The Simoqin Prophecies

by Samit Basu

  ‘No one told me,’ Sir Cyr said mournfully. ‘I have been guarding this bridge since morn. They broke the lock’

  ‘What lock?’ enquired Asvin.

  ‘Never mind. Mad,’ whispered Gaam.

  ‘Go on, cross the bridge,’ Cyr picked his sword up and sheathed it. ‘But how is it that brown-skinned easterners walk in the woods of South Ventelot? They broke the lock. It escaped. Beware, men, I see bandits. Open not that door, bandits. Brown-skinned easterners in South Ventelot. The world hath changed much.’ His voice was full of fear and wonder. He spoke to himself.

  They rode across the bridge, watching him warily. Sir Cyr stayed in the middle.

  ‘South Ventelot?’ asked Red Pearl scornfully. ‘This is the Bleakwood, and Ventelot is but a bad memory in these lands. Where have you been, ancient one?’

  ‘I am Sir Cyr of the Macabre Gard. Sir Cyr, Guardian of the Bridge. The King has ordered us to keep it imprisoned. But bandits came, alas. The cat is out. My men are dead. Deep, deep underground. The south will know the nundu once again. Must Guard the Bridge. None Shall Pass.’ He sounded frantic.

  ‘The King? What King?’

  ‘God save the King of Ventelot. Have they returned from the land of Avranti? Cat ate the bandits. Guard the cat. A cat may look at a king. There is another bridge, God save the cat. No one told me. None Shall Pass.’

  ‘He must be mad,’ said Gaam, looking worried. ‘Does anyone know what a nundu is? I don’t.’

  No one else knew what a nundu was either.

  ‘Let’s go, I have had enough of this madman. South Ventelot, indeed. South Ventelot hasn’t existed for two hundred years,’ said Red Pearl.

  ‘Let me try one more time. Can you tell us what ails you, Sir Knight? We might be able to help.’

  ‘It matters not. Deep, deep underground. The cat is out. The rest are dead. I am Sir Cyr of the Macabre Gard, Guardian of the Nundu. There is another bridge. Girl and garland, welcome the king. None Shall Pass.’

  ‘No. He’s mad,’ said Gaam resignedly.

  They rode on.

  ‘I could have challenged him to a duel,’ said Asvin ruefully. ‘Now I feel a little worried. What was he talking about?’

  ‘If you wander in the wilds in this part of the world, you will meet madmen every day,’ said Red Pearl. ‘Think no more of it, he was babbling. If you want to put everything he said together, he was probably a crazed ex-bandit who found a room with a lock deep underground, found that ridiculous armour and that shield with a cat on it and then decided he would be Guardian of the Bridge, and a knight of old Ventelot waiting for the King to return from Avranti. You meet dozens of people like him on the streets of Kol. Why, while I was waiting for you to return from the Underbelly a man came up to me and said he was really a centaur who had lost his tail, and invited me to help him find it. The south will know the cat again, indeed. Think no more of it.’

  Of course, after that they all thought about practically nothing else all afternoon.

  ‘You must remember this is not the story of a quest – this is real life, and not everything happens for a reason,’ Maya said to Asvin, who was scanning the forest for talking cats and unknown beings that might, on close investigation, turn out be nundus. Asvin looked mildly disappointed, but sheathed his sword.

  They traveled fast through the Bleakwood all day, meeting no bandits, madmen or monsters. They rode for a while even after sunset, until the horses needed rest. They found a little sheltered hollow and camped there for the night.

  The skies were clear – there was no moon that night but the stars shone, cold and piercing. They were all in reasonably high spirits, and they lit a fire, sat in a circle around it and told stories till it was very late. Then Maya, in the middle of telling the others how, in the city, she hardly ever slept, fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. The rest spoke for a while in low voices, put out the fire and then drifted off too. Asvin offered to keep watch but Red Pearl would have none of it.

  She walked around a little after the rest had fallen asleep, but the Dagger did not come. Red Pearl wandered around, listening to the night-noises of insects and the whistling of the wind through leaves and bare branches. An hour passed.

  Asvin dreamt of Avranti, of elephants and tiger-chases in Shantavan, of a beautiful woman he had once seen in near a sage’s ashram when he was very young. She had smiled at him and vanished, and he had run after her, thinking she was an apsara who had come to distract the sage from his meditation. But she had run away; in later years he had thought she must have been a Durgan warrior-woman. In his dream, he had been running after her, when the trees had turned into his guards, his friends, who all attacked him, naked swords in their hands. He was unarmed, Arjun stepped up and swung his sword…

  Asvin woke up.

  He was sweating slightly, the memory of Arjun’s hate-contorted face in the dream still vivid.

  From a hole in the bag he was traveling in emerged a rabbit. This assignment was not all it could have been; bumping around in a bag on a horse was not his style. Besides, Asvin seemed to be well protected.

  He saw something moving in the wood, far away. He looked around for Red Pearl, and saw her standing motionless in the night, looking the opposite way.

  Finally. A chance for a real adventure. Time to show the hero who his real teacher was.

  Steel-Bunz scurried to Asvin and nuzzled against his palm.

  ‘What is it, Fluffy?’ asked Asvin absent-mindedly.

  Steel-Bunz gave his sleeve a little tug. Just look that way, something moving in wood, time to investigate with little rabbit friend, yes?

  ‘I do believe you’re trying to tell me something.’

  Do you, now, meat scarecrow. Will you look up for a moment, please? Look, there it is. Whatever it is, it’s moving further away. So hurry.

  ‘You know, Fluffy, I love you, but I wish you were a dog. Dogs understand their masters.’

  That settled it. Steel-Bunz nipped his finger sharply. Asvin snatched his hand away with a little cry of pain. Pathetic.

  Steel-Bunz stalked off to his bag, and stayed there.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Red Pearl.

  ‘Nothing, really. Now why don’t you get some sleep? I can’t sleep tonight, for some reason. I’ll stand on guard, and wake you at the slightest sound. Please don’t say no.’

  ‘Very well, then, wake me in three hours,’ said Red Pearl reluctantly, acknowledging and succumbing to charm and tiredness. She trotted up to where Amloki, Gaam, Maya and Kirin slept in a circle. Spikes stood next to a tree – like centaurs, pashans slept upright – looking like a very badly carved statue. His tusks rose and fell gently and his vertical eyelids were shut.

  Red Pearl stood next to the tree where the horses were tied and was soon asleep.

  Asvin got up, picked up his sword and walked around for a while. His dream had made him remember home, and he suddenly felt very lonely and forlorn as he walked alone in the Bleakwood. He had been trained from birth to face and accept things as they came, because it was all karma, but the whirlwind-like life he was leading now was beginning to take its toll. He forced his mind into a state of calm and listened to the whispers running through the trees and the ground. He wished he were back in Shantavan, where the colours of day and night were fresh and vibrant, newly painted, unlike the faded tiredness of the Bleakwood.

  Then he heard the singing.

  It came from far away, a girl’s voice, singing a song in a language he did not know. Her voice was as sweet and melodious as a nightingale’s, and Asvin felt himself drawn towards the sound, his feet moving of their own accord.

  Asvin was no fool. He knew that enchanting voices in the Bleakwood would probably be treacherous and belong to hungry monsters singing for their supper. He had heard of the sirens of Psomedea of old, who lured men to their deaths with their songs. But this song was not seductive and beguiling, like a siren’s – it was innocent and pure, like dew on leaves, like sunrise over Tiger Hill in Durg
, like a mountain spring. It did not overpower his senses, it invigorated them.

  He took a step backwards, reassuring himself that he had not been ensorcelled. No, he was fine. He was in control. He knew he wasn’t as clever as Maya or Gaam, or as strong as Red Pearl or Spikes, but he was the hero, after all, and he was willing to learn. He knew he was being protected, shielded from the dangers that it was his right to face. It was time to prove himself.

  He hesitated, wondering whom to wake up. Red Pearl or Gaam would not let him go, Maya would want to come with him. Spikes scared him. Kirin, he decided, Kirin wouldn’t mind.

  There was a sudden noise behind him. He whirled around, swinging his sword.

  It was Spikes. He caught the sword with one hand and pulled it out of Asvin’s grasp.

  ‘Careful,’ he said quietly, ‘you could hurt other people with this thing.’

  Asvin looked at the sword in Spikes’ hand. Spikes looked as if he could break it like a twig. He took a step backwards, shaken, and looked at Spikes again. The pashan’s eyes were glowing pale green. Asvin felt a stab of fear. Avrantics didn’t like pashans.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ said Spikes after a few moments of silence. He gave the sword back to Asvin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Asvin said. ‘I’m going to go look. Stand guard.’

  ‘It could be dangerous,’ said Spikes. ‘There are many things in this forest that do not love humans. Perhaps I should go.’

  ‘No, I will go,’ said Asvin, suddenly remembering how clear and sweet the song was. ‘If I don’t return in an hour, wake the others.’

  Spikes nodded.

  And then Asvin was gone, threading through the trees, towards the enchanting voice far away. The magical voice wove little webs of melody in the air, and drew him in like a spider.

  Wake up, Kirin, said the voice.

  Kirin sat up hurriedly and looked around. Everyone else seemed to be asleep, except Spikes prowling around the camp. He shook his head groggily. He had a headache.

  Take the book out, Kirin.

  Who was it? The voice seemed to be inside his head. And it sounded strangely familiar…

  ‘Who – ’ he said slowly, rubbing his head.

  Take the book out, Kirin. Quickly. I do not have much time.

  With a little start, Kirin realized why the voice was familiar. It was almost exactly like his own.

  He took the book out of the little bag stuffed with rolled-up clothes that he had been using as a pillow. As he touched it, the edges glowed bright in the night, almost as bright as a little Alocactus. Enough light to read by night.

  Open it.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispered Kirin.

  Open it.

  Kirin opened the book. In the glow of the moongold, he saw the pages were still empty.

  Then a faint black line appeared on the page. As Kirin watched, it curved, another line appeared below it, curving up to meet it. Little jagged lines shot out. A circle formed in the centre. Kirin realized he was looking at an eye.

  It winked. Another eye appeared beside it.

  Then a nose, then a mouth, then the rest of the face, in fine black lines, as if sketched by a very good artist. The lines drawn were thin and spidery, and seemd stretched and faded, as if there was not enough ink in them.

  Kirin looked at the face. It was his own.

  Then a scar appeared on the left side of the face, from beside the eyebrow all the way down to the jaw. Kirin noted that the face looked older, the jaw was stronger, the eyebrows were a little thicker and the lips were a little thinner than his own. It was not his face. But it was the face of someone who looked very like him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered again.

  I had many names, said the voice in his head. When I sold magical toys in the streets of Asroye as a child, they called me the Joy Peddler. When they threw me out of the hidden city, they called me Outcast. When I prowled through the pits of Imokoi, slaying left and right in the darkness, they called me the Shadow. In the dungeons of Danh-Gem, when they tortured me, they called me the Rock. When I brought Simoqin back to Asroye and returned to the War, they called me the Eveningstar. But the name they used most often was Demon-hunter.

  Demon-hunter. The words burned a bright streak down Kirin’s brain. It couldn’t be.

  My true name is Narak, and I am your father, Kirin.

  There was a faint silvery glow ahead of him. Asvin walked towards the light stealthily. The song was louder now, and clearer. And even more beautiful. It was as wonderful as a morning raga, a song of youth, beauty and love, a song that had words but didn’t need them. Asvin had the sudden feeling that he was floating towards the music, his feet on an invisible carpet. He stumbled, quickly hid in the shadow of a tree and looked.

  He saw her shining in the darkness, glimmering, radiant, beautiful.

  His heart stopped. His eyes bulged.

  He was in love.

  Shut out the joy. Shut out the pain. Think, Kirin. So he says he’s your father, and the book is a ravian book. But it’s one of the Untranslatable Books, it’s from Imokoi, it was probably written by Danh-Gem himself. It could be a spell-book of Danh-Gem’s, something he used to look into the minds of ravians, find their thoughts and desires and thus trick them. Do not believe it.

  ‘Why should I believe you? Prove it,’ he whispered.

  I did not expect you to believe me, Kirin. It would have been foolish to trust a book from Imokoi, would it not? Perhaps I am a creation of Danh-Gem, you are thinking. I do not blame you. And I will give you proof, Kirin, but I cannot now. This wood you are in is an evil place, Kirin. It saps away my powers, and I must conserve my strength, for I have much to tell you. The pain you are feeling is mine, Kirin. Get out of this wood fast. You are in deadly danger. The voice was anxious, fervent; it was either telling the truth or it was the best liar in the world. The pain in Kirin’s head was blinding, he saw straggly little white shapes floating around him.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Get out of this forest in secret. Take your pashan with you. Tell no one. That is of utmost importance. Tell no one. You are in peril, and so are those who travel with you. You are being hunted, and you must live, Kirin, for great deeds lie before you. Take your things, and leave tonight. Leave now. I need some time before I grow strong enough to prove I am indeed your father. But the longer you stay in this wood the weaker I will get. And you need my guidance, son.

  ‘I cannot do that,’ whispered Kirin. ‘I will not abandon my task without proof.

  Understand this, Kirin. You were left behind for a purpose. You were left behind by me, to finish the task that I began. You are the Rakshasbane, son, the one the Prophecies do not speak of. When Danh-Gem rises, you are the one burdened with the task of killing him. The only one who can. And I must guide you. Please. I beg of you, listen to me. Do not gamble with the lives of those dear to you, for danger will seek you out wherever you go. I will explain everything. I am your father, Kirin, trust me once.

  The face on the book was twisted with pain, and the lines were growing thinner.

  Kirin wanted to believe him, wanted to hold on to him, part of his mind was screaming at him to obey, to take the book, his bag, and Spikes, and disappear quietly, this was the ideal opportunity. But Kirin was not a hero.

  ‘Save your strength, if you are indeed my father,’ he said finally, as great lumps of pain forced their way into his brain. The world was a black blur. His head throbbed wildly. ‘I am going to meet the most powerful spellbinder in the world,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘And Simoqin’s hero is my friend. Save your strength, and we will work together to destroy Danh-Gem.’

  There was a dry laugh in his head. So you will not believe unless I show you. Son, if human heroes could save the world, I would not have cast the spell that caused you to be left behind. But you will not trust me. You are indeed my son. So be it. But beware, for danger lurks beneath the boughs of this evil wood. I will save my strength indeed. Sleep now –
you will need it. Tell no one.

  The face faded, and so did the pain. Kirin fell back to the ground, exhausted. He managed to shove the book into his bag before he lost consciousness.

  Asvin watched, wonderstruck, as she sang.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her features were serene and perfect, her eyes were large, blue and bright. She looked like the paintings of Skuan goddesses Asvin had seen in Kol. Her hair shimmered golden in the night; her skin was glowed softly. As she sang, Asvin’s heart soared – he felt as if he were flying high, above clouds and mountains in a snow-covered land. Her red lips called out to him, her slender arms seemed to reach out for him. He was enchanted.

  Flowers grew at the maiden’s feet, even in the scarred earth of the Bleakwood. Vines grew magically, entwined around her, sprouting leaves in strategic places covering her beautiful nakedness. Just like the paintings, Asvin thought. Of course, he had not even noticed that she was naked, for Asvin had always been a Good Boy; he had just noticed in passing that she was slender and incredibly graceful – he was lost in her eyes, her face, her glimmering hair.

  The sky grew lighter.

  ‘Where is Asvin?’ demanded Red Pearl.

  ‘He heard noises in the forest and went off to look,’ said Spikes.

  ‘What? You let him go off alone?’

  ‘Why would I want to stop him? He’s not a child’

  ‘What a fool I was, to sleep in the Bleakwood! Which way did he go?’

  Spikes pointed.

  ‘You made a mistake letting him go, Spikes. If I do not find him, I will blame you,’ said Red Pearl, and galloped off into the forest.

  The maiden suddenly stopped singing and looked around, and Asvin felt himself stop breathing in anticipation. She had sensed his presence! He had to speak to her. Find out who she was. Make her his.

  He stepped forward, young, tall, noble, handsome.

  ‘Nightingale!’ he cried.