"Surely you must not," Darshan said bluntly. "You dreamed. A dream binds you to nothing. No strange king has been in the palace. That is fact. How the ring comes to be on your finger, I cannot say. For the rest, put it from your thoughts. I tell you plainly and simply: It did not happen."
Darshan had spoken with so much certainty that Tamar almost believed him, and longed to believe him. He shook his head. "It happened," he murmured, "exactly as I said. I wish it had not. But it did. The debt is to be paid. Have I any other honorable choice?"
He turned to Rajaswami who, so far, had stayed silent and thoughtful. "Acharya, dear teacher," Tamar said, addressing the old man as he had done when a child, "guide me in this. What should I do?"
"A question not easily answered," Rajaswami replied. "Word given, word kept. Yes, that is dharma. But it does not apply to a vow made in a dream. The more difficult problem: Was it indeed a dream? How can you, or I, be certain we are not dreaming this very moment? Are you merely part of my dream? Am I merely part of yours? Was your game of aksha real, and what seems here-and-now is illusion?"
"How, then, can I know?" Tamar asked, in an anguished voice. "Tell me, acharya. My life depends on it."
"Alas, there is no way that you can be certain." Rajaswami sighed heavily. "This is beyond my guidance." Tamar bowed his head. For some while, he said nothing. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and questioning: "Perhaps there is some simple explanation for the ring."
As for the king of Mahapura, none of you saw him, his retainers, or his animals. I believe you. There is no sign he was ever here. And so it may well have been only a dream.
"Yes, I doubt that it happened-and yet, at the same time, I believe that it did. There is a way, and one way only, to be sure: I go to Mahapura."
"No!" Darshan burst out. "There's more in this than your own honor. You owe a debt? What do you owe to your kingdom? Your people?"
"Can I be a worthy king unless I'm first an honorable man?"
"Can you be a worthy king if you're dead? Throw your life away? If you think that's honorable-then, lad, you know nothing of the world and its ways.
"Do not do this," Darshan pressed. "No realm could hope for a finer king. Lad, when you first came to the throne, some of your own counselors spoke against you; you were too young; they doubted you could rule wisely. But I and your acharya knew your heart; we were sure of your worth. Your people love you. Do not abandon them for the sake of a foolish dream. All your hopes and plans for Sundari-will you leave them in the hands of self-serving courtiers?"
"I leave Sundari in the best of hands," Tamar said. "Yours."
"Not mine," Darshan returned. "I'm no courtier. I'm a soldier."
"Then obey your king," Tamar said. "I start for Mahapura now. To linger would only grieve me all the more."
"Are you sure that is what you wish to do?" said Rajaswami. "To undertake such a journey when you are filled with doubts and uncertainties?" Tamar smiled at him. "I'll have to take my doubts and uncertainties with me."
"At least go in strength," Darshan urged. "Lead your army there. Make a show of force. The king of Mahapura if such there be, will not dare to harm you."
"Will an army follow an uncertain leader on what may be a pointless quest?" replied Tamar. "A dream? Or not? I ask no one else to follow it."
"Not alone," said Rajaswami. "I shall go with you."
Tamar shook his head. "No. Dear acharya, I can't let you. Leave your studies and meditations for a long journey? The hardships will be more than you can bear."
"I shall bear them nevertheless," Rajaswami said. "I must. I swore to your parents I would be always at your side. Dear boy, I was there when you were born. I shall be there when you die, if it comes to that. It is my dharma."
"I can't order you to break it." Tamar smiled and embraced the old teacher. "Nor do I wish to."
They set off later that morning. Tamar had agreed that Darshan and a cavalry troop would escort them to the outlying Danda-Vana forest. Astride Gayatri, his beloved white mare, Tamar had exchanged royal silks for hunter's buckskins, his only weapons a sword and hunting knife, a bow and quiver of arrows. Rajaswami, in his usual white robe and scarf, perched uncomfortably on the dapple-gray Jagati.
Throughout the city, word had spread of the king's departure and the fate likely in store for him. Tamar could barely bring himself to look into the eyes of the townspeople crowding the streets. Some wept; some called out, begging him to stay; some watched in silent grief He feared he might weaken and gladly turn back. At the forest fringe, Darshan again pleaded to ride with Tamar; and again, Tamar refused.
"Stay as I ordered. If I live, I promise to return. If not, Rajaswami will bring you word. Until then, old friend, care for my people as I would do."
"I have laid your sandals on your throne," Darshan replied. "They will stay there as token that you are still king of Sundari and, to me, will always be."
Darshan and his warriors turned their mounts and rode from the forest. Tamar watched until they were out of sight. His heart was heavier than ever it had been. The light was fading. He tethered the horses and spread blankets from the saddle packs.
"I'm sorry, acharya," he said. "This is the best hospitality we can expect."
"For the moment, perhaps," Rajaswami said cheerfully, all the while rubbing his stiff legs. "We may find shelter in the occasional hermitage. Forests have always been a refuge for sages who prefer to shun the world's distractions. They dwell in their cottages and ashramas and pursue their contemplations. I suspect they enjoy a visitation now and again, a welcome relief from their rigorous mental exertions."
"For your sake, I hope so," Tamar said. "Rough living and cold comfort-I don't have an easy mind about your well-being."
"I shall manage, never fear," said Rajaswami. "You, my boy, are trained to endure hardship. You are a kshatriya, born to the caste of warriors, highest and noblest-except, of course, for the brahmana, my own caste; whereas we brahmanas are devoted to matters of the spirit-high thinking, not earthly physicalities. But I shall accommodate myself, even to this fearsome place."
"Why fearsome? One forest is like another."
"Not this. It was old when much of the world was young. It was full grown even in the Golden Age, those ancient days when gods and goddesses walked the earth, as the tales tell, and forest creatures could speak with humankind.
"It's only for you, dear boy, that I'm here now. I've read of too many strange happenings; I'd prefer to leave this forest to itself Furthermore, if a creature addressed me why, I should hardly know what to answer."
With that, Rajaswami curled up on the grass. Tamar sat awhile. Darshan's words still troubled him. He was doing what honor demanded; but was it honor only for himself, not his kingdom? He had chosen duty to his warrior's code over duty to his people. A misjudgment? A false step on the path of what Rajaswami called karma actions good or bad, all combining to shape a destiny, each deed sending ripples, like a stone dropped into a pond. Had his fate already encircled him in an iron ring of its own? No answer came, and he was too wearied to seek further.
To his surprise, next morning he woke lighthearted. "Acharya, I had a marvelous dream. I was here, in the forest. And all the trees turned bright gold. It was dazzling, wonderful."
"Oh, my poor boy, I'm sorry to hear that." Rajaswami's face fell. "Not a happy dream. To see trees turn to gold bad omen. It foretells death." Tamar's good spirits chilled. "Mine. A fitting dream."
"Not necessarily," Rajaswami hastened to assure him. "Yours-perhaps. Or, indeed, mine. Or someone else altogether. Put it from your thoughts. The dream is done; you can't change it."
They ate quickly and in silence, neither one with appetite, then set off, walking their horses through the denser stretches of forest. Recalling Jaya's description of Mahapura, Tamar planned to bear east to the Sabla River and follow it to its headwaters. The sun was high as the forest thinned a little and a hard-packed trail opened. Tamar halted in midstride. A man had stepped
into the path. His face was scarred and weather beaten. He wore hunting garments much like Tamar's, with a stained rag knotted around his head. Tamar quickly motioned for Rajaswami to back away.
The hunter had drawn a heavy bow to full stretch. Notched and ready on the string, a barbed arrow pointed at Tamar's throat.
4. Questions in the Forest
"Loosen your bow." Tamar spread his empty hands. "You have no quarrel with us."
"For me to say." The hunter's eyes narrowed. "I have a quarrel with all who come to poach in my forest."
"Yours?" Tamar said lightly. He glanced around. "Do you claim all this as your realm? A mighty kingdom."
"My hunting grounds. Will you dispute it?"
"Where you hunt is no interest to me," Tamar said. "We are not here to steal your game. We only pass through. We have other business."
"If you could direct us to a nearby ashrama," put in Rajaswami, "we would be greatly obliged. I find the lack of even rudimentary means of cleanliness unsettling, which you." Rajaswami cast a disapproving eye on the hunter's grimy face and tangled, greasy hair "apparently do not."
The hunter squinted. "What kind of old loon is this?"
"My good fellow, I am a brahmana." Rajaswami drew himself up in dignity. "As you should realize from my costume. My person is inviolate, not to be threatened with insults and arrows."
"Well, brahmana, you ask directions. I'll give them. I direct you to turn around and go back where you came from. You keep your life. I keep your horses. A fair exchange." While the hunter's glare was on Rajaswami, Tamar unshouldered his bow. In one swift motion, he snatched an arrow from the quiver and had it notched and aimed at the man.
"What you keep," said Tamar, "is your distance."
"Clever. Well done." The hunter gave a barking laugh. "Where did you learn that trick? Now, the question is: Can you loose your shaft faster than I can loose mine? Or have you the stomach to do so?"
"Find out for yourself."
The hunter stood awhile, holding his aim. He shrugged and lowered his bow. "I have no time for games of bravado. Go where you please. Wait!" he called, as Tamar stepped ahead. "Who are you?"
"Not your concern."
"Call it my curiosity. I let you live. You owe me an answer."
"I let you live. We are even. I owe you nothing."
"Tell me this, at least: What do you judge to be most valuable?"
"What is that to you?"
"Very little. Tell me, even so."
"An easy question, an easy answer," said Tamar. "Honor."
"What is the most dangerous battle?"
"With a stronger, better-armed enemy."
"And the best end to a battle?"
"When the enemy is defeated," Tamar said. "What else could it be?" "Those are warrior's answers," the hunter said. "You are no poacher of rabbits."
"As I told you."
"One thing more. For amusement. To see if you can hit a mark as easily as you drew your bow." The hunter unstrung his own bow and threw it to the ground. "No fear. See, I am disarmed.
"Look there." The hunter pointed at a gnarled tree, almost out of bow shot down the path. "Do you see the knot in the trunk? Can you hit it?"
"Like you," replied Tamar, "I have no time for games."
"Or is the game too difficult? Would a closer target suit you better?" "You chose it," Tamar said. "It will serve." He drew the bowstring full and loosed the arrow. The shaft hissed through the air, straight to the tree and the center of the knot. The arrow strike had roused a hulking, ungainly bird, which flapped up from the branches, beat its ragged wings, and sped off in a lopsided flight, squawking indignantly.
"I left room for your own arrow." Tamar stepped back a pace. The hunter, along with his bow, had vanished. The forest was silent except for the fading screeches of the bird.
"Gone so fast?" Tamar looked around. "Where?"
"I didn't notice," said Rajaswami. "I was watching your arrow. Obviously, he slunk away ashamed, as well he ought to be."
Puzzled, Tamar whistled for the horses. With Rajaswami trotting at his heels, he strode toward the tree, but stopped short. From close at hand rose shrieks and howls, and desperate shouts for help. On the instant, beckoning to Rajaswami, he set off through the brush, scrambling over tangles of roots, plunging into the high grass and foliage lining a riverbank. At first, he thought he saw a man, half in half out of the water, clutching at the ground. It was a monkey, nearly the size of Tamar himself, with arms longer than his own. A huge serpent had wrapped its coils around the creature, who yelled and squealed, struggling to keep from being dragged into the current.
"For mercy! Save me!" the monkey burst out, seeing Tamar. "Set me free of this overgrown worm. He'll drown me-if he doesn't first squeeze me to death."
"Hold on." Tamar sprang to the side of the monkey, whose face puckered and whose eyes rolled as his grip weakened. "I'll get you loose."
"You have my undying gratitude," the monkey gasped. "Undying, that is, if you'll be quicker about it."
Tamar sought to unwind the enormous reptile; but its coils were as big around as his waist and, for all his strength, he could not budge them. He drew his sword.
"That's good. Cut him to pieces," urged the monkey. "Chop him in two. Or three or four. The more the better. Only mind you don't slice my tail."
As Tamar raised his sword and was about to swing it down, the serpent lifted its head and hissed a warning:
"Stay your hand. You do ill to take my life. You have no right to interfere. It is a matter between this sneaking simian and myself."
"No longer," Tamar replied. "He begged me for help; I said I would give it, and so I must. Now it is a matter between you and me."
"You spoke too quickly," said the serpent, "in ignorance of my grievance against him."
Rajaswami, meantime, had clambered down the bank. "He has a point," he murmured to Tamar. "You've put yourself in a difficult situation without knowing the facts."
"I do no more than execute simple justice," the serpent said.
"A simple lie!" bawled the monkey. "Pay no attention. I'm the innocent victim of this armless, legless, hairless slug. He's a snake; he's likely to tell you anything. Ignore him. Chop away. I didn't do any harm."
Tamar looked from one to the other. "I'll judge the truth of that. As for you," he added to the serpent, "set him loose. He's in my charge while I hear your accusations."
"So be it." The great snake uncoiled. The monkey scrambled out of the water and flung himself to the bank, muttering insults and stretching the cramps from his arms and legs.
"I am Shesha, prince of the Naga-loka, the Serpent Realm," the snake began, raising himself partly upright. His scales glistened in rainbow colors; his tongue darted in and out like forked lightning. He spread his wide hood and Tamar saw that he bore on his head a sapphire, the gem as blue as the sky and even brighter.
"The facts are clear," Shesha went on, fixing Tamar with an unblinking eye. "I wished only to take my rest in the sun, here on this riverbank. While I slept, this insolent ape."
"I'm not an ape, you scaly piece of rope," put in the monkey. "There's a difference."
"Not to me," replied Shesha. "You are insolent, whatever you may be, and a thief as well." He returned his gaze to Tamar. "This jabbering creature came to steal my jewel. And would have done so, had I not awakened in time."
"You'd still be snoring away," said the monkey, "if some frowsy bird hadn't flown by, screeching its head off. That's what roused you. There's the real cause of the trouble. Otherwise."
"Otherwise, you would have snatched my gem and made off with it. Yes, the bird woke me, for which I am grateful.
"And then?" said Tamar.
"There is no more than that," replied Shesha. "Because the bird luckily disturbed my repose, I was able to catch a thief red-handed. Now, King of Sundari, judge whether I have the right to punish him."
Tamar, taken aback at hearing himself so addressed, had no time to ask how She
sha knew this, for the monkey bounced up with a gleeful cry.
"We are fellow kings! I, Hashkat, am ruler of the Bandar-loka, the Monkey Realm." He lowered his voice and spoke hastily in Tamar's ear. "Between kings, one helps the other. A matter of professional courtesy."
"A matter of justice, even between kings," replied Tamar. "I have heard Prince Shesha. Now, King Hashkat, I will hear you."
"Nothing of what this prince of wigglers has told you is true," declared Hashkat. "The bird, yes, that much is correct. But I didn't come here with malice aforethought; I happened to pass this way by accident. One of my people is missing. No one can find him."
"What does this matter to me?" The Naga prince eyed Hashkat. "It is your concern, not mine."
"Tie a knot in that forked tongue of yours," retorted Hashkat. "As I was trying to explain, I myself was looking for little Akka. My search brought me here. I had no intention of stealing this reptile's jewel. It caught my eye; stopped to admire. What harm in that? Even had I taken the jewel, I swear on my honor."
"A monkey's honor?" Shesha hissed scornfully. "There is no such thing." "There certainly is," Hashkat flung back. "I follow my dharma as faithfully as anyone."
"Do monkeys have dharma?" Tamar asked Rajaswami.
"Of course," the acharya replied. "All creatures do. Theirs, however, may be altogether different from yours."
"That's right," agreed Hashkat. "In this case, what someone else might call stealing is, among the Bandar-loka, a matter of highest principle. We devoutly believe that if something isn't nailed down, it's free for the taking; and if it can be pried loose-it isn't nailed down.
"Apart from that," Hashkat went on, "as far as the jewel is concerned, I'd have surely given it back. Probably. Maybe. If I'd been asked politely."
"Enough!" broke in Shesha. "You have heard us both. There can be no question in your mind. Justice must be executed."
"Yes, so long as it is justice," Tamar said. "For the sake of a jewel, I see no cause to take a life, even a monkey's. Prince Shesha, I cannot allow you to do so."
The Iron Ring Page 2