The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  “I was foolish. But King Suddhodana is not. Guards were posted around the outlaw camp. Sena was among them. He tried to stop me. He said her men would rape me or worse. But I told him they are guests of the king, and on his grounds they would never do such a thing. Besides, I felt the Devi would protect me. Strange, because I’m not one to call on the gods. Sena said I needed earthly protection and insisted on coming with me.”

  “I’m grateful to him for that,” Chandaka said, feeling another pang of jealousy.

  “The outlaws ignored us as we walked to her tent. I think they might have been under a spell or something. Then there she was. She looked like the mother I remembered—not at all the wild yogi. I thought, she’s waiting for me! And I felt such happiness I almost ran to her! But something held me back. There was a voice in my head. ‘I’m waiting for Dhara,’ it said. I knew it was Angulimala.” A single tear caught in her lashes.

  “The princess? She was waiting for the princess?”

  “That’s what the voice said. Then she changed. She wasn’t like Ma at all, but like a statue made of silver, in the setting moon’s light,” she went on in a faraway voice, “and, oh, she was magnificent! I felt awed, as if I was truly seeing a goddess. Her eyes were shadowed but something glittered in her face, and then it was like I could see into her. I saw that she wanted to break free of me. That she had come to Kapilavastu to hurt me, to make me stop loving her.” Kirsa let out a single sob.

  “She’s cruel!”

  “She’s broken. Sick. So much pain. Standing there, looking at her, I wanted more than anything to heal her. But she can only heal herself.”

  The tear rolled down her cheek and he brushed it away. “She’s not broken. She’s evil. Forget about her.”

  “Forget about my mother?”

  “Forget about Angulimala. They’re not the same person.”

  “You don’t understand. Ma is still alive in her.” She looked up at him. “Siddhartha saw that, on the night of the tiger. He saw the good in her. He saw she could save herself. That was one of the things that made me love him so.”

  He had to know if she loved Siddhartha still. If Chandaka’s karma were to bear sweet fruit with the love of his life, he must speak now. “Kirsa,” he began, pulling on her hand.

  In the forest’s dawn gloom, her large amber eyes glowed in the perfect oval of her face. “You were very brave and noble tonight.”

  She released his hand, put her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

  He, who had spent many nights in the bed of one of Kapilvastu’s most skilled courtesans, felt his knees buckling at her girlish, virginal kiss. He slid his arms around her and crushed her to him, opening her mouth with his lips and tongue and kissing her until she pulled away slightly and drew a ragged breath.

  “Oh,” she said, looking at him in wonder. Then she raised her mouth. He was shaking as their lips met again and they plunged into a deeper kiss.

  He lifted her in his arms and, heedless of the long barberry thorns scratching at his ankles and calves, made his way to the old banyan. The steps the three of them had carved into its trunk years ago were still there.

  At the top, there were only shreds left of the thatch they had once made still covering a little corner. Yet somehow it was a perfect bower, filled with magical green darkness and the diffused dawn light floating down from the leaves.

  Kirsa unwound her antariya with trembling fingers, laid it on a level spot and reached up to him with shy wonder on her face. Chandaka surrendered to his passion, forgetting all the tricks he’d learned from other women. Underneath him Kirsa felt fragile, slight; he was almost afraid to enter her. She returned every touch with a light hand. He wanted her—he was the first, her clumsy kiss told him that—he nibbled her breasts, her stomach, running his lips into the warmth between her thighs—he couldn’t wait any longer—and as if sensing his need, she pulled him into her.

  She sucked in her breath and gave a wordless cry as he breathed “Kirsa!” into her ear, collapsing, spent, on top of her.

  His head resting on her shoulder, he wept.

  When Chandaka awoke, Kirsa was gone. She would never miss her morning duties in the grove, but she could have awakened him. After the hurt came the realization that this was karma. How many times had he left a sleeping lover and never given a thought to how much it might hurt?

  He must go find her. He got out of the tree house and headed down the path, thinking. Perhaps he shouldn’t go after her. Had she really wanted him? He had called out her name, but she hadn’t called his.

  Maybe she was sorry they’d made love. His throat constricted. Very well. He would not go to the grove. He would go see Ratna. Tell her everything. He needed Ratna’s perception in matters of the heart. The kind of women he knew, well, they were easy to understand, but Kirsa was not.

  He was sure she had wanted him last night. That didn’t mean she loved him. He was a fool. She loved Siddhartha, but she couldn’t have him, and Chandaka happened to be handy. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had given him her viriginity just to get rid of it.

  No. Kirsa wasn’t a woman to trifle with her heart like that. So she must love him.

  Impossible. She loved Siddhartha.

  He went round and round trying to understand until he suddenly halted. He couldn’t go to Ratna. She would be furious he’d not come and hadn’t sent word.

  He scratched his head. How long had he slept? A long time. The sun was already past its zenith. He couldn’t go to the courtesan’s mansion now. Even if Ratna was in a forgiving mood, she would already have begun preparing for her evening clients.

  Best to go to his own rooms, get some sleep, think about what to do later. He turned and headed back to the palace.

  As he was walking through the queen’s gardens, he saw clumps of courtiers gathered. They glanced around uneasily and talked in low voices. No one acknowledged him as he walked by. His skin prickled. Something was terribly wrong. Then Nalaka hurried up to him.

  “What’s happening?” Chandaka said to the yogi.

  Nalaka’s face was pale and he was out of breath. “Where is Dhara?”

  “Dhara?” Chandaka was puzzled. “How would I know?”

  Nalaka gave him a strange look.

  “Nalaka, what is going on?”

  “I thought perhaps you and she were—no, never mind.” Nalaka rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  “You thought she and I what?” Chandaka looked at him in astonishment. “You thought the princess and I… ? I can’t stand her. And she… ” The realization almost knocked him off his feet. No, it was too absurd, how could anyone think—she didn’t—she wasn’t—she was his best friend’s wife!

  “Nothing. No. It was a slim hope.” Nalaka rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Princess Dhara is missing. No one has seen her all day.”

  “Have you checked the outlaws’ camp? Maybe she’s with Angulimala.”

  “That’s just it. The outlaws are there. But Angulimala is gone.”

  The outlaw camp

  Siddhartha’s breath was deep and even next to Dhara when the call came.

  Join me, Dhara.

  To go with Mala—Angulimala was absurd, outrageous. To leave her husband, to leave the kingdom, her royal life, a great destiny that could be hers if she and Siddhartha were to rule.

  It was madness. Irresistible madness.

  Every nerve wanted to respond to that call.

  There were a million reasons not to, but the millions of atoms that made up Dhara were all drawn to it.

  Then an instant when she lacked the faith that she could summon the knowledge to transform. Then shattering doubt that it was wrong, it was against dharma, against everything good and true.

  Join me, Dhara.

  She rose from the bed, walked out into the moonlight, and high above she saw the eagle. Angulim
ala.

  Certainty. Truth. Knowledge. Yes. This.

  Come.

  This time, she did not need Mala’s arms around her to fly.

  She was meant to, meant to be any animal she chose, to travel through the ether, to become as small as an atom or as large as a galaxy. To enter another’s mind, bend them to her will. To master every power.

  Full of fierce joy, Dhara soared up to her guru and they flew east, over the forest. Below, Ganga was a silver ribbon. Above, moonlit sky. There was no pain, as there had been when she and Mala fled Dhavalagiri. This was perfection. Of course! How had she not seen that Siddhartha was a distraction, that Nalaka had held her back too long? She was made to take an eagle’s form and fly.

  There. That glade. There is where my army makes its camp.

  Dhara swooped and followed, cupping her wings. The treetops rushed up to meet her. Then she was on the branch, then on the ground, and in human form on a dirt road. On either side were cook fires, men and women eating and drinking, their faces ruddy in the firelight, shadows behind them. When they saw Angulimala, they surrounded her, shouting “Jai, Ma!”

  When they saw Dhara, their shouts died down. They pressed closer. A miasma of foul air stinking of blood and sweat and rotting flesh—animal or human, she wasn’t sure—rose around her.

  At once, Dhara’s fierce joy evaporated.

  “Look who joins our army,” Angulimala cried. “The Sakyan princess! Welcome her!”

  No one said anything. Hostile eyes watched Dhara.

  “There is my palace,” Angulimala said, pointing to a low building. They walked past the thatched dwellings that lined either side of the road. The hostile eyes on her back raised the hackles on her neck. The soaring confidence, the desire to follow Angulimala were gone as if they had never been.

  At last they came to the end of the road and mounted the lopsided wooden steps to Angulimala’s longhouse.

  Juddering fear stopped Dhara at the entry, but Angulimala pushed her inside. It was close and dark, and smelled of sweat and rancid fat and other things Dhara didn’t want to name. There was a low fire in a brazier in the middle of a single long room. As her eyes adjusted, two long rows of thick wooden pillars emerged from the shadows. They supported a sagging grass roof that could harbor snakes. Several low charpoys were scattered about; on one of them lay a warrior, snoring loudly. Weapons were heaped against the outer walls. It was a dirty parody of royal splendor. All Dhara wanted was to be back in her rich chambers at Vishramvan Palace.

  Sick dread replaced her certainty. This wasn’t what she meant to do. Panic rose. This wasn’t what she wanted. How had she come here? This couldn’t be real.

  That was it. She was dreaming. Any minute she would wake next to Siddhartha, see the moon outside her chamber door, hear the waterfall in her garden.

  But no, this was real. She didn’t know what had possessed her to leave Kapilavastu.

  Angulimala had possessed her. It had been an illusion, a spell cast by Angulimala.

  “Move that bed over there for the princess,” Angulimala said to a guard who appeared out of the shadows. “It’s closer to my bed, my girl.” She pointed to a large, low wooden bed half hidden by a ragged curtain. In the low light, her smile was ghastly.

  With horror, Dhara realized that she would never leave this awful place.

  “You must be exhausted from the journey,” Angulimala said. “Sleep now. I have so much to show you in the morning.”

  Dhara opened her eyes. Morning sun streamed into the longhouse through unshuttered windows. The previous night, all had been filthy, disgusting. In daylight, the floor was swept. The air was fresh, if warm and humid. Neat stacks of spears leaned against the walls. Bows and quivers hung from pegs pounded into the wooden pillars supporting the roof. The thatch was tightly woven. The brazier had been emptied of ash and wiped clean. The ragged curtain around Angulimala’s bed was ordinary cotton with an incongruously cheerful fringe. Dhara was alone.

  Stunned, she got out of her bed. Last night she’d tried to convince herself it was a nightmare. Today, she wanted to believe it was real. She looked around in utter confusion.

  She stepped gingerly to the doorway, as if the floor was an illusion that might disappear. Outside, the camp bustled. The smoke of fires wafted up in columns through the trees. Two women carrying pails of water walked past, laughing. Nearby, a man stirred a pot over a cooking fire while a youth concentrated on honing a long knife. All along the dirt road, men and women were engaged in the ordinary tasks of military camp life. All was different from the hostile darkness. It was as jarring as her arrival in the camp.

  Dhara rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, everything looked the same, yet again different. The people engaged in these ordinary activities were tall Aryas with skins in varying shades of brown; blue-black-skinned folk from the forest tribes; people of every color and race she had ever heard of, and some she had not. There was a striking absence of children running about. Some Dhara saw were tattooed, others had weird designs painted on their bodies and faces, some were shaved like priests, some wore their hair coiled in outlandish piles atop their heads and had feathers stuck in at odd angles, and everyone exhibited every form of dress—from naked save a loincloth to all-concealing robes. They looked human but were alien to her in a way she couldn’t articulate. She wasn’t even sure if they were real.

  A man strode up the street to the longhouse. There was nothing outlandish about his appearance. He wore an unbleached cotton antariya around his waist and another length of the same cloth wound loosely around his chest, one end thrown over his shoulder. His ordinariness reassured her. The dizzying feeling that she couldn’t entirely trust her senses receded. He was authentic, solid, and the closer he got, the more familiar he looked. He was handsome, with deep-set eyes and braided dark brown hair pulled back from a high forehead, and he had a mustache that rivaled Bhallika’s. He was no one from Kapilavastu, she was sure, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew him.

  When he reached the steps, he bowed over joined palms. “Namaste, Princess Dhara. I am Rohit.”

  Dhara stared at him. Rohit. Harischandra’s son. It couldn’t be. Harischandra had told her his son was dead, but this man was the spitting image of the dethroned Surasena king. His hair was not streaked with grey, but his strong build and high cheekbones, and his light brown eyes, were the same.

  “Are you all right, Princess?”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry. It’s just you look like… like someone. Someone who lost a son named Rohit.”

  The man cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  “I met a man. At the cremation ground. In Varanasi. His name was Harischandra.”

  Rohit stiffened and paled. He looked around. “Say no more.”

  Two tattooed warriors were walking by. They glanced warily at Dhara and Rohit.

  “Angulimala sent me to find you,” Rohit said, loud enough for them to hear. “Would you like to see the camp?”

  The camp was much larger than she had thought. As they walked down the hard-packed dirt road that bisected the village, her unease lessened. Rohit lent reality to everything—and everyone. After all, it was just an army and they were just soldiers, and why would there be children among the warriors? The commander had supernatural gifts, but then so did Suddhodana, and Virudha’s sorcerer Yajna.

  Outside the main clearing, footpaths led into the forest to various smaller encampments of thatched huts and large, military-style tents.

  “How many live here?”

  “Perhaps ten thousand.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible!”

  “It’s deceptive, because so many live beyond the clearing.”

  “But how big is her army? They say she brought twenty thousand to the Kalamas battle.”

  “This is the largest camp. Angulimala has more than thirty thousand warri
ors, but they are scattered along the Uttarapatha.”

  “How do they communicate, all these camps?”

  “The priestess Lila’s people help carry messages, as do some other Naga tribes. They are everywhere in the forest.”

  “The Nagas?” Dhara shivered. “I’ve heard stories about them.”

  “Without even hearing those stories, I can tell you most are not true. Most tribes are peaceful and possess wisdom about the earth—the Great Mother, or Mahaprabhu, as they call her—we would all do well to heed.”

  “But human sacrifice?”

  Rohit paused. “It’s both execution and sacrifice. They will only offer someone who has wronged them, and the rite is strict.”

  “You sound like you approve.”

  “It’s killing. You’re a Kshatriya, aren’t you, Princess? Your dharma is to kill in a just war. They are applying justice in their own way.”

  If he were Harischandra’s son, he was a Kshatriya, too, whose dharma permitted righteous killing. Dhara wanted to ask how he’d ended up an outlaw, part of an army that killed indiscriminately, but the moment wasn’t right.

  He showed her the path to a stream where she could bathe later, then circled back toward the main camp. They made one small detour to a secluded spot sheltering a lonely round hut with a peaked roof. “That’s mine,” he said. “It has some weak magic protecting it. I studied at a yogi’s feet for a time, too, after Angulimala left the army the first time. This hut is a good refuge for me, and you’re welcome to it anytime you need it.”

  They continued on, and when they were near the dirt road, he pointed out the treasure house.

  “There are no guards,” Dhara said.

  “Her warriors trust her to divide booty fairly,” Rohit said. “Even if she didn’t, no one would dream of stealing. The consequences are terrible.”

  Rohit guided her back to Angulimala’s longhouse. “Princess, there are many things we must talk about,” he said, after making sure they were alone. He stepped close. “Including my own story and what you know of my father. There will be time for that, though. For now, I tell you that you must be on the alert every minute. Years ago, I was in Angulimala’s confidence. No longer. I don’t know why you came or what she has planned for you. Whatever she has planned, it can’t be good.”