The Library of Fates

by Aditi Khorana

  There was a time when the whole world had come to me through their voices, through their words and experiences, and now I was walking that very world with my own feet, and all I could do was wonder where they had gone, where people go when they depart this life, this plane. I had never before even considered that question.

  ¤

  Before long Thala was many paces ahead. The tension between us was thick and heavy. She was one of the few people in the world who could understand how I felt right now, and yet I had driven her away.

  I tried to distract myself. A cool breeze caressed my face and rustled the leaves on palm fronds. I walked under the blue tile archways that lined the road every few hundred paces. Along the stone road was a whitewashed wall with pink vines crawling across it, more bloom than wall. Colorful prayer flags flapped in the soft breeze, and the smell of jasmine permeated the air.

  “Looks like you’re having a rough day,” I heard someone behind me say and snapped around, my heart racing, half-expecting to see one of Sikander’s men.

  But instead, my eyes met those of a boy about my age, maybe a little older, wearing a white tunic and blue pants. The very sight of him made something in my stomach tense and then flutter violently. His dark, wavy hair curled at the edges from the humidity in the air. He was gazing at me with bright blue eyes that were hard to look away from. He smiled, and I wondered if he was taunting me. There was something beautiful about him—actually, everything about him was beautiful: his squared shoulders, his lean hips, his clear blue eyes, and his full lips, and I realized that many of the young women and men walking by turned to get a second glance at him.

  “Are you . . . speaking to me?” I asked, both irritated and confused.

  Even though I wasn’t accustomed to strangers and was overwhelmed with paranoia that Sikander’s men had somehow sent him, his seductive smile made me impulsively curious.

  “You’re the only one here, aren’t you?” I noticed his confident gait, his strong arms.

  “Technically, there are thousands of people walking this path today.”

  “Technically, there are millions of people in the world. But it’s you I’d like to speak with.” His eyes looked back at me like a question as he cocked his head to the side, watching me.

  I stiffened, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “What for?” I realized that he intimidated me and simultaneously drew me in while putting me on the defensive.

  Suddenly, he grabbed my waist with his strong hands, pulling me to the side of the road as a camel carrying a pair of newlyweds sidestepped me. They were waving to the people along the road, tossing handfuls of sugar candy to children and pilgrims. I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched the camel thump by, golden bells on his ankles, a red and gold patchwork quilt hanging off his flanks, a thread of red pom-poms tied around his ears.

  “That would have been a tragedy, if that camel dressed in wedding regalia killed a beautiful young girl on their wedding day,” he said, laughing, as he waved to the couple.

  He continued to hold my waist, and I felt an electric charge where his fingers touched my back, the roughness of his palms against my bare skin, the heat of his body against mine.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?” he asked, and I turned my head to look at him.

  He grinned, and his smile made him appear more approachable for a moment. Something about him seemed oddly familiar. I could have sworn I had seen him before, but I wasn’t sure where.

  “And why would I do that?” I looked at him defiantly.

  “I just saved your life. You owe me one.” His voice was a whisper, and he continued to hold me close.

  “Do I now?” Pulling away, my body felt cold where his hands had once been.

  “Here’s how you can make it up to me,” he said, somehow sensing that I wasn’t about to walk away from him. “You can keep me company on this journey.”

  “I don’t think so,” I told him, stepping back, but it was as though we had a string connecting us. I could step only so far from him before I felt the urge to be close to him again.

  “Why not?” He was grinning again, but I held strong.

  “I don’t know you. You could be a murderer. Or a thief. A criminal . . .”

  “Or simply a nice guy who would love to accompany you to Mount Moutza.”

  “How do you know I’m going to Mount Moutza?” I said, alarm in my voice.

  “I overheard an argument you were having with your friend.”

  I immediately regretted that Thala and I had failed to be discreet. But I was also annoyed that this stranger would rudely admit to listening in on us.

  “And that’s why you’re wasting my time?” I snapped.

  “That’s why I’d love to keep you company. Your friend’s obviously not in the mood.”

  I was irritated at his presumptuousness. He was probably accustomed to getting whatever he wanted on account of his good looks and felt it was appropriate to intrude on our business. “No, thank you. I’d prefer to be on my own.”

  He wasn’t deterred by my tart response.

  “It’s a shame you two plan on parting ways after you get to the temple.” He was watching me with such intensity in his eyes that I had to look away.

  A pang of loneliness shot through my belly as I watched Thala walking ahead of me. “And why is that?”

  “The temple is a good place for reconciliation. You two should reconsider your friendship once you get there.”

  “Perhaps you should reconsider your patronizing and entirely unsolicited advice to strangers.”

  This time, he laughed out loud. “So why are you headed to Mount Moutza? What are you asking for?”

  “Do I need to be asking for something?”

  “That’s typically why people make the pilgrimage.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I take this walk fairly often. I can tell you more about Mount Moutza, if you’d like.”

  “I don’t have any money to pay you . . . ,” I said, understanding now that this was probably some sort of scheme. Perhaps he was a guide and this was how he made a living.

  He laughed. “Truly, there’s nothing I want from you. I promise.”

  “You just want . . .”

  “Your company,” he said, his voice quiet but persistent. Then he glanced at me carefully. “Why does that surprise you so much?”

  I held his question in my mind for a few moments, considering it carefully. I noted the kindness in his voice.

  Softly, he added, “Company is sometimes the best thing we can give each other.” I looked toward Thala, still several paces ahead. “It can be a balm for all the fear, loss, and anguish in the world,” he said, looking at me as though he knew that I carried all of these emotions with me.

  I did feel all those things, but mostly, I was afraid that this was only the beginning. We were still alone in the world, Thala and I, navigating unknown terrain, barely speaking to each other, and I felt exposed to the elements, stripped bare in the face of terrifying unknowns that could befall us at any minute.

  “My name is Varun, by the way. You don’t have to tell me yours if you don’t want to.”

  Maybe I was taking a risk, but I also didn’t want to believe that the world was filled with evil people like Sikander. I wanted to hope that there was kindness too.

  “Amrita.”

  Sixteen

  VARUN WAS TOO OLD to be in school, but certainly too young to be a monk. Besides, he wasn’t dressed in the traditional orange robes that monks wore.

  “Why would you make this pilgrimage every day?” I asked him. “Don’t you have a job?” As I watched him, I realized I wanted to know everything about him: where he was from, what his life was like, and yet I struggled against the poise and decorum that Mala had always instructed me to maintain, especially with strangers. It was a barrier, and for
some reason, I didn’t want any barriers between myself and this stranger I had just met, something that baffled and surprised me.

  He didn’t seem offended by my questions. “I do. I’m a caretaker. But I’m also a devotee of the Goddess.”

  “The Goddess? Which one?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know anything about the temple, do you?” He was teasing me again.

  “Some.” I held my chin high, attempting to maintain my pride. “It’s the Mountain of Miracles, where the Diviners made a pact with the vetalas.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s more?” I looked at him. “I mean, it’s just some old fable. How complicated could the story be?”

  “Is this your first time there?”

  I nodded.

  “You must know the story of Makara the Spider.”

  “He creates, sustains, and destroys the world.”

  “Right, and after he created this world, he conjured up two groups to care for it.”

  “The Diviners and the vetalas.”

  “Exactly. The vetalas were immortal. They kept meticulous records of time. Some had powers to heal any wound, any illness. They were logical beings, methodical. They believed in order and fairness. But they were spirits, lacking bodies, and so their ability to influence the world was limited—that is, unless they were able to inhabit a human body.”

  “That’s why people are so scared of them. They devour humans.”

  “Devour is a little sensational,” he said as he reached for my shoulder and directed me to a part of the path where there was less foot traffic. “They find uninhabited bodies of the dead to animate.”

  “Not much difference,” I said, feeling a pang of regret as he removed his hand from my shoulder.

  Varun shook his head, grinning at me. “They’re not as scary as people think. The Diviners, on the other hand, were the first humans. They couldn’t see the future, and they had a tendency to forget the past, but they had courage and will. They had the means to shape their future, something that the vetalas couldn’t fathom. The Diviners were emotional beings, capable of great love and great pain. Makara created these beings hoping that they’d work together to care for the Earth, but that’s not what happened. At first, humans and vetalas worked together—vetalas even taught the Diviners how to look into the future.”

  “Is that how oracles learned to see the future?” I said, looking ahead at Thala. She seemed to be limping, her body sagging to one side.

  Varun nodded. “It’s an age-old practice. Vetalas also taught the Diviners how to communicate with the Earth. But ultimately their differences cleaved them apart.”

  “What differences? Aside from the stealing-bodies stuff . . .”

  “That was actually it. Vetalas don’t procreate; the early world contained only a finite number of them. Vetalas could communicate with humans only if they inhabited a human body, so they spent their time in cemeteries, trying to find newly deceased bodies to reanimate. And when humans learned of this practice, they thought it grotesque, a violation they couldn’t tolerate. A feud developed between the Diviners and the vetalas. Humans began to cremate the bodies of the dead so that spirits couldn’t get to them first. And soon, there was no communication between the vetalas and the humans. That’s why you barely hear anything about vetalas anymore.”

  “So wait—you believe vetalas really existed once upon a time?”

  He laughed, and I noted the sound of it—open and kind. “They still do. They live in hidden places. And they no longer reside within clans. Most of them wander the Earth, alone.”

  “If they really live among us, wouldn’t I have met one by now?”

  “Maybe you have.” He shrugged. “They exist; that’s all I know. And they still understand the wisdom of the early world.”

  “What kind of wisdom?”

  “The wisdom that the descendants of the Diviners lost . . . the ability to speak with the sky, with the ocean, with the trees. Those who broke from the Diviners lost their old ways. Humans no longer saw themselves as protectors of the Earth, connected to it, but they believed that they owned it. Their greed led to wars that destroyed the lakes, the forests, the oceans.”

  “Like the Land of Trees,” I murmured.

  Varun nodded. His long fingers pointed to the ground, his voice forceful and passionate as he watched me with his intense eyes, his gaze burning into me. “This is where it existed, the Land of Trees,” he said, indicating the ground on which we walked.

  My mouth dropped open. “Shalingar was the Land of Trees?”

  “Very long ago. The Diviners lived within the Land of Trees. It was their home. Anyway, you know the story. People . . . wanted to turn it into a carnival ground. Maya, the leader of the Diviners, couldn’t stand for this. The conflict escalated; they were on the brink of war. But the Diviners didn’t believe in war as a solution to conflict. So Maya broke with her people and hiked up to Mount Moutza to enlist the help of the vetalas.”

  “But you told me the vetalas and humans didn’t speak.”

  “You’re an excellent listener.” He grinned. “Maya took a risk when she climbed Mount Moutza—she was flouting an unspoken rule that humans did not enter vetala territory. Maya begged them for help, and help they did.”

  “What did they do?” I felt invested in the story now.

  “Vetalas have great strength. And the ability to fly. So they transported the Diviners—or at least some of them—to a sanctuary.”

  “The Janaka Caves?”

  He nodded. “Sadly, they weren’t able to save the forest. And so humans eventually destroyed the Land of Trees.”

  “So what good was all that work?” I said, annoyed at his story.

  “You assume that’s the end to the story . . .”

  “Okay, so what’s the end?”

  He glanced at me intensely, and once again, I had to look away from his gaze. “The Diviners spread out all over the Earth. One group went to Macedon. They became the oracles. Another group stayed in the caves—the sanctuary the vetalas helped them find. They became the Sybillines . . . guardians of the most precious material the Earth produces.”

  “Chamak.”

  “Exactly. The other chapter of the story has to do with the temple at the top of Mount Moutza. When Maya climbed the mount, asking for help, a vetala fell in love with her—a divine love growing between the two of them. They spent the rest of her life together. But he was immortal, and she was human.”

  “I know this story! About the vetala that wanders the Earth looking for his beloved.” I thought about Arjun then, about how we had spoken about this very part of the tale one of the last times I saw him.

  Varun nodded. “Do you know why he does that?”

  “I assume because he’s heartbroken.”

  “Yes and no. Of course he’s heartbroken, but before she died, she made a promise to him: that if the people of her land ever needed her aid, she would return to the Earth in another incarnation. Mount Moutza itself is a temple devoted to the bond between Maya and her beloved . . . a place where miracles happen. Where vetalas and humans come together. Where any desire can be expressed and fulfilled.”

  “Yeah, I don’t believe in stuff like that.”

  Varun shrugged. “You don’t have to. But many do. You know, the king of Shalingar comes to the temple once a year too. He is a great devotee of Maya.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach, and I felt my hand instinctively press against my rib cage. I couldn’t speak for several seconds, and Varun waited me out.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Finally, I took a deep breath. “The king of Shalingar?”

  Varun nodded. “There’s a reason people come from all over the world to offer prayers to Maya. She’s our most beloved deity. She gives people courage to stand up for what they be
lieve in.”

  In the distance, I could see Mount Moutza, and if I squinted my eyes, at the very top, I could just barely make out a structure cut out of red rocks.

  Was it possible that Maya the Diviner would actually descend to Earth now that we really were in trouble? I was too old for fantasies, had never believed in magic, but I desperately wanted to trust that someone would come and save us, or at the very least, someone would come and tell me what to do—how to reclaim my kingdom, how to save Arjun, and maybe, if it was even possible, how to go back in time and save my father and Mala.

  I felt a hollowness in the pit of my stomach when I thought of my father making this very pilgrimage to the temple at the top of Mount Moutza. I wondered what he thought about when he went there. I wondered what he asked for. I wondered why he never brought me with him. My heart ached to speak with him again, to laugh with him.

  “I wish there were something I could tell you to convince you that the story is true. But . . . you’ll have to go to the temple, see for yourself,” Varun interrupted my thoughts. I looked down at my shoes. I was wearing the white sandals that Thala had purchased in the town square, and my feet were horribly cut up and blistered. They ached with every step to Mount Moutza, but I didn’t even care. The ache in my heart hurt far worse.

  I wondered how many people made this journey despite themselves, handicapped by grief, by pain, by injury—all the things I had never been exposed to before today.

  I noticed Thala far ahead of us, stumbling on a jagged cobblestone. My impulse was to run to her, but she caught hold of the wall next to her, stabilized herself, and continued to slowly walk ahead.

  Varun watched Thala with concern in his eyes before he turned back to me. “People say that you can ask for anything on the top of Mount Moutza. It doesn’t matter where you come from, what you believe, what faith you adhere to.”

  “What do you ask for—since you make the journey there all the time?”

  Varun hesitated. “I lost someone I loved too. Long ago. I hope one day she’ll come back to me.”

  I wasn’t sure why I felt a hint of jealousy when he said this, but I put it aside, reminding myself that he was a stranger, free to love whomever he wanted.