“IT may not look it, but there was a time when the magma had poured in from the ceiling,” said Yūrmatṛtha with sadness about him. “This space is covered on all sides by vast reservoirs of magma and while it may not look as such, there is a vast dome covering the exterior of this hall, though invisible it is to us.
“When the War of the Five Brothers raged above, the ground below shook and many took it as an omen. People already began to abandon the halls, but many had bided their time too long. When the Dvhaḥṣhtro were activated, a great light issued from the center highest point like a blinding sun. As the continents split above, the pressure of the magma became too much for the dome to handle and it cracked the ceiling! Once more, did many of our kin perish as they tried to flee from the fiery wrath.
“Yet the buildings and foliage proved to be resistant, and when we came back later to see the dome resealed and the magma hardened upon the structures—but not too thick—we cracked the surface, and cleaned what remained. But we realized there was no use returning. This ash had covered the entire domain and were we to come en masse, I fear it would not have been long before we suffocated.
“The war had indeed caused much suffering, but none were opposed to its happening, for each kingdom, domain, and peoples had their own vested interest in the conflict. But never did we think the Dvhaḥṣhtro would be activated and to such an extent.”
Tūmbṃār stood silent, looking at the ash that flowed in the air. What seemed very much alive just a moment ago seemed very much dead now. Looking to the ceiling, he could see parts of it discolored, no doubt from where the magma had fallen. The discoloration went from edge to edge, and the boy imagined a curtain of fire splitting the domain with all those behind, left to burn to their doom. But when he looked toward the west, he could see some doors in the distance that, while looking small in his vision, were no doubt large, larger than anything he had seen before.
“What are the doors over there for?” asked Tūmbṃār pointing towards them.
Yūrmatṛtha grabbed onto Tūmbṃār and they leaped atop the buildings until they came just a bit closer. And from there, Tūmbṃār could see clearly how tall they stood.
“The giant rests not far from those doors, and I heard you very much wanted to see it,” said Yūrmatṛtha to which Tūmbṃār nodded, before shifting his head around, feeling uneasy from the cool air about him. “But that is not why they were constructed. They were made to separate us from the ruins past those doors of which we did not wish to disturb. They have been there long before our arrival, even before the giant, and were wrought by some other whom we no more know of. Not even the giant knows of the history of the massive pillars and inscriptions, statues, and carvings beyond it. Though the likeness of the statues and carvings bear resemblance to the Mānuzhhaḥ. You shall see tomorrow why these ruins are odd.”
“Were there people who escaped through that path when the magma fell from above?”
The prince shook his head. “We forbid ourselves from opening those doors unless needed. We did not want to bring suffering over to the giant. For even though he could well withstand the magma, it would nonetheless burn and afflict him. Nor did we want the ruins beyond to be destroyed. Though we have said we bear great animosity towards the Gods, it is only towards the ones that live now. Surprisingly, statues of the older gods rest there and we have taken it as a sign of the wayward watching over us, even in death. We can only wonder who the people who built those ruined halls were.”
“Older gods? Aren’t there only one set of gods?” said Tūmbṃār, perplexed.
“Oh, perhaps I spoke too much,” said Yūrmatṛtha bending to him. He whispered with his finger to his lips, “Speak not of what I have said, your teacher forbade me to relate of such things. Few know of this, and I think I alone of the Gazhigam understand it, for such recollection has disappeared from us. Perhaps those of my kin in the past, knowledgeable in such matters, died in the ruining of the halls. I shall hope the sage will forgive me on this matter. But if you wish to know more of it I suggest you ask him. No doubt he will not make it easy for you. You surely know how secretive he is of such things.”
Tūmbṃār could not help but agree, irritated to no end about all the things concerning that particular inclination of his teacher’s. While Tūmbṃār knew the contents of the Vādrunṃs and the stories by heart, far he was from understanding them except in the things that his teacher taught.
“But speak not of this to your friends. I do not think they will be all too happy of listening to such things, especially the goddess and the priestess.”
The boy nodded, now having yet another question to ask his teacher the sage.
They backtracked toward the Fiyukthi. Slowly, the color of the light cooled and dimmed so that the hall mimicked the darkness of the night. The breeze calmed, and the ash gently fell to the surface. The glittering of the ceiling seemed like stars above them and the space felt more familiar than before, as if they had never ventured below to begin with. They ambled back to the others, who were now asleep. The two of them ate a bit of the rice and whatever fruits that had not spoiled and then joined them.
Tūmbṃār laying himself next to the fire, stayed awake, gazing into the flames, unable to let his mind rest from what he knew to be the malice that lurked not far from the dead city.
