Naamah's Curse

EIGHTY

After the incident with the onion-throwing and the Rani Amrita’s resounding response, the mood in Bhaktipur was calmer.

The protesting priests made one last attempt at insurrection, covertly contacting Prince Ravindra in the hopes that he would be willing to consider a coup against his mother. Clever Ravindra waited for all of those in league to show their hands before rebuffing them in a passionate public address.

“Shall I dishonor my beloved mother, who has taught me everything I know of courage, who has endured great suffering to ensure the safety of our people?” he asked in the city square, his narrow face filled with affronted dignity. “No! A thousand times, no!”

“He’s quite the little speech-maker, isn’t he?” Bao murmured.

Amrita smiled with rueful pride. “My young prince is quite a good many things.”

I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man Ravindra would grow into; and I couldn’t help but grieve at the fact that I would never know. Bao caught my eye, and I knew he was thinking the same thought. It would be very, very hard to leave this place, to leave the Rani and her son.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

I shook my head. “No, not yet.”

There was to be a celebration the day the proclamation was made official, a great purification ritual to symbolize the no-longer-unclean status of no-caste people. Amrita fretted over the details.

“I do not think it is wise to delay,” she said. “But I wish it were spring. The river will be cold. And there will be no fresh flowers! Only dried garlands. There should be fresh flowers to mark a new beginning.”

The image of a man with a seedling cupped in the palm of his hand came to me, and I drew in a sharp breath. “If my lady wishes for flowers, there shall be flowers.”

Amrita raised her brows at me. “How so, dear one? Can you coax the very flowers to bloom out of season?”

I smiled. “Actually, yes.”

So it was that on the day that the proclamation was issued, a month after the Rani Amrita had begun making the rounds of the temples, we traveled in procession to a fallow marigold field outside the city, escorted by the guard, trailed by half a dozen empty wagons and scores of curious Bhaktipuri folk on foot.

It was not a large field, but it was big enough that it daunted me. I had never made an attempt of such scope before, and I hoped I had not boasted out of turn. If I succeeded, there would be no doubt that the gods’ blessing was on this endeavor… but if I failed, it would cast grave doubts on the Rani’s actions.

I stood and breathed the Breath of Trees Growing, letting my awareness filter through the soil. The plants slumbered deep in the earth, not even beginning to dream of spring yet. I remembered how I had coaxed the bamboo to flower in the glass pavilion where I had first asked Master Lo to teach me.

Bao touched my arm, remembering it, too. “You can do this, Moirin.”

“I hope so,” I murmured.

I hitched up the folds of my sari, kneeling on the soil with bare knees. When Hasan Dar came forward to offer a square of silk, I shook my head at him. I needed to feel the earth beneath me.

“What is the dakini doing, highness?” someone called.

“Asking for the blessing of all the gods upon this day,” Amrita replied in a firm voice. I glanced up at her. She smiled at me with perfect trust and love.

I prayed I would not fail her.

I breathed, slowly and deeply, taking the measure of the task at hand. I prayed to Anael the Good Steward, to the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, to the many Bhodistani gods, and to Sakyamuni the Enlightened One.

Lending a bit of the twilight’s glamour to Amrita had been a small push. This, this would be a very large push.

In the back of my mind, I saw Jagrati’s stark face, and there was a terrible, vulnerable yearning in it, a hunger that this might come to pass. If I did not fail, mayhap her angry spirit would rest.

“Please,” I whispered to any gods listening, sinking my hands deep into the loose, rich earth. “Oh, please!” I took a half-step into the spirit world and held memories of languid summer sunlight in my thoughts, memories of warm, moist air, of everything good and green and fertile, breathed it all deep into my lungs.

Exhaling, I breathed summer into the soil, over the field. Over and over, I breathed summer into winter.

The earth roiled.

Plants burst forth from it with startling exuberance, unfurling ferny leaves, raising tight, hard buds toward the sky. Rows and rows of them, emerging from the soil. Somewhere, there were cries of awe and amazement. I ignored them, breathing summer, breathing the Breath of Trees Growing, willing the plants to grow, coaxing and begging them. Dark green buds opened and marigold blossoms bloomed, a riotous wave of orange, yellow, and saffron breaking across the field like a forest fire, releasing their pungent, spicy odor.

My head hung low, my hair brushing the earth. I was tired and drained, but my diadh-anam burned bright within me. I did not feel lessened by the effort. It was as Master Lo had taught me. When I used my gift as it was meant to be used, it would come back to me. With a weary laugh, I dragged myself upright, setting onto my heels.

Bhaktipuri folk swarmed the field, gathering blossoms. Hasan Dar and his men handed out needles and thick, waxed thread for the stringing of garlands. Men and women sang and sewed, happy to take part in a miracle.

Bao helped me to my feet and slid his arm around my waist. “Well done, Moirin.”

I leaned against him, drawing strength from his presence. “Let us hope it all goes as well.”

“How can it not, young goddess?” Amrita kissed my cheek. “I named you so rightly! You have made a miracle happen here.”

From the miraculous field of marigolds, the Rani’s procession returned to the outskirts of the city, to the slums where the untouchables dwelled. I daresay no other ruler in the history of Bhaktipur had visited the place, and I loved her all the more for doing it.

In some ways, it was not so terrible as I had expected; in others, it was worse. Young Sudhakar, who had served as the Rani’s liaison to the no-caste encampment in this matter now served as our guide, as though we were visiting a foreign land. He pointed out the vast pits dug into the earth where the gathered ordure of Bhaktipur’s upper castes was spread and covered with a layer of barley-straw.

“You see,” he said helpfully, pointing at an older patch of ground where vines spread. “In time, it becomes fertile soil. We could not survive without it.”

But ah, gods! The level of poverty was staggering. The dwellings in which they lived were crude, ramshackle affairs, in some instances nothing more than a length of ragged cloth stretched between poles. The faces that peered out at us were wary and fearful, not willing to trust to this seeming turn of fortune. A few folk had bright, hopeful eyes, but far, far more were dull and sullen with despair. All of them kept their distance, trained by a lifetime of experience not to sully folk such as us with so much as a shadow or a breath.

“People of Bhaktipur,” the Rani Amrita said in a gentle tone. “The gods have seen fit to send me a message, and from this day forward, I proclaim that there shall be no more division between caste and no-caste into clean and unclean. All shall be given opportunities to rise in status through hard work and dedication. By the will of the gods, I declare the rules of untouchability are no more. All men shall be brothers, and all women sisters.” She held out a garland of marigolds. “Come! I invite each and every one of you to come to the river and take part in a ritual of purification to celebrate this new beginning.”

No one moved.

If I’d had the strength, I’d have lent Amrita a bit of glamour once more, but the marigold field had drained me too deeply. It would be a day or more before I was able to summon the twilight.

She stood patiently, holding out the garland, Ravindra at her side. Carts heaped with garlands waited behind them. Sudhakar shifted from foot to foot, looking earnest. The crowd that had accompanied us began to murmur, while the untouchables remained silent.

At last, beneath the shadow of a hovel consisting of a piece of rusted tin propped on a few posts, a small figure stirred, a young girl of some eleven or twelve years, turning to her mother and whispering a question. The mother nodded, and the girl stepped forth.

I recognized her. She was the girl I had seen being assaulted for attempting to enter a temple when I had first arrived in Bhaktipur.

“So, little one!” By the smile in Amrita’s voice, I could tell she had recognized the child, too. “It falls to you to be bold, eh?” She beckoned. “Come, then. Be the first to accept the gods’ blessing on this day.”

With a tremulous smile, the girl started forward. She managed to cross half the distance between her and the Rani before falling to her knees, overwhelmed by force of habit and the enormity of the situation.

Amrita tilted her head at Sudhakar, who went to the girl’s side. “Come, come, Neena!” he said cheerfully to her. “You know me, eh? There is no reason to be afraid. This is a good day, the best day.” He tugged at one thin arm. “Come and be glad!”

Holding Sudhakar’s hand, the girl Neena approached the Rani a second time. Her skinny legs, left bare by a garment more rags than dress, trembled like a newborn foal’s. But she did it, releasing Sudhakar’s hand to press her palms together and bow deeply.

“Brave girl!” the Rani Amrita congratulated her, laying the garland around her neck and kissing her cheek.

A sound like the wind sobbing through trees broke over the no-caste encampment at that kiss, that simple, sweet gesture that acknowledged the child’s humanity. The girl’s mother staggered out of their hovel, tears streaking her face, her arms outstretched. She fell weeping at Amrita’s feet, embracing her legs.

My lady Amrita stooped and kissed her brow, then raised her up with her own hands and placed a garland around her neck. “I am glad to see you are well. Be proud of your daughter today.”

One by one, others stepped forward; and then it was like a dam breaking. All at once, the untouchables of Bhaktipur surged toward the Rani and her son, mobbing them, crying out words of blessing, words of thanks, begging her to anoint them with flowers, begging her to touch them.

She did, each and every one of them; and there were tears in her eyes, too, but they were joyful ones.

When the last of seventy-odd folk had been garlanded, the Rani Amrita clapped her hands together. “To the river!”

It was a motley procession that wound its way through the city to the banks of the Bhasa River, but stone and sea! It was a joyous one. Former untouchables clad in rags and flowers walked side by side with merchants and tradefolk, escorted by members of the warrior class in all their finery.

Along the bank of the river, at the sacred bathing spot, priests were waiting with offering bowls, and the Rani’s servants, many of them rescued from Kurugiri, awaited with clean, dry clothing. There were braziers smoking in the open air, and dozens of different kinds of savory foods being prepared.

I had to own, I wasn’t looking forward to the ritual purification. My lady Amrita thought the gesture would be best if all took part in it, a thought with which I agreed, but the waters of the river spilled from the heights of the Abode of the Gods into this charmed valley, and I was sure they were bound to be frigid.

I was wrong.

The Bhasa River flowed slow and placid at the sacred place where broad steps went down into the water. Curling tendrils of mist rose from its gleaming waters.

Warm. The water was warm.

Amrita gave me a startled look. “More of your magic, dear one?”

I shook my head, my throat feeling tight. “No, my lady. This is truly a gift of the gods.”

She smiled at me. “As are you.”

We descended the steps and waded into the river, all of us. Caste and no-caste, warriors and peasants; and the water was warm, as warm as mother’s milk. There was laughter and shouting and singing, and prayers intoned by priests. The soaked folds of my sari floated around me. Bao, grinning, emptied bowls of water over my head; and I did the same to him. Bedecked with garlands of flowers, everyone laughed and splashed in the warm waters of the sacred river, everyone made clean and whole by the ritual, the Rani Amrita no less than the least of her subjects.

My heart ached at the beauty of it.

And I thought of my forced, false baptism in chains in Riva, and how a portion of my life had come around full circle; how one person might truly make a difference in the world. I thought about the parallels between Aleksei and my lovely lady Amrita; and I hoped my sweet boy would prove as courageous and kind as my gentle Rani.

I hoped he would.

I thought he might.

Flowers worked their way loose from hastily strung garlands, floating down the river. We waded dripping out of the river, shivering in the cool air, glad to be met with warm blankets and clean, dry clothing.

Priests kindled the sacred fires and sang.

Everywhere, faces glowed.

Bao wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned gratefully into his embrace once more. “The world has changed a little bit today, huh?” he murmured in my ear.

I nodded. “For the better.”

“I wonder what’s next for us,” he mused. “For there will be a next, Moirin.”

“I know.” I lifted my head to kiss him, my lips lingering on his. “But for now, can we not just be happy?”

Bao smiled at me. “For now, yes.”