By Thomas Caterer

Deshi looked upon the bright days of summer from dark corners. Shaded under the trees where he sat alone, his brow furrowed as he dwelled on his thoughts. He leered at sun-soaked days with a well-rehearsed suspicion. For the other young men and women of the Diolo tribe these long, hot days were filled with the promise of fun and adventure. There were many festivals filled with music, dancing, singing, bitter ales and honey-sweetened cups of sheep’s blood. In the day, the youngsters wrestled, jumped cows, practiced their archery, and as night fell and smoke rose from campfires there was sex in the air, as young women and men would survey each other’s bodies, and dance more lasciviously for the moon than they had the sun. Girls would compliment the boys’ scars, the tokens of bravery they had acquired.

The scars upon Deshi’s face did not elicit compliments however. Where the flames of his family’s burning hut had licked upon his face when he could barely walk, they had stripped off much of the flesh, in the eager lust of fire. The smoke rose high into the air that night, taking the pride of his family with it. Deshi’s father, Kele had died a few years later never having recovered from his shame. It was a man’s place to protect his family. Yet his father had failed to defend them from raiders from across the lake. The spearmen of the Niame tribe had traversed the valley with temerity, circumnavigated the lake where the Demon King dwells, and rose up the hill where they launched their attack.

On that fateful day, the yellow and brown grasses were stained red with the blood of the Diolo. A red sun had arisen the next morning, and with its arrival, came the departure of ten cows, twenty-two sheep and eight goats. Three of the prettier young girls had been taken too. They had kicked, and screamed, bitten at and cursed their kidnappers. But ultimately once the retreating Niame had dissipated back into the woods, those girls were not seen in Diolo lands again. Kele had faced the scorn and wrath of the people he was meant to protect. The west of the village had been his domain, and he had been known for his prowess as a warrior. His face and chest bore many proud scars, deep into the flesh, snaking their way along his muscular frame. The tears and wailing of the girls’ mothers and sisters had never left Kele, not until disease took him, and even then it was Mother Nature’s mercy to take him and end his pain.

As Deshi traipsed across the forest floor, his calloused feet crushing the leaves and twigs below, he raised his hand unconsciously to his face. Melek, the wise woman of the forest, lived close to the Niame border. As Deshi approached her hut, his fingers felt out their path along the rivulet of one of his fang shaped scars that adorned the sides of his face. He could almost smell the burning flesh once more and hear the screams of men being eviscerated as their daughters were raped upon the hard, cold earth beneath their writhing forms. He hated the Niame undoubtedly. Yet it was his own people who hurt him the most. He was rejected from their love; disfigured, and poor, a man without cattle, who lives in a hastily built shambles of a hut with his aged mother. The beautiful flower he was so keen to pluck and to hold, the cheiftain’s daughter Ayana, would never look his way, not without mocking at least. A cowherd or a farmer would be the match her father would approve. Not one of the lake dwellers, a lone man, who scrapes a living off hunting the game of the forest, and fishing on the edges of the lake, ever cautious, ever wary of the Demon King.

The door of the hut was thrown open in anticipation of Deshi’s approach. The withered old shaman knew she was expecting company before he could even announce himself. Slightly unnerved, Deshi picked up his eyes, and as his hand clenched his staff, he looked Melek full on in the eyes, and lowered his head as a mark of respect all the while keeping eye contact. Melek smiled warmly and beckoned him in. The scent of tea effused the room. Melek took care to meticulously fill each of their cups to the brim with a herbal tea sweetened with a little pineapple juice to add a crisp citrus taste. A rare smile crept across Deshi’s face as he lifted his cup to his mouth, and laced his grateful throat with the warming liquid.

As Melek had prepared her concoction of herbs and spices, and crushed a large piece of dream-tree root, she had spoken to Deshi of his life, of what he hoped to learn, and also offered some advice.
‘We are half matter, half spirit Deshi, some of you younger ones forget this’. As she spoke, her wrinkled hands worked the mortar and pestle, flattening the root. Her large, sagging breasts swayed side to side as she hammered at the thick, unyielding root.
‘If you neglect the sickness of the spirit, of course you will feel ill in the body, and it works in reverse as well, you must be mindful of both, you are not one isolated thing, but two aspects entwined’.
‘Yes, wise one’ replied Deshi, smiling, and taking another sip of the tea.
Melek looked at Deshi, her face creased with concern. ‘Are you happy, my child?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so’ Deshi answered cautiously, choosing his words with care. ‘Life is tough beside the lake. The villagers don’t respect me. And with my face, I fear I will not find a wife’.
‘Is there someone you wish for a wife?’ enquired Melek.
‘I have loved Ayana, since I was a boy, however she cannot bear the sight of me, and her father would never betroth her to someone who lives so far from the village centre’.
Melek clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and looked up to her thatched ceiling as though expecting a solution to fall from the straw above.
‘I’m sure he would expect a mighty gift for her bride price; some thirty sheep and twenty cows no less, and you have none such to offer. You must think in more creative ways, I think then’.

Melek gestured to Deshi to follow her out of the hut, with a jerk of her head and the clicking of her tongue. They stepped through the backdoor, and Deshi saw a small fire burning peacefully amongst logs and dry leaves. All of a sudden with a lightning fast whip of her hands which belied her years, Melek threw the contents of the mortar into the flames. The flames greedily consumed the potion, and the unmistakable stench of the dream-tree effused the air.
‘It’s like burning flesh’ intoned Deshi flatly, his usually placid eyes flickered with a hint of bitter emotion.
‘Come sit by the fire, child’ offered Melek, smiling as she eased herself to the ground. Deshi lent her a hand to help her down, gently placed under her upper arm. He felt the comforting pressure of her hand squeezing back as it found his other forearm.
Deshi lowered himself to join her and took a deep in-breath. He opened his heart to the gods’ gift of the visions. He willed the dream-tree to work its spell on him. To guide him, to provide answers.

The journey started the way it always does. With the cleansing. Deshi emptied the contents of his stomach. He took care to aim his vomit away from the fire, not wanting to disrespect the gods. His heart started to beat a rapid rhythm, and he begun to feel increasingly dizzy. Shapes danced in the flames; birds, insects, snakes, horses, and eventually they stepped out of the flames. Deshi recoiled in horror, almost falling onto his back, as moving out of the fire was a massive jaw lined with razor sharp teeth, initially made of flames as it approached closer it took on the form of reptilian flesh. The hard, impenetrable scales gleamed in the light of the flames. Two green eyes transfixed on Deshi, filled with malice, filled with an insatiable hunger. This was no ordinary crocodile, Deshi knew this for certain.
‘The Demon King’ Deshi whispered with reverence, his eyes widened and unmoving. ‘No spear has ever scratched those scales’.
The eyes of the Demon King blinked, as if abashed by the compliment. Deshi closed his own eyes in fear, in a silent prayer he made his peace with the gods. A few seconds that felt like hours passed. Hesitantly he opened his eyes one at a time, and saw the mighty crocodile now wore the face of Melek, her kind eyes studying him, her crooked teeth exposed in an open-mouthed smile. They were human teeth all right, although the scales remained on her reptilian body. She began to speak to him whilst the Melek who sat next to him was silent.
‘Your fear is manifested in the extreme forms; anger and hate. Always those who strike with anger, no matter their strength, are attacking from a place of fear’. The voice was Melek’s and yet Deshi knew this must be a message from one of the gods.

The scene around him transformed, he was back in the village, and his body was smaller, he was a boy again. The other children were playing a game, where one child throws a coconut at the others, the one who is hit must now be the one to aim at the others. Deshi approached the children, he wanted to play. So badly he just wanted to have fun with the other kids. The coconut was thrown and it landed near his feet, the children’s laughter ceased.
‘Don’t let it hit the lake dweller’ ordered Abai, Ayana’s older brother. He sneered with contempt at Deshi. ‘The gods marked his face, so we know his blood is bad’
Anger rose in Deshi, he could feel the heat of his blood rising, his face flushing. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. His child’s voice screamed ‘that’s not true Abai!’ He rushed towards him, his fists clenched.
Then again he heard Melek’s voice this time emanating from Abai’s mouth.
‘The fear wears different guises, and your rage is but a mask for your fearful face. You know you are afraid of being alone in this world. You know you are afraid of the uncertain black mystery of death’.
The tears rolled down Deshi’s cheeks, and he deeply resented this. Especially in front of Abai.

The scene changed and Deshi was yet younger still. He and Ayana walked under the shade of dark-green leafed trees in a large grove. He knew this memory well. They sat down next to each other. He was teaching her to play the lyre as he had promised. His mother had taught him to play the instrument Kele had left behind, and it had always been a source of joy to him, one of very few.
‘You play beautifully’ enthused Ayana, her smile broad, her eyes soft.
Deshi felt his stomach twist, and throat tighten, as he watched on helpless. The scene sped before his eyes, he watched his youthful, clumsy confession of love. Ayana blushed with embarrassment, careful not look at his scars, she had explained that a lake dweller especially one with his family’s history, could never be accepted by her father. She had then suggested that maybe their lessons should end here. It was no longer appropriate. She then turned to face Deshi, but the real Deshi this time, she was looking at the man Deshi, he knew. She spoke with Melek’s voice, but now it sounded more grotesque than before, harsh and scratching on the ears. How Deshi imagined her voice might sound if blended with that of the Demon King.
‘You know you are afraid of the consequences of failing to be a man. The pain of not finding a woman who won’t reject you, the pain of not becoming a father, the pain of having no cattle, living in just a shoddy weather-worn hut with no friends to share a fire with’ Melek’s voice grew harsher with each word.
‘This fear is then disguised in the yet darker forms of anger and hate, with you believing this protects you from being hurt. Yet child, you have mistaken your elbow for your arse, a snake for a reed. The hate hurts you more, and you fail to confront and overcome the fear. Does the anger ever make you feel good, does the hatred ever lead you to peace, pleasure, or wisdom?’ she asked.
Deshi did not respond.

The earth shook beneath his feet, he fell to the ground. He was caught in the vortex of an aggressive swirl of images and sounds, he found himself transported back to the night of the Niame attack. This time viewed from adult eyes. His fingers found his staff and as he pulled himself up he heard the hoarse voice of Melek carried on the wind, ‘the spirit has the power to heal and to harm. In building your stress through hate, you channel a reverse shamanism. Where you could summon up healing and peace with your thoughts, instead in your brooding and grudge bearing you issue forth a demonic energy. And you wonder why you are unhappy?’

Deshi found the fine ends of his fingernails could yet barely cling to the last remaining vestiges of his ever dissolving ego, as it was inexorably wiped away by the immense power of the visions. These visions swam before his eyes in an ever revolving kaleidoscope of memories and emotions; both bitter and sweet. He could feel himself beginning to cry, his warrior’s shoulders heaved under the weight of his sobs. He almost found himself crying out stop! or at least he wanted to, if the words had not caught in his throat. ‘Curse you, old woman!’ screamed Deshi, finding his voice. ‘What do you know of my pain? Of my suffering? Why shouldn’t I bear a damn grudge?!’ Deshi spat these words as one would venom sucked from a snakebite.

The spears of the Niame rose above the crest of the hill. The moonlight reflected off their cold, unforgiving steel. Kele was rousing his men, his face panic stricken. His fingers trembled as he grasped his bow, urging them to remember their craft. As the images blended into one another, Deshi could see the young girls wrestling desperately with their assailants, faces he had never seen since. The Niame set torches alight, and soon enough huts were blazing, and Deshi could hear his own screams as the face he barely had a chance to wear melted away. He turned away from the horror of it all, only to be confronted directly by the Demon King, this time it wore its own face once more. Deshi could hear the old shaman’s advice again ‘I’m sure he would expect a mighty gift for her bride price. You must think in more creative ways’. He closed his eyes.

Upon opening them, his vision adjusted back to his present surroundings. The blur eased, and he saw a kind smile play on Melek’s lips. She had breasts and a belly, wrinkled skin and thick legs once more. No scales. And her eyes were black again. He knew what he had to do. He knew now the one thing a lake dweller could do to win the chieftain’s respect. To win Ayana as his wife. His broad grin alerted Melek to his changing state of mind.
‘You have a plan?’ she asked.
‘I know what needs to be done now, thanks to you and to the gods’.
‘Be careful on how you interpret the visions, child. The gods are many. Some may guide you, others may warn you, and this is because they care for you. But there are others who are tricksters, and they care only for their own games’ warned Melek.
Deshi did not hear her. His mind was racing ahead now. For years and years the Demon King had ruled over the lake, his dominion unchallenged. Good men had lost their lives, and the success in fishing and crocodile hunting was severely impacted by his reign. The chieftain would surely be delighted to see the great beast slain. What a gift his carcass would make for Abai’s wedding feast! The Diolo would be the toast of all tribes of the valley. And the great hero who slew him would surely be worthy of a chieftain’s daughter. The gods were with him, it was clear this was now his fate. He would ready his boat, harpoons, spear and daggers. Tonight the Demon King would die.

Moonlight reflected off the surface of the water. Ripples broke before the passage of a small wooden boat, just big enough to accommodate two grown men. Deshi had pushed it out into the lake and jumped onto it as it took to the water. His eyes glinted in the night, and the cool air caressed his fang shaped scars, his fine body hair rose on his arms and neck. He crouched down, and steered the boat with his oar, his eyes flitting about, on alert for any sign of crocodiles. His heart was racing now, faster than after a successful cow jump even. Faster than when he had confessed his love to Ayana. He had been a foolish boy that day. Deshi spat his contempt into water, and shook his head at his reminiscences.  He was a man now after all. And after slaying this beast, that had been the bane of his tribe, he would be recognised as a great man.

His head jerked violently to the left. There had been a ripple in the water. Concentric circles formed on the surface of the lake. They died out as they travelled from their origin, the rings increasing in size and then dissipating. In the centre of this Deshi saw a green eye looking at him. The crocodile lifted its head and then quickly ducked beneath the water. It had the character of a curious child, too shy to hold Deshi’s gaze for long. ‘Just a baby’ Deshi muttered to himself, yet he could feel his heart in his mouth, and his grip on his oar was slick from his hands’ sweat.

For almost an hour, Deshi searched the lake, especially at its centre where few men dared to venture. He almost wanted to shout a challenge to the Demon King, but knew silence was vital to his success. He rowed back into the centre once more after having swept the eastern shore, and found nothing but frogs and beetles amongst the reeds, and fish in the water. Deshi reached the centre, and readied a harpoon in his hand, eager to spy his prey. After a few moments in the still darkness, a mighty growl was heard, breaking the silence, and piercing its way to Deshi’s heart. The water rippled around the enormous scaled body of the Demon King. Green eyes were fixed upon Deshi and his small boat, as scales glistened in the moonlight. The beast’s hard, dark body would not end, Deshi’s eyes followed it back at least twenty feet to its hind legs. Deshi launched a harpoon at his foe, it was only a glancing hit, and danced off into black night, the Demon King was unperturbed. His head rose out of the water, the vicious white teeth, were razor sharp, his mouth was enclosing death. The Demon King crashed into Deshi’s boat with the full force of his powerful body. Deshi had thrown another harpoon in that moment, but the boat was impacted as he threw, and it flew off into the sky. The boat nearly capsized, a hefty chunk of its left side was only splinters now, and water was rushing in at Deshi’s feet, where he had lifted himself up once more.

Deshi held a spear in one hand, and brandished his dagger in the other. He heard my silent challenge Deshi thought to himself, awed by his nemesis, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. The beast turned around once more to face him and lunged with the speed of a striking viper. With its mouth fully open, Deshi thrust in a spear, and he heard a furious scream in response. He felt his spear dig into flesh. He tried to thrust his dagger into of those malicious green eyes, but the beast had already pulled back, and his blade raked uselessly against impenetrable scales. Deshi managed to keep a hold of his spear, as the Demon King extricated himself from the point lodged into his upper jaw. ‘I will be your death, King of the Lake, come to me, my name will ring out in legend!’ Deshi bellowed. He could feel triumph already. He had got him good once, and would now need another strike like that to bring down his foe. He would aim for the same spot, put the beast in pain, too much pain for it to think. The Demon King slipped under the water, and rammed the boat from underneath. Deshi lost his footing, but managed to fall in the boat still. His head had taken a knock and he felt a little dizzy. He just needed to think of the visions he had seen to remember the gods were on his side. He saw Ayana’s face in his mind’s eye, and rose once more, clutching his spear. The Demon King lunged at his torso this time, his jaws closed around Deshi’s body and teeth like pikes gored his stomach. Deshi screamed out in pain. His body was on fire, his mind screaming, blood rushed out of him and dyed the scales beneath red. He forced his dagger down into one of the Demon King’s eyes, and his spear into his exposed flank. The King hissed his displeasure, and withdrew.

Deshi fell into his splintered, fragmented boat. He yelled out in agony. Somehow he forced his hands to find his oar and to row back to the shore before the water fully took his vessel. Once back on the shore, laying amongst the reeds, his arms closed around his gored stomach, the blood formed a stream over his embracing arms, and joined the dark waters below where he lay. In the distance, Deshi could see the water ripple and the Demon King retreat. Why had the gods lied to Deshi? Why had they tricked him? Did they revile him like the Diolo? Did they mock him like Abai? Or had they just been powerless like Kele? It had been a folly to try to contend the Demon King. He knew he felt only respect then for his killer. He had tried like so many before to master Mother Nature only to be humbled by her in the end. Well fought, King Deshi thought whilst smiling. He began to laugh then, laugh at himself for his last mistake. He thought of Ayana. She hadn’t been as cruel to him, as he had sometimes made himself believe. She had her own struggles, her own responsibilities. Deshi could not guess what she truly felt, but she had been right, she was no more free to choose him, than he her. What a fool, Deshi is, what a fool he has been he laughed to himself, gently, his voice weak. I wish her only joy. His eyes closed with Ayana’s face in his mind.

As he lay there bleeding to death, his fingers uselessly clutching his open, weeping stomach, he suddenly remembered one more thing Melek had said to him when he was spirit walking. The day before as he had travelled through a mysterious myriad of memory, thought and consciousness, he had re-lived almost his whole life. Now once again these images swum before his gradually closing eyes. Eyes that would never open again. He saw Melek drinking tea with him in the forest. All of the birds, snakes, rodents, frogs had gathered about them, all of the forest’s inhabitants. He smiled softly as he died and turned the shore red, and heard in his head Melek’s kind voice; ‘You are never disconnected from love, you can only be tricked into thinking that you are. Close your eyes, hold your breath and empty your head of thoughts. You can always find your way back down the path to your true self. A manifestation of god, connected to the love of the world and the spirit realms. The scarred face is no less a face of god than any other’. The fang shaped scars etched into Deshi’s face appeared to be an extension of his smile.