Aru didn’t think this was particularly fair. Even famous people had been children at some point. Judges weren’t born wearing wigs and carrying gavels.

And that led to another question: What was the bird going on about? All of those names—Arjuna, Yudhistira, Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva—were the names of the five most famous Pandava brothers. There was one more—Karna—the secret Pandava. In the stories, the other Pandavas didn’t even know he was their brother until the war had begun.

And why did the bird say dormant? Didn’t that mean sleeping?

The pigeon flopped onto its back and draped one wing dramatically over its beak. “So this is to be my fate,” it moaned. “I used to be going places. Top of my class, you know.” It sniffed.

“Um…sorry?”

“Oh, that’s useful!” The pigeon lifted its wing and glared at her. “You should’ve thought about that before you plunged us into this mess! Just look at you…The horror.” It covered its face with both wings, muttering to itself. “Why must every generation have its heroes?”

“Wait. So there’s been five Pandava brothers in every generation?” asked Aru.

“Unfortunately,” said the bird, throwing off its wings.

“And I’m one of them?”

“Please don’t make me say it again.”

“But…how can you be sure?”

“Because you lit the lamp!”

Aru paused. She had lit the lamp. She had lowered the flame to the metal lip of the object. But it was Poppy’s brother’s lighter. Did that count? And she was only going to light it for a second, not keep it lit. Did that make her only a smidge of a hero?

“I’m fairly positive you are a Pandava,” continued the bird. “Mostly positive. I am, at least, definitely not going to say no. Otherwise why would I be here? And on that note, why am I here? What does it mean to wear this wretched body?” It stared at the ceiling. “Who am I?”

“I—”

“Ah, never mind,” said the bird with a resigned sigh. “If you’ve lit that cursed lamp, the other one will know.”

“Who—?”

“We’ll just have to go through the Door of Many. It always knows. Plus that’s a great deal easier than putting something in Google Maps. Most confusing contraption of this century.”

“You’re a bird! Shouldn’t you know which direction you’re going in?”

“I’m not just any bird, you uppity hero. I am—” the bird spluttered, then stopped. “I guess it doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that we stop this before any true destruction takes place. For the next nine days, Time will freeze wherever the Sleeper walks. On the ninth day, the Sleeper will reach the Lord of Destruction, and Shiva will perform the dance to end all Time.”

“Can’t the Lord of Destruction just say no thanks?”

“You know nothing of the gods,” sniffed the pigeon.

Aru stopped to consider that. She wasn’t shocked by the idea that gods and goddesses existed, only that a person could actually get to know them. They were like the moon: distant enough not to enter her thoughts too often; bright enough to inspire wonder.

Aru looked back at her frozen mom and classmates. “So they’ll just be stuck like that?”

“It’s temporary,” said the bird. “Provided you aren’t riddled with ineptitude.”

“In-ep-tee-tood? Is that French?”

The bird knocked its head against a wooden banister. “The universe has a cruel sense of humor,” it moaned. “You are one of the few who can make things right again. Then again, you are also the one who started it. And so you, and the other, must be heroes.”

That didn’t sound very heroic to Aru. It just sounded like an epic mess that required an epic cleanup. Her shoulders drooped. “What do you mean, ‘the other’?”

“Your sibling, of course! You think you can quest alone? Questing requires families,” said the bird. “Your brother—or perhaps sister, although I don’t think that’s ever happened—will be waiting for you. When one Pandava awakens, so too does another, usually the one who is best equipped to deal with the challenge at hand. Until now, the Pandavas have always appeared as fully grown people, not squished bundles of hormones and incompetence.”

“Thanks.”

“Come along, girl child.”

“Who are you?”

Aru wasn’t going to move a step without some kind of verification. But she doubted the bird carried a wallet.

The pigeon paused, then said, “Though such an illustrious name should not be uttered by a child, you may call me Subala.” It preened. “I am—I mean, well, I was…It’s a long story. Point is: I’m here to help.”

“Why should I go with you?”

“Ungrateful child! Have you no sense of dharma? This is your task! The freeze will keep spreading like a disease in the Sleeper’s wake. If he’s not stopped by the new moon, your mother will stay that way forever. Is that what you want?”

Aru’s cheeks heated. Of course she didn’t want that. But she also felt as if the whole world had spun the wrong way and she was still finding her balance.

“Your name is Subala? That’s way too many syllables,” said Aru, fear snaking into her heart. “What if I need help and have to call for you? I could lose an arm or a leg while just trying to say the whole thing. I’m calling you Sue.”