AT the end of the fifth-week when night was once more upon the Jaḍa valley, the denizens gathered in the center of the village. Many Fiyukthi were set about, aligned in a multi-layered concentric arrangement. Gravya stood beside the chieftain his grandfather and the other elders of the village.
What looked to be a small pot was set beside some posts near the Fiyukthi. The goat that Tūmbṃār looked after was brought and all the while the priests of the village chanted a myriad of mantras and hymns. The goat’s head was placed between the posts and its body strung upon some scaffolding. To Tūmbṃār this looked like an act of humiliating the sacrifice. The goat did not try to resist and shifted its gaze to Tūmbṃār seeming almost calm about the entire ordeal.
Around Tūmbṃār was the sage and his friends and they looked ready to grab him if he was foolhardy enough to disrupt the procession. They expected little of him holding strong against such an event.
The chanting then silenced and a priest dressed in red came bearing an ornamented scythe. Its blade was clean and its shaft was like pure gold. It glimmered under the fires of the burning bowls. When the priest stood to the side of the goat, he gently touched the blade to the goat’s neck as if propping it next to it. He then rested the scythe against his legs, folded his hands, and bowed to the goat.
Silence held in the air for a few moments as all had their eyes set upon the goat. Tūmbṃār gulped for he knew what was to come next.
The priest finished his prayers. He lifted the scythe high and with a single sweep dislodged the goat’s head. The force of the strike was so great that it caused the goat’s head to fling toward Tūmbṃār.
It landed not far from his feet and as he looked to the head he quivered. The goat’s death pained him, but not as much as what he saw in its place.
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A head of silver hair placed at the side of a bowl with jewellery hanging from the neck and the eyes of red rested half-way: this person seemed almost like Lūshhaḥ’s. It was not him. The crowds of people that stood about the Fiyukthi were fazing into a sea of soldiers that appeared out the fire. All around Tūmbṃār was the valley burning and buildings of exquisite make in flames. It seemed a kingdom was on fire. Yet there was great dread.
The people were fleeing and as their forms reflected against the blood of the fallen man, someone else approached. It was a king, but one whose face shone madness like Rṭyāshphaḥ, and whose expression was like ice. Frozen in both madness and grief. He took up the head by the hair and Tūmbṃār thought he was about to desecrate or make sport of it. But no, this king instead cradles it and speaks a tongue that is old yet comprehensible to the child.
He says, “My son, you who I had given, you who I had given fame, and even the hand of my daughter. Why had you betrayed me? Why did you insist on such lies, that my own brother would have deceived me? I took you from the land that was known to harbor the noble; where you had abandoned and gave you a home when all others would have seen you dead. But now you made peace with them, and further called for their aid to usurp my position.
“Where have the mighty Gods gone, to have let a snake such as you into my fold! I weep for you were like my son, but I gnash my teeth for I now see your true nature, just like the serpent of old who had dried the rivers of the land; who aided those wretched Demons, and wreaked havoc upon our home! But it does not matter now, for you are no more among the living. Your spirit has waned and your soul has released. May the Gods forgive you for this incursion.”
He let the head fall into the dust and the maggots approached. Yet they halted and it seemed as if a golden light that was once extinguished resurged with great might. Its radiating halo overpowered all in sight and blinded all who were close. But after some moments, it vanished and the head became as it once was. The king seemed ready the kick it from his sight, but he refrained. He simply walked away with his attendants and the army followed behind as if nothing had been done.
When he was far enough away, a woman who was in chains ran to the fallen prince and clutched his head. She bawled over it, lamenting over his departure, and singing songs of old that brought sadness to Tūmbṃār’s ears.
The boy was transfixed in place. He had not seen a vision like this since the advent of war that came to his sight in the desert of Upaurikṣhetvar. But it did not seem as if the terrible specter had played a role here. This felt all too much real. He could feel the warmth of the fires and dryness of the air. He could smell the burning buildings and the sulfur that was thrown from the soldiers’ hands. And his ears rung from the loud lamentations of the women that cradled the fallen prince.
Then the head shifted its gaze toward the boy. It moved its lips but its speech was inaudible. Tūmbṃār could understand what it was saying. He drew closer to the head and the sobbing woman. When he was beside her, the wailing stopped. She looked to him and gave him the head. Tūmbṃār held it in his hands and looked to it.
The boy did not know what to feel but feeling drawn to it he moved it closer to his ears and heard it whisper, “Seek the dens of snakes wherein lies the hearts of gold. Be not distracted by the allure of the heavenly weapons. For though you will need them, dependence upon them shall surely end your age. I do not regret having come here. My beloved had found me and my line carried through. I grant you a boon my child, use it well in your quest. The Light shines ever by you.”
A great light struck Tūmbṃār’s eye and he could see his line of sight covered by a series of halos. Another set of characters in Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr formed in his view. A new vision appeared in his sight where he could see a great towering beast of white ravaging the land about it. All covered in flame and ash. And its presence seemed close, much closer than what he saw last. A new objective was set for him.
When the halos disappeared, he saw he was in a place of white where stood the women, and a goat. The goat was indeed the same one! His friend but he noticed something odd about it. And just as he approached he saw it morph into the form of the fallen prince. Tūmbṃār was about to speak but just as his mouth opened a divine light emanated from the prince and he and the women left from his sight.
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Tūmbṃār awoke and looked about himself. He was deathly pale and it seemed as if he had come back from death. About him were his friends and the sage.
Immediately Iḷēhaḥ embraced him and shouted, “What more is happening to you!”
“You worry us too much,” said Sanyhaḥmān, laughing. “But given your expression I’m assuming you saw something when the goat’s head was chopped.”
He nodded his head.
“What did you see, Tūmbṃār?” asked Iḷēhaḥ.
He explained to them the vision he had, of the many things that occurred but most strangely the relation between the goat and the prince and his words to him.
After pondering on this, Vādruhaḥ said, “You must have seen that prince of old, Saṛshphaḥ, who lived during the Era of Separation. He was the only one to have his blood drawn as such by another man. A most despicable wretch his uncle was, but not much is written about those days and I do not know much about what transpired. I had retreated far into the forests and would only hear of news from the kingdoms from time to time.”
“Could you have not helped them?” asked Tūmbṃār with a solemn face. His eyes had watered and it seemed at any moment tears would stream down his cheeks.
“Perhaps, but I much doubt the kings of that age would have listened to me,” said Vādruhaḥ; “Lūshhaḥ tried his best in convincing the brothers of Zūryaṃār to stay from such foolishness but they would not listen. Their descendants were in some ways worse than them. I fear my presence could have made things worse, for as you well know my temper is short and my curses strong.”
“But I wish you could’ve tried!” shouted Tūmbṃār. “Is meditating so important so as to let the lives of the innocent fall by the wayside?”
“Tūmbṃār do not shout as such,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “Would you wish to anger your teacher?”
“I want answers, Iḷēhaḥ!” said Tūmbṃār indignant over the entire affair. “How long must I be kept in the dark on such things? You won’t speak of your kin in the Heavens.” To those words Iḷēhaḥ hung her head down. “I don’t blame you for it, but I must know more about the things that have been occurring to me and our roles in all of this. Collecting the divine weapons seems only a part of the task that we’re to take. I know there’s more. So tell me teacher what is all of this for? Why are we here? What does this all mean? Allay my doubts.”
The sage sighed and simply patted the boy on his head. “A child you still very much are, but I would have thought you to have at least understood a bit about my position. While I wish it were in my power to right those wrongs, we must leave such things to the power of fate. The Gods have their plans as does the Light. From what has been directed to me, my purpose does not lay anymore with the Ṃārhaḥn of Ārhmanhaḥ. But be that is it may, it does lie with you, and I shall continue my role here until your passing my disciple. Yet as to your other doubts I cannot yet answer them.
“Do not think the regimen I have been putting you and your friends through is merely for training. No, I would have you pass my test for if you can succeed in that trial then I fear that if I were to send you past this point it would most certainly lead to your demise. The forces of the world that stay in the shadows have now already begun to conspire against you and your party. Tūmbṃār, you can sense what lays beyond this valley can you not?” The boy nodded his head. “Then listen to me now when I say, that your knowing of your situation means nothing if you have not the strength to face against it. I will not let your mind be beset by worries and distractions that are yet beyond your control. Defeat me with your friends and then I shall give you the answers you seek as best I can.”
Tūmbṃār quietly assented. He then looked about himself to see that a feast was underway. He could see a stew within the bowls with meat and vegetables, and aromatic spices suddenly all at once assaulting his nostrils.
“What are they eating?” asked Tūmbṃār.
“Mutton of course!” said Sanyhaḥmān who was biting into a large leg. The monkey-man then reflected on his words and said, “Well, I guess we should mention that the mutton we’re all eating is from the goat that was just slaughtered.”
Now the group expected Tūmbṃār to be horrified on hearing that. But his face was unusually calm. They knew that this would be the expectation but what surprised them more was what he said afterward.
“Give me some.”
They hesitated and Feyūnhaḥ asked, “Are you sure, Tūmbṃār? We know you have to eat but I didn’t think you to be willing to dine on this goat in particular.”
“I won’t inconvenience anyone on my part,” said Tūmbṃār. “I already knew that he was to be slaughtered today, but I can’t allow myself to stay grieving. We have to train so I can’t go on an empty stomach.”
They handed him over a bowl, but Iḷēhaḥ took the spoon. She intended on feeding him. Tūmbṃār pouted and grabbed the spoon from out of her hand. He at once started drinking the broth and eating the chunks of meat in a hasty manner. And as he scarfed down his food he started to cry.
“I have to train even at the expense of my friend. But still—he tastes so delicious!”
And at those words the group could not help but laugh.
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As the night progressed, the group wandered around the village. Everyone was outside their dwellings partaking in the festivities. Massive piles of meat and stew and liquor was passed about the villagers. All the while they passed unnoticed or perhaps the denizens did not care to notice them. They went in search of Gravya and having scoured the entire village they at last found him near the Fiyukthi.
There was quite the large gathering about to see what it was he was doing. The carcass of the goat was strung above a fire pit. Seated about were the priests, chief Zhivya, and Gravya who seemed to be in meditation. They each held rosaries made of smooth wooden beads. The group saw a faint light emanating from them and as they chanted their prayers before the fire, the group could see the carcass healing. There were gashes and cuts for the meat that had been sliced but in an instant the body healed. From in front of the crowd came some butchers with knives and scythes and they shaved off slices of the meat. They carried the slabs of meat with them to the nearby Fiyukthi and prayed before the fire, before roasting the meat and preparing what would be more stew and meat chunks for the villagers.
This continued for a long while, until at last the villagers dispersed and went about the rest of the festivities. The chief and his grandson opened their eyes and together with the Servant they bowed before the carcass before heading their separate ways. Behind them the carcass combusted. In short time it was completely burned and turned into ash that scattered into the wind.
Zhivya and Gravya made their way to the group and in high spirits the chieftain said, “How are you enjoying the night my guests! I see Tūmbṃār is alive and well. I feared some evil was afoot in our valley, but perhaps it was just the shock of seeing the goat slaughtered.” He looked into the crowd to see Vādruhaḥ conversing with some of the Servants. “Ah so that was where the Zūryashhaḥ had gone! Well I shall leave you here with my grandson; keep well the rest of the night!”
The chieftain scurried off in high spirits as if drunk from the night’s festivities. Gravya meanwhile shook his head in disappointment.
“How goes the night?” he asked with a sigh.
“Quite well!” said Sanyhaḥmān chugging a bottle of Svyamhaḥ. “Your people sure know how to throw a celebration. And dare I say this is some of the most delicious mutton I’ve yet eaten. Even Tūmbṃār here could not help but cry in joy as he ate it.”
And out of embarrassment Tūmbṃār tried the slap the monkey-man’s mouth shut.
“Ha! And I’d thought he would’ve cried from eating his friend,” said Gravya now laughing. “Yet I’m still surprised that you seem alright. Judging by what I saw when the goat’s head flew, it seemed you were ready to be spirited away alongside it. But perhaps I was just misjudging your fear.”
“I was afraid,” said Tūmbṃār, “but there was something more I saw and something more that I found out.”
Gravya became a little suspicious over those words and looked to the others.
“He means what he says,” said Iḷēhaḥ stepping forward from the others and putting her hands around Tūmbṃār. Now his suspicion turned to curiosity seeing Tūmbṃār throw her hands away from himself.
They moved to the outskirts from the village where Gravya set up some makeshift torches. Under the light of the moon, Tūmbṃār explained all that he saw. With each passing part of the short tale, Gravya became more entranced and seemed almost in disbelief. He had heard tales from his grandfather of the exploits of their ancestors but never as a vision from a boy his age.
Gravya said, “And you’re telling me that this is not the first time you’ve encountered such a vision?” Tūmbṃār nodded. “Well this indeed shall make quite the story!” he said laughing. “When you have a chance do tell me more about your other visions and adventures.”
Tūmbṃār happily obliged but he did not expect himself to have too much too much time to indulge the chieftain’s grandson. He would need to focus more on his training.
As he was thinking this over, the chieftain, along with Vādruhaḥ, came to the others. In a cheery voice, the chieftain said, “Guests you must come with us! The fire dance is set to begin.”
“A fire dance!” cried Aiṛth in surprise. “Come everyone we must be their at once! It is a spectacle unlike any you would have seen before!”
“Ho! I’m surprised others from outside of the valley know of this performance,” said Zhivya.
“I am very much surprised that such a performance is held here!” said Aiṛth. “It is held annually in Trdsyḷūr. I thought it only to be native to the city for I had not seen its use outside of the capital. Though I did hear that the performers hailed from elsewhere.”
“Then I suppose you have met some of our kin!” said Zhivya laughing. “Some of us had left to the capital years ago. We still get mail from time to time, but as of late, we have heard little word from them. I should hope things are fine but perhaps the couriers had grown weary traveling to this remote area of the continent. And I suppose it doesn’t help that we move about more than is good for them.”
The group shifted their gaze from him. They remembered the incident with King Rṭyāshphaḥ and grew anxious over whether they should meet the traveling army and its Drasūvayeznd. Sending the heavy air, Dhīṇahi nudged them, pointing toward the gathering of villagers.
“Ah yes!” said the chieftain. “We should be on our way! Come now, you shall not want to miss this.”
They made to the gathering and could see many drunks flailing about, as if they were trying to dance. The villagers laughed at the spectacle while the Servants chased the drunks away. When the stage was clear, three Servants came from and center: one priest and two priestesses. Iḷēhaḥ looked over to Feyūnhaḥ who brimmed with excitement. Even Vrihkhaḥ seemed eager, with his mouth seemingly curled into a smile and his eyes wide open, reflecting the light of the fire. The two of them seemed almost infected by the anticipation, for looking at the other villagers revealed a similar kind of look.
Now the villagers went silent, and waited for the Servants who donned long red robes and attached golden clasps to their wrists and ankles. Upon each of the clasps were bells that jingled with each motion. The priest then grasped within his hand a golden mace while the priestesses grasped two spears. They stood in line, and one by one, they struck the ground.
Suddenly, the blare of conchs, and the music of drums and flutes filled the area. And the Servants began to dance. Their steps were in tune to the music, and every time their feet landed on the ground the drums would resound and cause the surface to shake almost as if an earthquake had come. The mace and spears struck one another as the Servants shifted position. To their sides the flames of the Fiyukthi grew hot and frenzied. Ever motion of the dancing Servants caused the flames to grow in height. The embers scattered through the crowd like fireflies, making their way toward the Servants. And as they grew near, the clash of the weapons seemed to emit sparks. And excited tension welled in the air, and though many in the group did not know what to expect, they realized it was to be something grand.
One by one the, spears were parried and the priestesses scurried about, trying to find an opening to strike. It proved fruitless: the lone priest was too great a match for them. His mace seemed to grow in size among the heat waves, and with a great swing, it struck against both spears. The priestesses were brought low by the strike, and they strained to hold their position. The priest ushered a cry, and almost by design, the spears cleanly snapped in two. The priestesses rolled to the side and the mace struck the ground. The music intensified as the soil cracked. And from the cracks did the fire of the Fiyukthi flow and erupt with a great blaze. It soared high into the air and burst with great spectacle. The music ceased, and in its place came cheers and praise. Flowers and grains were thrown, and the three Servants, coming together, folded their hands and bowed.
While the others continued to cheer, Tūmbṃār thought to himself. He felt strangely reminiscent of the performance, as if he had seen if before.
Then he heard cheering from the throng, all shouting in unison, “Zūryaṃār! Zūryaṃār! Zūryaṃār!”
Realization had struck.
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“Why didn’t you tell me it was of the five brothers?” Tūmbṃār pestered Feyūnhaḥ.
“I thought it would make for a better surprise seeing a reenactment this far from our homes,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “But you act as if this is the first time you’ve seen it.”
“Because it is!” cried Tūmbṃār. He then glanced at Vādruhaḥ who was busy talked with Zhivya. “I pleaded teacher to take me from the valley to see on of these, but being as he was, and doubled with the insistence of my parents, I couldn’t.”
“Then you should have asked when we were still at Siḍhrehḷūr,” retorted Feyūnhaḥ.
“I would’ve had I remembered,” said Tūmbṃār sullenly. “I blame you and Iḷēhaḥ.”
No sooner had he said that did he feel a fist pressed against his head.
“Do not blame others for your lack of remembrance,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “But even had you brought it to our notice, we would still have had to train—and you would still have had to chase after me.”
“See it is your fault!” said Tūmbṃār, and pointing to the demon, he continued, “And Nakthaḥm’s too.”
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“The boy’s mouth and stomach seem to run faster than his mind,” said Nakthaḥm.
They bickered like this as they walked back to the outskirts of the village. Gravya paid close attention to what each of them said, hoping to get some idea of their adventures. Not once before had he thought of leaving his village. He assumed there was little of interest in the outside world, caring little for the various peoples and their locales. But hearing of the group’s tales burned him with desire. He wished now to experience all he had heard from them and more, regardless of peril and plight. And Zhivya took notice of this.
When they reached their previous spot, they seated themselves and began to eat and drink as they had before. The night became calm as the festivities slowly drew to a close. Gravya, while much pleased with listening to their conversations and watching their antics, had little chance to interject and participate. He distanced himself from them and pondered on his desire. His grandfather then came to him and asked, “What is the matter, child? You often seem serious, yet for you to do so tonight seems strange. Is there something bothering you?”
“O Grandfather, will you listen to all I have to say?” asked Gravya. “I know you’re not one who’s quick to anger, but I still ask for your patience in what it is I am about to say. Would you give me leave to speak on it though what it is I’m likely to say shall burden you?”
Now Zhivya had expected something or the other was on his grandson’s mind, but he did not expect him to become as formal as he had in addressing him. “Have no worries, speak what your heart desires, and if it’s in my power I shall grant it to you.”
“Thank you grandfather,” said Gravya with a light smile. “Ever since Tūmbṃār and his friends has come to our home, I felt odd observing them. Never before had I taken interest in the travelers, guests, or strangers who would come through our valley, whether they be like us or different. And most certainly I did not interest in the powers that Tūmbṃār and his friends displayed, yet now I feel a sense of sadness welling within me: a kind I had not felt before. There is some sense of longing and purpose I now yearn for.
“Do not take this mean I shall abandon my duty—far from it—but I now wish to experience a life that is different from what I am now leading, if only for a short while, until this desire of mine has passed. It is said that those who cling to their desires eventually become slaves to it, but at the same time could not function without them. I would say this desire is not wholly evil, but perhaps very selfish on my part given my station.”
The surroundings had become strangely silent. Gravya held his head low and did not care to examine them. With his confidence now bolstered, he turned to his grandfather, and bent his body low, and said, “Please grandfather, let me travel with Tūmbṃār, at least until the capital city where reside our people. Both you and I know that there is a sickness that ails me, but I should not have to worry if I be able to travel with them.”
When he finished his grandfather laughed, and said, “I shall permit it! I had oft times seen you observing them in a rather envious fashion and knew you would come to ask of me something. Hardly did I think travel would be what you’d ask of me, but I know it shall be good for you, and in your absence I shall watch over the village. And should I pass in that time—which I highly doubt—then some other in the village can lead until you return. So don’t worry on account of me!”
He looked to the group whose faces were filled with surprise and a level of regret of what they felt they would have to say. “But I wonder what the others have to say on this matter.”
“He can’t come with us!” said Tūmbṃār with a rather serious expression. This too caused surprised for the others who most assuredly thought that he would assent just like he had for all of them. They wondered what could have caused this change of heart.
Gravya was shocked at the prompt dismissal, and though he understood the perils the group would soon face, he did not feel he would have been all that much of a burden. “Is it because I appear weak, Tūmbṃār?” he asked.
Now everyone was eager to hear what he had to say regarding this. Tūmbṃār cleared his throat. “Yes well, there are three reasons,” he said holding three fingers: “First, as you said, it’s because you seem weak, or more probably are weak,” this seemed sensible enough to the others; “two, because I think you have a duty to stay here and do you must to become the future leader of the village,” while this seemed a little odd for him to say, it was understandable given Gravya’s circumstance—though Zhivya seemed a little suspicious, choosing to hold his tongue for the final reason; “and three because you participated in the sacrifice of the goat, our friend, and had us and yourself partake in devouring him.”
They all looked to Tūmbṃār with blank expressions and his companions sighed. Zhivya and Vādruhaḥ burst into laughter, leaving only Gravya dumbfounded and slightly annoyed as to how to respond.
“To think our expectations would have been dashed in such a way,” said Nakthaḥm, shaking his head. “How could you have become so fond of a goat, one that you knew was to be sacrificed, in only a matter of a few days?”
“Does it matter; friends are friends!” said Tūmbṃār. “I wouldn’t have even let you kill the others, not that you would’ve in the first place.”
Nakthaḥm raised an eyebrow, and said, “Now you are just lying. And I expected better of a sage’s pupil.”
“I’m not lying!” shouted Tūmbṃār.
“Ho, then what of the incident when I had gone mad with hunger, and proceeded to almost devour you and the others in my degenerate form? As I remember, you were frozen in place possibly by fear, and possibly by my powers. Had the Spirit of the Forest not come to your rescue then we would not be hear to speak of the tale, now would we?”
“But I tried to stop you then!” cried Tūmbṃār.
“And what of now?” asked Nakthaḥm.
Tūmbṃār had no response, and he bit his lip in frustration. He could have mentioned that he intended to set the goat free, against the wishes of the village. But even in that moment he had to admit to himself that he could not go through with it, regardless of reason.
“It does not do you, or us, any good to be compared to animals—well perhaps for Sanyhaḥmān it is fine given he does mirror one, and oh so likes to remind us that he is in fact not one.”
Sanyhaḥmān spat out his liquor and looked to retort, but just before he could do so, Gravya asked, “What’s this business of devouring that you speak of? And what has it to do with the goat? I already warned you in the beginning about this Tūmbṃār, and besides, I myself never thought of it as a friend.”
Tūmbṃār looked to Nakthaḥm and others. They did not seem to have an opinion on the matter, but in their minds they hoped Tūmbṃār would not speak of it.
It then came as a surprise when Vādruhaḥ said, “You may speak on that matter Tūmbṃār. I have already related in full to Zhivya, all concerning your circumstances and who each of you are. I had also mentioned a little concerning this to Gravya, yet having observed him for some time, I should think he is disciplined enough to keep your secrets.”
With his teacher’s blessing, Tūmbṃār explained to Gravya all of their trials, all the details concerning their journey, and all the history he knew of concerning his friends and the world at large—though withheld a little of the more sensitive information. Much of what he said came as a shock to him, as would be expected, yet for as many surprises came his way, Gravya took this quite well. No outbursts or interjections, just silent contemplation.
When Tūmbṃār finished relating it all, Gravya said, “Now I see one reason why you’re against my coming with you. I hadn’t thought that I would see any divine beings in my life, much less a goddess and a demon. And to think that the Light has returned! But the fact remains that I still stand steadfast in my resolve to accompany you. In fact I would say it’s even greater now! So what must I do to show that I won’t be a burden to you?”
“You don’t seem to understand that even if if you weren’t a burden I still wouldn’t take you,” said Tūmbṃār. “You still participated in the death of our friend!”
Gravya sighed. “Still mad over that. How about I show you some other goats you can befriend. They may not be as eccentric as the other one, but they should suffice in filling that lost company.”
Suddenly Gravya was struck on the cheek and sent flying. Tūmbṃār’s first was raised and gnashed his teeth in fury. Iḷēhaḥ quickly grabbed onto his fist while the others restrained him.
“What is the meaning of this, Tūmbṃār?” cried Iḷēhaḥ. “Restrain your anger lest you become like the Demons!”
“I won’t let him disrespect him like that!” said Tūmbṃār, trying to free himself from their grasp.
Gravya tumbled some distance away, but he regained his bearing. He wiped the blood from his mouth, and dusted his clothes. He strode back to the group and as soon as he came close to Tūmbṃār, he dove straight into him, impacting his guy and causing them to tumble out of his companions’ reach. Now this came wholly unexpected, for they expected Gravya to forgive rather than engage, but whatever the reason, they sought to restrain the both of them before the situation could escalate. But both Vādruhaḥ and Zhivya held the group back.
“Let them have their quarrel,” said Zhivya, “it would be better they resolve their difference through fight rather than begrudgingly tolerate each other. Tūmbṃār has every right to be angered, especially at what my grandson has said, but Gravya shall not back down from his resolve. I suppose that is just the nature of foolhardy individuals.”
Tūmbṃār and Gravya regained their bearing, and looked to one another. The light of the village was now out of reach. Their bodies were covered in darkness, with only faint silhouettes visible to Tūmbṃār’s companions. They circled each other anticipating the other’s moves. Neither one wanted to make the first strike, but the eagerness for pummeling one another remained high.
The clouds then began to shift in the sky, and shafts of the moonlight came through to illuminate the surroundings. As soon as the light came between them, their gazes shifted to the rodents that scurried past. When Tūmbṃār brought his view center again, he saw Gravya quickly closing in. His fist was bared front and Tūmbṃār parried it to the side. He pushed Gravya behind him and held himself firm. He felt something amiss. The strike felt too clean, as if the wind had guided Gravya’s fist toward him. The air was still in that moment and Tūmbṃār paced himself a few steps back.
Gravya turned to Tūmbṃār, and said, “Don’t cower Tūmbṃār! I know you to be better than this! How am I show my mettle if you flee from my strikes!”
“It was only a single strike!” cried Tūmbṃār. “But I want to know: do you have the powers?”
Gravya ignored the question and raced to Tūmbṃār. Though hesitant, Tūmbṃār answered his opponent’s call and ran toward him. When they drew near, they each dealt blows and strikes that were either blocked or parried. Neither could get past the other’s defense and Gravya became more and more irritated—feeling mocked by Tūmbṃār. Their duel, from an outsider’s point of view, had seemed to devolve into a haphazard brawl, not unlike the ones engaged by small children. The others could not help but notice this peculiarity.
“I wonder if the training has taken its toll on the boy,” said Nakthaḥm. “This is much too strange. He should at least be able to use his powers to direct the impacts of his strikes.”
“No, look a little closer,” said Sanyhaḥmān, “perhaps your eyes aren’t keen as they once were but you should be able to notice what Gravya is doing. Though he doesn’t seem to realize it himself.”
The demon heeded the monkey-man’s words and peered with squinted eyes. “Ah! Very interesting! Perhaps we underestimated that little shepherd after all.”
“What do you mean?” asked Iḷēhaḥ. “What is it you two see that I cannot?”
“I would like to know as well,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “The darkness and fatigue seem to be getting the better of me.”
Aiṛth drew closer and Dhīṇahi rushed past. The young girl tried to grab the others’ attention pointing at the two scuffling boys. She moved her arm about to match with Gravya’s position and strikes.
“It looks as if Dhīṇahi knows,” said Aiṛth.
“Yes,” said Nakthaḥm. “Iḷēhaḥ and Feyūnhaḥ, look to Gravya and tell me what you see.”
The two ladies seemed perplexed by all of this. They did as Nakthaḥm said and looked to Gravya. At first nothing of interest came to their notice. But as their concentration held, they observed something unusual. It seemed as if the air was being dragged from Tūmbṃār. They could see Tūmbṃār’s clothes being pulled in Gravya’s direction, as if a draft were coming in from behind Tūmbṃār. And as this was being done, Tūmbṃār could scarce hold his bearing or control over the powers. He could, at any moment, unleash a barrage of elemental attacks, but such an action could put both him, and especially Gravya, at great risk.
“Is the air being controlled by Gravya?” asked Iḷēhaḥ.
“That is what it looks like,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “but there seems to be more to this as well. The earth beneath Gravya’s feet is loosening and hardening at each of his steps, and faint sparks are falling from his fists.” Her eyes widened in surprise, and she said, “Then that must mean he has control over the powers!”
“Indeed,” said Nakthaḥm, “but how he learned it is a mystery.” He turned to the sage who was silently watching the battle. Nakthaḥm did not say anything but had an idea as to what could have occurred.
Meanwhile, Tūmbṃār kept deflecting the oncoming attacks. He was beginning to run short on breath. He had to do something to end this battle soon, but without hurting Gravya too much. His opponent did not make this easy for him.
With no other recourse, Tūmbṃār forced the air forward, causing Gravya to be pushed back but with his feet still firmly planted. Tūmbṃār succeeded in distancing himself. Using air, water, and fire he issued a great blast of steam toward Gravya and hindered his sight. And without a moment’s rest, he threw himself in flight using the ejected earth beneath his feet.
He flew toward Gravya and slammed him away from his footholds, and sunk him to the ground. The two slid upon falling but soon after, came to a halt. Tūmbṃār was atop Gravya, with his hands about Gravya’s throat and heart. They held in that position, waiting.
Gravya lifted his resistance and relaxed, while Tūmbṃār released his hold over him. The match was decided.
----------------------------------------
Gravya was disappointed. He did not think he could best Tūmbṃār but still desired to win. The others, however, were more surprised by what Vādruhaḥ has to say.
“Yes it was I who who taught him how to use the powers,” declared the sage. “Perhaps you were all very much attentive to your training—enough so as far as I could sense—that you did not notice this young shepherd always remaining close to where we were. I do not doubt that there are many areas to graze the livestock, but I could sense he came close to us to observe; and even more so to seek. It happened that on a particular day—when I was not close and you were all engaged in your sparring sessions—that I approached him to see what the matter was.”
Vādruhaḥ paused and looked to Gravya, who only then noticed the others staring at him.
“Continue Gravya,” said Tūmbṃār with a glint of suspicion in his eye.
He sighed and said, “I hadn’t mentioned this before, but for some time I noticed some rather odd things occurring about me. Drafts that would come from nowhere, shifting stones and pebbles where I wasn’t looking, fires that would blaze whenever I fanned the flames, and water that ever so slightly seemed to recede or approach depending on how I neared it. It seemed a miracle that I could stave off any serious trouble that could arise from this. I’m sure you noticed this to some extent, Tūmbṃār.” The boy nodded, approving that this fell within expectations. “But it soon became intolerable to hold off any longer. It felt that I may end up hurting myself or someone else if I couldn’t find the cause behind this. So I sought guidance from the sage to see if there was something haunting me or if indeed I was just going mad.”
Vādruhaḥ cleared his throat, redirecting everyone’s attention toward him. “And so when he told me of his issue, I had come to a realization of what could be afflicting him. I inspected his hands and invoked the elements upon them. And it became as clear as day that he had an innate proficiency over the elements.”
Now the doubt was answered, but it also came as a shock. To think that they would find another person with the powers out in a remote location as this. One where even the powers of the Servants were diluted to the extent of being only useful for theatrics.
Tūmbṃār sighed. “You act as if you didn’t know this at all, but if our journey is anything to go by, surely you must’ve known before us even coming here.”
“No, not quite, although I do concede in having taken part to some of your developments in Western Trdsyṃhaḥ,” said Vādruhaḥ. Tūmbṃār was glad for having his suspicions for at least part of his journey confirmed but even though he would not dare to think his teacher a liar, a glint of suspicion held for his teacher’s involvement here. “It is, however, the case that I sensed something amiss in this region, but I did not yet know the cause for it was Gravya—not until he approached me that is. But regardless, as in most situations concerning sages, favors do not come freely. So I had him tend to me, sending him on many errands and tasks, until at last I granted him his desire and calmed his anxiety. I gave him some rather simple exercises that he could perform in the meantime to calm the elements about him. And they seem to have worked for the most part.”
“Not enough!” cried Gravya before prostrating. “I beg your pardon, O Zūryashhaḥ, I just expected more was all. My lack of control has still yet to be dealt with.”
“And it will be,” said Vādruhaḥ. “I think you should now join in the others’ training. I do not expect you to face off against me like them, but with the short time we have left it should be enough to ready you to travel with them.”
“What!” shouted Tūmbṃār. “I may have forgiven him in my heart but it doesn’t mean I wish for his company—even if he’s a friend.”
“An odd thing to say, seeing that friends should give each other their company,” said Vādruhaḥ.
Tūmbṃār felt conflicted. He could feel sorrow, anger, jealousy, and even a faint tinge of happiness well within him. He was unsure. He felt he had to remain stubborn, for to give in would mean to slight the death of his friend, even though the goat was more than prepared for its fate. He remained silent, brooding and thinking to himself.
“Do you think it truly wise for him to come with us, O great sage,” asked Iḷēhaḥ. “Even with such powers, the way forward from here should surely be filled with greater perils than he could not imagine. Would it not be best for him to remain or be escorted by others?”
“The chance for him to remain is unfortunately not there,” said Vādruhaḥ. “And there is little chance that others could take him, even if they wished it. The road is as perilous as you say.”
“Then let him go with others, even if begrudgingly!” said Iḷēhaḥ. The others thought she was being a little too forceful but nonetheless agreed with her. “Why persist in persuading us otherwise?”
“I persist for he has asked for my help,” said Vādruhaḥ. “He had tended to me, and so naturally I granted him his boon. I shall not repeal it, nor could I. But there is something greater that must be said about this, though I wished not to speak about it and burden you further. But it seems you will not accept him unless I reveal it and divest you of your stubbornness.”
“And what is this information that could burden us further than we already are?” asked Iḷēhaḥ in an irritated tone. She looked to Gravya who held his head low, and she became angry. She did not like this situation of the sage being used by a villager whom she barely knew, especially at cost to their journey.
“It concerns a phenomenon known as the Disruption,” said Vādruhaḥ. Iḷēhaḥ’s face became pale on hearing that. “Judging by your face you seem to have witnessed or at the very least heard of it. What of the rest of you?”
Iḷēhaḥ thought to their time in Vālukyāvaḷūr and the incident with the deranged animal trainer. Though she refused to speak on it then, she knew that the phenomenon that Vādruhaḥ spoke of was related in part to his demise. She shuddered to think what could have happened to Tūmbṃār should that battle have not ceased in the way it did.
“Indeed I have!” said Aiṛth suddenly. “It is part of the reason why our order allows those with the powers to enter our ranks. It is said that if such people cannot gain control over their newfound powers, then almost like an explosive they should burst! Not too unlike a charged Dvı̄sahlvah as I heard.” She shuddered and immediately asked, “O great sage, you surely do not mean, Gravya could face such a demise? While it is indeed a problem such instances are rare. You do not mean to say his well of powers is greater than usual?”
“That is precisely what I mean,” he said with a grave face.
The group was unable to respond. Tūmbṃār did not seem to be listening, but he heard well what Vādruhaḥ said, and felt even more conflicted. Gravya and Zhivya, however, remained as they were seeming to have already known this before.
“I wished, O great sage, that you wouldn’t have had to mention it,” Gravya said with a forlorn face, “but what you say is true.” He faced the others and continued, “Perhaps this is the due I have to pay in this life. I don’t expect any pity nor would I want it as I can clearly see from your faces. I don’t wish to be a burden. Let me come if you truly think it would be in your best interest. All I can promise is that I won’t hinder you. I am after all just a guest.”
“O sage,” said Sanyhaḥmān, “if the situation is so grave, then it still doesn’t answer why you would have him accompany us. I doubt your intention is to have him die in our care.”
Vādruhaḥ smiled. “There are few ways to cure this affliction. One is to gain mastery over the elements, but of course, that requires time and patience, and much practice over many years of which we cannot afford right now. Another is to have the Servants suppress such power and over many years ease the tension by which the burgeoning elements can then calm. But to keep him in their care, means forfeiting his livelihood and taking the mantle of a priest. And such Servants who can help in this regard can only be found in the capitols of the respective continents.
“And yet another is to simply draw out the power, yet to do so could very well sever a person’s connections to the powers. There are not many who could perform such a feat, even fewer who could do so without complications. This option I advice to leave only as a last resort if you should happen to come across one who could perform it.”
“While you have listed all these methods, O Zūryashhaḥ,” said Nakthaḥm, “none seem to be viable without great sacrifice to his livelihood. But I surmise you have a solution to this little conundrum.”
“Indeed I do!” affirmed the sage. “I would have you seek out an old acquaintance of mine—a witch as it were. She has taken refuge in the forests opposite the Central Mountains and north of Trdsyḷūr. But the way to her now has grown dangerous. A great foe, prowls near there: a demon of the Lower Realms, but do not think it like any have faced before. No doubt some of you have already sensed its power.”
“So that’s what I felt,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “And likewise, you Iḷēhaḥ, Sanyhaḥmān, and Nakthaḥm, must have felt it too right.”
“I have at the very least,” said Nakthaḥm while the others nodded. He turned his attention to Gravya and asked, “Would you risk so much all for the sake of adventure? I know I have said that none of the options the Zūryashhaḥ have listed would come without great sacrifice, but I am sure he could assist in solving this. He has his own way in which he should travel, and it would seem to me that he taken quite the liking to you. What say you, O sage of the Atneṃārhaḥn?”
“I would have no issue in doing so,” said Vādruhaḥ, “but it would be a very long while before he should see home again. I have many matters to attend to when our business is done here, not least of which would be to aid you from behind the scenes. He could indeed accompany and aid me in such dealings, but he has already made his decision to see the world with you, and then make his return home before long.”
“The great sage himself has even offered his services to you,” said Nakthaḥm. “It is not often, that a sage should extend such aid especially in matters not concerning those who are not their disciples. Though it is certainly unbecoming of me, no doubt because of these fools whom I travel with, I cannot help but feel worried for your travels with us. Does it mean so much that you must travel with us?”
“If I don’t take this chance, I don’t think I should get another,” said Gravya. “Setting aside the issue of my powers possibly killing me, there are still a great many things I don’t understand about the world. That lack of understanding has made me harbor a sense of animosity toward it. It was only after the arrival of your group that my mind started to shift, thinking there to be more worth outside than I had given it before. It is the case that such a desire could be fulfilled with my traveling with the sage, but as he has mentioned, my desire isn’t as long-lived as yours. I wish to ultimately return home after being sated with the world’s wonders.
“As the years pass, less and less travelers come here. And by the time I should come of age and be able travel alone, then I should have already become the chieftain of this village at which point I would’ve lost my chance. Seeing as you all are wiser than me, then you should know that this world shall always be filled with perils and calamities. That is its nature, and so no matter how hard one tries, it will always find a way to rid a person of their fleeting happiness. And if that’s to be the case, then let me meet it head on! I don’t mean this to be a statement of death, but as a resolution to venture forth. I shouldn’t cower now that the chance has presented itself. I’d surely regret it if I remained silent now.
“And besides I’ve grown rather fond of all of you!”
Nakthaḥm smiled, and said, “Then I see no problem with your accompanying us. What say the others?”
“No issue here,” said Sanyhaḥmān cleaning his teeth.
“I still have doubts,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “but I suppose he’ll be safer with us, now that we have a great benefactor watching over us.”
“I shall do my best in the stead of my peers to tend to him till we reach the with of the forests!” said Aiṛth. “And I should think Dhīṇahi has no issue with this either.”
Dhīṇahi nodded her head with a large smile, and shook Gravya’s hands up and down.
“While I have my reasons for being against this,” said Iḷēhaḥ, “not least because of the size of our party, I shall assent if this is everyone’s decision.” She looked to Vrihkhaḥ who howled, and then shifted her gaze to Tūmbṃār who remained silent and brooding. “Tūmbṃār, what would you have us do?”
Tūmbṃār did not respond. In Iḷēhaḥ’s mind, she wished he would say no. She knew too well what he would do should anything befall Gravya. She felt she could not bear to see Tūmbṃār suffer anymore, not least because of all the trouble she caused for him. But Tūmbṃār had other plans in mind.
He had realized that he had lost sight of his goal. He had endured so much up to this point all so he could press answers from his teacher. The incident with the goat and the matter of the vision should have spurred him toward that end, but instead he had grown distracted. He had to put his anger to rest, not only for his but for Gravya’s. So now having come to a decision, he said, “Gravya should come with us.”
All, except Iḷēhaḥ, were glad for his decision, not least Gravya whose face brightened with happiness.
“But on the condition that he help me loosen my teacher’s lips.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Gravya.
“It means you should continue to serve the sage Vādruhaḥ until he means to grant you another boon,” said Tūmbṃār nodding to himself as if having at last figured an end to his troubles.
“Well I can most certainly do that,” said Gravya, “but should your be so forward and direct about it in front of your teacher?”
“Of course,” declared Tūmbṃār emphatically, “after all he knows what I seek.”
Gravya looked between him and the sage, and asked, “And what would that be?”
Tūmbṃār smiled. “Answers.”