“Can’t it wait until the sun rises?”
Before she could answer, there was a distant shout. They exchanged frightened looks. Atimaya seized Sakhi and hugged her. “It’s too late,” she whispered.
Another cry rang out, full of fear.
She released Sakhi. “Jagai has not stopped them.”
“How can that be? He took our best archers—”
“A few hundred of us hide in Dhavalagiri’s bosom while the kingdoms below marshal thousands of warriors and covet our land.” She closed her eyes, then embraced Sakhi again. She was shaking as if a demoness possessed her. “I’ve seen the end of the Kolis and Sakyas in dreams.”
Sakhi swayed on her feet. She raised her eyes to Dhavalagiri’s peak. The mountain goddess looked cold and indifferent.
A high-pitched scream pierced the dawn.
Atimaya grasped Sakhi’s shoulders and spoke with deadly calm. “The Kosalas will overrun the village. The people must hide. Garuda and Ghosha know spells that can protect you until the Sakyas arrive.”
“Abhaya said the Kosalas have a sorcerer.”
Atimaya frowned. “Yes. Go now. Wake Ghosha and Garuda. I’ll gather the women and children, then do what I can to help the defenders.”
Sakhi couldn’t move. “You? But—”
“Go!” Atimaya pushed her.
Sakhi stumbled from the kitchen, caught her balance, and hurried to the main hall as Atimaya padded behind her. Sakhi laced up her leather slippers with trembling fingers and Atimaya draped her thick wool shawl, the one dyed the deep green of Dhavalagiri’s forests, over Sakhi’s shoulders, then unbarred the door.
Sakhi stood at the top of the steps for a moment. She’d had Dhara to urge her on when they went to the Devi’s shrine. She took a deep breath and ran down the steps.
“Whatever you think of me, beloved Sakhi,” Atimaya called after her, “I love you.”
Sakhi clutched the shawl against the spring dawn and raced away. Om, Dhavalagiri, she prayed as she ran. Why not invoke the Devi? Her father was not here to call on Indra for help. Om, Devi, om Dhavalagiri, protect us. Let Dandapani find Dhara safe.
Just before the larger dwellings of the warriors and richer peasants, the rocky path to the shaman’s hut branched off through the pines. She hesitated for a moment. Loud thuds drifted up from the gates, as if a giant hand was pounding on them.
A woman peered out a doorway, looking down the rutted road. It curved at the end then dipped, hiding the lower village and the half moon of thick log walls and sturdy gates that shielded it. In Sakhi’s lifetime enemies had never reached the village walls. Skirmishes took place in the foothills or near the swampy Terai, where Abhaya had seen the Kosalan troop.
The Kolis had always counted on the cliffs, ravines, and thick forest for defense, but they were not enough today. The shouts and clanging of iron against iron rose.
“Sakhi!” It was Karna’s wife. She stood at her doorway, a plain woman, strong and sensible. Her two sons, ten and twelve, and a couple of smaller daughters clustered around her. She held a bow and quiver. She could shoot as well as any man. “Take the girls,” she said. “My sons and I are going to fight.”
The urge to obey that commanding voice was strong, but Sakhi called out, “Have them wait here. Atimaya has sent me to fetch Garuda.”
Karna’s wife stared after her as she plunged into the pines, for the moment unafraid of spirits or animals or any of Garuda’s mischief. When she reached the hut, the sun had not yet risen, but the sky was white. There was no smoke rising from the hole in the thatched roof. Garuda stood outside as if expecting her. Over her ragged breath Sakhi could still hear the distant thud-thud-thud against the walls.
“A bloodbath,” Garuda said with a nod in the direction of the pounding.
A bony hand pulled aside the skin that covered the doorway, and Ghosha emerged carrying a lumpy sack. “Stop frightening the child.”
“Atimaya said you could make a charm to hide us.”
Garuda cackled. “A charm. You could call it that.”
“Don’t tease her, you old good-for-nothing,” Ghosha said. “Get the villagers, Sakhi. We’ll be at the ravine.”
“The ravine?” Sakhi’s knees turned to water.
Garuda saw her face and laughed.
“You can do it, girl. You have courage.” Ghosha turned and followed her husband.
Sakhi nodded like an idiot, then dashed toward the village. You have courage. Tremulous new bravery added a spring to her steps. When she reached the road dozens of villagers hurried towards her, stumbling past the dark houses from which other women and children emerged to join them, loaded down with bundles.
The old wife of a farmer was bent double under a large sack. “My husband took his pitchfork to the gates, Mistress Sakhi,” she called out.
“What have you got in that sack?” Sakhi replied.
“Food. Lady Atimaya said to follow you. Where are we going?”
“Have you seen Tilotamma? And the baby?”
“No, mistress. Prem and his father are fighting with the others, though. She’s sure to be along soon. But where are we going?”
“To the ravine.” Sakhi’s voice quavered. The villagers hesitated. “There’s nothing to fear.” She clenched her fists and straightened her arms. “There is no time to waste,” she said, this time sounding more firm. She scanned the frightened faces. “Where’s Atimaya? And Tilo?”
“Lady Atimaya said she could fight.” It was Karna’s older daughter. “She took my father’s bow and quiver.”
“But what will he use?” Sakhi asked.
“He’s dead.” The girl burst into tears. Sakhi sucked in a deep breath. Karna was one of their best warriors.
“Mistress Sakhi! Mistress Sakhi.” It was Mitu. “Tilo said to tell you she would come as soon as she helps her mother-in-law with something.” She was balancing a large bundle on her head and her boys were clutching at her faded antariya.
“I’ll wait for her,” Sakhi said. “You can show the way to the ravine. Right, boys? You know the way.” The boys nodded. “Everyone,” she called out. “Keep going. Follow Mitu and her boys. I’ll be right behind.”
The pounding at the gates got louder, the shouts of the defenders more urgent. The gates must hold. Sakhi had never seen any violent death, save old chief Anjana’s body after a crazed boar gored him. His intestines were hanging out and blood trickled from his mouth, but the worst was his staring eyes and the way his tongue protruded from between his lips.
The mountain goddess stared down, silent and mighty. She must help. “Om,” Sakhi tried to pray to her again. There was a loud crack, and another, and a sound like splintering.
“Oh, Tilo, please hurry,” Sakhi said. She had a horrible feeling that Tilo’s dreadful mother-in-law was burying the family’s gold. It would be just like her.
A woman shrieked in the distance, over and over. Sakhi’s heart stopped. Tilo. It was Tilo. There was nothing she could do. With enormous effort she turned up the hill, covering her ears with her hands. A few stragglers clustered around her and urged her on. An unearthly, terrified howl echoed around them. Flames shot up behind the trees below.
They ran. Panting and stumbling, they fled past Garuda’s hut and to an outcrop of huge boulders. Above loomed a barren flank of Dhavalagiri. Few crocuses or wildflowers bloomed there in early spring, and only sparse wildflowers and herbs in summer. There was no shelter for wildlife here.
Below that flank lay the ravine.
The others were waiting down at the head of the path under a rocky overhang. They huddled together as if they were standing at the gate to Yama’s hell realms.
Sakhi turned back toward the village. A sob rose in her throat. Her heart told her there was only one hope for Tilo.
The goddess. Her skin prickled. A Presence seemed to manifest a
round her.
Dhavalagiri, she began in silent prayer, but she had no words. Only the love she felt for Tilo, for Dhara, for her clan. She closed her eyes. Protect my heart’s sister Dhara. Protect Tilo. Let the mothers be safe. Let the children be safe. Oh, Goddess, let our men be victorious. Save the Kolis.
Colored lights swirled against her closed lids. She opened her eyes as the sun emerged from behind a dawn cloud and caught the snowy peak, bathing it in a golden aura. There was a brilliant flash from the heights, so bright it blinded her for a moment. Everyone gasped. A sign from the mountain goddess.
“Are you waiting for the Kosalas to catch up, Sakhi?” Garuda cried from somewhere farther down the path. Everyone was looking at her.
Sakhi took a deep, shaky breath. She straightened her shoulders. It took her eyes a moment to adjust from the golden heights to the darker depths. Long, thin bushes hungry for sunlight sprang from crevices in the living rock and between tumbled boulders, straining towards the sky. They were leafless in the cold shade of the ravine, and through the scraggly, bare branches, piles of white bones could be glimpsed on the steep slopes. The vultures had not yet returned from their winter nests in the Terai’s lowland swamps, but the cold spring preserved the fresh animal carcasses and kept the smell down.
Sakhi tightened Atimaya’s shawl around her shoulders, but it was no use against the cold dread inside her. As they picked their way down into the shadows, they were enveloped in eerie, dark coolness, though it was morning and the sky above was bright, clear blue. At the bottom of the ravine, Rohini’s slender river churned, full with spring melt. They had entered another world, where the sounds of battle did not penetrate. Dhavalagiri had thrown some sort of cloak over the ravine. She was hiding them from the Kosalas.
The narrow path hugged the ravine’s steep side. Sakhi half leaned into it for fear of falling to the foaming waters at the bottom. Bones rested against each other at crazy angles, caught against bushes and the occasional stubborn tree that clung to the boulder-strewn gorge. Here and there a human skull rested in a shattered rib cage, or an animal’s jaw lay among jumbled leg bones.
The path widened and leveled until it became a broad ledge underneath the overhanging ridge, like a large cave with one half cut away, where there was plenty of room to spread out. Ghosha had laid fires that were already fighting the cold. The morning sun couldn’t reach them, but the fires offered bright warmth. They might have seemed cheerful if not for where they were.
Mothers and children sank down in relief, the children curling up on the hard ground, resting their heads on dropped bundles or in their mothers’ laps.
Sakhi wondered where all the good firewood had come from, but was too weary to ask. “Thank you, Ghosha,” she said.
Ghosha nodded. “Rest, Sakhi. You’re safe for now.”
Mitu had already settled with her children a little away from the others. Sakhi sat down next to her. The blacksmith’s wife, his wizened mother, and the tanner’s family joined them. Some of the warriors’ wives had stayed to fight in the village, but the ones who had come, those with very small children and the very old, stared at Sakhi, the Brahmin’s daughter who had chosen to sit with the lowest among them.
Sakhi stared back, looking from one to another. You didn’t help Mother and me, or you, or you, though it was your duty, she thought. But Mitu followed the dharma, even though she had less to give.
Bundles opened. Out came cured deer and boar meat, little sacks of grain, the last of the autumn tubers, a few metal pots. Two little girls grabbed the pots and trotted to a stream that tumbled down mossy rock. Soon the smell of barley cooking joined the tang of wood smoke. Most were quiet. Now and then a child gave a subdued laugh as if this was a feast day. No one seemed to give a thought to whether they would be discovered. Dhavalagiri was protecting them.
The rest of the day dragged on. As dusk fell, the ravine became darker. Sakhi lay down on her side, cradling her head on an arm. Nearby, the shaman and his wife sat cross-legged opposite each other at a little fire. They had spread a cloth on the ground and made little piles of powders, seeds, and herbs on it. A little metal pot sat on a rock near the flames. Sakhi’s father was wrong. It wasn’t that Garuda wouldn’t know what to do with a demon, it was that he was just a trickster, wholly unable to conjure spirits at all. No supernatural power would rise from that dented pot and bring Atimaya, Tilo, and the baby to safety.
Despair crushed her. They would all die here. She closed her eyes and Bhallika’s handsome face appeared, smiling under his thick, dark mustache, his strange green eyes crinkling in that way that made her catch her breath. We will have five sons, Sakhi. His voice was in her head. We will name them after the five Pandava princes.
“Did you say something, Mistress Sakhi?” Mitu said.
“No.” Sakhi curled up and shut her eyes tighter to see Bhallika better.
Five sons. She would have five sons.
The flight of eagles
The first sounds of battle floated over the ridge at dawn. Dhara and Rani rushed to wake the yogi, but Mala was already standing at the cave’s entrance. They gazed down the mountain toward the thick forest.
Rani growled deep in her throat. The main Kosalan force attacks the village, but a small war party comes this way.
“I must go help my people!”
“No,” Mala said. “You will wait here.”
“But I can fight—”
“With what? You have no weapons.” Mala’s voice was harsh.
“But Father. Sakhi! They’re all down there. I’ll get my weapons at the hall.”
“Do not question me,” the yogi snapped, then said more calmly, “Go back to the lookout and wait. I’ll come back and fetch you when I’ve seen what’s happening.”
“But I’m a warrior. I want to join the battle.”
“You are becoming a yogi, too. You must be patient. Think. Respond, don’t react. For the moment, your place is here. Stay hidden, at all costs.”
“But… ”
The look on Mala’s face silenced her. Against her will, Dhara scrambled back up the slope and crouched behind the rocks, wishing she had the bow and spear she’d left behind in the village. Mala and Rani disappeared. An eagle shattered the clear air with a fearsome hunting cry. Then it went silent. Everything was still. The wind had died down. There was not a whisper of a breeze through the trees, not a single note from the returning birds, not a chitter from a squirrel. Even the rushing streams were muted. The cold stillness oppressed her. She ached to go to the village.
Her stomach growled. She had not broken her fast yet. There was no one in sight. Why did Rani think a war party was coming this way? There was no reason for the Kosalas to come up to the cave. They probably didn’t know it existed. She peered into the forest. It would take just a moment to get some deer meat from the cave and grab the waterskin. She eased herself from behind the boulder and jumped down. Simple. She pulled the skin aside and ducked in. There was hardly enough for a mouthful, but it would have to do. She shaved off a piece and shoveled it in with her fingers. Still chewing, she pulled the flap aside and walked out into the open, grabbed the water skin and took off the stopper for one gulp.
The stillness was broken by a harsh shout. “Prince Virudha! I see the cave.”
Dhara dropped the skin.
“Onward me-en!” The thin shout ended in a high-pitched squeak.
A dozen men broke out of the forest below, visibly winded and tired. They wore the Kosalan clan’s dreaded red and black, and their swords were unsheathed. A tall, skinny young warrior wearing a red cloak and a black leather breastplate chased with silver said something to them in a loud, girlish voice.
Dhara couldn’t move. Every calming mantra that Mala had taught her fled. The attackers were few, but more would come. The only weapon she had was the knife she’d used to cut the meat. There were too many Kosalas for th
e weaponless fighting techniques she had learned with the boys. She called silently for Dandapani. If only she knew how to reach his mind. Father, help me!
A warrior caught sight of her. “There she is!” he yelled. He fitted an arrow to his bow. “Angulimala, you outlaw bitch, we’ve got you now.”
Dhara tried to cry out, but she could not make a sound. The man grinned and took aim.
A roar echoed through the clearing. Rani bounded out of nowhere. The archer lowered his weapon and stared slack-jawed as the great white tigress took three great leaps through the clearing and sank her teeth into his throat. The other Kosalan warriors froze, their faces twisted in horror.
Ffffffft. An arrow whistled past from somewhere behind Dhara, then fffft again and again, one right after another, until five more arrows found their targets. Six Kosalas lay on the ground.
She turned around. There stood Mala, a towering goddess glistening in the sun, one long arm holding the bow and the other pulling the bowstring taut, waiting for the right moment to loose the arrow. Several Kosalan warriors started to run the other way.
“It’s the Bandit Queen! There, that one with the bow!” cried the skinny warrior in the red cloak. He began to run toward Dhara. His eyes bulged in his beardless face. He looked not much older than she. He waved his short sword over his head. The weapon was more like a toy, or something for parades. “F-follow me!”
Dhara had the bizarre desire to laugh.
“Prince Virudha,” cried a warrior.
Rani lifted her enormous head from her victim and fixed him with her blue eyes. The white fur around her mouth was dripping blood.
The prince struggled up the slope on awkward stick legs, puffing loudly. His remaining five men hung back.
A sudden gust of wind whipped Mala’s hair into her eyes. She lowered her bow slightly and tossed her head. Prince Virudha was almost upon them.
The Mountain Goddess Page 18
