II

‘The Valkas have their funerals when they cross their first year of life,’ Eklavvya answered.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Shishupal took a step back. While he had little interest in things holy, he admitted to some curiosity as to why the Valkas left their dead *to rot on the battlefield. But when he had asked Eklavvya the question, he had not expected this answer.

‘The life of a Valka is one of peril. Most forestfolk end in the stomach of an iron jaw during mating season or on the riverbed in a flood. Souls cannot enter the afterlife without a funeral song, and there can be no funeral song without a body to hear it. So, our shoulder-men carve magic into the trunks of trees, weave nourishing baskets and bury every baby, once they have passed their first summer, by the roots of a tree, for half a day. If the baby survives, the Valkas know his soul has been blessed by the Forest Spirits to walk into the afterlife once he dies. If not, it is known that the Spirits have claimed the child’s song. It is then left buried, and in this manner receives a conventional funeral. So, you see, when grown Valkas die on battlefields, their souls have already received a funeral song in infancy. The body that remains is a shell, a gift to the crows.’

Shishupal must’ve looked horror-struck, for Eklavvya explained, ‘It must appear strange to an outsider. Eklavvya remembers* how the Imperial Army took it upon itself to burn the fallen Valkas after the Battle of Goverdhun, only to be met with sniggers from the forestfolk.’

This boy was in that damn battle too! Shishupal felt suddenly sad, for he knew what the Battle of Goverdhun had been. A merciless massacre of innocents. Shishupal could only hope Eklavvya had not witnessed first-hand the horrors committed by the Yaksha. Should I ask him about the Yaksha? No…those scenes of horror must have twisted a knife in the boy’s soul. Best not reopen wounds.

‘Forgive my curiosity Eklavvya, but...’ he grasped for another topic, ‘how are you so good with the sword and the bow despite…’

‘Despite Eklavvya’s disability, you mean.’ He waggled his nine-fingered gloved hand.

Yes. ‘No, I meant despite the difficulty.’

‘Eklavvya does not let the thing he cannot do interfere with the thing he wants to do.’

‘Admirable. So…you…lost your thumb… was it to some animal or frostbite— If you do not mind my asking?’

Eklavvya’s boyish face suddenly turned older. ‘Animals are nobler, Shishupal. It is humans one needs to worry about. Let’s just say the more sheathed the betrayal, the deeper the gash…’ He pulled off the glove to show the stump where his thumb used to be. The scar was a jagged circle, a woad tattoo drawn on it in the shape of a bear. The cut left no doubt that it had been sawed off with a blade.