No. She would do this herself. Dhara put him to her breast, held him close with one arm, but he was having none of it.
The baby’s mewling got louder. Was Meera asleep? She shouldn’t be when her mistress needed her. The hiccupping, high cry grated on Dhara’s ears. How should she know what mothers do to calm babies? Sakhi said it would all come naturally. It couldn’t come soon enough.
Lullabies. Atimaya had sung lullabies to Dhara. She teared up, remembering how drafts blew through her room in her father’s rough-hewn hall, making the lamp gutter. Cedars and pines scented the cold mountain air that whistled through cracks in the timbered walls. In this palace, the scent of jasmine floated through the wide doorway to her garden. There she was bedded under skins and coarse wool blankets. Here she was lying on soft linens, and over her legs someone had laid a beautiful, pastel blanket of incredible softness, made from a magical Himalayan mountain goat’s hair.
What was that song that her mother crooned? The melody was vivid, the words elusive. Something about riding on an eagle’s back beyond the moon to a land of bliss. Dhara had flown as an eagle. She looked down on the squalling baby.
“I will teach you, my son,” Dhara rocked him, tentatively at first, humming the melody, awkward and out of tune. Her rhythmic rocking soothed the baby. He opened his eyes just enough so she could see the amber glow. She smiled to herself. That would still the gossips.
The baby opened his mouth wide and yawned. Dhara relaxed. He smacked his lips together and shifted so that one little arm escaped from the thick swaddling and waved about. Dhara touched his tiny fist. His damp little fingers curled around her forefinger. He had fingernails, the tiniest fingernails. He was a wonder.
She sighed and snuggled deeper into her pillows, the baby in the crook of her arm, so that she could rest her cheek on the downy soft dark hair on his head. All was quiet save the shallow breathing of the baby. The low flame sputtered.
The silence was not natural. There should be distant laughing and singing from the feast, the hoot of the silly owl that nested in the tree outside her room, the nightjar’s croak as she settled in the shrubbery.
The dark shadows in the corners loomed larger. The hairs on Dhara’s neck rose. She opened her mouth to cry out but no sound emerged, like in a nightmare, though this was no dream. The uncanny silence could only be an enchantment. There was treachery here.
The Kosalas. Prince Virudha’s Brahmin was a powerful sorcerer. He had cast a spell so they could invade while the Sakyas were drunk. Or was it the Maghadas? Had Chandaka persuaded his father to turn against his old friends?
The warrior in her took over. Nothing would harm her son. A surge of animal power, as when she had joined with Rani’s consciousness many years ago, awakened every nerve and muscle. She was a tigress, defending her cub. She cast her eye about for her weapons.
They were not at hand. Where was her sword? General Sukesa had always told her to keep it at her side, day and night, but there it was, resting in the shadows opposite, no doubt moved by Kirsa or Vaddhesi to be out of the way during the birth. She half-rose from her bed, baby pressed tight against her. There was her bow, hanging along with the gold-embossed quiver full of arrows, by the doorway to the antechamber. A few quick steps away, if she stood and hurried to it.
She glanced down at her son, who was sound asleep against her breast. “How can I shoot with you in my arms?” she whispered, trying to think whether he was he safer if she held him or if she put him down and raced to the bow. It was a terrible choice. What she would give for a spear that she could cast with one arm. Her aim was good. Or it used to be. She hadn’t practiced these last few months.
Then she sensed Siddhartha’s presence drawing near. Everything would be all right. She put her lips by the baby’s ear. “Your father is coming.” Her premonition of impending danger eased, but her voice still shook. She reached out to touch Siddhartha’s consciousness. “Beloved, hurry to us and chase the shadows away.”
There was something wrong. He did not respond. His mind was agitated and distressed. It was not fear, as if he were being pursued or if there were some threat. There was something, an undercurrent of emotion so strong it threatened to pull her into its dark stream.
Dhara shrank away from this dangerous whirlpool, and as she did, the revelation arrived, unbidden and shocking.
The moment foreseen at Siddhartha’s birth had come.
The prophecy was unfolding.
There was no Kosalan or Maghadan plot. The gods had cast this enchantment. The heavens had conspired to help Siddhartha leave his kingdom, leave her and their son, to take up the life of a homeless seeker of truth. The whole universe waited for him to find the answer to it all.
A Sakyan prince would conquer death itself, the prophecy said. What did that matter to Dhara? She just wanted her husband by her side. For a moment, she imagined it: the three of them, a forest hermitage or a mountain cave, the cave on Dhavalagiri, seekers all.
No. That could not be. She must convince him to stay. His clan would perish if he chose the sage’s path. It was her duty, her dharma to remind him there was another path, another possibility.
A different vision flashed before Dhara. The three of them, Siddhartha, the child, herself, on thrones of gold, were bowing to envoys from every corner of the earth, receiving their tribute. He was the chakravartin, the world emperor, ruling the world with justice and mercy, the embodiment of royal virtue. She, his empress, led the Sakyan armies to glory, while he remained in Kapilavastu, a philosopher-king studying with the greatest sages in all the world, guiding his subjects to peace and plenty in harmony with the dharma, the order of the universe.
If only he would rule, he would bring happiness to multitudes. It was clear to her. She must make it clear to him that this was the prophecy’s meaning. This was how to conquer death. As the chakravartin, Siddhartha would turn the Kali Age’s darkness to brilliant light. No longer would the worlds march inexorably toward Lord Shiva’s Dance of Destruction, the dance that would darken the blazing stars and snuff out the divine spark burning in each living being.
And at the chakravartin’s side, the dizzying heights Dhara would climb! She needed no cave or hermitage to master the yogi’s eight powers. Not just Nalaka, but all the best gurus, the best yogis, would flock to Kapilavastu to live in the Nigrodha Grove, teach her, teach the child, even teach Siddhartha himself, the great philosopher-king. She would use the powers she mastered for good. She would be known as the woman warrior, the avatar of demon-slaying Durga, fighting to protect the weak, the downtrodden. Virtuous kings would lay down their arms before her forces without a battle, recognizing the rightness of Emperor Siddhartha’s rule. Wicked tyrants and their armies, bloodthirsty and cruel, would quail before her.
She saw their son, growing to be a man as great as his father, following in his wise footsteps, ensuring the reign of the dharma. Her head swam, anticipating future glory.
Then the vision began to fade. There would be peace, yes, but the wheel must turn, and as night follows day, war and devastation would follow. She saw great cities in smoking ruins, roads choked with folk fleeing invading armies, vultures sitting atop piles of the dead, tearing at decaying flesh with their beaks. The wheel would turn, if not during Siddhartha’s reign or their son’s, then in the time of a descendant generations hence.
Armies did not conquer suffering and death. They caused them.
The battle had to be won in the heart of each being. Each one had to learn to turn evil to good; hatred to love; selfishness to selflessness, to compassion.
Easier to reverse Ganga’s flowing waters, send them climbing up to Shiva’s cave on Mount Kailash. Ordinary mortals despaired of teaching themselves to love everyone and gave up the struggle for compassion without a fight. They used sacrifice and ritual for their own selfish gain, wallowed in hatred, greed, ignorance, or sought only personal salvation on the yog
i’s path. A new way was needed, a new wheel of dharma, a path that all from the most humble to the most powerful and arrogant could follow. Siddhartha could find that path. That was the prophecy.
The lamp flickered. In her inner eye, she saw Siddhartha had arrived just outside her chamber door. He halted, uncertain. She held her breath. What would she do without him? In spite of all her gifts, in spite of the endless patience and efforts of her extraordinary teachers to show her how to rule her own heart and mind, she had not gone very far along the way to liberation.
Her teachers. She saw them clearly as if for the first time, their sacrifices, their losses. Mala’s daughter was stolen from her, a terrible price to gain the freedom to follow the spiritual path. Having paid it, she lost her way, compounding the tragedy. Harischandra had become wise and selfless, but at the cost of all he held dear. Bhadda had left her father and brother to suffer and had gone far on her quest, and still had not found what she sought.
But Siddhartha would find it. Dhara had never felt anything so strongly. He would succeed where all others had failed.
He had stepped into the antechamber. She sensed his hesitation, his agitated consciousness. She wanted to cry out to him, to beg him to stay though she knew he must go, to tell him what he sought was here.
Then another realization dawned.
She would find liberation, too. There was a path she could take, a path on which her son would be her guru and teach her at last to think of others first.
Motherhood would be her discipline. It would lead her to patience, wisdom, and compassion. Her son would not be a hindrance to self-mastery, but a companion and guide.
But would motherhood succeed where all her other teachers had failed? She knew her weaknesses well. If Siddhartha would stay by her side, she would strive to be worthy. But if he was gone…
Something wrenched the breath from her; her being cracked open. A flicker of light winked through the crack. Go, she wanted to call to him. Don’t come in, or you will stay! But she didn’t dare try to touch his consciousness.
She must still her mind and heart. She shut her eyes and feigned sleep so that he would not be tempted to stay. The suffering of millions hung in the balance.
A wave of pure need washed over her. To save one person was to save the world entire, so their teachers said. If Siddhartha would save Dhara, that would be enough.
The wave receded. It must be his choice to do so. She made her breath slow and even, made her body relax as if in sleep. The baby nestled close. She emptied her mind. There was Siddhartha’s soft footstep, the scent of his sweat and neroli oil.
She felt his eyes on her and their son. Every atom in her body was still. She was doing what she wanted. She was letting him go.
And then he was gone.
She might never see him again. She opened her eyes and stared into the dark.
She must conquer her faults and fears on her own.
Creation Hymn
Sakhi was paralyzed. Along this passage, where servants and guests should be walking about, there were scores of motionless bodies. Were they dead? She began to shake. Her misgivings had been right. The offended gods were punishing Suddhodana for his arrogance. The birth had gone well, as foreseen, but no one had said anything about what might happen to the rest of the Sakyan kingdom this night.
She should run back to Dhara. She had to know what was happening.
The appalling sight drew her on. She crept over to an elegant couple curled together on the stone floor, as if they had been on their way out and had suddenly, mysteriously died. It took all her courage to lean over. She exhaled in a rush. They were breathing peacefully with smiles on their faces. A few steps away a guard sat propped against a wall clutching a short blade, his head flopped on his shoulder, saliva dribbling from his open mouth.
She hurried past a servant flat on his face, a silver tray nearby and a dozen pieces of naan scattered about; past a well-dressed noble looking as if he’d slid down the wall and into unconsciousness, an empty silver wine cup still in his palm. Snores rose from the prone figures. She wanted to cry out and wake them, but felt as if an invisible hand covered her mouth. She must still be dreaming; this was a nightmare where in the face of mortal danger all power of speech is lost—but no, she was conscious. She ran faster, dreading to find that she was the only person awake, forever lost alone in this realm of sleepers.
At last she reached the palace entrance. To her intense relief, two guards stood at attention at the great gate, each with his spear planted next to him.
She ran up to one of them and strained to speak. “Help.” The invisible hand slipped away, but a little croak was all she could muster. He stared past Sakhi with sightless eyes. She held her breath and drew back, then seized his muscled arms and shook. No response, not even a blink. She dashed to the other, who might as well have a stone statue. This was some god’s cruel trick. She pounded on the guard’s chest in a fury of fear. “Wake up! Wake up!” Her voice gained strength and rang against the silent palace walls. He remained immobile.
She was frantic to get back home, desperate to find her household awake and safe, but the massive palace gate was closed. She doubted that she could push the heavy wooden panel aside alone, but went to one end and leaned against it anyway, bracing her sandaled feet against the crushed stone. If only she could get it moving on its runners, it might slide.
It didn’t budge.
She couldn’t get purchase on the ground. She crumbled to her knees.
There were soft thuds behind her. No human foot, but the heavy tread of some huge beast. A demon or a god, the architect of this mischief that had fallen over the Sakyas was coming. She froze.
The thuds ceased. Whatever it was let out a loud snort. She raised her head. If nothing else, she would face the beast. She gathered her strength and—
Something tapped her shoulder.
“Ahhh!” She jumped to her feet and leaped back.
“I’m sorry I frightened you, Mistress Sakhi.”
“Chandaka?” The last person she would have expected to see in Kapilavastu stood before her, holding the reins of Siddhartha’s black horse. She backed away a little more, understanding dawning. It was a Maghadan plot, this spell. It was the only clan besides Kosala that could rival Sakyan power. King Bimbisara had engaged a powerful sorcerer to make the Sakyas helpless and seize the kingdom. Chandaka was King Bimbisara’s son, after all. He’d been spying all along. He had returned to let his father’s troops in, to steal Dhara away, to hold Siddhartha’s son hostage. How foolish Suddhodana had been, thinking the Maghadas were their allies. “You—you’re in on this, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes.” White teeth flashed in the dark. Chandaka’s charming smile made other women’s hearts flutter, but it had always aroused suspicion in Sakhi. Her distrust had been justified.
“Traitor!” She could hardly get the words out. “How could you?”
Chandaka looked puzzled. He started to respond but then looked past her. “Prince.”
Siddhartha was there, wearing a hooded cloak. The cloak the rider in her dream wore.
He embraced Chandaka. “My friend. Thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t let you go on this adventure alone,” Chandaka said with feigned lightness.
“Wait… Siddhartha, what adventure?” Sakhi was dumbfounded. “Have—no, you can’t have sold your kingdom to Maghada!”
“Sakhi.” Siddhartha tossed the cloak back. He had put aside his plain yogi’s garb for the feast. There was a thin rope of woven gold encrusted with tiny jewels circling his forehead and a golden torque around his neck, while his chest was bare except for the sacred thread looped over his left shoulder, white against golden skin. His antariya—blue, with a gold sash, Sakyan colors, underscoring this incomprehensible treachery—was wrapped around his legs in the elaborate court style. Over the sash he wore a
thin belt from which an ancient ceremonial sword hung in a jeweled wooden scabbard. “How could you think such a thing?”
“What is happening?” The prophecy. He was leaving. “No, you can’t go!”
“I must,” Siddhartha began.
“You’re deserting us,” Sakhi whispered. This was the true nightmare.
“Yes, he is leaving.” Chandaka threw the reins over Kanthaka’s head and jumped up on the horse’s back with lithe grace. “My lord, we should go.”
“No!” She must stop him. “You can’t go with Chandaka. You must stay with Dhara. Where are your guards?” The bodyguards that always followed him outside the palace walls were nowhere to be seen. The two sentries at the gate remained motionless under the enchantment.
He smiled the way the twins did when they’d fooled Arjuna and Bhima at hide and seek. “It’s always been easy to slip away from them.”
“Do you see, Sakhi? I only just realized it myself,” Chandaka said. “It was never King Suddhodana who kept his son prisoner in Vishramvan Palace. Siddhartha chose captivity.”
On this night, of all nights, he was choosing freedom. “You’re not really leaving. What about your son? What about Dhara? Your kingdom?” Her heart was breaking.
Suddenly the gate gave a loud creak and began to slide open of its own accord. She blinked, astonished.
“There’s a sign for you, my prince,” Chandaka said. “This spell won’t last forever.”
“Whose work might this enchantment be, Chandaka?” She wanted to strike him. “Your father’s sorcerers?”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Mistress Sakhi. I’m not such a rogue, you know.” He nodded at Siddhartha. “You explain.”
“The gods themselves want me to go,” Siddhartha said. “It’s their spell. For all I know, it lies over all Sixteen Clans.” Siddhartha’s amber eyes glowed under his dark brows. “Odd that you didn’t succumb, Sakhi. They must have known I would need you.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 53