Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction

by Dominica Malcolm

  The Healer

  Aashika Nair

  ~ India ~

  Apple extract and mint – a task for secrets.

  Raspberry juice and cinnamon – love potion.

  Lemon juice, anise and a splash of strawberry – to forget.

  Sonal ran through the list in her head, closing her eyes as she sat in the city park. The faint pink-and-orange blossoms from the tree fell gently as the wind scooped them from the branches and laid them on the ground with the softest landing possible. It was an evening of sorts; calm and cool on the exterior but maybe, behind the clouds, a plan was brewing. Sonal’s fingers moved slightly, as if she were coming awake from a coma.

  Her thoughts shifted to her present life circumstances, and she wondered again if she had chosen the right path. After all, the Head Mistress had carefully elucidated her two options, her tone expressing her preference.

  And Sonal had picked to continue her life as a Young Mistress here. On Earth. In this very town of Manipal.

  The Head Mistress, though blatantly disapproving, allowed her wish to be granted—Sonal was not the first, and neither would she be the last to make that choice. So, Sonal quietly packed her necessities, rented a cosy little apartment across the crystal rivulets on the west side of town, and minded her own business.

  Three months had since disappeared. She sighed inwardly and stirred, as did the fallen leaves in hushed whispers.

  That’s when she felt the shift in the weight of the bench and a pained panting. Her eyes darted left.

  The boy had piercing eyes, but she had no time to register its details.

  He had been pierced.

  He didn’t respond at first, seeing her but not quite seeing her too. Angry puce blotches bloomed across his red shirt and tattered shorts, and his bony kneecaps jutted out at an almost obscene angle.

  “Gang fight… knife… after me,” he wheezed out. Then, he trailed off and promptly collapsed into her lap head-first.

  Sonal didn’t know who he was, or the truth. But the wound looked deadly, and it was time to show she could do she was did best after years of training. She threw his arm over her left shoulder and brought him back to her apartment in small, quick steps.

  Lightning forked the warm grey sky.

  §

  The boy had been sleeping deeply on her bed since yesterday evening. Sonal had slowly spooned in a mixture of peach tea with crushed poppy seeds, to heal his internal tissues and wounded organs throughout the night. Amidst his feeble, half-delirious attempts to brush her off, she applied the avocado-saffron paste to his right abdominal region. She couldn’t help but stare at his ribcage as she thumbed the paste across the deep wound—his bones were arranged as if on display for a counting game.

  Sonal felt slightly uneasy, as if the boy had known who she was—what she was—and came to her for help, of all the people in the park. Who was he? She herself had never tended to a male before. In her world, the healing mistresses were all females, and so were most of their patients—only a select few, out of dire necessity, were male.

  She picked up a change in breathing noise. The boy had awoken. He sat up slowly, scanning the small room. She noted how quietly he breathed.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice surprisingly crisp and clear.

  She sat at the edge of the bedside, checking his pulse and wounds.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He smiled shyly, and she caught a glimpse of his teeth. Perfect for a scrawny thing like him, she thought enviously and briefly remembered how her mother used to rub neem leaves on her teeth to whiten them.

  “Much better… I’m Aditya.” He stuck out his hand, oddly formal for someone who looked only a couple of years younger than she was. She took it up.

  “I’m Sonal. Wait here, I’ll get your lunch.” She slipped into her kitchen to spoon the soup and bring the food tray to the bed. He ate with gusto, yet she could tell he was savouring the consistency and taste of the broth. A comfortable silence washed over the little scene.

  “You’re very beautiful. The girls where I live don’t look like you do!”

  She blushed at his sudden words; obviously this wasn’t one kid who filtered his thoughts first. It had been a long time since she heard the compliment without feeling icky, under the obsidian glare of drunken men in dark alleyways. Her mother used to tell her that, until she reached eighteen. Then, she had told Sonal, “Show me that your skill and courage match that beauty of yours.” That was also the last time Sonal saw her mother.

  “So… you want to tell me how you ended up with a knife through your ribs?”

  He grinned and burst into his adventure animatedly.

  §

  Two months passed. Aditya came to live with her, having decided to permanently leave his ‘god-awful’ orphanage. “No wonder Lord Krishna doesn’t come when they pray to him!”

  He took a helper’s job at the local market, and often brought her back tasty snacks—some of which he pilfered. Though the living-in arrangement drew no attention, she wouldn’t have bothered about it—she wasn’t exactly one of them, was she? She was fairly certain he was head over heels in love with her; she herself had become terribly fond of him.

  His wit and humour belied someone his age, and he never failed to make her laugh every day. “You’re too serious. If you never smile, you’d only have me to marry!” he’d tell her, eliciting a giggle. Mating? Yes. Marrying? Heck no.

  Sonal watched him often, thinking about the deception. Here he is telling me everything about him; his friends, his shoddy school. His dreams, his poor literacy skills. His secrets. So naïve, so trusting.

  She wished she could reciprocate that. But he mustn’t know. He cannot know. Our world is a world of secrets. She’d recite the warning forcefully in her mind, as if clamping down a restraint on a mad dog.

  His eyes were a mystery to her—a clear sable, flecked with tiny strokes of grey on their tranquil surface upon closer inspection. They were so familiar, like fragments of an old song in one’s mind, but never loud enough for one to catch the lyrics. I bet Diya would know, she knew everything about anything!

  Thinking about Mistress Nindiya aroused the old feelings of missing her companions. I wonder what they felt when I left—Nindiya wasn’t thrilled with my decision. And neither were the other women, really.

  Aditya would have to leave soon. The Head Mistress always had her spies, and sometimes took up observations herself through the veil between this world and her own. If anything happened—meaning if Sonal broke their rules—she was sure the Head Mistress would pay her a ‘kindly visit’, austere eyes and all.

  It was a Saturday night in charming Manipal when the boy, having turned fifteen, hugged her tight and kissed her chastely on her cheek.

  “I would’ve died without you that day.” And he fell asleep.

  Sonal’s heart broke a little. What would she do now?

  That’s when the woman in red appeared behind her. Startled momentarily, Sonal recovered quickly in this parallel dimension she’d transcended into and gave a little bow.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  The Head Mistress studied her daughter. To see Sonal in the flesh was a joy, but one she chose to suppress.

  “You have to stop this. That boy has to go. Or you have to come back.” She stared at Sonal sternly, her clear brown eyes seeming to solidify in tandem with her tone.

  “I know, but—Why?” Suddenly, she registered that phrase in her mind. “Why does he ‘have to go’? Why would you say that?” Sonal worked up some defiance.

  Silence.

  “There are secrets and reasons in this world—yes, as ever there will be in our world—that is better left unknown. Just do as I say, please,” came the authoritative command.

  Something is very wrong with this picture.

  “You can’t tell me that and expect me to simply drop everything. I deserve to know why! I rescued the boy! I kept him alive!” She trailed off, tears threatening to spill over as
she tried to choke back a sob. “I’m healing him.”

  She poured her frustration and anger, accumulated over the years at her mother’s reticence and, sometimes, barely maternal attitude. One salty droplet escaped her eyes.

  More silence from the Head Mistress.

  Sonal wasn’t sure how much time slowed down. Was it, too, waiting for something to be revealed, or did it already know as much?

  “Because… because, he is your brother.”

  And time stood still.

  §

  “Boys and men aren’t allowed in the arcane, ancient world of female healers… our interests at heart are towards women, first and foremost. I made the grave mistake of falling in love with a male I never saw again after I became pregnant. So I gave this boy up for adoption and refused to continue our female bloodline—I couldn’t risk having another boy.

  “The nature of my job demands that I protect the strands of our realm from fraying at its edges. I protect our maligned, oppressed female kind. What we do, Sonal, is delicate and healers are only gifted with abilities from special lineages, like ours. I cannot have you coming to love him, the way you should a younger sibling, because he jeopardises everything you stand for as a healing mistress, trained to take over my position someday. You may hate me, but there is a greater good in why I do this. Please…”

  That was the first time, through her glassy vision, that Sonal saw her mother lapse into emotional vulnerability.

  To carry out your duty.

  Sonal could finally understand at least a fraction of the gravity of the word.

  Moments came and ran within their time stream, and finally when she gained some self-control, the Head Mistress kissed Sonal’s forehead.

  She had to do it.

  The next day broke into a crisp October morning. Sonal was cheerful, and gave Aditya a glass of her specially-created tea, taking him for a walk in the city park.

  The tea of lemon juice, anise and a splash of strawberry.

  To forget.

  * * *

  About Aashika Nair

  Always nervous yet excited for new beginnings in life, the soon-to-be-18 Aashika can be a paradox at times. Difficult, but simple really, is how she feels one should view life. With music’s lifelong warm embrace and the written word’s true companionship, she enjoys critical thinking and solid relationships, not necessarily with the nitty-gritty aspect! Besides, with huge support and guidance from loved ones, she and her personality feel ready to pave their paths on this earth.

  Caves of Noble Truth and Dangerous Knowledge

  Celeste A. Peters

  ~ China ~

  Twelve-year-old Wáng Zhēn ducked behind the nearest workbench. Wide-eyed, she watched as shards of scrap metal whizzed past the drill press, the lathe, the milling machine and her head.

  She’d never seen Grandpa so furious. He’d just stormed into his workshop and started throwing things around the cave. He hadn’t even seen her in the corner. Grandpa had taught her many things, including how to remain calm when upset. Now he was exploding like Spring Festival fireworks.

  Had Grandpa gone mad? Zhēn saw no one around who might have angered him. None of his inventions were missing or damaged.

  When his temper fit ended, Zhēn stood. Genuine surprise showed in Grandpa’s zitan-brown eyes as he grabbed and held her tight.

  Zhēn grinned. He might be one chopstick short, but she loved him dearly. She gently jabbed his upper arm. “You scared me!” A beat passed then she asked, “So, what’s wrong?”

  Grandpa’s fist came down hard on the prone carcass of a steam-powered camel prototype. “That puffed up rooster! He just offered me a bribe to destroy the archive!”

  “What?” Grandpa was an honourable man. He had spent his whole life protecting the family’s archive. No wonder he was angry! But who wanted it destroyed? “Who’s rooster?”

  “Professor Cecil Fletcher.” Grandpa’s jaw clenched as tight as his fists.

  “You mean the Englishman with the fuzzy, grey bird’s nest on each side of his face?”

  “Ha! Yes!” Grandpa spit on the dirt floor. “He’s supposed to be a scholar and teacher at a big school in England; ‘Oxford’ I think he calls it.”

  “But that’s stupid. Why would a scholar want to destroy the archive? Most people want to steal it.”

  “I don’t know, Zhēnzhēn. But I do know the archive is our ancestors’ gift to the future. It’s our family’s duty and honour to guard it, so I will.”

  “Hoooot!” The whistle at the archive cave!

  Grandpa sprang to his feet and ran outside. Zhēn followed, her long, black pigtails bouncing and waving. Her eyes winced in the harsh midday sunlight as they sprinted along the base of a cliff dotted with hundreds of ancient caves.

  Zhēn arrived breathless at a pagoda framed hole in the rock face. Inside, a tunnel led to a large cave housing a seated Buddha statue and a smaller cave containing the family archive.

  Zhēn headed straight into the tunnel. Grandpa grabbed her from behind, pulled her to her knees and pinned her flush with the wall, just in time. Steam blasted across the passage from the mouth of a brass laughing Buddha perched atop the lintel of the archive’s entrance.

  Startled but curious, Zhēn took a deep breath and leaned forward, peeking into the archive cave. Two scowling men, a middle-aged Brit and a massive young Asian man, were inside pinned beneath heavy chain netting.

  “Aha! My trap worked,” beamed Grandpa.

  Zhēn saw Grandpa press his right palm into a shallow wall indent. The steam Buddha stopped bellowing but the net remained on the two intruders.

  Zhēn and Grandpa approached the captives. Zhēn sniffed the air and nodded at a can clutched in the Brit’s pinned right hand.

  Grandpa said, “I see you took matters into your own hands, Professor Cecil Fletcher. And you brought along your Shànghǎi body guard, Zhòu Lì, to help out.”

  Lì barked, “Release us right now, Old Head!”

  Ignoring Lì, Grandpa towered over Fletcher, “You’ve made a big mistake.”

  “No, Sir,” Fletcher snapped back. “You have. The only thing in this can is fuel for my lamp. You can’t prove otherwise. And if anything happens to me, my government will demand severe punishment.”

  Grandpa appeared unmoved by Fletcher’s threat.

  The Englishman’s eyes darted about. Then he smiled sweetly. “Will you release us if we promise not to return, Sir?”

  Zhēn held her breath. Surely Grandpa wouldn’t consider such a foolish move.

  “Do I have your word?” asked Grandpa.

  “As a scholar and gentleman, yes,” replied Fletcher.

  “If you come back, I’ll turn you over to the authorities. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Grandpa put his thumb under a link and lifted the net, having first engaged its counterweight with a flick of his foot.

  “No!” Zhēn cried in disbelief.

  Fletcher rose to his feet and popped a dent out of his brown derby. Then, nose in the air, he marched for the exit. Lì followed, casting a sneer at Zhēn.

  “Why did you do that, Grandpa?”

  “There might have been truth in his threat, Zhēnzhēn.”

  “But you trust him to stay away?”

  “A Chinese scholar would keep his word. I’d like to believe a British one would too.”

  Zhēn, remembering the attempted bribe, doubted it. She wondered if Grandpa was thinking properly after all.

  §

  Zhēn was on edge for days afterward, watching for any hint of the Englishman’s return. Late one morning a note arrived at the workshop by messenger. Grandpa, busy at the lathe, asked Zhēn to read it aloud.

  She unfolded the delicate paper on which the note was written.

  “‘Sir: An explosive will go off in the archive at precisely noon today. Should you decide to risk your life seeking it, the outcome will be on your head, not mine. You are duly warned. Vacate your workshop, too. Another exp
losive will go off in it at the same time. Sincerely, Prof. C. Fletcher, MA, DLitt’”

  “What?” How had he gotten past the archive’s guard devices? “Your workshop, too, Grandpa!”

  Zhēn loved Grandpa’s inventions. Most were based on knowledge he’d found in the archive’s scrolls and several of these scrolls lay about the workshop next to unfinished projects. To imagine the archive and the workshop destroyed…