In the beginning of the sacred rite, Agni, the fire god, was born in an instant and, with his radiance, measured out the sacrifice. He became the leader of the gods, guiding them to partake of the offerings made with the utterance of svāhā. At the command of the Hotṛ priest, and through words spoken in truth, the gods were invited to share in the sacrifice. Varuṇa, the wise deity who dwells in the heavens, bestowed upon the people a powerful antidote against poison. With his potent words, he ensured that any poison—whether unearthed, still hidden, or clinging to the root—would wither away, dried up even in the desert, bringing relief and safety. The speaker then turned to the poison itself, declaring mastery over it: whatever poison remained, waterless or rooted, he seized its essence—its middle, highest, and lowest sap—so that it would not bring harm out of fear. His own voice thundered like the sky, strong and commanding, driving away all harm. Together with his people, he seized the very sap of darkness, calling for the sun to rise and banish the night, bringing light from gloom. In a contest of power, he struck at the poison with his own, eye against eye, poison against poison. He commanded the serpent, “Die, do not live; let the poison return to you.” He called out to all the serpents—the dark, the spotted, the brown, the black—commanding these false ones not to linger near his companion, not to stand by or speak, but to depart and let the poison dissolve. He loosened the wrath of the black ones, the brown ones, and the waterless ones, the mighty and powerful, as easily as a bowstring slips from a bow or a chariot is freed from its yoke. He declared knowledge of all their kin—the binder and unbinder, father and mother—by every means, and challenged them: “What will you do?” He revealed the source of all leprous sores—the daughter of Urugūlā, born of the Dāsi Siknī—who bore the sap and poison of these afflictions. Even the dog, dwelling near the mountain, had spoken of the ears, and among all things dug up, the poison with the most sap was found. He identified the herb Tābuva, declaring it to be truly Tābuva, not another, and with it, he rendered the poison sapless. Similarly, with Tastuva, he nullified the poison, affirming its true name and power. The tale continued with the discovery of a potent, sharp herb: the eagle found it, and the boar dug it up for humankind. This herb was invoked to strike down the one who harms, to destroy all wrongs, whether done or yet to be done. It was called upon to defeat sorcerers and all who attacked, to cut away sorcery as the skin is stripped from a spotted deer, and to release it as a jewel is freed from its setting. The sorcerer was urged to take hold of his own sorcery and lead it away, placing it before the people so that the harm would rebound upon its maker. The oaths and spells of the sorcerer were called to fall back upon him, returning smoothly like a chariot on its path. Whether the harm was wrought by man or woman, the sorcery was to be led back to its source, as a horse is guided by its caller. No matter if the sorcery was made by gods or men, it was now to be returned, with Indra as a powerful ally. Agni, destroyer in battle, was invoked to overcome all conflicts, and through counteraction, the sorcery was reclaimed from the sorcerer. The weapon against sorcery was summoned, not for harm, but for protection, to strike down the one who performed evil deeds. The sorcery was commanded to return to its maker, as a son returns to his father, a servant to his master, a captive to his bonds. It was to go back as a wild elephant returns to the forest, as a doe to her herd. The swiftest arrow from heaven and earth was called to seek out the sorcerer, letting the sorcery seize him as a hunter catches his prey. As fire attacks a foe, as water flows to its destination, as a chariot rolls smoothly, so was the sorcery to find its way back to its source. The speaker then praised the herbs, calling upon their defenders—one and ten, two and twenty, three and thirty, four and forty, five and fifty, six and sixty, seven and seventy—each time asking the herb, born and protected by truth, to make sweet the honey and the honey-bearer. With each greater number, up to a hundred and a thousand, he invoked the utterers of the herb, seeking honey and the sweetness of truth. Finally, the age of the herb was honored: if it was one-year-old, it was full of juice; if two-year-old, still full of juice; if three or four years old, it remained rich with sap. Thus, the power of truth, the protection of the gods, and the strength of nature’s remedies were all brought together to shield, heal, and restore, ensuring that harm was turned away and sweetness prevailed.