Sarwat Chadda: Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress

sh!”

Ash tried to move, but he was pinned to the ground. Dirt stuffed his mouth and clogged his ears.

“Here, I’m here,” he groaned. Spots of light slid over the rubble.

He glanced around him, half expecting to be surrounded with dismembered demons. The ground trembled, and he gulped. Ravana’s footsteps? No. It was just his heart, running overtime.

It had been so real. The war. The slaughter. He closed his eyes again and out of the blackness he saw him, Ravana, the demon king. Ash knew how the story ended. Rama fired the aastra and destroyed Ravana. The story. End of.

And demons. They weren’t real, none of it was. But still…

He’d been Rama. He’d felt the hot wind, he’d smelt the awful stench of war and death. It had seemed so real. More than a dream: a vision. Or a memory.

I am not Rama. I am Ash Mistry. I am thirteen and this is turning out to be the worst day of my life.

“I see him!” Feet scrabbled over the collapsed chamber roof and Ash tried again to move, but the fallen ceiling had him pinned. His breath came in shallow pants; he felt trapped in a giant’s fist. He ached all over, but it was his left hand, his thumb, which felt like it had been dipped in acid. It was as if that splinter was burrowing itself deeper into his flesh.

Ash saw his uncle climb down towards him, white with fear. Then torchlight blinded him.

“Get that out of his eyes,” Uncle Vik snapped. He brushed the dust from his face. “Are you hurt, Ash?”

Nothing felt broken and he could still wiggle his toes. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? “I’m fine. I think.”

“You men take hold of the slab. On three we’ll lift.” A figure moved across the beam, taking command. Ash caught a glimpse of a pair of highly polished black shoes. Lord Savage put a hand on Uncle Vik’s shoulder. “When we lift, Professor, you’ll draw the young lad out.”

Uncle Vik nodded and took hold of Ash’s wrist.

“One. Two.” The slab across Ash shed some loose dirt and sand. “Three!”

Men groaned and stone scraped against stone. Ash took a deep breath and kicked with his feet. Uncle Vik locked his grip and pulled hard. Ash’s knees tore across the hard clay-packed floor, but he didn’t care. He kicked again and slid free.

“Drop it!”

Uncle Vik clung to Ash as the three men released their grip on the heavy stone. It smashed down, breaking into four huge lumps.

“Ash…”

Uncle Vik was crushing him more than the collapsed ceiling. His uncle then stepped back, to look him over.

“Ash, are you all right? Anything broken? Pain anywhere?”

“I’m OK.” Ash coughed again and someone handed him a water bottle. He poured half the lukewarm water down his throat. The rest he tipped over his head.

People and torches clustered all around him. He was half-pulled, half-carried out of the collapsed pit. Head still spinning, Ash could see that the chamber he’d been in had fallen in on itself. Maybe he shouldn’t have bashed a hole through a supporting wall.

Ash climbed up a short ladder and found himself in a small semicircle of people. They were just dark shadows, but one stepped forward and entered the ring of torchlight.

“The boy looks fine to me,” said Lord Savage.

Ash turned away. Where was his uncle? In the flashlight, the men around him didn’t seem human, but grotesque distortions of man and beast, and… something else. The teeth were too large, the eyes too big, the smiles too hungry. Ash stumbled back, his heart pounding with panic. Was it the dream, still?

No, no, no. He covered his face. The rakshasas weren’t real. Still, even with his eyes closed, a smell lingered, stuffing his nostrils. Blood and sweat.

“Maybe we should take him back to the palace?” Mayar came forward, wearing a new pair of black sunglasses. “We could take care of him.”

“Uncle?” Ash said.

His heartbeat doubled as Jackie, the Englishwoman, blocked his way. In the semi-darkness her hair seemed denser, like a mane or a pelt of fur. “Poor boy,” she said with mocking sympathy, “he looks dead to the world.”

“Uncle?” Where is he?

“Yes, Lord Savage,” said the tall, hook-nosed man, Jat, as he tapped his nails together. “Let us deal with this boy.” Was it Ash’s imagination or had those nails grown? They looked like the curved talons of some hideous bird.

Hands grabbed Ash’s shoulders and he almost screamed. But it was only Uncle Vik. He smiled and drew Ash close beside him.

“I think we should go home,” Uncle Vik said.

“Really, Professor Mistry, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Savage snapped his fingers. “I’ll have my staff prepare a place for the boy to rest and have one of my doctors visit him here. Far easier than travelling all the way back to Varanasi.”

“Mr Savage, I know how to look after my nephew.”

“Lord Savage, if you don’t mind, Mistry,” said Jackie.

“That’s Professor Mistry, if you don’t mind,” replied his uncle.

Savage waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. Professor Mistry is just a bit upset.” He set his gaze on the two of them. “Be sensible, Professor. It’s a long way back to Varanasi and the roads can be… unsafe. Stay here.”

“Are you ordering me, Lord Savage?”

“If that’s how you want to put it, yes, I am.” Savage licked his dry, cracked lips and reached out for Ash. “The boy will remain with us.”

Uncle Vik stepped between them. “Ash is going home, with me.”

Savage thrust his tiger cane into Uncle Vik’s chest. “I’ve paid good money for you, Professor Mistry. I expect obedience. I demand obedience.”

Uncle Vik knocked the cane away. “I am not a slave, Lord Savage.”

Savage wiped dripping saliva from his lips. “Is it more money that you want? I know what you Indians are like. Always begging. Very well. I will have another cheque drawn up in the morning.”

Savage looked Uncle Vik up and down, making no attempt to hide his contempt. It was the same look Ash had seen in that portrait of the first Lord Savage – arrogant, superior and cruel. “Do we understand one another, Mistry?”

Uncle Vik lowered his gaze. “I understand, Lord Savage. Perfectly.”

Savage smiled and summoned Mayar. The huge servant lumbered over, the ground shaking with each footfall. “Prepare the spare rooms—”

Uncle Vik pulled out a folded piece of paper: Savage’s cheque. He hadn’t banked it. He slowly tore it in half, then in half again. He gazed up at Savage. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must decline it.”

Ash gasped as Uncle Vik threw the pieces into the air and two million pounds fluttered away in the desert wind. This was all Uncle Vik’s dreams. This was flash cars, big houses, exotic holidays, the respect of being his own man, at last. It was all that anyone could ever want.

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