Forest of Demons (3 page)

“Why? Why would you do that?”

In the center of the prayer room, under the judging eyes of the Gods depicted in their idol forms she found the words. “Why? Because I don’t deserve it, because it’s my fault that she’s dead!”

Guru stared at her in horror, his mouth working soundlessly. His grip on her tightened, and he pulled her from the room, down the corridor and then outside not stopping until they stood in his mother’s tiny herb garden behind the temple.

“What are you saying? Tell me what you know.” His eyes were hooded.

Priya squeezed her eyes closed, not wanting to relive the memory, but it bubbled to the surface anyway.

“Just admit it, you wish it was you!” Mala said.

“Why are you doing this?” Priya asked, her heart in her throat.

“Because I’m sick of watching you moon over him. Get it into your head that he’s mine.”

“I never . . . I don’t
—
”

“Oh, please, everyone knows and Guru, well, he thinks it’s hilarious.”

“You talk about me?” Priya felt sick.

Mala quirked a brow.

It was a hateful look, and Priya felt the answering hate bubble up inside her. “I hate you, I hate you both! I wish you were dead!”

Her last words to her closest friend; a wish made carelessly that had come true.

She wiped the silent tears from her cheeks. She didn’t deserve to mourn, because as far as she was concerned, she had murdered her friend with her horrific wish.

“Priya!” Guru shook her sharply.

Priya looked up at him helplessly. “The day she died . . . she came to see me. We argued. She said some hurtful things. I was so mad that I . . . I wished her dead. I wished it, and I meant it, and then she died.” She waited for disgust to paint his features, but he simply stared down at her in confusion.

“Is that all?”

“Don’t you
see
? I wished it and it happened. It’s my fault!”

Guru grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her tender flesh. “Now you listen to me Priya, and listen carefully: There may be people in this village who subscribe to such superstitious nonsense, but I’m not one of them. To be honest, I thought you were more educated than that. If wishes could come true then I would . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter, what matters is that Mala’s death was not your fault. She died because she wandered into the forest, and the rakshasas got her.
They
killed her,
not
you.”

Her lips trembled. “Not me?”

Guru shook his head.

It was as if his words had levered the boulder off her chest, and the grief trapped beneath finally erupted from her eyes, her mouth, and her nose. She cried hard and long, and Guru held her, rocking her back and forth, offering up his tunic as a handkerchief.

After an age her sobs turned to hiccups and her tears dried up. Her throat was thick and her voice raspy when she spoke. “I don’t understand.”

“What?” Guru whispered into her hair.

“Why she was there? Why was she in the forest?”

Guru’s body tensed. He gently extricated himself, holding her at arm’s length. “That’s a question that will have to remain unanswered. If I were you, I’d leave it. Mala’s family . . . we all need to move on, and dwelling on a question we may never know the answer to will only hold us back from finding peace.”

Priya nodded.

Guru looked up at the sky, and Priya realized with a start that the moon was already out. How long had they remained here, locked in each other’s arms like clandestine lovers? Her neck heated in shame. If someone saw them like this it would bring shame upon her family. Unwed women weren’t permitted to have such contact with the opposite sex.

“I should get home. Ma and Papa will be worried.”

Guru nodded good-bye, but his eyes were glazed, his thoughts elsewhere.

Thinking of Mala, no doubt. The woman he’d loved.

It was late, Priya’s favorite time of the week—Saturday night, which meant no market in the morning and instead, quality time with her parents. Papa sat by the stove, smoking his pipe while Ma worked on embroidering a blanket. It would probably be a present for Papa.

Priya sat by the window, carefully stitching sleeves onto her festival dress. She should really be working on the other two dresses she’d been commissioned to sew, and she had a whole basket of mending from several villagers to get through. But tonight she wanted to work on something that was entirely hers. She made a meager wage from her sewing, but it would all add up, and the little tin under her mattress was filling nicely with coin. Maybe in another year she would have enough to visit the capital.

She finished the sleeve, stood, and held the dress up against her. In the lamplight the color looked dark plum, but in daylight it would be a vibrant amethyst that would draw eyes.

“Beautiful, Priya,” Ma said. “You will surely attract a husband in that.”

Priya dropped the dress.

Papa cleared his throat.

Ma sighed. “Oh for God’s sake, she’s hardly an old maid now.”

Papa mumbled something and chewed on his pipe.

“Honestly Ma, I’m happy just like this.”

“Don’t be silly, every girl wants to be married.”

Priya sat down and picked an item from the mending basket at random. Guru’s face flashed through her mind, and she blinked it away. Guru was unattainable. “Not everyone.”

Papa cleared his throat. “So if someone. . . asked for your hand, you would turn him down?”

Ma sat up straight. “Someone has expressed an interest in our Priya?”

Papa hushed her. Priya could feel his eyes on her, waiting for a response. Her heart was thudding so hard in her chest she almost pricked her finger with the needle. What did he mean? Had Guru’s family enquired? The minute the thought crossed her mind she dismissed it. Guru was the pujari’s son, and his family was revered in the community. She was a lowly villee’s daughter. Even if his family managed to overlook these facts, they wouldn’t be so callous as to organize a new match so soon after Mala’s death.

Papa was still staring at her, so Priya shook her head. “Yes, I would.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I have plans, remember?”

Ma huffed. “Pah! Your Capital dream. There’s no reason you can’t visit the Capital as a married woman. It could be your honeymoon.” She looked over at Papa for confirmation, but he dropped his gaze.

“Our Priya is fine as she is. There is no man in this village that I’d deem worthy of her anyway. Maybe she’ll find her match in the Capital.” He winked at her and she grinned back.

It was moments like this that made her think that her Papa saw and understood more than he let on.

“You two!” Ma got up to fetch more tea.

“Priya, will you sing to us?” Papa asked.

Priya nodded. “What would you like to hear?”

“A story,” Ma said settling herself back into her seat with a fresh cup of chai.

Priya thought for a minute, then put down her mending and began to sing.

Papa closed his eyes, and Ma smiled dreamily as Priya wove a tale of adventure, and of love lost then found. She pictured it in her mind, was transported there, and for a few moments, she was the brave warrior, the damsel to be saved, and the beast to be vanquished. For a few moments, she lived an adventure. But then the story came to a close, and the mountains and treasure-filled cave melted away, leaving her back in her hut.

“You have such a beautiful voice. I have no idea why they’ve never asked you to perform for the festival,” Ma said.

Papa shot Ma a withering look, and she flushed.

Priya gnawed on her bottom lip. Ma often spoke without thinking things through. Mala always sang in the festival; she’d always been center stage. The villagers didn’t even know that Priya could sing. It was a private thing. Every song was unique, created as it was sung. It was a strange talent, one she’d only ever shared with her parents.

“They may ask you this year,” Ma said.

“For God’s sake, Kunti! The girl’s ashes have barely been scattered, and you’re already talking about replacing her,” Papa admonished.

Ma had the grace to look shamefaced.

Priya gathered her sewing things. The mention of Mala, of usurping her in any way, had left a bitter taste in her mouth. The evening was ruined.

As she stood, her eyes caught movement out of the window. She froze. Something moved in the shadows beyond the onion patch. Something huge and as black as the ink that Master Munim had used to write comments on their homework. Twin crimson orbs pinned her to the spot.

“Priya? Priya, what’s wrong?” Papa’s calloused hand rested on her shoulder as he came to stand beside her, his eyes scanning the dark. His hand tensed, fingers digging into her flesh. “Go to your room,” he said.

The slight quiver his voice disconcerted her, but she backed away from the window as instructed. “What is it?”

“A dog. Just a dog. Kunti, fetch my stick.”

“What? You’re not going out there?”

There was fear in Ma’s voice too. It was true, they didn’t have many dogs in the village, but the ones they had were well trained and used as guard dogs. Maybe this one was wild, but did wild dogs have crimson eyes?

Papa was pulling on his shawl.

“Prem, no!” Ma grabbed hold of his arm, her eyes wild.

“What is it? Why are you so scared?” Priya asked.

Papa and Ma both froze, a look passed between them, and then Papa slowly unwrapped his shawl from his shoulders.

“Just an old dog. I’m sure it will get bored and be on its way.”

Ma sagged in relief. “More chai?”

“Yes love.” Papa reclaimed his seat and relit his pipe. Priya watched them through narrowed eyes. Something had just happened, and she’d missed its significance. As she made her way toward her room, she cast one last glance in Papa’s direction. He was smoking his pipe, the plumes rising furiously fast, his eyes fixed on the window.

That night, just as she was about to drift to sleep, Priya realized that Papa had never answered Ma’s question. Had someone asked for her hand in marriage, and if so, who had it been? She was too tired to think on it further and allowed herself to be pulled into sleep’s warm embrace, where adventure and the wide world waited.

Priya was shaken awake by Ma. She opened her eyes, disorientated. Was it morning already? The room was dark as pitch.

The scratch of a match, the flare of a candlewick, and Ma’s worried face was illuminated acting like a cold bucket of water.

“What’s wrong?” Priya sat up quickly.

“It’s your Papa. He’s in terrible pain—his leg, and he has a fever. I need you to fetch the vythian. Just tell him we’ll pay him . . . we
will
pay him.”

Priya grabbed Ma’s hand. “I’ll pay him. I have some coin saved.”

Ma shook her head. “But that’s for your dream.”

“My dream isn’t going anywhere. Go stay with Papa. I’ll get the vythian.”

“Be careful. Go fast, and don’t stop for anyone.” Ma kissed her forehead before retreating back to her bedroom.

Priya pulled on her clothes and shoes, wrapped herself in her father’s shawl and slipped from the house. The coins felt heavy in her pocket, but she knew she’d have to show them to the vythian to prompt his help.

The village was silent, sunrise still hours away. She slipped through the moonlit streets like a ghost. The vythian, lived on the other side of the market square, and as she hurried across the square, she was distracted by a weak, flickering light illuminating the smithy window. Her step faltered. Could there be a fire? She had no time for Ravi, but the smithy was his livelihood. If there was a chance that it may be compromised, she had to investigate and alert someone, if need be.

Decision made, she cut across the square and stepped into the shadows surrounding the smithy. The window was high, but she found a crate to stand on, and grasping the thick ledge, she peered in through the window.

There was indeed a fire—a controlled, deliberate one in the grate. She looked down, ready to step off the crate, when movement caught her eye. She peered back through the window, a shocked gasp exploding softly from her lips. A tangle of naked limbs glistened in the firelight. Ravi’s broad, bare back rose into view, shielding his partner. Priya’s eyes travelled down to his buttocks, and she stumbled back, falling off the crate. Dry-mouthed and scandalized, she quickly retreated to the other side of the square and continued her journey to the vythian.

The vythian’s home was a flat, tiled structure with a thatched extension where he treated patients. She knocked on the door and waited patiently for a minute before knocking again.

“Who is it? Goodness, this better be urgent,” the vythian grumbled from behind closed doors.

“Vythianji, it’s me, Priya, the villee’s daughter. Papa is sick. Please will you come?”

There was a short silence, then, “Bring him to me in the morning.”

Priya bit back an angry retort. “It’s his leg—he’s in pain and has a fever. You know he won’t be able to make the journey. . . please.”

“I’ll come after my morning surgery.”

Priya pulled out the coins, jangling them loudly. “I have coin.”

There was another short pause, followed by the sound of the bolt being drawn. The door opened and the vythian stood before her, bag in hand, shawl on, ready to go. Moonlight glinted off his spectacles. He held out his hand.

Priya dropped the coins into his waiting palm.

“Lead the way.”

Priya had never seen Papa look so ill. His face was pale and pinched in pain, his brow beaded with perspiration. Ma stood to one side, wringing her hands while the vythian examined the leg, prodding and probing, and probably making the pain ten times worse. Papa’s leg was swollen and had taken on a purplish tinge. It didn’t look good.

The vythian sat back. “I’ve something for the fever, but the swelling will need a poultice. Unfortunately, I don’t have the roots to make it.” He shot Papa a reproving look. “Someone has been neglectful in their duties as villee.” He sighed. “There’s little I can do without the root.” He rubbed his hands on his trousers and stood.