by J. F. Penn
Chapter 29
As the river wound away from Allahabad, the sounds of mourning faded and eventually, Asha could only hear the slap of water on the hull. She looked out towards the villages on the banks of the Ganges. A woman squatted on a rock doing her washing. A herd of water buffalo munched in the shallows. Men worked in the fields, their laughter and good-natured chatter rippling out towards her. The sounds of rural India, a background to life that she had never known growing up in the craziness of Mumbai and the privilege of wealth.
Maybe if she had grown up out here, she would have found love and had a family, a simpler life that may have satisfied her. But she would never know those pleasures now.
Asha sighed and brushed away the tears from her cheeks. She had lost her brother to the boiling waters along with her guru. The other dead pilgrims meant nothing to her, but those two men had been precious and their loss cut to her heart.
The goddess had asked for a sacrifice, but perhaps her demand had never been for pilgrims. Perhaps she had only ever wanted Asha's dearest, or perhaps the timing had just not been right.
She looked down at the sculpture of Shiva Nataraja, the bronze glinting as the sun rose higher in the sky. If the carving truly was the Brahmastra mantra, she could use it again.
And it wouldn't have to be in India.
She could take it to London or New York, anywhere the casualties might be even higher than the Kumbh Mela.
A piercing cry rang out over the river. She looked up to see a peacock on the edge of the bank, its feathers spread in a perfect semi-circle of brilliant blues and purple.
It stared right at her, its piercing eyes glinting as it screeched again.
"Mayura," Asha whispered, the Sanskrit word for peacock. The bird was sacred to Hindu mythology, depicted as killing a snake, the symbol of the cycle of time. Was it meant to be a warning?
Confusion swept over her. What did the goddess want?
She had to get to the Aghori in Varanasi. She would join their rite and in the blood and the fire, she would see the goddess again and learn her true wishes.
***
Morgan and Jake drove into the outskirts of Varanasi. The highway had been swift but as they wove through the streets into the central city, it became useless to drive any further.
Skinny cows with jutting ribs wandered the streets chewing on whatever they could find, as birds of prey wheeled overhead. A woman squatted next to the road with a tray of pomegranates, one split open to show the red flesh inside. A flower seller with marigolds spattered by the rain hawked his wares next to jasmine flowers and huge gourd-like cucumbers, dried coconut and piles of colorful dye for offerings. The sound of horns and radios playing Bollywood tunes filled the air, blaring horns and bells and the crush of pilgrims overwhelming anyone who stood still. A scooter zoomed past driven by a man with his wife and three children plus a chicken piled around him.
"Something like that would be much faster," Jake said as they sat in a traffic jam.
"Let's do it," Morgan said.
They left their vehicle at the side of the road and hailed a bicycle rickshaw.
"Where to, ma'am?" the young driver asked, his bare feet ready on the pedals.
"Is there a temple to the goddess Kali on the ghats?" Morgan asked.
"There is a shrine near Dashashwamedh Ghat. I will take you there?"
Morgan nodded. "Yes, please."
He darted down a side street and into the warren of the ancient city, ringing his bell as he clattered along. Morgan held onto the side of the cart, leaning into Jake to try and avoid getting slammed into the walls as the young man rounded corners at speed.
They shot through an intersection, weaving in between sacred cows and buses filled with people. The traffic was like a shoal of fish, moving together, inches apart and yet somehow not colliding, as if a sixth sense sparked between them. Decorated trucks with multi-colored paintings and tinsel bore down on their tiny vehicle but at the last minute the driver swerved, grinning back at them in triumph.
"Look at the damn road," Jake shouted. He turned to Morgan. "Maybe you have to see life as cyclical here, so you can stop worrying about dying every five minutes."
The city was dirty and dusty and the buildings drooped into one another as if they might tumble like dominos any minute. But despite the dense humanity packed in like sardines, there was a pervading sense of calm. This place was truly sacred and to die here meant an escape from the circle of reincarnation. For if the ashes of the dead floated in the Ganges at Varanasi, the soul would ascend to heaven with no need to come back to the agony of life. Some days, Morgan could see why such a belief would be so precious.
After a short journey, they paid the driver and walked down onto the ghat. Sadhus sat in lotus position on the bank, their backs straight and bodies still as they stared at the horizon. Beggars held tins out as Morgan and Jake passed. They asked for a few rupees for firewood for their own pyres, because it took a great deal to burn a human corpse to dust. Even death was hard here.
Near the steps of the ghat, a man drove his buffalo herd into the water and began to wash them, while just downstream, a dhobi-wallah washed a pile of clothes, slapping the bright material on the steps. A woman stood in the shallows, weeping as she released a wreath of flowers onto the holy waters.
Morgan and Jake found the Kali shrine in a parade of other gods, her black face and red tongue as well as the severed heads marking her out. Pilgrims prayed next to it, leaving flowers and other offerings. The sound of prayer cymbals and the smell of incense emanated from the shrine.
But they couldn't spot Asha in the crowd of pilgrims.
Jake's phone buzzed.
"Martin says that the satellite shows she definitely alighted from the boat here at Varanasi, but further downstream at the burning ghats."
"That's the cremation grounds where the Aghori would congregate too," Morgan said. "Let's head in that direction."
Shadows lengthened as they walked along the edge of the river, and when they eventually reached one of the main cremation ghats, it was getting dark. The pyres burned here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to process the huge numbers of dead, and as they walked through, Morgan glimpsed the different stages of cremation.
A group of men carried a body down to a pyre that was stacked high, ready for burning. The corpse was wrapped in orange silk and garlanded with flowers. The men lifted it high and placed it onto the wood and a young man leaned forward to light the kindling, his face contorted with grief. Later, he would have to crack the skull of the dead to release its spirit, but for now, he bore witness to the end of another life.
Flames hissed and popped and the sound of sonorous bells rang through the air. The heat was intense and as they wove through the fires, Morgan was reminded of the story of the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, when three young Jews walked in the flames unhurt because of their faith in God. This was a primal place and staring into the flames here meant watching a human body return to bone and ashes.
"There," Jake whispered suddenly.
Towards the end of the ghat, in the shadows beyond the main pyres, a group of Aghori sat in front of a huge fire. They sat so close that it seemed impossible that their skin didn't burn. Their kapala skulls sat before them, bone glinting in the flickering light and the ash on their naked bodies marked them out in the darkness.
Between the men, Jake and Morgan saw the smaller figure of a woman.
They approached slowly, weaving between the fires until they reached the perimeter of the Aghori circle. One of the sadhus looked up at them with dark eyes.
Morgan was wary after her experience at Allahabad and she could smell the sweet smoke that had blinded her back then. The kapala skulls were filled with blood and ritual alcohol and the men would be intoxicated as they sought the way to the goddess.
Asha sat within the circle, surrounded by Aghori sadhus. The sculpture of Shiva Nataraja sat between her crossed legs and she stared into the fire. Her eyes
were glazed and she seemed to be in a trance. The blood of animal sacrifice marked her face, daubed in thick clots and scattered with ash.
A bell rang out, its dull note sounding three times.
The Aghori began to chant.
Asha's face changed and tears welled, dripping down her face as she wept in anguish, leaving trails through the blood and ash.
She swayed in place as the Aghori's chant grew louder, and changed to a repetitive mantra of harsh words, guttural and raw. One of them offered his kapala skull to her and she drank deep, her head tipped back as she finished the bowl of bloody alcohol.
The Aghori rose and Asha stood with them, her eyes fixed on the flames. She held the statue of Shiva tight against her chest.
Suddenly Morgan saw her intention.
"No," she whispered and stepped forward, her hands outstretched.
But the Aghori closed ranks, protecting the circle as Asha walked into the ring of fire and sank down into the circle of wood. She made no sound at first, her eyes glazed over as the chanting rang through the air.
Then the flames pierced her consciousness. She threw her head back and screamed.
Morgan tried to fight her way into the circle.
"Let me help her," she begged, but the Aghori blocked her path, their wiry muscles strong and unmoving.
"It's no use," Jake said, his hand gentle on her arm. "She made her choice."
They watched as Asha's skin blackened and she crumpled to a heap, mercifully out of sight. The corpse crackled as the Aghori fed the flames.
Through a crack in the piled timber, Morgan caught a glimpse of the bronze statue as the metal flames surrounding Shiva danced in the heat of true fire. The etchings of the mantra carved into the statue rippled in the heat and the words dissolved into one another.
"Look," Morgan whispered, pointing it out to Jake. "The weapon can't be invoked again. At least not that way."
He nodded and took her hand. "Now Asha is dead and gone, I don't want to see what the Aghori do with her body."
Morgan shuddered at the thought of their cannibal rituals. "You're right. It's time to go home. There's just one more thing I want to do."
Chapter 30
Morgan and Jake stood on the edge of the Ganges looking east as the sun rose over the horizon and cast a fiery trail across the water.
"How quickly things change," Morgan said. "Yesterday we stood waiting for the dawn with Mahesh and now he's gone. Asha's dead, and so many more are with their gods."
"And we're still standing," Jake said. "Be thankful for that, because one day, you or I will stand alone." He took her hand and kissed it, his dark eyes intense as he looked at her. "I hope that won't be for a long time."
Together, they crouched next to the water and lit tea lights inside little cardboard boats, used to carry prayers onto the sacred waters. They sprinkled marigolds around the flames and pushed them gently into the current.
Morgan put her hands together in the prayer position over her heart.
"Namaste," she whispered, her thoughts with Mahesh. They watched until the little lights were lost in the encroaching dawn.
"Let's go home," Jake said.
Hours later, as the plane took off, Morgan looked down at the city of Varanasi as it grew smaller beneath them. She pressed her nose to the window so she could drink in that last look and then it was gone, lost below the clouds.
Jake was already on the edge of sleep, his eyes closed, a shutter against the world. But Morgan felt a strange sense of loss as they headed west. People had traveled to India for generations seeking meaning and enlightenment. There was even a myth that Jesus had not died on the cross, but ended up here instead. Those who stayed in the country could spend a lifetime looking for meaning, and some lucky few found what they sought. But those who left could not forget, and India lingered, like the scent of a lover.
Morgan suddenly felt the truth of that and longed to stay, to immerse herself in the rich culture, the colors and extremity of experience that made her feel so alive. India was like Israel in that way, a place on the edge of life and death where an unexpected turn in the road could take you into the heart of an ancient ruin or the hands of a mob. The very unpredictability of it was part of the thrill.
India was full of life and laughter and people here lived in the moment, because who knew what tomorrow would bring.
She would come back here. She was sure of it.
Morgan closed her eyes and let sleep come.
London, England.
Morgan and Jake slipped into the city before dawn and arrived in Trafalgar Square by taxi from Heathrow Airport.
"Terrible thing that bombing," the cabbie said, shaking his head as he took their fare. "But look at how quickly it's all been rebuilt. The terrorists can't crush Londoners."
The square was quiet as they walked beneath the facade of the National Gallery. The reconstruction was well underway, with the square rebuilt and the fountains almost finished. Nelson's Column stood proud again and although the lions closest to the blast area were still missing, they would be rebuilt soon enough. No one would ever notice the difference and within months, the city would forget, its attention distracted by the latest headlines.
They entered ARKANE through the basement of St Martin-in-the-Fields church, going through multiple levels of security including new biometric scanning.
Morgan held her breath as she faced the machines, still wary of Marietti's anger at her actions. But it beeped green and they walked together down through the lab area towards Martin's office.
"Morgan, Jake. Wait." The voice boomed through the corridor and they turned to see Director Marietti at the entrance to one of the labs. He held a cane and rested against the door frame, his body still weak from his injuries. But his eyes were steel hard. He would not back down in the face of danger, whether inside ARKANE or out in the world.
Jake went to him and embraced his mentor, then stepped back, aware that he had overstepped the mark. But Marietti smiled.
"It's good to see you back safely." He looked at Morgan. "Both of you."
His eyes met hers. It was as close to an apology as she was likely to get. And that was OK.
"I know you've just returned but there's something we need to work on together." He beckoned them into the lab, where Martin Klein stood next to an artifact on a bench. "Something that threatens us all."
<< Morgan, Jake and the ARKANE team will be back in END OF DAYS, coming Fall 2016. >>
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Author's Note
I love India and I've wanted to set a story there for a long time. Of course, it's impossible to do justice to such an incredible culture in one action adventure story, but I hope that you enjoyed the attempt. I always enjoy hearing from readers who have looked into the research behind the book, so here are some of the aspects that went into it.
The initial idea came from a statue of Shiva Nataraja that I saw in the Museum of Delhi back in 2006 when I visited the Taj Mahal and Varanasi, which also features in Stone of Fire, ARKANE book 1. Then I read about the huge statue at CERN, Himmler's fascination with Hinduism, and the phrase spoken by Oppenheimer, and the conspiracy was born.
You can find the pictures behind the book here on Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/jfpenn/destroyer-of-worlds
India
I tried to make the Indian locations as close to reality as possible, although I haven't visited all the sites in person. I did visit the synagogue in Fort Kochi on a cycle trip through South-West India and many of the other places have a flavor from my own travels, supplemented by other research from books and documentaries. Here are some of them:
The Story of India by Michael Wood. Book and documentary series.
Sacred India documentary.
Ganges documentary.
West Meets East. Kumbh Mela documentary with Dominic West
In the Land of Shiva. Book by James O'Hara
The real tomb of Shah Jahan and his wife Mumtaz are beneath the main room of the Taj Mahal, and there are conspiracy theories of a Shiva temple below. The Aghori truly are a pretty scary sect, and the worship of Kali does range from mainstream temples to reported child sacrifice in rural areas, although of course, I have used extreme examples for an exciting novel!
Rwanda
In earlier books, I hinted at Marietti and Jake's experience in Africa and as I thought about the idea for Destroyer of Worlds, it seemed to me that Marietti would have wanted to stop the same thing happening again. I was nineteen in 1994 when the genocide happened and I remember seeing pictures of the mass graves. Researching the atrocity was difficult, but part of the reason that I write is to challenge my own thinking. If you want to read more, I recommend We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda by Philip Gourevitch.
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More books by J.F.Penn
ARKANE conspiracy thriller series:
Stone of Fire #1 (free on all ebook stores)
Crypt of Bone #2
Ark of Blood #3
One Day In Budapest #4
