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FulcrumsThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Mark Grealish | |
| Saturday, 19 July 2008 | |
''Yes, Unmada.'' Yes, Lunatic. I say as I take my eyes away from the retreating maids and glare instead at the fakir. ''Concentration.'' The crazy fakir ignores the sarcastic title I gave him and beams beatifically at me upon hearing this. ''Excellent! Yet again you display dedication as a student and a memory unbound and flawless! But innocence, as you no doubt grasp, is only part of being powerful. What is knowledge of a person without the skill to act on it? To do that you must be a fulcrum! Empathy, cruelty, assertion, dedication and sacrifice. 'The virtues of leadership,' as lesser minds will call them. How do you know when you show empathy? When to be cruel? Hmm?'' ''Through... innocent understanding?'' I hazard. ''Understanding, yes! Understand what will move a person. Then when you act upon it, you become their fulcrum. The move around you and you gain power over them. But! You must be eternally vigilant of your innocence!''
I'm seconds from throttling him. Always, always! does he babble like this. Power is innocence is movement is fulcrums is innocence on and on in more circles than the orbits of the pantheon around Surya. Bat **** to it all! My Lord wants me to learn at this fakir's feet, yes? Fine. Great. He's my Lord for a reason, but if this old fool isn't teaching me... My hands are starting to twitch when the fakir leans over and beckons me closer. He glances about us theatrically to see if anyone is listening, but why would they? All they will see is a crazy old fakir babbling about the 'secrets to the universe' to his bored apprentice. But still I lean close to him, mindful of my Lord's orders. ''And you must always understand when you should be subtle,'' the fakir whispers in my ear. And with that the fakir snatches up his pack and strides off deeper into the bazaar at a speed that belies both his limp and his dependence upon his stick. I have to shove my way through the cavern and elbow people aside with no thought of their caste just so I can catch up with the old bastard. I'm cuffed, kicked, spat at by commoners and merchants whose heads I could have on a plate were it known who I was. Instead I'm forced to brush by a family sore-covered family of chandalas, Shuka protect me. Just by touching me are they condemned to death. But no sooner do I reach the fakir where he stops in the shadow of a stall, with such a hideous retort on my lips that it would make the seediest scribe of distant Prithivi proud, than he grabs me and turns me around to face me toward a pilgrim group's slow procession toward where we stood. They are wizards, twenty strong and so short and pale-skinned that they look to me like the corpses of children given life. They are lead by an aged 'haute prêtresse' wearing the circle-marked red stole that indicates the highest ranks. All of the Sky's Children are wearing their shining metal suits for protection as they venture to the 'nuit froide' to pray and meditate, as they do every five months when their calender turns a new year. Just seeing the wizards gives me a terrible premonition about what the fakir is planning, so I begin to pray under my breath, but the crazy old fool cuts me off abruptly by shoving his pack into my hands and rummaging through it. ''Look at all those high-nose fools! A more perfect subject could not be found! Now boy, study me with fearsome intent as I become a fulcrum! The tall one in red will led by fear and loathing.'' Tells me as he hastily wraps his arms with the dirty old bandages that has eternally insisted on keeping. ''Watch,'' he implores me one more time before he steps out in front of the procession, hobbling painfully as though he were a leper. The wild-eyed fakir stops in front of the group. The priestess and the nearest pilgrim to her draw up so suddenly that the rear of the group crashes into the front. Sure of their attention, the fakir shouts at them. ''You there! I am a leper! You will give me alms!'' My stomach drops a handswidth within me upon hearing this. A hundred fates, each more hideous than the last, flit through my head. I'm going to die; the priestess will see me crouching in the shadows and with a wave of her hand she will turn my body to fire and ash. No, she will lay an enchantment of undeath on me, chain me to a cold rock and then set it to float forgotten in Shani's girdle, like they did with that fool vizer was outed as a man-lover and condemned as a heretic. My feet are frozen to the rough-cut rock floor. Am I already charmed? Even as I think these things, the priestess, who has been staring at the fakir with undisguised loathing and fear, draws out her wand and slowly raises it up before her to cast a spell. The wand hums and the from the tip of it sparkles lightning. The fakir is faster than her, however. His hand jabs out to point accusingly at the priestess, but as it does, something flies from his bandaged fist and strikes the priestess' chest with a wet sound, and then falls to the ground. Everyone nearby stares at the object in the growing silence. It's a human finger. The priestess stops her spell mid-gesture and stares stricken at the fakir. He wastes no time in beseeching here again ''I'll make you sick! Your tits will fall off, your fingers will rot, you teeth will turn black... '' he bares the ruin of his mouth for emphasis ''... and your family will cast you out. You'll be forever barred the joys of walking between the stars, less you give me alms!'' I close my eyes so I will not have to watch the fakir's death, but instead of agonized screams I hear the quiet tinkle of metal striking rock. I crack one eye open cautiously, ready to seal it shut again should I see the fakir's flesh melting from his bones. I'm surprised by what I see: The fakir stooping on the ground to pick up a few scattered coins, silver marks, by Surya! After scooping up the final mark, the fakir straightens and and voices a swift benediction to Shani for Her generosity. And then he's gone from sight, vanishing between two stalls in the blink of an eye. The priestess visibly shakes herself, touches her banner-bearer upon the arm and then once more the wizards march in a solemn file through the cavern.
I'm still staring at their backs when the fakir appears beside me.
...then I remember the finger. I study the fakir's hands, but they are whole again. ''Unmada, where is the finger?'' Copyright 2008 Mark Grealish |
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