The crossing of the abyss and the raging waters of the gorge were left behind. Upon reaching the plain on the other side, the continent revealed something that defied geology itself: a perfectly straight strip of terrain. There was no pavement or trace of civilization, only a dirt trail where vegetation and rocks simply refused to grow.
Bhāskara dug his heels into the ground and opened his arms. The measuring rope, cut and tied with absolute precision around his ankles by Tribal, stretched taut across the dust.
— Finally. The terrain is cooperating with sacred geometry!
Alaya, however, narrowed her eyes at the infinite horizon.
— I don't like it when nature cooperates too much.
Tribal stepped forward, his rustic garments swaying in the wind.
— Then let's take advantage of the courtesy before it changes its mind.
And the march resumed. Hours later, with every stride limited by the astronomer's unbreakable exactitude—the rope at his feet—Bhāskara drew his measuring instrument. He crouched into a deep stance, tensing his leg muscles, and checked the inclination. The direction was mathematically flawless.
— If we can maintain this absolute direction... — murmured the astronomer, raising his face with eyes burning feverishly toward Tribal. — We can march without ever needing to recalculate the route. Infinity has become a straight line!
Time, then, ceased to be measured in days and began to be counted in steps. The rope dragged across the arid soil, marking a rhythm that soon merged with the travelers' very breath. At the start of this long crossing, under a still-benevolent sun, Tribal would often break the silence, walking alongside the astronomer.
— How many steps are left?
Bhāskara kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his chest puffed out in his habitual pose of intellectual superiority, even while moving.
— Many.
— How many?
— I haven't counted them all.
— Then how do you know there are many?
Bhāskara pointed dramatically at the sun, without missing the rhythm of the stretched rope.
— Because my sweat demands that they be!
As the weeks dissolved into months, Tribal transformed the continuous walking into a meditative trance. Bhāskara, in turn, performed complex calculations in the air as he walked, his legs constrained by the tether moving in a hypnotic, unchanging pattern. The rope dictated the advance of their lives. The three barely exchanged words anymore—until the dust and monotony were broken by the guide's curiosity.
— Alaya. What did you write on the parchment yesterday?
The woman sighed, without stopping.
— That you two spent three hours arguing over the curvature of a stone.
Bhāskara stopped abruptly. The rope snapped, stretching to the limit at his heels.
— It wasn't an ordinary stone! Its aerodynamics proved directional erosion!
— It was a stone — decreed the guide, impassive, without even raising her eyes from her notes.
The march did not bend to the terrain, and the landscape began to transform repeatedly before their eyes as the year advanced. They crossed dense forests where light barely penetrated. They climbed mountains of thin air and traversed arid plains under punishing droughts and torrential rains that washed the sweat from their faces. Through all the elements, the dull thud of footsteps continued. The rope tied to the astronomer's heels remained intact—the visual and physical symbol that science would not yield to fatigue.
Amid merciless winds that lashed the earth, Tribal looked over his shoulder, observing the endless trail they had left behind.
— How far have we traveled?
Bhāskara wiped his forehead with his forearm. His voice was hoarse, weathered by time, but carried the same monumental pride.
— Far enough that I would prefer death to turning back.
The uninterrupted flow of the seasons sculpted the travelers. Their bodies grew leaner, forged into dense, agile, resilient muscle. Their clothes and loincloths were rustic and frayed from the journey; their hair, once neatly cut, now grew wild in the wind. Alaya carried page after page filled with precise records of a year that was falling behind. The long road had forged a silent bond; they no longer needed to discuss when to rest or when to move. The taut rhythm of the rope around the ankles swallowed space and time, transforming the act of walking into the only reality they knew.
Until, at the peak of this exhausting cycle, Bhāskara suddenly locked his feet in place.
The rope snapped in the suspended dust.
He raised his gnomon and checked the solar inclination with manic precision, comparing the tiny shadow against the dozens of markings on his reference parchments. The astronomer, always ready for a thunderous speech, fell into absolute silence.
Alaya noticed the shift in posture instantly.
— What is it?
Bhāskara took a moment to lower his arms. His eyes were fixed on the incandescent sky, and his voice came out in a reverent whisper, suddenly stripped of all theatricality.
— We are getting close.
Tribal followed his gaze, feeling the energy of that instant.
— To Suryashan?
Bhāskara shook his head very deliberately. He pointed his finger rigidly—not toward the horizon, but straight upward.
— No. To the solstice.