by Samit Basu
‘Well, stork? Your task here today is very simple. Explain to me this whole strange story, this connection between pashans and storks. Or die.’
The vanars murmured approvingly. Ulluk dragged Gyanasundaram to the centre of the ring. Gyanasundaram looked at the wide circle of vicious eyes and weighed his alternatives. Professional discretion required that he maintain absolute confidentiality about his deliveries. On the other hand, was he prepared to die? If he refused to talk, they would catch other storks. Maybe they would even travel north and invade his community. And what would the beautiful S. Padmalakshmi and their loving children, S. G. Raju and S. G. Balasubramaniam do without his tenderness and guidance? Also, he would not really be violating his oath. These vanars didn’t mean any harm to the pashans, and, once he told them, would leave the storks and their cousins alone.
On the other hand, there was the matter of the Oathbreaker’s Egg. But they would never find it. But what if they did? No, the consequences could be terrible. He wouldn’t talk about that.
‘I, Gyanasundaram Stork, son of the venerable Padmanubham,’ said S. P. Gyanasundaram, stretching his head forward, trying to look unruffled, looking into the cold black eyes of the king of the ape-men, ‘agree to tell you of the ancient contract between the storks and the pashans in exchange for my freedom. What do you want to know?’
‘How are the pashans born?’ asked Bali.
Pashan Family Planning was something Gyanasundaram taught young storks every year before they made their first deliveries.
‘What happens, my lord, is that first a boy pashan meets a girl pashan,’ – Ulluk’s fingers sneaked around his neck – ‘and anyway, the female lays an egg. A stone egg. And then they hire a stork to deliver it to wherever they want their child to be. This is why all pashans know about their birth is that storks carry them.’
‘But why do storks carry them?’
‘Because storks can fly. Because the pashans give us food and help whenever we need it. Because pashan work contracts do not allow leave for birthing. And because the safest hatching sites are remote ones, carefully selected by storks to protect the infant pashans from predators in the larval stage, until they become stone-hard. And a pashan always opens a broad path wherever he or she goes, which is practically an invitation for egg-thieves.’
‘Make him explain better, Ulluk.’
As Ulluk’s fingers tore off a flight feather, Gyanasundaram discovered hitherto unexplored reserves of eloquence.
‘In determining what a pashan will be like, location is everything. The storks carry the pashan eggs in their beaks and drop them in the appropriate place – in glaciers for snow trolls, in swamps for the mud-pashans, in volcanoes for the lavapashans, in deserts for the dunestones, and in cave rivers for the stalactrolls. The stone egg absorbs certain materials from the surrounding environment and these determine the type of pashan that will emerge when the egg finally hatches. Pashans grow very fast–they reach full size and hardness in a week.
‘This bond between storks and pashans has existed for thousands of years, ever since a pashan in some forgotten age saved one of our forefathers from a hunter. In the Age of Terror, however, Danh-Gem brought the pashans together. He somehow found out how pashans were born and hired thousands of storks to bring eggs from all over the world to special furnaces he made in the pits of Imokoi. And there he bred his armies of killer trolls, cunning and vicious. Those furnaces were broken down after the war, and normal stork-pashan contracts resumed. We have always kept this secret, partly because we care for the pashans and partly because no one, except Danh-Gem centuries ago, had ever asked us. Until now.’
‘Now tell us about the forty-five storks that flew over the forest. What is that ceremony for?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gyanasundaram said quickly.
‘You lie,’ hissed Bali.
Ulluk whipped out a dagger.
Gyanasundaram saw his beloved Padmalakshmi’s face float in front of his eyes. She looked extremely annoyed.
‘I’ll tell you everything,’ he squeaked, small and ashamed. ‘That was the Oathbreaker’s Flight ceremony. It’s an ancient and irrelevant stork custom,’– the dagger reached his throat –‘which I will now tell you all about.
‘When a stork tells a mother pashan that he will deliver her egg, it is a very sacred oath, one that many storks have died to keep. In all our history there is only one instance where that oath has been voluntarily broken. The Oathbreaker family of herons, however, is held in high esteem, because the Oathbreaker – O. Veerappan – sacrificed his honour and his life for the sake of the world. Exactly what Veerappan did no one outside his family knows.’
He paused. Bali shook his head. Another flight feather came off. Gyanasundaram hurried on.
‘The first pashan the great Rakshas bred was the most fearsome troll that has ever walked the earth. He was said to be endowed with magical powers, and was Danh-Gem’s personal bodyguard and most trusted adviser. This pashan’s wife laid an egg.
‘This egg was the most beautiful stone egg ever, covered with strange, glowing red and green mystic signs. O. Veerappan was hired to deliver this egg to the mountains to the north of Vrihataranya. What happened after that I do not know.’
‘There’s more,’ said Bali, looking into Gyanasundaram’s eyes. ‘Keep talking if you want to fly again.’
‘The egg was fiery and hot, and Veerappan’s beak was badly burned. The egg seemed to have a life of its own–it skipped and jumped about, and he caught it in mid-air several times. Danh-Gem himself came to bid him goodbye as he set off, telling him to be very careful as that egg would hatch a pashan with powers even greater than its father’s. This was during the last part of the War–Danh-Gem was slain by the ravians the very day Veerappan started off from Imokoi. That was two hundred years ago.’
‘As Veerappan flew over the Great Forest, he thought many thoughts, which are all chronicled in the epic poem Wingsong: Death of a Stork by O. Ganesan. He decided he would not deliver the egg to the mountains, for surely a pashan as deadly and evil as the one this egg would hatch would turn the course of the Great War. He took the egg home. He was so badly burned during the long journey across the Great Forest that he died soon after. The egg stayed with the Oathbreakers–it burned their nest so they moved to a cave–and was an object of great curiosity for all us pashan-bearers. Fortunately for the Oathbreakers, Danh-Gem’s followers never found out.’
‘There it is!’ exclaimed Bali, his eyes glowing. ‘Stork, we must have this Oathbreaker’s egg! Where is it?’
‘Honestly, we do not know. About fifteen years ago, the egg disappeared. No one knows where it went. It just disappeared. Some say it rolled out of the Oathbreaker’s cave and down the hills, but the country was searched for miles around and it was not found. Then, the storks guessed that the egg, like the dragons and many other evil things, had simply run out of magic and disappeared. Since then, the Oathbreaker clan flies across the forest once every year, to commemorate the day when O. Veerappan saved the world.’
‘Fool,’ snapped Bali. ‘The pashan you speak of must be alive, for the Great Waning happened two hundred years ago – if the egg were to truly disappear, it would have happened then, not now. Is there anything else?’
‘I have told you everything.’
Bali looked at him keenly and was satisfied.
‘Very well, stork. You may go now.’
‘But you said I could eat him, Uncle Bali’ whined Ulluk.
‘I did? Oh. Yes, by all means, eat him.’
Ulluk dragged Gyanasundaram out of the great hall.
‘So there it is, my brothers. Let us find this pashan the bird spoke of. If he is indeed the son of Danh-Gem’s bodyguard, finding him could be our answer.’
‘But where will you look for him, Bali?’ asked a vanaress by his side.
‘That, my dear Angda, is where our friend Kraken will truly earn the rich reward that I have promised him. When the time comes, I will go to Kol
. Bjorkun has promised to help me in my quest in exchange for the services of our finest assassins. But of my plans I will speak later. There is the other matter we have to speak of…’
The vanars moved in, forming a close circle around the throne and Bali’s voice dropped to a murmur. Kraken flew to the throne to hear what was being said. The anthropoids began to shuffle out of the hall. Secret matters were being discussed which were not for their ears.
Seeing that the council was over as far as they were concerned, the crows flew up and left the hall through the great crack in the dome, singing ‘Kol, the Big Mango’ as they flew through the twisted banyan branches, up above the dark forest to the clear and star-studded sky.
Chapter Nine
Lady Temat, the Chief Civilian of Kol, sipped her tea and looked out at the great city from the wide terrace of her marble palace. To the left rolled the steel-grey waters of the river Asa. She sighed as she looked at the peaceful waters, and then rightwards and upwards at the city she ruled.
The Palace was in the heart of the city, and though it was a tall and magnificent building that had once been the dominant feature of the skyline, it was now dwarfed by the massive towers that had risen up all around it, where the rich and powerful businessmen of Kol sat in offices, running gold and paper through their fingers, plotting exports, imports and investments with as much cunning as their forefathers had drawn battle plans. The objective was still world domination, but the businessmen of Kol intended to do it peacefully. The city looked as if it had been designed by an architect who had drunk too much Dragonjuice: there were arches, minarets, turrets and domes everywhere. When Kol found that it couldn’t extend tentacles outwards and grow more suburbs without damaging very fertile agricultural land, it started to grow upwards. Buildings were built on top of buildings, standing on each other’s shoulders and raising their heads into the skies. The mightiest bridges in Kol now stretched between towers, casting into insignificance the beautifully crafted bridges across the Asa.
The streets of Kol were wide and world-famous. Huge carts from the fields and mines outside the city trundled through the streets all day. The footpaths were wide, and full of jostling citizens, humans, vamans, occasional centaurs, scurrying asurs, and lumbering pashans. But this variety was not what made Kol truly unique.
The topmost spire of the University of Enki was still the highest point in Kol. On top of this spire, encased in a spherical crystal covered with a fine golden mesh with incredibly fine and sharp needle-like spikes on the outside was a small ruby given to the spellbinders of Kol by the ravians. This was the Heart of Magic, the stone that had given the spellbinders of Kol incredible powers during the Great War. Now it was used for a purpose slightly less noble though equally awe-inspiring – traffic control.
Magic carpets flew over the streets of Kol, like bees around a hive. The carpets could fly within the boundaries of the city, wherever the power of the ruby was strong enough to hold them in the air. Layer upon layer of carpets criss-crossed in the busy airways of Kol. Slow moving Tobaggons (Puts the Fly in Family) and Caravans (The Journey Is The Destination) floated across the lowest carpet-paths. Fast-flying racing carpets, Ripples (Wake It Up) and Avalanches (Swoosh) whizzed between the highest towers of the city. In between them, scores of other kinds of carpets, suited for every conceivable kind of customer, flew gracefully over roads, through tunnels, into gateways and around towers. Bright yellow Bumblebee taxicarpets streaked from building to building, mahouts blowing horns furiously at one another. Rich young aristocrats, city guards and vroomers tore through the sky on their vroomsticks, heedless of the accepted flight-heights, drawing torrents of abuse.
People who were too poor to afford carpets had to walk, of course, but often traveled in magically hollowed giant tubeworms that wriggled at high speeds through specially constructed underground tunnels in certain parts of the city. This sort of public transport was unique to Kol, and was another stunning example of the fusion of spellbinder ingenuity and vaman craftsmanship. This was Kol, the Big Mango, a teeming, vibrant, vast metropolis, a bewildering, extremely hazardous three-dimensional maze.
The Civilian sighed. ‘I have bad news for you, Chancellor. Your fears have been confirmed,’ she said.
Ombwiri drank another sip of tea. It was Avrantic tea, black and strong, just the way he liked it. Of course she had bad news.
‘Reports are coming in from all over the world,’ she continued. ‘Avranti, Durg, Artaxerxia, Elaken. Monsters are reappearing. Rakshases have been sighted in the forests and hills of Durg and Avranti, the undead are multiplying in Elaken and Skuanmark. Strange creatures are roaming the western deserts. I know what course of action to take every time the asurs decide to rebel, but magical monsters worry me.’
A magical monster shot across the floor of the terrace and slithered up the Civilian’s body, winding itself around her shoulders. She didn’t seem particularly worried as she patted one of its heads; the other swung around her shoulders and glared at Ombwiri. It was Ojanus, the Civilian’s pet amphisbaena. The short black and gold two-headed snake was, it was said, the only thing that knew what went on in the Civilian’s head.
‘I apologize, my Lady,’ said Ombwiri, ‘I should have come to see you earlier. We in Enki were afraid this would happen.’
‘Explain, Chancellor.’
Ombwiri finished his tea and set his cup down. ‘Magic levels are growing ever higher,’ he said. ‘We know from the University fountain; the waters of the Vertical Sea are rising.’
The Vertical Sea had been created long, long ago, when magic was young and wild in the world. Some well-meaning prophet, the legend goes, had tried to part the seas to let his people cross southwards, from Elaken, to unknown lands across the southern seas. The immensely powerful charm he had used had worked beyond his wildest expectations; a wide range of religions had claimed credit in the centuries that followed. Whether it was the work of a god or the prophet had just been having a good run of form, unfortunately he had been pointing his staff in the wrong direction. He had created a vast passage, not southwards to the unknown world but right across the world in a great circle, and the displaced waters had risen upwards on either side of the vast trench he had created, forming the Vertical Sea and, tragically, drowning the prophet and all his followers.
The Vertical Sea was very magical and incredibly dangerous. Ships could not, obviously, cross it. Explorers had traveled all around the world, but they had never been able to cross the Vertical Sea and find out what lands lay further south. Storms always raged over the Misplaced Trench, making it utterly impossible to fly over. The height of the Vertical Sea, above horizontal sea level, was a very good measure of the strength of magic anywhere in the world. In the Age of Terror, when Danh-Gem and the ravians scarred and scorched the earth with their power-blasts, the Vertical Sea waters had towered over the horizon, their crest mingling with the clouds. After Danh-Gem’s death, the Departure and the consequent fall in magic all over the world, the Vertical waters had come down to a large extent. The University fountain contained water from the Vertical Sea. It showed the spellbinders of Enki how strongly magic was flowing through the earth and through the air, and thus how successful they could expect their spells to be.
In fact, it was a widely accepted theory that the ravians had left after the Great War to lower the levels of magic and make the world a more normal place to live in. After Danh-Gem’s death, the dragons were running amok, laying waste to many beautiful towns in their anger and confusion. The Departure had lowered magic levels so drastically that the dragons, who required a lot of magic in the air to be able to breathe fire, had disappeared altogether from the face of the earth. Many other powerful monsters that had plagued the world in the Age of Terror were either destroyed or buried deep underground when the ravians left. It was, ironically, only when the ravians departed that the War was won.
The Chief Civilian stood. The two-headed snake slithered down from her shoulders and made lazy circl
es around her feet. Ombwiri kept a careful eye on it, remembering another day, decades ago, by the banks of the Asa, when he had been brought her the dark news that had dimmed the sparkle in her eyes forever. The snake had tried to kill him, then, lashing out as it sensed its mistress’s rage. In her youth Temat had been devastatingly beautiful. Now she still left people dumbstruck, but it was mostly out of fear.
‘Does this rise in magic affect you spellbinders as well?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Yes. Spell-casting is a lot easier, and I for one have been feeling younger, more powerful. Our young spellbinders are learning fast. There are benefits to the increase, you know, my Lady. If the rise continues, we could see the return of the phoenix, the unicorn, the griffin, and, indeed, many other noble beasts that aid our arts to no small extent.’
‘Yes, Chancellor, but you know that we all have reason to worry.’
The Chancellor knew indeed.
Rakshases.
And not just rakshases.
Dragons.
What if magic grew to a point where the dragons reappeared?
Before the Age of Terror, dragons had largely been wild, solitary creatures. The Northern dragons, who populated the wild, barren lands of north Skuanmark were ferocious and evil; the great fire-serpents of Xi’en were by and large peaceful beasts who were revered, even worshipped in the great Empire. That was before the Wu Sen monks, enslaved by a fierce mountain warlord, had made the Gauntlet of Tatsu.
The person who wore the red dragon-hide Gauntlet of Tatsu could control dragons. The Wu Sen monks had managed to warn the Emperor of the warlord’s designs, and he had been killed, but the Emperor had then ordered them to finish the Gauntlet, against the advice of all his counselors. The Gauntlet was kept in the Wu Sen Monastery, high in the Mountains of Harmony in western Xi’en, and was used by the Emperor every New Year’s Day for the Earth-Waking Ceremony, when he would command the dragons to use their magic to bring harmony and fertility to the earth.