BEARING into a small port in the Central Mountains, the boy hopped onto the dock and stretched himself. Three days on the ship without a stop made him feel stifled. He wondered to himself how the others managed so easily to stay on the ship with no restlessness.

And as he was thinking this, the sailors were shuddering in fear as they laid their eyes on Vrihkhaḥ. Some stood paralyzed in fear while others fled, and the ones who did the latter called over to the harbormaster. A man donning a sarong and only a sash for his upper half came at once to the group’s ship. He shouted, “What is this large beast you have brought with you? Move him away from here quickly, or this dock shall break!”

And his words had merit to them, for it seemed the foundation of the docks was indeed shaking. While Vrihkhaḥ was large, the group did not take him to be that heavy. Perhaps construction had to be done toward the edge of the port since the dock felt unstable compared to that of Viprūtaram. The group did as the harbormaster bade, and they moved quickly onto land. Surprising it was to them that the harbormaster did not flinch in shock or fear of the wolf. It would seem he must have had his fair share of looking at oddities.

“So, I presume you’ll be taking the pass to the high shrine and summit?” asked the harbormaster.

“Aye,” answered Feyūnhaḥ. “We’ll be back in six days.”

“Very good,” said the harbormaster, and he gave a piece of paper to the princess, indicating the cost of the docking.

Sanyhaḥmān tossed some coins to her, and she handed them to the harbormaster.

Counting them and seeing that the amount specified was given in total, he said, “All is in order; I advise you be careful on your way to the summit. There have been mysterious things afoot along the path. People having strange visions, the flocking of animals trying to climb the side of the mountains, and a strange white light. The shockwave from that light has caused quite a bit of damage to the docks. In usual circumstances, I wouldn’t have rushed you off it, but your friend here would indeed have collapsed what little foundation was keeping it stable. But in any case, there hasn’t been one who has journeyed far enough to observe the light up close, and I’m sure none in sound mind would approach it without due caution. So, be careful on your pilgrimage, folks; I wouldn’t want to have to requisition your ship on account of your disappearance.”

“Yes, we’ll be careful,” she said and bowed, giving the departing phrase. And the harbormaster did in likeness before bidding them well.

Not far from where they stood, lay a stone path of tall and wide steps hewn directly into the face of the mountain and snaking into its interior. Without rest, they hastened on the trail.

Creepers grew along the steps and the walls, and at times obstructed them. Tūmbṃār felled them as they came in view and would lightly hop from step to step to stay ahead of the others. But he underestimated just how arduous a climb this would be, the steps themselves increasing ever slightly in elevation as they progressed up. After only a few hundred feet of climbing, the height between each had increased to about three feet, and Tūmbṃār would have to jump to get to the next one.

He had grown a few inches since leaving his home, but it was not enough to help him in this endeavor. It was not long after that he resorted to encasing his toes’ tips and the balls of his feet in air to propel him up. Yet he had neglected to train himself in the time that had passed, and he found it much more difficult than before to control it. In many cases, he would put either too little or too much power into his thrusts, and the encasing would rupture, sending him flying in one direction or the other. He eventually gave up and fell back on climbing with physical might alone – hand by hand.

His determination put a smile on the princess’s face, and after some time of climbing, she said, “There’s another way you can use your powers to climb.”

The boy, now fully attentive to her, asked, “How?”

Small traces of air encased her fingertips and putting her hand against the step, she lightly pushed herself, and flew upward. The boy gazed in wonder, for it looked as though she fluttered down, almost like a bird preparing for descent as she landed gently on the surface above.

“Just as with your feet, encase your fingers with air, but add just the slightest traces of water and earth to it. With this combination, you’ll be able to spring up with little effort,” she said, but before the boy could rush off to try it on his own, she grabbed him and continued, “make sure to do this while encasing your feet with air as well.”

He put on a sour face and asked, “But why? What does that have to do with me using my hands?”

“It’s been quite some time since you’ve practiced and you’ll surely need to learn this as we go farther in our journey. The quicker you learn to control the elements, the more powerful you’ll become. Plus, you won’t descend quite as gracefully without it.”

He sighed and did as she said. Nakthaḥm, Sanyhaḥmān, and Vrihkhaḥ stopped behind them and watched almost as if they were going to see a play or a show, laying bets around themselves as to whether Tūmbṃār would succeed or not. He encased his feet once more with air and on his fingertips coursed the ever slightest trace of the same. And as he combined the other elements with it, he felt his fingers become a bit moist and dusty.

He slowly put his hand on the step and proceeded to push himself up. The air warped and compressed itself as he pressed his hand against the surface, and he floated upon the cushion of air. It seemed at that moment that he would land with no trouble, and he smiled in delight. But just before he could position himself for landing, the air below his feet became erratic, and he ended up flipping just like all the other times, and falling face flat.

Sanyhaḥmān and Vrihkhaḥ laughed, and the demon sighed.

“Looks like I have lost the bet; what is it you wish me to do, monkey?”

Sanyhaḥmān patted him on the shoulder and said, “For the next week, give me half of your Svyamhaḥ.”

“To dispense such sacred liquor for the mere inebriation of a fool; a disgrace it is,” muttered Nakthaḥm to himself.

The farther they progressed, the more worn the path became, and at times, it even cracked under their footsteps. The trees slowly increased in height as they ascended, while their branches bent into arches as if leading them to some heavenly realm. The intensity of the air weighed down hard on the group, especially on Tūmbṃār, but Nakthaḥm felt little of it. But in all, they slowed down to a trudge.

The stairs continued to ascend, the elevation increasing at an uneven pace. Above them, the whirling mass of black clouds could be seen, obstructing the sun and its rays. Eventually, darkness settled on their path, and coming across a flat base surrounded by fig trees, the group set up camp.

“Hey Nakthaḥm, what language were you speaking to Druhastuṃār?” asked Tūmbṃār as he roasted some figs and dates by the fire.

Nakthaḥm seemed deep in thought as he gazed into the flames. He tapped his fingers against his chin and muttered to himself. Little he spoke along their travels, and Tūmbṃār often pestered him with questions. But he did not once answer him and acted as if he did not hear what the boy was asking. Tūmbṃār at this point expected little as he had asked similar questions before, only to be met with silence.

But as it would happen, the Demon of the Lower Realms faced him and said, “Do you know of the history of Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr?”

Tūmbṃār shook his head, though he was surprised Nakthaḥm answered him. He recalled that his master had spoken at length many times on the nature of the language and of how certain words and syllables were to be intonated and pronounced. But rarely had he ever heard of its history, and when his teacher gave his discourse, Tūmbṃār would often doze off from boredom, only to be met with fierce backlash.

“There is much I can say about it, but I shall do my best to keep it short.”

“Oh, wait for me,” said Sanyhaḥmān. “I had asked him once before about his language but he refused! Now I’ll get my chance to hear.”

“Yes, yes, monkey, come closer,” said Nakthaḥm, sighing. And now looking intent to them, he said, “There was once a time that you surely know, when the Gods and Demons were one and the same. And even during that time, the initial forms your ancestors took were similar to ours, and they too resided with us. In that time, the language had a much different form, far more serene, harmonious, elegant, and able to be expressed not just through the mouth but also the mind. A time when all could share each other’s beings with one another to the very depths of the souls. Yet as fate would have it, such things were not to last. The Gods and Demons made their mistake and cast your forefathers from their halls on account of their envy, for they wished only to have Ishvhaḥṃār’s and Lūshhaḥ’s gaze upon them. It was then that this original tongue became fragmented.

“Recall when the Lord of Viprūtaram, in the hall, spoke of the power behind words. It was in this time, at the earliest extent of Formation at what could be called the beginning of this universe, that language as we know it today was birthed. With the separation of the Ṃārhaḥn, this planet was created, and a bygone language was willed into existence. The words contained in the Vādrunṃs, are what your ancestors took with them to this planet and when they had begotten forms that could allow them to articulate themselves, they spoke what we now call Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr. And that language morphed and changed to give rise to the common tongues across Ārhmanhaḥ.

“Now as for my kin, they were much later cast from those halls for their wickedness, and they eventually fell to the most southern point of this cosmos of where our habitation, the Lower Realms, was formed out of the aether. As your ancestors took the words of Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr from the Higher Realms, so too did my ancestors take theirs. And with their separation, the original tongue was fragmented into three parts. Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr as the Ṃārhaḥn of Ārhmanhaḥ call it, Ameg̃išár as my kin call it, and Vachhaḥr as you would call the Gods’ language. Very few know what is the name of the language the Gods speak, for the utterance of speech was taken away from them by both our forefathers. The Gods can only relate themselves through their minds, and so even the ones that know that tongue cannot utter it, for it is by its very nature unutterable.

“Does my answer satisfy you, Tūmbṃār?”

The boy fervently nodded his head with a glowing smile, but Sanyhaḥmān was dumbfounded, and Nakthaḥm grinned at him. Tūmbṃār then asked, “So, does that mean Nakthaḥm isn’t your real name?”

“Your questions do not cease! It is my name translated into Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr; I chose not to use the name in Ameg̃išár for it is not a name the Ṃārhaḥn of Ārhmanhaḥ can utter, much less can they speak the name of the language.”

Tūmbṃār doubted him and said, “Tell me what it is.”

A silence hung in the air, and all that could be heard were the light breeze and flickering flames. Yet after a while, the demon spoke, “Núkrg̃am.”

Tūmbṃār then attempted to pronounce it, but the syllables would not come out of his mouth as if being choked. He tried once more, this time in an attempt to utter the name of the language, but even that gagged him. Nakthaḥm laughed as Tūmbṃār coughed.

“The words my kin have taken with them cannot be uttered by the other Ṃārhaḥn, at least not in this realm.”

“Then why can you speak Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr?” asked Tūmbṃār, annoyed.

“Because the words are native to this realm. Were you to go to the Lower or Higher Realms, you would find it impossible for the Demons to utter such speech there, though no such restriction would be placed on you or your kind. This is but one aspect of the power behind words. Yet it shall not hold forever; there will come a time after the powers have fully receded, that no restriction shall be upheld in speech, but know that when it occurs, the power that once existed behind those words shall vanish in its entirety. Only a few after that time shall be able to feel its effects when spoken with due grace and elegance.”

Tūmbṃār was confused by this but satisfied enough that he did not question further. Feyūnhaḥ, who listened from afar on their conversation, was dumbfounded like Sanyhaḥmān at what the demon had related. They had assumed the language of the Gods to be Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr as had been told to them numerous times; they found it insulting that the demon would suggest otherwise.

“Don’t lie, Nakthaḥm, we know what you speak to be untruth,” said Feyūnhaḥ with a glare. “Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr is indeed the language of the Gods. You Demons surely have another language, but I have little doubt of the priests and priestesses lying on account of the Gods.”

Nakthaḥm gave a great laugh and said, “You say that even after what occurred in the lake town! I should not underestimate the piety of those residing here. But even if this were not the case, can you not take it as a possibility that what they themselves believe could be untrue? The more time passes between the current and the past, the more such things will be distorted.”

“Hey! we don’t need to be pious for us to see value in the Gods,” said Sanyhaḥmān who was now lying against a flat rock. “I suspect the incident in Viprūtaram to be rare. I hadn’t heard or witnessed a betrayal by the Servants of the Gods before this, and I too hold suspicion over your words. But even I can’t with absolute certainty argue against your last point, even though it seems rather unlikely to me, given that the words of the Vādrunṃs have remained the same with not one syllable altered – or so it’s said.”

Nakthaḥm held a smile on his face, but it seemed melancholic. “Well, think as you will; I have told you what I have learned in my home. At the very least, the boy seems to trust my words.”

And Tūmbṃār nodded, pouting at the other two. “Nakthaḥm told me he wouldn’t lie to me, so he won’t lie.”

“And there you two have it,” the demon said with delight. “Bound am I by the shackles this boy holds over me.” And Nakthaḥm, curious as to how Tūmbṃār would respond, said, “Although I find it interesting you did not force me to talk before, you could have very easily done it had you asked in demand.”

Tūmbṃār cocked and shook his head. “Of course, I wouldn’t demand that of you, even the bit about lying was not a demand either. I trust you enough as a friend to speak when you want; if you won’t tell me, then you won’t tell me.”

The demon burst into laughter and tumbled backward. The boy pouted at him and said, “Why’re you laughing? I wasn’t joking.”

“And that is what makes this all the more humorous,” said Nakthaḥm, trying to catch his breath. “Your naiveté seems to know no bounds. It has been quite a while since one of the Mānuzhhaḥ has trusted a demon, and for good reason. If you trust me so much, why not release my shackles?”

“I may trust you, but I don’t trust you that much. What am I going to do if you eat someone?” said Tūmbṃār.

The demon relented. He then looked to the other two and the sleeping wolf and said, “As for your trust over the Servants of the Gods, I tell you now that not even their piety shall last long; more incidents as you have seen in Viprūtaram, may or may not happen on our travels, but they will most assuredly happen in the future.”

“You speak as if you’ve seen such an outcome yourself,” said Feyūnhaḥ, still upset over Nakthaḥm’s words. “Up until this point, there has been no incident of interest that would call into question their piety, so why must it happen now?”

He looked once more into the fire and then to the sky where the turbulent clouds still swirled. “Because all things have an end, including faith.”

By the end of the next day, the group had made it to the top of the range. A snaking series of mountaintops could be seen as white clouds covering all traces of the ground beneath the slopes in the distance. Above them, the black clouds were much clearer, and they swirled toward an intense light at the edge of their view on a peak looking much taller than where they stood, though not tall enough to break the cloud cover. And it was not long after that it began to snow around them, and Tūmbṃār became ecstatic, for it was the first time he had seen such an occurrence. He gaily strode onward until he and the others could see – not far from them – a circular complex resting on one of the peaks. The lights emanating from it were soft and welcoming, and without wasting time, the group made toward it.

Within a short while, they stood before a monastery, the walls of which towered over them. They could see seven pillars beyond the walls and in each of those pillars rested a Fiyukthi, the flames exciting every now and then as oblations were cast. A few monks who stood outside wearing only lifted sarongs, and with clean-shaven heads, approached. The monks looked to each of them and took a long stern glance at the wolf before nodding to themselves that all seemed good.

“Have you come to give your offerings to the Gods?” asked one of them, carrying a staff.

He wore red and yellow markings on his face. It was a little more than surprising for them to see lightly dressed monks walking barefoot in the snow, and how it was they were able to do such without feeling sickly or cold was beyond them.

The others conversed with each other a bit, taking glances every so often, until Feyūnhaḥ stepped forward and said, “Yes, but we have also come on another matter of finding our friend. You have no doubt seen the light that has appeared in the distance?”

“Indeed we have, and we too have met your friend, though at the time we expected little of what was to happen,” said the monk. “Come with us; we shall speak at length later, for there is one here who wishes to meet you.”

The group had not expected to meet anyone specific here, but Tūmbṃār became unnerved, for he could sense a familiar presence. The wooden gates opened, and in the courtyard, they could hardly see any snow.

A lush garden encircled the edges and the seven pillars, with a shrine and great stepped Fiyukthi were placed in the center. Its flames rose higher than the ones in the pillars, and it smoldered with black flames each time oblations were cast.

Right next to it stood an old man, dark of skin and hair of silver, dressed in robes tinged in deep saffron with a long unkempt beard and hair that was tied into a large knot, looking like a braided pyramid. He chanted for some time before turning his attention toward the group. Though not unusual, his eyes held a calm but sharp demeanor, and one could say he discerned their intentions on sight of them. They felt that they were in the presence of a great person and stood or sat resolute.

Tūmbṃār, however, tried to sneak away, and the man, on seeing this, immediately threw a pebble at his head that knocked him face-flat into the ground.

“It has been quite a while, Tūmbṃār; will you not tell your preceptor of all the things you have learned and all the trouble you have caused?” said the man with a stern look.

It did not take long for the others to realize who he was, and they immediately prostrated to him.

Tūmbṃār wished to flee but knew escape was futile. He sighed to himself and walked toward his teacher, not once shifting his gaze.

When he was before him, he clasped his feet and in stilted speech said, “I am sorry, master Vādruhaḥ; it has been some time since we have seen one another.”