Ash Mistry and the World of Darkness

by Sarwat Chadda

  Wow, the brand had lost its value if he was meant to be the same soul as the prince of Ayodhya. Rama had defeated the demon nations. Ashoka could be defeated by a tall flight of stairs.

  Parvati looked over her shoulder, towards an object resting against the wall. “Make sure you pack everything.”

  His bow. It had been cleaned and collapsed back into its ‘package’ shape. Ashoka went over to it and picked it up.

  The tremor ran along his fingertips as they tightened around it. The arrow clip was empty, but he rubbed his fingers together, imagining the fletching between them. “Is that what happened last night?”

  Parvati leaned on the sofa, hands under her chin. “You slew one of the greatest demon warriors of all time: Mayar.”

  “But how?” Ashoka touched the bowstring. There was an energy, a tension, that he hadn’t felt before. An urge to use the bow again. He looked around the room, searching for an arrow. And a target. What was happening to him?

  Parvati’s eyes narrowed. “You performed a perfect shot. I thought you were dead. Mayar almost had your head in his jaws. Then you shot. You waited and waited until the exact moment he was vulnerable. And you killed him. How did you know that was his one weak spot?”

  “I just did. It felt like I’d always known.”

  “As if you’d fought such monsters before?” she asked.

  Ashoka paused. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  Parvati beckoned him to sit. “It was one of your past lives, guiding you. There is no other explanation.”

  Ashoka sat down, the bow across his knees. Parvati leaned closer so her serpentine eyes filled his vision.

  “Is it like this for Ash?” he asked.

  “No, actually. Ash can only access the memories of his past lives. What he experiences is ultimately passive. He cannot interact or absorb any of their abilities. I have my own theories about this, but I believe that the Kali-aastra restricts such access. Kali is a jealous goddess and does not want anyone else controlling her weapon. Still, the past lives do come to give clues, hints as best they can, for his problems. But with you, it is different.”

  “How?”

  “You might be able to consciously access the abilities of who you once were. Not just the memories, but the actual skills. I think last night was an example. Some great warrior, an archer, guided your aim, kept you patient until the perfect moment arrived.”

  Ashoka nodded. He’d felt it that moment on the beach. He just knew what he was doing. It wasn’t as if someone had told him; he just seemed to have … remembered it. Where crocodile-demons are vulnerable. “You think there’s more?”

  Parvati shuffled closer. “Yes. You might have access to all the masters of all the arts of war, and many others; all your past lives and everything they knew. And I think I can help you to contact them.”

  “Really?”

  Her eyes grew larger. The pupils dilated until they were two massive pits of darkness. “Will you let me try?”

  He looked at her, and felt himself falling, falling into the brilliant green depths of her eyes. “Did this ever work on Ash?”

  “No. I tried to hypnotise him once, but it failed. Again I think Kali blocked me. She would never permit a demon’s magic to be used on her disciple.”

  Ashoka’s body grew light. He wasn’t sure if he was sinking or floating. Maybe both. “OK,” he said. “Do it …” And he fell.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Ashoka smacks his parched lips. He ploughs through the grey sand. Not sand.

  Ash.

  The heat bears down upon his shoulders, upon his back, like a physical weight. The sky flickers with fire. The clouds rumble and crackle, black and stung by lightning.

  Broken armour, swords and steaming spent bullets scatter the ground. Smoke bellows out of cracks in the earth, acrid and stinging.

  He clambers over rubble. There are toppled statues of forgotten gods and empty, ruined temples. Here and there he sees figures, but when he calls they fade to nothing.

  Ashoka runs his tongue over his lips, but all he tastes is bitterness.

  A wheel strikes stone. A hoof hits rock. A horse whickers and swishes its tail and a shadow looms over him as a chariot rises over the crest of a low hill.

  The driver rests the reins on his shoulder. Four white horses, their chests panting and their legs and bellies caked in grey dust, sniff the dirt and forage futilely in this burning world.

  The chariot is light and decorated with ribbons, and holds racks of arrows and spears. It creaks as the passenger dismounts. He wipes his face and his armour, bronze and elaborate, though dented and battered by years of hard use, rattles as he lifts his bow from his shoulder. Long, elegant fingers pluck the string and a quiver of trepidation runs through Ashoka.

  “Namaste,” says the archer.

  “Where am I?”

  “In a world where we failed.” He descends the slope, kicking up grey clouds as he does so.

  “Is this the future?”

  “The future. The past. The present. It is all the same to us.” The archer is Indian, tall with long black hair tied in a simple knot. His features are aquiline, his eyes dark and clear and he moves with feline grace, sure and powerful. The bow is as tall as he is and carved with symbols that never rest, but fight and pulse with radiant energy.

  “Us?” asks Ashoka, already knowing the answer.

  The archer points behind him. “Us.”

  Another man sits upon a broken column. His chest is bare, broad and lined with scars. He wears a studded leather loincloth, and a Roman gladius rests on his knees. Brooding blue eyes peer out from under a deep brow. He sips from a water skin, which he holds out. “Thirsty, boy?”

  Ashoka gulps it down.

  One after another gather here, among the ruins. There comes another Indian warrior, a brutal, savage-looking brigand, the very opposite of the noble archer. He wears a crude breastplate and has a heavy sword, plain and strapped across his waist by a red sash. He runs thick fingers through a black beard, and golden bracelets clank on his wrists. He winks at Ashoka. “Aren’t you a little short for an Eternal Warrior?”

  “Leave him alone, Ashoka,” says the archer.

  The brigand snorts.

  “What’s going on?” Ashoka turns to face each of them. All so different but still familiar. It was as if he was looking into water, the reflection rippling and transforming his face. “Who are you?”

  The archer frowned. “Don’t you know, boy?” He gestures to the rough-looking brigand. “This is, or will be, an emperor. The Devanampiya.”

  The brigand laughed. “Devanampiya? Beloved of the gods? I’m just a wolf with a pack. I sleep on leaves and hunt by moonlight.” He meets the archer’s gaze. “And you we all know.”

  Ashoka handed the water skin to the Roman. “And you?”

  “I’m Spartacus.”

  Spartacus? Now that was worth a ‘WOW’. Maybe even an ‘OMG’.

  Ashoka, the emperor version, spat. “Just the three of us; I expected more.”

  The archer shrugs. “Three will have to be enough.” He beckons Ashoka. “Join us, Ashoka Mistry.”

  “What’s going on? What am I doing here?”

  “Look about you. This is the world Savage seeks to create. His arrogance and hubris know no bounds; he is more powerful than Ravana now, and more foolish. He thinks he is the master of Time, that he can go back and forth, altering destinies and fates. The strands of reality will begin to unravel, child. You must stop him, and we will aid you.”

  The Devanampiya-to-be scowls. “The boy needs the aid of the gods, not of the likes of us. Even you, archer, for all your courage and skill, cannot stand before Savage unaided.”

  The archer shakes his head. “This is the age of men. I went to war to make it thus. It is in men I place my trust, not in the gods. They do not give their aid freely, and more often than not the price is too high.” The archer’s face twists in momentary pain but then breaks into a soft, warm smile as he pu
ts a hand on Ashoka’s shoulder. “I put my trust in you.”

  “Me? You’ve got the wrong Mistry. You want Ash, not me. He’s the hero.”

  “Ash is the Kali-aastra,” says the archer. “And Kali owns him body and soul. She will not permit us to aid him. He is lost to us.”

  “Lost? How?” Ashoka doesn’t like the way this is going.

  “Ash walks the path of death. We can do nothing for him.”

  They gather around him. “We are you, and you are us. Three and one. Thus we will give you what is ours. Knowledge, skill, talents at war – we will pass them on to you. Such things are thunderbolts through the heart and will burst and end in an instant, so be prepared. Use them well, Ashoka Mistry, use them wisely, for wisdom is the one thing that we cannot give you. Yet it is more powerful than the sharpest swords and more precious than rain in the desert.”

  “No,” says Ashoka. “I am not a hero. I have found my family. I want to go home.”

  The archer looks at him sympathetically. “You cannot hide from your destiny, Ashoka. I know. It comes and finds you no matter what. How long do you think you and your family will be safe if Savage wins? A day? A week? He will hunt you down and they will suffer beside you.”

  Ashoka knew he was right, even though he wished he wasn’t. “I’m not saying he shouldn’t be stopped, but you should get someone else to do it. Someone who has a chance of succeeding. You send me and I’ll fail. I guarantee it. I can’t beat Savage.”

  “With us perhaps you can,” says Spartacus.

  “Look, I never signed up for any of this. I’m sorry, but my job is done.”

  “You are the Eternal Warrior. Your job will never be done,” says the archer.

  “That’s not fair.” Ashoka sits down. The weight of it, the idea, is enormous. The Eternal Warrior. Never to escape war. Never to know peace. Is this it? Is he at war now for eternity? “I should have a choice.”

  Spartacus grins. “If we had a choice then we’d have all said no. What man would want this duty? None. All of us want peace, boy. But peace is a fragile thing. It doesn’t take much to break it. Ambition. Jealousy. Greed. These things destroy peace, and they lie within the hearts of all men.”

  “So what’s the point?” says Ashoka. “Why fight against them?”

  The archer puts his hand on Ashoka’s shoulder. “Because we must have hope. You are our hope.”

  Ashoka wants to go home and close the door and have everything go back to how it was. But he knows that’s impossible. He looks around at the faces of the three men. His heart beats violently and he stands up. “What do I have to do?”

  The men smile at him.

  “I could tell you,” said Spartacus, his face lighting up with amusement, “but you’d forget the moment you awoke.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Parvati snapped her fingers. “Ashoka?”

  Ashoka blinked, the images of that gloomy place already fading. His throat tingled with the water he’d drunk, the feel of leather on his lips.

  “Ashoka?” asked Parvati. “Are you all right?”

  “I met them, Parvati.”

  She looked confused. “You were only under a few seconds.”

  “I talked to them. For ages. It seemed like ages.”

  “Time and memory are curious things. Who did you see?”

  “Spartacus. The first emperor and … Rama. I met Rama.”

  “Then I envy you, Ashoka. How was he?”

  “He seemed … sad. I think he realises his duty never ended, not even with death. Weary too.”

  “He was aware of his legacy even back then, back when he fought my father. Few men know what a burden it is to be a legend in the making. More than a legend, an ideal for mankind.”

  She loves him, even now, thought Ashoka. Is that why she has stuck with the Eternal Warrior for so long? An eternity of unrequited love? All that sadness locked inside.

  Ti Fun came back in and one of his men dropped a set of suitcases by the door. “The flight’s this evening.”

  In twelve hours they’d be home. But Ashoka couldn’t get the faces out of his head. “Who else have I been? What other talents could I draw upon? I mean, what if I’m the reincarnation of Bruce Lee. I’d be able to fight like him, right?”

  Parvati shook her head. “Impossible.”

  “Why not?” asked Ashoka.

  “Bruce Lee? He’s not dead,” said Ti Fun. “He and his son work for us.”

  Ashoka’s jaw fell open.

  “Can we get back to the matter at hand, please? You were saying, Ashoka? The past lives?” interrupted Parvati.

  “They said they’ll help me. I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re bloody not,” said a voice from behind. It was Ashoka’s dad. “You’re coming home with us.”

  “Dad …”

  Ashoka’s father stared at them, livid. “You’re filling his head with madness. I heard. Eternal Warrior, Rama, destiny … He’s just a boy. Leave him alone.”

  Ashoka didn’t want to disagree with his dad, but this was bigger than his dad could understand. “You weren’t meant to hear all that.”

  “So what were you going to do? Sneak away without us knowing? Send us a text? How could you do that to us? After everything we’ve just been through …”

  But Ashoka could barely hear him. The faces of the men, his vision, were so clear in his mind. He’d been fighting for thousands of years. His heartbeat quickened with dim memories of battlefields and palaces and enemies and allies. Parvati appeared again and again. He’d known Ti Fun before. Was there a place, an age, he hadn’t been? Ashoka looked at the floor, and the marble mosaics decorated with dancing dragons. He rubbed his toes on the smooth, cold surface.

  Just like Pompeii.

  The vast masterpiece of Alexander fighting Darius. He’d trodden over the fallen warriors, their faces contorted with despair and rage. Whose side had he been on? In the end there were but two. The living and the dead.

  Ashoka looked up at his father. “This is something I have to do.”

  “No, it’s not, Ashoka,” his dad pleaded. “You belong with your family.”

  Ashoka met his father’s gaze. He was both younger and older than this man. Voices whispered, out there on the edge of his dreams – men, women and children; gods and demons. “Dharma. It is dharma. My right way of living. Rama tells me, Dad. I have to listen to him. You told me how you felt when you couldn’t protect Lucky and Mum. You shouldn’t suffer; it was not for you to do. It was for me. I failed. I didn’t come quickly enough.”

  “Ashoka, none of this makes sense. You’re just fourteen.”

  “I can make a difference, Dad, I know I can. I don’t know whether I’ll succeed or fail, but it’s my duty to be there.”

  There’d been as many defeats in his lives as there had been victories. In Thermopylae, on the road with Spartacus. At Wounded Knee, in the mud of the trenches, in the deserts of Arabia.

  “You know I love you, Dad, you and Mum and Lucky, and I don’t want to leave you. But if I don’t go, I’ll fail you more than you can imagine. Savage has to be beaten, once and for all. You take me home and he’ll win.”

  “You think you can stop him?”

  “I have to try, Dad. There’s so much evil and misery in the world, you said so yourself. It’s down to the brave to stop it, to make a stand for those who can’t. Otherwise we live in a world of demons, where the only law is to feed on those weaker than yourself.”

  “You can’t change the world, Ashoka. It is what it is.”

  “It is what we make it, Dad.” He took his dad’s hand. “You have to be brave, brave enough to let me go.”

  Dad blinked back tears. “What shall I tell your mother? What about Lucky?”

  Ashoka hugged him, feeling his dad’s heart trembling, his own tears wet on his cheek. “I’ll tell them.”

  And so he did. He went into the bedroom where Lucky and his mum were packing their suitcases. His mum looked shattered, but s
miled as she saw him, and Lucky ran over and gave him a big hug. “We’re going home!” she said. “We’re going home!” She repeated it, as if she almost couldn’t believe it.

  Mum pushed her clothes down and zipped up the suitcase. Ti Fun had got them a new set of luggage and enough new clothes to reboot their wardrobes for the next decade. Lucky had a toy tiger in her backpack. Mum glanced over. “You packed already, Ashoka?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better hurry up. Though I suppose the plane will leave whenever we want. Still, I can’t wait to go. To be home again.” She smiled. “Do hurry up.”

  Ashoka took a deep breath. “Mum, Lucks, I need to tell you something.”

  Ashoka stood on the tarmac of the runway, watching the jet lift off into the night sky. He waved and waved as the plane disappeared into the darkness, only its tail and wingtip lights still shining. He waved until they too were gone.

  Mum had sat quietly, but Lucky had cried. She was angry and scared. She’d thought she’d lost him once and couldn’t understand why he was staying. He belonged with them. He was only fourteen.

  Fourteen and ageless.

  Now, standing there, the fumes swirling around him, sharp and sweet, Ashoka’s heart ached. They had left. They were his family and they bickered and argued and his parents had strict rules about homework versus gaming time and Lucks was a pain in the butt and much smarter than him and they were the best things in his life. But the reason he wanted to go straight after them was the very same reason he had to stay. He’d held Lucky’s hand and told her that, and eventually she stopped crying and blaming him and nodded.

  He wiped his face clean of tears and met Parvati’s gaze, soft and warm. Despite her protestations, she was human. She put her hand in his and their fingers entwined.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Reggie Sahib! Reggie Sahib!” A fist bangs on his door.

  Reggie shakes himself awake. The bed creaks as he gets up, pulling the mosquito net aside.