Tmp, p.14
tmp, page 14
There is no reason yet for our people to start locking their doors and fearing night’s approach.”
The men nodded seriously.
He looked at each of the eight men there, his most trusted scouts, posted around the city to keep an eye on everything. “Fortify our walls. Even though the attack took place outside the city, we must be vigilant. Send a horse rider to each of the subordinate kings, informing them what has occurred. At this point we cannot say if it was an isolated incident or the beginning of something. If anything suspicious occurs in any of our kingdoms, I want to know at once.”
92
the pow er of a ph a ntom
“Yes, Great King.”
Visions of the red-eyed blood-drinkers sprang up in Dasharatha’s mind. He had no illusion about the dangers that existed, but they belonged in other realms, not on Earth. This should not be happening. Had something happened in the previous battle to turn the tides against them? Why an attack by a blood-drinker now, after hundreds of years?
Dasharatha left the room, noticing, as he always did in a crisis, the entourage that followed him to his next destination. Only some of them carried weapons. Others carried refreshments, fans made of peacock tails, and other items meant to make the king’s duties easier. Dasharatha paused before entering the room. He had not faced a situation like this before.
When Dasharatha entered the room, everyone, including Vasishta, stood up. Everyone but the grieving father. He sat by his dead children, a son and a daughter, and looked up at Dasharatha with eyes that shone with anger. He had a boyish face and looked too young to have sired two children.
“This is your fault,” he said to Dasharatha. The words came out in a hiss. “You are useless!”
Dasharatha grew still, taking the man’s accusation to heart.
“If you had done your work as king correctly,” the man went on, “the demon with ten heads could not have done this.” He stood up now, glaring at Dasharatha with bloodshot eyes. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if he wished to fling a weapon at his king.
Dasharatha felt compassion for the delusion in the man’s grief. Ravana with his ten heads was a favorite villain. Dasharatha did the only thing he could think of. He broached the distance between them and embraced the man tightly and firmly. The father struggled to be free, cursing Dasharatha loudly, speaking so offensively he would have met the death penalty under any other circumstances.
“Lochana,” Vasishta warned, addressing the man by his name.
Dasharatha shook his head at the preceptor, letting the man rage on. Dasharatha did not let go, and it did not take long until Lochana slumped in his arms, anger spent. His chin trembled and his hair hung over his face. “My children,” he whispered, and quiet sobs ran through his entire body.
Dasharatha’s heart was nowhere but in the grief of this bereaved father. He had never faced such pain, and he hoped he never would again. For a long time, Dasharatha held the man to his chest; now Dasharatha was the father and this man his child. There were no hierarchies in the land of sorrow.
When Lochana’s cries quieted, Dasharatha gently released him, keeping a supportive arm around him. Lochana had no energy left. He had, after all, carried his two children a very long way. Exhaustion was taking over.
Dasharatha looked into Lochana’s eyes urgently. “I will do everything in my power to avenge the death of your children and find the culprit.”
To his surprise, the man mustered a laugh. “You will not.” It was a statement. Not an accusation. “It was the ten-headed one that did this.”
93
the pow er of a ph a ntom
The king looked at Vasishta with narrowing eyes. Was it even possible? After hundreds of years, an attack by the king of blood-drinkers himself?
“He has not been seen on Earth since the time of Anaranya,” Dasharatha said, in a soft voice. “Thirty-six generations ago.”
Dasharatha led the man back to his seat. Lochana reached out to his children’s corpses, touching their pallid hands. They looked like pale angels, sleeping peacefully. Dasharatha’s eyes found the pinprick wounds at the neck. In his battle experience, men needed to bleed copiously before death came for them. These children’s lives had been sucked out cleanly and completely. Dasharatha had never seen anything like it before. While Lochana turned his attention to the children he had lost, Dasharatha consulted privately with Vasishta.
“Ravana? Is it possible? Or is he simply recalling the stories and making wild assumptions?”
“Something is not right,” Vasishta said. “When he carried his children into Ayodhya, I felt a disturbance in the sacred vibrations that protect our walls. At first I was inclined to think we had a security breach, that this man was a blood-drinker in disguise. But he is not.
He is true, his tragedy genuine. Still, he has unknowingly brought something with him here, something that was powerful enough to weaken the holy mantras that protect Ayodhya from intrusion. Whoever killed these children left a psychic imprint so strong, I believe their corpses are tainted. We should burn them as soon as possible.”
Dasharatha returned to Lochana’s side. His young face was lined with grief; he would never be a carefree person again. Dasharatha put a gentle hand on his shoulder and kneeled down to face him at eye level. Quickly he conveyed what Vasishta had told him.
Lochana did not look surprised. “I already told you,” he said. “It was that ten-headed blood-drinker that the children call Ravana. It had to be. He had ten heads and twenty arms and horrible eyes that drained away my courage.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes. When I found the children. When I discovered that they were dead. He appeared and laughed at my plight. I was not thinking, but I flew into such a helpless rage, I flung myself at him, without even a weapon in my hand. But my body flew through him and into the tree behind him.” He touched his forehead, where Dasharatha for the first time noticed a swelling and the signs of a bruise. “I went straight through him. That’s when I realized he wasn’t really there. That he had somehow left a phantom of himself there. When I returned to my children’s side, ignoring the vision completely, he disappeared into thin air. I hurried away as fast as I could with them weighing me down, full of the foolish hope that they might yet be saved. As soon as I saw that monster, I should have known.”
His eyes were growing heavy, his speech slurred, as the events of the day weighed in on him.
“Take rest,” Dasharatha said. “We will wake you when the arrangements for the pyres are done. We will spare no cost in sending these children to the heavens with a proper burial.”
The man nodded, looking down.
95
ch a p ter 10
Dasharatha’s next words were unplanned. “Afterward, will you lead me to the spot where you found them?”
Again the man nodded, and Dasharatha had him escorted to a private chamber where he could rest.
Dasharatha understood from his own spontaneous request that he would not feel peace until he investigated this himself. He did not know what to make of the man’s certainty, his words of the ten-headed apparition. It could have been nothing but grief-induced delusion.
And yet Vasishta had said someone immensely powerful had tainted the children.
While the funeral arrangements were made, Dasharatha and a few select people dis-creetly went to Ayodhya’s prison. There was one particular prisoner whom Dasharatha needed to question, one held in a secret cell. He was Ayodhya’s oldest prisoner and knew more about blood-drinkers than anyone else. Getting him to speak was another matter altogether. The prisoner had maintained silence since before Dasharatha’s lifetime, not even revealing his name. On his way to the prison, Dasharatha touched the thin scar across his lips, remembering the encounter with Subahu on the battle-field of the gods. “Release my brother!” the drinker had demanded. Dasharatha did not know whether Subahu had survived; blood-drinkers of that caliber, who could shape-change with such skill, were uncommonly difficult to slay.
Soon, Dasharatha emerged from the prison with clenched teeth. The prisoner had displayed mirth at Dasharatha’s questions but remained silent otherwise. The records clearly held that no amount of torture would make the prisoner speak, so Dasharatha did not resort to such methods.
The king gave orders to organize a search-party and then went directly to the funeral ceremony. The two pyres were built and decorated with fresh flowers. Vasishta himself conducted the last rites, instructing the bereaved father where to light the pyres. As the flames began to burn, the royal musician sang melancholy yet melodious hymns, sending the two young souls onward on their journey. Lochana, who could have chosen to sit in meditation until the pyres burned down, turned to Dasharatha.
“I’m ready,” he said abruptly. “I will lead you there now.” He wanted justice.
“Everything has been arranged,” said Dasharatha.
He took Lochana’s elbow and led the man to his private rooms, where he kept his weapons. The chariot stood ready when Dasharatha came out. Ten heavily armed men on horses waited nearby. Dasharatha invited Lochana to stand beside him on the chariot, and once they were out of the city, the grieving father guided the king toward his village. To find the spot in the forest, they had to dismount and leave the chariot and horses behind.
The forest was peaceful and bright, an unlikely spot for a horrendous crime. Yet was any place truly suitable for it? Still, darkness didn’t have a bad reputation for nothing. The enemy lived in the shadows, after all—except for this one who had ventured out into daylight and attacked Lochana’s family.
They walked along a path that wound through the trees. After a few minutes, Lochana slowed down. The strain of returning to this place was evident in his abrupt gestures. There 96
the pow er of a ph a ntom
was no landmark that Dasharatha could see, but he trusted that the spot was engraved in Lochana’s mind. Unconsciously adopting Lochana’s mannerism, Dasharatha walked on his toes.
“Here,” Lochana said in a hoarse whisper, pointing at a place on the ground. “This is where I found them.” His eyes darted toward another place ahead of them.
Dasharatha followed Lochana’s eyes, expecting to see only trees. Instead Dasharatha stumbled backward, losing his life force. Lochana sank to his knees, arms hanging slackly by his side.
Standing in front of them, lazily observing what they did, stood the most dangerous creature Dasharatha had ever seen. Just one of his heads was terrifying, with fangs and eyes that penetrated layers of skin, bone, and psyche. His massive shoulders held countless heads, each one as terrifying as the next. Who could say there were ten heads? To Dasharatha it looked like hundreds. Ravana’s eyes hypnotized and menaced. He could certainly bend people to his will. He was bending Dasharatha now, who started seeing the appeal that Ravana, with his strong jaws and chiseled features, might exert on a woman.
The only thing Dasharatha could focus on was sending strength to his legs. He heard several of the guards collapsing behind him. Dasharatha gained admiration for Lochana’s courage. Dasharatha had to do something. He felt his hand grow heavy, the grip on his sword slippery. It wasn’t easy to lift it through the air and launch it toward Ravana’s heart.
Dasharatha steeled himself for a battle that might end his life, but the sword went through Ravana and lodged in the tree trunk behind him. Ravana’s body shimmered and blurred, the vision showing itself for what it was. But what was it, really? It was clearly sentient, for it responded to their presence and their actions. Now the apparition sneered at them, showing more of its fangs. The arms clawed impatiently through the air. It seemed to feed on Dasharatha’s emotions, gaining more life and animation the longer Dasharatha stood there.
“Ignore it,” Lochana whispered, his neck bent, his face completely averted from the apparition.
Dasharatha couldn’t move. He felt as though invisible hands had grabbed his face, holding it still. He put all his willpower into breaking eye contact with the many-eyed monster, but simply couldn’t. Now he knew that neither he nor any other human could ever stand against Ravana and win. No human had that hope. Anaranya had been wrong; it would always be a fool’s mission. Ravana could not be slain even by the gods. Dasharatha saw the three livid scars across the chest of the apparition: the scars of Vishnu. The lord of lords himself had discharged his famed discus at Ravana. Yet the monster still lived. Dasharatha would have to stand here for all eternity, until the demon got tired of holding him captive.
What came to his rescue was the very weakness of the human frame. The forceful colli-sion of impressions within his body and mind resulted in a sickness that was so strong that the bile rose in his throat. He didn’t even have time to feel ashamed that he alone was vomiting before his men. The bile forced itself up his throat and through his mouth and splattered against the ground, an offering at Ravana’s feet. With a hissing sound, the phantom 97
ch a p ter 10
evaporated, leaving Dasharatha cold with the knowledge that he, the most powerful man on Earth, had no hope at all to rectify Lochana’s tragedy. The death of his children would go unavenged. The mother would never be found. Anaranya’s words would not come true. It was hopeless.
He heard his people take big gulps of air, freed from the vision. Dasharatha wiped his mouth and chin with an impatient gesture. How could a thing of no substance have such power?
Dasharatha felt his men’s eagerness to leave. Lochana was standing up as well, waiting for the king’s cue. But when he tried to move, Dasharatha’s feet were stuck to the ground and incredible heavy, so he just stood there, thinking many conflicting thoughts, praying to the Lord above for some solution. Slowly the serenity of the forest began seeping into his consciousness, restoring it, shooing away the darkness. Ravana was not welcome here, that much was clear. Dasharatha hoped the terrifying apparition of the ten-headed enemy was gone, once and for all. Or would it haunt the woods now for all time, taking pleasure in frightening wayward travelers or lone wanderers?
Dasharatha shuddered. “I will place a ban on this section of the forest,” he said to his followers. “When some time has passed, Vasishta will ascertain whether the woods remain haunted.”
He turned to Lochana. “This forest will be named after your children. Once the ban is lifted, anyone who wishes to pass through must make an offering at your door-step in their honor.”
Dasharatha promised to send the children’s ashes to him when the pyres had burned down. Lochana, with the other surviving family members, would conduct the final rite by offering the ashes to the element of their choice. Lochana returned to his village by foot.
Dasharatha returned to the city. It was perhaps the heaviest day in his life so far, not counting the night in his youth when he had pointed his arrow at the wrong target. That night had shattered something in his heart. There was no way to live on Earth without error, especially as the emperor. What he learned today was that no one in the universe was safe. Safety was an illusion. Ravana did not need a solitary forest to trap his prey. He could swoop into any place at any time. The Earth really was at Ravana’s mercy and whim. His absence over hundreds of years had made them forgetful. Dasharatha’s confidence in his ability to protect his own people had evaporated with the hissing phantom.
In the weeks that followed, it only got worse. News came back reporting the abduction of hundreds of women across the Earth. The ten-headed king had shown neither preference nor deference, but had kidnapped the married and unmarried, 98
the pow er of a ph a ntom
young and old, highborn and common. Ravana had acted alone, riding through the sky in a flying mansion. The women trapped within cried to be rescued. Families across the world were devastated. The men could do nothing to protect or save their wives. The few men and children who had been present had been slaughtered. Mostly, however, the abductions had been stealthy, targeting women when they were alone and helpless—the work of a coward, it seemed to Dasharatha, or one addicted to subtle terror.
Dasharatha engaged all his priests in fortifying Ayodhya’s parameters with sacred vibrations. Even that might not keep Ravana out; no one could say for sure. Dasharatha put efforts into new sanctions restricting the movements of women. No women were allowed outside after dark. No exceptions. Kaikeyi was furious about this, having a habit of riding late into the nights when the king was busy. For once, Dasharatha ignored her complaints. It was the least he could do to prevent any further abductions.
Dasharatha received the reports with growing numbness. Kausalya assisted him in sending appropriate gifts and condolences, writing personal notes to the bereaved. Ravana had thoroughly demonstrated his power over mankind. They had only thought themselves safe because Ravana had left them alone. He could take anything he wanted, whenever he wanted.
No matter how long or fervently the king consulted with his ministers, no matter how many missives he sent back and forth to the other kings, Ravana stood laughing at their futile attempts. They were utterly powerless. Unwilling to admit this, they held strategic meeting after meeting. After a long session with his ministers, Dasharatha finally said, “I have lost faith in Anaranya’s prophecy. A human cannot kill Ravana.”
“Only a human can,” Vasishta amended.
Dasharatha looked at Vasishta silently for a long time. He was emperor, and he had failed.
Lochana was right: he was a useless king. There was nothing he could do to stop Ravana.
99
chapter 11
The Women’s Curse
ronically, a tiny girl shook Dasharatha out of his apathy. He was awoken in the Imiddle of the night, and informed that one of the scouts had returned with a girl, one of Ravana’s victims. Dasharatha opened his eyes at once, looking up at the ceiling as the servant whispered what he knew. He tied a cloth around his waist but left all adornments, securing his sword around his waist as he walked. He nodded to both guards as he stepped out into the dark hall.
