by Namita Singh
of some animal’s, as a sleeveless tank and a thick skirt. Their boots, made of the same material, covers whole of their legs, with the ankles supporting thick, black ancient anklets. Similar bangles dangle from the arms of both the therians, leaving their hind arm bare. The thought of the cold against their bare skin makes me cringe. But they seem unbothered. The man’s long hair, as long as his female, is tied with a string at his back.
“What brings you here, rouge?” the man barks in a very thick Russian, making me strain slightly to understand his idiom.
“We are not rogues,” father explains, also in Russian, his tone placid. He raises his hand in front of him, indicating no antagonism, “We belong to the Ninth Realm and we come here without enmity.”
“Why are you here!” the man suddenly shouts, not at all affected by the placid tones of my father, “We welcome no therian from your world.”
“We seek help.” Father continues, unaffected by the raised tone of the opposition, “I wish to speak to the leader.”
The man barks out a bitter laugh, “We are no monopolists like you. Everyone here is equal, a leader of his own life. You abominations think so highly of yourself, showing at my doorstep with no shame; with a spirit in tow as a slap.” He glances once disdainfully at Aakir, returning his stare towards my father, “You get out of our lands if you wish to live a long life.”
“I seek the land of flames.” Father says, almost ignoring the jibes of this man.
The man freezes for a moment, sizing my father up. “Exiled?” he asks with enhanced derision.
“No.” father calmly explains, his Russian almost as perfect as the natives, “But we have traversed miles for our destination. You need only show us the direction of the mountain we seek. We ask nothing else of you.”
“You shall die.” The man speaks instantly, “You’re a fool to seek the lands which people wish to never see in their lives.”
“I will carry that burden on my shoulders. I only seek guidance.” Father says. “Please.” He adds as an afterthought.
The man, looking highly peeved, moves sideways, barking at his woman to get inside the ‘house’. The woman complies and the man gives a laconic gesture, indicating we walk in front of him. I feel surprised at his intrepid stance. Either he is too confident of his skills to lead three men, one of which is a spirit capable of teleporting at will, all by himself or he is ignorantly foolish to consider the adverse consequences of his actions. We don’t mean any harm, obviously, but he doesn’t know that. Or maybe, just maybe, he is enough good at fighting, even with his pudgy built.
After walking for almost fifteen minutes at a fast speed, we are greeted by a settlement of similar tents crowded together to form a small village. Most of the tents consist of therian auras, but some are human too. The therian leading us…well, actually he is walking behind us, with his spear aimed at us. He grunts and asks in Russian for us to wait outside a tent. He shouts the name of his comrade, making me flinch at his vociferated voice as it fills the empty night. The man shouts again, something along the lines of ‘therians from the Realm’. His tone is excessively bitter.
There is some shuffling and the flap of the tent opens up. I sense auras behind me. On turning I find that the commotion has woken up many. Many therians move out of their tents, but they remain at a safe distance, right outside their tents. They only wish to witness without participation.
My attention is seized by the man who steps out of the tent we’re standing in front of. He is tall, unlike the previous therian, and excessively tanned, though I cannot understand how people in such a freezing area are dark. His attire is the same, with his hair tied in two braids that fall on his shoulder. He wears a huge blanket of reindeer wool over his shoulders.
“We seek the land of flames.” Father says in Russian immediately as the tall man steps out.
The tall man sizes my father up. I notice that they are almost of the same height, which is quite a feat as my father is probably the tallest person I have seen in my life so far. The pudgy therian starts explaining quickly the brief conversation that we had with him just moments before. The amount of therians in our vicinity increase steadily by the time the man is done. I feel uneasy by being surrounded by these therians.
“What do you seek there?” the tall man asks, his voice gruff, making it even difficult to understand it with the thick Russian accent going on.
“With due respect, that is a business of my own.” Father says, “I do not wish to divulge it. I’ll be highly gratified if you could show me the correct way.”
“You have come a long way, only to rely on our sense of direction.” The tall man peeves out.
It makes me realize that the man is aware of the power he holds over us now. His observation basically comes out as a threat.
“Indeed.” Father says, unaffected.
“It’s unlikely for you to return from there.”
“I am aware.” Father says again, “But we shall take our chances.”
“Your courage makes me curious as to what treasure resides there.” The tall man says, frowning at father. “You sure do not intend a meeting with your witch.”
“I do not.” Father sighs, “It is a family matter of mine.”
“Someone exiled to the flames?” the man asks.
Father hesitates, “More or less.” He gives in.
“You will find no living being amidst the flames.”
Father sighs again, “I have my sources.”
The man curiously eyes my father again. I know he intends to question the exact situation, but I am not at all comfortable with them knowing about Neal. And with father’s hesitation, I am sure he agrees with me. But the man’s curiosity is what seems to be gaining us a favor, so I resist the urge to retort something unpleasant at the questionnaire. Not that I can actually do that. I highly doubt my capability to form a whole, grammatically correct, Russian sentence. And I am quite assured that these people do not speak English.
At the word ‘sources’ the tall man’s eyes inevitably move towards Aakir. By the look he gives, it’s no secret that Aakir’s spirit has been that source. The man, to my surprise, turns indignant.
“It’s repugnant how you people utilize your abilities.” The man mutters, “You have no understanding to the phrase, ‘do not meddle with the natural orders’. If someone is exiled to the land of flames, then bid them a peaceful farewell. You should know better than to deal with the dark sides of our abilities.”
“The person I seek,” father drawls, “is alive and healthy. I do not use the dark deceptive ways; I have no need.”
The man looks puzzled for a moment at my father’s reply. Father loudly suspires, “Please,” he says, “We only need for you to tell us the way. I assure that our excursions will not bring any ill towards your colony. Neither my excursion requires the use of the darkness to affect your nature in any way. Please, we only seek a way to the land of flames.”
“Do you antagonize your witch?” the man asks after a pause.
Father looks taken aback at the question, but he answers without hesitation, “Not in the way you may interpret.”
The man hums, looking thoughtful. He actually looks slightly pleased at the prospect of standing against the witch. He fleetingly glances at his people and gives them all a nod. The therians around us start dispersing and going about their work. The man motions for us to follow him. He leads us through the tents, with most of the inhabitants eyeing us with derision, and some daring, with curiosity. The man stops as we reach the periphery of their settlement. It is still dark, but somehow the snow is brighter here. I notice that five therians have followed us out as well and are now standing behind us in a protective stance. The uneasy feeling returns.
“It’s not an easy task to reach the land of flames. Since you’re not exiled under the witch’s curse, you will face even more problems as to the exact location of the flames.” The man says, taking a stick from one of his peers. He bends down, sitting on his ankles, his kn
ee folded and starts sketching an intricate path on the plain snow.
“I thought the land of the flames has the capability to lure in anyone in the vicinity.” Father says.
I frown at him. I wasn’t aware of that tiny detail.
“No.” the man answers, “Not anyone. When a leader exiles someone, the exiled person automatically falls under your witch’s curse. Only the ones under that expatriation spell of the witches get lured in by the flames. The others, free of the curse, need to be at a certain distance to let the flames lure them in. Outside that distance you will be repelled and forced to change directions. It is usually the sense of heat that makes most people deviate. So, as long as you don’t feel bothered by the consuming heat, you shall be lured without obstacles towards the land of flames.” The man gives an incredulous look to my father, “You wish to step onto the flames, do not you?”
“Why, yes.” Father says.
“You know the flames will burn you instantly?”
“Yes.” Father drawls.
“Do you bear the witch’s power?”
Father hesitates again, but ultimately gives in, “Yes.”
The man grunts, “You be on this path and keep telling yourself you will not use the dark powers.” He says with disdain.
Father doesn’t reply and I cannot help but ponder over their conversation. It seems like this lot is convinced that anything relating to our witches consolidates with this