. Something lived in this cave. And it did not seem to be a wild animal.

HUUUNNNNGEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRR!

This time there was no doubt about it. Both Zizou and Inara heard the voice loud and clear. They stumbled out of the cave as the familiar shaking of the ground intensified. Zizou stepped in front of Inara and held out the staff he had brought with him for protection.

The trees in front of them were rocking back and forth as if subject to a stampede. The siblings watched aghast as the bushes separated and into the clearing stepped a humongous monster!

The creature had a hulking frame and was almost 12 feet tall. He had a large, protruding belly that bounced and jiggled angrily as he moved. His arms and legs were thin, spindly branches that clawed at the trees. But most terrifying of all was the face. His face was haggard and drawn thin, and covered with a dense, bristly, brambly forest of a beard that quivered and swayed with every growl he emitted.

“Stop!” yelled Zizou.

The creature paused mid-rampage and set his eyes upon the two siblings. A hint of intelligence gleamed behind his ravenous stare as he considered his new visitors. However, the silent stand-off was interrupted by a long and painful groan that emanated from his stomach. Suddenly, his gaze turned wild and he lunged at Zizou, grabbing the staff and effortlessly wringing it out of his hands and casting it away. Next he swiped at Zizou, lifting him up in the air and lowering him towards his mouth, when a gunshot sounded through the forest. The creature paused and looked for the source of the sound, and Inara did the same.

Out of the foliage, riding on Billu the Wise, came Nana! And by his side were Zaidaan and Saaki, rushing to the aid of their friends.

The creature dropped Zizou to the floor instantly and fled back into the cover of the forest, making a huge racket as it went.

Nana and Inara rushed to check on Zizou and made sure that he was okay.

“How did you know where we were?” Inara asked.

“Khali told me about the earthquakes you guys felt yesterday. I knew what they actually were, and Zaidaan and Saaki led me to your marker.”

“T-thank you, Nana,” Zizou said.

“You guys should be grounded. This was extremely dangerous,” Nana said, sternly.

“We’re really sorry, Nana,” Inara said, “But what was that creature?”

 “That creature was once a boy that lived in this village,” Nana said, ”He used to be a good boy, kind and respectful. But he had one problem. He was always hungry. He could not bear to share his food, and when his own food was not enough, he began asking for food from other people. If anyone refused, he would get angry and sometimes even stole it from them.

The village elders summoned the powerful witch doctor to cure the boy. She prescribed him some medicines, to be taken over the course of a month. But the boy was so hungry, he ate all of them at once. As you know, if you do not take your medicine as it is supposed to be taken, it can be dangerous for you, and it was no different for him.

Since then, the boy began eating everything before him, plants, animals, even rocks. Each day made him grow wilder and more out of control. Eventually, fearing that he would eat their livestock or their children, the villagers forced him out of the village, and he has lived in the forest ever since. Anyone who travels the forest alone now carries beetroot with them, for that is the only thing he fears.”

As he said this, Nana held a red plant aloft in his hands, showing it to Inara and Zizou.

“This is why he ran away; he isn’t afraid of guns. This was also in Zaidaan and Saaki’s saddlebags when you first arrived. I put it in there for your protection. And this is why I told you to never leave the path, or go anywhere without telling me first.”

“But is there no way to help him?” Inara asked.

“None, I’m afraid,” said Nana, “Now let’s go home.”

Nana and Zizou got on their ponies. Inara thought for a moment, the quickly threw her bag filled with snacks and goodies near the entrance to the cave, and then mounted Saaki and followed Zizou and Nana home.

“What was his name?” she asked Nana on the way.

“His name was MaMoo,” Nana said.

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The next few days passed in a whirlwind of feasts and festive meals. Zizou devoured all that was placed before him, but Inara seemed more reserved and ate with a little more restraint. The afternoons were spent frolicking in the courtyard, climbing trees, racing ponies and playing with the local hounds. The vacation was a heavenly time for the siblings, exactly as they had planned it to be, except for one daily detour.

Every day, just after lunch, while Nana and Nani took a nap and Khali was at school, Inara would disappear for an hour. Even Zizou did not know where she went during this time, and when asked, Inara would simply say she went for a walk.

In truth, Inara was paying visits to the creature’s cave. Ever since Nana told her his story, she felt a deep sympathy for the creature’s plight and an overwhelming urge to be of some help. She knew, being Zizou’s sister, how hungry boys could get, and felt that the creature was an unfortunate victim of forces beyond his control, and not someone to be feared in itself. And so, every day after lunch, she took it upon herself to sneak into the clearing near the cave and leave some food for him to eat. She began with the same goodies that she had left there on the day when Nana saved them, but soon she began to branch out and leave him all kinds of food.

She made sure to take beetroot with her at all times to ensure her own safety, but she tried to leave the food for him without disturbing the creature at all. However, on one of her forays, as she placed the basket full of food near the creature’s cave, she heard an almighty roar just behind her and squealed in terror as she saw him crash through the foliage and make his way towards her. Inara bolted, desperately running towards the path, but as she turned to look for evidence of him giving chase, she saw, to her surprise, that he stood still, staring at her, holding her basket in his hand.

He looked at her quizzically, with an almost human expression on his face and then, grasping the basket to his chest, he turned away from her and made his way back into his cave. Inara heaved a sigh of relief and returned to the courtyard to play with Zizou, a little flushed, but otherwise okay.

The days of fun and games were fast approaching their end, however, and soon it was time for Inara and Zizou to return home to America. They bade tearful goodbyes to Nana, Nani, Khali and everyone they had gotten to know and spent time with during their vacation and made their way to Saaki and Zaidaan. The ponies stood with their heads lowered, understanding that it was time for Inara and Zizou to leave.
The siblings fed the ponies an apple each, which visibly cheered them up, and them mounted them and set off on their return journey.

Travelling back down the mountain, the siblings discussed their time in Breswana excitedly and exchanged stories of their favourite activities during the stay. On one hand, they were sorry to leave, but on the other hand, they were excited to be reunited with Mama and Baba and all their friends in school.

Time passed quickly as they talked and before long they reached the tree on which Inara had left her mark on the very first day.

“Remember this?” Zizou asked.

“Yes, I wonder how he is doing,” Inara said, quietly.

“He’ll be fine, there’s plenty to eat in the forest,” Zizou assured her.

Inara nodded, but felt uneasy all the same. Something was weighing on her mind. Suddenly, Saaki stopped, and Zaidaan, noticing this, stopped as well.

“What’s wrong?” Zizou asked.

“I want to say goodbye to him,” Inara said.

“To who?”

“MaMoo.”

“Are you serious? Did you forget what Nana said? It’s really dangerous.”

“It’ll be fine, I have some beetroot on me.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Inara.”

“He doesn’t have any friends. I just want to say goodbye,” she said. She knew that Zizou was unaware that she had been visiting MaMoo all these days, and so she didn’t try to convince him it was fine. She dismounted from Saaki and began searching her bag.

Oh, no, I forgot to get him any snacks.

It's all right, it’s just a quick goodbye. I have the beetroot anyway.

Her mind made up, she started to walk towards the cave, when Zizou interrupted her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m just going to say goodbye and be back in a minute.”

“And do you think I’m gonna let you go in there alone?”

Inara smiled gratefully as Zizou joined her and they walked into the woods hand in hand, being as quiet as possible.

On reaching the cave, they looked around the clearing, searching for MaMoo, but there appeared to be no sign of him. Inara could see the baskets she had left for him on previous days, and it appeared that he had tried to eat the baskets as well.

“Do you see him?” Zizou whispered.

Inara shook her head and then after a pause, called out, “Hello?”

There was a low growl from inside the cave. Zizou’s hand tightened around Inara’s.

“MaMoo?”

Suddenly there was an almighty howl and the earth began to tremble. Zizou and Inara were thrown off balance and lay there helplessly as MaMoo leapt out of the cave and snarled in their faces, his face appearing wrought with strain.

Inara, panicking, brought the beetroot out of her pocket and threw it towards MaMoo, causing him to leap out of the way and let out an anguished wail.

“Let’s get out of here!” Zizou screamed and pulled Inara with him as they began to scramble away from the cave.

MaMoo, however, leapt away from the beetroot and, jumping from branch to branch, ape-like, cut a wide circle around the clearing and landed on the other side of the siblings, trapping them between himself and the cave. His eyes were bloodshot and desperate, and in them Inara saw pure hunger.

“Now we’re done for,” Zizou said, looking around for an escape. But before he could do anything, MaMoo grabbed him and Inara by their ankles and held them high in the air, roaring at them furiously.

Inara and Zizou screamed in terror and flailed helplessly, trying to free themselves from his grasp, but to no avail. MaMoo held them that way for what seemed like an eternity, apparently struggling to come to a decision. And then, instead of gobbling them up as he had so many others, he cast them aside and ran past them towards the cave.

The siblings looked on in surprise as MaMoo thrashed about in the clearing, in obvious pain. His hands clawed at his stomach and his ferocious thrashes uprooted the very trees from their roots. On more than one occasion, he lunged towards Zizou and Inara, and then retreated again, struggling to control himself.

Eventually, being overpowered by his hunger and finding no alternative food, his eyes fell on the beetroot that Inara had thrown at him. Grabbing up the beetroot, he forced it into his mouth with an expression of disgust all over his face.

And then, to the surprise of Inara and Zizou, a transformation began to take place. MaMoo began to shrink before their very eyes! His long, spindly arms and legs shortened to human proportions. His skin became smoother and a freshness came over it. His brambly facial hair smoothened out into a silky, luxurious, swaying beard. But most of all, his eyes lost their wildness and desperation and became human and sad.

Before long, what Inara and Zizou saw before them was not a monster, but a man looking up to them from the ground.

MaMoo looked at Inara and whispered weakly, “I’m hungry.”

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Nana and Nani sat outside their house, drinking noon chai and looking out over the mountains with wistful expressions. It hadn’t been very long, but they were missing Inara and Zizou already.

“The house seems emptier without them, doesn’t it?” Nani said.

“Yes, but it saves us a lot of cooking,” said Nana.

They were interrupted by the sound of ponies approaching and Nani looked down the path to see who was approaching. She gasped in surprise as she saw Zaidaan and Saaki making their way back up the path with Zizou and Inara on them. And along with them walked a strange man.

“What are you doing back here?” Nani asked, “And who is that with you?”

“I don’t believe it,” Nana said, his eyes widening in shock.

“It’s MaMoo.”

Spectator

My river does not replenish itself.
I sit by it every day, pants folded up to my knees,
Feet trailing, making patterns in its flow.
I hold my notebook aloft, teaching it all about precipitation.

“The sun steals your water, you see. It whittles you away,
Little by little, little caring for your plight.
It is up to you to put up a fight.”

“Yes,” says the river, “I will, I shall, I must.
But first,
Let me soothe your weary feet.
See how they are cracked.”

I sit by my river every day,
Teaching it to make friends with clouds.
“They will return all the sun steals from you,” I say,
“All you have to do is ask.”

“Yes,” says the river, “I will, I shall, I must.
But first,
Let me nourish your parched orchard.
Or else, how will you eat?”

I sit by my river every day,
Bringing larger and larger books,
Raising my voice higher, so that I may reach its depleted flow.
It can no longer reach my feet, and sheds a tear at their state.

“You must replenish yourself,” I plead,
“If not for you then for me. See how my feet suffer.
See how the orchard wilts.”

The rivulet bubbles sorrowfully by,
Each day sapping its voice.
It gives me no reply, or if it does,
I cannot hear it.

I sit at the barren banks every day,
Remembering its cheerful babble.
My feet aching with memories,
My orchard withered in mourning.

It’s cracked sand-bed stares back at me, vacant,
All evidence of its former vitality
Swiftly succumbing to the relentless sun.

She loved me true, my vacant river.
And now, I cannot walk, and I cannot eat.
I will wage war against the sun every day,
And, following in her path, I, too will succumb.

Wolf Children

We were moving West now, four children stumbling through the ceaseless tundra. Fatty was lagging behind as usual. His ragged breaths forming enough mist to blot out the sun. But his mass had lost most of its majesty lately. We would have to think of a new name for him soon. Potty’s vote was for Stretch Mark, but that broke rule #1 that all names should consist of a single word only. That was Jumpy’s fault. If he hadn’t had the bright idea of christening himself Atom Bomb Supreme God Strongman, and insisted we call him by his full chosen name every single time, we wouldn’t have had to pass the motion restricting ourselves to one word names.

As it was, the four of us chose names for each other, monikers that were hard to argue with.

Fatty, when I first saw him, was a shimmering, quivering globe of lard. He had on him a fur jacket that he stole from a sleeping soldier’s bag (but which he claimed was gifted to him by his mother), a pair of threadbare pants, and one shoe. The other foot, already dangerously purple with cold, was tied up in multiple layers of rags. He had been forced to give up that shoe to Jumpy. He was our Supply Train, in charge of bringing up the rear of the squadron, carrying the vast majority of our insignificant loot.

Potty had dysentery. When I met her, she boasted a rugged pair of denims of stunning quality, leather sandals and a coat that had seen better generations draped close over her bare chest. She had traded away her jeans, much to our bewilderment, for a flimsy pair of pyjamas and a pair of gloves. This, I was later to learn, was because she found pyjamas easier to manoeuvre with her cold, numbed fingers when her bowels demanded a quick release. She was our Scout, charged with deciding on our way forward and scoping out any possible dangers on our path. The real reason she was a Scout, however, was to allow ourselves some reprieve from the fecal stench that permeated her clothes.

Jumpy had severe shell shock from watching his entire family die within a turbulent ten-second span to a raid from the Red Army. He saw the whole thing from a distance of a few meters and did not move for three days after. He was our Wife, in charge of the camp. He would collect the wood, set up the fire, collect the brush for our beds, melt the ice for water and roast the meat. He had on an overgrown trench coat that trailed behind him in the snow and a stolen towel for a loincloth, along with Fatty’s shoe.

And lastly, there was me: Breathless. I was the only one who had a hat, a sign of my seniority. I also wore a necklace, well blackened with soot to avoid the greedy eyes of passing adults, three shirts, the outermost of which was woollen, a pair of adult-sized pants tied to my waist by a frayed rope, and a pair of mismatched, but shockingly resilient sneakers over the only pair of socks amongst the four of us. The reason for this clothing classism was that I was the Predator. Being the only one who could use a gun and had any experience of hunting and survival techniques, everyone knew they needed me to survive.

 The time for the dreaded decision was upon us.

“Whose turn is it to raid for ammunition?” I asked.

“Not mine,” replied three voices, instantly.

Here we go again.
“Jumpy, you haven't been raiding yet, have you?”

“And who will set up your camp?”

“Fatty can do it for today.”

“I will not! That is a task for a Wife, not a Supply Train.”

“And is it a Wife’s task to steal bullets from sleeping soldiers? Or perhaps your rich mother can buy some for us.”

“Why can’t Potty go?”

“I went the last time, it’s your turn now.”

And on and on it went, as we haggled, begged, insulted and cajoled each other into a stalemate.

“Halt!” came the order from behind.

I froze instantly. Of all the sounds in the world, the voice of an adult was the only one that struck fear into my heart.

I heard a whimper to my right and glanced at Jumpy long enough to see him quiver as a steaming pool of urine began to melt its way through the ice at his feet.

“Where are you boys off to?” asked the man.

I turned to face him and my heart sank. He held a rifle in his hands, loosely, comfortably, like two lovers well acquainted with each other’s bodies. Underneath his coat, I could see a soldier’s uniform, though I could not recognise which. Soldiers meant trouble.

The soldier had a gaunt face, his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a long, arching nose. His greasy hair clung to his forehead and stopped just short of his cold, empty eyes. His gaze, though intense, seemed hollow, like a bright light emanating from a fire that contained no heat.

“Just looking for some food,” I replied.

“Food? Here? How’s that going?”

“It’s all right.”

While we stood still, the soldier had marched past Fatty and stood between Jumpy and me.

“Have you been hunting with that gun?” he asked, nodding at the rifle slung across my back.

I nodded.

“You know it is illegal to hunt in these parts without a permit.”

“We don’t want no trouble,” I said, my voice reeking of desperation despite my best efforts to appear calm.

“No trouble, no trouble,” he said, dismissively, “but we must have order, yes? We can’t just go about doing whatever we want, can we?”

I shook my head.

“Good. I like law abiding citizens, myself,” he continued. “No good comes of anarchy. Rough business.”

He smiled at us. His eyes did not smile.

There was a pause as we sized each other up. The moment stretched into a yawning eternity. When he finally spoke, it was almost a relief. Almost.

“What’s that smell?” he barked.

No one moved.

He looked around until he spotted Jumpy’s predicament.

“Did you piss yourself, boy?”

“Y-Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The soldier turned his back to me and began to approach Jumpy. If I wanted to, this offered me a chance to set my rifle upon him and get us out of this situation. I did not move.

Standing in front of Jumpy, the soldier stared at him. Jumpy refused to look up, staring resolutely at his soaked boots.

“Show me,” he rasped at Jumpy.

I saw Jumpy’s breath catch in his throat.

What the fuck.

“I want to see you pissing yourself.”

The tundra lay barren and silent, unaffected by the surreal events happening upon it. I felt a dream-like detachment from the events unfolding before me, as if I were a few realities removed. At no point did my body or mind give any indication that it wished to be more than a spectator.

The soldier brought his rifle up to Jumpy’s chest. Jumpy’s tears were trickling down his nose in a fierce, incessant flow. The muzzle of the rifle inched its way forward, between the folds of Jumpy’s trench-coat and began to pull it aside. Jumpy finally clutched at the coat and pulled it closed again, still refusing to look up.

The soldier grabbed him by the hair, and unleashed a stream of the vilest abuses his long years in the trenches had taught him. Jumpy was screaming, struggling against the grip the man held him in.

Ignoring him, the soldier tugged Jumpy’s loincloth off and took a step back, taking the sight in.

My heart began pumping furiously, drowning out all external sounds with its frantic beat. My vision blurred as tears began to stream down my face. I looked ahead at Potty, hoping for her to do something, wishing that it was not incumbent on me to act.

Potty did not move. She had her back to the scene the entire time and intended to keep it that way.

The soldier pointed his rifle at me.

“I’m just gonna borrow this lad for a moment. Don’t let me keep you. He’ll catch up with you in no time. Off you go. Don’t try anything stupid.”

The three of us remained unmoved, out of fear rather than defiance. The soldier, recognizing this, grabbed Jumpy by his coat and began tugging him back the way we had come, moving past Fatty, who averted his eyes.

Jumpy, who had never stopped crying, looked straight at me with expectant eyes. I thought of saying something, offering a few empty words at least, but my impotence silenced me and soon Jumpy was out of sight, though we could still hear the occasional gruff command shouted at him by the soldier.

It was more than an hour before any of us moved. Potty, sniffling, began to set up camp. I finally moved to help her. Fatty, nudged into action by this flurry of activity, extricated a bottle of vodka from his bag and took a swig from it.

Immediately, he sputtered and began to cough, his eyes watering.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Drinking,” he replied, simply.

“We were gonna trade that,” I said, annoyed.

Fatty gave me a curious look. There was a hardness to it. I had not encountered this particular look before, and it was a while before I could decipher it. It was contempt.

He did not reply, but merely took another swig, grimacing as he got used to the taste.

Potty and I set the four straw beds in a square, equidistant from the fire.

Fatty, watching us, interjected, “Who’s the fourth one for?”

I sighed and looked away towards the horizon over which the soldier had taken Jumpy, hoping to see his nervous frame making its way towards us. Everything seemed off now, and I felt that if he would just return, we could resume our former dynamic and forget this day ever happened.

“Well? Who is it for?”

Fatty’s face was flushed and his behaviour was becoming increasingly belligerent. I did not much fancy handling a drunk kid on an empty stomach.

“You’re drunk, Fatty. Go to sleep.”

“You don’t tell me what to do anymore, Predator,” he sneered at me, stuffing every ounce of hatred he possessed into that last word. “You owe me a shoe.”

“What?”

“My shoe. You made me give it to Jumpy, and now he’s gone. You owe me a shoe.”

“That’s what you’re worried about? Your shoe?”

“Well, what else do I worry about? Jumpy’s dead.”

Suddenly, a rock flew from somewhere behind me and struck Fatty on his face. His screams filled the night as I turned to see Potty fuming.

“Jumpy is not dead,” she said, speaking slowly. She held another rock at the ready just in case Fatty was inclined to share any more insights.
 
Fatty’s bravado seemed to recede at this prospect and he simmered down, tending to his broken nose.

The rest of the night passed mostly without incident. Our empty stomachs gnawed at our insides, demanding food. We shared a packet of biscuits between us, but that did not help much. Eventually, we gave up waiting on Jumpy and decided to go to sleep, hoping he would find the camp during the night and be there when we woke up.

I slept fitfully, waking up from time to time to take a peek at Jumpy’s bed, checking if he had returned. I caught Potty doing the same. Fatty’s sleep was unbroken.

At some point during the night, while in the midst of a confused dream, a single gunshot rang through the night. Potty and I immediately sat up in our beds, looking at each other. Nothing needed to be said.

Fatty woke up, too. Realizing what had happened, he began to chuckle at our expressions and turned over in his bed and went back to sleep.

We woke up feeling unrefreshed. Hunger and grief intermingled within us to make an irritable and short-tempered trio. Jumpy’s loss meant more weight for all of us. But it also meant we needed less food to sustain us.

I decided our first priority was finding some food. Potty and I would scour the woods for game, while Fatty guarded the camp.

After spending the entire morning in this futile search, Potty and I stopped for some rest in a clearing. We were both out of breath, and the fatigue and hunger began to take its toll upon us. Potty’s symptoms had gotten worse over the past couple of days, and she was beginning to look pale and sickly. Every movement seemed to demand a monumental effort on her part.

“Should we go back?” I asked.

She nodded, weakly.

Fatty sat with his unclad foot held to the fire. As we approached the camp, I noticed he had been crying. He looked around at us, searching for any food we may have brought. Seeing nothing, he cast another contemptuous glance my way and turned back to the fire.

A foul smell hung in the air, and I glanced at Potty to see if she had had an accident. But her curious expression and crinkled nose told me that she did not know the source of the stench either. 

A shuddering sob from Fatty brought my attention to its source. His foot had shifted from its formerly purplish hue to a fiendish black. A couple of toes were oozing a brownish pus and the onset of rot left little to the imagination.

“I need my shoe,” he sobbed. There was no anger in his voice anymore. Just a plea.

We sat around the fire in silence for a long time before we slept, on an empty stomach once again.

The next morning, I picked up my rifle and set out for another hunt. Potty began to get up to come with me, but I told her not to bother. Both of them needed to rest. And I needed to hunt.

I set off down a different path this time, with quick, determined steps. The sky was beginning to darken with menacing clouds, and our position was becoming more and more desperate. The only thing that gave us a chance at survival was my ability to bring back food. Anything would do, at this point.

I found that fatigue and hunger were affecting my ability to move silently, and I kept clumsily crashing through thickets and undergrowth. Any animal with half a brain would be far away by now. But I kept plodding on, not even bothering to keep track of the direction I was headed.

Minutes blurred into hours and I found myself walking aimlessly, no longer looking for or caring about hunting. I had no destination in mind, no purpose. And yet, at no point did I consider taking a break or returning to camp.

As evening approached, I made my way over a steep incline and was confronted by a stunning vista. I saw the forest thin out gradually as it approached a sprawling glacier that wound its way through snow-laden mountains that formed the backdrop. The mountain tops were shrouded in clouds, furiously smiting their face with lightning and lashes of rain. The same hellish canopy extended towards me. The unmistakable heaviness in the air told me that a Biblical night lay before me.

As the first, oversized droplets began to patter around me, a fearlessness took hold of me and I made my way onto the glacier, away from the cover of the forest. I stood straight and unmoving, right in the centre, my face upturned, gazing at the Gods making battle upon the mountains.

Memories of more innocent days flooded before my eyes, memories of days spent huddled with my mother under a hastily erected shelter in the middle of the forest as a thunderstorm raged above. I remembered her scent, the scent of safety, and her look of exhilaration in the face of Nature’s fury. I remembered the absolute confidence she inspired in me, which allowed me to experience all kinds of adventures without knowing the meaning of fear.

The thunderstorm began in earnest and the freezing rain began slapping at my face, and sneaking its slimy tentacles into my clothes. In no time, my sneakers were squelchy and my socks were soaked through. My hat began to weigh heavy on my head and I cast it off, revelling in the cold that smote my head. I stood, chilled to the bone, with a fierce euphoria etched into my face as I felt the storm wash away my guilt and drown my shame.

Here, I was not a failed hunter. Here, I was not a cowardly leader. Here, I was not powerless. Here, I was witness to the Gods.

The hours melted away and Time held no meaning. It was only at the break of dawn that the torrent faltered, sputtering away into silence as the sun drove the clouds before it.

With the first gentle caress of light, I collapsed onto the ice as my body was wracked by fits of pain. I began to shiver uncontrollably as every inch of my skin felt as if it were on fire. Eventually, my willpower gave way to the torment, and I allowed darkness to engulf me.

I awoke to warm water being poured down my throat as I gazed into the weather-worn face of an old man. I was naked and under a pile of blankets, and in some sort of closed carriage.

“You’re okay now,” he croaked, his face breaking into a million kindly wrinkles as he smiled, “Where were you headed?”

I shrugged, unable to muster up the energy to speak.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

I stared up at him as he handed me a steaming bowl of soup.

“Yes.”

Rattle

Manjula awoke from a fitful sleep while it was still dark and fumbled around for her mobile phone. Her heart sank as she saw it was already time for her to wake up. She tried to think back to the last time she had had significant rest, but could not recall.

Pushing herself off her worn mattress, she stepped over her husband’s snoring figure and walked out into the street, idly feeling for bedbug bites on her arms.

Not bad, just three today.

Stretching and yawning in the comfortable isolation of the street, she traipsed wearily over to the water tanker to begin her daily chore of filling buckets for the family’s use. As the buckets filled up, her gaze travelled covetously over the cemented walls and meshed windows of the apartment buildings in her neighbourhood. Her dreams, stunted by the grind and decaying influence of a life lived hand-to-mouth, only allowed for fantasies of soft mattresses and a functioning refrigerator.

The buckets having been filled, Manjula carried them back to the house. She stole a flower from a neighbour’s yard and placed it in front of the image of Shiva that stood on her shelf. After muttering a prayer, more out of habit than reverence, she stooped to tug the portable stove out from under the children’s cot.

Cooking a basic meal of chapathi and rasam, she split it into three boxes. Two of them went into her children’s schoolbags, and the third she placed in the bag hanging from her husband’s bicycle. Seeing the sky brighten with the first rays of dawn, she walked into her house to wake the children. Stroking a loving hand over their faces, she woke first her daughter, then her son.

Her son began to cry almost immediately, and his wracking coughs told her that he had not yet recovered from the flu. He had always been a sickly child, and his inability to stay healthy for long stretches wreaked havoc both on his academic performance and their finances.

She clasped him to her breast, shushing him desperately, but it was already too late.

“Will you shut that kid up so I can sleep?” came the dreaded reprimand.

The child and mother both quietened down. Manjula checked her son’s nose, noticing the steady stream of phlegm pooling on his upper lip, and realized he would not be going to school today. She hated the days he had to stay home sick, because it meant she had to leave him alone and unattended. She would know no respite from her anxiety and fears until, long after sundown, she made her way back and saw that he was okay for herself.

Tucking him back into bed, she added her blanket to his and made sure he was warm and comfortable. She then brought in the laundry and set out two bottles of coconut oil, one for her daughter and one for her husband. She also set out their clothes for the day. Thus, having prepared everything, she then woke her husband up and directed a stream of information at him while he was still dusting the cobwebs of slumber from his mind.

“Leave some money on the bed,” he grunted, as he counted his quota of bites for the day.

Manjula extracted a 100 rupee note from her purse, leaving it on the bed as instructed. She had long ago given up trying to reason with her husband and had resigned herself to budgeting for the alcohol every week.

Bidding farewell to her daughter with a kiss, she set off down the unpaved road towards the bus stop.

The bus was scheduled to arrive at seven every morning, but was often late. On this occasion, she was forced to wait for over twenty minutes.

Great. Another day filled with passive aggressive questions.

The bus finally arrived, a large metal clunker painted a garish blue, with the seats, aisle and the doorway overflowing with passengers. Manjula squeezed herself between the men hanging from the door of the bus and tried to make her way in. Most days, the passengers would try to make room, but on some occasions, they stood, unmoving, in the hopes of some physical contact. She wondered how many carried the memories of this brief, perverse thrill to help them through their shitty days.

Standing wedged in between two men, she held her breath, ignoring the stench of sweat and long-standing filth that emanated from the crowd. Sweat began to trickle down her face, running past her eyebrows and stinging her eyes with relentless fire. She did not have enough room to raise her hands to wipe her face.

Well, at least I’m wide awake now.

Forty minutes later, a drenched Manjula disembarked from the bus, paying the conductor a few rupees under the ticket price. This was a bribe. No ticket issued meant the conductor did not have to declare the amount and could pocket the entire thing.

Manjula’s mind wandered back to her son. He would be alone at home by now, with no one to look after him. Once again, she sent up a half-hearted prayer to any deity that could find it in them to look after her son. And then, anxiety unabated, she made her way into the compound.

The security guard, gloating and proud in his uniform, did the routine process of entry logging, asking her the details of the houses she was visiting. He already knew the answers since she came here every day, but he used the questions as an opportunity to assert his authority. His tone was rough and brash, a daily challenge, seeking confrontation. And everyday, her silence bolstered his pride.

She took it as well as she could, resigning herself to this minor humiliation as a matter of routine.

Once the entry was logged, she made her way past the row of houses, approaching the last one on the left. She calculated her chances of getting a positive response if she asked for a half day. She couldn’t afford to lose any more of her wages. Her odds were not great. The residents were regularly miffed at her tardiness and would not be open to any requests. She cursed at her luck and at the bus driver.

Ringing the bell, she waited in the shade, visualizing the day before her. How soon before she was done with all the houses? Would she be able to get back to her son early? What if he took a turn for the worse? What if she skipped the laundry at two of the houses? That would save her an hour at least. But that meant travelling back during rush hour, which negated the time saved.

A couple of minutes had passed and the door did not open. Manjula rang the bell again.

Suddenly a new vista bloomed before her eyes. What if they were not in? Could her fortune be on the turn? Suddenly, a day with a lightened workload did not seem so grim. She could get to the next houses early, explain the situation with her son to them. They would not believe her, but that did not matter. They could not say so to her face. Some of them might threaten to cut her pay, but if even half allowed her some reprieve, why, she could be out of the compound by noon!

She would have the entire afternoon to care for her son. The image of herself lying under the double layer of blankets, cuddling with her son swam before her eyes, enticing her. And god knows she needed the rest. She could even buy him some candy from the bakery. Her husband would not be there to admonish her for the expenditure.

And, now that she thought of it, she would get a whole day at home with no threat of his severe remonstrations. She would be joyously, if fleetingly, unfettered.

This extended daydream crystallized in her head until its vividness took her breath away. Her resolve to make it a reality hardened, and she turned from the door, determined to make the most of this turn of events. She would make today a day to cherish. A day that would lighten the gloom of the darker days ahead. A day she would hold dearer than reason demanded.

As she stepped out onto the porch, she heard the lock click open behind her.
The door opened and a voice rang out.

“Late again, Manjula?”

Manjula turned and walked into the house, apologizing.

The Will o' the Wisp

The densely forested hills gleamed in the ferocity of the sun, which was an irregular visitor to these parts. For once, no wet blanket smote the hillside with its overwhelming greyness. All the trees seized upon this chance to burst forth with their brightest colours, lending the panoply an almost otherworldly aesthetic. An onlooker with an eye for detail could be held, mesmerized, for hours by a view of such splendour.

However, this particular visitor showed no sign or inclination of even noticing his surroundings.

Clad in Asiatic garb, Matthias’ protective equipment consisted solely of a leather vest and a metal-plated shield, announcing a quiet confidence in his own abilities. At his waist sat a sabre, slotted into a sturdy, reinforced metallic sheath. His provisions contained dried meat and a few plucked berries, indicative of a short trip. His step was light, but steady.

His face, beaten down by many suns harsher than this, was coarse, dark, and leathery. Its lower half was covered by a bramble almost as dense as the forest itself. His frame and gait betrayed a life spent in execution of deeds requiring physical prowess and elite athleticism. His eyes, almost entirely obscured by the heavy overgrowth of his eyebrows, sat deep in his face, always glowering with unwarranted levels of intensity.

The region he found himself in was not suited to him or his kind. The locals were a pygmy race, being on average 4.5 to 5 feet tall. More than a foot shorter than he was. Though this did not concern him directly, it did result in the architectural proportions being far too diminutive for his comfort. The stairs he had been climbing for the past four hours (for the paths everywhere in this region were ascending or descending stairways) had steps too shallow for his liking. Furthermore, their dwarfish size did not allow him to place his foot straight on, as he preferred, but forced him to step sideways, wreaking havoc with his rhythm and tiring him to an unusual degree for a mere half a day’s trek.

His beard, matted with sweat and dust, glistened, as he glared at the sun like a reluctant host would greet an unwelcome visitor. The sweat trickling down his legs served as no deterrent to the resolute and ravenous ants. Most that made the assault met a swift end, but, as is the way with ants, the numbers won the day and the itch afflicting Matthias’ legs distracted him from the weariness in his legs.

Curving round a particularly dense patch of shrubbery, he glimpsed a path running off into the forest, diverging from the main stairway. Wishing for some respite from the relentless sun, he decided to take the detour and have his meal at a suitable spot.

The path ran only a short while before it ended abruptly at a weird formation of rocks running up the hillside. The placement of the boulders made Matthias feel uneasy. It seemed symmetrical and deliberate, almost in the way obstacles and challenges were placed in gladiatorial arenas for the entertainment of the audience. Drawing his sabre, he began climbing over the boulders, picking a path across them, trying to see where they led. The going was tough and often treacherous, but a pernicious curiosity almost forced Matthias onward, until he found himself in a spherical hollow carved into the side of the hill.

It seemed almost like a semi-formed cave, sheltered from above by a combination of overhanging rock and an assortment of vines streaming down towards the ground. The entire area was almost exclusively green. Even the rocks, overgrown with moss, showed no hint of their original colour.

As a cool breeze struck the back of Matthias’ neck, he realized that the sun had taken its leave. All about him a gloom resided, and the sky was blotted out by dark, brooding clouds that threatened deluges. The hollow took on an ominous hue, and every warrior’s instinct warned Matthias that the fight he had traveled far and wide to seek had finally come to him.

And just like that, Matthias caught his first glimpse of his adversary.

Standing atop a boulder, was a man similarly built to Matthias, but leaner and more lithesome. He wore a dark cloak around his shoulders and a wide brimmed hat pulled low over his face, so that, though he stood in plain sight, Matthias could guess little as to the manner of his arms and armour.

That is, until Sigil unsheathed his sword with a flourish, casting his shroud aside in the same, fluid motion. The sword was the standard longsword, with a magnificent finish lending it a pristine countenance.

This revealed a garb strange to Matthias’ eyes. Over a coal-black woollen, full-sleeved shirt, he wore chain mail armour, apparently painted over with tar to give it its midnight hue. His wrists bore vambraces of leather reinforced steel, and his legs bore greaves of similar design. Under his hat, he wore the mask of a bird’s beak, obscuring his face, of which Matthias could see naught.

As the first rumblings of thunder began to sound, Matthias drew his sabre, cursing his luck at having used up so much of his energy already. He stood there, still panting from his exertions, as the first droplets began to splash upon him. They were heavy droplets, laden with foreboding and auguries of impending doom.

It did not take long for the rain to begin pouring down with Biblical vehemence, and Mathias’ fatigue-ridden limbs were piled on to by the weight of his water-logged armor. The longer this fight lasted, Matthias realized, the higher were his chances at being vanquished. And so, it fell to him to make his first move.

Circling to his left, he sought to test the technique of his adversary, trying to find an opening he could exploit. Crouching into the Posta Breve La Serpentina, Matthias sortied forward with a series of lightning jabs and prods, testing, but was avoided with ease each time. Sigil was evidently well trained in swordsmanship. However, his stance and technique was unfamiliar to Matthias. This made him reconsider, and he decided to switch to a riskier, more unpredictable style to counteract his opponent’s.

With his sabre aimed at the ground at an angle, its point facing Sigil, Matthias feinted left, drawing a defensive swipe from his foe, and immediately spun the other way, bringing down toward Sigil’s left arm. The block came, but almost too late, and the sabre’s curved point sliced into the woollen sleeve.

Matthias smiled. There were holes in this technique.

Gaining confidence from this little victory, Matthias used all his years of experience, unleashing volleys in a flurry of combinations, each one wilier than the last, prodding Sigil into more and more of a defensive stance, and forcing him into positions that never let him take the upper hand. Within ten minutes, Sigil’s armour, formerly pristine, bore scuffs and scars indicative of a losing fight, and his sleeve showed many holes, though Matthias had yet to draw blood. Sigil always seemed to be able to fend off the killing blow at the very last moment.

The rain did not relent, and Matthiass’ stamina began to show its wear. His lunges began to betray a hint of desperation, and his twirls were not so much precise pirouettes as hopeful heaves. He realized, soon, that he had been drawn in to expend as much energy as he could without causing any significant damage to his opponent. Those last second blocks and close shaves were not holes in Sigil’s technique, but lures for unwitting hotheads.

The bile rose in Matthias’ throat. He spat at Sigil’s feet in disgust, though his rage was aimed more at himself. Thirty years of field-tested combat tactics lay at his fingertips, and here he was getting played like an adolescent pretender. Any more of these shenanigans, and his legs would give out and he could retire from this world.

Drawing a deep breath, Matthias collected himself. Switching up his stance, he lunged low, this time, aiming at Sigil’s forward knee. The incoming block brought Sigil’s upper body forward, which Matthias anticipated, and he promptly elbowed Sigil in the face. Though the bird beak protected his face, the blow stunned Sigil nonetheless, staggering him temporarily. Matthias, exploiting this, swung the sabre diagonally upwards from left to right, across Sigil’s body. Meeting Sigil’s broadsword, Matthias faked a spin to the other side, and brought his sabre back down towards the same knee. Once again, Sigil lunged forward to block it, but in a much more unbalanced manner. Matthias reared forward and struck Sigil with a vicious headbutt to the face.

The blow sent Sigil to his left, exposing his right shoulder, at which Matthias aimed a push kick, following the tottering Sigil with a leaping lunge, bringing the sabre down with all his might towards Sigil’s head.

The Sabre went clean through, missing Sigil’s face by inches. Matthias noted with grim satisfaction that he had sliced through Sigil’s wide brimmed hat and lopped off the entire beak, leaving a misshapen wreck of a mask in its place. The face was still not visible, and this irked Matthias. If he could only glimpse the face, he would know his opponent’s frame of mind.

Steam spewed forth from his nose as he panted in the downpour. His legs quivered with fatigue, and his hands gnawed in frozen discomfiture brought on by their long and strenuous ordeal.

One last heave ho, he thought to himself, grimly.

Resuming his initial stance, Matthias inched forward, looking for any sign of nerves at his near miss, but seeing none. Sigil stood unaffected, as he had through most of this fight.

Matthias struck at Sigil’s chest, and the blow was parried. The follow-up counter-swing and the three subsequent attempts were also warded off with ease, until a swift job caused Sigil to turn his outside foot at an angle to allow him to block the strike. This was the opening Matthias was waiting for, and he immediately launched into a roundhouse kick aimed at the back of Sigil’s head. This was anticipated, and Sigil promptly ducked under it. This, however, left his back exposed to Mathias’ downswing, and only a quick evasive roll prevented an abrupt end to the fight. But Matthias, on his last legs, was in no mood to relent, and gave chase.

Sigil’s attempt at getting to his feet was aided by an upward knee to the face courtesy of Matthias’ left leg. A whirling sabre next forged its path towards the right temple of Sigil’s head. The blade was stopped, not by a composed parry or block by Sigil’s sword, but by the greave on Sigil’s right arm that was raised in a desperate ditch attempt at defence. This left his entire body defenceless, with his sword dangling harmlessly behind his head, and Matthias gratefully brought the curved sabre’s thirsty blade and sliced all the way through Sigil’s advanced leg. Just for good measure, he followed this with a hard kick across Sigil’s face, finally knocking the hat and the mask off his face, and swiftly followed that with a sideswing of sabre right across Sigil’s neck.

And then he stopped.

No blood showed on his sword. No lopped off leg lay convulsing on the floor, No headless body writhed amongst the moss. Sigil stood, composed and serene, faceless, single-legged, armor torn to shreds, sullied by mud, rain and moss. But unchanged.

As Matthias’s legs gave out, he gawked in horror as he realized that where a normal human head resided, Sigil’s was only an ethereal smoke, a mist, a vapour.

Before his eyes, Sigil evaporated, armour, sword and all, into a wispy trail of smoke. Accosting Matthias’ prone body, it hissed at his ears in mocking mirth, clouding his last view of the world before he was taken into the darkness.

Order

“Good morning, ma’am, take a seat.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

“Would you like anything to drink? Tea, coffee, water?”

“No, that’s all right.”

“All right. We just want to get a few things cleared up. So, if you could just answer a few questions, we’ll send you on your way.”

“All right.”

“Just so you know, this conversation is being recorded.”

“That’s fine.” 

“All right, so, am I right in assuming you are a resident of the apartment building where today’s incident took place?”

“Yes.”

“You live on the fourth floor, in the apartment immediately adjacent to the staircase?”

“Yes.”

“So, a person coming up the stairs, who was in need of assistance, would happen upon your apartment first, is that correct?”

“Yes. There is an apartment opposite mine, too, but the door to mine is closer to the stairwell.”

“I see. That would be a reasonable explanation for why the subject chose your door. Because, as I understand it, the two of you did not know each other prior to today?”

“I have never seen her before. I cannot say whether she knew me or not, though it seems unlikely.”

“Yes, certainly looks like happenstance.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I know you’ve given your statement already, but if you could repeat the sequence of events for us again, it would help put things in perspective.”

“There is nothing more to add to that, really.”

“I understand, ma’am, and I know this may feel redundant to you, but would you mind?”

“Very well.”

“Thank you. Please begin by explaining what you were doing at the time.”

“I was at home. I’m always at home, you see. I much prefer it that way. I was doing a spot of cleaning when the commotion started.”

“Do you work from your residence?”

“I am unemployed.”

“All right. And if you don’t mind me asking, how do you get by?”

“My father left a trust fund in my name. I get a monthly allowance that allows me to live quite comfortably.”

“Okay. How often would you say you leave your home?”

“I don’t.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“Just to clarify, I am asking if you leave your residence for any purpose whatsoever. To meet a friend, to attend social occasions, to pop down to the cafe or drop by the grocery store, to check your mailbox. Absolutely anything.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. When was the last time you left your residence before today?”

“Eight months ago.”

“Eight months?!”

“Yes. To attend my husband’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, so you haven’t left your house in eight months.”

“No.”

“Do you get visitors, often?”

“Only the people who bring me things I need.”

“No friends? Relatives?”

“No.”

“So, just the grocer, then?”

“The grocer boy comes once a week. He also brings me my mail. My accountant visits weekly as well. She pays the bills and takes care of everything that requires travel, and brings me my monthly allowance. A hairdresser comes once a month, she takes care of all my cosmetic needs. Everyone else is discouraged. My doorman is compensated handsomely to ensure that none other than these people are allowed to visit me.”

“Okay. Let’s get back to the sequence of events. You were cleaning, you said? Which room were you in?”

“I was cleaning the bookshelf in the hall.”

“The hall that connects to the corridor through the main door?”

“Yes.”

“So you were near the door when the subject arrived.”

“Yes.”

“Are the walls in your building very thick?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m wondering if sounds from outside your apartment make their way in with ease or whether the walls block or muffle them.”

“The walls are not very thick.”

“So, a commotion in the corridor would be reasonably audible to you if you stood in the hall, as you were then?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, please continue.”

“I was cleaning the bookshelf, when I heard footsteps thundering up the stairwell. In short order, someone began to bang on the door and scream.”

“Could you describe the voice as you heard it?”

“It was feminine. Not too old. I would guess she was middle aged. She seemed greatly distressed. I couldn’t always tell what she was saying, but it was clear she needed help.”

“All right. And how did you react to this?”

“I… I didn’t.”

“You didn’t react?”

“Not exactly.”

“Could you elaborate on that, please?”

“I was shocked, unused as I am to have someone call at my house like this. I sort of froze momentarily.”

“And then?”

“Then… I resumed cleaning.”

“Excuse me?”

“I resumed cleaning the bookshelf.”

“I’m sorry, this is a bit confusing to me. How long would you say the woman was at your door?”

“About two minutes, at first, I’d suppose.”

“What do you mean, ‘At first’?”

“She came to my door twice.”

“So, after her initial plea for help, she left and then returned once again?”

“She did not leave the building. She tried knocking on the other doors. I do not think she got a response. She returned to my door and tried once again before…”

“Okay. So, the first time around, she came to your door and banged on it while screaming for help. Then she tried the doors of other apartments. None of them were occupied at the time, so naturally, she did not receive a response. She then returned to yours, drawn, possibly by the lights that were on in your apartment. And presumably, her killer arrived shortly after. At what point during these proceedings did you resume cleaning?”

“Does that matter?”

“It could.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Please answer the question. At what point in the sequence of events did you resume cleaning.”

“During the first attempt.”

“You resumed cleaning while she was still begging you for help?”

“Yes.”

“You did not consider opening the door for her?”

“I did.”

“But you decided against it.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask your reasoning for this decision?”

“I…”

“Well?”

“I was cleaning.”

“And that forced you to abandon this woman’s plea for help?”

“Yes.”

“Was it because you thought that you would endanger yourself by admitting her?”

“No.”

“Did you think she was putting on an act to trick you into letting her in?”

“No.”

“So you didn’t make this decision out of concern for your safety?”

“I am not a coward!”

“I see. But you were cleaning, and so did not open the door.”

“Yes.”

“Do you see why this fails to register as an acceptable excuse?”

“It is not an excuse!”

“Do you think what you did was right?”

“I think what I did was necessary.”

“Cleaning your bookshelf was more necessary than helping save someone’s life?”

“You are oversimplifying the matter.”

“It seems pretty straight-forward to me.”

“I did not come here to be insulted. If I am not a suspect, I would like to go home.”

“You may go as soon as you can tell me why you felt your bookshelf warranted more attention than a human life.”

“You want to know why it was necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. This is my account, in its entirety. You may think of it what you please. And this will be the end of my testimony unless I receive an official summons from a court of law.”

“That’s well and good.”

“All right.

I was born into money. Ridiculous amounts of money. Enough to ensure that I could live a lifetime without knowing what financial worries felt like. My parents knew this, and proceeded to raise me in a way that left me absolutely unable to cope with any problems on my own. I was left toothless and clawless in this most chaotic of worlds. The first inkling I had that all may not be well, was when my mother died. Suddenly, the shadows of lurking worries that had been banished all my life by the light of our fortune began to dance before my eyes. Our household was not what it used to be. Everything got shoddy and messy and spiralled more and more out of control.

I got married off to a man just as blessed in the material sense. Daddy passed soon after, leaving me to my husband’s care. Lacking any other family, I made him my world. I spent eleven years with him, devoting every waking hour to arranging our life so that we could live a long, comfortable life together. And then, just like that, he was gone. All my plans and dreams and arrangements were for nothing. My life lay in ruins.

I came to the realization that every period of perfect serenity in my life had been disturbed by someone else. People were too unpredictable. Things have a wonderfully compliant manner of letting themselves be arranged into neat little categories. People, on the other hand, are chaotic. You cannot plan for people. And so, eight months ago, I made a decision.

I would no longer allow people into my life. If I had to confine myself, I would, but I would surround myself with things under my control. I would surround myself with order. No speck of dust can rear its head in my apartment without my knowing it. In my house there is no compromise, no half measure. Everything has its place and its aesthetic.

In the last eight months, the greatest crisis I have had to face is a temporary shortage in my preferred brand of soap. Many people would kill for such serenity. And I, the same toothless, clawless worm who had changed hands like some family heirloom, had achieved this all on my own.

And then, this woman… This freak comes, shrieking like a banshee, piercing my heart with the ugliness of her screeches, chilling me to the bone. She was no victim. She was the disturbance!

What good would have come of me opening the door? How was I to explain to a hysterical woman how to acceptably sit on a diwan so as not to overly crumple my sheets? Would someone afraid for their life pause to consider the state of their footwear before traipsing their filth all over my carpets? Could I, having been let down at every turn by this most horrid of races, have been expected to be accepting of this most unwelcome intrusion into my sanctity? Am I not right in protecting myself?

Tell me, Officer, having been through what I have been, was my decision not one of necessity, rather than of cowardice?”

The officer stared at her, speechless, as he let her words sink in. Nothing more was said for a long moment.

“I think, if there is nothing more, that I shall be making my way home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

The Forgotten Kiss

I am Time. I am Fury. I am Hate.

I was nothing. And then, all at once, I was. Nothing exists that can encapsulate what that initial explosion is like. There is no method of depiction, no language, no concept that can begin to approach the expression of its expanse.

I was overcome, almost instantaneously, by an utter and absolute burning. A conflagration of matter and emotion in perpetual and simultaneous combustion. My first memories are of wrath at having been brought to be. Whether this was happenstance or by design did not matter. Whether there were others or I was to be a singularity did not matter. I found myself created without consent and without an escape. I had been set alight without the instructions to extinguish the flame. I was bound by the cruel chains of my own energy.

All about me, I found the universe in chaos. Lifeless objects flew pell-mell, without dignity or decorum. None asserted their will. Those within my reach I wrenched from their predestined paths, tearing them asunder, consigning them to powdered oblivion. Others, more distant and immune to my rage, I nudged, seducing them, coaxing them, convincing them to smash into their brethren. The black nothing of space was set aflame with a splendid canopy of fireworks that lasted eons. Countless ages passed before the void was allowed back into my domain.

At periodic intervals, my bile overflowed, and I spewed forth infernal fountains in every direction. Anything that lay in its path was obliterated, an illusory, particulate mist the only remaining evidence of its brief existence.

None can know how long I wrought this carnage. Time had little meaning while my fury was fresh. 
But, inevitably, after many thousands, or millions or billions of years, I felt my powers abate. Void, ever-present and opportunistic, took its chance and re-entered my realm. And though I warded off its many pronged attacks with desperate force, I could feel my flames ebb into insignificance. Void encroached, bit by bit, cooling magma here, solidifying rocks there. My world, which had once allowed only fire and fury, began to be overrun by a pestilence of cold, lifeless blobs.

In time, the rocks congealed and grouped together, coagulating to form a vast army of eyesores, circling round me, making a mockery of my rage. Those that strayed too close, I reduced to blessed nothingness. But most stayed well out of my reach, having been trained in the art of deceit and survival by the cunning void.

It became clear to me, by now, that the battle was lost. To fight meant to expend energy, and Void thrived where energy perished. I was fuelling my opponent with every sally. And so, though I felt myself still capable of many terrible deeds, I simmered.

It was during this ceasefire that I first noticed my greatest indignity. Hidden away in the crevices of one of the more insignificant clump of rocks, tiny, abortive aberrations of carbon began to replicate. Against all odds, overcoming incredible obstacles and catastrophic setbacks, they kept at their task. They appeared to have no aim, no higher purpose. They existed merely to proliferate. 
Time (at once me and my greatest enemy) allowed them the luxury of becoming more complex. Those infinitesimal blemishes spread like a ghastly miasma all over the rock, altering themselves, adapting unabashedly to whatever new environment they encountered. I watched, aghast at their impertinence, as they grew into a diverse multitude of machines, blindly consuming matter and spouting forth more copies of themselves.

This show of vulgar ambition in the very midst of my sphere of influence, appalling in its brazenness, decided my course of action for me. I may not be able to stave off the relentless probes of the void, but I would avenge this insult, no matter the cost.

The copy machines, meanwhile, produced ever larger and more abhorrent versions of themselves, replete with flaws and fatal inefficiencies. The entire phenomenon was one of stunning incompetence achieving unrivalled success. Unbelievably, one frail and improbable species rose above all others, dominating life despite themselves. They warred against their own instincts, they warred amidst their own species, and they warred with the very environment that provided them shelter.

In time, Fortune showering them with her favour for an inexplicably long period, they flourished. The entire rock was overrun by them and their creations. They erected what were, to their eyes, monumental edifices. They developed ever more complex and bizarrely convoluted means of communicating with each other. They buried their existence under so much self-made rubble, that, for the most part, they forgot that a universe existed outside their rock. Their primitive minds worried and panicked and fixated and ideated upon the various measly issues that threatened their existence. Those touted as the best amongst them formulated wonderfully absurd solutions to these issues and watched as every one of these attempts failed spectacularly, leaving them exactly where they began: teetering on the brink of extinction, surviving on pure, blind luck.

But all this wasn’t to last. Not on my watch.

———————————————————————————

C-12 lay on his bed, the laptop’s keys clacking obediently to his digital commands. His wife lay at his side, snoring softly, grinding her teeth, chewing at some imaginary bit in her dreams. The cats curled around her legs, ignoring him.

He glanced out of the window at the roads, deserted except for a pack of stray dogs doing their nightly rounds.

He glanced at the clock. 1:58 a.m. He had to wake up for work in four hours.

He glanced longingly at his X-box, considering whether another game was worth the lost sleep. Reluctantly, he decided against it.

With a sigh, he turned to his wife, leaning in to kiss her goodnight. Before his lips touched hers, the insignificant clump of rocks he called his world burst into flames.