King of Lanka

by David Hair

  One hand slid down her back, weaving at the lacing of her bodice. She sighed, and felt her whole body surrender into his grip. Her mouth fell upon and his tongue invaded her mouth, coiling slickly about hers.

  ‘Brother,’ Surpanakha’s voice wheedled across the shadowy room.

  He erupted. Pushing Rasita against the wall, he staggered to his feet, crossing the space to the door in seconds. He struck the already pulverised face of his sister with a backhanded blow. The demoness reeled and fell to the floor, her face lost in her curtain of tangled locks. ‘How dare you!?’ he stormed.

  Rasita flinched as he kicked his demon sister in the belly, making her double over whimpering. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ she whined. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think …’

  Ravindra suddenly seemed to remember himself, and to realize what this eruption of violence might look like to Rasita. In an instant, he was kneeling at Ras’ feet. ‘My queen, I am sorry, I am so sorry. The shock, my need … I lost control. I swear it will not happen again! I swear!’

  She looked down at him, her heart palpitating, her skin still quivering at the touch of his hands, her mouth still alive to his taste. She pulled her hand from his grip, and stood unsteadily. I came so close.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he begged her. ‘Stay! Please!’

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘See how I am!’ he said. ‘See how I am! I am a wounded thing, wounded more deeply than even my sister! See what you can heal, with your love!’

  ‘I can’t. It’s too much! You want too much!’

  He grabbed her knees. ‘Not too much, my love! Not too much! Not to you!’

  I could stay. And I want to! I could give him everything he wants, and take what I want. No one would ever know! Vikram has already betrayed me! Why should I hold back? I will be Manda, and have power like a Goddess, and a throne to sit upon, and a kingdom of wonders to rule …

  But the visions faded. She realized that what she had seen in his rage had quelled any desire she felt. For now.

  I could still love him. When he kissed me I could see him as his Manda saw him. I can feel her memories queuing up inside my head.

  She pushed these thoughts away. Not now … not right now … Not after what I’ve seen. His violence, it’s too much. I’m too scared. There is too much going on.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she breathed, not sure what she meant by the words. She fled the room, storming past the crawling Surpanakha, who whimpered something after her. She thought Ravindra would attack his sister again, almost longed to see this vicious creature get what she deserved … and then she was glad when he didn’t.

  She climbed the stairs, seeking her own room, glad to be out from under the eyes of the creeping thing that limped in her wake. But she could sense her following like a dislocated shadow.

  Hemant’s People

  The Rann of Kutch, Gujarat, late-July 2011

  ‘You better be right about this, brother!’ Amanjit grumbled, as they skidded to a halt on a small rise, sending up a fresh cloud of dust. He had to shout above the rumbling engines of the bikes. For days they’d been winding westwards through the north of India, across Rajasthan and into Gujarat. The journey was nearly complete, and his whole body ached.

  Beside him, Vikram lifted the visor of his helmet, and slowed the revs of his motorbike engine. ‘No guarantees, man.’ But I’m sure. Totally sure.

  ‘Did you check for clues in Ayodhya?’

  Vikram shook his head. ‘After Sri Lanka, I didn’t want to risk it. Sri Lanka and Ayodhya are the two known sites most connected to the Ramayana. Sri Lanka was a death trap, and we got nowhere. I think in Ayodhya I’d have run the risk of meeting some mythland version of myself, who might have seen me as an interloper and tried to kill me. Probably you’d have had the same problem.’

  Amanjit gave a low whistle. ‘Yikes. Of course, I could thrash a low-rent version of myself any day, but I could see you might have a problem.’ He gave a teasing grin, then peered ahead at the long dirt road that carved through the empty coastal plains of Gujarat. ‘You sure we’re on the right road?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Vikram looked about. The Rann of Kutch, a salt-desert on the Pakistan border that descended to marsh and occasionally water during the monsoon—right now—spread about them in every direction. The sea was somewhere off to the left, judging from the position of the sun. They’d been told that if they strayed off the main routes, the military would show up. Driving into a tank and getting blown up wasn’t the end of the quest that Vikram had in mind. ‘Come on, it can’t be too much further.’

  Amanjit took them over a small rise, then braked suddenly, and stopped. ‘Hey, look at that!’

  They both lifted off their helmets and gaped. Dead ahead and slightly below, there was a small lake, and on almost every inch of water stood or sat or paddled a vivid pink bird. Flamingos. There were hundreds of them. Several swirled elegantly above, or swooped in to a graceless landing, making its fellows turn their heads in withering disapproval. It was incredible, a breath-stopping scene.

  ‘Wow,’ Amanjit breathed eventually. ‘Did we bring a camera?’

  ‘Nope. We’re going to war, not a National Geographic photo shoot,’ Vikram replied drily. ‘But we’ll come back some time as tourists, yeah?’

  He looked about him. They could almost pretend they were the only people in the world. The land was more or less flat, but undulated amidst rocky outcroppings and the rough soil. Thorn bushes clung tenaciously to the cracks and crevices. Occasional foxes peered from shady niches. They had seen a distant herd of the native wild asses, and thought they might have glimpsed a tiny antelope at one point.

  The air was hot and humid, and there were impotent clouds above. The western horizon was lost in the haze. It had rained yesterday morning. It was three weeks since they had left Ayodhya and made their way west cautiously, avoiding the main roads which were teeming with military following newspaper revelations about a terror campaign that was targeting the army by a group called ‘The Sons of Ravana’. The papers were full of speculation about this new Hindu radical group and their aims. Surprise checkpoints were everywhere, making clandestine travel difficult. Still, they had a new feeling of purpose. ‘Having a plan is better than having none,’ as Amanjit observed.

  They suspected there might be permissions to be sought, out here so close to the Indo-Pakistan border, and seeking to visit an archaeological site. Vikram and Amanjit knew their makeshift papers would not survive the scrutiny, so hoped it would all be free and easy. If they had to, they would travel off-road. Their packs contained instant meals and lots of water bottles that they topped up when they could.

  Despite the isolation of this region, there were many tiny villages, peopled as much by Muslims (usually drovers) as Hindus (small businessmen). There had been a devastating earthquake in the region a few years ago and there were still many ruined buildings on the fringes of the tiny settlements. The people here were Meghwal, descendants of ancient bloodlines, tiny people clad in traditional vibrant colours, the married women wearing nose rings of gold and silver necklets. Tim Southby had mentioned them, saying that they may well predate Aryan settlement. Vikram wondered whether they had their own traditions of the Ramayana. What did they believe?

  ‘What was the name of that last town?’ Amanjit asked. ‘Rapar, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. We should be at the actual Rann itself soon. There will be a road across an old causeway—’

  ‘That may or may not have been built by Hanuman and his monkeys,’ Amanjit interrupted.

  Vikram didn’t let himself get drawn on that. ‘Then we’ll be on the island. Unless its hosting an archaeological conference, there should have plenty of room for us to stay.’

  Amanjit gazed out at the swirling flock of flamingos. ‘I suppose we better go then,’ he said regretfully. ‘Dee would love this,’ he added. The worry in his voice was plain—there had been nothing at all from Deepika since the gunfight in Mumbai. They had talke
d to Bishin again, got more details, but there was no word and no way to contact her.

  If she’s alive … Vikram didn’t voice the thought. Amanjit was not ready for it. Neither was he, really.

  They rode on, until they lifted over a tiny rise, and found themselves quite suddenly at the eastern end of a long causeway fenced with a low barrier of modern concrete, dividing land from water. In the distance, a low island awaited. They stopped again. There was no one in sight except for an old man cycling on a bicycle that looked like it was made of rust. They stopped for water, sucking in the liquid gratefully.

  ‘This is pure white salt in the dry season, Amanjit. Dead flat, goes on forever. You can drive on it.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Never. But I saw a documentary once,’ Vikram replied. ‘And I’ve been looking at pictures online.’

  ‘Do you think this is really the right place?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I feel like we’re running out of time. So I think it has to be right, or we’re sunk.’

  ‘We’ve got all the time that it takes, Vik. Ras is strong, bhai. She won’t let you down.’

  They crossed the causeway and wound through a basically flat but rough landscape, drier than any they had seen, barring the heart of the Thar desert. Tiny farmsteads struggled against the pitiless elements, but recent rainfall had settled the dust, and given everything the hint of colour. Every year the monsoon seemed to be less than what was needed, the man at the petrol station told them, before directing them to the government tourist resort, the Torun. They found a well-paved and clean-looking motel with cylindrical Kutch-style huts, all with concrete walls but thatched in the traditional style.

  The owner didn’t look hard at their papers, so there was no need for Vikram’s subtle manipulations. He was happy enough to have any guests at all out-of-season. His wife cooked them a chicken biryani and brought cold nimbupani—lime soda—the perfect end to the day. You had to have a special permit to drink alcohol in Gujarat, a ‘dry’ alcohol-free state. Neither of the boys had known, but reasoned it was good for them if they were going into battle.

  ‘Cheers, bhai,’ Amanjit toasted when the tired faced woman had gone. ‘To Dee and Ras,’ he added as they clinked glasses. Then he followed Vikram’s eyes and went still.

  There was a small man at the motel gates, staring at them with intent eyes. He seemed to be wearing a backpack or something similar on his shoulders. He was gone as soon as he realized that he had been seen.

  The next day, they rode out to the old archaeological site at dawn, with no one else around. They slipped through the fences at the edges of the site, and climbed about it. There were ancient stepped reservoirs thirty to fifty feet deep, ducted and channelled. A little water had collected in the rains, already green and slimy and beset with clouds of midges and mosquitoes. The whole site was more than a kilometre long and nearly as wide. It was divided into three areas—a Citadel on the south side, then a middle and lower town beneath, differing mostly through the scale of ruined buildings therein.

  They found a high point on the south side, the old Citadel according to the map by the gate, overlooking a reservoir. ‘Bringing back any memories, bhai?’ Amanjit asked quietly. ‘’Cos it’s not doing anything for me.’

  Vikram sat and stared across the rough terrain. He had been prodding with his senses, and he knew that there was a pocket of mythland proximate to this place, but it was barred to him somehow, the same sort of forbidding that had prevented them from escaping the false Lanka down south. He took it as an encouraging sign: perhaps Ravindra had built in protections to prevent enemies from opening gates into his Citadel.

  Looking about him, he tried to picture the way the Citadel used to be. Fragments of stone buildings lay half buried, like disturbed graves. The site extended more than half a kilometre north of where they sat, and to either side. ‘It must have been a big place.’ He peered about himself. ‘This is the highest point—I reckon it’d be the palace, like the map says. Then there would be the township areas for the regular folks below us, to the north.’

  ‘Correct, more or less,’ rasped a strange voice from the shadows.

  They both whirled around, Amanjit’s hand going for his sports bag, where his sword lay.

  ‘Peace,’ said the voice. A middle-aged man stepped from the lee of a bush, where he had been huddled in the shade. ‘I was just enjoying the sunrise.’ His skin was almost black, his hands like tooled leather, but his eyes were bright. He was dressed in labourer’s rags but his back was straight and his hair was thick and black. ‘My name is Hemant. I live over there.’ He pointed north and east. ‘My people have dwelt here for many centuries.’

  From the shadows behind him a Langur monkey with sleek grey fur and an inquisitive black face crept out to huddle at the newcomers’ feet, making a chee-chee sound, almost conversationally. They realized this was the man that had watched them last night.

  The two boys looked at each other, barely breathing. Vikram nodded slowly, and inhaled. ‘Then you would know this place well?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘I know it very well indeed.’ Hemant sat beside them on a mound of earth, and stared out at the sunrise. ‘I come here every day. Keeping watch.’ He ran a curious eye over them. ‘The site is not open to tourists until 11 a.m.,’ he added.

  ‘This was Harappan,’ Vikram stated, ignoring the reference to their illegal entry.

  ‘Yes, the old people. Sinathai.’

  ‘Sindh?’

  ‘No, Sinathai, the people of Sinat. Our elders remember. They lived in the city before my people arrived. We served them. As slaves. Then when the masters went, we lived here, until the waters dried up.’

  Vikram remembered what Tim Southby had told him, of villagers reoccupying the ruins after the original people had abandoned them centuries before. Perhaps the man and his people were descended from those. ‘You must have many stories of this place?’ he asked. ‘And the, um … Sinathai?’

  Hemant shrugged. ‘Many. But which tale interests you most, young masters?’ He looked pointedly at Amanjit’s bag, where the sword hilt was visible. ‘Tales of battle, perhaps?’

  The two young men felt a chill, as if destiny had touched them. ‘Sure,’ Amanjit nodded. ‘Do you know any?’

  Hemant met his gaze, stroking the head of the monkey. He had the air of someone who doesn’t quite believe what is happening to him. Amanjit knew what that was like. Eventually the man opened his mouth again. ‘The elders say that this place was the last refuge of the old people, the Sinathai. They had left their lands after a great catastrophe. There had been fire in the skies and great earthquakes. Much devastation. Many died, more than still lived. Those that lived were changed, into beastmen—demons. Their king led them here. So my people remember.’

  Vikram felt as if his heart would stop. ‘What happened then?’ he whispered.

  ‘Men came, from the east, years later, hunting the beastmen. They made war on the evil king and his demons, and killed them all. They freed the slaves. Many of the slaves elected to stay here, though there was no good land for farming. They wanted to keep watch, lest the demon king return.’

  ‘Wasn’t he dead?’

  ‘So it was thought, for a long time. But not now. Demons don’t die forever. He has returned.’

  Vikram looked carefully at Amanjit. ‘What do you mean?’

  Hemant tilted his head, his expression pained. ‘The soldiers are trying to conceal it, but they cannot. People know … about the killings.’

  Vikram clenched his fists. ‘What killings?’

  ‘Soldiers, many, many soldiers have now died, they say. Murdered by an unseen foe, slain with arrows and spears and swords, while their guns fail. Bodies branded.’

  ‘Branded?’ asked Amanjit in an outraged voice. He came from a family of soldiers, and for the enemy to dishonour the corpses of the fallen struck home vividly. ‘Branded how?’

  ‘With old symbols. I have seen them. They say thes
e words: “Sons of Ravan”.’

  The words hung in the air, seeming to echo as if spoken into a well. Vikram looked at Amanjit, his throat tightening. The stakes were rising, all the time. Ravindra was flexing his muscles. He could almost picture the scenes—Asuras and Rakshasas paralysing modern equipment with surges of magical energy and then moving in on soldiers suddenly rendered helpless. ‘How many have died?’

  Hemant shrugged, though there was no nonchalance in the gesture. ‘We do not know, but the whisper is that it is nearing a thousand,’ he replied. ‘The media is blaming fanatics, but they know of less than a quarter of the attacks, and none of the detail. We know better. It is the Asuras! They are active again! The mightiest Rakshasas have returned, and they are becoming bolder. They have a new urgency. They sense the coming conflict.’ He met Vikram’s gaze fervently. ‘They sense your approach, perhaps.’

  Vikram chewed his lower lip, then nodded firmly. Now was not the time to show doubt. He looked about them. ‘And this place was the home of the Asuras?’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’ Hemant waved a hand about. ‘For many years, long before my birth, people have come here that do not … feel right. Do you know what I mean? Their reflections are strange. They come up here and vanish, as if into the air. And some mornings, when I look up at this place from my home, it seems I can see it as it once was, in all its glory.’

  ‘What did they call this place?’ Vikram asked softly.

  ‘The Island,’ Hemant replied.

  ‘Lanka?’ Amanjit asked. ‘It means “The Island” doesn’t it?’

  The man nodded once, slowly. ‘They called it Lanka.’

  Hemant took them to his home on the north-east side of the ruins, a simple Kutch thatched hut jammed full of utensils, a loom and leather-working tools. There was no electricity, and the cooking was done over a fire. The langur stole a shrivelled mango and vanished.