The Iron Ring

by Lloyd Alexander

  "You have saved a life and shown compassion, the spider went on, although the impatient thief protested he had no such intention. 'Better yet, you have done so without the least thought or hope of reward. You have gained more merit than you could possibly imagine.

  "But you're only a spider," said the thief.

  "And you're only a man," said the spider. "My dear thief, when you understand that life is life, whether on eight legs or two, you will have understood much. Your deed, in any case, has cleansed all evil from your heart. Go from here with a fresh spirit. And good luck to you.

  "The thief did so," Adi-Kavi concluded, "and never thought to steal again. There, King of Sundari, you have a case of doing good accidentally, even though the intention was evil to begin with. In short, you never know how things may turn out.

  "The tale is true, by the way," the suta added. "You see, I was that thief."

  "You've clearly mended your ways, which is most commendable and meritorious," said Rajaswami. "Nevertheless, let me remind you: Wrong is wrong, right is right, Clear as the difference between day and night.

  "Between day and night, yes, clear enough," put in Mirri. "But, O wise brahmana, what if it's twilight?" Adi-Kavi's tale and Mirri's comment lingered in Tamar's mind and niggled at him for the next several days, until finally, while the others pressed on, Tamar hung back a little and beckoned for Mirri to stay with him.

  "Something troubles me," he began, as they dismounted and walked their horses. "If an evil intention can turn to good, can a good intention turn to evil?"

  "I'm sure it happens all the time," said Mirri.

  "And can doing right lead to something wrong?" Tamar went on. "I did right, leaving Sundari. I had given my word."

  "Or so you imagined," Mirri said. "You still don't know for sure if it was only a dream." Tamar nodded. "That makes it all the worse. If it was only a dream-I've done a terrible wrong in following it. Darshan warned me of that, but I paid no mind. I've abandoned my people for the sake of it. Who knows what that may lead to? I've put Rajaswami's life in danger, more than he ever bargained for. And you. I even tried to send you away."

  "You didn't succeed," replied Mirri, with a loving smile. "Of course, I had something to say about that."

  "But suppose the dream was real?" Tamar turned his gaze to the iron ring on his finger. "It's not clear to me anymore. The twilight, you said. In between right and wrong. Is everything twilight? What if Jaya cheated when we played at dice? Does my word still bind me? And Jaya himself? Garuda loves him; he'd have given his life for him. That's not the same king of Mahapura who came to me. He was brutal, heartless. Could he have tricked me with some kind of illusion? Or is everything illusion?"

  "I'm not. As you'll find out." Mirri broke off as Adi-Kavi cantered up.

  "We're moving well ahead," the suta called out. "Arvati's cleared a new path. We can cover a good bit of ground before sunset."

  "Yes, of course," Tamar said absently, remounting Gayatri. "Even so, no need to hurry."

  Arvati, indeed, had trampled a good path; nearly half the day still lay ahead. Tamar nevertheless ordered a halt for the night. Hashkat gave a curious glance, but did not question him. Tamar stayed apart for the rest of the afternoon. Next day, Rajaswami vanished.

  18. Soma-Nandi

  Tamar, throughout that morning, had set a leisurely pace, ordering all to walk their horses even when the forest was clear enough to let them ride swiftly. He had not shaken off an uncomfortable reluctance to reach Mahapura; a reluctance that slowed his stride and dragged at his feet. Nahusha, by now, would be well ahead. Tamar calculated no risk of running afoul of him and his warriors; so, by rights, he should have turned and followed the quicker way along the riverside. Instead, he kept to the slower paths of the forest. Caught up in his own confused thoughts, he did not notice that Rajaswami had lagged behind. Suddenly, he heard the acharya cry out.

  Rajaswami had vanished from sight but not from sound. The old teacher, invisible, was yelling at the top of his voice. His white umbrella lay on the ground. Jagati was tossing her head and fearfully whinnying. Tamar ran to the spot, Mirri, Hashkat, and Adi-Kavi at his heels. Akka streaked ahead, chattering and beckoning. Tamar dropped to his knees at the edge of a deep pit. Below, out of reach, the brahmana was clinging by his finger ends to the rough earthen wall.

  At the bottom of the pit crouched a huge she-tiger. Growling, teeth bared, the great striped animal leaped up, clawing at Rajaswami's feet dangling just beyond her clutches.

  At sight of Tamar, Rajaswami left off his shouting. "I'm perfectly fine-as long as she can't get at me. Now, if you'd oblige me by hauling me out."

  "Tiger trap," muttered Adi-Kavi. "Leave it to the brahmana to fall into it."

  "Quite unintentionally, I assure you," said Rajaswami. "I was contemplating a difficult philosophical proposition; next thing I knew, there I was with a tiger nipping at me. The bright side is, I nearly had it solved. The question was."

  "Never mind what the question was," Hashkat burst out. "Stay quiet or you'll fall down and end up a tiger's breakfast. Then where's your philosophical proposition?"

  Tamar, meantime, had thrown himself on the ground at the rim of the pit and was trying to stretch his arms far enough to reach the acharya.

  Arvati had lumbered up, with Garuda fluttering beside her. "Here, allow me," the elephant said, seeing Tamar vainly trying to get hold of Rajaswami's hands.

  With that, Arvati lowered her trunk, wrapped it around the acharya, and lifted him out in an effortless instant. From the bottom of the pit, the tiger glowered up with feverish yellow eyes.

  "Help me," said the tiger, in a broken voice. "Hunters set this trap for me. They will return when they know I shall be too weak from hunger and thirst to defend myself Help me out. Let me go my way. I promise no harm will come to any of you."

  "She's hardly more than skin and bones already," Mirri said to Tamar. "She's starving to death. We can't leave her there."

  "You promised not to harm us," Tamar said, while the tiger sank back on her haunches and watched him intently. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"

  "You do not know. Nor can you know until you find out for yourself."

  "Then so I must," replied Tamar. "Leaving any creature to suffer would be against dharma." He glanced at Mirri, who nodded agreement, as did Adi-Kavi.

  "That's correct, my boy," said Rajaswami. "You can't do otherwise-except hope for the best."

  "Yes," put in Hashkat, "and we'll be ready to run for our lives."

  Tamar, at first, had thought to have Arvati lower her trunk and lift out the tiger as she had done with Rajaswami. Willing though she was, the elephant could not stretch far enough; nor could the tiger spring up to grasp the trunk with her paws.

  Finally, Tamar ordered the suta to fetch a rope from the saddle packs. With Arvati holding one end, Tamar threw the other into the trap and started to climb down.

  "No, no!" Garuda wailed. "You'll be torn to bits, eaten alive, your bones crunched up. Waa! Horrible! Don't go. Send the monkey."

  Tamar, meantime, had slid down the rope. The bottom of the pit was narrower than the top, and he found himself barely an arm's length from the crouching animal; close enough to see that the tiger's eyes were sunken in their sockets, her striped coat matted and spiky. Her parched tongue lolled from between her fangs as she swung her head toward him. He drew back and flattened himself against the wall of the trap.

  "My name is Soma-Nandi," said the tiger. "Namaste, King of Sundari. Yes, I know of you. Word has been spread by the Naga-loka, the Bandar-loka, by watchers and listeners in the forest.

  "It is told that you journey to the mountains of the north, seeking your death," Soma-Nandi went on. "Do you fear that you have already found it in this pit with me?"

  "You made a promise," replied Tamar. "I wish to believe you will keep it."

  "Why should I? Why should any forest-dweller keep faith with your human kind?" said Soma-Nandi. "Come closer. Look into my
eyes."

  Tamar could not turn away as Soma-Nandi's eyes widened until they seemed to fill the pit. His mouth went dry, as the tiger's must have been, and he could barely swallow. His lips felt cracked and swollen; pangs of starvation stabbed at him as if he himself had been trapped for endless days.

  "Tell me what you see," said Soma-Nandi.

  Tamar peered deeper. "I see horsemen riding to the hunt. Trackers and fowlers. I see myself fleeing from them." As he watched, his heart pounded to bursting with terror. The death-cries of all forest creatures burst from his throat, as they fell pierced by arrows or struggled in nets and snares.

  "This is maya; this is illusion," Tamar murmured.

  "No," said Soma-Nandi. "It is truth. My world's truth. I wished to show you, for a moment, lives different from your own. You have seen into me, and I have seen into you. Your heart is good, King of Sundari. Remember what you have been shown.

  "Now loop the rope around me," the tiger said. "My word is my law. I will not harm you." Still trembling, Tamar fashioned a harness for Soma Nandi, then called to Arvati, who easily hoisted up the tiger and Tamar along with her.

  One glimpse of the tiger's head rising above the edge of the pit sent Garuda squawking into the high branches. Hashkat and Akka kept a wary distance. Soma-Nandi, however, rested calmly on her haunches while Tamar undid the harness and Mirri hurried to set food and water in front of her.

  "You have my gratitude and the protection of all the Tiger Clan," Soma-Nandi said, after eating and drinking her fill. "You did more than save my life."

  "That's for certain, old girl." Hashkat, reassured by her words, made bold to swagger up and cock an eye at her. "I've seen stray cats in happier shape. The king of Sundari kept you from being a rug on somebody's floor."

  "He did far better," said Soma-Nandi. "We can be worth more alive than dead. Had the trappers taken me, they might well have broken my teeth, torn out my claws, and sold me for the amusement of some king or other. I fear this may have happened to my mate. He has disappeared and I have been seeking him."

  "Seek on! Seek on!" Garuda called from his branch. "Don't delay another moment. Monkeys! Elephants! Now this! Shmaa! My nerves won't stand it."

  "She'll stay until she has her strength back," Mirri said. She put a comforting arm around the tiger's neck. "Akka was lost, then found. You might find your mate again."

  "So I must always hope," said Soma-Nandi.

  Tamar, meantime, went to speak with Rajaswami and Adi-Kavi, telling them of the illusion that had come over him in the pit. "How could this have happened? How could she have worked maya on me?"

  "Ah, that I can't say," replied the suta, while Rajaswami, admittedly puzzled, shook his head. "Maya or whatever, you seem to have understood something you never much thought about before. I'll put it this way: I had my spider; you had your tiger."

  19. The Hermit

  He had never imagined an elephant could be lighthearted, let alone light footed. Yet, in the days that followed, Tamar noticed how Arvati's eyes had brightened since her rescue from the trackers. Even when trampling a path, she seemed to dance more than plod. From time to time, she would flap her ears, lift up her trunk, and trumpet exuberantly.

  "No more hooks, no more chains," said Mirri, who had also observed Arvati's high spirits. "I think she finally got used to the idea that she's free of Nahusha for good and all."

  As Tamar learned, however, Arvati had an added reason. The heavy undergrowth and oppressive shadows of the forest had given way to sunny stretches of rolling grassland. Early one morning, as Tamar saddled Gayatri, Arvati lumbered up to him.

  "I've suspected it for a little while," she said. "Now I'm sure. What I'd always dreamed." Arvati snuffled through her trunk. "I can smell it. I can feel it. My herd isn't far from here."

  "That's wonderful." Mirri laid a hand on Arvati's flank. "We'll miss you, but I know how much you want to join them."

  "I can't." Arvati sadly shook her head. "For one thing, I'm in your debt. You gave me my freedom. I have yet to repay you."

  "You owe us nothing," Tamar said. "Your freedom belongs to you. We only returned what was yours to begin with."

  "There's another thing." Arvati heaved an enormous sigh. "You see, I'm-I'm afraid to go. I haven't the courage-I've been so long in captivity, I don't know how to manage on my own. To make my way alone? No. I'd be too frightened."

  "Allow me to help." Soma-Nandi had padded up to listen. "I, too, owe a debt to the king of Sundari. But, with his permission, I shall stay with you until you are safe among your folk. You have nothing to fear, not while there is a tiger at your side to protect you."

  "Go together, both of you," said Tamar. "It saddens me to part from you, but you have your own paths to follow."

  "So I must," Arvati said at last, with tears brimming in her eyes. She gently touched the tip of her trunk to Tamar's forehead, to Mirri's and the others, even giving Garuda a fond tap on his beak. "Namaste, befriender of elephants. We have long memories, and you shall always be in mine."

  "Namaste, befriender of tigers," said Soma-Nandi, stretching her forelegs and lowering her head in a graceful bow. "Speak my name to any of the Tiger Clan you should encounter. They will do as well for you as you did for me."

  "Find your mate soon." Mirri put her arms around the tiger's neck and pressed her lips to Soma-Nandi's brow. "That's our best wish for you."

  As Tamar urged them to start without delay, Arvati and Soma-Nandi set off across the meadow, heading for the distant woodlands. They went slowly at first, pausing for many backward glances. Their pace quickened after a time, until the elephant was galloping at top speed, the tiger bounding along beside her. At the line of trees, they halted a moment while Arvati raised her trunk in farewell, then vanished into the woods.

  Akka, ranging ahead of the others, had been the first to find it, and ran back chattering of his discovery, beckoning the journeyers to the rocky ridge. Below, nestling amid green gold foliage, the ashrama was a rambling sort of cottage. Its flat roof of woven vines had been chinked with earth; wildflowers bloomed in the crevices. A wide veranda ran along the front; at the rear, a vegetable garden, with melons ripening between the cultivated rows; a little orchard just beyond. Nearby, a wide stream flowed around islands of tall ferns and outcroppings of boulders. Tamar looked down on the hermitage with a measure of wistfulness, uncertain if they should intrude on its occupant. For Rajaswami, there was no question. He was in rapture.

  "My boy, you can't imagine how I've longed to find such a resting place. I've been hoping ever since we left Sundari." The acharya's hands so trembled with joyous excitement he could scarcely hold his umbrella. "The resident sage will be delighted to welcome us. What a comfort it will be! Quickly, my boy. Goodness me, I can hardly wait."

  "At this point," remarked Mirri, "I think I could stand a little comfort. I won't object to eating at a table and sleeping on a bed."

  "Oh, dear girl, I meant far more comfort than that," said Rajaswami, his face alight. "I'm eager for the opportunity to share philosophical speculations and stimulating discussions with the sage, no doubt a wise and learned rishi who has spent years in thought and study."

  "I'd be interested in meeting the old fellow," said Adi-Kavi. "A matter of simple curiosity. As for comfort, once you've lived in an anthill, you can be comfortable anywhere."

  Rajaswami was bouncing up and down like an impatient child. Tamar smiled and nodded, and they picked their way down the slope to the dooryard of hard-packed, neatly swept clay. Garuda flapped to the roof while Hashkat and the suta led the horses to water at the stream.

  Rajaswami clambered onto the veranda and poked his head through the open door. "I had hoped for someone to greet us. If not the sage himself, perhaps one of his students. No matter, we shall wait quietly and respectfully for him.

  "On the other hand," he went on, "we should make our presence known." He stepped across the threshold. Mirri and Tamar followed him into a pleasant, airy room, sparsely
furnished with a plank table and a few stools. Shelves of earthen pots and cookware stretched along one wall. Beaded strands hung across the doorway to a rear chamber.

  Rajaswami pushed aside the beads with his umbrella and peered in, then put a finger to his lips. "There he is," he whispered. "Deep in contemplation, as I might have expected."

  In white robes, a scarf draped over his head, a broad backed figure sat motionless on a straw mat. Rajaswami was about to turn and tiptoe away when Akka, chirping inquisitively, scampered between his feet.

  At the sound, the figure roused, sprang up, and whirled around, eyes blazing. Head and shoulders taller than Tamar, stouter and heavier than the suta, what Rajaswami had taken for a meditating sage was a huge black bear.

  Akka, jabbering in terror, streaked from the chamber. Rajaswami stumbled backward, brandishing his umbrella. Tamar and Mirri seized the bewildered acharya between them and hauled him through the door, out of the ashrama and into the yard, the bear snarling and roaring at their heels.

  The commotion had brought Adi-Kavi and Hashkat racing from the stream. Sending Rajaswami and Mirri pitching into their arms, Tamar faced the furious animal, who shook his paws like clawed fists at the intruders.

  Instead of pursuing the attack, however, the bear halted on the veranda, choked back his growls, and swung his head from side to side, blinking at the journeyers in the dooryard. On the roof, Garuda squawked and beat his wings.

  "Shmaa! Fools!" screeched the bird. "Don't stand there. Run for it!"

  The bear, meantime, set his robes in better order and, with great courtesy, bowed his head and pressed his big paws together:

  "Revered brahmana, accept my humblest apologies. I was startled and quite forgot myself It happens from time to time when things unsettle me. I urge you to overlook this failing and forgive my regrettable outburst."

  "Ah-why, yes, of course," said Rajaswami, regaining his composure, pleased at being so respectfully addressed. "Now, be so good as to inform us: Where is the hermit?"