Page 3

"What do you mean, no?" Uncle Tarok had progressed to the truculent phase of being drunk. "Listen, when Tarok tells you something, then you do what he says, you understand?" Without waiting to discover if the ghost did understand, he began tugging it lustily back in the direction of the town. Utterly helpless, the ghost had no option but to follow.

It was just about that time that the people in the market had discovered that old Tarok was missing, and they had been looking uneasily at each other and reassuring themselves half-heartedly that he’d be all right, while secretly believing his broken body would be discovered along the way in the morning. So when he arrived in their midst, they were both astonished and relieved...until they saw what he had by the arm.

"This friend of mine," Tarok explained conversationally, "has a cold. He can hardly talk at all, you know, because of it. He needs mohua, doesn’t he?" He glared around at the dumbstruck multitude through bloodshot eyes. "Doesn’t he?"

Trembling, Gobardhan allowed that perhaps Tarok was right. "How did you bring him here?" he asked, awestruck.

"What do you mean how did I bring him here? He came along of his own free will. When did I ever force anyone to do anything? Tell me that. Did I ever force any of you to do anything?"

Everyone allowed that old Tarok had never forced anyone to do anything.

"And I’ll fight anybody who says otherwise," Uncle Tarok declared. "Mohua!" he shrieked without warning. "Where the hell is the mohua for my friend?"

A pitcher of the drink was produced. Old Tarok picked it up and examined it dubiously.

"I’d better taste it to make sure it’s all right," he proclaimed, and drained off almost half in one gulp. "Not bad, not bad. Here," he said, yanking on the poor ghost’s arm, "you have some."

By now the ghost was wishing it had never died. All through the trek back to town it had tried desperately to free itself, but the more it struggled, the more determined the old man’s grip had got. And when they’d arrived at the marketplace, the ghost’s morale collapsed completely. For one thing, it had never seen so many people together in all its unlife. For another, it suddenly realised that it was stark naked.

These things might have fazed anyone. They absolutely wrecked the ghost. So cowed was it, in fact, that it submitted to Uncle Tarok pressing the pitcher of booze to its lips. A moment later, it had swallowed the vile stuff. All of it.

In order to understand what happened next, you have to realise that the ghost had never imbibed alcohol before. Of course, half a pitcher of mohua would have knocked out almost anyone, barring exceptions like Tarok, but to the ghost’s defenceless system it was like being struck by a train. The world began tilting from side to side like a ship in a gale, and, with a piteous howl, the ghost fainted on the spot.

"You’ve killed it!" some people shouted. "Old Tarok’s killed it!"

"I never did," Tarok said, turning pale and raising his free fist. "I’ve never killed anybody. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise."

"You killed it!" People surged forward and hoisted Uncle Tarok on their shoulders. "You’ve killed the ghost!"

"What ghost?" Tarok blinked, beginning to wake from his drunken haze. "What are you talking about?"

A hundred voices told him.

"You can’t kill a ghost," Tarok proclaimed judiciously. "The idea’s absurd. A ghost is already dead; otherwise how could it be a ghost?"

"Look!" people said, bearing him to where the fisher ghost had collapsed so pathetically. "Absurd or not, there it is!"

But there it wasn’t. Recovering just enough to be able to escape, it had crawled away from the market. A little distance away, it clambered to its clawed feet and ran. But not being familiar with the way, it turned down the wrong alley once, and then again.

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