EN World Short Story Smackdown - FINAL: Berandor vs Piratecat - The Judgment Is In!
Starman
Adventurer
Berandor said:
I think your equation is flawed. If you add the variables you are conveniently left out, it shows that your writing will open up a Schwarzschild wormhole which will suck in your story(ies). Thankfully, it should close before it has a chance to destroy any of the good stories (read: mine)
Berandor said:
I just finished my first draft and it is just under 2400 words. Short and sweet, if I do say so myself. I'd give you a preview, but I'd hate to make you cry when you realize how inadequate your own attempt was, at least until we've both turned in our final drafts that is. Then you can cry your heart out.
Starman
Adventurer
Round Two - Match Ten
Starman vs. Berandor
A Great Illusion of a Dream
Mocking laughter dogged his footsteps.
“Seen any ghosts, Frank!”
“My grandma’s dead, Frank, but she’s not interested in you. Sorry.”
“Hey, Frank, I think my house is possessed. Can you come check it out for me?”
“Who ya gonna call, Frank?”
The bright, sunny day was in stark contrast to Frank’s mood. He was walking home from his job at the local amusement park where he worked as an “actor” in Dr. Faust’s House of Doom. Being an actor meant that he put on various monster costumes and scared – or tried to scare – people. Demonic imps, demented gnomes, evil elves; they were all on Frank’s resume. The job wasn’t so bad when he started it, but ever since the County Fair last year, he could hardly stand it. No one was scared of him now. Everyone knew who he was, even when in full costume and they laughed at him, made fun of him, smote him with plastic swords, and pushed him around. It was a thankless job, but it paid for his grungy apartment and Raman noodles. What more could anyone want? Frank thought sarcastically.
What Frank did want was to be more than just a “little person”. His thoughts were filled with rousing tales of adventure and love in which he was the titular hero. Dragons were slain. Knights were his to command. Above all, princesses were rescued and wooed. Why can’t dreams be reality? he wondered. If there was any justice in the world they would be.
For the last three years Frank had a recurring dream, a vivid, lucid reverie, that stood out over the rest. In the dream world, he was a noble, a prince of some mighty realm. This was very exciting for Frank except for the fact that his dream self was a tall, white guy when he was in actuality a short (okay, midget) Hispanic. My dreams are as bad as Hollywood; all the heroes are white. He did not pay too much attention to this detail, however, because it felt so extraordinary to be a man of power and virility. The first part of the dream would be about him running his kingdom and leading armies. Very exhilerating. The end was always puzzling to Frank, though. He would suddenly be walking into a wooded area alone. It was the middle of winter and an unnatural pall of silence hung over the trees. A phantom image of a beautiful woman stood ahead of him in front of a mighty tree. A snow owl with the same ghostly appearance was flying around the tree, but did not make a sound. The woman would beckon gently to Frank, but before he could approach her, the dream would end and he would wake in a cool sweat.
The little Latino could not shake the feeling that this woman was not just an inhabitant of his dreams. No, she was somehow real. And she was trying to send him a message. He was sure of it.
Not long after the dream started, the would-be hero began seeing phantoms in the waking world. It was rare at first and Frank chalked it up to lack of sleep or his hyperactive imagination. A shrink would probably call it a symptom of “deep, disaffected loneliness” or something. A shadow in the corner of his eye. A flicker of movement. The phantoms started to become more and more frequent and then one night, Frank recognized one.
Home alone with a six-pack of beer, Frank was sitting on his couch watching TV, a typical evening for him. His eyelids were feeling heavy, but just when he was about to give in to their demands there was a whisper of movement outside of the window. It caught the little man’s attention and he shifted his head to see what it was. Expecting to see that it was just a passing car, he was shocked to see it was the ghostly woman in his dreams. Frank jumped off his couch. Or tried to jump off his couch. Being a little drunk meant that he tripped over his coffee table and fell forward on his face. When he struggled back to his feet, she was gone. It was her, though. Frank knew it. She had the same long hair, the same face. Now, Frank had no doubts. The woman was real and she was trying to contact him.
After that, Frank saw her more and more, but never for long at a time and never was he able to talk to her. Sometimes she would wave to him or beckon to him. He would see a pile of leaves vaguely shaped like a heart or two faint stick figures in the dirt and knew she was telling Frank that she loved him. The Latino knew that he had to be vigilant for her signal and patient. Whoever she was, she would find a way to come to him. Was she a captive of some nefarious wizard? A lonely princess looking for a suitor? It did not matter to Frank. He was in love.
Unfortunately, as so often happens when one falls in love, Frank became giddy and flighty. He had trouble concentrating on anything. He was frequently late for work. He began talking about his love. This last was the most unfortunate for Frank because he could not conceal for long the fact that he was in love with a ghost, a phantom.
“You mean this girl you’ve been raving about doesn’t even exist?”
“She does!”
“But, you just said she’s a ghost.”
“Well, that’s what she looks like, but I know she’s real!”
“Ha ha. Sure, Frank.”
Soon it seemed everyone at work knew about his obsession with the ghost lady and Frank was regularly teased about his “ghost love.” That would have been bad enough, but then came the County Fair incident.
Frank wasn’t even really sure why he had gone in the first place. He had no friends to go with, nor was he keen on the rides. Perhaps the spectacle of it all was what drew him in. That and the fact that he was one amongst so many, he could blend in and pretend to be anyone he wanted to be. Frank was doing just that (and drinking a bit too much) when he saw her.
A girl, dark-haired, wearing a dark blue jacket was standing a short distance away as if waiting for someone. Suddenly she faded and shifted and Frank could see the girl of his dreams in the woman’s place, her hair so light and perfect. She held up a camera as if to take a picture of him. He cried out and ran to her.
“It’s you! It’s you! My love, I’m here!” He threw his arms around her
“What are you doing, freak!” Something cuffed the side of his head and he staggered back, his beer spilling over his shirt. The dark-haired girl was back and his dream beauty was nowhere to be seen.
“Where did she go?” the little man yelled. “She was right here. You’re playing a trick on me!”
“What are you talking about, you short prick?”
“The woman who loves me. She was you. I mean you turned into her.” Frank ran up to the girl again, grabbing her, touching her. “Right here! Where did she go?”
The girl again whacked Frank with her purse. “Get your grubby hands off me, sicko!”
By this time, a crowd was circling around the two. Seeing a woman in distress, a shaggy, tattooed man in a leather vest stepped forward. With scant effort, he picked up the tiny man and flung him away. “The lady said ‘no,’ Shrimp. I think you better leave before you get seriously worked over.”
Tears started down Frank’s face as he sat on the ground, a pathetic mess. “Why would she do this to me?” he sniffed quietly and then again louder as he struggled to his feet.
“Why would she do this to me? She loves me!” The beer slurred his words together and the crying made it worse.
“I don’t care if no one believes me! I don’t care if everyone laughs at me! She is real! And she loves me.” The last sentence was not much more than a whisper. The whole crowd was silent for a moment, watching Frank, his shoulders slumped, his face puffy and red.
The silence was finally broken by a laugh. It started with one person, but soon swept over everyone until it seemed to Frank that the entire world was laughing at him. With an inarticulate cry, he ran, his stubby legs not stopping until he was buried under the covers of his bed.
Frank didn’t leave his apartment for a week. He had hoped that no one would have heard about the incident or forgotten about it if they had. Unfortunately, several people in the crowd recorded the whole thing on their cellphones and soon Frank was an internet sensation. His co-workers helped things along by sharing the things they had heard from Frank himself about his “ghost love.” The little man was now famous throughout the city as the crazy drunk in love with a ghost. Everywhere he went, kids laughed at him, adults pointed and snickered, and everyone cracked wise. Frank tried not to think about it anymore. The alcohol helped. He had not seen her since the County Fair and he was beginning to think that maybe he was crazy.
He was nearly home when he heard his name.
“Frank. Frank, can I talk to you”
A man was jogging toward him. He must be a reporter, Frank thought, seeing a microphone and camera in his hands. I don’t want to talk to the goddamn media. They hassled me enough last year.
“Look, pal, I’m tired and I just want to go home, okay?”
“You are Frank, correct? The one who attracted quite a bit of attention around here?”
“You seen many three-foot tall Latinos around here, jackass?” Frank kept walking, barely glancing at the man.
“I talked to her,” the reporter said.
Frank almost ignored him, but something in the man’s voice stopped him.
“What do you mean, you talked to her?” Frank asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Well, I guess I should say she talked to me,” the man said coming around and kneeling in front of Frank. “She gave me a message for you.”
Frank’s eyes opened wide. A tingle crept up Frank’s spine. She hasn’t forgotten me. Then a sliver of doubt crept into his mind. He frowned at the man. “Look, if this is some kind of joke, it’s pretty pathetic. Don’t you think I’ve been belittled enough already?”
The man smiled. “Look,” he said, pointing up to the sky. “That’s for you.”
Frank rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help looking up. A gasp escaped from his lips. “It is true. She hasn’t forgotten me,” he whispered. In the sky, at the bottom of a dark tower of clouds was an imprint of bright, red lips. Her lips. Its beauty mesmerized him.
“Well…?” The man was holding his microphone to Frank and had somehow found enough time to set up his camera.
The dreamer forced himself to bring his gaze back down, but his eyes were still wide in astonishment, gazing far away. “I…I…what did she say?”
“She says that when you dream about her tonight, you must go to her. Do not hesitate. When she beckons, you must answer.”
“But, she hasn’t been in my dreams for almost a year!”
“She will be there tonight and –“
“But –“
“Listen. She will be there and you must go to her.”
A grin broke out on Frank’s face. “Yes!” He suddenly grabbed the reporter in a fierce hug. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
The reporter gently pushed Frank away. “So, you will go to your ‘ghost love’ tonight.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I will. I knew she was real. I knew she loved me and wouldn’t leave me.” Frank was fairly dancing as he stood there. The reporter stood up.
“I won’t keep you then.” He gestured that he was done talking to Frank. Once more the hero in his mind, Frank sprinted home. After he turned a corner and was out of sight, another man stepped out from a convenience store.
“Oh, that was great, man. What the hell were you pointing at?”
The “reporter” chuckled. “Nothing. Whatever he thought he saw was all in his head.” Both laughed.
“Come on. Let’s get this uploaded. This’ll be a hoot.”
--
Frank crawled into bed almost as soon as he got home, but his excitement meant that he lay there for a few hours before sleep came upon him. He had an ear-to-ear grin when he did.
The dream came back for the first time since the County Fair. Again, it started with him as a mighty (but still white) king which Frank normally enjoyed, but this time he couldn’t wait until the next part. After an eternity, the second part of the dream started. He was walking into a forest on a serene winter day. Ahead, he saw the large tree, its massive trunk splitting into several smaller, but still impressive branches. In front of the tree, she stood, arms outstretched.
Time seemed to slow as he ran to her and this time the dream did not end. Frank stood in front of her. She smiled and opened her arms wide.
“I surrender to you,” he whispered, turning and falling into her.
He felt her breath on his ear. “I love you,” she said. He clutched his heart.
“I love you, too.”
When Frank opened his eyes, he was sitting on a throne in an opulent chamber. Hundreds of men, some knights, some nobles, all finely attired were arrayed before him, kneeling. Next to him, on a similar throne, was his love. She was no longer an apparition, but tangible flesh and blood. She met his gaze and smiled. Frank’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He reached out to touch her and stopped in shock. His hand was dark! He looked down at his other hand and it was too! Frank started laughing.
“What is it, dear?” his love asked.
“Nothing, love. Nothing at all.” He paused. “It’s just that I’m me now.”
Starman vs. Berandor
A Great Illusion of a Dream
Mocking laughter dogged his footsteps.
“Seen any ghosts, Frank!”
“My grandma’s dead, Frank, but she’s not interested in you. Sorry.”
“Hey, Frank, I think my house is possessed. Can you come check it out for me?”
“Who ya gonna call, Frank?”
The bright, sunny day was in stark contrast to Frank’s mood. He was walking home from his job at the local amusement park where he worked as an “actor” in Dr. Faust’s House of Doom. Being an actor meant that he put on various monster costumes and scared – or tried to scare – people. Demonic imps, demented gnomes, evil elves; they were all on Frank’s resume. The job wasn’t so bad when he started it, but ever since the County Fair last year, he could hardly stand it. No one was scared of him now. Everyone knew who he was, even when in full costume and they laughed at him, made fun of him, smote him with plastic swords, and pushed him around. It was a thankless job, but it paid for his grungy apartment and Raman noodles. What more could anyone want? Frank thought sarcastically.
What Frank did want was to be more than just a “little person”. His thoughts were filled with rousing tales of adventure and love in which he was the titular hero. Dragons were slain. Knights were his to command. Above all, princesses were rescued and wooed. Why can’t dreams be reality? he wondered. If there was any justice in the world they would be.
For the last three years Frank had a recurring dream, a vivid, lucid reverie, that stood out over the rest. In the dream world, he was a noble, a prince of some mighty realm. This was very exciting for Frank except for the fact that his dream self was a tall, white guy when he was in actuality a short (okay, midget) Hispanic. My dreams are as bad as Hollywood; all the heroes are white. He did not pay too much attention to this detail, however, because it felt so extraordinary to be a man of power and virility. The first part of the dream would be about him running his kingdom and leading armies. Very exhilerating. The end was always puzzling to Frank, though. He would suddenly be walking into a wooded area alone. It was the middle of winter and an unnatural pall of silence hung over the trees. A phantom image of a beautiful woman stood ahead of him in front of a mighty tree. A snow owl with the same ghostly appearance was flying around the tree, but did not make a sound. The woman would beckon gently to Frank, but before he could approach her, the dream would end and he would wake in a cool sweat.
The little Latino could not shake the feeling that this woman was not just an inhabitant of his dreams. No, she was somehow real. And she was trying to send him a message. He was sure of it.
Not long after the dream started, the would-be hero began seeing phantoms in the waking world. It was rare at first and Frank chalked it up to lack of sleep or his hyperactive imagination. A shrink would probably call it a symptom of “deep, disaffected loneliness” or something. A shadow in the corner of his eye. A flicker of movement. The phantoms started to become more and more frequent and then one night, Frank recognized one.
Home alone with a six-pack of beer, Frank was sitting on his couch watching TV, a typical evening for him. His eyelids were feeling heavy, but just when he was about to give in to their demands there was a whisper of movement outside of the window. It caught the little man’s attention and he shifted his head to see what it was. Expecting to see that it was just a passing car, he was shocked to see it was the ghostly woman in his dreams. Frank jumped off his couch. Or tried to jump off his couch. Being a little drunk meant that he tripped over his coffee table and fell forward on his face. When he struggled back to his feet, she was gone. It was her, though. Frank knew it. She had the same long hair, the same face. Now, Frank had no doubts. The woman was real and she was trying to contact him.
After that, Frank saw her more and more, but never for long at a time and never was he able to talk to her. Sometimes she would wave to him or beckon to him. He would see a pile of leaves vaguely shaped like a heart or two faint stick figures in the dirt and knew she was telling Frank that she loved him. The Latino knew that he had to be vigilant for her signal and patient. Whoever she was, she would find a way to come to him. Was she a captive of some nefarious wizard? A lonely princess looking for a suitor? It did not matter to Frank. He was in love.
Unfortunately, as so often happens when one falls in love, Frank became giddy and flighty. He had trouble concentrating on anything. He was frequently late for work. He began talking about his love. This last was the most unfortunate for Frank because he could not conceal for long the fact that he was in love with a ghost, a phantom.
“You mean this girl you’ve been raving about doesn’t even exist?”
“She does!”
“But, you just said she’s a ghost.”
“Well, that’s what she looks like, but I know she’s real!”
“Ha ha. Sure, Frank.”
Soon it seemed everyone at work knew about his obsession with the ghost lady and Frank was regularly teased about his “ghost love.” That would have been bad enough, but then came the County Fair incident.
Frank wasn’t even really sure why he had gone in the first place. He had no friends to go with, nor was he keen on the rides. Perhaps the spectacle of it all was what drew him in. That and the fact that he was one amongst so many, he could blend in and pretend to be anyone he wanted to be. Frank was doing just that (and drinking a bit too much) when he saw her.
A girl, dark-haired, wearing a dark blue jacket was standing a short distance away as if waiting for someone. Suddenly she faded and shifted and Frank could see the girl of his dreams in the woman’s place, her hair so light and perfect. She held up a camera as if to take a picture of him. He cried out and ran to her.
“It’s you! It’s you! My love, I’m here!” He threw his arms around her
“What are you doing, freak!” Something cuffed the side of his head and he staggered back, his beer spilling over his shirt. The dark-haired girl was back and his dream beauty was nowhere to be seen.
“Where did she go?” the little man yelled. “She was right here. You’re playing a trick on me!”
“What are you talking about, you short prick?”
“The woman who loves me. She was you. I mean you turned into her.” Frank ran up to the girl again, grabbing her, touching her. “Right here! Where did she go?”
The girl again whacked Frank with her purse. “Get your grubby hands off me, sicko!”
By this time, a crowd was circling around the two. Seeing a woman in distress, a shaggy, tattooed man in a leather vest stepped forward. With scant effort, he picked up the tiny man and flung him away. “The lady said ‘no,’ Shrimp. I think you better leave before you get seriously worked over.”
Tears started down Frank’s face as he sat on the ground, a pathetic mess. “Why would she do this to me?” he sniffed quietly and then again louder as he struggled to his feet.
“Why would she do this to me? She loves me!” The beer slurred his words together and the crying made it worse.
“I don’t care if no one believes me! I don’t care if everyone laughs at me! She is real! And she loves me.” The last sentence was not much more than a whisper. The whole crowd was silent for a moment, watching Frank, his shoulders slumped, his face puffy and red.
The silence was finally broken by a laugh. It started with one person, but soon swept over everyone until it seemed to Frank that the entire world was laughing at him. With an inarticulate cry, he ran, his stubby legs not stopping until he was buried under the covers of his bed.
Frank didn’t leave his apartment for a week. He had hoped that no one would have heard about the incident or forgotten about it if they had. Unfortunately, several people in the crowd recorded the whole thing on their cellphones and soon Frank was an internet sensation. His co-workers helped things along by sharing the things they had heard from Frank himself about his “ghost love.” The little man was now famous throughout the city as the crazy drunk in love with a ghost. Everywhere he went, kids laughed at him, adults pointed and snickered, and everyone cracked wise. Frank tried not to think about it anymore. The alcohol helped. He had not seen her since the County Fair and he was beginning to think that maybe he was crazy.
He was nearly home when he heard his name.
“Frank. Frank, can I talk to you”
A man was jogging toward him. He must be a reporter, Frank thought, seeing a microphone and camera in his hands. I don’t want to talk to the goddamn media. They hassled me enough last year.
“Look, pal, I’m tired and I just want to go home, okay?”
“You are Frank, correct? The one who attracted quite a bit of attention around here?”
“You seen many three-foot tall Latinos around here, jackass?” Frank kept walking, barely glancing at the man.
“I talked to her,” the reporter said.
Frank almost ignored him, but something in the man’s voice stopped him.
“What do you mean, you talked to her?” Frank asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Well, I guess I should say she talked to me,” the man said coming around and kneeling in front of Frank. “She gave me a message for you.”
Frank’s eyes opened wide. A tingle crept up Frank’s spine. She hasn’t forgotten me. Then a sliver of doubt crept into his mind. He frowned at the man. “Look, if this is some kind of joke, it’s pretty pathetic. Don’t you think I’ve been belittled enough already?”
The man smiled. “Look,” he said, pointing up to the sky. “That’s for you.”
Frank rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help looking up. A gasp escaped from his lips. “It is true. She hasn’t forgotten me,” he whispered. In the sky, at the bottom of a dark tower of clouds was an imprint of bright, red lips. Her lips. Its beauty mesmerized him.
“Well…?” The man was holding his microphone to Frank and had somehow found enough time to set up his camera.
The dreamer forced himself to bring his gaze back down, but his eyes were still wide in astonishment, gazing far away. “I…I…what did she say?”
“She says that when you dream about her tonight, you must go to her. Do not hesitate. When she beckons, you must answer.”
“But, she hasn’t been in my dreams for almost a year!”
“She will be there tonight and –“
“But –“
“Listen. She will be there and you must go to her.”
A grin broke out on Frank’s face. “Yes!” He suddenly grabbed the reporter in a fierce hug. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
The reporter gently pushed Frank away. “So, you will go to your ‘ghost love’ tonight.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I will. I knew she was real. I knew she loved me and wouldn’t leave me.” Frank was fairly dancing as he stood there. The reporter stood up.
“I won’t keep you then.” He gestured that he was done talking to Frank. Once more the hero in his mind, Frank sprinted home. After he turned a corner and was out of sight, another man stepped out from a convenience store.
“Oh, that was great, man. What the hell were you pointing at?”
The “reporter” chuckled. “Nothing. Whatever he thought he saw was all in his head.” Both laughed.
“Come on. Let’s get this uploaded. This’ll be a hoot.”
--
Frank crawled into bed almost as soon as he got home, but his excitement meant that he lay there for a few hours before sleep came upon him. He had an ear-to-ear grin when he did.
The dream came back for the first time since the County Fair. Again, it started with him as a mighty (but still white) king which Frank normally enjoyed, but this time he couldn’t wait until the next part. After an eternity, the second part of the dream started. He was walking into a forest on a serene winter day. Ahead, he saw the large tree, its massive trunk splitting into several smaller, but still impressive branches. In front of the tree, she stood, arms outstretched.
Time seemed to slow as he ran to her and this time the dream did not end. Frank stood in front of her. She smiled and opened her arms wide.
“I surrender to you,” he whispered, turning and falling into her.
He felt her breath on his ear. “I love you,” she said. He clutched his heart.
“I love you, too.”
When Frank opened his eyes, he was sitting on a throne in an opulent chamber. Hundreds of men, some knights, some nobles, all finely attired were arrayed before him, kneeling. Next to him, on a similar throne, was his love. She was no longer an apparition, but tangible flesh and blood. She met his gaze and smiled. Frank’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He reached out to touch her and stopped in shock. His hand was dark! He looked down at his other hand and it was too! Frank started laughing.
“What is it, dear?” his love asked.
“Nothing, love. Nothing at all.” He paused. “It’s just that I’m me now.”
Berandor
lunatic
My story
Grandma Warning: some slight sexual innuendo and bad language use coming up.
EN World Short Story Smackdown, Round two: Berandor vs. Starman
Samsara
—-
To the Wheel our life is bound
turning slowly, surely, steady
till for moksha we are ready
round and round and round and round
Death and birth are but the same
end is needed to begin
loss required for the win
dharma useless without shame
On the wheel, along the rim
devas and rakshasas thrive
for order and for chaos strive
godly creatures, bright and dim
Though with hate and spite they seethe
without the other, one can’t breathe
– William H. Gladly, »Upon visiting the shrine of Shiva«, 1907
The wheel has stopped turning.
– handwritten addendum by the author, 1917
—-
(1)
The arrow was as white as mother’s milk, the tip as black as the heart it would pierce. Rudra watched through Navidjan’s eyes and held his bow with Navidjan’s hands. Amurayi, screaming obscenities and threats and lashing out with her twisted claws, nevertheless fell back from the swords of the Panchala forces marshaled against her. The rakshasa was in her true form now, a feline creature of terrible ferocity and beauty. She towered over the turbaned warriors and, despite bleeding from countless cuts – which would heal over time – laughed at the chaos of the battle. Now, she found her back against a tall champa tree and gathered herself to once more jump into the fray.
Rudra slowed Navidjan’s heartbeat so his aim would not be compromised, and then he called out with his host’s voice.
»Amurayi!«
The rakshasa turned towards him. She seemed bemused at the sight of the bowman before her, but then, like an unfaithful husband coming home late at night, recognition crept into her face. »Rudra?« Her eyes grew as wide as a lake formed by a deva’s tears. Her muscles tensed.
Rudra/Navidjan let the arrow fly. Its aim was true, as Rudra had known it would be. The arrow pierced Amurayi’s heart and the heart of the tree behind her, confining her spirit to this wooden prison unfit for man or deity alike. Amurayi’s body turned to ash before them, and Rudra could not stand it any longer. He left Navidjan’s body and returned to his own form next to his avatar.
»It worked!« Navidjan yelled, fist in the air as if celebrating the birth of a son. He looked up at the deva. »Great Bowman, why are you crying? The she-devil is dead.«
»You are twice mistaken,« Rudra said. »If there are tears, then they are tears of exhaustion. And Amurayi is only bound, not dead.« The lie in the first statement was balanced by the truth in the second, or so Rudra told himself.
»Can’t we kill her?« The human’s voice was full of bloodlust. He was a noble and handsome warrior, but Navidjan’s dharma, his understanding of correct behavior, had been unable to stop him from pursuing his kama before. It seemed possible Rudra’s possession had further weakened it, but if so, then that was the price Rudra had had to pay. Rudra did not address his concern, however. He simply answered the question.
»Not while I live, no.«
»But what if she is freed?«
»Then, by the same token, I will be there and fight her once again. As long as you believe in me,« Rudra gestured to the people around him, »I will have the power to stop her. It is samsara.« The wheel. The circle of life and death, of everything.
Navidjan nodded. »Of course. Samsara.« He bowed. When he looked up again, Rudra had turned himself into a breeze and was drifting upwards to the sky, to take up his sentinel’s position once more. He saw Navidjan look around once, and then walk to his men to tend to the wounded and prepare the dead for transport back home.
—-
So it was for one hundred and eight turns of the wheel. One hundred and eight generations were born into the world, as many generations as there were beads on a prayer mallah. During all this time, Rudra slept in the sky. Often he thought of Amurayi, for though they were mortal enemies, they had also been lovers, and he could hardly bear to live without her. Every year, on the anniversary of her imprisonment, he cried hard and long, and the Ganges grew to overflowing before Rudra remembered his dharma and stopped the rains again.
Otherwise, the world went on turning. One hundred and eight generations, as many as there were energy lines meeting at the heart chakra, had not passed without effect. The Mahajanapadas had been forgotten as new people and new rulers had come to India, and new gods had rivaled the old. Shiva, destroyer and benefactor, had been one of those new gods. Slowly, over the course of generations, she had beguiled the people of India until at last, they thought Rudra was but another name for her, and when he drummed up thunder and shot lightning with his bow, they would nod and smile. »Shiva is dancing again,« they would say, and Rudra was forgotten.
Even Navidjan forgot him, though it took him longer than most. During his fifty-second reincarnation, he fell in with a crowd of opium merchants. His dharma forgotten, Navidjan was soon controlled only by his thirst for kama – sensuality – and artha – success. As Navidjan’s karma was corrupted, Rudra felt his last smidgen of influence drain away. He was still a deva of storms and of the hunt, but the mortal realm was closed to him now.
Thus he could only watch when, one hundred and eight generations after she had been bound to the tree, Amurayi was freed.
—-
The smell was intoxicating. Richard had smelled it from almost a mile away. He had been walking along the forest trail when it had caught his attention. It was a heady smell, one he associated with the summer when he had first met Stephanie and they had used the nights for anything but sleep. He had made the decision almost as soon as he had noticed the smell: he needed to find the source, to pluck a flower from whatever tree it was that smelled so, and bring it back to Steph at the hotel. All fears of snakes forgotten, Richard had walked straight into the forest. He did not notice that he never strayed from his path, nor that he never questioned his direction.
The smell led him to the largest tree he had ever seen (though he was sure that those redwoods at home were larger, everything was larger in America). The tree had to be a hundred feet tall – or taller. Its flowers were nothing special to look at: narrow, yellowish petals curving out like a talon ready to grab a victim. The smell, on the other hand… Richard leaned against the tree, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. So this was why the Indians had come up with the kama sutra. With trees like this, it was a wonder if you ever not thought of sex.
Richard opened his eyes again. He noticed a dark spot almost right in front of him. Something had been wedged deep into the bark, some kind of metal. He stood on the tips of his toes and looked closer. It was an arrowhead, dark and dull with age. Perhaps it was valuable. Richard picked up a stone fit for prying and went to work. He had to stretch a little but the arrowhead came out surprisingly easy. It fell into his hand. Richard flinched at how cool it was.
Suddenly the tree groaned. It sounded like all the floorboards in India creaking at once. The tree also began to shake. Richard raised his arm over his head, expecting a branch to come falling down. Instead, he felt the soft touch of velvet on his arm. He looked up. Every single flower had shaken loose from the tree. A mass of white petals rushed towards him, thicker than the blizzards of Buffalo. Before Richard even managed to turn around he was hip deep in flowers. He tried moving away, but the petals grabbed at him, tore at his clothing, kept him in place. Now they were lifting him up. He felt his feet losing contact to the ground. He tried to scream, but the petals pushed into his open mouth and muffled his voice.
Suddenly, the flowers were gone. Richard fell to the ground and slumped against the now naked tree. He took three deep breaths, waiting for something else to happen. Nothing did. Thank God. Richard pushed himself up and off of the tree, intent on getting away as quickly as possible.
That’s when cold hands grabbed him from behind. His head felt like he had eaten a giant cone of ice cream in under a minute. His heart alternately raced and stopped altogether. Goosebumps spread all over his body. He was pulled back to the tree with impossible force, and now he heard a whisper in his head.
»Liberator. Vessel. Victim.«
It was a cruel voice. It was a female voice. It was the last voice Richard would ever hear. Except for his screams, later on.
—-
Visions tumbling through her head. Dreams. Experiences. She can see fire in the sky, a huge mushroom of death and destruction, and her heart weeps at what she missed. She rejoices at India’s fracture and the death of its spritual leader by one of his own. It only takes a split second for her memory to catch up with her, but in that split second she realizes the world has changed. It will welcome her with open arms. She closes the eyes of her vessel as she takes her first step into this new world, relishing the feeling of corporeality. Her vessel’s dangly bits annoy her, but the remedy is waiting for her in a hotel room. It is called Stephanie. And after that, she will have a look around. She is still weak, but soon she will be stronger. Soon.
—-
Passion burned brightly in Rudra, anger and desire turning his blood into lava. He knew at once that Amurayi was free again, and just as she took her first step he found her at the foot of the tree. Rudra summoned his might and darkened the clouds over the forest. Amurayi looked up at him, and then she lifted a hand and waved. Rudra trembled with impotence. He unleashed the storm, wrung every last drop of rain from the clouds he had gathered. Amurayi simply stood in the rain, arms spread out like some foreigner’s idea of a messiah, and laughed at him. He threw a lightning bolt down at her, but his impotence was such that he could not touch her with it, and Amurayi seemed to know. She blew him a kiss.
Rudra let go of the storm, his passion suddenly spent. Despair crept up on him. There was no fighting her this time, and there would not even be making love to her, though he desired both. There was noone who might have heeded his call. He had been forgotten. Who remembered a deva who had done nothing but watch from the sky for as many generations as there are Upanishads? Nobody.
Or was there somebody? At the thought, Rudra saw the sun poke through a tiny crack in the dark clouds ahead of him. His former avatar was but two rebirths removed from when he had lost his dharma. It was Navidjan’s fifty-fourth incarnation, as many as there were sanskrit letters in the alphabet, and half as many as generations had passed since he first helped Rudra defeat Amurayi. An auspicious number. Surely Navidjan would remember him. Not at first, no, but then, a deva of storms and rain had other ways to influence mankind than simple speech, had he not?
With hope on the horizon, Rudra focused his attention once more on the world beneath him.
—-
(2)
The rain was a blessing and a curse at the same time. It was a blessing because when people rushed along trying not to get too soaked, Navid had an even easier time picking their pockets than he usually had. It was a curse because the rain stank like an overflowing toilet, which was understandable, really, because Delhi was nothing but a toilet waiting to be filled to overflowing. Navid had often wondered what kept him here. He had yet to find an answer to that question.
Navid barged into a man waiting at a traffic light. The man pushed him away and kicked after him. Navid held up his hands apologetically and bowed a little to show he was no beggar. The man snarled at him, but then the light turned to green and he crossed the street and disappeared into the brown veil of the rain. Navid walked for two more blocks before fishing the man’s cell phone out of his pocket. He dislodged the memory chip and tossed it into the gutter, and then pocketed the phone again. It was a fairly current model.
Navid laughed at his latest victim. The man had probably thought if he stayed too long, Navid’s bad karma would rub off on him as if it was some infectious disease. The very idea of bad karma was amusing enough, but Navid couldn’t understand how being small and hard to notice could be bad for a thief. Not to mention being able to pose as a child in a pinch.
A truck roared by on the street and a huge wave of brackish water rose up from the gutter, the memory chip swimming on top like the eye of a literal lake monster. Navid stumbled backwards in an attempt to save his dirt-specked khurta from further soiling. He was not fast enough. The wave seemed to grow even larger as Navid stepped away from it, and then it loomed over him like a dark fate – or better, a $h**-colored fate – sent by the gods. Navid had only a moment to close his eyes before the water swept him off his feet and had him tumbling down a couple of steps. He was smashed into a door and heart it rattle in its hinges from the impact.
»Maybe being small does have its disadvantages,« he muttered as he got back to his feet. When he looked at where he was, his mood instantly lit up again. The door he had washed up against belonged to a tea room, the ›Jolly Buddha‹. Inventive. Still, he could do with a hot cup or two while waiting for his khurta to dry. »Bad karma, my ass.« He pulled off the khurta to stand only in his pyjamas, made sure neither his money nor his gun would fall out of the pockets, and then he opened the door.
The tea room was warm and dry. Navid sighed as he stood in the small entrance room. There was a desk and another door, both fashioned from dark red wood, but he could see nobody. Music drifted through the air, some pop version of an ancient mourning threne by the sound of it. Navid shook the water from his head and simply walked on through the second door.
»Namaste. Would you mind if I–« His voice broke off when the smell hit him and even before he saw its source.
The room behind the door had been fashioned from dark red wood, as well, so the blood wasn’t as visible on its walls as it would have been, say, in a white room. That was all the help Navid had in order to not become nauseated, and it wasn’t enough. First of all, no amount of red could color the smell. It was a wonder Navid hadn’t noticed it when he came in, a wonder he attributed to his own stinking khurta. There was the smell of fresh blood, of course, and, with what looked like a dozen bleeding people, how could there not be? But the people weren’t just bleeding. They were also oozing black puss from wounds and other orifices. And mixed in with the smell of blood and the stink of puss was a dark, rich scent like freshly ground champa flowers. Navid guessed that last scent came from the sole unharmed figure in the room, a tall blonde dressed in a green raincoat.
The blonde was holding a man of perhaps seventy by the throat. Her other hand touched the old man’s cheek, and under her touch an oozing wound opened up. The man let out one of the wails Navid had misinterpreted for music. The blonde’s attention had been fixed on her victim before, but now her head had turned towards Navid. The look in her eyes was the only thing keeping him from throwing up. He’d much rather piss himself. Which he promptly did.
»Who are you?« The woman hissed. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and Navid could swear he saw her pupils tilt up like a cat’s. »I know you. How?«
»Lady,« Navid said as his trembling fingers fished around in his khurta, »I have no fricking clue what you are talking about.«
She let go of the old man, and he dropped whimpering to the floor. »You are ugly,« she said. »Have you ever known the touch of a woman?« She came towards him.
His fingers found what he was looking for. »How can I resist the – you know what? Forget the silly banter. Here is my answer.« He drew the gun and aimed at her. »Keep the fu** away from me.«
She tilted her head to look at the gun from all angles. »A modern bow. It is small, but your small things are powerful. I wonder if it will hurt.«
»Me shooting you? Keep back or you’ll find out.«
She held out her hands and beckoned to him. »Try it.«
That woman was crazy. Well, he had gathered as much from the first moment he saw her holding the old geezer by the throat. But what could he do? He’d always been a gentleman at heart. »As you wish,« he said and pulled the trigger.
The gun barked loudly. The woman spun around and backwards, almost falling over. It had taken Navid the upside of a year until he could fire the 40 caliber glock without either hurting himself or totally messing up his aim, and he had continued to practice afterwards. He had hit her right where he had wanted, in her left shoulder. The pain alone should knock her out.
The woman snickered. It sounded as if a swarm of dung beetles was holding a parade. She turned around and rubbed her shoulder. Her fingers came away bloody. »Interesting,« she said. Then she smiled enthusiastically. »Do it again!«
Navid emptied the magazine into her, and he no longer aimed to incapacitate. He fired eight shots into her chest and saw her stumble backwards from the force. But she did not fall. Instead, she looked at him with a new expression, a mixture of hunger and lust.
»I remember you now. You have changed, but not enough.« With that, she threw herself at him. Navid screamed, but his screams were cut short as she pressed her lips on his. Her body pinned him down, her hands held his face, and her tongue slipped into his mouth. Gods above, he was getting an erection!
She was off of him as quickly as she had jumped him. »You’re you, aren’t you?« She glanced around the room. »Where is he? Is he here?«
Navid spit on the floor, but her taste remained, enticing him and making him sick at the same time. »What the fu** are you talking about?«
She fixed her gaze on him. »Tell Rudra to come and find me, if he is done playing games.« Her hand dove into her pocket and took out a digital camera. Navid didn’t even bat an eye. Nothing that woman did would make her seem any more crazy. Also, she was apparently capable of opening wounds with a touch and withstanding bullets as if they were made from the same material as Delhi’s slum hovels.
Eyes were batted, though, when her body began to contort and change. Skin bulged, hair grew darker, and her whole frame shrank a few inches. Her face changed as well. Navid focused on that even though he would have rather focused on the changes happening beneath her throat than above it. Identifying her would be easier with a facial sketch than with a description of her boobs. He didn’t know whom he was supposed to identify her to, but some long-forgotten instinct made him focus nonetheless.
Not that it did him any good, because right in the middle of her change, she lifted the camera and pointed it at him. The flash was brighter than it had any right to be, and when Navid could see again, she was gone.
»This is a good time to fall unconscious,« Navid said to nobody in particular.
»Now? Did you really forget everything about dharma?«
Navid spun, empty gun at the ready. He saw a tall man with bronze skin and silvery eyes. He wore ancient-looking clothes like something out of a Bollywood historical and had a tall bow slung over his shoulder. »Hold!« Navid shouted. »Wait – do I know you?«
The man rubbed his hands together. »You remember! And you can see me! Finally. Now we can go and stop Amurayi once more.«
Navid put his hand to his face. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. »Don’t tell me. You’re Rudra, right?«
»Excellent. You really do remember. Now come, Navidjan. We have to go.«
»Go where?«
Rudra put his hands on his hips. »Remember what we spent two years doing before we bound Amurayi to the tree? We need to find the arrowhead.«
Navid rubbed the back of his nose. »Of course. The arrowhead.« It was probably better to just go along. With people vanishing into or appearing out of thin air, being impervious to bullets or corrupting with a touch, why shouldn’t it all come down to devas and rakshasas?
»Yes!« Rudra turned towards the door. »Come on!«
»Wait,« Navid called as he rushed after him, »aren’t you supposed to be Shiva?«
—-
[End of Part I]
Grandma Warning: some slight sexual innuendo and bad language use coming up.
EN World Short Story Smackdown, Round two: Berandor vs. Starman
Samsara
—-
To the Wheel our life is bound
turning slowly, surely, steady
till for moksha we are ready
round and round and round and round
Death and birth are but the same
end is needed to begin
loss required for the win
dharma useless without shame
On the wheel, along the rim
devas and rakshasas thrive
for order and for chaos strive
godly creatures, bright and dim
Though with hate and spite they seethe
without the other, one can’t breathe
– William H. Gladly, »Upon visiting the shrine of Shiva«, 1907
The wheel has stopped turning.
– handwritten addendum by the author, 1917
—-
(1)
The arrow was as white as mother’s milk, the tip as black as the heart it would pierce. Rudra watched through Navidjan’s eyes and held his bow with Navidjan’s hands. Amurayi, screaming obscenities and threats and lashing out with her twisted claws, nevertheless fell back from the swords of the Panchala forces marshaled against her. The rakshasa was in her true form now, a feline creature of terrible ferocity and beauty. She towered over the turbaned warriors and, despite bleeding from countless cuts – which would heal over time – laughed at the chaos of the battle. Now, she found her back against a tall champa tree and gathered herself to once more jump into the fray.
Rudra slowed Navidjan’s heartbeat so his aim would not be compromised, and then he called out with his host’s voice.
»Amurayi!«
The rakshasa turned towards him. She seemed bemused at the sight of the bowman before her, but then, like an unfaithful husband coming home late at night, recognition crept into her face. »Rudra?« Her eyes grew as wide as a lake formed by a deva’s tears. Her muscles tensed.
Rudra/Navidjan let the arrow fly. Its aim was true, as Rudra had known it would be. The arrow pierced Amurayi’s heart and the heart of the tree behind her, confining her spirit to this wooden prison unfit for man or deity alike. Amurayi’s body turned to ash before them, and Rudra could not stand it any longer. He left Navidjan’s body and returned to his own form next to his avatar.
»It worked!« Navidjan yelled, fist in the air as if celebrating the birth of a son. He looked up at the deva. »Great Bowman, why are you crying? The she-devil is dead.«
»You are twice mistaken,« Rudra said. »If there are tears, then they are tears of exhaustion. And Amurayi is only bound, not dead.« The lie in the first statement was balanced by the truth in the second, or so Rudra told himself.
»Can’t we kill her?« The human’s voice was full of bloodlust. He was a noble and handsome warrior, but Navidjan’s dharma, his understanding of correct behavior, had been unable to stop him from pursuing his kama before. It seemed possible Rudra’s possession had further weakened it, but if so, then that was the price Rudra had had to pay. Rudra did not address his concern, however. He simply answered the question.
»Not while I live, no.«
»But what if she is freed?«
»Then, by the same token, I will be there and fight her once again. As long as you believe in me,« Rudra gestured to the people around him, »I will have the power to stop her. It is samsara.« The wheel. The circle of life and death, of everything.
Navidjan nodded. »Of course. Samsara.« He bowed. When he looked up again, Rudra had turned himself into a breeze and was drifting upwards to the sky, to take up his sentinel’s position once more. He saw Navidjan look around once, and then walk to his men to tend to the wounded and prepare the dead for transport back home.
—-
So it was for one hundred and eight turns of the wheel. One hundred and eight generations were born into the world, as many generations as there were beads on a prayer mallah. During all this time, Rudra slept in the sky. Often he thought of Amurayi, for though they were mortal enemies, they had also been lovers, and he could hardly bear to live without her. Every year, on the anniversary of her imprisonment, he cried hard and long, and the Ganges grew to overflowing before Rudra remembered his dharma and stopped the rains again.
Otherwise, the world went on turning. One hundred and eight generations, as many as there were energy lines meeting at the heart chakra, had not passed without effect. The Mahajanapadas had been forgotten as new people and new rulers had come to India, and new gods had rivaled the old. Shiva, destroyer and benefactor, had been one of those new gods. Slowly, over the course of generations, she had beguiled the people of India until at last, they thought Rudra was but another name for her, and when he drummed up thunder and shot lightning with his bow, they would nod and smile. »Shiva is dancing again,« they would say, and Rudra was forgotten.
Even Navidjan forgot him, though it took him longer than most. During his fifty-second reincarnation, he fell in with a crowd of opium merchants. His dharma forgotten, Navidjan was soon controlled only by his thirst for kama – sensuality – and artha – success. As Navidjan’s karma was corrupted, Rudra felt his last smidgen of influence drain away. He was still a deva of storms and of the hunt, but the mortal realm was closed to him now.
Thus he could only watch when, one hundred and eight generations after she had been bound to the tree, Amurayi was freed.
—-
The smell was intoxicating. Richard had smelled it from almost a mile away. He had been walking along the forest trail when it had caught his attention. It was a heady smell, one he associated with the summer when he had first met Stephanie and they had used the nights for anything but sleep. He had made the decision almost as soon as he had noticed the smell: he needed to find the source, to pluck a flower from whatever tree it was that smelled so, and bring it back to Steph at the hotel. All fears of snakes forgotten, Richard had walked straight into the forest. He did not notice that he never strayed from his path, nor that he never questioned his direction.
The smell led him to the largest tree he had ever seen (though he was sure that those redwoods at home were larger, everything was larger in America). The tree had to be a hundred feet tall – or taller. Its flowers were nothing special to look at: narrow, yellowish petals curving out like a talon ready to grab a victim. The smell, on the other hand… Richard leaned against the tree, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. So this was why the Indians had come up with the kama sutra. With trees like this, it was a wonder if you ever not thought of sex.
Richard opened his eyes again. He noticed a dark spot almost right in front of him. Something had been wedged deep into the bark, some kind of metal. He stood on the tips of his toes and looked closer. It was an arrowhead, dark and dull with age. Perhaps it was valuable. Richard picked up a stone fit for prying and went to work. He had to stretch a little but the arrowhead came out surprisingly easy. It fell into his hand. Richard flinched at how cool it was.
Suddenly the tree groaned. It sounded like all the floorboards in India creaking at once. The tree also began to shake. Richard raised his arm over his head, expecting a branch to come falling down. Instead, he felt the soft touch of velvet on his arm. He looked up. Every single flower had shaken loose from the tree. A mass of white petals rushed towards him, thicker than the blizzards of Buffalo. Before Richard even managed to turn around he was hip deep in flowers. He tried moving away, but the petals grabbed at him, tore at his clothing, kept him in place. Now they were lifting him up. He felt his feet losing contact to the ground. He tried to scream, but the petals pushed into his open mouth and muffled his voice.
Suddenly, the flowers were gone. Richard fell to the ground and slumped against the now naked tree. He took three deep breaths, waiting for something else to happen. Nothing did. Thank God. Richard pushed himself up and off of the tree, intent on getting away as quickly as possible.
That’s when cold hands grabbed him from behind. His head felt like he had eaten a giant cone of ice cream in under a minute. His heart alternately raced and stopped altogether. Goosebumps spread all over his body. He was pulled back to the tree with impossible force, and now he heard a whisper in his head.
»Liberator. Vessel. Victim.«
It was a cruel voice. It was a female voice. It was the last voice Richard would ever hear. Except for his screams, later on.
—-
Visions tumbling through her head. Dreams. Experiences. She can see fire in the sky, a huge mushroom of death and destruction, and her heart weeps at what she missed. She rejoices at India’s fracture and the death of its spritual leader by one of his own. It only takes a split second for her memory to catch up with her, but in that split second she realizes the world has changed. It will welcome her with open arms. She closes the eyes of her vessel as she takes her first step into this new world, relishing the feeling of corporeality. Her vessel’s dangly bits annoy her, but the remedy is waiting for her in a hotel room. It is called Stephanie. And after that, she will have a look around. She is still weak, but soon she will be stronger. Soon.
—-
Passion burned brightly in Rudra, anger and desire turning his blood into lava. He knew at once that Amurayi was free again, and just as she took her first step he found her at the foot of the tree. Rudra summoned his might and darkened the clouds over the forest. Amurayi looked up at him, and then she lifted a hand and waved. Rudra trembled with impotence. He unleashed the storm, wrung every last drop of rain from the clouds he had gathered. Amurayi simply stood in the rain, arms spread out like some foreigner’s idea of a messiah, and laughed at him. He threw a lightning bolt down at her, but his impotence was such that he could not touch her with it, and Amurayi seemed to know. She blew him a kiss.
Rudra let go of the storm, his passion suddenly spent. Despair crept up on him. There was no fighting her this time, and there would not even be making love to her, though he desired both. There was noone who might have heeded his call. He had been forgotten. Who remembered a deva who had done nothing but watch from the sky for as many generations as there are Upanishads? Nobody.
Or was there somebody? At the thought, Rudra saw the sun poke through a tiny crack in the dark clouds ahead of him. His former avatar was but two rebirths removed from when he had lost his dharma. It was Navidjan’s fifty-fourth incarnation, as many as there were sanskrit letters in the alphabet, and half as many as generations had passed since he first helped Rudra defeat Amurayi. An auspicious number. Surely Navidjan would remember him. Not at first, no, but then, a deva of storms and rain had other ways to influence mankind than simple speech, had he not?
With hope on the horizon, Rudra focused his attention once more on the world beneath him.
—-
(2)
The rain was a blessing and a curse at the same time. It was a blessing because when people rushed along trying not to get too soaked, Navid had an even easier time picking their pockets than he usually had. It was a curse because the rain stank like an overflowing toilet, which was understandable, really, because Delhi was nothing but a toilet waiting to be filled to overflowing. Navid had often wondered what kept him here. He had yet to find an answer to that question.
Navid barged into a man waiting at a traffic light. The man pushed him away and kicked after him. Navid held up his hands apologetically and bowed a little to show he was no beggar. The man snarled at him, but then the light turned to green and he crossed the street and disappeared into the brown veil of the rain. Navid walked for two more blocks before fishing the man’s cell phone out of his pocket. He dislodged the memory chip and tossed it into the gutter, and then pocketed the phone again. It was a fairly current model.
Navid laughed at his latest victim. The man had probably thought if he stayed too long, Navid’s bad karma would rub off on him as if it was some infectious disease. The very idea of bad karma was amusing enough, but Navid couldn’t understand how being small and hard to notice could be bad for a thief. Not to mention being able to pose as a child in a pinch.
A truck roared by on the street and a huge wave of brackish water rose up from the gutter, the memory chip swimming on top like the eye of a literal lake monster. Navid stumbled backwards in an attempt to save his dirt-specked khurta from further soiling. He was not fast enough. The wave seemed to grow even larger as Navid stepped away from it, and then it loomed over him like a dark fate – or better, a $h**-colored fate – sent by the gods. Navid had only a moment to close his eyes before the water swept him off his feet and had him tumbling down a couple of steps. He was smashed into a door and heart it rattle in its hinges from the impact.
»Maybe being small does have its disadvantages,« he muttered as he got back to his feet. When he looked at where he was, his mood instantly lit up again. The door he had washed up against belonged to a tea room, the ›Jolly Buddha‹. Inventive. Still, he could do with a hot cup or two while waiting for his khurta to dry. »Bad karma, my ass.« He pulled off the khurta to stand only in his pyjamas, made sure neither his money nor his gun would fall out of the pockets, and then he opened the door.
The tea room was warm and dry. Navid sighed as he stood in the small entrance room. There was a desk and another door, both fashioned from dark red wood, but he could see nobody. Music drifted through the air, some pop version of an ancient mourning threne by the sound of it. Navid shook the water from his head and simply walked on through the second door.
»Namaste. Would you mind if I–« His voice broke off when the smell hit him and even before he saw its source.
The room behind the door had been fashioned from dark red wood, as well, so the blood wasn’t as visible on its walls as it would have been, say, in a white room. That was all the help Navid had in order to not become nauseated, and it wasn’t enough. First of all, no amount of red could color the smell. It was a wonder Navid hadn’t noticed it when he came in, a wonder he attributed to his own stinking khurta. There was the smell of fresh blood, of course, and, with what looked like a dozen bleeding people, how could there not be? But the people weren’t just bleeding. They were also oozing black puss from wounds and other orifices. And mixed in with the smell of blood and the stink of puss was a dark, rich scent like freshly ground champa flowers. Navid guessed that last scent came from the sole unharmed figure in the room, a tall blonde dressed in a green raincoat.
The blonde was holding a man of perhaps seventy by the throat. Her other hand touched the old man’s cheek, and under her touch an oozing wound opened up. The man let out one of the wails Navid had misinterpreted for music. The blonde’s attention had been fixed on her victim before, but now her head had turned towards Navid. The look in her eyes was the only thing keeping him from throwing up. He’d much rather piss himself. Which he promptly did.
»Who are you?« The woman hissed. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and Navid could swear he saw her pupils tilt up like a cat’s. »I know you. How?«
»Lady,« Navid said as his trembling fingers fished around in his khurta, »I have no fricking clue what you are talking about.«
She let go of the old man, and he dropped whimpering to the floor. »You are ugly,« she said. »Have you ever known the touch of a woman?« She came towards him.
His fingers found what he was looking for. »How can I resist the – you know what? Forget the silly banter. Here is my answer.« He drew the gun and aimed at her. »Keep the fu** away from me.«
She tilted her head to look at the gun from all angles. »A modern bow. It is small, but your small things are powerful. I wonder if it will hurt.«
»Me shooting you? Keep back or you’ll find out.«
She held out her hands and beckoned to him. »Try it.«
That woman was crazy. Well, he had gathered as much from the first moment he saw her holding the old geezer by the throat. But what could he do? He’d always been a gentleman at heart. »As you wish,« he said and pulled the trigger.
The gun barked loudly. The woman spun around and backwards, almost falling over. It had taken Navid the upside of a year until he could fire the 40 caliber glock without either hurting himself or totally messing up his aim, and he had continued to practice afterwards. He had hit her right where he had wanted, in her left shoulder. The pain alone should knock her out.
The woman snickered. It sounded as if a swarm of dung beetles was holding a parade. She turned around and rubbed her shoulder. Her fingers came away bloody. »Interesting,« she said. Then she smiled enthusiastically. »Do it again!«
Navid emptied the magazine into her, and he no longer aimed to incapacitate. He fired eight shots into her chest and saw her stumble backwards from the force. But she did not fall. Instead, she looked at him with a new expression, a mixture of hunger and lust.
»I remember you now. You have changed, but not enough.« With that, she threw herself at him. Navid screamed, but his screams were cut short as she pressed her lips on his. Her body pinned him down, her hands held his face, and her tongue slipped into his mouth. Gods above, he was getting an erection!
She was off of him as quickly as she had jumped him. »You’re you, aren’t you?« She glanced around the room. »Where is he? Is he here?«
Navid spit on the floor, but her taste remained, enticing him and making him sick at the same time. »What the fu** are you talking about?«
She fixed her gaze on him. »Tell Rudra to come and find me, if he is done playing games.« Her hand dove into her pocket and took out a digital camera. Navid didn’t even bat an eye. Nothing that woman did would make her seem any more crazy. Also, she was apparently capable of opening wounds with a touch and withstanding bullets as if they were made from the same material as Delhi’s slum hovels.
Eyes were batted, though, when her body began to contort and change. Skin bulged, hair grew darker, and her whole frame shrank a few inches. Her face changed as well. Navid focused on that even though he would have rather focused on the changes happening beneath her throat than above it. Identifying her would be easier with a facial sketch than with a description of her boobs. He didn’t know whom he was supposed to identify her to, but some long-forgotten instinct made him focus nonetheless.
Not that it did him any good, because right in the middle of her change, she lifted the camera and pointed it at him. The flash was brighter than it had any right to be, and when Navid could see again, she was gone.
»This is a good time to fall unconscious,« Navid said to nobody in particular.
»Now? Did you really forget everything about dharma?«
Navid spun, empty gun at the ready. He saw a tall man with bronze skin and silvery eyes. He wore ancient-looking clothes like something out of a Bollywood historical and had a tall bow slung over his shoulder. »Hold!« Navid shouted. »Wait – do I know you?«
The man rubbed his hands together. »You remember! And you can see me! Finally. Now we can go and stop Amurayi once more.«
Navid put his hand to his face. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. »Don’t tell me. You’re Rudra, right?«
»Excellent. You really do remember. Now come, Navidjan. We have to go.«
»Go where?«
Rudra put his hands on his hips. »Remember what we spent two years doing before we bound Amurayi to the tree? We need to find the arrowhead.«
Navid rubbed the back of his nose. »Of course. The arrowhead.« It was probably better to just go along. With people vanishing into or appearing out of thin air, being impervious to bullets or corrupting with a touch, why shouldn’t it all come down to devas and rakshasas?
»Yes!« Rudra turned towards the door. »Come on!«
»Wait,« Navid called as he rushed after him, »aren’t you supposed to be Shiva?«
—-
[End of Part I]
