THE snow lifted early the next morning. And surprisingly it was warm, much warmer than the day before as if they were back in the forest. The white on the ground slowly gave way to the green and grey as the group packed their things and extinguished the fire. Tūmbṃār’s and Bahṛigfar’s cheeks had swollen quite a bit and Iḷēhaḥ slapped some ointment onto it that admittedly stung hard. Nakthaḥm looked still asleep, lightly breathing, and Sanyhaḥmān had some difficulty pulling the board and needed Feyūnhaḥ’s help to move it toward Vrihkhaḥ. They wondered to themselves how Tūmbṃār, as strong as he was, managed to pull Nakthaḥm for many days without complaint.

Aiṛth stood at the edge of the hill and before the light of the rising sun, gave salutations to it, raising her arms fully above, arching her back, and then pulling them down toward her feet to touch her toes. She then gave some prayers, and the girl seeing this ran to her side. Holding onto the priestess’ robes, she pointed toward the sun in an agitated manner; and then to the sky and before pointing to herself. She tried to voice something, but only grunts and babbles came out and she quickly covered her mouth in embarrassment.

“Are you saying that is related to you?” asked Aiṛth. And then quickly realized, she said, “Do you mean your name?”

The girl nodded her head and tried once more to voice the syllables, with her mouth wide open. Her tongue flicked behind her teeth and it seemed she tried to make a dha or a dhi sound. Then she spread her mouth wide as if to say ee. Aiṛth heard after that something like a na but it was faint and dull. And at the end a raised aspiration.

“Dhe-na-hi?” she said to herself. “Ah! Dhīṇahi: The Rays of the Day! That is your name is it not?” The girl nodded with a wide smile. “A wonderful name! Come we must tell the others.”

Dhīṇahi held onto Aiṛth’s clothes and followed her around like a duckling.

The ground seemed to have slightly lowered or the trees had risen, for the trees were just above the cliff edge. The haze of the morning vanished as the sun rose and with all their things packed, they ventured back into the woods. The snow had all but melted at this point and the warmth of the forest blanketed them as they entered, as if they were crossing into another realm.

They took a path to the right of the hill, and it descended down further. Stone bridges were constructed above some sizeable streams and after crossing them, the gold of the woods had inconspicuously arrived in full force. The silvery blue glow had now all but faded and it seemed the canopy absorbed the light that it received only to magnify it in its interior.

The trail then widened and the stone slowly became more smooth. It seemed almost polished yet did not have that shining luster as could be had in other places. Above them the boughs arched together, beckoning them as if they were a royal entourage—which in truth they were very much resembled.

Before they realized it, the animals of the forest came onto the road and walked beside them, and they were acutely attracted to Bahṛigfar almost to the exclusion of all others. The sambar does would nuzzle up at his side while the stags stood proud and tall like guards. Small birds like swifts, crakes, trogons, and quetzals would land on his antlers and shed their feathers atop them as if to decorate it. And the peacocks appearing in front displayed their trains, spreading their massive patterned feathers and raising calls like a procession.

It was not unusual for the group to have animals come close to them, not least because of Sanyhaḥmān’s and Tūmbṃār’s ability to speak with them, yet this was wholly unexpected. These animals treated Bahṛigfar like he was their king and they pushed him to the front and followed him behind as if they were his dutiful servants.

The path began to rise, and the loose branches that hung from the boughs, pushed aside like a curtain. The stone path then elevated like a ramp, and the arches of the boughs became all the more visible. When they had reached the top, the path curved to the side. They following it, went round and round in a spiral until reaching a nexus from where it proceeded down into what looked like a tunnel.

The descent was steep, and if not for the penetration of the golden light, they would be covered in darkness. It glowed with warmth inside. Stone pillars held the earthen roof and echoed the sound of their footsteps. Two streams were set at the sides and the fish leaped in schools in tune to the march of the animals. The animals then began to cry and call, and their voices harmonized into a song.

“Singing animals,” said Sanyhaḥmān. “Well this is surely a first!”

“I thought such a thing would be normal in your area,” said Iḷēhaḥ in half-seriousness.

“Well they sing rather horribly to themselves, if it could even be called singing; I’d never be able to get them to sing for me like this.”

“I do not know why it is they do this,” said Bahṛigfar, humming to the tune, “but it is pleasant. It is not unusual for the animals to follow us either, for we tend to them much with food and shelter, and in turn they look to us as their benefactors. There is hardly a place in the deeps of these forests where they will not be by our side, even in sleep.”

“They would not happen to have maggots or worms or the like upon them, would they?” asked Iḷēhaḥ who was now worried over having to potentially sleep next to them during the night. “I know Vrihkhaḥ does well to keep himself clean, much better than Tūmbṃār anyway,” and Tūmbṃār furrowed his eyebrows and pouted, “but that would be for his form actually being a human than an animal.”

“Quite rude goddess, to see these animals as unclean,”—said Bahṛigfar—“we take good care in having them washed and scrubbed, mostly to our benefit. In fact many of these animals persist longer than the others. The waters and the food here grant unparalleled longevity to those that consume it. Many of these ones that you see walking with me have indeed been around for some hundreds of years!”

“That is interesting!” said Feyūnhaḥ. “But isn’t it true that your people only live to some hundred years as like many of the other Daivhaḥhō and Mānuzhhaḥ?”

“That is the case,” said Bahṛigfar. “But it is not because that is our limit. There are some individuals even now in our realm that themselves have persisted for some thousands of years. The reason it is that we choose only to live so long is to give the Ārhmaht, our true selves, release from this temporal body. While many comforts and pleasures we can enjoy there must come a time when higher aspirations must be sought. To continue on enjoying past a certain limit is very much disagreeable to us. Those that have chosen to live long do so only in service to the Gods or even above them: such as toward Lūshhaḥ. Indeed, it is expected that when the time of death is reached of which is marked at roughly one hundred twenty years that we rescind this body, and choose a new life either among our kin or elsewhere. Unlike most of the Ṃārhaḥn, we are the few that can choose to forestall our natural dues and take birth where ever it is we please.”

“I had heard of that before,” said Iḷēhaḥ; “and yet hardly do we ever see your number reincarnating in the higher realms.”

“Aye, for hard it is to seek liberation even among the Gods, as has been said many times by many others,” said Bahṛigfar. “Given our nature, few of us will ever choose to take birth among your ranks—not to any offense to you. Even those at the highest position with all their mirth, wealth, pleasures, and good natures cannot see above that nor seek past anymore than they have. Such is the nature of their ego.”

“But you worship the Gods nonetheless,” said Aiṛth. “Why give any respect their way if the goal is to rise past them? Are not the Gods the end point that all of us must reach? In their own words, they seem to hold even That One and All as but a god in its own right, alike to themselves even though they say it should be higher.”

“That is what many of the Ṃārhaḥn have been led to believe,” said Bahṛigfar, “and of no fault of their own, not even the Dehaḥṃār. But sadly I cannot say what is truly above them, and the same is true for most of the Mrigūhvha. Even before we could not truly say what Lūshhaḥ was. We know him to be higher than them, yet we treat him like one nonetheless. Why is that? Why is it we cannot see any higher than the Gods? Nonetheless, the Gods are very much needed for ascertaining that truth, as has been said a myriad times in the Vādrunṃs. Arhaḥṃār is what can truly be said to be the end point, and I know at the very least it is not just another god, even though I would be remiss to not mention that I unfortunately cannot help but view it as such. Regardless is it not the case that even the Dehaḥṃār still pray and worship, Iḷēhaḥ?”

“Yes, but I cannot say to what it is that they pray,” said Iḷēhaḥ mulling it over. “Fiyukthi are spread through the Heavens, and you often hear the chants of the Zūryashhaḥ that reside there, but as if cast with a spell, they seem to be only able to talk about the recipient of their prayers in riddles and puzzles. The gods that think they know to what they supplicate, cannot answer either in a straight-forward manner. And it is for this reason alongside many others that we have chosen to remain silent on the matter.”

“Hah!” laughed the bear-king, “I at least know to whom it is I pray. Sītṛa! there was never a greater being second on the whole of Ārhmanhaḥ—save for Lūshhaḥ whom I equate the two with as do many others.”

The priestess found this all very strange and though she could tell they were earnest in their speech, she could not help but feel misled. But seeing no use in further speaking about it, she sighed and let things be.

Dhīṇahi pulled at her robe and pointed in front. There was a faint light beyond and Bahṛigfar’s eyes glowed.

He ran in front with the animals calling to the others: “Quickly friends! The realm of the Mrigūhvha is now in sight.”

They ran behind him, and the animals quickened their pace and excited themselves with their shouts. When they came out the other end, they stood upon a high ridge where the water had morphed into enormous cascading waterfalls, overlooking a vast valley. Great buildings unfolded merged into the banyans, with long water ways cutting through the central area. All around the waterfalls spread, with a great haze surrounding the wide moat.

As their eyes scanned from top to bottom, they noticed that the valley cupped inward like a bowl and that they concentrically aligned themselves to a silver palace that stood at its center. Bridges stretched not far below them with trees growing upon the trails and their roots curving along the underside. These bridges, suspended by large pillars below, connected all the way to the edge of the bowl where stood many arches, ungated. At the outskirts of the bowl was much farmland and meadows and they could see small figures tilling the soil. And all the while, the area was basked in the selfsame golden light. Even Iḷēhaḥ could not help but think to herself that she had stepped back into her home in the high realms.

Bahṛigfar then called to them, breaking their daze. They followed him down a path that led toward the bridge and seeing it closer in person they could see the wood and stone, seamlessly mixed together, with nary a bump or imperfection upon its surface, and tremendously wide. They walked across the sides for a long while taking a closer look below them. The smells of the fruits and aroma of the flowers carried by the wind made their way and soothed their senses. The green and myriad of colors spread all around made it seem as if the valley was blanketed in a rainbow; truly had they not seen a more idyllic realm than this upon Ārhmanhaḥ.

When they reached the arch, lined with curved patterns and forms trailing along its form that glowed in the light, the prince with the animals turned to them. They then bowed and he said, “Welcome friends, to my home, Vūragāndara: the Valley of Vūragam!”