The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  “She will heal,” Lila said.

  Her back caught fire. More agony. She arched away, tried to make her skin shrink from the soft salve.

  “Be still.” The priestess dabbed some more on her back. “It will only burn for a minute.”

  Ah, yes, it was cool again, so cool, so cool and soothing. She groaned with relief and opened her eyes.

  “Yajna poisoned you.” Lila took a rag and wiped the sweat from Angulimala’s face and neck. The priestess’s wavy hair was braided with shells and beads and dried seedpods, her delicate, high Arya cheekbones covered with the blue tattoos of a forest tribe. The orphaned Brahmin girl Angulimala had met at Asita’s hermitage had become a Naga holy woman.

  “But we have found the right herbs to counteract it,” Lila said.

  “Maybe,” Heshu said. Under his tight, frizzy curls, his flat face, even more tattooed than Lila’s, was impassive. “Yajna’s magic very powerful.”

  Angulimala moaned, remembering that magic. Lila stroked her forehead. “So is Asita’s training. All will be well, Mala.”

  “Angulimala.” She didn’t think she would be Mala ever again.

  She slept.

  With great care, Angulimala leaned against the tree’s thick trunk without breaking the skin on her wounds. The friendly wood nymph inhabiting the tree embraced her with a healing aura and she rested.

  A breeze rustled the leaves, and the boughs that cradled Lila’s dwelling swayed and creaked. Sages like Asita often built low platforms in the trees at their forest hermitages. Asita. He had dissolved into atoms. He would never teach her again. The thought was terrifying and liberating.

  The boughs swayed again. The Naga tribes built homes in the high branches the way their ancestors the snake gods had. Though the tribe’s people had long ago lost the power to change back and forth from human to snake, their eyries kept them safe from wild animals and savage men.

  Lila, feeling that Angulimala was recovered enough to be left on her own, had gone to gather herbs. Angulimala wasn’t alone, though. Soft voices came from nearby dwellings hidden in other leafy bowers. Unseen eyes watched, ready to help. She was safe in her solitude.

  She had been here nearly a week, and though her body was healing, her spirit was still shattered. Once she awoke, Lila asked her gentle questions, but Angulimala had so far been unable to answer except in monosyllables. Her emotions were too raw, her thoughts in shards.

  So she sat, not meditating or practicing, just enjoying the tree house’s gentle swaying. It soothed her spirit. Her mind wandered over the treetops seeking the ruins of Asita’s hermitage, where four years ago she had met Lila and Nalaka.

  Nalaka. At the thought of him, her red began to flicker. She tensed. The skin around her wounds tightened painfully. Her head began to throb.

  Nalaka. He had deserted her in Varanasi! Her spiritual brother! As soon as Yajna cast his spell to catch them, Nalaka had swept Siddhartha and Dhara away. Angulimala was left to fight the sorcerer alone, and when he captured her, he had inflicted tortures she would never forget. And where were Nalaka and Dhara now? No doubt in Kapilavastu, where her former friend would be guru to Siddhartha. He was stealing Angulimala’s pupil Dhara, too, and he would live in the city where Kirsa lived, a place from which Angulimala’s past barred her.

  Her calm disappeared in fury.

  She did not want Nalaka or Dhara to sense her anger and jealousy. She would close her mind to them, isolate herself here in the trees among the ancient Naga race. Here where she was close to Black Kali, who had once shown her how to wreak vengeance. Black Kali, who was the Great Mother’s fiercest, wildest avatar. That was the way to serve with her whole heart. She would close her mind to those she had once loved and to those who loved her. Even her daughter. Most of all her daughter, who would never accept what her mother had become.

  Why had she not seen this before? As Kali was Angulimala’s mother and Angulimala would be mother only to those who worshipped her. The test of their faith in her would be to follow where she led, and she would lead them to the ancient rites. They would water the earth with the Great Mother’s blood.

  O Kali, it was not that I forgot you, but I forgot to worship you.

  On Dhavalagiri, the pure air and brilliant sunlight had blinded her, but now she saw clearly. Light must inevitably end in the darkness of the Great Mother’s womb. There was no stepping away from the wheel. There was no stillness, but ceaseless motion, the path from birth’s violence to death’s agony and back to birth again. As true a path as Asita’s. One may just as easily lose oneself in action, in creation, yes, but even more, in destruction.

  Strength coursed through Angulimala’s body. Her thoughts focused.

  Forgive me, O Kali, and I will not forget again.

  Part III

  Six years later

  Nalaka

  Nalaka’s concentration would not hold.

  A chill predawn breeze rustled leaves and raised goosebumps on his bare arms. A faint moldy scent teased at his nostrils. He opened his eyes and gazed over the black silhouettes of the treetops toward Himalaya’s distant kingdom. The peaks were just a faint glimmer against the dark sky.

  Long before dawn, he had left his hut in the Nigrodha Grove for the temple and set his deer skin on the planked floor. The peaked roof thatched by Siddhartha and Dhara before the last monsoon season was already mildewed and decaying.

  From the moment of their whirlwind arrival six years earlier, Nalaka had sensed the spirit of the wise and just Jayasena here. It became his favorite place of retreat in all Kapilavastu.

  He wished that great king’s spirit would give him some guidance, or that Asita were still alive so he could seek his guru’s advice, but their atoms had scattered who knows where between formless and form. They did not whisper to him out of the ether.

  But he still had Asita’s teachings.

  Once more, Nalaka settled himself on his deer skin, changing the cross of his legs as his guru had taught him, straightening his back, balancing his head atop his spine. He opened his palms and rested one on the other on his lap. He let his eyes close, watched the whorls and patterns of colored light on his inner lids until they resolved into the familiar blue-white globe, and began another attempt to attain samyama.

  First, dharana. He focused his mind on the single point, the globe. Then dhayana, preparing his consciousness to expand through his body, following the breath in and out. Noting the pause between inhale and exhale, pausing before inhaling again. At the same time, his mind followed prana’s sacred energy through all the nadis, infusing his flesh with his intelligence to the center, the heart, where jivatman dwelt, smaller than the smallest particle but part of atman, the universal Self.

  His mind and senses stilled, he began to dissolve into blissful union of mind and body. Samadhi. His breath slowed to almost nothing, until he was like one near death, but his mind was alert, his awareness infinite. Only this moment existed, yet within it were all moments since creation. There was no Nalaka, no Other, only All.

  A sound. Nalaka’s mind seized it, named it, gave it form: a peacock’s piercing call.

  The stillness was gone. Sensation flooded his awareness.

  He sighed and uncrossed his legs, bowed his head and breathed out. Om.

  The sun rose over the treetops. Great beams of light pierced the purple clouds. The peacock whose cry had pulled Nalaka from his practice flapped down from a branch to make an awkward landing in front of the temple. It paused, waggled its neck, then opened its glorious fan, so weighty and ungainly trailing behind it in flight but so exquisite when opened on solid ground. With regal indifference, it lumbered past him and struck a pose just at the moment that a ray of light caught the iridescent blue eyes of its feathers.

  “Nalaka!”

  The peacock jerked its head and folded its fan, scurrying away.

  Dhara ran
through the dissipating morning mist and up the hill with her long hair flying behind her. She stopped, her chest heaving. The early sun flashed off the yellow gems of the necklace that rose and fell with each rapid breath. “Siddhartha’s not here.”

  Nalaka put his palms together. “Namaste, Princess,” he said with a slight bow. “Your powers of observation astound me.”

  She gave him a quick smile. “Don’t tease.” She clambered up onto the rough temple floor, as careless of snagging her elegant silks on the splinters as if she were wearing sturdy Koli homespun. They were the same iridescent blue of the eyes on the peacock’s fan. She wore the rich fabric wrapped loosely around her body in the simple, practical Koli style, which covered more than the elaborately pleated and folded skirts that most Sakyan noblewomen wore, leaving their breasts bare. Yet Dhara was more alluring than any courtier or concubine. Nalaka noted that she had worn the same antariya last night at the royal banquet. It would seem that she had not been abed with Siddhartha.

  She curled up and clutched her folded legs to her chest, making the thick golden bangles on her arms clink as she rested her chin on her knees. Her hair hid her face.

  Nalaka waited until she settled. “I thought he was with you.” At least, that’s what he had hoped. They had left the festivities together.

  “No. But that’s good. I wanted to talk to you alone.” Her shoulders rose and fell with her rapid breath, and she was shivering a little in the morning chill. Her breath smelled of cardamom seeds, but their strong scent couldn’t hide the kadamba liquor’s potent fumes. Nalaka decided not to mention it.

  “We left at the same time but not together. The debate was so boring! Even Siddhartha thought so.”

  “It was a bore,” Nalaka agreed. Might as well admit it. Neither of the visiting sages, Makkhali of the Ajivika sect nor Arada representing the Samkhyas nor the priest Bhela were stimulating speakers.

  “I knew you felt the same.”

  “Yes, but I was polite.”

  “So was I! I didn’t say anything against Bhela when he argued that we must sacrifice to the gods. It was Makkhali who said he did it only for the fat fees.”

  “You could have challenged Makkhali. Bhela performs sacrifices for the poor without charge.”

  “He only demands exorbitant payment from the king and the richest nobles.”

  “The king pays him well so he can offer his services to the poor without charge.”

  “I know. But it’s all so hypocritical.” Dhara paused a moment. “For a moment, when Arada was talking about how there’s no proof the gods exist, I thought it might get interesting. Bhela’s response surprised me.”

  It had surprised everyone. The rustling silks, clinking bracelets, and murmuring voices had all ceased when they heard it. “I know the gods exist,” the Brahmin had said, “because they have cursed me.” Shocking words from the king’s own Brahmin, but when one thought about what Bhela suffered, losing a brilliant son to be left with two wastrel children, it was not.

  “But then,” Dhara continued, “Arada started talking about the process of Purusha and Prakriti uniting in order to become manifest, and he just droned on and on with all the technical details of perception and inference and how we know things exist and everything about stupid Samkhya philosophy that he loves so much.”

  “Dhara.” Arada was a bore, and Nalaka fundamentally disagreed with the dualist philosophy and its claim that there was nothing beyond Purusha and Prakriti, no divinity at all. Through yoga, Nalaka had touched the uncreated that exists beyond consciousness and matter. Still, Arada was a master of the Samkhya school, a lineage that went all the way back to the sage Kapila, and worth listening to. Dhara’s disrespect troubled him.

  When he began training Dhara and Siddhartha, she had been as eager as the prince to understand all the philosophical schools and had argued fiercely over the nature of reality. She passionately pondered the exact definition of consciousness and whether it could be separated from matter in the individual’s mind and allow that individual to still exist.

  “You used to love debating its concepts,” Nalaka said.

  “Truthfully, sometimes I just did it to please Siddhartha.”

  “Not at the beginning.”

  She hugged her legs tighter. “Yes, at the beginning. Maybe. I don’t remember.” She frowned. “Nalaka, I have a rival.”

  “You can’t be jealous of Kirsa after all these years,” Nalaka said. “You are the rare wife whose husband is entirely faithful.” He paused, thinking of Sakhi, whose husband was not. His sister didn’t discuss it with him, but he knew it hurt her.

  “Of course not. Not her, anyway.” Dhara uncurled herself. “They would think it was wrong. They’re the sort of people who do the right thing even when no one is looking,” she said with a humorless snort.

  “You sound almost disappointed.”

  “No, no.” She bowed her head and studied her ring-laden fingers, twisting off a large sky-blue sapphire. “This is coming out all wrong.”

  “Make it come out right, then.”

  Dhara held the sapphire up so sunlight winked off it. “I went to Uttara’s rooms last night.” Nalaka raised an eyebrow. She slipped the ring on and gave him a defiant look. “It was her birthday.”

  “Ah. That explains the liquor on your breath.”

  She glared at him, the haughty princess. “No point in chewing cardamom to fool you.” Then her face softened. “There was a time when he would be with me, no matter if we were apart. But last night, he didn’t try to touch his mind to mine. He’s changed.”

  “Well, both of you need complete privacy now and then. Besides, you’ve changed, too.”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “I’m far from that ‘uncouth Koli girl’—what else did they all say? ‘Ill-mannered, ignorant child not worthy of the glittering Sakyan court.’ But I didn’t care.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “The edges were rather rough. But that’s not exactly what I meant.”

  She resettled herself, crossing one leg over the other and resting her hands in her lap. “My mother used to tell me to behave like a princess. ‘The blood of the Gautamas runs in your veins,’ she would say.” Nalaka felt a pang. She looked so like Atimaya, but even more beautiful. Her voice trembled a little. “It’s been so long since the Kosalas attacked us Kolis, and no word of her. Do you think there’s any hope she’s alive? A captive somewhere?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Possibly. With her spirit and intelligence, she could have survived. We may yet find her.”

  “Oh, Nalaka. I would just like to know. We fought so much when I was a child… ”

  “You’re very much like her, Dhara.”

  Dhara let out a pained laugh. “Well, she would be proud of my royal ways.” The peacock reappeared and strutted its fan in front of them. Her brow wrinkled. “But what did you mean?”

  “When?”

  “When I said I was far from the uncouth Koli girl, and you said it wasn’t exactly what you meant.”

  “You and the prince used to be passionate about the same things. The wise use of power. Skill at arms to be able to secure peace. The pursuit of self-knowledge as the highest good. Now it seems Siddhartha only seeks sages and solitude, while you forsake all philosophy to sit at the royal council or play war games.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “I prefer statecraft. But I’m not presumptuous or arrogant. When the council discusses treaties or alliances or the kingdom’s administrative matters I sit quietly until the king asks me to speak. The preceptor for military strategy says I think like a general. Queen Prajapati has said my opinions are worth hearing. She even agrees with me sometimes!”

  “The greatest of your achievements,” Nalaka said drily. “And you didn’t need to use any mental tricks to accomplish it.”

  “You’ve never really explained to me the purpose of working
so hard to master yoga’s powers if they aren’t to be used.” This argument between them had been going on for some time.

  “You know what can happen. Look at Mala.” Mala’s return to her outlaw ways was a dull ache for both Nalaka and Dhara. To him, it was sorrow for the lost spiritual friendship they’d shared. For Dhara, it had initially called everything she’d learned from her former guru into question. She and Nalaka spent long hours discussing what had been good and true in her guru to restore her faith in Mala’s teachings. Dhara came to believe it was something the sorcerer Yajna had done when he captured Mala that triggered this reversal. Nalaka agreed, though he also felt it had as much to do with everything she had suffered—the brutal losses of parents, lover, daughter. Either way, Mala—Angulimala—had closed her mind to them.

  “That’s not what you came here to discuss.”

  “No. I came to discuss my rival.”

  “There’s nothing between him and Kirsa.”

  “I know. The dharma is my rival.”

  “Ah.”

  “Siddhartha would sit in samadhi forever if he could,” she said, twisting a heavy gold bangle set with the same yellow gems as her necklace. “Once, we both thought we should find a secret hermitage, seek answers to the questions that trouble him. But then I started to think of our duty to the kingdom.” She pressed her lips together. “I remembered the story Harischandra told me about his life, how when he and his wife ignored the dharma, terrible things happened to his family and kingdom. I started to think that we could do so much good if we were king and queen,” Dhara said, her eyes shining. “He could be the wise king, like his great-grandfather. He could take retreats right here, at Jayasena’s temple. The way Suddhodana dreams his son will. We could do whatever we want when we rule the kingdom!”

  “The kingdom has been expecting an heir, Princess. Is that what you want?”

  “We have vowed not to have children. I’ve never wanted them.”

  “Why?”