by Indra Das
“Don’t!” I whispered. “Don’t you dare touch me, if you value your own life. Don’t you realize where we are?”
He didn’t seem to care where we were, but lucky for him no one seemed to have seen him grab me, or didn’t care enough yet, considering his somewhat imposing looks (despite the face of a boy just growing into a man). But he didn’t try to touch me again, instead nodding to himself.
“I knew it. I was right. It is you. His beloved bitch.”
“Beloved? Who the fuck do you think you’re calling a bitch?”
He gave me a wide grin, a little startled. He licked his teeth.
“Force of habit. Fenrir’s not his name, but I know who you’re talking about, little girl.”
“You came in with him, to the caravanserai. In Katra Jogidas.”
“Yes. He was talking to you. I didn’t quite remember what you looked like. But your smell, yes. It stands out even here. It was on Fenrir, almost, became part of his scent. I couldn’t understand it at first, fool that I am.”
I ignored these comments, though they only sharpened the urge to move away from him, as far as I could, to never see any of these three men from what ungodly parts of Europe I don’t know, these three men who had suddenly come into my life and broken it. I cleared my throat.
“What’s his name, if not Fen-eer?”
“I don’t know. He never told us.”
“In your journeys he never told you his name?”
“He told us a name. He doesn’t know my name, either. He just knows a name. Trust him to tell you his name’s Fenrir. Fancies himself a god. At least I think that was a god. From one of his stories about his old land. Nostalgic till the end, with his moping.”
“You don’t seem to like him very much, for one who’s traveled so far with him.”
His entire body flinched for a second and I thought he was about to hit me, but his arms didn’t move from his sides. I stepped back, keeping my eyes on his now livid face. To my shock, there seemed tears about to spill from his eyes.
“What insight is this, coming from a human whore who fucked him once?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t do that,” I said in a broken voice, cursing myself for sounding so like the little girl he repeatedly called me.
“That’s not what he said. Are you calling him a liar, little whore?” I felt the spray of his spit on my face as he said whore, and I clenched my jaw in revulsion, going against all my instincts and not walking very fast in the opposite direction. I knew that would be the best way to weaken myself in front of this man.
“He’s many things, that cowardly cunt, but he’s not a liar. Not to me, anyway,” he said with a petulance that startled me, though he seemed less angry now that I’d stood my ground. I let myself speak as he panted.
“I didn’t choose to lie with him. That’s what I meant. And please lower your voice, unless you want to be at the sorry end of a mob.”
“I could rip any of these people apart one at a time or all together, if it came to that, so don’t worry about me,” he said, his eyes still watery, but his mouth smiling. I felt goose bumps crawl under my clothes. “Tell me something, little bitch. Why do you still stand here listening to me? You don’t like me very much, I can tell.”
“I’m looking for your friend, whatever his name is. That is the only reason I’m standing here. You’re no more pleasant than he was, if a little more honest about how base you are. Whatever tribe you both belong to, it is a shameful one.”
“I don’t know what he told you, but we don’t come from the same tribe.”
“He didn’t tell me anything that made sense.”
“That sounds like him, to be sure. Shall we go somewhere we can talk properly? Where do you take the men?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Do you think me such a fool, even after what your friend did?”
He laughed at this, shaking his head. “Just because Fenrir had a hard-on for you doesn’t mean everyone else does, too. Trust me. I have no desire to fuck you or any other human. The very thought sickens me.”
I stifled a sudden rage that blossomed in me, making me blush. I knew that he probably took that to be shame. But it was anger at this notion, that I thought myself desirable to all and sundry because his friend deigned to rape me. I felt like whipping out my blade and stabbing him, but I didn’t. Doing so would probably end with me executed for a mad whore. Or disarmed and gutted by this boyish-looking but undoubtedly dangerous white man.
“Well, little boy,” I said through my teeth, giving myself no time to regret my sharper tone, since I was already quite scared. “Your older friend has shown me that trust isn’t something I should be handing out to savage-looking white men, so forgive me for not taking your word that you don’t take after his habits. There’s no need to go anywhere. Just tell me where he is and we can part ways.”
I saw his jaw jump. Again, he began panting, soft and quick. It was such a wrong thing, to see a man do that standing in one place, without physical exertion to tire him to heavy breathing. I could feel my palms sweating, eager for the handle of my blade. He opened his mouth, spoke in a language I couldn’t understand, paused, and then spoke again in Pashto, so low that I almost couldn’t hear him.
“Why do you seek Fenrir? Do you love him?”
“No,” I snapped, not only because I certainly didn’t feel anything approaching even the nether regions of love or like for Fenrir, but also because, for whatever reason, it was clearly the safest thing for me to let this man know this.
The panting ceased. He looked relieved. I, too, was relieved.
“He’s not a coward, you know. I didn’t mean to say that,” he said, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. Next you’re going to say he’s not a cunt, either, I felt like saying, but I didn’t push my luck. “He is afraid of many, many things, little one. But he is not a coward.”
“You make as little sense as he does. Perhaps it’s your dead men’s Pashto that makes you all sound like madmen to me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “He told you a few things, did he?”
“As I said, nothing that made any sense to me.” I decided not to tell him about the vision Fenrir had given me.
“Fenrir isn’t mad, as you seem to think he is. He may have some madness in him, as may we all. But the things he told you can be explained. And I can track him, so you may talk to him about whatever it is.”
“So you can help me find your friend. What do you want from me, if not what Fenrir wanted.”
He squinted. “Fenrir has left Mumtazabad. We didn’t part on the best of terms. I shouldn’t have let him leave. I have my own reasons, and I’m going after him. You can either come with me or not. I don’t want anything in return.”
“You expect me to believe that you’re doing me a kindness?”
“I expect nothing. To be honest, I didn’t even expect to find you. I wasn’t looking for you. But I can help you find Fenrir. I find his interest in you, well, interesting. It is not the way of our tribes to mingle with your kind. I’m curious. I want to see him answer to you, in whatever way he may.”
“My kind. You’re not Christians. But your tribes don’t mingle with Muslims?”
“Never mind that. I’m going to set out to look for him tomorrow morning.”
“Is that it? Because I’m done talking to you for today.” I took a step backward, as if to show him, like a wild dog, that I had no wish to engage with him further.
He peered at me from under a frown and spit copiously at my feet. Then, suddenly, he crossed himself. “I’m sorry if I have frightened you on this day.”
I had to stop myself from laughing in surprise at this shocking change, and the odd gesture. “You haven’t,” I lied, despite the fact that he looked, in that moment, so very young and soft, so confused, with his long hair and large, moist eyes.
“You’ve got spunk, for a little human girl. I can see that’s why Fenrir chose you. If you want to settle whatever debts or matters you have with
Fenrir, then be at the Northern Gate tomorrow. If you’re not there by the time dawn becomes morning, I leave. You’ll never see me again, nor Fenrir. You have the night to make your choice. Does that sound fair?”
I nodded. He sniffed, returned my nod, and turned away with a swirl of his cloak, raising a cloud of dust that made my nostrils itch. Even through the perfumes of the bazaar, his smell clung to the wake of dust, and I felt a clammy sweat form under my headscarf as I remembered Fenrir’s stench.
* * *
* The Perfume Market.
Now, I know you’ll judge me for actually going to the Northern Gate at dawn the next day, my possessions gathered and my will strong. It seems the most stupid and reckless thing I could have chosen to do. And it was. But you have to understand, the possibility that Fenrir’s child was growing inside me horrified me more than the possibility of being attacked by his fellow devil from Europe. I had my knife, and I decided when I set out into the crisp cold of this new day that if this one tried what Fenrir had, I’d rather die defending myself than give myself to his whims. If my last breaths were taken while cutting a rapist open, I might just allow myself to slip into death content. I know that times have changed since, that this might seem rather extreme, that people might value their lives a little more now than they did back then.
To be clear, it’s not that I wanted to die. I didn’t, especially not violently at the hands of a mad white prophet, and that not even a Christian one (I don’t know if I ever had a conception of white men who weren’t Christians before I met Fenrir). At least that would have made some sense, what with the stories of the Crusades and all that. No. I didn’t want to die, but I was prepared to. I had no one to look to or leave behind—no family left, and no friends or companions. I was used to living day-to-day, surviving by myself and myself only. I’d done so for years. I simply decided, that morning, that if I found myself with no more days to have to survive by myself, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to me. It would be quite terrible, but not the worst.
Was I scared? Of course I was. But I was ready to see this through to its end, though I had no idea what that end was. I was compelled by Fenrir’s prophecy. Compelled not to accept it, but to chase him to the ends of the earth, and demand that he use whatever ungodly power he had to take back this new destiny he’d written into my body and mind, to erase it from me like ink from parchment. If he was truly anything like a djinn—like the ones the Fisherman and Al’ ad-Din met and bargained with—there was a chance he could take back the woe he’d given me. And if he couldn’t—then I didn’t know. I could always demand more money from his endless fardels. Or his life, even if it meant ending my own.
Most important, I would face him prepared this time.
So it came, the time to leave Mumtazabad, with the companion of my rapist.
“So I know you and your lot don’t seem to give much worth to names, but if we’re to travel with each other I need to call you something.”
“Hm. Gévaudan. Call me that.”
“Jevah-dan?”
“As you wish. And what’s your name?”
“Cyrah.”
I tightened my scarf and shawl around me against the morning chill, wishing I had Gévaudan’s furs and cloak instead. He was not in a talkative mood, and we had left Mumtazabad in near silence. I’m sure I saw something like relief cross his face when he saw me at the gate, though. It made me uneasy to see that—he did care whether or not I accompanied him, and I didn’t know why.
“So how does this work, Jevah-dan? I’m not just going to follow you blindly, you know. Where are we going? How do you intend to find Fen-eer?”
“I told you, I’m good at tracking. We all are. So I’m going to the place where I last saw him, and I’m going to pick up his scent from there. Depending on how careful he’s been, it might work. It hasn’t rained, and the weather’s been cool, so his spoor should linger.”
I remembered how Fenrir had taken my hair and come back at night.
“Wait. Would a bit of his blood help? I spilled some, on my dupatta.” I decided not to tell him about the stained knife.
“You spilled Fenrir’s blood?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pathetic. Pathetic.” He thought about this for a while, grimacing all the while. Then, becoming aware that I was watching him, he nodded.
“Yes, that would help. Give it to me.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated, then turned away from him to loosen the bundle I had slung on my shoulder, and pulled out the dupatta. I didn’t want to just hand him a piece of my clothing, since I was wearing the only other dupatta I had to live with, so I bent over and cut a bloodstained portion of the cloth out with my blade. I heard him pacing about, but he didn’t ask what I was doing. It left a ragged hole in the dupatta, and that hurt a bit. But I could mend it later.
I put the blade away and turned back to Gévaudan, holding out the stained piece of fabric. He glowered at me and took it.
“Are you angry that I cut him because he’s your friend?”
“No,” he grunted, looking at the dark-brown spots on the rag. Then he held it up to his face as if he were blowing his nose into it, and began taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. I looked away quickly, feeling as if I’d happened upon something private and vulgar. He did this for an entire minute or so before shoving the rag somewhere under his cloak.
“Let’s go,” he said, and strode forward.
—
We passed through the gardens that Shah Jahan had planted around the banks of the Yamuna to delight the eyes of visitors to his wondrous wife’s tomb. I was only just able to keep up with Gévaudan as he wove in and out of the morning mist, which the numerous fruit and cypress trees had gathered under their eaves like a damp bounty. I trampled many a rose and daffodil on the way, which I admit gave me some pleasure despite my trepidation (as a child I used to love running through flowers, snapping crisp green stems and kicking petals into the air). I was also very nervous we would get caught, as I didn’t know if we were even allowed in the gardens. I had never been in them before. It was an impressive sight to pass through, though Mumtaz Mahal’s incomplete tomb wasn’t visible because of the mist. I’ve heard that these emperors’ charbaghs*1 are meant to give us an idea of what Paradise looks like, and though this one wasn’t finished it already looked like it could be a nice enough place to spend a while in, if not an eternity.
I could hear the faraway calls of the workmen from beyond the trees, and each time I did, I would duck low, wondering if we’d be caught as trespassers. Once or twice I fell straight into the great mounds of cold earth dug up between the trees (for more trees and flower beds, I assume). To my surprise, Gévaudan came running back whenever this happened to help me up with such strength and speed that I barely had enough time to shrug him off and tell him I needed no help.
By the time the sun was two fingers above the mist-smudged horizon (we had left Mumtazabad before it emerged) and burning bright enough to call the day a day, the tomb was visible beyond the foliage, looking half there in the wet and sunlit air. Indeed, it was only half there, its ivory-white façades and minarets gaping and toothless, yet to be finished. The scaffolding was already crawling with workers.
As I followed Gévaudan, I thought we were heading straight for the tomb. But we were heading northeast, as I realized when the ghostly vision of the mausoleum in the distance began orienting itself to our left. By the time we reached the banks of the Yamuna I was feeling warm under my shawl. The sun had crawled up another inch and set the mist aflame across the dark line of the earth, so that it looked like there was a fire blazing all across the distant horizon. The tomb was a mile or two down the riverbank we stood on. Across the river I could see nothing but muddy flatlands and forested wilderness.
“We have to cross the river,” Gévaudan said.
“We can keep going to the next bridge.”
“It’ll take
too long. We’re crossing here. The campsite where I was last with Fenrir is a straight line from here, beyond the other bank.”
“We can’t just cross here. I can’t. It’s too cold, and deep!”
“I’ll carry you on my back. Sit on my shoulders, and I’ll swim us across.”
“That’s ridiculous. You can’t swim with me on your shoulders. The Yamuna isn’t some shallow stream. We’ll sink like stones.”
“You needn’t tell me what I can or can’t do, little girl.”
“Cyrah. I’m not a little girl.”
“Just get on my back, Cyrah. There are lands north of here where it’s so cold that this river would be frozen to white ice, and we could just walk over it. So stop your whining. This is weak winter. If I begin to sink you can jump off and swim back to shore. It won’t kill you. And I won’t sink.”
He squatted and patted his shoulders, gazing at me dolefully. Tired already, I decided I couldn’t be bothered to argue. There were far worse dangers possible in this journey than taking a dip in the Yamuna.
Grimacing, I sat on his back as if he were a camel, legs on either side of his neck. I flinched when he put his hands around my ankles to steady me as he got up. But they didn’t move up any farther. If he was at all bothered by me sitting on his back, he didn’t show it. His gait didn’t even change, as if my weight made no impression on him. I wasn’t the heaviest woman, certainly, but I felt like I was made of nothing but straw and air, sitting on his shoulders.
He waded straight into the Yamuna without hesitating. I gasped as my feet dipped into the water. Gévaudan made no sound, cutting across the water with the ease of a crocodile. There was a gut-lurching moment when his entire body dipped and the water lapped up to my knees, and I swore to say that I’d been right to worry, but it was just the point at which his feet left the riverbed and he began to swim. Though my legs got soaked, he stayed true to his promise and didn’t sink us both, somehow managing to swim while still balancing me on his shoulders. I held my breath for no real reason as he carried me over, the world gone quiet as I swayed on this man, his wet hair tickling my thighs. My feet had gone cold and numb in the water even though its ripples glowed in the sunrise as if the Yamuna were a river of liquid fire, like those that run from broken mountains in far-off lands. I don’t know how long the crossing took. It felt like hours that I sat on Gévaudan’s back, listening to the huff of his breath, my thighs aching to prevent myself from falling off, watching the wheeling patterns of ducks skimming the river before flying off into the haze.