SHYAMA

                                                             SHYAMA

Shyama walked with deliberate steps. Hard, narrow shoe heels punctuated her precise movements on the polished wooden floor. The rhythmic click-clack echoed in the small auditorium. No other sound intruded as she approached her desk to be seated. How well she held their attention with her practiced theatrical entrance.

There was full seating today. Every uncomfortable hardwood chair was occupied. Twenty students sat waiting for her, some in fear, some with eager anticipation. All were perfectly silent before she spoke.

She would keep them waiting and establish absolute authority without question.

Before her stood a plain wooden desk where she would sit: an old, familiar school desk with a hinged top and cavity beneath, wherein books and papers could be stored; in a wide groove on the hinged lid, there lay a steel rod, about the thickness of a man's finger, perhaps twenty-five inches or so in length.

Shyama found this bar at the perimeter of a small fenced construction site while walking near her home. Many passed without noticing, but she recognized a fine gift and joyfully retrieved the rod. It was rusty and somewhat dirty, lying there in the gutter. She cleaned her prize, washing and drying it with care. The iron wand of great intimidation now lay before her.

This baton would command immediate attention when raised before a thankless audience. It was much too heavy for quick darting movement but bring it down swiftly across a desktop. Oh, fearful sound, a pistol shot crashing and reverberating throughout the small room.

Her steel rod now lay in repose, displacing writing instruments intended for the space that it occupied. She stood before her audience, both hands resting lightly on the desk, her thin, taught body straight and unmoving, surveying the faces before her with pale, emotionless eyes. Dark greying hair was pulled back severely in perfect complement to her drawn angular features. No buried emotions would betray that implacable stare; no smile would disfigure those thin, straight lips. Without introduction, she began to speak.

"You are here to learn. There is a simple process with a few simple rules that I will acquaint you with. I will not tolerate interruptions for any reason. There will be no questions before I have given permission to ask them." Heads nodded in agreement. "I will answer some questions, but always at my discretion. Do we understand each other?"

A plump middle-aged woman raised her hand. "I have just a very quick question before you begin," she said, smiling hesitantly.

Shyama felt slow, familiar rage tightening her stomach. She stared at the woman for several seconds, her cold grey eyes barren, without warmth or laughter.

Reaching for the baton, Shyama spoke slowly, emphasizing each word with a short rap on the desktop. The clear, brittle sounds cut sharply into the quiet room.

"You are here to learn. You have little understanding because you are stupid. You are stupid because you do not listen to those who would teach you. The weight of your ignorance will bind you to a life of disappointment and mediocrity. If you speak again, you will be removed. Do you understand?"

Seeing Shyama's balled fists and bright, frozen expression, the woman made no reply. Nodding, she wiped quickly at tear-filled eyes but understood nothing. Silence again.

Shyama continued with her teaching.

"There is," she said, "a foul creature that walks this earth. It lives in shadows and darkness. A monstrous thing that cowers from any clean light of day, always avoiding the company of humankind and any pleasures there to be found. This beast is an enemy to all who live in happiness. It brings misery and chaos as surely as rich soil will bring forth a fruitful harvest."

She felt anger rising again as she thought about the fiend but continued unmoved. "This creature has passed through every place inhabited by man. It is known by several different names in many cultures. We know this worthless goblin as the imp of grave misfortune."

Shyama sat carefully behind her desk. The featureless masks of faces before her waited for the lesson to resume.

She continued after a long, unnerving silence in a dry, penetrating voice that sounded unnaturally loud to her listeners.

"There are some who claim to have seen this bringer of grave misfortune. It is described as short in stature, with heavy muscular arms and thickset legs. Wide, somewhat like a very large dog. Dark grey leathery skin. No hair of any kind upon the body. At each side of a large, rounded head, two long, pointed ears hang loosely as they do on some animals. It has thin predatory lips, similar to a hyena. It is usually seen crouching or sitting with slouched shoulders.

In far distant times, many a likeness of this defiler was carved into dense wood or stone. These blasphemous images were unwisely used to protect people from evil or to discourage enemies. In their ignorance, architects often placed them overlooking doorways and gates, sometimes upon towers. These gargoyles provided no protection but instead called to their vile prince as lodestone calls to iron. Never seek this daemon. Do not invoke its name in anger or even in jest. It will find those who call to it and bring desolation and misery. Above all, do. . ."

Suddenly came an unexpected interruption, an unheard-of intrusion.

Brave, handsome Edwin with his long fair hair and bright innocent smile rose slowly, scraping the chair as he stood.

"I have seen this unpleasant thing that you describe," he said excitedly. He spoke fervently, as perhaps an evangelist would.

"It has dark, red eyes that hurt you when you stare at it. Oh! And there is a nasty smell, like rotting flesh. Makes you sick when you try to breathe.

" I do think you are wrong about the ears, though, Miss Shyama. Seemed to me that its ears were wide and rather short. They stuck out from the side of its head, rather than hanging down."

Shyama walked towards Edwin. Her passage marked by unrelenting precise steps. Suppressed tension and fury were well hidden, never noticed by those who watched her. She spoke so softly now with measured tight control.

"You have seen nothing," she said quietly, "or possibly in dreaming you thought you did, but it was most certainly not the imp of grave misfortune that you saw." Shyama faced Edwin and touched his arm lightly with her baton. "You are mistaken, Edwin. You must apologize before you can be forgiven."

Edwin blinked rapidly several times, uneasy with this sudden confrontation, but bravely continued with his earnest description.

"Oh, no, dear Miss Shyama, please don't be angry with me. I really have seen this creature. I can describe it carefully for you. I was sleeping, but a sound woke me when the beast appeared, and as I awoke, I saw it quite clearly. I was very frightened. It suddenly pushed both hands through the blankets and into my stomach. Horrible, horrible, dirty thing. It twisted my bowels and blocked my lower intestine.

I was taken to hospital for surgery. Couldn't work for nearly five weeks. Doctors told me they removed part of my colon to save my life."

Shyama turned from Edwin, speaking to him but looking at the rest of her audience as she did so. Some of them were proud, with heads uplifted, others uncomfortable with eyes downcast. The rod of retribution weighed heavily in her hand. She fancied for a moment that she could detect the faint, acrid scent from hot, rusted steel. "You are wrong, Edwin," Shyama replied quietly, "Very much mistaken. So very confused."

She swung about suddenly to face him again, her right hand raised high above her head. A graceful sweeping arc as the bar came down through the air. A faded blue-grey steel blur was visible for a fleeting moment before it crashed into the side of Edwin's face.

A shrill scream came sharply before he dropped to his knees. The dull, wet sound of the blow seemed to hang in the air for a very long time.

Shyama stood above him, legs apart. "Oh so terribly wrong Edwin," she said, "the very creature you claim acquaintance with now stands behind you."

Many onlookers glanced quickly in the direction that Shyama had indicated.

There was, as expected, nothing to be seen.

Edwin was almost blinded by fresh blood in his eyes. Shyama swung her iron mace again. This time, the blow caught Edwin across his right shoulder, throwing him face down onto the polished floor.

Such pretty crimson colours, so bright, against the yellow hair. Dark red pools reflected phantoms dancing from the fluorescent lights above.

Shyama waited a few seconds before her ragged breathing returned to a normal, comfortable rhythm. She stepped back several paces and addressed her audience.

"The lesson is finished for today. Tomorrow, we will discuss our families and family relationships." Again, metallic footsteps echoed in precise tempo as she walked to stand by the exit doors.

One by one, the students stood, then moved slowly to the exit. Some walked with purpose, heads held high. Others shuffled nervously, eyes downcast.

Most of them glanced quickly at young Edwin lying silent and unmoving on the floor. None commented about the widening red stain or his overturned chair.

Many in attendance spoke to Shyama as they left. "Such a good lesson today." "Thank you so much; I can hardly wait for tomorrow." "Good job Miss Shyama."

They moved in orderly file to a small, fenced garden, waiting again in pale sunlight for escort to the main wing.

Shyama walked to where Edwin lay, standing over him for a few seconds before kneeling beside him. Kissing the back of his head tenderly, she whispered, "My poor sweet child, poor confused darling boy."

Lights were shut off at the main panel. Heavy double doors closed with an amplified loud scraping sound before a final crash as they came together and locked.

Fading now, sharp measured steps still faintly audible in the otherwise silent room.

Edwin could not stand yet. Trying to push into a sitting position with his right arm shot blinding shafts of pain through his body. He would just lie there until the sickness left and he felt a little better or until he could think clearly again without pain. Behind Edwin, in the far-left corner of the room, was a small alcove, a necessary storage area for extra chairs, blackboards and other seldom-used items. There was also a good-sized wooden packing crate and other smaller boxes.

This storage area was usually hidden from view by heavy dark-green drapes that reached to the floor. Perched upon the packing crate, so well concealed behind the drapes, unseen and unmoving, was the imp of grave misfortune. An unclean stench slowly filtered into the auditorium. Raising its head slightly, the beast wrinkled a broad, flattened nose. It sniffed the air several times before catching a familiar scent of fresh blood.

The loathsome creature was well pleased. It chuckled deeply with satisfaction-a terrible gurgling choking sound.

Edwin fancied that he heard a noise somewhere behind him. Far out in the distance, he thought, but he couldn't really be sure.