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And the boys were swept up in talks with each other, Bharata and Shatrugna declaring which competitions they had won and so on.
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Quietly Dasharatha left the room with Sumantra. On the way out, he ordered the servants to arrange massages for all the boys, especially Rama, so they would be rejuvenated on the morrow.
“May I suggest the same for you, Great King?”
Dasharatha knew Sumantra was right. There was another day on the morrow, and Dasharatha was still tense, having seen his son in the grip of a monster like Kashi. Knowing that one of his sons would one day be torn from him was never far from his consciousness.
The summit concluded successfully on the tenth day. That was when Ashvapati arrived unannounced at Dasharatha’s door.
“Welcome,” Dasharatha said. “Please come in.”
Ashvapati, who had never been one for small talk, got straight to his point. “I have thought a great deal about my daughter’s bride-price and the subsequent events.”
Dasharatha felt a stiffening begin in his gut but kept his smile in place. Ashvapati’s mere presence had the power to make Dasharatha uncomfortable. Kaikeyi had assured Dasharatha that this was her father’s specialty. When Dasharatha had deviated, by necessity, from the promise he had made to Ashvapati, he had fallen from grace. It was clear in Ashvapati’s curt tone and manner. It was not fair, but that was the nature of human dealings.
“I have come to say this,” Ashvapati said. “I know you in Ayodhya place great value on the firstborn. But in Kekaya we consider a person’s abilities above any other qualification.
Bharata deserves to be considered Rama’s equal. I think this is the least you can do in the face of your so-called compromise.”
Dasharatha reminded himself that humility always worked like magic. There was no point in antagonizing Ashvapati further. But he did not take orders from his subordinate kings. Ashvapati’s words had an unacceptable arrogance.
“Bharata is an exceptional boy,” Dasharatha said.
“And yet you spend your time watching Rama with googly eyes.”
Dasharatha lifted his hand and subdued his retort. “Is it necessary to speak in this manner? Your daughter is most dear to me. I do not wish to fight with my queen’s father.”
“She is so dear that you would without second thought favor the son of another.”
There it was, out in the open. Ashvapati’s accusation. Dasharatha took a step away. The other king reminded him suddenly of Manthara. There was the same bitterness around the mouth, the same twisting of reality. Dasharatha did not want to engage with this. The matter had been settled before the princes were born. Ashvapati had agreed then. Now he wished to put pressure on Dasharatha to again consider the old bride-price. Now that he had an eligible contender in Bharata. It galled Dasharatha that Ashvapati dared accuse him of favoritism. He didn’t want to part badly with his father-in-law, but when the other man was determined to cut open healed wounds, he had no choice.
“Shall I have one of my guards escort you out?”
“I think you have understood my message.”
“Message or threat?”
“Oh, I’m just an old horse-lord with decrepit servants. You have nothing to fear.”
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Dasharatha forced a smile to return and showed Ashvapati out. He decided to take the man’s words literally and dismiss the situation. Ashvapati’s intrigues were not Dasharatha’s.
The concluding feast was grand, and all the champions were again honored, Rama first among them. Dasharatha had never felt such satisfaction at a political event before. Everything pointed to a brilliant future for the Sun dynasty.
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Rama’s
Adventures
chapter 28
The Enemy in the Shadow
Rama always felt a little strange that he so easily outshone his brothers. He didn’t mean to. It simply happened. Long after the summit was over, Rama and his brothers spoke about everything they had learned and accomplished. The princes turned eight years old, and their training continued in earnest. More often than not, Rama was the one teaching his brothers how to use their bows and arrows.
Rama’s favorite days were when Father came to oversee their lessons. It had happened more often after the summit, for Father had come to see where the boys needed more practice. On such days the other teachers, even Vasishta, remained in the background, and Father took charge. It was always exciting. Even the next hunting lesson had turned out spectacular, though Rama had felt apprehensive about the idea. Each of the princes had shot down a deer cleanly, and the animals had been offered into the fire by Vasishta himself. The sacred mantras promised them a swift and better rebirth, and Rama thought he had seen their souls arise from the fire and fly up.
Today the attendants brought them to the library, and the princes broke into a run to find that trapdoor that still evaded them. Rama knew he was almost too old to run into places in this way; more was expected of him now that he was eight. But he could not stop his legs and the excited hammering of his heart. They had plans for
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that secret door once they found it. The plan changed, depending on their needs, who they were angry with, and so on.
Running past Lakshmana, Rama reminded him of a place they had not searched. Then Rama stopped abruptly, his entire energy running ahead of him while his body stopped.
Father was standing in the center of the room, waiting for them.
Rama could not read Father’s expression, for today he was the king, even with his sons.
The brothers grew still and carefully walked closer to their father.
Father did not ask them to sit. He began with a question.
“Who is your most dangerous enemy?” Father looked at each of them in turn.
The four princes surrounded their father with rapt attention. Rama became still. He wanted to get it right. Bharata became still too. Lakshmana’s and Shatrugna’s gazes traveled from one side of the room to the other while they thought.
Shatrugna lifted his hand first. “Rebel kings,” the youngest boy said.
“One guess each,” their father offered.
Rama scrutinized his father’s face. Had Shatrugna been close?
“Your own self,” Lakshmana said.
Rama nodded. That was a good answer. But Father would not budge until they had all answered.
Bharata’s answer was longer. “If someone is your friend and you tell them everything and then they turn on you. You know, a traitor.”
“What do you say, Rama?” Father’s attention was intent on him.
“I think all of the answers were right,” Rama said. “It depends on the circumstance.”
This made Father laugh.
“Who got it?” Lakshmana asked. “Rama’s answer doesn’t count!”
“It does!” Rama protested, glaring at Lakshmana.
“No, because you didn’t say your own”—he looked at the ceiling, searching for the word—
“definition!” He smiled.
“Boys.”
They fell silent, looking up at their father. “If I say Rama was right, then you all got it right.”
“A trick question,” Bharata said, dejected.
“Actually, you were all wrong,” their father said.
The young princes sighed loudly, and Father amended his reply. “The right answer does depend on the circumstance, as Rama said. And in that sense, it was a trick question. There are many enemies.” Father’s eyes grew serious as he looked at each of them. “What if I told you that your most dangerous enemy is the blood-drinker hiding in the shadows?”
“Blood-drinkers!” Shatrugna’s eyes were wide, like two moons. “But we have never even seen one!”
“Manthara is the only one who sees them everywhere,” Bharata said. “But that’s just to scare us.”
“And Father,” Lakshmana said, “at the summit, you said blood-drinkers were destroyed.”
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Father was silent. Rama had never seen his eyes so hard.
“If Father says so, it must be so,” he said.
Lakshmana made his vampire face, showing all his teeth.
“It’s not a joke, Lakshmana.” Rama frowned at his brother, beckoning him to look at Father.
Their father was staring past their heads, viewing a scene they could not see.
Was he seeing blood-drinkers? Rama wondered. When Rama was grown, he would be able to see the way his father did.
“You and your brothers are old enough now, Rama,” Dasharatha said, returning his gaze to them. “You must know what we are up against. Until now, I have protected you and your brothers from this. I have protected Ayodhya. Together with the kings of all other regions, I protect the Earth. One day, it will be your duty.”
Father looked at them in turn.
“A king’s duty is to protect,” Rama recited. “A warrior’s duty is to kill.”
“One day, you will understand the distinction,” Father promised. “As for the unseen enemy that seems to you a fairytale creature, I think it’s time you see for yourself. Come with me.”
Their father took the hands of the twins because they were the youngest and led the way out. Rama and Bharata followed, hand in hand.
Leaving the school and palace grounds on a chariot, they headed in a direction they seldom went. A retinue of guards followed, as they always did. Rama, who had never felt afraid for his life, wondered if the guards were secretly battling the enemy and keeping him and his brothers all alive, ignorant of the danger. It dawned on him that he was in constant danger, but protected so well that he did not even know it. Rama did not want to be in the dark.
“The prison,” Lakshmana whispered in Rama’s ear.
“What?” Shatrugna leaned in. “Where are we going?”
“The prison!” Lakshmana whispered more loudly but with more conviction.
None of the boys seemed to know whether to be excited or frightened.
Reaching the prison grounds, they marched next to their father with extra precision, arms swinging sharply. Rama’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, like Father’s did. Father had made them wear one weapon each, as practice. They had never been inside the prison before, a building that did not look terribly different from other structures in Ayodhya, save for the huge spiked fence and the many guards.
On the inside, however, it was very different. It immediately felt dark and suffocating.
The king and his four sons were trailed by a group of guards that seemed to grow larger the deeper into the prison they went.
The prisoners clamored for attention, calling out and reaching through the bars as the king and the princes walked by.
“Do not look at the prisoners,” the king cautioned his sons.
Rama held his eyes extra wide, forcing them straight ahead. It wasn’t easy to ignore people who had such a desperate need to be seen and heard.
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When Rama said this to his father, Dasharatha replied, “They have been heard, Rama.
They do not deserve your attention now. This is the punishment for their transgressions.”
There were no windows. No sunlight. No wind or fresh air. No trees. None of the things that Rama loved. What had the prisoners done to deserve this? He would have to ask his father. How did you know that a punishment was just?
They walked into a dark tunnel that was dimly lit by torches. The flames flickered as they walked by, bat-like shadows that flew past Rama. The dark tunnel ended in a single prison cell with extra-thick bars. It was illuminated by a pool of the brightest light. Rama looked up and saw that this cell had no roof. It was like looking up at a long tunnel and seeing the sky above. A small kindness, even though thick bars obscured the blue sky.
“We are here,” the king said.
He pointed to a lone prisoner chained in the center of the pool of light. The sun’s rays completely engulfed the prisoner. After the darkness of the tunnel, Rama could barely make out anything but a lump in the center of the room. Then he saw the sacred fires that blazed in every corner of the cell. Heat wafted toward them. The other prisoners had clamored for attention, while this one hung limp and lifeless against his chains.
As if reading Rama’s thoughts, Dasharatha said, “Tell me what is different between this prisoner and the others.”
Rama felt certain that this prisoner must be a blood-drinker. But he said nothing because he did not yet have proof. The prisoner’s skin was a pleasant dark shade, his hair a rare bronze. Yet these tones were not unheard of. Rama himself had an unusual color. That didn’t make him a blood-drinker. So the boy waited for his eyes to adjust, for his mind to pick up any definitive traits.
“He sits in the light, while the others were in darkness,” Bharata remarked.
“Not for long,” their father assured them.
As they watched, the blinding rays of the sun crept across the prisoner’s hidden face, his bronze hair glimmering in the sun. Then the sun was gone, replaced by a forgiving shadow.
Evening was upon them. The moment the shadows settled in the prison cell, the prisoner looked up at his audience.
His eyes were red like blood. His bronze beard covered half his face, so it wasn’t until he smiled at them that Rama saw his sharp teeth.
“Fangs,” the prince stated, without taking his eyes off the prisoner.
“The stories are true,” Lakshmana said with awe.
“Yes, this is a blood-drinker, though we feed him no blood,” Dasharatha told his sons.
“He is allowed only holy water from the golden altars. It keeps him weak. Though they are all weakened by sunlight, this one does not shun light entirely. It only keeps his faculties weak. The chains around his ankles and wrists are imbued with life and keep him in place, a gift from Vasuki, the king of snakes. Yes, the chains are alive and obey Vasishta’s command alone.”
“It’s so hot in here,” Shatrugna said, wiping his face.
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“The four fires are crucial,” Father said. “They maintain the power of the mantras that enforce the parameters of his prison. Fire is not their friend but ours. This prisoner has been here since the days of Anaranya, a captive from that ancient battle.”
“What about when the fires turn to ash?” Bharata asked
“They will not. They burn as long as the fire at the golden altar burns. As you know, that fire is diligently tended to day and night, protecting Ayodhya.”
The blood-drinker did not move a muscle or blink, but his eyes went to whomever spoke, so Rama knew he was listening.
“What is his name?” Rama asked.
“We do not know for certain, nor do we know what he is capable of, for some of his kind are expert shape changers. The chains prevent such a change, and one of Vasishta’s sons regularly visits to strip his energy field of power. If nothing else, this prisoner is a reminder that his kind is real. I hope it is all the reminder you will ever need.”
“I want to speak to him,” Rama said.
“He can talk?” Bharata asked doubtfully.
“Good question, Bharata,” Dasharatha responded, casting a concerned glance at Rama.
“The blood-drinker tongue is different from ours. But this one speaks the language of humans, though he refuses to say what his name is. The records show that he initially insisted that his name was ‘Ray of Light’ or something of that nature, obviously a taunt. In the early days, they called him simply ‘the prisoner’ which became ‘Ayodhya’s oldest prisoner.’”
“I want to talk to him,” Rama repeated.
“Don’t!” Shatrugna hid behind Dasharatha.
The blood-drinker had not once taken his eyes off the four boys. His nostrils were flared and he repeatedly licked his lips.
“He is hungry,” Lakshmana said, his lips turning down.
“He can hear you,” Dasharatha assured Rama.
“I want to sit by his side and speak to him,” Rama insisted. He looked up at his father.
“Please.”
Dasharatha looked down at him, scrutinizing his face. Rama held his father’s gaze. If this was the most dangerous enemy, Rama wanted to know everything there was to know.
The king turned to the prison master. “Is it safe?”
“The chains restrict the prisoner’s movements. He recently drank his weekly portion of holy water. Prince Rama will be safe as long as he stays an arm’s distance away. But the prisoner will not speak. He has not spoken for centuries.”
The guards opened the cell door and let the prince enter.
“I’ll come too,” Lakshmana said.
Dasharatha’s hand flew up as if to stop his boys at the last minute, but they were already inside.
Rama approached warily and sat at the feet of the blood-drinker, looking up at him steadily. The prisoner looked back, meeting the gaze of the boy. They sat in silence for a while.
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Rama wondered if he was being hypnotized, or the other way around. There was no way to retreat. He looked past the frightening redness of the blood-drinker’s eyes and felt for the soul energy he knew every person had.
“Your soul is shiny,” Rama said, startled.
The blood-drinker’s head swayed back; he blinked and broke their eye contact. “That is my name,” he whispered in a rusty voice. “Marichi, ‘Ray of Light.’”
Rama looked at Lakshmana and his smile said, See, I got him to talk.
“Marichi,” Rama said. “A name of great honor.”
Marichi licked his lips, looking at Rama. Drops of saliva ran down the corners of his mouth.
“You would like to drink my blood?” Rama asked.
“I would drink the blood of a fly if they let me,” the prisoner said, and laughed.
“Why do you like to drink blood?”
“Why don’t you like to drink blood?” the blood-drinker countered. “It’s ripe and delicious, salty and fulfilling. I was created this way. It’s my nature. The way a lion preys on deer.
