The Last Rudra

Having signed all his pretty feathers, Onish gave in. To be more precise, he had no strength left even to move. His frantic flights had already sapped him of energy. Only the will to survive had been fueling him so far, now that, too, had died out.

Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and despair all were attacking him together. The thought of leaving the body was tempting him. However, he knew he couldn't unless he had no choice.

So, he waited as his captor walked the empty streets, occasionally stopping to talk with the patrolling guards who were hurrying somewhere. Almost half an hour later, the hooded figure stopped before a castle. He climbed up the large marble stairs, rummaging for something in his cloak.

A grand gate with a brass lion- head knocker stood before them. The man took out a black coin and slipped it into the lion's mouth.

To Onish surprise, the metal wriggled, and a face of a man materialized in place of the knocker.

A deep cut was running from his left cheek to his forehead. His hawk-like eyes scanned the hooded figure and then the half-roasted bird in the cage. A frown appeared on the scarred face.

"Hadn't Oman asked for the spirit bird running amok in the city." asked the face in a hoarse voice.

"Yes, Sire Amora." the hooded man replied in a humble tone

"This humble fowler has brought the culprit bird to be punished. Please, do inform the lord."

"Are you sure, fowler? This roasted chicken is the same bird that damaged the spirit-navel." the scarred face asked, scrutinizing the seemingly dead parrot.

"I'm sure of this, Sire." replied the fowler.

"Come in then," The face turned back into the brass knocker as the door slowly swung open.

The fowler stepped into the great hall lit by hundreds of moon-pearls. The hall was empty except a dozen or so cushioned chairs were lined up on both sides, and a throne was placed at the other end.

"Wait, here. Oman will be here soon." the hoarse voice seemed to be coming from the air itself.

Both the fowler and Onish waited silently. The fowler seemed interested in the murals covering the high walls while Onish was mooning over his choice of not abandoning the body again.

He was not sure if he had made the right decision. He had sensed something strange about the scarred face, which had materialized from the brass knocker. The face had an aura of a discarded soul, though it was feeble.

He wondered in what sort of world a discarded soul or so-called ghost would welcome a guest.

The only thing that made him not take any reckless decisions was that nobody seemed to be aware of his true identity so far.

The wait didn't last long. After five or so minutes later they heard voices coming from the side corridor.

"....so there is no hope then..."

"No. Lord. I warned you if the spirit-navel got damaged. There is nothing I could do."

A long silence followed before the first voice asked again

"... How much time has he left then?"

"Not much. I'm afraid ...maybe two or three hours at most." the other voice answered.

"I hope Nimohi could make his short stay painless. I wouldn't be seeing him off." After that, the hall fell silent; they only heard the shuffle of feet.

A middle-aged man clad in a silk surcoat entered the hall from the left corridor. His face was grim.

"Lord, I have completed the task, and arrested the culprit bird." The fowler saluted the newcomer.

"Oh, where is it?" The man seemed to have woken up from a dream.

"A parrot. But...there is something wrong with the bird, m' lord." The hooded man said as he showed the cage to Oman.

Onish felt a strange force roving on his body as the man's sharp eyes glanced at him.

After a pause, the man reached out his hand and tapped the cage. It clicked open. He stroked his ruffled feathers gently. Onish didn't dare to show any odd reaction. He could sense uncanniness about the man.

"Are you sure that you have captured the real culprit? Bhadra. Because it didn't seem like a spirit bird to me." Oman asked as he retracted his hand.

"Of course, m'lord. This servant himself saw the bird attacking the house-anima. Moreover, the cage wouldn't have pulled it in otherwise." replied the fowler.

"Then have you found out whom the bird belongs to? Or why It was messing around in the dead night." Oman gazed at the fowler, who had served the castle for years.

"No… my lord. I saw no one...However, the patrolling guards did sense some strange spirit flow in the northern part of the city." Bhadra replied.

"Have they found out the cause? Or they too are planning to offer me some dead bird." Oman was in a bad mood.

"Pardon this servant, m'lord. This servant sensed no other bird except this parrot." Bhadra lowered his head.

"It is not your fault. I just put too much trust in your ability. You can leave, now." Oman waved his hand.

"Leave the bird behind. And forget what you heard before. " Oman added.

With a salute, Bhadra left quietly.

Oman glanced at the bird again. He saw no terror in its deep black eyes. They seemed to be examining him as carefully as he was. It was no way an ordinary parrot. Though he was not a falconer, he had once shared a deep friendship with the best falconer, Minaak, ever had. Oman had picked up a few things from his friend. There were birds still unknown to falconers as they knew how to elude the bird-tamers. This parrot could be one of such rare creatures, who evaded the city-anima and slipped in, or maybe someone had brought it with an ill- intention.

Oman shook his head; the possibility was low. How could anyone benefit from killing his son, who was already at death's door.? Moreover, No one knew where the spirit navel was situated. Not even his daughter Esha and his wife, Padma.

Thinking of Esha, maybe his daughter could make out the odd bird. He picked up the cage, then stopped. Would it not be cruel to deprive the poor girl of his dying brother's company?

However, he could not shake off the bugging feeling that someone had intentionally damaged the navel. His intuitions rarely deceived him. He was a maharathi and had survived two battles in his thirty-year-long life.

He had to make sure if it was a coincidence. First Ronan had gone missing, then his son had caught a strange illness, of which even Nimohi had no cure. Now this accident with the well-secured spirit-navel and a bird that could elude anima. Too many oddities.

Oman rubbed his temples. Was something brewing in Minaak without his knowledge?

He had made up his mind. He would seek out his daughter, or if needed, Maluha too. He couldn't afford more oddities and coincidences.

Onish kept silent as he watched the man carrying him somewhere deep in the grand castle. After crossing a large corridor, the worried man entered a room. As soon as the man stepped in, Onish was startled by the intense aura of death, something that only a Yama Duta (messenger of death) or Chandal (one who burns corpses) could have. He scanned the room- he saw no one except three figures. The girl he had seen at the bird -tower, a woman, sobbing in a corner, and an Old man clad in all white. None of them seemed like a Yama Duta or Chandal to Onish.

No one even paid a glance to Oman. The lord placed the cage on a nearby table filled with all kinds of herbs, stones, and vials. And he squatted down beside the sobbing woman.

"Pull yourself together, Padam. We already knew this time would come sooner or later. The spirit-navel could only delay the inevitable." Oman consoled her grieved wife.

She had hope, however little it was, that Oman would find a cure for their son one day, and she would again see him laughing, playing. But now, It, too, had been snatched away from her. Oman sighed at the cruelty of fate. He had invited countless Nimohis, but None of them could even tell what was wrong with his son.

Oman recalled the wild ascetic, maybe he could do something.

Two years ago seeing, a vagabond Nimai had appeared in Minaak out of nowhere; he had requested a meeting with him, claiming that he had a way to save the sick young lord.

Oman had seen too many such bold claims to believe the ascetic.

He would have run him out if the Padma had not pleaded to see the bold vagabond. Oman couldn't count how many swindlers had cheated the helpless mother in these three years.

Nimai was nothing like he had imagined. The seven-foot-tall ascetic was as dark as a moonless night. His muscular body was smeared in ash. Nimai was tying his long dark hair in a knot when he stepped into the hall. He didn't bow or salute Oman as the old code demanded.

Padam shivered and clapped his arm tightly when the man's abyss-like eyes fell on her. To everyone's surprise, the man kneeled before her and muttered something in a tongue, unknown even to old Mukha.

Though Nimai's audacity was a blatant affront to his authority, Oman ignored it. He was more interested in him as a person. The wildness about the ascetic was as clear as day.

Before Oman could even ask, Nimoi glanced at him as if he was nothing more than a pheasant and said

"I will prolong your son's life. But.." the man looked directly into his eyes. "You, the scion of Virohi and inheritor of the Old Castle, have to take an oath If he survives you will let him accompany me on my journey for five years."

Oman had a funny feeling that the man's words didn't fall into the third person's ears. He had no clue who Virohi was and when his castle was named Old Castle. His ancestor had ruled the south since time immemorial. They all had called the palace Castle Cira.

Of course, Oman hadn't asked the wild man about Virohi or the castle. He didn't need a lesson on his ancestry from a vagabond. As for the abnormal condition, Oman agreed to it without giving it any thought. Unlike his wife, he had no airy hope and was well aware that his son was beyond saving.

Having received his promise, Nimoi gave him a list of the things he needed for the task. It was a long list full of bizarre herbs, spirit- treasures, metals, etc. Oman had to spend quite a fortune to gather all the things. When everything had been arranged, Nimoi didn't start at once.

He waited for the whole three months, counting days and gazing at the starry sky. The monsoon came and went. Winter was lurking at the threshold.

Oman began to question his decision to believe the vagabond. His son's condition was worsening day by day. Oman's patience was thinning out. He was pondering whether he should ask the man to leave when Amora told him that Niomi was concocting something on the roof in the dead of night. Oman went to check what the wild man was up to.

It was the full moon night of Libra month. Nimoi had made some intricate runes on the floor with various materials.

The strange runes were gathering moonlight and feeding it to the lotus with eight petals forged with octo-alloy. Before Oman's eyes, an ethereal stalk emerged from the glowing lotus, and it entered the floor as if the roof was not there.

Nimani didn't stop his chanting till the wee hours. And when he did stop, he was drenched with sweat, and his hands were quivering like an old man. He beckoned Oman to carry him in the patient chamber. The man was still chanting as Oman helped him to his son's room.

The ethereal stalk was flowing in the air over his son's body. Nimai guided the glowing stalk to his son's navel. And then, he used the thick paste of herbs and connected the stem to the navel.

Nimai collapsed on the floor and didn't wake for the whole fortnight. However, his son, who was at the death door, had lived. Though still in a deep coma, his life force hadn't seeped out since then.

Nimai left as soon as he woke up from his long sleep, without any farewell, and hadn't been seen anywhere since then.

Oman and his heartbroken wife were grateful for the extra time the mysterious Nimai had given them. Filled with new hope, Oman restarted the search. However, He soon realized his hope was just a fool's dream. Fate was playing with him all along.

Tonight when Amora had informed him that a stray bird had damaged the spirit-navel.. He had felt oddly relieved.