The Book of Dragons. Группа авторов

HIKAYAT SRI BUJANG, OR, THE TALE OF THE NAGA SAGE

       Zen Cho

      Zen Cho (zencho.org) is the author of a short story collection, Spirits Abroad; two historical fantasy novels, Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen; and a novella, The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water. She is a winner of the Crawford, British Fantasy, and Hugo awards, and a finalist for the Locus and John W. Campbell awards. She was born and raised in Malaysia, resides in the United Kingdom, and lives in a notional space between the two.

      The day that ruined the naga sage Sri Bujang’s life dawned like any other, free of untoward omens. The mountains were wreathed by a romantic mist, out of which the peaks rose like islands in a vague gray sea.

      A sage must be self-disciplined if they are to acquire sufficient merit to achieve liberation. Sri Bujang followed a strict daily routine. Every morning, he rose when it was still dark and did his stretches. These helped keep his long serpentine body limber and were good for opening his third eye.

      As he contorted into spiritually rewarding shapes, sunlight spilled over the horizon, burning off the mist. Sri Bujang had all three eyes fixed on the ground, his mind a perfect blank, when suddenly the gold light turned gray. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder.

      The rain would have been obliterating for anyone who was not a naga. For Sri Bujang, of course, water was no different from air. With perfect clarity he saw the naga emerge from the forest—and recognized her.

      “Kakanda,” said his sister.

      Sri Bujang froze. His third eye snapped shut. It had always been considered rude in his family to have it open in mixed company.

      “Adinda,” he said. If he’d had time to prepare, he might have come up with a greeting befitting a naga sage, suitably combining the gnomic and the nonchalant.

      But he was not prepared. He had not seen any member of his family in centuries.

      “How did you know I’m here?” he blurted out.

      Sri Kemboja looked puzzled. “This mountain is named after you. Gunung Sri Bujang.”

      “Oh, right,” said Sri Bujang. What would a sage do? he found himself wondering for an absurd moment.

      He pulled himself together. Whatever he did was what a sage would do. Also, a sage would be gracious but detached. He would not greet his sister with the usual platitudes: comments on whether she had lost or gained weight, or questions about their relatives’ health. A sage would not care to know if anyone was missing him, or if they regretted how they had treated him back then.

      “How can I help you?” he said.

      He was pleased with the dignified sound of this, but Sri Kemboja’s expression was stony. She looked exactly like their father had the last time Sri Bujang had seen him, when they had quarreled and Sri Bujang had left home for good.

      “It’s not me who needs help,” she said. “You have to come home, Kakanda.”

      For years Sri Bujang had dreamed of receiving this appeal. It was not sagelike to feel vindicated, but nevertheless, Sri Bujang felt a little flutter of satisfaction below his rib cage.

      “I told Ayahanda and Bonda already,” he said. “This is my life now. The sage of Gunung Sri Bujang cannot simply go off like that. I have responsibilities. This mountain is a keramat; people come on pilgrimage to see me. I’m the number two attraction in this area on TripAdvisor, you know, second only to a very famous nasi lemak stall!”

      “Ayahanda is dying,” said Sri Kemboja. “Are you coming or not?”

      Sri Bujang trailed after his sister as they descended toward the sea, hunching under the storm raised by their passage.

      He was being magnanimous, he told himself. One couldn’t pick fights with one’s dying father. He would go and see his family, and then he would return to his work. He was not being feeble.

      The plains had altered since he had last come down from the mountain. Humans had left their mark everywhere, with typical lack of consideration.

      “They think this is their grandfather’s land, is it?” Sri Bujang grumbled. It wasn’t so bad for the gods and hantu, who had other dimensions to occupy; besides, small human-made altars dotted the earth, stocked with incense and offerings for tutelary spirits. But the humans had left little room for other corporeal species. “They should think of the other animals, not just themselves.”

      “Ah, humans are like that,” said Sri Kemboja.

      As they threaded their way around the various buildings, roads, and other human rubbish that littered the landscape, Sri Bujang began to develop an ache behind his sealed third eye. He paused at the shore, looking back. He could see the peak of his mountain in the distance, covered with virgin forest—a sanctuary from human thoughtlessness and familial encroachments alike.

      “Come on,” said his sister impatiently. “At the rate you’re loitering, this whole seaside development will wash away in the rain.”

      Sri Bujang found himself opening his mouth to snap, “So what?” He shut it before the words could escape, shocked at himself. The retort belonged to Sri Bujang before the mountain—the unenlightened young naga who had retreated precisely so he could transcend such pettiness.

      “I was allowing a moment for reflection,” he said, with dignity.

      Sri Kemboja’s answering snort did not improve his mood. He followed her into the sea, resentment brewing in his chest.

      He cheered up as they approached his father’s kingdom. By the gates stood the proud figures of the white crocodiles who had guarded the kingdom since it was founded. Sri Bujang had always been a favorite of the captain of the King’s Guard. Pak Laminah had trained him in the military arts. Sri Bujang would have recognized his profile anywhere.

      “Pak Laminah!” he cried gladly. The crocodile looked around.

      It was not Pak Laminah. She had the same snout and the same green eyes, but she was a stranger.

      “Ah, Your Highness is back!” she said to Sri Kemboja. She gave Sri Bujang a wary glance.

      “Captain, can you spare a messenger to the istana?” said Sri Kemboja. “Tell them the princess has returned with the raja muda.”

      When they had passed through the gates, Sri Kemboja said, “Pak Laminah is dead. Captain Hartini is his great-great-great-grandniece.” She seemed bemused that Sri Bujang hadn’t already known this.

      Of course, he should have known Pak Laminah would no longer be living. It had been a long time since he had left home.

      But the incident lent a nightmare quality to Sri Bujang’s procession through the kingdom. He felt like a mother who, having left her eggs safely buried, returns to find the sand scattered, her children devoured in the shell. This was no homecoming, but an arrival at a strange place—a place he did not know, that held uncertain welcome for him.

      At the istana they were led into the audience chamber. It was empty, save for two dugong handmaidens and a faded heap on an ornate golden couch. For a split second Sri Bujang took this for an old bolster, limp and bulgy from too much use. It was only when Sri Kemboja went up to greet it that he realized what he saw.

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