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“You noticed it too?” Rama said. He lightly rubbed his fingertips.
“He’s been strange all day,” Shatrugna said.
Bharata appeared in the doorway, grinning. “There you all are. Father thought he heard your voices. Come in.”
Father was sitting on his throne. Although it wasn’t as large and decorated as the one in the court hall, it still had room for several people.
“Rama, my brave boy!” Father said, pulling Rama onto his lap. Usually Rama felt too big to sit on Father’s lap anymore, but today he slung his arm around Father’s shoulder and pulled Lakshmana onto Father’s other knee.
“Something strange is happening,” he said, letting the dismay show on his face.
“What is it, Rama?” Father grew serious at once.
Rama felt his father’s trust and concern surround him as strong as an embrace. It almost made his alarm abate.
“What did Vasishta want?” he asked. “If you are allowed to tell us . . .” Sometimes there were secrets that Father was not allowed to tell anyone. Vasishta knew most of them too.
“I am not sure what the holy one wanted,” Father replied. “He already knows the answers to the questions he posed.”
“What questions?” Rama persisted.
“He wanted to know if we had moved the blood-drinker to another location. Of course not, I told him. We would not have done such a thing without his express permission. Only the sun cell is strong enough to hold one of his kind.”
Father looked into Rama’s eyes and stiffened, concern rising in his eyes.
“Oh, and you know,” Bharata offered, “he quizzed me about how to extinguish the four fires in the sun cell. He pretended like it was impossible, but I wasn’t fooled. I told him that 265
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as long as the fire at the golden altar burns, the smaller ones will burn too. He was pleased with my answer.”
“Father!” Rama’s voice was urgent. Dasharatha stood up. Rama and Lakshmana slid off his lap, onto their feet.
“Something was really wrong with Vasishta,” Rama said, “when he met my eye. Like he was in a rage.”
Father turned to Sumantra. “Summon Vasishta at once. Send a swift runner to the golden altars. Double the guards there.”
“Yes, Great King.” Sumantra hurried out.
“I am greatly puzzled,” Father said, pacing back and forth. “Vasishta did behave rather strangely, avoiding looking at me directly. I assumed he was in a hurry. Perhaps I have offended him without knowing.”
As they waited for Vasishta to return, Rama told Father about the wild look in Vasishta’s eyes.
“He should have been here by now,” Lakshmana observed. “He can’t have gone that far.”
Father nodded. He called another attendant to his side. “Send my messengers out to every place Vasishta usually visits. Tell the respected preceptor that the king needs his presence at once.”
“As you say, Great King.”
“Alert the commander in chief. Tell him to have the prison inspected. Especially the sun cell.”
The attendant bowed and left. Just then, Vasishta entered, bright and glowing, his long white beard majestic as a lion’s mane.
“You called for me, Great King?”
He smiled at Rama and the other boys. Rama studied him with a frown.
“Now that I see you before me, I’m sure it’s all a mistake,” Dasharatha said, smiling in turn. “My sons were puzzled by your recent questions about the blood-drinker.” The king was almost apologetic.
Vasishta, the eldest person in Ayodhya, had served many kings of the Sun dynasty before Dasharatha was even born. Rama knew that Father didn’t summon him lightly. Had they made a mistake? Was Rama’s gut feeling wrong?
“What do you mean?” the preceptor asked. His puzzled expression was becoming the recurring mood of the evening. “Questions about the blood-drinker?”
“You were here about half an hour ago, asking me about the sun cell and the prisoner,”
Dasharatha clarified. There was an edge in his voice. Father was turning into the king, Rama could tell.
“On the contrary, Great King,” Vasishta said, now completely grave. “You summoned me from my evening offerings, which were interrupted midway. I have not seen you since this morning when our meeting was adjourned, nor have I made any inquiries whatsoever.”
Sumantra came running in. Rama had never seen him like this. “The fire has been extinguished!”
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Father went into action. “Holy one, proceed to the Golden Altars, light the fire without delay. Sumantra, make sure the queens retreat to their inner quarters. Inform their guards to stay close. Bring my chariot!”
Father immediately swept out of the room, ordering Sumantra and the princes to follow.
Rama’s alarm was now the only thing he felt. If Father and Vasishta and Sumantra were behaving like this, something was very wrong in Ayodhya.
Rama heard Father calling for his chariot: “Make haste!”
A strange conviction began to grow within Rama. He felt his brothers hover around him like question marks. Rama hurried to his father, who was barking out orders and marching away, as if into a battle. His manner was urgent, more urgent than Rama had ever seen before. So Rama spoke fast, as fast as he could. “Father, the Vasishta I met earlier was an impersonator. Even though he looked exactly like Vasishta, his eyes were not Vasishta’s eyes.”
Father nodded and then called out, “Guards, protect my sons with your life. I’m going to the prison.”
He jumped into his chariot, taking the reins in his hands himself. He didn’t even wait for the charioteer to arrive. It was a moment of true urgency. As the horses started moving, Father turned and said, “Rama, come with me.”
Rama ran forward and jumped onto the chariot.
“What about us?” Bharata called out.
But Father made no response. They were already out of hearing distance. Rama tightened his belt and made sure the string on his bow was taut. Somehow he felt Father had allowed him to come because he was armed, whereas his brothers were not. Rama could say this to his brothers to make them feel better.
As the horses flew along the streets to the prison, the wind whipped against Rama’s face. This is what it meant to respond to a crisis. Rama held on to the side of the chariot and watched everything his father did. Then Father handed Rama the reins, even though he had not yet learned how to drive a chariot. Though the chariot moved at great speed and lurched from time to time, Dasharatha moved comfortably within it, replacing his crown with a helmet, putting on his armor, and strapping on his sword and shield.
Father stood at Rama’s side once armed. He did not take back the reins of the chariot. “As a king, you must always be ready. Ready to fight. To protect. Never ask someone to give their life if you are not prepared to give yours.”
Rama did not have to nod. His attention told Father how completely he absorbed the words. “But listen, Rama. If an attack is under way, I order you to stand aside. Let the guards protect you. That is what they are here for. Understand?”
Rama nodded this time. But he was glad his father had not extracted a promise from him. Rama felt how his weapons were alive, as if they had a gut instinct of their own. They knew something was happening.
The prison ground greeted them with its usual silence. Nothing looked out of place here.
The sounds of the horses’ hooves and neighs filled the air. Several other chariots came to a 268
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halt beside the king’s. Dasharatha jumped off the chariot. He did not take Rama’s hand or treat Rama as a boy.
The prison master came rushing out. “Great King! I was not expecting a visit.”
Dasharatha did not stop to explain but hurried toward the sun cell. The prison master fell into step by the king’s side.
“Has Vasishta been here?” the king demanded. Rama noticed the change in his father’s voice, how it had become sharp and strong.
“Not since last month, when he came for a call with a sick prisoner.”
“Good. Then we might not be too late.”
As they hurried down the dark corridor, Father urgently briefed the prison master on what had occurred. Meanwhile, Rama kept pace with his father and noticed all the same things about the prison as last time he had been here: the lack of all he loved, the absence of time and life. Now, as then, he was headed for the sun cell, where the one and only blood-drinker sat in heavy chains, exposed daily to the sunlight he so hated. Maybe the blood-drinker deserved to escape after so many human lifetimes in the sun cell? Rama did not share this thought with anyone around him. Certainly not Father. He knew how diligently Father worked to keep Ayodhya safe.
They arrived at the sun cell. It was a terrible sight. The fires were dead, the walls sprayed with blood. Four guards lay beheaded by the fire pits, their blood still dripping onto the ashes. The chains lay in heaps on the ground. Marichi was gone.
“Call for maximum security!” the king roared. “Alert all the sentries to spread out within the city. Inform every citizen to lock their doors and windows. Tonight we are at war.”
Rama pressed his face against the bars while Father gave orders. After a few moments, he ventured into the cell. There was something strange in the middle of the cell, where Marichi had sat for countless years. Rama placed his feet carefully; the floor was slippery. Not only blood but urine had been used to slake the fires. The stench was strong. Rama quickly glanced at the gruesome severed heads.
Then he lifted the heavy chains. Beneath them, the stone was etched with mantras, all in praise of Shiva and his snakes. Rama’s hair stood on end as he read verse after verse. The poet was not Marichi but Ravana himself, for each verse ended with the phrase, “With each of my ten heads, I bow to the snakes that adorn you.”
Rama whispered the last line out loud and felt something come alive in his hand. He looked down to see that he was still holding the chain, but it was moving in his hand, as if it was a snake. He recalled then that the chains were sentient, a gift from Vasuki, king of the snakes. The chains grew more snakelike and aggressive. Alarmed, Rama looked at Father, who was pointing fingers here and there, directing the men what to do. Rama wanted to drop the chain and be free, but that’s exactly what the chain wanted him to do, so he resisted the urge and clutched the metal tighter. It hissed in anger, and Rama did not know what to do.
Just then, the last rays of the sun reached Rama, giving him strength, reaching into his arms and fingers. The enchanted chain-snakes struggled one last time and then melted in Rama’s hand, falling into two separate pieces on the ground. Rama stared at them a few 269
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seconds, and then looked up to see if Father had noticed. He hadn’t. The sun had come to Rama’s aid, helping him quell the darkness that infused the chains. I’m strong, Rama realized, stronger than I know. He was stronger than the magic invoked by Ravana’s mantras.
With this knowledge, he turned to his father, the king. “Father, what can I do? I want to help.”
“Rama, you are too young. There is nothing you can do. When you become king, it will be your turn. Don’t be too eager to join the darkness.” Father’s words were final. “We are doing everything in our power to contain this situation.” Father turned away. “Go, now. Your guards will take you home.”
Rama didn’t want to be sent home like a child. In a moment of defiance that was more like Lakshmana, he kicked the chain on the prison floor. Then he did as Father commanded. Night was fast approaching.
The king himself would join forces with the soldiers who would search and protect the city.
“Father,” Rama said, squeezing his father’s hand tightly. The king’s look warned Rama that he would not entertain Rama’s insistence.
Instead, Rama said, “Don’t hide the truth from me. I want to know what happens tonight.”
Father’s eyes grew hard.
“Promise me,” Rama said. “I need to know.”
“I promise,” Father said, and then all but pushed his son away.
Rama quietly left. When he stepped out, he felt like a prisoner set free. The expansive sky greeted him like an old friend. Rama took deep breaths and felt that he was becoming himself again. When he had stood in the sun cell with the chains in his hands, he had felt a chilling darkness seep into his being. Now the wind blew in his hair, prickling his skin. The sun had disappeared, but Rama could feel it beyond the horizon, shining brightly in another place.
He climbed into Father’s chariot, escorted by several guards, and returned to the palace. Rama had never felt so worried about everyone’s safety. Having overheard Father’s orders that the guards be doubled, Rama knew his brothers and mothers would be safe. He was not as certain about the rest of the citizens in Ayodhya. Who would survive the night with a blood-drinker on the loose? The privilege of his position weighed on Rama. He would have felt much better if he had been allowed to be a protector, marching through the streets with the other soldiers.
Lakshmana would laugh at that, Rama realized. And it made him feel better. He could see himself: a ten-year-old little soldier, no match at all 270
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for the blood-drinker prisoner or his accomplice, the one who had fooled them all and set the prisoner free.
But Rama would become a warrior who could protect Ayodhya. A warrior who would create fear in such beings and keep them in the shadows.
Rama looked with great care at everyone around him. The charioteer urging the horses onward. The guards at his sides. If the blood-drinkers could take any shape, how could you trust anyone? That was the most frightening question to Rama.
Arriving back at Father’s, Rama got off his father’s chariot less enthusiastically than he had jumped on. His brothers were there, waiting for his and Father’s return.
“Where is Father?”
“What is happening?”
“Are we at war?”
Rama would have bombarded them with questions had he been left out.
“He escaped,” Rama answered simply. “The blood-drinker is gone.”
He told his brother that Vasishta had not been Vasishta at all, but an impersonator. The same one who had snuck his way into the prison, setting Ayodhya’s oldest prisoner free. No one knew yet how it had been done, but the fact that he had taken Vasishta’s form was the biggest clue. Bharata’s dismay was greatest. He had talked to the impersonator for the longest time.
“Father is out there with the guards and soldiers,” Rama concluded. “They are treating the city as if it’s under attack, which it is. Remember Father’s lesson from years ago? About how the most dangerous enemy is the blood-drinker because they hide in the shadows, striking when least expected.”
His brothers’ questions thinned out as a feeling of gloom and danger loomed around them.
“We of course are safe,” Rama said rather fiercely. He pointed his thumb toward his chest, and it thudded against his breastplate.
“You are mad about that,” Lakshmana observed.
“I wish there was something I could do!”
“But we’re just boys.” Bharata sounded like he was apologizing.
“They’ll eat you up in a second!” Lakshmana said, his eyes large.
Rama smiled then, since he had known Lakshmana would say something like that. It was true, of course. And Father was right. The most helpful thing Rama could do was stay out of the way.
A guard approached them. “The king has ordered everyone, especially the princes, to be inside as night engulfs us.”
The boys had been talking on the steps of the palace and were ushered inside.
As they parted ways to go to their own rooms, Rama caught hold of Lakshmana. “Will you stay with me, like we did when we were small?”
“Of course,” Lakshmana said, without asking any questions.
With Lakshmana sleeping by his side, Rama felt they could laugh in danger’s face. Still, 272
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all night he dreamed of people he knew turning into blood-drinkers with pointy teeth. Every time the blood-drinkers came close to Rama, the sun would become really large behind Rama. The blood-drinkers cringed, retreating to the shadows.
That’s what he remembered when he woke up to his father’s hands shaking him. True to his promise, Dasharatha called Rama to hear the morning’s report with him. Rama got up quietly, without waking Lakshmana. Father looked tired. He hadn’t slept at all, Rama guessed.
As soon as they entered the small council room, Dasharatha faced the commander of the army. “How many?”
Father glanced quickly at Rama. I’m not too young, Rama wanted to assure Father. He wanted to know. He needed to know what blood-drinkers were truly capable of. Protecting him was one thing; keeping him and his brothers in the dark was another. Rama planned to tell his brothers exactly everything that he learned about in the report.
“The worst fatalities occurred in the vicinity of the prison,” the commander said. He looked exhausted too. “In the prison itself, four guards. In the houses closest to the prison, two families were attacked, including the children. Four adults and seven children. All drained of blood and dead. After that, the pursued got scared. Cautious, at any rate. Several lone people here and there, until the trail ends beyond the city gate.”
“How many?” the king repeated.
The commander sighed. These were not expected war casualties but innocent citizens.
How old had the children been? Who would attack innocent children?
“Seven children. Nine civilians. Three guards. Nineteen in total, Great King.”
Dasharatha sat down. Rama’s heart compressed, seeing the defeat on his father’s face.
A moment later, the king was on his feet, his face neutral. “This was the biggest security breach in all my time as king,” he said. “The impersonator was close to all my sons and to me. We could all be dead. We are lucky that he had his eyes on rescuing his friend.”
“Yes, Great King.”
