Aru Shah and the End of Time (Pandava Quartet #1)(6)
Her mother was frozen, too, both feet off the ground as if she’d been caught in mid-jog. Her black hair hadn’t even fallen against her back. Her eyes and mouth were open wide with panic.
The whole room looked strange and lightless and flat. Because nothing had a shadow.
The creaking sound hadn’t come from the door. It had come from the elephant.
Aru watched, stuck somewhere between awe and horror, as the stone elephant that had been standing in the museum for decades suddenly sank to the ground. It lifted its trunk—the same trunk Aru had been using as a backpack hook for years—to its forehead. In one swift, creaking movement, its jaw unhinged.
Panicked, Aru ran toward her mom. She reached for her hand, trying to yank her out of the air. “Mom! The elephant is possessed. You really need to wake up!”
Her mom didn’t move. Aru followed her gaze. She’d been staring straight at the Hall of the Gods the moment she was frozen.
“Mom?”
A voice boomed from the hollow of the elephant. Deep and rough and wizened. Aru shrank.
“WHO HAS DARED TO LIGHT THE LAMP?” called the voice. It was as dark as a thunderstorm. Aru thought bolts of lightning might shoot out of the elephant’s mouth, which, under any other circumstance, would have been very exciting. “WHO HAS DARED TO WAKE THE SLEEPER FROM HIS SLUMBER?”
Aru shuddered. “I—I did…but I didn’t mean to!”
“YOU LIE, WARRIOR! AND FOR THAT I AM SUMMONED.”
The sound of flapping wings echoed from the elephant’s open mouth. Aru gulped.
This was the end, Aru was sure of it. Did birds eat people? It probably depended on the size of the bird. Or the size of the person. Not wanting to test the idea, she tried burying her face in her mother’s side, but she couldn’t fit under her stiff arm. The sounds from the elephant rose steadily. A shadow lengthened on the ground. Huge and winged.
Whatever had been speaking flew out of the elephant’s mouth.
It was…
A pigeon.
“Ew!” Aru exclaimed.
Her mother had often reminded her that pigeons were “rats with wings.”
“Where is he?” demanded the pigeon. “One of the ancient five warriors lit the Lamp of Bharata—”
Aru tilted her head, a question flying out of her before she could stop herself. “Why does your voice sound different?”
From inside the elephant, the bird had sounded like it could convince a mountain to turn into a volcano. Now it sounded like her math teacher that one time he had tried to perform a cappella but had stepped on a Lego piece. For the rest of the day he’d spoken in an anxious, sulky voice.
The pigeon puffed out its chest. “Is there something wrong with how I sound, human girl?”
“No, but—”
“Do I not look like a bird capable of great devastation?”
“I mean—”
“Because I shall have you know that whole cities revile me. They say my name like a curse.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s a powerful thing,” sniffed the bird. “And between good and power, I will always choose the latter.”
“Is that why you’re a pigeon?”
Could a bird narrow its eyes? If not, this one had certainly mastered the illusion.
“The lamp was lit. The Sleeper will start to awaken. It is my sacred duty to guide the Pandava brother who lit it.”
“Pandava?” Aru repeated.
She knew that name. It was the last name of the five brothers in the Mahabharata poem. Her mother had said that each of them held great powers and could wield fantastic weapons because they were the sons of gods. Heroes. But what did that have to do with the lamp? Had she hit her head without noticing? She felt around her scalp for a bump.
“Yes. Pandava,” sneered the pigeon. It puffed out its chest. “Only one of the five Pandava brothers could light the lamp. Do you know where he went, human girl?”
Aru lifted her chin. “I lit the lamp.”
The bird stared. And then stared some more.
“Well, then, we might as well let the world end.”
In-ep-tee-tood
Aru had read somewhere that if you stare at a chimpanzee, it will stare back, smile…and then attack you.
She hadn’t read anything about what kind of consequences might follow from staring at a pigeon.
But she did know that gazes were powerful things. Her mom used to tell her stories of Gandhari, a queen who chose to go through life blindfolded out of empathy for her blind husband. Only once did she take off the blindfold, to look at her eldest son. Her stare was so powerful it could have made him invincible—if he’d been naked. But no, he was too embarrassed to go without his underwear. He was still superstrong, just not as strong as he could’ve been. (Aru sympathized with him. That must have been a horribly awkward moment.)
And so Aru maintained eye contact with the pigeon…but took one step back.
Finally, the bird relented. It hung its head. Its wings drooped.
“The last dormant Pandavas were so brilliant!” it said, shaking its head. “The last Arjuna was a senator. The last Yudhistira was a famous judge. The last Bhima was an Olympic athlete, and Nakula and Sahadeva were famous male models who wrote fabulous best-selling self-help books and started the world’s first hot-yoga studios! And now look at what has become of the line: a girl child, of all things.”