The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “Look, the truth is that the Healer has worked wonders,” Dhanavantri spoke at last. “And I mean not just in the palace – everyone in the city is talking about him and his cures.” “Yes... but...” Varahamihira groped for a counterargument. “But take Vishakha’s example. She’d been showing signs of recovery well before the Healer’s shadow fell across Ujjayini’s gates.”

  “Very minor signs,” the physician butted in to clarify.

  “Okay, but signs nonetheless. It’s possible she was getting better under your care and the Healer simply happened by at the right time. That is a possibility, isn’t it?”

  The physician conceded the point with a shrug. “But it’s the speed of her recovery under the Healer that’s amazing. You can’t discount that.”

  “Well, he’s been using tantric powers. That doesn’t exactly count as medicine.”

  “But it counts as a cure,” Dhanavantri said glumly, sinking lower into the mattress.

  “Okay, so the Healer is... good,” Varahamihira spoke after a short pause. “But why are you letting that weigh you down?”

  “Because he’s worried the palace will start paying greater heed to the Healer,” said Madari, speaking from the doorway that led into the house. She had appeared quietly, without either of the men noticing her presence, and as she leaned against the door, her expression was one of frustration and sympathy at her husband’s predicament.

  Dhanavantri glanced up at his wife in annoyance, but didn’t retort.

  Varahamihira turned his gaze from Madari and looked at the physician inquiringly.

  “Well, the samrat and the queen mother have been turning to the Healer a lot more the last two days,” Dhanavantri admitted grudgingly.

  “That’s natural as he has played a role in Vishakha’s recovery,” Varahamihira’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  “Exactly the point I’ve been trying to make all this while,” the physician said in exasperation. Now that the issue had been forced into the open, his tongue loosened. “The Healer has succeeded where I have failed. And his appeal is not limited to just the king and the queen mother – even Vararuchi has been taken in by his curative powers.”

  “In what way?”

  “Vararuchi has persuaded the Healer to see his mother.” Seeing Varahamihira’s confusion, Dhanavantri added, “To cure badi-maa of her arthritis. They left by boat a little while ago. I wasn’t even told about it, even though I have been tending to her ailment.”

  Varahamihira opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He could see the royal physician’s concerns weren’t entirely without basis.

  “Well, whatever his powers might be, I doubt the Healer has it in him to restore the leg I have lost,” he said at last, trying to inject some lightheartedness into the conversation. “And you have my assurance that I shall not consult him should a need ever arise. I dislike the sight of him.”

  It was Dhanavantri’s turn to study Varahamihira closely. “Why do you use the word dislike?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something fishy about him. He’s just so oversure of everything, so glib... He gives me the impression that he’s too good to be true.”

  “Exactly what I thought of him too,” the physician looked pleasantly surprised, even relieved. “I just didn’t say so.”

  “Wise of you – it would have been put down to professional rivalry,” Varahamihira nodded. Taking a final swig out of his cup, he proceeded to get off the swing. “Come, let’s not allow the lovely dinner that sister has cooked to go cold. If I had to eat cold food, I needn’t have accepted your invitation to dinner.”

  “That’s why you should have got married when you had the chance to,” Madari teased playfully.

  “A hefty price to pay for two warm meals a day, sister,” Varahamihira quipped, as he stood up with the help of his crutch. “And even if I had wanted marriage, no woman would have put up with my obsession for my little inventions.”

  As Madari and the older councilor went indoors, Dhanavantri rose from his mattress. The breeze had stiffened to a draughty wind that was kicking up little puffs of dust in the courtyard outside. From somewhere inside, an unlatched window banged in the wind.

  The physician went inside and scouted around the house until he found the troublesome window. As he fastened it shut, he thought he heard the faraway rumble of thunder. At first, he thought nothing of it. But just as he was entering the dining room where Madari and a kitchen help were serving dinner, he stiffened as Vikramaditya’s words from earlier in the day came back to him.

  She warned that there is danger in the clouds and that we must be careful of the lightning.

  If what he had heard was thunder, there had to be lightning out there as well.

  ***

  Thick charcoal-red light flowed from the sockets of the skulls on Vetala Bhatta’s spear, percolating through the yellow glow of the solitary lamp that occupied a far recess in Vikramaditya’s bedchamber. The combined effect was a dim, ocher illumination that swirled around the Acharya as he sat at the head of the king’s bed, one hand holding the spear, the other placed palm downward on the king’s fevered forehead. The raj-guru had his eyes closed, and his lips moved to a barely audible mantra.

  The samrat lay inert, his body rigid and shoulders squared, the tendons stiff in his neck. Even in the diffused light, the pallor on his face was evident, and his breath came in shallow, erratic spurts. The king’s hands, which were by his sides, were clenched tight – and from the right fist a thin blade protruded, the metal winking wickedly in the heavy, ocher light.

  For a long while, neither man moved. Then, all of a sudden, the Acharya’s brow contorted and his eyes flickered open.

  Beware of the stranger in the palace, wise king.

  Alarm flashed across Vetala Bhatta’s face, but before the phrase could anchor itself in his mind, Vikramaditya’s body convulsed violently. The raj-guru immediately screwed his eyes shut, fighting to overcome the distraction. The exertion brought beads of perspiration to the Acharya’s forehead, but with his concentration returning, the tremors running through the king’s body weakened and receded.

  The glow from the skulls gradually increased in intensity, and the Acharya felt the king’s skin go damp and clammy under his palm. A few moments later, Vikramaditya heaved a huge sigh, and his body went limp. Opening his eyes, Vetala Bhatta saw that the king was hardly breathing, and his muscles had acquired the slackness of deep slumber.

  More than slumber, the slackness of death...

  Yet, Vikramaditya retained a tight grip on the dagger in his hand.

  Breathing in huge gulps of air, the Acharya mopped the sweat from his brow. Then, careful not to disturb the stillness of the room, he made his way to the door of the bedchamber and opened it. In the passageway outside stood Kalidasa, leaning against a pillar, his great arms folded across his broad chest.

  On seeing Vetala Bhatta framing the doorway, the commander of the samsaptakas straightened and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “He has crossed over into the Borderworld,” the Acharya announced softly, dabbing his face dry with a cloth.

  “Is he fine?” the giant asked, craning his neck to look into the bedchamber.

  The raj-guru nodded, a faraway look on his face. Was that the roll of distant thunder? He cocked an ear, but heard nothing but the strong wind rustling through the trees outside.

  Glancing over his shoulder, the Acharya said, “Yes he is, but this is the most delicate and dangerous part. Nothing should upset Vikrama’s death-sleep. Otherwise... he may never be able to come back.”

  “Do not fear, Acharya,” Kalidasa replied, planting himself in the middle of the passageway, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his scimitar. “I will be here to make sure nothing disturbs our king.”

  Borderworld

  V

  ikramaditya picked his way down the weed-infested bathing ghat with caution, stepping over the tentacled sprawl of tree roots, and skirting the larger clum
ps of soggy, putrefying vegetation that carpeted the stairs. In many places, the old, cracked stone had come loose, while rubble from Ujjayini’s crumbling ramparts littered the ghat’s steps.

  Despite all his caution, the king’s foot skidded every now and then to dislodge an avalanche of pebbles, which rolled down and disappeared into the fetid, gray-black waters of the Kshipra. The river barely moved, and even the ripples from the falling pebbles died prematurely on its sludgy surface.

  Reaching the water’s edge, the samrat peered around, looking for a means of getting across the river. Although the sun was directly overhead, the light was pale and feeble, failing to penetrate the shadows of the gnarled and withering trees lurking along the river’s banks. Even the sun’s heat was absent, and as he looked directly up at the anemic yellow orb in the faded white sky, the king shivered at the moldy dampness in the air.

  All around him was the overpowering stench of decay and ruin.

  Scouring the bank, Vikramaditya finally found what he was looking for: a small boat, almost camouflaged, imprisoned within a dense infestation of reeds and undergrowth. It was with considerable effort that the king liberated the vessel, its rotting wood crumbling under his fingers as he tugged it into the river. He surveyed the boat as it bobbed in the undulating water like a bloated carcass, his eye taking in the layer of slimy moss that masked the faint outline of the sun-crest of Avanti that had once been proudly inscribed on its hull. The boat was missing a couple of boards on one side, but seeing it still had one broken oar and was dry on the inside, the samrat decided it would serve to transport him to the opposite bank.

  The row across the Kshipra was negotiated without event; however, just as he docked the boat and prepared to step ashore, a roll of thunder fell on Vikramaditya’s ears. The same instant, the river underneath seemed to pitch and heave, throwing the rickety boat sideways and making the samrat lose his balance. The king made a grab at the boat’s gunwales, steadying himself and the rocking boat –

  – when he felt the dagger that he had stuck in his belt come loose and slip from his waist!

  Looking down, Vikramaditya saw the slender blade cartwheel in little arcs of light, plunging straight toward the wedge between the boat and the river bank. Drawing his breath, the king lunged after the knife, his fingers grabbing and missing, catching and slipping...

  The desperate juggle over the rancid, insidious Kshipra seemed to last forever, but with the dagger just inches from the water, the king’s fingers caught its obsidian hilt and it was plucked back to safety. For a moment the samrat just stood in the swaying boat, clutching the dagger to his chest where his heart was hammering away from anxiety and exertion.

  Having calmed himself, Vikramaditya stepped on to firm land and secured the dagger to his belt. He then turned to survey the bleached ruins of Ujjayini, choked by the encroaching forest of dead trees, desolate and utterly devoid of any form of life.

  This was the fate that would befall his beloved city one day, the king realized sadly.

  Then, looking up at the wan, dying sun, he saw that this was the fate that would one day befall everything that had ever come into being. What he was witnessing was nothing but Creation caught in the transition between life and death.

  For this was the Borderworld, the eternal realm of the undead ghouls, the gloaming separating the world of the living from the world of the dead. The bridge over which everything that had been created had to pass when going from a state of existence to a state of destruction. A mirror world where things already existed in their doomed, decomposing state...

  Vikramaditya turned and began ploughing through the coarse, knee-high grass that grew in profusion beyond the tree-lined bank. He realized he still had a fair distance to cover in his journey to the cremation grounds, presided over by the Ghoulmaster.

  ***

  Shukracharya and Vararuchi rode at a steady canter through the night, the whistling of the quickening wind and the soft pounding of hooves filling the silence that stretched between them. The two had hardly exchanged a word since leaving Ushantha’s house, and on the two occasions that Shukracharya had tried to make conversation, Vararuchi’s replies had been offhand and indefinite.

  The high priest wished he knew what was occupying the councilor’s mind.

  The bones had told him a lot about Vararuchi the previous night, yet there was much that the bones were incapable of revealing. So, while Shukracharya knew that the councilor had ruled the kingdom of Avanti until his half-brother was old enough to become king, he didn’t know how Vararuchi felt about having to abdicate the throne to Vikramaditya. And while he had learned that Vararuchi had a wife in one of the Southern Kingdoms – from whom he had begotten a son and a daughter – the bones had said nothing about why the councilor’s wife and children continued to live in the far south while he served in the court of Avanti.

  For that matter, the bones had remained silent about the fact that Vararuchi kept his marriage a closely guarded secret – even from his own mother! That was something that Shukracharya had stumbled upon by sheer accident.

  “It’s the curse of life that we have no time for our children when they are young, and they have no time for us when we are old,” Ushantha had said as the high priest had begun drawing a mandala on the floor of her bedroom. The woman was plainly deprived of company, and the presence of an unexpected guest had cheered her to garrulity. “To answer your question, yes, it does get lonely here at times. I do wish Vararuchi got married – at least then I’d have some grandchildren for company.”

  “Your son isn’t married?” Shukracharya paused and looked up, his fingers hovering over the half-drawn mandala. Vararuchi had stepped out of the room on some errand, leaving the high priest free to probe the matter.

  “No,” Ushantha exclaimed. “Whenever I raise the subject, he says he’s too busy at the palace, and that he won’t have time for a wife and children. How silly is that! It’s just an excuse, I say. You’re a Healer – can’t you do something about this?”

  The high priest searched the woman’s face for artifice, but all he found was forthrightness staring straight back at him. He shook his head and smiled.

  “I’m afraid not, mother. I have cures for most ailments, but I confess there is none for chronic stubbornness.”

  Now as they rode back toward Ujjayini, Shukracharya peered at the back of the councilor’s head with narrowed eyes. He knew the bones couldn’t have been wrong – they never were.

  “I take it that you are married, your honor?”

  Shukracharya posed the question diplomatically, inflecting his tone with innocent curiosity, yet he was certain he saw Vararuchi flinch in his saddle.

  “I’m not,” the councilor mumbled tersely after a brief pause.

  “For some strange reason I always thought you were,” said the high priest, feigning surprise. “In fact, I could almost have been certain...”

  “Wouldn’t I know if I was?” Vararuchi turned to face his companion, his voice harsh and cold. “What gave you the idea? Have you heard anything being mentioned...?”

  This time, the high priest thought he detected a hint of anxiety in the councilor’s voice.

  “No, your honor.”

  “Well, even if you did, it couldn’t have been anything but a silly rumor,” Vararuchi snapped. “Everyone knows I’m not married.” With that, he simply turned away and continued riding.

  Shukracharya smiled in the dark – a dark, secret smile. The half-brother of the samrat intrigued him more and more.

  They had been riding through a densely forested gorge with steep ridges on both sides, but moments later, they emerged into flat, open countryside. Immediately, the two riders were drawn to the northern sky, where flashes of lightning lit up a low bank of clouds.

  “We must move fast,” said Vararuchi in a tense and edgy voice as soon as he had caught sight of the lightning. Without waiting for a response from Shukracharya, the councilor spurred his mount into a gallop.

 
Digging his heels into his horse’s belly, the high priest gave chase, wondering why Vararuchi was in a tearing hurry to get back to Ujjayini all of a sudden. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t the prospect of getting caught in a storm that was bothering the councilor.

  It had to be something else...

  ***

  The three drunkards were the last to vacate the tavern, having been coaxed and cajoled into leaving on the innkeeper’s promise of a free pitcher of firewater to last them their way home. The three men now swayed down one of the narrow roads in Ujjayini’s eastern quarter, clutching one another for support and passing the innkeeper’s inducement from hand to hand, quickly depleting the last of the day’s quota of grog. All around them the bracing wind blew, tearing at the treetops, moaning down alleyways and blowing detritus across the streets.

  “Aaah...” sighed one of them, licking a final drop off the rim of the upturned pitcher. Shaking the empty pitcher to ensure that it had no more firewater to yield, he flung it to one side, the earthenware hitting a low wall and breaking with a loud clatter.

  “That was good,” he beamed, smacking his lips in satisfaction and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Wish we had another pitcher,” slurred one of his mates, casting a forlorn look at the smashed pitcher lying by the roadside. With a burst of petulance, he added, “We should have asked the innkeeper to give us two of those.”

  “Shhh...” said the third, placing a finger on his lips. Casting a bleary eye into the darkness around, he continued, “Shhh... no noise. If any soldiers of the City Watch hear us, we’ll be in trouble for disrupting the peace.”

  As luck would have it, no member of the City Watch appeared to be in the vicinity, and the men weaved and stumbled unhindered, alternating between silence and boisterousness. Passing an overgrown garden, one of them pulled himself free of the grasp of the other two. Using mime to indicate that he wanted to answer nature’s call, he made for the shrubbery separating the garden from the road. Too impatient to wait, his partners simply continued teetering forward.