The falling sensation ended. Siddhartha was held in suspension, an invisible spider dangling from an invisible thread. It would have been wonderful to remain like that. It would have been everything. Then a low throbbing could be heard like distant thunder, and it rolled toward him, a wave of thunder that boomed in the night until the muffled boom turned into a word.
“Son?”
Siddhartha opened his eyes. His father’s stricken face covered the sky. I’m all right, he wanted to say, seeing the sick worry in the king’s eyes. No words came out. They were stifled by Siddhartha’s emotions. He reached back in his mind, trying to return to where he’d been after he leaped into the abyss. There was nothing there.
He felt his father lifting his head; other arms were under his legs and torso. They lowered him onto a litter, and then he was jounced up and down as the bearers ran with him toward the palace. He was returning to his right mind now, full of images and memories once again. What had he done to Devadatta? What would happen to Channa? His whole body felt heavier; it was being tied to earth again by a thousand threads. Siddhartha struggled, desperate to break free. Then a physician’s soothing voice said, “Try to calm down. Quit fighting.” Someone pressed a cold slimy thing to his forehead, and the last thing Siddhartha saw before passing out was the painted ceiling of his father’s bedroom, in the image of the sky.
“HEAT STROKE, THAT’S ALL. Did you see his face? He was sweating like mad, then he turned white as a sheet before they carried him off. He could have died.”
“He went crazy. It was bound to happen. Don’t you know the pressure he’s under? You’d crack too.”
“The wretched boy’s cursed. My wife has a maid who can see demons. The one she saw around him almost scared her to death.”
The rumor mill at court hummed with excited speculation. No one could make their favorite theories stick. They were too bewildered over Siddhartha’s sudden outbreak of violence. Would he ever be himself again? The gods of gossip were not sure. After three days the leeching was over, and the royal physicians, squeezing clotted blood between their fingers, declared that the worst poisons had been extracted. The astrologers sounded guardedly optimistic about the transit of Mercury coming to an end after it had combusted with the sun. In their eyes, malefic forces had taken over Siddhartha. Suddhodana didn’t believe any of it. But no one had died, and if his guests went away thinking he had raised a half-demented son, it was better than thinking he had raised a gentle one.
Even though Devadatta’s dagger had drawn considerable blood, and losing more was dangerous, Siddhartha felt no distress over the leeching-not compared to the shroud of sadness that would not unwind from his heart. His father refused to leave him unattended, but late at night when the nurse’s head lolled on her breast-Siddhartha made sure she was given a double cup of liquor with supper-he crept out of bed and paced the floor. In his mind he would approach the edge of an abyss again, but when he jumped, nothing happened. It was simply his imagination.
Siddhartha got reluctant permission to have Channa admitted to his room. He breathed a sigh when he set eyes on him. He was still alive. Siddhartha’s relief was too enormous to disguise. Channa was embarrassed; he raised his voice and talked about the whole affair with bravado. “No one’s going to kill me. I have friends everywhere. I’m protected.” But Siddhartha noticed welts on Channa’s shoulders, and when he pressed him for an explanation, the truth emerged.
There was consternation on the field of combat when Siddhartha and Devadatta had both been carried away. The king ordered the massed fighters to remain in place, which added an air of threat to the confusion, but he wanted to make sure that every guest realized that his army was always at the ready. No one had time for Channa, who ran back to the stables and packed his best saddle horse to leave. As he was stuffing food and blankets into leather bags, he sensed that someone had entered the stall.
“Father?” He turned around expecting to confront Bikram, who would never forgive him for touching a high-caste. But it was the king, who had not forgotten Channa for a moment. He brandished a whip in his hands.
“I expect you to take what’s coming to you and then keep your mouth shut.”
Without waiting for a reaction, Suddhodana struck the youth across the chest with the lash’s iron-tipped barbs-there were three, a gentler version of the deadly seven-tipped whip used in battle. The pain was excruciating; Channa fell to the ground and rolled over, which was fortunate, because the king was in a genuine rage and vented it by striking him, over and over, across the back and shoulders instead of his face.
The only way that Channa could keep from passing out was to force himself not to count the blows. This one’s the last, he thought every time the iron hooks raked his flesh. It never was the last, however, or so it seemed. Then he became aware that the searing pain was coming not from the lash anymore but from the wounds he already had. Channa risked looking up, and he saw the king stooped over, panting hard with the whip dropped to the stable floor.
“Walk around, make sure everyone sees your wounds. Don’t dress them for two days.” Suddhodana was focused on him, but not with rage or implacable cold hatred. Channa could almost read sympathy, as if he’d had to punish his own son. “Then have Bikram hide you for a month, somewhere far away. Somewhere a hired assassin won’t look. They’re lazy; they won’t go very far to find you. And never go near Devadatta again, understand?”
They both knew that Channa was being let off easy. By rights he should have been turned over to the priests, who would have meted out maximum punishment as a show of power over the king. As Suddhodana turned away, Channa mumbled, “Thank you.”
The king looked back at him, and now his eyes were stone cold. “Your father was a horse thief when I met him. That’s a hanging offense, and if I ever have a whim to kill him, why not take the son along too? Just to be sure.”
Channa related only the bare bones of this incident to Siddhartha. The prince was troubled enough by the welts he could see; the worst were hidden under Channa’s tunic. Several days passed before Siddhartha told Channa about his own mysterious experience.
Channa was amazed. “You turned into a god. What else could it be?”
Siddhartha didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused. But when Channa’s face remained serious, even a little awed, he said, “I shouldn’t have told you. I should just go to old Canki and get him to purify me.”
“I wouldn’t. Not until somebody purifies him.” Channa’s contempt for the Brahmin was open, despite the risk he was running if the priest should find out. “How long have I been getting school from him? Ever since any of us can remember. You think that matters? He’d see me stretched out on a rack as soon as look at me. He thinks I’m an animal, and he has scripture to back him up.”
Siddhartha looked grim. “And I’m not much better.”
Channa was stunned; the color rushed to his face. Siddhartha rushed ahead. “I mean, caste keeps my life perfect. That’s the word you used, right? It doesn’t matter if you’re stronger than me or smarter or braver. The fact that we embraced when you walked in the door today could mean a death sentence if my father decreed it.”
Channa straightened up. “I am stronger than you, that part’s true.”
“The rest is true too.” Siddhartha couldn’t help smiling.