Cosmic winds beat against her mind. No! This was not right! The shards of blue, yellow, and green light suddenly changed to blinding white. It pulsed like a beating heart, at first drawing the atoms of her being in with tremendous power then pushing her away. Her concentration would not hold. Bits of consciousness slipped past the brilliant white into immense dark.
The abyss awaited. Or rebirth into some dreadful existence. She struggled against chaos to gather the particles of her disintegrating self and emerge from the chaos that enveloped her. She focused on the point in space from which Nalaka had called to her.
With enormous effort, she slowed her spinning atoms. Darkness receded. Her terror lessened. She took form. As her body became solid she staggered, righted herself, and looked around for Nalaka, for Dhara, for the prince.
There was no one. Nothing but a squalid little square with decrepit leaning houses and a fountain in the center. A faint shimmer of light. The last traces of a great soul disappearing into the ether.
Asita. Mala knew in an instant it was all that remained of Asita.
No time to grieve. Where were the others? Her mind spun, not yet under her control. Not since the first time she shot through the void had terror gripped her so. Was something happening to her, to her abilities? Had she materialized in the wrong place?
No. Nalaka’s mind touched hers.
The Kosalas had taken them. A bitter little laugh. That was rich. King Suddhodana had the Kosalan prince Virudha captive. Now King Prasenajit had the Sakyan prince. Siddhartha.
We have been taken to the Brahmin Valmiki’s mansion. Mala groaned. Prasenajit’s lapdog.
Valmiki will help us. Nalaka’s mind touched hers again. Find Harischandra and Siddhartha’s companion Chandaka. Together, we can escape.
The simplest things had become difficult. Mala concentrated hard to discover Harischandra. Ganga’s banks—there he was, where the fisherfolk beached their boats. She would use her ordinary two legs.
At the riverbank, around a small fire near the beached fishing boats, the ones she sought were sitting with the fisherman Matsya and his wife, a little distance from the other vessels. The other fisherfolk lay asleep near their boats.
The chandala looked up without surprise when Mala appeared at the edge of the firelight. Matsya and Matsyani bowed over joined palms. A youth with a shock of dark hair sat next to Harischandra.
Mala sucked in a long breath as the long-ago ride through the Sakyan kingdom came back to her. On Rani’s back she had followed a track through Vishramvan Palace’s wild, overgrown park, a detour on her way to Dhavalagiri, in an attempt to see her daughter before her solitary retreat began. She had seen Kirsa, who in a dead faint had not seen her. Chandaka was one of the boys with her daughter that night. The other was Siddhartha.
“Namaste, Mala,” Harischandra said in a low voice. “Thank the gods you’ve returned.”
“We must move fast,” she said without ceremony.
“I will help,” he said. “I’m Chandaka. Siddhartha’s charioteer. I was there that night. In the park. With Kirsa.” He spoke in a whisper. “We never told Kirsa about who she was. Who you were. Siddhartha said we shouldn’t.”
“Good.” She was glad. She didn’t want her daughter to know her as Angulimala. All the same, a mass of regret, love, shame, and red fury roiled around her. “There is no time for this,” she said. “Siddhartha and Dhara need our help. They’re captives in Valmiki’s house, along with Nalaka and the rishiki Bhadda.”
Eerie quiet enveloped the city as they made their way to Valmiki’s mansion.
“Varanasi used to live as much by night as by day,” Chandaka whispered as they strode quietly up a dark street. “It’s awful, this silence.”
“The king must have ordered a curfew,” Harischandra said.
“No,” Mala said. “I’ve pulled threads of time and space. A minute for us is like an hour to the city.”
“By the gods!” Chandaka exclaimed.
“Shhhh!” She seized him by the arm and they ducked into an alley. Harischandra turned and quickly followed them. He peered around the corner of a building. “Did you see someone?”
“No,” Chandaka said.
“What, then?” Harischandra whispered.
“I just realized that’s how he got us out of Kapilavastu.”
“What are you talking about?” Harischandra said.
“The night we left,” Chandaka whispered back. “The guards stared as if we weren’t there. Only three nights ago.” He shook his head. “A lifetime.”
“Yes,” Mala glanced at Harischandra. “So you say Siddhartha can conceal himself from plain sight.”
Chandaka nodded. “We rode out on his horse. No one batted an eye.”
“Extraordinary. He’s so young,” Mala said. “Dhara couldn’t do that.”
“You know Dhara?” Chandaka asked.
“Yes. Later I will tell you more. For now, it helps to know Siddhartha has some abilities. There is sorcery here. Prasenajit’s Brahmin Yajna knows dark spells that will challenge Nalaka and me. We need all the powers we can summon to fight him.”
They passed between walled and gated mansions on a street barely wide enough for an oxcart. There was no traffic on foot or wheels. Beggars were sleeping in some of the doorways. Armed men stood guard at others. Mala loosened their threads on eternity’s loom.
The street dead-ended into a smaller lane lined on either side by citrus trees just beginning to bud. A memory came to Mala of riding Rani down this street. Loyal Rani. She would grieve later.
“Addhakashi’s old mansion!” Chandaka said in a low voice.
Harischandra nodded. “Prasenajit gave it to Valmiki.”
“I know every nook and cranny,” Chandaka replied. “From a tree in back, I could get to the roof.”
“Hush!” Mala said as the gate slid open on a well-oiled track. There was hardly a creak.
Nalaka emerged, looked behind him and signaled. Dhara rushed out, followed by Siddhartha and Bhadda, who was limping.
“Mala!” Dhara threw her arms around the yogi.
Valmiki walked out.
Mala clenched her jaw and Dhara stepped away, looking from the yogi to the Brahmin.
“Have I repaid my debt?” Valmiki said.
“To me? Or to my daughter?” Mala hissed. Through this man’s arrogance, she had become a slave, seen her lover killed, her child stolen. She should have killed him long ago.
“Mala-ji! Valmiki helped us,” Siddhartha said. “At great risk to himself.”
“Shhh.” Chandaka put a finger to his lips.
“No one can perceive us in this reality Mala has created,” Nalaka said. “But we must flee.”
Light struggled with the dark in Mala’s heart. Valmiki was following his karma as blindly as she. He had not taken any action against her directly. What he had done, he had done out of ignorance. Not evil.
“I owe the greatest debt to you, Mala,” Valmiki said. “The Naga priestess Lila would have made me an offering to their abomination of a goddess. You convinced her to let me go.”
Mala nodded. That had been a moment of moral power. No need for supernatural tricks. She simply showed Lila the choice between good and evil.
“You must hurry,” Valmiki continued. “Yajna can conjure every spell in the Black Veda. Even Nalaka could barely penetrate his enchantments. Yogic powers may one day defeat him, but here and now he will render you helpless. He has already told the king not to trust me. He is on his way now with a troop of mercenaries.” He gestured. “Go.”
As one, they ran down the silent streets, past mansions and into the market quarter, past shops and smaller dwellings. At first, they moved quickly, but age and her injured leg soon held Bhadda back.
“Leave me,” she whispered. “Hurry!”
“No,” Siddhartha w
hispered. “Get on my back.”
“I’ll take her,” Harischandra said.
“But I’m just an old woman—”
“Get on his back!” Mala commanded. Bhadda bristled but obeyed, dropping her rosewood staff and hitching up her robes.
“This way!” Mala pointed down an alley. The streets narrowed. All of a sudden she realized that the others were not behind her.
She turned just as Siddhartha stumbled to his knees. Dhara managed a few more steps, then froze. Chandaka was the next to tumble, gasping. They were caught in the sticky spider’s web of Yajna’s spell. Harischandra slowed. He let Bhadda slip from his back and closed his eyes. He clenched his fists, widened his arms and took a deep breath. His chest expanded until it was enormous. There was a snap. The houses seemed to spring back a little, releasing them all.
“I couldn’t breathe,” Chandaka said. “It felt like someone was crushing my chest.”
“It’s Yajna,” Nalaka said. He looked much calmer than Mala felt.
Suddenly Dhara cried out. “This is where Asita died.”
“Almost safe,” Harischandra panted. “The fishermen’s landing is down the next alley.”
“We will test each other, Yajna and I.” Mala smiled grimly at Nalaka. “This is where I will make my stand.”
“Alone?” Nalaka said.
“Asita showed me how to conjure demonic weapons. Said I would need them one day.” She laughed at Nalaka’s surprise. “Don’t worry, my friend. I will only use them for good.” She unslung her bow, bowed her head, and began to murmur the prayer over and over again while drawing the weapon she sought in the air with her fingers. At last, she cried out and raised her hands to the dark sky. “Jai, Durga! Victory to Durga!”
A flail appeared out of the air. Mala seized it.
The others jumped back. Mala looked at the weapon with wonder. It was no ugly, ordinary flail. Eight ropes studded with small sharp metal spikes were attached to a ball the size of a large melon, and the whole of it was atop a thick wooden handle. “Not an honest weapon,” King Suddhodana had told her once. “It requires only strength, and strength without skill is like a chariot without a charioteer. Once you swing it, no telling who will fall.” But ah, Suddhodana, you never saw this. Mala wondered if the king would sense her thoughts.
This divine flail was beautiful. Its ball shone silver like the moon. Its eight ropes were of thick silver threads woven with sharp-cut diamonds and rubies that sparkled with inner light. The golden handle was more magnificent than a king’s scepter.
Shouts rang out. Dhara ran to Mala.
“Come on,” Chandaka urged.
“I’ll fight with you.” Dhara embraced her.
“Flee, Dhara. They’ll be upon us soon.”
“No!” Dhara cried.
Torches appeared at the other side of the square. “There they are!”
Siddhartha lunged for Dhara and grabbed one of her arms. Nalaka grabbed the other.
Mala began her dance of death.
She wielded the flail like a whip, cutting the Kosalan soldiers into bloody shreds, cutting through their armor—leather, brass, wooden helms—and tearing flesh from bone.
“Flee!” Mala cried as she cast about her. “Flee!”
Thunder roared in Mala’s ears. The alley seemed to tip crazily as a great gust of wind seized Dhara, Siddhartha, and the rest. Nalaka saluted her as he and the others disappeared into the ether.
Mala lashed death on the Kosalas until the spider Yajna began to spin his web, catching her whirling arm with a long, sticky strand. He wound the thread round and round her like a cocoon. The web squeezed tighter and tighter until Mala could no longer draw a breath.
“You will be the woman sleeping on arrows,” Yajna said.
Mala squinted up through swollen, bruised eyes.
“It’s a way to still the mind. I have made your bed with as much measurement and care as if I were building an eagle altar. A pity we’re in a place no one will see it, here in the very heart of the Forest of Bliss. It’s a geometric wonder.” He gestured to the guards. “Put her down carefully.”
For a desperate moment, she resisted. A half dozen. Surely she could take them.
But it was no use. She couldn’t move.
“Do not struggle. It’s useless. You are in my power now.” Yajna gestured at the men. “Set her down carefully.”
Spears had been driven into the earth with tips upward, covering the earth in the exact shape of Mala’s body. The four sweating guards picked her up and laid her atop the spears. The honed tips were like needles in her back.
Oh, geometric wonder indeed. If she moved, the spear tips would penetrate her skin, and then… and then…
“How do you like it, Angulimala?” The sorcerer rubbed his hands together. “The tips are placed at precise energy points. At the flesh at your shoulders and all along your legs and arms. At the principal nadir, as you well know, along your spine and ribs. How carefully the gods’ craftsman Tvastr designed the human body, so the spine and ribs protect your lungs and organs.” He smiled down at her. “Protect them, ah, somewhat, that is.”
Yes. She could foresee how it would prolong the agony. All Mala’s energy went to keeping still. It was impossible to focus her prana, to use her yogic powers to transform or shrink or become gigantic, all of which would have freed her. She was not bound, yet she couldn’t get up. She would die here, either of thirst or by bleeding to death drop by drop as blood seeped from her wounds.
“Goodbye, Angulimala.”
Then Yajna and his guards were gone. She would take her revenge on him once she’d escaped.
As if escape from Yajna’s enchantment were possible.
She roused. Above, the sky was white with heat. Was it only a day that she’d lain here? Or two days? An eternity.
Terrible thirst burned her throat. There was not a drop of moisture in her mouth to swallow.
She could not look to either side, toward the forest. She was too weak to lift her head, and to turn it she must lift it or the razor-sharp arrowheads on which it rested would slice her scalp, her neck, her cheeks. A blessing in a way. Seeing the cool shade would torment her.
She considered whether she could cut her own throat on the arrowhead that pierced right where her neck met her shoulder. The gush of blood would bring a fast end.
O Kali. Mala closed her eyes. Let me die.
Is that truly your wish?
She gave a half-wheezing, coughing laugh, and her body shifted. An arrow’s tip slipped between her ribs. She stifled a scream and arched her back away from it. Another penetrated. With the last of her strength, she tensed every muscle to keep from slipping any more. The pain was too much. Death was preferable. She felt on fire, not the thrilling flame of tapas that coursed through the nadis and filled her with the same light that lit the stars, but like molten rock flowing through her veins.
“O Yama,” she prayed to the Lord of the Dead, “why this hell? I faced my demons alone in the mountains, chanted the mantras tens of thousands of times to purify my heart! O Dharmaraj—”
Get hold of yourself. You’re not dead yet.
Mala opened her eyes in astonishment. “Asita?” she whispered, panting from the effort to overcome the agony. “Is that you?” A cloud passed over the sun, casting a shadow that relieved the glaring heat. She managed to catch her breath. “Where are you?”
Gone, gone to the other side of the moon, where all the dead wait for Yama’s judgment. I don’t have much time. The breath, Mala, count the breath. Count each one, backwards from one hundred and eight. Remember?
“Yes! Yes… One hundred eight,” she croaked.
She took a few careful breaths, a few more. “One hundred seven… one hundred six, one hundred five… ” Gradually, some stillness and clarity descended. She kept counting. Number followed numbe
r. “Ninety-one… ” Flies buzzed by her ears and landed near her parched lips. They hopped close to her mouth. Number after number. Glorious, sacred numbers. “Eighty-five, eighty-four, eighty-three… ”
There was not moisture enough, and the flies darted away, only to be followed immediately by more on the same errand.
Keep counting.
“Fifty-four… ” Halfway! Halfway to what? Her death? “O Devi,” she murmured. “Great Mother of all goddesses. Let me live, so I can see my Kirsa again.”
A single tear rolled down the side of her face and into her hair. To be worthy of reclaiming her daughter, she had cast aside her outlaw life and taken the yogi’s path. Those years spent searching for peace had come to naught. The fury she’d unleashed in the last few days proved that.
“O Devi, I did it for Dhara, and for Rani… ”
She lost count; drifted in and out of reverie. Memories came to her. The day she met Rani, when she was just a girl and the tigress just a cub, and freezing in terror when Rani’s enormous mother spoke to her. Her father’s stories of the gods, told while they sat together weaving thatch. Her mother’s cries for help the day she was murdered. The day she ran away from the village and met Angirasa and became his woman. The day Kirsa was born. Happiness. So brief, before it was stolen from her. She shut her eyes against the flood of horror that followed, the years as the Bandit Queen.
Did you really do it for them?
Kali’s dark face appeared above her, the skull necklace dangling between her breasts.
You will never wash your karma clean, Angulimala.
Kali’s laugh terrified her. “Devi!” The Mother’s love was more powerful than Kali’s rage. “Devi… ”
The Devi was silent. She must pray to Kali. The dark goddess was loving, too. Sometimes. But also cruel, according to her whim. Or was it Rita, the cosmic order, the law of the unfolding universe. Perhaps it was both.
“Help me, anyone.” She would bind herself to a demon if it would save her from this suffering. She sank into a place where she was not quite awake and not quite asleep, but she dreamed, and in her dream Kali’s dark face became her own…
The Mountain Goddess Page 26
