[The
Sorcerer and the Rajah]
Palace of the Winds in Jaipur, India
Baklha,
the adopted son of the Sultan of Jaipur, had a ruthless disposition by nature,
was impressed with the luxury that his father surrounded his youthful life
with. Cruel and deviant and malicious, he was despised by his countrymen; and,
for that reason was to the contrary of his step-father, who was wise as an owl and
could be generous—so he was thus called: the foolish
lamb.
Rajah Baklha was a lover of wine, women and twilight: and let us not
forget the deep roots of enchantment or the black arts. His step-father in spite of all his efforts
to tame his son’s spirit continued his course of mendacity, and invidious
behavior.
At about this time there came a
soothsayer: a necromancer, he was said to have learned his black arts from an
ancient Mu-men of the old continent known as Lemur, in the Pacific, he came
into what is known as The Pink City, for the city was all painted of
that color, as well as the legendary Palace of the Winds, with its
beautiful façade for all to adore in the mornings, and at night, all to curse
as one stepped over beast and humankind alike, sleeping side by side, on the
grass beside the palace, and roadside; poverty was prevalent. And so it was,
the sorcerer made his presence known throughout the city, as he showed his
skill in spells, and fortunes, and herbs, healing and telling of future events
to be for money and goods, a barter he was; all of India had none better than
he. He traveled from Delhi, to Agra and
onto Jaipur, on an elephant’s head, and when he made his appearance, he was greeted
with the high respect.
The Rajah, hearing of his arrival within the city made haste to have his
company by sending a servant to find him, and set up a meeting. The sorcerer was in his own right a warlock,
of the most renowned.
The servant having cast his eyes upon the
sorcerer, simply could not digest his presence: that this person was he the
very man, the great man everyone talked
about, that he looked as he looked, and he looked: feeble, short in figure, a
little portly: also, humble and soft spoken, with a curve to his smile, thin
lipped, and legs, scrawny legs, and an eeriness to his pointed head.
Then after a moment’s observation, with little doubt, the servant knew
he was the necromancer, oh yes, yes, it was not at first obvious, but now it
fit, somehow it fit; it was a jest for hidden laughter. His eyes of amber,
warlock eyes, vanishing as you looked at him like blown-out flames. And a
needled coldness to his presence, like a glacier receding. He took his hand, as
they greeted one another, directing him to where the young Rajah was, and
saying:
“I am the servant of the Rajah Baklha, and he has sent me here to make
arrangements, and payment if need be for your services. He wishes to know what lies ahead.”
“Oh yes! Awa, yes, I wish to serve him, I have heard of his scarlet
runaway temper, and his demonic like strains of malefic-behavior, much likened
to mine when I was young and foolish.
But I am old, even though I may look younger, I am old, very old, with
the capability of a long forecast for those who see it, and yes, I can help
him. I have the hand of Kama, the god of love, and Lakshmi, and Kartikeya, the
war-gods, son of Agni.”
And the servant looked deeper at this person—no longer in jest, but with
falcon-eyes, for now he seemed to have as much evil in him as good: who’s to
say?
Like a serpent gliding by on his stomach in the thick of the tall grass,
the Soothsayer’s eyes
scanned the premises, his body moved with ease, as they withdrew to see the
Rajah immediately.
Within a
palace room, sat the Sorcerer and the Rajah both sat across from one another—it
was as the Rajah preferred it—
The room was dark and gloomy, the Sorcerer started reciting ancient
incantations in a forgone and peculiar tongue uncommon for the understanding of
the Rajah; chants that seemed to sew drifting loose threads together, vapor
like threads, tying vapors into thicker and thicker threads, until it became
rope-like, and from that a bluish aurora filled the air, and among them, shifting shadows as if
someone or something was shape-shifting within these once loose threads that
now were ropes and now were shapes of beings, like shadowy ghosts: thus,
thought the Rajah out loud: “What is my future,” but said nothing of the
occurrence taking place; in essence they were the visions to take place.
Said the Sorcerer, in a smoothing slow, and calm like voice: “Three
diamonds, two rubies, and one large gold coin, which will do for my payment.”
The Rajah looked strange upon the Sorcerer, for he had asked exactly
what was in his pockets; hence, he pulled out the items and handed them to the
seer, owing nothing thereafter.
Consequently, both remained seated, facing one another, as they had
continued in a silent manner for several more minutes, as the shape-shifting
ghosts their images came and left—came closer to the wall of the room, then
left, as if it was penetrating the wall, then left. From that, visions came
onto the wall, like a movie: people being killed, city walls gates, buildings,
and temples, all falling: wars and more wars and more killings, happening.
The Rajah did not manage to decipher these images, nor cared to, said
nothing as if he were bored and waiting for a translation by the Seer.
“The visions, or images you’ve
seen on the wall, are locations within the sub-continent of India which have
come and gone, and those yet to be are of your province,” said the Sorcerer
with a tangy tone to his voice, waiting for the Rajah to say something.
Then suddenly a vapor appeared, and molded into a thulium-shadow, with
forms that were—seemingly—trying to grab at the Rajah, with a shadow of a
knife; it was appeased when the young Rajah leaned back into his chair,
henceforward, the threat disappeared.
At this moment, the prince gave the seer his grievances and demanded he
focus on him and his future, his empire to be, no more funny business with
images coming and going and trying to frighten him.
Now having seen the future mixed with the past, and the Rajah no wiser
than when he had sat down, not noticing the visions on the wall were of his
kingdom city, his province once the Sultan had passed on, the sorcerer stood
up, presented his petition: that should he let the Rajah live he would do a big
injustice for the city and the province, and his step-father, the Sultan, of
whom was to become ill, and the throne given to him—that he would destroy all
his step-father had worked for—to include a lasting peace. The Sorcerer had
seen this within the empires that had come and gone within the vapor-shadows on
the wall, that being the Rajah’s future, which the Rajah had no time to acknowledge,
as if waiting for the victory sign so he could go ahead and prepare for the
glory of another war.
“These are your doings, the wars to be, the turmoil in the city,” said
the Sorcerer pulling out a knife from his tunic, unexpectedly, and he stabbed
the Rajah to death; at that very moment the old Sultan had walked through the
door and said, “Job well done,” having already seen his future, and paid him a
handsome ransom, now knowing the future was no longer in the hands of the
Rajah.
Notes:
written July, 2004 © D.L. Siluk (This story has been lost for eight years,
recently discovered and reedited, 10-2012). Originally written for: Vasudev
Murthy (the story was never published, or even put onto the internet). In 1997,
the author took a trip to India, and seen all locations mentioned to include
the “Palace of the Winds” in Jaipur mentioned in this fictional short story.
The story was originally called “The Rajah of Jaipur,” and was changed to “The…
Rajah of Lucklow,” and now has come back to its original name, “The Diabolical
Rajah of Jaipur,” the Pink City.
