by Rohit Gaur
The cart moved onto a short stone bridge that crossed the chasm separating the city from the road. Along the sides of the bridge stood bighorn sheep sculpted out of white rock. The defacement of the statues was even greater here, but the underlying shapes were still obvious.
“This is where the main army of the Serpentine was encamped, just in front of the gates,” Galerest said, nodding at the wall ahead where the bridge ended and met with a pair of tall, solid-looking doors. As they drew closer, Tarun could see writing above the gates:
“Candeuil: A Shelter for the Wearied and a Shield for the Unprotected.”
“In times past, Candeuil served as a fortress, taking in the mountain dwellers during times when marauding bands raided their way through Bergine. It withstood many onslaughts before their final defeat at the hands of the Serpentine. A great city was brought down when Candeuil fell.”
As the oxen men pulled the cart around the end of the bridge, Tarun could see the impressive height of the wooden doors. No wonder the Serpentine had to lay siege, he thought. These doors must be thirty feet high, and the wall much higher beyond that. No one could climb over this. Aside from the crunching of feet and the creaking of the cart, the area at this obviously once-busy juncture was still and soundless.
Instead of stopping at the gates, the cart turned to the right down a narrow path that skirted the wall, the steep drop off of the chasm only a few feet away. After a few minutes of descent, they stopped in front of an unmarked patch of the wall, the sheer white rock like a crust of freshly fallen snow. Tarun wondered why they had stopped here.
Galerest jumped out and began to explain. “In addition to sealing the door against entry by any Veiled Lands creature, the Serpentine hid it from view behind a false façade of rock. Having been here many times, however, I remember its location by heart. Just here”—he gestured to a spot on the wall—“was where it once stood. And, if I’m right, still stands.”
The oxen men silently unhooked two pickaxes from the front of the cart that Tarun had not noticed before. One by one, they took turns hammering the axes into the façade of the wall, chips of rock flying in all directions. Tarun was startled to see how quickly the wall shattered until he remembered that it was not the original wall but the Serpentine patch that was coming off. When one of the oxen struck against the actual rock wall, the blow glanced off the hard material. Soon, they broke through to the stout wooden door, set in a deep recess that had been carved into the original stone. As they cleared away the flimsy false stone, Galerest leaned forward and gripped the handle of the door and pulled as hard as he could. The door did not budge. Gesturing to the two oxen, he tried again with their assistance, all three attempting to force open the resistant door. Still, it remained shut tightly.
Giving Tarun a rueful smile, Galerest stepped out of the recess. “See what I mean? Sealed shut, just like the gates. It used to be an easy door to open, the highest quality craftsmanship. Now, not even the three of us can open it. Perhaps you’d like to give it a shot?”
Tarun stepped forward. It seemed impossible that he could open this heavy, reinforced door that three men, all stronger than he was, could not budge. He examined the handle, a thick iron ring that needed to be turned and pulled to release the catch. Tentatively, he reached out and grabbed the ring, ice cold in the frigid air, and twisted it.
Nothing.
He tried again with two hands, but the iron ring stayed put. He glanced back over his shoulder at Galerest, who showed concern.
“Keep trying, Tarun. It’s been years since this door was opened.” he said.
Tarun turned back and braced his feet on either side of the narrow recess for leverage. Putting all of his weight on the ring, he twisted with the full force of his shoulders.
It moved! Barely perceptible, the ring had shifted a half degree. Bracing himself again, he pushed down hard and the ring shifted a fraction more. This time, Galerest noticed and let out a whoop. With a final effort, Tarun had forced the ring all the way around, releasing the catch and springing the door open.
Beyond, a dark passageway beneath the wall led to the fallen citadel of Candeuil.
The success of the young boy, Hassan, at getting the captive to eat had led to him being reassigned to her full-time guard duty. If she trusted him and would not cause trouble in his presence, the militant leaders reasoned, all the better. They knew efforts to locate her were ramping up in Kashmir, that soldiers would be fanning out to track down their hiding spot. But the militants felt secure in their remote outpost. Better to let the chief minister stew for a few days, get frustrated by his lack of success, before they issued their demands for Parvati’s release. They had the upper hand—why waste it? Hassan, for his part, was happy to be assigned to the important job of guarding this important captive, the most successful kidnapping the militants had ever accomplished.
Hassan entered Parvati’s hut with her dinner: cold bean soup and more bread. She smiled at the boy and took the tray.
“Thank you, Hassan,” she greeted him. He returned a curt nod.
She had mentally resolved earlier in the afternoon to ask him but she now felt her nervousness grow. She pushed her question out in a hurry.
“Can you tell me what’s happened to my son, Tarun? Is he here in the camp? Or somewhere else?”
Hassan stared at her for a moment. She doesn’t know yet, he realized. He wondered why they would not have told her that Tarun had been lost. But her question struck him. Perhaps it was her aching eyes or her kind smile, but he decided he would tell her. What harm could it do?
“We lost him, actually,” he said. “On the drive here, his jeep went off the road. When a search team found them, Tarun was missing. We’ve had men in the woods for days but they have found no sign of him.”
Parvati was speechless. Tarun had escaped! But to where? Surely if he had found his way back, the militants would have heard by now.
“You don’t know where he is?” she asked urgently.
Hassan looked at her gravely and muttered, “No, we don’t, but keep that to yourself.” Turning, he strode out of the doorway and swung the door closed behind him.
The floating orbs in his cave illuminated Ganesha’s face, but his eyes were closed to their light as he followed along mentally with Tarun on his journey up into the mountains of Bergine. He sensed Tarun’s fear as he once again ventured into danger alone. He saw with him the dark tunnel into Candeuil, a crumbling city seemingly perched on a knife’s edge.
“You must bind yourself to the narrow path, Tarun,” Ganesha muttered, “to pull yourself toward a distant goal.” His words echoed through the dimly lit cave, and beyond to the boy staring down a dark passageway.
“Even the big picture is made up of small details,” Ganesha went on speaking. “Concentrate, observe, and listen to yourself.”
Far away, shivering against the cold winds of an emptied, cheerless city, Tarun felt himself clasped by an unseen embrace and steadied against the jostling of the air. A renewed sense of determination ran through his veins as he dashed forward into the unknown.
Chapter 12
CROSSING
When he emerged on the other end of the tunnel, Tarun lay his eyes on the gleaming white city of Candeuil. Built onto the sides of three close mountain peaks, the city lay in terraced strips along their curving faces. Bridges, some of stonework, others of rope and thin boards, connected the terraces, spanning the steep fissures and crevices in the rock that separated the peaks from one another. It was a complicated maze of a city, a tangle of broad boulevards and back roads, slim stairways and narrow alleys, all built out of the same dazzling white rock, but a single major road zigzagged up the mountains from terrace to terrace, climbing to the highest peak. Each of the terraces was lined with apartments and storage houses with the occasional larger structure operating as a tavern or school, all of them now empty. An eerie silence had fallen upon the once-great city, the whistling wind and shuffling snow the only sounds to be hear
d.
Tarun shivered, then turned to the right and set off down the cobbled roadway. Galerest had given him detailed instructions on how to make his way through the city: turn right, cross the bridge to the next highest terrace, turn left, walk down the road, cross the bridge, and so on, weaving back and forth until he reached the highest terrace. There, in the bell tower of Candeuil, last used to warn the citizens of the arrival of the Serpentine army, was hidden the sacred rope of Ganesha. Or so Galerest believed. Tarun had hoped that once the door was open, the enchantments placed by the Serpentine might have been unloosed, but neither Galerest nor the oxen were able to wedge themselves into the darkened passageway that led inside the city. Tarun alone found the way unbarred.
Now, trudging along the major thoroughfare of the city, Tarun peered through the broken windows and shattered doors of the former residences, desolate and emptied of people. He could see furniture and glassware scattered and broken on dusty flagstone floors. Thatched roofs had caved in from snow and neglect. Walls were gouged and battle-scarred. Several homes had been burned to black, mere shells of their former structures. Everywhere he looked were signs of the Serpentine’s destruction, their occupation and desecration of this impressive site.
On one broad wall Tarun could see that a mural had once been painted depicting the Ovi city residents at different occupations: chiseling stone, sewing blankets, building towers. The scene had been defaced, scratched by weaponry and scrubbed by defiant hands, but the paint had been applied thickly and so the image remained.
In fact, images of the Ovi were still in many places: intricately carved ram heads could be seen above windows, on doorknobs, in statuary. Images of bighorn sheep had even been placed on every tenth cobblestone that lined the edge of the roadway. It gave the city an artistic unity.
The bridge to the next terrace loomed into view, a narrow strip of stone that hovered over a deep canyon. At one point handrails had stood on either side of the bridge to ensure that crossers did not slip over the edge, but they had long since been knocked over. Now the bridge stretched across the air like a stone-carved tightrope. Keeping carefully to the center and walking slowly, Tarun crossed to the next terrace, turned left, and began the trek to the next terrace.
For the next hour, Tarun crept noiselessly through the unsettling stillness of the vacant city, glimpsing the haunted faces of its former residents on every carved surface. Up, up, past the inns and rooming houses meant for travelers, across the narrow bridges, underneath arches that connected buildings on either side of the road. As he approached the bridge to the seventh terrace, however, Tarun’s heart sank.
The bridge had collapsed.
Galerest had warned him that the condition of the city and its numerous bridges were unknown. Since no one had visited in years, there was no telling what kind of damage had been left by the Serpentine. Tarun crept to the edge and peered down the side of the mountain. No sign of the bridge left at all. He wondered if it had fallen naturally or whether the Serpentine intentionally destroyed it. Either was certainly a possibility.
Scooting back and standing up, Tarun began to think. According to what Galerest had told him, the connections between terraces were just like the gates to the city: although there was only one public road that led through the terraces, there were other passageways, hidden away from the road, set aside for use by the Ovi residents. But he had no clue where they might be, no map to guide him, only a dense tangle of interlocking streets before him.
Sighing, he doubled back down the main road and prepared to begin exploring the side streets.
The bolt on the cell door scratched across and Parvati looked over expectantly. Hassan entered, but this time accompanied by two other militants. She recognized them from her kidnapping, including the one who had spoken so harshly to her. They wore black fatigues and T-shirts and red bandanas around their neck, each with a rifle slung across his back. Parvati pressed herself back against the wall as they approached and stood over her. The one who had spoken for the group before looked her in the eye and began.
“Mrs. Sharma, I trust Hassan has been taking good care of you?”
Parvati swallowed, considering whether or not to answer. Finally she nodded.
“Good. See? There’s no reason to worry.”
She wanted to spit and claw at his face, this man who had killed one of her sons and probably another. She wanted to lunge at him with all of her strength, but she knew her strength did not amount to much.
He continued: “Before you know it, you’ll be back at home, safe and sound.” He smiled with a sickening attempt at reassurance. “But before that can happen, I’m afraid we need your help to send a little message back to your husband. You’ll help us out, won’t you Mrs. Sharma?” He spoke these words softly, but with only the thinnest veil over the threat of force they contained.
His companion began setting up a tripod and camera in the center of the room, aimed at the cot where she was currently sitting.
“Just a few words is all we need, Mrs. Sharma,” the man simpered. “Here, I’ve even written them out for you.”
With little choice and on the off-chance that the militants did end up finding Tarun in the wilderness, Parvati chose to oblige their request. She read the card that indicated she was alive, not being tortured, and to urge Arjun to cooperate for her safe return. She wasn’t certain what the militants wanted, but she knew her husband would never negotiate away national security priorities. Let them send a video, she thought, it won’t help them at all. Once Arjun finds this camp, it’s over for them. They will be in jail for the rest of their lives.
After the speaker and his assistant had left with the camera equipment, Hassan lingered, producing some cookies and cold tea for her. She decided to try asking him again about his life before coming to the camp.
“Where were you born, Hassan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, where did you grow up?”
“Near Skardu, in the mountains.”
“A beautiful place! And what did your parents do?”
He poured the tea for her. “My parents died in the war. I was raised in an orphanage.” He handed her the cup.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Hassan,” she replied softly, not knowing what else to say. “You know, I’ve worked in many orphanages. In fact, I know many—“
“I know,” he cut her off. “I’ve seen you on the news talking about the orphanages you founded for people like me.”
“Oh! Well, I’m glad you understand. I’m not the enemy. My husband is not the enemy. We’re trying to help you!”
“You’re helping yourself,” Hassan said levelly. “You take in all these children, you give them food, and you think you’re helping them, but all you’re actually doing is trying to fix the problems that your husband and his government caused.”
“That’s not true!” Parvati protested. “Arjun and I—both of us—care deeply about what happens to all Kashmiri citizens, even the rebels.”
“Then why does he attack us? Deny us aid? Why is he threatening to build a wall across the country that would separate us, starve us?” He was now standing stiffly, agitated.
Parvati felt her throat tightening, hot tears forming in her eyes. She knew the official answer: the attacks were preventative, the denial of aid a way to gain the upper hand in the conflict, and the wall a recently devised idea to secure Srinagar from attack. She knew all of these answers but could not bring herself to speak them aloud. Did she believe in them? Did Arjun? She wasn’t sure. They were policies that had been handed down to them by a generation of politicians struggling over the fate of Kashmir. Like most people, she wanted the conflict to end but had no sense of how to make that happen. And in a way, she knew Hassan was right. She worked to establish the orphanages because it was the one thing she felt she could do to heal the wounds of war. But had it been enough?
“I know your anger, Hassan. I understand it. But you have to believe me: my husband wants to end th
is conflict just as much as you do.”
“Yes, end it by ending our autonomy, by ending our freedom, by ending our livelihoods!”
“Hassan, no, that’s not what I meant.”
“Mrs. Sharma,” he interjected quietly. “You seem kind and I know you mean well. But we are tired of being bullied by Srinagar, punished with sanctions, harassed in our homes. Kidnapping you is the only way we knew how to get the attention of your government.”
Parvati considered this before speaking. “What are you asking for?” she asked.
“Release of all our combatants from state prisons, withdrawal of Kashmiri soldiers from their unjust occupation of our land, and a firm rejection of the proposed wall.”
Parvati nodded. It was not surprising. But still she wondered.
“And what if my husband rejects these terms?”
Hassan stood up and turned toward the door. His departing words left her with a chill.
“I don’t know, but I can guess. I truly hope it does not come to that.”
For hours, Tarun wandered the back alleys of the sixth terrace of Candeuil. He had begun a methodical search, systematically exploring each alleyway for possible entrances to a bridge over the next chasm, peering into open doorways, climbing up likely staircases, but he had gotten lost and turned around in the tangled streets almost immediately. Each time he found himself back on the main thoroughfare, he was surprised—and frustrated.
He looked at the sky, growing darker with each minute. The sun would soon be down and he would need to find some place to shelter for the night. It would be strange to occupy one of the abandoned beds of the town, the blankets still strewn exactly as they had been left, but the night would be cold and dark. He dreaded sleeping alone in this place. At least I have these feathers, he thought, ruffling the thin layer of fluff on his arms.