DINNER of various vegetables and meats was brought to their tables, and all were festive and merry in the terrace and garden behind the palace. The wolf was also there as it slept at the edge of the garden, seemingly unaware of the party—although earlier, it had sung quite a bit, much to the attendees’ annoyance. In that terrace was placed many tall columns that held to a wide glass roof. The garden was covered with neatly cut shrubs arrayed in a concentric design, and many flowers all of different likeness that calmed those in range of them with their soothing aromas.
Around the terrace and garden were also many posts holding to self-illuminating flowers that brightened the space with myriads of lights. To the edges of the garden, the woodland of cedars could be seen of varying heights, almost appearing to be circling like steps toward the sky. And to the sky, the moon and stars showed with full splendor, with not a trace of cloud cover, no doubt having vanished due to the spectacle the three had beheld earlier.
Many different persons attended the party, some officials, and others, aristocrats. But even more were drunks from the city watch. Athruyam always held leniency toward the soldiers and commoners, going so far as to pardon their various crimes of which not many had been committed. And he took delight in letting ordinary soldiers and officers attend his events with glee and mirth, though he would often have their activities written down differently so as not to provoke the ire of his officials.
Iḷēhaḥ had downed three bottles of Svyamhaḥ, and Feyūnhaḥ had consumed five bottles of milk wine, and the two of them were as high spirited as could be. Tūmbṃār sat amused, drinking juice and laughing at their antics. Upon a stage were various musicians, poets, and drunks who sang, danced, and performed. Sometimes, it was humorous stories, at other times heroic sagas, but more often was it inebriated recitations of various hymns from the Vādrunṃs; this made for a performance that many priests, Autirsāh or otherwise, would not take to with kind heart.
While Tūmbṃār continued drinking his juice, he felt a sudden uneasiness—no, more a peculiar sensation, as if something or someone was approaching him. He swept his head in all directions but could not find the source of his tension. Feyūnhaḥ laughed at his confused state, but Iḷēhaḥ could sense something was wrong, and she tried to approach him. But before she could, Feyūnhaḥ dragged her to the other side of the terrace where they danced on stage with the other drunks, much to the displeasure of the aristocrats.
He felt as if arms were grasping him from all sides, ready to pull, maybe even tear, but he also felt a gentleness exhibited from that state. The rush of sensations, while intense, also displayed signs of peacefulness and tranquility. But then he heard a voice from behind him and it asked:
Shall you awake to your calling?
He turned to his side and saw nothing. He scratched his head and wondered if he could be hallucinating. Then he looked front and saw a man of white hair, red eyes, and deathly pale skin, clad in exquisite robes, as if he were like a king, perhaps even greater. He was sure he had never seen the man before. He sat, but not on a chair—rather on the air itself.
This struck wonder into Tūmbṃār but also fear, for while the man sat, it seemed no one even saw him. It was as if he was a ghost or a specter, and the pallor of his skin did little to dissuade Tūmbṃār from seeing him as such. The man simply smiled at him, and he held an arm out. It looked to be extending and Tūmbṃār tried to grab it, but found he could not do so. It looked near, yet it was not, which confused and terrified him even further. He turned to run, but the man suddenly appeared in front of him, kneeling, and asked:
“What is the matter, child?”
Tūmbṃār looked to his side and saw Athruyam, and when he turned his head front, the man was gone.
“I thought I saw someone. Someone peculiar but terrifying.”
Athruyam was surprised, and he looked around the terrace and garden. “I hope you do not mean me. I would like to think I am a gentle soul to all children, save my sister. She is a rather troublesome person to deal with, though I doubt she has shown that side to you; perhaps Iḷēhaḥ has seen it given her little episode some time ago.”
Tūmbṃār laughed, shaking his head and waving his hand. “The man I saw looked much different. He had eyes and hair like Iḷēhaḥ’s, though much more intense, and his skin was deathly pale. It seemed no one else could see him but his presence frightened me. Not in a way as if I feared for my life, but as if he were to take me away somewhere. Somewhere from which I couldn’t come back.”
Athruyam was surprised and looked around, seeming eager to see such a person himself. But he then calmed and patted Tūmbṃār, giving a gentle smile. “Well, I can assure you, I have seen not a person of that sort here. While I wish not to say it, you might just have imagined him, Tūmbṃār. Dwell no further on such things, and enjoy the party! Oh, I see you have not eaten the meat. Is it not to your liking?”
Tūmbṃār shook his head. “I only eat meat if I have to. It’s an instruction my teacher gave me when I first became his disciple, not that I ever cared much for eating it. My village wasn’t terribly disposed to eating it either. We even pray to the animals we have.”
“Ho! And I thought only the Servants and our forefathers followed such customs! The Autirsāh would be wise to learn such habits. We consume more of the animals than is good for us. Drinks too, as you have no doubt seen from my sister.” He then looked to the stage and saw the ladies beckoning for him. “Ah! It appears they are calling to you! You should go to them; they might have something fun for you! It would be better if there were some children to engage with, but those two should have to suffice for the evening.”
Tūmbṃār still felt the heavy air from that strange encounter lingering about him, but nodded to Athruyam and ran to the stage. The ladies had organized a little competition with the drunks, of who could relate the most popular story for that evening.
The winner would, of course, garner much cheer from the guests, but the losers would have to chug down an entire barrel of milk wine. While it did not seem much of an issue given the ladies’ propensity toward alcohol, it did look that Iḷēhaḥ was already reaching her limits. Were she to chug another pint or so, she would most assuredly collapse. She also held a rather admirable sense of determination, and it would be seen as such by Tūmbṃār, were it in anything other than drunken sport. Tūmbṃār sighed and reluctantly joined, hoping he would not have to help clean up after the feeble maiden.
The rules were simple. There were six contestants, three on each team, and each one would take their turn relating a tale. The one who garnered the most cheers won for their team. The three drunks went up first, and each recited some part of a local folk tale of theirs. From what Tūmbṃār could gather, one of them went something like this:
“There was an old handmaid who took to a young boy in a local village. The young boy, however, desired the local young girl who looked very pretty to him. But little courage he had to approach her. The old handmaid decided she’d take the chance to summon a fairy to do her bidding. So she carved incantations and symbols, calling with blathered speech for a fairy. A fairy came, and she told the fairy that she wished to be seen as the young girl for whom the boy longed. And the fairy did as the old handmaid said and poofed away. The next day, she approached the young boy who saw her as the young girl and became quite flustered. But the old maid in the form of the young lady accepted him, and they had fun for the rest of the day. The following morning, the illusion wore off and the old handmaid came to be known to him and he ran off in shock and horror, never to be seen again.”
They each garnered a good amount of cheer, though abysmal was their speech. He was thankful that the two ladies did not slur or emit articles, instead becoming eccentric. Though given the other contestants’ response, maybe it was better if the ladies did slur and perhaps speak gibberish.
When it came to Feyūnhaḥ’s turn, she cleared her throat and said:
“There were many—but in particular, two—hills and three dancers. And on each hill was a seer. Penance they did and powers they grew. And Dusdrahaḥ, Lord of Thunder, commander of mighty steeds, King of Gods, Slayer of numerous Demons, looked to them with such fear and apprehension that it would have made him want to flee right that moment!
“But an idea came to him; yes, a most wonderful idea! He sent dancers to each seer to break their trance, perhaps seducing, in other cases distracting them, but in all cases still dancing.
“Luviyhaḥ, he first sent, for she was the most beautiful of all, with strings of beads and gold wrapped about her neck and wrists, and with a great dress that shined like a myriad suns all seeming to radiate the splendor of her form, to which no other could seem to compare. And with majestic twirls and moves, she sought to entice them, to distract them, to bring those sages so close that they would thence seek no other but her. But the sages would not budge; their concentration was so focused and so steeled that nothing she did could sway them otherwise.
“Ushlama he then sent, and she was the best dancer of the three, with form and grace just like a swan. Her moving arms seemed to blossom like lotuses while her eyes could entrance any who beheld her. Yet it was all to no avail, for even forcing the eyes of the sages open, her form, her luster, her grace of movement, could still not sway the hearts of those most steeled of men!
“And at last, Dusdrahaḥ then sent the final dancer, who he hoped above all else would be able to do what the other two could not. But when she came down, her form of golden radiance and silver hue at once vanished, and that deceitful one transformed thereupon into a trickster, leaping and somersaulting with not a care in the world and sending many insults his way to that most powerful Lord of Thunder! It at last startled the sages.
“And Dusdrahaḥ’s object seemed won, were it not for that fact that—lo!—it stole the powers, waxing its potential with great force and might. And in using all of its power, it succeeded in rending the land, and the oceans and the sky to finally turn that Lord of Thunder into—a frog! And when it had enjoyed its amusement, it scurried away, never to then be seen again. And all the Gods then laughed at Dusdrahaḥ for a very, very long time, and unfortunate he was to suffer such a cruel prank. But when the curse wore off, he punished every last one of them in like fashion as he then and thereafter waited always for the return of that meddlesome trickster.”
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A strange story. She must have taken it from another source and drastically altered it. It sounded similar to something Tūmbṃār had heard before, though it was but one of many variations of stories of the Gods’ attempted deceit toward sages and seers. The priests would not take too kindly to this version of such a tale, but the crowd itself did. They laughed and whistled, but the cheer was not nearly enough to overcome the prior contestants.
Feyūnhaḥ bowed and walked back with pride. The officials and other aristocrats scoffed, but she for that moment paid no mind, for she would have her joy today. Tūmbṃār gave a weak smile and glanced at Iḷēhaḥ who held a large grin and her head was swaying left to right. Though she was heavily drunk and could collapse at any moment, he had confidence in her being able to win the contest. Her back fully erect, she walked to the front of the stage. But then she felt a faint twinge, and the twinge strengthened till it caused her to run off stage and vomit behind it. The crowd laughed and cheered and called for Tūmbṃār to come forth. He sighed and came up front as Feyūnhaḥ wished him luck and went to assist Iḷēhaḥ.
Now looking at the audience, he felt once again a sense of unease come over him. He usually did not feel such things among crowds, for he always sought attention, but he knew that the sea of drunks was not what gave him such an ill sensation. It resembled more closely what he had felt before at seeing the deathly man before him. And just as he thought that, he saw arms circling his neck and a chill ran down his back.
He looked to the side and beheld the man, his beautiful but terrifying face bearing a gentle smile, with his eyes that shone like blood locked onto his. He attempted to move but was paralyzed. He attempted to shout but was dumbed.
Then the arms thrust into his mouth, and it opened wide for all to see. The crowd splashed their liquor about, laughing uncontrollably at Tūmbṃār’s ridiculous expression. But Athruyam sensed something amiss and walked with haste. The boy was sweating and tears flowed from his eyes, but the man still held his gentle smile with his face rested on Tūmbṃār’s shoulder.
The arms at once vanished and he said:
You shall relate a story.
And through Tūmbṃār’s mouth came these words:
“A land where towers were raised and a lord fell, ushering in chaos to destroy all once built, and to make vices their lords and to rend them apart. A commander stepped forth and brought peace once more, yet betrayed was he by a friend who was once close. That friend took to his mantle to become lord of all peoples, and the towers rose yet higher to bring men to the stars, bringing vessels of steel to break through the sky and to exhaust flames of vigor and carry them high. Years would then pass to metallic men who roamed the lands, to execute those they saw fit to be judged. Yet one of them would sense something amiss and thereupon would awake.
“In the land where those who stood above all others would reside, ones he would call masters, would he break their contract and set himself free. He would approach the light, and the light would guide him. A love he would seek, and there would acquire. To a power he would need and bestow thereafter. And to a position he would take and guide with well temper. In league with rebels would he train and recover, journeying to face the lords with war brought forth behind him. And waxing with powers of yore, he would invade their strongholds and free men once more. With the light at his side, he would defeat all who faced him and bring those responsible to submission. And when all would be complete, the light would vanish, and from him would all the powers recede. The judges would be no more, and his purpose attained. Men would look to the stars with fervor for venture, forever being guided by the will of their savior.”
Silence hung in the air as all laughter and cheer had ceased. Athruyam and all others were shocked by what Tūmbṃār had just delivered. Then all the soldiers rose and applauded him and gave a massive cheer, chanting his name. Tūmbṃār broke from his daze, looking at the joyous crowd in front of him, and he rubbed his eyes and face and waved with a smile. Athruyam was glad and walked back to the corner but still held doubt about what had happened. Feyūnhaḥ and Iḷēhaḥ lifted the boy’s hands and looked to him with an elated smile, all drunks and all guests cheering louder.
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Tūmbṃār sat beside the wolf, talking to it as if speaking to himself. “I wonder who that man was? He didn’t look as though he meant harm, but his presence was terrifying. As soon as I finished that story, if that even was a story, he vanished just like before. What do you think, wolf, am I going mad?”
The wolf slept peacefully and gave no grunts or shouts. Tūmbṃār ruffled its fur to wake it up, but the wolf would not respond. Tūmbṃār pouted, and he thought for a bit, and then an idea came to him. Running back to the two drunks, he said to them, “Iḷēhaḥ! Feyūnhaḥ! I need some liquor!”
They gave him an odd look and at once said, “No, child! No drinks for you!”
“Not for me – though I wouldn’t want it anyway if it makes a person smell this unpleasant! I had an idea to wake the wolf by pouring liquor down his throat! He’s been awfully lazy; we should make him festive!”
The two ladies looked to each other and then to the wolf, and then to the boy. Their smiles crept into large grins and they looked about the vicinity, searching for the Wine Master. In the corner, they spotted Athruyam speaking to some officials. He was much enjoying himself, but the ladies had other plans in store. They approached Athruyam and then they stopped. Feyūnhaḥ looked to the officials who seemed none too happy, and with folded hands, she bowed.
One of them then said, “A worthless princess if I have ever seen one! Do well, my lord, to see that she does not fall out of line!”
And they left, and Athruyam sighed. Feyūnhaḥ hung her head down and became sullen. “Do not mind them sister, they shall come around at some point.” She simply nodded, and Tūmbṃār remained silent, not knowing what to do. Iḷēhaḥ, however, blazed with wrath, and Athruyam realized what she was going to do and tried to grab hold of her. But he halted in his motion, unable to approach, and she thereafter stormed off toward the officials.
When she approached, they stood surprised but also afraid, looking into her enraged face. She said, “What is the meaning of this? This is not the first time I have seen such behavior. Have you no shame in treating the princess as such? And least of all, your own lord! I am sure had this been any other place, all of you at the very least would be banished!”
The same one who spoke ill of Feyūnhaḥ, regaining his confidence, then said, “We shall do as we please, guest. Do not think we are slaves to the lord here. We speak our minds when we deem fit, and only for the good of this realm. You would do well not to associate with her, that wretch of the Autirsāh who abandoned our home!”
And her wrath blazed even more, and she lifted her hand to strike them, but Feyūnhaḥ quickly grabbed it and shook her head. The officials then left, feeling insulted and all the unhappier.
“Why would you suffer such things, Feyūnhaḥ?” asked Iḷēhaḥ. “’Tis not the time to be docile! You have done nothing that I can see wrong, nor do I see you as one engaging as such. Perhaps you get a little drunk as do I, but so too do many here. Do not these people love you as their princess?”
“As you have things you wish to keep quiet about, so do I.”
“But this is wholly different!” said Iḷēhaḥ. “I have to keep my things a secret, and for many other reasons that I cannot disclose. Yet I can see yours right in the open, your troubles. I do not judge you. You are my friend, so tell me what is wrong. Why do they act so?”
While glad for these words, she shook her head and said, “My gratitude to you, Iḷēhaḥ, but I’ll speak of this when I’m ready. For now, simply ignore them and let us enjoy ourselves!” And suddenly smiling, she grabbed Iḷēhaḥ and went back to Athruyam and Tūmbṃār, announcing, “Brother! A rather pressing issue we have mind to deal with.”
Suddenly, the mixed aroma of the drinks wafted from their persons, and Athruyam reeled in disgust. “What have you two been drinking? Dare I say you reek of vomit!”
“Mind that not brother; we have much important business with the liquor barrels!”
He looked to the other side of the garden and saw a pavilion with twenty barrels stacked on top of one another. He pointed to it as he held his nose, and the ladies with Tūmbṃār bowed before she pranced away with them toward their objective.
Now when she had reached the barrels, she thought for a while as to how to move them over to the wolf. The distance between them and the wolf was not small, and she would rather not push all twenty barrels one at a time. While Iḷēhaḥ was not comfortable in having her friend wronged, she sighed and relented, following along in the shenanigans.
Tūmbṃār then tugged Feyūnhaḥ’s shirt and held his hand out.
“My teacher taught me something very handy!”
A small gust of wind came out of his hand and revolved for a while until the air and the wind above his palm looked to collapse within themselves and warp in irregular ways. The air then rushed about him like a cyclone, and he hovered. The ladies looked at him in awe.
“You can manipulate even space?” shouted Feyūnhaḥ.
“Aye! But I can’t control it for very long or with too much force. My teacher told me until I’m more physically able and more attuned with the powers, I can only control it to about this level.”
Iḷēhaḥ was surprised as well and said, “Never do you cease to amaze, child!”
“What’s the plan, then?” said Feyūnhaḥ.
“I’ll angle the vortex at the wolf. While I’m holding it, you two throw the barrels into here, and it should launch to the wolf. I’ll send some air along with it and have it burst above him!”
She then thought for a bit. While Tūmbṃār’s plan would work, she considered it better to have all the barrels launched at once or at least close to that effect, so as to deluge the wolf with liquor. Their eyes set to the stage where the musicians, poets, and drunks had finished their performance for the night, and they ran to the terrace and called to them. The three groups assembled and followed the ladies to the barrels.
“So, you want us to throw these for you?” they asked.
Feyūnhaḥ nodded with a large grin and then looked to Tūmbṃār.
“Can that vortex be made greater?” asked Feyūnhaḥ.
Tūmbṃār smiled and nodded. He strained himself, and his arms quivered. The vortex grew wide, and the entire assemblage whistled and lauded him. The three groups lifted the barrels and all at once, threw them into the swirling wind. The barrels shook and spun with rapid acceleration, and Tūmbṃār pushed himself forward as if he pushed against a stone wall. Then he snapped his arms forward, and was blown back as the barrels went flying through the air toward the wolf.
Now, the wolf was still asleep or seemingly so, and had not yet realized how all the barrels were being hurled toward it. The wolf then peered through slitted eyes that at once widened when it saw the storm of barrels coming into view. It jolted upright and evaded to the side. The barrels burst above its original spot, echoing a large pop with a heavy rain of liquor and gusts of wind that startled and blew back the guests, including Athruyam. The wolf huffed in relief, and the performers and drunks sighed in bitter disappointment.
But Tūmbṃār smiled, for he had accounted for this. There was one lone barrel to which the wolf was oblivious, and it arced high above. When the wolf sensed this, it lifted its head but had no time to evade. The lone barrel burst above the wolf and rained down the remaining liquor, much of it pouring down the wolf’s throat. The wolf became tipsy and padded about clumsily, looking to the moon while swaying its head. And suddenly it issued a great howl that pierced all the guests’ ears, all except for Tūmbṃār, who laughed at the amusing display of the inebriated beast’s antics.
Then the wolf began to sing with broken yips and howls, and the guests, by this point, had had enough.
“Fie, to that wretched princess!” shouted the aristocrats and officials before they stormed from the area.
Athruyam, while angry, only sighed. He then looked to his sister with a smile as she—along with the musicians, poets, and drunks—lifted Tūmbṃār and tossed him in the air, much to his delight.