Mannat returned home tired, slathered in the dirt, hopeless. The hunt was unsuccessful. He opened the door and went into the kitchen, leaving mud prints all over the wooden floor that creaked disenchanted, and screamed at him for being such a bully!

--clean it? Mannat shook his head. Later, he thought. He wanted to go straight to the well to take a bath but decided to restrain himself. The villagers no longer looked the same at him. He didn’t want them to blame him unreasonably. What if they said he poisoned the well or something along those lines. There were many such cases in the stories he’d read. He was not being paranoid, but vigilant. He didn’t want to provoke the villager's wrath, because fear could easily turn the best of men into criminals.

In one such story, a beggar had found the king's signet ring in an alley behind the whorehouse and decided to return it. He was a poor old man, but a man of principles. The beggar arrived at the castle to return the ring, but the soldiers captured him. They tortured him until he admitted to having stolen the ring, and was beheaded. His body was hung in the city center to show the king's anger. The king personally awarded the soldiers who had allegedly hunted the beggar and found the signet. The turn of events happened because the king feared the beggar would not keep his mouth shut about where he’d found the ring.

Although it was just a story, Mannat believed it was not fictional; rather a depiction of the truth that fear can take down even the best of us. He still wondered if he had picked the wrong sort of book. There was no way it was a children’s book – even if the style and the cover depicted it as such.

Anyways, Mannat washed up in the garden and ate the left over’s from last night –Gande had really overestimated their capacity to eat meat. He wasn’t sure if his father would need to cook again for a few more days, granted the food didn’t spoil first.

It was only after he had rested for a while did he lock the front door and left for his father’s smithy. It took him more willpower to stand from bed than it does to study. He was exhausted.

His father was comparing two arrows when he entered the workshop. Raesh was in such a deep concentration that wrinkles had appeared on his forehead. Though the arrows looked similar apart, they had many differences when compared placed side by side. Raesh was continuing over from where they had left yesterday -- only that with Mannat’s absence, and no one to guide him, he alone wasn’t good enough to replicate yesterday's triumph.

“Is it not working out?” Mannat said. His voice broke Raesh’s trance. Raesh’s frown disappeared when the man saw him and a smile replaced it.

“There you are! I thought you weren’t coming today.” Raesh said.

“You look happy.”

“Of course, I am happy! You don’t know how long my job has been stuck on level 4. Not only did I learn a new skill, but the skill increases pending for the last half a decade also came all at once. Now I’m already a level 7 Master blacksmith. You tell me if I should be happy or not?”

Mannat was surprised. He hadn’t practiced his blacksmithing long enough to reach level 5. Therefore, he didn’t know leveling up could release new skills.

He nodded in understanding and noticed his father looking at him in expectation. Did he want something? “Do you need my help?” Mannat asked. Unexpectedly, his father frowned.

“What is it?” Mannat asked again. This time he was slightly worried. Did his father know about his little early morning adventure?

However, the reason behind his father’s disappointment was something entirely different from his thoughts. “Don’t you want to know about my new skill?” The bearded man almost sounded like a kid showing off his new toy. Mannat found himself smiling. His father sure had a way about things.

Mannat relented. “Can you tell me about your new skill, father?” He said, and Raesh sprung into action.

“It’s called replicate and it allows me to replicate the object I once made. The degree of replication and the time taken depends upon the skill level.”

Mannat looked between the two arrows, nodding. “So that’s why they don’t look the same.”

“Yes,”

“But will you be fine with telling me about your skill?”

Raesh scoffed at him as if he had just heard a joke. “I’m a blacksmith.” He said with pride, shoulders wide and chest out. “Why would I hide my skills? The orders I get depends upon the skills I have. And with replicate, I can finally call myself a master blacksmith.” Raesh grinned, held Mannat’s shoulders, and shook him silly. He was bulging with happiness, and then suddenly he was not.

“Now it’s your turn,” Raesh said, still smiling, but with a hardened set of eyes that seemed to look right through Mannat. “I heard you met the old man in the early morning?”

Mannat was taken back. “How do you know?”

“Gande told me,” Raesh spoke plainly, quickly, waiting for his son to come clear.

“Pandit…” Mannat mumbled. It was his lack of judgment on his part. He wondered what to tell the man, and then simply decided to come out with the truth. His father got him all right. His mother used to do this ‘I told you, now you tell me,’ thing. His father had definitely learned a few things from her. He could almost see the pain he had suffered at the hands of her.

Mannat said, “The witch gave me a task.” He paused, wondering if he should tell him about the rabbit. His mind told him it was not a thing worth hiding. “She asked me to hunt a rabbit in the old man Sardar’s farm.”

Raesh was instantly interested, not in the story, but the follow-up. “Did you meet him?” he asked.

“We did,” Mannat explained before his father could question. “…but we didn’t talk about us.”

Raesh clicked his tongue. “That’s a shame.” He said. His disappointment was as loud as his voice. He pulled back. “Do you remember the story I told you?” Raesh asked. Mannat curtly nodded and his father visibly relaxed. “Then I have nothing more to say.” He said. “Let the adults handle adult matters. You worry about the things between you and the girl. You will have to take care of it on your own. Whatever you do, don’t leave her hopeful if you aren’t sure. Sometimes--” Raesh hesitated then gravely added, “A bitter end is far better than a life of bitterness.”

Mannat’s heart skipped a beat. He closed his eyes and made up his mind. When he raised his head next, he was determined.

“Looks like you have made your decision,” Raesh commented.

Mannat smiled. His father put a hand on his shoulder. They stood together in silence for a few seconds before Raesh pulled his hand back and jerked his head toward the furnace, gesturing Mannat to follow him.

“Let’s get to work.”

Mannat stayed in the smithy with his father until noon. This time, they experimented with the temperature of the block, along with its weight. Though Mannat didn’t gain another level in ‘inspect’, he was learning, and learning fast. Because he could check the dimensions of the arrowhead as it took shape, Mannat learned how, when, and where his father hammered the arrowhead to shape it in the least number of strikes possible. That was the second goal Raesh had established for himself. The new skill had done wonders for the man and his enthusiasm.

Mannat sharpened and polished the arrows while his father worked. The barrel with the forged arrowheads was slowly starting to fill up. In a few more day’s it would be half full.

Later, Raesh dropped Mannat at the clearing and picked up the bucket of carrots and potatoes that the boy had harvested previously. He was happy to receive them.

Mannat didn’t see the raven, but he was sure it had returned with him. The Witch had again disappeared off to somewhere and he was thankful for that. He didn’t know how to face her. It was the first job she had given and he had failed at it so miserably they didn’t even find the rabbit.

Pandit and he had spent a lot of time digging the holes and found nothing more than dirt for their trouble. Mannat wanted to plow the land with a buffalo, but the old man disagreed. He told them there were too many burrows and the risk of the buffalo getting injured was too much for him to risk it.

According to Sardar, the first of such potholes appeared four months ago when they had just harvested rice and plowed the land to let the soil regain its strength. It was Sharmilla who found it. Three months later she came back scared and they had left the land as such ever since.

Many people came and tried to fix the cause of it, but no one could do anything.

“Maybe they were looking at the wrong time,” Pandit said and it got the attention of the other two. For that reason, they decided to meet again at night and see if they could find anything.

Back at the clearing, Mannat followed his routine without any delays. Inside the hut, he didn’t pick a storybook that day. He chose one about mana called ‘Road to being a magician.’ He had felt something out in the fields. He was still itchy in and around his heart. He was hoping to find something in the books. However, he regretted his choice the moment he turned the first page.

Small, neat words filled the page from edge to edge. There were almost no spaces between the barely readable words. He could hardly focus on them. Written in a flowing style of writing, the first page alone had many words that not even the dictionary acknowledged. Unfortunately, he had to put the book back in its place. Next, he pulled out a book that was four fingers thick and had no title. It was old and covered in dust, and its age was exactly the thing that got Mannat’s attention.

Its brown leather cover was old and decaying. It had lost its strength and had become flexible like paper. It had thick stiff pages. There were broken edges and missing chunks all through the book. The ink had faded in places, and the characters had lost shape. Interestingly enough, there were sketches among the words. Mannat would have felt much better if the book wasn’t written in a foreign language.

He let out a sigh. Should he get another book? It wasn’t that he was lazy, but the book spoke to him; it wanted to be read. Eventually, Mannat started flipping through its pages, just to see its content. A book so old was bound to have some secrets.

The language was made of pointy glyphs; he didn’t see a single curvy letter on the pages. Most of them made no sense, but there was one reoccurring word that looked like it would mean miasma if it was written in the kingdom's language. It was probably a coincidence. He thought. Impossible,

On the next page, there was a sketch. Drawn with charcoal, the four-legged creature –there was no way it was a wild animal-- had long hair and dense fur. It had a sunken nose, big eyes, and bigger fangs jutting out from the corner of its upper lips. The end of its limbs had sharp long claws, and it was rather menacing looking.

The sketch instantly got his attention.

Mannat flipped through the pages to see if there were other such sketches and found another one a few pages ahead.

The sketch belonged to a bipedal being that had a human form, but it was bigger, with a shaper jaw, fangs, and hair all over its body. There were more: a wolf that had horns and two heads, a hairless bear with large bat wings growing from its back, a skeleton horse, walking fish. Each new sketch was more horrible than the previous one until he found the sketch of a tree growing from a round seed near the book's end. He wanted to find more about the tree as it reminded him of the conjecture he had made, but there were no more sketches in the book. If there was any information it was locked behind the language he couldn’t read.

That was the end of his little adventure.

He looked at the sketches a few times, before slowly, and carefully closing the book. Its binding was coming loose. A slip-up could have easily sent the age-old pages flying all around in the hut. That would be a tragedy for both the book and him.

Carefully, he wrapped it back in the leather cover, tightened the laces, and put it where he had found it.

He had a hunch that the tree in the Witch’s garden was the one in the book. He would have liked to find more, only there were too many books, and most of them were more than three fingers wide.

His only bet was the book he had previously found -- the one with small characters and unreadable words. Unfortunately, his reading ability was too low.

He told himself that he was reading to understand the language and not to gain knowledge. The acknowledgment took out some of his nervous energy and calmed his heart. Eventually, he picked up the storybook again and sat back in the chair to read.

In the evening, he got the things together, safely tucked them away in the cabinets, stood up, and stretched. Birdcalls filled the woods with a frantic calm when he came out of the hut. It sounded weird, but that was life.

For all he knew, the songs he considered sweet and relaxing could be the birds warning other small inhabitants of a lurking predator. He listened to them with his eyes closed and saw the sketches appear one by one in his mind. They kept him occupied, making reality a drone on his ears until he had enough of them. They were frightening, thought-provoking, elusive, and nothing more than faded sketches in an old rotten book.

He put this knowledge to the back of his mind and picked up the bucket. Carved from a piece of wood, the bucket was heavy when empty and provided a good workout for the legs when filled with water. He was returning from the back of the house with a filled bucket when his foot got stuck in a root. His hands were full and he couldn’t stop the fall. The bucket fell first. It bounced twice on the ground splashing water everywhere.

Mannat let out a groan getting up and noticed a colony of ants in the path of the water.

There was an anthill downstream, and countless ants were moving in and out of it. The spilled water rolled toward them. The ants felt it with their receptors and scrambled into the hill. The water crashed into the colony like a tsunami. It took away a few soldiers that couldn’t get inside in time and flooded the tunnels. Ant’s rushed out of their hole to the surface as water bubbled out the air inside the colony.

Mannat hurriedly stood up. Of course, the ants didn’t drown. They quickly sealed off the air vents to stop the water from seeping deeper into their home, but Mannat didn’t see them acting. He was long gone when it happened. In his mind, he had already found a way to get the rabbit out of the burrows.

He had an ominous feeling the Witch’s task wouldn’t be as easy as she’d let him know.

Mannat left early. He didn’t take any detours along the way and went straight to Sardar’s home. The old man didn’t live in the residential area but had a manor slightly away from the village. His manor was in the fields. and in the fields. It made sense for him to live where he could keep an eye on the crops. Mannat went around the village, as it was the quickest and quietest way to get to the fields. The dirt road divided into two at the edge: One went straight back into the village, and long green wheat shoots had swallowed the other. He could see the manor from there. It was just fifteen minutes of distance from the village. He could have made it earlier had he continued running, but his heart was beating too fast for him to risk it. Mannat didn’t want to meet the old man covered in sweat and panting like a dog. He would have seemed desperate, and nobody pays attention to those who are desperate.

The road was wide and well treed. It connected the village to the town, which was a half-day journey on a horse-cart. One would pass four villages on the way, and river Kismet.

Mannat didn’t have to go that far. He took a quick turn ahead and followed the road straight to Sardar’s Manor. It was two stories tall one of a kind brick home, and great spires were rising from the top. The boundary wall alone was ten feet high and the front gate formed an arch at the top. It was made of heavy wood with iron plates bolted tight into it to increase its weight, and make it more secure.

They had kept the main gate shut, but the smaller side gate was open. Mannat could hear people talking inside. He entered through the side door and the unfettered talking, screaming, and laughing bamboozled him. There were so many people already inside his arrival didn’t draw any attention. It was like a carnival in there.

There was a great veranda at the front, a mango tree growing near the door and a crowd of people --some he knew others he didn’t. They all were Sardar’s immediate family members, nieces, nephews, sons, daughters. People tend to stick to you when you have a great amount of wealth. Among this horde of strangers was Sharmilla. She was sitting in the manor’s shade on a knitted bed, massaging the head of an elderly woman. That woman was so old her sunburnt and age-darkened skin looked like a crumpled bed sheet that hadn’t been dusted for years.

The other very many females, young and old, were busy cooking, gossiping, or playing tag. There was only one man beside them. There were as many as seven kids; the oldest among them looked to be almost ten years old.

Mannat straightened his sight and saw Sharmilla staring at him. She was wearing a long blue skirt and a matching top. Her long brown hair wasn’t braided and draped over her left shoulder. She had stopped massaging the old woman’s white head. Suddenly whispers erupted among the crowd. He heard the Witch and the blacksmith’s son among other things, and then several women looked at Sharmilla. Her shocked face instantly turned bright red from the attention. She dropped her head in panic and hid behind the old woman.

In any case, Mannat had successfully attracted the attention of everyone present.

The old woman gestured to the man at the scene, who put down the boy he was playing with and approached him. His name was… Mannat didn’t remember, but the man had a sharp set of eyes and thin lips, like a fox. He stooped an arms length in front of Mannat, glared at him, and asked in an authoritative tone, “What do you want?”

“I want to meet the old man.” Mannat spat out. He didn’t mince words either.

The man turned back and yelled, “Biji, he wants to meet Bauji.” The two were ways to call the elderly with respect. The way he spoke made them sound like curse words. Mannat didn’t hear any respect in his voice.

The woman said something inaudible to Sharmilla --who was still hiding behind her-- shook her head, smiled, and gestured the man to take Mannat inside the manor.

The man grunted before he started walking. Mannat ignored his antics but was respectful to the elder woman. He greeted her on the way with joined hands. The woman looked at him with a smile. She didn’t say anything, but her smile reminded him of his mother. Mannat smiled back.

He walked a few steps before he found Sharmilla staring at him. Their eyes met. She bit her succulent lips and hurriedly looked away to hide the blush creeping up her nape and climbing to her cheeks. He wanted to talk to her, but the man called from the door: “Are you coming or not?”

His hostility didn’t anger Mannat. It reminded him of his priority, and he quietly followed the man inside.

Inside, there was a huge hall on the entrance and marbled stairs leading up on the other end. There were corridors on both sides and the man stood on the left, blocking the corridor.

Mannat exhaled and approached him. He was expecting a confrontation, but the man glared but didn’t try to physically stop him.

There were two rooms on either side of the corridor, and cold lanterns hung from scones beside each wide-wooden door. There was another hall with large open windows at the end of the corridor and the old man was inside. He was sitting on a couch opposite the Village Sarpanch (a title given to the village head), and his attendant. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table between them, besides a few plates of snacks. The Sarpanch had a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him and was speaking with a mouth full of one or another thing.

That shrewd man had no lower limit. His father thought so, so did Gande and Pandit. Don’t underestimate Pandit; the boy had another place in the village other than that of a hunter. He had a very good ear. Mannat had never asked after the man, as their paths had never collided, but listening to him trying to take advantage of the old man, Mannat believed his father was right. This man indeed had the nose of a shrew.

Sarpanch wasn’t a fat man, but he had a big belly, a round face riddled with pot marks, and small-soft hands. He had probably never done a day of hard work in his life. He wore sparkling white cotton clothes and a black vest. He wasn’t wearing silk, but in a village where everyone wore either dull grey or dark colors because of their physically intense livelihoods, his white clothes were indeed a show of his wealth and ego.

The old man was in a bad mood. He was squinting, cold and silent, while the Sarpanch opposite him was jovial, happy, and energetic.

Perhaps, he had come at the wrong time.

Suddenly, the Sarpanch slapped his thigh and spoke with exaggerated hand gestures and loudness of voice, “Sardar Ji, I’ll do whatever you say.” He took a sip of the whiskey, then shook his head in pleasure and continued, “You only have to provide us the necessary funds, I’ll make sure your problem is solved within a few days. You see, no one wants to work free. The worker needs money. Their leaders need money. And I--”

“Listen,” The old man interrupted. He seemed to have heard enough of the man. “I won’t pay you money,” The Sarpanch frowned, but the old man didn’t seem to care but the middle-aged man’s expressions, or emotions. “I’ll give everyone man who helps, a barrel worth of grains at harvest.” Mannat was surprised. That was a Quintal of grains. A barrel is enough to last a family of four half a year! Anyone who heard that would be motivated – everyone except the Sarpanch. The Man’s face had scrunched up as if the old man was forcing him to drink pure lemon juice.

Mannat was going to wait for the Sarpanch to leave, only for the old man to notice him. The way his eyes lit up Mannat knew he was going to have a tough time there.

The old man twirled his mustache and said, “Come here,” He beckoned him at the same time and Mannat earnestly fulfilled his request. The Sarpanch looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.

“Who are you?” He kindly asked. His voice was calm, but Mannat heard the threat behind his words. What do you want and why are you barging into my parade? His eyes were saying. The man might not know Mannat, but his attendant, who was a thin wiry man with a set of round goggles over his eyes, definitely did. The man whispered his identity in Sarpanch's ears and there was a response. His eyes opened wide, his mouth closed and his body pulled away.

He looked across at the old man, trying to see what he had in mind, before turning back to Mannat.

“What do you want?” The old man said. The words might not look good, but there was goodwill behind them. Even the Sarpanch sat straight and showed interest. He might not know the relation between the two, but he was going to find out later anyway. For now, he wanted to hear what the boy had to say. It had to be important enough for the old man to stop their meeting.

”I want to fill the infected land with water. Can you do it?” Mannat said and all the people present had some sort of reaction. The word infected land got the Sarpanch's attention, as the idea did of the Sardar’s.

The old man understood what Mannat wanted to do.

“You want to drag it out of the burrows?”

“Do you think it’s possible?

“Why not?” The old man glanced at Sarpanch, continuing, “At least it won’t cost me anything.”

The Sarpanch was instantly on his feet, shouting, “Old man, this kind of attitude won’t take you far! You have to think about the whole community!”

The old man didn’t stay quiet either. He bit back with the same intensity. “If I’m to look out for the community then what are you, the village head, going to do? Anyways, you can leave since you are already standing. I won’t see you out.”

The sparks that flew around in the room were surprising for Mannat. They were like a keg full of fire powder and he was the match that lit them. His stomach churned when the Sarpanch looked at him with murderous eyes. The message was clear as the day. He had dug himself a pit and now the man was going to bury him alive.

The two officials didn’t stay there for long. They left without making much noise, leaving Mannat and Sardar to have a conversation.

“Come sit down,” The old man pat on the single-seat couch beside him. Mannat did shy either.

“I have to apologize to you. The man might give you a tough time because of me.”

Mannat considered the idea and denied the supposed consequence. “No, he won’t.” He said and explained. “My father is the only blacksmith of the village. Even if the Sarpanch doesn’t care about that, he still won’t dare go against the Witch.”

“The witch…” The old man groaned at the name. “Say, are the rumors about her true?”

“I can’t say.”

“Forget, I asked.” Sardar sighed. “Let’s get back to the topic--”

Suddenly, footsteps rang in the corridor, interrupting him. A few seconds later –surprisingly-- Sharmilla entered the room, biting her lips, holding a plate with two cups, a teapot, and cookies on top. She put the plate on the table without meeting Mannat’s eyes. A fresh flowery fragrance touched Mannat’s face and entered his heart when he breathed. She smelled of lilies, of pure, calm freshness. Her neck and face were burning red, eyes watery.

She put a steaming cup of tea in front of the old man, but her hands shook like a button dangling from a single thread. Their eyes met and the blush hanging around her cheeks climbed to her ears. That was enough excitement for her, as she sprung away from the table like a deer scared by a sudden noise. She saw Mannat’s concerned gaze. His green eyes could really make her calm down no matter what the situation. However, a smug ‘I know what you are thinking’ snort by her ‘Bauji’ sent her heart on another wild spree and she ran back the way she had come.

Mannat looked after her in confusion before the old man called him back. “Drink the tea before it gets cold.”

The boy followed the advice, picked the cup, took a sip, and squinted.

“It’s too sweet.” He commented.

Beside him, the old man sipped from his cup and frowned. “It’s bland,”

The two looked at each other and the old man laughed aloud. “The foolish girl put all the sugar in your cup,” He mocked, shoulders shaking. This time even Mannat couldn’t hold back from smiling. The girl really was electric.

There was a pause in the conversation before the old man started speaking. “I am not a heartless man.” He said. “I might be old but I believe in love.”

Mannat’s ears perked at the mention of love. He stared directly at the old man. He was no longer smiling, but his eyes were still glittering with compassion. He put the cup down and sat straight to hear what the man had to say.

“I am a simple man.” He continued. “People like him think I’m rich, but I don’t have much to my name. The land is not mine. The count leased it to my great grandfather a few generations ago, and we have been cultivating it ever since. They have been generous, but you never know about the future. I heard his children are not down to earth and have high ambitions. They may take the land from me. The girl’s father,” The old man paused. He exhaled a deep sorrowful breath, before solemnly continuing where he’d left off. “My youngest son asked me to marry her to an artisan. He was a soldier and had seen that life. Young, calm, down to earth, and clever, you looked fine to me. I know your father is a caring man and blacksmiths don’t need to risk their lives to put food on the table. I thought I made the right choice. What do you think? I heard you are wise beyond your age. Do you understand why I broke our engagement?”

Mannat didn’t have to think about it. He had seen and heard enough in one day to scar anyone for life. Even strangers knew who he was and called him a freak. People didn’t want to stay in the same place he was. Just a few minutes ago, the Sarpanch was ready to take him down before his assistants whispered something into his ears and they quietly left. Unless he completely tore his connection with the Witch, his situation wouldn’t change. However, that was impossible.

“I understand,” Mannat said solemnly. He tightly clenched his fist. A fire burned in his chest and it made his legs shake.

He changed the topic. “How long will it take you to fill the land with water?”

“We’ll have to draw water from the pond. It will at least take all day tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll visit the fields tomorrow night.”

“It’s good.”

Mannat stood up to leave, when the old man spoke again, “Are you going to tell Sharmilla?”

“Some other time.”

“I hope you won’t dally her for too long.” The old man said. “A young heart in love is a dangerous thing. It can make people do things they normally wouldn’t do. I hope you consider it carefully.”

Mannat nodded and quickly left. He couldn’t stand the scent of lilies that was flowing around the couch.

He wanted to run away without meeting Sharmilla but found her standing in the corridor. She had definitely heard them. Her face was pale and tears were streaming down from her burning red eyes. She saw him, gritted her teeth, and ran away without looking back. Mannat didn’t know how he came out of the manor.

Outside, he raised his head and looked at the sky. As a child, he used to believe he could catch the stars. That day he raised a hand to touch the sky, only to realize, it was endlessly far away from him.