They waited in darkness.
For a long, silent while they waited. Time passed like an old man climbing a hill. They stood upon a ledge above a black pool, and waited.
“Should we not have heard by now?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“What shall we do?”
“What do you mean?”
“If they do not come at all. How long shall we wait here?”
“They will come, singing.”
“I hope so.”
But there came no singing, or movement. About them was the stillness of time that had no objects upon which to wear.
“How long have we waited?”
“I do not know. Long.”
“I feel that all is not well.”
“You may be right. Shall we rise a few levels and investigate, or shall I bear you to your freedom now?”
“Let us wait awhile longer.”
“Very well.”
Again, there was silence. They paced within it.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“A sound.”
“I heard nothing and we are using the same ears.”
“Not with the ears of the body—there it is again!”
“I heard nothing, Taraka.”
“It continues. It is like a scream, but it does not end.”
“Far?”
“Yes, quite distant. Listen my way.”
“Yes! I believe it is the scepter of Kali. The battle, then, goes on.”
“This long? Then the gods are stronger than I had supposed.”
“No, the Rakasha are stronger than I had supposed.”
“Whether we win or lose, Siddhartha, the gods are presently engaged. If we can get by them, their vessel may be unattended. Do you want it?”
“Steal the thunder chariot? That is a thought. . . . It is a mighty weapon, as well as transportation. What might our chances be?”
“I am certain the Rakasha can hold them for as long as is necessary—and it is a long climb up Hellwell. We need not use the trail ourself. I grow tired, but I can still bear us across the air.”
“Let us rise a few levels and investigate.”
They left their ledge by the black pool, and time beat again about them as they passed upward.
As they advanced, a globe of light moved to meet them. It settled upon the floor of the cavern and grew into a tree of green fire.
“How goes the battle?” asked Taraka.
“We hold them,” it reported, “but we cannot close with them.”
“Why not?”
“There is that about them which repels. I do not know how to call it, but we cannot draw too near.”
“How then do you fight?”
“A steady storm of rocks rages about them. We hurl fire and water and great spinning winds, also.”
“And how do they respond to this?”
“The trident of Shiva cuts a path through everything. But no matter how much he destroys, we raise up more against him. So he stands like a statue, uncreating storms we will not let end. Occasionally, he swerves to kill, while the Lord of Fires holds back the attack. The scepter of the goddess slows those who face upon it. Once slowed, they meet the trident or the hand or the eyes of Death.”
“And you have not succeeded in harming them?”
“No.”
“Where do they stand?”
“Part way down the well wall. They are still near to the top. They descend slowly.”
“How many have we lost?”
“Eighteen.”
“Then it was a mistake to end our waiting to begin this battle. The cost is too high and nothing is being gained. . .. Sam, do you want to try for the chariot?”
“It is worth a risk. . .. Yes, let us try.”
“Go then,” he instructed the Rakasha who branched and swayed before him. “Go, and we shall follow more slowly. We will rise along the side of the wall opposite them. When we begin the ascent, redouble your attack. Occupy them entirely until we have passed. Hold them then to give us time in which to steal their chariot from the valley. When this has been accomplished, I will return to you in my true form and we can put an end to the fighting.”
“I obey,” replied the other, and he fell upon the floor to become a green serpent of light, and slithered off ahead of them.