Fantasy Magazine

Lata has Victory in a blue beer bottle. Victory has feathered wings and a cape, sheer clothing that clings, and a feather in her hand. She is pale and cold, no matter how long Lata puts her in the sun.

Victory, in a bottle. Lata waits for the right time to smash the bottle and release her. Or maybe Lata will never let her go. Victory in a bottle is like a decorative ceramic plate. Lata could arrange mangoes on the plate for company, but she won’t; Lata could break open Victory’s blue beer bottle, but she won’t.

How Lata found Victory:

She followed the goblin, the one that lurked under the house and hid behind the thick ironwood stilts when she went down to shoo it away. She hadn’t know about him until recently–just two weeks ago, lying awake in the stifling night heat, she had heard something scampering about and chittering beneath the floor. Since then she had watched him, pretended she didn’t know, and wondered where he left for so many times each day.

Then two days ago Lata tied her brown hair back with a white cloth, put on her dark blue pants and light blue wraparound, and clutched her best kitchen knife in sweaty fingers. The knife was just in case, she told herself. Goblins had sharp teeth and would attack when angry. Best to have a weapon.

She waited and waited, and the goblin appeared.

Lata followed him through the jungle to the edge of a banyan tree. The shadowy maze of its aerial roots towered over her, and she hesitated, but continued. Minutes passed, winding through the undergrowth. She was about to turn back, irritated with herself for bothering to follow, but then she saw it. Finally at the center was the trunk, and there between strangling roots the goblin slid long fingers. The banyan tree opened, its lattice of roots creaking. Something glimmered deep inside, and thoughts of turning back disappeared. Lata stumbled towards it.

The goblin turned. He grinned, revealing sharp yellow teeth. There were bottles behind him, on wooden root-entwined shelves. Lata knew as if she had always known and understood. They were his goblin-wishes, trapped, waiting.

Lata fought the goblin. She slashed him down, spilled blood over the banyan tree. He would die soon, but she hurried the process. She stabbed and stabbed. Blood over the banyan tree, shiny in the setting sun, wet and sticky on Lata’s clothes and hands and face. She stepped inside, pushed apart roots which gave way to the pressure, stared, then smiled.

She hadn’t known, she never would have guessed–but now she stood in awe, wondering how she ever could have lived without them. Wishes, in bottles, stacked on shelves lined up row after row, spiraling higher and higher. Thousands of them, gleaming through all colors of glass, fluttering their wings and softly buzzing. The goblin-wishes, hers now.

One bottle caught Lata’s attention. It was a blue beer bottle and inside she recognized the form of Victory.

The banyan tree was born when the wishes were free, before there were people, when the goblins had just begun to come down from the mountains. The banyan tree grew, wrapped its strangling roots around other trees and choked them. Centuries passed like days.

One monsoon season, a goblin came through the jungle. Red-brown tattoos ran down his rough, sinewy arms, the gray skin of his face was already creased, and his small eyes darted quickly from place to place. The wishes huddled under banana leaves to escape the rain, chattering, glowing. The goblin saw them through the fog, and caught one in his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what to do.

He poked it first to hear its shrill scream. Then he pulled off its wings, shoved it in his mouth and swallowed. The wish died, and its wish, instinctively chosen by the goblin, came true: the monsoon clouds folded up, the downpour ceased.

The goblin blinked, and then realized.

After the day of sunshine, the rains lasted for another month, and with the rain, the wishes were trapped. The goblin crafted glass bottles and jars, slowly whistling each one into being. He caught the wishes inside.

The monsoon season ended, and he had a hundred wishes trapped. The rest flew free, too quick to capture, and so he began work on the banyan tree. He forced a new lattice to grow, bent the banyan tree to make shelves to hold his wishes. Whistling, he made it so the banyan tree opened when he slid his fingers between its roots.

During the monsoons he caught wishes, during the dry season he molded the banyan tree. Years passed. When the goblin discovered the wishes, he was young; when all the wishes were finally caught his eyes were hidden in wrinkles; when he finished with the banyan tree his skin was paper and his bones were twigs.

He spent his time admiring his wishes, but never used a wish to stop himself from dying, never unscrewed the lid to pluck Life out and eat her. If he used a wish, it was gone, it would never come back. The possibility was enough.

Lata hasn’t seen her sister in forever, but here she is, standing in the doorway. How many years has it been? Lata left home when she turned sixteen; Malati had visited her often after that, then less and less over the years–the last time was after the monsoon storm that blew away parts of the thatched roof and let water rain into the kitchen. That was three years ago.

Lata stares at Malati, and Malati stares back. Why, after all these weeks and months? Does she know about the Lata-wishes? Had something happened to someone she knew? Lata doesn’t know whether to hug her or slam the door shut in her face. The birds and insects are unpleasantly loud.

“Lata,” Malati says finally.

Lata doesn’t know what to say. She gestures for Malati to come in.

“The house–everything looks better.”

Of course it does, Lata wants to say. It’s been three years since you came, worried about me, and found me all right but my home almost torn apart.

She nods instead.

Malati smiles back, and takes a step towards the bedroom, reaches out a hand to part the hanging bead curtain.

“Don’t go in there!” Lata snaps. She is surprised at her sharpness, and tempers it. “I haven’t cleaned yet.”

Malati shrugs and turns away.

It’s her sister, and Lata is losing her. “Sit down,” she says. “I’ll get you something to drink.” She fetched water from the stream earlier, and now pours it from the gourd into a glass, the only one she owns. The water is lukewarm but it will do.

Malati takes it and drinks.

“Are you hungry?” Lata says. “I could–”

“I’m fine.” Malati smiles, but her smile is forced; she is sadder than Lata remembers her. What has happened–is there something, or has time just passed? If only she were hungry, it would be an excuse to go into the kitchen, and Malati loves cooking, the chopping of vegetables, the sharp smell of spices, the sound of everything sizzling in a pan.

“How–how are things back home?”

“The same.”

Won’t she at least try to make conversation? Lata almost slams a hand down on the table in frustration. If Malati doesn’t want to talk, why is she here? The Lata-wishes? Lata thinks of Victory, in a bottle. Victory is alone in her room–what if something has happened?

Lata excuses herself and checks. Victory is where she left her–on the window sill, sunlight casting blue shadows on the floor. Lata picks her up and puts her in a pocket.

Back in the kitchen, Malati has finished the glass of water. “Let’s walk,” she says. She touches Lata’s hand; the skin is warm, soft. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Outside, a light rain has begun, disturbing leaves and providing relief from the heat. They follow the path, then veer off to the stream and then to circle the house.

In a pocket, Lata carries Victory in a bottle. Victory, who could have been snatched from her room so easily. Lata will never leave her alone again.

And the other Lata-wishes? Hidden in the banyan tree. But what if, what if someone saw them.

“Wait here, Malati,” Lata says. She needs to visit the banyan tree, make sure her Lata-wishes are safe. Victory, in a bottle. Once Lata can’t see Malati anymore, she takes the blue beer bottle from her pocket and runs.

She reaches the edge of the banyan tree and slows. The banyan tree’s branches extend far, supported by fat roots that reach down to the ground like fingers. Lata weaves her way through this maze–running isn’t possible.

She arrives, hands and clothes dirty with mud. The lattice of the banyan tree shines in the rain, and through the spaces between the roots, the Lata-wishes shine through. Victory in a bottle flutters against her blue glass confines.

“Lata?”

Lata jerks her fingers away from the banyan tree and listens, waits.

“Lata?”

Malati is coming. The banyan tree, it glimmers with Lata-wishes–Malati will see them and know, Malati will want them for herself, Malati will steal them and never give them back.

There is dried blood over the banyan tree, permanent stains that the rain can’t erase. Lata stares, looks away.

“Malati,” she says. “I’m here.” There is nothing left to do but show the wishes.

Malati comes out of the roots, arms scratched and skirt torn.

“I’m sorry, I heard something in the bushes–I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

She’s lying. Lata can tell.

Malati pretends to notice the Lata-wishes through the roots. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “Oh.”

“It’s all right,” Lata says. She opens the banyan tree and shows Malati the Lata-wishes inside.

That night Malati leaves. Lata camps out near the banyan tree in a particularly tangled part of its roots. She worries about her Lata-wishes now, always–if they’re still there, if someone or something has stolen them. Malati will try, she knows. But Malati doesn’t return the first night, or the second night. Maybe not, Lata thinks. Maybe her Lata-wishes are safe from Malati, maybe Malati is too stupid to realize their value. Lata watches her Lata-wishes, a small smile on her lips. She would never use one. It is enough to see them and imagine.

But finally on the third night Lata hears footsteps, and Malati is at the banyan tree. Leaves are stuck in her dark pants and wraparound, and sweat gleams on her face in the moonlight.

Lata watches, fingers running over the blue beer bottle.

Malati opens the banyan tree. The Lata-wishes cast rippling light all around. Malati takes her time, inspects each Lata-wish inside. The sun is staining the sky orange when Malati leaves, an elegantly wrought jar clasped in each hand. One Lata-wish blinks red and white, the other explodes in pale blues.

The Lata-wishes, are they Malati-wishes now or is that just if Lata dies?

Malati opens the red and white blinking jar. She pauses, grimacing–she doesn’t want to use the wish either–but somehow she breaks her trance. The wish hides in the corner but she grabs it and forces it between her lips, head first, wings pinched together and legs kicking. Red-white-red-white lights shimmer behind Malati’s cheeks. But she can’t make herself swallow, can’t bring herself to bite down and stop the wish’s struggle.

A minute passes. Malati is still, eyes closed. The wish flails and punches inside her mouth with all its delicate strength. Finally Malati spits it out and shoves it back in the jar.

Lata watches, biting her lip and drawing blood. For a moment she thinks Malati will give up and leave the wishes behind. But of course not. Malati bundles them up in a cloth, ties the ends, and begins her journey home. It’s after dawn that Lata finally manages to sleep, and she sleeps for much of the day.

Years after the first goblin came, years after he had finally collected all the wishes, years after he had finished shaping the banyan tree to his liking, another goblin wandered into the jungle. She was young, and the first goblin remembered the daughter he had left at home. His thoughts flicked back and forth: he loved his wishes–he missed other people–he loved his wishes–he missed other people. In the end he let her stay. He let her ask him questions, and he let her have answers. When she asked him why he lived by himself, he told her. When she asked to see the wishes, he opened the banyan tree and showed her.

She gasped when she saw the wishes. She said they were beautiful, and watched them for hours. He thought she would never leave, and grew worried, but finally she said there was something she needed to do. Outside the banyan tree she killed him, kicked his twigs and paper body until he was broken and dead.

She entered the banyan tree and admired the wishes.

Many years later, another goblin came across the wish-filled banyan tree. Enchanted, he wanted the wishes, needed the wishes. He fought for them, and won. The wishes passed into new hands, and so it went, one goblin after another.

When the sun reaches its high point Lata opens the banyan tree. The Lata-wishes surrounding the empty spaces where the Lata-now-Malati-wishes used to be swirl with gray and salmon-pink smoke. They look sick, they shouldn’t be sick. They’re hers. Lata taps each glass container until each Lata-wish gets up and returns to its normal color.

The two Lata-now-Malati-wishes that are missing–Inner Strength and Love. General wishes, nonspecific wishes, powerful wishes. If Malati had taken Mosquito Netting or even Small Rememberings, maybe Lata wouldn’t feel this angry, but Malati took Inner Strength and Love, and now Lata will tie back her brown hair with a white cloth. She will put on her dark blue pants and light blue wraparound, and clutch the butcher knife in her hand. All are speckled or stained with brown; the goblin blood never washed out.

The goblins never used the wishes. The bottles grew dusty, and the wishes grew restless in their glass confines. The banyan tree became used to the goblins, used to their hands against its roots, used to the shaping and the bending and the twisting.

The goblins stayed, year after decade after century. The possibility was enough, staring at the wishes day after day was enough, and the goblins killed each other for it. The banyan tree learned about the taste of blood.

Over the hills and far away, Lata catches up with her sister, finds her at home. Malati is alone in the kitchen, crooning a lullaby to herself. She chops onions and garlic, finishes, and scrapes them into a bowl. A pot boils on the stove top and oil sizzles in a pan, chili peppers dancing in it.

“Malati,” Lata says.

Malati turns quickly, knocks the bowl to the floor. There is a beauty to it, the way it falls tumbling and then smashes apart on impact. The onion pieces are shiny in the sunlight, scattered between ceramic shards.

“Please, Lata,” Malati is saying. She’s going to cry; her eyes shine with unshed tears. “You have to understand. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t. I know I shouldn’t have. But they were there, they wanted me to take them–”

Lata feels the white cloth tying her hair begin to slip. Time is passing, someone could be at her banyan tree, sliding fingers between roots and stealing Lata-wishes. The air has grown heavy, deep with the smell of coming rain.

Lata smiles at Malati and adjusts her grip on her knife.

Later, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she should not have done that. She remembers: the quick slice across the throat, how she caught Malati’s head in her hand and cradled it, how she then slid the knife between the ribs to the heart and (this is what gets her) how easy it was, how natural. She might have done it a dozen times before. The goblin was like that.

Lata finds Inner Strength and Love in Malati’s bedroom, safe and unused. She watches them for a minute, smiling. They are Lata-wishes once again. She picks them up and brings them to eye level for inspection. Inner Strength, naked, skin plaster-white, stares back coldly. Love turns away.

She left the blue beer bottle at home. Lata realizes this as she leaves Malati’s house, sliding the door quietly shut. Victory isn’t with her. The white cloth tying back her hair flutters to the ground.

In Malati’s kitchen, Lata knows, a pot is bubbling over as Malati sits slumped against a wall. The wall–someone will have to replace the boards, or brush on layer after layer of paint to hide the stain.

Insects hum, flowers close as the sun sets and the rain begins. Lata cries her way home, stumbling over roots and stones. Malati appears at the edge of her mind, bloody as Lata left her. In the moments that Lata’s whirlwind of thoughts dies down, there it is: Malati’s voice, quietly singing a lullaby.

The banyan tree, after all these centuries, has done nothing but grow. It has snaked tendrils over other trees and choked them, it has learned to bend to the goblins’ fingers to keep the intricate lattice of its main trunk in place. Everything else–the fighting, the not-wishing–the banyan tree doesn’t care. What matters is growing, what matters is the sun, the rain, the soil.

The banyan tree is alive, but not truly alive: it has no thoughts, no fears, no dreams, no desires.

Lata sleeps for a week, leaves Victory at the base of the banyan tree and lies in bed. It’s too hot for sheets, but Lata curls up under them anyway and hides her face behind her arms. She grows thin, her bones protrude more and more each day, and she hasn’t bathed in a week. Malati stole from Lata, Malati deserved what she got, but Lata still feels sick and hates herself.

Malati is still singing, high and soft and sweet. Lata sometimes raises a limp hand to shoo her away but Malati refuses to leave. She was always an insistent person, and at first Lata doesn’t mind (she deserves this pain) but later she has had enough.

There has to be a way to end this all, a way past Lata’s current half-asleep half-dead existence, a way to live again without guilt, a way to win and be happy.

Victory, in the blue beer bottle.

Lata limps to the banyan tree. Behind the banyan tree’s lattice, Lata-wishes glitter. They’re hers. Lata smiles and strokes the roots of the banyan tree, lets her fingers linger on the stains.

Victory is waiting for her at the banyan tree’s base, glass glimmering in the morning dew. Victory has no eyes, just white film over where they should have been, and she doesn’t blink, though she has eyelashes. Lata wonders, is Victory of plaster or of flesh? Lata shakes her, and she clinks softly against the glass. Of plaster, then, not of anything real or alive.

Lata picks up Victory in a bottle, and Malati’s voice rises but has turned harsh and discordant. Lata is already experiencing victory, the end of this guilt.

To open the bottle–Victory’s beer bottle cap won’t come off, no matter how hard Lata twists. It’s been glued to the glass from years of grit and rain.

Lata smashes it open against the banyan tree. Glass shatters and falls to the ground, but Victory remains floating in the air. She stretches, yawns. Her white skin reflects the sun.

Lata snatches at Victory and misses. Victory is fast–a quick twitch of her wings and she is anywhere. Lata is left with the sensation of feathers on her skin.

Victory flies to the Lata-wishes through a hole in the lattice of the banyan tree. The wishes glow brighter than they ever have; they are small suns and Lata shields her eyes. Victory swoops past the shelves, and the bottles and jam jars and glass vials shatter.

The wishes are free. Their light lessens, they test stiff wings and arthritic bones. They chatter to each other, voices musical and rising and falling through several octaves. Victory dies–she used her wish–and the other wishes gently lower her body to the ground.

Victory, not in a bottle, but dead inside the banyan tree. Lata screams her anger. Victory slipped through her fingers and left her with nothing but broken blue glass.

Free from his smoky glass confines, a death-wish comes for Lata. Death wears a black cloak with shell shards that jingle as he twirls through the air to Lata. The other wishes watch from inside the banyan tree, waiting, shimmering.

Death pries her lips apart with icy fingers that burn. Lata tries to knock him away but he clings and his razor-edged wings slash her hands when they come too close. He slips into her mouth. Death slithers down Lata’s throat, then spreads. His wings tickle her heart, his fingers brush the back of her eyes. Lata dies, and Death dies too, his wish spent.

The wishes, free. They pulse with it, jostle each other as they spin and dance inside the banyan tree.

In the fury of life and freedom, Life crashes into the lattice of the banyan tree. The tree is hard, Life is soft. She cries out, face bloodied, delicate skin scraped and slashed. She clings to the lattice of the banyan tree, gasping and staring at her torn wings through red. Blood over the banyan tree, sliding down the lattice of roots.

The banyan tree stirs, jostles Life upon itself.

Life shrieks. Life, always a sickly wish, dies. She is spent, her wish is used.

The banyan tree stretches, unused to this new life. It twitches, considers, and extends a root into the mob of wishes. It searches, brushing aside wishes, until it finds and snatches Intelligence. Intelligence is a small but glittery wish. The banyan tree smashes her against itself.

The other wishes notice the banyan tree now, but the lattice is already closing its gaps. Wishes slam against the sides of the banyan tree, trying to escape. Some manage to slip an arm or leg between the growing roots, and scream when the banyan tree closes over them. Darkness falls in the banyan tree, only the wishes providing flickering light.

Other roots snake out, seeking Ambition, Growth, and Sense of Humor.

The banyan tree expands. It swallows Lata’s body and strangles nearby trees, extending roots like many thousands of arms and fingers. Inside, it continues to smash wishes. It does not care for the watching, the not-wishing. It has been with these wishes since forever. They are boring, they are new only in that the banyan tree now understands.

The sun sets, the sun rises. The banyan tree erupts in boils, fades to a dull red, grows crops of bananas that ripen then rot and then begin the process again. One wish is for more wishes, and so more wishes rise from the dead wish, awkward in their new bodies and wings. The banyan tree discovers the meaning of life and experiences a taste of the divine.

Days and years and centuries will pass like this. The banyan tree will watch them go, and wish until there are no wishes left.