Chapter 7 Ignorance Is Bliss
That night, I have another dream. I’m following the same demon-slash-weirdo from the Art Institute through a village.
I’m an observer floating above the scene, but even from my distant vantage point, it is clear that the villagers, brandishing torches, are trying to exile him.
I can’t quite make out the garbled dream speech well enough to understand why, but I see that he has blood on his clothes.
Someone else’s, I assume. The man’s eyes flash, and in an instant the leader of the villagers is on the ground, convulsing.
My heart races faster. The rest of the villagers run toward him, but the strange man holds up a hand, as if asking for a brief pause.
I see him mouth a word, and even though it’s not English, I understand. Forget.
A thrill of horror runs through me as the villagers come to a standstill.
The man says something more, but I can’t make out what.
He looks strong, fierce. As one, the villagers turn around and walk back toward their homes, then break into a run.
They trip over the body of their leader but do not notice him, do not stop to help.
They look frightened. When they are gone, the demon man steps forward.
The man on the ground has stopped convulsing, but his breath comes in shallow pants.
He tries to scrabble away but merely grunts ineffectually.
The demon leans down, his hands reaching for the man’s throat, and I wake up.
In the space left by the dream, I lie in the dark.
I don’t usually dream so vividly, and the intensity of the images conjured by my subconscious presses into me.
It’s cloudy, and although it’s almost eight a.m., there’s no light coming into my room, keeping me in bed even longer than normal.
But in time, as always, I get up. I’m just about finished getting dressed when I hear a knock at the door.
Fear jolts through me—has the anti from Thursday returned to harass me?
But through the peephole I see brown hands.
I keep the chain in place and crack open the door to find the man from the Art Institute. The man from my dreams.
I lift my phone to snap a photo of him. He looks back at me, seemingly undisturbed, and I glance down to find his mild expression captured on my screen completely undistorted.
From my rudimentary internet research, I’ve learned that hallucinations may carry over into photography, but usually the images are deformed or different because the brain cannot maintain consistency.
I zoom in and out of the photo, trying to catch myself, until he clears his throat.
“I assure you, I’m real.”
I stare blankly at him from across the chain on the door. “I’m—that’s not—what are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” he asks. He smiles, but it looks pained. It reminds me of the way he behaved at the Art Institute.
“What do you want?”
“My name is Muya, and I can help you.”
“Ah yes,” I say sarcastically to hide my fear. “You can help me with… stalking?”
“You are being stalked, but not by me. I can help.” He is absolutely deadpan. I should shut the door in his face, but I have poor self-preservation instincts, and apparently my sense of curiosity isn’t entirely dead.
“Wait one moment,” I tell Muya. I text Aai.
there’s some shouting in my building
going out to investigate
if I don’t text you back in a half hour, check on me!!
I could be dead in half an hour, but at least I won’t be lying alone for days.
I cast around for a weapon, just in case.
I grab a somewhat blunt steak knife that I use to cut vegetables and unhook the chain, letting a possible threat into my apartment.
Muya shucks off his shoes, which almost makes me giggle.
As though he can read my thoughts, he says, “I don’t know what you think of me, but I’m not a monster. Nice knife, by the way.”
“I think you’re a rakshasa,” I say, then immediately feel mortified that I let the words slip out. His eyes widen, but not as if he thinks I’m crazy. He looks like I’ve found him out. I let his surprise fuel me. “You can’t be here for anything good.”
Rakshasas can be bloodthirsty, but they’re also known to live and let live. Something tells me that, as a chronically unlucky person, I should prepare for the worst even if most only commit acts of true evil when provoked.
“Why let me into your home, then?” He settles down into one of the two wooden chairs, an eyebrow raised. His posture is too stiff to portray true comfort.
“Because I want answers, and you’ve offered yourself up to provide them. I have to leave in thirty minutes, so let’s make this fast.”
“Do you want answers?” He leans forward, elbows resting on the table.
He’s dressed in a button-down and gray slacks, a jarring contrast to the Indian clothing I’ve seen him wearing in my dreams. “You don’t seem able to believe the truth.
You named me rakshasa, but you didn’t believe it, not really.
The truth is that demons are real, and this modern world has convinced itself otherwise.
You should know that already. You have been gifted the ability to see us as we truly are. And yet you spurn it, waste it.”
Each word is spoken deliberately, with a precise coolness, making him sound deeply persuasive. I feel myself wanting to believe him. If demons are real, it would mean that I haven’t been hallucinating.
“I’ve seen maybe two of these so-called demons in the past week after a lifetime of not seeing any at all. What, did they just suddenly move to Chicago?”
Muya glares at me. “It is wasted on you!”
“Excuse me?”
“All that power… put into someone who cannot make basic logical deductions.” I don’t know whether to laugh or be offended.
He continues, “Five days ago you touched the statue and freed me from my prison. In so doing, some of my power transferred to you. That is why you can see demons. That is why you can reshape your world.”
“I can’t reshape shit,” I reply.
“All right, then. If you’re not going to use the power, give it back to me. It is mine, after all; you stole it from me. Do it, and your ability to see will go away.”
I consider his offer. On the off chance that he’s telling the truth and this isn’t an elaborate hallucination, I shouldn’t give up the ability to see the malevolent forces stalking me.
Muya gives me a slow, grim smile. He looks at me not like an equal, but like a rat that has learned to dance. “Ah. So you are unwilling to release it. Perhaps you are more intelligent than you seem.”
It’s then that I realize I’ve been a fabulous idiot. I love judging TV characters for failing to use their phones, and here I am doing the same thing. I pull out my phone, open Google, and type: Muya Indian demon. Nothing comes up.
“What are you doing?” Muya demands.
“One moment,” I say. “Responding to a text.”
“That’s rude,” he says.
I type: Muya Indian demon Shiva. Bingo.
“What would you know about that, Muyalagan?” I say slowly. Muya’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know Apasmara had another name. But it fits—the reluctance to give information, the short stature, the statue you came from.”
He reaches into his pocket to pull out a smartphone and taps its screen thoughtfully. “The internet, is it? A great tool of ignorance. I’m not Muyalagan, but you could say I am of him. He was a great asura, and I am a small piece of his magic.”
“So you’re a manifestation of the demon of ignorance?” I ask, each word tinged with more incredulity than the last. How can a “small piece” of a demon with a Wikipedia page be sitting in my living room? I wouldn’t have believed any of this just a few days ago, and yet I’m going along with it.
“That’s not important,” Muya says. He shakes his head, and I feel a brief flash of sympathy for what must be a bewildering new experience before I remember who he is. What he is. Apasmara is evil. “There are worse things than ignorance. There’s…” He trails off, looking a little afraid.
“Are you trying to pull one over on me?” I ask. “I wasn’t born yesterday. But that body you’re wearing probably was.”
He snorts. “This shape is so familiar to me, it’s like a second skin.”
“Ah, well, you know what they say about a second skin?”
“What?”
“It’s no first skin.”
Muya scowls, then his expression smooths.
“Listen.” His voice is a command that my brain obeys.
“You freed me from that statue, and you took some of my magic. It’s made you a target.
You’re in danger. I don’t like to deal with humans, but I will offer this.
Give me back what you stole, and I’ll help you in return. ”
“I don’t have magic,” I say.
He laughs. “You named me rakshasa. You could see the truth of me. That is your magic.”
I take a deep breath. “Who do you think is after me, then?”
“I don’t know.” Muya exhales loudly. “I don’t like not knowing.
But I would not come here asking for something without offering something in return.
I’m not a heathen. Once I learned you had enemies, I had planned to come here with their heads on a platter, to barter for my magic, but that’s no longer possible. ”
“Oh my gods. You’re afraid. I freed you from the statue, so you’ve imprinted on me like… a little duckling afraid of its own shadow. I bet you think that slick-looking demon-man—”
“Did you speak to him?” Muya is clenching his hands so hard his knuckles are actually turning white.
“You—you can’t be serious.” I pause to consider the situation and remember that I work in the abortion world. I know better than to discount improbable threats. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
“But he knows how to find you,” Muya mused.
“So what?” I retort.