"There is only one thing in OneRealm that is worse than death," the woodcutter professed, deep despair churning his voice, "They were cursed by the afflicted. Leave. Take your maiden with you and return to where you came from."
Bali's eyes fell on the pile of woods on the other side of the dirt path. The man noticed.
"They are fuel to burn these wretches. Once I do that, they would not return from the dead," the man explained.
"Does that mean they still live?" Aksha asked the very question Bali had in his mind, and the woodcutter gave a tired nod. Those afflicted were still alive, the same way Bali's mother was for some time, cursed with the foul sickness. All she did was beg for an easy death.
The door rattled behind the man and then went quiet before an angry screech burst through it, startling Bali. It came from inside the hut.
Aksha stepped closer to the man, her face still half-hidden in her veil, only her dark eyes peeking out, curious but alert. "Why are you not one of them?"
The man gave her a somber look. "I was not here when they stormed the village, the afflicted. When I returned, they had taken away half of us. The ones left behind suffered even more."
There was a thumping on the door behind the woodcutter. He paused to look behind him and waited until the knocks stopped.
"I was so happy to see that they had spared my son," the man continued, voice breaking, "but soon, he took ill, as did the others. It is a father's nightmare to see his child die a slow, painful death. And so..."
The woodcutter did not have to finish his words. The relief that the man sought, Bali had felt it when his mother passed. He always held the notion that her soul must be at peace now, free of the suffering.
The man scrambled back up to his feet and walked up to Bali, facing him. "You two should leave. But if not, help me build their pyres. Their bodies are afflicted, but their souls need not be."
Bali nodded. Aksha, too, lent a hand in the end. The three of them carried the timber from the pile to the village pavilion. It was a large square area, dark and empty in the night, not too far from where the shrine was. The floor was a raised platform built of packed mud, cold and hard, surrounded by mud bricks on three sides.
The thatched roof would make good fodder for the fire, the place an easy fit a hundred men. A few straw baskets sat on a corner, filled with some produce. When Bali moved to the center, he stepped on a clay doll, crumbling it to dust.
The three of them began to set up the pyres, stacking up the logs from the trunks of the forest trees Bali and Aksha had passed by. For one man, it would take days to gather that many logs. They carefully placed those on top of each other into smaller platforms before scattering a thick bed of dried leaves and hay on top. When all fifty were built, it was time to bring the villagers.
"You do not have to dirty your hands," the woodcutter said, standing over one of the pyres. "I will bring them here. They are still awake; they will listen to me."
Bali traded glances with Aksha and then humbly nodded.
The man began to walk out of the platform but paused and turned back. "If my eyes don't deceive me, you are an agni asura. In these parts, we say the fire of an agni asura is cleansing to the soul. Can you set fire to these pyres?" the man appealed.
"Certainly." Bali's tone was solemn, like that of an executioner.
For the brave is mercy, Uncle Bhringi would say. His mother had suffered for a year from that monstrous disease, and no one had shown mercy to her until, in a fit of madness, she slashed open her throat.
The woodcutter brought the villagers, three, four at a time. They followed him like sheep, leaving their homes and marching behind him as if they were about to go out into open fields. They flocked into the pavilion, guided by the shepherd, stepping up to the pyres with the eagerness of a child. It was a quiet, somber moment to watch them lie down on the pyres, two of them on each. Mothers took their children with them; lovers chose to be together.
In the end, the woodcutter stepped up behind Bali. "You will not hear from them, but they are thankful," said the man with honest appreciation. "Now, it is in your hands to relieve them from their suffering."
"What if there is a cure?" Bali blurted out in a moment of doubt. It was the same doubt that still haunted him about his mother.
"They say the holy spirits walk through these lands. If there was a cure, they would have sent it. Instead, they sent you." The woodcutter looked at Bali, eyes moist with tears. "I plead to you for them."
Aksha touched Bali's arm. "There is no cure. You must."
The uncertainty left Bali; a numbness filled his chest instead. He asked the other two to stand afar from the pyres, and then he lifted his hands, channeling the tantra flowing through his body. Golden glow of fire covered his fingers, and leapt over to the closest pyre. The two bodies lying on it remained still and silent, like corpses. Within minutes flames engulfed the pyre, before Bali turned to another one.
Soon, fire was blazing on all fifty pyres, the columns of flames rising to the roof. The quiet, dark pavilion had now turned into a raging field of heat and light. It no longer smelled of corruption and rot but of burn and smoke.
Aksha gave a small cough. "We must leave this place soon. The fire is getting fiercer."
Bali agreed and took a few steps towards the door when he noticed the man was not coming with them. The man remained standing in front of the pyres.
"It is time to leave them at peace," Bali reminded, and the man snapped out of his reverie. His eyes found Bali's. They were blazing in the light of the funeral fire.
The man slowly lifted the hem of his torn, white tunic and revealed a sharp, red ulcer. "My place is here," the man said with a rueful grin, "with my son."
He then stepped up on the blazing pyre of his son without one sound and sat there, waiting.