Tooth and Nail, Fur and Scale

by Anupam Arunachalam

  I know that you have heard about the unfortunate disappearances of three of my other suitors, my prince. I cannot say much for I fear for my life, but I must stress that the powers responsible for this are vast and relentless. While I do not doubt that you could hold your own against any mortal foe, this enemy does not fight with steel or fire, nor is it made of flesh and bone.

  I cannot reveal much more, but I can offer you some measure of protection against this dark force. I implore you—nay, I beg you to come to the royal hammam tonight. My late father consulted mystics of all stripes, adept in sorcery and astrology and the various occult branches of architecture, for the building’s construction, and ensured that it would be impregnable to dark magic and eldritch creatures—a place of purity.

  I know that this is grossly improper, but I’m afraid I must risk your displeasure in this case. I hope you shall accept this invitation to spend a night in the hammam with me. If anything should happen to you, I could not live with myself.

  And perhaps, if you were willing to forgo a few hours of sleep, we might use this opportunity to learn more about each other.

  I’m sure I needn’t stress that you come alone with my handmaidens, and that you remain discreet about this interaction.

  I look forward to receiving your reply.

  With sincerest love,

  Yours,

  Jumana

  Sarfaraz considered the letter for a moment, rereading key passages, and then made up his mind. The princess was bold, and he liked that in a woman.

  ‘Do you know the contents of this letter?’ he asked the golden-haired girl.

  ‘I am the shahzadi’s handmaiden,’ she said. ‘She tells me everything.’

  ‘It would be grossly inappropriate to do such a thing.’

  ‘I assure you, Your Highness, that the princess would not have proposed it if it were not a matter of life and death. And not just yours. If you don’t make it through this night, she has made arrangements to ensure that she doesn’t either.’

  The braziers inside the hammam burnt low, casting quivering shadows of the latticework windows on the ornamental hedges that flanked the cobblestone path leading up to its entrance. Asmina was at the door, and as they approached, she barred the way with her spear.

  ‘No weapons in the hammam,’ she said.

  Sarfaraz looked at Alva, who held out both hands to receive his blade. With a pained expression, he unhooked the sheath of his scimitar. ‘Keep him safe,’ he said.

  As the heavy blade settled in her hands, Alva felt a sudden sense of unease. Earlier, at the parade, when she had first seen it at his hip—and known that she would be taking it from him that night—she had ached to unsheathe it. To feel the metal. To test its edge. The wazir would have it drowned with everything else, but she harboured a strong desire to possess it.

  ‘I will,’ she wanted to say, but her voice caught in her throat. She realized that she didn’t want to separate the sword from its master. It was all quite unbelievable—in a few minutes, all that would be left of this impeccable specimen of mankind was a splatter of blood and a few scraps of meat. The crocotta devoured nearly everything with the crescents of bone that it had instead of teeth.

  She watched the man receding inexorably deeper into the bathhouse, towards his doom. Beside her, Asmina was watching as well.

  ‘The others were boys,’ she said. ‘This one might make a good king some day.’

  ‘But the wazir—’

  ‘The mutes would have told no one,’ said Asmina. ‘We still have our tongues.’

  Alva thought about this. ‘This one is special,’ she said, and then strode forward purposefully.

  Sarfaraz had never been in a women’s hammam before, and was startled at how similar it was in design to a men’s bath, and yet how different in odour. While the men’s hammam carried the distinct bitterness of functional cleaning agents, barely softened by earthy perfumes, this place smelled unmistakably floral.

  From the cool night air, he stepped into the first chamber and was surprised to find that the heating was still active at this time of the night. He stopped at the threshold to the next room, which was curtained off. He could see the steam wafting up through the sheer fabric, and wondered if it would be proper to go in there fully clothed, for all his fineries would become damp in an instant.

  He was startled by a mellifluous laugh coming from within the hot room, and felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

  ‘You crazy, crazy man!’ he heard the princess say between peals of laughter. ‘What are you doing?’

  Sarfaraz cleared his throat. ‘Shahzadi? May I come in?’

  At that, the princess’s laughter seemed to redouble, and he felt vaguely embarrassed. Was she mocking him? Was this some sort of a joke?

  He shrugged off his coat and took off his boots and belt—which were leather and would spoil—and hesitated before taking off his turban and setting it on a nearby ledge. He was about to part the curtains when, hearing iron-shod footsteps behind him, he whirled around, dipping into a defensive stance.

  ‘Three days ago, the wazir arranged for a famous clown to give the shahzadi a private performance,’ Alva said. ‘We had the crocotta, bound and muzzled, in an antechamber, where it could hear everything she said.’

  ‘What is the meaning of this!’ Sarfaraz thundered.

  ‘A great beast lurks within the mist of that room,’ said the Norsewoman. ‘It is chained, but it will attract you with the princess’s voice. And when you get close enough, it will kill you.’

  She told him everything calmly, not marring clarity with urgency. He watched her silently, his eyes ablaze with anger.

  ‘The wazir will kill Asmina and me for this,’ she said at the end of it. ‘Unless you take us with you. We shall serve you to the end of our days, my prince.’

  Sarfaraz’s eyes were hot as coals, but she met his gaze and did not look down.

  Finally he said, ‘Give me my blade.’

  ‘You mean to fight the beast?’ She had assumed the prince would either flee the kingdom or petition the sultana for redressal. ‘There is no need! We can have it slain by archers once we speak to the sultana about this.’

  ‘It sounds like a unique creature,’ said Sarfaraz. ‘I wish to see it alive. Give me my blade, and step back.’

  She handed him the scimitar and unsheathed her own. ‘Mighty as you are, you will be no match for it alone,’ she said.

  He grinned at her, and they parted the curtains together.

  ‘Enough of these games!’ said the sultana, cutting off his recitation of all her titles. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that Shahzada Sarfaraz disappeared last night?’

  ‘What!’ said Mehruddin Malik, his face a mask of surprise. Alva had woken him with the same information earlier that day.

  ‘I said, enough!’ roared the queen. He heard her fist come down hard on her armrest. ‘Your point has been made. I cannot continue risking the ire of powerful kingdoms whose scions keep vanishing in my house!’

  The wazir shrugged, looking helpless and grave. ‘I agree, Sultana. But what recourse do we have? The shahzadi must have a groom, after all . . .’

  ‘Then I have no choice but to marry her to someone within our kingdom.’

  ‘Ah . . . but who, Sultana? Who in our kingdom possesses the charm, the wisdom, the gravity suitable for our immaculate shahzadi?’

  ‘Let me tell you who does not,’ said the sultana. ‘Your son!’

  The wazir felt a red wave rising in his chest. ‘What?’

  ‘Despite your best efforts, Wazir, your son has grown up without the qualities that we require in a future sultan. He is knowledgeable but timid, intelligent but unassertive, a thoughtful man but not one of action.’

  ‘Sultana, I assure you, you will not find a more competent—’

  ‘We are not here to discuss your boy’s competence, Wazir. I have made my decision, and I will not wed my daughter to him.’

  The wazir’s knuckles were white and hi
s head was fast filling with the sound of his grinding teeth. ‘Then who?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘You,’ said the sultana.

  Mehruddin’s shoulders slumped, the tension in his body disappearing abruptly. His mouth hung open for a while before he formed the word ‘Me?’

  ‘No games, Mehruddin Malik. No more. You already hold the reins to this kingdom. Your peers in the diplomatic community respect you. Your people know you as a man not to be trifled with. Marry my daughter, and you can be sultan after I’m gone.’

  ‘But . . . b-but I’m too old for—’

  ‘Not too old to give her a child, I think?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mehruddin, blushing, ‘no. I still have a few years left in me.’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ said the sultana. ‘Why don’t you go to the zenana6 and give her the news yourself?’

  ‘To the zenana?’

  ‘The shahzadi’s husband would be allowed to visit her in her quarters, wouldn’t he?’ said the sultana. The wazir thought he heard a wry smile in her voice.

  And so, here he was.

  The guards, it appeared, had already had orders passed down to them. He walked through the doors and across the tessellated floor of the large foyer—with its tinkling fountain and intricate trellises hung with vines of gold and silver filigree—admiring the old style architecture. The bareheaded women of the zenana gasped and skittered out of his path behind conveniently located chiffon curtains and wooden screens.

  He had the key to every lock in the kingdom, but he had never been in here before. This place was older than most of the palace, built by the first sultan for his queen. The great halls and the cavernous pillared corridors were from a time when both space and stone had been cheap. Unlike the rest of the palace, which was decorated in broad, clashing shapes, high in contrast and functional in arrangement, the zenana’s design was complex and soft. The colours flowed smoothly and the corners were gentle.

  The wazir paused outside the shahzadi’s chamber. The magnitude of the sultana’s offer settled in his head, and he let out a long-held breath in a low whistle. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed through. A staggered arrangement of carved ivory screens awaited him.

  ‘Shahzadi?’ he said as he made his way through them. ‘O, lovely maiden of flawless beauty,’ he began, and bit his tongue, wondering if his expressions of romantic love were too old-fashioned for the young girl.

  ‘You!’ he heard the shahzadi say.

  ‘Shahzadi,’ he said. ‘Please, I am here with your mother’s permission.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Ah . . . so you haven’t been told.’ He moved past the last screen, catching sight of the large bed in the middle of the chamber, veiled on all sides by curtains of sheer silk. Behind it was a reclining figure. He stepped towards it.

  ‘You see, since we can’t seem to be able to hold on to your foreign suitors, your mother decided—’

  His hand froze at the hem of a curtain. There’s something wrong, his senses screamed. The shadow of the figure, he realized, was too big for the shahzadi. Also, it seemed somehow . . .

  ‘Aaaaaaaaah!’ screamed the shahzadi’s voice from behind the curtains, and he ripped them open instinctively.

  The crocotta stared at him with beady eyes, a rictus revealing two serrated crescents of bone that rose from black gums. Its brindle fur was caked with blood, which flowed freely from a deep gash in its hindquarters, and its tail swept lazy curves in the air behind it.

  ‘What on earth is that!’ it said in the princess’s voice.

  The wazir screamed and jerked away, falling to the floor. He was sure that the crocotta would leap at him then. A careless slash of its paw, and he would be cut in two. But then he heard a rattling of chains and realized that his body was still unsegmented.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude on you like this, Your Highness.’ The crocotta’s muzzle made curious shapes, and this time it was Sarfaraz’s baritone that it spoke in.

  The wazir struggled to his feet. The floor beneath him was suddenly wet and slippery.

  ‘I’m afraid there has been a betrayal in your court,’ the crocotta said, mimicking Sarfaraz again. ‘Your wazir is a murdering pig!’

  The wazir turned around and prepared to run, his turban slipping off his head.

  ‘What—’ the creature now said in the princess’s voice. ‘What is that thing?’

  ‘That is the beast that ate your other suitors,’ the crocotta replied as the Persian prince.

  Massive hands closed around Mehruddin Malik’s shoulders. He screamed again.

  ‘And now,’ said the crocotta, ‘it will dine on the man who set it on them.’

  The wazir beheld the face of the man who had said those words hours ago, when he had entered the zenana with the crocotta in tow. ‘No!’ he begged. ‘Please! No!’

  Sarfaraz flung the screaming man at the beast, which received him with its mouth wide open. It slammed him on to the bed and planted its forelegs on his torso.

  The wazir screamed louder than any of its other victims had. He screamed vile curses, and entreaties for mercy. He called upon God for deliverance, and upon Shaitan for a bargain. He screamed for release and he prayed for a quick death.

  His shrieks filled the beast’s mind. It is said that for several years thence, esteemed visitors came from far and wide to the court of Sultana Jumana and her sultan, Sarfaraz, to visit the cage in the back of the royal garden, where they could hear the wazir’s last words from the mouth of the crocotta.

  CROCOTTA

  The crocotta has been described by a few ancient Greek and Roman historians, and is supposed to be found in India and Ethiopia.

  Imagine you’ve gone exploring in the hills with your best friend. After a long hike, your friend is like, ‘Hey, I’m going to go behind those trees over there and take a leak.’ You don’t judge him for peeing in a public space, because he’s your best friend. You just say, ‘Okay. I’ll wait for you right here.’ A few moments later, you hear him screaming his lungs out. He’s calling your name, and he’s saying things like, ‘Oh, God, save me! I’m going to die!’

  Obviously, you run towards the sound, a tiny part of you hoping that this isn’t some horrible prank he’s playing on you, and a much bigger part hoping it is.

  So you go around the trees, and instead of a friend in trouble, what you find is a friend half-eaten, with a hyena the size of an ass standing over him, crying, ‘Help! Please help!’ in his voice. It’s been waiting for you to come around so that it can pounce on you now, bite your head off and steal your screams too.

  That’s what the crocotta does. Terrible, right? And the worst part is, even if you knew all of this, it would be of no use. Because if you’re somewhere secluded and you hear your friend crying your name and screaming for help, what’re you going to do? Not go?

  A MIDNIGHT SNACK

  Mahi stuck the knife back into the crack in the rock, and gave it one last scraping. It came out smeared lightly with black goo, which he wiped off with a finger and flicked into the jar at his feet. The jar was almost full of the stuff, and the thought of how much the vaidya1 in Dang would pay for it made him smile. Shilajit2 was the only cure for a lot of ailments, and it was expensive because it was rare.

  As he capped the container, he heard the bushes behind him rustle and, brandishing the knife, he swung around. ‘Who is it!’ he said, almost kicking the jar of Shilajit over.

  Two rabbits, one very large and the other tiny, flew out of the bushes at his face. It took him a second to realize that they were limp—hanging by their ears from burly fists.

  His uncle followed them out of the foliage, beaming at Mahi.

  ‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ he said. ‘Are you done with the scraping?’

  Mahi held up the jar. ‘It’s full!’ he said.

  ‘Shabash! Now let’s go find us a place to spend the night.’

  Mahi shivered as he watched the sunlight filter through the birch tre
es, making their striped white trunks look like tiger pelts.

  ‘Chacha? How many times have you and Papa slept out here in the forest?’

  ‘Quite a few.’

  ‘Anil said there were snow leopards in these parts.’

  ‘Mmhmm.’

  ‘He said they can climb trees, and that they are faster than any man.’

  His uncle smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘I’ll tell you a secret tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Something your grandfather taught us when we were your age.’

  Mahi didn’t tell his uncle what else Anil had said—that Mahi’s father and uncle were the only people who’d spent nights in the forest among the bears and the leopards. That they were weird.

  They trudged up the hill for miles, and Mahi pointed out several spots that he thought would be suitable to set up camp, but each time his uncle quietly shook his head and moved on. Finally, they walked into a wide clearing, where his uncle sniffed the air and put his pack down.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and began collecting dry twigs for tinder. When they had enough, Mahi set to work on lighting a fire while his uncle skinned the larger rabbit.

  ‘Find me a sturdy stick,’ he told Mahi as he carved out the creature’s entrails.

  Mahi brought him a branch from an elm, and his uncle skewered the rabbit on it. They put two rocks on either side of the fire and balanced the ends of the stick between them, making a spit. Mahi’s uncle rotated the stick from time to time so that the rabbit would cook evenly.

  ‘Anil said it was dangerous to cook meat in the wild, Chacha.’

  ‘He’s right. In most cases, the smell attracts big animals.’

  ‘But in our case, it won’t?’

  ‘We’ll be safe. I told you—I know a secret.’ His uncle winked at him.

  They’d brought some spices from home, and the rabbit turned out pretty well. Mahi was only a third of the way through his portion when his uncle finished and began skinning the other rabbit.