by R. A. Jones
But it had never faced “prey” such as this before. Prahmasung felt her blood turn to dust in her veins as an equally animalistic roar issued forth from her own son. As though transformed into a beast himself, Aman launched himself straight toward the tiger.
Stunned by this unexpected move, the tiger pulled up short, his hind legs failing to find purchase in the loose sawdust so that he continued to skid forward.
Aman slammed full force into the great cat, grabbing it around its mammoth neck even as it pitched over backwards.
Prahmasung dropped her face into her hands, unable to watch. The bloodthirsty roars rising up from both boy and beast assailed her ears, and she clapped her hands over them to dim the sound, keeping her eyes squeezed shut.
In the manner of any cat on the defensive, the tiger pulled its hind legs up as it fell over on its back, furiously pedaling its feet so as to rip and tear at its attacker’s exposed belly.
Almost always, such a maneuver would succeed in disemboweling a foe, spilling its guts out in great gushes of blood. Indeed, Aman’s teeth ground tightly together as the pain rose up in him from below.
But he could tell that though the curved claws did in fact tear into his flesh, they were unable to rip so deeply as to incapacitate him.
The two rolled on the floor of the arena, each seeking the upper hand. The tiger twisted and succeeded in sinking his yellowed fangs into the boy’s left forearm.
Aman cried out, but did not release the grip of his left hand, instead grasping the tiger’s fur more firmly. He did loosen his right arm, but only so he could bring his free hand over the top of the tiger’s head. His fingers found the cat’s eyes and gouged them with his nails.
Screaming in pain, the tiger released its hold on the boy’s arm. It leaped and twisted in mid-air, throwing the boy off him. Aman slammed into one wall of the arena, then slid to the floor.
The beast was on him before he could fully rise to his feet, bowling him over. One flashing paw raked the right side of his face, digging deep furrows that quickly filled with blood, barely missing the eye. The other paw blazed a bloody trail diagonally across Aman’s chest.
Aman pitched over to one side, and the tiger went for his jugular. It missed, but canines as long as the boy’s thumbs sank into Aman’s shoulder.
Aman threw his arms around the cat, hoping that by pulling it close he could neutralize the killing power of its claws. As he did, he let his eyes flick for just a second upward, observing those who watched from above.
His mother had twisted away as far as the confines of her chair would allow. Her hands pressed harder against her ears, but she was unable to squeeze her eyelids so tightly that streams of tears could not escape beneath them and streak down her cheeks.
Brother Han leaned forward in his seat. Both hands were clenched and shaking, as though he sought to transmit his own strength through them and into his beloved pupil. His face was a mask of fear and worry.
Hooded as he was, there was no way to even see what expression the Great Question wore. But he sat back in his chair, his posture as relaxed as if he was watching a dance recital being staged by the children of Oobang.
All this Aman took in, absorbed and analyzed in less than three beats of his heart. He then sank his teeth into the tiger’s left ear.
Yowling with pain radiating from a place he’d never felt pain, the tiger bounded up and sideways. This was the opening Aman had been seeking, and he threw one leg over the tiger, using it as the anchor to then pull himself astride its broad back.
The cat rolled in an effort to shed the boy from him back, but this merely provided Aman with the opportunity to slip his arms under the tiger’s forelegs, bringing them upward then and lacing his fingers together where his hands met behind the beast’s head.
He then achieved what a wrestler would recognize as a full-Nelson hold on the cat. He rode it like a bucking horse and began to exert all the force he could muster on its neck, forcing its head down so far that chin nearly met chest. He pushed even harder, as he felt the cat’s efforts to dislodge him weakening.
In the next instant he heard a crack, loud as a tree being snapped in two by a winter gale. The tiger’s neck broke, and its legs gave out beneath it. Its huge head lolled limply to one side, purple tongue hanging out of one side of its mouth.
Aman maintained his grip on the cat for a few moments more, until he felt sure it was well and truly dead.
Weakly, he pushed himself to his feet. He held his hands firmly in front of him, to still the trembling caused by the exertions of his arms, then dropped them to his sides.
Standing astride the fallen beast, he gazed defiantly up at the spectators above. He presented a fearsome sight, covered as he was from head to toe with blood – most of it his own.
With a sobbing cry, his mother leaped from her chair and, before the Question could even think of restraining her, headed for the stairway that would bring her down to the arena.
In slow, halting steps, Aman limped toward a recess set in one wall of the arena. Inside the recess stood a stone cistern, filled with cold mountain water, upon which sat a small wooden bucket.
Filling the bucket to its brim, Aman raised it above his head with both hands. He tipped it, gasping slightly at the shock caused by the water hitting the top of his head and flowing down the length of his aching body. Again and yet again he filled the bucket, now refreshed by its chill fingers sweeping over him and carrying away most of the blood flowing from his many wounds.
He set the bucket down and turned at the sound of tiny feet racing across the arena floor. He smiled as his mother drew closer, then frowned as she suddenly pulled to a halt.
It wasn’t the many small rivulets of bloodied water carving their way through the sawdust that made her stop. He could see she was paying them no mind. Her eyes were firmly locked on him, but had grown wide as if she was staring at a stranger perceived to be a threat.
He dropped his eyes to look down at himself, assuming the poor woman was horrified by the ugliness of his open wounds. Now it was his own eyes that flared with surprise.
There were no gaping wounds.
No fresh blood was oozing out to replace that which he had washed away. Every wound had closed upon itself, leaving only trails of scar tissue that looked as though it was months rather than minutes old.
He sensed that by tomorrow even those faint signs of battle would be gone.
“It’s all right, mother,” he said soothingly, forcing a smile back to his lips. “I’m all right.”
Prahmasung felt the tears welling up afresh in her eyes, and sprinted toward him.
She threw herself into his arms, and he laughed and swung her like a girl’s doll before setting her back on her feet. She was sobbing uncontrollably now, yet laughing at the same time, clinging to him as if intent on never letting him out of her arms.
Aman gently turned her so he could look up at the Great Question. The lama sat with his hands steepled before him, looking down with cool detachment at his pupil.
Aman lowered his eyes and hugged his mother close to him, bringing his lips close to her ear.
“If he ever hurts you again,” he whispered, in a voice that was no less cold and harsh for its softness, “I’ll kill him.”
Prahmasung stiffened in his arms for a heartbeat, then wrapped her arms even more tightly around his neck. She smoothed the back of his hair with one hand, and made the same soothing, cooing sounds she used to lull him to sleep when he was but a toddler.
Above them, Brother Han had jumped to his feet in excitement. A broad smile creased his face and his eyes were on fire as he turned toward the Question.
“Incredible!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No one has.” He stepped toward the Question. “I believe he is the prophesied one, master!”
“If he isn’t,” the Question replied calmly, “he will be when I am finished with him.”
Brother Han turned away to look back down at Aman.
“I have never seen such an amazing boy!”
“Indeed. And with our continued guidance,” the Question declared, relaxing back in his seat, “he will grow into an amazing man.”
CHAPTER XXI
March, 1932
Aman walked with sure strides into the central chamber of the Temple of Enlightened Anguish.
Now in his eighteenth year, he had grown into an exceptional figure of a man. He stood more than six feet tall, and of the 200 pounds that covered his large frame, not so much as an ounce was ought save muscle, bone and sinew. And as his body and physical strength had grown, so too had the powers of his mind.
At the far end of the chamber, behind a high, raised table, the members of the Council of Seven were already seated. More than a year ago, they had offered to make it the Council of Eight, with Aman taking a place behind the table with them.
The humility with which he thanked them for this honor was genuine, as was his belief that he was not worthy of accepting it. He still remained so convinced, and as was his habit when meeting with the Council, he simply remained standing before and below them, his legs spread slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. He bowed slightly at the waist, and smiled up at them.
Like them, he was here in the chamber in response to a summons sent by the Great Question, for reasons neither given nor needed.
He knew he would not have to wait long for an answer, for already his keen hearing had picked up the distinctive patter of the Question’s footsteps, approaching quickly.
The Question easily pushed open the wide double doors leading into the chamber, but only enough for his body to slide through. He then closed them firmly behind him; doing so insured that no one else within the temple would disturb the monks until they were finished with their business, whatever it might be.
“Thank you for coming, brothers,” he said as he drew close. All, including Aman, nodded in acknowledgement to his greeting. It was all the preamble he intended to give them.
“I wish to speak to you about the state of the world,” he declared.
“The whole world?” Brother Xing asked, smiling slightly at what he assumed was an exaggeration on the part of his master. It wasn’t.
“Yes,” the Question said earnestly, “the whole world.” He paused, letting the weight of his statement sink in.
“Please, master,” Brother Huang said meekly, “go on.”
“We live in a state of grace,” the Question began, “we men of the robe. In a land that knows little but peace and harmony. Most are not so lucky.” He paused again before continuing.
“If you toss a flower into a flowing stream, it has no choice but to be carried by that stream until it is washed into the sea.
“So it is with the course of human events. For years now, I have been studying the tides that sweep the outside world, using methods both arcane and mundane. What they have told me is inescapable.”
The Question began to walk slowly back and forth before the Council. All eyes were now fully fixed upon him.
“The unenlightened people of the earth, both to the east and to the west, have again set themselves on an unstoppable course. One that, sooner or later, will yet again plunge the entire world into war.”
He stopped his pacing and turned to look at Aman.
“The Great Conflict of before left us largely untouched, save for taking the life of young Aman’s father.”
Aman lowered his head. Squirming slightly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other; talk of his unknown parentage, even after all these years, disquieted him.
The Great Question stared silently, thinking thoughts he shared with no others. Then he turned back to address the Council.
“But I tell you this,” he asserted. “The war that is yet to be will dwarf that one. The last war was largely confined to the lands of the Westerners. But of this I am certain.” He raised his right hand and jabbed the air with one finger.
“The entire world will be engulfed in the flames of this coming conflagration!”
Gasps and murmurs rose from the members of the Council. The Question again turned his gaze to Aman. If the young man had even taken notice of the lama’s dire pronouncement, there was no sign of it on his face. His eyes were closed, not in indifference, but in concentration. For now, he clearly preferred to keep his thoughts to himself.
“You say you are certain all will come to pass as you have predicted?” Brother Han said at last.
“As certain as I am that the sun will rise above the mountain peaks tomorrow, brother,” the Question replied.
“Less certain,” he continued, “is who will rise from the ashes of this horrible conflict … and rule the world that remains.”
He bowed his head in silence, letting the weight of his words sink in. Then he raised his head and straightened to his full height.
“What I propose, brothers, is that you and I should assume that role.”
“You would have us make ourselves kings?” Brother Xing asked, clearly troubled by the implications of his master’s words.
“Why not?” the Question demanded. “Time and again the herds have proven themselves incapable of wisely ruling themselves.” His voice rose in volume and timbre as he drove his point home.
“Armed with the power of our child, Aman,” he said, purposely ignoring the movement to his right that indicated Aman had now turned to face him, “we can impose our will on the remnants of mankind that survive this new great war.
“In a benign dictatorship, of course,” he quickly assured them. He spread his arms as if to add a flourish to his next words.
“Think of it, brothers. We can take them under our wing. We can show them the one, true way. We can lead the entire world to the light of a new Golden Age!”
His arms moved in closer to his body, his fists clenched in eagerness. The only sound was his quickening breath that made his chest heave in anticipation of their reply.
“No.”
The single word was not spoken with malice, nor was it shouted to the rooftops. Yet it carried a weight that fairly shook the walls.
It had come from young Aman, and all eyes now turned toward him.
“I don’t doubt your sincerity, master,” he said, addressing the Great Question directly, “or your good intent.” He paused, searching for just the right words.
“But even good intentions can have evil consequences. We, too, are men, after all. Flesh and blood. In that respect, no different from those you would have us rule.
“Nor are we immune to the temptations of both the flesh and of the heart. The path we would have to walk in implementing your plan is both narrow and treacherous.
“It is far too easy to say, ‘obey me, for you own good.’
“But history has shown us, again and again and again, that eventually those words become, ‘obey me … or else’.”
Saddened that he had felt compelled to speak out against his closest mentor, yet determined to press on, Aman switched his gaze upward toward the Council of Seven.
“I make no demands on any of you, all of whom I proudly call brother. I don’t even make a request. Decide what you believe is right. Accept or reject our master’s proposal. Whatever your decision, I will accept it.”
He let out a deep sigh.
“But I will have no part in imposing your will upon those who have not had a choice in the matter.”
Aman lowered his head, indicating he had said all he intended. The silence that took the place of his voice remained unbroken until Brother Han leaned forward and spoke.
“It is a happy day,” he said, “when the teacher can learn from his student.” He straightened in his chair.
“I know you want only what is best for all mankind,” he continued, directing his gaze and his words at the Great Question. “But even the most caring father cannot carry his children forever. I agree with Brother Aman.
“I will pray, and I will offer comfort … but I will not rule.”
“H
e speaks for me as well,” said Brother Huang.
One by one, the other five members of the Council voiced their agreement as well.
In response, the Question slowly lowered himself to one knee.
“Yours is the answer I expected, brothers. And though I believe my plan offers the greatest hope for the greatest numbers, I also see the wisdom of what you have said. And I take it to heart. It will be as you say.”
Rising back up to his full height, he turned his face toward Aman. And, though the youth could not see it because of his concealing hood … the Question smiled.
That evening found the Great Question alone in his private quarters, poring intently over parchments grown old and brittle with the weight of time. He straightened and pushed them to one side when a firm tapping came at his door.
“Come.”
The door was pushed open, and Aman was revealed.
“You sent for me, master.”
“Indeed I did,” the Question said, motioning Aman forward. “Come in, come in. Close the door behind you.”
Aman did as he was bid and came to stand before his master’s large oaken desk. At a gesture from the Question, he took a seat in the chair that had obviously been provided for him. The lama leaned back in his own stout chair, eyeing the young man from head to toe.
“I have a … a mission of sorts for you, Aman.”
“Name it,” the youth replied quickly, eagerly. “If I can do it, I will.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that you can do it. And do it well.”
The Question leaned forward, elbows on the desktop.
“I’m sending you to England, Aman.”
The young man blinked in surprise.
“Am I being punished, master?”
Now it was the Question’s turn to be surprised, and he straightened in his chair.
“Punished? For what?”
“For what happened this evening. For speaking out against you.”
Aman blinked again, surprised anew by a sound he had never before heard sliding from beneath his master’s concealing hood. The sound of soft laughter.
