EIGHTY

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet,” he said softly.

I shook my head. “No, not yet.”

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

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

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

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

I smiled. “Actually, yes.”

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

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

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

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

“I hope so,” I murmured.

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

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

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

I prayed I would not fail her.

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

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

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

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

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

The earth roiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one moved.