The Shining Cities: An Anthology of Pagan Science Fiction

by Lauren Teffeau

  The mote seemed to bob, bowing and then drifting off behind her, headed for the river-bed. Kerani stood, stretched her arms once again and followed the mote, keeping pace with a fast walking stride of her long legs. Under a flawless azure sky the mote retraced the commander’s journey through Shiva’s realm, gliding up the ravine over a low rise of boulders made of the bright blue lapis lazuli. The soil, scattered in patches across the countryside, was a coarse black volcanic ash and stone fresh from the heart of the earth. The dark soil was broken by large patches of amber grass that grew knee-high in places. The mote travelled on for more than a mile and stopped, hovering near a copse of low, verdant plum trees covered in white, sweet-smelling blossoms. Kerani could already sense where the gate had been. Its energy subtly filled the place and grew in strength as she approached. It was a hum… a vibration at the edge of her senses… she finally stopped upon the spot where two thousand feet had passed some eight hours before. The mote hovered expectantly, waiting for a path to follow, but the way was closed.

  Kerani closed her eyes and whispered Shiva’s song of transformation. As she sang, her lower arms slowly melded into her body, and her skin shifted from deep midnight to a natural, dark-brown. Talons reshaped themselves into human fingers adorned with an assortment of jeweled rings on both hands. Her razor-sharp teeth dulled and transformed into a perfect, gleam-white smile while the pearls on her face faded into non-existence. A crimson dot appeared in the middle of her forehead, and blood-red eyes changed to deep brown. Her blouse expanded over her body and became a light blue silk sari with gold filigree. The loin-cloth wrapped itself around her legs to become a loose-fitting, gold satin kameeze. Delicate leather sandals appeared on delicate feet. She reached into the air and pulled out a long swath of white, shimmering cloth which she draped over her head and around her shoulders.

  The opening-song of Ganesha passed Kerani’s lips, rolling off her human tongue like water cascading over moss-covered stones. Three times she sang the song, and with each passing verse the gate came back into being. It was a black, swirling pane of smoke edged with dull white light. She smelled the ocean and heard a faint undulation of gentle surf shifting sand on a nearby beach. When the gate stood fully before her, she adjusted her garments one last time and settled the Kali Scroll at her waist.

  Proceed, she willed to the mote and then followed it through.

  As she passed through the smoky curtain, the sound of the ocean filled her ears, and moist air soaked into her clothing and skin. A broad, silver moon, full and shining, hovered over a wide expanse of beach upon which the ocean beat itself gently. She stood atop a rise of tan and gray granite from which had been carved a flat, smooth circle thirty feet in diameter. Spaced every few feet around the perimeter, head-sized stones of lapis lazuli formed a perimeter.

  Kerani willed the mote to halt when she spotted a figure to her right. The mote, visible only to Kerani, stopped at the edge of the circle and waited, bobbing anxiously to reach the end of the journey it had been created to complete. Kerani turned upon a young face, thinking at first that it was a young man with gentle features. But upon closer inspection, Kerani’s senses told her that it was a woman in her late teens or early twenties reclining comfortably in a nook of granite. She was casually flipping a short dagger and observing Kerani. The girl was tall, thin and flat-chested with her hair cut short under a small, white turban. She wore a gray, loose-fitting salwar for a top and a baggie kameeze made of coarse, white fabric covered her legs. She was gently kicking her legs out and slapping her bare heels against the stone.

  Kerani faced the girl and then paused a moment, trying to remember how to speak. It had been a very long time since she had done so. The memory of vocalization floated up to the surface; her body took in a breath, a strange sensation after all that time, and she began to exhale, letting the wind pass over her vocal cords as she shaped her first words in two-hundred-and forty-six years.

  “Hello,” Kerani said pleasantly, her own voice sounding strange in her ears, and she tried to remember if that’s what she used to sound like.

  “They’re not coming back, are they?” the girl asked bluntly. She stuck the dagger into a battered leather sheath at her waist and hopped off the granite ledge, her feet making a quiet slapping sound as they hit the stone of the carved circle.

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Kerani replied evasively.

  “Of course you do. If you’re here, then they found you. They found you and failed to take that.” The girl nodded her head to the silver scroll case at Kerani’s hip. It occurred to Kerani that the girl’s eyes had scarcely left the scroll case. Kerani looked down at the Scroll of Kali. The case was made of the purest silver and covered with a mixture of deeply carved Sanskrit runes and gleaming blue sapphires that glistened and glittered in the moonlight. Its end-caps tapered down into fine points several inches long. The caps could be twisted on and off, and they held in place the corded, red rope that held the case to Kerani’s belt. Long, frayed tassels dangled down from each end, and the rope looked worn but sturdy. Kerani cursed silently. She had forgotten that while she could alter her own appearance, she was no more capable of altering the shape of a god-crafted relic than the girl before her. She hastily covered the case with her shawl.

  Kerani studied the girl for long seconds. “Do you know who the men were?” she finally asked.

  The girl stepped up to Kerani and peered at the outline of the case under the shawl. “Of course. I’m the one who opened the gate for the Raja’s men. Raja Mauna Sing.”

  “You?” Kerani was surprised that one so young could have conjured a gate at all, let alone one powerful enough to traverse through the aether all the way to the shores of Lake Manasarovar. Her interest was piqued by this young woman. “What is your name?”

  “Eka. I am the great-grand-daughter of Raja Prakash Mauna, the man who led the Three Kingdoms against the British at Surat and Calicut.” The girl said it with pride, but there was something else in her voice. She bit off her words like they were made of bitter fruit. Eka finally stole her gaze away from the outline of the scroll and stepped past Kerani, walking over the edge of the stone circle. She passed right through the Kerani’s mote and began heading off in the same direction the mote had been headed. Kerani set the mote in motion, and it appeared to follow the girl towards a nearby path that cut its way into a thick line of trees.

  “Eka, may I travel with you?” the Kerani called after the young girl.

  “If you like, but one like you may not care for where we end up.” Her disinterest in Kerani seemed almost forced, but Kerani couldn’t decide if the girl was simply too proud to show obeisance or if there was something else at work.

  Kerani hummed a few, brief notes of Ganesha’s hymn of closing and dismissed the gate with a wave of her hand. The girl was walking quickly across the rocks and neared the tree-line with the mote close behind. Kerani strode after them both, her longer legs gaining ground as the two disappeared up the trail between the trees. She quickly passed the mote as it continued to wind its way through the gentle bends of the trail. As Kerani stepped up beside Eka, the demigod took a moment to examine the young mortal. There was a haughty stiffness to the girl, and she was possessed of both noble and common features blended together into something distinct. She had a simple beauty that seemed to run deeper than mere features. There was an uncommon strength within her that reminded Kerani of the men she had slaughtered along the ethereal shore of Lake Manasarovar.

  The moist jungle air felt good against Kerani’s skin. She recalled a distant memory of similar jungle and similar night… of being a young girl walking similar trails on mundane errands for reasons that eluded her… and perhaps not alone. The flicker of memory faded.

  “Forgive me, but you don’t appear as if you come from a Raja’s palace.” It was a statement, not a question, and they both knew it.

  Eka didn’t hesitate, and her voice kept a steady, cold tone as she spoke. “My grand-mother was a commo
ner whom Raja Prakash took an interest in. My mother was conceived as a result of his interest. He refused to marry her, so my mother was born out of wedlock. My grandmother died at a young age from the Plague that swept India back then, and my mother was forced to become a whore for the Raja’s army when everyone evacuated the area. She died when I was born. I was raised by camp-girls and sold into slavery when I was eight.”

  The girl might just as well be talking about washing clothing, Kerani thought. It was utterly devoid of any emotion.

  Eka continued, “My owner, a salt trader out of Surat, decided to rape me on my thirteenth birthday. It wasn’t the first time, but he’d told me that it was my present, implying that it was something I wanted and would enjoy. We were on his ship, making the monthly salt run between Surat and Bangladesh. He took me to his quarters, turned his back on me and started to undress. Something inside me broke… and something else formed. I yanked his dagger out of the scabbard at his hip and stabbed him in the back as hard as I could. It was a dagger given to him by his first wife.” Eka smiled as she said it, as if that moment had defined something within her. “The pig didn’t even cry out; he just slumped over onto the pillows he’d raped me upon so many times before. I pulled the dagger out and rolled him over, trying to make him look more natural. He had this funny, surprised look on his face. I closed his eyes, wiped the dagger off on the underside of a pillow and then put it back in the scabbard.”

  The two women reached a rough but obviously well-travelled path wide enough for a cart. Eka turned to her right and kept walking through the moonlit darkness, striding a well-known path. Kerani glanced behind her and was gratified to see the mote still following them. The girl was obviously retracing the path she had taken to lead the Raja’s men to the circle.

  “How did you get off his ship?” Kerani was intrigued by the tough, willful young girl now.

  “Simple. I grabbed a small dagger and a bag of gems from a chest and then swung open the window. It was only a few miles north of here, just along the coast. I jumped into the sea and swam a short distance to the shore. I cut off my hair as soon as I was on land and stole some boy’s clothing. I’ve been a boy ever since… except to my mistress. She knows the truth. She knows many things.”

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Yes. I need to tell her that the Raja’s men are dead. She’ll know what to do next. The Raja Mauna Sing is preparing for an attack against the Governor-General Lord Wellesley II at Bombay. Sing and Wellesley II have maintained a shaky truce for eight years just as their fathers did before them. But recently, a number of Sing’s patrols have been wiped out by ... something. He and Tantia Topee, the Raja of a kingdom to the north, are planning an invasion to wipe out Wellesley. They’re staging in Aurungabad to invade Bombay. Sing believes it’s time that the English left India once and for all.”

  “Something?” Kerani was more interested in whatever was wiping out the Raja’s troops. She cared little for the politics of mortals, having long ago concluded that such conflicts were eternal and unstoppable.

  “The rumor is that Wellesley has employed some sort of giant, mechanical monster that hisses as it strides across open country and belches both fire and bullets. The only thing that seems to slow it down is forest. He also has great war machines that float through the air and rain artillery down upon troops, and he has rifles that shoot many many bullets rather than just one at a time. Someone put it in Sing’s head that if he possessed that -- ” she nodded to the scroll again, “ -- he would be able to defeat the metal beast, his war machines and Wellesley once and for all.”

  Kerani was silent for a while as she pondered what the girl had said. The notion of airborne war machines and metal monsters was strange to her, and she did not know what bullets were. She’d been secluded from mortals for a very long time and was really starting to feel it.

  “Shhh….” Eka held out her hand against Kerani’s chest and halted in the middle of the path. They stood in a wide pool of silver moonlight set between rivers of deep shadows heading off in all directions through the trees. She turned her ear to the road and swiveled her head around slowly, listening for something. “Bandits,” Eka said almost casually. “Or slavers.” The thought had occurred to her to whisper, but then she realized who and what stood beside her. A wicked smile curled itself onto her face. She was going to enjoy this. She suddenly hoped it was slavers. “You can come out,” she said into the jungle.

  The green mote, still following its command, passed between them both. No longer needing it, Kerani willed it into non-existence. Kerani and Eka stared into the dark jungle surrounding them. Kerani had sensed the men in the jungle but not thought it important enough to mention. They were only men after all.

  Four figures materialized out of the shadows and surrounded the two women, standing just a few paces away in all four directions. They were dressed similarly to Eka, except they all wore black turbans with white feathers in them. Two men held man-sized black nets, while a third held a long, battered scimitar. The fourth was larger and had a beautiful, jewel-encrusted scimitar at his waist, gems reflecting brightly in the moonlight.

  “You really should seek other prey this evening,” Eka said plainly.

  “Don’t be stupid, boy. You’ll make a fine conscript for the Muslims across the sea… and her…” Even in the dark both women saw his eyes travel across Kerani’s body, taking a slow, vulgar journey. “I may just keep her for myself.” The slaver licked his lips in anticipation of the capture and then nodded to the men with the nets. Eka heard the swish but was already ducking and rolling towards the forest, her dagger coming easily out of its sheath. She glanced back as she stood up. The net meant for her hit the ground, and the man with the drawn sword turned to Eka. The net meant for Kerani hit home, falling completely over her. It slid off her like silk slides off of smooth glass, gathering in a pile around her feet. Kerani didn’t move.

  “Get the woman!” the leader shouted, drawing his scimitar as he and the two net-throwers moved towards Kerani. The first sword-wielder’s blade was already swinging towards Eka’s head in a wide arc. She ducked under it, and the blade sunk into the bole of a tree. Eka’s dagger entered his belly before he could even try to pull his scimitar out of the tree. The man squealed just as the net-grabbers got their hands on Kerani … he squealed again … and again … and again. Eka’s dagger pierced his belly and chest four times quickly. He fell to the ground clutching his wounds and trying to draw his last breath. The net-throwers held Kerani’s arms tightly, and the leader stepped in, pressing the tip of his blade against Kerani’s throat. “Enough!” he bellowed as he glared at Eka. “Drop the blade or she dies!” Both net-throwers started screaming horribly. Eka shook her head with a wry grin on her face, almost feeling sorry for what was about to happen to the slavers … almost.

  All three men looked down and realized that Kerani had sprouted a second pair of shapely arms under the first pair, a dagger held in one bejeweled hand and a scimitar in the other. The blades had pierced the bellies of both net-throwers just above their belts, and Kerani easily lifted them off the ground. The leader’s eyes grew wide with terror, and he snapped his free hand onto Kerani’s shoulder, holding firm, thrusting into her throat with the scimitar. The blade scraped up Kerani’s throat and got caught underneath her chin, pushing her head back slightly but without leaving a mark. The net-throwers were screaming and flailing their arms and legs, trying to get off the blades that held them suspended six feet off the ground.

  Kerani’s eyes glowed crimson in the darkness as she pulled her chin down, forcing the leader’s arm back. He screamed in terror. Her upper-right arm shot out and gripped him tightly by the throat as her upper-left reached up behind her head and pulled a gleaming sickle out of thin air. The man gasped and gurgled, trying desperately to empty his lungs of the fear that gripped him, but Kerani’s grip on his throat was like steel. He dropped the scimitar and clutched at Kerani’s hand, trying to free his collapsing
windpipe. Kerani lifted him off the ground, and his feet kicked wildly at her. The sickle flashed in an arc just above Kerani’s right hand, and the man’s head came free, toppling to the side. His limbs sagged and his body dropped to the ground, one leg quivering slightly. Kerani heaved backwards with her lower arms, and the two net-throwers fell to the ground clutching at their bellies.

  She turned to face them both, and a short-pike appeared in Kerani’s free hand. She moved towards the prone men, both of them holding up their hands in a futile attempt to ward off the demigod. They whispered agonized prayers to Shiva for mercy. Kerani, Shiva’s servant, gave them none. The pike pierced the chest of one and the scimitar pierced the other. The jungle was quiet once again. The Four Teeth of Murugan disappeared into their sheaths, and Kerani’s extra set of arms evaporated into the aether.

  Kerani turned to Eka who was wiping her dagger off on the shirt of the man she had killed. “Where are we?” she asked quietly.

  “Pamban,” Eka said as she knelt down and felt around the man’s waist, looking for something. Finding a lump, she pried his belt away and pulled out a small leather pouch tied there. A quick, well-practiced flick of her wrist silently cut the strings holding it, and the purse disappeared into her salwar with equal speed. Kerani watched with mild interest as the girl searched the remaining three men, silently removing their purses and hiding the leather pouches with deft, experienced hands. As she waited for Eka to finish looting the corpses, Kerani remembered vaguely that Pamban was an island between the Indian mainland and the island of Ceylon in the southeast. It was home to one of the holiest places in southern India, a village called Rameswaram.

  As the heavier purse from the leader disappeared, Eka looked up and caught Kerani watching her. “How do you think I eat?” she said defensively. “I’ve certainly never gotten any help from your kind.”

  Kerani was somewhat startled by the accusation. “What a curious thing to say.” She tilted her head at the girl. She was surprised at the clear, even bold contempt the girl seemed to hold for Kerani and perhaps the entire pantheon. “Do you feel that way about all of us?”