The House that Spoke

by Zuni Chopra

  After silently thanking my ancestors for their obsession with unnecessarily large and extravagant frames, I hurried towards the library.

  My bare feet felt the scorching heat of the wood, and I looked down to see stains of faded black against the ground, dark footsteps of a clumsy thief.

  I was so occupied with examining the wood that I slammed straight into the closing door.

  I burst in with an exclamation of shock and pain, and the sight that greeted me only added to it. A tidal wave of yellow paper and hard book covers were soaring through the air, straight at the doorway. For a moment, I believed they were soaring towards me, and I was on the verge of stopping them with a rush of magic, when I realized they were aiming for Kruhen Chay, then a shrunken, faded figure, cowardly compared to his earlier grandeur. He let out a muffled, garbled yell as he was buried under a mountain of books.

  It seemed that the armchair was directing the attack, and directing it very systematically at that. He was puffing out a long string of precise words, riding on one large gulp of air.

  ‘27, 82, straight to his head, 90, 120, now, hit him with the pointed end first, 32, 68, cover up that stray limb . . .’

  Abruptly, his chain of orders was snapped in half by the cries of his troops and the screech of tearing paper.

  I moved forward and focused on paralysing Kruhen Chay. A ball of enchanted energy then encompassed the shuddering swarms of binding and paper, shining golden with light, yet rippling with darkness beneath, and I tried to think of how I would get him out of the library with half the library on top of him. It turned out I didn’t need to worry.

  It seemed that the bookshelves cared more for their books than they had ever let on.

  With bangs that would put a chaotic firework display to shame, they knocked each other over, beginning from the very last bookshelf and continuing in one smooth wave to the very first. The thudding grew louder and louder, till they sounded like a pride of lions breaking into a chorus of roars. I threw my arms up over my head, hearing the fleet of bookshelves collide, crash and sink.

  When they quieted, I raised my head to see that the final bookshelf had landed squarely upon Kruhen Chay, pinning him down to prevent his escape, and had halted just inches from the door. Long, brown scrapes against the ceiling gave the appearance of a wild beast having tried frantically to dig its way out.

  At first, I had a sudden urge to push the bookshelves upright once more, lest their worn wood catch fire from the heat of Kruhen Chay. But it seemed he was no longer the blaze he had once been.

  The books, however, had not been spared the bookshelves’ attack.

  ‘Would it kill you to lose a few pounds?’

  ‘I think we all ought to take a nice, deep breath . . .’

  ‘Everyone—all puzzles have an answer. Think your way out of this, come on.’

  ‘Are you up for a quick debate on that?’

  ‘If it’s still raining, I’m not coming out!’

  I laughed softly to myself, still concentrating all my energy on that single point on my fingertips from which I could feel heat emanating, fighting to keep my enemy immobile.

  A memory from an old, unlabelled bottle surfaced before me; fishing on a still, gentle lake, leaning out of the side of the tilting shikara, watching as women wove near the water weeds, holding tight to the merry rod as something struggled fiercely beneath.

  ‘Get off him!’ I yelled at last. ‘I can’t hold him forever!’

  With a single whoosh, the light within me erupted in a tidal wave that gushed through the library, and I had shoved the bookshelf above Kruhen Chay into a standing position once more. It stood, empty and alone, in the middle of the room. Slowly, steadily, eyes closed in concentration yet sensing the magic around me, I began to drag the splatter of darkness that remained out from under the jumble of books. I tried to steer him away from those who I could see were badly torn. I could feel each slice in their yellowed pages, as though it were a jagged knife grating against my own neck.

  But his power was formidable yet, and he fought to regain control of his limbs. As he did so, I noticed that some were beginning to shrink; they seemed to be melting into thick crude oil. Perhaps those weren’t footsteps I’d seen earlier.

  I had allowed it to distract me a second too long. Kruhen Chay had broken my shaking amateur hold, and he slammed past me at once, snaking down the stairs. Clutching my shoulder, I pelted past him, skidding so badly it seemed that the floor was indeed slicked in oil.

  I could hear the fire crackling, cutting off his first route of escape; and yet he had not made for the living room at all.

  Panic echoed dimly around me.

  Oh, no . . . oh, no . . . don’t let him reach that door, Zoon . . . don’t let him reach that door!

  I stumbled on the last step and tumbled down into the front room, narrowly missing hitting my head against the wall. My heart thudded heavily for a moment, trying to prove to me that we were okay, I was still alive, I was working fine.

  Kruhen Chay had sped towards the door, but the chair had no intention of letting him leave; with a war cry that sounded suspiciously like ‘Die, devil, die!’ he launched himself at the door handle and barricaded it from the inside.

  Kruhen Chay let out a snarl of undiluted fury and flashed a deep black once more. He was quickly regaining whatever strength the house had managed to take from him, and he slashed uncontrollably at the quixotic quill, who had taken it upon himself to spear out his eye.

  But it would hardly have mattered even if he’d grown another limb—I knew what to do.

  ‘Now!’ I cried out, and before I had even finished the word, cracks had begun forming against each plank of wood on the walls; they trembled with the strain. Time stood still, frozen in awe, and the pipes burst from the walls, like hidden dragons, with a shattering splintering of wood. Each pipe threw itself forward, eager to enter the battlefield, free from the dark at last.

  Blasts of mist jetted across the room so that my eyes blurred and became useless; Kruhen Chay’s cries rang horribly through the room, growing fainter and fainter.

  I raised my hands in front of me and made to clear the air . . . and he emerged, thrashing and convulsing against the steam as it leached the misery from his surface, spitting out a long rush of furious, fuming words.

  I watched, as though the hourglass had slowed, as Kruhen Chay was thrown against the ground. He was melting, all of him, the black tar of his limbs losing shape. He stuck to the ground like chewed gum, spitting out enraged insults that grew quieter and quieter, until his voice was a hoarse memory of yesterday.

  Just then, I heard another unfamiliar noise—the thick, gentle sound of shifting cloth. The carpet, who, to my knowledge, had never so much as looked out of the window, was moving. Steadily, smilingly, she twisted herself over at her right corner, so that I caught a glimpse of a metal handle beneath her thick, elegant fabric.

  The handle was bloated and rusty, so disfigured from years of disuse that it no longer resembled a handle at all. Yet when I touched it, it leapt open as though it had been waiting for me all its life.

  It led down into some sort of cave. I leaned in closer and was met with a gust of steam. It tasted stale and lifeless. My stomach coiled around my ribs in fear and comprehension.

  The hammam.

  Over my shoulder, Kruhen Chay slumped weakly against the chair’s steady legs, flopping about uselessly like a headless cockroach.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then I felt my magic release the panting quill on to the haggard desk. It was like a pinpoint of life within the vast darkness of my closed lids.

  Slowly, steadily, I coaxed it to curl around Kruhen Chay, sealing the steam around him. Then, after pulling the bonds tight to form a rope, I pulled Kruhen Chay closer and closer.

  Just before he reached me, I opened my eyes. Still he tried to fight against the invisible cords around him. In a single movement, I flung the bundle of darkness down into the hammam.<
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  As he neared the cave where he’d once been entrapped for hundreds of long, grinding years, its hidden entrance began to slowly bend open with a horrible creak, as though it, too, had been waiting. The screech of metal and stone boomed in the normally silent hammam. Layers of dust began to flow like water from the sudden unprecedented disturbance.

  And below that, it was too dark for the sun’s rays, cowardly despite their bright bravado, to pierce. It was the dark of creatures that are slow and old, lingering on the edge of life, yet unclaimed by an uncaring death.

  Something rose then, from the very corner of the hammam—a figure, unmoving, white and deathly pale, as though ill. His eyes seemed white and pupil-less, and I could see the worn wood of the ground right through him. He rose, moving towards me, passing straight through rusty heaters . . . and yet, somehow, I felt no urge to dodge a possible attack. I knew him somehow . . . he was my friend.

  He flew past me, slowly, gently, as though he had not seen the world for a hundred years and was almost frightened of what he might find. He inclined his head towards me. He very nearly smiled. Then he drifted up to the fireplace and rose up through the chimney. I could no longer see him at all. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that he’d even existed.

  The roar of my enemy, still putting up a stubborn fight, brought me harshly back to earth. He fought against my hold; I gritted my teeth with the effort to keep steady.

  He gasped in pain; his struggles subsided as the steam held him fast in its iron hold. Scriptures engraved aeons ago in the stone began to glow and twist, melting and freezing anew.

  As I forced him to enter his miserable cavern, he let out a final, raspy cry of bitterness and anger and unquestionable loss. He turned once more to stare at me, his newly translucent, emaciated body twisting horribly as he did so, the cracks meant to serve as his mouth twisting in hatred . . .

  There was a crash as stone thudded against the ground, sealed once more.

  He was gone.

  Gone for now, I told myself, calming my heaving lungs. I gave a great sigh and continued to breathe deeply till the air entering my body felt nearly the same as the air leaving it.

  Then I stood up.

  All at once, the walls detonated into deafening cheers. I allowed a smile to slide across my lips.

  As I walked into the living room, they continued to hoot and clap.

  ‘What a show! I really enjoyed the light effects!’ called the quill eagerly.

  ‘Ugh, ignore him! You were fantastic! What a feat, what a battle to have fought, especially at your age! I never expected it. I’ll say quite frankly . . .’ the fireplace put in.

  ‘Completely brilliant!’ roared the king’s portrait. ‘I’m proud to have you serving in my court!’

  ‘I agree, sahib! That was, hands down, the most memorable court proceeding ever!’

  ‘Yes, I must say,’ put in the watercolour Pandit, ‘it seems I was quite a fitting source of guidance and inspiration.’

  ‘Very well done,’ came the steady, calming tone of the armchair from the library. ‘I was leaning towards taking a different route, but your way was better, I must say.’

  ‘Armchair,’ I murmured in a tentative, hushed voice, suddenly unsure of my post as Guardian, ‘do you think I made the right choice? About not trying to destroy Kruhen Chay, I mean.’

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. When he did, I could hear a smile in his voice. It wasn’t joyous; it was a sad, gentle, quiet sort of smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied softly. ‘Such a thing would be impossible, Zoon. Darkness is now as much a part of every human as light is; there will always be darkness somewhere in the world and in us. What is important is that we do not let it control us.’

  I nodded. For some reason, I thought of Tathi.

  ‘But it is clear that you understand that already,’ said the armchair, in a lighter, encouraging tone. ‘The resilience and resistance this house displayed today showed powerful magic; it has proved that your spirit is braver and stronger than any other Guardian we have ever had.’

  My smile grew wider, and I felt a rush of pride in my chest.

  The books continued slapping their pages together and cheering deafeningly, oblivious to this quiet exchange, rowdy and rough as a full cricket stadium.

  And then, so silent that I could almost believe it had been wishful thinking, I heard the softest and gentlest of voices coming from beneath me.

  ‘That was really something, wasn’t it? For a minute there, I was really scared that you’d hurt yourself.’

  I knelt down and patted the carpet gently. ‘You made sure I didn’t,’ I replied. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘And thank you to all of you,’ I called out, beginning to feel like I’d just won some kind of award. ‘You helped me so much . . . and . . . hold up . . .’ The tiniest of gears inside me stuttered to a stop, clogged by an interesting observation. ‘Wait a minute . . . how can all of us hear each other if we’re in separate rooms?’

  There was a moment of dead silence, like when a bride spills rogan josh on her best sari an hour before the wedding. Then the house exploded all over again, only this time in a chorus of laughter.

  ‘What, did you think you’d become Guardian and everything would stay the same?’ called the fireplace.

  ‘She thought she’d fight Kruhen Chay and then just go about her business as usual!’ joked the armchair, and the desk practically broke a leg sniggering. I couldn’t help but grin.

  I turned round to face the house. ‘Guys,’ I said loudly, in what I hoped was an authoritative enough voice for them not to start laughing again, ‘Ma’s going to be home soon with Tathi and we need this place cleaned up. I know we can’t fix everything, but let’s try to do what we can. Okay?’

  To my utter amazement, they all began following my instructions right away. A little ray of pride, like the candle on a birthday cake, sparked inside me.

  I decided to do this systematically, room by room. While the fireplace worked on sucking in all the smoke he’d dispensed and shoving it up the chimney, I straightened out the desk, mended the quill’s torn feather slowly (he just wouldn’t stop going on and on about it—his ‘battle scar’ he called it), the magic gentler then, and, with just a touch, I was able to restore the shine to the desk’s tattered surface.

  The floorboards took a while to mend, what with their splintered edges and nails jutting out, but I managed it. I left the walls as they were; I couldn’t make sense of the maze of pipes tangled with shattered wood.

  Once the carpet had been cleaned out (which took surprisingly little time), I moved upstairs.

  Halfway up, I caught a glimpse of the quiet garden outside. A bright blush of chocolate brown was creeping rapidly up the chinar, sealing jagged cracks, filling the air with a sugary scent and growing small spots of green as it meandered. I gave the banister an excited little squeeze.

  The bedroom was really quite a mess. It didn’t take me long to mend the brave bed sheet, though, magic dancing from my fingertips; she was then promptly greeted with a round of fierce applause as she slept tiredly, yet happily, on the bed once more. But I’d no idea what to do with the Pandit’s desecrated frame.

  Finally, I settled on mending the metal links within it as best I could. Hopefully, it would be enough to avoid awkward questions.

  As I healed the house, restoring whatever I could to its former majesty, I felt it resonate within me, a talisman of sunshine.

  In the desperate hope that some of it at least might have righted itself by the time I got there, I checked on the library last. I should have known better than to do that. The books seemed to have become far more confused than usual, fighting over torn pages, toppling over one another and jostling for space in the only standing bookshelf, who was then dangerously close to falling over once again.

  I buried my face in my hands before even beginning.

  Deciding that this would be a lot easier if I could just see past the flurry of pages, I moved all t
he books to one small corner with a sweep of my arm. This rush of magic only fuelled their zest and chatter further, although those with missing pages paused and stuttered, lost for words.

  After a great deal of effort, which involved having to suspend certain bookshelves in the air while reorganizing their neighbours, I’d managed to get the bookshelves back into respectable order.

  ‘Not bad,’ I muttered to myself. Sure, a few of them were crooked, and yes, they did have plenty of bumps and scratches, and, of course, some of them may have been upside down, but it wasn’t too shabby for a first try.

  The books were, if anything, even more frustrating. Eventually I was forced to immobilize them while I read through every single torn page to determine which book it belonged to. Once they found themselves whole again, they began to fly back to their places on the shelves.

  With the library then looking as though it had been hit by a natural disaster of slightly lesser intensity, I trooped downstairs once more.

  ‘Zoon! What do I do with this old thing?’ called the fireplace as he chucked glowing embers at a small pile of ashes on the ground beside him.

  ‘What is that?’

  I leaned closer to get a clear look—it wasn’t all ashes. Some of it looked like dead skin . . .

  ‘That’s Mr Bhukhari.’

  With a lurch that nearly made me sick, I launched myself backwards.

  ‘Ew! Gross! Why is he—it—on the carpet? Get it out!’

  ‘Where do you propose I put it?’

  ‘Just chuck it out of the chimney!’

  The fireplace inhaled sharply, partly because I’d told him to and partly because my hysterics irritated him. The small lump of black rot, then all that was left of what had once been an unbroken, strong, healthy man, whooshed up the chimney as he did so. With a single large gust of air, he proclaimed it far away already.

  ‘Why did that happen to him?’ I whispered, still horrified by what I’d just seen.