by Sarah Zettel
The soul of those who have just died was a heavy thing, the sages taught. It carried its weight of earthly concerns and hatreds. It would cling to the world of form for three days, while such things drained away into the earth from which they came. Only then could the soul become light enough for death to carry to the other world to be joined with itself in the Land of Death and Spirit. Until then, the dead one could not be left alone, lest the soul, terrified and heavy, sink back into the body and try to live again, creating a foul ghoul.
To prevent this, someone, ideally a monk, had to sit with body and soul, and soothe them by singing of peace and Heaven. There was no monk here, there was only herself. She crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knees, and she began to sing.
When deep in silent hours of thought
The holy sage to Truth attains.
He is free from joy and pain,
From form and formless worlds released.
Be at peace, my husband. Be free. Be free.
Twilight closed over on the living and the dead, and Natharie began the hymn again.
Ponderously, the great army of Hastinapura marched across Sindhu’s plain.
It was a grand and glittering sight, moving to the sound of horns and drums and the endless tramping of thousands of feet on the clear, dry roads. The elephants were painted red with symbols of death and fortune. Their gilded tusks shone in the fierce sunlight. Banners fluttered in the humid breeze, showing themselves red, blue, saffron, and green, all proclaiming that the emperor came as warrior, that the Mothers looked down from Heaven and the earth should tremble. Before all, the priests carried the image of Queen Indu, Mother of War, riding on her tiger’s back, brandishing her sword and shield, her head thrown back so that she might howl out triumph over all enemies.
Behind her came the emperor’s golden chariot, drawn by four horses, two snow white and two obsidian black. Chandra, in the gilded armor and golden crown surmounted by the great ruby that pulsed like a living thing when sunlight touched it, stood behind his driver.
But to witness all this strength and glory, there was no one at all.
Pravan sent ahead outrider after outrider and all came back with the same news. The countryside was abandoned. What little livestock there was wandered freely about the fields. Doors hung open and wild animals had already been scavenging in pantries and storage pits left full and unsecured. It was clear that the land had been empty of humanity for at least several days.
Pravan reported all this to the emperor as they camped for the night beside a silent pilgrims’ hostel. The imperial party took over what had been the main common room, a plain, square chamber with worn wooden floors and bare walls. When they had arrived, those walls had been covered with tapestries and banners, all of which Divakesh had immediately declared anathema and ordered to be burnt. His under-priests, an increasingly nervous and pale cadre, had hurried to obey.
“So!” cried Divakesh when Pravan finished delivering his latest report. “All the Awakened could do when the Mothers came to them was run!”
Pravan risked a glance up. The emperor was sitting cross-legged on the elaborate divan that had been set up for him, and in contrast to Divakesh, he looked thoughtful. “Are you sure, my lord Divakesh?” Emperor Chandra asked.
“What else could it be?” The priest’s eyes shone as he looked out the open window and across the silent, empty countryside. “It is a sign from the Mothers. We will not even meet any resistance as we carry their will forward. It is the final sign that we have done right.”
The emperor nodded and turned to his sorcerer. “What do you say, Yamuna?”
Instead of the sorcerer’s usual tart reply Yamuna pressed his lips together, making a thin, straight line of his mouth. “Some great thing has happened here, my emperor. What it is, I cannot say.” He also looked toward one of the open windows, but instead of declaring triumph, his nostrils flared as if he caught some scent the rest of them could not detect. “It should also be remembered that it was a great thing that allowed Agnidh Hamsa to escape.”
“You say it was great only because you were unable to prevent it,” sneered Divakesh.
“Yes,” said Yamuna calmly, but his eyes promised payment. “Yes, that is why I say it was great.”
“It was the Mothers teaching you humility in your power, Agnidh.” Divakesh raised his hand. “It is another sign that they walk close to us during this time of destiny.”
Pravan shifted his weight. He had seen men look like the high priest before. It came when the battle had been too hard and too long and yet they must be sent into the fray again. It was the look of a man who had traveled so far beyond his own fear that he was no longer fully within his own soul. There were rumors murmured around the fires, that the Queen of Heaven had come down to look on her priest, and she had been displeased with what she saw. They said that was why Mother Jalaja had spirited away Agnidh Hamsa. They said Agnidh Yamuna had gone to the emperor in a rage and demanded he delay the march until Hamsa could be found, and that the emperor, gripped by Divakesh’s madness, had refused.
Pravan silenced these whenever he heard them. He had even killed three men for speaking treason and blasphemy. But the rumors persisted, and when Pravan stood beside the priest and looked into Divakesh’s shining eyes, in his heart he believed them.
For this moment, though, Pravan envied Divakesh. He wanted his certainty back, even if it came at the price of madness. When they found Makul dead on the prince’s terrace and heard Yamuna telling the full tale of the old commander’s treachery, Pravan had felt triumphant. Now he had the rank he had always desired. There was none over him save the emperor, and the emperor listened to his opinion in all things. Now the wealth would come, and the wives and the lands. All things would come as soon as this very little war was over.
But the farther they marched into this ghost of a country, the more worried Pravan became. Right now he would have given his sword and his right arm to speak with Makul, whom he’d spurned before as cautious to the point of cowardice. But Makul was dead, and the officers he had carefully chosen to command the ranks underneath him responded to his fear with fear of their own and looked to him for orders.
Pravan made the soldier’s salute to his emperor and the Mother’s priest and turned away, heading for the small city of tents where the soldiers were quartered. He would not sleep tonight, he knew. He would send out more outriders, and they would come back with the same news, but he would send them anyway, because it was all he could do.
Chapter Twenty-three
The water bowl was dry. It was the third day since Samudra had died. Natharie no longer had the strength to chant. She needed to concentrate on breathing. The heat was a weight, pressing against her head and chest. Even filtered by the forest’s branches, the sun burned where it touched her. The welts raised by the biting insects were beginning to ooze. Her lips had begun to crack. Sometimes she thought she heard voices, whispering and buzzing in the trees. Sometimes she wanted to go and find them, but she did not think she could move. She had long ago ceased to feel her legs. There was only a painful tingle now and then.
She pulled her thoughts back to the hymns. That was all that mattered. When the sun went down, it would be the last night. When the sun came up, it would be over. It would be all over.
She is free from joy and pain,
From form and formless worlds released.
There was something wrong with that repetition, but Natharie could not think what it was. There was something else wrong, something outside, something beside her, but she could not think what that might be. Samudra still lay beside her, as peaceful beneath his cloak as if he were asleep. For two days he had lain there and she had sat here, and she had seen what she had seen and done what she had done, and something was wrong.
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was releasing her husband’s soul to the next world. That was her task. All else had to wait.
She is free from joy and pain,
&nb
sp; From form and formless worlds released.
“She sleeps, she sleeps,” hissed a voice.
Painfully, Natharie opened her eyes. She did not realize she had closed them. Dully, she saw her death in front of her.
The serpents had returned.
One rose up in the noble pose, its hood unspread. Just looking about, seeing what was there. The other, the female, for she was the smaller of the two, slid forward, her tongue tasting the air.
“She sleeps, but she wakes,” said the male. “But she sleeps.”
The female gave a series of short hisses that might have been laughter and glided up to Natharie, circling her. The snake’s hide grazed her toes. Natharie could only watch it. Her heart hammered hard in her chest, but it seemed a thousand miles away. She could feel nothing of the snake’s caress at all and that only increased her fear.
“And this one?” said the female, slipping up to Samudra, and raising herself up as her mate did to inspect him. “What of this one?”
Natharie tried to speak, and failed, and tried again. “No,” she croaked. Her lips split painfully as she formed the word. “You have killed him already. Leave us be.”
“We have killed him?” The male pulled back, his tongue flickering fast. “Who came to our home? Who built the fire that called to us with its warmth?”
Natharie closed her eyes again. Her throat was swollen with thirst. She could not think. She could not understand why the serpents would speak to her now when they had said so little before.
She made herself open her eyes again. The female leaned forward and glided across Samudra’s chest. Natharie cried out wordlessly and raised her numb hand. The male hissed his warning, but not to his mate, to Natharie. She froze, and to her shame let her hand fall.
“I like this one,” said the female, flicking her tongue against Samudra’s cheek. “I want it.”
“No,” croaked Natharie again. Her mouth was bleeding. She could taste it. Her tongue was like leather. “I beg you.”
The male’s hood spread out, just a little, just another gentle warning, and he slipped forward. “And who are you to deny my wife this?” he asked, his voice full of quiet danger.
“He is my husband,” said Natharie. “I am his wife. Leave us in peace.”
“Ahhhhh!” sighed the male. The female continued her trek across Samudra’s chest, slipping off his body on the near side, and gliding around his head, stroking him with her long, lithe body. “Perhaps you will make a bargain for him, then.”
“Why do you do this?” Her voice cracked, high and sharp. “He is dead too long, you can’t …” Her words fell away, and the snakes looked up at Natharie, suddenly perfectly still.
Dead. Dead three days in the heat and the damp of the forest. Dead with the flies and mosquitoes drinking her blood, but not his. Around him, there were no flies. There was no stench. The body had not corrupted at all.
Natharie’s breath was suddenly coming hard and fast. A buzzing began in her ears and the world swam in front of her eyes. That was what was wrong. Samudra lay beside her as perfect and whole as he had been when he fell. If he was dead, how could this be?
And what had the serpent said, she was asleep, but she was awake but she was asleep … what power, what enchantment surrounded her? This was not the madness of thirst. This was more. This was the gods or the demons, come to taunt, to tempt. Samudra had called the snakes the creatures of Mother Vimala. This was the other world brought to the opening made by the passage of Samudra’s soul.
“A bargain,” said the male snake again. Flick, flick, went his tongue, tasting the thoughts that thronged so thickly through the air around Natharie. “A wish for you, in return for him.”
“A wish,” repeated Natharie dully.
“Any wish,” said the serpent, gliding still closer. “Any wish at all.”
Natharie swallowed. It hurt. She looked at Samudra. The female glided across his throat and rose up, her tongue touching his cheek.
“You fear so many things other than the two of us.” The male’s tongue touched Natharie’s hand. Slowly, sensuously, he slipped up her arm. His skin was dry and scratched against her own. She wanted to scream. He climbed her slowly, taking his time, knowing she did not dare move. He curved around her throat, and raised up his head to whisper in her ear. “Would you destroy the land of the Mothers? Would you have revenge for all the wrong done to you and yours? Give us the man. Speak your wish, and it is done.”
“How …?” Natharie’s skin prickled. It wanted to sweat out her fear, but there was no water left within her.
“Was it not our kind who came to your Awakened One in his need and brought him shelter and succor? Were we not blessed because of it? The earth is our home, and no secret can be kept from the earth. Come.” He was moving again, gilding down her other arm, caressing her slowly with the whole length of his body. The serpent’s touch made her think of Samudra’s. Arousal and revulsion both rose in her, and she did not know which was worse.
“Give my wife this son of the Mothers, and you will have what you want most.”
If he had been dead, she might have given in. She was so thirsty. She was so tired. If she said yes, Samudra would be gone and her duty to him would be gone as well. With a few words, she could save Sindhu and all she loved. She could rest. She could drink. She could die.
Die. She could be dead very soon. But Samudra was not dead, and that was a very, very important thing.
The snake was in her lap now. He lifted himself up so Natharie looked into his burning eyes. “We served the Awakened One, why should we not serve you? Give us the man and let all be done.”
His tongue flicked in and out, so quick, so strangely graceful. He had a scent, a dry, spicy scent that reminded her of something she could not name.
Give us the man and let all be done. Give us the man and let all be done.
All.
She could give, and wish, and die.
But Samudra was not dead, and that was still important.
Now Natharie remembered why. “No,” she said.
The snake pulled back and its hood began to spread, slowly, oh, so slowly. “Why refuse us?”
“Because he is not dead.”
The snake was silent for a long moment, as if conceding the point. “But he is still yours. He is your man.”
“No,” said Natharie again. She was so tired, it was so hard. “If he were dead, I might give you his body, and it would be … a lesser sin, but he is not dead, so he is not mine to give. I would be enslaving him and that I will not do.” She closed her eyes. There. That was what she had been trying to remember. She would not give Samudra over to these two. If he were awake to give himself … that would be one thing. But he was not, and there was only her here to speak, and if this was the last thing she did, she would not act incorrectly. Not here at the very end.
“What is he to you?” asked the female. “You feel the spark of love in him, but what is that? He is the son of your enemies. He is a soldier and has already tasted his own death a hundred times. What is this last death to him or to you?”
“He is not mine to give. His life is his own.” Father, Mother, oh, Bailo, forgive me. Forgive me. Awakened One, watch over them, I cannot do this.
“Then we will take you instead.”
“No,” she said quietly.
The serpent drew back, hissing in anger at this outrage, but Natharie knew she spoke the truth. In this place, at this time, surrounded by these horrors and these miracles, her heart was open and she understood.
“You cannot take me. I have done nothing wrong. You told me yourself. You are servants of the divine. The divine is not selfish. You cannot take me because it is not for myself that I refuse you.”
The serpent opened her mouth and Natharie saw her fangs, and to her surprise the serpent threw back its head and laughed. While she stared, the cobras doubled back along their own bodies and slipped away, back under the altar, back to the forest, leaving her alone with Samud
ra.
Shaking with starvation and relief, she crawled closer to him. She had not touched him for any of the three days, but she did now, laying a trembling hand against his cheek. His flesh was cool, but not cold. Not deathly. He did not breathe, but the scent of him was still sweet.
“Samudra,” she whispered. “Samudra, come back to me. Come back, my husband, my love. Come back.”
She leaned over him, breathing her words over and over again into his mouth. “Come back, Samudra. Come back.”
Still calling, she kissed him, breathing her new hymn into his still body. Come back, my husband.
Come back.
Come back.
Samudra woke, refreshed. After a moment, he realized he was no longer lying on forest litter and rotting wood, but on a slope of soft grass. His body that had been so heavy and cold before was now warm and light. He sat up and looked about him.
A green hill rose before him, to meet the gates of a great, white city. Even the Palace of the Pearl Throne would have been dwarfed by the size and magnificence of this place. Its many towers rose like trees in a forest. Its walls gleamed as if light emanated from within. Perhaps it did, for the sky overhead had a strange, greenish cast to it, and he could see no sun. In the gentle wind that wafted from it he smelled many strange and delicate scents. There was nothing he could put a name to, but they all made him feel strong and quiet, hungry and aroused all at once.
In all the world, there was no sound. He could not even hear his own breathing.
In the next moment, he realized he was alone.
Samudra scrambled to his feet, looking all about for Natharie. As he did, he remembered the ruined temple, their love, and the shock of pain as the serpent sank its teeth into his arm, and took his life.
Took his life. He was dead.
First, he was angry. His work was unfinished, the empire was now wholly in the hands of Divakesh and Pravan. And Natharie, oh, Natharie, his wife, his love, was abandoned in the wild forest while he was here on this hillside whole and healed of his pain.
