Rani roared again and bounded toward the prince.
“Don’t, Rani,” Mala said. “I’ve got him in my sight.”
As the yogi took aim, Virudha wheeled to face the tigress with his sword raised. No one could fault his courage.
“Ah, Rani! Get out of the way!” Mala said.
“Rani will make short work of him,” Dhara cried. “But look!”
One of the three warriors still standing was fumbling with his bow. Mala turned her aim to him. Ffffffft. He fell.
Virudha shrieked as the tigress swiped him with one huge paw and sent him flying backward. Her claws ripped his leather breastplate. Blood streamed from his sword arm. As the tigress leaned in for the kill, the prince shifted his shiny silver blade to his left arm and pointed it at Rani’s throat.
“Rani!” Mala cried.
Virudha thrust his sword into her neck. Her agonized growl drowned in red blood that spilled over her white fur. She writhed and raised a paw to bat away the fatal weapon, then collapsed to one side, half atop Virudha, where his red cloak and Rani’s blood mingled.
“No,” Dhara whispered. The tigress’s death throes unfroze the two remaining Kosalan soldiers. They drew their bows, firing one after another into the dying cat. Virudha struggled to get out from under her.
“No,” Dhara said again. Rani could not die.
“Dhara, come,” Mala said, seizing her arm.
“Rani!” Dhara wailed in anguish. “We must save her.”
“She is dead, no matter if we stay or go.”
“I want to kill them!” she screamed.
At that moment, shouts rang out and more red-and-black-clad warriors came running.
“There are too many.” Mala’s face was contorted with rage. “They will pay. I promise. Now, we must fly!”
“Fly?” Dhara choked through her tears.
Fly, Dhara. Rani’s blue eyes held Dhara’s for an instant. The once beautiful white tigress, smeared with red gore, growled low in her throat. Blood bubbled past her fangs and dripped from her jaws.
“Now!” The yogi wrapped her arms around Dhara’s shoulders. “Hold on!” Dhara hugged her waist as tight as she could.
Then Rani growled one last time, or it was the wind, or it was thousands of wings that all of a sudden flapped around them as they clung together. A force cast them apart, and there was cold mist or maybe it was the cloud that streamed from Dhavalagiri’s peak. A sound like thunder, only stronger and deeper, drew terrifying vibrations from Dhara’s root chakra all the way up her spine to her throat, shaking and choking her.
Breathe! Mala shouted from somewhere in the mist, or was it in her own head? “Breathe, Dhara!”
If she did not breathe, she would die, and she was not about to die. Dhara summoned every bit of strength and took a breath.
She was flying.
Mala, Dhara cried, but what came out was the shriek of an eagle’s hunting dive.
From somewhere close, Mala shrieked back. Southward.
But the village—Father—Sakhi—
Dandipani is dead. The Sakyas will save Sakhi and the villagers.
Dhara felt in her core that it was true.
The eagle Mala circled Dhavalagiri’s peak, but Dhara tipped her wings and flew down over the ridge. Her sharp eyes picked out a severed head, a long braid—it was he—no, it couldn’t be.
Follow me. Mala swooped near her.
They soared over darkly forested foothills and the swampy Terai. A huge flock of white cranes rose in a cloud from a shallow lake, calling to each other. Far below, Ganga’s silver waters and the dusty brown trade road wound around each other like two lengths of rope across the Sixteen Kingdoms.
It was beautiful, thrilling, but Dhara’s heart cracked. Rani was gone. Father was dead. The village in all likelihood destroyed. She wanted to be with them, she must be with them. She was a warrior, and it was her fight.
Dhara leaned to one side and her long wing dipped, changing her direction. She leaned the opposite way and began to turn back.
Dhara! Follow me.
No! She swooped and dove and there was a magnificent eagle rising on an upward draft and soaring over her.
Obey, or the transformation will end and you will plummet to your death.
I must go back, I must. But Mala wouldn’t let her. In despair, Dhara let herself fall, pulling her wings in so she dropped fast.
You will do them no good dead.
This was truth. She opened her wings, cupped them, caught an upward draft, flapped once, twice, and soared, and in spite of her pain, her heart soared, too.
Remember what Rani taught you. Remember your father, and your friend. Now, follow me to Varanasi.
Dhara cupped her wings and extended a talon, following Mala’s example. A roar, a flurry of feathers, and she was on the ground.
The hot, humid air shocked her after the bracing cold they had flown through. She closed her nose and mouth against it. She held up her bare arms. Had they really been feathered moments ago?
A man stood by the smoking remnants of a fire, his mouth agape.
“Namaste, Harischandra,” Mala said.
The man put aside his three-pronged rake and bowed. “Namaste, Mala,” he replied, as if eagles commonly alit in front of him and assumed human shape. “Namaste, young friend,” he added. He did a double take. “Kirsa!”
Mala took a deep breath. “This is not she.”
Whoever this Kirsa was didn’t matter. Dhara looked around in horrified wonder. Everywhere there were cremation fires. A breeze blew smoke into her eyes and a fit of coughing seized her. The sharp scent of burnt human flesh was overwhelming. Flames leaped from other fires and white-clad mourners chanted prayers for the dead. The hot, dense air made it all worse. Her eyes smarted and watered. She reached for a corner of her antariya to wipe them, but her hand touched bare skin. The transformation into animal, unlike a trip through the ether, had left her completely naked.
“The girl needs some clothes,” Mala said, matter of fact. Her long hair hid her body, but underneath its matted tangles the yogi as was naked as Dhara.
Incredibly, the mourners at the other fires had not noticed their arrival. Maybe it was their grief that blinded them to the presence of Mala and Dhara, or maybe there was some sort of charm that hid them. Still, amid all the turmoil of the day’s events, it was Dhara’s lack of clothing that brought reality into focus. She had swum naked in the pool of Rohini’s waters with the village youths, but she had played with them her whole life. To be naked in front of the dead was another matter.
“Inside the hut,” Harischandra said, not seeming to care one way or the other. He picked up his rake and returned to the coals in front of him. “Some extra lengths of good cloth a charitable mourner left as dana are yours to take.”
A lone tree on a low rise nearby, out of place in the expanse of ash and dust, shaded a little thatched dwelling. Mala headed toward it with an unselfconscious, swinging stride. Dhara hurried after her. A prone black dog panting by the hut’s entrance raised its head and watched as they approached.
“Namaste, Kumar,” Mala said, leaning down and scratching it behind one ear. “In there, Dhara.”
Inside, there was a low bed on which a grass mat rested and very little else. Dhara felt an urge to lie down on the charpoy and dive into sleep right then, but Mala handed her a length of cloth that hung from some wooden pegs by the door. As they were clothing themselves, Mala stiffened. Her eyes lost outer focus and looked inward, as they did when she was communicating with her distant friend Nalaka or with the eagles who lived near the cave, or with Rani. For an instant, Dhara hoped that it was Rani, still alive, calling to Mala.
Mala lost the distant look, her face grim. “I must leave you here, my girl.”
“Where are you going?”
“Taxila
. Nalaka needs my help.”
“What for?”
“To search for someone. Someone important who has run away.”
Dhara didn’t care about any runaways. “Then I will go back to Dhavalagiri. They need my help!”
“The Sakyans have arrived by now, and the Kosalas will soon be crushed. They don’t need you.”
“Sakyas! Then I certainly must return.” Dhara finished wrapping the clean, unbleached strip of linen around her loins and wound another in a band around her breasts. “They are no more our friends than the Kosalas—”
“I have not mastered looking into the future” the yogi said, putting her hands on Dhara’s shoulders. “But I know you would be in danger there. Besides, how would you go? You can’t change your physical form without my help.”
“What about Harischandra? Has he studied yoga like you? Could he help me?”
“No, my girl. He is taking a different path to atman.” Mala looked weary. “Trust me. It’s safest here.”
Dhara averted her eyes. Once again the yogi was betraying her. This time, Mala was leaving her at the door to death’s kingdom. She felt defiled by the ashes and smoke at the cremation grounds. How could Mala go to Taxila in search of “someone important”? Who could be more important than Dhara?
Mala gave Dhara’s shoulders a little squeeze. “All right, my girl?”
She didn’t have a choice. That was the worst thing.
Mala embraced her and walked out. There was a sound like rushing wind and thunder, and Dhara, bereft, knew the yogi was gone.
Outside the hut, Kumar whined. Dhara leaned down to pet him. He licked her hand and cocked one eye at Dhara. Namaste.
Dhara stepped back. She thought of Rani. Namaste, she replied. The dog put its head back down on its paws.
“Dhara,” Harischandra called from a short distance. “Come.”
She went, reluctant and frightened. “When will Mala return?”
“When she has done what she must do.”
“I—I think I should wait by the hut,” she said, scanning the pyres and ashes.
“Ah, child.” He leaned against his rake. “You think this place unholy, but it is sacred to Lord Shiva. This work I do here has his blessing.”
Dhara paused, considering her response. Mala had greeted this man with great respect. He had called the yogi “Mala,” not “Mala-ji.” It was not Dhara’s place to disagree with him. On the other hand, he wasn’t her guru, and she was a warrior’s daughter, a Kshatriya by birth; only a Brahmin was higher born, and the work this man performed showed plainly that he was not even a Shudra, a servant, but an outcaste.
“Mala said that our practice was our offering to Lord Shiva.”
“Tending the ashes is as worthy as deepening your meditation or perfecting the asanas.” He picked up another rake that lay nearby. “Here. It cannot harm you to make this offering.”
Dhara performed the task with suppressed horror. The Kolis burned their dead, too, but Deepa had taken care of the ashes and bones that remained. The smells and greasy ashes were beyond nauseating. Harischandra helped her tie a cloth scented with sandalwood oil around her face. He was trying to be kind, but she couldn’t help thinking there would be many dead in Dhavalagiri. If the Kolis lost the fight, Sakhi and Tilotamma would become Kosalan slaves and be taken from their mountain home. She would not let herself think they would die.
“I want to leave,” she burst out, not caring if she offended him.
“You’re safe here. Mala says you would not be at your home.” Harischandra patted her shoulder. “You’ve made your offering, child. Go sit by the hut.”
Under the lone tree’s spotty shade, Dhara tried to focus on her breath. The grit and smell weren’t as bad here.
Her mind was too full for meditation: the Kosalan attack, Rani’s death, the transformation and flight. Dhara had just begun to know and love Rani, and now the amazing creature was gone. She was glad of the dog sitting next to her under the scraggly tree. In tears, she scratched Kumar’s head.
When the red sun was sinking, coloring the clouds purple, red, and orange, Harischandra said, “There’s a path to Ganga’s banks there. You can bathe in her waters. Take this knife and go cut some reeds. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to repair the hut’s thatching.”
She knew about thatching. It was far better than raking. “I’d like that.”
Harischandra pointed to a path. “You might see a fisherman’s boat on the river, but it’s safe on Ganga’s bank.”
She headed down the path. “Stay close to the shore,” Harischandra called. “The current is strong.”
Dhara scrambled down a short bluff to the river and gave a gasp. Directly across from her was thick forest, but downriver a short ways, Varanasi’s white houses and temples rose on the other bank. It must be what Indra’s heavenly city looked like, dazzling and immense.
She stripped and waded into the river. Ganga ran huge, wide, and silent, not like Rohini’s urgent rush and roar in the mountains.
As she waded in, the water pushed against her legs. Heeding Harischandra’s warning, she went no more than a few steps before she crouched and ducked below the surface. When she rose, water streaming from her tangled hair over her body, she stretched her hands toward the setting sun. The hymn that Bhrigu had always chanted at a funeral pyre came to mind, and she chanted for the dead here and in Koli country, soft and low, her voice tremulous. “Om, lead us from ignorance to knowledge, from darkness to light, from death to immortality. Om.”
She immersed herself again. Plunge, rise, plunge; she repeated the prayer between each immersion until the sun disappeared.
As dusk fell, Dhara took one more look around the peaceful and beautiful spot and started. On the opposite bank, two youths were standing at the forest’s edge in the fading light. One of them pointed at Dhara.
Dhara stared for a moment at the two figures, then began to cut reeds. When she had gathered a large pile of them, she filled her arms with the stalks and turned back towards Harischandra’s hut. When she climbed the little slope up the bank, she turned once more. The youths were still watching.
The hermitage
Chandaka and Siddhartha spent all day weeding the garden for Maitreyi. Chandaka didn’t like the hot sun on his back and he couldn’t tell a weed from a vegetable.
“We could use one of your aunt’s gardeners right now,” he said, regarding a prickly-looking plant. He had already yanked at one of these things, succeeding only in pulling off the top of the stalk. Stinging fingers were all he had to show for it.
“This is our way to serve.”
Chandaka gave him a disgusted look. “I was joking, O Prince.”
Siddhartha reached in with slow, deliberate motions and grasped the plant at its base. “This is a thorn apple. Its seeds are poisonous. The thorns can make you itch.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” Chandaka held up his tingling, burning hand. “How did you know what it was?”
The prince pulled at the weed and held up the whole stalk, roots attached, turning it this way and that. “Aunt Prajapati has special lessons for Nanda, Sundari, and me. To identify poisons.”
Chandaka was startled. Knowledge of poisons was useful for Queen Prajapati’s children, of course. In contrast to her nephew Siddhartha, her son Prince Nanda and daughter Princess Sundari were not popular. He hadn’t really thought of anyone trying to poison the prince. The whole kingdom loved Siddhartha. On the other hand, the sprawling Gautama family had many factions vying for power, and an unhealthy taste for intrigue. Siddhartha’s grandfather Sihanu was rumored to have poisoned his own father, a learned and virtuous philosopher-king. Love of learning, another Gautama trait, was regrettably not present in all branches of the family tree.
Late in the afternoon, the smell of Atri’s cooking drew them back to the cook fire. Maitreyi’s herbs had
already worked wonders on Bhallika. She bustled around him as Atri sliced an onion into pure white, thin rings on a well-used cutting board, then poured ghee from a black-fired clay jar into a hot pan. The butter sizzled and he added the onions, stirring them around with a wooden spoon. He chopped two cloves of garlic and threw them in with the onion, stirred a bit, then picked up a little bag. “Our midday meal is always our largest. And today, in honor of special visitors, special spices.” He drew out a handful of cardamom pods, tossed them in the pan, reached in again and drew out a stick of cinnamon bark and added it to the onions. “I’m sorry it’s too early in the season for any vegetables except the onion and a few greens.”
“It smells wonderful.” Chandaka went to sit at Bhallika’s side.
“How do you feel?” Maitreyi asked him.
“Better.” The merchant gave her a wincing smile.
“Drink this,” she said brusquely. She cradled his head next to her ample bosom and put the cup to his lips. Bhallika took obedient sips and made a face.
“Thank you, gracious lady,” he said with great effort, and smiled again.
Maitreyi frowned at him. “All of it.”
Bhallika’s charm wouldn’t get him anywhere with a woman like Maitreyi.
Those of Addha’s apprentices who had spent a night with Bhallika agreed that he was not difficult to please, was delighted when he pleased them, and was an amusing conversationalist afterwards. “Careful, Chandaka,” Ratna had often said. “If you wait too long to ask me to marry you, I’ll get Bhallika to lead me around the fire.” She was joking, of course; Ratna promised to exceed her guru Addha in the arts of love and become a great courtesan. She would have no need for a husband, either with a fortune like Bhallika’s, or without one, like Chandaka. She was a good friend to Chandaka; the only one who knew how he felt about Kirsa, the only one who listened in his most despairing moments. “Marry Bhallika,” Chandaka would always answer.
Chandaka helped Maitreyi prop the merchant against a sack.
“What happened to you?” he said when they had made Bhallika as comfortable as possible.
The Mountain Goddess Page 19