Camelot

She stood so proud; so tall and fair,
With walls of stone; a turret here, a tower there,
Rugged and white; strong and alone,
Strength and beauty - set in marble and stone.

Wondrous her halls; so full of light,
With rafters of doves; so graceful in flight,
Pillars and columns; bedecked in holly and gold,
Adorned with carvings; of stories yet untold.

At the height of her might; beyond compare,
With a thousand fields; that never went bare,
Paddocks of horses; all raring to go,
To gallop forth in company at horn's blow.

Her keep was hardy; an unshakable stronghold,
Doughty her men; like dragons of old,
Their shields were shiny; spears cold,
Tall were their helms; their stance bold.

Her townsfolk were goodly; helpful to all,
They loved all beings; both great and small,
Faithful and God-fearing; they answered the call,
And flocked to St. Stephen's; come winter or fall.

Seven levels high; the castle walls climbed,
Built with cunning, immense boulders aligned,
Cobblestoned streets; they winded up to the crest,
So wide & broad; braving seasons and time's test.

Atop the hill; and among the green,
A golden palace; for King and Queen,
Guarded by knights; known for chivalry,
At a round table; for the evening's revelry.

The warriors brave; a score strong,
Who fought on horseback; with lances long,
Hosts of forces; they commanded with care,
No matter the odds; they'd never despaired.

Brave deeds they did; and great reknown, won,
And knew not to rest till their quests were done,
Sworn to protect and succor the weak,
And flee treason; nor worldly battles seek.

The Excalibur-weilder sat upon the throne,
Noble his bearing; his goodliness grown,
Wise in judging; and unhastily roused,
Good King Pendragon; in Camelot he housed.

Merlin on his left; on his other, his Queen,
One a mighty spell-caster; other, most beautiful even seen,
Forever scheming and plotting, was, Morgana Le Fay,
So sing the minstrels; of when King Arthur held sway.

But alas for all good must come undone,
To folly they fell; each and every one,
For all of their prowess; the trap had been well set,
For even the best among them loved, what he couldn't get.

Thus began the war; a quarrel between friends,
Each wanting the Queen's hand; and refusing to bend,
Then came to fruit; the devices of Le Fay,
Too late for the good king; in Avalon, he lay.

Not much is remembered; of those days of yore,
Of Launcelot and Gawain; and the Knights' great chore,
Save in tales of faeries; recounted at children's beds,
And in dreamers like us; who relive them in our heads.

The Dreaming Tree

Standing here;
The old man said to me,
"Long before these crowded streets
Here stood my dreaming tree."
Below it he would sit,
For hours at a time,
Now progress takes away,
What forever took to find,
And now he's falling hard,
He feels the falling dark,
How he longs to be,
Beneath his dreaming tree.
Conquered fear to climb,
A moment froze in time,
When the girl who first he kissed,
Promised him she'd be his.
Remembered mother's words,
There beneath the tree,
"No matter what the world-
You'll always be my baby."
"Mommy come quick,
The dreaming tree has died."
The air is growing thick,
A fear he cannot hide,
The dreaming tree has died.


Oh, have you no pity?
This thing I do;
I do not deny it,
All through this smile,
As crooked as danger,
I do not deny.
I know in my mind-
I would leave you now;
If I had the strength to,
I would leave you up;
To your own devices.
Will you not talk?
Can you take pity?
I don't ask much-
But won't you speak, please?


From the start,
She knew she had it made,
Easy up 'til then,
For sure she'd make the grade.
Adorers came in hordes,
To lay down in her wake,
Gave it all she had,
But treasures slowly fade.
Now she's falling hard,
Feels the fall of dark,
How did this fall apart?
She drinks to fill it up.
A smile of sweetest flowers,
Wilted so and soured,
Black tears stain the cheeks,
That once were so admired.
She thinks when she was small,
There on her father's knee,
How he had promised her,
"You'll always be my baby."
"Daddy come quick,
The dreaming tree has died;
I can't find my way home,
There is no place to hide;
The dreaming tree has died."


Oh, if I had the strength to,
I would leave you up;
To your own devices.
Will you not talk?
Can you take pity?
I don't ask much-
But won't you speak, please?


Take me back, take me back, take me back...


Save me please!
 

-Dave Matthews & Stefan Lessard

An Ode to Joys

A palette of muted, pastel shades,
Framed by an endless blue sky,
Washed-out watercolour hues,
Awe-inspiring to the eye.

The eye of the beholder,
In which all beauty lies,
The flaming, fiery setting orb,
The careening sea-birds that fly.

The birds, they fly among the clouds,
Among cotton puffs, they vanish from sight,
Now a shadow; now none,
On the sand so fine and white.

The sand that numbers as the stars,
And forms castles upon the shore,
The tiny grains that defy the tide,
But fail with every roar.

The tempestuous tide moves forth and back,
Forever and a day,
Just like the Sun who gives up his ground,
So the Moon may have her say.

The Moon amidst the starry field,
A sight seen often, never enough,
Like a single white lotus in an emerald lake,
Like a diamond in the rough.

Such a joyous sight to see,
The cold stone and a maiden fair and cold,
But joyful still, is the stone on her finger,
Encircled by a ring of gold.

This then, is my ode to joy,
Of all we refuse to see,
But painful still, are unfulfilled dreams,
Of all we refuse to be.

How I Hate the Bugs

We're moving into a cool, new house - my roomie, Nosejob, & me. Well, its new. What's cool about it is the fact that Nosejob's dad will be buying it. That makes Nosejob an owner (and by default, me). Nosejob & me get along very well together. I share everything with him and I make him share everything with me. You see, Nosejob likes being dominated (that's fine by me). See, he's the laziest person I know. One of the reasons he's a footpad and a doormat rolled into one is the fact that he doesn't need to even make any decisions when I'm there (I plan everything more efficiently than a Personal Secretary). He's too lazy to even give his brains any exercise. Anyway, "unfiction" of the matter is we're the bosses and no one is going to question anything we do inside our domus (the owners at the place we stay in now are the most irritating buggers)! Speaking of bugs, Fuchsia recently told me of 11 innovative ways to kill cockroaches. She didn't elaborate on the methodology and I didn't ask. I'd rather read them on her blog once she gets round to putting them up. Killing isn't a nice thing to do, except when the victim is time (or except when it's being done in the name of God). Well, killing roaches, flies and mosquitoes are also fine by me. I wouldn't kill much else but I would, definitely, hurt a fly (dirty, disease-carrying, ugly little thing. Hmm, this describes Nosejob)! I, however, don't need 11 ways to be the ExTerminator (like Arnold, now that Sam's taken his place) - its much more satisfying stepping on them. The squishing sounds they make underfoot makes me want to sing a chorus of hallelujahs. Its not that I derive any pleasure by exhibiting my superiority over them. Its just that those three little insects account for a whole lot of lives everyday. The rats help too. But its much harder to catch one. Mostly, I hate roaches for the fact that they are most likely to survive and will rule the world if there's a WW III (most likely, there will be. Have you been reading the news? Here's what I think will happen: The Russian Prime Minister will proceed to build a summer Dacha on one of those little islands that Japan wants. In protest, the Japanese will begin hunting down whales in earnest. When their whaling ships reach off the coast of Indonesia, the US clothing industry will feel threatened and will pressurize their President to do something. Something, will eventually be done, by Osama who will have, by then, taken over Iran's stockpile of nukes). You have to admit, this is a very plausible scenario. Get ready for a Nuclear Winter (it will be heralded by an Indian Summer). THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END! REPENT!

Rajni - The Man

Noticed recently the number of Rajnikanth jokes doing rounds? Every other sms I get is one usually. Its been a while since I posted something; what with looking for gainful employment and getting one that pays me peanuts for 6 days a week, 9 hours of work & 4 hours of travel everyday and the hasty move back to the Big City with mindless traffic and even more brain-dead drivers. So, I decided to pick the best jokes and make a post out of it: 1) Rajnikanth doesn't need a watch; he decides what time it is! 2) Rajnikanth has counted to infinity. Twice. 3) One night, Rajni was mumbling some numbers in his sleep, the next day, the log tables were invented. 4) In a charity cricket match, Rajnikanth hit a six. Scientists now call that ball Pluto! 5) Rajnikanth doesn't push himself up when doing push-ups, he pushes the Earth down! 6) Rajnikanth's house doesn't have any doors; only the walls that he walks through! 7) The Bermuda Triangle used to be a square until Rajni kicked out one of the sides! 8) Rajni once swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. They made him blink! 9) Did you hear? Facebook joined Rajnikanth! 10) When Enthiran released, Rajni gave The Times of India 4 stars. 11) Rajnikanth can drown a fish! 12) The only person to have defeated Rajnikanth in a debate is Stephen Hawking. Look what happened to him! 13) Rajnikanth once strangled his enemy with a cordless phone! 14) A dinosaur once borrowed money from Rajni and didn't return it. That was the last time anyone saw dinosaurs. 15) When Rajnikanth enters a room at night, he doesn't switch on the lights. He turns off the darkness! 16) Rajni can make onions cry. 17) Rajnikanth builds snowmen out of rain. 18) Bill Gates has a secret fear that Rajni's PC will crash one day. 19) Rajnikanth was the first person to land on Mars. No wonder there's no life there. 20) Ghosts are a direct result of Rajni killing people faster than Death can process their souls. 21) Rajnikanth gave Monalisa her smile. 22) Rajnikanth knows Victoria's Secret! 23) Rajni can kill two stones with one bird! 24) Rajnikanth has penned his autobiography. Its called "Guiness Book of World Records"! 25) Rajnikanth killed the Dead Sea. 26) Rajnikanth met Michael Jordan once. Jordan: I can spin the ball on the tip of my finger for more than a minute! Can you do that? Rajni: Of course, why do you think the Earth rotates?! 27) A cobra bit Rajnikanth today. The cobra's funeral is tomorrow. 28) Rajni's calendar goes from March 31st to April 2nd. There's no fooling him! 29) Rajni can do a wheelie on a unicycle! 30) Rajnikanth was the last guest on the popular show "Celebrity Wheel of Fortune". They had to scrap the show because the wheel still hasn't stopped spinning. 31) In an average room, there are about 1,238 objects Rajnikanth can use to kill a person. Including the room itself! 32) With the rising petrol prices, Rajni has no option but to break his drinking habit. 33) Rajnikanth can judge a book by it's cover. 34) Rajni can slam a revolving door! 35) Rajnikanth once kicked a horse under it's chin. Today, it's descendants are called giraffes. 36) Rajnikanth actually built Rome in one day! 37) Light moves at the speed of Rajnikanth! 38) Rajni can speak braille! 39) Rajni can teach an old dog new tricks. 40) Time and tide wait for Rajni. 41) Rajnikanth can answer a missed call. 42) The Universe is constantly expanding. Everything wants to escape Rajni! 43) If at first you don't succeed, know that you are not Rajnikanth. 44) The recent recession was caused when Rajni lost in a game of Monopoly. And the best one- Rajnikanth and Jayalalitha once got into an argument over who was more famous between the two. Jaya decides to name 3 people and if all of them know Rajni she says she'll admit he's more famous. Jaya: Obama. Rajni and Jaya go to the White House where Obama is just leaving to the G8 summit. Obama: Rajni! Welcome! I'll get my secretary to cancel the summit. You must have lunch with me. So they have lunch with the President of USA. Jaya: Ok, he knew you. How about Tom Cruise? The two go to Hollywood where Cruise is shooting MI:4. He sees Rajni, stops a stunt midway and cancels the shoot. They end up having tea with him. Jaya: Ok, the last one. If you know this guy, I'll admit you're the greatest. Do you know the Pope? Rajni and Jaya go to the Vatican where the Pope is waving to the crowd from the balcony. Rajni: They won't allow everyone in and the Pope can't see me from so far away. I'll go inside and wave to you from the balcony. Rajni goes up to the balcony, greets the Pope like an old friend and puts an arm around his shoulder. He turns to wave at Jayalalitha but sees that she's fainted and surrounded by paramedics. He jumps off the balcony and runs up to her. Rajni: Jaya! Are you alright? What happened?! Jaya: I was fine when the Pope greeted you. But this guy next to me turned and asked, "I know the guy on the left is Rajnikanth, but who the heck is the other guy?"

In God's Own Country It Seems

I spent a week in Heaven where I was to start at my first job. During
my incarceration there, I maintained a pocket diary in which I noted
down the daily fiascoes coming my way. I have finally calmed down
sufficiently to edit out all the swear words and form the text into
coherent sentences.

11/08/2010: Shock! Astoundment! Nauseousness and a few "Zounds!"
thrown in - I am standing in the little cell that is to be my living
quarters for the next two months. I am aghast. I never figured taking
up a job offer with one of "the world's leading IT consultancies"
would include living in drab and dismal conditions like this room I
was supposed to call "home". Picture yourself in a pink box 8X8X12
feet in dimensions, containing two beds, a table and a plastic chair
and an attached bathroom. You will realise there is room for naught
else.

As I wonder, a little dazedly, what the hell I am supposed to do with
my full suitcase of clothes (no cupboard), the fan suddenly dies (no
power - power outages occurred more often than not - between 5:30 AM
to 2 PM, as I later found out). I drag the suitcase in and push it
horizontally under the bed and curse myself to sleep at night.

12/08/2010: The harsh tones of a popular Hindi number wakes me up (I
had forgotten to set "Minuet", which happens to be my preferred alarm
tone). I have no idea that this is to be the first of the many rude
jolts I'm to suffer for the duration of the day. I few minutes later,
I find out the bathroom doesn't even have a hot water faucet, let
alone a water heater; solar or otherwise. I'm thinking to myself that
I cold water shower at 6 in the morning on a daily basis is definitely
not good. As per routine, there was no power and I'm shaving in the
dark. Numerous cuts and nicks later, I'm dressed in what would be
called business formals and waiting for the company bus which is
supposed to pick us up from our lodgings at 7 AM (It finally turned up
an hour later). The rest of the day goes by in presentations by
bigwigs and departmental heads all vying for the award of "Most Boring
Person in a Tailored Suit".

Upside: I find out there are coffee-vending machines all over campus!

A special mention I have to make about whatever passes for food, here
in Heaven. Everything looks like a soggy rag heated in coconut oil and
tastes exactly the same.

13/08/2010: Today passed me by in a flurry of confusion. Dealer and me
decide to rebel against the lodgings given us. The first few
complaints we register have been met with deaf ears, some verisimilar
promises and a couple of stares that have but one reason behind their
being – to convey to us that the starer, by no means whatsoever,
approves of our firm's-reputation-undermining-business. Finally, the
HR people, having gotten fed up by our constant in-your-face attitude,
have challenged us to find better accommodation at the same price.
Poor fools! They have played right into our hands. Not for nothing is
Dealer named so.

We spent the afternoon watching a documentary on our Company's
"Founding Fathers" and gnashing our teeth whenever the narrator told
us how the Company proved to be a benchmark for Human Resource
Management.

14/08/2010: The weekend! We decide to go to the city – Bengali,
Beachball and me – to meet up with Dealer, Body and Sunny. We explored
the city today, which meant we managed to find a bar eventually where
our explorations stopped and Beachball got drunk and Bengali (who has
sworn never to see the inside of a bar again) freaked out. Beachball
launched into a loud tirade against the shortcomings of Heaven
("God-forsaken place!" she avowed) . Sunny & Body keep stepping out to
a cheaper pub next door where they can down a few stiff ones before
relaxing with the one drink each that they have ordered in the bar.

15/08/2010: While the rest of the country celebrates Independence Day,
Unpronounceable Town is bedecked in yellow streamers celebrating
God-knows-what. Dealer has weaved his magic and found rooms for us
with much, much better facilities at the same price. We only need an
OK from the Company and we can move there.

16/08/2010: "Training" began today. We had soft skills session all
morning – 4 hours of it. They've put us in batches (the easier to
control us). Bengali & Dealer are together. Beachball & me are in the
same group. There are 29 in our team. I immediately see Beachball and
me have no competition when it comes to soft skills (the rest seem to
have trouble putting two sentences together).

It feels like I'm in an air-conditioned jail. Permissions are required
in triplicate to go anywhere outside the building. I have to go down
to the bank 2 kms away during the half-hour lunch break we get to see
about my Fixed Deposit (we're supposed to submit a fixed deposit held
by us and the Company jointly for 2 years. A surety in case we cut
loose before the stipulated job period and the Company loses a very
valuable asset in us. I have managed to delay the proceedings at the
bank in such a manner that I will get the deposit receipt in a
moments' notice if I actually try. I, however, am dallying until they
stop discriminating in the workplace and agree to let us move into the
new lodgings Dealer found). It took me ten whole minutes to get the
permission to leave the premises and I have to run down to the bank in
the pouring rain and run back uphill for my Programming class. Did I
mention all rooms are air-conditioned in the Office? We have 4 more
hours of class in the afternoon. I spent all 4 hours shivering in my
wet clothes. The HR people have successfully avoided us all day. We
can't move tonight.

17/08/2010: Same story as every morning. Shaving in the dark and
shivering under a cold shower etc. I'm getting really irritated at
having to live out of my suitcase for 2 months. I iron my clothes
neatly every night and put them into my suitcase carefully. But then,
owing to lack of space in the room, I am required to place the said
suitcase vertically against the wall. Come morning and my pressed
shirts are wrinkled again. We are having a whole day of programming
today. I can't think more many more boring things to do. Dealer & me
finally manage to corner one of the elusive HR people. She tells us
she needs to clear it with a Bigshot guy. After class, in the evening,
we go to the administrative section – Dealer, Sunny, Body and me. We
have no idea about the cleverly sprung trap we've just walked into. HR
Head walks up and hauls Dealer and Sunny for having a hint of stubble
on their cheeks. She gives Body and me the once-over and hauls him off
for bad haircut for a good measure. Many insults (from HR Head) and
stunned looks (from us) later, we're back to patrolling outside
Bigshot's office waiting for him to get off his phone. He makes us
wait for half an hour more before motioning us inside. Without so much
as giving us a chance to say "Er…", he began lambasting us on our
audacity at even hinting at the inadequacies of the Company. I am
feeling very much like a schoolboy standing in front of a
formidable-looking headmaster. He keeps berating us for fifteen
minutes or so and then imperiously dismissed us from his presence. It
takes all of us to calm Dealer down (he was saying something about
teaching Bigshot the right way to knot a necktie).
As we are making our way out dreading the long trudge back to the main
gate of the campus and the longer walk (in my case) or bus journeys
(in the others' cases) from the gate to our personal hellholes, who
should stop by in his swanky car but Bigshot! He offered as a lift
which we politely declined. But he was rather insistent. I guess he's
trying to show his magnanimity. We let him drop us to the gate while
enduring another lecture on how we were no more than nasty
delinquents.

Over dinner, I decide to quit the Company.

18/08/2010: I quit! I think I'm free, the fool that I am. The sadists
at the company have one last bit of malice planned before we part
ways. When I quit and surrendered my ID card and paid my
transportation dues (they made me pay for a week's worth of bus
service when I'd actually used the bus thrice instead of the twelve
trips the charged me for), the HR people asked me to pay my surety of
50000 bucks which I was supposed to give them in the form of the Fixed
Deposit. The shrewd operator that I am, I hadn't even submitted them
my Service Agreement (which is an all-important document that makes
you their slave for the next 2 years). Without my Service Agreement,
they have no legal document that asserts my having been employed by
them and so, they cannot ask me to pay them a surety. This legal
jargon, I pointed out rather succinctly I thought. I was proved right
when, seconds later the HR people turned different colours ranging
from reds to blues. I was rather impolitely asked to leave the
premises which I did so with a spring in my step and a song on my lips
(first time I've thought of music in this life-sapping Hades). I
thought I'd outwitted them properly. There was a nasty surprise
waiting at the bank when I went in to collect my Fixed Deposit – the
bank informs me that I would need a letter from the Company allowing
the bank to remove the lien and hand over the money to me. Though I'm
pretty sure they would not help me out, I walk back through the
Hallowed Gates and, a few wasted minutes later, came back outside
empty-handed having been tersely informed by the HR Halfwits that it
was against company policy to hand out written documents to
non-employees. "Ah! Impaled upon my own sword" I thought.
Disheartened, though I was, I decided to go to the bank one last time.

I went straight to the manager and explained to him my situation. He
shook his head and held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "I
can see nothing that can be done without a letter from the Company
expressly stating that you aren't an employee of theirs anymore" he
said. I decided to bluff a bit and put on an expression of such
bravado that even I was surprised at the manager's sudden change of
tactics when I informed him that I was willing to pursue a legal
course of action and would file a criminal suit against the Company
and would make sure his bank's name figured prominently in the
lawsuit. The manager quickly called up the Company and explained my
stance to them. Five minutes later, his fax machine beeped and there
was a letter from the Company stating that I was no longer employed by
them. Five more minutes later, I was walking into the sunset with my
money in my pocket and feeling vindicated. I go to the railway station
and take the next train back home. Goodbye Hellhole.

Words of Wisdom

Don't give up in despair, don't give in to sorrow, Tarry no more in the yesterday that has gone. Prepare instead to welcome the morrow, For the darkest hour comes just before the dawn.

905

Mother was an incubator, Father was the contents - Of a test tube in the ice box, In the factory of birth. My name is 905, And I've just become alive, I'm the newest populator, Of the planet we call Earth. In suspended animation, My childhood passed me by, If I speak without emotion, Then you know the reason why. Knowledge of the universe, Was fed into my mind, As my adolescent body, Left its puberty behind. And everything I know is what I need to know, And everything I do's been done before, Every sentence in my head, Someone else has said. At each end of my life is an open door. Automatically defrosted, when manhood came on time, I became a man; I left the "ice school" behind. Now I'm to begin, the life that I'm assigned, A life that's been used before; a thousand times. I have a feeling deep inside, That something is missing- It's a feeling in my soul, And I can't help wishing- That one day I'll discover, That we're living a lie, And I'll tell the whole world, The reason why. But, until then, all I know is what I need to know, And everything I do's been done before, Every idea in my head, Someone else has said. At each end of my life is an open door.

--- The Who.

My Last Supper

It was late in the evening. We'd all gathered in the living room for supper. The TV was blaring while Mum kept glaring at Dad who sat serenely, staring at the idiot-box with the remote safely tucked under his crossed arms. It was pouring cats & dogs outside - I was pretty sure I heard a couple of chihuahuas thudding against the neighbour's roof and dislodging a few loose shingles. All of a sudden and without any warning, the doorbell jingled. I was halfway through a rather large bite (more than I could chew), so Mum got up to answer the door. The chunk of food in my mouth turned out to be small enough to swallow and choke, because that was exactly what I did when I heard the voice emanating from beyond the doorway, addressing my Mum. A voice I hadn't heard in years, in ages, cheerfully helloing Mum and claiming its owner to be "an old friend" of her son and would she excuse him so he might speak with him privately ("her" being Mum, first "him" being me "he" being the owner of the voice and the second "him" also being the same as "he"). By now I'd finished choking and when Mum turned to look at me she mistook the tears in my eyes for tears of joy at hearing my friend's voice again. I excused myself from the table and fortified myself with a swig from my water glass before proceeding to the door to take up the post recently vacated by Mum who had occupied her seat across Dad and resumed throwing dirty looks at his insensitivity.

I had kept my eyes defiantly glued to the ceiling and had so far, avoided glancing at my visitor but I hardly had any choice. In fact, my only choice was, literally, between "my old friend" and the deep blue sea. What with my freestyle being no better than my breaststroke and the mere mention of backstroke raising a cloud of butterflies in my stomach, I had no option but to let my eyes slowly travel down from the burnt-out 60 watt bulb in the middle of the landing ceiling to finally rest on the eyes of my caller. I shuddered. His eyes were pitch black, rather like empty tunnels, black holes from which even the proverbial "twinkle of the eye" wasn't allowed to escape, deep, penetrating orbs they were. I had a feeling they were, right there and then, staring into my very soul.

He broke the ice. His voice was much like a glacier rolling ever so slowly down my back. "Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name!", he said, imitating Mick Jagger (very badly, I thought with distaste). I kept my mouth shut and did not answer. He beckoned me forward with a crook of his finger and turned around and began to walk to the stairwell. I stepped over the threshold and pulled the door close behind me and followed in his footsteps. At the edge of the staircase, he turned around and stared at me. I realised then, that this was not him but someone like me, someone he had beckoned before, someone who followed him back then. He suddenly started laughing his head off. If his voice was glacial, his laughter was chilling - right to the bone. It was hollow, mirthless, echoing, booming laughter. Endless, it seemed. For what seemed an eternity, we stood there - him laughing, me watching him nonplussed. He finally stopped and wheezed at me, "I'm so sorry". Then he leaned over backwards and before I could stretch out a hand to grab him, he was falling down the stairs. Halfway down the fifth step, he began to roll head over heels, his body bending in unnatural angles that would have been quite impossible even for "Eraso the Amazing Rubber-man" I dimly recalled watching at a circus I went to see as a kid. Before I could recover from the shock, he was lying broken and bleeding on the landing of the lower floor. I ran down the stairs, two or three at a time and reached the bruised pulp that was his body. Somehow, he managed to raise his head and grinned at me, "S-sorry!"

The next moment, I saw something black and fluid-like (like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a liquid or a gas but decided to be black anyway) emanate from his slack jaw. The entire scene went dark. The black fluid rushed at me.

I opened my eyes. I was staring at the ceiling. I noticed the bulb was burning alright on this floor. I turned my head around. I seemed to be sleeping on the landing. "This won't do", I said to myself and stood up. The stairwell around me was quite empty. I vaguely recalled someone interrupting my supper. I couldn't be bothered about it. My brain played an episode of Courage the Cowardly Dog inside my head. It was one of my favourite Courage episodes. It involved a psychopathic barber and like him, right then, I felt "quite naughty!"

Storm in Eden

It was idyllic - the washed out sky with cloud-cover so low one could stick up a hand and touch it, the pewter sea flecked with white foam forming those Curlies that were so typical of the location, the distant cliffs to either side forming the cove that allowed the waves to take their peculiar shapes, the bracing sea breeze bereft of any unnatural odors, the bamboo lounge chair that was being employed by him to serve it's purpose - in short, a scene from paradise.

To someone who had just arrived on the sets, it seemed Adam was having the time of his life. Hiding behind those large sunglasses, with a Tuborg for companionship, a pair of swimming trunks to cover his modesty, lying without a care in the world, it would seem to the casual observer that, Adam, having consumed the proverbial fruit along with Eve, had managed to convince God to just evacuate his companion from the First Garden and leave him be.

But our "Adam", for we shall continue to refer to him so, was a troubled soul. Adam had realised sometime ago that nothing in the Universe was permanent. Not even change. Life, as he knew it, was always gone before he could even savor it fully. He had no regrets with his life. But some more time wouldn't have gone amiss - to say some things that needed saying and to do some things that needed doing. He wished some people would change instead of others that did. He remembered of events past. He smiled as he thought of the girl and the long walks undertaken in her company. His memory of all the times spent making wagers on all-night card games were hazy, but he blamed it entirely on the copious amounts of spirits he had consumed to keep up his spirits as he kept loosening his pursestrings. There were other memories from long ago. All in bits and pieces, jumbled. They waited for his mind to jog and catch up. But time and tide didn't wait for him. Time had closed some doors on him. There were paths he could never tread ever again. Some were petal-strewn and rose-scented while others were more or less formalin-based quicksands with a hint of ammonia in the air. And the tide - well, it was coming in. He got up to move his chair back inside his shack before it got wet.

Interested No Longer, No More

It happened. Something I've dreaded for a long time now. The stuff of nightmares. Bamf that go bump in the night and wake you up and make you find yourself in a cold sweat. Too many changes. Too soon. Can't adapt. Doomed to extinction. I don't feel like writing. Not now. Maybe later. Maybe never. Well, at least I'll finally get to see a tyrannosaur on the otherside of the curtain.

The How of Who

There was a time when time had just begun, When men lived in caves and hated the sun, Of fire, the ape-men had no earthly clue, The time of the end of the one they called Who.

When cats played at being Roman Emperors,

And dexterously plucked at the fiddle,

When the overlarge egg sat on the hedge,

And fell down and broke in the middle,

When a goat was still a satyr and a horse was a centaur,

When Hercules was still task-less and free,

When Odysseus was still standing beside dear Mentor,

Then was the time for Who's soul to flee.

When pies were still baked with blackbirds inside them,

And cows frequently hurdled the moon,

When Little Tommy Tucker still couldn't get a meal,

And the dish eloped with the spoon,

When Little Miss Muffet had no arachnophobia,

When Jack & Jill were trekking uphill,

When the Gollum was filling his belly with cobia,

Then was the time to read out Who's will.

When Cinderella was still sweeping up cobwebs,

And Rapunzel shampooed her hair,

When Snow White was still mollycoddled by dwarfs,

And Goldielocks was in the bears' lair,

When demigods were a-dime-a-dozen,

When Icarus was testing his wings,

When Atlas grew tired and shrugged off his burden,

Then was the time to bury Who's things.

When Hannibal's elephants took a walk up the Alps,

And Caesar waxed eloquently,

When caterpillars still sat and smoked on toadstools,

And all Hatters were mad, as mad as can be,

When the forty thieves were saying "Open Sesame",

When Troy was at the height of its fame,

When Aesop was fibbing and calling them fables,

Then was the time to cry out Who's name.

Then they planted an acorn in the dell,

And the oak tree magnificently grew,

Then they dropped the coffin six feet under,

And they all danced on the how of the one they called "Who".

The Coming of Eternal Peace

Come to me again,

And dry my tears,

For without you by my side,

I'd die, I fear,

Wipe my wet cheeks, with your caressing touch,

Heal my aching heart, with your wondrous smile,

Like potent summer wine, your song makes my eyes weary,

You flit in and out of my mind, playfully, O Faerie!

Hold my hand again,

And guide me,

Show me the path I'd once taken,

Unchain me,

Calm my racking nerves, with your palliative voice,

Still my unfounded fears, with your calming breath,

Quiet my scared babble, with a tender kiss,

To you I gave my heart and now my soul, joyfully, O Death!

Infinitesimal

A long time ago, MM & La started on a story titled "Infinitesimal". They planned to take turns at writing and see where the story went. Somewhere in the middle, they lost interest in the whole concept and a half-finished "Infinitesimal" lay languishing in their group blog. Some months later, La suggested I try and make something of the story. So, I picked up from where they left off and the result is this:

INFINITESIMAL [La] Long long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived.... (I'm thinking. what should it be? A cobbler? Nah! Already dealt with. Remember the Shoe-maker and the Elves? A merchant? There are way too many already. King? Queen? Princess? Prince? Sheesh! Even cats are taken! And mice! Have these people thought of everything there can possibly be in a kingdom?! Can't be a woodcutter, and not his son, or daughter. No farmer....hmmm....)... a noble. A noble what, you ask? A noble person, of course! You know one of those people who pretend to work under the king, make lots and lots of money, have tiny little dictatorships all for themselves and own whole villages of slaves? One of those, she was. There was a catch though. We'll come to that later. In another kingdom, farther away than this one, and a longer time ago (Yes, we're time-traveling now), there was an old man (And yes, I have no idea what I'm talking about). He was simply, an old man. There was nothing special about him. He had a wife (who was almost as old as he was) and two children (Who were quite old themselves) and five grandchildren (Who were old enough to be called men and women). All in all, it was an old family (Here, I also mean to imply that the family went way back... in time. Which means that there will always be a longer ago than longer than long, long ago).I think I wouldn't be wrong if I ventured to say that this ancient family had, as strange as it may sound, no heritage. But that didn't matter very much to them. They were quite happy, as a matter of fact. And every member of the family managed to live long and fulfilled lives (Note that I don't say 'happy lives'. That, unfortunately, is quite impossible. Their lives were, if it makes any sense at all, complete. They were all able to look back and be glad that things went the way they did, even if they had gone very wrong). The men and women grandchildren married and had children and grandchildren of their own. And even they managed to live long and fulfilled lives. Except, of course, (There always has to be an exception to break the monotony). One descendant, whose life, although fulfilling, managed to last only thirty years. It was ended by a falling tree. Now this old man, one day, took a walk. He barely took walks. He said he was too old for it. Walks are for the younger, he'd say to his wife. It was a small walk, really. Infinitesimal, you might say. He just went round the house. Once. Shocking! To call that a walk! His grandchildren, who had come visiting, smiled at him through the windows. He smiled back happily. He liked it when they smiled. And he smiled when he liked something. When he was almost at the front door (Which was from where he had begun) he saw a crack in the wall. He stared at it for a while. His old grey eyes followed it all the way from the top of the house to the bottom where it hid in the grass. He shook his head. The house was old as well. When he had looked at it long enough, he walked up to the door and stepped into the house. There were his children, in the living room, talking and smiling at each other; and there, in a snug corner by a bay window, were his grandchildren, reading a book and laughing quietly among themselves. And there, on the deep brown cushiony chair was his white-haired wife, watching them all just like he was. And there, at the back of his mind, gnawing into the front of his mind, was the crack in the wall. He took a few steps forward, making towards the other deep brown cushiony chair, but the crack gnawed a little more until it managed to make a hole big enough to slip into the front of his mind, and then, well, then he just couldn't sit. He sighed a small tired sigh, telling himself that he was simply just too old for this. He turned around slowly, which was the best way at his age. He searched the wall by the door and cursed his old eyes. He took a few steps towards the wall by the door and cursed the walk he had taken. He reached the wall and found a crack on the inside as well, and cursed the crack on the outside. He shook his head once more. The house was getting very old. He had a sudden urge to follow the crack once more. Just to make sure all of it was there, he told himself. He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. There it was, the crack. His eyes followed it all the way down, until it hid behind the elaborately carved (and impossible to dust) chest of drawers. He grunted slightly and bent, with some amount of difficulty, over the chest and looked behind it and shook his head once more. There is was, the accursed crack, going all the way down to the floor. He wouldn't be surprised, he thought, if it went all the way to the other end of the world. And then, just as he was about to lift his head and move away, assuming that the whole purpose of this exercise was over, something glinted. “Hmm” he thought. He looked at it a little while and it glinted back at him. Slowly, he lifted his walking stick and carefully slid it down, and then with a flick of his wrinkled old wrist (which hadn't flicked in quite a while now) he thwacked the glint until it flew out into the open and spun merrily in the sunlight pouring in through the door. It spun and spun, glinting furiously in the sun. He waited till it stopped and then bending down, slowly of course, he picked it up. It was a tiny silver sparrow, almost black with tarnish now, but with a beak and wings made of a white stone that glinted brightly in the light. “What a quaint little thing!” he murmured to himself. “What a quaint little thing!” [MM] The old man stood there in the sun, mesmerized by the quaintness of it all, until a voice in his head (Which, through the years, had begun to sound uncannily like his dear old wife's), told him that his head was throbbing, and it was due to all that sun, and would he like to go inside? The old man did as the voice suggested, still mesmerized, however, by the quaintness. He moved slowly, falteringly, as old men do, until he reached the brown chair that he usually sat on, the one that his wife was not occupying. He lowered himself down on it and stared awhile at its glimmering beak, wondering what eternities it might have seen. He was startled out of his thoughts, by a merry sounding noise. On forcing himself to the present, he realized it to be the laughter of his youngest granddaughter, Louisa. [La] He smiled at her. She wasn't looking at him, of course. She was looking into the book. But he smiled at her anyway, because he had liked that she had laughed and he smiled when he liked something. He went slowly up to his white-haired, almost-as-old-as-him wife in the brown cushiony chair and placed the little silver sparrow quietly on her knee. “Now what is that?” he asked her. “Well!” she exclaimed and then turned her head as best as she could to look at him. To make things easier for her and to ensure a smooth flow of conversation, he seated himself on the other brown cushiony chair which was comfortably near the one she was on. “Where did you find it?” she asked him. “Behind that nuisance of a chest,” he said pointing. She thought it was one of their best buys ever. He thought it was an elaborate mechanism meant to gauge the amount of dust that can be generated over the years. She had hidden a small fact about that chest of drawers from him for a long time though: it was all his idea. She always smiled when he called it nuisance. He had never understood why and he had never asked. She smiled now. “Did you know,” she began, in a tone similar to the one she used while telling little children stories (Her husband always had loved stories and she was excellent telling them, although I, here I ask you to forgive me, butcher them all very ruthlessly, but quite unintentionally and also sorrowfully), “It has been missing for ten years!” she said. The old man's face lit up in interest. “Where did it come from?” he asked, “It glinted at me, like it wanted to tell me something. Looks like you know”. “Your memory is growing old with you, it seems. Mine, however, is as young as it always was. You gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. It has a very beautiful story!” she paused for effect, gazing at his face and enjoying the curious twinkling in his eyes. He could never resist stories! “We had just been married” she continued. “Hear! Hear!” the old man bellowed. His voice had remained just as young as his wife's memory, “Who wants a story?” The entire room dropped into silence and a bird somewhere twittered. The family had inherited his love for stories. “We had just been married.” the old woman said again, addressing her husband because his love for stories gave her the most pleasure while telling them. “And even Mariot hadn't been born yet. You woke up one morning and said, “Would you like to see dolphins?”, and I laughed and asked you what you were talking about. And you replied, “My dear, it’s your birthday the day after. Have you forgotten? We could go on a cruise. I've been saving up for it, you know? You could see dolphins! You have always wanted to.” Oh! How glad I was! How happy! I hugged you and kissed you and thanked you whenever I set eyes on you, which was always because I could never take them off you, how I cried in pleasure. How wonderful it felt to think that you had taken all that trouble for me! We weren't very rich. But you had thought of my birthday in advance. I couldn't wait! Every moment of that day I was thinking what I could do for you that were as wonderful. “But the next day, I think, was the saddest of my life. I was climbing a ladder trying to reach a high shelf. I put my hand in it and felt a dead rat! I screamed and fell on the ground! I tried to sit up but I couldn't! There was a searing pain somewhere and it was so sharp, so deep, I couldn't even tell where it was coming from. But I discovered that it was my ankle. And you discovered that it was broken. How different my tears were then. How utterly sorrowful I became. I could not move, and we could not go to the cruise. You said you would carry me, but I knew I would never be able to enjoy the dolphins with the pain troubling me. And you agreed. We sat together the entire day, mourning our loss.” The old man's face fell. “I have vague rememberings now.” he said and shook his head. “Did we ever see the dolphins?” He had forgotten the glinting sparrow. “Well,” his wife continued, ignoring his question, “I woke up the next day and the curtains were open and bright sunlight was flooding the room. There were flowers everywhere and next to the bed was the most delicious breakfast ever. And you were sitting at the foot of the bed, pretending to read a book.” She smiled lovingly at him. “'Dearest,' you said kissing me on the forehead, 'Happy birthday, my love.', and I was happy again. Later that day, when I was just about to fall asleep, you sneaked out of the house, but very noisily, so I knew you were sneaking. I fell asleep soon after and didn't know when you came back in. But when I woke up, you were there, smiling at me and when I was completely awake, I felt something round my neck. I touched it, and felt it, and took it off to look at it. It was a silver necklace. The purest and most delicate silver there ever was! And hanging from it was the little sparrow.” [MM] At this, the old lady's cheeks colored, and for a moment, a fraction of a moment, she relived the feelings of that special day, felt what she had forgotten. The old man sat still for awhile, simply traveling. The family sat mesmerized, and for a while, each in their own worlds, was lost. [La] Let's go back to the not-so-noble noble. She lived in a palace. She was too elegant and rich for a castle. She felt that castles were graceless and stupid and declared that palaces had an air of beauty and intelligence about them, which reflected her opinion of herself. But I have to admit that she was intelligent and beautiful, and if she hadn't such a cruel dictatorship to take care of, she might have been happy as well. But she didn't know that. Well, deep down she did, but it was too deep down to reach. She thought (Or she thought she thought) that there was something missing in her cruelty and so whenever she became sad or felt insecure, she became crueler, and sadder and more insecure. Poor thing! If only she knew being happy was so simple! No one had the courage to tell her. No, she barely had the courage to tell herself. Because sometimes, when she allowed herself a smile, that thought from deep down came up to the surface for a moment and she knew. But she was too frightened to change. Which, you have to agree, is the case with most people. Routine is the safest, you see, because you know what will happen. Change is frightening because you never know if the result is going to be good or bad. Now, our Noble must have a name. And it must be a beautiful name because she was beautiful. Her palace was called Lightsphere, because it was radiant and had a soft glow about it always. She was beautifuller and more radiant (yes, I know beautifuller isn't a word, but it is so much more expressive, don't you think?). Let's call her Evalea, because I don't remember her real name. She was pale, because she was so sorrowful, but her eyes that were a dark grey but not so dark that one might think them black, shone bright like the evening star, flashing with a forced hatred and anger. Her hair was like the night sky, always shimmering mysteriously and placed in a bun about her head. About her bun there was a glimmering tiara that could be seen shining far, far away if she stood in the sunlight. Her clothes were queenly and her stance proud. She loved light and loved to tease the darkness with laughing candles that chased the shadows around. So, Lightsphere was filled with light during the day and with playful lights and shadows in the night. Everybody in Lightsphere was happy (You see, they were all frightened of Evalea but because they always knew what she wanted and what would make her angry, they rarely ever aroused her temper and the fear mostly lay dormant until called for). But Evalea was afraid. I think I should let you know at this point that this is a fairytale. So, obviously, Evalea was cursed. Cursed, not by a witch or an evil fairy, because we know that such things don't really happen. I think witches are too self-obsessed to bother with cursing other people and fairies are too good to be evil. She was cursed by a horrible experience. When she was a little girl, she was quite normal: laughing like other little girls, playing like other little girls and being happy and sad in amounts similar to other little girls. One day, she had been excessively overjoyed. Because she had found the most beautiful little silver sparrow with beak and wings adorned with white stones that glinted at her, wrapped most exquisitely in red silk and placed in an elegant little wooden box, on her favorite chair. Beneath the wooden box was a pearl white envelope. She had recognized it immediately as one of her dear mother's most precious and most official envelopes, and on it, in her father's handwriting, was her name. It had never looked more beautiful! She opened the envelope carefully and pulled out a letter. “Dear Darling,” it said, “This little sparrow has come down from the ages past. From mother to child it has traveled, and today we give it to you.” and it was signed, “Your most loving parents.” Evalea had shrieked in delight and had stood in front of the mirror admiring it as it hung around her neck on its most delicate engraved chain. And then she had skipped out of her room and into her parents'. But there, she had found a cloaked man with a bloody knife in his hands. Her smile had frozen on her lips, the blood in her face had frozen in her veins and the glimmer was frozen in her eyes and so, though she knew her parents had just been murdered, she still seemed blissful and ecstatic. The cloaked man grinned at her, his white teeth showing through the darkness that overwhelmed his face. “Happy are you?” he said spitefully, “Happy that your parents are dead?” and then he had rushed out, snatching the silver sparrow from her neck. Evalea had no memory of the next year. Only when she was half past her ninth year did she begin living again. She grew up, pale and sorrowful. She became a noble under the king. She built Lightsphere, where everyone was happy. But where she lived in constant terror of gladness. It was said, secretly, by the wise, that the curse could be lifted if only she could have the little silver sparrow again. [V] Belinda was a blonde haired, pigtailed, rosy-cheeked, bespectacled little blob of sunshine. She was the old man and his white haired, almost-as-old-as-him wife's 3rd granddaughter. The daughter of their second son, who was nothing special. He was a normal baby who weighed just about normal at birth. He had a normal childhood that involved getting into occasional fights with his brothers. He had a normal teenage life with lots of moping and even more pimples. He grew up to be a normal man. Got married to a normal girl from a normal family. Throughout his life, he was happily normal. His wife became pregnant. Very normal. But, then, the baby was born. She was the most extraordinary baby he had ever seen. And she was his. He had a very nasty foreboding about the whole affair but there she was - his normal wife, cradling the extraordinary little being they had created, and he smiled though he didn't feel much like smiling. Belinda too had a normal childhood. Much like her parents and her grandparents before them. When she turned sixteen, and nothing abnormal had happened, her father heaved a sigh of relief, secretly. Just a teeny-weeny, most infinitesimal of sighs escaped his mouth. The sigh that shouldn't have been voiced was carried away by the wind to places known only to it and the creatures that no one speaks of. There, the wind, as it had done for hundreds of years, followed its path straight into a system of caves formed by a river that once flowed across the now desolate land. A magnificent system of caves it was. Mighty was the river that once beat the rocks in the bowels of the earth into submission before proceeding to hew them left and right to form a museum of statues that was a mute spectator to the passage of time. There were huge cones of stalagmites that rose from the sandy floor and equally large and sharp-tipped stalactites that hung down from the impossibly high ceiling to meet their cousins. The underground halls of mighty shapes, both grotesque and beauteous to behold, had outlived their creator. Since the river had died, the only visitor the stones had seen was the wind. Now this wind flowed again through the cave, whistling through the cracks in the rocks and weaving in between the lime-leached stalactites & stalagmites. Performing an intricate dance that was so beautiful that had a person walked into the cave just then, he would have sworn that the rocks had a life of their own. He would have been right, of course. Beneath the earth are forces that walk forever in darkness. Beings that are black of heart and so eaten up by malice and spite that they can no longer bear to take a form that is noble and goodly to behold, except when they are upto mischief. But the wind had naught to fear of them. It continued its dance, from one cave to the next, until it reached a cave so great that its ends could not be discerned at all. This cave had wonderful acoustics. The wind entered this majestic cave and blew upwards trying to reach the very top, which of course it didn't. In the process, it made just the right vibrations in the still air to wake up a host of echoes that were magnified a thousand times in the confines of the cave. The sigh-that-should-not-have-been was heard all through the passages of the once indefatigable river. And in the darkness, much deeper in the cave, something awoke. [V] In the village of Cattlesrest (A name derived from the fact that herds of wild cattle, that existed in the northern mountains that could just be seen in the distant horizon, came down to the marshy plains just outside the village for the winter), there lived a tanner. He was a tanner of hides and being in the place that he was, winter happened to be the busiest time of the year. Cattlesrest lay just shy of the Great Trade-cart Road (An engineering marvel. An entire stretch of close to 500 miles that separated Willowdean from the capital Kalaburry paved in bricks of yellow. Kalaburry, itself, was a wondrous sight, being all emerald green in color. But that's another story.) and thus, traders bought all the hides he could cure for the king's armies (After all, there was nothing better than a thick leather padding to stop the chainmail armor from digging into your chest). In winter, at Cattlesrest, the townsfolk helped out their main revenue-generator, the tanner, in rounding up all the straggling, struggling, weak and old cattle. Soon, all the larders in the village would be well-stocked with enough jerked beef to outlast the long, cold, siege that Jack Frost laid annually, while the tanner set to work day and night, with his barrel of lye and stockpile of knives on the freshly skinned hides. During these long hours of work, his son, was a great help. Yorick, he was called. But, Boy, he was to his father. The tanner had found him one cold morning, a little baby, hardly a year old, wrapped up in leather sheets he'd left to dry overnight by the fire in his shed. Quite abandoned, the baby was. He took him in and called him “Boy”. Yorick grew up under the tanner's watchful eye into a strong lad, quite short for his age, but of commanding presence nevertheless. When he turned 14, he became his father's apprentice and successor. The Boy was every bit as talented as his father at working with leather. It did the old tanner proud to watch his boy deftly cut through the tough hide and slap the exact quantity of lye on it, just enough to burn out the hair on it. There was no doubt in the tanner's heart that he had done well in raising a fine son. One winter, when Yorick was twenty-three and a bane to all the fathers in the village with daughters who were young maidens, there was heard a sound that was heard only but once a year in Cattlesrest. A sound that a first-time listener would liken to an avalanche bearing down the snow-capped mountains to the curious accompaniment of a band of drummers all playing the side-drum. It was the sound of the Great Migration. A thousand head of shaggy-maned cattle, rumbling down from the snowy foothills like a wave of muddy brown water. So closely packed together that their curved horns clicked and clacked against their neighbors. Upon hearing the most welcome sound, the deserted looking village suddenly became a hornets' nest of buzzing activity. The old people gathered their shawls about them and began reminiscing about That Winter 40 years ago when the village had been snowed-in for 3 weeks. The hardy men who had braved over 30 winters put on their woolens with a mechanical efficiency that clearly stated they had done this before. The younger men, like Yorick, were visibly excited. For most, it would be their first or second cattle round up. The women of the village began stoking their fires and cleaning out their ovens in anticipation of all the meat that would be in their kitchens in just a few more hours. The children shrieked and ran around getting in everyone's way because they knew the sound meant full larders and pantries. The village butcher grumbled and began sharpening his array of wicked-looking knives. The dratted sound only meant sleepless nights of work for him. The men all met up at the town's square which was a sturdy and squat well, the town's only source of water (The marsh, of course, had lots of waterholes. But, these were generally avoided because they usually made the drinker sick. But the cattle made do with them throughout the winter leading to the coining of the phrase “Fit for a cow.” to express disgust at something that had been offered.). Armed with ropes (and a few pitchforks to goad an occasional stubborn old bull), the villagers set out in 4 teams that enjoyed a friendly rivalry to return with the biggest haul. Yorick and his team set out from the east and decided to walk around the village hugging the nearest of the hills, and so eventually, come upon the cattle from the north-east. As they walked, they engaged in playful banter. The younger men boasting of their bedroom conquests while the older (and wiser) ones discussed the possibility of this year's catch being better than the previous one. All of a sudden, it started snowing heavily. The sky grew pitch black and a blizzard started blowing. The men could hardly see their own hands in front of them, let alone their teammates. They trudged along in what they thought was a straight line, hoping they were almost at the foothills where they could shelter from the storm. They kept on walking, falling, picking themselves up, walking, falling again, up, dragging their feet. No one could see the others. Yorick never knew when he got separated from his group or if they were still alive. But suddenly, he got the feeling that he was quite alone in the hailstorm. He cried out his friends' names but received no answer. The young lad, decided to turn around and make his way back to the village. But, which way was back? He was utterly lost and spent. He had no more energy. He felt hopeless. He called out one last time. No reply. He felt a chill go up his spine. He felt all his hopes being drained out of his body along with the warmth. His thoughts went to the pretty young thing that was the carpenter's daughter. When he got back home, he would tell her how he felt about her. He concentrated hard on the soft lines of her face. Then blackness took him. [V] The room was silent. As each member of the family digested the story that the old lady had just narrated. Louisa was enthralled by the shiny, spinning little bird and reached out for it. Her grandma smiled at her blue eyes that were now wide open with fascination. Gently, she lowered the pendant onto the tiny little hand that reached out for it. “Here Precious” she said, “Before you came into my life, this sparrow was my most prized possession. Now you shall have it because you have replaced it in my heart.” Louisa was but a child and the words had a huge impact on her. She vowed, there and then, that the pendant would become an heirloom, to be passed on to her daughter, and her daughter after her. As time went by, Louisa grew up to become a woman of most exquisite beauty. She was as clever as she was beautiful and many a young man tried his hand at wooing her, but in vain. As she grew, her resolve also grew. She wore the pendant about her neck on a thin, engraved chain of pure silver and never took it off. One day it so happened that Louisa chanced upon a tribe of Utopeks camping in the field where she usually went to pick flowers. The field was owned by no one. It was just there all by itself. A lonely thing away from civilization. As if to make up for her error, nature had blessed the field with the most amazing variety of flowers. There were flowers that didn't grow anywhere else (People had tried uprooting the plants and planting them in their gardens, but the plants just died if they were taken away from the field. In the end, the people of the town just gave up). There were blue flowers that resembled umbrellas. Red ones that smelt different to every single person who sniffed at them. Tiny pink ones with 3 petals each. Little purple ones that looked like shirt buttons. There were exotic flowers that had never been named. There were common ones like roses and dahlias. Rare orchids showed themselves in patches here and there. Cowslips bloomed like madness in the spring. Oh, the scents were so wonderful that one couldn't stop taking in deep breaths. This kingdom of the petalled beings was visited by insects of every kind imaginable. Pink earthworms dove in and out of the rich brown soil not unlike dolphins in the deep blue sea. Beetles and ants roamed the undergrowth minding their own businesses. The bees seemed to buzz extra-loudly, as if to say they were in heaven. Pretty, colorful butterflies flitted from one flower to the next, quite confused where to start. That particular day, Louisa had made her way to the field in the afternoon deciding that a bouquet of asters would be just the thing to cheer up grandma whose rheumatism had been troubling her lately. But, when she got there, she halted all of a sudden in her tracks, quite surprised at the sight that met her eyes. Utopeks! In Her beloved field! They better not have trampled a single flower or she'd tell them what! Utopeks are a nomadic race. No one knows where they came from originally. The people of the kingdom had only heard of them in the last thousand years or so. It was popular belief that the nomads were seekers of a place of beauty and calm, where everything lived in harmony with everything else. They were the seekers of Utopia. That's how they came to be called Utopeks, although they have a name for themselves in their own tongue. It was generally thought that the nomads came in from the desert in the far north. Beyond the high and cold mountains. Of the desert's existence, no one knew. Scholars had argued the point extensively and had arrived at no conclusions. The Utopeks could tell them a lot about the desert, if only they would. The Utopeks were a close-mouthed people. They didn't bother anyone and they let no one bother them. They tended to be dark-skinned, with a round head surmounted by a mop of floppy hair which came in a variety of shades of blacks or browns. They were mostly shorter than was normal in the kingdom and had broad shoulders and almost no necks. The Utopeks traveled in caravans that were usually made up by an extended family. The man took a single wife in his lifetime and marriage was a lifetime commitment. Each time a marriage took place, both families would join together to form one bigger band. There have been instances where eyewitnesses had seen over 400 caravans traveling together. The caravans were two-wheeled, two-ox driven contraptions. The home of an Utopek was his caravan. The houses were cylindrical in shape with a thatched roof. The Utopeks weren't like gypsies. They were a proud lot and never caused anyone else discomfort if it could be helped. Honor was held in high esteem and any dishonor made by an outsider would be an invitation for vengeance by the entire tribe. Now it was one such tribe that Louisa came across that day. She had only heard of Utopeks from her grandpa. And here she was, walking into a campful of them. She could count close to 80 of them. Nomads of all ages were staring at her curiously. The little children who had been playing merrily on a patch of grass ran to the safety of their mothers and peered at her from behind the confines of their mothers' long skirts. Across the clearing from her, was the biggest caravan. A huge mountain of a man sat in front of it on a cane chair. He looked resplendent in multicolored, patterned, robes. In his left hand, he held a bamboo cane, about 11 inches long, as a king might grasp his scepter. His right hand, she realized with a jolt, was just a stub. “Their leader” said her brain, quite unnecessarily, as she walked up to him. As the gap closed between them, she could make out his facial features. The wide nostrils, the wise brown eyes that twinkled with many summers' worth of knowledge and experience. The high brow that signified a man in command of himself and those under his care. Then, she focused beyond him and realized there were two men standing behind him. “Probably his bodyguards” she said to herself as she began to examine them. The one on her left was nothing extraordinary. “A typical Utopek from what I can see” she thought as she crossed three quarters of the clearing. Her eyes roved to other bodyguard. She stopped short. He was most definitely not an Utopek! [V] Willowdean was originally a trading outpost. It was at the tip of a tiny peninsula and had a coastline dotted with coves and inlets that made for natural harbors. About 80 years before Lightsphere was even conceived by its maker and mistress, the port city of Willowdean was a sandy and breezy little hamlet. Quaint and summery it looked throughout the year. The docks consisted of a rickety wooden pier and a couple of warehouses. To the left of the dock area was fish market where reasonably fresh fish could be bought for the modest sum of 3 Huckles (Fresh fish wasn't a guarantee because the town's only fishermen were a couple of aging old men. Not strange considering the city started as a conglomerate of 7 families and 4 bachelors). Deep grooves were etched in the sand between the pier and the warehouses, marking the millions of trips the only wheelbarrow in town had made up and down. Parallel to the ugly pier ran the only street in the Shangri-la. It was simply called Main Street. Like the rest of the town, it was dusty and sandy. Each time the wind blew, it blew more sand onto the stoeps of the wooden cottages that lined up on both sides of the street. The grocer, the farmer, the carpenter, the blacksmith, the fishermen (who happened to be twins), the innkeeper and the dockmaster (who had been mayor for as long as anyone could remember) were heads of the 7 founding families. There were also a couple of young lads who were assistants to the blacksmith and the dockmaster. One of the remaining two men worked for the farmer while the other worked as a postmaster and a doctor of sorts. Everyone lived in perfect harmony. One fine day, when the dockmaster and his protégé had just finished putting the last of the tradeboat's cargo into the warehouse and were wishing the captain of the boat a safe journey back to wherever he came from, the sky darkened. Thunderclouds gathered in the distant horizon, black and forbidding. The captain hurriedly put to sail and was soon lost around the bend in the coastline. The lad carefully locked the warehouses while the mayor-cum-dockmaster stared at the assembling clouds with knitted brows that were heavy with a foreboding he could not explain. “Hurry up, me lad! The sooner we get indoors, the better.” he cried as he felt an ice cold hand grip his heart and freeze it. He turned around to see his apprentice shivering, with a fear of something he didn't know or couldn't explain. He gathered up all the courage he could muster and half pulled the boy behind him as they made their way back to their houses through the deserted main street. The storm broke over the tiny hamlet with a fury of biblical proportions. The wind whistled down the chimneys making so dreadful a noise that children began to cry in fear and could not be pacified. The rain came in torrents and even managed to get into the chimneys making spluttering and fizzing noises upon coming into contact with the fiercely burning flames of the fire. The world outside the tightly shut windowpanes seemed blurred with the entire deluge that fell on them. Time went past ever so slowly that night. Or so thought the mayor. He was seated on his straight-backed wooden chair beside the fire positioned so that the blazing heat would directly flow over his toes. But tonight, as he heard the wind howling mercilessly, he could feel no warmth. He looked around at his family. His wife was at her rocking chair, wrapped in a multitude of shawls that made her already ballooning figure seem even more rotund. He managed a smile at the thought of being a father again. “What was it the doctor had said? Six more weeks to go.” A frown replaced the fleeting smile once more. She looked cold. So did his daughter. She was sitting by her mother on the carpet practicing her knitting, a vision of loveliness. Except for the fact that her teeth were chattering. His eyes turned to his son. He frowned. The young boy was sitting calmly in the far corner of the room, removed from the impromptu family gathering like he wasn't a part of it. A gust of chilly wind came down the chimney reminding him of how cold the room seemed. He got up and walked to the stock of wood beside the fireplace and threw in a bundle of faggots. The dry wood was greeted with a roar from the fire and was immediately engulfed in a fiery embrace. He stoked the flames to raise them higher. As he walked back to his chair, he glanced at his son again. The boy was as he had been all evening. Motionless. Devoid of all emotions. Just crouching there in the corner. Only his eyes showed any signs of life. They searched the room in erratic circles. Roving all the time. Like he was looking for something he knew was right in front of him but yet, couldn't see. As he stared at his son, he noticed the boy suddenly stiffening up. He closed his eyes. Suddenly he opened them. He was staring right back at his father. The mayor couldn't tear his eyes off the boy's. The mayor had the most uncomfortable feeling that he was staring into a black abyss from which nothing could escape. Still he could not break the gaze. The two of them continued the macabre joust of willpower which went on happening unknown to the two women sitting by the fireplace. Again, the mayor felt a chill running down his spine. He could feel the goosebumps popping up all over his back. He could feel the hair on his arms stand straight. He was petrified. The boy blinked. He looked away. The tension broke. The mayor bent his head and gulped in great lungfuls of air. When he looked back up, the boy was again glancing around the room furtively. He didn't seem to notice his father anymore. The mayor sat back in his chair again, quite perturbed by the proceedings. “Maybe tomorrow will be different. It’s the storm, that's all. My mind is playing tricks on me,” he thought to himself. The next day dawned sunny as usual. Wet puddles on the front porches and palm leaves strewn around messily were the only signs of the previous night's storm. The town's businessmen were opening their shops and inspecting them for any damage. The mayor & dockmaster's apprentice was walking to his master's as usual to collect the keys to the warehouse. He would have to climb up to the rafters to check if the roof was still all there. He detested the very thought of the job. He hated heights. Meanwhile, the shopkeepers were waving at each other and pronouncing their happiness at the little or no damage suffered by their property. The grocer had invited the carpenter over to his store to repair a broken shingle when the dockyard assistant came running out of the mayor's house screaming something fearful. He was incoherent. Crying like a baby. Tearing out his hair and beating his chest. Finally, the ring of curious onlookers was able to catch a single word as he ranted and raved, “Dead...” he said. And he collapsed. The blacksmith ran into the mayor's house closely followed by the rest of the town's adults. They walked in to find a scene of slaughter greeting them. The mayor's little girl's neck was slit rather clumsily and the carpet was red with her young, bright blood. The mayor himself was just behind the half-opened door, preventing it from being opened completely. He had a meat cleaver stuck in the small of his back. His eyes were open to the heavens as if begging for help. The rocking chair was overturned. At one end of the carpet lay the mayor's wife. Her arms at an unnatural angle behind her back. There were multiple stab wounds on her stomach and abdomen. Her womb had been ravaged. Shredded. Her glassy eyes showed an utter, devastating sadness in death. Three dead people and an unborn child. The mayor's son's raincoat wasn't in its hook. The boy himself... was missing. [V] His first thought was that he was awake. Or so he hoped. He was being tossed side to side, but gently. It was calming. His eyes refused to open. He could feel his eyelids gummed shut with secretions from his own eyes. He had been in a deep sleep, he surmised. Since his eyes weren't obeying him, he decided to try his nose. He smelt burning paraffin, but not much. His brain told him it was probably from a lamp. He let the thought go away and tried to use his limbs. They felt heavy. Like they weren't his at all. Strange. Either he was too tired, or there was a layer of something covering his body. He moved a finger with great difficulty. Both, he decided. He lay like that for a few minutes. He could hear some muted clanking. Someone was near. Someone was being extremely quiet. He wanted to know where he was. He had a hundred questions running in his head. He wanted to be disconcerted, disoriented and scared. But his brain told him being all three would be impossible and asked him to choose. He didn't feel like weighing his options. So he decided to be none at all. He finally managed to open his left eye an inch. He stared. A thatched roof! The surprise was too much. He opened his other eye and stared. Yes, it was a thatched roof all right. Straw and all. He turned his head to his left. A paraffin lamp. No surprise there. His head turned to its right. He could discern a squatting figure busy pottering around. He groaned. The figure jumped up and turned. His eyes widened in surprise. He wanted to scream but he didn't have enough strength. The figure was an old woman, about sixty years old or maybe a hundred and sixty. She seemed agelessly old and wrinkled. She had a deep, nut brown complexion. Now who would have a skin colored like that? He searched his mind. Scattered thoughts raced to the front of his mind. He pushed the ones that weren't helpful back to where he summoned them from. Suddenly, it all made sense. The thatched roof, the skin color, the rolling motion, everything. He was with an Utopek! Now, he decided, was the time to be disconcerted. Where there was one Utopek, there were many, many more. If half the stories the travelers narrated about the nomadic tribe were true, he was as good as dead. Maybe they wouldn't let his death be a drawn out one. The old woman came back into his line of vision. She wore a long skirt and a horizontal piece of cloth to cover her now useless breasts and a toothless grin. In her hands, she held a bowl. She offered it to him along with a string of unintelligible words. But the gesture was unmistakable. Drink, is what she said. He was too thirsty to argue or to inquire about what was being offered. He allowed her to pour the liquid down his open mouth. It tasted of pepper and a lot of herbs he was unfamiliar with. It burnt his throat going down and almost immediately, he felt gases rising up from the depths of his belly. He burped. The old hag seemed pleased. She smiled even wider, showing blackened gums. Again he heard her babbling. He gathered his strength and sat up. It took some effort. His companion chided his urgency but helped him sit up anyway. Now, he could look around himself. He did so with much interest. Every time he focused on something, his nurse would point at it and speak at length about it in a language he could not understand. When he felt strong enough, he moved and positioned himself against the wall of the caravan. His caretaker stood up and motioned him to stay where he was. He assured her he had no intentions of moving anymore. She didn't understand him anymore than he did her. She instead repeated her action and opened the flap of the cylindrical, moving, hut and called out to someone. He heard some other voices and presently, the old woman was joined by a young man about the same age as him. The new entrant was typically Utopek-looking, shorter than the patient but much more stocky and with bulging muscles that spoke of backbreaking work done on a regular basis. He smiled. It was a genuine smile. One that lit up his face and made him look handsome. The flap was thrown aside again. The person who climbed in was regal in every sense of the word. A great bear of a man. He spoke, “How are you feeling?” The convalescent was taken aback. He spoke in the speech of the kingdom! “F--Fine...” he managed to stammer. The chief smiled kindly, “What's your name?” he asked. “Yorick” came the reply. [V] It was raining. Heavily. As if the gods had decided to quench all the fires of Hell in one go. It was a mighty storm. And he was running. Running through the single street that cut through the seaside hamlet that was Willowdean. He would have to be mad to leave the cozy confines of his home and come out in the middle of a downpour like this. But then, he wasn't sane. Not anymore. He didn't know what came over him twenty minutes ago. What possessed him to do it? A madness had taken over his mind. His actions weren't under his control. Yet, strangely, he felt a savage satisfaction in the depths of his heart as he cast his mind back at the scene that had taken place not so long ago in his house. He had just murdered, no slaughtered, his parents and sister. He had loved the feeling of power the knife in his hand had given him. He was the judge, the jury and the executioner. He was all-powerful. It was fearful. Almost unnatural, he thought. He had severed ties with the only people who cared for him. He had renounced civilization itself in doing so. Yet, snuffing the life out from someone else's body had given him immense pleasure. His frail little body tingled with anticipation, hoping he could do it again. Sometime soon, he assured his eager mind. He realized he was crying. Not with sorrow. But with the excitement of a hunter who had just caught his prey. He thirsted for the feel of a dagger in his hand again. He was an addict, taking lives was his drug. So, he kept running. Away from his past. When daylight came and the deluge subsided, he ran some more. Now, he was running. Away from his house, his town. Running away from everything he knew. [V] It had been two years. Two years since that fateful winter morn in Cattlesrest. Yorick let his mind drift back to his younger days in the trading town. He realized with a jolt it wasn't very often that he did that. Not these days. It wasn't as if his childhood was traumatic. It was just that - he was happy. Happy to be where he was, sitting at the driver's box of the little caravan at the back of the long line of similar cylinders-on-wheels. He remembered the questioning he had been subjected to by the chief and his honor-brother Rezeekh the day he woke up to find himself in Rezeekh's caravan. Rezeekh told him they had found him in the middle of nowhere. As far as they knew it, there wasn't a settlement close to 200 Kopthefs from where he was found, half dead from the cold and numb with frostbite. He had been in a fevered sleep for close to two weeks after they loaded him onto Rezeekh's caravan and left him under his mother's care. Initially, Yorick had been obstinate and demanded to be taken back to where he had been rescued. His commands were met by deaf ears. The chief flatly told him they had already traveled 4000 Kopthefs from that godforsaken place and they weren't going back there on any account. By this time, the wagon train was traveling through some of the most breath-taking landscapes Yorick had ever set eyes upon. As panorama upon panorama swept by his side, he dropped his unfriendly attitude and let the traveler in him take over. Since then, he had won the support and respect of his hosts in various matters (The Adventures of Yorick Wolfslayer will not be narrated at this juncture as they happen to be a large body of works on their own and trying to fit them in here wouldn't do them any justice). Yorick was now an adopted member of the Turtledove tribe of Utopeks with all the rights as was accorded to a birth-member. He had proved his valor and ingenuity time and again. He and Rezeekh were honor-brothers now on account of Yorick saving Rezeekh’s life on one occasion and Rezeekh paying back the favor during a separate incident (The concept of honor-brother goes thus- If two tribesmen owe their lives to each other, it is believed that they now share a bond for eternity. A bond stronger than one shared by blood brothers. Custom demands that each of the pair acts as a vouchsafe for the other's honor and integrity. If one of the pair is shamed in any way, it falls upon the other to regain the honor. Similarly, even if one brother dishonors the clan in any way, both the brothers will face exile together until they have paid their debts). As both Yorick and Rezeekh were the best warriors in the clan, they held the prestigious position of being the chief's bodyguards. With the responsibility of guarding the chief with their lives, came the respect from the entire tribe and monetary benefits. Yorick, Rezeekh and his mother were second only to the chief in terms of wealth. The chief enjoyed the company of the two youths and took their counsel before arriving at any decision. Yes, Yorick was happy. He was contented with his family (immediate and extended), his job, and his life. Now, Yorick sat at the head of the little caravan he shared with Rezeekh and his mother. He stared at the majestic, windblown, sandstone cliffs that the wagon train was passing by without actually drinking in the beauty of the scene. His mind was wandering, far away. Far northward. Back to Cattlesrest. He felt a pang of yearning when he remembered his tiny bedroom. He could visualize the scene quite clearly. He was in his bedroom, on his bed. He got out of bed and looked in the mirror behind the door. The face of a lanky twelve-year old stared back at him. His hand reached for the doorknob. He was in the living room now. The fire was burning brightly in the far side of the room, crackling at times when a bit of still liquid sap started to burn. To the right side, facing the wall, sat his father, at the rickety table. “Papa!” he cried, running upto the seated figure. He jumped into the man's lap as he stuck an arm out to invite the boy into his embrace. “What are you doing, Papa?” enquired Yorick, even though he could very well see that his father was working on one of his handmade leather purses. Yorick admired his father's work as the tanner deftly embroidered the bag with the practiced fingers of an artiste. The mooing of his team of oxen broke through his reverie. He smiled ruefully as his mind tried to desperately hold on to his daydream. But it was gone. As of now, a moment past. Just like his own past life, it had gone with the wind. The same wind that now ruffled his shoulder-length brown hair. His house was about the only thing that he still had memories of thought Yorick. Cattlesrest was just a name. A name that meant nothing to him. He couldn't remember much about the town itself. Nor its people. Not even the pretty girl he was sure he'd have ended up marrying had he still been there. Her face was hazy in his mind's eye. Like a picture frame that's been held so close to the face that the glass becomes all foggy with the viewer's breath. Come to think of it, he couldn't even tell her name offhand. Rezeekh made his way from the front and approached his brother. Yorick moved to make room for him. The sturdy young man clambered over onto the box and reached for the stoppered hollowed-out gourd that contained water. He quenched his thirst and spoke, “We're nearing a village, and the chief says there are lots of fields for us to settle down. He reckons we'll stay here for a couple of weeks. The oxen need some rest.” Yorick grunted his approval. Soon, the village came into view far ahead. To their right, were glorious green swards. Yorick's breath caught in his throat as they neared the fields. He had never seen so many flowers in one place before. “This has got to be Utopia” breathed Yorick. [V] The creature awoke from its deep slumber. It was disoriented for a moment. Its prehistoric brain sluggishly took in the dark and muted surroundings. Slowly, the creature's multiple compound eyes registered the craggy wall of solid rock in front of it. As the eyes adjusted to the now unfamiliar brain impulses, the creature noticed the tiny rills formed by the remnants of the once powerful river. The creature's ears noted the steady drip-drip of infinitesimally small droplets of water falling from a nearby overhang and splashing onto the sandy floor which eagerly gobbled up the liquid like a parched desert traveler. The creature wondered what caused it to wake up. It cursed it, whatever it was, in its own fashion. The Universe holds many secrets from its inhabitants. Sentient beings that exploit one miniscule portion of its vast confines don't even have an inkling of what it is conspiring. The very randomness that defines the Universe leads to infinite possibilities. ([La, as told to V] Troglodytes are cave-dwelling creatures. They look like overgrown scorpions minus the stinger and the poison. That is, no physical poison. Troglodytes have the power of being able to wish death upon whoever they perceive as threats. [V] Since the Universe in one of its inexplicable random ordering blessed the Troglodytes with such awesome a power, the laws governing the Universe and all its creations decided to limit the number of these creatures to a precious few. These few Troglodytes that exist are so widely spread out in the space-time continuum that the chances of a pair coupling to conceive progeny are very slim. Therefore, the few living beasts that still remain are long-living beings that shun the light and prefer a hermit-like existence. They spend most of their lives asleep, in perpetual hibernation, so much so that the rest of the world has almost completely forgotten about them.) ([La] For those who don't know, Troglodytes look mostly like scorpions. Except they glow in the dark and can kill you by just wishing it. Which is why running away from one of them is of no use whatsoever. You might as well just go as near as you dare and squish it before it wishes you were dead. Frighteningly enough, they do that quite often. A troglodyte once committed suicide by wishing a whole park it was in dead. Troglodytes live in caves, and hence their name). Now, the ancient beast had been disturbed from its century-long slumber. It growled in anger as its stomach growled with hunger. It finally moved a jointed limb and tested the sandy floor with trepidation. It smelled the air around for signs of life. It searched for any hint of a possible prey it could appease its hunger on. Finding none, it cursed whatever woke it up again. Suddenly, it remembered. The magnified sigh! The accursed emotion, so full of love that the father had for his daughter. The sigh that signaled the utterer's smugness at having an ordinary daughter. The ancient monster directed all its hate at the sigher so far away who had dared to disturb its fitful slumber. Far, far away, the second son of the old couple suddenly felt as if the whole world had gone totally, utterly wrong. [V] The old man tottered into Willowdean on the fine morning. The whole world seemed gay and happy. He detested it. He detested everything and everyone. Especially if they were happy. He stared around, bleary eyed, at the town where he had spent his childhood. He could scarcely recognize the labyrinth of stone it had become. He preferred jungles of a different kind, one with more trees than this one. He tripped on a cobblestone as he walked and fell down. The butcher from across the street looked up from his work and frowned. Clearly, he disapproved of the drunken old man. The stranger picked himself up and noted a small crowd staring at him. They all had faces that expressed mild disgust or mirth. Some were pointing at him and openly laughing. The drunkard shook a fist at the townsfolk and turned back, muttering to himself. The laughter grew louder as he walked away, out the town's gates. “They'll pay for this. They all will... They all do.” whispered the old man to himself. “Always” he added, almost as an afterthought. He staggered about not really moving forward, until he heard the clip-clop of a horse. He half-turned around and found himself on the ground with the wind fairly knocked out of him. “Sorry about that! I'm in a hurry! I'm Tristam, the mayor. Come over to my house and I'll make sure you are compensated. Maybe a good meal and...” the horseman shouted until he could no longer be heard. The drunkard had heard enough. His rage boiled over. If there was one thing in the whole world he enjoyed more than drinking rotgut, it was killing. He survived because he killed. Mostly, it was a necessity. He needed his victims' purses. Sometimes, it was just pure feral pleasure. “The mayor, huh?” his bloodshot eyes narrowed at the thought and crinkled at the corners. He smiled. His canines taking centrestage. “Not my first one.” he said softly, as he unsteadily stood up and slowly wobbled back to where he knew the mayor's house would be. [V] It had been close to a fortnight since the Utopek tribe first came to her field. These days, she often thought about that magnificent day she first set eyes on him. There he had been, so strong and silent, so self assured, behind his chief. She thanked her stars again for bringing him to her. “Lou?” Yorick called softly from where he lay next to her in the midst of a sward of two-foot high elephant grass, the tops of which swayed in the gentle breeze giving the appearance of a quilt being dusted. Louisa propped herself up on one elbow and turned enquiringly toward the handsome face just inches from her own. It required all her self control to stop herself from just rolling into his arms. “Stop it! Now's not the time, Lou!” she chided herself. “Lou?” said the deep bass voice again, breaking into her thoughts. She looked into his dark brown eyes and immediately regretted it. A slight twist at the corner of his lips told her he knew exactly what was going through her head. She could feel her cheeks heating up as the blood rushed into them. She was pretty sure he noticed the blush. “Look at the clouds, Lou” he said breaking the comfortable silence, “They make such wonderful patterns”. She gladly fell back to the ground and studied the masses of vapor high above them. “What shape do you think that is? Looks like an eagle to me” said Yorick. She followed his pointing finger with her eyes and replied that she thought the cumulus looked more like a ship. “But then, that's the beauty of it all. They can be whatever shape you want them to be. You only have to imagine them.” she quipped almost innocently. She waited for him to laugh at her childish notion. But instead, she heard him say, “I know what you mean.” She realized, at that moment, she was going to spend the rest of her life with him. Yorick and Louisa were married while on the road. The wagon train stopped at a picturesque little spring bubbling out of the rocks and into a small pool surrounded by deep green colored vines from which erupted bright red berries. Louisa was formally adopted into the flock and a new, tiny but snug caravan was built for the newlyweds as a present from the entire tribe. Close to a year later, in spring, Louisa gave birth to a pretty baby girl. They decided to name her Clelia. [V] Belinda was sixteen years old. Very normal, or so her parents thought. But, Belinda wasn't normal. No, she had a gift (Or a curse, depending on which way you looked at it). Belinda was born with a strange disease. But no one knew about it. Not her old grandparents, not her parents, nor she herself. Belinda had a cancer. She didn't age. Well, she did. But not as quickly as everyone else around her. As a result, she looked like she was just ten when she was supposed to look sixteen. As a result, she was picked on by all the other children of her age (Sometimes quite literally. Her friends loved to pick her up and play catch with her as a substitute for a ball). Belinda didn't mind. She was glad she had friends who didn't ridicule her for her babyish looks. They did marvel at her tiny frame but she managed to convince them she was “petite”. Belinda was happy. That was when her father inadvertently sighed waking up the Troglodyte. The beast cursed the reason the sigh was uttered. This, of course, was Belinda. By all rights, she should have dropped dead right then, when the creature thought out its curse. But, the cancer in her prevented it from happening. Instead, for some inexplicable quirk of the Universe, it turned out to be her lot to live long and watch and suffer as all her near and dear passed away, to the next realm. Belinda grew up (Quite slow, due to the cancer) and was betrothed to a neighbor’s son who she had known as a child. She was happily married. She remained happy for a short period of time. The winter after her cousin Louisa left with the Utopek tribe, disaster struck. Her grandfather, now, a really old man died while he attempted to climb a stool with some wet clay in his hand in order to plaster a crack in the wall of his old house. A couple of weeks later, his almost-as-old-as-him wife, her grandmother, died with a broken heart. On her death bed, she called out to Belinda and asked her if she could have one last glimpse of the silver sparrow (Which was, of course, dangling on a thin silver chain around Louisa's neck at least a thousand Kopthefs away). Belinda asked her to wait till Louisa came back and pretended that her cousin had merely gone to the field to pick flowers for a bouquet for her grandmother as usual. The old woman looked at Belinda with sad eyes and pointed at the vase by her bedside. “It has been bare for close to a year now, Linda”. She sounded so disappointed with her granddaughter. Then she pulled her hand out of Belinda's grasp and followed her husband to the wide open spaces beyond the horizon. Within a year, Belinda's parents also passed away peacefully in their sleep. Three months later, her husband was thrown off a horse and fell to his death. Her life was one of misery. She was stuck with her mother-in-law who didn’t care overmuch for her. Belinda made enough to support the two of them by enlisting as a maid in the milk dairy down the lane and by working as a sweep in the village pub. Those were tough times and Belinda found out she was pregnant. Upon hearing this bit of news, her mother-in-law abandoned her and went to live with some relatives of hers in the capital. Alone and poor, Belinda was stuck at home with no one to care for her. As the days passed, she ran out of all her savings and had nothing to barter for food. That was when she decided to forgo whatever was left of her pride and went begging on the streets. In this manner, she stayed alive till she entered her ninth month of pregnancy. From then on, it became tougher as the winter set in and people no longer took to the streets, but stayed at home instead. For days, she went hungry. Too cold to move from where she was, huddled under a threadbare blanket that had more holes in it than could be patched up. Then one day, she could no longer bear the pangs of hunger and decided to go find something to eat. She wore whatever clothes she still owned as a token protection against the cold. She ventured outside and immediately shivered with the sudden bite of searing cold wind. She roamed the streets for hours in vain. There was no one outside. “Only a madman or someone desperate would be outside at this time of the year” thought Belinda. “But then,” she surmised, “I'm probably both”. Then, she felt her water break. She would need help. Her breath became labored. Her chest heaved with each gasp of frigid air she inhaled. She was at the end of her tether. She could feel herself snapping. She definitely needed help! Suddenly, she made up her mind. In front of her was the dairy owner's cottage. She ran towards it as fast as she could with the baby kicking in her overlarge womb. She knocked on the sturdy oak door, frantically, with frost-bitten fingers. She leant against the door and panted. Pain. Her head ached. She lurched, her head spinning. Her limbs felt leaden. She heard the door creak open. She heard a woman gasp. She lifted her head up to take a look at the woman. The vision swam before her tired eyes. She fell forward. She was unconscious before she touched the hands that reached out to grab her before she hit the floor. [V] Belinda sat at the doorstep of the cottage of the milk dairy owner. She was churning butter from a large tub at her feet. As she twirled the flanged stick between her palms, she watched her son play among the cows he was supposed to be herding. Her boss, Mr.Cudchuer was a kindly gentleman who had listened to her tale of woe with a sympathetic ear and suggested that she and her son live with them. The boiler room was nothing compared to her room in her husband's house, but at least it was warm during the winter. The child also seemed to find comfort in the piping and gurgling sounds the boiler made while it supplied hot water to the faucets around the cottage. Belinda was 30 years old but she hardly looked a day older than 22. Dressed like a milkmaid scarf and all, she definitely warranted the second glances she got from many of the eligible bachelors in town. But, Belinda somehow knew that she would only bring sadness to the people she got close to. Besides, her only worry was whether her streak of bad luck would affect her son. For this reason, as soon as the boy was old enough, she got Mr.Cudchuer to give him jobs that would require him to stay away from her. It broke her heart to not be able to experience all the joys of motherhood. But, it was for his good. However, there were times like right now, that she couldn't but help it. She had to hold him in her arms and convey all her love in a hug. “Tristam! Come, I have some fresh butter for you” she called out. The boy stopped chasing a black cow with white patches at the rump and came running to his mother. The cow harrumphed with disgust and mooed to show its indignation. Belinda hugged Tristam tightly and held him there for a long time while he licked his fingers clean. Then, she held him by his shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. She could see her own sad, brown eyes lined by heavy eyelids reflected in his clear blue ones. “It must be done. For his own good. I will speak to the boss about this matter.” she thought to herself. Then she broke down and cried while the confused boy tried to find out what had pained his mother so. [V] It was almost time for breakfast. Almost, but not quite. The hooded figure lay motionless in the thicket as it studied the homestead located in the wadi in front of it. The bright, crazed eyes that shined with a bestial intensity under the thick woolen hood were mere slits under heavy lids. They were the eyes of a predator. Eyes that would put a stalking leopard in its prime to shame. They watched the stuccoed cottage with interest as the inhabitants went about their business with no knowledge of the visitor they had. The eyes noted with a glee that there were only a three residents. That too, aside from the mayor, there was a woman and a child. There was a sudden glint as the reflection from a windowpane of a window being opened by the little girl caught the watcher's white teeth as he grinned wolfishly, displaying his sharp canines. He fantasized puncturing the little girl's soft neck with his pointy canines. He wouldn't do it, of course. But he had to admit it; it was a very exciting idea. He could imagine the feel of her hot young blood as it seeped from her veins and onto his tongue. The metallic taste, he could almost taste. He shook his head to clear out the daydream and went back to examining the layout of the cottage and its immediate surroundings. Soon, he spied the man and his woman in their bedroom. They were engrossed in some discussion. The man placed his hand on the woman's in a gesture of love. The watcher spat on the ground beside him in disgust. Rage filled him. It threatened to boil over and gush forth. “Where's the girl?” he thought. Ah, he could see her in her room. She was busy reading a sheet of paper and she clutched a small trinket in her other hand. He would act now. [V] He went in through the front door. Foolish man. Thinking him and his dear family were safe in their house. Such oversight, in protecting the ones he had taken an oath to protect, must be punished. Severely. His feet were wrapped in rags. He didn't have money to waste on frivolities such as boots. Even if he did have the detested yellow, clinky, circular discs, he wouldn't have traded the rags off his feet for any pair of the finest leather boots from Cattlesrest. Proper shoes would keep the cold out better than his rags but they would be quite clumsy when trying to stalk some lonely traveler in the forest road. Even now, on the house's creaky floorboards, he was noiseless. He padded straight to where he judged the door to the adults' bedroom would be. The door was slightly ajar. He could hear voices emanating from within the room. A dirty hand with half-shredded gloves reached for the doorknob and slightly pushed the door. The softest of creaks from the door made the killer freeze. He stood motionless and strained his ears for the voices that would mean he could continue. Almost immediately, he heard the man say something and the woman laughed. It was a tinkling sound and had the killer been a man with a soul, he would have been compelled to join in. Instead, the man outside the door pushed the door open at the same instant. The creaking of the door was masked to some extent by the woman's laughter. Thus, the old man reached the couple before either of them had a clue. Both were seated at the edge of the bed. The man had his back to the door and the madman. The woman's laughter was replaced by a gasp as her eyes widened at the sight of the old man all swathed in rags. He was upon the man before the latter could turn his head around. The man on the bed half-turned his head exposing his bobbing Adam’s apple to the knife-wielding hand. In a flash of steel, the cold blade sliced through his windpipe. A spurt of blood splattered across the woman's face. Blood gushed forth from the incision in a fountain that drenched the bed. Swiftly, before the woman could even utter a cry, before the body of the mayor could even hit the floor, the old man's arm whipped back and buried the knife in the woman's bosom. With inhuman strength, the madman drove the knife deeper, until only the hilt protruded out. He watched as the woman's life force left its earthly abode. He loved to watch himself mirrored in the eyes of his victims as the brightness in them gradually dulled. He reveled in the knowledge that the last thing they saw was their executor. Somewhere in the vestiges of his consciousness, his brain warned him of a new sound nearby. The girl had shrieked in obvious delight in the other room. He shook his head to clear away the ecstasy he felt and turned to face the door just in time to see the girl skip into the room. The murderer and the little girl stared at each other for a full two seconds. His mind registered the total blissful happiness on her young face. He reached out with his huge hands to grab the thin neck and snap it. The unbridled joy was still there on the face. He hesitated. He saw the eyes flick towards the two bleeding heaps that had been her parents. The madman didn't notice the glow in her eyes die out. His eyes were fixed onto the smile that still adorned her mouth. Here is a like-minded soul, he thought, she was happy that her parents were no more. His fingers relaxed. “Happy are you?” he asked grinning, “Happy that your parents are dead?” He didn't wait for the girl's reaction. The smile that was still stuck on her face told him enough. His eyes noticed the silver pendant around her neck. That would be worth a hefty price, he decided. He rushed at the girl and pulled at the necklace. Then, he was out of the room and out of the house. The silver sparrow spun around crazily on its broken chain which was clutched tightly in the murderer's hand as he ran. [V] The barn owl heard the door of the cottage creak open. The silly rabbit just 2 Kopthefs away didn't even twitch an ear at the sound. So much for alertness thought the owl. If she wasn't already digesting the field-mouse she had caught just fifteen minutes ago, she would have made short work of the cottontail. She instead turned her neck around in an almost impossible angle to spy on the cottage where she was sure something interesting was about to take place. The door of the cottage opened enough to let out a slight figure. The figure was covered from head to toe. Snug against the cold fingers of the fog. The outline shifted what looked like a bag from its left hand to the right and stepped over the threshold. The free left hand reached for the doorknob and softly shut the door. Again there was the softest of noises that spoke of unoiled hinges. The owl turned around in her perch to see if the rabbit had sensed anything at all this time. No, there it was with its white rump in the air chomping on the lettuces in the kitchen garden. It was time, the owl decided, to put some semblance of fear into that careless rabbit. She unfolded her tawny wings and dove off the branch making straight for the fluff of cotton. She must have surprised the hooded figure for she heard a gasp and saw the figure take a couple of steps back and trip against the corner step. If she wasn't so interested in the coney, she would have noticed the hood fall off the figure and reveal a beautiful lady's face. Belinda got off the ground and dusted herself hastily. This would not do. She was supposed to be quiet. She would have to train herself to not jump at the slightest of things. The owl had certainly scared her. She watched the magnificent barn owl swoop down on something in the middle of the lettuce patch and saw a white rabbit jump up and run for its life with the owl in hot pursuit. She looked around and located her bundle and picked it up. She hoisted it onto her shoulder and made for the wicker gate that led to the backlane. She undid the latch and let herself out. As she turned to latch the gate again, she gave the cottage that had been her house for the last seven years. With a pang, she realized that everyone she considered her family was asleep in there. Mr.Cudchuer and his wife and Tristam. Her son. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her son, Tristam. She hoped the two letters she had left, one each for Tristam and Mr.Cudchuer, would explain her predicament properly. It took all her will power to tear her eyes away from the house and face the road. Where it would lead her, she didn't know. She didn't care. She had to leave. She had to go away before misery struck her newfound family. She took a deep breath and adjusted the sack on her back. With silent tears rolling down her cheeks, Belinda made her way down the road. [V] The monk walked down the dismal and dank corridor of the orphanage. Everything was quiet. As should be at this ungodly hour. The only sound he could hear were the guttering of the flames in the torch on its bracket on the wall and the swishing of his habit with each step he took. The passageway was dim and the floor was of stone. Cold. So were the adobe walls. The monastery, which also took in orphans and unwanted children, was a poor one. Usually, just about managing to make ends meet. The monks and his fellow-servants-of-God were a hard working lot. They had their own little garden in which they grew vegetables that served as a major part of the meals that they and their young charges partook. Some of his brothers worked as handymen and did odd jobs around town. The children too were expected to help out once they were old enough. Once they reached their teens, they were usually sent out as apprentices to the tradespeople of the nearby towns. As the monk passed the solitary torch on the wall, he gave thanks to the lord for the chance to serve him by helping raise the “little ones” and spread his message of love in this pagan land. A moth flew right into the fire causing the torch to flare up briefly and produce shiny patterns on the monk's bald pate. He reached the door at the far end of the passage and pushed it open. It opened noiselessly. It was a door that was well cared for. Just like everything else in the monastery. He poked his head in and looked around blinking, to get his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness that greeted him. Slowly, he made out the features of sleeping children. “Ah, the little ones are behaving well tonight!” he thought. Then he spied the small, frail, figure at the corner of the room. It was a girl with her head poking out of the window, propped up by elbows placed on the sill, staring at the round Harvest Moon. The monk sighed, “Evalea...” He shook his head as if admitting defeat. There was a child who wasn't a child anymore. Though she was hardly nine, she had seen what no child should see. She had felt what no one should experience. “Poor thing” thought the monk as he stepped into the room. She was a good girl and helped a lot in and around the monastery. She was good with her studies. But she was always sad. It was almost as if the little one was being forced to live. He had given her the lecture about how life was a gift from the almighty and should be valued by all, but, he supposed, they fell to deaf ears. He weaved among the tiny, prone figures and reached the girl. He placed a careworn hand on the girl's shoulder. Evalea tore her eyes from the beautiful orb of white that hang from the heavens like the cottonball she had hung from a twine above the front door of the orphanage to ward off evil during the harvest season as was customary. It was tradition. The old-one-with-the-shiny-head who now stood over her had laughed when she asked him to lift her up so that she could stick the cottonball up. But, he seemed to understand her when she insisted they did it at her house when her parents had been alive. He had lifted her up and held her there until she managed to stick the ball satisfactorily and then had set her down and asked her if she wanted to do the same with all the other doors in the convent. Evalea had decided then, that she wouldn't be difficult with the old-one-with-the-shiny-head. She had always been a very difficult child, ever since she had been delivered to the orphanage's doorstep by the big-man-with-the-loud-voice, the one they called Sheriff. It wasn't that she wasn't well behaved. It was just that she was very quiet. Try as the friars might, she never mixed with the other children. She never played with them. She just did her duties, as such that were hers, in the friary and did her lessons and existed. She didn't have a life. She was like a drone. Evalea was certain her non participation in all the fun around the orphanage saddened the monks, but they didn't understand her. Nobody did. Even the old-one-with-the-shiny-head didn't understand her fully. But he was nice. The best among all the old ones who looked after her and the other children. He wasn't like old-one-with-big-nose who happened to be terribly short-tempered and shouted a lot. Now, Evalea turned around and faced the old-one-with-the-shiny-head. His kind, brown eyes looked down into her own grey ones. “Trouble sleeping again, little one?” he asked. She knew he would ask. It was a practised act that had been going on ever since her first night here. She was sure by now he knew her reply to his question which was a nod of her tiny head. Still she nodded her head, just because, like the cotton fluffball, this was tradition too. The old man sighed and sat down crossing his legs on the edge of her pallet. He reached for her arm and gently pulled her down to his side. Evalea obeyed old-one-with-the-shiny-head and sat down next to him. He put an arm around her and hugged her and just for a fleeting moment, Evalea was reminded of her father. “Shall I tell you a story then?” he enquired. She nodded her head. She loved stories. Her mother used to tuck her into bed every night with a story. She usually fell asleep before they ended. So there were, by now, a whole host of stories that she didn't know the endings of. It had been so long since someone had told her a bedtime story. She would hear this one out. “Once upon a time...” began the old man. Time passed. The night wore on. The old man continued with his story. Somewhere in the middle of the part where the brave prince battled with the dragon, he paused to look down. The child was asleep. Curled up against him for warmth. He got up and draped the tiny figure with a threadbare blanket. “So, she does sleep!” he smiled to himself. As he turned away to head out of the room, the smile was replaced by a look of sorrow. The monk said to himself, “Now, if only, she would smile”. [V] Sunshine! Glorious sunshine! She loved it so. A shaft of bright yellow had just peeked through the curtain at the door of the caravan. Inviting. She had get out of the stuffy caravan and step out into the inviting warmth. She stood up and glanced at sleeping baby in the cloth cradle that hung suspended from the crossbeam of the thatched roof. A soft smile crossed her carefully chiseled features. She pushed aside the curtain that covered the entrance and gasped at the sudden change of brightness. Everywhere around her, as far as her eyes could discern, was a palette of reds and oranges. Louisa jumped out of her moving-house with ill-concealed excitement. She felt rather like a child giddy with astonishment. The wagon train was moving in the middle of a wide canyon, following the course that had been carved out by a great river eons ago. Louisa turned around in a circle. To the sides of the convoy, the walls of the canyon rocketed straight upwards. The bluffs on either side seemed to be locked in an eternal contest to see which of them could be more colorful utilizing only pastel shades of oranges and reds. Here and there, the scree at the edges of the rock face showed yellow where the falling rocks had broken into pieces. The crags were a breathtaking sight. Wrinkled, yet majestic and strong. Louisa could hardly believe that the commonly found sandstone that the Utopeks offered their oxen to lick as a salt supplement was there all around her. It was sandstone that had made this grand vista possible. In front of her and behind, the walls stretched on and on, undulating like beige waves in a rubicund sea. She suddenly realized that her caravan was somewhere far ahead in the line and ran up to catch up with it. [V] The pub was dingy and noisome. It wasn't a place that she would have liked to be. But, she wasn't in a position to choose. It was either this or a room upstairs that she was sure was filled with an amazing assortment of creatures that would leave a hemipterologist busy till next year; or it was the streets and the sleet. Belinda sighed, at least there was a crackling fire and she was seated as close to it as possible. It pricked her pride to be in such a cheap tavern. The clientele were mostly layabouts and miners. There were a couple of men at the bar who looked like they broke peoples' bones for a living. The only women she could see were second-rate, tawdry prostitutes who would sell themselves for a good meal. She swallowed her ego and sent a bite of beef from her fork after it to keep it down. Bile rose in her throat, but she forced it down. The meat was bad. Maybe she should just go to sleep. She was just about to get up when a tankard of beer was slammed down on her table by a clumsy hand. The hand was grimy, Belinda noted. The fingernails had dirt under them and the hand hadn't been near water in weeks. Her eyes followed the hand and upwards. If the hand was dirty, its owner was filthy. His pouchy face was covered with boils that had been accentuated by the ruddy color of his skin, no doubt caused by the excessive quantity of the bartender's very own rotgut he had consumed. His bloodshot eyes leered at her. She felt like she was being stripped by them. “Let's see the goods, love, and you'll have yourself two shiny coins” he slurred drunkenly. The thought, “Oh no! He thinks I'm a whore!” just flashed into Belinda's mind when there stared a ruckus at the other end of the room. Some confused voices were shouting, a pack of cards went up into the air, a table overturned; the “swishes” of knives being unsheathed were heard. But Belinda didn't pay any attention to the uproar. She was more concerned about the hand that was reaching for her bosom. She backed up against the wall, unsure whether screaming would help at all. When the matter was settled by a bottle of ale that came soaring across the room and struck the lecher squarely on the side of his head. His eyes rolled in their sockets as he collapsed on the floor by Belinda's feet, spilling whatever remained of his beer on himself in the process. Belinda heaved a sigh of relief and made her way to the staircase that led upstairs to her rented room as quickly as she could move. [V] A desolate heath greeted the caravans when morning came. In stark contrast to the yellow-hued grandeur of the gigantic canyon they had been passing through the last 4 days, the sight that greeted their still sleep-beckoned eyes was one of bleak emptiness. It was clear for all to see that the moor had once been covered by a swarthy green carpet with plants growing as high as possible to greet the early morning sun. “At least the sun was still the same” thought Yorick. He cast a quick glance around him from where he sat at the box of the chief's moving-house. Such barren nothingness he had never seen before. It was as if the whole sward had been engulfed in a fire and had burnt to the ground. There had been some vile force at work. Something that relished destruction. Reveled in death. Celebrated with carnage. What had once been herbs full of life-force had been uprooted and hacked to pieces. The bigger shrubs and clumps of berry bushes had branches broken and entire stems ripped apart lengthwise. Then, everything had been incinerated. Here had been a master at annihilation, busy at what he does best - devastate. Yorick called the train to a halt and turned around to summon the chief from within his caravan. The chief stepped out looking as alert as always just as Rezeekh joined them. There was a stunned silence as the wagons all lined up at the border between the canyon and the fell. The chief quietly examined the dreary desert that was in front of him. He then turned to face his people, his eyes roving. Scanning all the faces, young and old, not missing a thing. He sensed their worries, for they were his worries. He sensed their fears, for those very fears turned his heart cold every night. He sensed their happiness, and he was happy. The Utopeks were a simple and uncomplicated lot. What hope had they in finding the perfect home when the world itself was imperfect? They were all mad. And he was their leader. The corners of his lips twitched upwards for the most infinitesimal of seconds as the thought crossed his mind. Then the stoic and ascetic mask was back. He had to do his duty. He had a promise to keep. The oath he took, when he received the Headband of the Chieftains of the Utopeks, to lead the tribe to Utopia had to be fulfilled. Fulfill it he would, or die trying. The chief was troubled in mind. His inferences had been correct so far. His mind stepped back in time to the Great Gathering of the Utopeks at the lake in the southern end of the realm of the king of this land. The gathering was an event that was held every decade at the same location. Every tribe of Utopeks attended it or sent representatives. It was there that all that had befallen the individual tribes since the last jamboree was learnt by the other tribes. The most important part of the assembly was the rewriting of the Amps. The Amps were the treasure of every Utopek tribe. Geographical records of every single place that an Utopek had ever set foot in and come back to tell of it was written down meticulously by the chiefs at the Council of the Chieftains in the Amps of each tribe. Maps were plotted, redrawn; status of towns and people, wild animals' migratory paths, trade routes and a whole lot of other data, both necessary and useless was recorded in the Amps. The chief was thinking about the last Gathering which was 8 years ago. The Council had discussed much more than usual. The meeting had actually gone on for 3 whole days without a break. The chiefs had sat without anything to eat or drink and deliberated about the location of paradise. The ten tribal chieftains had then divided the known world into ten regions and decided that each tribe would explore one region completely in the next decade. However, rumors had it that all the other tribes had already finished scrying their allotted areas and were now, slowly, heading back to the lake, disheartened and spent. Yorick's tribe had almost but finished its patrol. No one, Utopek or non-Utopek had gone beyond this hill and come back. Yet, the chief knew that if paradise existed on the earth, it had to be beyond the dead common. His reasoning was based on the premise that this was the only place still unexplored and therefore, it had to be there. Now, the chief was in a dilemma, he knew his people would follow him to the end of the world if he bade them to. He wondered if this was indeed where he was leading them now. His very faith in the concept of Paradise was being tested. He turned around to face the blackened grass and ash. He didn't like the look of the place. “The destruction wasn't natural. It had been designed. But for what purpose?” the chief pondered. There was something about this scene that was nagging him, but he couldn't place his finger on the thought. It danced in his mind, cheekily. Posing in the front of his mind every now and then and running away beyond his grasp just when his subconscious reached out to grab it. Always there, but never close enough. Tantalizingly near. Just outside his reach. Yorick's mind was racing. This place unsettled him. He felt something cold and clammy move down his spine. He watched the chief surreptitiously and prayed with all his might, hoping against hope that the chief would order the tribe to turn around. He had never known his chief to turn away from something. That was because the chief meticulously planned every Kopthef the tribe traveled. They may be nomads but they weren't wanderers. They had a purpose in life. Yorick hoped the chief would give the order soon. The silence was killing him. He searched for Louisa and found her standing in front of their caravan. He just wanted to keep her safe. Before he met her, he would have doggedly followed the one-armed man anywhere. He respected the old man. But now, the pretty lady who had consented to marry him was his first priority. He didn't want to take her through this barren wasteland. He didn't want anyone to go into it. He hoped the chief would, for once, turn around. Maybe they could go back and settle down in the green fields where he first set eyes upon the woman he loved. Yorick was brought out of his reverie by the chief's voice crying out, “Forward!” [V] The cobbled streets were a picture of stones set in perfect symmetry. Grey squares, rounded in the middle, set at diagonals aligned to the length of the street. It was a beautiful morning. The woman came in through the gates of the town of Willowdean at the break of dawn with the sun. The woman was beautiful. Her golden hair askance, slightly moving with the early morning breeze that rolled in from the sea. Her clothes looked as if they had seen better days. They showed several places where they had been neatly darned. The woman herself had the features of an angel. She hardly looked a day over a score. The shopkeepers who were busy setting up their displays for the day stopped and gazed appreciatively at this paragon of feminine pulchritude. The early morning shoppers stared openly, all vestiges of sleep having departed from their eyes. Belinda was acutely aware of the minor commotion she was causing in this sleepy hamlet. But, she walked on. She had to be here in Willowdean. It had been quite some time since her last hot meal. Also, she needed a warm bath and somewhere safe to sleep. A woman traveling alone had to be on the alert always. So far, she had been lucky. Nothing untoward had happened to her, other than a couple of lechers who she managed to get away from. She was getting quite adept at escaping she thought. She wished she could smile at the thought, but the burden threatened to overwhelm her. She dragged her feet, enclosed in what remained of her shoes to the bakery and produced from within the folds of her blouse, a beat-up drawstring purse. She upended the purse onto the palm of her hand and counted the coins that tinkled out. There would be just enough for a loaf of bread and some cheese, perhaps. She needed a job. Maybe she could find one on temporary basis in this town. [V] There she was. The woman who had stopped half the town in their tracks just a few minutes ago. Tristam had been in his office when the tumult happened. He ran on a very strict schedule as a mayor, even though the town didn't care if he ever came to the office. The town of Willowdean was small enough for everyone to know each others' residences. Tristam was a farmer. He always would be one. His homestead was located just 40 Kopthefs to the east of the town. He had been inspecting the local newspaper which was headlined - “Baby Girl for Blacksmith”; “Well,” he had thought, “That'd be worth a round at the pub. Old Kenny was getting on. This is his & Helene's fourth tot.” It was then the dockmaster appeared at the doorway with news of the beautiful stranger. As mayor, one of Tristam's few duties were to inquire after any stranger's purpose of visit, and so, he had put on his hat and tramped down the stairs of the civic building he himself had been responsible for building. He found her sitting at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the post office. He stopped in his tracks. “It can't be!” his brain froze with the thought. She didn't look a day older than when she walked out of his life, leaving him with just a letter explaining her actions. Tristam didn't believe in luck. He found it much more comforting to believe in fate. If it was written somewhere in the grand scheme of things, it was bound to happen. No matter what. He really never understood her reasons for leaving like she did. But, right now, he didn't care. He had found his mother again! The tall young man with the hat was walking up to her. She tensed where she sat. He wouldn't dream of trying anything in broad daylight, she consoled herself. He came right up to her and politely took off his hat. There was something very familiar about his face. Belinda's eyebrows went from knitted to circular arches as realization struck her. “Mother!” he said the same time that she cried “Son!” Then they were hugging each other. They had been talking for almost two hours in Tristam's office. It made Belinda so proud to see what a fine man her son had turned out to be. He had asked his clerk to procure a room for her at the inn so she could freshen up and to hitch up a buggy at the livery stable and bring it to the civic building so that his mother could be taken home. Belinda was so full of joy that she forgot all her troubles. She was going to see her daughter-in-law! And she now had a granddaughter! It was her birthday too! “What's her name, son? Your wife?” enquired Belinda. “Clelia” replied Tristam, “She's an Utopek. Not in blood, though. Her father was a man named Yorick, originally from Cattlesrest, who was adopted by a tribe of Utopeks. Her mother, coincidentally, hails from your village, mother.” “Really, and what was her mother's name?” asked Belinda with curiosity. “Oh, Louisa” said her son. Tristam heard his mother gasp. He looked at her. She was shivering uncontrollably. He was alarmed. “Mother?” he cried. “Louisa! She is my cousin! She went off with a tribe of Utopeks almost 30 years ago.” stammered his mother. Tristam stared at her in disbelief. “That means...” he left the sentence unfinished as his mother nodded her head and the door opened simultaneously, revealing the clerk who announced that the buggy was ready and waiting to take the lady to the inn. “Mother! Clelia must be told of this! I will ride out for home immediately. You refresh yourself and get some food in your belly and then come to the farm. The driver will know where to take you.” he said and ran out of the room after giving his mother a quick hug. As Tristam urged his horse faster, his mind went back to the events that had suddenly taken place this morning. He negotiated a sharp bend in the mud road and suddenly reined as he almost collided into an old drunk. The drunk fell down, having crashed into his mount's shoulder. Tristam didn't bother to stop. It was his little princess' birthday today and he had big news for his wife. He called out behind him, asking the beggar to come over to his farm for proper compensation. Tristam never looked behind. He didn't notice the feral expression in the old man's eyes. [V] Desolation. Utter, despairing, desolation. The sun beat mercilessly upon the slow-moving wagons. The oxen hooves beat up a puff of dust and ash each time they took a step. The stench of death hung in the air, a menacing conformance of everyone's very own secret fear. Here and there, the travelers could discern the pearly white sheen of animal bones hidden beneath a thick carpet of ash. Yorick sat at the box of the chief's wagon. The chief himself sat next to him, pensive. Yorick watched the old man through the corners of his eyes, maintaining a respectful silence for he knew from experience that the wise elder didn't wish to be disturbed in times like these. He knew, presently when done with his thinking, the chief would use him as a sounding board. Sure enough, the elder soon turned to face his young lieutenant, “What do you think, Yorick?” “With all due respect, I think we're making a mistake. There's danger ahead. I can smell it in the air.” said Yorick. The old man smiled ruefully, “Sure there's danger. Lots of it. But, no. We aren't making a mistake!”. “Yorick, my boy, if something should happen to me,” the old man turned to the young man and said solemnly, “Take care of my people. For they will be yours.” Yorick was puzzled. The chief never spoke about his personal fears to anyone. A show of fear wasn't the mark of a warrior. A warrior only shared his worries with someone he trusted totally. To speak in such a manner with a chief usually meant he would in all probability succeed him. For half an hour, the chief explained to Yorick all that had taken place at the Great Gathering and told him his theory of their journey's end being beyond the range of mountains that barred their path far ahead. By the time they had finished the discussion, the young man was convinced that his chief was right once again and discarded all notions of the old man's insanity from his head. “But sir, what happened here? Who caused this destruction that surrounds us now? The kingdom is at peace within and without. What army could have done so?” enquired Yorick. The old man gave a dry chuckle that turned into a sound that was almost a sob, “Army? Worse than that. A draygn!” [V] THE DRAYGN Don't tread in deep, dark places, For there you would find, A foe most dangerous and terrible, Than any known to mankind. Curled up in his cave, He lies in patient wait, For unwitting prey, To walk right upto his gate. He wears a corselet of shiny scales, Thicker than chainmail, His black-webbed, claw-tipped wings, They be larger than a ship's sail. With red-rimmed eye and slit pupil inside, A feral beast is he, With his spiked tail, he would sweep you aside, Causing immense agony. His back is lined with sharp projections, His teeth are like sawblades, His toes they end with jagged claws, With a polish that never fades. From within his mouth, he summons forth, A mighty roar so loud, A fiery flame as accompaniment, Whose tendrils touch the cloud. With clawed feet he treads the ground, With leather-wings he doeth fly, Like a monstrous worm with feet on the earth, Like a kingly stallion in the sky. From flame-filled nose to tip of tail, He measures far too long, He'll gobble me up, that's for sure, Once I finish my song. -- Carli Roswell. (And he did. Carli Roswell was a dreamer. A fool who ventured too close to the lair of the great green draygn who had a nasty habit of playing with his food.) [V] The small horse-drawn carriage made its way out of the town of Willowdean. The horse was a bit eager and set off at a fast trot without being goaded by the whip held by the driver who sat in the cab taking in the sunshine with a leisurely lolling of his head. He set the whip down. He didn't like using it on the poor beasts anyway. But these days, there was just no pleasing your customers. They always wanted to get wherever they had to go, faster. He let the horse move as it felt like for there was but one path and the tangle of bushes on either side of the road made it quite impossible for the animal to stray. He, instead, decided to concentrate on more important matters. Such as his next smoke. He extricated from an inside pocket of his tattered coat, a little cloth bag of tobacco. It was evil-smelling. But it was the best he could afford. From his coat's other pocket came out a sheaf of thin papers, cut to the length of a cigarette. He pulled the strings that tied the bag apart and drew out a handful of hand-pounded tobacco. He carefully made a straight line of powder on one piece of paper and inspected its thickness. Once he was satisfied with its thickness, he rolled the paper up carefully into a thin cylinder. The protruding edge, he set against his tongue and transferred saliva on the exposed surface. Then, he stuck the protruding surface onto the curved part to complete the smooth cylinder. He turned to look around at his passenger. Maybe he should ask her permission before he smoked in her presence. Good! She was asleep. Noiselessly, he brought out a tiny pot from beneath his seat and uncovered its lid. In it was a piece of burning coal, still smoldering from last night's cooking fire. He set his homemade cigarette to his lips and touched the other end to the coal and puffed. The mayor's farm was in sight. Suddenly, there was a scream. The silence was broken. His still unlit cigarette fell from his mouth as he opened it in surprise. He started. He leapt to catch it before it fell under the buggy. In his haste, he upset the pot containing the coal. The burning lump flew out of its container and landed on the horse's rump. The passenger woke up to an equine scream of pain. The horse bolted. The buggy mimicking it like an unwilling puppet, its axles screaming in protest over the sudden shifting of speeds. The bolting horse ran off the pathway and into the fields. The first pothole encountered by the carriage dislodged the driver. The second pothole rattled the still confused passenger. When the third pothole came, Belinda had joined the horse in screaming out a harsh duet. It only instigated the fear-maddened animal to run faster. It changed its course and made an almost impossible U-turn. Belinda felt herself being lifted up bodily due to the centrifugal force created by the turn. She felt her head making a crushing impact with one of the metal rods that lined the sides of the semi-enclosed space of the buggy where the passenger sat. Then, she felt no more. The driver lay senseless in the middle of a carrot bed. From the homestead, a maid ran out, pulling a girl along with her, screaming “Murder!” [V] The big, grey vulture circled the azure sky. It felt no hint of the breeze on its bald pate even at the high throne from which it presided over its dominion. The ugly bird was vexed. It was hungry. Animals did not come this way through its territory anymore. Not even sick mammoths that were at death's door. Not even those large, ungainly lumps that were quite succulent once you managed to get past the fur. Not even they came this way on their way to the graveyard where they spent their last days until they died in peace surrounded by the sun-bleached bones of their ancestors. The only possible meal the bird's beady eyes could spot was a man. It had been spying upon the man with some interest for quite some time now. It was waiting for the first signs of a slack in the walking pace. Soon, it would make way for staggering steps accompanied by desperate heavings of the chest trying to come to terms with the dry lungs within it. The slump of the shoulders showing an acceptance of a certain level of defeat. Then would come the fall. The distressed and futile efforts of trying to get up again. Maybe he would crawl a little in the hot sand. The vulture didn't mind it. It would peel of a lot of skin and make it easier to fill its stomach. Lastly, the traveler would collapse. Never to rise again. He would still be alive when the vulture would begin pecking at him. The scavenger in the sky was perplexed though. This man didn't seem tired at all. He had been walking steadily for more than 4 hours now. The vulture had been stalking him from a very long time. But, sooner or later, this man would also succumb to the desert. They all did. In the end. The lone traveler paused. He raised his eyes to the sky and looked up at the late afternoon sun. He had to shield his eyes with a palm to prevent being blinded by the harsh glare. He scanned the horizon. Nothing to note, he commented mentally. Then he spotted the vulture gliding high above him. Effortlessly, riding a thermal of hot air. He seemed to find it funny, for he chuckled to himself. He shook his head and unslung his waterskin. Uncorking it, he gulped two mouthfuls of water. No more. He'd need to conserve water in a place like this. But he was confident he could do so. Poor vulture! It didn't realize he aimed to make it out of this hellhole alive. Of that much he was sure. As sure as his name was Tristam. [V] The diary was a good place to live. Mr.Cudchuer was as good a master as any. Tristam was contented. Mostly. He was almost twenty summers old now. The master and missus were getting on in years. They left the handling of the prim little farm to Tristam who had, over the years, proved himself capable of it. Young Master Cudchuer was more of a businessman. He had a nose for a deal. Many a time, the family had avoided near financial disaster thanks to the Young Master's skill. Together, the two young men, made a good team. The Cudchuer family was pretty well-off these days. Yes, life was good. But, Tristam, at times, felt chained down. Especially at times when he saw the open road disappearing into the far horizon, bounded by rolling hills; some a bare brown, while others a lush green. Now, as he sat on the stile while the cows grazed, the ache of the wanderlust, he felt growing in him again. There he sat, lost in his thoughts, a young man, of above-average height, stocky and well muscled from many days of hard physical labor, an intelligent and kind face that couldn't exactly be called extremely handsome, topped by a mop of black hair that fell in straight strands around his forehead. Tristam absent-mindedly watched two calves chasing each other within the paddock. His face showing no signs of his troubled thoughts. He was motionless for a long time. A rather curious frog hopped upto him and regarded what it clearly thought was a most interesting tree with some attentiveness. Quite suddenly, Tristam, jumped off the fence, his mind made up. The frog croaked in alarm and hopped away into the safety of a clump of tall grass. Five hours later, Tristam was shaking hands with Master Cudchuer. The old master and missus were suffering from a bout of rheumatism and were confined to their bed. They had both cried a bit when Tristam had announced his intent to see the world. The old couple had blessed him and had insisted that he have 4 months of salary as a parting gift. So it came to pass that, Tristam, almost twelve years later, walked down the same road his mother took one dark night. [V] The desolate heath lay almost entirely behind them. Rezeekh was still wary though, as he drove the team of oxen that pulled his chief’s caravan. Yorick was taking his break and was presently involved in the tiring process of trying to get his wailing daughter to eat some mushy broth that put off a brave warrior such as himself. His niece’s wailing was enough to make Rezeekh swear that he would never embrace parenthood. His brother took fatherhood well in his stride, but Rezeekh was sure that somewhere inside; Yorick was definitely regretting his part in creating that loudmouthed treefrog. Clelia was no bigger. But she had a voice that rivaled his own. Rezeekh had to admit however, that she was a bundle of joy. He did, at times, feel extremely joyful after spending some time with the little child. He smiled to himself, thinking about the previous day when little Clelia had tried to pull at the few, tiny curls that adorned his head. A grunt from one of the oxen brought Rezeekh out of his reverie. He looked up to see that they had reached the edge of the heath. Beyond them lay a haphazard mixture of jutting boulders. All dull grey and heated up by the unyielding sun. Rezeekh stopped the team and called the wagon train to halt. The chief came out from within his caravan and surveyed the path ahead. There was a narrow, stony, trail that led forward between two large rocks. Rezeekh followed the route with his eyes and saw that it disappeared into the stony hills slightly to their left. Silence. Everything around him was silent. A few hundred Utopeks. A hundred odd oxen. They were all silent. Staring at the path they were about to travel on. The people, with a sense of foreboding that only the chief and Yorick knew the reason for; the cattle, with indifference. The silence was suddenly broken by a loud wail from a caravan somewhere behind Rezeekh. He smiled. His niece was the bravest of them all. The chief signaled to move ahead. Rezeekh cracked his whip and urged the team forward. [V] The colors around him were changing. Everything was yellower. Refreshingly so. Multiple hues of red and orange danced before his eyes. Deceiving his brain into finding crevices in the cliffside where there were none. He marveled at nature’s incredible talent for creating majestic masterpieces such as this one around. As he walked, he could see unbroken crags to his left. The setting sun was above his right shoulder and losing a lot of its intensity. Tristam raised his head up and scanned the sky. The vulture was no longer following him. He grinned to himself. Savouring the quiet feeling of personal triumph that welled up inside him. He had conquered the desert. If the map he’d studied in the last village was right, he should be reaching the southern coast of the Kingdom in a day or so. From there, he’d decide his future course. He didn’t know what he was doing traveling like this. Aimlessly. He was looking for something. Searching. He had not found out if it was within him or still somewhere out there. Tristam cast his mind back to the last two years, for it had been that long since he’d left the Cudchuer farm. He remembered a very many restaurants, inns, motels and riverside banks that he’d spent the nights at. He could vaguely remember all the various employers he’d worked under during the period. Always working till he’d saved enough to buy himself supplies for the next leg of the journey and never staying longer. He could only just recall the taste of those pies made by old Mrs.... He couldn’t even dredge up her name from his memory. He could only recollect that she was an extremely good cook and that she made delicious coconut pies. All this time, he’d been walking beside the impenetrable cliff. Quite suddenly, he came across a break in the sheer bluff. The sunlight was almost gone by now. He peered into the opening with his eyes half shut. As far as he could make out, it was a trail that cut across the desert lengthways. “Strange” he thought, “None of the maps showed this”. The explorer in his heart stirred at the tantalizing smell of mystery. Tristam succumbed to it. He walked into the gap in the precipice. [V] It was raining. Rather heavily, thought Yorick. He was still getting used to the muted pattering sound it made as it hit the roof of the caravan. The Utopeks were a strange bunch, he thought. But they’d saved his life nigh two weeks ago. Now, he was traveling with them stuck in this caravan with a rather batty old woman who could not understand a word he spoke. He was stuck here for some time, at least as long as it took for the Chief and his advisors to decide what to do with him. The last few days, he’d quietly been observing the Utopeks. He’d long decided that he was in no immediate danger from anyone. They looked mostly harmless. Most avoided him altogether. The old woman, her son and the Chief were the only people who acknowledged his presence. The roof was leaking. He could feel cold water drops rolling down his back. He looked up to find the leak and jerked his head away as a drop fell right into his eye. A cackle of laughter burst out from the dark corner of the moving house. “That old crone!” cursed Yorick, “I don’t know what joy she gets by staring at me from her hiding places. And where does she find places to hide in a tiny room such as this?” The old woman came out from her hiding place and pulled a piece of sackcloth from a rack and handed it to Yorick chattering away in a shrill voice. He took the sackcloth and faced her bemusedly. “Just what am I supposed to do with this?” he asked. She chattered some more, and then, realizing that he did not understand her, she pulled the cloth out of his hand and bent him over and proceeded to rub his back dry. Yorick was rather surprised at her kindness. The old woman had cared for him while he was sick, but afterwards, she didn’t bother much, except at mealtimes, when her son and he would eat together. Otherwise, she seemed aloof and wary of him, so much so that Yorick ultimately dismissed her caring for him in his sickbed as professional. Now, the old woman pushed him away from under the leaky part of the roof and ambled along to a shelf set in the wall and pulled out what looked like a ball of clay. With a much practised hand, she molded the clay into a flat cake and then looked around. Yorick realized she was trying to plaster the hole in the roof and couldn’t find anything to climb on. Automatically, he rose up and motioned her to give him the clay. She smiled her gap-toothed smile as he stretched up to his full height and was able to just reach the roof. He thumped the clay into place and faced the old woman. He grinned. They were going to be friends after all. [V] They made a very unusual pair. The two of them. The old, wrinkled woman with no teeth and chestnut brown skin and the young, tall man with straw-yellow hair and blue eyes. To an outsider who’d have happened to walk into the caravan, the two would appear to be conspirators of some grand scheme, squatting the way they were in a corner of the wagon. Closer inspection, would however reveal, that the young man was being bullied into learning how to cook. It had been a month and a half since Yorick had been found half dead in the snow by the Utopeks. By this time, he and the old woman and her son, Rezeekh, were fast friends. Rezeekh could speak the common language, though he’d murder the grammar regularly. His mother, however, didn’t speak anything other than the Utopeks’ own secret language. Ever since the day, he, Yorick had helped her mend the roof; she had taken it upon herself to teach him the language. Yorick had learnt from Rezeekh that this was high honor indeed as it would count heavily in his favor when the time came for the elders to decide his fate. Under the watchful eye of the old woman, Yorick carefully shredded some pungent smelling herbs and added it to the broth frothing in the wok placed over a little fire that burnt fiercely in a metal cylinder. Yorick had marveled at the Utopeks’ ingenuity when he had seen the cooking stove for the first time. The tube was made of a mixture of iron and graphite, both of which were melted down and poured into a sand mould and allowed to cool in the shape of a canister. The diameter of the tube was no bigger than the hole made when he cupped both his palms together. Three-fourths of the cylinder would then be filled with a powdery mixture of natural wax and coal which would burn furiously when mixed in proper proportions. Yorick now added some powdered spice into the concoction and immediately received a cuff on the back of his head for added the wrong spice at the right time. The old woman’s lambasting about how the young man was a good-for-nothing layabout was rudely interrupted by a fearsome growling. It came from the bushes to the left of the trail. Someone from the front of the wagon train called halt. All the wagons came to a lurching stop. Yorick seized the opportunity and lit out of the caravan. He decided he’d rather face down an angry wild animal than the old woman right now. Outside, he took stock of his surroundings. The front half of the train was up a hill that sloped gently into the massive forests below. The caravans at the rear were nowhere in sight. Directly ahead of Yorick, or so he assumed, a second growl sounded. It started with a soft mew, rather like a housecat stretching itself after a nap in the afternoon sun, but there was none of the warmth. The growl shifted to a quiet hunting purr of a jaguar. The sound wasn’t very loud. But it was extremely efficient at its job, which was to induce fear. The purr made the fine hair on Yorick’s arms stand erect. The purr smoothly changed to a sort of half-bark, half-howl. Yorick was suddenly reminded of the coyotes that came sniffing at the carcasses after the great stampede back in Cattlesrest. As Yorick shook himself back to the present, he realized that the growl had, almost imperceptibly in the beginning, changed into a roar. As he realized this fact, the growl became a full-throated roar. A hunter on the prowl. A hunter who has found out that his prey is well and truly trapped. And he was the prey. Because, now that he had summoned his wits and looked around, he was the only one outside the caravans. The oxen were agitated. But with those horns of theirs, they could defend themselves easily. Yorick suddenly wished he was back inside getting thwacked about the head by the old woman. He risked a look around; the caravans were almost a palm tree’s length away. Maybe he could make a dash for the nearest one and pray that the owner could unlock the wooden screen quickly enough. Just as Yorick was about to turn and sprint, the bushes ahead of him shook. Out came the strangest and most terrifying creature that Yorick had ever seen. It stood on its hind legs like a bird. Perfectly balanced with its long tail acting like a counterweight. It looked like a cat. Like a panther. Only larger. Much larger than any panther Yorick had ever heard tell of being. Its snout however, was more like a caiman’s. It stood taller than Yorick by at least a head. The body was covered by thick, shaggy, black fur. Even the snout was hairy. The eyes were reptilian. Yellow. Slit pupils. Intelligent. The forearms looked well muscled and ended in bony palms with 4 fingers. The fingers ended with long, sharp, claws. Vicious piercers. Again came the growl. [V] Yorick came to a sudden halt like he had just encountered an invisible wall. There he stood, his body angled towards the caravans and safety but his face transfixed, staring at this strange apparition that stood before him. The predator came closer. Yorick’s mind was numb. A multitude of mixed emotions had rudely barged their way into the front of his mind, refusing to let him think for himself or let his brain send a message to his legs urging them to start pumping and take him far away from where he was. Instead, he helplessly turned to face the beast. From behind him, from inside the caravans, he could hear a host of whispers and mutterings from the helpless Utopeks. The creature took another step forward. Tentatively. Then another. The next step was more confident. Yorick’s ears suddenly seemed to go deaf. They were filled with a hollow, echoing buzz that blocked out all other sounds. Rezeekh was in one of the leading caravans when he heard the unmistakable hunting cry of a top predator. He didn’t recognize the growl. It wasn’t some creature he’d encountered before. But it was a predator. It was hungry. It was hunting. It was very near. He warily peeked out of the caravan’s doorway, ready to shut it as soon as necessary. All he saw was foliage on both sides of the trail. Yet, the howl sounded again. Somewhere down the trail. The team of oxen yoked to the caravan behind him snorted with fear. Without relieving his vigilance, Rezeekh slowly reached behind him and felt near the wall of the wagon for his spear. His hand found the haft and grasped it. His body was tense. Coiled like a spring ready to jump into instantaneous action. He could hear urgently whispered conversation coming from the caravans at the back of the train. He realized that a message was being passed with regard to what was happening. The message would be passed from caravan to the one in front of it till someone who was in a position to take a decision could listen to it. Rezeekh realized that person would have to be him as the Chief was far ahead the train. He waited anxiously for the message hoping that no one was hurt. Finally, the woman in the caravan behind Rezeekh’s stuck her head out of the window and visibly scared, delivered the message – Yorick was being stalked! Rezeekh didn’t wait to pass on the message. He just ran out of the wagon’s safety. His friend was in danger! He sprinted till he could sight Yorick’s profile in the distance. Rooted to the spot while the beast that stood in front of him moved forward with slow, but sure steps. Yorick’s eyes were transfixed onto to the creature that stood before him. He didn’t run. He wasn’t a coward. He was also curious. He wanted know what this strange, furry lizard was capable of. He watched the lizard move forward. He noted the muscular legs. No chance of his being able to do any injury to them. He noted how the animal kept its forelimbs angled upwards rather like a pugilist. Yorick hoped he could move fast enough to force the forelimbs up and into the face of the animal when it sprang to attack. His body taut, he prepared for the inevitable. The attack never came. Not from where he expected anyway. As Rezeekh prepared to throw his spear at the furry bird-reptile strutting up to his helpless friend, the bushes to his side erupted with a savage noise of brambles and shrubs being ripped apart from their roots. Another of the creatures rushed past him at an amazing speed. From the far side, Rezeekh could discern a third beast also heading like an arrow straight to Yorick. The attack was coming from the sides! The first creature was just a decoy! Almost too late, Rezeekh realized this. Swiftly, he flung the spear at the first beast. At the same time, Yorick started moving with speed that almost matched the big lizards that were stalking him. The lizards were almost upon him from both sides. Suddenly, Yorick ducked down as low as he could. The two animals were too close to alter their direction. Both jumped into the air. Their hind limbs extended forward, claws outward to rip open Yorick’s neck had he still been where he had been. Instead their claws found each other’s soft underbelly. Claws sliced through the hair and pebbly skin beneath it. An instant later, an eight-foot long tempered ash staff with a polished iron point thudded into the neck of the first creature flinging it aside like a weightless puppet whose strings had just been cut. In one second, 3 creatures lay dying. Yorick jumped up to his feet unscathed and his grateful eyes met Rezeekh’s. An unspoken “thanks” and “you’re welcome” passed between the two. Suddenly, from the forest in front of Yorick, came more bestial howls. “The rest of the pack!” shouted Rezeekh as he ran to aid his friend. As he ran, Rezeekh spotted a sword hanging from the doorjamb of one of the wagons. On the run, he snatched it off and unsheathed it. Yorick was running towards him with 3 more beasts close on his heels. Rezeekh gripped the hilt with both hands and strode forward to meet the animals. Yorick came abreast Rezeekh and stopped and turned around. He bent to look under the nearest caravan and came up with a heavy hammer clutched in his hands. The friends stood shoulder-to-shoulder and faced the demon creatures. The creatures covered ground swiftly. When they were about a caravan’s length away from the two warriors, they launched themselves into air synchronously. The beast to the left suddenly went limp in midair as Rezeekh’s sword stabbed it in the belly as it tried to land on his chest. The one on the right screeched as it jumped hoping to distract Yorick, but of no avail. The hammer crashed into the monster’s chest crushing its ribcage. The force of the blow carried it onto the path of the beast in the centre and knocked it aside. The last remaining animal got back onto its feet disoriented for a moment. That was all it got as Rezeekh’s sword swung in a shiny arc and lopped off its head. The friends dropped to their knees with exhaustion and smiled weakly at each other. The Utopeks were emerging out of their caravans delirious with joy and screaming praise at the two young men. [V] Paya-wraiths! The scum of the universe! Those lawless, metahuman beings that inhabited the fringes of the world. Thrived in the lands desolate and as lawless as they. These creatures of the underworld were born but with one purpose – to kill. Fighting machines from a young age, the sexless Paya-wraith was born by the simple act of fission. The fully grown, adult wraith would just split into two. Creating another mass murderer just like it. Paya-wraiths, when fully grown, stood six feet tall. All clones of each other, because, at the dawn of time, they were all probably split from the very same forefather. All wraiths had two huge bulbous, black eyes that looked like opaque blackholes. Just managing to stay between the large orbs were two tiny horizontal slits that served as olfactory organs. Below this was an ugly, large, horizontal gash of a mouth which housed three semicircular rows of serrated teeth. The sides of the mouth held a pair of needle-sharp pincers that pinched into the prey’s side and allowed the wraith to inflict a calculated bite that would wound the prey seriously. The creatures walked on their hind limbs with an ape-like gait. Their bodies were covered with amphibious scales. The clawed digits on the limbs still held webs of skin in between, suggesting that the wraiths were once sea creatures. They ate flesh of any kind. They had very underdeveloped brains and hadn’t even figured out the use of stones and sticks in hunting. No one knew how long they lived. But they died for sure. From time to time, those brave enough to tread the Payalands, came upon a dead wraith that seemed to have died naturally. Usually, the wraiths never lived long enough to die of old age. The inherent nature of their beings, the love for the fight, the bloodlust, ensured that. It was also attributed to this, the fact that the wraith population was kept in control. Most of the adult wraiths never even got to splitting age. Little more was known about these beasts. “As if any more knowledge is required of such inhuman beasts!” thought Yorick to himself. He was standing at the driver’s box of the Chief’s caravan with a sword in his hand. He took a look at the caravan behind. He was pleased to see another Utopek standing at ready with a machete. He knew that each caravan was thus guarded by an Utopek man. His eyes moved again to the distant hills to his right. “Damn hills!” he cursed under his breath. Again, his roving eyes caught the unmistakable silhouette of a fully grown Paya-wraith at the peak. Soon, he began spying more outlines among the boulders. The sun was fast disappearing behind the brown hills, making the hills appear red. “Very fitting!” he snarled sarcastically. He knew the Paya-wraiths would attack at sundown. [V] He’d cursed the sunset a thousand times before. He knew he’d curse it every single time he’d have to live through it. It was beyond his comprehension how something so beautiful could herald something so terrible and cursed. Sunset. The cosmic joke. The good lord’s assurance that everything was so bloody picture perfect in his world and all was fine. How very wrong it was! He knew. He’d been told about all that went on while the sun went beyond the western horizon. The shaman had seen them. He spoke of them in an awed voice. Barely in more than a whisper. The dead. The souls of lost men. Of the once-human. Those that could never have peace forever more. He knew very well they came with sundown and danced on around hellfire till break of dawn. The shaman had witnessed one in his younger days. He’d been a little waif back then. But he could still remember the shaman’s gaunt frame walking back to camp one morning. Drunkenly swaying. Babbling incoherently. He’d clutched onto Rezeekh’s sinewy shoulders and claimed to have participated in the Dance of the Dead. He’d never been the same since then. The shaman. He’d aged twice as fast since that experience. Now, he sported a mane of grizzly snow-white hair and his face was all crinkled up. When he moved, it was as if he was tired of living. Bored with life and all its intricacies. He believed the shaman. As simple as that. There was no doubt in his mind. He, Rezeekh, simply could not think of any other explanation. Now, it was sunset yet again. Rezeekh offered a wordless prayer to whoever might hear it and picked up his great spear. There would be bloodshed before day broke. He knew it. The next day would be a red dawn. [V] It was frustrating Rezeekh. The path seemed never-ending. They badly needed a clearing of sorts for the night. They needed to form a protective circle of the wagons. And light a large bonfire in the centre. They wouldn’t last the night otherwise. But cruel fate had put a path lined by overgrown shrubs on either side. There was no way the caravans could cut a trail through those without getting bogged down. With a jolt, he realized twilight had gone. The chief seemed to know that it was more prudent to keep moving on and didn’t signal halt for the night. The night was silent. There seemed to be no birds or little furry creatures anywhere near them. Even the cicadas and the crickets were conspicuously absent. The only sounds that reached Rezeekh’s alert ears were those of a creaky wagon-yoke, an ox mooing here and there and the sound of a bullwhip goading a tired ox now and then. Even the children made no noise in their hammock-cribs. Then, they attacked. The attack was uncoordinated. Childishly simple, tactically. They just ran down from the hills. Charging down from both sides of the path. The sliver of moonlight shining from between clouds threw into sharp relief the heads of the Paya-wraiths. Shouts rose from the Utopeks as the men, one by one, saw the hordes. That was the only reason the attack was successful. By sheer weight of numbers the Paya-wraiths managed to reach the wagon-train. For every beast the Utopeks slew, two more seemed to spring up from the boulders. The men fought tenaciously using axes and cleaving-knifes. Some jumped down from the wagons in order to gain swing room for their hammers. From within the windows, the women who could draw the string and younger boys shot arrows at the Paya-wraiths. Soon, the sides of the path were littered with bodies of the dead and the wounded. Rezeekh had by now given up on his spear which was uselessly stuck through a particularly ferocious Paya-wraith. He wielded a battle-axe with much proficiency. The men from the nearby caravans had made their way toward his position and he was now fighting back-to-back with two other Utopeks who grimly refused to give quarter or any ground. While bringing the axe down on yet another careless Paya-wraith’s head, Rezeekh was able to glance quickly toward the front of the train. He spied Yorick’s muscled body atop one of the caravan’s roofs slashing with his sword. The moonlight glinted off his twirling weapon and shone upon his white skin. In that split second, Rezeekh realized that his brother was surrounded by an overwhelming number of adversaries. He had to go and aid him! [V] Yorick was on a high. The lust for battle was on him. He felt fey. He felt gay. He was fighting for his life atop the caravan. He was surrounded by innumerable Paya-wraiths. But he had a song on his lips. He hummed tunelessly; his song punctuated by his own grunts as he thrust his sword into the thick wraith hide with the sword’s swishes keeping time. Here he was – in his element. Against all odds. Battling to keep himself and his people safe. A hollow laugh coated with macabre humor escaped his mouth as he watched another wraith succumb under his blade. He’d lost count of how many enemies he’d dispatched without a second thought. He thanked his ancestors for not giving him a strong conscience when it came to things like killing or being killed. “Yorick! I’m coming!” he heard some familiar voice say. “Rezeekh!” his mind registered automatically, “But he didn’t need any help here. The situation was well within his control.” Then, Rezeekh was there. Striking left and right mercilessly. His axe was tinted red by now and his chest was heaving with exertion. But there he was. He’d almost made it to Yorick’s position when a Paya-wraith jumped from top of a burning wagon and landed right on top of Rezeekh. Next moment, a dozen or so Paya-wraiths also jumped into the fray. Rezeekh was lost from view under the mass of writhing bodies. Yorick felt a pang of fear, “What if Rezeekh was dead?! No! Not Rezeekh! Not so easily! Not when he was still standing!” Yorick uttered a war-cry and pounced on the beasts with a savage slashing of his blade. Still screaming incoherently, he struck again and again at the small mound of bodies that were responsible for shielding Rezeekh from his eyes. Suddenly, there were other men at his sides. He recognized the Chief on his left. The Paya-wraiths were wilting under the ferocious defense. Yorick was still fighting. Impervious to everything that wasn’t absolutely necessary right then. Out of the periphery of his eye, he saw the chief going down under a particularly large wraith. He saw two of the men near him rush to the Chief’s aid. He continued with a single purpose dousing any resistance from the wraiths. At last, he could see Rezeekh’s frame at the bottom. He managed to clear the last Paya-wraith from on top of his brother. Rezeekh wasn’t moving. Anguish filled Yorick’s heart. The fight had gone out of him. All he wanted was to see his brother stir. He picked him up and slung him across his broad shoulder and ran to his wagon and his family. [V] Rezeekh opened his eyes and groaned. Every single part of his body ached. He could see relief flooding the faces of Yorick & Louisa as they stared at him. “How are you feeling?” asked a concerned Louisa. “I’ll live” he managed to mumble. He felt weak and just wanted to go back to sleep. “The battle!” he suddenly remembered. “Relax, brother. The battle’s long over. We lost a lot of good men. But we were victorious in the end. It’ll be dawn soon. Sleep till then. I have to check on the Chief, he lost his other arm in the fighting.” Rezeekh was too tired to even react. He felt his eyes close again. Sleep took him again. [V] It had once seen a lot of bloodshed. Of that, Tristam was sure. The signs of an old battle were everywhere to be seen. Broken shields, cloven in half. Rusty swords, some bent in half. Rotting remains of wooden wagons still charred from fires that burnt them to the ground. And sun-bleached bones of men and oxen and some other strange looking skeletons. Undisturbed. For ages. Tristam surveyed the scene and decided that the last footprints on the sand were made at least twenty years ago. A battle was fought here twenty years ago. By humans against some large beasts. By the looks of the tracks on the ground, most of the humans and their carts went away from the fight victorious. Tristam decided this bode well for his own quest. It meant he’d most probably find a human settlement somewhere ahead. So, onward he’d go. [V] He’d lost count of the number of days he’d been on the road. Actually, keeping track of days made no sense to him anymore. He realized with a jolt, that he had, actually, in his subconscious, been keeping track of the changing seasons. It was his 3rd summer out in the open. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a bath. Not that there was anyone to wrinkle up their nose at his lack of hygiene. With matted hair and a straggly beard that all but covered his face, he looked like a mad prophet searching desperately for some disciples. For the last few fortnights, he’d been following the trail left behind by the wagons he’d first come across at the battlefield. By now, he had gleaned a lot of information about the wagon-owners. He knew there were almost seventy adults, both male and female. There were close to a score children of varied ages, mostly all healthy. Tristam had concluded from this that the people resided in the wagons itself and traveled throughout the year without settling down anywhere. The nomads were initially led by tall, broad-shouldered man. After a few weeks, the leadership was taken over by an old man who’s footprints indicated that he walked decidedly lopsided. And he wasn’t very comfortable while walking. This suggested that he had lost an arm recently. A fortnight later, the strong man had joined the older one at the front. Tristam concluded that there was a transfer of power taking place here. Thus, lost in thought, Tristam followed the tracks of the wagon wheels into a narrow corridor of yellow sandstone walls. He walked as in a dream. Hardly taking note of his beauteous surroundings. Until, of a sudden, he was jerked out of his reverie by the abrupt end of the cliffs and the emergence of the blackened fields. Tristam could just make out the crisp smell of the dying embers hidden under all the ash. But the fire and the ashes looked very old. “But if the coal is still faintly glowing, how hot was the furnace?” thought Tristam. He must travel alert and wary now. [V] Yorick sat with the chief in his wagon. He had, in the past few weeks, all but taken over the running of the tribe. The great wide frame of his muscled shoulders, now all bronzed from the merciless sun beating down upon the Utopeks day in, day out, was more than sufficient to bear the burden. Louisa was fiercely proud of all her husband had achieved. Of course, she and Clelia saw much lesser of him these days. But that would pass once he was able to strike a balance between his duties to his people and to his family. The old Chief was teaching him all he could. This fact worried Louisa. It was as if the Chief was preparing to leave them and go away. That was a troubling thought. The old man, even with just one hand, was still a very comforting sight at the head of the wagon train. Yorick could sense the agitation in the chief even though he tried hard to hide it. “Do you sense trouble, old one?” he had asked. The Chief still hadn’t replied. Yorick decided he wasn’t going to break the silence. The wise old man would speak when he had made up his mind. Sure enough, presently, “I fear we are drawing closer and closer to the ancient winged-terror’s hunting grounds. I have seen the omens and read the signs”, admitted the Chief, “I was hoping we would be able to bypass the killing fields, but so far, we have been fruitless in our attempt to do so”. “Well”, Yorick smiled wryly, “The old overgrown bat hardly hides his trail. He is overconfident. It will lead to his downfall.” “Someday…” he added as an afterthought. “Nay, not overconfident. Just supremely confident.” countered the Chief. “Incidentally,” the elder one continued, “he is a “she”!” “Is that a good thing?” questioned Yorick. The Chief grinned wryly this time, “Female draygns are almost one-and-a-half times larger than their mates. And this one looks like its been nesting.” “Great”, Yorick muttered. [V] A shrill whimper awoke her. It was her little one. He was a lively one. She normally hated being woken up by anyone other than the fire in the sky. But motherhood had mellowed her down to an extent. She looked at her baby. She would have smiled if she could. Her heart burst with pride at the sight of the tiny, perfectly shaped body lying at her side. He was just two weeks old and he could already crawl for a few steps. He was already teething. There was no doubt he would grow up to be as mighty as his sire. The baby nipped at her wing. He was hungry already. He had eaten like a horse just yesterday. He had eaten a horse yesterday. She would have to reconnoiter for herds of cattle. Horses were sometimes too fast. The baby shrilled again. She purred reassuringly. She raised her massive bulk from the ground. She flapped her wings raising a small sandstorm and then she flew eastwards - a monstrous, grey, flying gargoyle. [V] She was riding a very efficient thermal. A thermal is a current of warm air enclosed by cooler air. Effectively, an air elevator. She loved riding thermals. All she had to do was find one and flap her ponderous bulk into it. Then she had to spread her massive wings and just let the rising column of hot air do the rest of the work. The air could take her to heights hundreds of Kopthefs above the ground in a matter of seconds. At the height she was presently cruising in, the draygn could only just make out the tiny speck that was her young one in their nest. It was a full-time job - motherhood. She had to do it on her own since her mate, a gigantic black draygn had never returned from a hunt. She didn’t blame him. After all, male draygns weren’t brimming with paternal instincts. In fact, that she had had his company while she was still looking after their egg was a rare event. Male draygns were wanderers. They refused to be tied down to any one place. Mostly, they never returned to places they’d once been to before. She spotted them from several Kopthefs away. They looked like an immense snake winding its way among the rocks that dotted the landscape. Her yellow, reptilian eyes narrowed as her pupils became thin, vertical lines as she stared at the intruders. She felt fearful upon realizing the trespassers were hairless apes and their cattle. She’d encountered the hairless apes before. They were quite mad. They had absolutely no natural defenses. Their claws and teeth were of no use in a fight whatsoever. But they were cunning animals and made use of a single detachable claw to deter attackers. Some of them also had painful quills not unlike those of a porcupine. The hairless apes seemed to be making straight for her lair more or less. This incensed her. Her baby! She roared in defiance and dived. [V] Rezeekh had been standing on the roof of his caravan all afternoon. He had been scanning the skies for any sight of a black cloud. Their water stores were depleted. And the oxen were already surviving on half-rations. They needed to find an oasis or something - and soon. Rezeekh’s handsome face was grim as he inspected the wide, blue hemisphere over the wagon-train. As he turned to peruse the western horizon, he spotted a bird. It was tremendously high up. “A falkhn or a khrove”, he thought, pleased with himself for spotting something so far away; “A falkhn”, he asserted, noting the dull grey color. He was about to turn away again when he suddenly realized - The bird was dropping down much too fast! And now it seemed much too large to be any bird! And it seemed to be making for them! Rezeekh called out to the driver in front of his wagon and pointed at the flying giant. The other man stared at it with disbelief and then collected his wits and screamed at the cart in front and passed on the message. Soon, all the Utopeks were at ready. The women and children safe within their wagons and the men armed and at ready outside them. Rezeekh ran up to where Yorick stood and planted his spear’s rear end in the sand so that it stood upright. The brothers caught each other’s eye and nodded. “This is it!” they both seemed to say. [V] The Draygn roared as she swooped down upon the wagon-train. Her roar was a mighty blast that issued forth from her maw like a stream of pure physical force. The blast produced an extremely deafening set of waves that radiated forth in widening semi-circles, crashing relentlessly against anything they might encounter in their path. She could easily topple saplings right from their roots by aiming her great roar at them. Right now, from the height at which she was, the roar could do little physical damage. Maybe it would rattle the roofs of the caravans. But then, it could easily rattle the nerves of those who stood by the caravans defiantly. The Draygn swooped down, closing the gap between her and the wagoners at astonishing speed. All the time, she roared without a stop. She folded her gigantic, leathery wings behind her to gain maximum velocity. She was now, close enough for the puny humans to discern her features quite clearly. She knew they could appreciate her awesome size. She knew they were, in their hearts, terrified at the sight of her sharp tail spikes. She bared her teeth for added effect. The pointy teeth had the desired effect. She saw a significant lot of the humans break formation, throw down their artificial claws and run helter-skelter. She loved it when that happened. Panic was her best friend. Panic rendered even the cleverest and wiliest of minds useless in the face of danger. Panicking humans were extremely easy to prey on. Her baby would dine well today. [V] The roars of the Draygn physically battered Yorick. He could feel the effect of the force as it tried to subjugate his body. He thought there was nothing better he’d like to do than just lie down and assuage the pain he felt. It took all of his strength and willpower to stand straight and unmoving. Yorick saw from the corner of his eye that Rezeekh was doing the same. His people, around him, were losing heart even before the fight had begun. He saw the Draygn bare its teeth in a morbid grin. As if in a dream, he noticed almost all his strong and courageous men had thrown down their weapons and deserted him. He did not blame them. Not many knew what to do when legends suddenly came alive and showed up looking larger-than-life. He tore his eyes away from the menace and looked around. Aside from his brother and him, he counted thirteen battle-scarred veterans who still stood their ground by him. He was glad to note that at least five of them carried bows. Arrows were their best hope against this beast. He slowly let the warrior in him take charge. His mind cleared of all unnecessary data. He felt calm. His brain started working on calculations methodically while his trained eye provided information with regard to the rapidly descending threat. “Archers! At the ready!” he cried. A deep breath. “Now!” his brain screamed. An instant later, so did he. Five arrows shot up from behind him, followed quickly by another volley. He pulled out his sword from its scabbard and heard the others heft their weapons as the archers persistently peppered the flying demon with arrows. [V] The beast was among them! Rezeekh watched, dumbstruck as the Draygn bent its monstrous head down and snapped its neck back with two Utopeks stuck between its teeth. He stared in horror at their death-throes as the huge lizard clamped its jaws shut crushing their bones. It opened its mouth again and dropped his companions to the ground, now an unrecognizable, bloody mess. From somewhere among the caravans, screams issued forth. Rezeekh’s mind was suddenly clear. He had to avenge the death of his people! He plucked his spear from the ground easily, in one fluid motion and threw it at the creature without even aiming, trusting the hunter’s instinct in him. The beast turned to face him at the same moment and the spear found its mark. The monster stopped in mid-roar as the spear buried itself, shaft-deep, in the soft palette behind the upper jaw inside its mouth. Rezeekh heard it scream in pain. He saw it angle its head skywards and scream again in pain. And then, the Utopeks attacked. Rezeekh watched his brother lead the attack looking very god-like. He looked around and spotted a hefty axe and a sturdy, wooden shield. He armed himself with them on the run and reinforced the attackers. [V] Yorick swung his sword at the Draygn’s ankle. The hide was so tough; it felt like he was hewing at a boulder. He saw the archers drop their bows and join the attack with swords and axes now that the beast was on the ground. He silently thanked his brother’s skill in his mind for stopping the Draygn’s roar while it was right in front of them. If it had succeeded in growling, he was sure there would have been no one left to fight it. The Draygn was thrashing about, half in pain and half due to the pricking sensation around its feet as the brave Utopeks struck unceasingly. Then there was a loud crack which made him look up. The Draygn had succeeded in closing its jaws and thus breaking Rezeekh’s spear which had been lodged in its mouth until then. This was bad indeed! The massive creature snarled and attacked with renewed vigor. Its tail whipped back and forth crashing into the stomachs of the men that still stood against it. Two were impaled on the sharp spikes while others were swept away by the sheer power of the blows. Soon, Yorick found only his brother and he was still standing side-by-side facing the mighty Draygn. [V] There was pain. More than she could comprehend. There was a throbbing inside her head which she knew was only imaginary but could not refuse to acknowledge. The dull ache made her shiver involuntarily. She was one of the mighty draygns. She had been caught by surprise at the ferocity of the small band of men that stood up to her onslaught. They were either very brave or tremendously foolish. They had banded against her. Attacking her and injuring her by strength of numbers. They had succeeded where others of their kind before them had failed. She respected the foes that faced her down. They usually did not live long enough for her to show the respect she had for them. This bunch would go the same way; of that much she was sure. She stopped howling in fury and agony and surveyed the battlefield. The wagons were no longer in a column - the oxen having bolted upon hearing her thunderous roars dragging their caravans behind them. Most of the cowards were hiding in wagons or behind rocks - she could catch them easily enough later for her repast. Of the fifteen that unwisely fought her, thirteen lay dead or seriously wounded. Only two were left standing. She studied her two adversaries with the cold eyes of an experienced predator. Both were quite tall for their kind. One was fair and the other dark. She noted their tensed muscles. She could hear every heartbeat of her two opponents. Their hearts were racing, pumping adrenaline into their bodies. She could, however, smell no fear in them. Here, were worthy foes. She would dismember them with pleasure. [V] It was a stalemate of sorts. Neither party wanted to make the first move. Both teams were being wary. The Draygn was wounded. Rezeekh was sure it wasn’t accustomed to feeling the pain of something rending its flesh. It wasn’t so sure of itself anymore. It wasn’t underestimating them anymore. Rezeekh knew Yorick and he were hopelessly outmatched against such a colossal antagonist. He also knew they couldn’t back down and just wait to be eaten. Hence the waiting. The watchful wait. Movement! It was the tiniest flick of the serpentine tail. The forebear of another powerful swing that could easily crush the stone masonry of any walled city. Rezeekh saw it coming just when it began. The trained combatant reflexes in him took over. He saw Yorick react from the corner of his eye. His brother had noticed the impending blow coming too. Both the brothers moved with astonishing speed. The Draygn’s tail lashed out in their direction only to whip out at empty air for the brothers weren’t where they had been an instant ago. Rezeekh bent his spine and forced his body behind him. He bent his knees backward until his upper body was horizontal. He was balancing his entire body weight on the insteps of his feet while spreading them apart to aid in balance. His axe he held across his chest with the blade pointing upward. The tail swooshed past him, a spike traveling incredibly close to his nose. The axe bit into the tail as it passed by and lodged itself firmly into the stringy muscles using the tail’s own momentum. Rezeekh felt himself being launched into the air still holding onto the axe as the Draygn howled in renewed misery. [V] Yorick saw the tail twitch. He saw his brother begin to flatten out anticipating the blow. Yorick’s mind reacted to the danger instantly. His neurons signaled his legs to act. Without any conscious thought, Yorick bent his knees. His calf muscles tensed. He hoisted up the balls of his feet, balancing entirely on the toes. He watched the tail leave the ground where it lay lifting up tiny fragments of the soil as it powered forward with incredible speed. Yorick timed his jump to perfection. Just as the nearest tail-spike was about to impale him, he pushed off the ground and launched himself into the air. Like a dolphin leaping over a wave, he leapt over the whipping tail. Then he hit the ground and rolled head-over-heels immediately and jumped to his feet - safe. The tail had almost reached the end of its swing, it would return as soon as inertia and the laws of physics sent it back his way. Yorick didn’t have much of a chance where he was. His only option was to run towards the beast. Yorick charged the Draygn. The beast growled. Now it was confused. Never, in its long life had anyone done this! Yorick ran straight at the monster. Then suddenly, he feinted and changed direction. He was now close to its front leg. He jumped up while still running and flew through the air for the remaining distance and plunged his sword into the shoulder of the Draygn. The beast yowled in pain and pranced around in agony. Yorick held on for dear life. The beast snapped its neck back and tried to get at Yorick who was hanging five feet above the ground holding grimly onto his sword. [V] The Draygn had had enough. She was suffering. Her immense frame was wracked with bruises and she was bleeding all over. Now her shoulder was burning. She knew now it had been a terrible mistake to underestimate these humans. She had paid the price for it. Never had she been this badly wounded. Not even when she had to fend off hungry males from her nest. She was feeling weak. She had to find a safe place to rest and recuperate. She took off into the air. She could shake off the two still hanging onto her she hoped. It was not to be. Try as she might, the brothers hung on for dear life. The Draygn flew fast. She tried rolling, zigzagging, diving - none worked. The brothers held on like limpets. [V] It felt like forever. The Draygn kept flying nonstop. Rezeekh’s hands were growing numb from gripping the handle of the axe. The demon-creature had seemingly given up hope of shaking them off. It just concentrated on flying straight. It seemed to be battling exhaustion that comes from severe blood-loss. Slowly, Rezeekh reached out and grabbed a tail-spike. He let go of the axe and held on to the spike with both hands. It wasn’t as slippery as it looked. In fact, the spike was covered by some leathery skin which allowed him to obtain a sufficient grip with his hands. He then hoisted himself up and hefted a leg across the tail. Rezeekh managed to make himself as comfortable as possible sitting astride the tail. He spied his brother up ahead. Yorick had managed to climb up and was now seated between the powerful shoulder-blades of the beast looking serene like he was riding his favorite horse. Presently, Rezeekh felt the Draygn lose altitude. The beast banked in midair and the scene in front of Rezeekh now showed towering cliffs of black stone. He spotted a crevice in between a pair of forbidding-looking cliffs. The Draygn made straight for the cave. Then they were inside. Total blackness. The cave was hardly wide enough for the Draygn to move around. Rezeekh realized almost too late what the wily creature intended to do. He jumped off the tail just in time. A second of hesitation and he would have been splattered across the cave roof as the tail lashed into it. The Draygn meant to get rid of them! Rezeekh shouted a warning to his brother. The next instant the cave shook with the vibration of the great Draygn ramming itself against the roof in a bid to crush Yorick. Only, forewarned by Rezeekh’s shout, Yorick had jumped off the beast just as it flew upward. As the beast came down again hard, Yorick raised his sword upward and felt it go home into the Draygn’s soft belly. The sharp blade sank deep into the belly of the beast. The Draygn twisted in agony only succeeding in enlarging the wound. Rezeekh ran upto his brother and lent his strength in ramming the sword in upto the hilt. He felt the whoosh of stomach gases escaping. Then, his brother and he were drenched in blood. The Draygn thrashed about in pain making the slit larger every time. It was raining blood inside the cave and the slippery floor made it tough for Rezeekh to stand up straight. The beast’s howling echoed horribly within the fissure. Rezeekh’s eyes had by now gotten adjusted to the darkness in the grotto. He saw the Draygn begin to totter. “Time to move, Yorick!” yelled Rezeekh and at the same time began pulling his brother out from beneath the body of the gigantic lizard. The brothers ran out of the cave and turned around to face any resistance from their vanquished foe. The Draygn stumbled and then collapsed never to rise again. [V] He had stopped counting the number of days he’d been on the move without a rest. He forced himself to move. To keep following the wagon trail. Something compelled him to do so. Something told him he would reach the end of his search when he found the wagons that had passed by so long ago. The tracks were old, many, but made at the same time. Before those, and after, there had been absolutely no traffic. It was all very mysterious. Tristam now found himself facing a narrow passageway between two cliffs. It was barren except for a few tufts of grass here and there. The ground was sandy. Black sand. Tristam steeled his nerves even though his heart felt a rare foreboding at the sight that greeted his eyes. He walked through the entrance. [V] The baby whimpered. He was hungry. It wasn’t like his mother to be late. She had never been late to attend to him. His little brain told him something was wrong. But his hunger overrode his concern for his mater. He groped around his eyrie sniffing with his sharp nostrils for any hint of food. He found a piece of bone in a corner and gnawed on it. Pretty soon, he’d crunched it up and it hardly sated his hunger. He realized his mother still hadn’t returned from her hunt. He moaned with hunger and loneliness. He heard a great noise from down below. A great grinding noise. If he had been older and had seen the world, he would have known that what he heard was the noise made by the Utopeks as they passed under his cliff. But he was unlearned about the ways of the world. The noise scared him. His mother made sure that nothing worried him. But she wasn’t here. He cowered under some twigs within the nest and waited hoping the harsh sounds would go away. Presently, the wagons passed by and the noises receded. The baby draygn crawled to the edge of the nest. He needed his mother. He decided he would find her. He jumped out of the nest and stood on the high rock. He felt the wind between his wings for the first time. The stiff breeze all but pulled him upwards. He felt like he belonged among the thermals, flying high, like he was born to do. The thrill of the first flight combined with the anxiousness for his mother proved to be an intoxicating combination. Against the better judgment of his tiny mind, he leapt off the cliff. For an infinitesimal instant, his wings caught the updraft and his heart soared with joy. Then, horror took him. He felt himself falling. Something was wrong! He flapped his wings like he had watched his mother do a thousand times before. But he did not effortlessly rise like he had seen her do. He fell further. His little body thwacked against the side of the crag. Pain racked his form. His head reeled. He lost consciousness just before he hit the ground hard. [V] It was dark. The baby awoke quite suddenly. The throbbing was unbearable. His entire frame was aching. He cried out in agony a couple of times. No one heard him. Soon, his voice gave out. He was too tired and weak to care anymore. He welcomed the endless sleep. The last of his kind was gone. [V] The walls of the crag were high enough to block out the late afternoon sun almost totally. Only a few slanted rays managed to break through the barrier and light up the bleak maze-like corridor dimly. The wan lighting only served to magnify the bleakness of the surroundings. Tristam was overwhelmed by the aura of desperateness the whole area exuded. Yet he kept doggedly at the path of the labyrinth. Here and there, he came upon bones of a myriad number of animals. No complete skeletons but just singular bones scattered over a wide region. Tristam guessed there was a nesting ground of some raptor high up on the cliffside. The bones were probably dropped by the young ones after stripping them of all flesh and sinew. What surprised Tristam was the sheer assortment of bones. There were bones that had once belonged to cattle and some he was quite sure were human. That meant the birds were scavengers. This meant he didn’t have to worry overmuch about them. Then he noticed something else - there were no fresh kills. The newest bones were more than twenty years old at his best estimate - this meant the nesting grounds had been abandoned for some time now. Satisfied, he was safe for the moment and that his only worry was losing his mental stability to the surrounding gloom, Tristam pushed the thoughts about the mysterious birds to a corner of his mind and steeled himself to follow the cart-tracks further. [V] The wagon-train was in disarray. Chaos reigned supreme. They had lost thirteen of their finest warriors. Some had died painlessly under the Draygn’s claws and teeth. They had been the lucky ones. The other unfortunates had suffered horribly before succumbing to their injuries. The Utopeks had never been great at leading from the front. That’s why the Chief’s position was so respected and not at all envied. After all, who would want to be responsible for the lives of others. Especially when “others” was about a hundred of your own extended family. Now the Draygn had carried off their chief, Yorick and his wise brother Rezeekh. The old Chief had passed away soon after losing his arm in the epic battle against the Paya-wraiths. Utopeks without a leader were like lost children. There was lamentation in the camp. The children sobbed out of fear. The women wept with grief. The men cried out in shame and mourned the loss of their comrades. The whole scene both disgusted Louisa and moved her to pity when she’d finally managed to put little Clelia to sleep and came out of her wagon to survey the aftermath. She expected Yorick was somewhere nearby scrutinizing the damage that had been. She looked around but didn’t spot his unmistakable frame anywhere. For that matter, she couldn’t find Rezeekh anywhere either. She called out to some of the men nearby. They glanced furtively at each other as if deciding who should break the news to Louisa. Alarmed, she repeated her query. They told her. [V] The two men stumbled down the cliffside. They were trying to find a relatively safe way downhill the steep incline. They were directly below the cave high above the ground. They had managed to get about halfway down the ridge. Any observer, should there have been one would have seen that they were exhausted. They took turns at falling down and picking up each other. They goaded each other on. The two tall men - one dark and the other distinctly fair - resolutely descended. Rezeekh estimated they had been staggering about for the better part of the day. When they finally made it back to the rest of the tribe it was night. The two adventurers entered the campsite tired, chest-heaving, covered in mud and blood and drenched in sweat. Yorick heard a shriek and then he and Rezeekh were enveloped in a hug as Louisa ran upto them sobbing with relief. When she finally released them, Yorick inspected the camp. He was surprised to find it neat and efficiently organized. Even though Rezeekh and he had been away. It looked to him like the Utopeks had found a new leader already. Then he spotted Louisa issuing orders to boil up some water for their baths and commanding a group of women to prepare some more food. He smiled to himself as the Utopeks obeyed her unquestioningly. Looks like he’d have to relinquish his leadership after all. [V] It was doubtless the only complete skeleton in the whole labyrinth. It lay in a forlorn heap at the foot of the highest precipice. Ravaged by time and despoiled by the very creation that had crafted it as a being of flesh and blood, then nurtured it to grow and witness the beauty of the universe in all its glory, only to mercilessly end it all in a single instant. The place was forsaken by everything that lived under the sun and by those that didn’t. It was this pitiful scene that met the solitary traveler while he was, as ever, following the tracks left years ago by the wagon-train. Tristam drank in the scene with his tracker’s skill and decided that the creature whose bones they were was some kind of top predator, the kind that had no one to fear. The bones looked fragile, like the creature had been just a youngling when it had perished. From the way the forelimb bones were shaped, Tristam deduced that it was a flier; possibly one of the raptors responsible for all those chewed up bones he’d passed by. The sternum and the coccyx were fractured. The creature had been repeated smashed against something hard. He looked upwards. He could spy something akin to a nest high up on the spiraling rock face. He concluded that the fledgling had for some reason decided to fly out before its time and had paid the price. He had no idea what kind of predatory animal it was. He didn’t know what it would do to him had it been alive when it saw him. But, it was a sorrowful sight. Tristam shivered involuntarily and turned away. His eyes found the tracks of the cartwheels. He followed them as always. [V] Yorick ordered a two day break for recuperation. For two days, the tribe mourned the dead. For two days they labored to dig shallow hollows in the ground upon which they built small podia of dry wood. Upon these, the brave that had fallen in battle were placed by their comrades. The dead warriors had been prepared for their ultimate journey by the women. Their grave wounds were covered; the superficial lacerations were covered with a salve that lent the wound the color of skin. The fallen soldiers were dressed in finery. When all was ready and each of the deceased was rested on his own platform, the chief, Yorick went to each dais with a flaming torch and sent the warrior to the afterlife. [V] The Utopeks had been moving along the course of the passageway between the cliffs for three days. There was no stopping for rest. They ate while they moved. The cattle were given feedbags and they were all trained to eat while they pulled their loads. Rezeekh was satisfied at the time they had made. He was pretty much sure that there was no other predator nearby. This bleak area could not support two such large beasts. But still, this desolation unnerved him. “Rezeekh!” he heard his brother call from the leading cart. “Rezeekh! Come quick!” Rezeekh ran up to the front. He saw Yorick standing up from the driver’s seat and staring ahead. “What?” he asked, as he turned round the cart to come up to the very front. Suddenly, he came to a stop. “Well….” he stopped in mid-sentence and just stared ahead, arms akimbo. [V] They were living the dream. Their collective dream. Yorick laughed for joy again. He’d done so ever so often in the last couple of hours. He was elated. It had begun as a mere pipe dream of a delusional few. A rare few, kindred spirits, who had lost faith in the so called “civilized world” and wished to start anew. They had wished for a new beginning away from all of humankind’s mistakes. So that they could iron out the errors and provide everyone a fresh lease of life. The vision of a handful pioneers grew over time into the aspiration of a thousand - The Utopeks - seekers of that perfect world, seekers of Utopia. Yorick had finally led them to that place. The one they all instinctively had known was home the moment they set eyes upon it. It was their Promised Land; their Seventh Heaven; their Never-never Land; and he was their leader. Yorick felt elated. The last leg of their journey had been surreal. He remembered every detail vividly, almost as if he had been watching it from outside himself. He remembered standing on top of the pass that the maze had petered out into. He remembered Rezeekh’s disbelieving face when he stared out at the panorama facing them. He recalled the exquisite beauty of the valley below them - the treetops, the flocks of myriad birds that flew over them, the winding river that flowed across the gorge, the unbelievably tall mountains on the other side with their snowcaps and the whole vista framed by a delicate rainbow that matched the flying birds in color. He recollected the narrow pathway, at times barely wide enough for a cart to pass, that led down to the dell. He could remember Louisa’s happy face as she drank in the sight of their new home. The sheer extent of vegetation in the vale amazed the Utopeks. There were delicate grasses that the cattle could not resist. So much so that the speed at which they moved all but halved so as to accommodate the oxens’ feeding as they moved. There were tiny mosses in varying shades of green, red and yellow. There were intricately patterned ferns that delighted the children no end. Mighty trees towered over them and shaded them from the heat of the sun. A curtained canopy of creepers and climbing plants filtered the light that fell to the ground and gave everything a pleasing, soft green tint. The vale was small enough for them to hear the trickle of the water in the river from any end of it. Yet, it was large enough to accommodate all the Utopeks comfortably. They spotted several small animals, some of which they could recognize, most of which were shy and vanished into the woods. Twice they came upon deer tracks and the scouts Yorick had sent ahead reported no carnivore larger than a couple of wildcats. They had indeed arrived in Paradise. [V] A score and two winters later, a lone figure stood at the same place where long ago Yorick and Rezeekh first set eyes upon Utopia. His name was Tristam. He was a long way away from the last and the only place he’d ever called home. For the last five months, he had stoically followed the tracks left by a group of wagons and carts many years before him. Now, finally, he had come to the end of his search. He could see a settlement at the far end of the valley. It was inhabited by about a hundred or so. The village seemed prosperous. His sharp eyes could only just discern that the houses were actually wagons that had been drawn into a circle. There was a sort of a dais made of wood situated in the middle. It seemed to him like a sort of town centre. The nearer side of the settlement had the river running quite close to it. He could see young girls carrying pots to and fro between the river and their homes. The men were engaged in various activities that ranged from gathering wood to cultivation of some type of grain to caring for the cattle which were grouped together in a common on the far side at the foothills of the mountains. The women were banded at the centre of the circle of houses engaged in cooking activities. Tristam could espy large cauldrons with fires lit under them. The people lived in a close-knit community, and to Tristam, it looked very serene and peaceful. [V] Clelia was bored out of her mind. Nothing exciting had ever happened to her in her twenty years of life. For that matter, nothing exciting ever happened to anyone. When she’d asked her grandma about it, the old woman had told her to go climb a tree and fall off it if she craved excitement. At least that is what Clelia supposed she had said. No one understood what Grandma said these days. Not since her last tooth had rotted away from years of constant chewing of cured tobacco. Clelia had loads of friends. She supposed it came with the territory of being the daughter of the chief. She’d always been a leader among the children of her age-group. Recently though, they had started paying more attention to her. She’d noticed this change especially among the boys. A few had even tried to impress her with the complex courtship ritual. That had stopped for the time-being. She was not sure, but she often thought her outright laughter at the last boy’s attempt might have had something to do with the lack of interest among the boys to sway her opinion. Clelia was brought out of her dreary reverie by a shout from one of the men. She brought her head up from where it nestled between her cupped palms and her elbows fell from their resting place on her lap. She saw the tall, handsome stranger with the windblown hair walk towards the central platform surrounded by wary warriors who all pointed spears at him wondering what he were doing here. Clelia bolted upright with a smile on her pretty face. Things were going to change around here. [V] Tristam was escorted to the dais in the centre of the village. Upon it was a simple wooden chair. Presently, it was empty. As he gazed upon the swelling crowd surrounding him, he sensed the gathering part from behind him. He turned and saw a tall, fair-skinned individual among the sea of dark colored bodies. The man had a noble bearing about him. He did not speak but just beckoned him with a raised hand. Tristam decided he had better follow the person who was unmistakably a man of high ranking among the people. The two men walked to a caravan at the edge of the circle, quite unremarkable as the rest. The man pushed aside the reed curtain that shrouded the doorway to the interior and signaled Tristam to enter. “I am Yorick. I am the leader of the Utopeks,” explained the man and inquired of Tristam’s purpose for being there. While Tristam told his tale, Yorick filled two clay mugs with some brew from a jar. He handed one to Tristam and told him to drink. Tristam put the mug to his lips and daintily sipped the concoction. It was very good; he decided and smacked his lips. He had had nothing but water for most of his march and now that his trial was over, he suddenly realized how hungry he was. His host seemed to realize his guest’s yen without being told. He poked his head out of the window and called out to someone and spoke at length in some language that Tristam couldn’t understand. Presently, the curtain was drawn back and in stepped the most beautiful girl Tristam had ever seen in his life. To complete the picture of divinity, she held in her hands a tray piled high with what was unmistakably food. She placed the tray on Tristam’s lap and turned up her head to glance at Tristam. Their eyes met for a brief instant. She smiled, her face scant inches from his. Tristam’s heart leapt with joy. Then she turned on her heel and left the wagon leaving Tristam to wonder about the wonderful effects the small joys of life had on the human soul. A clearing of the throat abruptly warned Tristam the moment was over. He turned and faced the Utopek Chief again and continued with his tale. [V] It was an anxious hour that Clelia had spent while her father and the handsome stranger were closeted in their caravan. Finally, the two men came out and all the babble of the Utopek crowd that had gathered around the Chief’s caravan grew silent. The stranger followed the Chief to the platform where he stood to one side while the Chief stood upon it to address the gathering. “The traveler, who has come to us because he has lost his way, will replenish his supplies, which we will gladly provide him, and then be on his way,” averred Yorick. Clelia was horrified. Here was someone interesting. Here was someone who had been outside the valley. She was sure he had an extremely interesting story to tell. But here was her father turning him away! No! She would not allow it. [V] Clelia watched dumbstruck as a handful of warriors escorted the stranger to the edge of the village. She spotted some of the older women packing a sack with food that remained eatable for long durations. Already they were sending him away! Clelia saw her father move away from the throng and into their home. She ran after him and stood in his path, blocking him. “Father! What are you doing?!,” she began, “The traveler looks tired. He must need rest. I’m sure he has great sagas to share with us. Won’t you let him stay awhile?,” she hated when she ended up wheedling. She always did so while trying to make her father change his mind. So far, her success rate wasn’t much to speak about. Her father replied, “He comes from the outside Clelia. His world is imperfect. He is full of the flawed ideas and ideals. He is dangerous within our society. We have lived ideal lives here in Utopia. I will not have it ruined for one suppertime’s entertainment.” Then he gently pushed her aside and entered his wagon. [V] She was going to be in big trouble. She knew the risks. Her mind was made up. She knew she had to talk with the stranger. Clelia spent the rest of the day pretending to listen to the second-hand gossip her friends had picked up from the elders. She wasn’t interested. She’d know all about the stranger when she accosted him later when she could slip away in the darkness. The forest didn’t hold any terrors for her, she knew it like the palm of her hand. Clelia’s chance came after dinner that night. She excused herself early citing a full stomach and left the gathering around the fire. No one paid any attention to her as she slipped away into the darkness between two parked caravans. Once out of the village limits, Clelia began to run. She made her way to the only place the Utopeks were forbidden to venture in the entire valley - the path on the cliffside. She had always had her suspicions about a gateway to the rest of the world being situated there, but life had always been too much fun as a child in Utopia for her to seriously consider going out into a world filled with horrors as told to the youngsters by the elders. [V] He slowly walked, retracing his path back to the cliffs. He was dejected. He didn’t know what to do anymore. Thinking about it, he didn’t even know the purpose behind his following the Utopeks. He’d never known what would come from it. But it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Maybe it was just that he’d been lonely, that when the tracks showed cutting across his path, he’d changed direction unquestioningly, longing for some intelligent company. “Well,” he said to himself with a sigh, “I hope Mr. Cudchuer hasn’t entirely forgotten about me.” Then he heard the soft patter of feet somewhere behind him. He quickly left the narrow trail and hid in the bushes beside it. Presently, he made out a single form running along the trail. When his follower was close enough for him to hear the little gasps for breath, Tristam pounced. He timed his jump to perfection. He caught his stalker side-on and the pursuer didn’t even have time to utter a scream. The two of them tumbled off the path and into the brush on the other side. Momentum carried them over the immediate bushes and into the next row of shrubbery. Finally Tristam’s mysterious follower was able to return the favor and surprise him. Tristam was astonished when the tables were turned and his pursuer locked their legs around his waist and pushed him over so he landed on the bushes with his assailant straddling him. The combined weight along with the rough branches of the shrub knocked the wind out of him. He let out an involuntary “Ooof!”, then shook his head to clear out the multicolored spots from his eyes and for the first time, got a glimpse of his attacker. [V] Clelia had the best seat in the house. Seated on the stranger’s chest, she was treated to the amazing plethora of emotions that passed across his face when he finally realized who he had been wrestling with. When his face had displayed all the colors of the rainbow and finally decided to settle for a deep shade of crimson, she got off him and rolled on the grass, unable to control her laughter. The stranger gulped air a few times and was obviously coming to grips with the situation. At length, he seemed to see the funny side of the predicament and joined her with a hearty guffaw of his own. Twenty minutes later, they were seated beneath a large tree beside the trail playing twenty questions. [V] For four complete set of lunar phases, Tristam hid in the Utopian vale in a hillside cave below the labyrinth that Clelia led him to. She came at least once everyday to see him. They exchanged stories, engaged in playful banter, taught each other skills they had received instruction in from their teachers and elders, openly flirted, and enjoyed the comfortable silence that came from the bonding of two very similar minds. Slowly, as time passed, they fell in love. Both knew it was happening and did nothing to stop it. So it happened that one day, Tristam made up his mind to go back to whence he came from. He told Clelia of his plans. She didn’t even have to think about it. She just stated that he would have to take her along. After talking about it, the two young lovers decided to ask her father’s permission first. This was much against Clelia’s wishes as she was plain scared to face her father having defied him for so long but Tristam was adamant that he would not leave the valley like a thief having stolen the treasure of the Utopeks. Thus, two months after his first visit, Tristam found himself at the Utopek village again. This time however, he had Clelia’s hand in his, giving him strength. The entire village dropped whatever task they had been performing and turned up to witness the spectacle. The rumors were spreading thick and fast. Clelia avoided all the questions thrown at her and made her way to her caravan pulling Tristam behind her. Inside, she found her parents. Her father seemed expectant, her old man missed nothing. Her father’s gaze went from her face down to her hand, locked in an embrace in Tristam’s hand and then followed it to Tristam’s face. His eyes went back to study his daughter’s face, “Well?” Clelia told the story with Tristam correcting her and adding details whenever needed. Her parents listened without interrupting. When she was done, she looked apprehensively at her parents, waiting for the axe to fall. Her father spoke, “I knew most of it,”. He continued, “When you kept disappearing from the village so often, Clelia, you think I wouldn’t know you were up to something? I had Rezeekh follow you a few times and report back to me. So I know all about Tristam and you.” He smiled, allowing Clelia to stop holding her breath. She knew the axe had been buried. “You have our permission,” Yorick said taking his wife’s hand. Louisa smiled at the young couple and continued for her husband, “And our blessings.” she said simply. [V] A couple of days later, Tristam and Clelia were married under a full moon according to the Utopek custom. The following day, they left Utopia in a brand new caravan drawn by a team of pure white oxen - the village’s gift. The children ran beside the caravan shouting and screaming goodbyes until they reached the edge of the village. Clelia stood at the doorway of the wagon and waved at her old home until it disappeared behind the horizon. [V] Epilogue: It was the shadiest among all the shady spaces that were on offering at the fishing docks of Willowdean. It was a sailor’s inn of ill repute, the kind no self-respecting seaman will step in even to get drunk and cry over his troubles. The wooden plaque outside the door proclaimed “Aunty Polly’s Shack” in faded and peeling paint. Below it in smaller print was “Bed & Breakfast” and “Well-drawn Ales”. If ever an Aunty Polly had ever existed, she must’ve gone the same time the board was last repainted. Inside were a few knotty and heavily scarred tables. The floor was covered by a thin layer of sawdust, probably sprinkled to absorb the previous night’s vomit, which most customers left behind instead of a tip. Across the door was a bar made of equally scarred wood. Behind the bar were two rows of dusty shelves holding several bottles, the insides of which showed contents with colors ranging from a muddy brown to deep amber. To one side stood a crumbling staircase that, no doubt, led to the “Bed” part of the advertisement board. Only two people were visible within the bar area - one was the bartender who was in his place behind the bar dusting the glasses with a dirty brown cloth. Occasionally, he spat into a glass to wet it so that he could exterminate a particularly difficult stain. The other was a patron slumped at a corner table. In front of him were close to a dozen mugs of ale. The last one had overturned near his right hand and had spilt its contents to join the puke on the sawdusted floor. It seemed nothing within the establishment was clean, for the drunkard was a dirty old man. A tramp from the looks of him, but then, Aunty Polly’s Shack did not have much choice in the form of patrons. As the morning sun climbed up in the sky, the bartender decided it was time the old man left. He walked up to him from around the bar and shook him roughly. Without a word, the old tramp fell off his stool and crumpled to the floor. His eyebrows joined together like a massive caterpillar, the barman frowned and bent down reaching for the wrist. No pulse, he concluded. Oh well, he’d have to dump him into the ocean just across the walkway. No sense bothering with the law, they only caused a disturbance among his clientele. But first, the old tramp had not paid for his booze. Maybe he’d have a little extra for his funeral arrangements, so to speak. The barman slipped a hand into the dead man’s pockets one by one and came up empty each time. Cursing his clients, he inserted his hand into the last pocket. This time however, his fingers clutched something. He brought out a tiny figurine. His eyes glinted as he noticed it was pure silver. A quaint silver sparrow. He didn’t have much use for it. However, it would pay for the year’s taxes. After all, the Lady Evalea was very accommodating and allowed her citizens to pay their taxes in a variety of methods. He was sure she would like silver jewelry too. A month later, there was uproar in Willowdean - the Lady Evalea had died in her sleep. She had been found in her bed by her handmaiden. In her hands, clutched at her bosom, was a tiny silver sparrow. THE END