The Mountain Goddess

by Shelley Elizabeth Schanfield

  “No.” They both laughed again. “It’s good for you to laugh, child. As to raining petals, Maya was holding the limb of a tree in blossom, and when her pains came she shook it. Some simple-minded servant said the flowers came from heaven. As difficult as your birth was, Siddhartha’s was easy. That’s why people say he came out of her side. An hour or two of labor. Your mother’s began several days before Maya’s. It ended at the very moment you were born. The same moment Siddhartha was born. Yet Atimaya lived, despite her agony, and Maya died seven days later. It was their karma. Ghosha always said it was good that your father saw Maya before she left this life.”

  “Father? He was with Maya?”

  “Your father loved Maya and she loved him. Until she met Suddhodana.”

  Long ago Sakhi’s mother had hinted at this. Her father didn’t love her mother. Her mother hadn’t loved her father. Who had her mother loved?

  The pains had subsided. She sipped at the silvery water, grateful for the respite. Love. Nalaka said the heart was the seat of intelligence, but to Dhara’s way of thinking, the heart could make anyone a fool. Nalaka’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. That was it. Who her mother loved. Nalaka, who had said Atimaya was intelligent and brave. Dhara wished she could talk to her. She closed her eyes. Even if Atimaya was dead, maybe she could find a trace of her mother’s consciousness. She would ask Nalaka about her when all this was over.

  “Oh, please come, Sakhi,” she began, then sucked in a huge breath. “Aaahh!” she moaned. A demon had seized her womb. “The baby’s coming,” she gasped in fear. “Embalika! Where is the queen? Oh, Sakhi, please come.”

  Embalika popped her head into the room, her eyes wide. Dhara screamed again. The maid ducked out.

  For a little while, Dhara shrieked while Vaddhesi watched a water clock drip and timed when each contraction came and went. “Still plenty of time,” she said.

  During each new pain Dhara was sure she could not survive the agony. Once she screamed. “I’m going to die. I can’t bear it!”

  “Oh, child, calm yourself. It will get worse,” was Vaddhesi’s infuriating response. Between the pains, the old woman mopped her brow and told her to breathe deeply.

  Another contraction struck, then another right behind it. She did not know if night was falling or it was her vision getting dim. The pain was all she knew.

  “Sakhi, where are you?” she cried.

  Enchantment

  When Sakhi and Kirsa arrived at the palace, the sun was already behind the trees. Along the elegant garden paths, servants rushed past with stacks of cushions, trays loaded with silver cups and bowls, armloads of unlit torches, and other accoutrements for the feast.

  A little acolyte with skin black as night followed in Kirsa’s wake as she strode along. Sakhi trailed him, the crushed stone of the pathway crunching under her sandaled feet.

  The acolyte was trying to keep the heavy basket that held Kirsa’s medicines on his head, a feat that would have been difficult enough for a boy of eight, but was made more so by his topknot, a comical little knob of short frizz. It became impossible as he swiveled his head from side to side to take in the sights. The huge pond covered with water lilies, the fountain splashing in its center; masses of exotic flowers; the carved demigods playing vina or tabla for dancing nymphs; all were wonders to him. He was most likely a gift to the grove from a poor family in return for a healing, or perhaps because there were too many mouths to feed. If that was so, he was lucky.

  Since their fortunes had sunk, Bhallika’s presence was rarely requested at the palace, and Sakhi cared little for royal entertainments, so they had received no invitation to this feast. Servants rushed by in the midst of frantic preparations. “I fear Suddhodana tempts the gods,” she said.

  “Nalaka predicts that the birth will go smoothly,” Kirsa said.

  Sakhi trusted her brother’s farsightedness but the frantic atmosphere made her uneasy. She hurried past the boy to walk by Kirsa’s side. “The twins told me that they saw a huge bull at the market. A palace priest bought it to sacrifice to Indra tomorrow. Has the king made offerings at any temple to the Devi?”

  “The queen has not forgotten the Devi, nor have the people. Sacrifices are being offered at every shrine in the city, and at every sacred tree in the forests.”

  “Kirsa, you’ll think me mad, but… ”

  “Why would I think you mad?”

  “I feel some power watches.”

  Kirsa took Sakhi’s hand. “I feel it too. Look at how Ganga’s heavenly river glows across the sky. Have you ever seen it so bright?”

  “No.” They continued on their way in tense silence.

  When they reached Dhara’s chambers, Prajapati sat on the edge of the bed holding one of Dhara’s hands. The queen had always intimidated Sakhi, but the sight of Dhara was stronger. The princess reclined on her low bed, half covered in a swath of soft, unbleached cotton. Her eyes were shut tight, legs splayed wide, head lolling back against a mountain of many colored pillows. Strands of long, silky hair were plastered to her sweaty cheeks and forehead. The arrogant and beautiful warrior woman looked so helpless. The acolyte took one look, dropped the basket, and scurried out.

  “Dhara,” Sakhi said.

  “Oh, Sakhi!” Dhara inhaled sharply, groaned. Kirsa stepped aside as Sakhi took three steps and knelt, encircling Dhara in her arms. “Dhara, Dhara.” They embraced, sobbing.

  “Push, Princess, push.” They loosened their hold but still embraced as Vaddhesi appeared at the bedside. “Embalika, bring lamps!”

  There was no answer, and the queen jumped up. “I’ll get them.”

  “Ah, Sakhi, heart’s sister,” Dhara said when she had caught her breath. Her eyes were full of tears. “The pain is awful. A demon is clawing at me from inside!”

  Everything will be all right, Sakhi wanted to say. She knew Dhara’s fear very well. A new life begins, another life ends, keeping the universe in balance, sometimes in very immediate ways. She put Dhara’s hand on her cheek. “You’re a warrior. Be brave.”

  The queen’s pink silks swished as she walked back in, holding the lamp high. Sakhi felt an unexpected kinship with her. She was just a rustic Koli girl, after all, who by chance was thrust into a position of great power. Plain as she was, in the lamp’s low glow she reminded Sakhi of beautiful Atimaya. It made her feel that in a way, Atimaya was here.

  Their childhood was so far away, it seemed to belong to some other Sakhi, not the woman sitting at a princess’s bedside in a great palace. What would have happened, she wondered, if she had stopped Dhara from going to the shrine and drinking the soma? Would they still be there, under Dhavalagiri’s watchful gaze?

  A violent contraction seized Dhara. She gripped Sakhi’s hand and wailed in agony.

  “She should get up and walk,” Vaddhesi said. “It will help the baby.”

  Prajapati set the lamp on a low mahogany table by a small carving of Shiva and Parvati. The joy suffusing the wooden figures infected Sakhi with happy anticipation. “Everything will be all right,” she said, suddenly sure the birth would go well.

  They helped Dhara up, Prajapati on her right and Sakhi on her left. They walked her around the room for a long time. Lamps gave the rich draperies a faint shimmer. Outside it was dark, but the glow of torches rose above the trees and the sounds of feasting wafted in with a cool night breeze. As time went on, Sakhi’s confidence waned, while Kirsa and Vaddhesi watched with careful but serene attention.

  At last, Dhara gave a long, drawn-out groan. “It is time.” The old nurse pointed to the two bricks in the corner of the room. For her three older boys, Sakhi had stood on such bricks. “Om, Devi,” she said, “may her labor be quick.”

  “Svaha,” Kirsa, Prajapati, and Vaddhesi responded in unison. “Amen.” Kirsa knelt at Dhara’s feet, her arms draped in clean cloth, ready to catch the child. Embalika appeared with a
steaming basin of water.

  The contractions came faster and faster. With each one, Vaddhesi urged her, “Push, push. Harder, harder.” Dhara’s eyes bulged as she strained. Between each push she half-sobbed, half-gasped a quick breath before the next contraction hit.

  She collapsed against Sakhi as she emitted a long, piercing cry. “One more push, Princess,” Kirsa urged. When Sakhi glanced down, the newborn was resting atop the bloody white cotton in Kirsa’s arms. A faint choke, a tiny hiccup of a cry, then silence.

  “Your son!” Kirsa said.

  “Is he all right?” Dhara puffed. “Is he all right?”

  The infant gave a loud wail. Vaddhesi knelt next to Kirsa. “Yes, Princess,” she said with a toothless smile. “Help her to the bed.”

  Prajapati and Sakhi took great care moving her, while Kirsa carried the mewling infant, still attached by the birth cord. When Dhara was settled against the bed’s plump cushions, Kirsa placed the baby on her stomach. Dhara encircled him with hesitant arms, her mouth half open, her eyes wide, her tearstained and sweaty face filled with awe. He continued to wail, his eyes tight shut. Vaddhesi guided the baby’s mouth to one swollen breast and pushed the nipple to his lips. His wailing stopped. He opened his eyes.

  The golden Gautama eyes. “Ah,” everyone said in unison. After a brief struggle, he clamped down on his mother, squeezed his eyes shut, and started to suck.

  “My son,” Dhara whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “My son.”

  When Sakhi had put her firstborn to her breast, Bhallika had said half in jest that he had a rival in his own house. “You’ve fallen in love with the baby,” he’d said. Dhara looked not so much in love with her child as puzzled.

  Sakhi knelt next to her. “He’s beautiful, sister,” she whispered. She stroked Dhara’s cheeks and hair while Embalika stepped forward with the basin and clean cloths and Kirsa wiped the birth fluids off the baby. Then she took him from Dhara’s breast. He mewled and snuffled in protest, his face contorted and red.

  Vaddhesi massaged Dhara’s stomach to help the afterbirth out then cut the cord and disappeared with it wrapped in bloody cloths. She would bury it by a tree whose spirit would become the baby’s guardian. “I’ll send word to Siddhartha,” she said, and left through Dhara’s garden.

  Kirsa swaddled the baby and prepared to hand the neat bundle back. Dhara didn’t hold out her arms for him, but gave Kirsa a mute, pleading look. A quick flicker of understanding and compassion crossed the healer’s face. “Meera?” she called, looking over her shoulder.

  “Here, Kirsa-ji.”

  Against the opposite wall sat a beautiful, dark-skinned young woman, her legs crossed. Her long, wavy black hair tumbled over her shoulders, half covering her full breasts, and a dark antariya was wrapped around her waist. In the crook of one arm she held a nursing infant. With great grace she uncrossed her long legs and glided to Dhara’s bedside.

  “Your cousin Ananda, little one,” Kirsa said to Dhara’s son. She held him out to Meera. “He is your new milk brother.”

  Sakhi caught Prajapati’s eye as Meera took the newborn prince to her other breast. “He’s the son of Suddhodana’s brother,” the queen said. “We thought his mother would be a suitable wet nurse.”

  Royal custom dictated such things, but Sakhi couldn’t help but be glad she nursed her own children, which had given her as much pleasure as the act of conceiving them.

  “All honor to you, Yasodhara,” Prajapati said. “May you be the mother of a hundred sons.” She bowed and left, and the room emptied after her until only Meera, Kirsa, and Sakhi remained.

  Kirsa put out all the lamps save the one on the low table where the carved wooden Shiva and his bride danced. “I must go to the storeroom near the kitchens to fetch some herbs. Send for me there if you need me.”

  The room was suddenly calm. “Hold me, Sakhi,” Dhara said, and Sakhi settled next to her. For some time, only the feast’s distant sounds and the babies’ faint sucking disturbed the quiet.

  As Sakhi was about to drift off, a great roar rose from the guests. Prajapati had announced the successful birth to the crowd. Sakhi’s unease, which had faded during the labor, returned. There was something… but she was too exhausted to think about it. She slept.

  “Wait,” Sakhi called. “Please, don’t go!”

  Under a moonless sky she raced through the village to the eagle altar. Its bricks, laid in sacred and precise geometry, were dark and cold as if her father had never lit the sacrificial fire and chanted praises to Indra or made the offering and poured rendered fat on the flames. The rider stood near it, impatient to mount the huge warhorse. Its blue-black hide glinted in the faint light reflecting off the mountain goddess’s snowy peak.

  A dark hooded cloak hid the rider’s face. Stop him, a voice in her head commanded.

  At the same time her heart said, Let him go.

  Before she reached him he mounted, wheeled the magnificent creature around once, and raised a hand in farewell. The horse leaped into flight, raced up to the night sky, and plunged into Ganga’s starry river.

  “Sakhi!”

  She sat up with a jolt. It was still dark.

  “Sakhi,” Dhara said, shaking her shoulder. “You were talking in your sleep.”

  It took a minute to come to her senses. Sakhi stared into the dancing yellow flame of the lamp. She’d dreamed that dream before, long before she arrived in Kapilavastu. Whoever the mysterious rider was, when he rode away, he wrenched the heart from her breast and took it with him.

  “Are you all right?” Dhara asked.

  “My dream,” Sakhi said. “It disturbed me. I don’t want to leave you, but something is urging me home. I fear there’s bad news about Bhallika.”

  Dhara embraced Sakhi. “You told me everything would be all right, and it was true.”

  Sakhi shook her head. “There is something. I must go.”

  “All right. Before you do, will you bring the baby to me?”

  Meera was dozing against the wall, her arms propped with pillows, an infant in the crook of each elbow. When Sakhi bent over to pick up Dhara’s son, her eyes flew open.

  “Princess Dhara wants to hold her son.”

  Meera hesitated. “Kirsa-ji said—”

  “It is not Kirsa’s son, or yours, but mine. Give him to me,” Dhara said, pushing herself up. “You will not be punished, I swear.”

  “Princess.” She sat quietly while Sakhi took the baby and placed him in Dhara’s waiting arms.

  “Now leave us,” Dhara said. The young woman glided out with Ananda in her arms.

  Dhara held her son gingerly. Not long after Meera left, he woke and started to fuss. “Help me.” The low flame glinted in her anxious eyes.

  Sakhi wanted to leave, but Dhara needed her. “It’s easy.” She guided the little head to his mother’s breast, where he soon began to suck contentedly. “Your milk has already come in. A good sign.”

  They watched him feed. When he’d finished with one breast, he started to fuss again. Dhara looked at Sakhi in alarm but then without help switched him to the other side. When he was once again suckling, she smiled down at him. “The queen will not like it if I feed him. She says I’ll have more important duties, being the wife to Suddhodana’s heir and a prince’s mother. But I must be a good mother, too. Like you.” She swallowed. “Sakhi, I want to tell you something.”

  “It can wait till morning. I will come back, I promise.”

  “We didn’t really want to have a child. It just happened.”

  “Dhara!”

  “Now that he’s here, I’m glad. I hope Siddhartha will be, too.”

  Once again, Sakhi was shocked into wordlessness. Did Dhara fear he would not?

  Dhara bent and kissed the fine dark hair covering his head. “You will help me, won’t you? I can’t do it without you.”

&nb
sp; “You’re a good mother already.” It was true. Dhara tucked him close, her dark head bent to him. The baby’s lips fell away from the nipple. He smacked his mouth, took a snuffling breath, and settled to sleep. “You see? It’s simple. You learn as you go along.”

  “But you will help me?”

  “Siddhartha will be by your side.”

  “Where is he?” Dhara asked plaintively.

  “He was at the Summer Palace, wasn’t he? He’s on his way, I’m sure of it.” But Sakhi, too, wondered where he was. Her uneasiness wouldn’t go away. Something was drawing her home. “But now I have to go. Bhallika and the boys may return tomorrow, and I want to be there. Meera is outside the door. All you have to do is call, and she will come.”

  “Go with my love, Sakhi. Come back as soon as you can.”

  Sakhi kissed her on the forehead and tiptoed away. In the antechamber, Meera was curled on her side on a pile of cushions with her hand resting on the bundle that was little Ananda in a nest of folded cloth. They were sound asleep. Sakhi tiptoed past the sleeping forms and out into the hall, where the acolyte was stretched out on the chilly flagstones, mouth agape, snoring faintly.

  She would head to the palace’s main gate and try to find a litter belonging to a noble who perhaps did business with Bhallika, whose servants might know her and take her home. As she made her way, the sputtering torches lining the corridor cast terrifying shadows. More than once she looked over her shoulder, thinking she heard breathing. She was not very familiar with the palace and proceeded tentatively down empty corridors until she reached what seemed to be the one heading in the right direction.

  The sight that met her eyes shocked her to a complete halt.

  Another path

  The baby started to fuss as soon as Sakhi left, as if being alone with his mother frightened him. How long should he sleep after he ate? He had only suckled for a little while at each breast. Maybe he hadn’t had enough. Should she feed him again? She wanted Sakhi to come back. She would call for Kirsa or Meera, send them after her.