by Rohit Gaur
Trudging up another flight of stairs, he came out upon a second-floor landing, a walkway that connected several buildings whose rear faces looked out over the canyon. Nothing. No sign of the missing bridge. Tarun recognized that perhaps the Serpentine had located these other bridges and eliminated them as well, but so far he had not even been able to locate their possible former location. And no matter what vantage point he seemed to obtain, the curve of the canyon wall made it impossible to spot the bridge or its wreckage from a distance.
He turned and began making the trek back to the main road. He kicked a stone and sent it clattering down the stone steps, considering whether he should just retreat back to the wall where Galerest was waiting and try again in the morning.
No, he thought, I need to keep trying. I can’t waste any more time.
Back on the main road, he took a seat on the curb to think over the problem. Something was nudging his consciousness, something he had been missing or overlooking. Galerest had said the other bridge was intended only to be used by the Ovi, but there had been thousands of them when the city was flourishing. The bridge must have been somewhat public, accessible, easy to find. It wouldn’t be squirreled away down a dank or narrow alley.
Tarun rubbed his toe on the cobblestones of the street. He looked at the nearby tile carved with an image of an Ovi, a ram with large horns held up high. Then he noticed something he hadn’t before: in the tiled picture, the Ovi was not simply floating untethered, but was standing upon a surface decorated in a distinctive style. Tarun had seen that style elsewhere in Candeuil: on the bridges!
He leaped up and began following the trail of tiles in the street. Of course, he thought excitedly, the images of the Ovi in the city were not just decorative, but served a purpose too. They were street signs!
The tiles led him a long way down the road, past many of the side streets he had already uselessly explored, and then veered abruptly up the steps to a grand building fronted with thick columns and a set of heavy oaken doors. It looked like a courthouse or town hall, and Tarun reflected that he would never have thought to look inside this particular building. He grasped the iron loop on the front of the door, twisted and pushed it open, revealing a long hallway lit by large windows. Statues and hanging lamps that had once lined the corridor now lay overturned or collapsed into rubble on the floor. Stepping carefully among the debris, Tarun made his way to the end of the hall and pushed open another set of doors.
The bridge, damaged but intact, gleamed like a strip of white paint across the darkening chasm below. Finally, Tarun’s luck had changed. He scrambled quickly across and into the seventh terrace.
Black coffee, an orange, some biscuits. Arjun’s secretary, Karla, had set out a breakfast for him, knowing he would not likely feed himself. He had slept at the office on an uncomfortable couch, unwilling to leave the command center for fear of missing information and wary of the painful flood of memories that would be unleashed by sleeping at home. Arjun pulled his chair into the desk and took a sip of the coffee, trying to rid himself of the haunting dreams in which he heard his wife and sons calling his name but their faces were nowhere to be found.
Arjun leaned over to buzz Karla and request an update from the overnight commander, but before he could complete the action there came a knock at the door. An agent peered and requested he accompany him to command center. Abandoning his breakfast, Arjun quickly followed.
As they approached, Arjun could see the commander and several of his assistants grouped around a laptop computer. The commander, seeing Arjun approaching, stood up straight and saluted. Then, he spoke.
“Sir, the militants have uploaded a video to the Internet. You’d better watch it, but before you do, I have to warn you: your wife is in it.”
The rest of Tarun’s ascent through Candeuil proved easier now that he understood how to read and follow the tiles. He avoided the main road, using the private bridges as his path of ascent. For whatever reason, they appeared to be in better shape, less crumbling and ruinous. By the time he reached the highest terrace, where the air was thin and numbingly cold, the sun had almost set. But he was determined to try to recover the rope before the day was done.
The bell tower was easy to spot among the few buildings on this terrace. Built from the same white stone, it loomed up in a modest spire, sturdy against the fierce winds that blew across this high altitude. He approached the base of the tower and entered through a low door, spotting a spiral staircase attached to its outer walls. Galerest had not been sure how or where the rope would be placed but he seemed to know it would be here. Tarun climbed steadily in the weak light that pierced through the handful of slotted windows that illuminated the stairs.
At the top, Tarun emerged onto a ledge that wrapped around the enormous, bronze-colored bell, its sides covered with more images of the Ovi. The view from the top of the tower was breathtaking: in a broad panorama, Tarun could see the entire city below in strips along the sides of the three mountains, connected at odd intervals by the all-important bridges. It was an impressive view, but Tarun needed to concentrate.
He turned back to the platform, looking up into the raftered space above for signs of the rope. He walked in a circle around the bell, looking carefully over the floor, on window ledges, in corners. When he got back to the spot where the staircase connected with the landing without spotting it, Tarun grew worried. Could Galerest have been wrong? What if it wasn’t here in the tower but someplace else? How would he search the entire city?
He looked out again at the cascading terraces below as the sun sank below the horizon. But just then he had a thought: a bell should have a rope! He turned back to the center of the room and then stretched out flat on the ledge to peer under the bronze dome. There, attached to the clapper that rang the bell, a densely braided rope stretched down.
Hiding in plain sight! thought Tarun.
Holding securely to the ledge, he reached underneath the bell and grasped the rope, pulling it toward him. With the utmost care, he loosed the knot that attached it to the clapper and tucked the end of the rope underneath his arm. Having secured the rope, he let the clapper fall.
Just as if it had been swung by an eager Ovi, the clapper connected with the side of the bell and emitted a rich, resounding boom, then another as it thwacked the reverse side as well. Startled by the loud proximity of the noise, Tarun recoiled quickly from the quivering bell and covered his vibrating ears. It was the sound of success.
Against the wall, Galerest had built a small fire, around which he sat with the two silent oxen. Several hours had passed since Tarun entered the passageway into the city and in that time Galerest had done plenty of thinking. He had warned the lad that he might need to spend the night in the city, but wished he had sent him off with a warmer set of clothes or more matches. He wished even more that he could have accompanied him. Setting a naïve and inexperienced child off into an abandoned city to search for a hidden object was madness, irresponsible madness, on Ganesha’s part. Tarun could get lost, he could injure himself, he could fall into a crevasse, or die from exposure in the chill of night. So many things could go wrong that the boy would not know how to handle or fix. And now darkness had fallen with no sign of him. Galerest sighed. Ganesha would never learn.
Just then, though, he heard a sound he had not heard in many years. A sound that was unmistakable and singular after all that time. Nowhere else in the Veiled Lands could one hear the reverberating clang of a distant bell echoing around a mountainous canyon.
Well, well, Galerest thought, a smile spreading across his face. I guess he made it after all.
Chapter 13
DOWN AND OUT
As the resounding tone of the bell dimmed and petered out, Tarun gathered himself from the floor and began rapidly coiling the rope over his arm. If he hurried, he might be able to descend back through the terraces by twilight and reach the entrance before night fell entirely. But as he prepared himself to walk down the spiraling staircase, a new no
ise, like rumbling thunder, took the place of the fading notes. It began softly but gained in pitch, swelling to a dull roar. Tarun ran to the edge of the tower parapet and leaned out. Whether because the bell had not been rung for many years or an unusual build up of rocky debris had accumulated, the accidental sounding of the gong had unleashed a troubling development. As Tarun watched with mounting alarm, an avalanche swept down from the peak of the mountain, crashed around the base of the sturdy bell tower, and pushed out over edge of the terrace onto the slopes below.
When it finally stopped, Tarun gaped at the scene before him. The swift current of the avalanche had cleared away all impediments to its fall, including a few stray structures, the retaining wall of the terrace, and the entirety of the bridges that were the only means of entrance or exit.
He couldn’t believe his extraordinary bad luck.
He ran down the spiral stairs two at a time and out onto the street. It was strewn with the debris of the avalanche, rocks and balls of ice and dirty streaks of snow. Tarun dodged the wreckage of several fallen statues and collapsed walls as he made his way toward the cliff side where the bridges had formerly attached. Gone. Collapsed. Not a stone left standing. He was now stranded on this deserted island of a city.
Tarun fell to his knees. He tried to process his newfound isolation, as the chill winds swirled around him and the darkness of the evening pressed in. What could he possibly do now?
The boom of the bell, the crash of the avalanche, Tarun’s gasp of disbelief: Ganesha had heard the entire chain of events. Imprisoned from movement by the walls of his cave, through his mind’s eye Ganesha followed along on Tarun’s journey, a silent and invisible companion. So far, Ganesha had been impressed by his ingenuity and resourcefulness in the face of mysterious dangers and unexpected complications. But here was a difficult, perhaps even impossible challenge for the boy. This situation would require more than he could handle. Tarun needed help.
Ganesha summoned his faltering energy and began to concentrate.
The video posted on the Internet had detailed the exact demands of the militants: the specific names of fighters held in Kashmiri prisons for release, the timeline of withdrawal of all soldiers from the region, the warning that further attacks would continue if the legislation creating the wall was not publicly disavowed. After they had concluded, the frame shifted to Parvati, speaking slowly and mechanically about her safety and lack of harm at the hands of her captors. The video concluded with an ominous message: they expected a response within forty-eight hours or more videos were to come.
Arjun, visibly shaken, had excused himself from the room. When he returned, his eyes were red but his demeanor grim.
Vishal spoke first: “These demands are politically impossible. We cannot release lawfully arrested militants. The army cannot just be pulled out of the region without cause. And we need that wall. I repeat my advice that the legislation for the wall be signed immediately, as a sign of our rejection of their attempts to coerce us into submission.”
“And my wife?” Arjun asked quietly. “What do you think would happen to her?”
A silence fell over the room.
“With all due respect, sir, Vishal is right,” another adviser spoke up. “We can’t cave in to their demands. It will only encourage them.”
“I understand,” Arjun said. “I have no intention of negotiating with them, but I will not provoke them either. Our best bet is to find their camp quickly and neutralize the threat.” He called to one of the technicians.
“Can you trace where this video came from?”
“We’ve already tried, sir. They used a proxy website called Black Market to disguise their IP address. No way to tell where the upload originated.”
“If we get a warrant to the Internet providers for the data, could we identify the IP addresses that have accessed or searched for that Black Market website in the last twenty-four hours?”
The technician thought for a moment. “In the whole country? There could be thousands of hits. Maybe even tens of thousands. We’d never be able to wade through that much information.”
“But you could cross-reference that list with the available IP addresses within northern Kashmir, right? We know they’re in the mountains somewhere. And there can’t be that many addresses up there.”
“I suppose that’s true,” the technician said slowly. “I’ll need some help.”
“Whatever you need,” Arjun assured him before turning to his assistant, Karla. “Get the attorney general in here. We need a search warrant. Fast.”
Tarun fell asleep inside the bell tower entryway, wrapped in some old canvas he had discovered underneath the stairs. There had been little to do in the swallowing darkness, so he retreated to the relative warmth and safety of the interior. In the morning he would explore the terrace further, see if he had missed some alternative path or way off the mountain. Or, at least, find some alternative to this dusty floor. It was likely, he reasoned, that he would be here for some time. Until, that is, Galerest realized what had happened, and somehow came to his rescue. Somehow.
His dreams were filled with sweeping snow and gonging bells and disorienting mazes. In some, Serpentine guards chased him down darkened streets, while in others he fought against invisible forces that clawed at his back. Toward morning he dreamt that he was tumbling down a steep rocky slope, scrabbling to catch hold of a handhold before he slid over a looming ledge. His hands groped wildly for a grip or hold as he slid down the embankment, but the rocks turned to gravel or gave way when he grasped at them. As he neared the precipice, he pushed his body down against the rough ground to slow his momentum, but with no luck. Over the edge he careened, launching out into nothingness. He squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the impact of his fall.
When there was no impact, nor even a sensation of falling, Tarun dared to open his eyes again. With a start, he realized that he was flying, his arms spread out and flapping as if on autopilot, covered with a neat fringe of bright red feathers.
The dark landscape fell away and then he was soaring over rolling hills carpeted with green forest. A river glinted in the sun, unwinding a path through the thickly grown trees. On a rocky landing below about halfway up the side of a large hilly spur, he spotted a familiar figure sitting meditatively in the sun. Without thinking, Tarun banked into a descent, finding himself suddenly and mysteriously capable of a precise and graceful landing. He recognized the entrance of the cave, now under the light of a bright sun.
“Very impressive, Tarun,” Ganesha said, sitting cross-legged upon a low stone entablature, watching him land and tuck his winged arms away. “Your plumage has turned out both functional as well as beautiful.”
Tarun looked down at the crimson-colored down on his chest and appendages. He touched his face and hair, which had started to sprout feathery growth, and his nose, which had grown smooth and hard like a shell.
“What am I?” Tarun asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ganesha replied, eyeing him. “A rare species, it would seem. How do you feel?”
“Strange. I feel strange. Is this a dream?”
“Yes and no. Yes, in that you are asleep and this is taking place entirely within your consciousness. But no, in that I am not a figment of your imagination. It’s really me. I’m just inside your head.”
“But why?”
“I told you I would help you if I could. In your hour of need.”
“I do need your help, Ganesha! The bridges, they were swept away . . .”
“Yes, I know, Tarun,” he said gently. “I’ve kept track of your journey. You have been remarkably brave so far. But don’t worry, I’m here to guide you.”
“How do I get off the mountain without the bridges?”
“Use the rope. It has many remarkable properties and magical uses, but one in particular will help you find a way out of the city. Use the rope to bind yourself to an Ovi statue and the path will lie open before you.”
“To a statue?” Tarun aske
d with disbelief.
Ganesha smiled and squinted into the sun. “Trust me, Tarun.”
The light from the sun grew brighter, fading out all of the colors into a blinding glow, until Tarun awoke from his sleep with a start. A narrow shaft of sunlight was streaming through one of the bell tower windows, alighting directly upon his face. With a groan, Tarun raised himself from his makeshift bed upon the floor and looked around. The warm sun and rolling forests were gone. He was back in Candeuil, on a frigid stone floor, cut off from the rest of the world.
Tarun tried to shake the sleep from his head. The vision of Ganesha had been vivid, but did he really believe it? Was it just his brain’s wishful thinking?
Then he noticed, emerging from the sleeve that he had pulled down over his arms and hands to stay warm, a fiery red feather. Tarun carefully pulled the sleeve up, astonished to see that overnight—or at some point during his journey up the mountain—the tufts of down had grown into a bed of silky feathers, red as a cherry.
I’m really transcending, he thought. Into a bird. He thought about Ganesha’s warning that he would permanently transform if he stayed too long in the Veiled Lands and wondered how much time he had left.
Springing up, Tarun examined the coil of rope. It looked like a plain piece of rope, a thin tight braid of coarse fibers, sturdy but not cumbersome, the kind of rope that might be used to lead a horse or dip a bucket into a well. It seemed impossible that this rope could help him escape the mountain, but Ganesha’s words—“Trust me”—range through his ears.
Tarun stepped out into the cold, bright morning. A few flakes of snow were falling from the overcast skies and the wind blew balefully over the abandoned terrace. Tarun walked quickly along the road toward the site of the collapsed bridge. On either side, two tall pedestals stood like sentries, marking its former width. Atop the pedestals had been placed two Ovi statues, the rams reared up like warhorses, curving horns pointed upward to the sky.