The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  “If we were stopped, I wanted to look like holy wanderers.”

  “Holy wanderers with a magnificent warhorse.”

  Siddhartha blushed. “We’ll leave Kanthaka at the hermitage we find. Offer to chop wood, or kill a deer and smoke it for him.”

  Chandaka suppressed a smile. Clearly, the prince hadn’t considered that. Despite all his supposed gifts, he wasn’t any better at planning than Chandaka. “Hmm. Find a hermitage. Kill a deer. With what? No weapons, you said, or we won’t seem like peaceful seekers wandering the roads.”

  “You brought your knife.”

  Chandaka shrugged. Wandering seekers were often former warriors skilled in self-defense; he’d decided to risk Siddhartha’s displeasure and hide his small, sheathed dagger in his dhoti—no small feat given how little this inelegant attire covered. It was the most practical thing to bring, given his skill throwing it and using it at close range. “A knife won’t bring down a deer.”

  “Ah.” Siddhartha gave him a wicked grin. “We could use our swords.”

  “Swords?”

  “Two Maghadan blades, hidden under this flap.” Siddhartha patted the front of the thick saddle blanket.

  “Praise Indra.” Chandaka sighed with relief and grinned. “Hmm. But swords to bring down a deer and chop wood, my prince?”

  “Not impossible,” the prince retorted.

  They were both laughing as they came to a stretch where the Uttarapatha ran straight and wide. High above, two vultures circled.

  Ahead, a body lay by the side of the road.

  Siddhartha reined in Kanthaka. They dismounted and walked slowly to the still figure.

  “Bhallika,” Siddhartha said in a shocked whisper. He waved his hand and a small cloud of flies buzzed away from the merchant’s body then settled back down as he put his ear to Bhallika’s mouth. “He’s still breathing.” Siddhartha sat on his heels.

  Chandaka looked around uneasily. Bandits, for sure. They could be watching them right now from behind the dense foliage. “I saw him at Addha’s not three nights ago. He said he was going to Varanasi on business. Just taking one man to guard him, so he could hurry there and get back quickly.”

  “Where is his guard?” Chandaka stood a few steps from Bhallika’s prone figure, but still had to clench his nose and throat to keep from breathing the sickening sweet-sour odor of feces, urine, and blood.

  Blood matted the merchant’s shoulder-length black hair and oozed over his black mustache, of which he was famously vain, from a split in his parched upper lip. The rest of his face was grotesquely swollen. Although of the Vaishya caste, he was well trained in the Kshatriya arts as many merchants were. He was in his prime and used to the dangers of the road, and still someone given him a terrible beating and stripped him almost bare. He was always well dressed, and it looked as if his attacker had been interrupted in the act of removing his rich, colorful foreign clothes. His earlobes were torn and bleeding; someone must have ripped his earrings off.

  Another vulture arrived and settled on the high branch above them, folding his enormous wings and staring down with stern patience. Chandaka was clammy with fear. “We should move on.”

  “We can’t just leave him.”

  “He’s almost dead.” Chandaka liked the merchant well enough. Bhallika was a great raconteur, the man to go to for an honest pair of dice and an evening’s gambling, and a favorite among the girls in Addha’s house for his generosity. “I feel bad about this, but what can we do? Besides, your father might send a search party this way. Maybe they’ll come along and find him.”

  Siddhartha looked up and down the road. “This man is my father’s friend and a loyal subject. I won’t leave him to die.”

  “Fine. Let’s put him on Kanthaka and head back to the palace.”

  Siddhartha’s brow wrinkled. “If only I knew someone else was coming.”

  As if he had conjured them with his words, a group of riders appeared in the distance. Caravan or troop of horsemen, they were difficult to make out through the shimmering heat that rose from the cracked road. Coming from Varanasi, they wouldn’t be Sakyans, which was good. They might be Kosalas, though, which was not at all good.

  “They’re carrying a black and red banner.” His heart beat faster. “It’s King Prasenajit’s men.”

  They exchanged looks of alarm. The Kosalan warriors were approaching fast. Kanthaka might be faster, but he was tired, and would be carrying two. It was too late to turn around and flee. If they were captured, the Kosalan king would have his enemy’s son hostage.

  “There,” Siddhartha said, pointing across the road.

  Chandaka saw nothing but impenetrable forest. “What?”

  “A path. You take his legs, I’ll lift under his arms.”

  Bhallika groaned as Siddhartha slid his hands under his back. White bone broke through the skin of his upper arm. Chandaka’s knees turned to water.

  “Come on, lift!” Siddhartha said. He clucked at Kanthaka.

  The horse dove into the brush onto the slender path. They stumbled along behind him, panting under Bhallika’s weight, until they had left the Uttarapatha far behind.

  All of a sudden the narrow trail widened and the undergrowth thinned. There was space below the high, arched branches and they put the merchant down. Siddhartha threw himself on the carpet of dead leaves next to the unconscious man, sweating and gasping for air. Chandaka sank to the ground a short distance away. Kanthaka stared back the way they had come and twitched his ears, then whinnied softly and began nosing at the base of the trees, pulling at sparse grasses and flowering herbs. Chandaka took deep breaths to still his thudding heart. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

  The prince moistened his headband with water from their waterskin and began to dab the caked blood from the merchant’s face. He handed the skin to Chandaka, who took a huge gulp and sat down against a tree, watching in a stupor. “You should drink,” he said.

  Siddhartha tended the beaten man until he had finished cleaning his face, then said, “We must get him out of this filthy clothing.”

  Chandaka didn’t move.

  “Well, do something useful.” Siddhartha pointed to the other end of the sal grove. “There’s a trail. Maybe you can find help.”

  “Or Kosalas.” Chandaka rose and stalked off. He soon came to a fork in the overgrown path. The left was more well-trodden and probably led to a village; they were in Kashi territory now, and though the Kashis had no love for their Kosalan masters, the villagers might be more disposed to hand over strangers rather than risk Kosalan wrath. Chandaka turned right.

  It wasn’t far until the path opened onto a glade with a large round vegetable garden and a well with a rope neatly wound around it.

  Across the glade stood a many-trunked banyan. Around its base someone had built a large square wooden platform and thatched a roof over the next tier of branches. It reminded Chandaka of the ruined tree palace that Kirsa, Siddhartha, and he had found deep in the royal park. This hermitage was no ruin, though, but a neat dwelling, with a short ladder to the platform which held several large jars, possibly of grain and oil, plus a wooden chest and four or five squat, lopsided woven baskets.

  A cow tethered near the garden and nibbling grass looked up as a man and woman appeared, both as short and round as the lopsided baskets and dressed in white Brahmin’s robes. They paused in surprise.

  “Namaste!” they cried in unison, rushing at him. “Welcome, seeker!”

  “Namaste,” Chandaka replied, bowing.

  “Come, come, rest under the shade of our banyan,” the man said. “Wife, fetch the basin.” His hair stood out around his head like a frizzy silver cloud.

  His plump wife turned around, lifted her robes almost to her knees and dashed toward the well with surprising alacrity for such a plump woman. Chandaka suppressed a smile. Her hair, also silver, was dr
awn back into a knot at the nape of her neck that came undone as she ran. She loosened the rope and the dipper fell with a muted splash.

  “Tell us your name, seeker,” the woman said as she returned with a sloshing vessel.

  “I’m Chan—” He stopped. What idiots. He and Siddhartha had not thought up names to accompany their rather thin disguises, and his usually glib tongue chose this moment to fail him.

  “Chan? An unusual name. You must come and sit, and my wife Maitreyi will pour cool water over your feet,” the Brahmin said. “I am Atri.”

  “Please, there’s no time to lose. We found a badly injured man on the road, and my companion is with him back in the forest. I left them to find some water.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Maitreyi said. “Husband, fetch my basket.”

  When Maitreyi, Atri, and Chandaka returned to Siddhartha, the merchant was still unconscious.

  Chandaka was better prepared this time. “Mahasattva,” he called. The prince gave him a dirty look. He hated the nickname. Great Being, Mahasattva, was what all the sages had called Siddhartha as an infant when they prophesied his glorious future. Chandaka taunted him with it whenever they fought. “This is Maitreyi and her husband Atri. Their hermitage is close by.”

  After a quick bow and namaste, Maitreyi took charge, instructing them to make a litter with Kanthaka’s saddle blanket and two saplings. Frowning and clucking her tongue, she began setting his broken arm. The merchant emitted a single horrible shriek of pain, tried to push himself up with his other arm, fluttered his eyelids, then sank back senseless once more. Siddhartha, Chandaka, and Atri fumbled ineptly at their task, exchanging a sharp word now and then.

  At last they had something suitable. Once back at the hermitage, they laid out a bed of woven grass mats and settled Bhallika atop them. He roused long enough to drink an herbal potion Maitreyi made for him and not long afterwards fell into a deep sleep.

  “That’s what he needs, Mahasattva,” Maitreyi said.

  Kanthaka found a shady spot where he could graze on some early spring grass. The old couple offered Siddhartha and Chandaka rice and some dried fruit under the shade of the banyan, where they both soon fell asleep, exhausted.

  Chandaka woke in the afternoon to see Siddhartha sitting with Maitreyi at the merchant’s side, watching her treat one of Bhallika’s wounds and asking questions in a low voice. Every now and again Bhallika moaned, or murmured something unintelligible, and the prince took his hand and spoke soothing words. He would have plenty of things to tell Kirsa. She was training to be a healer with the rishiki Saibya and would ask about everything Maitreyi did.

  Chandaka sighed. He had been filled with secret, guilty relief when the queen forbade the prince to marry Kirsa. The queen had reasons that were understandable, considering Sakyan court intrigue. It wasn’t just the uncertainty about who Kirsa’s mother was, though that was part of it. It wasn’t her imperfect beauty, either. The king and queen chose only the most attractive companions, but after all, the missing fingers were not something Kirsa was born with, but the beggar king’s brutal method of making her into a more pitiable beggar. When she first came to Addha’s house, her ugly wounds were fresh, the stubs raw and weeping.

  No, what Prajapati really disapproved of was Kirsa’s work with Saibya. While the queen believed with all sincerity in charity, when Kirsa put gentle, caring hands on the diseased poor, she did more than risk ritual pollution. She set an example Siddhartha might want to follow.

  Siddhartha loved her gift for healing. Chandaka loved it too, along with her smooth, thick, brown-black hair, her smile that always had a hint of sadness, and her amber eyes that were proof she was a Gautama no matter how shadowy her lineage. But he never told her how he felt.

  Atri was stirring a pot of watery dal over the fire as Maitreyi and Siddhartha finished ministering Bhallika’s wounds. “Come, Mahasattva, look at this ground coral from the Eastern Sea.” Maitreyi opened a little jar and held it out to Siddhartha. “Very hard to get, very good for fevers, and for building bones. I’m going to put some in the dal for our Bhallika, and see if we can get him to eat a little.”

  “She’s never so happy as when she has someone to take care of,” Atri said. “She gets lonely out here in the forest.”

  “Nonsense,” Maitreyi said, dipping a ladle into the pot and filling a small bowl. “It’s enough just to take care of you.”

  Bhallika grunted and moaned but managed to swallow some of the broth. He went back to sleep after only a few mouthfuls.

  “Tell us a little about yourselves, young pilgrims,” Atri said.

  Siddhartha and Chandaka looked at each other.

  “Ah,” Chandaka began. He was by far the more skilled at making up a good story if telling the truth didn’t seem wise. “Where did we come from? Well, the Sakyan kingdom, actually, Maitreyi-ji.”

  “Oh, so you were staying in the Nigrodha Grove?” Maitreyi asked. “How wonderful! We’ve often heard how generously King Suddhodana has endowed that famous grove, and how the Sakyas honor wandering rishis and yogis. Are you Brahmins then, from good families?”

  Atri turned to Siddhartha. “Not married yet and off to see the world a little, sit at a guru’s feet until it’s time to move on and start a family, eh, Mahasattva?”

  “Ah, right. We, um, were going to the Shining City… ” Siddhartha gave Chandaka a pleading look, but Atri’s and Maitreyi’s intent faces had an inhibiting effect on his imagination.

  “Plenty of gurus to listen to in Varanasi.” Maitreyi said. “Watch out for the frauds and wicked ones, though.”

  “Plenty of Kosalan soldiers on every corner,” Atri added with a sharp look.

  “Now, wasn’t there some sort of prophecy about the Sakyas?” Maitreyi asked, eyeing Siddhartha.

  “That’s right, my dear,” Atri said. “Named their capital after the great sage Kapila, the one who prophesied a Sakyan would—what? Draw Shiva’s bow? Do you know it, Chan?”

  “No. That is, well, I mean, there is a prophecy, but everyone ignores it, mostly.”

  “Let me think,” Maitreyi said. “How did it go? A Sakyan prince will rule the world or become the first sage to conquer death? No wonder the clan likes rishis!”

  Siddhartha was glancing from one to the other, an uncertain smile on his face.

  Atri put his palms together and bowed. “My lord. Forgive our little game.”

  “We know who you are,” Maitreyi said, also bowing. “Namaste, prince.”

  Siddhartha was trying to smile, but his disappointment was plain. “But how did you know?”

  Chandaka gave him an I-told-you-so look. Maybe now that he’d seen how easy it was for the old couple to recognize him, he would agree to go home.

  “You have the Gautama eyes, my lord,” Atri said, looking at Siddhartha over the dying flames. “That, and I recognize some of the signs of greatness that the sage Asita remarked upon at your birth. Look, wife, how the earlobes hang long, and the eighth chakra rises under that curly hair.” He looked at the prince’s feet, which were upturned as he sat with legs crossed. “And the wheel of dharma on the soles of his feet.”

  “And your golden skin, my lord.” Maitreyi smiled. “We are honored to have you at our hermitage.”

  “No matter that I come from a royal lineage and a palace, I’ve come to you as an ordinary person, a holy wanderer. Please, you are the ones who deserve honor, for the shelter you give us.”

  Atri glanced at Maitreyi and nodded. “We are all humble seekers of truth here. Does that suit you, young man?” She looked at Chandaka, who found himself oddly speechless.

  “My charioteer,” Siddhartha said. “Chandaka.”

  “Ah, yes. Chandaka,” Maitreyi said. “We’ve heard something of you. Well, my fine young wanderers, it’s very safe here. The little village Gauri is not far, but the villagers don’t come much. They fear th
e forest tribe that still inhabits these parts.”

  “They do?” Chandaka swiveled his head, as if the forest-dwelling Nagas might be watching from the shadows of the surrounding trees. The Naga tribes sacrificed captives to their Mother during the dark of the moon.

  Atri saw his look. “They still water the earth with human blood, but only from those who have committed crimes against them. They respect sages and hermits, and would not harm any guest of ours. You will stay here another night at least. There’s no hurry for you to be gone.”

  The ravine

  Sakhi tossed and turned until light touched the sky. She threw off her covers and scurried on tiptoe across the shuttered hall to get her leather slippers. She didn’t know where she would go; she just wanted to get out. All was silent. It filled her with foreboding.

  Flickering light and the scent of wood smoke drew her toward the courtyard and Cook’s brick oven. It was early, but maybe she had already pounded some dough flat for chapatties and would give one to Sakhi, warm and hot from the stone.

  The door to the hall’s granary was open and outside it a lively fire burned on the bricks. A stray dawn breeze ruffled the orange flames underneath a steaming iron pot, scenting the cold spring air with steeping bitter herbs.

  Atimaya was standing there, barefoot and disheveled, her arms wrapped across her chest. She turned a haggard face to Sakhi and opened her arms. She had dark smudges under haunted eyes. “I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve had a terrible vision. I need you to fetch Ghosha.”

  Sakhi’s mouth went dry. Even in daylight the path to the remote hut Ghosha shared with her shaman husband Garuda was dark under tall, brooding pines. Right beyond it was the haunted ravine. Legend had it that Lord Shiva had cast a piece of his wife Sati into the ravine as he carried her corpse back to Mount Kailash. Children told each other tales of pilgrims who had over the generations thrown themselves to their deaths from the ridge above after learning their karma from the sage in the cave. No one went to those charnel grounds with their ghostly inhabitants, not even the boys who wanted to impress Dhara with their courage, not even Dhara herself.