Yavana (n): In early Indian literature, either a Greek or another foreigner… From the time of Alexander the Great (c. 334 BC) Yavana came to be applied more specifically to the Greek kingdom of Bactria, and, even more specifically, after about 175 BC, to the Indo-Greek kingdom in the Punjab. Indian sources of that time regarded the Yavanas as a barbarian people of the northwest…

--from www.britannica.com

White.

All George Harrison could see from the airplane’s window was white, a white bed of clouds covering the Atlantic. He followed the patterns he found in them, some looking like elephants, some like castles. A few reminded him of bits of the birds who’d be around between sets in Hamburg, brief bits you could see before it was all over and you’d have to zip up to ‘mach schau’ again.

"And what we got here, then?" asked John Lennon as he leaned over to see what George was looking at. "Something on your mind, eh?"

"Just a lot of nothing," replied George. "It just goes on and on."

"So why are we giving a shake, then, if there’s nothing to see?"

George only now noticed how his arm was twitching a little. "Am I bothering you doing that?"

"Fair right you be nervous. It’s America, after all."

Brian Epstein and Paul McCartney walked down the aisle of the plane and stopped over George’s seat. "Are you quite all right?" asked Brian in his ‘mother hen’ manner that he’d been unable to shake since the command performance.

"Oh sod it, already," said George, "I’m perfectly fine. It’s not like I’m going to jump ship over the Atlantic, now."

"You are looking a little under it," said Paul. "You sure you’re fine, mate?"

George sighed. "If I said, maybe me nerves are shot, and I’m going to scream if someone touches me, would that make you all happy, now?"

"Just trying to make sure you’re fine, " said Paul. "You need anything--"

"Yes, to be left bloody alone."

Paul just nodded and raised his hands as he backed off. Brian stood a little uncomfortably before he went off to find someone else to get nervous around.

John said in a low voice, "Hey, if it’s a bother, try a fag."

"You got ciggies? Christ, I could go for one."

"Here. I got these in Paris." He handed one to George, who took out his lighter and lit up.

George inhaled and gave a slight cough. "What the blood…" he trailed before he gave another cough.

"Cloves," said John. "Nice taste to them, eh?"

George took another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs as he tried to calm down. "Bit of a ‘prise, us being in the land of Carl Perkins and Chuck Berry."

"And Elvis," John said, "don’t forget Elvis, now."

George looked out the window at the clouds, which seemed even further away now. "Eh," he just said before he took another drag.

All George could see from the limo’s windows were faces, female faces. Waves of girls surrounded the four of them as the car drove from the studio back to the Plaza.

"You think they’re on to us?" asked Ringo Starr.

"It’s like we’re royalty," said George.

"I don’t think they want a king," said John, "not after doing so much to give the last one the boot."

"Just look at them all," said Paul. "Did you ever imagine they’d do that here, too?"

George gave a cough.

Ringo looked at him.

"What?" George asked.

"Now that one sounded bad," Ringo pointed out

"It’s nothing," George said. "Maybe it’s John’s fags."

"My fags aren’t making me cough like that," John pointed out.

"Oh crap!" cursed Paul. "You’re not getting sick on us, eh?"

"I’m fine, it’s-" George got out before the coughing made his head spin.

George moaned again when his sister Louise put a compress on his brow.

"No better, is he?" Paul asked, looking closely at the band’s lead guitarist with concern and a little trepidation.

"Maybe he’s allergic to America," said John as he flicked open his lighter. "Did you take out an indemnity on us, Eppie? Is this your diabolical plot to make the Beatles pay off faster for you?"

Brian shook his head, the weariness of the situation starting to get to him.

"The man’s sick," said Ringo. "And you’re just making bad jokes about it."

"And the cigarette’s not helping, either," said Louise with a withering look.

John ignored that and said to Brian after he drew another puff, in a voice he didn’t realize was not low enough, "This chap for the Sullivan show, is he available later on for the tour?"

"Traitors," George moaned. "I didn’t come all the way ‘ere not to play America."

"No, of course not," said Brian, coming over to George’s side and holding his hand. "We just need to have a back-up, in case for some reason you might not feel up to it when it’s time. There are all sorts of considerations..." he trailed, not wanting to upset George.

"The doctor said you needed rest," said Louise as she tried to get George to lie down. "Influenza’s not something you try and ignore."

"Look, mate," said Ringo. "You need to just relax a bit and save your strength. Take it from someone who’s seen too much of ‘ospital as a lad. You’ll do yourself some good with the rest."

Outside, George could still hear the chants of the girls across from the Plaza Hotel. "Cor, if they could just see me now," he said. "All white and drippy."

"You want I should send you up a few?" asked John. "That might get you back on your feet in a bit, eh?"

"Oh, sod it," said Paul. "The man’s sick as a dog, and that’s all you can think of for him."

"And Auntie Louise is doing much better?" John continued with a horrible imitation of an old woman, "Er up, Georgie, an ‘ave a nice tea, will you luv?"

Trying to laugh at John’s joke made George’s headache much worse.

"That’s enough," said Brian. "George could use some rest. We’re suppose to be out in the park with the press."

"With this other bloke," George said half-hurt and half in jest.

"Aw, chin up, George," said Paul, "We’re supposed to be taping things for later shows this afternoon. Maybe you’ll feel better then and can do that stand."

"And ‘ave ‘em all asking in two weeks, ‘Hey, who’s the replacement?’ Could confuse the lads here," said John.

"Honestly, just go already," said Louise. "The more you hang around, the worse it’ll be. Besides, what if you catch what he’s got?"

John and Ringo made a playful jump away from the bed. "Set the pitch pots!" yelled John as he took a drag of his French ciggie and blew smoke over at George.

George tried to laugh, but instead gurgled through the phlegm in his lungs. The laughing and coughing made his head explode in pain. The smoke from John’s fag had a very vibrant odor. "Ohhh.... That one’s a bad one."

"Now lie down," said Louise, "and get some rest."

"You can sort of be with us," said Ringo as he turned on the radio. "This Murray the K bloke is with us every step of the way. Should we say something for you on the radio?"

"Cor, not Murray the K," cried George. "Just get me some peace, someone."

The radio seemed louder, almost drowning out the other Beatles as they were saying their good byes. "And this is Murray the K, in front of the Plaza, waiting for-" the radio droned.

"Oh for God’s sake, get me out of here," George pleaded with no one and anyone as the headache got worse.

The radio was replaced with music, something soft with plucked strings like a harp. The smell of John’s fag seemed stronger, more potent; George tried to help himself to some of the smoke….

George felt his lungs fill with air, with no difficulty breathing. He took a deeper breath with no problem whatsoever.

"Hey ‘Weze," said George as he propped himself up. "I think I’m all better now. I--"

The room was not the same color; the white paint had been replaced by nude plaster, and the windows were gone. The only light came from the sole way in and out, through an archway with gauzy hangings over it.

George looked around him. There was no side table, the bed was more like a couch, and his pajamas had been removed. He found a thin blanket that had been kicked off, wrapped himself in it, and walked out the room.

Before him was a large chamber with a number of men in what looked to George like sheets hanging off their shoulders. They were talking among themselves, oblivious to George; some of the men seemed very animated in their conversation.

"Ey up," George spoke up, "do you blokes know what’s going on?"

Every man in conversation stopped what they were doing and turned to George. Some of them seemed shocked to see him.

"Me night clothes got nicked," George tried to explain, "and I don’t really know--"

Every single man in the hall acted as one and went to their knees, faced George and pressed their faces to the floor.

For a long moment, George just stared in disbelief as everyone kept bowing to him.

"Up with you," George finally said. "Cor, you acting like I’m suddenly the most important bloke in the place."

"Your majesty," said one of the men who had bowed to him, "we had thought you had been preparing for your final journey."

"Just a cough," George said, perplexed.

"It is indeed a blessing that you are well," said another man with dripping words, a gentleman with a black beard and a fine gold trim to his clothing. "Let me say, my liege, that I of course did make many offerings to the gods that you would continue your glorious rule."

"My what?"

"Why, so glorious a rule as that you have bestowed on the principality must certainly be preserved. Surely if the gods are not with us, then we are lost."

"My glorious what? Ere up, are you daft?"

Everyone else in the room started to exchange confused looks.

"Look, mate, one minute I’m feeling close to death here, and the next I’m some…. Ah, looks like a museum to me."

"My liege," said the bearded man, "surely you recognize your own palace."

George took a quick glance at everyone, noticed the rising concern in their faces. He also saw something in the man with the beard that he didn’t like, nothing he could put a finger on but something that seemed right out.

"Aw, sod it," said George. "I’m just a little out of it right now. I still feel a bit off, still got some headache," he tried to give a cough, "but I should be getting back to business. Should be doing me part, keeping my eye on the business of state and all."

George kept his cool as listening to his gut feeling paid off. Everyone in the room seemed relieved that their king was himself, and the man with the beard seemed dismayed that the king was healthy.

"Right," said George. "Anything come up while I was really down?" When George’s question got blank looks, he followed up with, "When I was ill, did something happen I needed to hear about now that I couldn’t then?"

"Well, my liege," said the bearded one, "there is the matter of the eastern provinces. They seem to be influenced too readily by Haryana, and some of your vassal princes have even been considering alliances with them."

"Hmmm," George nodded, trying to look like he knew what this man was saying. "Have we heard their side of it?"

"My liege?" the bearded one seem surprised.

"Have we asked them if they want to blow or not? Might be good to know that and hear it from them."

"My liege, surely you don’t expect them to admit to you if they are planning treachery."

"I don’t know, but I’ve always felt if you got a problem with your mates you’d talk about it, right?"

As the bearded one tried to not look silly in front of George by fighting an apoplectic choking sound, one of the other members of court quickly said, "Does our royal prince propose that the princes themselves be summoned at once to you and state their allegiances?"

"Aye, that’s it," George nodded, noting his title. "Let ‘em come and say his own piece."

"So it is commanded, so it shall be done," said the one who suggested it, and others repeated in chorus.

George noted the bearded one had not chimed in. "You don’t sound so happy to see these fellows," George noted.

"My lord, as you chief advisor and uncle, who until now has handled many of the particulars of state, I am surprised you would do something like this so impulsively."

"So it’s one time I did something on me own. You seem to think the royal prince shouldn’t actually be running the gig, eh?"

"A thousand pardons, your excellency. I had meant no disrespect at all."

George said nothing; he could tell just looking at his ‘uncle’ how he didn’t really mean it, but his guts told him the last thing he felt would be wise was to start a civil war right off. "Right, then," said George, "I’m feeling up to a walk for a bit; any new business?" When there was no reply, George continued, "Right, if you need me, I’ll be about."

"Where does your majesty wish to go?" asked one of the advisors.

"Oh, just around the palace. Don’t want to overdo it, eh?"

George did his best to look like anything other than a lost tourist as he examined ‘his’ palace. What surprised him was how small the place was; the whole building seemed like it would fit inside the ballroom at the Adelphi Hotel. He noted the way the different rooms of the building branched off the open air center court where he met those individuals….

George shook his head. It must be some sort of fevered dream, he concluded, some strange symptom of whatever was making him sick. And it made a lot of sense, he reasoned it out: growing up in Arnold Grove; looking at being an electrician before the music thing came along; the band actually getting somewhere, but just as it looked like it was going to go on forever the sickness cuts it short; since this was the end of the career, why not go out with a big blow--

He shook his head; best as he could recall, this whole thing seemed like something Paul had in a comic book he’d showed him. The idea that his whole state of mind was playing out like a funny book didn’t make him feel better about it.

When he got back to where he woke up, George noticed his ‘uncle’ was there, giving him a small smile when he saw him. "My liege," he said, "I hope you enjoyed your review of your palace."

"Nice enough," George said, then added quickly, "still. Everything’s fine."

"My liege, I have taken the liberty of seeing to it that you are seen to in the usual manner, as your recovery has probably stirred your appetites."

"I could use a snack, now that you mention it. I don’t suppose you’d be able to send round someone to a chip shop for me."

"My liege has an interesting turn of phrase," his ‘uncle’ said. "Always anxious to find new ways to describe his desires."

"It’s not much I’m asking for, just something to eat."

The bearded one seemed stunned for a minute. "Is my lord hungry as well?"

"That’s what I’m saying, ‘ere. I could use a good meal."

"I can arrange for that as well, my liege. I can even have it sent in to you during your, activities."

"Ey up, what’s that mean? What are you going on ‘bout as far as my…."

The bearded one simply guided George into his chamber, where he beheld three young women wearing smiles and not much else, propping themselves up on the floor among piles of pillows. The way two of them slid off the floor to guide George to the center, their fingers stroking him the whole time, took George’s mind off his stomach….

When George had the first clear moment in his head since coming into his room, he was down to one bird who had stayed behind after the other two worked on him. The third girl sat on her feet and leaned on her hands like a watch dog; except for the way her breasts rose against her arms as she breathed, she seemed perfectly still to George.

When George got up to look closely at her, to see if she had fallen asleep in that position, she looked at him and slid up next to him, her hands starting to caress him.

"Again?" George asked, surprised.

She stopped, moved back a bit but stayed close to the ground. "I thought so," she said, softly.

"Wha.... Eh, love, it’s not you, really, but--"

She put a finger to his lips. "Actually, it is not you."

"No, you didn’t do anything wrong, really."

"I know what I did. And I know what you did. And I know what the royal prince would have done, which is not the same thing."

"Hold on, you’re talking riddles. Want to clear that up for me?"

She leaned closer and whispered, "I have known the royal prince many times, and can say with certainty after tonight that you are not him."

George just stayed perfectly still, not sure what was going to happen next.

She continued, "You may have his face, and you may have his body, down to the finest detail, but you are not the royal prince."

"Oh really?" George said, trying to sound more confident. "What makes you think that? It might just be I’m having an off night, love."

"Then do something royal."

"What, at this hour? You want me to wake up the peasants and have me castle burned out if I use me office for you?"

"The… ‘peasants’?"

"You know, the blokes in the field an’ all."

She narrowed her eyes, then asked, "And where are these fields the ‘peasants’ work?"

"Right outside the palace, love."

"But what name do these fields have?"

George found his voice had abandoned him.

"For that matter," she pressed, moving closer the way a cobra corners its prey, "what name do your people go by as a nation?"

George felt himself sweating in uncomfortable places.

She looked even harder at him, and asked, "And what name do you call me when it is only you and I?"

"Sweetie?" George blurted. He looked into her eyes, sharper than a school headmaster’s and ready to blame as if George had been tardy again.

She only stared, waiting.

A sense of helplessness overcame him. "What if I told you, now," George said softly, "that I don’t even know me own name? I mean, I know who I am, me, but not this man who I’m supposed to be. I just ended up here in this place, and everyone thought I was the leader, but I decided to play along with ‘em, ‘cause I have no idea where I am. And I’m sounding utterly daft, now, I bet."

She looked long at him.

"No, you wouldn’t think I’m actually someone else inside his body, would you?"

"Perhaps," she finally said, "although if you’re a vetala, you’re not doing yourself much good admitting to being one."

"A what?"

"A spirit that inhabits the recently dead, to feed on the blood of the living."

"Christ, I’m no leech."

"Were you, and I would have most likely been your latest meal."

"No disrespect, love, but I don’t fancy you that way. I mean, as a meal an’ all." George added, "Um, what do I call you? Your name, I mean."

"I am Parda, one of your consorts."

"Consort? That’s what, a bennie that goes with the office?"

"As you have no sense of what you had asked of Glaucon, it is understandable that you are ignorant of why we are here."

"Glaucon? What’s a Glaucon?"

Parda rolled her eyes. "Glaucon is your uncle, and the man your father entrusted your care to until you came of age to lead yourself."

"Man with the beard and full of himself? He’s a right piece of work, isn’t he?"

"If what you mean by that is, that he tries his best to remain the power behind the throne, then yes. Among his many efforts on your behalf include the securing of different young women to keep you and your baser interests occupied."

George nodded with understanding. "Keep him ‘appy and in the dark, eh? Thought he was something of a work the way he treated me…. Um, who am I, anyway? I don’t know me own name here."

"You are supposed to be Royal Prince Heracles of the Sangrurans. By Parvati, are you so utterly without any sense of yourself?"

George just looked down at the pillows he had been lying on and said finally, softly, "Yes. Yes, I’m totally at sea here, and have not a clue as to where I am. I was someone else this morning, and now I’m this, this royal prince, and I have no idea in God’s name why."

Parda laid down next to George and put a hand on his shoulder. "Who were you?" she asked.

"I was a musician, a guitar player. I had a band, and the four of us were going to be big. We were popular, at home, in Europe. And we were going to be the biggest act ever, going to America."

"So what happened?"

"I got sick, it must have been a real bad sickness, because I’m ‘ere now and trying to be leader of someplace I never ‘eard of before. I don’t know if this is 'eaven or ‘ell, just that it looks like I’m not doing what I thought I’d be doing today."

"Is there anything I can do that would let you do what you wanted to?"

George looked her straight in the eyes and asked, "Can you book me on the Sullivan show?"

She froze for a few seconds before admitting, "I am utterly confused by that request."

"No, that’s all right. You have no idea what life was like for me then. I’m ‘ere, with you, and in your world… ‘Ang on, there, Parda. You can do something for me."

"Will this be easier than your last request?"

"I want you to teach me to be me. If I’m supposed to be this Heracles chap and running the show, I better learn me licks."

"But why me?"

"Because you’re the only one here who knows I’m not me, or ‘im, or whatever. And I think you’re more on my side than anyone else is, especially Glaucon. I need you, and I’m asking."

Parda gave a slight smile. "Now I am certain that you are not Heracles, for he would have simply commanded me."

"That’s what I mean, love. I need to know things like that, as so long as I’m ‘im, I have to be able to do what he does. I have enough pull with Uncle Glaucon to make sure you’re here every night, don’t I, I hope?"

"You do indeed, and I will teach you what you need, although there is a slight matter to keep in mind."

"And that is?"

"Glaucon often sends in two or more with me each night, the better to keep your interests engaged."

George blinked a little at the prospective problem. "We can get rid of them every night after we’re done the way we did the other two, once we get that all over with. I mean, I don’t know how you feel ‘bout having to do that, with me now I mean, and… Ah!" the frustration got to George.

"I understand that. I would think that having to keep Glaucon’s suspicions from being aroused by doing what he expects of you should be the least of our problems."

George took a seat on a pillow opposite Parda. "Right, let’s get it on, then."

"Is everything to your satisfaction, my liege?" asked the treasurer.

George kept looking up at the open sky over the courtyard. It was only two nights ago Parda helped convey a bit better what talents of silver might be worth in relation to pounds sterling, but trying to recall it here and now was a jumble. Sadly, as a woman she was not allowed to be here when his court met, and as a consort wasn’t even allowed to stay for brekkie.

Stalling for time, George asked, "The bit ‘bout the trade again, for goods from Patiala. Do that one over."

The treasurer sighed as he recounted that part of the presentation while George wracked his head for the conversions. By the time the treasurer finished, George figured it out.

"Right, I see," said George. "So what you’re saying, then, is that we lose two talents every time we send round our stuff to them, compared with what we get back?"

"There is a depreciation there, my liege, yes."

"A depreciation, man? You realize how bloody much that stuff comes to in lost value?"

"A deficit that is easily met through additional taxes, my liege. We simply--"

"Taxes? Crikey, you daft? That kind of money being made up on the back of the people, it’s not like a simple belt tightening here."

"A… ‘belt tightening’, my lord?"

"You’re talking a lot of stater coming from people without many obols to their name." He paused to try and remember if he got the different coins’ names right, and when his treasurer didn’t go that daft on him, he continued, "We’re talking a lot of poor people who can’t make do on that, and you expect them to pick up for your mistakes?"

"Mistakes? My liege, I have kept the coffers full for you for years, and for your father before him. How then could I have made a mistake?"

"Well for one, you got us a soddin’ bad deal with Patiala. Get out with you and make it better, now."

"But--but Patiala is a dear ally of ours."

"And what ally is worth having if it sponges off you like a cousin blowing the dole?" Before his slip could confuse his court, George gave the answer that he could win all arguments with, "So it is commanded, so it shall be done."

As the treasurer backed away, looking scared, Glaucon came to George’s dais with two men in breastplates. He didn’t see weapons at their side, but the fact that these two were in armor was enough to make George nervous.

"I see that you have made Callias doubt his figures," said Glaucon with the most pleasant sneer in his voice. "May I say, my lord, that in the three weeks since your recovery from your illness, in charting new policies you have shown considerable control with the reins of state."

"He was suggesting we meet a shortfall in our trade with more taxes on the people," said George. "Going on ‘bout how we can because we’re being cheated by an ally."

"Which, as you were discussing foreign affairs, makes this an opportune time to bring your generals with their plans for going east."

"’Ere up, now. You make it sound like we’re going to war. I don’t recall ever ‘earing we were under attack."

"Need I remind you, my liege, that one of the eastern vassal princes has so far failed to come before you, despite fast riders having been sent to summon him here."

George thought back to his first day there and remembered. "So maybe he got delayed on the way," he said.

"With but three days’ ride from here to your eastern provinces, even if his entire court had been packed onto a slow train of animals, they would have been here four days before now. I fear, my exalted lord, that in the face of such facts, we must expect the worst, that they fail to come when asked because they no longer give you their allegiance."

George shook his head. "So what are we going to do, then, just show up with an army and beat them senseless?"

"Only if my lord commands it when we arrive. A demonstration of both your will to exert your rule and your ability to enforce it should bring all the vassal princes to their senses."

"So it’s like showing up with a big club and calling them out, then?"

"As I understand your analogy," said one of the generals as he presented a rolled-up map that he flattened, "it is hoped that taking the field will be enough and that talk will follow. However, I can assure you that we are quite prepared to use force, as you can see by this pla--"

"Which his highness has every confidence in," said Glaucon as he put a hand up to the paper blocking George’s view of it. "Shall I assume that I have your full support in seeing to your interests on this?"

"What?" George asked, perplexed at this.

"After all, my liege, if you were to go into a hostile situation and meet an unfortunate end, then the land would be at a loss for leadership. By having your interests seen to by a trusted representative, you can exert your will with no danger to your person."

"No you don’t," George blurted out. "No bloody way!"

Glaucon’s surprise was quickly masked by a light smile. "My lord, be reasonable in this matter. It is your safety I am concerned with, after all."

George gulped at the rashness of his actions, and quickly stated, "I’d rather hear it meself from them, thank you. If these blokes are going to be shaken back into line by an army showing up, then my being there won’t put me in danger." Quickly, he added, "And if the army isn’t quite enough for them, the fact that I’m with ‘em should show we mean business, eh Unc?"

Glaucon’s smile seemed strained as he pointed out, "My exalted lord, as you have not gone on campaign before, thanks to the leadership in the field that both I and your late father have demonstrated in bringing peace from our neighbors, would it not make sense that an experienced field leader such as myself is the best choice for wielding your armies for you?"

"And if I keep giving them to you, how am I ever going to get that chance? Besides, you can serve me in the field the way you do ‘ere, keep me from bollixing it all up. So it is commanded, so it shall be done."

George noted the hesitancy in Glaucon’s reactions to his making it a command, compared with his generals’ quick salute. "As you wish, my lord," he said as he started to turn, "we shall be prepared for the morning."

James Ryan has been on the verge of actually being recognized as a writer in the past; who knows, someday it may happen.... His work has appeared in such places as Dragon magazine, Lacunae, the Urbanite, the New York Times, and some of the better men's room walls across the state of New York. Until he gets the chance to follow the program for disenfranchised neurotic writers, he's doing the regular job and grad school schtick. His wife Susan and son Jamie just nod and smile when he starts to rant, which, all said, makes things that much easier.