The Mountain Goddess: The Sadhana Trilogy, #2

By Shelley Schanfield

A beautiful warrior princess. A tormented prince. A terrible choice between love, duty, and spiritual freedom.

Rebellious Dhara runs away from her Himalayan clan to study with the powerful yogi Mala, a mysterious woman with a violent past. Flung by war onto an adventure-filled journey, Dhara meets and captures the heart of Siddhartha, whose skill in the martial arts and extraordinary mental powers equal her own.

Worldly power and pleasure seduce Dhara, creating a chasm between her and her husband, who longs to follow a sage’s solitary path. She takes on the warrior’s role Siddhartha does not want, while Siddhartha’s discontent with royal life intensifies.  

Their son’s birth brings on a spiritual crisis for the prince.  If he leaves his kingdom to seek enlightenment, he turns his back on love and duty and risks destroying his people. Only Dhara can convince him to stay…

The Mountain Goddess, the second book in the Sadhana Trilogy, is set in the fascinating world that gave birth to yoga and Buddhism.

Steeped in India’s myths and legends, this novel is fresh territory for Western readers of fantasy and historical epics such as works by Tolkien, T.H. White, Guy Gavriel Kay, and George R.R. Martin’ Game of Thrones books. Through its strong female characters, it will appeal to readers of historical fiction with a woman’s perspective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lake House Books
• Release date: Feb 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996849142

Shelley Schanfield

Shelley Schanfield's fascination with Buddhism and yoga arose fifteen years ago, when she and her son were pursuing black belts in Tae Kwon Do in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Tae Kwon Do, like all the Eastern martial arts, includes techniques developed by Buddhist monks to calm and focus the mind. These techniques proved invaluable when devastating illnesses struck Shelley’s family. She set out to learn as much as she could about the Buddha’s methods and how he developed them. Being by profession a librarian, Shelley immersed herself in research on the time, place, and spiritual traditions that 2500 years ago produced Prince Siddhartha, who became the Buddha. Yoga, in some form, has a role in all of these traditions. While studying yoga’s history, Shelley was inspired to begin her own practice.  Because she loves historical fiction, Shelley looked for a good novel about the Buddha. Unsatisfied with what she found, she decided to write her own. Her research had sparked her curiosity about Yasodhara, the woman who became Siddhartha’s wife. On the night their first child was born, he left her and his newborn son to seek enlightenment. How did she feel about this? Thus began the Sadhana trilogy, three novels about the personal and spiritual struggles of women who knew Siddhartha. The first book, The Tigress and the Yogi, will be released in January 2016. Shelley hung up her black belt to practice Iyengar yoga. Both disciplines have enriched her life and the fictional world of her books.

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Author’s Note

The setting of this novel bears some resemblance to the land between Himalaya’s kingdom and Ganga’s river that some 2500 years ago produced Prince Siddhartha, who became the Buddha. However, this work is a fantasy. The author makes no claim of accuracy, but rather has borrowed freely from the myths, religions, and history of ancient India. Anachronisms, geographical anomalies, and misspellings are intentional. Interpretations of the teachings are those of the writer.

"… a story is a flame that burns no less brightly if strangers light their candles from it."

Wendy Doniger

The Hindus: An Alternative History

Principal Characters*

Dhavalagiri

Dhara, daughter of the Koli chief

Sakhi, her dearest friend, her heart’s sister

Dandapani, Dhara’s father, the Koli chief

Atimaya, Dhara’s mother

Bhrigu, Sakhi’s father, the village Brahmin

Agastya, Sakhi’s mother

Mala, a wandering yogi

Rani, a tigress

Garuda, the village shaman

Ghosha, the shaman’s wife, a midwife

Tilo, Dhara’s and Sakhi’s friend

Mitu, a low-caste village woman

Jagai, the weapons master

Bhallika, a Sakyan merchant who passes through the village

Virudha, a Kosalan prince

The desert hermitage

Nalaka, a yogi, spiritual brother of Mala

Varanasi, the city sacred to the Great God Shiva, the Lord of Yoga

Harischandra, the keeper of the cremation grounds

Maitreyi, a hermit and healer

Atri, a hermit and Maitreyi’s husband

Prasenajit, king of the Kosala clan

Valmiki, a Brahmin of the Kashi clan who serves Prasenajit

Yajna, a Brahmin sorcerer

Bhadda, a famous woman sage

Matsya and Matsyani, fisherfolk

Kapilavastu, capital of the Sakyan kingdom

Siddhartha, prince of the Sakya clan

Chandaka, Siddhartha’s charioteer and best friend

Suddhodana, Siddhartha’s father, the Sakyan king

Prajapati, Suddhodana’s chief queen, Siddhartha’s aunt

Nanda, Prajapati and Suddhodana’s son

Sundari, Prajapati and Suddhodana’s daughter

Bhela, the king’s priest

Uttara and Udayin, Bhela’s children

Sukesa, a Sakyan general

Jivaka, physician to the royal Gautama family

Dhaumya, a Sakyan warrior, friend to Chandaka

Tissa, a concubine

The outlaw camp

Angulimala, queen of the outlaws, worshipped as the black goddess Kali

Rohit, one of her men, a former lover

Lila, a priestess to the Nagas, a hidden tribe

* Please visit http://shelleyschanfield.com/glossary/ for a more complete list of characters, places, and terminology in the Sadhana Trilogy

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The sacred cave

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Dhara

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The scouting party found the wild-looking woman asleep at the waterfall, near the pool.

Stay, daughter, Dandapani hissed.

Dhara pulled her pony’s reins and halted next to her father’s sturdy horse.

Who is she, Father? Dhara whispered back, unable to look away from this apparition whose skin was as dark as the fearsome goddess Kali’s. The woman wore a deerskin around her loins, and her long, tangled black hair covered her breasts. Well-muscled arms and legs lay akimbo, as if she had fallen in exhaustion.

The sun emerged from behind a cloud and its dazzling light reflected off the mountain goddess’s snowy peak high above. Something glinted near the pool’s edge.

Dhara pointed. What’s that?

They dismounted. The sun gleamed off Dandapani’s long, dark warrior braid and his bronzed forehead as he stepped past the sleeping woman and crouched to pick up a shining, sharp knife. A formidable weapon, almost the length of a sword. He glanced at the sleeping figure. Perhaps she bathed in the pool and left it here.

You always say to keep your weapon close, Dhara murmured.

Indeed.

She knelt next to her father and narrowed her eyes. A Maghadan blade. I’m sure of it.

You know weapons as well as any young Koli warrior, daughter.

Dhara frowned to hide her pleasure at the compliment. We should bind her while she sleeps.

No one else around, Chief Dandapani! a warrior called out to Dhara’s father. Monsoon clouds had yet to thunder against Himalaya’s peaks and drench the high forests, and twigs and dry branches crackled as the young man crashed out of the underbrush. She seems to be alone.

The woman opened her eyes. She blinked at Dandapani in surprise and fumbled at her sash. When her hand came up empty, she sat up straight, jaw clenched.

Look! She’s awake, Dhara called out as several warriors rode into the glade. They drew swords and notched arrows.

The woman stiffened, then rose with slow and deliberate calm to stand tall and magnificent. She swiveled her head, as if measuring her chances against four armed men. Dhara, rose as well, trying to look older than her twelve years.

Indeed, her father said softly. She is awake.

Dandapani stood. His height matched the woman’s. A powerful current passed between her father and this fascinating stranger that Dhara didn’t understand.

Look at me, Dhara wanted to shout, but the woman had locked eyes with her father.

Alone? A woman made this trip alone? Are you human or divine? You must be divine. Or the Devi gave you powers. In her excitement, Dhara couldn’t stop talking. It’s very dangerous to travel these mountains alone! Especially for a woman.

The woman laughed. If I were divine, I would have burnt you to ashes with my third eye.

Your third eye? This gave Dhara pause. Are you a yogi then?

I am. My teacher, Asita, has sent me to live at the cave on Dhavalagiri. The woman looked up at the high peak, immense and white against the blue sky and scudding clouds.

Father, a woman yogi! Dhara exclaimed, staring at her. The very idea was thrilling. A woman seeking knowledge that would make men touch their foreheads to her feet. I remember Asita, she said. He was a funny old man. If she had only known that the wizened, skinny yogi who lived in the mountain cave when she was little would teach a girl. Dhara loved learning things girls weren’t supposed to know—like how to fight better than the boys, which her father was teaching her. It was hard to imagine Asita as a guru to this extraordinary creature who resembled a warrior more than a solitary truth-seeker.

Daughter, what does the dharma command us to do?

Oh! Yes. Dhara put her palms together and bowed. Please come and sit by our fire and tell us stories. She bit her lip, half expecting a bolt of lightning to shoot from the woman’s forehead. She didn’t mean to sound like she was telling a village boy to fetch her arrow from the field.

Dhara, Dandapani said.

She cleared her throat and half-bowed. I mean, if it would please you, we would like you to sit by our fire and enjoy a meal with us. That is, as many meals as you like, yogi-ji—

I am called Mala.

Namaste, Mala-ji. Dhara bowed over her joined palms.

Mala returned the bow. Namaste, Dhara.

The weapons master scowled. I don’t like this, Chief Dandapani. How do we know who she is? It could be that outlaw bitch Angulimala. Rumor is she’s hiding in the foothills with picked men, making bloody sacrifices to Black Kali and plotting war against the lowland clans.

Dandapani grinned. How do we know she’s not a demoness? A mortal woman wouldn’t dare such a journey alone.

Mala laughed again. The warriors tensed.

Either way, we have no quarrel with her. The chief signaled his men to lower their weapons. What Angulimala or anyone else plots against the other clans and their kings doesn’t concern us. If she’s a demoness, so be it. Even they may seek wisdom.

That current passed between her father and the yogi again. It made Dhara’s hair stand on end.

Come, Mala-ji, Dhara said. She was suddenly eager to bring the yogi to the village and show the boys this wild creature she’d caught. Food and shelter await you.

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That evening the whole Koli clan gathered around a great bonfire in the field by the river, just outside the village gates, to listen to the yogi’s teachings. The Brahmin Bhrigu, father of Dhara’s heart sister Sakhi, stood draped in his priest’s robe at the edge of the circle of firelight, watching with wary eyes.

You may ask the wanderer one question, daughter, as custom allows, Dandapani said, crouching on his haunches next to her. Firelight gleamed on his broad forehead and black hair, which was drawn back in a long warrior’s braid. His dark eyes crinkled above his clean-shaven cheeks. Dhara was certain there was no other warrior in all the Sixteen Clans so handsome or so brave.

Only one? Dhara gave him the earnest look that usually made him give in.

One, my child. His tone did not allow argument. Then we must let Mala-ji rest for her long climb tomorrow.

I’m not a child. I’m nearly thirteen, Dhara retorted, tossing her silky black hair and straightening her slender shoulders. She glanced at Mala, but the yogi’s face remained expressionless. Low laughter rose from those gathered round the fire.

So you are. Dandapani picked up a thick stick to stir the embers. He tossed another split log on the glowing coals. Erupting flames lit the gathered clan’s faces, still ruddy from a summer of hunting and tending the barley fields that terraced Dhavalagiri’s steep slopes.

Mala sat on the other side of the open fire, her long bare legs crossed with a foot on each thigh, her palms down on her knees. Though the night air was cold, she wore nothing more than what she’d worn at the pool, a deerskin and a cloak of coarse hair that fell over her shoulders, barely covering her high breasts.

In her excitement, Dhara was having trouble collecting her thoughts to form a question.

Mala-ji, Dhara began, but her words fled when the woman turned hooded eyes to her. Er—tell—would you tell us of how our ancestors came to this land? Stupid question. Stupid.

Sakhi, who had been huddling close to Dhara, poked her in the ribs and shook her head, her lips compressed in disapproval. It was a wasted opportunity. The two friends knew the answer full well. Hadn’t Sakhi’s father told it a hundred times, how the Sixteen Arya Clans rode with their horses and chariots to the land between Himalaya’s kingdom and Ganga’s waters? It was always the same. With the aid of the dazzling sky gods, they’d conquered the dark forest tribes who worshipped the ancient Earth Mother with offerings of human blood.

The yogi let her gaze wander over the clustered villagers. There was quiet around the fire as the clan waited for her to begin.

Ah. Yes. How the Sixteen Clans came to the Land of the Roseapple Tree. Those who master yoga’s powers can see the riders’ dust, hear the chariot wheels rumbling as if it were today, Mala answered. A log fell with a loud crack and sent snapping sparks up to join the millions of stars glittering in the cold, dark sky.

Mala stared into the flames so long that Dhara wondered what she was seeing there. At last she couldn’t contain herself. Did they look into the flames to see it? Like you’re doing now.

Everyone tensed. One did not disturb a truth-seeker or interrupt their meditations. That was the dharma, the Law.

Sakhi gave her another poke. One question, she hissed.

Dhara glared at Sakhi. So timid. So obedient. So annoying. Yet they were sisters of the heart, like twins born on the same day to different families, and never stayed angry at each other for long.

Mala seemed not to care about the interruption. Those who can truly see know that time exists all at once and forever, the warp and woof of space, she said, her voice ringing over the surrounding cedars and hemlocks and up to the heavens. Time is the loom of the universe.

Dhara didn’t know what the words meant, but they conjured something above and beyond Bhrigu’s gods, something that made Dhara shiver. The yogi’s voice vibrated in her very bones. I don’t understand.

It’s good to admit you don’t understand, Mala said, impassive and solid as a mountain.

The yogi’s quiet approval silenced Dhara better than any of her mother’s tirades ever had. Once again words deserted her, and she waited in agony, gazing at this marvelous creature.

Mala could be one of those dark-skinned worshippers of the Great Mother, those forest tribes conquered by the light-skinned Arya clans. The shaman’s wife had made Sakhi and Dhara shiver with horror and delight when she told tales of them, mysterious people who hung their victims from a sacred tree and slit them crotch to gullet. Conducting such a rite would be an easy task for someone with muscles like those that rippled under the yogi’s dark, oiled skin. She was not beautiful, at least not like Dhara’s mother, who was descended from a divine nymph. But Mala could be the warrior goddess herself who fought the demon for the sky gods, or King Himalaya’s blue-skinned daughter who won the heart of the god Shiva, the Lord of Yoga.

How many generations past did your ancestors settle the forests and plains? A hundred? A thousand? I will tell you what my guru Asita told me and his guru Saungi told him, and Parasari told Saungi, and Manduka told Parasari. Mala continued the customary recitation of her guru’s long lineage back to the Seven Celestial Sages in a sing-song voice, with hardly a pause for breath. When she finished, the Kolis sighed and shifted, anticipating a good story from one with such a formidable memory.

Nothing could stop the fierce Arya warriors as they swarmed over Himalaya’s shoulders with their chariots and horses, Mala began in a soft voice, though the forest dwellers sacrificed many men to their ancient Mother. But She did nothing while the invaders felled vast tracts of trees to create pastures for their cattle. Now, in these forests were sacred groves that sheltered many sages of both the Arya clans and hidden tribes, whose spiritual ardor surpassed even the sky gods’ burning tapas. The fire consumed the hermitage where the venerable rishi Kapila had made his retreat, and roused his fury at the warriors’ wanton violence. Kapila opened his third eye and with the fierce heat of his inner fire engulfed thousands in flames.

Dhara and Sakhi exchanged a look. This was not at all what Sakhi’s father had told them. The Arya clans burnt to ashes? Bhrigu’s stories were all about how the gods walked among mortals to help the rightful king and his four brothers win back their inheritance during the great wars of succession that followed the invasion.

The ashes of the Aryas threatened to suffocate all mankind, Mala continued. The gods trembled. The end of humanity would mean the end of sacrifice, and how could they live without the offerings made on the fire altar? She smiled slyly at Sakhi’s father, who was clearly made uncomfortable by her story.

Brahma the Creator sat in council with the other celestials. As they considered what they should do, Shiva, the Lord of Yoga, passed by on his way to his cave on Mount Kailash.

"‘Auspicious One,’ the Creator Brahma greeted him, ‘the ashes of the Aryas will soon extinguish all life. If humanity perishes, no one will perform the rituals that feed us.’

"‘Death is inevitable, even for gods. What difference if it’s now or in ten thousand years?’ Shiva replied. ‘Besides, those who are enlightened have no need of rituals.’

The other gods did not reply. The yogi searched the faces that were turned to her in rapt attention. Not for the first time, each one wondered silently if the three-eyed yogi was really one of them. Who could remember him from the days when the Aryas roamed the sea of grass north of the mountains? Mala shook her finger. "None of the celestials could say when they had first seen him motionless in the lotus pose, his matted hair and naked body covered with ashes. Underneath the filth, the supreme yogi was divine and powerful, but he was also rude and unpredictable. He would be no help in this matter.

As for Lord Shiva, he went to practice his disciplines in his mountain cave without another thought of suffocating ashes, until one day when the beautiful goddess Ganga distracted him. When they lay spent after frenzied lovemaking, the goddess traced her finger up and down his naked limbs.

Dhara and Sakhi looked at each other in the same instant, stifling smiles.

Mala fixed her eyes on Dhara. "‘This existence has its pleasures, my lord Shiva,’ the goddess sighed. ‘Perhaps I could save it.’

"‘You could let your waters pour over the ashes and bring the Aryas back to life,’ Shiva said, and kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts, and nuzzled her warm, soft stomach.

Ganga shook her head. ‘Their force would be too great,’ she said. ‘The flood would sweep away everything.’

The yogi paused and shut her eyes. No one moved. Dhara dared a whisper behind her hand. But your father never said anything about Ganga and Shiva making love!

Sakhi nodded, her eyes shining despite Bhrigu’s disapproving stare. She pressed her lips tight to stop her laughter. Dhara clasped Sakhi’s warm hand in her cold one. The sister of her heart did show a rebellious spark now and then.

Then something occurred to Shiva, Mala continued. "‘Yet there is a way, fair-hipped Ganga,’ Shiva said. ‘If you release your waters over my head, I will break their fall.’

So Ganga stood up in all her glory, and Shiva knelt and buried his face in her flesh. Her love poured over his strong shoulders, then frothed and tumbled from the supreme yogi’s Himalayan cave all the way to the Eastern Sea, and her life-giving river restored the ashes of the Sixteen Clans to life.

Mala fell silent and gazed up at the mountain goddess’s looming, snow-covered peak, which emitted a dim glow in the moonless night. Dhara was enchanted. So this was how Great Mother Ganga’s waters had come to flow to the sea. She had a sudden desire to know the tale by heart and to enthrall future listeners just as Mala was captivating her village.

The yogi kept her face lifted and eyes shut. Silence reigned. The villagers glanced at each other, shrugging in puzzlement. Everyone wanted her to go on.

There is more to that story, someone called out. Kapila made a prophecy. About a Sakyan child. This prophecy about their rivals, the Sakya clan, was known, but not given much credence in the village—though Dhara sometimes wondered about it. Her formidable grandmother had been a Sakyan princess. She glanced at her mother, who was staring at the yogi, her beautiful face rigid, her eyes narrowed.

The fire gave a sudden crack as a log split. Sparks flew upward and vanished. Dandapani rose from his crouch and tossed more wood on the bed of red coals, glancing at Mala as he did so. That strange current of energy passed between them. Dhara’s mother glared at the yogi. The wet wood hissed. Dhara’s skin prickled again.

Just so. Mala inclined her head. I will finish the tale.

The yogi took a sip from the wooden bowl next to her. "Once revived, the Aryas showed the ancient sages more respect. The Sakya clan even offered Kapila a hermitage in their sacred grove and asked him for teachings. Irascible Kapila was bemused by the gesture. After all, he could easily lose his temper and reduce the whole tribe to cinders again. Still, the Sakyas’ devotion to the dharma pleased him, and he stayed and taught many generations of their children.

When it was time for him to leave, the aging Kapila made a prophecy. ‘You Sakyas will become a great people. One day a scion of your royal house will become the age’s greatest warrior and conquer the world, and your clan will endure for a hundred generations.’

Mala had not said prince. A scion could be a girl.

Dhara sucked in a breath. She wanted to jump out of her skin with excitement. Behave like a princess, her mother would often scold. The blood of the Sakyan clan’s royal house runs in your veins. She held back. But could it be… ? No. Yet, perhaps…

Her father had insisted she train with the boys as soon as she could hold a little wooden sword. Her mother disapproved, but Dandapani said Dhara should learn a warrior’s ways so she could defend her birth clan against these very Sakyas. They, among all the Arya clans, were most closely related to the Kolis, but behaved like enemies—stealing Koli women, challenging the borders, and claiming Koli lands by marriage. Dhara had dreams of glory. She glanced at her father. Dandapani was staring intently at Mala, who was looking straight at Dhara. The woman’s haunted gaze pierced her to the marrow.

The yogi looked away and began to speak again. Grateful for the prediction of such a rosy future, the Sakyas named their thriving city Kapilavastu in their beloved guru’s honor. The old sage renounced every worldly possession and set off on the road to Varanasi in search of death. He trudged a long way before he suddenly stopped. What if the prophesied prince didn’t choose the warrior’s path?

Mala paused again. The fire had burned to embers.

Dhara stared into the glowing red, letting the heat and smoke sting her eyes to tears as she breathed out.

Prophesied prince. She cringed with angry embarrassment. She had dared imagine herself as a princess, leading a vast army and conquering powerful foes. She had even envisioned ruling the vanquished so that even the gods would praise her justice, mercy, and devotion.

Prophesied prince. She felt a fool, as if the whole village could see the secret dream she had not even shared with Sakhi. She huddled closer to her heart’s sister, who gave her a quizzical look and squeezed her hand.

What would happen if he chose the path of wisdom instead? Mala continued, very softly. The trees bowed closer in another gust of wind, as if they, too, were listening. "Kapila gazed at the threads of time’s loom, and saw that if the Sakyan prince renounced his royal heritage he would become the greatest sage of all time, a Buddha, an Awakened One, and show the way to conquer death itself. Conquer death! The old man trembled at the thought.

But should the prince choose the way of a sage, the clan would have no strong king to lead them to greatness, and their enemies would wipe them from the face of the earth.

A world without the troublesome Sakyas was perfectly agreeable to many Kolis, despite the generations of intermarriage. A few sitting around the fire smiled and nodded with satisfaction, and the flames nodded with them in the night wind.

But an odd unease settled just below Dhara’s heart, a place where she sensed the truth of Mala’s tale but was afraid to look too closely. But what if there was a princess? A warrior princess who would lead the clan while her prince bestowed his wisdom on his people?

Kapila pondered whether to return to warn his spiritual children in Kapilavastu of this danger. After all, they had treated him well. On the other hand, he was old, hundreds of years old. What did it matter to him if a son of the Sakyas defeated death? He simply wanted to surrender to it. He wanted to die in the holy city Varanasi, Lord Shiva’s dwelling place. For to die in the Great God’s Shining City meant liberation from endless rebirths into this dream full of suffering that mortals call life.

There was a pause when the wind died, and the fire burned silently. It was so quiet that they could hear the distant splashing of the river in its rocky bed. The clan held its breath.

Then Mala continued. "A passing eagle heard Kapila’s thoughts. ‘I will take your message to them, holy one,’ the eagle said, dipping a wing in salute.

Kapila shrugged. ‘Bah. I doubt they’ll listen.’ And then, Mala said, surveying her listeners, he turned west toward Varanasi and continued on his way.

The villagers let out a collective sigh. They bowed over joined palms and murmured their thanks to the yogi for such a fine tale, then they gathered up their sleepy children and dispersed to their homes. Dhara waited until almost everyone had gone, wishing desperately to speak to Mala but not knowing what to say. Then her father took her hand and led her back to the chief’s hall.

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In her room, Dhara lay wide awake and restless after the yogi’s tale while Sakhi fell asleep under the skins piled over the bed.

Princess Dhara. Astride a tall horse, not a mountain pony. A breastplate of gold, a golden bow and quiver full of silver arrows slung over her shoulder. She looks back at the horsemen massed behind her, all clad in blue and gold. Sakyan colors. Conquered by a Koli army in forest green and brown, colors that melted into the forested mountain’s flanks…

All night her imagination ran wild. Fierce battles. Kings kneeling in defeat. Princes at her feet in the palaces of the conquered.

Early in the morning, after a sleepless night, Dhara elbowed her heart’s sister awake and persuaded reluctant Sakhi to get dressed. They tiptoed through the sleeping hall and scurried to the top of the village’s single, rutted road, where they hid in the bushes at the spot where the road split into two trails, one trail leading to the steep terraces, stubbled and brown after the harvest, the other disappearing into the thick pine forest, above which vast snowfields reflected the morning sun.

As expected, Mala appeared. Sturdy staff in one hand and heavy sack slung over the other shoulder, she strode away from the village, upright in spite of her burden, muscular arms and legs glistening with sweat even though fall chilled the air. She stopped.

Dhara followed the yogi’s gaze to the forest’s edge, a little higher on the path. Her father Dandapani was there, his best bow and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. How had Dhara not noticed him? She shrank against Sakhi, who was staring with wide eyes.

You might need this, he said as he stepped down to Mala and unslung the weapon from his shoulder. They faced each other on the path so Dhara could see them in profile but not the expressions on their faces. He handed the bow and quiver to the yogi, put his palms together, and giving a slight bow, walked away.

Dhara ducked down until her father passed. Then she glanced back at Mala, who looked directly into the shrubbery where Dhara and Sakhi hid.

Once again, Mala’s eyes pierced Dhara. The suffering in them took her breath away. She could not imagine what would cause such terrible grief.

Behind the grief, a cruel fire glinted in those eyes. It would burn Dhara if she got too close to it.

But oh, it might be worth the pain.

Sakhi

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Sakhi waited and waited at the barley terraces.

Dhara didn’t come. She had promised she would. Perhaps she had already gone to the ridge above.

The afternoon sun beat down as Sakhi scrambled up the steep path, and soon she was sweating despite the autumn chill. A gusty breeze blew from the mountain goddess’s peak and tugged at her padded cotton jacket and long antariya, which flapped around her legs and nearly tripped her. The sudden chill and the mournful rattle of dead barley stalks made the hairs on her arms prickle.

When she reached the top, breathless and with her heart pounding, Dhara was nowhere to be seen.

Sakhi threw herself down and started to cry. Ever since the yogi Mala passed through the village, Dhara had been avoiding Sakhi. In fact, she was avoiding everyone. She had skipped archery practice twice, which was unheard of among the young warriors, who feared the weapons master.

It seemed Dhara had new games to play these days. Sakhi suspected that her heart’s sister was spending more and more time at the shaman’s hut. Now and then Dhara had hinted that she was going off alone to the ancient shrine. Village children scared each other with ghost stories about the place, and they all stayed away. Except bold Dhara.

Sakhi wouldn’t have dared accompany her friend to either place. She certainly didn’t want to meet any evil spirits. As for the shaman Garuda, her father disapproved of the spells he was always trying to cook up. That old charlatan doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with, Bhrigu would say with a stern shake of his head. If he conjured up a demon, he’d faint dead away.

Sakhi leaned against the sun-warmed boulder that marked the hunter’s trail, arms around her knees, face to the sun. She brushed away her dark thoughts. Dhara would come. They loved this view, especially on a sparkling clear fall day like today. They always claimed they could see the glint of Ganga’s river winding through the rich lowland kingdoms. They imagined the caravans that traveled the great trade road stretching from the foothills at one end of Himalaya’s kingdom to the other. They pretended they were beautiful princesses adorned in jewels, with handsome princes bowing at their feet. The airy glades shot through with sunbeams were their palaces.

A little farther on, the hunter’s path disappeared into the fragrant cedars. The trail climbed all the way to the sacred cave on Dhavalagiri’s heights. Among those cedars the hidden trail to the shrine branched off.

Before the Kolis conquered them, the tribe that lived here sacrificed on the ancient shrine to the Great Mother during the dark of the moon. After the Kolis arrived and mingled their blood with the conquered people, they forgot for a time the sky gods of their Arya ancestors. They took to worshipping the Mother, confusing her with the Devi, the Aryas’ Great Goddess. Generations later, Dhara’s grandmother, a Sakyan, summoned Sakhi’s father Bhrigu, a lowland Brahmin, to guide the Kolis back to the sky gods and lead the sacrifice at the eagle altar. Bhrigu said evil clung to the ancient shrine and he forbade Sakhi to go there.

Sakhi didn’t know what she feared more, evil spirits or her father’s stern reprimanding if he found out she had disobeyed him. Best to look for her friend back at the stables, or even the chief’s hall in the unlikely case that Dhara was sitting at her loom.

But Dhara was nowhere to be found. Sakhi went to the archery range. She didn’t want to play war with the Sakyas, even if we let her be the Koli chief, Prem said. The young warrior shrugged. She said she had more important things to do.

So Sakhi headed along the rutted path that ran through the village, kicking the dust and feeling sorry for herself.

Daughter.

Oh! Her father was standing at the door wrapped in the white robe Sakhi had just finished weaving for him. I didn’t see you, Father.

I know, he said, and waited.

Sakhi sighed and began the verse. ‘Inattention is the gravest sin.’ She glanced up.

He crossed his arms, austere and imposing, framed by the leaning doorway and its cracked lintel. The Kolis were a poor clan and couldn’t give him rich gifts or a grand house in exchange for leading the sacrifice or casting horoscopes, but the shabby home did not detract from his dignity. His height and golden skin set him apart from the shorter, darker Kolis with their blue-black hair, broad faces, and almond-shaped eyes, traits of the conquered tribe that once lived under Dhavalagiri’s heights. They respected their tall priest, even those who still preferred the Mother, no matter that they called her the Devi like good Aryas. All came to Bhrigu’s sacrifices, if only to listen to his beautiful voice chant hymns to Indra, king of the gods, and the other celestials.

Her father cocked an eyebrow.

Sakhi resumed the recitation. ‘Impatience is the worst crime. Imprecision is the worst evil.’ She would never understand what this meant. Not paying attention was such a small thing. Everyone was impatient, so was everyone a criminal? As for not being precise, why, that might make her weaving slightly off kilter, but surely there were worse things. Her throat began to tighten. Dhara never had to recite these stupid verses in the sacred tongue.

And… ? Bhrigu prompted.

‘Thus said the Creator to his children, the gods, the demons, and mortal men, who were gathered at his feet.’ Sakhi’s eyes began to fill. She was lonely and hurt, and all Father could do was test her memory.

Continue.

‘Practice restraint, the Creator said to the gods. Practice compassion, he said to the demons. Practice generosity, he said to the mortals. This is the dharma: to practice these three, restraint, compassion, and generosity, with full attention.’

Every syllable she spoke was perfectly intoned, but Bhrigu offered no praise. Neither had he offered any for the fine robe he wore, her best work at the loom. We have only the right to the task our dharma puts in front of us, her father always said, not for any reward that doing it well may bring.

Dhara’s father heaped praise on her for her prowess with her small bow, her skill at riding her little horse, even her impudence. Why couldn’t Bhrigu praise Sakhi? She strove to please him, to be a good Brahmin girl who would one day be a good Brahmin wife, and was diligent when he taught her the hymns he would have taught a son. It was just so hard.

When your mother came back from the meadow, she said you ran off.

A cloud passed over the sun and a chill descended. Sakhi slumped a little. She had gone with her mother to gather late-blooming herbs and had not spent even an hour at the task before she dropped a handful of poppy-seed heads in her mother’s basket. Then she dashed away to find Dhara. Her father would be disappointed in her yet again.

Where is Mother?

Inside, taking a rest. But you didn’t answer my question.

It was best just to speak the truth. I was looking for Dhara.

Ah, Bhrigu said with rare gentleness. Your playmate deserted you again.

Sakhi burst into tears. Oh, Father. He was usually so aloof that she tried to hide her feelings, but she couldn’t help throwing her arms around him. She’s always off in the shaman’s hut. And she says she goes to the Devi’s secret shrine. She hated herself for telling on Dhara. It would only deepen his disapproval of her friend’s behavior.

Bhrigu encircled her with one arm and laid a hand on her head. He stroked the thick, unbound waves of her hair. His touch, unaccustomed and so gentle, only made her cry harder, though warmth and calm flowed through her.

There, child, he said when she had quieted, that’s better. Come, sit with me.

Her sniffles ceased and her eyes dried. An offer of simple companionship was rare from Bhrigu. He drew her to the low wooden bench just next to the door, and they sat, their backs against the little house’s weathered cedar planks, enjoying the last warmth of the sun as a brisk afternoon breeze chased little clouds across a sky the color of lapis.

So. Her father crossed his arms over his chest. Tell me what’s between you and Dhara.

The words tumbled out. It’s the yogi. Mala scared me! Sakhi shuddered, remembering those burning eyes. But Dhara thought she was wonderful. Ever since Mala left, Dhara’s been moody and avoids me. She says she wants to learn yoga. She wants to be like the ancient heroes and be a warrior and a sage. I don’t see how she can do either, much less both! Sakhi took a breath. Against her will, she looked toward the mountain goddess’s heights. Clouds scudded past the peak. The hairs on Sakhi’s neck prickled a little, as though Mala could see her from all the way up there. She looked at her hands. I dreamed Dhara went to the cave and didn’t come back.

Bhrigu rubbed his shaven chin. Kolis do not go to that place unless asked by the sage who occupies it. Bhrigu paused a moment, then tilted Sakhi’s chin up and studied her face. You will be thirteen soon. In a year or two, we shall have to start looking for a husband in the lowlands.

There was no Brahmin boy in the village for her to marry. She didn’t want to think about leaving Dhavalagiri. She wanted to sit here forever with her father looking at her like that.

After a time, they raised their faces to watch an eagle soar far above, its wings tinted gold by the sun’s rays.

A gust of cold wind swirled around them. The weather will soon change, Bhrigu said. The snows will make the path impassable except to the hunters. Dhara may not be as wise and sensible as my daughter, but I predict she will stay away from the heights.

Sakhi’s blood thrummed in her veins. Father thought she was wise and sensible. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once, and remained quiet to savor her happiness until another gust rattled a loose shutter and made her shiver. Dhara says that long ago, hermits died up there.

Bhrigu squinted up at the immense peak. The legends say that some disappeared without leaving a trace, but that doesn’t mean they died up there.

Then where did they go?

No one knows. Bhrigu crossed his arms over his chest. They practice Lord Shiva’s yoga.

Sakhi’s ears pricked up. Her father never sacrificed to the god Shiva, and she had always wondered if somehow he disapproved of worshipping the Lord of Yoga, as he disapproved of some of the Devi’s rites. And they make sacrifices to him to gain special powers? she asked.

Shiva does not require rituals. As for offerings, his followers offer the self-knowledge they gain through practicing his disciplines. Mastery of yoga awakens great mental abilities, including the ability to transport oneself from place to place or warm oneself with spiritual heat.

So that was it. That night around the fire the yogi had been almost naked—it had made Sakhi blush—but she never once shivered in the cold night air.

You know, Bhrigu continued, Dhara’s grandfather, the old chief, once told me he watched Asita meditate in front of the cave in a howling blizzard, wearing only his dhoti. The cold did not disturb his concentration.

Sakhi had been very young when the wiry sage lived up in the cave. Still, she remembered the way he would suddenly appear in the village like magic. A few times when he came to a Koli festival, he made a prediction of what would happen in a week or a month, and then it did, exactly as he said.

You liked Asita, didn’t you? Even though he worshipped Shiva.

Yes. There are all kinds of yogis, just as there are all kinds of priests. He was a true holy man.

She waited for Bhrigu to say something about Mala, but his silence answered her question. Did Asita have other powers, too?

He looked up at the peak again. He could fly. He could see many of his lives. He told me he could join with the minds of others, though he felt this practice was unwise. He also understood the animals’ languages and knew how to become an animal himself. To attain such powers demands discipline, austerity, and an endless quest for inner truth. The path has many dangers.

But discipline and austerity are good things. How can they be dangerous?

Few possess these qualities in sufficient quantity to travel the whole path. For those who do, the danger is that they exhaust themselves on the journey, so when they come into their newfound powers they cannot control them, or worse, are seduced by them and use them to control others. Her father looked down at her. Asita once told me that in reality, it is more difficult to root hatred and greed out of one’s own heart than to control another’s mind. Do you understand?

Only dimly, but Sakhi would rather die than admit it. She nodded.

My wise child, he said. Let me teach you a hymn you’ve never heard before.

What hymn?

The Creation Hymn.

Usually he would tell her something about the verses he was teaching her, but this time he began to chant with no explanation. When he sang at the altar, his beautiful voice, warm and melodious, rang out over the trees, beyond the mountain goddess’s white peak, up to Indra’s celestial city, but here and now he chanted the verses very softly, directly to her.

Then there was not being or non-being.

There was no realm of air, no sky beyond it, no seeing.

There was no death, nor immortality.

No divider of day and night, no duality.

The All, breathless, breathed, then the great force

Of warmth and light gave birth to the First One.

Who can say what happened? Who truly knows?

Whence the world was born and whither it goes?

The gods are later than its creation, its spark and flame.

Who knows then from where the First One came?

The First One, the first origin of this creation,

Whether the One formed it all or did not,

The One whose eye watches this world in highest heaven,

The One truly knows it. Or perhaps knows it not.

When he finished, he said nothing about its meaning, or which ritual required it, or how best to remember it, but simply said, Now, the first line. He sang it and waited for her to repeat it. While the sun dipped below the trees and its rays colored the mountain goddess bright pink, they went through the hymn, line by line. They only had time to go through it once, not nearly enough for Sakhi to commit it to memory, before her mother appeared at the door, yawning.

Sakhi! Where were you? You should have built a fire long ago. We can’t eat cold dal!

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Late that night, Sakhi woke. The fire in the iron brazier had gone out. Her father’s breathing nearby was deep and even. Next to him, her mother snored softly.

The sky was visible through the smoke hole. Behind the blazing stars, darkness loomed. Sakhi had the sense it was pulling her up through the roof, past the stars, where she would be lost in the infinite heavens.

She squeezed her eyes shut and snuggled down into her blankets, trembling. Stop being silly, she whispered to herself. You can’t fall up. But even with her eyes closed, the soaring blackness tugged at her. She curled into herself, squeezed her eyes tighter and searched her memory for a prayer, a mantra, a snatch of a hymn, anything to calm her racing mind.

The words of the Creation Hymn came to her.

Though she had only heard them once they came to her.

She chanted them softly, perfectly, repeating them until finally she sighed the last lines and fell asleep.

Mala

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Two human skulls guarded the cave entrance from ledges in the rock, one on either side of the opening, just as Asita had described. Every day Mala gave them a silent bow as she passed. Their empty sockets stared out across a heart-stopping vista, down from the jagged, snow-covered shoulders of Dhavalagiri, the mountain goddess, over a ridge that hid the village that bore her name, on to the foothills and then to the forests and plains along Ganga’s river. There below, fifteen of the Sixteen Clans plowed their fields, raised their cattle, bore their children, crowned their kings.

The rough, proud, mountain-dwelling Kolis were the sixteenth clan. They still followed many of the traditional ways, Asita told her, and were the only Aryas that still elected their chief. This suited Mala. She was tired of kings, who either wanted to kill her or to conquer her in bed.

The Kolis had chosen their chief well, by the look of him. Dandapani was virile, handsome, and confident. A powerful energy passed between him and Mala as soon as they laid eyes on each other. She thought of straddling him naked.

No. She was here for solitude, hardship, discipline. On the other hand, Asita once said that sex did have a place in a spiritual practice if approached with the right motivation. Like so many things her guru had not explained, he had not specified what the right motivation entailed. Perhaps she could explore the idea with Dandapani.

Mala shook her head. Clearing her mind of lust was always a challenge. She gave a rueful smile to a black-striped squirrel watching from a short distance away then headed for the flat rock where she sat every morning and afternoon in meditation. She covered it with a newly cured hide; some unseen hunter had left a deer carcass for her soon after she arrived, making his offering without disturbing her. Asita told her the Kolis understood that a sage needed solitude.

Hunters will leave meat now and then, he had said, or bring a sack of barley before the worst snows keep them away. The others won’t come unless asked, but they will welcome you to the village if you go on feast days. A few of them leave offerings at an old shrine—no, no virgins or enemy warriors. They pray to the Mother, though they call her the Devi like good Aryas, and bring useful things, like a basket filled with food, perhaps a quiver of arrows, or a shawl wrapped around the stone image. Until your tapas gets hot enough, you’ll need one of those shawls for the winter.

The afternoon sun had warmed the rock, and the heat penetrated the hide. It gave a momentary pleasure as Mala settled into the lotus position, one foot on each thigh, back straight, head floating on top of her spine. She relaxed the muscles of her face, let her eyelids droop, and dropped her chin to her chest. Her breathing slowed. With her inner eye, she followed her breath through her body, watching the nerve channels pulse with prana, the energy that infused all life.

Her mind cleared. A bright circle rose behind her closed lids. She focused and held it. It was the antidote to the darkness that had gripped her for so long. As this inner light grew, her consciousness expanded. The life force within vibrated along with the world outside her skin, little by little erasing the boundary between the two.

Her daughter’s face rose in her mind’s eye, and her heart twisted. She almost whimpered with longing. The bright circle disappeared.

She pushed Kirsa’s image away. Asita! She called silently for her guru.

You must sever all attachments, Asita responded from the ether. Then true peace will become possible.

She began again. Slow the breath, follow its flow. Her nerves hummed. The circle rose again. The outer and inner worlds began to merge, and the pain in her heart receded.

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Some time later, a rush of cold wind brought her back to ordinary consciousness. She raised her head with her eyes still closed, then opened them slowly, exhaled deeply. It was difficult for her meditation to reach the deepest absorption a yogi sought, the one where the divine self within reached out for the higher Self, atman, the source of all bliss. She rarely achieved the intense concentration that Asita’s teaching led to. Too often, she lost it in memories of her violent outlaw life, but she had made progress.

Homage to Lord Shiva! she called aloud. Homage to Dhavalagiri! She needed to hear human speech now and then, up here where only animals and wind spoke. "Svaha! Thank you, Great God and mountain goddess. I offer all my achievements, all my victories to you." The black squirrel eyed her from a pile of stones near her meditation rock. She could see its irises narrow in fear when she turned her attention on it. Only a few short weeks, and her vision was already keener than any eagle’s.

Sharper than mine? A shadow flitted over the rock. The eagle who had befriended Mala almost as soon as she arrived swooped down and landed on a gnarled fallen cedar nearby.

Namaste. Mala gave a silent bow over joined palms. Forgive me. I had no wish to offend, but I can see very far. Look, down there. That spot of white. The priest is sitting with his daughter outside his house. I can see the warp and weft of his robe.

His daughter is a fine weaver. The eagle blinked its golden eyes. But to see that is not so keen. A hunter might see as much. Why not look through my eyes? Then you’ll know you do not see so far.

It is an honor. Mala had joined her mind with only one other animal, the white tigress Rani that she had known since the great cat was a cub. She was flattered that on such brief acquaintance, the eagle would allow her to join his.

The honor is mine. Asita sent word that you were one of his finest pupils.

Mala bowed at the compliment. She stared into his eyes, sought the pulsing nerves of his body, let her energy run along them until his senses became hers. His wings beat. As they rose, her still form receded. Queasy giddiness rolled through her. She sensed the eagle’s amusement as he gave two powerful flaps of his wings and caught a thermal. They soared and dove toward the forests and plains.

Far away, boats were plying Ganga’s waters. Mala caught her breath. Though they would only be a little speck in the sky to the world below, the silver scales of a fish caught in a net became visible to her as if she were in the boat with the fisherman. On the great trade road that ran along the river, a caravan of oxcarts trudged eastward loaded with goods from Parsee and Graeco, fabled lands beyond the western desert. She could see the knots in the hemp ropes that tied them.

What do you say? Is your vision the sharper,