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CRYBABY

©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson

EPILOGUE

The city was a world away from the untamed wilderness they had left behind. Gone were the tangled vines, the oppressive silence of the jungle, and the ever-present scent of damp earth. Here, the air was thick with the perfume of temple incense, mingling with the mouthwatering aroma of roasting peanuts and sizzling street food. The sharp tang of monsoon-damp stone rose from the ancient roads, where puddles shimmered under the glow of festival lanterns.

Ahanna along with Raj and his wife wove their way through the throng, their bodies jostled by the sheer press of people. The streets pulsed with life, a swirling tide of devotees clad in brilliant silks that shimmered under the glow of festival lanterns. Women in sarees of crimson, sapphire, and gold moved gracefully through the throng, their bangles clinking like wind chimes, jasmine flowers woven into their neatly coiled hair. Men draped in crisp white dhotis and shawls bore intricate patterns of sandalwood paste and vermillion on their foreheads, marks of devotion carefully traced by temple priests. Children darted between them, and everywhere, hands rose in reverence, pressed together in silent worship as the great procession passed. Overhead, banners of marigolds swayed gently in the evening breeze, their scent a constant reminder of the celebration’s sacredness.

The air vibrated with sound—the rhythmic, pounding heartbeat of festival drums, deep and primal, setting a pace that the crowd unconsciously followed. Temple horns blared in piercing wails, their sharp notes twisting through the night, rising above the murmur of thousands of voices speaking in excited, hushed reverence. Bells clanged from the temple towers, their echoes ringing over the rooftops, while firecrackers burst sporadically in alleyways, their sharp pops sending bursts of light into the smoke-heavy sky.

Ahanna exhaled, adjusting the scarf draped over her shoulder. The weight of the moment pressed on her, different from the jungle’s humid heat but no less suffocating. This was a different kind of wild—controlled chaos, a ritual steeped in devotion, where gods walked among men, and a certain kind of magic still clung to the air along with the smoky incense.

Beside her, Raj scanned the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets, his sharp eyes taking in everything. His wife, barely five months pregnant, held onto his arm, her other hand resting protectively over her stomach. She stood frozen for a moment, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the festival unfolding around her. The riot of color, the crush of bodies pressing in from all sides, the deafening clash of drums and temple bells—it was unlike anything she had ever experienced. The scent of incense and crushed flowers thickened the air, mingling with the smoky tang of firecrackers bursting in the distance. Everywhere she looked, waves of people moved with chaotic energy, their voices rising in chants and laughter, their hands reaching out to toss garlands or clasp in prayer.

“This is something else,” Raj muttered under his breath.

Ahanna nodded, her gaze shifting toward the procession ahead. "And we're about to see the main event."

The crowd swayed as the festival reached its crescendo, and the reason they had come—he—was just beyond the smoke and the torchlight.

Crybaby.

He was a colossus, a living monolith of muscle and memory, towering over the procession like a deity made flesh. His massive frame was draped in silk, the fabric embroidered with intricate golden thread that shimmered in the torchlight. A great brass headpiece adorned his broad forehead, polished to a gleam, reflecting the flickering flames that lined the streets. Rows of fresh jasmine and marigold garlands hung from his tusks and ears, their perfume thick in the already heady air.

His tusks—long, gleaming, and impossibly curved—were more than mere ivory; they were relics, bearing the weight of years and battles fought. Each notch and groove in their surface whispered of his past, of his rage, of the jungle where he had once roamed free. Now, they were adorned with delicate bells that chimed softly as he moved, an eerie contrast to his sheer power.

Priests in saffron robes walked beside him, their bare feet padding silently against the stone roads, their hands raised in supplication. They chanted in a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence, their voices weaving through the thick incense-laden air like an unbroken hymn. The words were ancient, prayers meant for gods and kings, but here they were directed at him.

The crowd gasped as he took a step, the earth seeming to tremble beneath his sheer mass. A hush fell over the thousands gathered, awe and reverence replacing the chaos of moments before. There was something both mesmerizing and terrifying about him, as if he were not merely part of the ceremony but something greater—something that did not belong entirely to this world of men.

Ahanna felt a shiver run down her spine. He was still huge. Even among the other temple elephants, he was a behemoth, dwarfing them not just in size but in sheer presence. The other bulls, adorned in the same silks and ornaments, were regal, magnificent. But he—he was something else. Something greater. Something terrifying.

Beside her, Raj exhaled slowly. “He could break free,” he murmured, voicing the thought already circling in her mind.

Heavy chains circled Crybaby’s thick legs, links polished and shining in the torchlight, more ceremonial than restrictive. Decorative shackles meant to symbolize reverence and control. But there was no real control here. If he chose to, he could shatter them in an instant. Could send the entire procession scattering with a single charge. Could disappear into the jungle, where no man or god could ever claim him again.

But he didn’t.

He moved with the unhurried grace of something that had long since learned patience, his colossal frame swaying with each slow, deliberate step. Every shift of muscle, every careful placement of his immense feet, seemed almost ceremonial, as if he were aware of the weight of the eyes upon him, the thousands who watched in reverence and awe.

His trunk curled gently around the offerings of fruit and flowers held out by worshippers, plucking bananas and garlands with an almost delicate touch. The people whispered blessings as he passed, their hands outstretched in devotion, their voices trembling with something between adoration and fear.

They believed he was theirs now. That he had been tamed. That his days of wrath and ruin had been washed away by prayer and ritual, replaced by the silent majesty of a temple elephant.

But Ahanna knew better.

She watched him, standing amidst the sea of worshippers, the scent of burning camphor and jasmine thick in the humid air. The drums pounded in steady, rhythmic beats, the wails of temple horns echoing through the streets. The air shimmered with torchlight, casting moving shadows over his silk-draped form.

And then, in the midst of it all, Crybaby's great head shifted ever so slightly.

His eye flicked toward her.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the festival faded. The crowd, the chanting, the music—it all blurred into nothing.

Ahanna held her breath.

And in that single moment, she saw it.

A flicker, a glint of something ancient, something untouched. A wildness that had not been crushed beneath the weight of gold and silk. Not submission. Not defeat.

A choice.

He was here because he chose to be. Because this life—this world of offerings and reverence—was easy. Comfortable. He was adorned, honored, revered as something divine, and perhaps, for now, that was enough.

But the chains around his legs, polished and bright, were only for show. Ahanna saw the truth beneath them. If the day ever came when he wanted something else—if the jungle called to him again, if the weight of men’s worship grew tiresome—then nothing, not gods nor kings, would be able to hold him.

The flicker in his eye was gone as quickly as it had come.

Crybaby turned away, his massive form shifting once more into the rhythm of the procession, disappearing into the sea of smoke and sound.

Ahanna let out a slow breath, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

“You see it too?” Raj asked quietly.

She nodded, her gaze never leaving Crybaby. “He’s still Crybaby.”

Raj’s wife squeezed his hand gently, looking up at her husband. “Is it really over?” she asked softly.

Raj glanced at Ahanna before looking back at the massive bull. “For now,” he said.

The drums thundered again, the conch shells wailed, and the procession surged forward in a wave of incense and devotion.

And in the middle of it all, walked a god in chains.

THE END

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