by Rohit Gaur
Before the shark could return again, Tarun examined the coral stand. Directly in the middle, there appeared to be a slight opening between the thickly branched columns, just enough space for one person to squeeze through. Tarun eased himself into the gap, conscious of how much his body was brushing up against the coral on both sides. The thicket was so dense that if the coral had been poisonous, he would certainly not have been able to make it through.
Once inside, Tarun worked his body along the cramped and narrow path until it forked in different directions. He stood, puzzled, looking both ways. Nothing seemed to distinguish the two paths except for the direction. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was the bright red of the coral. Choosing a direction, he inched along until again the path forked, one curving around backward and the other leading forward.
It’s a maze, he realized.
The space was tight and claustrophobic. The vividly colored coral pressed in on all sides, rubbing against his shoulders and thighs. If someone who lacked immunity to the poison were to try and make their way through the maze, they would undoubtedly die before they reached the middle. It was an ingenious trap.
With just one flaw, thought Tarun. He thought back to the mazes he used to do in the colorful activity books that his mother would buy for him and Kumar. He remembered that there was always a trick if you could not figure out the solution: the right-hand rule! Just keep following the wall to your right and eventually you’ll reach the end. Taking note of the wall rubbing against his right shoulder, Tarun began to move forward as quickly as he could within the tight confines of the path.
The minutes ticked by. At two different points Tarun came to a dead end, but he dutifully turned around and began following the right wall out again. I’ll get there soon, he told himself, hoping it was true.
Within another minute, though, he could feel the path widen and his movement forward becoming easier and less constrained. The water began to brighten, and with a final push, he stepped out into a small clearing, walled on all sides by the crimson coral but open to the water’s edge above. At the center of the clearing, a waist-high outgrowth of rock jutted from the ocean floor, a stream of cloudy bubbles dribbling from its open top. Tarun had never seen anything like it, but he knew immediately what it must be.
As he approached, Tarun could feel the water growing warmer, the bubbles pouring out from the fissure in the rock like smoke from a chimney. He realized that the water spewing out was likely boiling, heated by the flowing volcanic lava below the surface of the ground until it burst out of a weak spot in the crust. Mixed with the tepid water, the heated steam had created a small hot spring within the lagoon. To Tarun, it felt like being in a bathtub, although one that smelled strongly of sulfur. He tentatively put out a hand toward the issuing bubbles but drew it back quickly when he felt the water scald him. The unrelenting issue of superhot water made it impossible to reach inside. How was he going to retrieve the tusk? How could he even know whether it was inside?
I might be immune to the poison in the coral, he thought ruefully, but not to boiling hot water.
He retreated a minute to think, letting his eyes wander around the cramped clearing. Tiny shafts of light came down through the coral that grew together in a dense and tangled knot near the surface of the water, preventing entrance to the inner clearing from above. Nothing else but sand and water. And, he considered again, the coral. I wonder if . . .
Tarun stepped over to the edge of the coral thicket, grabbed a branch that was only a little taller than himself, and then pulled on it as hard as he could. Though the coral had seemed hard and inflexible like a stone when he touched it before, the long and thin shaft of the coral bent slightly under Tarun’s pressure. Anchored firmly to the ground, the coral would break if he could just obtain better leverage. Bracing his feet on the stem of another coral plant, Tarun pulled again with the full force of his weight. It shuddered, but stayed intact.
Then Tarun remembered the objects he had in his satchel. He reached inside and grabbed the axe. Turning back to the coral, he raised the axe over his head. Here goes nothing, he thought, before bringing the axe blade down on the slender coral. The axe wedged into its pebbly surface, gouging a large jagged mark. Tarun pulled the axe out, raised it again, and swung hard. The gash grew deeper until finally he placed the axe back in the satchel and once again braced himself to pull.
Snap!
The coral broke off near the root and Tarun hit the floor of the ocean with a gentle thud. A piece of coral five or six feet in length lay on the ground.
Climbing back to his feet, Tarun grabbed the coral and turned back to the steam vent. Standing at a safe distance, he pushed the coral staff into the opening of the vent and felt around. He circled the fissure, feeling carefully around its inside until he made contact with something that moved. Carefully, he felt around the object with the tip of the coral. Using gentle pressure, he pinned the object to the side of the vent and then slid it carefully up to the edge.
The tusk! It was unmistakable: a white arch with a jagged edge at one end and a smooth tip at the other. Against the dark interior of the coral clearing, it shone like a crescent moon. He knew it must somehow be the most powerful of Ganesha’s objects—given its hiding spot—but he did not have time to speculate on what it might be now. He flipped the tusk over the lip of the vent and it sank to the sea floor on the other side. Tarun grabbed it deftly, slipping it into his satchel along with the axe and coiled rope.
He crept back through the coral stand, watched the shark disappear around the corner on his regular round, rushed across to the passage, and then crawled out onto the lagoon bed once more. Back out on the other side, he saw in the distance that Galerest had thrown a knotted rope line into the water from the boat to help him climb back out. Making a beeline for the rope, his heart burst with excitement. Ganesha would be overjoyed to have his objects back. Galerest and Radigar would be so proud of him. And soon, he’d be back safe at home in Kashmir.
Grabbing the slimy rope, Tarun pulled himself up using the knots as rungs. He had thought that when he started to climb, Galerest might have noticed and leaned over the edge, but no one appeared. Maybe it’s not that noticeable, Tarun thought. All the better to surprise him when I appear. As he reached the surface, Tarun quickly pulled the mask off of his face and wiped the water out of his eyes.
“I did it, Galerest!” he yelled, adjusting his eyes once more to the bright morning sunlight. “I got the tusk!”
When no one replied, he put his hand down from his face and squinted up at the boat. Galerest was nowhere to be seen, or Latrina.
Instead, he saw three Serpentine guards, pointing menacing staffs in his direction, staring down at him with their blank, cruel eyes.
Chapter 16
AN OFFER
“Move,” the Serpentine guard hissed in Tarun’s ear, jabbing his needle-pointed staff into his torso. He stared at the rough, sandy path in front of him to where it disappeared in the jungle underbrush. Galerest, hands bound tightly behind his back and flanked by his own set of captors, shuffled ahead on the path. Somewhere behind Tarun, though he could not see where, Latrina was likely following along. He knew they should not have trusted her, that she would betray them, though it was strange that she had already been whisked away by the time Tarun was pulled from the water and Ganesha’s objects confiscated by the silent Serpentine guards. Instead of rowing back to the mainland, the guards had directed the boat to the island at the center of the lagoon and forced them ashore.
So stupid! he berated himself. We walked blindly into a trap. He wondered how Galerest must be feeling but all he could see was his slumped shoulders. He almost pitied Galerest more than he pitied himself.
The Serpentine soldiers forced them into a quick march down the path into the dense jungle fringe that encircled the mountain. The air was humid and still under the canopy of trees, pressing in on Tarun from all sides. Trickles of cold sweat, prompted by the oppressive heat but trans
formed by a chilling sense of dread, carved paths down his face. No other sound than their trudging footsteps could be heard, muffled by the dense foliage that threatened to overtake the trail.
A few minutes had passed before Tarun glimpsed the sun again peeking through the trees, signaling that they were about to reach the other side of the jungle fringe. As they emerged, Tarun traced the trail they were following as it wound its way up the side of the jagged cliffs of the black mountain in front of them. Its peak continued to belch a thick plume of black smoke and, for a moment, Tarun thought he heard a distant rumble from within its cavernous belly.
“Move!” the guard hissed again, nicking his back with the tip of his staff. Tarun jumped and began to trot at a faster pace, sensing the incline of the path as they started up, up, up the side of the groaning volcano.
The helicopter touched down gently in the clearing, the gusts of wind from its twirling blades flattening the grass in all directions. Arjun, preceded by three agents, jumped from the cabin as the transport powered down.
This was their third landing that day. After the disastrous invasion of the village inn, they had taken a softer approach to their second landing. The trail led them to an Internet café in a small town in western Kashmir. Although the owner could not recall the day that the video had been uploaded or who might have been in the building, he did know exactly why the men were there. Discreetly, he pointed out to the agents on a map the road down which the local people dared not travel for fear of coming across a well-armed militant. The camp was an open secret in the town and the café proprietor felt sure that if Parvati were being held in the area, that was the place.
Off they’d sprung, the agents in their SUVs and Arjun and his security team in the chopper. Seeing from the air that the campsite appeared to be abandoned, they touched down to take a closer look and wait for their backup.
Arjun wandered through the makeshift buildings that dotted the deserted camp: barracks, latrines, rudimentary storage sheds with empty crates and soiled linens. Each of the structures had been built quickly for convenience rather than durability. And it shows, he thought to himself, examining the chinks in the walls, the uneven floors, the rough materials. Whoever had been here had left quickly. The debris of occupation was still scattered around, including stray combs, abandoned undergarments, and forsaken shoelaces.
“You think this is it?” Arjun called to an agent, poking his head into a small shed.
“I’d say so, sir,” the agent replied, turning back.
“What makes you say that?”
“The bullet casings.”
Arjun looked down at the ground. He hadn’t noticed before, but the agent was right: ground into the earth were dull, tarnished bullet casings, thousands of them, sowed into the clearing like seed. Who would be shooting guns up here? he reasoned. Hundreds of guns. This must be where they were hiding. But where did they go?
“Chief minister, you’d better come here.”
Arjun stepped over to the shed that the agent had been inspecting. Unlike the other buildings, the door had a thick metal latch and a padlock hanging from its front. His stomach sank as he pulled open the door and ducked inside.
It’s not a shed, he confirmed. It’s a cell. A short cot was pushed against one wall. A tray with a bowl and a glass of water lay on the ground to one side. Arjun rushed to the cot and kneeled, searching the stiff mattress. There! On the pillow. A long, silken strand, exactly the color and length of his wife’s luxuriously beautiful hair, lay coiled upon the pillow.
She was here! he thought deliriously. In this room. In this room.
He stumbled back into the sunlight. The agents were huddled together near another building and Arjun wandered. One of them had uncovered a torn and muddied map of downtown Srinagar, several of the streets marked with heavy lead pencil. Another had found a receipt from a shop in the nearby town, dated from only two days before.
“They left recently,” the agent was saying as Arjun approached. “But where?”
“Hundreds of miles from here,” another replied. “If they were smart, that is.”
Arjun squinted into the sunlight and looked across the camp.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “They left on foot. Look at the ground again. I saw them when I was examining the bullet casings: footprints, dozens of them, all leading off in one direction.” He pointed toward a break in the brush surrounding the clearing. “That way. They probably figured we couldn’t follow them into the mountains.”
The agents looked at him uncertainly. One spoke up: “If they did go into the mountains, our chopper won’t be much help. We won’t be able to spot them if they’re under the tree cover.”
“I know,” Arjun said. “I know.”
They stood quietly for a moment, a quietness sharpened by the remoteness of their location. Nothing but mountainous wilderness for hundreds of miles.
“Call in the dogs,” Arjun said finally. “We can sniff them out.”
The first night had been uncomfortable, trying to sleep on the cold, rocky ground with only a thin blanket between her and the night air. But now the new camp had been built up a bit more and Parvati had been given a tent of her own. The second night had been warmer if no less sleepless—there was only so much rest she could get, tied up as she was. And now she felt the tiredness gnawing at the back of her eyeballs. Tonight I’ll sleep, she told herself. My body will take care of it. But for now, she was sitting upright outside of her tent, propped up against a tree. The militants did not seem to care that she watched as they busied themselves around the makeshift encampment, digging holes, clearing away logs and branches into large piles.
Around midday, Hassan walked over with a meager meal of dried crackers.
“None of us are getting much,” he said as an apology, sitting down beside her on the ground. “Not much to give.”
She accepted the crackers and ate them slowly, letting them melt in her mouth.
“Why are they digging those holes?” she asked him.
“They’re not holes,” he said. “Those are trenches.”
“Trenches?”
“Yeah. Trenches.”
She felt pinpricks of sudden alarm along her neck. The buttery cracker turned to ash on her tongue.
“Does that mean . . . ?” she let her words trail off.
Hassan sighed and rose to his feet again. “We can’t run forever. Eventually this ends. We always knew that this plan might not work. But that doesn’t mean we have to give in. What we’re fighting for is bigger than just us.”
“And what about me?”
Hassan didn’t meet her gaze.
“Hassan?” she repeated. “What are they planning to do with me?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But you’re our only real advantage right now. They might try to negotiate for your release. They might not.”
Parvati felt the familiar lump in her throat—how many times had she felt it these last few days? She looked down to her lap as tears rose to her eyes. Hassan suddenly knelt and took her bound hands into his own.
“I will protect you if I can,” he spoke, quietly and urgently. “But you mustn’t do anything unexpected. Just stay still and be calm.”
“But, Hassan, if you keep moving, you could escape!“
He dropped her hands and quickly stood. “There is only one true escape, Mrs. Sharma. You must be brave like the rest of us.”
With that he turned and strode away, the rifle slung low across his back.
As Tarun scaled the final peak, sweat pouring down his brow from the long march up the mountain, he caught his first glimpse of the lava lake. During the ascent he had smelled its noxious sulfuric fumes and heard its ominous rumbling. And now, stretching out before him like a bowl of heat and light, the lava lake hissed and bubbled in hues ranging from a smoldering crimson to a blindingly bright gold. Where a thin layer of surface had cooled in one corner, the lava had scaled over with a cracked maze of black tiles, the orange magma peeki
ng through between them.
So this is how I die, he thought.
Though it was only late afternoon, the intensity of the lava’s glow dimmed the rest of the atmosphere. Tarun looked over the edge of the crater to see the island of Phracta surrounding the volcano on all sides in a ring, and then beyond that the grayish ocean stretching to the horizon. The whole scene appeared through the haze of smudgy smoke rising from the burning mountain.
It was several minutes before he even realized that someone had spoken his name. He finally turned around at the prodding of the Serpentine guard to meet the gaze of a creature that, he thought for a panicked instant, had perhaps crawled out from the searing lava itself. The creature towered at least two feet over Tarun’s head, dressed in a simple brown tunic to which several bones had been attached as ornament. In his hand he carried a black staff like all of the other Serpentine carried, but his seemed older and more worn, the wood cracked and varnished from use. But it was the face, the white, ashen face and red slitted eyes, that most seemed taken from a monstrous nightmare. It was, to be sure, the head of a serpent—Tarun could see the faint pattern of snakeskin on his face and he wore the same thin grin and unblinking stare of the other nearby guards—but its translucent whiteness lent that head a ghoulish aspect, as if all the blood and inner life had been drained out.
“Tarun,” the ghoul said. “I’m glad we finally meet. I had heard there was a human wandering my lands, sent by Ganesha on some foolhardy mission. Well, here you are now. Perhaps he told you about me before you left? No? Ah, well forgive my poor manners. I am Raavana, high commander of the Serpentine and the lord of these Veiled Lands.”
“You are not our Lord! and you never will be!” Galerest shouted from nearby before the two guards wrestled him to the ground with a flurry of vicious blows to his head. Newly restrained, the guards wrapped a piece of cloth around his mouth as a muzzle. Throughout, the eyes of Raavana never left Tarun’s face.
