Wordscapist: The Myth (The Way of the Word Book 1)

Wordscapist – The Myth

Arpan Panicker

urbanepublications.com

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Urbane Publications Ltd

20 St Nicholas Gardens, Rochester

Kent ME2 3NT

Copyright © Arpan Panicker, 2014

The moral right of Arpan Panicker to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying , recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of both the copyright owner and the

above publisher of this book.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-909273-18-4

Cover design by Julie Martin

Text design & typeset at Chandler Book Design, King’s Lynn, Norfolk

urbanepublications.com

To my father, for enabling me

To my mother, for believing in me

To my brother (from another mother), for accompanying me

To my wife and partner, for loving, supporting and indulging me

This wordscape would have been but a dream without all of you.

Acknowledgements

Here’s to everyone who helped me weave the Wordscapist to life!

Priya at Lotus Lane Literary, my incredibly supportive agent, who helped me make the Wordscapist a lot better, and did not give up on me through the numerous rejections.

Matthew at Urbane Publications, the most collaborative and encouraging publisher ever, for giving me my big break, believing in the Wordscapist and helping me wrap it up.

My friends, who endured multiple versions and retellings of the Wordscapist and told me that all of them (even the horrible first drafts) were good.

Every teacher, boss and friend I’ve had who mentored me and taught me how to string words together and keep doing it better.

Terry Pratchett (the Elder God) and Neil Gaiman (the Younger God) who are responsible for my obsessive love for fantasy (I hope word of this mention reaches them at some point!).

And finally, to ten-year old me, who wanted to be a writer so very bad. I’m sorry it took so long, but there…we’re published now!

INTRODUCTION

     Everything you say is true…somewhere. How artful your truth is and what you make of it determines how real your wordscapes are. You shape your reality; consciously through actions, and unconsciously through means you do not realise, far less understand. It is a world made of words. The written, the spoken…even simple thoughts. All words, each a tiny piece that helps build realities. It is a world that you and I live in, today, now. It is all going to change soon. And yes, careful what you say. Because everything you say is true…becomes true…somewhere.

     There are some, though, who know more; do more; say more. They
use
words. They weave reality with words. Wordsmiths.

     It is part gift and part rigour. It is half discovered and half tutored. It must be absorbed and harnessed. Somewhere between the lore of magic and the abstractions of sub-atomic resonance, lies the art of weaving wordscapes. It is a powerful art, one that binds and one that destroys. And yet it is not infinite. Its boundaries define it as much as they limit it.

     Reaching the pinnacle is a journey, a tale of becoming, realising. Power comes in reasonable - and at times frustratingly - small increments.

     Yet legends tell of one who can weave beyond these boundaries - a man, a myth…the
Wordscapist
. He didn’t have the luxury of becoming over time and with learning. Power came as a tornado, brought on by an insane situation and sheer chance, sweeping him up and throwing him into a melee of warmongers. A con artist who suddenly finds he is the genuine article and has to live up to the reputation.

     The world waits while the one man with the power to destroy it wages a personal war to save himself…

PROLOGUE

In the image of your dreams

Let me come to you

All it will take is a word

Close your eyes and breathe it out

     “He should have been here by now.”

     “Watch carefully. I’m sure he already is. That man is more slippery than…something that is very slippery.”

     “You have a gift for the simile, don’t you?”

     “My mom always used to say so too. Never quite figured what she meant though.”

     “There he is!”

     “Where?”

     “Look there, right beside Louise. There she is in the red dress.”

     “Ooh!”

     “Yeah!”

     A very quiet voice speaks in their heads, “Boys! Shouldn’t you be focusing on him?”

     “Yes ma’am!” A pause and then, “I hate it when she does that!”

     “Me too, and what’s worse, she can hear us right now bitching about her too.”

     “Enough then. Let’s get to work. There he goes. He’s walking around that girl…No! He is talking to her. I saw…Wait! He is…She is…What the…!”

     The same voice speaks, still in their heads, slightly sharp now. Only slightly, though. “What is happening?”

    “He slipped his arm around her waist and now is walking off with her. I swear to God, she doesn’t know him! How does he do it?”

     The voice speaks again, patiently, “There is a reason why he is called who he is. Do not let him out of your sight.”

     “He is with her now. There’s no way he can slip out of sight!”

      The voice, with more than a hint of ice to it this time, “Boys…You screw this one up and you’ll end up in the Himalayas for the winter, playing valet to the Yeti.”

     “Yes ma’am.”

     A look is exchanged.

     “I know.”

     “Let’s go.”

     The square is in one of the hundreds of Venetian quarters, with the mandatory canals and quaint little buildings. There is a chilly bite to the air and most people are snug in extremely stylish winter apparel. There is a pleasant smell of coffee and cheese in the air, though this does not manage to drown the dank odour that Venice will never manage to lose. There is an air of casual bonheur as people mill around the square, stopping for a coffee or a slice of pizza at one of the numerous bistros around. Snatches of gossip and laughter fill the air, pretty people in a place full of mirth and rich aromas.

     There is one figure that should draw the eye; a woman in a red dress, the only one who isn’t wearing something warm. Yet she seems quite comfortable. A closer look reveals an extremely beautiful woman in perfect physical shape. Curves wrapped with smooth and glowing skin that is exotic in its light brown tinge. Her dress is designed to accentuate and reveal rather than conceal. In a square full of red-blooded Italian men, she should be the centre of attention, at the receiving end of many flirtatious remarks and admiring glances. But strangely, hardly anyone notices her.

     Perhaps that is all to the good, because beneath the attractive veneer one would notice several disturbing things. The woman’s eyes have irises that are long and vertical, akin to those of a cat. Her nostrils flare in a predatory manner each time someone passes by. Her skin and dress appear almost unreal in their shining cleanliness. There is something about the woman that seems odd…and very, very dangerous.

     She is waiting for someone. And she does not want to be noticed. One of her many gifts is the ability to fade. Only someone looking for her would be able to find her. She is curious to see if he will be able to do that; the man with that warm, deep voice that was so intoxicating! She has been replaying the conversation she had with him 15 minutes ago, over and over. She thinks of that deep voice saying her name…