The other voice, the intruder. I had yet to figure that out. Now seemed like a good time. I was back in my room and I could talk aloud without having people misunderstand or call for the loony-bin with a side order of straitjacket.
First, I needed a shower. Another one. Goa was muggier than Bombay, and that was saying something. Plus, I was still overcompensating for the blood and gore from two days before. I consigned myself to another hot-and-cold shower. Given the hotel, the hot didn’t last for very long. After a while, I discovered that the water didn’t either. As the lukewarm water ran out slowly, in unsteady spurts and bursts, I tried to rationalise the voice to myself. We all have a little voice in the head, the one that tends to speak up with advice, comments or completely irrelevant reactions. I had my little voice too. It had a lot to do with what I had started thinking of as ‘the gift’ ever since my conversation with Akto. It spoke up when I was in trouble or was considering a shortcut, and in most cases, it gave me ideas that led to solutions that were simple enough, though of slightly dubious morality. I had a love-hate relationship with the voice, thankful for its advice and resentful of the way it helped me in. It had a lot to do with the name I had been given by friends and foes alike, ‘Slick’, a label that had long since almost replaced my real name. Slick defined what that voice was and what it had made me; efficient and a little too smooth.
The voice that had been with me since last morning was a new one, though. It had nothing to do with who I was, or what I believed. I could sense the identity it had. And it was not mine. It gave me information at times that was news to me. While this was useful, it was also very disturbing. In this new crazy world I was discovering, I had no clue what such a voice implied. Was I possessed? Was I going crazy? Was this just the “Gift of the Word” emerging in full-flow? At the thought of full-flow, the shower gave up on me. The last trickle of water gamely ran down my face as I ruefully looked up. I towelled myself dry and walked out; almost reluctant to start what I knew was going to be a strange confrontation.
How does one confront a voice in the head? It wasn’t saying anything right then. Could it hear my thoughts? I absent-mindedly fiddled with the TV remote and flicked through channels, thinking up introductory lines to the conversation I was planning to have with the voice. “Hello there, disembodied voice, anybody home?”
Nothing seemed right. Nothing sounded right. I was planning out a conversation with a voice in my head.
I switched off the TV and lay back on the bed, thinking about that entire conversation with Akto. What I could not get over was the sheer magnitude of the secret world out there. Here we were, poor little ‘norms’, who went about our lives in complete ignorance of this society of ‘wordsmiths’ who had us all strung out like puppets. And to make matters worse, I was not even a ‘norm’. I was a ‘cipher’. Damn it! I was none of these things. I was me and I had 24 years of life to prove it!
The voice started up, right on cue, “Damn right, you are. You don’t fit into their petty definitions, laddie. There’s a lot more to you.” Bingo! I had the voice right where I wanted it, alone in a room with me.
“Go on and tell me then,” I egged it, abandoning the interrogate-the-voice strategy for the moment. “Tell me more about all that I’m supposed to be. I’m pretty clueless and all this information is not really helping me understand what I’m about.”
“Hmmm,” the voice went. “Fine then, I will talk to you. I don’t have a choice. I’m stuck in your head, and I don’t have the time to let you fool around and learn by accident.”
Jesus! Someone was stuck in my head!
“Do not go crazy about it, boy. You have nothing to fear from me.”
And it could hear my thoughts!
“Of course, I can hear your thoughts! I am in your head! How stupid are you?” it asked this rather matter-of-factly.
I tried to think a thought silently, but ended up tying myself in knots over it. I gave a big sigh and fell back on the bed.
“You don’t need to think up a thought. I have been hearing all your funny preparations to talk to me. It was most amusing, I must say,” the voice chuckled. I decided to ignore that.
This part came out sounding more English than Scottish. I had to figure this out sooner than later. And the voice was the first link in this crazy situation I needed to resolve.
“I have a name, boy,” the voice growled.
Brilliant! Now the voice had a name too! “What do you call yourself, then?” I asked.
“Alain’s the name. Of the Vorto clan, the finest of the old wordsmith clans.”
“Alain of Vorto?” I asked.
“Alain de Vorto,” the voice said, a tad too grandiosely. “I’ve also been called the Wordscapist.”
The Wordscapist! There it was, that word, again! “And what does that mean, the Wordscapist?”
“I am a source of energy, perhaps the only one in our world. Other wordsmiths shape what they can find around them. My powers are nigh limitless. I was born into this world a long time back, a world that was a lot healthier than the mess you live in now,” the voice reminisced.
“So where are you from? America?”
“I’m from Scotland. I’m a highlander, if there ever was one.”
“Then why is your Scottish so spotty?”
“It’s yours that is spotty, daftie! I am picking what passes for English in your head to speak a language you can understand.”
That made sense. I realised he hadn’t told me when he was from. When he was from; I never thought I’d ever actually use that turn of phrase! “So Mr. Vorto, when exactly are you from?”
“Call me de Vorto. Back where I come from, you mistered people you didn’t like. And you don’t know me well enough for that, yet.”
“De Vorto, then,” I conceded, “how many years back are you from?”
“Well, the last time I laid my eyes on the date, it was 1599.”
I knew it! I just knew it! This voice was ancient or crazy, or both! I chewed on that for a while. How was one supposed to proceed, under these circumstances? I moved to the next logical question. “Umm, De Vorto, how did you end up in my head?”
There was a moment’s silence at that. I sensed that this guy didn’t like the fact that he was in my head any more than I did. I was getting traces of his emotions and thoughts, and potentially memories as well. This entire crazy world of wordsmiths made way more sense to me than it should. He was, consciously or otherwise, seeding my mind with his awareness. It was helping me deal with this situation better, but then, I had to get him out before he took root in there.
“You do realise, boy, that I can hear your thoughts,” he said, dryly.
I nodded, mentally. I was learning a whole new mode of communication here!
“But I do agree. We need to resolve this situation. I hadn’t bargained for this.”
“So, what happened?” I asked, after a long, uncomfortable pause.
“I don’t completely understand what happened. Before the 1600s came, I put myself into a long sleep. Certain events occurred that required my swift disappearance.” At this, there was again a long pause. I could sense the voice going thoughtful. I could also sense that he didn’t like being called or thought of as the voice. I waited patiently for him to go on.
“When I came to, my essence, my spirit, was being wrenched out of my body. Without my host, my body, I couldn’t summon any powers to fight whatever it was that was happening to me. I was disoriented from centuries of sleep, and before I knew it I was being whisked across the oceans to some place I didn’t know. I sensed the words, the intent of the evil that was being wreaked. Some bawbag of a wordsmith was trying to summon me, my powers, and wanted to make them his own. Where he went wrong was in summoning the legend of the Wordscapist. I think he failed to realise that I was real.”
I listened dumbstruck to the narrative. I was trying really hard to absorb it all and make sense of it, but things were just getting weirder and weirder.
“I was caught for an instant in his scape soul. I don’t know what would have happened if he had succeeded. At that moment, something changed. I sensed a presence…an old friend, an old enemy.”
At that, there was more silence. I had a feeling this had something to do with a woman. But I kept calm and waited, trying very hard not to let my thoughts run away.
“Everything fell apart and there was chaos. The scape lost control over me. I spun away, directionless, but desperate to escape. Then, with what little consciousness I could summon, I searched for a host, and I found you.”
A host! That’s what I was to this disembodied wordsmith! I didn’t like it one bit! I kept quiet though. I needed to think this through. I had a feeling the voice, De Vorto, was feeling thoughtful too. I let him be and leaned back on the bed, staring blankly into space.
This was going to be a very long day.
Dew
The meeting with Slick had left me with a mess of emotions. The main one was definitely anger. He had refused to talk to me, and had condescendingly indicated that he didn’t think I was important enough to know whatever it was that he did. I couldn’t wrap my head around that one. I had seen him go for the food. In that moment, he had been a simple, fun-loving boy, not very different from me. Except for the appetite, perhaps. But the moment I had tried to talk to him, he had become cagey. He then went on to say completely ridiculous things; things that didn’t make any sense coming from someone as powerful as him. And then he had run out on me, leaving all my questions unanswered. I had left a note for Papa Loon, letting him know that a powerful wordsmith (one even more powerful than Zauberin!) had come to see him, and he definitely seemed like he was one of us. I didn’t tell him about my attack on him, or how he had knocked me back. That part was embarrassing in so many different ways and I had no intention of talking about that to anyone. I could only hope that the weird Slick didn’t either.
Slick… who was he? Incredibly young for his power, strangely mysterious and definitely weird. I kept going back to him and the strange encounter all day, as I went through the hundred things that needed to be done before a Free Word meeting. I tried to see if I could catch Isis to ask her about him; she would know. But she was nowhere to be seen. My questions would have to wait.
I finished my preparations and headed out to the shack. Slick would have met Papa Loon by now and there might be answers there. I arrived at my usual time, just after breakfast hour. I strode in, looking appreciatively at the fixes I had put up to remove the damage from yesterday. Apart from a few barely noticeable scorch marks, everything looked as good as new! Matilda wasn’t around - again - but Papa Loon was. One look at him and I snapped fully alert. I muttered an energy spell for him as I walked up. He looked like hell.
“None of that hocus-pocus on me, Dew,” he growled, looking up at me with haggard, bloodshot eyes. “I’m mourning my brother, and I would rather do it in my senses than have you mess with my mind.” I let the weave words dissipate as I digested this. I hadn’t expected much else. Papa Loon didn’t set much store by wordscapes. I was surprised though at the mourning-brother news. I didn’t know much about Papa Loon’s brothers, but one thing I did know. He hated their guts. I would not have expected him to be in this state over one of them kicking the bucket.
“Mourning a brother, Pa? I’m so sorry. Which one of them…?”
“I wish it was one of them, Dooly,” he sighed. “Andy da is gone, baby. The bloody Guild got him.”
With those simple words, I learned that one of the most important people in my world was dead. Time froze and I heard words again, different yet similar.
Andy says you’re too young, but I think you should know. Mama and Papa are not coming back, Dooly. They have gone to a better place. They died fighting. For something good. For you, child.
Ten years dissolved into nothing as the pain struck me hard. First my parents. And then my scape father, Andy da. I would never see him again. I could see Papa Loon staring at me, his own grief and anger preventing him from reaching out to me. I was glad. I would have broken down. I didn’t want to break down. I wanted to understand. How? Why!
Everything had gone a little blurry. I sat down hard on a bench. Papa Loon sat beside me and held my hand. The tears came, threatening to spill over. It took a long while before I could speak again. “How?” I whispered.
“Silvus,” he growled.
A chilling spike of fear and rage cleared the blurring pain. That name again. Always that name. A J Silvus. Another notch against his cursed name, a name I had come to hate with every inch of the spirit that shaped my scape-sign. “Silvus killed da?” I asked, my voice hoarse from the hatred choking me up.
“As good as,” Papa Loon said, “he sent out a powerful demon after him. It was a body-snatcher. Scape-enhanced. It tore his head off, Dooly. That bastard!”
I could hear the fury and pain in his words. Andy da was his brother, like no brother of his had been. I could only grip his hand tighter than I already was. Andy da, or Andrew Wallachian as he was known in his Guild days, had been my Word-Guide, my scape-father. He had taught me all I knew about the Way of the Word, and a lot more about life. And he was dead. A J Silvus, Mastersmith of the Guild, had murdered my Andy da.
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“Slick, the kid you wrote that note to me about. Yeah, he is a strange one. He came from Bombay, looking for me. He had Andy’s notes with him. With Andy’s blood all over it.” At this, he slipped me a notepad I knew all too well. I had woven a custom protection spell into it and given it to Andy da for his birthday a couple of years back. I took it and it thrummed in recognition of its wordsmith.
“He had the strangest story,” Papa Loon went on, “Described what had happened to me. You can pick it from my head. I don’t feel like going through it now. Yes, I will let you pick through that memory.” This last was said in response to an incredulous look I’d shot him. Usually, he would never let me run any kind of scapes on him, least of all memory traces. But this time, I could see that he almost wanted me to do it. This was about Andy da. I would be only glad to help in any way I could. I closed my eyes and opened myself up to Papa Loon’s memory. For the first time, I saw the world as Papa Loon. There was a tinge of warmth and comfort to it that I’d never noticed myself. Through bleary vision and a surge of irritation, I saw Slick. His scape sign blazed even through the memory; that man sure was powerful! Then he started talking, and I could barely control the scape to stay in the memory. He was trying to pass off as a norm.
As the memory progressed, things got more confusing. His attempts at passing himself off as a norm were feeble and ridiculous. Even Papa Loon could sense his gift. I listened to the conversation between them as Papa Loon explained wordscapes to someone who could probably weave in his sleep. And still, his scape sign rang true. It was erratic and flared in fear each time Papa Loon threatened or intimidated him. I ran through the entire conversation quickly, and drew out of the memory, more confused than anything else. I opened my eyes, slightly disoriented as my perception rushed in to replace Papa Loon’s impressions.
“He’s a wordsmith,” I whispered in response to his look, “perhaps the most powerful one I’ve ever seen. More than Zauberin, even.”
“I read your note, Dooly,” Papa Loon said, “but are you sure, kiddo? He didn’t feel very smithy to me. I managed to nick his throat and he let me. I could have killed him where he lay. He was quite useless at defending himself.”
“I saw that,” I nodded. I didn’t understand it though. Could a scape protection be woven to allow superficial cutting only? Or was the whole thing part of an elaborate glamour? “He isn’t a norm. He can’t be a cipher either. No one but a master can control that kind of a gift.”
“I knew it!” he growled. “He was lying through his teeth!”
“I don’t know about that, Papa,” I said slowly, unable to figure it out in my head.
“Of course he was! He was just good enough to proje
ct the poor-boy bullshit! He’s probably an ancient adept who befuddled me with some kind of a glamour. He won’t do that again!”
“Papa, I think I would have recognised a glamour.”
“You don’t know half of what these wordshits are capable of, Dooly!” He was furious. He used that word only when he was close to snapping.
“And don’t you remind me that you’re one,” he went on before I could try to calm him down, “Andy was one too, for all the good it did him. Killed by one of the undead! All because of the biggest wordshit of all! The bastard Silvus! I don’t know what this Slick character has to do with anything, but he’s going down. I wish I could get him to answer some questions before I cut his throat, but it isn’t safe to let a bastard like that talk. Zauberin will be here tonight, Dooly. She will know how to deal him!”
My mind was spinning while Papa Loon ranted. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But I had a strong feeling that Slick hadn’t been lying. Not much at least. And yet, I knew Papa was right. A cipher could not be so powerful without having blown himself up in his early teens or having the Guild or the CCC on his head at the first sign of the gift. The gift must have raged in him way before his hormones had. He was definitely a couple of years older than me. That meant he had left his sloughing years behind. Maybe I too was being befuddled by this adept who could leave glamours, even in memories. I had never heard of that being done, but then I was still being trained, barely a breathsmith for a few months now. That brought back Andy da’s memories again, softer this time, sadder still. He was dead. That still hadn’t quite sunk in.
Papa Loon was still talking, and he was close to done. “Dew, you’re going to get this chap to me,” he was telling me, “Use your gift or just go as the pretty kid you are. Do whatever it takes. I’ve called him to the market tonight. Let’s see him weave once I’ve sliced that lying tongue out of him. The Free Word council is here tonight. Let him try his glamours and lies before them.” I nodded, feeling an unexplainable surge of fear and sympathy for the guy. I was going to lead him to his death. But then, if he had anything at all to do with Andy da’s death, the choice was clear. I knew what side I was on. At least, that morning I thought I did.
Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1) Page 12