The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  She would always be grateful to the queen for the waterfall, the rock shaped like Dhavalagiri, the pool big enough for bathing that was surrounded by dwarf evergreen shrubs and small trees that resembled the high forests.

  All was simple, austere, inviting contemplation. In the beginning, she and the queen might have fought over everything else, but not this gift. As the queen had hoped, it became Dhara’s favorite refuge. Only later did she recognize the gift’s influence. The queen was with her every time she entered the garden to sit and meditate. She had to admire her majesty’s subtlety. When she returned from battle, she would try anew to get along with Prajapati.

  If she returned from battle.

  The waterfall’s splashing in the pool reminded her of the fountain in Sakhi’s garden. Another twinge, and then gentle hands rested on her shoulders.

  “Dhara,” Siddhartha said. “I fell asleep. I’m sorry.” He kissed the back of her neck. “It’s still early,” he whispered. “We have time… if you come back to bed… ”

  Her hurt fought with desire. “It’s too near dawn.”

  He dropped his hands. “As you wish.”

  No, I didn’t mean it, touch me again, she wanted to say, but she was struck mute.

  Siddhartha faced her. His eyes were shadowed. “Nalaka says not to use any of the eight powers in battle,” he began.

  “Of course not. Even Mala warned me their dangers are doubled in warfare.” But oh, how useful they would be.

  “But she used them in Varanasi.”

  “Look what it did to her. She returned to a life of violence.”

  “You will not be corrupted.”

  “How can you be sure? Because I am not.” Dhara unfolded her legs and stood up.

  He took her in his arms. “You are not her.” He kissed her, long and passionately.

  She ended it and rested her head against his chest. “I wish I knew why she went back to being Angulimala. I wish I could talk to her… ”

  “Perhaps because she summoned the flail. Perhaps that magic was too strong.” Siddhartha held her more tightly.

  She trembled. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Beloved.”

  Siddhartha took her face in his hands. “All the time you were preparing for battle, I never really considered you might die. But today, I was suddenly afraid. I know what Nalaka says, but others who have achieved these powers say it’s all right to use them in battle. Please, promise me you would use them if you were in danger.”

  It was tempting to say yes. “You know, I thought I heard her voice today. Mala’s, that is. But then I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was Angulimala. I don’t know if it was a warning or a blessing.” Dhara looked up at him. “You know, there is one power I could use without risk.”

  “You would transport if you were in danger,” he said eagerly.

  “No. The power I was thinking of was presence of mind.”

  “But you must… ”

  “No. My warriors would think me a coward.”

  He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up. “I know I’ve been difficult.” His voice caught. “Come back safe, beloved.”

  “Will you be here when I return?” She looked up. “Or will you have at last flown to some faraway forest to make yourself a hermitage?”

  “Is that what you think? Never without you.”

  They fell onto the soft earth and made tender love under the open sky, then rested in each other’s arms. She wanted to stay here forever. Yet she was going to do what she had been preparing to do for so long.Too soon, the trumpet sounded, calling the troops and their commanders. Above, the stars winked out one by one, and light came.

  Twins

  The pains started at dawn. There was no time to think. The baby had to come, but Sakhi pushed and pushed until she was exhausted, and it did not. She dozed and woke to a contraction, dozed and woke again, screaming in pain. Saibya and Kirsa had a whispered consultation.

  The contractions subsided. Light seeped through the thick cloth draped across her window. Kirsa pulled it aside and sunlight poured in. Still morning. It seemed like forever since dawn. Sakhi blinked and groaned as a fist clenched around her womb. It was going on too long.

  “Here, drink this,” Saibya said. “You need to rest a bit.” She held the cup to Sakhi’s lips. The taste revolted her, but she would drink anything if it would mask the pain.

  “How often have do the pains come, Saibya-ji?”

  “Before I gave her the potion, every few minutes.”

  A man’s voice penetrated Sakhi’s drugged haze. She had no idea what time it was. Morning light had filled the room when Saibya gave her the sleeping draught.

  “Drink.” Kirsa knelt at her side and lifted Sakhi’s head. Those amber eyes. So like Siddhartha’s. More like brother and sister than cousins… the same dark curls, the same high cheekbones.

  “Aaah,” she moaned.

  “I sent to the palace to let Nalaka and Siddhartha know it had begun. They sent Jivaka.” Kirsa laid the back of her free hand against Sakhi’s cheek. She plumped the cushions and poured a cup of water. “The sleeping potion makes one thirsty. Drink.”

  “It’s very close in here. We might draw the drape from the window, Saibya-ji. Let in some light and air.”

  “As you wish, Jivaka-ji.” The rishiki yanked the drape. Her silver hair shone in the late afternoon sun slanting into the room. Sakhi had slept the whole day.

  The light hurt her eyes. She shut them. A cool breeze wafted by, reviving her. “There’s a chill in the air,” Saibya said sharply, “but perhaps in Taxila nowadays they are not concerned that a newborn feels a draft.”

  “Of course we will cover the window again, when the moment is at hand,” Jivaka said. Saibya grumbled at him.

  A sudden contraction seized Sakhi. It drove away any remnants of the drug’s pleasant haze. She groaned and gripped the blankets. Kirsa took one hand while Saibya rushed to her side and took the other. She squeezed their fingers and tried to push, but she had no strength. If she couldn’t push, her womb couldn’t release the new life within it. “Something’s wrong,” Sakhi whispered.

  “All will be well,” Kirsa said, but her voice was tense.

  Saibya’s green eyes studied Sakhi. Many said those eyes could see the evil humors in the body and root them out with her rishiki’s powers. If a demon was blocking Sakhi’s womb, Saibya would cast it away…

  “Mistress Sakhi,” Jivaka said. She opened her eyes. “Prince Siddhartha and your brother were concerned when no word came to the palace.” He was standing above the bedside, looking down with grave concern. “They sent me to give Saibya-ji any assistance she wishes. But I will leave if that is your will.”

  Uttara was right. He was handsome, with closely cut dark hair. Trimmed beard and mustache in the Parsee style. Men from Taxila favored that look. Such fair skin. Large brown eyes. So gentle. Sakhi smiled.

  “Mistress Sakhi?” he asked, kneeling next to Kirsa.

  “You may stay.” She tried to swallow. Her throat was still dry and it was hard to talk.

  “More water?” No sooner had Kirsa lifted the cup to her lips than another contraction made Sakhi scream. She jerked and the water went flying.

  It subsided. She bit her lip. “My boys will hear… ”

  “Nalaka took your sons to the palace,” Jivaka said, leaning in to place a palm on her forehead.

  “And didn’t come see me?”

  “Of course. But you were sleeping. By now, they’re playing Kurus and Pandavas at the battle of Kurukshetra with the prince.” He touched his fingers to either side of Sakhi’s neck to feel her pulse, then ran his hands down to her stomach. She blushed.

  “They always make him play Duryodhana,” she said, trying to hide her embarrassment.

  Jivaka smiled, but he had an inward gaze as his hands mass
aged Sakhi’s stomach. “Siddhartha as the wicked, scheming Kuru prince. I like that.”

  “And… and Nalaka as Krishna.” She tried to make her voice light, but it was tight with fear.

  “Yes. It’s very charming to see the respected guru kneel next to your little Arjuna, so that they seem more the same size in their imaginary chariot.” He laughed and kept massaging her belly as the silence grew in the room. His touch comforted Sakhi. “Twins,” he said, looking her in the eye. “It may be difficult.”

  Sakhi wanted to show this handsome physician how brave she was, but Kirsa’s concerned look brought tears to her eyes. “Jivaka.” Her voice quavered against her will. “My—my friend General Sukesa’s wife died giving birth to twins, and the babies died too. What will happen to my three sons if I die?”

  “Hush,” Saibya said. “A demon will hear and make your words come true. Pull yourself together, Sakhi. All will be well.” Her voice was stiff and her face was as solemn and troubled as Kirsa’s. Sakhi began to cry in earnest.

  Jivaka rested his palms on her belly. “I will not let you die.”

  “You’re very certain of yourself,” Saibya said.

  Another contraction set Sakhi screaming.

  “There you are,” Kirsa said as Mitu came in with an armful of bed linens. “Come, hold Sakhi’s hands.” Mitu dropped everything and hurried to Sakhi’s side while Jivaka, Kirsa, and Saibya held a tense, whispered conversation by the window. The sun had gone, but still colored the western sky gold. In the fading light, Kirsa looked shocked.

  “If she dies, it will be on your head,” Saibya exploded.

  Sakhi clutched Mitu’s hand and let out a sobbing shriek as the next contraction hit. When she caught her breath, she looked over to the three healers again. Kirsa’s face was fearful but intent. The wrinkles on her brow deepened, and she whispered questions that Jivaka answered with excited seriousness. Saibya looked furious.

  “Stay with the boys when I’m gone, Mitu,” Sakhi said, panting and tearful.

  “Dear mistress,” she said. “I have seen you in a dream, with five sons around your knees.”

  Sakhi had once had the same vision. “Truly?” If she trusted anyone, it was Mitu.

  Jivaka’s whispering stopped when Saibya interrupted with her own question. “I have seen women live through it,” he replied.

  Saibya shook her head. “There’s nothing more I can do. If you don’t try, physician, we may lose them all.”

  Everything passed in a blur after that. Mitu was sent to set water to boil and gather linens. Saibya muttered over her clay jars and little pouches of extracts and herbs. “Not too strong,” Jivaka said. “We don’t want her unconscious.” Kirsa laid out a few instruments that Jivaka pulled from a small wooden chest next to the spindle from Sakhi’s loom, which was full of fine flaxen thread. Saibya gave her another strong draught of poppy. Her eyelids drooped almost immediately but she was still awake. She watched from a very great distance as Saibya went to the little altar in the corner and repeated a mantra to the Protectress of Children.

  “I’m floating… like Dhara… ” Sakhi couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  “She must remain aware,” Jivaka said. “I will try to pull them out with my hands. I will only cut as a last resort,” Jivaka said.

  What was he going to cut? “I’m flying… like Dhara… Can you fly, Saibya… ? See past lives, like Siddhartha… ?”

  “I do not seek those powers. I put all my tapas into healing, my dear.”

  “Do you know… I don’t mind when you call me my dear… I hate it when Uttara does… ” Sakhi gave a little laugh. Things kept getting farther away. Jivaka was spreading her legs apart… oh, what would Bhallika think…

  He was frowning and saying something to Kirsa. Why was Kirsa crying? There was something cool against her stomach then a feeling of wet over her legs and pelvis.

  “Oh, mistress,” she heard Mitu wail, “what are they doing to you?”

  “I’m not afraid, Mitu… ” Somehow Sakhi was watching Kirsa reach into a belly and pull out one babe then the other, covered with blood and mucus, and handing them quickly to Saibya and Mitu. From her distant vantage point, she watched Jivaka and Kirsa in the bloody mess. Whose stomach was that? But her lids were so heavy. They were so far away and then she heard one baby cry and then the other and then nothing.

  Kalamas

  “The Kalamas clan is rough, hardy, and proud, like you Kolis,” General Sukesa said. They had forded Ganga’s stream, which was still full from the monsoon rains, and were heading along the goddess Yamuna’s river on a little road that wound through a pleasant green forest. Some trees were bare already. The fall day was crisp and cool, perfect battle weather. They wouldn’t have to worry about the heat.

  “For generations, the village they call their capital has been a way station for wandering rishis traveling from Taxila along the Uttarapatha to Varanasi and beyond.”

  “The Kalamas must be a very wise people, to hear so many teachings,” Dhara said. Sukesa’s company bored her, and his comparison of the Koli and Kalamas clans aroused vestiges of the pride and shame she’d felt on her arrival in Kapilavastu, when the court called her that wild, rough Koli girl.

  “Wise? Hardly. Whatever philosophy the last holy teacher to stay with them preaches, they swoon after him until a new guru comes along with a new way to liberation. Spiritual sluts, some call them.” He chuckled at his own witticism.

  Dhara lost interest again as Sukesa explained that Prince Virudha used the Kalamas’ conversion to the sage Carvaka’s materialist teachings as an excuse to attack the clan. “Carvaka teaches that the only thing that matters is sensual indulgence. According to him, the Vedas were made up by incompetent and often wicked priests to enslave the masses.” He chuckled again. “His majesty Suddhodana is inclined to believe that, even if his sister is married to Bhela.”

  “Hmmm,” Dhara said, watching a hawk wheel above, floating on thermals the way she and Mala had when they flew to Varanasi. Mala. Angulimala. It was rumored she would bring her army and fight with the Sakyas against Virudha’s forces.

  That meant she might see her old guru. No word, no messages for six years—except the night before Dhara had left for Kalamas, and she wasn’t sure of those. What would she do if she saw Mala?

  “Carvaka’s teachings horrify the orthodox Brahmins of the Kosalan court,” Sukesa said with a grunt. “The royal priest Yajna was especially incensed. He’s a master of the Black Veda’s spells, and some say Carvaka had him in mind when he called Brahmins evil.” Sukesa narrowed his eyes. “Yajna has Virudha under his thumb, and he convinced the prince it was dharma to bring the Kalamas people back to Brahmanic sacrifice. And now we go to war to defend them.”

  Suddhodana’s army arrived at a broad, shallow ford of Yamuna’s waters in early evening. On the other side lay the wide floodplain that formed the greater part of the Kalamas territory. The Kosalan army had besieged the clan’s village for a week now, but its strategic location on a steep ridge above the plain provided good defense. The clan’s archers had deadly effect from the thick, tall walls of mortared stone and heavy timber.

  As night descended, Kalamas watch fires began to wink on the ridge, while Kosalan campfires flickered into life below on the plain. Soon hundreds were burning. The advance scouts reported seeing three Kosalan battalions consisting of fifteen thousand warriors each; far more than they’d anticipated. A Sakyan battalion had ten thousand warriors, and King Suddhodana had brought only two. The reports of the enemy’s strength swept the army as it made camp. Discontented mutters rose around her as Dhara threaded her way through the tents and picketed horses to the king’s tent.

  The officers were gathered to discuss tomorrow’s battle. They clustered, grim-faced, on the rough wool carpets scattered before a low wooden dais on which the king sat cross-legged in Sakyan blue and gold, his dark hair drawn ba
ck in a tight braid that stretched the skin across his high cheekbones. His amber eyes reflected the light of the oil lamps.

  “The old-style chariots are in poor shape, the scouts say. The foot soldiers aren’t well armed. Probably new conscripts. We’ll make mincemeat of them,” he said, calm as if they were planning a military exercise on the morrow, a war game and not a real war.

  “Not if they’re huddled in the turtle formation.” Nanda glowered. Thickset and thick-headed, at least he would stand up to his father, Dhara thought, whereas Siddhartha preferred roundabout discussion and passive resistance that she sometimes found irritating.

  Nevertheless, she said nothing in Nanda’s support, and neither did anyone else, though the clenched jaws and lowered eyes showed that many were thinking the same thing.

  “We’ll draw them out as the wings of our eagle sweep around them.”

  “Your majesty.” General Drona cleared his throat. “If we are to sweep around them, we have to cross the river.”

  “Of course,” Suddhodana said blandly. “Not a serious impediment. Yamuna runs wide and shallow here, a simple matter.”

  Drona gave a dubious nod. To cross a river for an attack gave the enemy instant advantage. Yamuna was gentle this time of year, but horses and men still would have to take care on the rocky stream bed. All the Kosalas had to do was form close enough to the river and rain arrows on their advance. Dhara glanced at Sukesa. His face was a mask.

  “Your majesty,” a young officer said. “There are rumors that you’ve summoned Angulimala, and that she and her bandit army will join with us tomorrow.”

  The tent went quiet. The king’s golden eyes scanned the room. No matter where his gaze landed, it seemed like he stared at each person individually. Siddhartha had the same gift. “Angulimala will bring twenty thousand to stand alongside us tomorrow.”

  Suddhodana watched the uproar impassively as General Sukesa shouted everyone down.

  The hubbub around Dhara faded. Soon, then, the moment she’d yearned for and dreaded would come. She would look into Angulimala’s eyes and know her for the bloodthirsty creature she was. Or she would see the true Mala. Loving teacher or scheming liar, Dhara yearned to see her as much as she feared it.