IN the land of Ārhmanhaḥ, resident to the sphere of the Middle Realm and deep within the heart of the Hematite Mountains, dwelt a young couple in a forest of syconium trees. The forest lay at the outskirts of a village called Parāftaram, resting near the banks of a river; a quaint little place of cylindrical stone and wooden houses arrayed in a spiral fashion, facing the southeast, with no more than a few hundred residing.

The trees towered over the surface, spiraling toward the Heavens, with large boughs that would spread for miles and hold themselves aloft with descending branches that dug deep into the soil. It was in here that they spent much of their day tending to various tasks, such as chopping wood, harvesting crops, and selling leftover produce. But whenever the sun set upon the northwestern face of the Earth, they would head with food in hand to the village, and, in glee and mirth, eat and drink to their hearts’ content, relating stories of heroes and adventures throughout the night.

Like this were their days ever blissful.

One day, a sage came by seeking shelter from the rain. He had journeyed a long way and would have to travel farther to arrive at his destination. He entered their home when no one was around, for in those days, persons of great repute – be they a simple peasant or the highest king, but especially sages – could seek shelter wherever they sought without permission from the owner. There, he sat on the floor, waiting and meditating.

When time had passed, the couple returned with collected wood and food, and they saw the sage seated upon the floor. Now, having not seen a sage in all their lives, they mistook his unseemly and unkempt appearance to be that of a mad man’s, and feared for their lives.

They silently gathered together pots, pans, and other utensils, and with short notice, they lifted the sage by the arms and smacked his head silly, chasing him away from their place. And when he was outside under the heavy rain, he faced them, brimming with anger as nine bolts of lightning struck the surface around him, setting alight the grass.

Then the couple realized what he was. But it was too late as he held his left index finger pointed to the Heavens and cursed them, saying, “You foolish lot! Do you treat all your guests alike? In seven months’ time, a child you shall have, and when that child has reached the end of his boyhood, he shall be separated from his home for twelve years hence! One year for every smack you have dealt me! My words shall hold and will not be overturned! Failure to abide by this will lead to all your deaths! That is the truth!”

Mortified by his words, the couple fell at his feet, begging for forgiveness to overturn the curse. While still fired with wrath, he began to slowly reflect. And it was soon after that it altogether softened, and realizing what it was he had uttered, he became wholly saddened.

“I apologize, but what I have said is true. My words have power and that power cannot be revoked. Fear not, however, for your child shall not venture alone. When the time comes, I will return to train him for the path that awaits him. Along that path, he shall meet many companions who will aid him on his journey. Never shall he feel loneliness and never shall his adventures fail to delight; this I swear.”

The couple, relieved, brought the sage back to their home and tended to the sores that afflicted his head.

The sage put his hand upon the lady’s belly and said, “A child grows there inside you. This is the child that I spoke of.”

The couple was ecstatic over his words but also disheartened by the plight their child would have to face.

When morning had come, the sage said to the couple, “When the child reaches six years of age, I shall make him my disciple, and train him in the elements and the precepts of religion.”

The couple bowed to the sage, clasping his feet and putting their lips to them. The sage bent down, gently caressed their heads, and lifted them before setting back on his journey.

When seven months had passed – just as the sage had said – the child was born, possessed of smooth olive skin, deep green eyes, and rich black hair. The mother named him Tūmbṃār and the father held the child, shouting the boy’s name aloud for the whole village to hear. All pronounced blessings upon him as the child seemed to laugh.

He grew to be a strong child, boisterous and exceedingly mischievous. Nothing seemed to put fear into him, and he often led the children on many excursions into the forest, far past where his home lay. Many times they journeyed deep in, where many of the boughs entangled themselves above like a spider web and blocked out the light of the sun. The others all too quickly became scared and rushed back. Tūmbṃār always followed them behind but his adventurous spirit never gave in and he attempted, with or without them, to journey as far as he could.

The forest, the plains, the river, and even the mountains afar—he tried to scout as much as he could. And all the while, his parents could not help but become worried, and as a precaution, often kept him stuck at their home or in the village under the supervision of neighbors. With all his eccentricity, never once did he disobey his parents, but that did not mean he never sought other avenues to satiate his desire for adventure.

One day, early in the morning, he ventured into the depths of the Syconium Forest. Many vines and dangling branches obstructed his path, but with a sickle that he took clandestinely from his house, he cut them all down with ease. The light dimmed from the canopy, and things all of a sudden became dark. Now, while he was indeed a brave fellow, he was not so much accustomed to handling things without his sight, and began to cower in fear. However, it did not stop his advance deeper through, and with the faint traces of light, he marched on.

Soon, he heard voices from the trees, something akin to hisses and screeches but not by any person. No, before he realized it, there was a swarm of monkeys and apes, and vultures and crows, and all manner of other beasts that followed him on his trail. And they kept guarded watch, and seemed even at certain points to intimidate. Tūmbṃār within the six years he had lived to this point, had never before come across such vicious animals, and he began to grow afraid.

The trail began to narrow, and the calls and shouts of the animals resounded high and wide. And he tripped and stumbled on an overgrown root, and tumbled down a hill, falling to the base where he saw the light creeping through. There were ruins in front of him, ancient ones, hewn from cut granite and stone and lined with inscriptions in Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr. It was then that a piercing screech paralyzed him and signaled to the predators to prowl about.

From out of the ruins emerged a massive figure, a great ape, looking to be a gorilla but the fur of which was lined red with golden accents. It beat its chest and roared, and charged to Tūmbṃār. And the boy, regaining control of his senses, leaped from his spot and tried to flee. But it was no use; his legs would not move.

Just as the towering gorilla was to impact him, lo! A great bolt of lightning struck the ground! It was then thrust back, crashing into the ruins with a tremendous gust of wind. The pillars collapsed on it and the dust filled the area. And soon after, it soared high, far past the canopy, shooting to some place far off. Its screeches and wails resounded loud through the forest until it vanished without a trace.

The animals suddenly cowered, all coming forward and prostrating. Tūmbṃār on realizing, saw that there was a man who stood before him, dressed in saffron garments, his gray hair braided and wrapped like a conical pyramid, with a thick and long beard descending from his face. He spoke to the animals with a gentle voice, and bore himself with humility, yet the animals could not help but see this man as greater than them. They all nodded their heads and when the man gave them leave, they scurried away.

Tūmbṃār overjoyed, said, “How did you do that, mister?”

The man turned to Tūmbṃār and held his finger up, saying, “Air.” The boy looked at him with confusion, and the man asked, “Child, do you know who I am?”

Tūmbṃār took a closer look, and then recalling what his parents had told him many times before, his eyes widened. Pointing to him, he exclaimed, “You must be the silly sage who can shoot lightning!”

At once, the sage put his fist to Tūmbṃār’s head, sighing and saying, “What a child you have become,” to which the boy laughed.

The two of them ventured out of the forest, and all the villagers came running to them. And among the throng was Tūmbṃār’s mother who ran toward him, before stopping in her tracks.

She looked to the sage, and as soon as she realized who he was, she prostrated and—holding his feet and putting her head to them—said, “You have returned, great sage! My gratitude to you for saving my son.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said with a smile, “it is the least I could do, after my actions. But I must know—did you happen to see a large gorilla flying in this direction?”

She immediately got up and said, “Yes, yes! Did it come from the forest?”

He nodded and said, “Take me to it.”

Tūmbṃār, alongside his mother, the sage, and the other villagers, went to the outskirts of the village where the gorilla had smashed into the ground. Its head seemed thoroughly stuck in the earth, and it surprised them that the ground about the beast had not cracked or even ejected upon impact. The sage approached and grabbed it by the neck. And pulling it out, he slapped its face left and right many times.

“You are the guardian of that forest are you not?” asked the sage.

The gorilla, on waking and seeing who it was standing before it, nodded as it quivered in fright.

The sage had it stand on its legs and fists and said to it, “Do be careful of who it is you attack. The boy did not mean to enter your territory without permission. He, along with the other villagers, did not know you to be abiding in that place and watching. But now they know and no more shall they cross you. And I would ask that you lend them your protection instead of your wrath, should a time come when they need it.”

The gorilla prostrated and furiously nodded its head, then ran past the villagers, hurtled through the center of the village back into the forest, and was for a time not seen again.

Tūmbṃār at this point, tip-toed away, being careful not to alert them. And then he hit something and looked up, and saw it was his mother.

She—furious—shouted, “No more shall you enter the forest past our home!” He leaped back in fright. But being obedient to his parents, he silently assented with his head hung low. Yet she thereafter sighed, and said, “You may go, however, if it is with the sage. He has much to teach you.”

He lifted his head up with a great smile and looked to the sage who gave him a stern look. He gulped. The harsh tutelage that his parents spoke of was soon to follow.

The sage thereon trained Tūmbṃār, and the boy grew ever more adept in the art of honing the elements, often by way of meditating and directing his focus to their control. Yet less than adequate was he in understanding the precepts of religion.

Whenever days involving the recitation of hymns—or the study of religion—came, he always attempted to evade his teacher by sitting next to the Fiyukthi, that is the sacrificial altar residing in the center of the village. It consisted of a large metal bowl, seated upon a circular stepped structure, with flames rising high from the burning oil.

Using his newly acquired powers, he excited the flames into a blaze to the fright of all the villagers. Then in haste, he ran as the villagers gave chase in an attempt to discipline him. Never could they catch him, and the sage always laughed whenever he beheld that spectacle.

Some days, he sparred with Tūmbṃār, either with fists or at other times, with the elements. In almost all cases, the sage sent the boy soaring and crashing through trees and boulders, and even pummeled him into the earth.

At other times, he had him perform various exercises and trials that allowed him to fortify his body. One such exercise had him sit over a fire pit for an extended period of time, and often unable to bear the heat, he danced atop it, with the sage smacking him off and telling him to try again. Some exercises had him stay in a bed of a lake or a pond for some hours, holding his breath, while yet others had him balancing on the tips of the highest trees on a single toe, with birds flocking to him and occasionally making him fall off. But even more consisted of him carrying huge boulders or rocks or even dense weights on his back, to run with around the village, much to the horror of his parents and the amazement of the villagers. And even when the sage was not present, or left to somewhere far off for a short time, if Tūmbṃār slacked in his training, he would know and the boy would not be let off easy.

One might think such practices were harsh and not in the least fit for a training regimen, much less for that of a child. But the boy’s body indeed fortified and soon after, he became the strongest member in the village to the surprise of everyone, and almost to the shame of all the men.

On other days, they scouted the plains far from the village along the river, and the sage told Tūmbṃār many things concerning the outside world and the things it held. And while this greatly interested the boy, he always looked to the mountains standing far off. The black crags towering high with their red hues never ceased to amaze him. But he also felt them to be sinister, for they were much like a cage, seeming to wish to keep him locked behind, and they never gave him a chance to seek more than the normal life he led, barring his training with the sage, of course.

Whenever it was he gazed upon those mountains, he felt a deep desire and yearning to see what lay beyond, to seek a purpose that far surpassed that of a regular village life, and that wish of his inflamed the desire of adventure all the more.

Many expected that he would become a Zūryashhaḥ like his teacher, but the sage had no desire to train him in the precepts and the powers beyond what the boy desired. And Tūmbṃār indeed, did not much want to become a sage, having resolved to become a traveler, though many did not take him seriously and saw his venturing into the world as only temporary.

For now, however, much of it remained wishful thinking. His teacher, and much less his parents, would not allow him to leave the confines of the valley – at least not yet. In fact, his parents sought a way for him to stay close, but the sage always reprimanded them when they brought up the issue, telling them to never test the power of the curse. And they, as a matter of course, always relented, never trying to doubt or cross the sage while in his presence and ever keeping their child’s safety in mind. It was indeed best that the boy stayed as far away as possible, out of the reach of influence of the villagers. None could truly say what the nature of the curse was with specificity. Yet he would not have to wait long; the six years left would pass quicker than he would think.

There came a time while camping in the forest, that Tūmbṃār began to have some doubts.

He found it quite strange that only he was given the benefit of leaving while the others could not, and so he asked the sage, “I see none of the other boys and girls being taught as I am. What makes me so special, teacher? I know I’m to travel at some point, but why not the others? Can’t they come as well?”

The sage looked to him with sadness, and understanding it was best for him to know now rather than later, he said, “Out of the foolishness of anger did I curse you and your parents. When your boyhood ends and your next stage of life begins, you must set out from this village. You should not return until twelve years have passed, thus marking you as an adult. If you return before the allotted time has expired, both you and your parents shall perish. This was what I pronounced, and though most unfortunate, it shall be held to be true until its due has been paid. To this effect, I prepare you for the dangers of the outside world.

“As for the other children, I do not very much think they would be all that willing to leave, and not least because of their parents—and your antics. And I myself shall not train them. One thing you have that they lack, is some level of discipline when it comes to harsh exercises, without which you would not have progressed as far as you have now. It is not a very wise idea to teach those in such things when they are not ready. And aside from you, there are few born with the ability to use the powers, as you no doubt know with the case of the priests and priestesses. But given your circumstances, I saw it fit that, regardless of attunement, I should at the very least teach you how to use the elements as well as teach you the precepts so that it may help you on your journey and perhaps seek higher goals. And glad am I that at least in one of those you have been diligent enough.”

And the boy, embarrassed, laughed, before saying, “Well it’s sad I’ll have to travel without them but I can say this! It really doesn’t seem much of a curse. In fact, it seems more a blessing. It gives me reason to see all that the world has to hold beyond the reaches of those mountains! I doubt my parents would let me travel for the sake of joy. I myself wish to become more than just a regular villager, and I know the outside world can show me all the things that life has to offer!”

“Hah! Of course you would see it like that, and perhaps you may yourself become great! But know the curse is less for you and more for your parents. They will be the true sufferers behind this, for what parents would ever desire to let go of their child? Yet I sense this journey you shall undertake has more concerning it than you or I currently know. There is much evil afoot in other spheres of the world, and I fear what shall happen to Ārhmanhaḥ when the time it shall strike, comes. It would seem even the Gods above are beginning to grow weary, and have even dispatched their own to the Midworld to seek aid.”

“Oh! You talked with the Gods? What’s going to happen?” asked Tūmbṃār with excitement.

“Foolish child, this is nothing to be eager for!” he said. And he sighed, “I shall refrain to speak more of such things, knowing you are one to always seek trouble.”

And Tūmbṃār pouted, having taken great offense to that. He was a troublemaker, but never felt he was that much of one.

“But no matter, I guess. We shall see where the road leads you. And yes, at times I do commune with them, but not for long and not very often. The last I spoke with them was many years ago, long before you were even born. Time works differently up there as you know. They have much business to take care of, as do you! So, enough questions. Now it is time we trained again.”

And Tūmbṃār, having a newfound resolve, engaged ever more dutifully under the tutelage of his teacher.

As time passed, he gained an unexpected new ability of talking to animals, which was unusual to many, including his teacher. For he had never taught him how to do so, but the villagers quickly took a liking to this strange ability. Many of his adventurous escapades by that point had come to a close, for he was now chained to helping the villagers with translating the words of the farm animals whenever he was not training. And though the animals delighted in his presence, this proved uneventful and quite boring for him as many of these animals could barely hold a conversation. Yet all the while, he could still cause mischief with small critters and rodents, giving them instructions which, like little servants, they obediently followed. It would not be long, however, before he mastered the principles his teacher bestowed upon him.