Tantrics Of Old (7 page)

‘What is it?’ Gray asked, unabashed. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Valuable,’ Adri said. ‘It’s from Ahmedabad, City of the fabled Warlocks.’

‘Far West,’ Maya murmured. ‘Those who make the sun set.’

Adri nodded. ‘A long, long journey, thankfully nothing we need bother ourselves with. The Old City is mere hours away. No, what is tough is the walk once we enter.’

‘What about food? Do we pack food?’ Maya asked.

‘Canned stuff,’ Adri replied.

‘Can I have a weapon?’ Gray asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You know, like a magical weapon or something. It’s going to be dangerous out there, right?’ Gray asked.

‘You are not getting a weapon,’ Adri spoke, shaking his head. ‘Let’s go.’

Gray hadn’t expected a weapon. He just shrugged and stepped out silently with Maya, and they watched as Adri put out the lights and locked the door behind him.

‘Why is the key shaped like a frog?’ Gray asked.

‘It’s a cursed object, it protects my place,’ Adri replied, irritated.

‘What does it do if someone breaks in?’ Gray asked, evidently interested.

‘Stop asking so many questions, idiot,’ Maya interrupted.

Adri felt a tinge of gratefulness, but it did not last as Gray snapped back, and soon enough the siblings were quarrelling again. Adri descended the stairs rapidly, keeping as much distance as he could from the two. They followed, still bickering.

No one knew much about the old storyteller. He would appear, as was his custom, on the dirt road leading to the Settlement once every month, welcomed by the old people and the children. He would find a place to sit, and the little ones, having spotted him from their windows, would come trickling out of their homes, running to him, surrounding him, fighting for a place close to him. He wouldn’t stay for very long; after sharing a stock of stories he would leave once more. The hardworking folk did not pay him any attention—for them he was simply an old man with too much to talk about; though everyone did admit that his stories had a certain power of drawing in an audience immediately, not all of whom were children

No one could really remember when he had first appeared in their Settlement, but in the beginning everyone had been wary of his wizened old face, his long white beard, and the sharp eyes beneath those overgrown eyebrows. Every time he visited them, he would be wearing that same white dhoti and kurta, and carrying that same wooden stick as old as he. But over time they had warmed up to him; sure the rumours about him persisted—that he was seen in many places at the same time, that he had been a powerful sadhu once. There were always the more ridiculous whispers that he had the power of prophecy, for which he had traded away his soul, and that he was one of the seven deadliest warriors in the world.

People knew which rumours to be inclined to believe though. He was definitely harmless, a cheerful old man who loved children and greeted everyone with a smile; and he had never spoken of the future, only of the past. His knowledge in folklore and legends was unparalleled, and a gifted storyteller he was. He was said to roam throughout the burned lands, moving from place to place, Settlement to Settlement. He had been seen as far as Ahzad in the far north, and even at Kanyakumari—the holy communion of the three seas in the south, always in the same white dhoti-kurta, always unharmed.

Right now he was in the realm of Old Kolkata, in the Settlement of Barasat, a Settlement that fell in the shadow of the Shongar Ruins. He had hobbled into the Settlement as he usually did—the peacekeepers lowering their customised weapons to let him pass without a second thought—and he had found himself a place beneath one of the old surviving banyan trees of the area. The kids gathered around him immediately.

‘Story, Dadu!’ they shrieked. ‘Story!’

The old man laughed with delight, keeping his stick on his lap as he sat cross-legged among the children. ‘You want a story, huh, Mira? And you too, eh, Jyotish? A story you shall hear, then!’

He always remembered all the children’s names. Never did his old age slip up his memory, not unless it was a deliberate act in his storytelling when he did not want to give something away. The old storyteller scratched his beard and looked up, his eyes unfocused as he recollected.

‘Story, Dadu, story!’ the children chattered excitedly.

The old man began: ‘Back in the days when the sky was blue, there lived a Dragon. Not a shape-changer, but a true Dragon of the Earth, hatched from an egg blessed under the seven constellations of the powerful. His name was as old as the Earth itself, a name carved in granite and gold—a name we still whisper in our dreams to protect us from nightmares. Dhananjay, the greatest hunter to have ever lived, was closest to the Dragon and a very good friend. They used to hunt together, and cook, and talk about things old and forgotten.

‘The Serpent of the Ondhokaar was born soon, fuelled from all the hate and the deceit in the world at that time—growing up stealing cows and goats from herds, it soon grew powerful and strong. The Serpent of the Ondhokaar hated the Dragon, and challenged him to many fights, all of which it had to escape from for fear of its dreaded life. The Dragon never pursued it back to the Ondhokaar—he let it live, partly out of pity for the corruption that fuelled its existence, and what his other reasons were we will never know, as he was a great and powerful creature, and is said to have only shared his thoughts with the Hunter.

‘The Serpent hated the Dragon, and knew it would never equal the Dragon. So, it conspired. With several creatures of shadow, it hatched a plot to claim the great being’s life.

‘On that day of great sorrow, while the Dragon slept, they covered his earth-brown hide with black shadow. Meanwhile, Dhananjay, having heard so many complaints about the Serpent from the people he protected, was tracking it—and the Serpent led him to the cave where the Dragon blissfully slept. The black skin clouded the hunter’s judgment and mistaking the Dragon for the snake, he let loose a well-aimed arrow of such power that it claimed the Dragon’s life in three breaths it took. The Dragon had time to open his eyes, however, and see the face of his killer. Eyes wide open in shock, he gazed upon Dhananjay and then his eyes closed forever, his giant body an unmoving heap.’

The children listened, caught in the story, their young faces betraying both wonder and fear. A dead silence descended on the little group.

The old storyteller began again: ‘Dhananjay realised the treachery involved. Devastated, he wept and he wept beside the body of his oldest friend until he could take it no more. Taking out a dagger, he was about to plunge it in his own heart when he was stopped by a voice. A sage, a sadhu had been meditating in the same cave and he had sensed everything that had happened. “Take not your life for this sin, Hunter,” he said. “The guilty are still free, and they will be capable of many such acts if your arrows do not stop them.” Dhananjay faced the sadhu and asked for his means of redemption. “You have slain an innocent,” the sadhu replied, “and for that you must pay the price with your own death. But death comes in many ways, and in that you have a choice. For now, avenge the great creature before you and put an end to the sly Serpent, for it is as responsible for his death as you are.”

‘Dhananjay broke off a single scale from the Dragon’s body, and sawed off a single fang from its mouth, and then, working for months, he fashioned a sword out of the fang, and a piece of armour from the scale. He wore the armour and took the sword in hand and went into the Ondhokaar to find the lair of the beast. He killed it after a long battle, finding his redemption through the Dragon tooth that pierced its black heart, and the Dragon scale that protected him from the Serpent’s venom.

‘But the Ondhokaar was a maze, and by the time Dhananjay could find his way out, years had passed. He made his way back to the cave and buried the Dragon, burying the sword and the armour along with him. The sadhu was still there, and Dhananjay first sought his blessings and then asked for his permission to seal the mouth of the cave from prying eyes so that his great friend could rest forever. The sadhu granted him the permission to do so, and Dhananjay did, sealing the sadhu in as per the sadhu’s wishes. But he left a back door to this tomb, one to which he alone had the key, this entrance prepared for a specific reason.

‘For hundreds of years Dhananjay hunted, but his mind was not at peace. He missed his old friend, but that was not what plagued him—no, what bothered him was the thought of what the Dragon had seen in his dying moment. He had seen the hunter, holding his bow tight, the freshly released arrow now deep within his own heart. The Dragon had not said anything. Dhananjay was proud of their friendship, and could not bear the thought of what had gone through the Dragon’s mind as he died. Was it the horror of betrayal? Dhananjay screamed to the skies in agony of this thought, and the very gods were scared—they sent storms and rain to calm him down, they sent great and vicious monsters for him to hunt. But nothing seemed to quench this thirst of the Hunter. He travelled the earth, hunting and looking for something he didn’t realise. Until he heard of them.

‘Dhananjay had been hunting frost giants in the North when he heard about a curious trio of men. They were called Necromancers, Talkers to the Dead. A village shaman told the hunter what he needed to know—they were powerful and secretive, and would not divulge their art to anyone; all three had ascending levels of power in their art.

‘Dhananjay went to where the three lived, in the depths of a forest surrounded by graveyards, called
Pai-jinoshk
. Dhananjay had been warned by the same shaman that the graveyards were infested with revenant, but they were nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, and he cut hundreds down as he made his way deeper into the forest. Finally he did meet the three, and he had to answer three questions for them before they would talk to him. He answered the questions correctly, and the Necromancers asked him what he wanted. “I want to talk to a dear old friend,” he replied. “Someone who is already dead.”

‘It was not an easy task to recall a Dragon’s spirit into the world of the living, but that was the power of the Necromancer, as it is to this day—they were the ones who could see spirits and talk to them, and the most powerful among them could even command them. So first, the
Doresh el ha Metim
, the man who questioned corpses, tried to call the spirit, but it did not reply. Next was the
Yidde’Oni
, the second Necromancer, the gainer of information from ghosts. He too was unsuccessful. Then it was the
Ba’al Ob
’s turn. The master of spirits held a powerful summoning that lasted for months, and finally the spirit found the doorway it needed and appeared, its spirit form face to face with its old friend. Tears came to the hunter’s eyes, and he explained what had happened that fateful day, and how the Serpent was now dead.

‘The Dragon heard everything and then in his eyes, Dhananjay saw him smile. The Dragon shared its thoughts with Dhananjay again, like times gone, telling Dhananjay that he had forgiven him the instant he had died—and the proof of course was the fact that the hunter still breathed, for a Dragon’s death curse is always fatal. Dhananjay, moved, reached out to hold his old friend’s head, but his hand passed right through the silvery creature. The Dragon smiled then and told him to come to the other side when he would. There were many creatures there for them to hunt together. And then the Dragon was gone. Dhananjay stood rooted to the spot of the summoning for the next three days—tears fell from his eyes, freely, and he breathed in old memories of their time together. Then, he turned to the three Necromancers.

‘He was very happy with them and he demanded of them that they take apprentices so that the art may be passed on to others. As the Necromancers considered this in the dead of night, a Cyclopidian chimera attacked their camp. It was intent on devouring all three of the dead-talkers; but luckily, after it had killed and eaten the
Doresh el ha Metim
and the
Yidde’Oni
, Dhananjay woke up and fought the beast. It was one of the hunter’s toughest fights, the chimera being one of the strongest that roamed the ancient lands. The remaining Necromancer, the
Ba’al Ob
, summoned a thousand and one spirits and sent them to help the hunter, and together they finally slew the chimera. “I fought not for myself, not for you, but for your art,” Dhananjay told the Tantric after the battle was over, and with these words the dead-talker realised that he must pass on his art. And so he did. With the help of the hunter, the Necromancer spread his art through the ancient lands. Necromancy, the Art of the Tantric, became better known, better respected. It was much later that Dhananjay died, peacefully, as an old man, and rejoined his friend in the spirit world. They hunted together once more, and their great friendship is seen in the stars even today.’

The old man pointed at the skies and all the children followed his gaze. ‘Next Wednesday, children,’ he spoke. ‘Look to the skies at night and you will see the constellation we call the Twin Hunters. Man and Dragon.’