by Krutant Iyer
As Shalva brought his hand down, the archers released their arrows at the thatched roofs of the huts in the village. The shower of arrows fell on the roof of the huts, immediately setting them on fire. The archers did not stop at that and continued raining arrows after arrows till all the huts in the village were on fire.
As the clansmen of Sadhuvamsha came running out of their huts, Shalva signalled his cavalry of elites to open attack on them.
Veerabhadra turned to look at the devastation wreaked upon his village and clansmen.
Vajra and a few other disciples were trying their best to fend off the attack from Shalva’s cavalry, while the rest of them were getting the villagers safely away from the burning huts, that had now turned into a roaring blaze.
No sooner had Veerabhadra taken his eyes off Nishada, he lifted his spear and threw it with massive force towards Veerabhadra.
Veerabhadra was still coming to terms with the devastation of his village when the spear pierced through his back and came out through his abdomen. Screaming with pain, he fell on his knees, as blood came spurting through his mouth.
As soon as Veerabhadra was impaled by the spear, the roots loosened up and fell on the ground, freeing the restrained Nisacharas. Nishada immediately ordered his horde of Nisacharas to kill every single person from Veerabhadra’s village.
Nishada walked over to the fallen Veerabhadra’s side. Bending down, he grabbed him by his hair and lifted his head.
“This is the price you pay for disrespecting me, you puny warrior.” He guffawed, holding his head in his hands to force him to see the Nisacharas massacring his clansmen.
Vajra and his other disciples were helplessly trying to fend off the attacks from both Nisacharas and Shalva’s elites while protecting the rest of the villagers.
Veerabhadra helplessly witnessed the forces of the King of Narakaloka, and the King of Balaloka massacre his clansmen. Overcome with maddening rage, he mustered all his strength in lifting his mace and smashed it against Nishada’s thighs. Nishada let go of his grip on Veerabhadra as he fell to the ground screaming in pain.
Veerabhadra lifted himself laboriously. Breaking the spear using his other hand, he threw it on the ground. Most of his clansmen were already lying dead on the village grounds by then.
“Vajra!” Veerabhadra screamed, calling his deputy chief’s attention towards him.
Hearing Veerabhadra, Vajra turned to look at his direction, even as he thrashed his lathi on the head of a Nisachara.
“Get them out of here,” Veerabhadra commanded.
Vajra nodded, acknowledging the chief’s order.
Spinning his lathi over his head, he thumped it loudly on the ground.
“Jvala-bhittika!” he yelled.
As soon as he yelled the mantra, a wall of fire emerged from the ground, cutting off the access for Shalva’s advancing cavalry.
Unfortunately, almost all the clansmen had perished to the onslaught of Nisacharas and Shalva’s soldiers by then.
Veerabhadra somehow managed to lift his mace over his head using every ounce of strength left in his body and brought it crashing down on the ground, once again sending tremors all over the ground. Roots emerged from the ground, capturing the remaining Nisacharas in their grip.
Vajra immediately rushed to his side.
“Vajra, save my grandson, Atti–”
Veerabhadra collapsed in his friend’s arms.
✽✽✽
As he struggled to open his eyes, he noticed the canopy of branches and leaves forming a natural roof far up in the sky.
Suddenly recalling his fight with Nisacharas and Shalva’s soldiers, Veerabhadra tried to sit, but a sharp pain shot up in his abdomen and his back, making him fall back on the ground, as he bit his lips to avoid screaming.
“You shouldn’t try getting up so soon.” A woman said.
Veerabhadra turned his head sideways in her direction.
It was Diksha, the village doctor, his Attika. She was almost as old as him, and only an inch shorter than him, but her bony frame made her look much taller.
She was Veerabhadra’s sworn sister. In the past, he had often scolded her for not resting enough as she healed everyone in the village, but never really rested herself. But today he was the one completely drained of energy.
He was trembling with rage as he recollected the events that led to his current condition.
“Who else?” he asked, as he looked up at the canopy of branches and leaves once again.
Diksha hesitated a little, before answering, “After you collapsed, I managed to get your grandson away from the village, while Vajra dragged you out. All the others –”
Tears trickled down her face, as she struggled to complete the sentence. But Veerabhadra already knew what it implied.
He shut his eyes tight, fighting to keep back the floodgate of tears that threatened to burst out.
A resounding thud made him turn once again.
Several logs of wood lay by Vajra’s feet, as he sat down, wiping the sweat off his face. He seemed to be having trouble bending his left leg while sitting down. As he leaned his back on the tree, he looked at Veerabhadra.
“Mukhya, how are you feeling?” Vajra asked.
“Don’t call me that,” Veerabhadra said, his voice weak. “My people died because of me.”
“What happened was not your fault.” Vajra tried consoling his friend.
“I would have never thought that Nisacharas were still alive,” Diksha said as she cradled the baby in her arms.
“Who would have thought Shalva would go to such a length just out of spite for you, Veera,” Vajra said.
“He did not attack out of spite,” Veerabhadra revealed.
“What do you mean?” Vajra asked.
“Shalva wanted something from me,” Veerabhadra said.
Vajra now understood the guilt weighing heavily on his friend’s shoulders.
“What did he want?” Diksha asked.
“Something that’s not mine to give away,” Veerabhadra said, looking up at the evening sky, through the canopy of trees.
Vajra looked at his friend intently, trying to study his thoughts.
“If not that, Shalva would have found some other reason to keep coming after you. You know that, right?” Diksha said.
“That doesn’t change the fact that our entire clan is dead, except the three of us,” Veerabhadra said.
“Four.” Diksha cut in.
Veerabhadra turned his head once again to look at the child in Diksha’s arms.
The pain of losing his daughter had already been too much for him to take. Moreover, the massacre of his clan on the same night he had lost her, was too much for him to accept.
“Attika, I need to ask you for a favour,” Veerabhadra said, after thinking for a long time.
“What is it, Jyeshta?” Diksha asked, addressing as her elder brother.
“I will be gone for a while. I cannot put my mind to rest until I have avenged what they did to us.” Veerabhadra spoke. “Please take care of the child while I am gone.”
Diksha and Vajra both started to speak at once, but Veerabhadra raised his hand to stop them.
“I know you will try and talk me out of it, but if you know me at all, you will know the futility of your efforts,” he said. “Knowing the child is in your care will put my mind at ease.”
“But Jyeshta, how will you fight them alone?” Diksha asked, worried for him.
“He isn’t going alone,” Vajra said. “I am going with him.”
“Vajra, I need you to stay here and protect Diksha and the child,” Veerabhadra said.
“They are more than safe here. No one would be able to find them.” Vajra said.
“Why are you so sure?” Veerabhadra asked.
He looked around and for the first time, really noticed his surroundings. The air was much clearer and purer, and rich with the fragrance of fertile soil.
“Vajra, where are we?” he finally asked.
&n
bsp; “Bhuloka,” Vajra answered.
✽✽✽
Dve
The Wolf Crier
Vanagochar, a small village located by the banks of river Krishna, running through the east-coast part of India was shielded by dense jungle on the land that ran all the way up the hill.
Most of Bhuloka was submerged underwater. Thousands of islands remained over sea level, spread all over Bhuloka. The bigger islands housed multiple villages, while some of the islets were home to only one village.
Vanagochar was one such village, located on an islet. The islet was small when compared to most of the islands, but vast by the usual islet standards.
Even though Vanagochar wasn’t a prominent village in Bhuloka, the villagers were self-sufficient; they drew water from the river, and their land was blessed with fertility.
Many boats lined up on the sandy shore. The villagers used these boats to ferry their produce to Mandi, the market islet closest to their village once every week.
They never sold their goods in exchange for coins. Instead, the practice was to barter their goods against items they couldn’t grow or make in their village, like spices, weapons, and Madira. In exchange, the villagers offered a range of items, like the logs of wood, dairy products, produce from their farms, and medicinal herbs from the jungle.
The inhabitants of Vanagochar were self-sufficient in every way. While the women tilled the fields and cultivated the edible vegetables and herbs, Men had little responsibility. They hunted for food and would help with heavy work at certain times. But for the most part, they were free to wander.
Most of the times the men of the village could be found in the village bar, laughing, gossiping, and just loafing around.
This was one such day.
The men had just ordered another round of Madira when the door burst open and a dishevelled man came running in looking about frantically. Everyone turned to look at him.
He spotted an old woman, sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, pouring herself a drink. She already looked quite woozy from having one too many.
“Amba!” he yelled, rushing towards the old lady. “You need to come with me.”
The old woman looked up sleepily, annoyed at being disturbed by this loud uncouth man.
“Please Amba. My wife – she is in labour.” He pleaded with her. “She is screaming in pain.”
The old woman pushed her chair back and stood up wearily, using the table to support herself.
“Stop squealing, you Oaf!” She shouted, irately. “Take me to her.”
The young man immediately turned about and rushed out of the bar, followed closely by the giant old woman, while the villagers resumed their merriment.
Every week, the women and the men of Vanagochar divvied into two groups. Upon entering the forests, one of the groups would go hunting for animals, while the second group headed up the hill to fetch the herbs, to be sold in the Mandi.
Twelve years ago, when one such group had walked up the hill, they had come upon a wooden hut that hadn’t been there the previous week.
The villagers approached the hut cautiously. They pried through the small gap of the makeshift door made of bamboo sticks, to find a giant old woman asleep inside, and a baby lying beside her, kicking his legs in the air and chortling innocently.
Worried that the woman may have kidnapped the child, the villagers could not decide how they should tackle the situation. Before they could arrive at a decision, the old woman woke up, and the moment her eyes fell on the snooping villagers, she yelled out angrily, sending the villagers scampering all over the hill.
The villagers were afraid to go up the hill after that day. But one day, the old woman came down the hill, to their village. Seeing her everyone had run inside their huts and secured the doors.
The old woman wasn’t feeling well and collapsed in the middle of the street.
A young girl rushed to her side, holding a tumbler of water. She put the tumbler to the old woman’s parched lips and helped her drink. Soon all the villagers came out of the huts and stood around the old woman, who was still sitting on the ground, caressing the young girl’s head, thanking her for her kindness.
After that, the villagers had become quite friendly with the old woman. Eventually, they discovered that she was an excellent doctor. She could dress up wounds expertly, and cure any illness within moments. She also introduced them to new assortments of herbs within the jungle, which they were originally unaware of.
It was taboo to ask the old woman where she had come from. One time, a drunkard couldn’t hold back his curiosity and ended up asking her who she was and from where she and the child had come from. The old woman sent him flying down the hill.
But she wasn’t a bad woman either. She ended up treating the drunkard’s wounds as well. But, since then, no one ever dared to ask her about her origins.
Other than that, the villagers were more than happy with the addition of two new inhabitants of the islet. They respectfully addressed the elderly woman as Amba, a motherly figure.
Murari did not dare to move. He knew, even the slightest movement would give away his position. He had to be as quiet as the swaying leaves in the jungle. His face and hair were covered in a mask of mud, while the leaves and shrubs made for his garb.
He was perched atop a tall tree, hidden behind branches and leaves. He peered through the branches carefully, waiting for them to come. But there had been no movement yet and he was starting to worry they wouldn’t show up.
Then he heard it. The unmistakable clinking of anklets. Five women emerged from around the bend on the trail running through the jungle. The women were carrying baskets of fruits and herbs, plucked from within the jungle and were engrossed in conversation, not paying much heed to their surroundings. A man from the village followed a few steps behind them. He was supposed to protect the group in case they were attacked by wild animals. But the man was clearly under the influence of Madira, even though it was too early in the morning for him to be drinking. He could hardly walk straight as he followed the women, with a lathi in one hand and a bottle of Madira in another. This man was Murari’s target for the day.
Murari took in a deep breath, cupped his hands over his mouth and let out a piercing ululating howl.
The women stopped dead in their tracks, paralysed with fear.
Murari chuckled silently, quickly suppressing his laughter. The women soon came out of their stupor and hastened their pace, as they looked about. The man hadn’t caught the sound and wondered why the women were prancing all of a sudden.
Just then, Murari let out yet another howl. This time, the women broke into a run, holding their baskets tightly over their heads, as they made their way towards the village.
This time the man heard the howling. He would have run ahead of the women if his bottle of Madira would not have slipped out of his hands and fallen on the ground. He struggled to pick up the bottle and maintain his balance under the influence of the intoxicating beverage. By the time he managed to pick it up, a lot of Madira had dribbled out from the mouth of the bottle onto the ground. Seeing only enough for one more swig, the drunkard gulped it quickly and threw the bottle on the ground in frustration, immediately regretting it. He suddenly remembered the howling sound from before and was now worried that he may have notified the wild animal of his location by smashing the bottle.
Seeing him agitated, Murari decided to make his move.
He manoeuvred his way down the tree expertly, ensuring the drunkard doesn’t notice him. He quickly hid in the shrubs running beside the tracks leading to the village, a little ahead of the drunkard.
The drunkard hesitated for a while, before shrugging his shoulders and resuming his walk. As soon as he had walked several paces, Murari jumped out from behind the shrub, onto the track, baring his teeth as he did.
Looking at him, the drunkard fell on his back in panic.
Murari started dancing wildly, all the while staring at the man angrily. He shouted
gibberish, meaningless words every once in a while, as he romped about.
Seeing him dance, the drunkard quickly got on his knees and bowed his head to the ground in reverence.
Since the past year, Murari had been donning this garb and would appear in front of unassuming villagers, scaring them out of their wits. While he was spotted by some villagers atop a tree in between the branches, others would see him appear from behind a tree and quietly disappear behind another. Over the year, the villagers started to believe the creature to be the deity of their village. They would often leave fruits and meat offerings in the jungle in the hopes to appease the deity.
Every now and then, Murari would add fuel to fire, by making up stories of his encounter with the creature, painting the gullible minds of the villagers with wild pictures of the village deity.
The drunkard villager begged for mercy, as he continued bowing in front of Murari.
Just as Murari was about to take the chance to disappear behind the bushes once again, hoping to make a mysterious exit as always, he felt a firm hand grab his shoulder from behind.
He turned around to see Ballu, the village lout standing behind him, a cynical smile plastered on their face.
Ballu was the village’s chief’s eldest son. He was two years older than Murari. Since childhood, the two of them were always at loggerheads with each other. Even though the villagers ignored Murari as best as they could, Ballu would find every reason to mess with him. It was very common for the villagers to find the two of them at each other’s throat. Ballu also had a younger brother, Mitra, who was a year younger than Murari. Though Mitra had no problems with Murari, he could not go against his elder brother for the fear of getting thrashed by him later. Raaka, Ballu’s best friend was the son of the village woodcutter. He never spoke more than necessary and would silently accompany Ballu everywhere. Sometimes even his father would find it difficult to read his impassive face.
As Ballu gripped Murari by the shoulder, Raaka and Mitra stood behind him, looking disconcerted. They did not wish to be part of this squabble between the two boys.