Some accidents are more than a simple product of happenstance.
I was searching for a tome on the topic of Brews and fixture by my mentor in the library of my school of scholarly arts and wisdom when trouble found me. My senses tingled as a faint pressure brushed against my cranium, bringing my attention to the bottom of a regular, inconspicuous brown bookshelf.
I had keen senses from birth. They had saved me from more trouble than I could count on and brought me many riches in life. Secrets excited me a lot, the reason I excelled in my studies.
The secret I had chanced upon was an inch thick, loosely threaded stack of old, half-burned parchment notes. Carefully hidden under the cabin in a secret pocket that opened only when a certain amount of weight (300-325g on the first, 10-11 kg’s on the second, 7-8 kg’s on the third, and empty fourth row) was placed on the four rows of the bookshelves.
It took me an hour to figure out the mechanism, but I didn’t feel the reward was worth the trouble.
The notes had a title: Before the great migration. A subject which the people of the geological department and historians would have loved studying.
Not me; I studied plants.
—The Witch
It was not a regular grave.
There was no gravestone or mound to mark the grave. All there was but a waist-high lemon sapling in a small tight clearing surrounded by a forest of tall, lively trees. It was reaching out from the ground for the sun like a baby’s arm reaching out from the crib for its mother’s attention.
They, Mannat and Pandit, had flattened the cave and seeded the clearing where the Little Butcher had the life-altering accident. Bright sunlight filled the clearing. A carpet of green grass nodded with the passing wind. A ring of lilies and roses grew tall around the sapling, hiding it unintentionally in their blooming blossom.
The two families had set a sitting area at the edge of the clearing near the trees, with benches, a table, and a roof against rain and sun. The boy’s fathers had taken to the benches with their booze, while Gande and Sharmilla were by the fire pit outside, heating the meals and cooking rabbits, saturating the air around with a sweet tangy flavor that making stomachs growl.
The boys were sitting on a log near the sapling, set in memory of the one that used to sit near the pond and allowed a resting place for the village children. That one had rolled down the slope and sank in the pond during one of the high storms last year. Storms were regular in their area since they were near the ocean.
The two boys despite being of the same age looked far apart from one another. Mannat’s head of red hair was impossible to ignore in the sunlight, where Pandit’s mud-washed brown hair was unremarkable in comparison. A year ago, Mannat looked at a calf in front of a bull when standing next to Pandit. A year later, the expression holds still. They had small changes –Mannat had grown taller, but so had Pandit. Both had clean shaved faces. Pandit did it out of hunter tradition; Mannat hated beards – not that anyone would call the smattering of hair that sprouts on his face if he leaves them be, which he never does.
Raesh absolutely hated his compulsive behavior, nicknamed Mannat ‘chicken’ in hopes of disgusting the boy into following blacksmiths tradition and grow a beard. His plan failed. Mannat shrugged it off without a hint of agitation.
“How long is this stupid tree going to take to grow?” Pandit said. “It’s been a year!”
They had gathered there on the anniversary of Little Butcher’s death.
Mannat bit the half-eaten cucumber he had taken from the Witch’s garden. There were two raw tomatoes in the waist bag he kept to cultivate mana. He was actively meditating at the same time to train his mana control and hold his emotions in check. He no longer needed to stay still to meditate even since it had reached level six. It was a long year, but the results spoke for themselves.
“Did your brother even like lemons?”
“Who cares.” Pandit shrugged his shoulders. He hooked his fingers on the log, leaned back, and raised his head to the clouds. “Not like he can eat them anyways.”
Mannat watched the dark circles that were becoming prominent under Pandit’s eyes. His gaze looked lost in the sky, invoking memories.
Pandit was handling himself quite well considering everything that had happened with his brother and later with Soman. He was holding on where many would have broken, but he wasn’t recovering properly. There were cracks. And they were becoming prominently with each passing day.
The year had been a long one for Mannat. Each passing day was time his mother remained in stasis, unaware and lost. The year of silence had distressed his father, depressed him into a shell of his former self.
For Pandit, the year hadn’t been enough. He needed more time… time to pick up the pieces and make something whole from them.
Mannat was worried for him.
He made a joke. “He probably had enough of them when he was alive. They were probably the reason behind his permanent frown.”
It was a bad joke. It backfired.
Pandit clicked his tongue and glared at him from the corner of his eyes. “That’s my brother you are talking about.” His voice fell flat on Mannat’s ears.
“Forgive me?” Mannat asked nonchalantly.
“You are forgiven,” Pandit answered similarly.
There was another pause. Pandit leaned further back and let his head fall back so he could see the sitting area and the fire burning in the pit.
Pandit watched Sharmilla working with his mother and the more he looked the worse he felt. His intuition told him there was something going on between the two.
Sharmilla was happily serving rabbit to the drunken adults who were beating the table, demanding food like brutes in a pub. They were intoxicated. His mother, Gande, was shouting and threatening to skewer and cook them on fire if they didn’t start behaving. Unsurprisingly, she was cursing at them in return.
Sharmilla was being ground down between the adults. Gande hadn’t let her rest for a second and was working like a slave. Sharmilla was a farmer’s girl and had a calm personality (or so he thought) and kept quiet; he couldn’t imagine Soman following his ma’s orders without complaint.
She’s gone. It's about time you stop thinking about her. Pandit consoled his wounded heart and started worrying about his friend.
Busy she might be, it didn’t make sense for her to completely ignore Mannat. She hadn’t glanced at him once, not on the way, neither after arriving at the clearing. Mannat might not have looked at her either, but Pandit was sure his friend had his magical senses all on her. The thought that his perverted friend might be listening to Sharmilla's every heartbeat made an itch bubble in his ears. He kinda wanted to listen to it, too. Alas, he didn't have his friend's smarts. It was a sacrifice he had to make to become the manliest man ever.
He wasn’t the only one to have noticed the invisible sparks flying between the two. His mother was actively trying to send her away but Sharmilla was relenting and refusing to listen to her.
“Say…” Pandit hesitated. He sat straight, turned toward Mannat, and grew serious. “Are you two fighting?”
“What are you talking about?” Mannat asked without the slightest of change in his tone or mannerism. He was good.
“Then why haven’t you two met eyes even once?”
“Stop acting foolish.”
Mannat turned around and, coincidently, Sharmilla glanced toward them at the same time. Sharmilla didn’t say anything; Mannat didn’t react in any way. They stared at each other like a couple lost in memories, unable to stay away from each other, yet keeping distance. It was like they were testing who would lose patience first.
Mannat seemed uninterested. Sharmilla… well, who knows what goes inside a girl’s head. She probably thought she was winning, yet angry at Mannat at the same time for being a mental retard. Passion and love bred in their eyes, but they remained standing on the two shores of a turbulent river.
Their heart-throbbing stalemate continued until Pandit lost patience. He faked a cough that made Sharmilla blush. She looked away and Mannat sulked.
“Did you have to do that?” Mannat asked. His voice grew flatter than his biceps, unhappy with his friend.
Pandit shook his head. “We both know something’s going on between the two of you. Just tell me. What’s the problem? Maybe I can help.”
“What if I tell you we have the same problem you had with Soman?” Mannat said.
“Then I would tell you to not bring that up again.”
“I was keeping quiet, but you had to poke in my affairs. So here we are.”
Pandit ignored his comment. “Does she also want to leave the village?” He said looking at Sharmilla.
A tinge of pain pricked his chest when he said those words. He knew the reason why he felt the pain, but it was difficult for him to accept it. He had already given up, but it was sure as hell not easy to ignore the old, rusted feeling of wanting someone in his life since he was single again.
Mannat didn’t notice the change of his eyes or his laborious breathing. He was too busy thinking about everything that had happened between them and the battle that waited for him.
“No…” He answered. “She’s not leaving the village, but she turned fifteen a few weeks ago and wants me to ask her hand in marriage from the old man.”
“What’s the problem? You are not getting cold feet, are you?”
“My father said the same thing. I’m just an apprentice. I don’t even have my own shop! I can’t even take care of myself. How will I take care of her?” Mannat shook his head to soothe his mind since Meditation had stopped working. The skill had relaxed some restrictions but still needed him to maintain a level of calmness, which he couldn’t because of his dear friend.
“You are awfully emotional about this.” Pandit was surprised. “Did you talk to her?”
“I did.” Mannat said and elaborated, “She told me to carefully think about my future and what I want.”
“What does that mean?” Pandit asked, curious.
Mannat’s shrug disappointingly.
“That’s not going to cut it. Let’s go ask her what she meant. Don’t think this thing will resolve itself.” Pandit stood up and pulled Mannat to his feet.
Of course, Sharmilla noticed. The two were being very loud. She might not be looking at them, but she was listening to them. It was not a coincidence that Gande had left her to cook the broth and taken a seat with the men on the bench. The woman wanted to enjoy a show as did everyone else. She sighed. It was tough being in love with a blockhead who didn’t have romantic veins in his body.
She had approached him confessed, kissed him. The least he could do was to ask her hand from her Baoji. They didn’t have to marry right away! He could save his mother first and slowly mastery blacksmithing before they tie the knot, but no – he had to be absolutely sure he would be a blacksmith one day. Yes, she was hurrying him, but she had a perfectly good reason for it.
Her heart started racing when Pandit pulled Mannat to his feet. You go, boy! She cheered him silently.
Mannat pulled his arm free from Pandit’s grip, surprising the boy. “What do you want?”
“Do you want her to leave you?” Pandit said flexing his hand. Did he grip lightly? Then how did he -- anyways, “That’s what she’s going to do if you assume her thoughts. It’s one thing to be worried about in the future, but you can’t spoil your present for it. Believe me, I know. You’ll think she’s yours and you can take your time with your things. But no. Soon, you’ll find that unlike you others have dreams and wishes they want to fulfill. You will think that’s fine. Everyone has dreams until she calls you out in the open one day and breaks up with you because what she wants is different from what you want.”
Pandit swung his leg solemnly. “Go figure that one out if you can. Nothing you do will change her mind then. She will leave you behind and chase her dreams like you were a puddle that she had stopped to play, but had grown tired of.”
“Are we still talking about me and Sharmilla?” Mannat smiled. “Because you sound awfully butt hurt if that’s the case.”
Pandit’s lips twitched. He let out a groan, sat back on the log with his arms crossed, and stopped paying attention to Mannat.
Mannat licked his lips. His good friend had said quite a few thinking and they had him thinking. Exchange dreams with hopes and that were Sharmilla. Perhaps, it was time he had that talk with Sharmilla before she lost that hope keeping her tied to him.
“Do you ever regret not following her to the town to start a new life with Soman?”
“I don’t,” Pandit said. His voice didn’t shake, but he couldn’t rein in his mana. Mannat sensed his inner turbulence. The deep wound that Soman had left on his heart hadn’t healed yet.
Pandit continued, mumbling, “I understand why she wanted to go. All the big money-making opportunities lie in the town and the city beyond. A seamstress, she’d have a much better chance in the town with its population and money, but I wanted her to stay. She didn’t. She left because she wanted more from life. I stayed because I already had enough. We were both right and wrong. I guess we were not meant to be. That is why I say,” Pandit raised his head. His eye glimmered as the bright sky reflected in them like an omen. “--don’t think everything will be okay with time. Time doesn’t heal wounds. It rots and kills the tissue, leaving gaping holes behind.”
“That was poetic,” Mannat said. “Did you just made that up or have you been thinking about it for a while?”
“Go,”
Sharmilla, who had stopped working, hurriedly started stirring the broth like it was going to turn bad if she slowed down. She would have felt much better if her sister was around to guide her, but Chahhat had married a merchant from the town and went to travel around the empire. The man suited her a lot. She was adventurous and bold by nature and the man being a merchant naturally knew many interesting places to show her. Sardar asked Chahhat to promise she’d stay put at home while her man traveled, but she refused and the old man couldn’t say no to her. He never could say no to the both of them. He had a soft spot for the sisters.
“The broth will turn into gravy if you keep stirring it like that.”
The magnetic voice stole a beat from Sharmilla’s heart. “What do you know--” She complained. The words flew out of her, a nervous pack of birds chased by a wild predator.
“I think I know enough.”
“Do you?” Sharmilla mumbled.
She stopped stirring the broth, tapped the ladle on the pot’s edge, producing two nice metal rings. She removed extra wood from the fire pit and cooled the fire. Drops of the broth dripped into the pot for the ladle. Meticulous, practiced. Mannat sensed her emotions boiling under the calm surface and sighed. Sometimes he thought the skill (mana sense) was a bane as it revealed too much.
“You know I’m serious about you. It’s just that I can’t concentrate on blacksmithing until my mother is fine. And your old man--”
“I’ll handle my Baoji. At least I think I know him better than you do.”
Sarcasm, Mannat doubted he deserved it, though only a fool would complain.
He crouched and grabbed her shoulder. She didn’t fight him until he started speaking. “I know, but—”
Sharmilla smacked his hand off and pushed him back.
“I know this, I know that! You don’t know anything!” She slapped his hands when he tried to hold her in his arms. “Stay away from me if you don’t want me to leave.”
Mannat reluctantly pulled back, which set her off. Of course, he should have fought her. That’s what she worsened mood implied. Girls --
“You don’t know the way my relatives look at me ever since my sister got married. The men stare at me like I’m a bag of potatoes who will rot in the house. The women keep proposing new people to Baoji like he’s out shopping for a new turban! Brother, look at this one -- he is a fruit seller in the town. That one lives in the city. Oh, you know he’s a scholar and is already a supervisor at such a young age.” She enacted the scenes with deep voices and exaggerated actions. Her eyes reddened and turned wet.
Mannat rolled a thumb under her yes to stop the tears and she didn’t stop him.
“I’m tired Mannat. I’m really tired. You don’t understand a family’s expectations from a girl of marriage age. Baoji is ignoring the voices, the suggestions, but for how long? And that’s not all there is. Those things you go looking for in the forest…”
Mannat knew where this was going. “We have had this talk. I have told you: either I go look for them now or they’ll come looking for us when they are strong. I don’t have a choice.” He grabbed her hand. “It’s not like I go alone into the woods. I can handle myself.”
“In a way, your adventures are scarier than my relatives,” Sharmilla said. “At worst, I can fight my uncle and aunts, but what if something happens to you in the forest. I have seen those things. I know what they can do. I know you won’t listen to me anyway. You will say it’s the price you have to pay and there is no one else to take the weight. But what about me? What will I do if you leave one and never return?”
Mannat clenched her hand and pulled her into an embrace when she stared at him.
“Leave me,” Sharmilla fought, but grew weak in his arms and dug her face into his chest and tightly grabbed his chest like he would disappear if she let him go.
She had told him to hurry but never told him about the relatives and the actual situation. She was shivering in his arms like a baby bird that had fallen from its nest high up in the tree branches. He could sense her fear. He didn’t know what he’d do if one day he lost her either.
“Let’s do it,” Mannat uttered. If marriage would keep her happy then so be it. He would keep his promise.
Sharmilla’s black eyes opened wide in response to him. She snuggled out of his embrace and stared at him, shock visible from her face. “You are not lying are you?”
“You know I don’t lie.”
Sharmilla looked around for help, but there was no one beside them. The adults were behind them and Pandit was sitting on the log, far away, though looking at them with a sullen face. What was he worried about? He looked kind of funny. Her ears twitched at the whisper that erupted from the sitting area, which she ignored the best she could. Sharmilla turned back to Mannat.
“When are you coming home to meet Baoji?”
“Give me a week. I have to forge something. I can’t talk to your grandfather unless complete it.”
“Don’t dally for too long. I’m telling you -- Baoji will agree to one of my aunts if you don’t hurry. He’s already angry with you for going out of your way to look for trouble in the forest.” She shushed him with a finger on his lips when he tried to retort. The smile was back on her face.
“I promise,” Mannat said after she removed the finger.
“Are you making something for Baoji? I can tell you his preferences if that’s so.”
Mannat shook his head and looked past her. “I’ll be forging a knife,”
His father sat with Khargosh and Gande on the benches with his back bent, holding the wooden mug, staring into the distance, nodding when the other two talked to him. Mannat couldn’t imagine how alienated his father must be feeling after a year of separation from his wife, helpless and stuck in a dark place where the sun refused to shine. The booze probably wasn’t helping but pushing him deeper down the dark hole. Mannat needed to give him some, shine a light on his father to open his eyes. Everything else would have to wait until then.
