Tooth and Nail, Fur and Scale Read online

  ANUPAM ARUNACHALAM

  TOOTH AND NAIL, FUR AND SCALE

  Fantastic Creatures from the Myths and Legends of India

  Illustrations by the Author

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  1. Last Words

  2. A Midnight Snack

  3. No Bedtime for the Fearless

  4. The Guardian of the Fount

  5. Bodysnatching 101

  6. Safe Haven

  7. The Great Understanding

  8. Mother Lode

  9. The Warden’s Day Off

  10. Dinner with Ma

  11. The Vegetarians

  12. The Writing on the Wall

  13. The Shadowhunters

  14. Magadha Noir

  15. The Invasion

  Footnotes

  1. Last Words

  2. A Midnight Snack

  3. No Bedtime for the Fearless

  4. The Guardian of the Fount

  5. Bodysnatching 101

  8. Mother Lode

  9. The Warden’s Day Off

  11. The Vegetarians

  12. The Writing on the Wall

  13. The Shadowhunters

  14. Magadha Noir

  15. The Invasion

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  TOOTH AND NAIL, FUR AND SCALE

  Anupam Arunachalam is a Delhi-dwelling writer, illustrator and comic book artist. He was programmed by his grandparents to love fantastic tales, who began filling his head with them even before he could talk. Over the years, he’s poured too much ancient lore, science fiction and pulpy literature in it, and hears an annoying slosh-slosh-slosh between his ears if he doesn’t squirt some of it out once in a while.

  Introduction

  None of this is essential to enjoying the stories. Please skip to the good part if you like!

  The Indian subcontinent is teeming with monsters. They’re hiding in the wilderness, in the farmlands, in the cities and sometimes even in our homes. Some of them hold up the earth and blot out the sun, while others scurry unnoticed under our feet and nestle in the pores of our skin. Then there are the few lurking in the darkness, waiting for us to let our guards down, and at the same time, there are those without whom our very existence would be called into question.

  They’ve been invading us for millennia, escaping our fears and dreams to colonize our reality, and, boy, are there a lot of them! We’re a country of so many faiths, each with its own intricate mythology and elaborate pantheon. A country of numerous lands and peoples, throwing up untold combinations of social and geographic peculiarities that give rise to whole populations of fantastic critters. We’re also part of what used to be the mysterious Orient to folks from the West, who were unconstrained by the limits of knowledge when they thought of the world beyond the Indus, and came up with all sorts of improbable beasts for us to live alongside. And as modern Indians, we’re still really good at telling tall tales and filling in the gaps in our understanding with intellectual jugaad.

  When you want to see wild creatures in real life, you either go to the zoo to see them in cages or you visit their natural habitat. It’s kind of the same with monsters living between the pages of fiction, and this book takes the latter route. So here are fifteen stories, an incredible being breathing at the centre of each.

  Each one is just the first part of your introduction to them—there is a snapshot after each story, revealing a bit more about the creature, giving you a glimpse of what it might look like and planting the slightest nugget of fear deep inside your brain. And if you like surprises, maybe you’d consider looking at these bits after you’re done with the story. Otherwise, feel free to roam the book at leisure. You won’t find any marked paths or signboards in here, for not many have ventured this far. We trust, though, that you’ll keep a safe distance from anything that looks dangerous, and that you won’t feed the beasts, no matter how hungry they look.

  LAST WORDS

  ‘Abdullah is a fine man, Wazir1, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’

  The sultana’s voice rang in Mehruddin Malik’s head as he watched the pink muslin curtains of the royal hammam2 billowing at the window in the distance, smoke curling between them.

  He stood on one of the tiny balconies that studded the western tower of the royal palace, the one known as the blacktop because of its shiny obsidian-tiled roof. A tall Norsewoman3 stood by his side, her yellow braids streaming from a steel helmet and her powerful frame a tight fit in her chain mail.

  ‘B-but, Sultana Begum,’ Malik had said, ‘they’ve known each other since they were children. They like each other.’

  ‘They knew each other, you mean. Abdullah has been abroad for four years now.’

  ‘Yes! Learning at the feet of masters of statecraft! Training in every manner of strategy and warfare! He has been readying himself—’

  ‘For taking over your job whenever you tire of it,’ the sultana had said. ‘And I do believe he would make a superlative wazir.’

  Mehruddin Malik had bowed his head. ‘Abdullah is in love with the shahzadi, Sultana.’

  He recalled hearing the sultana’s jewellery clink as she had shaken her head. ‘You, of all people, Wazir, should understand,’ she’d said. ‘The shahzadi will only marry into a royal house. It is tradition, it is pragmatic—and my daughter has accepted that it must be so.’

  ‘Sultana, I beseech you—’

  ‘Enough, Mehruddin Malik! We shall speak of this no more.’

  Now, on the balcony, watching the hammam’s window, the wazir said things he wouldn’t dare say in front of the sultana.

  ‘You ungrateful hag!’ he muttered. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, your brothers-in-law would have driven you out after the sultan’s death. Your precious daughter owes me her life—but you won’t deign to give my son her hand in marriage!’

  ‘Your Excellency,’ said a voice from behind him. Another woman—this one a Nubian4 but dressed much the same as the Viking—stood at the door to the tower. ‘The beast has been put to sleep.’ Her face was pale, her skin glistening, and her cropped hair was slick against her neck. He walked up to her, his lips drawing back in a grin to reveal discoloured teeth.

  ‘For all the battles you’ve fought, Asmina,’ he said, cupping her chin in his palm, ‘the sight of a little blood still nauseates you?’

  ‘I’m used to man killing man, Your Excellency,’ she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. ‘The work of beasts is something else entirely.’

  The wazir faced the blonde warrior. ‘Take care of the remains of the handsome prince, Alva. Asmina shall stay by my side.’

  After Alva disappeared through the doorway, Asmina’s shoulders slumped. She had been putting up a brave front before her fellow mercenary. ‘It was mimicking the prince’s dying screams when we got there, sire,’ she said. ‘For a moment, we thought he had survived!’

  The wazir squeezed her shoulder and looked to the base of the tower. Soon enough, Alva appeared at the entrance and proceeded to the hammam at a jog. He stood stone-still, watching her supervise the mute slaves as they hefted what looked like red bundles of rags from the bathhouse to a waiting mule cart. Soon, the cart would be upended in the marshes south of the city.

  He didn’t fidget despite his arthritic knees, despite the twinges of horror and regret that worked their way up from the depths of his being—after all, the prince had come all the way from Samarkand to meet this fate. And he had been handsome.

  Perhaps now the sultana would understand that he meant business. Surely, a third suitor mysteriously disappearing from
the palace should set off some alarms. Of course, she would suspect him. But Mehruddin was not just the wazir of the kingdom—he was also spymaster and master of the treasury, and the Ministry of Defence was under his brother-in-law’s command. Mehruddin Malik was the kingdom, and if he hadn’t needed royal blood on the throne to keep the people in line, he would wear the crown openly.

  ‘Asmina,’ he instructed, ‘Alva and you will follow the slaves to the marshes tonight. I don’t think I will be requiring their services any longer.’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ she said, having composed herself by now.

  ‘What happened last night was extremely disturbing,’ said the sultana, her voice calm, though he was sure her eyes were flashing with impotent rage. ‘But we cannot stop looking. The princess will be wed by Ramzan. We shall ensure this.’

  ‘Very well, Your Highness,’ said the wazir through gritted teeth. ‘We shall put out fresh summons, but given the misfortune that has befallen the previous three, I wonder if suitors will be easily found.’

  ‘There is no need to summon anyone,’ said the sultana. ‘These . . . misfortunes, did you say? They’ve served a latent purpose. Now only the bravest of shahzadas will dare ask for my daughter’s hand.’

  The wazir clutched his beard and pursed his lips. He tasted bile, and the fragrance of the sultana’s attar suddenly turned cloying.

  ‘So we already have another suitor on his way?’ he asked.

  ‘A grand-nephew of the Persian Shah,’ she said. ‘It is said that he is valorous beyond compare, and very well-versed in the arts of war.’

  The wazir forced a smile. ‘And I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that he will be returning to Persia with our princess?’

  The sultana was silent for a moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He will remain here as royal consort, and become a member of my privy council.’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘Please make the necessary arrangements, Wazir. Spare no expense in his welcome.’

  The wazir took the instruction quite literally. The Persian prince was welcomed with revelry the likes of which had never been seen in those parts. His considerable retinue was given an honour guard of five hundred elephants caparisoned in silk and gold. On platforms lining the promenade to the royal palace, dancers performed the wildly gymnastic form that was unique to the kingdom—balancing on high poles, flying through the air, forming teetering human pyramids and contorting their bodies in incredible asanas. Flowers rained from the balconies above and carpeted the ground below. Colours exploded in the air. The palace guard marched in formation, twirling gleaming weapons, bedecked in their most ostentatious ceremonial uniforms. The sherbet flowed, and even the commonest commoner would dine on the most succulent mutton that evening.

  The prince was a sight to behold all on his own, though. Clad in gold and crimson silks, he wore a jewelled turban tied in the manner of the local chieftains. His armour was gold as well, and at his waist was the famous ruby-hilted shamshir5 Deev, which was rumoured to have belonged to Caliph Umar himself.

  But the apparel and accoutrements were nothing compared to the man himself. Shahzada Sarfaraz bin Ismail was taller than most men in attendance, his straight-backed body a swarthy sculpture of gleaming muscle. His arms were long, corded and powerful, and he had notably large hands. Hands that the wazir, despite himself, imagined closing around his head, crushing it.

  ‘No matter,’ he muttered, watching the parade from the stands. ‘It won’t make a whit of difference how big his hands are when he’s in front of the crocotta. The beast will just slice them off with a swipe of its paws!’

  Standing a good ten feet behind him, Asmina turned to Alva. ‘I never thought I would catch you staring at a man like that,’ she said.

  Alva shot her a dirty look. ‘Don’t be a fool, sister. I swore the same oaths as you. My eyes are for his blade. If it’s half as magnificent as that sheath, I’m afraid I might not be able to throw it into the marshes tonight!’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s chopped the necks off quite a few Uzbeks with it.’

  Alva smiled and returned to watching the parade.

  After the Persian party was well rested, the prince and his high-ranking subordinates were conducted to the sultana’s throne room.

  Sarfaraz entered the chamber and stopped halfway down the carpeted aisle. ‘Where have you brought us?’ he asked, rounding on the official who had led them there.

  The official went pale when he saw that Sarfaraz’s hand was on the hilt of his scimitar.

  ‘This is no throne room! There is no throne!’ said Sarfaraz, raising his voice.

  ‘Calm yourself, my prince,’ said the sultana.

  It took Sarfaraz a few moments to find the source of the voice—the intricately carved wooden screen that he had mistaken for the far wall of the room. He bowed in its direction.

  ‘Apologies, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘Of course you would be observing purdah. How daft of me.’

  ‘Your apology is gracious, my prince, but not required. It is an uncommon thing for a woman to lead her people.’

  ‘Yet my manner was inappropriate. To be honest, I-I’m troubled, you see, because of the rumours . . .’

  ‘That we’re making our grooms disappear?’

  ‘Er . . . no . . . of course not, Sultana. I merely—’

  ‘You’re wise to be wary, young man. I concur, three princes disappearing under our care is a matter of great concern. However, let me assure you that we’ve redoubled our efforts to keep our guests safe.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ said the prince. ‘But we Persians can take care of ourselves.’ His bodyguards—two six-and-a–half-foot strongmen and three lithe maidens—stepped closer to him, their hands ready to rip out weapons from their many sheaths.

  ‘We’re glad to hear that, my prince,’ said another voice from behind the screen. The prince’s heart seemed to stop. ‘If I may say so, it doesn’t look like you’d be powerless alone either—’

  ‘Jumana!’ said the sultana, stopping the other woman short. ‘You are not to speak out of turn.’

  The prince ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry. One of his henchmen thumped his back lightly, and he drew a belated breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, my prince. My daughter is young. Her impatience will wane with the years.’

  ‘N-not at all, Your Highness! If I may address the shahzadi directly . . .’

  The sultana hesitated, and then said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Shahzadi Jumana, it is an honour to finally meet you. For my part, I’m glad that I did not have to wait longer to hear your divine voice.’ He gestured with a hand, and seven women from his retinue stepped forward. In their arms were large gold trays piled high with silks, jewellery and vials of perfume. ‘Please accept a token of my respect. Though they will surely pale in comparison to your fabled beauty—I hope you are not insulted!’

  The women walked behind the screen. There was a minute of silence as they laid their trays at the shahzadi’s feet and made their way back to the prince’s cortège. Later, details about the princess’s appearance would be whispered among the groom’s party, and eventually conveyed to the man hoping to marry her.

  Behind the screen, there was a ruffle of skirts and a whispered permission.

  ‘I thank you, Shahzada Sarfaraz. These are lovely,’ said the shahzadi.

  The sultana allowed the colour to fade from Sarfaraz’s cheeks before she called for dinner.

  ‘Master!’

  Sarfaraz woke with a start, one hand reaching behind his pillow for Deev as the other closed around Akram’s thick neck.

  ‘A visitor . . . here t-t-to see . . . you!’ croaked Akram.

  A woman was waiting in the audience chamber. As Sarfaraz understood, firangees were not nearly as common in these parts as in his native land. This one and another who wore the same insignia—that of a famed mercenary guild—had stood out in the throne room earlier that day, and he had ma
rvelled at how tall and strong they looked. You could instantly tell from their carriage that they were veterans of many a bloody battle. Her hauberk fit her like a sheath, and her bare arms undulated with smooth, streamlined muscles. Blonde locks tumbled to her waist in joyous curls, her head bare save for a silver circlet.

  ‘Your Highness,’ she said as soon as he came into the room, and advanced on him. His muscles tensed—he did not relish a confrontation with this one. But then he saw that she held a piece of parchment in her hand.

  ‘A message from the shahzadi.’

  The perfume from the letter jogged his memory. He had caught a whiff of these accents when his gift-bearers had returned from behind the screen in the throne room. He waved the woman away, but she only went to a corner of the room and waited.

  ‘Her Highness wishes me to return with a reply,’ she said in response to his inquiring glance.

  Sarfaraz frowned, and slowly scanned the letter. He had never been a keen reader. The last time he’d read so many words was when he was fourteen and attending his final lecture in military history.

  Dearest husband-to-be,

  I hope I am not being presumptuous in addressing you so. I haven’t heard your acceptance in person, but my attendants swear that you were pink as a damask rose when we spoke at the durbar this evening. Either way, I have my heart set on you, and you will forever be my husband in my mind.

  Sarfaraz swallowed. There was a powerful tingling in his belly.

  Your gift-bearers must have come to you with detailed descriptions of my worldly shape and form. God willing, you were not displeased.

  The gift-bearers were trained to describe appearances with great exactitude, and had been forced to use several superlatives for the shahzadi. Sarfaraz had had trouble falling asleep that night, his imagination running wild.

  For my part, there is nothing in the world that would satisfy me more than to be in your embrace. I’ve heard tales of your exploits in the battle against the Uzbeks, and songs about the great beasts that you have felled in the forests of your land.