Monday, December 20, 2010

Vanquishing the Vanguard

The riddles had been easy enough. The path had been cleared; the first half of the day had passed. Beyond the fountain the door opened automatically as if welcoming the juvenile eloquency of normal mortal life to its pristine glory. There was no creaking, not a muscle moved. Not one sound tried to overture the commemoration. The orchestra would sit this one out. Three men entered the arena. If only redemption could be liquidated this easily, one prayed. Or maybe it was going to be embezzled. Whichever way, the obscene repercussion was a must. Inside was more of a playground than anything else. A myriad of squares consisting of white tiles highlighted in places by blobs of reds and greens and blacks separated by grass and plain concrete alternatively gave an awkward sense of finesse. Something very raw very stale lived here. The nostrils screamed that. And yet apart from the stench the room it was spick and span. There was a dome in the centre with a remarkably intense magnifying lighting system starting with a chandelier at the peak of the dome and ending at the intersection of the dome with the walls with small coloured lamps around which grew plants with miniscule pale yellow flowers. The dome too was white as maybe snow white herself. On the whole, the cream walls with the slight woodwork in places and the tiles alongside the grass and the dome gave a feeling of gay extravaganza. But the stench worsened and a being crawled out from one corner of the room, possibly a hole in the ground. First came, the head and then the rest of the pink puddle. It couldn’t be called an apparition but it was no less an appearance of the anti gods. The being was pink in appearance probably from having bled so much and surviving to kill another every time. It wasn’t exactly what they had imagined him to be. But he wasn’t lesser. The Vycus was sinister. You need not look into those eyes to know that. Not that he had eyes. He wore a headdress too small for him made of steel like warriors used to wear in the old times during the wars of swords and corporeal attainments. In the place of eyes lay two slits covering white. Probably the eyes. The rest was a blob of mass. The arms were blobby and the hands were like a witch’s. The fingers were long and slender. The feet were stumps thicker than trees. At first sight he seemed an easy kill. But then he picked up his axe. A mere glaze of the same could create a wound so deep so as to never heal. His vanity stood vivified. Its blade shone with the verdict of the satanic. Next came the snake slithering to his neck and perching there. The bygone valour of the perseverance of the chase was vindicated to stupidity.
As he stomped the ground, taking his first step, it was palpable that the onslaught was on the brink of commencement. A groan escaped him as he tried to talk. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he spoke.
“Who is first?”
Master stepped forward.
“Shinkozu. I see you are back. Who’s that? Another brother?”
For a split second, the master hung his head.
“This time you die.”
And for the first time in the presence of another, he revealed his true form. A wolf now stood in his place. The eyes were the same though. Filled with vengeance. His age grays filled his animal body with the placidness of a spent cloud. The thunder though was yet to show.
The tiny man had disappeared. The black wolf stood beside the other one. The plan was simple. First goes the axe and then the snake. Once the prey was defenseless, pain would be inflicted till death. His eyes gleamed with the lust of a newborn killer. Not that he was a novice but the fact that the one friend he had, his master wanted this particular being dead and entrusted him with the same gave him a high. Add to that, the new craze for blood and power and his thirst only grew. There is nothing as addictive as the sense of power that the devil splurges to one who has barely just performed his first murders. It’s a sentence for life. One each desires whether he may accept or attain it or not. What is it that one really desires other than to be loved and respected? If the respect comes from fear is it not his one abiding to earn it? At such times this craving, gets so strong that it chews on the entire meaning of living life at all. Tonight minds spurted that surging need to slaughter again. Images of previous assaults pirated each of their minds to a state of cockiness well deserved. The fire of having lost a loved one not so long ago only just angered even more. The entire room was brimming with a sense of enticement. Even the Vycus, one who had known and slain more fierce enemies could feel a sense of inborn exhilaration. He knew not what was in store for him. But he cared even less. He had pawned one too many to fear anything at all. Tonight though, no amount of botany, mathematics or venom could save him. Even the Gods feared to tread in such battles. Tonight Satan himself had obsessed his enemy’s soul. For a moment he even considered his end. Knowing what was at stake fired him up even more.
Vengeance and desire were on a one on one with brute force and vanity.
The wolves assaulted. They ran rubbing shoulders for a stretch and then separated into opposite directions only coming together at the spot where the Vycus crossed their path. A flowing current of water rummaging across a small stone would have made a similar course. The Vycus being left handed had the axe on the left. The black wolf coming on from his left slowed so as to distract him. Sensing the speed change the Vycus had released the snake onto the gray one on his right holding it by its tail. It had been a good move till the black wolf picked up pace and dodging the swing of the axe launched onto his neck right as the snake tail slipped of it onto his right hand. The timing was perfect. The groans simultaneous. The gray wolf had caught the snake around its neck. The Vycus tried to shake the wolf on his neck off but to no avail. Apart from the jaws gnawing of his neck, the hind paws dug in onto his back and front. Having no option, he dropped the axe to brush off the intruder. The gray wold pulled the Lilith away from its master. Waiting for the right moment, the black wolf shifted weight onto the prey’s backside jumping towards his frontal barely before the hand knocked him. Off balance, the butcher fell. The snake was pulled by the weight of its holder. The gray wolf now dug deep into the lower jaw of the Lilith(snake). Sensing the opportunity the black wolf swiftly took hold of the other jaw using his momentum to strain it. The other wolf merely just held his grip on the lower jaw. Their combined strength tore apart the mouth of a crying Lilith killing her instantly. One part of the plan had succeeded. The butchers apprentice had been pawned. Now for the butcher himself.
Meanwhile the third has stolen the axe.
As the butcher got up and looked around he realized what had happened. He was defenseless. His child lay there bested His axe was nowhere to be seen. For the first time in his life, the butcher felt fear. He watched the wolves as they stalked him circling him. He realized why he had lost. Their eyes gave them away. Sometimes, even mortals are invincible. His death was prominent. He knew it. The wolves knew it. The man standing on the chandelier holding his axe knew it.
It was just a matter of how long. They let him feel it. For the thought that he was going to die to sink in deep enough. Their movement grew stealthily faster. No matter how fast he turned he could never keep an eye on more than one of them. He took off his headdress in order to see better. And then he ran out of time. The one in front of him rushed forward. He followed suit. Right when he was in front of him, the wolf jumped. He tried to catch it. It bit his head and tugged. Right then, he felt a push on his legs as if a bull had come thrashing into him from behind. For the second time in one night, he fell. The last thing he saw was the little man coming down on him with an axe, his axe. The Vycus had fallen. First blood had been drawn.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Butcher Botany

Deep in the woods lies a garden. A garden said to be magnificent;a marvel of sorts that surpasses all beauty that may exist anywhere else on the planet. A shelter where dusk refuses to pry and night never cries,a homage devoid of reptiles, disease and ugliness, a place of plain ungodliness. A secure refuge to the unholy. Hence the rarities of orchids, butterflies and roses exist there. They bloom with a pretense so wise so as to slay a goddess with the mere scent of their venom. The butterflies’ sting, the flowers prey and the insects chew meat. To a wanderer who may stop to smell the roses they are profane death as his life flutters way like a butterfly. To a warrior who passes they are temptation but not a certain hindrance when fed and hearty. In the middle of the garden lies a temple fit to be called a palace, a palace with no queens, no princes or princesses and no servants. No being other than a terrible creature, one of mass destruction. A horrible mortal part butcher, part mathematician and in part a remarkably gifted botanist. And he is just as well the high priest of Satan’s temple. A monk he may be called, a monk that kills in the name of botany. A monk that surrounds himself with a sheet of riddles, the subjects who go right get free passage, the ones who don’t get a free fall to the underworld. Warriors sharp as needles, proud as kings and swift as light have perished over the ages in advent of his demise. Yet failure miserably engulfed them into history. Armies never seem to make past the baroque embankment. What makes the chase interesting is that you are allowed to quit at any point. And yet the price you pay is all on chance. Probability statistics. He looks out the window and smiles. You may leave as a whole alive poisoned with a curse your future generations would carry or you may leave as a beetle with no legs and no wings. Or if he desired a show he could just throw you into the air. Where you land if you do or whether you land in bits or in competence is once again probability. If you were in for disaster you might beeline to the honeycombed snake pit with holes the size of your genitals. If you have a sword that would be the most likely trance you would be encountered in difference being you would hear the hiss of the Lilith rather than dance in the bites of her progeny tykes. The latter would bite tissues of you based on a pattern. The former would be slower and the chunks bitten off bigger. More time to guess the pattern. But a death more profound, more felt. However, there is hope. You could easily go off unscathed. But once again if you were bathed in honey or nectar or anything sweet, would not the butterflies feast you with more than merely large eyes? If you do however answer correctly you will be let in. The first thing welcoming you would be a stone statue; The statue of his God, sitting in the middle of a fountain starring you with eyes brimming with the enticement of the oncoming sport and a sickly wicked stain of a smile. Flowing through the feather of his hat would be a liquid. Whether it is holy water, liquor, elixir, acid, energy giving potions or poison disguised as any of the above is dependent on the position of the sun and the day of the year,either way no point drinking it. The fountain also houses the Lilith. If you are lucky enough you may see the tail. If you are not, it may sense your sight. As a blind snake the moment it does, it will attempt to rip your eyes out to see if they fit her holes right. Across the statue lays a door, a wooden door that creaks as you enter it.Knocking makes no difference. As you enter it, you discover another series of doors, doors that lead inevitably to a creature. No one knows what those doors hold. Each one produces a different sound. But the last one, the one across the one you just entered holds the Vycus. The master of it all. He can give life and he can take it. At the door of his haven is engraved
“One who dies just the once fights better than one who has not died at all.”
Hence if he pities you after you are dead he may just take you back to time to when you were at the gates of his household. You turn back you see nothing but a dark void. You go forward, the flowers, the riddles and the doors let you pass without question so you may spar him. You get a second life so he may snatch it again. The fight for that second life is what he drives pleasure from. If you ever believed that one who saved you only wanted to kill you, you were right.
The Vycus is like an obese man. More than a few extra pounds and a stomach the size of an elephant characterize him. He is half giant. The Lilith perches around his neck before the fight starts. The Lilith is actually just a normal water snake he feeds the wrong plants to on intention. It leads to permanent blindness, the size of an anaconda and venom stronger than the sum of the venoms of all poisonous creatures including scorpions and plants coexisting in one reptile. And a constant dose of the orchid that houses the strain. He uses it as his hook to pull you near him as and when he desires. He is slow with his slaughter and his movement but that is no reason for consolation. The moment he wishes to end it he would give the snake one last bait before he would ask it to leave. The one last bait would be you. On command, the snake would spew venom just enough to blind and paralyze you and then slithering leave. Once done he would start rotting himself. He would slash his own body with an axe starting at the stomach. And that stomach that looked so helpless would initially fill your nostrils with a smell so toxic, so pungent so as to burn every inch of your body. The pain would be unbearable and would last till what you thought was your death. After a few minutes your sight would return and you would see the most revolting thing you would have ever seen. Your skin would beg to start unfeeling. Your eyes would wretch you to close them. He settles on top of you as you try to scramble out. Gooey liquid and blood covers you everywhere. The rottenness starts digesting you. In a while he moves away to admire his own piece of art. All that is to be seen is a display of blacks, reds and icky greens. The blood is his. The goo is his. The black tar is you, all that’s left of you. He is still bleeding and will till all the blood in his body runs out. Once that happens, the wizards visit him and restore him. It’s when he starts rotting is he the most vulnerable. Its only when he rots is he killable.
Relevance here is that he is the Wizards’ battle axe. Their executioner you may call him. Everything brains and magic can’t counter he can. Most of it that magic can encounter, he can too. For centuries the wizards have lazed in peace as he did their dirty work. Losing him will not be a handicap to them but letting him live will be a fatal fetus to us. He holds their fury. He is their divinity. He is their primal object of fear, their one most sought after and most used weapon. If we do somehow pawn him, they will come at us with all their might which I presume is enough to evaporate us alone but there will be less to fear. Also the moment he dies, the trumpets are sounded. Hopefully the other wolves and a few other clans will pact with us. But this one price has to be paid. No matter how many of us die, this creature has to be slain.
This creature I talk about is human, a mortal. So he can be killed. He could have immortality if he wished but he wishes to be slain. This wish of his is what we will fulfill.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Werewolf_Revelation

It stood before him, straight, crooked, bent with the arches of time, his ladder to the sky above. If only he could mount it. A few well placed blows could fell it but he did not intend that. This one was old. It commanded different treatment. And it was twisted assumedly making it an easy climb. But the rain had left it all wet and soft like a rubber stone. One knuckle a little too harsh and it would crack to lend his fall. He had more control over his form now. He wasn’t clumsy when he ran but when it came to climbing walls or trees he would eventually land on his back stuck like a beetle. But this one he would ace. One blink and he was at the root. The jump took him high and slashing wildly he advanced towards the sky. Every step was as easy as an electric eel and as he paced across it, it would slip like banana peel. As it would fall, he would rise till he stopped right into the vice. He was at the top now clinging for his life looking below he no longer felt wise. The branch he was perched on was sagging. The world below beckoned to him. He stood tall howling with the entire lament of wrath he held and then jumped. Everything meant to break his fall was gashed off by his claws as he marooned life. And then his master summoned. He somersaulted in mid flight and landed on his feet. The impact felt gruesome but more pronounced was the voice that talked to him. Adam, find me in the shack. The king is dead. The urgency of a voice he had only before defined as calm could have rattled had he not been in his absolute senses right then. Four feet guided him to the shack. A fire was glowing inside. The room was warm and gave the mud walls gave an outlook of pure solidarity with nature. The master lay cross legged in the centre mumbling chants. He echoed to him. Come, sit, and wait. He sat down in front for the revelation he was owed. He too closed his eyes but merely for the peace that it gave him. Every once in a while he did look into his masters thoughts. Baffled every time he smirked at his own fate. One such time a voice he recognized even addressed him but somehow his master blocked him right then and all he could hear after that were the splinters rousing the fire. In time he was addressed again but this time by the master.
“Son, your father has died.”
This time he laughed. “A father that was never mine. If I remember correctly I was brought up by my mother.”
“She chose to mother you alone so you would not be what you are now.”
“You mean this? All this pin hair. These teeth? This snout?”
“Yes that if it’s all it is to you.”
“You know it is more than that to me.”
“Then behave if it is.”
“I am not in grief if that is what you were suggesting.”
“He sacrificed the realms of this world so you may live in the other.”
“He abandoned us.”
“No. He sacrificed the right to bond. It was a choice. He could stay a wolf, a husband, a father and kill for the emperor or become a man and kill his beloved and child or convert them. He let you live. He let your mother live. And when the king ordered him to slay the misfortune bred families of those who had chosen the other he killed the king. In a gathering of a thousand wolves he took his head off. By wolf legislation he was made king. As king he was damned to let go off everything else. He changed the law of course so that others would not have to pay what he did. He was our king. A good king. And he is dead now. The moment I marked you, I knew you were his son. I was confused then as to how you could be a wolf. But now it’s all clear. Your father made himself your opposite, knowing that if they came for you, merely killing himself would set you free. But you became a wolf before he died. Which is not possible, unless the Brethren have been lying. But then why would they lie?”
He closed his eyes and an expression of pure grief loomed over him.
“Adam. They know. And they are coming for you.”
“So why not kill me yourself and give them my head as a surprise gift?”
“Cause you cannot be killed. You can be burned, torn to shreds even drowned but you cannot be killed.”
“No wonder”
“No wonder what?”
“I survived.”
“Survived?”
“Rewind your memories master to the night I took form. Look for a scene with me jumping into the ocean. Not being dramatic, but I am sure a thunder would have struck right then”
“You were falling into the water. Deep and You...you survived.”
“I do not know how. I remember watching the surface dull as I drowned. I closed my eyes. ”
“And you came out as a wolf.”
“If only I could have died. Things would have been different.”
“For one your father would be alive.”
“What has he to do with this?”
“My guess is, when he saw you drowning he must have killed himself faster than you could have drowned to save you. The Brethren would know but at least you would live.”
“Who is this Brethren?”
“The kings advisors. More powerful than the king himself but the king’s word was always a rule. The king is the only man they cannot counter. And he is dead now.”
“You say they cannot kill me.”
” They don’t have to. They have magic. They are wizards of great knowledge. One spell and you will belong to them. They only need your soul. They will bind your soul and your body will then be a slave of their needs. You will watch yourself do what you have no control over. It is worse than death.”
He paused as if afraid of thinking of the consequences.
“They would outrun mankind.”
“So what now?”
“Now we go to war.”

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Shewolves

The night gets crooked when those ladies come alive. Eyes reeking of slaughter breath thirsting on fear she is on her way ending at you before you know she is even there. Her fury is a wrath to behold her own agony a sight unseen. She never walks alone with her walks another who shares her spleen. In the company of the wooed shade they perform their witchcraft. As the priestesses of the moon they will demand sacrifice so hope and pray that this isn’t your demise. It is a painful way to die with two women whose company otherwise would have been sought with divine pleasure. Among the two there is one betrayed by her own mate left to die in a fire
ignited ambitiously by the realms of his own faith. A prolonged sense of pain had sprouted a seed in her then and as a frail creature she had bidden till the gods had descended to slay her poison only to be consumed by a greater singe. In the agony of it all guilt had forsaken the mate to be detained for life. But that wasn’t punishment enough. The scars of the eve compelled eternal bondage to the whistling arrow that claimed the hinge. Forgiveness was no more presiding over the peak of the volcano. The rustling sense of regret had to be flawed to
not be enough. The crime had to be justified with an equal counter defiance. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Faithlessness drives war-cry. And a war always ends with a
survivor, a fatality and a prisoner in a cage. When the survivor is a prisoner of his own choice freedom will never be granted but in lapses of alternation of peace in competence with an
incoherent rage out of bounds for all except those not cruel enough to not accept their own fate. The other was not very different from a teenage bathroom singer other than for the fact that she had blood on her hands when she sung. The only thing she cringed for was something she could play with long enough to not be bored enough to enjoy licking the intoxicant of its wounds. She loves the music her victims are pressed upon with. Their cries of mercy drove her crazy with the incorrigible joy of a baby holding a bell. Yet she was undoubtedly the saner one, the mightier one and the silent one when it came to killing. A juvenescent extrovert of sorts but more patient in her trade. She prided herself on being more skillful when asked but in truth she just relished how her pained sister rusted wildly into the prey. Whereas she herself preferred to stalk, stain and bring the axe down in one blow without the snack even feeling a thing other than fear, her friend made it quite obvious that what she wanted had nothing to do with anything else. Whereas she tactfully derailed the neck the result being as instantaneous as death itself, the hunt at one moment whimpering and the next numb to death her alias preferred to tear to shreds thread by thread. She blamed it on her heart, it had died of shock piece by piece and hence preferred to watch death arrive from a distance in a golden cart with dirty brown wheels. Sometimes she was questioned herself whether it was the blood she fed on or the fear. And she knew the former was easy to get, the latter was by far merely the most addictive drug easy to
find and comprehend but not easy to make without the right tools and the right leverage in the right spaces. One would wonder what had pointed a twenty something old in that direction but the answer was obvious. She enjoyed it as does every other being in sometimes a small and other times a large way. And she had no reason to hide it from anyone. After all her secret did kill, again and again. The only time it hadn’t was when she had chosen a partner. She was Arial. And she was a she wolf. Be you a man or wolf or both you fear her. And no matter what wrong you may succumb to grooming do not pluck a rose or a petal in her garden. And no matter what
right mat seem if you wish even slightly to live you do what she expects you too. Any more or any less would be taxed beyond repayment. The right amount of alcohol in water can get you high, so can she if you pour the heart right. As for the other she has no record of being sighted in good books. What doomed her calm oblivion was the break of sanctuary from the helm of the twin. The night she had killed her mate the one who called herself Arial started calling her Esmeralda. And conspiring with the cocoon that the other twin had become to her that was
exactly what she had become.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Almost Lovers_ 'me' and 'you'

It was early morning. Emily had woken up. Jake had not. Emily had slept all night snuggled warmly into Jakes arms. Jake had been awake all night thinking about Goldilocks and the three bears. What baffled him was that if he was father bear and Elvis was baby bear, who was mother bear? And then it had struck him Jenny would love be mother bear. And the patch of gold covering his arms and his chest nestled into him like a stone in turbulent water was goldilocks. And then he thought about the frog and the princess. About how when the princess had kissed the frog, he had become a handsome prince. For some reason he felt like a prince now. The bed seemed larger, the room more vibrant, alive as if a shiny emerald had been put in a glass of water in the sun. At the wake of dawn he had finally put to rest his love struck heart surrendering to the battle between dreams and dreamy reality.
Elvis had been right under him frowning at his master’s fate. Maybe he was jealous but he was too proud to admit it. A week ago everything had been so fine. Just him and him. All day long and all night. But this lady had ambushed his lifestyle leaving him scathed in the glory of past tense fallouts and long lost hope turning rapidly to an agnostic state of turmoil. His master had been robbed and he was too hypnotized, no mesmerized to notice. He shook his head in disbelief and sighed onto the leg of the bed.
What seemed liked minutes passed and she called out to him. It was a whisper, barely audible but loud enough for his cocked up ears to catch. And when he heard ‘walk’, he wasted no time in fetching the leash from under the dining table where it had been thrown last night in a scene of clumsily intimate closeness right after their night stroll. She was robbing his master but well he was getting his share of pampering wasn’t he? So much for loyalty. He chuckled and scampered to the now flimsily dressed lady wagging his tail in bland delight. It was morning all right but the sun wasn’t out. If they were quick in their business, he might just get walk number two this morning. And wouldn’t he just love it?
He trotted down the stairs leading the way. The milkman hadn’t yet come so the bottle of milk at the bottom of the stairs was still empty. Pity he thought.
She on the other hand wasn’t so thoughtful. Whiskey seems to give the best hangovers, but if you want to dream with your eyes wide open, leave it to love. Yawning she opened the front door and walked outside into the dawn. It was cold she thought and she wasn’t even properly dressed. But at this time of the day, night whatever she need not be. And here? Well that was quite a cliché. She thought to herself why she couldn’t leave. It had been a month and all she wanted was what was in front of her. Waking up fresh in the mornings, in the evenings and sometimes just before dawn. Sleeping as soon as the bed came into view after of course the … or as her mother used to write in her teenage diary. Eating in yet never really in. Walking the beach barefooted. Omelets on a frying pan dribbling on the stove in the wrecked fish boat they had made a boathouse of. Lying in the sun till the water hit their noses. Roaming in the caves most of the times being carried around by that darling of a man. Sitting on the rocks watching the waves splash against the black prudence. And yes how could she forget, being painted every now and then. My god that man knows how to treat a woman like a queen she thought. But in truth she knew she could never leave. She had known that since the seventh second they had been together. They knew too little about each other to try to understand the other yet they had no problems being the so called ‘me’ with the so called ‘you’. Imagine me and you. It was a strange feeling this. A sense of wholeness like a balloon full of helium. She smiled at her lost self and turned around to head home.
Sunlight streamed in through the one window in the wall. Half the bed was dark and the other half bright. And in that half poor Jake was trying to find sleep. He moved and he moved and finally succumbed to covering his head with a pillow. Peace at last. The breath of rain on a fallow land. And then came the shout. Honey I am back. And he smiled in his sleep knowing that when she entered the room she would just start blabbering about how Elvis chased a crab today. Funny thing was, Elvis never chased crabs, she just made it up to get his attention. And he didn’t mind it one bit. They really couldn’t get enough of each other. He waited for that voice to start making footprints in the snow. But it never came. So he rolled over on his back and opened one eye. She was in the room bent over something he couldn’t see. “Honey we have bread and honey. Will that do for breakfast?”
He didn’t answer waiting for her to get angry. If she wasn’t in the mood for stories she would get all red and hit him everywhere. And it never hurt. It tickled.
Cross she turned around and put her hands on her hips.
“Jake Matthews are you getting up right now or do I have to drag you out of bed?”
He put up his best eyes closed poker face trying not to laugh. And then he had it.
She came stomping up to him and jumped right on top of him. Then came the beating. The pillows came down on his chest and oh they struck his heart. Then came the fists. Right onto his nose and then trapped into his hands. Within a minute he had her under him with her knees being the wall between her face and his.
“You naughty bastard”
He grinned sheepishly saying “Good morning! Don’t move I will get breakfast.”
He got up and she spread out on the bed. Damn she loved eating in the bed. She watched him as his pajama clad self found the bottle of honey and came right up to her.
Scowling she said “What the hell are you up to?”
“Breakfast of course” and he poured the entire bottle of honey on her exposed tummy.
The rest was fun.
A few hours later she got up to shadow birds and tortoises dancing her stomach. And of course that was Jake’s doing. Stalking one hands fingers with the other making all the animals in the world inhabit her little white tummy now shining gold in the sun.
“You know you seduced me right?”
“I was hungry!”
“I am still hungry!”
“Okay cook something!”
“I would if I wasn’t too busy being your dessert.”
“But I thought dessert is after dinner. Isn’t it?”
“It’s supposed to be. But I can’t help it if you are all horny in the morning!”
“You know who to blame!”
“Yeah you!”
“Me?”
“Of course who else?”
“I don’t know. You?”
“So now I am to blame for your sex addiction.”
“You got me started.”
“It was a mistake and I regret it. So much that I am starving right now.”
“Yeah! Starving so hard that your tummy seems to be all over the place.”
Her eyes widened in shock to what he had just said. If that were true..No it couldn’t be. Hell it couldn’t be. She had had a period just yesterday. Phew! But what if she did get pregnant? Would he still love her? She looked up at him lost.
“What’s the matter em?”
“I just realized I barely know you.”
“There is nothing that you would want to know about me Emily. Except perhaps the fact that I love you.”
“But I do Jakey. For one why don’t you tell me why you live here? Forget this. Tell me everything. Right about now. Start.”
“You want to do this?”
“Of course I do.”
He picked up the frying pan and sighed "then listen".

Monday, May 17, 2010

Tales from the crate

They say, the loss of a child is the exquisiteness of the devil. Add the sourness of poverty and all that’s left is colorlessness. And that’s when the hollowness of a relationship shines through like infiltrating granules of silica in crystal clear water. Two lovers once a father and a mother, once a wife and a husband, seek solace on the opposite ends of a bed. The couch seems uninviting. Or rather not being in the same room with the fellow victim seems pointless. And yet company loses its temptation. Talk seems utterly painful if not life taking. Regular doses of ache alternate from the highs of the city to the lows of the worms. It’s the time one realizes, heartache isn’t metaphorical, it is physical. Solitude seems just and kind. Silence means everything in the world. There is no need to panic, no need to console. No need to plan.
Questions go unanswered. None can answer them then what’s the whole point of lingering? Eyes cannot make contact for the mere sight is enough to slay the fragile hold on the liquid glands. Drasticity is the need of the hour. Advices from family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances seem to say the same thing. Keep walking, it will pass they mean. Everything does. But sometimes, you don’t intend it to pass. You mean to be consumed by it. Your faith has been given the gallows, it never had a role to play anyway. Slowly the tears start coming. One holds the other as the first rays fall. Then they hold each other as the draught continues. One cries and the other soothes. Then the other starts crying and together under the split roof undetering the raindrops they stay alive if it could be called so. Gradually, hunger strikes. Work needs to be done. The man goes towards his fields, the woman to fetch water. Life continues. They cuddle close in bed shaking with the sensation of loss. The cots creak with them cursing the mighty for the fate endowed. The bed bugs feel nothing. They feed. The new phase of life continues. They paint their own faces in a vain attempt to move on. To the other they appear stronger. Inside they rot. At night they lay in each other’s arms awaiting sleep. It’s a welcome guest now, though it leaves just as dawn arrives and it precedes a moment before it. Sometimes it comes early bribed by exhaustion. The rest of the times what can one do but wait?
The next morning they head down to their own destinations. With a morsel of wheat and tit bits of potato, one returns. The other is late. And then doesn’t make it back. The whole night passes without a wink of sleep. What if........? The fear is the question, imagine the threat the answer would pose.
The next morning the one left runs around looking, searching, scavenging for her one last hope in life, her one reason to live. Empathetically, one nearly always finds a reason to live. In this case, it was the other part of the lost figure. Her search eventually leads her to the ‘thana’ where she files a report and then to the hospital. In the hospital she senses death, she sees wailing infants, groaning deathbedders bidding their time. In a state of mental havoc she runs around begging the uniformed of a trace to her lover. Somehow she finds him. He lays on a white sheet right next to a wild old man abusing like it was a morality lecture he was enlightening with. Her husband may be dead. She prays to her God before checking his pulse. As she hold his hand, she cries in shock. His wrists had been to say the least cut. It was a plain simple line. One that appears on a monitor as a journey man from this world passes to the next.
Surprisingly though there is a pulse. The man is still alive. his eyes open as he smells the sweat of his wife sitting right next to him. He could have recognized it anywhere, it was his wife. He watches as she sits there patiently waiting for him to rise. She prays and talks to him. She talks of love, life and the son they once had. Even now, the memories, at least the happy ones don’t bite. Not all. He hears not because he has no choice but because he loves his wife. He loves her voice, the way she looks up every now and then as a humble request to her god to revive him. His eyes water as he watches her. After all that has happened, she bears to live. He hold her and cries like a baby in her arms. He mutters words of sorrow to which she replies, where would I have gone if anything would have happened to you? Didn’t you think about me when you tried to kill yourself? To this he can merely apologize. She makes him promise that he wouldn’t do it again. He is reprimanded and together they walk back to where they belong. They talk about their son and a kind of silence subdues. Then one says
“I want a child.”

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Werewolf_Titanium anesthetics

Her sixteenth birthday, their first one together. He had woken up early and dashed to her home. Up the tree and into her window. Creeping past her as she slept cozily and then locking the door. He then seated himself on the floor waiting for her to open her eyes. The silliest thing really. But his tiny little cranium had pondered over the details diligently and efficiently for the past one week. The rubber soles, the note he had left to his parents, everything had been worked out. The thought of involving James had crossed his mind but he was afraid he would only pull his leg. He chuckled at the thought of what he would say now. His father’s old watch glistened in his hands. It struck six. The birds started their routine with a melancholy call. She stirred but didn’t wake up. He looked out the window. A couple of joggers in dark blue passed by. The morning gloom welcomed him. A cool breeze running over that dull faced of serenity. He then watched her getting impatient for her to rise. When would she wake up he thought? He couldn’t disturb her sleep. She looked so content. In black striped white pajamas with so many Pluto the dog characters yapping in them. How she loved that yellow dog he thought. He watched her bare tummy rise and fall and nearly laughed. Maybe she was feeling cold he concluded. So as silently as he could he pulled her shirt down to cover her engaging little tummy. He then covered her with a bed sheet. Another big Pluto on it now with Mickey standing beside him grinning ear to ear. She tilted towards her right exposing that black mole on her left. He remembered thinking to himself; she is my best-est friend, even more than James.
Even as he slept in the fish house devoid of consciousness he still smiled. A distant noise somewhere rumbled audibly
“Having pretty dreams are we?”
And then he thought to himself, you bet.
A week passed as did the next and the next. He slept druggedly having spasms of brief consciousness. One night he woke up. A fallacy in the drug dose had been encountered. And he was blank. It’s not very often that one notices that the mind is nearly dead. It’s not very often that the mind takes a nap. And when it does all that remains is nothingness. His senses were prudent his body aware of touch, smell, sight and sound. He was stiff and alert as one is in the trauma of fear. But he wasn’t fearful. Merely lost and disheveled. Outside three voices purred fighting for control. One was that of a woman, judging by the pitch, one not used to being ignored, very cocky. One was heavy almost brute like as if an animal were speaking, the third belonged to his master. He remembered it because of its appearance in the dreams.
Master: He isn’t ready.
Woman: Oh give him a chance for Christ’s sake. You have had him drugged for nearly a month now.
Animal: He is just another one of those wolves. He belongs at the Fallow.
Master: He will not go the Fallow. Ever. And you have my word for that.
Animal: But why the special treatment?
Woman: Because he is stronger than most of us. It doesn’t take time to sense that kind of power Tiny. And it takes an eternity for it to be born. Accept it.
Animal: You falsify yourself. I pity you.
Master: If I am wrong I will be-head him myself.
Animal: it would be too late when you realize. I have no more to say. But I do wish to test him myself before I let you fuel this haste.
Master: There is a long time before that happens. Any of that. He needs time.
Woman: I ask you to reconsider sire. Maybe he should be updated on his uh…scenario. Just once.
Master: I have. A million times. This being is disturbed. He needs peace before he chooses sides.
His head started pounding. A pain started at his heart and led its way into all his arteries. His anguish sounded the trumpet. By the time it subsided, the werewolf had been summoned.
He stood on his fours and scrutinized the door. Something was coming his way. Fast. Metal clanked against metal as the irrepressible sound of titanium blades grew stronger and louder. Sparks danced in the doorway tempting to be countered. He watched as if in glee of the incoming. They came close and stalked him as a lion fore plays his prey. Swords. Sharp ones, brutal but not fatal, not to him and he knew it. They inched closer. He merely blinked. He blinked again. and again. Closer. He blinked one last time and this time his hands were lightening quick as they took hold of the metal and he plunged with all his weight into the creature guiding them. Together they fell into the sand. One of the swords were snatched and thrown afar. The other slashed methodically right in front of his face being the only defense. A pain developed in his abdomen as he got ready to bite. Canines closed distance with meat and would have ridden themselves but had the sword let them. It glazed in his eyes as it aped a running wheel. Eyes met and raged.

A cry cautioned them to stop.

As if in a trance his grip loosened and the creature beneath him was freed. It kicked him in the scrotum and shied away. He stood on his rear legs and howled.
He felt a pat on his back as his master exclaimed “Tiny, I see you have met Adam.”

The woman spoke up, “Not bad I see.”

Master: “Adam cover yourself and then meet us outside.”

They walked into the beach the three elite. As they watched the first rays of the sun greeted them.

He walked towards them hungrily. Although he was still blank and had no idea what was happening, his gut gave him the lead.
Slowly the guests as the master had termed them in the air borne chat they were having turned to him.
His master stood in the center and winked at him. On his right was a man clad in a black robe that melted on the ground. His hair was unruly and shaggy as he set it in place. Once done his hair looked like a double sided prism. The handles of his swords stuck out weirdly behind him forming a V at the back of his head. On the left was a pretty little thing with the face of an angel. She had flaming red hair that complemented the white robe that she sported. That robe was peculiar he thought. It flowed with the wind like torn muscles in water. on the whole though it gave a very feminine yet pulsing with the masculinity of a certain warrior.

His master introduced them, this son is Tiny. They starred daggers in response as Tiny grinned.

”I left my mark didn’t I?” He then glanced at his abdomen which started hurting.

At first he was surprised that the little man could cause pain with mere staring till he realized there was a dagger inside him. Nonchalantly he took it out and studied it. The sight of his own blood made no difference to him. It was just blood now.
Master then turned to the woman.
“This is…”
The woman waved him off “No need for that.”
She stepped in front of him offering her hand as the other found the abdomen “I am Jade.”.
The pain left and all that was left was a cool sensation where the dagger had been.

He took the hand and kissed it out of reprimand. This woman wouldn’t have it otherwise his master told him. She was the Goddess of not merely beauty but anesthetics and drugs as well. And not quite apparently, she was the reason he was awake.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Chapter 4: Master

A tear took birth at his left eye and ran all the way down. On the tombstone it succumbed to its destiny. It wasn’t the greatest of forts to lie in, but it was all he could manage. He had worked all morning and all afternoon to dig up her cradle. This was where she would lie forever. This was where she had ended. It was surrounded by palm trees on all sides. Somewhere close a road ran through the haze of trees. On one side of the palm trees lay the sea now silent and assuring. Dusk was approaching. His star had gone down and now the sun was going down. He spread his palms in front of him and reasoned. They were filthy. And what stained them wasn’t just mud. His clothes were smeared with the blood that marked his past as a milestone to his future. Would these wounds heal? He doubted it. He had cremated what he could but could he bury his own very mind? Would he ever forget? He was afraid not. And he was right. The burden of hypocrisy was too much for him. He fell to his knees and looked up at the sky. Fragments from last night’s skirmish played before him as his emotions danced to the snap of their fingers and the hiss of their tongues. She had stuck close to him and she faded away in the light of their love. And with every breath that passed he died with her. On one side he raged with anger and on the other he was filled with remorse weakened by the very presence which had once brandished his cup with joy. Now he was fissile and vulnerable. He frantically started digging up her grave hoping that he could plug life into her the same way he had snatched away a few last night. As he did, the cross she had made him wear last night fell to the earth. He wound it around his hand and continued, thinking it was a good omen. His hands were soft. The continued digging and varnishing had taken their toll. The cross electroplated with gold was made essentially on copper. Seeking the middle of his palm it stuck itself in on account of the continuous movement of his hands. He never stopped. And it continued to sting. It went deeper and deeper. His eyes watered and his breath quickened. The cold was anything but subtle. Yet he, in the middle of his search felt nothing. Night came and then came rain. The cold water felt sweet against his skin. But he didn’t want to feel anything. All he wanted was her to open his eyes. But for that he would have to take her out first. But his body was failing him. His blows grew weaker and weaker and his brows slower. His exaggerated sense of power was failing beneath the load of his pain. He shouted for strength and then he howled. His subconscious didn’t fail him. He was the werewolf again. But now he was strong enough. She was gone. Raging he ran headlong into the trees. His strength was back. That night many a tree were felled.
He woke up sometime later smelling fish. His nerves denied him of all movement and it pained everywhere. His skin smelled of herbs and stung as if he was on fire. There was something warm near his legs. He felt it even though the pain was astounding. A soft hum of music was playing somewhere close. As he opened his eyes he first saw the straw ceiling and then the mud walls. There was a fire burning near his legs. A battered chair lay in one corner of the humble abode. On the chair lay the radio. Sunlight streamed in from the doorway. Till something cut it off. The something was so bright that his eyes pained to look at it. Yet he couldn’t close them for the fear of being attacked.
He stepped in and his eyes focused. He was an old man he noticed. He had long hair and a long beard both white and grey. He wore white trousers. Around his left leg was a ring made of black steel. He walked to him and caressed his forehead. At his touch they both knew each other’s secret.

“I am your master.”

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Primal showdown- lily

The beach house.
It was a chilly night. The sea was infuriated, beating on the rocks below seeking attention. It ravaged wildly on three sides around him clearly stark raving mad. As it savored the strength imbibed in it by the moon, something else shared its grant. And it had no idea. While it was glowering on the outside and peaceful inside, he was the exact opposite. As a writer would like to say, this was the eye of the storm.
The sky was cloudy sporting a medicine blue aura, bar one big white dot and many smaller twinkling miniatures.
He was cold. His fingers were numb and his eyes were dead. He was shivering hysterically. His hands lay in his pockets seeking the warmth that wasn’t there. His handsome face stricken with lines of unparalleled normalcy tried not to hide what had happened of his smile. The same face that could melt a woman’s heart with a bare muscle was now an axiom of betrayal. All it bore was nothingness. To one close to him it was alarming. To one afar it was in line with the common customs followed by the general accreditations and droids.
He looked at the moon out of habit. It was their sign of love. On nights like these when they couldn’t be together, they used to whisper to it for a while as if talking to each other. But tonight she was off.
The moon stuck out like a fish on a pole or a mole on a pretty face. Lily’s face. Lily’s mole. The left cheek tender and slightly wet with his soft kiss. His arms around her neck tracing the commencement of her bosom as he kissed the mole from behind her.
If only memories were a thread he could break and forget. He never heard the footsteps behind him. Or the joyous shouts that celebrated the wedding of his beloved to a close friend. So this is how close they were. He never even heard his own heart break the shackles that bound him and reach her. And now she was right behind him on the next rock. What the hell he thought, he could even sense her.
“You always were hot.”
“I should have been cold.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“It would. I wouldn’t have been blind and faithful.”
“I always liked you.”
She stepped up behind him as he hoped she would just slip and fall.
“Was it easy Lily? Being with him and me at the same time?”
“You were always easy. Fun, good to be with and lovable.”
“But you don’t love me.”
“I don’t love you in the way you want me too.”
“Then what way do you love me in? The way where you love me and marry my best friend? James doesn’t even know about us.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I am sorry. I am sorry for all that happened.”
“Don’t be sorry for that. Be sorry for being who you are. And you know exactly what you are.”
There was a pause as he decided to not continue.
“I didn’t want it this way either.”
“Face it you are the one who is making it this way.”
Correcting himself, “made it this way”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He took his hand out of his pocket and said,
“I have something for you”
She inched closer not knowing what to think or expect.
He held her hand, put something cold in it and closed her fingers. Her hand felt warm he noticed. The physical contact was still mesmerizing he noticed. He hated her so much he wanted to strangle her he noticed. And it took everything inside him to not.
She opened her hand. Inside it was a ring. She recognized it as the one she had liked window shopping.
“It isn’t a diamond.”
“But you are.”
“Lily, go before I hurt you. I can’t feel my hands and that’s the only reason I am not strangling you right now. Don’t make me do something I regret later. Don’t make me hurt me.”
She handed him the ring and turned to go.
“Lily, I still love you. And I always will. Remember that.”
“I will.” She never quite said it but she meant it.
She walked past him towards the beach house.
Once she was gone, he jumped. And as he did, he died.
Or so he thought. It is a strong belief that love doesn’t die, merely lovers do. If that were to be the case, can the exact opposite of the anomaly take a different path? If the mirror is coexistent with the image, does the creator of both have any say in the existence of the object in picture? Love cannot die. Then what is it that survives once all of it is choked out? Can it die? Is it as sensitive or just as insensitive? Is it good or pure evil? Can the word hatred define it? Can faith be wrong? Or is reality just one big misty illusion?
Wet. Cold. Strong. Intensely alive. He stepped out of the sea a new leaf. A dry one. One on which dew doesn’t settle. His hands weren’t numb. His eyes weren’t wet. His heartbeat wasn’t slow. He wasn’t hurt anymore. He wasn’t human anymore. As the music from the speakers reached his cocked ears he howled with ecstasy.
One boy saw it all. He stood outside the cabin enjoying his smoke. The cloud cover lifted exposing the moon at about the same time as his smoke took flight. For a moment his iris’s contracted and all was clear. The moon, the sea and the beast. His back was to him and as his eyes traced the outline of his neck, shoulders and biceps ending at his paws all shrouded in maybe fur this animal surged for power. The cigarette fell from his hand onto the sand below. He couldn’t move. And his eyes wide with shock took in all. They fell from the hands to the back and the tail. His legs were those of footballers, the calves extreme. As one huge wave welcomed him perhaps by its own annihilation on the throne he stood on, he howled. The howl put some sense into him as he ran into the beach house. There he shouted wildly in a trance but when the music is so loud all you can hear is the track. Your heartbeat may just die out and you won’t even know. The lights went off. The music stopped. And his voice was the one sound booming into the night. The waves splashed at a distance merry making. The whole house was dark. And the hero of darkness was on his way.
A few candles were ignited. Initially the reaction of the people was that of amusement. But as tears slipped down his cheeks comprehension was unavoidable. There was chaos. A few ran outside and the rest bolted the doors from inside. A couple got to their cars. One started fumbling with the car keys. The other fired the engine and reversed. He switched gears and jammed the accelerator but his car didn’t move. His front wheels were running violently but his vehicle was stationery. Fearing the worst he glanced at his rear view mirror. He saw eyes. And then he saw nothing. The sparks coming out of the friction created between the wheels and the road met oil and the engine exploded. The beast raised the car into the air as it burned and thrashed it into the ground.
The keys fell from her hand as she saw the beast. Almost in slow motion she saw his head turn towards him. Without thinking she made a dash towards the house. Just a few feet she thought to himself. She heard the charge behind him but kept running. Till he was onto her and her nose hit the road. There was a pain in her back increasing to nothing.
Inside all eyes were on the werewolf. They knew what he was now. And he wasn’t just another species. As he tore at the last man outside they stepped away from the windows and the doors as if it could save them.
And then there was silence. The waves had stopped applauding. The only ovation now was the breathing. Their breathing. They all seemed to realize it at once and hushed. There was no point in climbing the stairs to the next floor. The two floored apartment had once been the pride of a general. Rock established its bottom floor and glass adorned the upper. Heels clicked as one fine lady decided to skip it. She climbed the steps and locked the balcony door. As she turned she heard a loud thud behind her in the balcony. And he was standing there. Below almost soundlessly each one searched for a weapon that might save a life, namely their own. And above they stood sharing the inevitable. All that separated them was a thin glass door neither could break owing to something that existed in both animals. She looked into his eyes and saw herself. There was a hunger in them. A hunger for blood. Even with the wolf snout and the canines he was handsome. There was no denying it.
The clouds took their place as a curtain again momentarily and he returned to his human form.
“It is you isn’t it?”
“Yes Lily. It is me. This is what you have made me.”
The next moment he wasn’t there.
The lights returned and the music came alive once again. Suddenly what was heaven fifteen minutes ago was now irritating. The same sounds were eerie and unwanted. The same people who had been shouting for more now turned the speakers off. They were ready holding everything in their power. It’s funny how the idea of death makes you do strange things. For a while nothing happened. Maybe the night was over. Maybe they had evaded death. Slowly one of them tried to open the door. He was stopped by another. After a general vote out, they decided to check. Lily’s to be husband volunteered to check. He glanced at the top of the staircase hoping she would be there. But she wasn’t. Maybe she was just sick he thought. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she needed time to think. He had to protect her. He stepped outside without a weapon. He walked a few steps cautiously and turned around. He saw her through the glass and their eyes met for a second. And as his view shifted upwards, he saw him.
Within seconds he had pounced on him. The jump seemed to have been easy. He landed on his back with the beast on him. He tried to fight. But his arm broke. He had heard the bone shatter. And there was no feeling in the other arm. He kicked. Until his feet were pressed under the burden of vengeance. He waited for the final blow. He saw the head of the beast come down on him near the neck and felt something warm. He closed his eyes and muttered “Lily I am sorry”. After that he remembered nothing.
The door was closed again.
He focused his eyes on the door and ran headlong into it. Under his weight it broke. For a second he was stunned. He stood on his hind legs and howled gathering strength. A couple of women screamed. A couple of men ran at him hands raised ready to strike. Hungrily he slaughtered and man handled. In the midst of it one man punched him on his arm. He severed his head off. He thought to himself, how easy. Once he was done with them he put on a pair of pants. The clock on the wall read a five to twelve. He went into the kitchen. There he could smell a kid hiding inside a cupboard. He didn’t care which though. He picked up the cake and lighted the candles on it. It was Lily’s birthday. The chocolate smelled sweet. It was in the shape of an eight with lily written in its centre. The way she had always wanted it. He remembered she had told him a week ago. And for some reason even James had known. He remembered breaking his arm. He climbed the steps humming the happy birthday song. He noticed that she had turned off the lights. He could make out her figure on the bed. He walked to it and lay down next to her.
“Happy birthday Lily.”
“You were always wrong Adam.”
“What do you mean?”
“Adam there is something wrong with you. Look at you. You have blood all over you and you are smiling.”
“It’s your birthday Lily. And I am with you. I am happy. And guess what? James got you the eight shaped cake you wanted.”
“Do you know why it was eight shaped?”
“No why?”
“I am pregnant. Here show me your hand.”
She held his hand and placed it on her stomach. But something was wrong. He pulled his hand back. It was bloody.
“Lily you are bleeding.”
“Of course. I killed him.”

ps: i had this frnd. and well, we had a fight. so we arent frnds anymore. yeah awkward i guess. nyways, her b'days in abt a month and my saying anything isnt acceptable. so wish her for me with a cute little bday wish in ur coment. um..thanks.

Saturday, January 02, 2010

Werewolf. the beginning

In the middle of the ocean lay an island. It was like many others, hilly and green with a remarkable set of cloud cover in constant conversation with it. It had the same wild flowers and the gulls and the beaches and coconut trees. It had monkeys and crazy coloured parrots thriving on its many fruit bearing trees. At some point of time a small tribe of ruthless dark complexioned beings had been striving on its heavenly hallows in the midst of the jungle. Later the Englishmen had arrived and scared them away. They had left shouting curses. One frail old man had stayed behind to be slaughtered. When finally after days of praying for mercy, for death his breath left him he uttered one word. As the last breath penetrated his insides, cleansing him one last time he released a mourn. The silence he had kept forever was broken. As he struggled to complete his say and his parched lips parted, his soul drifted away. It made no sense to them. They believed he was summoning god. Little did they know that the mute old man was summoning their annihilation?

He had said Werewolf.

Their castles still stand strong after bearing the trauma of the past. The Englishmen however had disappeared too leaving behind traces and symbolizations of torment in the form of vague inscriptions on the bark of trees. The inscriptions talked about nights of torture. They dictated the arrival of a force so iniquitous and immoral that only death could ultimately silence it. Ironically, it was his beloved and followed him wherever he went. The symbols had never been shared. Storms had brewed, mountains had fallen and the message had been lost, its contents known only to the past now. History never repeats itself.
It was the night of knights. A God, straight from the womb of a dying woman had been born. The dying woman had been the Queen. Her son was to be heir. He was to have the blood and the throne of the mighty king. He was their new hero. The kingdom now had a future. Or so they thought…
A week later he opened his eyes for the first time taking in the sight of his ailing mother and the world outside the window. As she looked at him for the last and the finest moments of her life, her eyes grew wide with shock and her skin shone pallid. He had the same green eyes. The rainy night, the cottage…the stranger with the big green eyes and the same smile as the child she had just borne all flashed in front of her eyes. If only she would have listened to the voice inside her then…if only she would have resisted temptation…she took off the cross around her neck and carefully placed it around his chubby, tender body whispering ”May this protect you my son like it has protected me.”
Those were her last words as the rosary slipped from her hand and she lost count of the beads. Invariably the green eyed man had been right. Death was his shadow.
The king was surprised at the sight of his son. For one he had green eyes. And also his own hair was wavy blonde and the mother’s was flaming red…the same red he had wanted to see in his heir, his daughter. It had been the one reason he had married her. The first time he had seen her, in a simple white gown, the metal cross shining on her bosom, her hair being highlighted owing to the cloths dullness, he had wanted the same for his daughter…yet she had born him a son. A son with black hair.
As he stared at the naïve creature sleeping in his arms a sense of anger enveloped him. Although the whole kingdom had prayed for a son, he had personally wanted a daughter. He had silently hoped and believed that being closest to him; his wife would fulfill his wishes. The priest had agreed too.
A sense of incompletion stirred up inside him. He consulted the priest who confirmed his suspicions. He had lost his love to a son that wasn’t his. Blinded by contempt and rage he had tossed the weeping child from the cliff into the darkness below that night. He married again and was gifted sons again. Sons with golden hair like Mary’s and a daughter very much like him. It wasn’t the same but eventually he grew happy and satisfied.
The true heir on the other hand had survived. A wolf had found him floating in the river and saved him. Mothered and nurtured by a wolf he had been harmless.
Then on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he encountered his father. The man smiled at him.
That night the moon had almost risen to its full bloom. As his father narrated the whole incident to him with his hands he listened. When his father slept off he starred at the moon as if waiting. As he starred, inside him a creature beckoned to him. Lost in thought, he slept. He dreamed of a cage. Inside the cage, there was nothing but darkness. The door of the cage had opened. That night was the last night of peace and life on the island.
The next night under the watchful eye of the full moon deep in the forest he outgrew his destiny. To his mother wolf he expressed everything on the bark of the trees. There were scratch marks everywhere. His mother watched as he became like her. She watched as his young body shivered and he howled with pain. She watched as his delicate skin became steel. She watched as his eyes grew red. She watched the influx of Gods very opposite. She felt his pain. She felt him grow stronger with the minute. She felt him become alive for the first time. She felt close to him now. She even saw him smile at her as if telling her…I love you mother. And then she never saw him again. And neither did she see anyone else. That night as screams pierced through the atmosphere she returned to her cave. She heard him howling with pleasure. He was taking back his share of happiness. She closed her eyes and she was inside him digging her teeth into the neck of a man. She ran after a rather fat woman and caught her by the legs. As the blood oozed out of her veins she could feel him complying to his pre-eminence. As he relished the fear he had instilled in each, as he ripped flesh apart, as he thundered after them, as he claimed what was his she closed her eyes and knew that her part was over. Her son had found his elixir. His birth was complete. He was now a man. Almost disdainfully the night gave birth to dawn. Like the walls of the castle and the tiny little houses it too was red. The sky shimmered to the events of the nights as if bowing to it.
Like they had been thrown out, the white men had been trampled. The mute old man now rested in peace.
Divine Vengeance…