“That’s nice.” Sakhi reached for a heavy wool shawl that lay atop the piled blankets and pulled it tight around her shoulders. Dhara put a hand to Sakhi’s cheek. It felt like tiny sparks borne on the wind. Distant laughter floated down the passageway from the hall, where Atimaya and her guests were finishing their meal.
“Is that Jagai I hear laughing? He never cracks a smile.”
“Bhallika makes everyone laugh, even Ghosha.”
“No!” Dhara put a hand to her mouth in mock surprise.
“Yes.” Sakhi wiped away her tears and smiled. “Even Ghosha is a little smitten. Everyone is! He’s so clever. And handsome. He’s like a man from my dreams.” All of a sudden the dream of the man riding away on horseback came back to her. Was the hooded figure Bhallika?
From down the hall, Atimaya’s high laugh rang out over Jagai’s rumbling low one. The others joined in. When the laughter died there was some low conversation, then Jagai’s commanding voice rang out. “We’d best get going, Karna.”
“Hurry. I want to see this Bhallika before he leaves.” Dhara said with a wicked grin.
“I don’t think… ”
“Oh, come on, Sakhi. We’ll wait until it gets quiet, and sneak out the front.”
Again, against her better judgment, Sakhi was tightening her shawl and stepping on the cold stone floor. They tiptoed out into the passageway. Atimaya must have already blown out the oil lamps and gone to bed. There wasn’t any light, and it was very quiet.
“We should stay,” Sakhi whispered. “They’ve gone home.”
“There’s an awful draft,” Dhara whispered back, “like someone left the hall door open.”
“That makes no sense,” Sakhi said. It was completely unlike Atimaya to leave the hall unbarred. She should go make sure it was shut.
Dhara floated ahead until they reached the hall. The cold draft made the blankets on the wall sway and flap. The great doors were open. The white peak outside reflected the starlight. It outlined two figures embracing at the doorway.
The taller figure pushed away. The smaller one could only be Atimaya, throwing herself at one of the warriors. Jagai? Karna? Sakhi was disgusted.
“Please,” she said.
“No,” a gruff voice replied. He broke free.
“Bhallika!” Atimaya gave a soft cry and reached up to put her arms around him, reaching her face up to his for a kiss. His head bowed to meet hers.
Sakhi clapped a hand to her mouth. They kissed for a long time. She couldn’t help but watch, her mind desperate to deny what her eyes saw. At last she fled. Dhara followed. “Sakhi, Sakhi.”
“Go away!” She swirled her arms around, shooing insubstantial Dhara away, and threw herself facedown on the blankets. “Why do you make me do these things? I hate you!”
“Sakhi,” Dhara said with a sob.
“I said go!” Sakhi clutched a scratchy blanket to her face to stifle her sobs. Then she threw the blanket aside and sat up. “Dhara!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Dhara, I need you.”
But Dhara was gone.
Sakhi’s head ached when she woke up the next morning. What was a dream? What was real? A man on horseback riding away from her; Dhara floating like a spirit from one of Ghosha’s stories; Atimaya’s laughter in the hall.
Out of all of it, she believed only one thing.
Atimaya and Bhallika were lovers.
The demon lover
Dhara had been a fool to think Mala would be so distracted with her mortar and pestle that she wouldn’t notice her absence. As she was dragged back to the cave and returned to her body, the yogi was waiting.
“You thought you’d fool me? Pretend you were asleep? Stupid, my girl.”
“I… um… ” Dhara was terrified. It was stupid. How could she have thought Mala wouldn’t notice? At least the yogi was not in a red rage.
“Here, drink this.” Mala offered her a steaming cup. “It will strengthen your heart.”
“Is this what you were making?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it for?”
“Drink it.” Mala’s eyes blazed.
Dhara took the cup with shaking hands.
“Hurry. Drink,” Mala urged. The hot potion gave off an odd smell. Dhara took a cautious sip and almost spat it out.
The yogi was watching her closely. “Drink it!”
“But why?”
Red flickered. “Because I tell you.” She took a calming breath. “It will give you interesting visions.”
Dhara took a big swallow and made a face.
“Go on,” Mala urged.
As Dhara raised the cup to her lips again, the yogi emptied the ground seeds and herbs from the mortar into a cloth, tied it, and put it on the shelf with the other pots and sacks of herbs and medicines. As she did so, Dhara let the last two swallows dribble down her chin and quickly wiped her lips with her forearm. When Mala turned back, Dhara showed her the empty cup.
“Good,” Mala said. “I’ve told you, my girl. You don’t know how to use the powers. What possessed you to spy on Atimaya?”
“We weren’t spying.” That was half true. It was hard to talk. Her mouth felt like wool. “I wanted to see Bhallika. Sakhi is in love with him. But my mother is his lover! She’s wicked! She cheats on Father.” She tried to swallow.
Mala said nothing, but watched her carefully.
“How can she… he’s the best man in the village. I don’t think he cares what she does… but I’m ashamed… ” Dhara tried to swallow again. “I hate her for hurting Sakhi… I wanted to make her happy… ”
The yogi glared at her. “Listen, my girl, no one ever ‘makes’ another person happy. You can easily make them hate you, but even when you have good intentions, when you try to bring happiness it can backfire, like tonight.”
But you can so, Dhara was about to say, but nothing came out. Her thick, dry tongue made it impossible to speak. Her eyes were drooping. She slumped against the rock and stared at the images drawn on the opposite wall. Dhara had often studied them—the figures standing on their heads, and the ones with their limbs twisted like braided hemp, or in many other positions—but she had never seen them moving before. Her eyes widened. They danced and wove with each other. Instead of crude stick drawings they became thin, bearded sages with matted hair who danced with voluptuous celestial nymphs while handsome Gandharvas played vina and tabla as only divine musicians could.
She had been drugged.
“Sleep, my girl,” Mala said, stroking her hair.
Dhara’s eyes drooped. She drifted above her sleeping body, conscious but unable to move, perhaps because she hadn’t drunk quite all the potion.
Mala sat by the fire, now and then glancing toward the bearskin door as if expecting someone. She didn’t seem to know that the drug hadn’t taken full effect.
All of a sudden, the yogi sprang to the cave’s mouth and pulled the skin aside.
A huge demon stood outside, wings flapping in the cold wind. The fire flared and revealed red eyes but little else. Dhara tried to flatten her presence against the wall.
It had only two arms. She could fight it if only her body would awaken. Had Mala drugged her to betray her to the demon? Or was this a vision brought on by the potion?
The demon approached. It was very real. It would steal her, take her back to that hell and fight her until she succumbed. Her mind screamed, but her body was inert.
It stood above her, its face shadowed. It was wrapped in a dark cloak like her father Dandapani and his Koli warriors wore when stealing up on a Sakyan patrol. Her mind whirled, frantic to get away, but still her body was a separate and strange thing, not hers at all. The demon reached out a hand and brushed a strand of hair from Dhara’s cheek.
Its touch was tender. She suddenly yearned for the way her father had stroked her hair as he sa
id goodnight, for his sly wink and the smile they shared while watching yet another inept suitor preen for her, for the way he listened quietly to her joys and sorrows.
“She sleeps, my love,” Mala whispered. “The drug is powerful. She will not wake till morning. Come to me.”
So that was it. The demon had not come for her. Relief whirled through her, then fascination, as he turned toward Mala and flung away the cloak. What or who was he? He moved too fast for her to glimpse his face. A thick warrior’s braid divided his bare back, which was broad and scarred by battles and boar hunts, just as her father’s flesh was. It wasn’t a demon. It was—no, it couldn’t be; she couldn’t make out the face; it was a god, it was Shiva, come for Mala. Dhara’s mind reeled.
Mala put her arms around the god’s neck and parted her lips. He seized her mouth with his. They kissed with abandon, their mouths wide, their hands wandering over each other’s bodies. He tore his mouth from hers and sank before her, sucking and biting her breasts, pulling away her clothing, kissing her thighs.
He stood. Mala wrapped one leg around his waist. He loosened his antariya so that it fell to the ground and he lifted Mala slightly, then thrust his loins against hers. Mala groaned. Her face was contorted, her eyes shut, her mouth open. They moaned and panted together.
Dhara hovered above her still body, as hungry to watch the union of the god and his consort and to feel their passion as they were hungry for each other. They coupled standing. They coupled on the antelope skin, the god atop her, the yogi atop him. Their mouths explored each other’s most secret parts in front of Dhara’s transfixed eyes. He mounted Mala like a ram mounting a sheep. Mala moaned and sighed, “My love, my lord,” now commanding, now submissive. In his turn, the being—god or demon—was supplicant and master. All the while, he said nothing and somehow no matter what they did, his face was a blur to Dhara.
They must soon spend themselves and fall into sleep. She would see the face of the Lord of Yoga, but as the lovers’ panting slowed and the fire flickered lower, Dhara floated down, down, down and with a sigh entered her supine flesh once again.
She opened her eyes to morning light and cold air pouring through the flapping bearskin. Mala lay naked on the other side of the fire’s cold ashes, one arm flung wide, one hand resting on her hip, her face half covered with long, matted tresses. She breathed deep and slow, more profoundly asleep than Dhara had ever seen her.
Dhara raised herself on her elbow and thought of the scarred back of Mala’s lover.
It was no demon, no Lord Shiva that had coupled with the yogi last night.
It was her father Dandapani.
Five sons
The sun was hot in the bright blue sky, but where Sakhi hid beneath the hemlocks, mounds of snow speckled with dirt and fallen needles remained, cooling the shadows. Every year the melting white mantle that covered Dhavalagiri’s shoulders turned the rivulet that ran through the village into a rushing stream, and every year the open ground in front of the tall, heavy gates of pine logs turned to impassable deep muck. Even so, almost the whole clan gathered there, ankle deep in mud, to say goodbye to Bhallika, who during his two months in the village had learned everyone’s name, given many valuable gifts to thank the clan for its hospitality, and even earned Jagai’s friendship.
It hurt Sakhi’s eyes to look from the deep shade to the dazzling spring light that was pouring down over the assembled villagers. Bhallika, grinning and joking, slapped Jagai’s back. He mounted his horse, one of two sturdy mountain steeds Dandapani had traded him for several swords that were sharper and stronger than anything the Kolis had ever seen. The chief had also received a crate filled with fine silk, another with metal pots and tools. Bhallika’s peculiar but strong yak would stay in the village until he and the curious little man who guided him over the passes could return to the mysterious land beyond the peaks.
The horses sank halfway to their knees in the dark mess. One was saddled, the other loaded with Bhallika’s goods. As they struggled to lift their hooves, the mud made great sucking sounds. Not so long ago, Sakhi would have wished for the mire to hold the animals fast so he would be forced to stay. Now she wanted him to go. Quickly. She never wanted to see him again.
The weeks since Dhara’s second visit had been torture. Never daring to look at him or Atimaya, trying to pretend she knew nothing. She was certain that Atimaya did not know that Sakhi had seen her and the merchant together, and she was utterly sure she had no idea her daughter had been there, too. Dhara’s ethereal visit was Sakhi’s secret. Never had she imagined in any of their girlish make-believe games that Dhara would really master such a power. She was still angry with her friend, though it wasn’t Dhara’s fault that Atimaya and Bhallika were lovers. If only the powers her friend was mastering could have made the merchant love Sakhi—but the truth was that not even the celestials could tell Kama where to aim his arrows. The love god chooses his own targets.
It was difficult, but after seeing Bhallika with Atimaya that night, Sakhi resisted his shallow flirtations. He tried to look puzzled when she ignored his jokes and winks, but he understood, she was sure. Soon enough he stopped visiting her at her loom, no longer praised her weaving or told bawdy stories that made her giggle and blush. He spent his days among the villagers and his evenings in low, serious conversation with Dandapani, or drinking barley beer with Jagai, or visiting the shaman and his wife at their little hut. Sakhi didn’t know where he slept. It was just as well.
He had not tried to discover what troubled her, not at all. Sakhi didn’t know why she bothered coming to watch his departure, or why she was hiding in the shadows. She was well rid of such a man.
He saluted Dandapani and Jagai, and blew a kiss to old Ghosha, who laughed and shook a finger at him.
No, she didn’t care a bit that he urged his horse through the mud and out the tall gates without looking back. No, she wouldn’t call goodbye. While everyone waved at the departing merchant, she hurried back to the hall, avoiding the main path so no one would see her tears. At the thick doors that were carved with the god Indra’s diamond-bladed weapon, she yanked off her muddy leather slippers and ran to Dhara’s old room on light, bare feet, her hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs.
As she passed the door to Atimaya’s chamber, the chief’s wife pulled aside the wool curtain. Their eyes met.
Sakhi dropped her hand. “I hate you,” she burst out.
Atimaya jumped back as if slapped.
Sakhi spat the words again. “I hate you.” She dashed to her room and threw herself on the piled blankets. Atimaya did not follow her. Strangely, her tears had stopped. She lay quiet for a long time. She should attend to her duties at her loom or go to the kitchen and give orders to the cook, but instead she stretched and gazed out the window at Dhavalagiri.
She didn’t remember falling asleep. She awoke to night, and the hall was quiet. Outside her door was a tray with some flatbread and fermented milk. She gobbled it down. Afterward she stared into the dark. Atimaya’s eyes had been red when she emerged from her chamber, as if she had been crying.
Sakhi couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, too.
The snow had all but disappeared, except on the upper slopes. Blue, pink, and white wildflowers bloomed in between the rock embankments of the steep terraces, where the first green barley shoots poked through black earth.
Dhavalagiri caught the rays of the westering sun on her white breasts and reflected them down through the unbarred windows of the chief’s cedar-beamed hall. Dandipani and Jagai were sharpening their fine new swords by the fading light. Sakhi and Atimaya sat at their looms. Soon it would be too dark to work.
“Look at that blanket,” Atimaya said. “Sakhi weaves so beautifully.”
Sakhi said nothing. Since their encounter on the day the merchant left, her long silences made Atimaya nervous and eager to please her. Sakhi enjoyed this little game whose rules she didn’t
quite understand, but in which she seemed to have the upper hand. It was one of her few pleasures now. She missed Dhara, wished she could say she was sorry, wanted to cry on her friend’s shoulder. She felt terribly alone.
“We will put it aside for your dowry,” Atimaya said with false cheerfulness.
“Why does Sakhi need a dowry? No one will marry her,” Jagai said, putting aside a full quiver and picking up an empty one to fill.
“Jagai,” Dandapani said.
Jagai gave Sakhi a sheepish look. “I didn’t mean it that way, Mistress Sakhi.”
“Of course you didn’t, Jagai,” Atimaya said, putting down her shuttle.
“I just meant there’s no Brahmin boy here to take you to wife,” he said. “But I’d marry you myself, if you would take a warrior, and I were younger.” He knocked the full quiver over, spilling arrows, and turned bright red.
Speechless, Sakhi looked down at her loom. Jagai’s wife had died long ago, and his sons were all grown and married. She would never have expected such a remark from him.
An awkward silence prevailed. Out of the corner of her eye, Sakhi saw Jagai, still blushing scarlet, bend to gather the spilled arrows. The old warrior’s hands shook a bit. If she weren’t so embarrassed herself, Sakhi would have tried to say something. Maybe she should agree, but before she could consider the wild thought further, Atimaya began to talk.
“Speaking of marriages, Dandapani, my dear, you’ve taken so long to choose a husband for Dhara, her suitors have all disappeared. It’s high time we brought her back. She’s been gone since before the snows.”
“In good time,” Dandapani muttered, concentrating on an arrowhead.
Sakhi wondered if Dandapani had seen Dhara, no matter that no one should disturb the cave’s occupants. He’d gone hunting on the high slopes on his own several times since the thaw had begun, and he probably left a deer for them. He might have glimpsed her, or even talked to her. Or perhaps not.
The Mountain Goddess Page 13