Despite the snowfall, the darkness and the giddy rocking of the bridge, the crossing was accomplished without incident, and the cart came to a grinding halt before a strong gate, where a posse of asura commanders had gathered to receive their king. As Hiranyaksha and his companions disembarked, one of the waiting asuras stepped forward.
“Salutations, my king,” he bowed deeply to Hiranyaksha before nodding at the two hulking figures beside the asura lord. “And my respects to the brave Chandasura and Amarka.”
The two giants acknowledged the greeting in silence, waiting for Hiranyaksha to speak. The asura king still towered over his generals by a hand, the majestic ram horns on his head sweeping upward and back.
“The vyala…” Hiranyaksha’s thumb jerked upward into the night, his voice gruff. “Why was it allowed to scream?” The asuras shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t know, your honour. We have been down here all this while.”
“Never mind, let’s get on with it.”
The asuras parted for Hiranyaksha, but instead of heading for the gate, their lord strode toward a broad, open platform that swung a little off the ground to one side. The platform was rigged with thick ropes and pulleys, with two ropes rising into the darkness above. Hiranyaksha stepped onto the platform, followed by Chandasura, Amarka and a pair of asura commanders. At a command, four mahishas harnessed to an enormous winch began drawing on the ropes. The winch groaned and turned, and with a shudder and a jolt, the platform lifted, first in unsure jerks, and then smoothly, as the bisons found their momentum.
Yard upon yard, the platform was hoisted up along the sheer face of a hill. Gradually, a blush of orange appeared far over the asuras’ heads, the glow growing in colour and strength with every yard gained.
“You know what to do when you reach Devaloka,” Hiranyaksha looked from one to the other of his generals.
“The message that the crow brought from your father was clear. We are to attack Amaravati with force,” he drove his right fist into his left palm with a smack, “and inflict as much damage as possible. However, we are not to claim or hold any deva territory. The idea is to harry the devas and take their minds off Veeshada’s dagger, that’s all.”
“We will do as our father has commanded, lord,” one of the helmeted giants answered.
The wind tore at the asuras as the platform neared the hill’s summit, snow whipping across their faces, biting and cold. Yet, a strange warmth enveloped them the closer they got to the orange glow, fuzzy and suffocating and filled with the smell of sulphur.
The platform bumped and came to rest by a rocky landing not far from the hill’s crest. The asuras got off, and with Hiranyaksha in the lead, they made the short way up the gradient, until they came to the edge of a large, bowl-shaped crater that fanned out over a huge section of the hilltop. The glow originated from within the crater, lighting the asuras’ faces bright orange.
Amarka and Chandasura unfastened their helmets as they joined their king at the lip of the crater, their bared faces revealing a contrast not often seen in blood brothers. While Amarka was swarthy, heavily bearded, and had a profusion of unruly black hair that sat low on his forehead, Chandasura was yellowish in complexion, completely bald, with a smooth, round face to keep the head company. Whereas Amarka’s eyes flashed big and mutinous under furry eyebrows, Chandasura’s were small and slanted amid the hairless folds of flesh around his forehead and cheekbones. The brothers had nothing in common except for their fierce muscularity – and the cold glint of malice in the depths of their eyes.
There was also eagerness and excitement in those eyes as they stared into the pit in front of them.
The crater wasn’t very deep, its floor a mass of black, igneous rock. The rock was broken in many places, and molten lava oozed between the slabs in small rivulets, forming swirling puddles of bubbling magma. Noxious sulphur fumes rose from these puddles, and here and there, small tongues of blue- green flame licked the air, as if savouring the melting drops of falling snow.
Standing amidst the burning-hot rivulets and pools were the vyalas. Dozens and dozens of them.
Bearing a crude resemblance to ostriches but many times larger and heavier in build, the vyalas had round, powerful bodies covered in an armour of black, oily scales that glinted in the light of the lava. Each vyala had a pair of long and strong avian legs, each leg ending in three sharply curved talons the size of small sickles. There was nothing distinctive about the rear portion of their bodies, which ended abruptly in small and disproportionate stubs instead of tails.
In contrast, the arresting feature of the vyalas was at the other end of their bodies; their long necks – five necks for every vyala, all light grey, bare and wattled – twisting and rising from their shoulders and swaying about in the air.
Five necks for every vyala, branching out abominably in all directions, each neck ending in a big, scaly head adorned with two beady eyes and a massive, hooked beak.
The vyalas’ beaks had been forced shut with ligatures, the knots held together by magic mantras that could only be undone by specific commands. So tight were the ligatures that the only sound to escape from the muzzled creatures was the occasional, high-pitched hum of a smothered shriek ‖ irascible and filled with loathing.
The asuras stood for a moment watching the five-headed monstrosities as they writhed and coiled their necks in ill temper. Not only did the vyalas peck at one another, at times two heads of the same vyala got into a spat, slapping into each other in rage, poking with their sharp beaks in rapidly escalating conflict.
“These are going to be a nasty surprise in Devaloka,” Amarka flashed a snarl of a grin.
“Indeed,” Hiranyaksha returned a wide smile. “A pity I won’t be with you to savour the shock on the devas’ faces.”
Noticing the company above, a vyala stretched one neck, then a second in the direction of the asuras. While both heads rose up from the crater, one was more adventurous and snaked close to Hiranyaksha, Chandasura and Amarka, peering at them in curiosity. Suddenly, without warning, the head lunged at Chandasura, striking at his face with its beak. The asura, however, grabbed the attacking head with one large hand, capturing its throat and squeezing it tight. Wriggling furiously, the captive head uttered a throaty croak, and instantly, the vyala’s other four heads sprang up from its shoulders, ready for a fight.
Chandasura, however, used his free hand to draw a dagger from his belt, and in one swift stroke severed the head he held in his other hand.
“You want a fight?” Chandasura challenged. “Come with me and I will give you one. Obey me and you can fight to your hearts’ content.” He flicked the head he had cut into the crater, where it bounced off a rock and sank into a lava pool with a meaty sizzle.
The vyalas appeared to sense what the asura said, and the multitude of heads eyed one another with enthusiasm, tittering excitedly. The four heads of the vyala that had attacked Chandasura sank back, even as the mutilated fifth neck began sprouting a new head, soft, pink and fleshy. By the time Chandasura had wiped his dagger clean and sheathed it, the vyala’s new head had begun maturing, becoming hard and scaly, the beak bulging and curving as it grew.
The unrestrained beak promptly opened wide, a cry building at the larynx from where a short, dagger-like tongue of red-hot fire protruded, growing longer with every passing moment. Before either cry or flame could fully emerge from the back of the vyala’s throat, an asura stepped forward. With a sharp command, he conjured up a fresh ligature, which slipped and wound itself tight around the beak, clamping it shut with a snap, trapping the beast’s lethal tongue in and snuffing the terrible cry out.
“You should be going,” said Hiranyaksha. With a chuckle, he added, “You have promised the vyalas something, and they are not the most patient of creatures. Go before they change their minds about you.”
Amarka and Chandasura extended their hands in the direction of the two asura commanders who had accompanied them up the hill. One of the commanders handed Amarka a
battle-axe, while the other gave Chandasura a heavy, flanged mace. The brothers then went down on their knees, bowing their heads before Hiranyaksha.
“Bless us, lord.”
“More than mine, you have the blessings of the mahaguru,” the asura king replied. “Fight well, and let the vyalas rain terror over Devaloka.”
Watching the sons of Shukracharya and the sorceress Urjaswati descend into the crater, Hiranyaksha felt his nape prickle at the thought of the assault on Amaravati. The brothers had both deva and asura blood in their veins, making them uniquely powerful; asura blood made them bold and fearless, deva blood rendered them immune to most tricks the devas resorted to. Chandasura and Amarka were a fearsome prospect in any battle. At the head of a legion of vyalas, they would be terror incarnate.
The asura lord almost felt bad for the devas.
Chandasura and Amarka joined the army of asuras waiting at the floor of the crater. Each of them mounted a vyala, thrusting their feet deep into the stirrups and taking a firm grip on the reins. At a command from Amarka, the chains that had kept the beasts shackled to the crater floor were unclasped. At another command, the first vyala stretched its broad, scaly wings and leaped into the sky. Taking their cue, the other vyalas followed suit, beating their heavy wings and rising above the crater in ever-widening spirals.
Butterflies
The lamp had nearly gone out, encouraging the shadows to leave the walls and encroach upon Shanku and the Mother Oracle, circling the two women like a pack of jackals, inching ever closer as the lamp’s wick guttered and charred in its bowl.
The Mother Oracle lay on a thick cotton quilt spread over a mat woven from palm leaves, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and regular. Shanku sat on the floor beside her sleeping grandmother, propped against a wall, her head slumped to one side in deep slumber. Black hair fell over her elfin face, which was drawn and tired. The girl held an embroidered straw and silk fan in her right hand, both fan and hand inert in her lap. Outside, the night was quiet, except for the soothing gurgle of water falling from a three-level fountain nearby.
The Mother Oracle’s eyes slowly fluttered open. She lay on her quilt for a while, staring into the gloom gathering around her. Then, slowly she turned toward Shanku, her face softening at the sight of her granddaughter. Reaching out, the oracle placed a hand on the girl’s knee and gave it a gentle shake.
Shanku stirred in her sleep before jerking into wakefulness. She blinked and stared about her in confusion – and then, as realization dawned, her eyes dropped to her grandmother in concern.
“How are you feeling, grandmother?” Leaning forward, Shanku placed an open palm on the oracle’s forehead. “There’s no fever. Are you still nauseous?”
“Only weak,” the old woman muttered drily with a tired shake of her head.
Shanku scrambled to her knees. “Let me fetch Councilor Dhanavantri. He asked me to inform.”
The Mother Oracle caught the girl by the wrist, staying her. “I’m feeling alright,” she croaked again. “Just very thirsty. Get me some water, child.”
Shanku hastened over to a window where a clay carafe sat on the windowsill, cooled by the gentle night breeze. Filling a goblet, she returned to her grandmother’s side. Kneeling down, she propped the Mother Oracle up with one arm; with the other, she helped the old woman sip from the goblet.
“I am sorry I went off to sleep, grandmother. Were you awake long? You should have woken me earlier.”
“I am alright, child,” the Mother Oracle sighed as she subsided onto the quilt. “I just awoke. How long was I asleep?”
“Since early evening.” Shanku placed the goblet on the floor, then leaned over to pour a measure of oil into the lamp from a small brass kamandalam. She adjusted the wick, and the lamp burned with renewed vigour, sending the shadows scuttling back up the walls. “Everyone was worried. The Samrat came twice. Councilor Dhanavantri was here past midnight to monitor how you were faring.”
“Very kind of him. And of the king.”
The sun was still setting over Ujjayini when the Mother Oracle had complained to a maid of heartburn. At first, though, the oracle had taken a tribal nostrum of betel leaves dipped in honey, and lain down to rest, insisting that the pain would ease. However, within half an hour, she had begun retching violently, and a mild fever had taken her over. Worse, of course, had been the growing pain in her stomach, accompanied by cramps. Shanku had been informed, and she, in turn, had notified Dhanavantri. The councilor and his assistants had tended to the oracle all evening, administering her with kashayams and unctions until her condition had stabilized to Dhanavantri’s satisfaction.
“Councilor Dhanavantri says it was acidity induced by indigestion.”
“The palace food is the culprit, I suppose. Too rich for the tastes of the tribe.” The old woman adjusted her head in a search for a comfortable position. Then, as a new thought occurred, “I would like to see the tribe. I miss them.”
Shanku knelt by the oracle’s side, looking down at her. “You can’t leave here, grandmother. You need to rest. But yes, I will have word sent to my cousins. The clansmen can come to Ujjayini to see you.”
“Can you do that, child?”
“Tomorrow, at first light,” the girl nodded. “Now I really must inform Councilor Dhanavantri that you have woken. He won’t be happy if.”
“In a while, my child,” the Mother Oracle registered her protest in a weak voice. Patting the floor by her side, she continued. “Sit here a while with me.”
Unsure, Shanku considered her grandmother for a moment. Then she decided to do as the oracle bid her. Reaching across, she picked up the fan and started stirring the air over her grandmother’s head.
“I tried doing the thing you told me about… in the park, remember?” Shanku spoke with hesitation. “The… the disappearing thing, I mean. I intended telling you earlier…”
“How did it go?” The Mother Oracle raised her head off the quilt in eagerness, her eyes widening, and then narrowing as she peered at the girl.
Shanku shook her head. “I have no control over where I end up going.”
“You will get used to it. This is a wonderful gift to have, my child.”
“I suppose so, though unless I know how to control it, it is a pretty useless gift.”
“You will learn,” the oracle patted the girl’s hand gently. “Learn to concentrate…”
“I do concentrate,” Shanku insisted. “I focus so hard on where I want to be, but every time I fail miserably.”
“But that is precisely why you have failed,” the oracle said mysteriously. “The trick is to focus on where you need to be and not where you want to be. Your heart knows where you need to be. Shut out what your mind says and heed your heart. Do that and you will discover the true value of your gift.”
Shanku lapsed into silence, meditating on what her grandmother had just said. The breeze blowing outside picked up, rustling through the trees. A small moth, probably borne by the breeze, flitted into the room and began orbiting the lamp in a frenzy of erratic ellipses.
“I’m so thankful the royal physician was in the palace. I’d have hated to have the other one prescribe me any of his loathsome remedies.”
Consumed by her own thoughts and the moth’s jumpy flight, the abruptness of the oracle’s statement – and the sudden change it ushered in the direction of their conversation - confounded Shanku.
“The one you call the Healer,” the crone clarified. “Curse his soul.”
Shanku gave her grandmother’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Even as she had heaved and retched and writhed in agony, the old woman had been insistent – even vehement – that she did not want treatment from the Healer. Between winces and hacking coughs, she had made it clear to her granddaughter that no matter what happened, the Healer was not to be summoned to attend to her. She would much rather submit herself to the care of the least experienced of Dhanavantri’s apprentices, she had said through gritted teeth.
“Wh
y won’t you allow the Healer to take a look at you?” The girl asked gently after letting a few moments pass.
“I don’t trust him, that’s all.” The oracle frowned, finding strength in her stubbornness. “There is something sinister about the man. I don’t want his shadow falling over me.”
Silence enveloped the two women once again. Seeing that the oracle’s eyes were growing heavy with fatigue, Shanku laid the fan down. “I must send word to Councilor Dhanavantri, grandmother. He will want to see you.”
The Mother Oracle nodded and released her grip on the girl’s hand. However, as Shanku stood up, she spoke.
“I don’t know how much time I have left in this world, child. So before you go, listen to what I learnt from the clouds this evening – before the heartburn set in. The clouds that blow from the west speak of a thousand black butterflies following the Dark River that bleeds the Great Desert. Go and tell that to your king. A thousand black butterflies following the Dark River, all heading south.”
Shanku stared at the old woman for a moment before nodding. “Thank you, I will.” But again, just as she turned on her heels, the oracle addressed her.
“I have a message for you as well, child. I found it woven in the patterns of the spider webs that infest the Labyrinth. I… I didn’t want to believe it… maybe I still don’t. Nevertheless, you should know of it.”
Shanku paused in mid-stride and turned. She could sense that the Mother Oracle was struggling to share whatever she had learnt during the time the palace household had sought shelter in the Labyrinth.
“The spider webs speak of repentance in the dungeons. They speak of… atonement. So, when the time comes, you will have to choose between punishment and forgiveness. It is your decision to make, not mine. Whichever you choose, I will always feel sorry for you for having to make that hard choice, my child.”
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 10
