The Serpent's Shadow

Chapter Six

MAYA paused for a moment beside the statue of elephant-headed Ganesh that stood beside the waterfall in her conservatory pool. The statue had been there from the time the pond and waterfall had been built, and blended into the rocks surrounding it so well that she hardly noticed the handsome little idol was there most of the time. There was a box of incense sticks and another of lucifer matches on a ledge nearby, out of reach of the damp—Gupta was particularly attached to Ganesh, and he often lit incense as an offering here. But this afternoon it was Maya who felt an unaccountable urge to make an offering.

Oh, well, God’s commandment is “Thou shall have no other gods BEFORE Me.” That doesn’t exclude getting a little help from a lesser power, now, does it? And since I don’t happen to have a statue of Saint Jude around to patronize my hopeless cause, I believe the Remover of Obstacles will do.

With a chuckle at her own mendacity, she lit a lucifer and set flame to the tips of several incense sticks, placing them in the holder beside Gupta’s previous offering. Just what obstacles she wanted removed from her path at the moment, she couldn’t have stated clearly—just that she would very much like to see more of that charming Peter Scott…

Just then, the parrot flew down to her shoulder, nibbled her ear, and murmured a clear, “I love you.” It was in Hindu, of course, but she was reminded of the custom of the young men of India to teach their parrots seductive phrases before giving the birds to the maidens they were courting. That, in fact, was probably why her mother Surya, always fond of a clever joke, had sometimes called him “Kama”—a word and a god that encompassed every aspect of love.

“You may love me, my sweet, but it’s cupboard love,” she told him fondly. Nevertheless, she found one of the little sunflower seeds he craved in the recesses of her skirt pocket, and gave it to him. He took it, and flew off with a chortle.

Dusting off her hands, she squared her shoulders, and sternly told herself to forget daydreaming about sailors for the rest of the day. She had work to do; this was her afternoon at the Fleet, and, as always, the place would be a bedlam.

With an eye to more than the weather, she took her umbrella, a stout article that served double duty as a weapon, with its sharpened ferrule and sturdy ribs, twice as strong as any other she’d ever seen. Then, umbrella in her right hand and medical bag in her left, she began the walk to the Fleet Charity Clinic—for there were very few cabs that could ever be persuaded to go where the clinic lay.

At least, not during the daytime. Neither she nor Amelia had to pass through the hell that was their neighborhood at night, for they had a guardian angel in the form of Tom Larkin. Like so many of the working class, he had little to spare in the form of ready money to cope with an emergency—and like so many, he rightfully distrusted the doctors and the care he’d get at a hospital. Too often, those who entered the charity wards became the subject of either careless mishandling, callous disregard, or reckless experimentation. Sometimes, even all three.

So after fourteen agonizing hours of labor, when his wife was spent and exhausted and still no closer to giving birth than when labor had begun, he’d had to seek other help. At the urging of the Fleet-trained midwife and frantic with fear, he’d brought his wife to the Fleet, in his own cab. He’d all but killed his poor horse, getting her there.

Well that he had. By sheerest good luck, both Maya and Amelia were on duty. They’d had no choice but to perform the dangerous Caesarian operation.

Though why the Caesarian should be considered so dangerous, when ovectomies to “calm hysteria” were considered no great hazard, was beyond Maya’s understanding. The death rate was nearly equal for either operation—well over half the patients died. Infection was the greatest killer, with blood loss running a close second.

But that was without Amelia’s carbolic spray, or Maya’s own—unique—talents.

Mother and child lived—and cab driver Tom Larkin had vowed that while he or his new son lived, breathed, and drove a cab, neither Amelia nor Maya would ever have to brave the dark to walk home at the end of a day at the Fleet. He turned up, every night at closing time, to see if either woman was there that day, taking them safely through every possible hazard and escorting them right to their own doorways.

Which was just as well, all things considered. Too many times, pre-Larkin, Maya had been forced to defend herself with her umbrella and Amelia with a string “miser’s purse” that contained, not money, but a lump of lead. It wasn’t so much the inhabitants of the neighborhood that were the problem, it was the “visitors,” men drunk and looking for a whore, any whore, and knowing that the women of these streets could be had for less than a shilling. They tended to assume that any woman out on the street after dark was a whore, and that the only difference between a woman who rebuffed their offer and one who took it was the small matter of price.

“Mis’rble day, eh, Miz Maya?” The salute came from the pavement at her feet as she strode past, and she grinned down at the filthy face looking up at her.

“It would be less miserable if you hadn’t a hangover, Bob,” she replied, stepping over his sprawling legs, then making a skip to the side to avoid a puddle of liquid best left unidentified.

He only laughed. He was a day laborer, when he could find work, and when he couldn’t, he drank up every cent he made or could borrow. He had no family, claimed he didn’t want one, and as Maya knew only too well, was dying of tuberculosis. There was no cure for him, and he knew it, and so did she. Not even her healing talents could save him; she could prolong his life, but he didn’t want her to. He had once, in a bout of drunken confession, told her that he hoped one day that his bottle of “blue ruin” would be out of a bad lot that would poison him and kill him quicker. That he wouldn’t take his own life but courted an “accident” on a daily basis was a contradiction she never tried to resolve. Instead, on the rare occasions she could coax him into the Fleet, she did what she could to ease his pain and his breathing—and no more. It was her duty to fight death—but not when her patient pursued it, and had good reason to welcome its all-enfolding wings.

She dodged peddlers and pickpockets, pimps and prostitutes, human refuse and the refuse humans left behind, and was mostly greeted with the same ironic cheer that Bob had used with her. She was respected here, and if not beloved, was certainly welcome. She, unlike other charity doctors, made no demands that her patients “act like good Christians” or be one of the “worthy poor”—whatever that was supposed to mean. She dispensed medicine, sound advice, compassion, and some well-earned tongue-lashings in equal measure, and the people who came to her for help understood and respected that.

But as she neared the entrance to the clinic, shouts and shrieks of pain sent her from a brisk walk into a run; she picked up her skirts in both hands, the better to lengthen her stride, exposing ankles and even calves to the applause of a couple of drunken louts she didn’t recognize. One was cuffed over the side of his head by a fellow with a barrowload of potatoes for sale as she sprinted past.

“Shoaw sum r’spect, ye buggerin’ swine!” said the peddler as another shriek sent her into a full-out run. “That there’s a doctor, not ‘un’a yer tuppeny whoors!” Yes, it was going to be a busy day at the Fleet. Perhaps she should not have asked Ganesh to remove unspecified obstacles, since it seemed that he had removed the ones between new patients and her!

Tom brought her home just after ten that night, limp as a rag, yet strangely elated. How could she not be elated? She had saved the hand of a man who would otherwise have lost it, she had delivered three healthy babies in rapid succession, one presented breech that she had somehow managed to turn in the womb before labor was too far along, and one set of twins. All the patients recovering in her ward were doing well. Although the work had come in the door steadily from the moment she arrived to when they closed their doors, for once nothing had gone horribly, or even mildly, wrong. It had been a day full of small triumphs, not disasters.

Tom descended from his perch up on the driver’s box and handed her out with a sober propriety that would have had anyone who knew him and his usual truculent manner with a fare gaping in astonishment. “You look done in, Miss Maya,” he said, as she smiled at him, grateful for the support of his hand tonight. “You go get some rest.”

“I will, Tom, I promise,” she said. But not just now… There were too many things to do first, not the least of which was to check to see if there were any messages or letters for her. Her other clients, the ladies who paid her so very well, tended to make appointments for a given afternoon on the evening before. Unless, of course, there was an emergency, in which case she would find a frantic message waiting for her, or even a messenger waiting to guide her to the emergency.

There were no messages, but there was a letter, waiting on the tray beside the door. She frowned at it for a moment, not recognizing the handwriting. As she was about to open it, Gupta appeared at the end of the hall. He had such an odd expression on his face that she put the letter back down on the tray. It could wait.

“Gupta, is there something wrong?” she asked, hurrying toward him, her weariness forgotten.

“No, mem sahib—” He hesitated. “But I have great need to speak with you. There are things I must tell you; things it is time that you should hear.” None of this made any sense to her. “Gupta, it is very late, and I am very tired—” she began.

But Gupta shook his head stubbornly. “I have seen a thing, and heard a thing, and there is much I must tell you. And tomorrow may be too late.”

That, coupled with his expression, made her shake off her tiredness with an effort. “Then take me where you will, and I will listen,” she replied.

She wasn’t particularly surprised when he took her to the conservatory. Incense burned before the statue of Ganesh, and there were many candles burning among the plants. She settled into her usual chair; he sat cross-legged on the floor. She felt a little uncomfortable, looming above his head on her ersatz throne, but there was no way she could join him on a floor cushion, not in her confining Western clothing and corsets.

She waited for him to speak in his own time. There was no point in trying to hurry him, for he would not be hurried. He didn’t force her to wait very long, however, just long enough for him to gather his thoughts and begin, as a storyteller would.

“There were, on a time, two sisters,” he said gravely. “Both were beautiful, both were gifted with more than the common measure of the power to speak and act with the Unseen. The younger, who wept not at all at her birth and had eyes that hinted of hidden things, was named Shivani. The elder, who laughed at her birth and had dancing sparks of happiness in her eyes, they called Surya, the Fire.”

“My mother?” Maya asked, with a feeling that something solid had dropped from beneath her, leaving her dangling in midair. She clutched the arms of her chair and breathed in the incense, a tightness in her chest. “My mother has a sister? But what happened to her?”

Why was I never told? Why did I never see her? How could she have deserted Mother if she was Mother’s twin?

Gupta nodded. “As sisters should, they loved one another, despite such different natures. Your mother chose to study the powers of the day, her sister studied those of the night, as all expected, and still, despite that they now saw so little of one another, they were as sisters should be. But as time passed, Shivani withdrew into herself, kept her own counsel, and went ever more often to a certain temple and sect of the goddess Kali. At length, she treated Surya as she would a stranger, and your mother gathered about her these seven friends, to ease her loneliness.”

Here Gupta waved his hand around the conservatory, where all seven of Maya’s pets, some warring against their own need for slumber, sat watching her, wide-eyed.

“Still, there was no thought of enmity between them—until your mother met Sahib Witherspoon, your father.” Gupta shook his gray head, with an ironic smile. “He had come to the temple where she served—came humbly, and not as the arrogant sahib of the all-wise English—to ask of the ways of our healing. He would learn, so he said. And he did learn; I was there, and I saw it all. He learned—and so did your mother. She taught healing, and she learned to love.”

“So did he,” Maya whispered softly, knowing how very much her father had loved her mother.

Gupta’s nostrils flared. “Did I say he did not?” he demanded with annoyance. “But he was not my concern. She was my concern; I was her appointed guardian. I cared not what some English sahib felt or thought or did or did not do—not then—not then—”

He sighed deeply. “I was more than appointed guardian; I was your mother’s friend. Never did she treat me as a servant, often did she confide to me her inmost thoughts. So she told me of her love, and of his. Then I feared for her, tried to dissuade her. Yet she would not be moved, and implored my help in convincing her father to allow a marriage.” He shook his head. “Impossible, of course. There were hard words, then threats, then Surya was locked away. And it was my hand, my hand, that set her free, to fly to your father and make the marriage of his people.” He smiled with great irony. “She did not go dowerless; she took what was hers by right, the gems and jewelry that formed her marriage portion, her seven friends, and her power. But it was for none of these that Sahib Witherspoon welcomed her into his arms and heart—I had seen that he would have her were she the lowest Untouchable. I, too, loved Surya as a daughter and a friend, and that was why it was my hand that turned the key in the lock that night.”

Although much of this was new information, it was nothing she hadn’t already guessed, and Gupta had yet to reveal what he had seen that led to this confession. “So her family cast her off,” Maya prompted.

“As you know. What you do not know is that Shivani, her sister, was wild with anger. That Shivani, her sister, withdrew from her family into the heart of that temple of Kali. And that Shivani, her sister, vowed that neither the blood she shared with Surya, nor the power that Surya possessed, would remain in the barbarian hands of an unclean English sahib.”

The way that he said this, the tone of his voice, made Maya’s blood run cold. “What did she do?” Maya whispered, not certain she wished to know.

“First, she sent a man who had been as trusted by Surya as I in her father’s household. She sent him with death in his heart and a blade in his hand.” Gupta’s eyes flashed in the darkness of his face, and he sat a little taller. “It was I who caught him in the garden, warned of his presence and his intention by Charan. It was I who spoke to him there in the shadows, as warrior to warrior and man to man, beneath the shelter of the drooping jasmine.”

Maya closed her eyes for a moment; it was so easy to picture what had happened, there in her father’s garden that near-fatal night. She knew the jasmine that Gupta spoke of; she pictured a shadowy figure concealed by the fragrant boughs, and Gupta (younger, of course) whispering urgently to the half-seen assassin, with Charan in the tree above, cluttering angrily to himself.

“I spoke of the anger of the English should he slay the wife of an officer; of the good heart of Sahib Witherspoon, who healed all who came to him. I then spoke words that were less honest; of the fickle nature of women, the jealousy of a sister who had not won for herself a husband of any sort, of the foolishness of the female nature.” Gupta shrugged as she raised an eyebrow at him. “I used the weapons that came into my hand, and I did not scruple that some were base. I fought for my lady’s life that night, and I would have said any thing that won the day.”

“And it is better to fight with words than knives,” Maya replied. “You are wise as well as warrior, my friend. In a battle of words and wits, you would ever carry the day.”

Gupta blushed. “I would not say I was wise, only cunning, perhaps, and perhaps the gods gave me the words to move my friend-foe’s heart. So it was I convinced him to lie to Shivani, to bring her the heart of a doe, and not the heart of our gentle dove, your mother. This he did, then fled and took his service far into the north, lest she discover his deception.”

“But how could she not know—” Maya began. Gupta cast her a withering glance.

“You, who weave protections about us every night, ask this? Your mother spent herself and her power in weaving a canopy of deception about herself, about the sahib, and about you. Her sister knew nothing, immured as she was in her temple, never coming forth either by day or night, weaving magics of her own, and plots to destroy the sahibs and all who fattened themselves at the English table.”

Now Maya understood. The English who thought that they ruled India because India was not wise enough to rule herself were fools. There was enough resentment and anger at the arrogant foreigners to supply the fodder for a hundred outbreaks of rebellion a year, and it was surprising that there had actually been so few. So her mother’s sister had allied herself with one of those factions… and not just any faction either, but with the thugee cult of Kali Durga.

“She dared not teach you the magics of your own people, although you begged to learn, for she could not have concealed your half-awakened power once it began to shine. She knew that you must come to learn one day, but she hoped that if you were to learn the magics of your father’s people, her sister would not recognize that the magics were wielded by the hand of one of her own blood.” Here Gupta smirked. “And when the Sahib Witherspoon went about with the doctor his daughter, even if Shivani did hear of such a thing, her eyes were so blinded by hatred that she never would have thought the daughter to be other than wholly English, for she never would credit a sahib with bringing a half-blood daughter into the sun, and never, never, would she credit him with giving her education and a high rank within the sahibs’ world.”

“So—that was why we were safe for so long.” Maya spoke slowly, her heart contracting with grief at her mother’s long sacrifice. “Because she never went out if her sister would have heard of it, and her magic made it seem that we—just weren’t there. I always knew we had an enemy, one who had great power—but I never knew it was one of her own blood.”

Gupta’s eyes clouded briefly. “Alas, that her magics were not enough to keep the wings of the plague-goddess from overshadowing her.”

Maya’s throat tightened, and she groped for her handkerchief, but her hand never reached it, for her heart froze within her at Gupta’s next words.

“I have never been certain that was mere mischance,” he said, with a hint of a growl of anger in his throat. “Kali Durga governs disease as well as the thugee. And the snake in the sahib’s boot was no accident at all.”

Of course, it couldn’t have been, she thought, as Sia and Singhe flowed forward to twine around her ankles, as if seeking comfort and reassurance. She reached down to stroke them. “No. You’re right, Gupta. No ordinary snake would have gotten past these little warriors. Never, ever, would they have let a serpent get so far as the bungalow door.

Sia whined in her throat; Maya cupped her hand comfortingly around the mongoose’s cheek. “I have known for a very long time that we had an enemy with magic power, my oldest friend. I even guessed that this enemy caused my father’s death. That was why I fled from home, and took you with me, for since you were willing to come, I would not leave you behind to face the wrath of one who had been thwarted. But I did not know that my enemy had so… familiar a face.” She shivered. “Why, Gupta? My mother and father are dead. What possible quarrel can she have with me?”

“That you live is quarrel enough, to her and those who serve her,” Gupta replied sourly. “And her anger and hatred would only be the greater, that Surya deceived her for so long. Your mother—and you—are everything she is not, have everything she has not. You earn respect; she has only fear. She is comely, but her bitter heart casts a blight over her beauty and her face—when last I set eyes on it—had the same icy beauty as a diamond. A man may admire a diamond, but he will not love it. And you have love. I do not think she is even liked by those she serves and those who serve her. Envy eats at her, waking and sleeping. Of this, I am certain.” He pursed his lips. “And there is another thing,” he added reluctantly. “It is only a thing that I have heard, once or twice, as a rumor. But it is said that if one who devotes her magic to the dark slays another mage, she will have that mage’s power to add to her own. For that reason alone, she is likely to harm you.”

Maya digested Gupta’s words, feeling cold and very much alone. “And what have you seen and what have you heard, that you bring me these words now?” she asked him, at last.

His face took on the aspect of someone who is haunted, but is reluctant to speak of his fear. At last, he cleared his throat. “I have heard, when I have been abroad at night, the call that the thugee use, one to another. It was not near here,” he added hastily, “but they are within the city.”

She didn’t ask him how he knew what such a call sounded like. It was easy enough to guess that it would be the call of some night-walking bird or animal of India, and it was unlikely that anyone would be prowling the streets of London making such a sound, unless he was from her homeland, and he and those with him had a reason to keep their movements a secret.

“And you have seen?” she prompted.

“I have seen—in the bazaar where I go to buy our foodstuffs from home—the shadow of a serpent on a wall, where no serpent was, or should be.” Fear stood unveiled in his eyes. “It was said that Shivani danced with the rakshasha. I believe the tale. The temple to which she took herself was not of good repute.”

“That would,” Maya murmured, half to herself, “explain the krait.”

Gupta nodded. The cobra was holy; given the number of prayers that went up daily in praise of Sahib Witherspoon and in gratitude for what he did among the sick, it would have been unlikely for the sorceress to dare to attempt to use the cobra as her unholy weapon. The krait, however, was another story entirely.

And if she had anything to do with the serpent demons, the rakshasha, any serpent she sent might not even be an ordinary snake. Maya looked into Gupta’s eyes, and saw not only fear there, but trust and confidence. It was that which made her shake off the paralysis of her own sudden fears.

“You will no longer go to the bazaar, old friend,” she said decisively. “You may be recognized; certainly you will be followed.”

Gupta nodded, reluctantly. “My son—” he began.

She interrupted. “Nor will you send any of this household. I fear anyone from the homeland will be followed, to see where he goes. If my magics are succeeding, they will have no other way to find us but by looking for those from home. The longer we can elude them the better.” She pondered her options. “The boy Jack, the eldest son of the woman who sews and mends for us to pay for her sick baby’s care? He runs errands; he is quick to learn, and clever. You will show him what it is you need at the market, and send him for it. We can afford to pay him for such a service.”

Gupta’s face darkened. “But he will be cheated,” he protested, unwilling to allow a mere English boy to venture into the treacherous waters of commerce with a fellow countryman of India.

Maya laughed, perhaps with a touch of hysteria, but Gupta’s thriftiness was so ingrained that even in the shadow of terrible danger, he worried about being cheated! The absurdity of it countered some of her own fear. “I think not,” she said, shaking her head. “I have seen this boy bargain like the sharpest old woman; it is more likely that he will leave the merchants feeling they have been bested! No, you tell him what is a fair price for a thing, and he will get that price, or better.”

Gupta relaxed. “Then there is no need for any of this household to leave, except for the children to go to school.”

“The children wear English clothing at school; they look no different than any other children,” Maya pointed out. “There are the Vellechio boys, the Italians, who are darker than they. I do not think that the thugee will haunt every day school in the city on the chance that they might see a child of the homeland. So long as we hide among the English, it will be harder for them to find us.”

“Except that you, who tend the sick at the Fleet—” again Gupta’s face darkened.

“I will walk veiled by day, or take the omnibus as near as I may, and Tom brings me home by night,” she said firmly. “There are none among the sick that I tend that would betray me, even should the thugee have the English to ask them.”

Gupta sighed. “That is true. And there are many among your sick who will protect you, walking where I may not—and a thousand eyes and ears, should you ask for them.”

She laughed at his exaggeration. “Not a thousand, Gupta, but enough. Especially among the children.”

“And who looks at a child? Yet a child sees everything.” Now Gupta smiled, at last. “I did well to confess to you, mem sahib. You, too, are a warrior, with a warrior’s heart. You find weapons to your hand when you need them.”

“And I will not scruple to use any and all of them,” she replied firmly. “You may be sure that I will begin tonight, and go on tomorrow, sending the warning out amongst my ‘eyes and ears.’ ”

Gupta bowed his head to her, an act of respect that touched her profoundly. “Then I will leave you to your work, mem sahib,” he said, rising. “Shall I have my son bring food to you here, or in your office?”

“My office, please,” she replied, though she made no move to rise as he left. She looked around at her circle of pets; all of them watched her closely. They acted as if they had been listening to the entire conversation, and anxiously awaited her reaction.

Pets. I’m not so sure now, that “pets” are all they are, she thought, noting the look of their eyes, the expressive postures of their bodies. The owl, Nisha, sat side by side with the falcon, their bodies so close that their wings touched. They seldom perched that closely together, but tonight it appeared, to her at least, as if they were telling her that they, too, were warriors in her service, and would stand sentry by night and day. The mongooses sat alertly on either side of her feet, and when she glanced down at them, they looked up. Their faces were easier to read; she had seen that look on them before. The hunt was up, and they would not let another enemy slip past them, having unaccountably failed once before. The neck hackles of Rajah the peacock bristled aggressively; she had seen him kill serpents in India, and his own talons could be formidable; she had the sense that he was not the decorative creature he had feigned to be.

Rhadi’s eyes flashed; he flew to her shoulder as Charan leaped into her lap. “Love you!” the parrot exclaimed, as a declaration, and not an endearment. Then, astonishingly, “Watch for you! Fight for you! All! All! Shivani bad! We guard!”

Charan balled his little fists and nodded emphatically, even as Maya’s mouth dropped open in shock. Reflexively, she looked at the others. As she met the eyes of each in turn, each one nodded, slowly and deliberately.

These—are not pets. Even as she thought that, she wondered just what they were. Or perhaps, what Surya had made them…

They all clustered closely around until they touched her, the owl and the falcon swooping down to land on the arms of her chair, the peacock nestling in against her right leg, the mongooses jumping up into the chair to share her lap with Charan. Then Charan reached up, touched her cheek with his little black “hand” and turned her face so that she looked into his eyes.

And all that she could see were his eyes. She felt as if she were falling into them, but how could she be afraid? She had known him from her birth; he had shared her cradle, her playtime, her very food. He was her friend and companion. They trusted each other with a surety past words.

We are—briefly—more than we seem, little healer.

The words flowed into her mind. For this moment, astonishment, fear, any other thought or emotion that might interfere with this communication was held at bay, so that she could hear what they needed to say to her. A strength so great that it could easily crush her if it cared to cradled her instead, and dropped its words gently into her open heart.

This is not our land, and you are only half our child, but you are in our charge, the words went on. We will fight for you and stand guard over you. Charan’s face took on a solemnity and wisdom mingled with a hint of great mischief; Nisha’s feathers were as white as snow. Rajah spread his fan for her, the parrot’s eyes flashed, and the two mongooses sat erect, small but proud warriors, their large eyes bright with intelligence. But you, too, may come to a place where you must take up arms, and you must find an ally of the power of this place, or nothing we can do will help you prevail. She has grown stronger with every passing day, and grows stronger still. There is much evil in this city, and darkness feeds upon and strengthens darkness. Child, your foe will not rest until she drinks you dry and casts away the husk. She lusts for what you hold, and will pursue you no matter where you go to have it. Your magic cannot hide you forever, and when it fails, you must be ready.

Charan dropped his hand from her cheek; suddenly she was herself again. She put her hand to her throat, feeling as if her collar choked her, cold with fear that bound her with rings of iron.

A touch from Charan’s cheek on hers freed her from that terrible fear so quickly it had to have magic behind it. Her mind swirled with speculations, but one settled out and quickly became a certainty.

The many gods of India wore many faces and many guises, and not all of them were human.

Rhadi laughed, with a note in the laughter of triumph, and Charan nodded again. She all but collapsed against the back of her chair and stared at them.

“I need—a little time to absorb this,” she said weakly.

“Yes,” Rhadi said, and flew back up onto one of his perches, followed by the owl and the falcon. A little dazed, Maya was not so bedazzled that she did not notice that Nisha’s feathers, which had been white, were slowly darkening to their usual brown and golden hues. A white owl, a falcon, a peacock… She tried to think; Charan surely was the voice of Hanuman—goodness, he was a Hanuman langur, how could she not have suspected? The others—

As often as Rhadi says “I love you,” perhaps he does speak in the voice of Kama. Goodness—Kama, the god of all love—doesn’t he even have a parrot as his chosen mount? A white owl—that would be Laksmi; she’s Vishnu’s consort, and as fierce in fighting evil as he is. And when Rajah touched me, my fear was simply gone; the god Skanda slays terror, and I know he is represented by the fearless peacock…

Who or what the others could be eluded her for now; she had lived for so long among all the tales and beliefs of her homeland, and yet she could remember so little!