June 21, 2016

PodCastle 421: Hatyasin

* Author : Rati Mehrotra

* Narrator : Mahvesh Murad

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

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First published in Abyss & Apex, Issue 52: 4th Quarter 2014

Violence

Rated R for violence and hearts suddenly appearing where they shouldn’t be.

Hatyasin

by Rati Mehrotra

Friday was the last good day. On Saturday the hunters came and by Tuesday Mira was gone, swallowed in the maw of the crowd fleeing Chandipur.

Mira my older sister, the normal one. I look up at the stars glittering in the sky and pray that she is safe.

Why did they come? Chandipur is as far as it gets from the heart of the New World. Perhaps the capital wants to stamp out the border communities, make sure that the taint of the old blood never spreads. The taint I’ve lived with all my life.

I used to think I had it bad before. But I swear if I could turn back time, I’d keep it Friday forever. We’d go to school, someone would trip me up in the hallway, and the others would laugh. I’d sit alone during class, as usual. Nobody would die.

My friend Rohan is sprawled next to me, snoring, his spectacles askew. It’s a comforting sound and I don’t poke him awake as I should. How long do we have before we’re discovered? We’re in a cornfield, an hour’s walk from town. The farmers didn’t harvest the corn this season—I’m guessing they left when everyone else did. Everyone sensible.

Rohan didn’t have to come with me. He doesn’t have the mark like I do. No one in his family does, even though they’ve lived in Chandipur for generations. He could have left with the others, safe from the hunters and their hounds.

But he didn’t. He stuck with me. I hope nothing bad happens to Rohan.

In the morning it’s raining. I don’t do anything to stop it, although I’m tempted. Gran always said that only a fool tried to change the weather. There are too many variables. You can end up with a storm that takes the roof off your head, or a flood that submerges the entire valley.

Thinking of Gran makes my chest hurt and my eyes sting. My face is already wet from the rain and Rohan doesn’t notice my tears. It takes an hour to come out of the cornfield. And there it is, the Chang-ho River, grey and turbulent through the film of rain. There’s no bridge of any sort, just some moss-covered rocks that we’ll have to use.

I hold Rohan’s hand to make sure he doesn’t slip. We step slowly from stone to stone, and I know he’s trying not to think about what we’re doing. Little wavelets break over our feet and the dark wall of Kirrill rises before us: dense, impenetrable.

I hope the river doesn’t rise. It’s not supposed to, not in October. But if the rain continues like this, we might not be able to come back.

Chang-ho is the end of the New World and the start of the Old. Only someone really dumb—or desperate—would try crossing it. A boy from my class did it two years ago as a dare but he fell into the water on the way back, so I don’t think that counts. They never found his body. He was just like the others, calling me witch and dirt-face, sitting behind me in class just so he could pull my hair and kick my seat. I never fought back, of course. Gran had warned me to lie low. We were tolerated in Chandipur because we didn’t flaunt our abilities. Not that I had much to flaunt; Gran bound my magic nine years ago when I was five.

I feel sorry whenever I think of that boy.

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