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‘What a lovely girl she is!’ thought Raja Rao, for the umpteenth time. ‘May not be the ravishing type, but surely she’s the charming kind. Above all, she’s a wifely stuff. Won’t I be able to mould her into a matchless mate? What if I propose to her? It looks like we are of the same caste and that should make matters easy. But then, what of our sub-sects? Don’t they seem progressive to mind all that. But who knows? Appearances can be deceptive, can’t they? Well, even then, one has still to reckon with the gothrams that are to be different for a match to materialize. What an irony, the custom that prescribes alliances between blood relations proscribes sagothra marriages! What’s a gothram, after all? If anything, isn’t it a vague concept at its very best, based as it were on the precept of lineage of one and all; that too attributed to the obscure origins of just a score of rishis. What a fanciful notion it is! Don’t all peoples have their own idiosyncrasies? And yet, all are prone to ridicule others for their peculiar beliefs. After all, what is a custom but the prejudice of a polity or a corollary of a religious ethos?’

‘Whatever, she’s sweet and smart,’ he continued turning his thoughts towards her, ‘An ideal girl to take for a wife. Having taken to me in her own sweet way, would she be averse to the idea of marrying me? Why not seek auntie’s good offices as the matchmaker? Even if she succeeds in brainwashing them all, that still leaves a question mark in matching our horoscopes. Some half-wit of an astrologer could make it naught with his crude calculations. How this new-found obsession is ruining many a match in the offing? Well, it’s only love that has the power to maneuver through these encumbrances.’

The thought of the power of love brought back the memories of the year-old romance in a train journey. ‘Oh! What a lovely lass she was!’ he thought, and reflected upon that incredible encounter.

During that early winter, he went to Khajuraho to study the erotic architecture of its sandstone temples. After a weeklong stay there, that evening he boarded the Ganga-Kaveri Express at Satna to reach Madras to present his seminar paper. After exchanging pleasantries with a Father on the side and the trade unionist opposite in that four-berth coupe, he went about polishing his seminar paper well into the night.

Next morning, he was lazing by the window enjoying the refreshing landscape of the wilderness. At around eight, two girls came to greet the Father who was engrossed with the Bible. The one, who was almost in, was rather plain but the other behind her seemed tantalizing in her grey sari. With a black shawl draped around, she was a shade darker and an inch taller than her companion. Directing his gaze upon the charmer, he found her graceful though tentative in her flowing frame. As she surveyed the scene, she found him intently staring at her in wonderment. It appeared to him from her demeanor that the craving she espied in his gaze synchronized with the longing his persona insensibly induced in her mind.

While her companion was conversing with the Father, the young thing was espying him compellingly at every turn. He saw her enamoured eyes enlarge as though to accommodate his admiring stare fixed on her. On occasion, when she intruded into the ongoing conversation, his ears danced to the tune of her soothing tone in Malayalam that was alien to him.

When the train halted at some station requiring the unionist to alight, the girls grabbed the space thus created with great relish. But having lost her senses in the ecstasy of their mutual attraction, she kept mum while her friend blabbered. After a while, as her friend got up to leave, the charmer too stood up as if in a reflex action. However, having come back to her senses, she let her friend go out of the setting while she stayed back as if to prolong the event to savour more of it.

Having taken her seat opposite, she readily got up and sat in the space between him and the Father to continue her tête-à-tête with the latter. The proximity of her person and the proclivity of her posture triggered an emotional upsurge in his soul that occasioned a craving to caress her frame. Goaded by his desire to feel his love on her body, he gained her midriff left uncovered by her sari. The response of her flesh to the sense of his touch seemed to have induced warmth in her frame that provided solace to her soul. Imperceptibly she readjusted her posture as though to help him explore her state to the core. Enthused by her accommodation that enabled him access her recess, he surged on eagerly bustling about her buttocks as if they were the mounds of her essence. However, at length, as though to address her heart, when he reached for her bosom from underneath the shawl, even as he felt her pulsations, she gave a turn and dropped the book in hand. And that invited the attention of the Father.

To forestall an inquisition, he then initiated a discussion on Gibbon’s thesis on the growth of the Christianity. What with the Father finding that enthusing, she was spared of an explanation! Having diverted the Father’s mind to his favorite subject, he tried to take stock of the state of her mind. He found her blue in the face as she sweated in her palms. Seeing her thus, he cursed himself for being the cause of her fright. So as to alleviate her plight, he reached for his notebook and scribbled his sorriness, and gestured for her forgiveness, and seemingly feeling his impulse, even in her nonplussed state, she glanced at his message only to ignore him thereafter.

Soon she left, still dazed, and he remained remorseful and too perplexed to follow her to apologize for his rashness but when he recovered from the shock of her hurt, he ventured through the vestibules to locate her on the moving train. As he sighted her, at long last, still in a state of shock, his heart sank into the depths of agony. He got vexed even more as he found her pixilated in spite of all those apologetic gestures he came up with to soothe her soul. Her indifference made him feel worse for her sake. Feeling wretched himself, he thought only his love could address her hurt and their souls would be solaced but in their embrace. But how were he to convince her about that? Where was the privacy to pressure her into a love saving embrace?

Not to embarrass her further with his forthrightness, he sauntered in the aisle to attract her attention. As she failed to yield, he riveted near her to make her relent. At length, as though responding to his body language, she looked at him with a vacant look that suggested all was over between them. So as not to compound her misery with his embarrassing presence, he left her with a heavy heart.

Back in the coupe, he sat distraught in her thought. As he cursed himself for his misdemeanor, his craving for her pardon got accentuated. While his remorse helped nourish his love for her, nevertheless, he suffered on that score. Just the same, he didn’t dare venture to see her again, fearing he might make her suffer even more. And it’s thus; he never knew where her journey had ended and when her ordeal was over. But that incident, however, haunted him for weeks on end.

‘Wasn’t it a case of love at first sight that induced a sense of mutual belonging in us,’ he reminisced presently. ‘No denying it, though. I should’ve befriended her before proposing, and she couldn’t have refused for sure. Maybe by now, we could have been expecting our first-born. Who knows?’

‘But, why did it all go haywire?’ he thought in regret all again. ‘I lost my head and went wayward on her body, didn’t I? What led me to mislay my hand on her? Was it owing to the craving of my flesh or the urge of my love? Possibly it was the passion of my soul to possess her that triggered it all. Until it all ended in a huff, didn’t we enjoy a smooth ride on the silken path of love? Wasn’t my urgency to close in on her breasts that alienated her heart, once and for all? Maybe, I was compelled to feel the rhythm of her heart beats rhymed by the emotions of her love for me. What a fall it was, after a dream start! Oh, what an ignominious end it was after that ecstatic beginning.’

‘When she was as receptive to my caress at her seat,’ he always thought in puzzlement, ‘why was it that she found my hand on her breast so offensive? But how could she have expected me to envisage the borders of her sensitivity in my state of excitation? True, she would have felt that I transgressed; yet she couldn’t have failed to feel the pulse of my love in the nuances of my touch. Didn’t my heart descend on my hand to vent its love on her frame! And how it rushed to my mouth seeing her disjointed! Why did she choose to punish me with banishment for the failings of my love inspired by her own persona? How she thought I deserved the deserts! Why didn’t she pardon me, finding me repentant?’

He racked his brains for an answer that he never got but was sunken whenever he recalled that episode, ‘Had she pardoned me, how rejoicing it would have been for both of us! Seeing me ecstatic, she should’ve been deliriously joyous, and what a triumph of love that could have been! But that wasn’t to be. What should’ve been a fairy tale romance ended as an unmitigated disaster for both of us.’

‘What could be her name? What a pity that the most ardent love I’d ever experienced should remain a nameless memory!’ he often thought in despair.

Excerpt from the author's maiden novel Benign Flame: Saga of Love, a free ebook in the public domain

When at length, Suresh was finding his moorings at Tihar; Subba Rau was brought in to a near stampede there. Why not, the whole nation knew him by then as the man who had pricked at the Premier’s face. When Suresh enquired what the fuss was all about, Rau said it was but a ‘literary coup’. Probed by Suresh for an account, Rau unfolded the story of his life and times as an unpublished writer.

In his mid-forties, Rau was seized with an urge to bring himself onto the fictional stage. So to lend scope for his boundless creativity, he chose the vastness of the ‘novel’ as the setting. And for the medium of expression, he bypassed his mother tongue, Telugu, the Italian of the East. Instead, he chose English not only for its ability to nuance the complexities of life but also for the flair of expression he had in it. Drawing from his examined life, he set out to portray a young woman’s life on the male canvas of India.

Ironically, it was his love for language that impeded the start, but soon enough he got his poetic prose right for the narrative in mind. With his creativity in command over the unique plot he conceived, he wrote with gusto and had his dream novel for his debut in nine months flat. After toiling for a while, for that ‘apart title’, he pitched in for ‘Tangent of Fate’. Then, with a top-of-the-world feeling, he dispatched the manuscript to a leading publisher in New Delhi. While he took the publisher for granted, he received his manuscript post-haste. And that made him see the irony of the title he had chosen for his novel!

This bolt from the blue shook Rau to the core, and he came to doubt his abilities as a novelist. Thus, holding the manuscript, as one would his dead child, he had a last look at it, as the father would, before the burial. But seeing it as crisp on its return as it was when he had posted it, he felt cheated. As he realized that none at the publisher’s end had an open mind, he saw the rejection letter all again. He felt sad at the ungracious averment of unsuitability on the designer letterhead.

Impulsively, he felt like resubmitting the manuscript with a rejoinder that the concerned editor could take her own time to read and reject it, if it were a must. But, on second thoughts, he realized that it would be treated as sour grapes, and thus kept his own counsel. Anyway, he tried his luck with other Delhi publishers, this time, all at a time. To his distress, it was like the quote of a cartel: Read your manuscript with interest but found it unsuitable for our publication.

As a last resort, in what was a reverse phenomenon, he looked Westward for salvation, only to be informed that unsolicited souls wouldn’t be baptized there. Though he felt it was cruel, he thought it was an honest averment nevertheless. Could it be the unstated policy of the Delhi operatives as well, he suspected, but, couched by the pretentious unsuitability labels!

To get a feel of the publishing scene back home, he pored over the periodicals and the newspaper supplements in right earnest. What amused as well as frustrated him was that while some publicized the published titles to the hilt, the others debunked them as junk in the reviews. Taking the reviewers seriously, he forwarded his manuscript to them, indicating that it had all the ingredients they believed a novel should have in it. And as none of them responded, he wondered whether the critics were more interested in condemning a work than commending any.

And, to find the pulse of the Indian writing in English, he picked up some of the well-hyped novels. As he scanned through them one by one, he was amused to find the two basic features of the published kind: if it was not a case of the Western characters on the Indian stage, then it must be the Indian Diaspora in the Western setting. It appeared to him as though writing about the Indians in India was passé for the publishing world.

In that he saw a literary conspiracy — inducing Indian writers in English into churning out self-deprecating stuff to cater to the prejudices of the Western readers. Well, the aspiring authors too went along to provide vicarious pleasure to the Western readers by negating India. That was why, realized Rau, the tent of the Indian novel in English laid with the worn-out Western pegs in the loose native soil came flat at the whimper of a scrutiny. When it came to the Diaspora produce, it was the wont of the Western media to launch it in India in the haze of publicity to dazzle one and all. Well, but, for a novel to impact its readers, it must be the soulful tale of a people steeped in their native soil, isn’t it?

But then, why the guys should go to such lengths after all? Well, wouldn't have they sensed the potential of the myriad hues of Indian life to shape fascinating pictures of fictional world? What if, in time, some Mahabharata-like creativity resurged in Indian writing in English? Would not the emerging Indian enterprise commercialize it by inundating Western markets? If that were to happen, wouldn’t the public there lap up the same and give up on the Western pulp fiction?

So, reckoned Rau, the Western publishers had set up shop here to avert that eventuality. And the tactic employed by them was to encourage hybrid fiction through publication and dissuade the genuine novel by its rejection. Understandably, Indian writers fell into the trap and began inking hotchpotch on the Western dotted lines. Moreover, to ensure that none deviated from the set course, the publishers had seen to it that the shape they gave it became the norm of the Indian novel. This they could achieve by picturing in the local media that the Indian writing in English was making waves everywhere in the West. Yet, taking no chances, they would keep the bait dangling by doling out hefty advance, on and off, to an odd insider to keep up the farce. It was thus that, the vested interests of the West managed to nip in the bud the genuine Indian novel in English, and averted its challenge to their commercial writing.

However, raising Rau's hopes, as some literary luminaries projected themselves as Man Fridays of the budding authors; he became expectant and felt the world of writing was not all that rough. But when they too cold-shouldered him, he realized that they were only at self-image building, knowing fully well that someone calling their bluff was remote enough. Thus, he realized that the media was but a manifestation of the make-believe at its best. Nevertheless, he philosophized that all could be expected to be busy, getting on with their lives, besides pursuing their own interests. He felt at length that it would be a futile exercise on his part to seek help from any quarter.

Just the same, the irony of the writers’ plight pained him. While the ‘hard to please’ editors reduced the aspirants to the ranks of unpublished writers, the ‘harder to amuse’ reviewers seemed to wait in the wings to turn the published ones into failed authors! Anyway, while tending to debunk the book on hand, Rau had observed that most of the reviewers aired their grandiose views on the book’s topic or tried to exhibit their profound scholarship and/or both. It was as if the book under review provided a stage for their literary exhibitionism!

What distressed Rau most about the reviewers though was the tendency of some to wonder why the book was written at all! And it was in the advice of the reviewers that the author should cease writing that he saw the hand of cruelty in the world of letters. He wondered why they wouldn’t realize that their advice was inimical to their own interests, for without books, where would be the need for reviewers? Wasn’t there a felt need for the prevention of cruelty towards the writers? Above all, the publishers and the reviewers alike appeared unconcerned about the hapless readers for whose sake the show was supposedly run.

It was then that he turned to God in desperation. As though addressing his prayers, He appeared in his dream and expressed His helplessness. God said that as publishing was in the devil’s domain, there was nothing that He could do to help his cause. Thus, abandoning his further forays into the publishing world, he decided that if he were ever to write again, it would only be for the pleasure of writing, never mind the publishing.

When he could put his bitterness behind, his muse moved him all again. Weaving a story in an intricate plot, he completed his second novel in double quick time. It was as if his bottled up creativity was too eager to find its way out. Naming it as the ‘Consigned Conscience’, he nevertheless sent the manuscript to all the Delhi-wallahs at one go, though with a sense of resignation. And as another subject with a new dimension infused his urge to write, he plunged himself into his third novel.

As he was in the thick of action by the time the expected rejections arrived, they failed to dampen his spirit. And, one publisher’s missive that the theme was interesting but they wouldn’t be interested in publishing the same amused him as well. And that made him wonder as to how to write a theme-less wonder for their approval, that was, if they were serious!

When in time, he completed his third novel; he realized that he was back to the reality of life. By then, however, he realized that to be published, one needed either a reference or a recognizable name. As he knew none who ever stepped into the corridors of a publishing house, he thought, before submitting his fresh manuscript, it was an idea to make a name for himself.

Realizing that in the media world, the divider between notoriety and fame was rather thin, he wanted to turn notorious to help the cause of his writing. So he came to New Delhi, to be a part of the crowd that greeted the Prime Minister on his birthday. With a rose with thorns in his hand, he had no problem with the security personnel there. It was thus, he found himself in the queue and waited for his moment. And when the Prime Minister came near him, he pricked at his face with that rose of thorns. When the security detained him for wrongful assault, the media picked up the story to splash it on the front pages.

And that gave him the much-wanted name, didn’t it? Even before he could grasp the import of his notoriety, every publisher in Delhi approached him to commission him into writing ‘Why I pricked at the PM’s face!’ Though vindicated, he experienced the problems of plenty as all pressurized him to sign for them. But, for sentimental reasons, he opted to write for that book house, reading whose publications helped him mature into a writer. Though he wrote his three novels at breakneck speed for they carried conviction, he found himself struggling to put a sentence in place for the commissioned work.

When in the end, Suresh wanted to know how he believed his rejected works were worth their effort, Rau said that it was a good question, and mulled over for an answer.

“If only you know,” said Rau, “why a hand-to-mouth someone, neglecting his means of survival, wrote ten hours a day for years on, that would answer your question. But as that is too abstract to carry conviction, let me draw your   focus on my body of work. Well, all my novels were products of original ideas from the plot downwards. Good or bad that makes them works of art. After all, what is a novel but a creative idea that ever holds in the context? Besides, the beauty of fiction in part is that it tends to lead towards the fact.”

“Why did you write the second and third novels when there were no takers for the first one?”

“In its essence, writing is primarily an art of self-expression,” said Rau. “And about novel writing, didn’t Jane Austin say that ‘in a novel the greatest faculties of human mind are on display.’ Only after handling a couple or more themes would a novelist come to know about the true capacity of his creative mind. Besides, of what worth is a novelist if he fails to make each of his work unique in itself. But, the bane of the modern world of letters is that many are writing though they have no business to write. But with so many imitating the existing, or writing out of the libraries, there is a surfeit of pseudo fiction. But, a novel is the brainchild of imagination and not a hotchpotch of all that’s known. And it is this narrative routine that makes the genuine readers skeptical about the novels in general. And that’s how the classic novel and the genuine novelists have come to grief alike.”

Finally, Suresh wanted to know how Rau handled the failures.

“The beauty of the endeavor obliterates the ugliness of the rejection,” said Rau. “As I was ever engaged in trying, I had no time to masticate my failures.”

“All said and done,” said Suresh, “what sense does it made of being a writer?”

“If anything,” said Rau, “writing a book is like planting a seed. And if it gets published, it’s like the sprouting of a plant. If not, it’s a lonely furrow in a no-man’s land. Like the gardener tends the plant into a tree, it’s the readers who help the book grow in stature. Blessed are the authors who would be able to live long enough to smell that their readers savored the fruits of their creativity. Oh, how that affords such the emotional fulfillment associated with original writing and the ego gratification that applause accords! And in spite of the media hype to the hilt, I'm not sure if all the writer-celebrities derive the emotional fulfillment associated with creative writing. Whatever, in my case, the pain of rejection made me immune to frustration.”

After having heard Rau, Suresh felt that in the world of letters, the published and the unpublished writers, being free, were alike condemned. 

This is the eponymous chapter in the author’s second novel, Jewel-less Crown: Saga of Life, a free ebook in the public domain.

Though not nonplussed at having lost her virginity, Nithya, nevertheless, began pressuring Vasu for the nuptial. Yet, his assurances to tie the knot made her give him more of her own that was till she felt he was taking it easy. When she began denying him the good time to drive home her point that only made him indignant, she could figure out the consequences of his indifference. Thus, feeling vulnerable, she forced herself to humour him even more furthering his fulfillment all the more. But even as he procrastinated over their nuptial, his seed began to evolve in her womb and things came to a head when she missed her periods.

When confronted with the development, Vasu could dodge no more, and spilled the beans.

"I understand your embarrassment," he began.

"What an understatement!" she said in consternation.

"We shouldn't have jumped the gun."

"It's neither here nor there," she said, worried over his prevarication.

"Why worry," he said taking her hand, "as I'm around still."

"Better you rush to your parents now," she said as her voice reflected her sense of urgency. "We should get married before my morning sickness shows up."

"Don't I know about that, but...."

"But what?" she interrupted him in alarm.

"Why are you so impatient?"

"Do remember," she said turning apprehensive, "you promised to marry me."

"I'm here to keep my word."

"Then why dilly-dally?"

"Our marriage is not the problem," he said affecting confusion. "The predicament is how to go about it."

"You always sounded confident, didn't you?"

"I am all for marrying you," he said assuming a melancholic pose. "But there are other things in the way. Those that make life what it is."

"What are you trying to convey?" she became nervous.

"I'm too confused for that."

"What confusion?"

"Now I'm trapped between two stools," he said affecting pain. "I can't extricate myself without disturbing either or both. That's my predicament."

"Is it the time to beat around the bush?" she asked in vexation. "Don't you understand my position? Are your parents against our marriage or what?"

"If it were so," he said assuming an air of arrogance, "I would've walked out on them long back and led you to the Registrar's Office straightaway. But my dilemma is different."

"What's that?" she said, perplexed.

"Promise me," he said outstretching his right palm, "you won't take it amiss."

"Oh, tell me," she said brushing his hand aside.

"We've to contend with Prema."

"Who's she?"

"She's my betrothed," he said nonchalantly.

"What!" she exclaimed, unable to believe her ears.

"We were engaged shortly before I met you."

"What do you mean?" she nearly fainted.

"Don't get upset," he said, trying to comfort her, "listen to me fully."

"How could you do this to me?"

"Oh, please listen," he tried to appease her, "I'll explain everything."

"What else can I do now?" she sounded helpless. "After all, haven't I compromised myself?"

"Don't get depressed," he said trying to sound genuine. "I would never swap her for you. I wouldn't do that even with a Helen for sure. Just try to understand my situation."

"I'm confused really."

"Don't be impatient," he said. "We'll sort out things."

"You should've had me," she blurted out, "only after sorting out things."

"Well, I'll explain."

"Does it make any difference to me now?" she said, wearily.

"When I became a probationary officer, Prema was proposed to me," he said, weighing his words as though he was a tutored witness in the court. "It was a dream match, whichever way one may look at it. We got engaged before I came here for the training. How could I have known that you'd come into my life? The moment I saw you, I was lost in love. The day I was sure of your love, I wrote to my father to cancel the engagement."

"What did he say?" she couldn't help enquiring.

"He said it would put him in a spot," he paused as though to let her prepare for the blow to follow. "He said he used the dowry he took to clear the debts. If I go back now, he will be obliged to return the amount and that would push us back into the debt trap all again. What's worse, it would jeopardize our position in the biradari. So he pleaded that he be spared all this in his old age. Can't you understand my predicament? I've a balancing act to do now and you can see how hard it is on me as well."

"If anything, it's harder on me, especially with your child in my womb. Its time you realize that," she said spiritedly. "Well, I see a way out. Let's take a loan to return the dowry. I'll take up a job and help you tighten our belts as well. It's only a matter of time before we come out clean."

"I don't think it's not workable," he said sounding sentimental. "Besides making me feel like a drag on your life that would only bring me back to square one. Didn't I tell you I always felt deprived, being born poor? Being a Class One Officer, I still feel insecure. While our tightened belts would only reinforce my deprived feeling, the debt trap could make me feel all the more insecure. Moreover, when the novelty wears off, I may even perceive you as the cause of my discomfiture. What's worse, our marriage itself could be on the rocks due to domestic discords."

"All that could be true," she said, as he felt relieved. "But, what's the alternative?"

"There is one," he said seemingly in hesitation, "if you could take it."

"Tell me."

"That is, he said, 'if you believe that I am yours first and last."

"If not," she said a little relieved, "do you think I would've given myself to you?"

"Prema is stinking rich," he began taking her hand as though to make her a co-conspirator.

"Now I see," she said pulling back in vexation, "why you are ditching me."

"If you think I am marrying her for money," he said seemingly offended, "she is no less a stunner than you."

"Oh, the novelty seems to have worn off already!" she said as sarcastically as she could while trying not to feel helpless. "Why not, haven't you had enough of me already?"

"I'm sorry," he said cajolingly, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm just explaining things. Believe me, life for me without you would be like going through the motions. But without wealth it comes to the same in spite of you. Had you come into my life straight away, it would've been like living in heaven in your wifely fold. But this turn of events gave me the opportunity of my life that is hard to miss. And hadn't you come into my life, I would've been happy still, living with her, unaware of what fulfillment could really be with a woman. To be or not to be, that's my dilemma."

"Better realize that you can't have the cake and eat it too," she said as she readied herself to force the issue. "You've to take your pick, now and here. Well, as you have made your inclinations apparent, I won't bank upon your love anyway. I can only appeal to your conscience, that too because of my condition. If only I were not carrying, seeing how you are dodging, I would've walked out on you by now. Now I know what a woman loses by compromising herself. Anyway, it's too late in the day for me to think of it."

"I know you're hurt," he said. "As I understand your vexation, you should also realize I too have my qualms. I've been troubled ever since we've got physically close. That very night I thought of running away from you. But your beauty and my love immobilized me."

"Now that you're satiated," she hissed at him venomously, "why don't you admit it's just lust with you."

"Even if you take it that way," he said, "a lifetime of sex with you won't be enough to quench my thirst for you. And the truth is, I'm passionately in love with you. You know I've got addicted to you, thanks to the ardor of your amour. Without you I would go mad indeed."

"Keeping my fate in balance," she said in agony, "you're killing me with your falsity."

"If you go with my proposal," he said as if to tilt the balance, "everything would turn out fine in the end."

"What's that?" she enquired in spite of herself.

"With your parents' blessings," he said taking her hand, "we'll have a civil marriage."

"What about your parents?"

"We'll keep them out of the loop for a while."

"But why?" she said removing her hand from his.

"It's my idea of our love," he said regaining her hand, "to save our love. In turn, I'll marry Prema without your parents' getting wiser to it. Slowly but steadily, we can prepare her and all, to the reality of our lives."

"What an absurd proposal!" she said in remorse.

"I agree it's unusual," he said disarmingly. "But that suits us admirably."

"I will be a game," she said having read his game in the meantime, "if only you make Prema privy to this plan."

"It's an absurd proposal really."

"Why! Won't it suit you fine, either way?" she said pinning him down. "If she agrees, you would've us both and should she back out, your father needn't return the money. Wouldn't that remove the hurdle to our marriage? You know it would."

"Doubt if it works out that way," he said lacking any conviction in what he said.

"Why don't you admit," she jeered at him, "that you don't want it that way."

"When I'm frank with you," he sounded arguing for a lost case, "I expect a better understanding than that. How do you expect me to tell my betrothed that I've a pregnant lover? But after marriage it would be all so different. Won't the closeness of marriage call for compromises?"

"Now, I understand your method," she said in apparent hatred. "Lure women into bed to make them vulnerable, and then force compromises upon them. You want to make her your wife for money and retain me as your keep to pep up your sex life!"

"If I were as mean as you imagine," he said playing his sincerity card to the hilt, "wouldn't I have married you on the sly?"

"Oh, you're too clever for that," she said in exasperation. "You're no fool to bite more than you can chew. You know you would come to grief fighting on two fronts. So you've hit upon this strategy of smothering me before tackling her. If you can coerce me now, you think you can cajole her later. It calls for an evil genius to come up with such a devious plan."

"Am I expected to take all this rubbish?" he said feigning anger.

"Why, were you to fail with her later," she continued her tirade against him, "you would have me still, won't you? What's more, her money too, for I'm sure you would make some of hers yours without losing any time. And in case you can't sell your idea to me, still you would've a beautiful wife, and all her money. Either way, you know, you would gain more than you can lose. How cleverly you got into a win-win position!"

"You're attributing motives," he said sounding sad, "to a victim of circumstances."

"On the other hand," she said in pain, "you've made me a victim to better your circumstances. Betrothed though, you wormed your way into my life with the idea of making me your keep."

"Do blame me but spare my love," he said affecting distress. "I love you, and I want you forever. I know that you love me too. Don't break our hearts and make life bleak for both of us."

"So much for our love," she said broaching the topic of her embarrassment, "what about your child in my womb?"

"He would be my first born, won't he?"

"You mean the first bastard?" she said in all sarcasm. "Oh, you've determined the sex of our child beforehand! You seem to be cock sure in all you do, don't you?"

"Don't be harsh!" he said taken aback at her resistance. "Didn't I tell you it's time I owned up you up as my wife?"

"What if you fail to keep your word?" she said in vexation. "Won't that leave our child illegitimate and keep me ever your keep?"

"Believe me."

"You mean I should believe you after what all you've done to me?" she said rebelliously. "What if I reject your proposal?"

"Then unfortunately for both of us," he said after a pause, "we've to go our separate ways."

"Well," she said resolutely, "before that see the child goes out of the way."

"Don't be in a hurry," he tried to sound even more persuasive. "What if we make up in the end? Won't we feel sorry then?"

"You know it brooks no delay, don't you?"

"I'm hopeful," he said reaching for her hand, "our love would make us cling together through thick and thin."

"So you want me to let it grow so that I would've nowhere else to go."

"I don't want to lose you if I can help it," he said not giving up. "You may call me mean that way."

"Haven't I got the taste of your meanness already?" she said, "But if you help me get aborted, I may still feel that there is something left to be salvaged in your character."

"I'm still hopeful."

"That's another way of saying that you won't like to pick up the bill," she said sarcastically. "A rupee saved is a rupee earned, isn't it? Who knows about it better than you, a bank officer opting for mercenary marriage?"

"Well, there's a limit even for insulting."

"Thanks for reminding me about the limits," she said unable to control her tears. "Didn't I bring it upon myself by crossing my limits? Had I not given myself to you, you would've found it hard to decide which way to go now. Having given in myself, I've lost my aura, and having had me, you've lost your appetite. Where's the incentive to marry me now?"

"You're cross with me as you've misunderstood me," he said trying to gain control over her. "But don't nurse hatred for me. Our destinies might still bring us together. Won't the intimacy of the old times usher in fresh tidings then? When the dust of your misgivings settles down, I'm sure we won't be able to resist each other any time."

"I would like to forget you in double quick time," she said as she left him in a huff. "How I wish I had never met you at all. Let the devil take you."

As she walked out on him, she was consumed by hatred.

'Why not I kill him and avenge myself?' she thought on her way. 'But that would only ruin my life further and scandalize my family even more. Let him go to hell. I better think about how to get out of this mess.'

As she walked her way home, she turned her attention on self-preservation.

'I've to handle my parents first,' she contemplated. 'They're sure to smell a rat, sooner than later. Better I tell them that he backed out because of parental opposition. Why, they are bound to be disappointed if not shaken. All the same, how their enthusiasm for him surged my own infatuation. Didn't they make it appear as though all was over bar tying the knot? How sad that I got carried away only to end up being pregnant! Oh, how fate has contrived a parental part in my downfall!'

'What a paradox pregnancy for women is,' Nithya thought that night. 'If a married conceives, it's a cause for celebration, but with an unmarried, it's a means of castigation. After all, man doesn't have any bother in this regard, but then, someone has to bell the cat of nature's urge for procreation. At least, he should've got the decency to arrange for the abortion. But the bastard seems to have designs on me into the future as well. He may even resort to blackmail to entrap me all again. Will he ever allow me to live in peace? Oh, what a devil have I courted?'

As she imagined his shadow on her future, she was frightened no end.

'Had I not conceived,' she reasoned, 'it wouldn't have been so tough on me. Well, I wouldn't have made myself as vulnerable to his blackmail later. Won't it pay to take precautions for women in love to save their skin? Why, the hymen would go away anyway but how can any be wiser to the coitus that caused its rupture? Whatever, I've to get on to the table straight away for there is no other way.'

'Is death the only solution to my predicament?' she thought as the hypocrisy of women's chastity seemed an irony to her. 'Oh no, what dreams I had for my life! But, how sour they all turned out to be! And that's another story. Now, before all else, I should get out of this mess. But how am I to go about it? That's the big question! And what of the future threat from him? Well, I would see how to deal with him later, if he ever returns.'

This is an eponymous episode from the author's third novel 'Crossing the Mirage - Passing through youth' that is a free ebook in the public domain

"Here is that fact beyond fiction," he began to narrate with a parental pride that didn't escape my attention. "What a handicap it was to be divorced, thought my son; self-service at home and harlot-solace in a brothel; what service and how much solace! Women were ever scary of even wealthy divorcees as if divorce underscores one's incompatibility once and for all, and a whore was no answer for a wife. Surely some featureless young thing could be willing and that's no choice of a wife any way; but a lucky guy could bump into a desirable dame in the blind alleys of the Cupid and that's a rarity anyway; as for affairs, they were seldom, even for the well-heeled in their prime, but as life is meant to be lived, he resolved, one had to go about it regardless and how to make the best of time was the essence of existence."

"Envisioning liaisons through friendship magazines seemed to him no more than chasing the mirages of lust," he continued with the account of his son's life. "But for an ad here and there from a genuine dame, the rest were all from the cravers of female flesh, and given the lack of proper response, one might wonder whether the 'willing women' were indeed real beings or merely fictitious characters meant to buttress the publishers' bottom lines; even otherwise, with the exhibitionist tone of the machismo ads, going through the pages left one with a sickening feeling; pity the dames who fell for such guys. Maybe the saving grace was the insertions for wife-swapping that seemed genuine for they were all about give and take; but then, wasn't he rendered a hors de combat for he lacked the means for a quid pro quo? What about Vimala, he thought as he recalled that evening when he was led into a lounge of a mansion where he found a score of whores in awkward postures, and as he turned his back on the gaudy dames in disgust, one lissome lass in a Turkish towel walked in. Enticed, as he followed her in a trance, she sauntered along endearingly in her semi-nude, and that ushered in an unusual romance between them."

"It's as if your son had stolen your address-book of those places."

"Well," he said after a hearty laugh, "it occurred to him that Vimala could carry herself to pass off for his wife; what's more she was bound to tempt any hesitant husband to jump into the swap trap. What an idea to pay her for the favors of a MILF or two in the wife swaps though not all of them were honeys? So roping in Vimala, he went on a hunt for the promising, and soon succeeded in roping in the willing – an educated and sophisticated couple in their mid-twenties, who were married for some years by then; he was handsome and successful, and she was sexy and charming. While they led an active sexy life, their family cradle remained empty, and that let the ennui set into their otherwise wondrous life. So, they tried to enliven their life by seeking pleasures as their fancies suggested, but as the novelty of those diversions wore off, their cumulative exasperation increased reducing the span of their thrill; and back to square one, they realized that they had lost the capacity to enthuse each other, so bored to death but committed to each other, they dragged their feet on their drab marital course. But when their love for adventure made them think in terms of venturing into the forbidden avenues of human joys, they began searching for a suitable couple to make it a foursome for a fulsome life."

"Cynically brilliant, and surely it's a notch above your threesome idea in the hospital."

"Didn't I tell you that my son did far better than that," he continued. "The orgies that followed brought them all closer and that made them feel blessed in their blissful state. Soon the lover in my son cherished the woman of that wife and began to wish that she were his spouse, and she, used to sex as a marital obligation, found his lovemaking emotionally fulfilling. When she was in the family way, she instinctively knew that Satish was the father of the child; and as the issue in the offing began to draw her towards him, she thought about the ethics of its upbringing in the existing setting; as her maternal instinct got the better of her feminine infirmities, her husband's position in her life seemed untenable in her perception, and it took little time for her to resolve that my son was the man of her destiny. Much before the expected delivery, she deserted her man to begin her life afresh with Satish; and to avoid a first rate scandal, we got them married in secrecy. Didn't you hear the talk on the grapevine about the simple wedding of Satish and Sarala?'

"Yes, but...."

"It was not the end of it," he continued. "Let down and lonely for his misadventure, the lost soul was left to rue his folly; but as time started clearing the debris of his fate, he began to pick up the threads of life. As woman could only heal the wounds caused by woman, he went to a brothel for solace, only to be doubly wounded; he found Vimala among the girls and was dumbfounded to learn that she was picked up by Satish to act as a dupe to deceive him. When he threatened to sue Satish for the breach of trust and other criminal offenses, I had to cough up much to keep him off; legal case or not, surely he had a damaging story to sell to our hurt."

This episode is from the author's 'Glaring Shadow - A stream of consciousness novel, a free ebook in the public domain.

Establishing the Foundations of a Relationship: A New Guide by Oscar J. Starr III

Houston, TX – Renowned author and relationship expert, Oscar J. Starr III, has released his latest book, Establishing the Foundations of a Relationship. This insightful guide, co-authored with Jarae Starr, delves into the essential elements that form the bedrock of any successful relationship.

Building Trust and Finding Common Ground

At the heart of Establishing the Foundations of a Relationship is the emphasis on building trust and finding commonality. Starr explores practical strategies for couples to connect on a deeper level, fostering a sense of mutual understanding and respect. The book provides actionable advice on how to navigate the complexities of trust-building, ensuring that both partners feel secure and valued.

The Importance of Date Nights

One of the standout features of this book is its focus on the significance of date nights. Starr argues that regular, intentional time spent together is crucial for maintaining a healthy relationship. He offers creative ideas for date nights that can help couples reconnect and keep the spark alive, regardless of how long they have been together.

Addressing Emotional Neglect

Emotional neglect can be a silent killer in relationships, and Starr does not shy away from addressing this critical issue. The book provides readers with tools to recognize and address emotional neglect, fostering open communication and emotional intimacy. By tackling this often-overlooked aspect of relationships, Starr empowers couples to build a more resilient and loving partnership.

A Comprehensive Guide for All Relationships

Whether you are looking to strengthen a long-term relationship, build a new friendship, or simply gain valuable insights into human connections, Establishing the Foundations of a Relationship offers something for everyone. The book is designed to be a helpful tool, providing readers with the knowledge and skills needed to cultivate meaningful and lasting relationships.

About the Author

Oscar J. Starr III is a celebrated author and relationship coach based in Houston, TX. Alongside his wife, Jarae Starr, he operates Express Direct Professional Services. The couple enjoys spending quality time with family and friends and has collaborated on various projects, including this latest book. Starr is also the host of The GameChanger Perspective Podcast, available on multiple platforms.

Establishing the Foundations of a Relationship is available now in both Kindle and paperback editions. For more information, visit your favorite online bookstore.

Mysteries of Amazon Forest

     Stories

Contents

1.     Introduction. 3

2.     Story 1. Story of La Malinche (Malinalli). 11

3.     Story 2. El Mano, Dee Mano, and Fi Mini. 21

4.     Story 3. The love story of Fi Mini and Dee Mano. 36

5.     About the Author.89

Introduction

The Amazon Forest, a vast expanse of biodiversity and enigma, holds within its green embrace a myriad of mysteries that have captivated the human imagination for centuries. From the unexplained geoglyphs, vast geometric earthworks carved into the landscape thousands of years ago, to the tales of lost cities like El Dorado that have lured explorers and adventurers into its depths, the Amazon is a treasure trove of historical puzzles.

The forest's layers, from the emergent canopy to the shadowy forest floor, are home to an astonishing variety of flora and fauna, some yet to be discovered or fully understood by science. The recent uncovering of ancient "Amazonian dark earth," a testament to the ingenuity of pre-colonial societies who enriched the soil with sustainable practices, reveals a history of sophisticated land management and hints at a once-thriving network of indigenous settlements. As deforestation unveils more of these secrets, it also threatens the forest's future, with over 17 percent lost in the last fifty years. Yet, amidst these challenges, the Amazon continues to be a source of wonder, its mysteries a siren call to the curious and the brave.

The geoglyphs of the Amazon Forest are a fascinating enigma, etched into the earth over centuries, their true purpose lost to time. These enormous geometric earthworks, some as wide as 36 feet and as deep as 13 feet, were constructed between 2000 and 650 years ago, suggesting a long history of human interaction with the Amazonian landscape. The discovery of these geoglyphs in the Brazilian state of Acre was a byproduct of deforestation activities, which, while destructive, have inadvertently peeled back layers of history, revealing the intricate designs that lay hidden beneath the forest canopy for millennia.

The geoglyphs' designs vary from simple circles and squares to complex octagons, hinting at a sophisticated level of organization and purpose among the ancient Amazonian societies. Despite their grandeur, the geoglyphs are not surrounded by significant artifacts that could suggest they were residential areas or defensive structures. Instead, it is believed they served as ceremonial or ritual sites, places for gathering, perhaps reflecting the cosmology and social structure of their creators.

What's particularly intriguing is that these structures were not built in untouched landscapes but in areas already modified by human hands. Charcoal layers found in the soil indicate that controlled burns were used to clear areas, a practice that points to a form of land management and suggests that the Amazon was not the 'untouched wilderness' as often portrayed but a region shaped by human ingenuity for thousands of years.

The presence of bamboo-dominated forests, resilient to both climate change and human activity, further supports the idea of a symbiotic relationship between the ancient Amazonians and their environment. This relationship is evidenced by the "Amazonian dark earth," fertile soil that was likely enriched through sustainable practices by pre-colonial societies, showcasing a deep understanding of land management that rivals modern techniques.

As we continue to uncover more about these geoglyphs, they challenge our perceptions of pre-Columbian Amazonia, painting a picture of a landscape that was carefully curated by its inhabitants.

 The geoglyphs stand as a testament to the complex societies that once thrived in the Amazon, their legacies etched into the earth, waiting for us to unravel their stories and learn from the ancient wisdom they hold.

They remind us that the Amazon, as much as it is a natural wonder, is also a cultural heritage site, rich with human history and deserving of our respect and protection. The mysteries of the geoglyphs are not just puzzles to be solved but are keys to understanding the sustainable practices of the past that could inform our future.

Story 1

Story of La Malinche (Malinalli)

La Malinche, born Malinalli, was a figure of great significance and complexity in the history of Mexico. Her story is one of resilience, intelligence, and survival in the face of immense change and adversity. Born around 1500 into a noble family in a region influenced by the Mayan and Aztec empires, Malinalli was named after the goddess of grass, reflecting her noble roots. However, her life took a dramatic turn when she was sold into slavery as a young girl, a common practice at the time.

Despite the hardships of slavery, Malinalli's linguistic abilities flourished as she became fluent in the languages of the Mayan and Aztec peoples, as well as the prestigious Nahuatl language of the courts. Her skills would soon prove invaluable. In 1519, the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés arrived in the Yucatán Peninsula, and Malinalli, known by then as La Malinche, was among the enslaved women given to him as a peace offering by the local leaders.

La Malinche's linguistic prowess quickly caught Cortés' attention, and she became his interpreter, advisor, and intermediary with the indigenous peoples. She played a pivotal role in the Spanish conquest of the Aztec Empire, facilitating communication and negotiations between Cortés and the indigenous leaders. Her ability to speak multiple languages, including Spanish, allowed her to bridge the vast cultural divide between the two worlds.

Her relationship with Cortés was complex; she was at once his captive and his confidante, and some accounts suggest she bore him a son. La Malinche's role in the conquest has led to her being a controversial figure in Mexican history, seen by some as a traitor and by others as a victim of her circumstances. Her story is a testament to the turbulent times in which she lived and the difficult choices she faced.

La Malinche's legacy reflects the broader historical narrative of colonization and resistance. She is remembered as a symbol of cultural synthesis, embodying the fusion of indigenous and Spanish influences that would come to define the Mexican identity. Her story challenges us to consider the nuanced and often conflicting facets of historical figures, and to recognize the profound impact that individuals can have on the course of history.

In modern times, La Malinche's story continues to resonate, sparking debates about identity, loyalty, and the legacy of colonialism. Her life is a reminder of the complex interplay of power, culture, and language, and the ways in which individuals navigate these forces. La Malinche remains an enduring figure in Mexican history, her story narrative rich with lessons about resilience and the human spirit.

After the tumultuous Spanish conquest, La Malinche's life entered a quieter phase, yet it remained intertwined with the Spanish presence in the New World. She continued living with Hernán Cortés and bore him a son named Martín in 1522, often considered one of the first Mestizos, embodying the mixed indigenous and Spanish heritage that would characterize much of Latin America.

La Malinche's relationship with Cortés was multifaceted; she was his interpreter, advisor, and the mother of his child, but also a symbol of cooperation and conflict between two worlds. Despite her critical role in the conquest, her life after these events is less documented, shrouded in the mists of history. It is believed that she married a Spanish hidalgo, Juan Jaramillo, which would have been a strategic alliance, securing her position and future in the colonial society.

Her later years are not well recorded, but it is known that she had a daughter with Jaramillo, further contributing to the new cultural and genetic lineage. La Malinche's legacy is complex; she is remembered in various lights, as both a traitor and a survivor, a victim and a bridge between cultures. Her story has been reinterpreted through the ages, reflecting the evolving understanding of her role and the broader consequences of the conquest.

The narrative of La Malinche is a poignant reminder of the human dimension in historical events. Her life encapsulates the themes of adaptation, resilience, and the blending of cultures that are still relevant today. As the mother of a new generation, her personal story is a microcosm of the larger story of Latin America itself, a region marked by the confluence of indigenous and European influences.

La Malinche's story does not end with her death; it continues to be told and retold, each iteration exploring different facets of her identity and choices. She remains a figure of enduring fascination, a woman who navigated the treacherous waters of early colonial politics with grace and intelligence. Her legacy is a testament to the complex and often painful birth of the modern Americas, and her life a narrative that challenges us to consider the shades of grey in our interpretation of history. Through her, we can explore themes of power, agency, and identity, and the ways in which individual lives can shape the course of empires. La Malinche, a woman of her time, became a timeless symbol of the intricate tapestry of human history.

La Malinche's children, Martín Cortés and María Jaramillo, are significant figures due to their mixed heritage, embodying the convergence of indigenous and Spanish lineages. Martín, born in 1522, was one of the first mestizos, a term used to describe individuals of mixed European and Indigenous American ancestry. His birth symbolized the new cultural and racial blend that would come to define much of Latin America. Martín's life was marked by his unique position as the son of Hernán Cortés, which granted him certain privileges and a notable status within colonial society.

Martín's later life was as eventful as his birth. He was sent to Spain for his education and returned to New Spain as a young man. However, he faced challenges due to his mestizo heritage, which placed him in a complex social hierarchy. Despite his father's prominence, Martín was not fully accepted by the Spanish elite. He eventually became involved in a rebellion against the Spanish crown, known as the Mixtón War, which sought to defend indigenous rights and land. This involvement led to his arrest and subsequent exile, highlighting the turbulent nature of post-conquest society and the struggles faced by those of mixed heritage.

María Jaramillo, La Malinche's daughter with her husband Juan Jaramillo, is less documented in historical records. However, her existence further illustrates the legacy of La Malinche as a mother to a new generation that bridged two worlds. María's life would have been shaped by the cultural shifts and complexities of early colonial Mexico, and she likely would have navigated the same intricate social landscape as her brother.

The fates of La Malinche's children reflect the broader narrative of the era, a time when identities were being forged and redefined in the aftermath of conquest. Their lives serve as a testament to the enduring impact of their mother's legacy, as they lived at the intersection of the old and the new, navigating a world that was forever changed by the events in which La Malinche played a pivotal role. Through her children, the story of La Malinche continues, their lives a continuation of the cultural and historical tapestry she helped weave. They stand as living embodiments of the fusion of cultures that La Malinche herself represented, and their stories, though not as widely told, are an integral part of the rich mosaic of Latin American history. Martín and María are not just the offspring of a historical figure; they are the personification of a cultural evolution, the human face of a transformative epoch in the Americas. Their lives, their challenges, and their legacies reflect the complex interplay of power, identity, and heritage that has shaped the continent's past and continues to influence its present and future.

THE DYING CHILD

QUEEN OF THE MOON TRIAD LINK

Deep in the night of the gray moon following the encounter with the Phoe the night before, Cruger found himself within a familiar nightmare. He was transported back almost eighteen years— before Belphore the King of Viridian had banished him to Amaryllis. Cruger was with his family in the living room of a great castle. An Equiid maid entered with a silver platter of victuals fit for royalty. His wife, Amarta nodded as the maid lowered the platter onto the dining table. Cruger ignored her. He disliked Equiids. The woman’s graceless demeanor and dirty brown hair repulsed him. Despite this, Cruger would have been happy if that was all he had to worry about. Sighing, he walked over to Amarta, who gave her attention to a small child swathed in a thick blanket huddled against her chest. If he was distraught, Cruger couldn’t imagine what his wife was going through. The child’s chest heaved in a sick, rattling cough. Amarta glanced at him with teary eyes before reaching for a cloth nestled somewhere in the blanket. She used it to wipe the infant’s mouth, but instead of snot and phlegm, the cloth smeared with blood. The maid re-entered with water, which she laid onto the table.

    “Do you desire anything else, master Cruger?” she asked earnestly.

    “No,” he said a little too haughtily. “Just ensure Ivor’s room is cleaned.”

    “Yes, master Cruger.” The maid bowed and left.

Ivor was Cruger’s sick son. He looked at the child in Amarta’s arms coughing up gobs of blood even now. Fluorish medics had described Ivor’s condition with phrases such as “hopelessly irreversible” and “mildly contagious”. And ever since the dark prognosis of Fluorish Cruger’s first child had spread like wildfire across the length and breadth of Viridian, the majority of the Fluorishes refused to associate with any member of the household, including the Equiid maid, Aurelia, in fear they would contract the illness. Cruger found this understandable, of course. However, he was livid that Belphore, the King of Viridian, hadn’t once visited him even if to pretend that one of his most valuable henchmen mattered. Cruger had worked with Belphore for almost thirty years as a White Collector, overseeing the Moongrease trade from Equiid to Fluorish. Even more hurtful was the fact that Belphore had been in a similar predicament when his wife, Raviola was sick. Cruger had made himself available as a friend, doing Belphore the risky favor of weaving a sophisticated form of health magic called ‘Salubria’ by his wife’s bedside to ease her pain. Sadly, Raviola died in her sleep one night after a horrid bout of fever that had lasted days.

    Cruger watched as his child suffered a similar fate. Ivor heaved and shivered in Amarta’s hand. Cruger knew it was only a matter of days (if not less) before the unthinkable happened. He wiped tears from Amarta’s cheeks, preventing them from falling on young Ivor’s face. He had been cultivating Salubria from his own life force for hours, bleeding it into his aura to ease his son’s pain. If he had some help with the exhaustive task of cultivating the magical painkiller, he could at least rest assured his son felt little to no pain.

    Cruger thrashed in his bed in Amaryllis as his dream switched to another scene. He was scurrying into the dark woods and away from the Castles. He’d chosen this time specifically in order to lessen the chance of meeting someone on the trail. It was the second day of the black moon when Fluorishes tended to keep indoors. While the path he was traversing into the forest wasn’t forbidden, it would arouse suspicion if he was caught, and he would have some explaining to do. But Cruger was here out of desperation. His son was getting worse, and he had realized from Ivor’s grunts and groans that his Salubria had gotten weak and ineffectual. That wasn’t all—Amarta was so depressed that she neither ate, spoke, nor slept, and it wouldn’t be far-fetched to think she could follow their son to the grave. He reached the spot he sought under a twisting Yew, feeling the heartrending effect of the locale’s Melancholia. He never figured out why Belphore chose to infect the space with enchanted despair.

Cruger cast his eyes up between the gnarly branches of the Yew and was frightened by the black moon. Its blackness seemed active…like a quality onto itself, projecting onto Indigo like a black light from the torch of some forgotten god. He descended into the earth, his heart quickening. Cruger immediately flared his aura, aware he was no match for the two Phoes he would soon face, especially now that it was the black moon. They were almost godlike in the practice of PhoeCraft, a type of blood magic specific to Phoes. But Cruger only sensed one aura, not two. Its owner moved from the shadows presently. He was a wild-looking man with black skin and a puffy black beard. His yellow teeth were now bared as he regarded Cruger.

    Cruger raised his hands over his head. “Shaden. I come in peace. Where is Tyman?” he asked, glancing around.

    “Not here,” the man hissed.

Cruger was confused. As far as he knew, the Phoes shouldn’t …couldn’t leave this space as it was heavily protected by Fluorish magic.

    “Belphore took him to mold some Moongrease deep in the woods. They should be back any second now.”

    Cruger’s heart fell. “What?”

    Shaden bared his teeth again. “Yesss. And you shouldn’t be here. If he catches—”

    “Shaden,” Cruger interjected. “I have a huge favor to ask of you. If you grant it, I will forever be in your debt.”

    Shaden laughed. “And do you think me so mad as to trust a Fluorish?”

Cruger sighed, his heartbeat reverberating through his body. But he had prepared for this. Cruger reached into his robes and withdrew a short blade before slicing his palm with it. Shaden’s expression fell as Cruger’s blood dripped on the sodden earth.

    “Take my blood as my bond and my covenant.” Cruger stretched his arm toward the savage.

Shaden growled, his eyes switching from black to devilish red. He hesitated before approaching, grabbing Cruger’s hand and bringing it to his lips. As the Phoe drank his blood, Cruger felt his vital energy slipping away. It was as though his life were wrapped with a bloody ribbon and it was being unreeled into the maw of an abyssal beast. When Shaden was done, Cruger was so weak he could hardly stand. The Phoe glanced at him with his crimson eyes, blood running down his lips and beard. In contrast to his ever-weakening body, the Phoe’s aura was blooming like the gothic flowers of a Belladonna.

    “And for what do you grant this portion of your spirit?” he asked. His voice was so guttural that it vibrated against Cruger’s bones, syncing with his heartbeat.

He spoke quickly. “I need you to mold some Moongrease at once, just a little. My son is dying. I need to do something. I just can’t manage…”

Shaden laughed, his eyes flickering evilly. Cruger took a deep breath to keep his mind sane. His brain was running amok with thoughts of treachery and death.

“What an interesting night,” Shaden whispered. “But you’re in luck. Bless this night of the black moon. I can mold some Moongrease into Apotheum to fashion a salve for your son.” With that, he went over to the bags of Moongrease and lifted one of the round clay chunks from it. Without warning, Shaden bit into it.

Cruger sprang backward despite his weakness. He hadn’t actually seen a Phoe mold Moongrease before. But he didn’t think it was done by consuming it. Moongrease was highly poisonous to Fluorishes; he’d assumed the same was true for Phoes.

“You have no clue about molding Moongrease, do you?” Shaden inquired. “I’m surprised Belphore didn’t reveal this to you.”

Cruger guessed the Moongrease affected Phoes differently—perhaps it was responsible for all the Phoes’ slow descent into madness. Suddenly, Shaden shook, his head and torso jerking. Cruger with his waning consciousness couldn’t react much. The dark pocket they occupied was beginning to spin like a gig. He supposed Shaden’s shaking was part of the molding process. When the seizures stopped, a wraith-like substance lifted from the Phoe’s mouth. Just then, there was activity above them. Belphore was coming back! Cruger panicked, rising from the floor.

    “Take it and go! Hurry!” Shaden spat. “Get your son to swallow it.”

Cruger watched the wraith crystallize into a floating glass ball the size of a pea. He darted forward and grabbed it before starting to rise back up. And while he rose through the blackness, he realized Shaden hadn’t told him what he wanted as a repayment for his favor. Before he could say another word, he was thrown into the forest.

    “Cruger?”

He froze. It was the voice of damnation. He pocketed the Apotheum before turning to see Belphore and Tyman approaching him.

    “Ahh! Belphore, there you are. I’ve been searching for you. Is that—” he began, pointing at Tyman.

    “Yes. Tyman here was helping me with a personal matter at the edge of the river. You said you were searching for me? Did something happen back at the Castle?”

    Cruger was too weak to properly loathe Belphore’s deception. Clearly, the “personal matter” the Fluorish King referenced was Tyman fashioning Apotheum for him, something even Shaden admitted he was surprised Belphore had kept from him.

    “No, not at all. Everything is fine at the Castle. I was just wondering if I could borrow one of your men to pitch some Salubria upon Amarta and my boy. I’m exhausted.”

    Belphore glanced down at Cruger’s robes as if he knew he hid the Apotheum inside them. “And you chose to seek me here?”

Again, Cruger was surprised at the man’s lack of empathy. He had just told him about his wife and child’s suffering only for it to be completely ignored.

    “I looked everywhere. Here was the last place I decided to check.”

    Belphore looked at him for a long time before offering a stiff nod. “Very well. I’ll send some of my men to your aid. Just allow me to finish up my business with Tyman.”

Cruger nodded and began plodding back up the incline to the Castle. The gash on his palm stung and bled a little. It occurred to him that Belphore had possibly seen his bleeding hand. However, he didn’t panic since it should not arouse suspicion by itself. The molded Apotheum felt hot on his thigh as he went, his consciousness waning. Somehow, he didn’t feel as triumphant as he ought to feel given that he now possessed a possible cure to Ivor’s ailment. Maybe he’d known deep down something was wrong, or it was simply because he was compromised in some karmic way since he’d forged a deal with someone as steeped in demonic PhoeCraft as Shaden.

    Cruger continued to shake in his bed as the final chapter unfolded.

He entered his Castle (which was two Castles removed from the King’s Castle). Aurelia bowed to him and asked him something he neither heard nor responded to. He staggered to the bedroom to find Amarta nursing a heaving Ivor. His face was as red as beetroot, and he now coughed up thick gobs of blood which Amarta hastily cleaned with a towel already soaked in red.

    “He’s dying,” Amarta moaned.

Cruger stopped in his tracks. Amarta hadn’t said anything to him in days, so he was shocked and saddened those were the first words she uttered to him. It was a soulless, almost defeated proclamation that moved him to the core…and to tears. His wife was a broken woman. He took the Apotheum from his pocket, the gyrating kaleidoscopic hues from it attracting Amarta’s attention.

    “What’s that?”

    “The cure,” Cruger said, forcing himself to believe it. He lowered the orb to Ivor’s lips, but before he could make contact, Amarta placed a hand on his. She looked into his eyes.

    “Are you sure?”

    Cruger sighed. “No, but what else?”

Amarta seemed unconvinced, but she released his hand. The second the Apotheum slopped into the child’s mouth, there was bedlam. The Castle shook as someone broke down the front door. A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the abode, then a violent slam. Next, Cruger heard frenzied footsteps coming up the steps toward them.

    “What’s going on?” Amarta yelled, rising with the child.

She was answered by a powerful bang that sent the door cartwheeling across the room. Luckily, neither of them was in its trajectory. The wave of force that accompanied the blast almost knocked them over. To Cruger’s amazement, it was Belphore and three of his men, and by the looks of it, they hadn’t come to pitch Salubria.

    “What’s the meaning of this!?” Cruger blared.

Belphore’s jaw twitched. “You dare steal my Moongrease? What a stupid move. And you didn’t stop there did you? You commanded Shaden to mold it into Apotheum for your personal use knowing full well that such a command is given by me and me alone.”

Cruger panicked. “I-I- my child…I had to—”

Belphore raised his hand sharply, a gesture which locked Cruger’s hands and feet together as if they were bound with ropes. His lips were also sealed as he fell face-first upon the carpet. Amarta pleaded, but she suffered the same fate. She fell beside him, the child spilling from the bloody blanket. Ivor rolled until he came to a halt between himself and Belphore’s men. The child writhed, finally twisting his face toward him. Cruger stared into his son’s eyes, losing himself for a moment in the aquamarine blue. The last thing he saw before Belphore’s men dragged him out was Ivor’s jaw fattening as his face curled into his first smile.

Cruger woke with a start sweating from head to foot, his heart racing. He’d been having the same dream every other gray moon since the incident happened. Try as he might, Cruger never got used to the feeling the dream brought. It always interfered with his sanity, eroding it more and more each time. Who knew when he would one day break, losing himself to madness completely? He got out of bed, eager to put his mind out of its misery. He had developed a routine to do just that, sharpened to precision over the years. However, even that was disrupted recently: a Phoe killed four of his most valuable men the night before, so he would have to do without their part in preparing him to forget his troubles. He already sent a message to Viridian requesting a swift replacement for the men. It seemed the Phoes were becoming stronger; if one Phoe could kill four of his men (on a gray moon when his powers weren’t strongest), then what could happen if a handful of them attacked their cabin on the black moon? The attack would be devastating as there were only three (including him) Fluorishes left to defend the cabin. Cruger pushed the thought from his mind. One task at a time, he thought. Now, he had to get on with the process of supervising the Neutera as they dug for Moongrease.

Cruger went outside and washed his face by the well, nodding to his two remaining men. The dream continued inside his mind as a vague but irrepressible memory. Belphore and his men had spared his life, banishing him to Amaryllis to “recover” the Apotheum he’d commanded Shaden to mold at his behest. Cruger was given the added responsibility of killing at least fifty Phoes before he was eligible to return to Viridian to his family. But he didn’t even know if there was a family to go back to, though the small hope that they had survived that ill-fated night was what kept him going all these years. All the inquiries he made about his family’s well-being to the Fluorishes who came to Amaryllis periodically to check on the Black Collectors’ operations were answered with tight lips and cold stares. He did discover that the Phoe, Shaden was executed for his part in molding the Moongrease he gave to Cruger. He surmised that Amarta would have been punished in some way because of his actions. Most heartbreaking to him, however, was that he never knew the fate of his son, Ivor. Was he dead? Was he alive? How did the Apotheum affect him? Sighing, Cruger grabbed his Obsidian staff and mounted his pale horse, dying to appease his troubled mind with blood.