Finally, he came out of one of his fitful dozes and found the landscape changed. Everything was white and glassy. He had been near these parts before, but rarely, and only in his mother’s presence. Now, despite his misery and fear, he found himself fascinated by the pristine beauty of the world, at rocks turned into chunks of raw ice, water frozen in place in strange formations, exotic shapes. And all of it reflecting the high, cold sun. He uncurled himself slightly, eyes widening in understanding. He knew where he was. He had heard it spoken of so often before by his mother, and whispered of reverentially by his friends of the river. He was in that place he had heard his mother call… Himavat?
Indeed.
Himavat it is.
Young’un.
He gasped. The voice emanated from around him, within him, from the white glacial rocks flanking the river, from the heights of the towering peaks that he glimpsed rising high above, from the very bedrock itself. It vibrated, thrummed, boomed, echoed, and reverberated in the bone-cage of his chest, its baritone tremors overriding even the tinny thudding of his infant heartbeat, absorbing and drowning out his baby pulse. It was infinite in its power, majestic, supreme. It was the voice of the mountain range itself, the world entire.
His little hand shot out in that gesture that exasperated his mother.
???
It was his universal question: Why? How? Who? Where? When? Pick any, or all.
A deep rumbling chuckle. The watery world he inhabited was given more to gentler, liquid sounds. Never having heard such a sound as he heard now, he recoiled, not knowing what it might indicate. The rumbling reverberated through his being.
Yes.
You desire.
Answers.
Knowledge.
You shall have them.
It is the reason you were brought here.
But first.
Let us be properly introduced.
You are.
Young Devavrata.
I am.
HIMAVAT.
Your pramaataamaha.
And now.
Grandson.
It is time.
For your education.
To begin.
He felt a surge of power. The chill water curled around him like a liquid fist, bearing him up. He felt himself being rushed forward, the icy current deflected to either side as by the prow of a man-vessel, the force cutting through the sluggish frost-heavy flow to bear him upward, onward. The pressure of the water was nigh unbearable, the cold bitter, a maw filled with jagged sawteeth and talons. He glimpsed icicles and ominous white blocks of waterrock, more dangerous than any living creature in his mother’s realm, sensed their battering impact and savage thrusts at his protective caul; never had he experienced such a direct assault upon his person. Even worse, he sensed that these attackers did not fear his mother’s power, that they could not fear her, for they were inanimate, devoid of intelligence, filled only with the casual malevolence of all natural objects. He recalled a young wetback he had loved and played with, speared by one such shard of waterrock, mewling and thrashing in a cloud of her own redfluid, finally surrendering to the river’s relentless carriage, borne away by his mother’s susurrating wash, her eyes fixed and lifeless.
He knew then that he too could suffer such a fate, his hide, so tender and soft and unprotected without his mother’s power, could be pierced and torn and ripped, his own redfluids could bleed into her streaming flow, his own life end as suddenly and unexpectedly and senselessly as that wetback youngun. He wept for her now, only now understanding that she was truly gone, lost. He wept and scrunched himself tighter, shutting his senses to the overwhelming savagery of the assault, and burrowed within himself for succour. He fell into and out of consciousness, and knew not how much time elapsed. Time became a river and the river roared into and through his consciousness until he and the stream were one and he was time itself.
4
Shantanu dismounted from the small one-horse chariot he used for hunting and strode towards the river. The Ganga usually roared around this curve in full force at this time of year. Even at its lowest ebb during one drought-ridden summer, the river still flowed steadily, filling its concourse from shore to shore. Never had he seen a sight such as this before nor heard tell of it.
The river’s flow had dwindled to a trickle. A gurgling brook dammed by logs of wood flowed with more force than this measly sluggish worm that gurgled along throatily. He could see fish flopping in their death throes, dolphins beached, and turtles laying on their backs, rotating their green stubby legs in dismay. These signs suggested that the damming had only just happened moments ago: those fish were all still alive. How was this possible? How could such a mighty river, as wide across as a lake, be slowed? Even if a few hundred logs were dropped into its concourse upstream, they would only flow downriver – indeed, this was how fresh timber meant for building was transported downriver from the Himalayan step hills to the cities and towns along the Ganga’s enormous length. What then? An avalanche in the Himalayas?
He could think of nothing that could explain this sudden staying of the most powerful river in this part of the world.
The fish were starting to thrash desperately, clearly on the brink of death.
He looked around in helpless dismay, wishing there was something he could do to help. It was one thing to hunt down creatures for sport and food; it was wholly another to see countless innocent lives being squandered needlessly. A new thought struck him like a physical blow: the lives that would be squandered downriver would not be fish alone but human lives as well, for countless people depended on the river for their daily needs. His entire kingdom depended on her grace to survive.
Deva, help us, he prayed silently.
Almost at once, a great roar filled his ears, louder than anything he had heard before. He looked up from his joined palms to see an astonishing sight: the river unleashed again, roaring downstream! So great was its force that it was exceeding its banks. If he did not move aside in a moment, he would be swept away!
He ran then, up the bank, reaching the safety of the ridge on which he had left his chariot and horse just in time to escape the lashing whips of the raging water. Even so, he was partially drenched by the flood and as he sat on the bank beside his grazing horse, staring at the river roaring by in full spate once more, he shook his head in frustration, wondering what force could cause the river to cease and then restart its flow thus, within moments?
In any case, the fauna of the river would survive now, he saw. The waters had reached them just in time to save their gasping lives.
His horse nuzzled his dripping hair and neck curiously, as if asking, what were you doing, great king, were you swimming in the river?
He smiled at the memory of the way he had scampered up the ridge. That flash flood had come by so suddenly, he had been genuinely afraid he would be washed away. So afraid, he had forgotten that he shared a deep bond with the river, especially at this place.
‘You would never let your own waters harm me, would you, my love?’ he asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.
As if in response to his query, the river’s flow slowed, reduced by degrees, then returned to the sluggish muddy crawl he had seen earlier. It happened so abruptly, he blinked and rubbed his eyes to confirm that what he was seeing was real and not some illusion.
He rose to his feet and started down the ridge – the flood had dampened the soil, turning it slushy, and he slipped and slid the last yard or so, but regained his balance. Even before he reached the edge of the bank, he could hear the sounds of thousands of fish of all sizes, thrashing and flopping about on the wet muddy floor of the river. Dolphins cried out pitifully. There were creatures he knew no names for and did not recognize, creatures that spent their entire lives at the bottom of the river without being seen by human eyes, monstrosities with clicking claws and eyes extended on stalks, but he felt sorry for them as well, for they were clearly suffering and would die as well as their b
rethren if the river remained dry.
But this time, he did not panic or pray. He merely waited to see what would happen. And when the roaring resumed again a moment or two later, he was prepared for it and already starting back up the ridge. Even so, he only just made it before another flash flood came roaring past like all the elephants of the world stampeding in masth together. He frowned, placing his hands on his hips and stared down at the raging vigorous concourse that he knew so well. Something was amiss here. This was no natural phenemonen. It could not be!
He mounted his chariot again, turned the head of his horse, and rode upriver. Whatever the source of the damming and the releasing, it had to be upriver. He stayed close enough to the river so he could hear its roaring passage, listening for any change in that familiar sound. Sure enough, it came.
The roar died down, leaving a deafening silence that was unnatural to anyone who had spent his childhood and youth playing by the banks of the great mother river, bringer of life and bounty. It made him wonder: What manner of being could be doing this? Who possesses power enough to stop Ganga herself at one of the fiercest parts of her journey, and restart her, at will? Surely it must be a god, or… He had no alternative to offer. He rode his chariot silently, listening. Once again, the roaring resumed within moments, again causing him to marvel. Clearly the being doing this remarkable thing knew exactly how long the stranded fauna could survive and was restarting the channel in time to ensure their survival. It was almost as if the being desired only to exercise his or her powers, and meant no creature actual harm. It also occurred to him that this could the work of Ganga herself, for reasons known only to her, but somehow he did not think it was so.
He had his answer soon enough. Tracking the source of the disruption, he found it surprisingly close by. Dismounting from the chariot to avoid warning whomever it might be, he went the last scores of yards on foot. He had his bow in hand, and he slipped an arrow expertly onto the string, ready to loose the instant he spied danger. For he had just thought of an alternative to this being the work of a god: it could be the work of an asura. He did not know why either a god or a demon might wish to play thus with the flow of the mightiest river, but it was best to be forearmed.
His first glimpse of the god/asura/being was the back of a head and upper shoulders. From this angle, that was all he could see. The rest was concealed by the riverbank’s curve. To see the perpetrator more clearly, he would have to step out of the treeline into the open – with all the risk that entailed. At first glance, all he could tell was that it appeared to be a very tall, powerfully built man. A mortal man. Although, after his experience with Ganga, he had learned the hard way that looks could be deceiving. Gods could assume mortal form and shape when they desired and shrugged off those mortal garbs at will.
But not for nothing was he King of the Bharatas, lord of the Puru kingdom and the greatest civilized city in the known world. His prowess with archery was such that he felt confident he could strike even a killing blow to the stranger with only that little portion of his body visible, from this distance. He came to a decision quickly. He would give the stranger a single chance, for that was what honourable kshatriyas did, but if the man so much as looked at him crookedly, he would let loose.
The river had ebbed almost to a standstill again, its roar quietened to a trickling gasp. The bank was quiet enough for him to be heard even from this distance. He decided to make his move.
Staying behind the trunk of the tree, Shantanu shouted out: ‘You! Drop your weapons and show your hands!’
The large head and powerful shoulders remained in view, neither ducking down in response, nor shying away. That in itself was reassuring. It suggested a man who was not afraid nor engaged in any activity for which he felt guilty.
Even so, the stranger had not raised his hands yet.
‘I said raise your hands!’ Shantanu shouted.
The stranger remained exactly as he was. Then, Shantanu’s sharp sight saw the hint of movement on the man’s right shoulder. A mere twitch, such as a warrior’s shoulder muscle might produce when hefting or raising a weapon. It was all the warning he needed: he had killed men in similar circumstances for doing less.
He loosed his arrow, his fingers already reaching for the rig on his back to pull out a second arrow before the first had reached its target. He was hidden behind the tree trunk, the bow almost touching the trunk itself but not quite – contact would spoil the fineness of his aim, especially when making such a delicate shot. He knew his arrow would strike precisely where intended, unless the other man moved very quickly: at the sloping cord of muscle that joined the right side of the man’s neck to the ball of his right shoulder. The tip should penetrate the muscle, and the arrow remain stuck there. It was a shot he used to warn his enemies and show them how easily he could do anything he pleased with his weapons.
The stranger’s shoulder flexed a second time. He remained with his back to Shantanu, not having moved an inch other than those two flexes of his shoulder muscle. There was no way he could see Shantanu from that angle and distance. Even if he had turned and gazed directly at Shantanu, he would barely glimpse party of one eye and the line of shoulder and head, as well as the bow and arrow, almost completely hidden in the shade of the tree. Most likely, due to contrast between the brightness of the sunlight and the shadows of the trees, he would not even see that much. Let alone be able to judge the precise trajectory of the arrow.
Yet, somehow, the second time he flexed his shoulder, it was just enough that the arrow passed over his shoulder. Shantanu thought he could almost hear the faint rasping of the arrowhead as it burred over the man’s skin, but surely that was only his imagination. The main thing was, the arrow missed its mark.
No matter. He already had the second shot on the bow and lined up and this time he was aiming for the meaty part of the man’s powerful neck. This shot would paralyze the stranger from the chest down, which was unfortunate – but necessary. Even those two shrugs were sufficiently threatening for Shantanu not to risk any further movement.
He loosed the second arrow, already reaching back for the third, when an odd thing occurred…
The second arrow simply fell at his feet.
Shantanu’s feet.
It plopped down, landing in a heap of dried leaves, for it was early autumn, and the crinkling sound of its impact upon the leaves alerted him to its fall.
He blinked rapidly, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
How could an arrow loosed by his bow fall right here at his own feet?
Unless…
Unless.
He looked down at his bow, turning it sideways.
The string had been severed. It hung in two parts, dangling uselessly from either end of the bow.
Still, he could not understand how this had happened.
Had the string simply split? It was a perfectly good cord, wound by himself only an hour earlier. He always used fresh cords at every opportunity, knowing the importance of the string in the art of archery.
No.
The string had been cut.
By a sharply honed metal point.
He looked around.
And saw the arrow sticking from the trunk of the tree behind him.
It was like no other arrow he had ever seen, the tube of the missile gleaming as if made of metal, although that was absurd – no arrow could be made wholly of metal for no bow-string was strong enough to bear that much weight, nor could human strength power a metal missile over a long range.
Yet it looked very much like metal, although no metal he had ever seen. It glistened and glittered and reflected a rainbow range of hues, like…mercury.
Ridiculous!
An arrow could not be made of mercury. Mercury was liquid. That was why it was also called quicksilver because it flowed like liquid silver.
He stopped caring what the arrow was made of and tried to make sense of where it had come from. It took him only a turn of the head to calculate the
angle of its trajectory and estimate that it had originated from…
‘My apologies.’
Shantanu started, taking several steps back, his feet crushing the dried leaves underfoot and raising a loud crackling noise. He swung around, drawing the short dagger from his belt and crouching, ready to defend himself.
The stranger raised his palms in a gesture of surrender and appeasement. ‘I mean no harm. I only cut your bow string because it seemed the simplest way.’
‘Who are you?’ Shantanu said, circling around, eyes darting from side to side, alert in case the stranger had allies in arms. ‘What were you doing by the riverbank?’
The stranger shrugged. Those powerful mounds of muscle flexed and Shantanu was left in no doubt: this was the same man who had been standing by the riverbank only a moment ago.
Impossible! He couldn’t have covered this distance so quickly!
‘Practising,’ said the stranger.
Shantanu stared at him. ‘Practising?’
The stranger nodded, then smiled in a manner that made Shantanu realize another thing with a sense of shock. He was no man at all, he was a mere boy. Only just come into manhood. It was his great height and immense size that belied his age. But that smile, shy and uncertain, that was a boy’s smile.
5
Shantanu watched warily from the bank of the river as the boy pointed. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Do you see it?’
Shantanu looked down. All he could see was the raging current of the Ganga during the post-monsoon autumn season, with the usual flotsam and wet life that occupied it. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a…’ the boy paused. He thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘I do not know how to say it in your language.’
MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) Page 17