MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) (19 page)

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.’

‘So you are a foreigner then?’ Shantanu asked with interest. ‘Which part of the world are you from? Are you from this continent of Jambudwipa or…?’

‘Of course!’ The boy looked as if he had been asked if he was from another vishwa, a distant planet. ‘This is my home.’ 

Shantanu wasn’t sure what he meant. The boy had indicated the river, by which he probably meant here, this kingdom, this place. That seemed credible. The boy had the look of a Bharata about him, a Puru even. He had the same aquiline features, prominent nose, swept back ears and angular jaw, intense deep-set eyes beneath bushy brows, dark eyes and dark skin, crow-black hair, fine straight limbs and the posture of a man with enough muscle on his body to use weapons well yet not so much that it hindered his movement in combat. Taller than most other people, tall even among kshatriyas…if anything, the boy was unusually tall, standing a good head above Shantanu’s own height. Shantanu was not accustomed to looking up at a man and he found the effect disconcerting. Yet despite his considerable height, size, width, strength and evident skill, the boy was almost… bashful, shy, given to speaking with almost childish innocence and delight. At first, it made Shantanu suspicious, especially after the arrow that came unseen and the speed with which the boy himself had moved from the bank to the treeline, but as he came to understand that this was the boy’s natural manner, his suspicion turned to amusement. What an odd fellow! Built like a giant warrior, skilled with a bow and arrow to rival Purandara himself, and yet he spoke, gesticulated and contorted his face in expressions that befitted an immature boy rather than a kshatriya of high breeding, which he obviously was. 

‘So what exactly did you do?’ Shantanu asked again. They had walked to the riverbank together when the boy had explained that he had merely been “practising”. Shantanu still had no idea what that “practising” entailed. 

The boy looked at the river again, pointing. ‘You see…’ he stopped. ‘No, of course, you cannot see. Nobody can.’ He looked around, as if searching for something, then turned back. ‘Do you know of—’ He broke off abruptly, interrupting himself. ‘No,’ he said as if to himself, ‘Pramaataamaha said I was not to speak of that to anyone. Anyone!’ 

‘Did you say Pramaataamaha?’ Shantanu asked, curious. ‘Is your great-grandfather from this region? What is his name? And your father’s name?’ He moved toward the boy, speaking gently. ‘Where is your home, boy? Where do you come from?’

The boy looked at Shantanu again, as if seeing him suddenly for the first time. He shook his head and pointed again, as he had before. ‘I do not know exactly but this is my home. This is where I come from. That is all I can tell you…in your language. If you wish to know more, you must ask my mother. She said I am forbidden to speak to people.’ He looked around. ‘I am not supposed to be here even. I was only practising.’

Shantanu could make neither head nor tail of this extraordinary young man. He decided to focus on something simple. ‘What were you practising? Can you show me?’

The boy looked at him. ‘Of course! I can show you! So much simpler than explaining and learning new languages. Although Maatr says I must learn new things everyday, for I am to be king and kings must know a great deal about the worlds they govern.’

Shantanu said nothing to this, merely watched as the boy stepped up to the edge of the ridge. He was a handsome young man, and something about the way he moved, that peculiar gait that certain very tall muscular men favour, a graceful way of moving that came from their unusual height and strength of body, reminded him of someone else. But he could not place the person it reminded him of immediately.