Chapter 25

"...in all the worlds I will find you..."

At sunrise the horizon looked like a line of fire. The great dome of the sky was shadowy and dusty and red, like the inside of an unbaked earthen pot. Sometimes flocks of cranes filled the high air, brilliant white against the gloomy heavens, flying North all out of season. In the evening, when the Sun fled the world too quickly, the few trees that stuck up out of the dry Earth, yellow as dirty teeth, were covered with crows.

The darkness did not bother the man walking across the hard plain—he had lived most of his life beneath the Earth, in caverns illuminated by gently glowing crystals—nor did the lack of water and food. He could go for a long time without sustenance. But the birds troubled him. He sensed the crows watching him, their tiny black eyes following his every step with a mixture of wariness and calculating curiosity. The birds were the ancient enemies of his people—their hated opposite. His people lived deep within the Earth, while the birds soared above her. He needed no food for days at a time, but the birds were always hungry, always searching for morsels, always pecking pecking pecking. His people spoke in soft, sybillant voices, closer to silence than speech. The birds had a million different languages, and they never stopped talking.

Cranes and crows were not dangerous, though he suspected they would have done him harm if they could, but always as he walked he listened and watched the sky for signs of that most hated, cruelest bird of them all: the eagle.

For days he had walked across the hard dry plain, always keeping the sunrise on his left and the sunset on his right. He carried only his bow and quiver of arrows. Those weapons were all solace and nourishment to him. After sunset, when the cold came over the world, he slithered into the ground and waited there, soaking up what heat the Sun had left in the soil. There, hidden underground yet still far, far above the world of his people, he would recall his mother’s face and the last words she’d spoken to him.

“Go then, if you want to die so much.”

And she hid herself in a green shadow, and he could not reach her.

“But mother,” he cried out into the dark, “my father needs me! I must do my duty!”

“Duty—dharma—empty words! Those are the words men use to destroy themselves and the Earth. To destroy their mothers and wives and sisters and daughters. What about your duty to me? Your father has never seen your face, nor held you in his arms. He does not know who you are. Why die for him?”

“Mother, I’ll not die. I’m a warrior thanks to his blood in me. What kind of son would not go to his father when he is in need?”

“Your father is proud. You think he will accept you? A boy from under the Earth, not even human?”

“He will accept me, I know it. My father is proud, but he is compassionate too. He will know who I am.”

“How can you be so sure?”

There words ceased. He had no language to explain his certainty. It was in bone and sinew, not speech.

At dawn he rose up again and went on, always on. South across this great dry ground. It seemed like the very last place on Earth. Yet, after long days of walking, the land began to change. It rose in hills and ridges. Grass sprung up from the soil, dry and rattling at first, but then greener and whispering of life and water. The trees became more numerous and leafy, and the wind was sweeter, not so choked with dust. He could feel the tremor in the ground of a great number of people moving, far away at first, but every day closer and closer. Then one afternoon he climbed a high hill and, looking down the other side, saw an ocean of white tents stretching to the far horizon. Thousands of colorful banners fluttered in the wind. He saw men and horses moving everywhere like ants between white mounds, with here and there an elephant like a big beetle.

Far away he could see a hill rising up out of the great camp, and atop the hill were walls and towers that caught the light.

That’s where I have to go, he knew. That’s where I’ll find my father.

He spent the night inside the hill, and the next morning walked down into the vast encampment. The camp was like a city unto itself, with shops, smithies, kitchens, stables, shrines. There were women and children there with the soldiers, lending a hand where they could or selling vegetables and grain out of carts. Some areas reeked of makeshift toilet facilities and waste dumps. Piles of horse and elephant dung rose higher than the tents. Elsewhere stood large pavilions of embroidered cloth, smelling of incense, with gorgeous chariots parked outside and servants milling about on a thousand errands. Most of the people in that huge temporary city were too busy going about their days—making or sharpening weapons, carrying baskets of food, copper and earthen pots full of water, bales of hay, sweating as they stirred enormous pots of food in the sweltering heat of the outdoor kitchens—to notice him, just another warrior with bow and arrow, but those who did stopped what they were doing and watched him pass with expressions of wonder or suspicion on their faces.

It took all day for him to reach the hill and the fortress at the center of that ocean of potential violence. By the time he stood before the gate the Eastern sky was dull and darkling and the West burned beneath low clouds like a fissure filled with rubies. The guards on duty had just closed the gate and stood still as statues, four to each side.

The traveler approached them slowly, not wanting to cause any alarm. Along the parapet above the gate shadowy figures moved about, talking and lighting torches.

“Halt,” said one of the guards. His voice was calm, even kindly, but firm. “What is your wish?”

“I seek an audience with the lord Arjuna,” said the traveler.

The guard narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Iravan. I’ve come to fight for the Pandavas.”

The guard stepped toward Iravan and then suddenly drew back.

He’s seen my eyes, the young man knew.

“The lord Arjuna is not seeing visitors at this time,” said the guard. “You will have to wait.”

“Wait? Until when?”

“Until he is available,” said the guard. “But he is very busy. It may be a long time.”

“But I must speak to him now!”

The guard shook his head.

“I’m afraid it is impossible.”

Iravan turned away and looked out over the vastness of the army, all the white tents painted a soft violet by the deepening evening. Then he turned back toward the gate.

“Then,” he said, “I seek an audience with King Yudhisthira.”

The guard grimaced and stood for a moment saying nothing. His compatriots traded knowing looks.

“King Yudhisthira,” said the guard, “never turns anyone away. Come with me.”