The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  “You’ll be back out there in no time.”

  “Maybe if I try to walk, it will help my body heal itself, like Jivaka said.”

  Sakhi sat back on her heels. “My heart, no. You’ll fall.”

  “Hold my hand, Ma, and help me. Please.” He had to lean against her to keep upright. How quickly he had worsened. If she had known this morning, she would never have left his side. But Jivaka had said it wasn’t serious. A wave of anger, at her lover, at herself, made her sway.

  “The room tilts, Ma,” he said.

  Her life was tilting. “It will go away,” she replied, catching her balance. Her whole body tensed. It will go away. Om, Devi, protectress of children, help my son. Om. Foolishness. Prayers did nothing.

  But this was her son.

  They sat at the low window seat. She fluffed the cushions with her free hand. Outside the boys were reenacting the battle of Kurukshetra, their favorite game. Of course, they played the Pandavas, whose names they bore. Kirsa’s Nachiketa, the youngest by almost a year, was trying to play all one hundred princes of the crafty Kuru line, the cousins and enemies of the Pandavas. He was attacking Bhima, who was two years older and twice his size, with a wooden sword. Bhima easily thwacked him.

  “Someone’s going to get hurt,” Bharata said. He sat up straight as he could, trying to keep himself from swaying. “Nachiketa!” he called out. “Play my part. Bharata was the eldest, and the king.”

  “Ha!” Nachiketa cried in delight. “Bow to me!” He raised his wooden sword.

  Bhima let his sword drop. “What? That’s not fair. Who will be the Kurus?”

  With great effort, Bharata called out: “You could whack at the cotton bales in Bapu’s storeroom. Pretend they are Kurus.”

  Bhima left, sulking. Nachiketa and the twins immediately started some other private game, while Arjuna kept doing what he had been all along, which was shooting at a makeshift target Bhallika had set up for him on the neem tree. Sakhi helped Bharata back to bed, where he dozed as she sat waiting for Kirsa.

  She had a distant yet cordial friendship with the healer. Sakhi gave generous dana to the houses of healing that Siddhartha had set up all over the city, where Kirsa practiced her considerable arts. They saw each other often. She sensed Kirsa knew of her love for Jivaka and disapproved, but she was sincerely grateful for Sakhi’s gifts. Perhaps she did not judge. Everyone knew she’d once loved Siddhartha, though Chandaka was the father of her child. The talk was that Chandaka had asked her to marry him several times, but she wouldn’t leave the grove.

  Kirsa arrived in the middle of these musings. “Namaste, Sakhi.” She entered the sickroom with a distracted air.

  “Look who’s here, my darling. Namaste, Kirsa.”

  “Sakhi, you should have come. Bhadda told us the story of her life. But the scandal was the princess Dhara’s late arrival,” Kirsa began, kneeling on the bed’s other side.

  The healer wasn’t usually one for gossip, but her words tumbled out.

  “Everyone was waiting for the princess. Bhadda wouldn’t start without the whole royal family there. By the time she arrived, the rumor that she had been caught in a tryst with Chandaka was flying through the crowd!”

  “Chandaka?” Sakhi wondered what Kirsa thought of that.

  “But I’ve never seen anything like it,” Kirsa said. “The whole crowd could have torn her apart, you felt, but then Siddhartha made light of it. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  Just then Bharata opened his eyes.

  Kirsa smiled. “Ah, the patient wakes. Namaste, O noble one,” she teased, leaning down to give him a hug. She pressed her cheek to his forehead. “Why, that’s not much of a fever. You should be out playing.” She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes for a long time. Her smile faded, replaced by Jivaka’s exact expression: unsettled, puzzled, fascinated, and a little frightened.

  A cold stone settled in Sakhi’s stomach.

  Royal dharma

  The banquet in Bhadda’s honor was laid on three long, low tables in the great atrium that had so awed Dhara when she first came to Kapilavastu.

  She felt no awe this time. With fixed smile, she took her place at the royal table on its raised platform. She was exhausted and wanted only to be alone with Siddhartha.

  Behave like a princess. Her mother’s words. Perhaps it was Atimaya’s ghost.

  Bhadda was seated on the king’s right. They were talking in low tones. To Dhara’s great relief, Nanda and Sundari were not in attendance, nor did Uttara and Udayin take their places alongside their father Bhela. The royal priest’s face was a mask. He gave her a slight nod.

  She bowed her head in return, closing her eyes briefly. For a moment, she was at the banquet when Angulimala occupied the place of honor. The whole horror of falling under Angulimala’s spell came back to her. Her eyes flew open.

  “Dhara?” Siddhartha was looking at her with a furrowed brow.

  “I’m all right,” she replied.

  Murmuring and laughing, the guests settled at their tables. Atop creamy muslin cloths were baskets of fruit, silver platters piled with rice and decorated with delicate leaves of beaten silver, and tall clay jugs filled with lime water. The foliage of the potted trees rustled in cooling natural breezes that were drawn through the corridors and up through the opened roof. It added a pleasant susurrus to the low hum; nothing like the raucous atmosphere at that feast for the outlaws.

  “Sakyans,” Suddhodana cried when all were seated. “The wise Bhadda has just agreed to take up residence in our Nigrodha Grove.” He raised a golden goblet filled with Parsee wine, imported at great expense, as servants hurried to offer smaller silver cups to the guests. “This is a great honor for our clan. Join me in a salute to the wise rishiki, who will be another glittering jewel in the crown of wisdom that is our sacred grove and its sages!”

  An amused smile played at Bhadda’s lips. Dhara blushed for Suddhodana, who couldn’t see the irony of offering his respect to a sage who refused all intoxicants with the foreign custom of drinking wine to her honor.

  The irony was lost on many of the guests as well. As soon as they drained their cups, they hailed servants carrying ewers filled with the ruby liquid for refills. Lively conversation rose on all sides about Bhadda’s talk. Although Kapilavastu honored female sages, there were orthodox Brahmins who insisted a woman’s sole duty was to marry and bear children for her husband. Those who considered themselves more liberal argued that a woman should be free to take any path she chose, and some even argued for a woman’s right to become head of a household should her husband die, rather than to be hidden away or cast out, as widows were in many clans.

  Dhara did not engage in the discussion. The uneasy sense that she was separated from everyone and everything, even from her own feelings, muted the voices. Siddhartha listened in subdued silence as well, until a page tapped on his shoulder.

  “Highness,” he said, bowing over his palms. “Dhaumya sends respects and asks if he may attend you after you have dined.”

  “Dhaumya?” Siddhartha said in surprise. “He should be here. And I didn’t see him at the grove, either. What can he want?”

  Dhara grew hot. He was Chandaka’s friend. The charioteer might use Dhaumya to tell his side of the story, make things look like they were Dhara’s fault.

  “Fetch him to my chambers now,” Siddhartha said. He stood and bowed to his father. “Your majesty. With your leave.”

  Suddhodana’s skin was red and his eyes bulged a little as he regaled a bemused Bhadda with a story of a youthful encounter with Mahavira Jain. His voice was hoarse. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Be off then!” His laugh silenced the room. His appearance and behavior disturbed Dhara.

  “Come, beloved,” Siddhartha said and held out a hand.

  He guided her past the long tables, chatting about no
thing and smiling while dozens of pairs of eyes followed them with curious stares. Dhara tried to smile graciously. In the corridor, six or seven pages holding torches leaned against the wall, yawning, waiting to lead guests to their chambers in the palace or to the gates where their chariots and litters waited.

  Dhara and Siddhartha faced each other in the torchlight. “I’ll come to you,” he said.

  Dhara followed a page to her chambers, where she waited in suspense, wondering what she would say to her husband when they were finally alone.

  The third watch had nearly passed, and still Siddhartha hadn’t come. Dhara had been sitting since the feast, hidden in her private garden, perched on the broad, flat boulder by the pond. She was listening for his silent message that he loved her, the message he sent while she was at the shrine.

  When she didn’t hear it, her apprehension grew. She wondered if it was not Dhaumya but Chandaka who waited for Siddhartha. They would talk and find common disgust at her behavior. That was why she didn’t feel his presence.

  The waterfall splashed, a comforting noise. Prajapati’s thoughtful gift proved its value once again. Listening to it, she felt she was being absurd. She reflected on the unexpected, undeserved kindnesses that Bhadda, Siddhartha, the king, and the queen had shown today. The odd urge to unburden herself to her aunt came to her. She wanted a mother to whom she could tell everything and still be loved and forgiven. Atimaya had never been one for tenderness. Prajapati was cut from the same mold. They were old Yasodhara’s daughters, after all. That was why the look Prajapati had given her in the grove astonished Dhara. It hinted at warmth underneath the queen’s stern demeanor.

  Understanding—that was what Dhara had sensed. Maybe the queen understood how difficult it was to live with Siddhartha’s noble soul. Maybe she understood that Dhara didn’t love Chandaka, it was just his roguishness that appealed to her. It was such a contrast to Siddhartha’s love of goodness, of the dharma.

  A lighted lamp flickered on the dark water. Siddhartha, perhaps; but no, it was a woman approaching. Dhara hadn’t summoned either of her maids. She was about to call out that she needed nothing when with a swish of silks Prajapati stood in front of her, holding a little oil lamp. “Yasodhara.”

  “My queen.” Dhara scrambled to her feet and made a deep bow. “What are you doing here?”

  “Am I not welcome?”

  “Oh! Yes. I wanted you to come,” she blurted.

  “Well, here I am. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I might find you awake.”

  “Are you not well?” Dhara was flustered.

  “I’m very well.” Prajapati smiled. “When you get old, you realize you don’t have much time in this life. You don’t want to waste it sleeping.”

  “You’re not old, Majesty.”

  “Let’s not fool each other. Of course I am. And Yasodhara, after all this time, you could call me Aunt in private, as Siddhartha does, or Prajapati if you prefer. Not in front of the court, of course.”

  In the flickering lamplight, Prajapati’s high angular cheeks and deep-set eyes recalled Dhara’s grandmother Yasodhara. Dhara had loved to sit by the old woman in front of a low winter fire as her grandmother told a tale about Kapilavastu’s glories, or the great Jayasena’s justice and far-seeing wisdom, or the Sakya clan’s great past and glittering future. The only time Grandmother softened was when she was with Dhara, telling stories. Prajapati had a little of that softness at this moment. Dhara saw it so rarely.

  “Oh, Aunt.” This time she hugged her. The lamp swung dangerously as Prajapati held it away and gave an awkward squeeze in return. They separated, shy with each other. “If you would call me Dhara. Even Grandmother called me Dhara, you know.”

  “She sent many messages about you and your warrior spirit. She loved you.” Prajapati looked around for a place to put the lamp. Finding nothing, she placed it atop the black antelope skin. “I shall order the gardeners to install a hook for a lantern,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of that long ago?”

  Dhara wished she had thought to invite the queen to this sanctuary much sooner.

  “I think there’s room for the both of us on this rock,” Prajapati said, settling herself on the boulder and crossing her legs one over the other with a grunt. “Perhaps I should spend more time in the lotus pose, like you and Siddhartha. But yoga was never my way. A pity we haven’t been better friends and allies. Our desires are not so far apart.” She paused. “Do you remember when you moved into these chambers and saw the garden? When you were so pleased?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember what you said?”

  Dhara’s heart stopped. “I said one day I would give you something in return.”

  “My dear, you saw the king this evening,” Prajapati said. Dhara nodded. “He is not well. There are forms to be observed for the naming of the heir that we have put off for too long.”

  Dhara’s heart leaped. “The king will choose Nanda! Ah, have no fear. Siddhartha won’t be upset.”

  “Nanda? Nanda.” Prajapati shook her head. “No. It is Siddhartha’s duty. Yasodhara, I have not interfered with the choice you and Siddhartha made not to have a child. I even thought that in some ways, it was best. But court politics won’t allow Siddhartha to abdicate. And if he is to rule, he must have an heir. It is time.”

  “Time?” Dhara said, though she knew full well what the queen would say next.

  “Time you gave the kingdom an heir.”

  A nightjar made one last call as it settled to sleep in the shrubs. Prajapati had gone long ago, taking the sputtering little lamp with her. Just as false dawn showed in the east, Siddhartha approached. Dhara’s tears had dried, but he would know she had been crying.

  He sat down next to her. “What upset you?”

  “Why were you gone so long?”

  “I was walking. Thinking.”

  “What did Dhaumya say?”

  “Dhaumya? Oh, yes… Chandaka told him everything and then left for Maghada on a fast horse.” Siddhartha sighed and looked across the pond. He seemed to have forgotten Dhara’s presence.

  “That’s all?”

  “Beloved,” Siddhartha said, putting his arm around her shoulder. His skin was warm. She leaned into the crook of his arm, drawing heat from his body, inhaling the odors of sweat, neroli oil, and the faint trace of cooked spices on his breath. “Chandaka’s message was that he tried to seduce you. You resisted.” He paused.

  “It’s not that simple. He—I—”

  “I know. It doesn’t matter. Love is not perfect.” He kissed her. She kissed him passionately. He drew away but tightened his arm. “Beloved, we must talk. About my father. He’s not well, you know.”

  “Yes. The queen said the same thing when she came to see me earlier.”

  He raised his eyebrows. A faint spark glinted in his amber eyes. The waterfall splashed. The ripples lapped against the rocky border of the pond. “Did she say anything about the prophecy?”

  “Not in so many words. She talked about politics. She said the forms must be observed for naming the heir. She said we should have a child.”

  “Odd that she should suggest that tonight, after everything that happened today.”

  Dhara shook her head. “Yes. I still wonder at Bhadda and the queen and you. Most of all, you. No one reacted to… to Chandaka and me… ”

  “Leave it, Dhara. Tell me, what did you say when she asked you to have a child?”

  “I didn’t answer.”

  “What if I asked you? To have a child?”

  The exhilarating sense that this was a new reality, a new world, rose in her. “We vowed not to.”

  “We thought Nanda would have a child who could be named heir. Not long ago, he and I had a fight. I told him he was selfish not to marry and start a family. He threw it back in my face. Told me I was the selfish one, always thinking abou
t easing the suffering of strangers, not caring what Father and Aunt might want. And I thought he was right. I’m really not this noble, special prince. I’m as selfish as Uttara and Udayin. They seek their own pleasures without thinking of Bhela. I do what pleases me. My pleasures are not dissolute, but I put them above my father’s.”

  “That’s absurd,” Dhara sputtered. “You’re nothing like those two!”

  “Maybe I’ve exaggerated a little.” He grinned but his smile soon faded. “But I’ve also been thinking. All my questions about what is real, what is Truth, what happens after we die, I’ve started to think there’s no answer. That all we know is the round of birth, death, birth again. How we go about getting off that wheel, whether we even can, doesn’t matter as much as how we live.”

  Dhara was astounded. “I had no idea you were thinking like this.”

  “So I was thinking, that if there’s no getting off, that perhaps the answer to my question is to follow my royal dharma. To save my clan. To rule, and to have a child.”

  Time seemed to stop. Dhara was sitting in front of the cook fire at the cremation grounds with Harischandra. “And now, Dhara,” Harischandra was asking, “do you think Saibya and I should have followed the dharma and obeyed her father? Would we have been spared all the pain I have just described to you?”

  “Dhara?” Siddhartha tightened his arm. Harischandra and the fire disappeared. Dhara and Siddhartha were sitting by the little waterfall. “Should we have a child?” Siddhartha asked again.

  In the distance, there was a clang and several friendly shouts, and a wheelbarrow’s loud creak. Prajapati’s gardeners rose before dawn to make sure the gardens were ready when the palace woke.

  Dhara shivered a little. “We should retire before they come to clean the leaves from the tank.”

  He cocked his head, looking up at the grey sky. “I have an idea.” He stood up and held out a hand. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  He pulled her to his chest and gave her a quick kiss. “Will you come to the tree house?”