A Mosaic of Wings

by Kimberly Duffy

  “I won’t tell you that,” she said.

  “I made a vow to Yellamma I plan to keep,” Muruga snarled. “I will not allow a foreign woman to be the scourge of my family.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your family. I only want to protect Sita.”

  Muruga gave a sharp shake of his head. “That will hurt my family. You cannot break a vow to the goddess. My son will suffer.”

  For weeks, Nora had harbored anger toward this man. How could he value having a son over the well-being of his daughter? How could he deliver her into the hands of those who would abuse her? But now she saw that he didn’t deserve her anger, but her compassion. He was trapped serving hundreds of gods who would never be appeased. Gods who demanded he give up what he should treasure.

  “Muruga, I don’t believe that to be true, but I know you do, and I’m sorry for it. Sita asked for my help. I didn’t force her away against her will. I won’t tell you where she is.”

  He snapped a short command, and a man in a dhoti, his wiry body attesting to a life of hard physical labor, stepped out from behind a tree. He approached them, and Nora pressed her face against Owen’s back. He loomed over the man, and Nora was glad college wrestling had made him strong.

  “Step back, Nora,” Owen said over his shoulder.

  She flew to a jackfruit tree, heavy with fruit and clinging to the side of the slope, and gripped the smooth trunk.

  Owen held his arms wide and crouched. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  The man circling him grinned, revealing a patchy smile.

  Muruga shook his head. “She invited trouble when she took my daughter. I will make her return Sita so I can fulfill my vow.”

  Because Owen still faced off with the first Indian man, he didn’t see Muruga motioning toward the tree line. Another man, this one larger than the first, darted toward Owen’s back, hands lifted.

  “Owen, watch out!” Nora’s shout came too late.

  The other man wrapped his arms around Owen and took him to the ground. Together they wrestled for a moment, Owen quickly gaining dominance, until Muruga snapped something at the first man, bringing him forward to slam a fist into Owen’s head.

  Owen groaned, and his eyes rolled as his head snapped backward. He slipped from his place atop the second man and slumped to the ground.

  Nora shrieked, and her heart jumped to her throat. “Stop! Don’t hurt him.” She fisted her hands, and her nails bit into the tender flesh of her palms.

  The two men continued to pound at Owen as Muruga stalked toward her, his jaw clenched. She rounded the tree and wrapped her hands around a bumpy jackfruit the size of a small dog. Pulling and twisting, she yanked it from the trunk and hefted it to her chest.

  When Muruga stood before her, she lifted it above her head. “Don’t come any closer. I will hurt you.”

  He held up his hands. “I’m not an unreasonable man. I only want my daughter back. If you tell me where she is, I won’t hurt you.”

  The fruit weighed heavy in Nora’s hands, which had grown slick with nervous sweat. She saw no way out of her situation. Always, there had been a way out.

  Except once. She could never escape her father’s death.

  The sick sound of fists against flesh stopped, and then there was nothing but the sound of chorusing cicadas, oblivious to the violence being committed in their chapel. Nora waited to hear Owen’s shout, but she only heard their attackers’ heavy breathing. A smile twisted Muruga’s mouth. She whimpered, knowing she was again responsible for the injury of a man she cared for.

  “Owen,” she choked out.

  She heard him struggle against his captors. “Let me go. Nora!”

  Thank you, God. Relief, cold and welcome, forced her attention back to Muruga. She rotated the fruit in her hands and hurled it at him. He ducked, but not in time to avoid its impact against his face.

  Nora twisted another fruit from the tree. “I won’t tell you where Sita is.”

  Muruga brought his hand to his cheek and said something that sounded like a curse, then ran toward her. She tossed the second fruit at him, but he lowered his head and rammed into her stomach.

  All the air in Nora’s lungs whooshed from her lips, and she fell to her back, wheezing and staring at the stars sprayed across the sky like diamonds.

  Muruga stood over her. “Where is my daughter?”

  She closed her eyes and rolled onto her stomach. Rising to her knees, she coughed. All I wanted to do was study insects.

  His kick came fast and hard, and pain exploded across Nora’s rib cage. Too shocked to scream, she fell to the grass and curled into a ball.

  Muruga crouched beside her and, fisting her chignon, yanked her head back. “Where is my daughter?”

  “I can’t let you give her to Yellamma.”

  “Why? This isn’t your concern. You are a foreigner. A Christian.”

  He sounded so reasonable. His words sensible. And what she’d done—hiding an Indian girl from her family and probably ruining her own career in the process—wasn’t sensible. It was irrational.

  But she knew God had her in India for this moment. For this reason. She was called to honor Him in her decisions.

  And so was Sita. She was His. She didn’t belong to Muruga any more than Nora belonged to Lucius. And because Nora wouldn’t allow Lucius to dictate her life, she couldn’t allow Muruga to dictate Sita’s.

  “So is Sita,” Nora said.

  Muruga shook her head, and Nora’s throat burned. “What?”

  “Sita is a Christian. She does not want to be given to another god.”

  Fire leapt into Muruga’s eyes, and they glittered like obsidian. Malevolence, thick with fury, shadowed his face. He released his hold on her hair and growled. “You will regret this, and I will find her.”

  With a shout, he left her, and Nora listened to the men trample back through the trees, the soft grass cradling her bruised face and broken heart.

  Owen!

  She forced herself to stand, wincing and clutching her side. Picking her way across the grass, she fell to her knees near Owen’s crumpled form. She took his wrist, and his pulse beat an already familiar song against her fingertips.

  “Owen?”

  He groaned. The moon slipped from behind a cloud, illuminating his battered face. A tear slipped an unwelcome trail down her cheek, and she impatiently brushed it away. Of all the times to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  He opened his eyes. “I’m fine.” He lifted a finger to her cheek and caught a tear, bringing it to his split lip. “I’ve had worse at wrestling meets.”

  Owen struggled to sit up, and Nora supported his back, crying out when his weight proved too much for her bruised rib.

  He turned alarmed eyes on her. “What’s wrong? Did he hurt you?”

  Nora’s throat grew thick with the tears she refused to allow, and she coughed. Inhaling sharply, she pressed her hand against her side.

  His jaw tightened. “I’m going to find him and—”

  Her hands went clammy, and her legs began to shake. “I’m okay. Please don’t follow him. He’s already hurt you enough for my sake.” She buried her head in her hands and yanked her hair free from what remained of the chignon. “I always do this.”

  “You’re always attacked by vigilante bands of Indian boxers?”

  She sniffed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I always get myself into situations that end up hurting someone I love.”

  Nora’s breath stopped, and she bit her lip.

  “You love me?” Owen repeated. “You love me.”

  She heard the wonder in his words. And the joy, which seemed so incongruous with their broken bodies and wounded spirits. She whispered, “I do love you.”

  He laughed, a rumble that began in his chest and shook her head off his shoulder. “Oh, ow. That hurts.” Then he laughed again. And kissed her. “I’ve loved you since that cockroach crawled up your skirt and I saw your humanity.”

&nbs
p; Nora’s heart leapt. “That was years ago.”

  He kissed her again.

  And the cicadas sang.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  The mile-long walk back down the hill took them an hour. They limped along the trail, yelping and groaning and holding back coughs.

  But they talked. And they held hands. They listened to the muffled thump of their feet against the leaf-scattered road and pressed their shoulders together when pain sliced through their ribs.

  When they reached the jatka, the vandi karar stared at them and said something in Tamil that sounded concerned. Owen convinced him to help Nora climb in and take them back to camp.

  The driver set a plodding pace, and Nora laid her head against Owen’s shoulder and allowed her eyes to close, the cool night air kissing the abrasions on her face.

  After they passed through the shola, Owen stiffened, and Nora sat up straight. In the bright moonlight, she saw him leaning out the window. “What’s wrong?”

  “Something isn’t right. Do you smell that?”

  She sniffed, catching the tickle of something familiar. Shouts, angry and persistent, drew their attention. Nora leaned out the other window, hitching a breath against the sharp pain searing her side. They were nearly to camp. So close she could see the fire leaping.

  She blinked, trying to make sense of the sight. The fire was large. Much too grand for their camp. It leapt and grew, ravenous. And against the backdrop of that orange blaze, three men darted away from camp and dashed toward the trees.

  A sudden flash of flames and insect wings and a man gone mad spiraled through Nora’s mind and sent a snake of dread into her belly. “My work.”

  The vandi karar shouted something, and the cart drew to a halt. “Fire!” he said and yanked open Nora’s door.

  She ignored his hand and tore away on nearly numb legs, crashing through the brush and thigh-high grass, Owen at her heels. Pain, sharp and demanding, crushed her torso, but she forced her breaths to continue and pushed forward. Thorned branches snagged her gown, pulling her back and hindering her progress, and the uneven ground seemed to roil beneath her feet, as though India sought to punish her for stealing one of Yellamma’s daughters.

  The smoke affected her before the fire did, and she covered her mouth and nose with her arm. But as soon as she reached the camp’s perimeter, the heat from the scattered fires smashed against her. She made for her tent, the biggest inferno by far.

  “Nora, don’t,” Owen called, not far behind her. “It’s not safe.”

  Frederic and the other men rushed around the cabin and their tents in nightshirts, tugging crates, jars, and papers into the open. Their shouts were nearly drowned out by the crackling of flames and popping of wood. Leonard whipped past her, his arms around two clacking water jugs.

  Nora hunched over and clenched her knees as she coughed the smoke from her lungs.

  Owen grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Get out of here. I’ll try to save your work.”

  But she jerked herself free and dove toward her tent. She cried out at the pain that slashed her side and heard Owen curse behind her.

  “Help us in the cabin, Owen,” Frederic called. “Nora, get out of camp before you’re hurt.”

  She didn’t wait to see what Owen did. Burning sheets of canvas flapped around the tent entrance. She waited a few counts, until a blast of air pushed the material away, puffing steaming smoke into her face, and she ducked beneath the cross beam.

  Stinging tears seared her eyes, and she captured her breath. A roar pummeled her ears. She couldn’t see or hear or feel.

  Get to the trunk. Get your butterfly and notebook.

  Blistering pain seared the back of her neck, and she strangled on a scream as she fell to her knees. And then it wasn’t about insects or validation or the scholarship, but about life. Trapped in a furnace intent on devouring her, Nora inhaled the final gasps of clean air near the ground. Please . . .

  Strong arms grabbed and lifted, and then she was lying on her back, the decomposing leaves beneath her tearing at burned skin. She blinked away the curtain fogging her vision and stared at the spangled sky as the men fought to save their year of work and research.

  Leonard knelt beside her. “Nora? Nora, are you all right?”

  She managed a nod and a shuddering sigh.

  “Just lie here. I don’t want to have to worry about you, so stay put.” His words were harsh. Desperate. But the hand that touched her forehead was as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss.

  Everything was lost. All her work. Her only chance at redemption.

  But life . . .

  She forced herself to her feet, rubbed away the smoke itching her eyes, and stepped toward the men. Which way? What was most important? They had doused the flames licking at the cabin and had moved on to their tents. Only hers had been consumed.

  “What can I do?” she shouted.

  Leonard whirled, his face streaked with soot and deep lines of worry. “Stay put!”

  The force of his command shoved her back to her spot of safety. She would only get in the way. Cause worry. Mangle everything.

  She lay back on the ground and curled onto her side to ease the pressure against her burns. Wrapping her arms around her head, she blocked out the sound and sight of destruction and drifted into a hazy place of charred dreams and fractured possibilities.

  When an early morning shower cleared away the drifting smoke, Nora came fully to and clenched fistfuls of earth. The drizzle did nothing to ease the waves of pain crawling across her neck in cyclical attacks. It did nothing to clear the poison from her chest or ash from her hair. It did nothing to ease the despair choking her.

  But it did bring her Owen, exhausted from his battle, limping and clutching his ribs. He curled on the ground around her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pressed a kiss above her burn.

  “My love.”

  His whisper did for her what the rain couldn’t. It soothed all the parched, scorched places and showered her in healing.

  Only Nora’s tent was fully destroyed. Leaping flames had done their work on the cabin, leaving the structure unusable, but the men had managed to pull its contents to safety before they were damaged. The attack had been purposeful and targeted.

  Soft petals of pink light unfurled above the hills, promising an end to night and fire and devastation. But Nora stared blankly at the men picking through the crates, assessing the loss and damage, and submitted to Pallavi’s archaic ministrations. She sucked a breath through her teeth when Pallavi squeezed a tea bag over her burn.

  “It is good and will steal the heat from you.” Pallavi tsked. “Muttaa ponnu. What made you go into your tent?”

  “Everything important was in there. What did you just say to me?”

  Owen walked by, a dazed expression slackening his features. He still wore his suit from the party, though it was now torn in places and crusted in blood and soot. He paused, swiveled, and strode toward where he’d set up his butterfly collection. She didn’t know how they’d fared. Had all of his work been destroyed? Had all the waiting and watching been for nothing? She sighed and tore her gaze from him, not wanting to see dejection slump his shoulders.

  “Stupid girl, everything important is out here,” Pallavi said, squeezing Nora’s chin between her gnarled fingers and forcing her head in Owen’s direction.

  Nora watched as he lifted one of the jars and clutched it to his chest. Her throat closed and she nodded, but her heart still weighed heavy in her chest. Yes, Owen was more important than her research, and he was more important than any discovery, but she couldn’t help the devastation that squeezed the energy and fight from her.

  Pallavi pushed Nora’s hair over her shoulder and swiped a thick layer of honey over the burn. When Pallavi finished, Nora trudged across the scarred earth and stood over the men clustered around a basket of jarred and mounted specimens.

  “Have you lost much?” she asked.

  Leonard shook his h
ead. “No, thank heavens. Most of the devastation was your tent. We managed to hear the flames before they destroyed the work cabin.”

  “Were my illustrations spared?”

  “Yes.” He patted the stack beside him.

  That was a blessing, at least. She couldn’t imagine doing all that work again.

  Frederic stood, his face as pale as the few white spots peeking through the smears of ash on his nightshirt. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and he dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “I knew something like this would happen when you refused to give up the girl’s whereabouts. I told you to stay out of cultural issues. You have no understanding of them.”

  The other three men exchanged nervous glances.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Frederic blinked—whether at her apology or because she didn’t give an argument, she didn’t know. She’d rarely offered the one, and too quickly offered the other. But weariness had consumed her, and she had no strength left to debate. She shrugged, even that slight movement sending waves of pain and exhaustion through her.

  “We are only allowed to be here by the goodwill of the people. You’ve ruined that for us.” Frederic rubbed his upper arms. “Will you please return Sita to her father?”

  Nora dropped her head and toed the dirt. He couldn’t ask that of her. Especially after Muruga’s brutal attack. “He assaulted us—Owen and me.” She looked at Frederic. “How can I send her back to him? What would he do to her?”

  Frederic’s eyes roved her face, and he stilled. Nora knew that beneath the grime, she wore bruises and abrasions. His shoulders fell, and his hands dangled at his sides. He closed his eyes.

  Owen drew up beside her, his hand a reassuring pressure on the small of her back. He leaned down and whispered, “One of them hatched. It’s a Castalius rosimon.”

  A smile split Nora’s cracked lips, pushing painfully against a small burn above her mouth. She took the jar Owen held toward her and lifted it. A small white butterfly, black spots scattered across its wings, dangled from a twig, shriveled and shaking as it dried its wings after its transformation. Despite the attack, the fire, and the devastation, it had survived.