Path of the Eclipse (65 page)

In that I have betrayed the trust of my Rani but kept my faith with my Rajah, I have now shown myself unworthy to serve the Great Mistress Tamasrajasi. I have given my word that my things are to be burned and I will myself leave the palace to live in humble circumstances where the rest of my life may be spent in meditation and contemplation. It is the custom among those of us who know the turning of the Wheel to do this at the end of life, particularly where debts have been incurred. Do not seek to have any discussion with me, for that will not be tolerated by me or by the great Rani herself, whose service I have abused with this disloyalty.

Purva Rachura Jarut

Brahmin

12

Earlier the smaller animals had been bled and burned, and while this was done, they had robed him in golden silk and placed a crown on his head. Incense made blue wraiths in the air that did not entirely mask the stench of burning flesh and fur. Later there had been larger animals—goats, rams, asses and a horse. While the knives had done their work, the worshipers wreathed him in flowers and chanted the traditional words of praise as they bent forward to touch his feet with bloody hands.

Saint-Germain told himself that he would become inured to it, that he need not participate in this butchery. He was unmoving, distant, but he heard the shrieks and howls and bellows of the animals and the hungry cries of those gathered to make sacrifice. Stoically he thought of Rogerio arriving at the border, traveling to Delhi and then to … where? He had many homes and Rogerio was known at all but the most ancient of them. But would his old friend go there? He wished to believe that it did not matter, that once he died the true death, none of it would matter.

One of the priests approached his pearl-covered throne and prostrated himself, reciting words in a high, nasal singsong. Saint-Germain chose quite deliberately not to listen. He turned his thoughts to Padmiri. No word had come of her. If that meant she had not been taken prisoner or had been used more cruelly still, then he was … content. He kept his dark eyes turned slightly away from the enormous statue of Kali, and remembered other times and other gods.

Tamasrajasi slit the throat of a large ram, standing so that the blood fountained over her. She screamed ecstatically, her face delirious with an emotion that was the dark side of rapture.

At her signal, a huruk began to give out a steady, tense beat. As soon as the worshipers were caught by its pulse, it was joined by the high, wailing dhakevi, which was sacred to Kali, as it was made of horn and bone. The music was repetitious, insidious. It twisted and writhed in on itself, growing tighter, then looser, like the coils of a vast serpent. As the ram toppled at last, the instruments played more loudly, insisting, pleading, cajoling.

Tamasrajasi began to dance. Her movements were slow and sinuous, at first hardly more than a series of gradually changing postures, made with great precision and formality. Then she began to extend her motions, making broader, more emphatic gestures. The instruments kept up the same spiraling melody, which now began to gain speed. Tamasrajasi danced with it, letting the sound run through her so that every variation of pitch, each intricacy of rhythm was picked up in a turn and angle of her head, the placement of a foot, the direction of her eyes, the arch of her hips, the curve of her arm, the position of her fingers. Her dyed skin was spattered with blood and she glistened in the torchlight as she turned, posed, turned, posed, turned, and turned, and turned.

Those who had come to sacrifice watched her with devotion that bordered on adoration. Theirs was more than idolatry, for the woman they fastened on with their eyes was their priestess and ruler, the absolute mistress of their lives. It was this woman, supple as a child, whose will was the law of their homeland. She had chosen to array herself in the symbols of destruction, and therefore they sought it eagerly for the opportunity to be like her.

The dance grew increasingly more frenetic. Much of her discipline was lost, but Tamasrajasi was not aware of it. There was only the glory of her power and the excitement of the music. She felt the worship and lust and envy of those who watched her, and it goaded her on.

Sudra Guristar stood near the altar, swaying with the movement of the crowd and the music. His state of mind was elevated and he thought himself inaccessible, a cloud hovering over the place rather than a man in a crowded corner of a stone room. As entranced as he was by Tamasrajasi, he was also growing quite impatient with her. He had wanted her to show the worshipers that she had given herself to him, that she was, in fact, secondary to him, though her rank was greater. Now she lured them all with a promise that she could not fulfill, not to all of them. He could not upbraid her here with so many watching her, but he vowed that as soon as the sacrifices were finished and they left the temple, he would tell her how far she had transgressed. Next time he visited her quarters, he would leave bruises behind, and not all from lovemaking.

She was very near him and when her eyes met his, they taunted him. Guristar started to reach out for her, but she escaped him and with distorted movements which were no longer graceful she approached the altar and made the three ritual abasements to the huge black statue. Behind her the crowd moaned and the music stopped. The temple fell silent as Tamasrajasi stepped onto the altar.

The quiet intruded on Saint-Germain’s thoughts more than the noise and music had done. He saw the worshipers were looking toward the altar, and his eyes followed theirs. The despair that he had kept at bay surged over him as he stared at Tamasrajasi. She was elated, filled with the submissive concupiscence of her audience and her own sublime theodicy. Her laughter was abandoned to the point of madness. She displayed herself lubriciously, her hands sliding over her body, leaving smears of blood on the breasts and thighs.

Sighs, murmurs, groans of longing and frustration ran through the assembly. A few of those watching began to touch themselves as Tamasrajasi had touched herself. The huruk started to beat again, this time in jumping, erratic, feverish pulses. The worshipers were no longer swaying, and where they had been passive in their yearning, now cupidity asserted itself. Languor disappeared, and in its place there was a mercurial excitement that moved like a physical presence from one of the worshipers to another.

Tamasrajasi dropped to her knees on the altar. Her tongue flicked over her lips. “Sudra Guristar,” she called gently, as she might call a frightened child. “Come, my Commander.”

This was what Guristar had wanted since the ritual began, yet he hesitated an instant before stepping forward. He knew what was required of him, and his body was ready. There was one quiver of doubt in his mind, which he stifled at once. Tamasrajasi was at last acknowledging him before her people. For a dizzying moment he felt the full glory of his power, ebullience coming perilously close to shock. He walked to the altar, aware of those who watched him, reveling in their passions as much as his own.

“My Commander. It is as you wished it to be.” She reached down and pulled off the jacket he wore, then threw it aside. “Put your hands on me, my Commander. Do all that your desires demand of you.” She had his shirt now and was starting to unwind his sash.

Guristar seized her buttocks with both hands, pressing his face to her red-streaked abdomen. His sash was gone and his pleated trousers dropped around his ankles. He felt Tamasrajasi take him by the shoulders and turn him to face the gathered worshipers. His distended organ blushed more hotly than his face; his pride made him want to dance as Tamasrajasi had done, but he did not do this.

“This is my Commander,” Tamasrajasi said, her voice loud and husky at once. She turned him back to face her. “Now, my Commander, make your sacrifice for Kali.” Her fingers reached down his chest and she made room for him on the altar. “Lie under me, my Commander,” she instructed as he tried to pull her down. “Tonight I am the goddess.”

It was little enough to indulge her that far, Guristar thought. What mattered was that she had granted his request and chosen him before all those who had come to the temple. He leaned back and moaned with pleasure as Tamasrajasi straddled him. Nothing had ever excited him so much. Never had he felt himself so massive. The huruk was beating to his breathing. As Tamasrajasi enveloped him he feared that his erection would harm her, perhaps even kill her. He lunged into her, once, twice, three times, when he heard the avid shout from those pressing nearer the altar. Before he could look about or ask what had happened, the pain hit him and he roared.

Tamasrajasi stood up and held her hands out with Guristar’s sacrifice for the crowd to see. Blood ran through her fingers to the other puddles on the floor. “The first offering!” Tamasrajasi cried out, then stood between Guristar’s legs where the blood gushed out.

The reaction was immediate. The frenzy which had been a current building in the crowd burst forth at full fury. Men, women, old, young, attractive, brutish, fell on one another without regard. The sounds were unbelievable.

On the altar, Tamasrajasi stared down at Guristar, holding in one hand his severed organ, in the other a short, thin knife. She smiled at his revulsion and agony. “My Commander. Think of your aspirations. What an offering to Kali.” And she slit his throat, watching with a detached, slightly critical smile before signaling for one of the officiating priests to drag the body off the altar so that she would have room. Tamasrajasi handed her prize to the priest and indicated that it should be burned in the brazier before Kali’s statue. As she stood again, she looked across the stone room and her eyes met Saint-Germain’s. She grinned and waved the knife at him before scanning the worshipers for another likely sacrifice.

Saint-Germain had seen a great deal of depravity in his long years, and was largely unaffected by it. This was different. It was as if all the worshipers were in the throes of a seizure, suffering the paroxysms of a terrible contagious disease. He could not hold himself entirely aloof from what was happening around him, and he experienced a resurgence of the pity he had felt earlier, but with more poignance and disgust. He was being defiled, just as all those in the temple were, and for the amusement of a voluptuous child. This wild coupling, the excess of it, the blood, all of it was empty. At his feet three men labored over the flesh of one woman, sating themselves without satisfaction. Saint-Germain closed his eyes a moment, but could not recapture the separation he had found for a time. Now he understood the full insanity he saw, the maniacal fury of it, and the hatred.

At her place on the altar, Tamasrajasi had another man with her, and as she rode his loins, she reached down casually and castrated him as she had Guristar. This time she allowed the priests to slit his throat while she singled out another man. When she had tired of this and there were more than a dozen mutilated corpses at the side of the altar, Tamasrajasi came across the stone floor to Saint-Germain. “Soon I will bring your offerings. Would you prefer men or women to fill your veins?”

It was useless and he knew it, but Saint-Germain made a last attempt. “Tamasrajasi, I am not precisely what you think, and I doubt that all the blood in this temple would have the results you wish. It isn’t the blood, Tamasrajasi, it’s another matter entirely.”

“If you will not tell me,” she said as if she had heard nothing of what he said to her, “I will select as I see fit. It will be a good death for those who give you drink. Shiva is a worthy god.” The dark juice which had stained her body was streaking now, and in places it had rubbed away entirely. She had the look of someone monstrously bruised, beaten to the point of death.

“Tamasrajasi…” He stopped: it was futile.

“When I lead you to the altar,” she said thoughtfully, “I want you to embrace me as you have my father’s sister. Bhatin told me that it was not like anything he had seen before, that even she was fulfilled.”

He did not tell her that it was impossible. There was not time enough left to him, or left to the world, he added sadly, for Tamasrajasi to learn this. His feet were cold on the stones but the temple shimmered with a heat that did not come entirely from the braziers and torches around the huge room. Nor was the cold entirely from the stones.

The musician who had been playing the huruk threw the drum aside and flung himself at a knot of entangled bodies. Only Saint-Germain was aware that the drumming had stopped. As Shiva, he told himself ironically, he ought to be the one with the drum. It pained him to think of the passing time, the beat of Shiva’s drum.

Suddenly a young woman came up to him. Her eyes were febrile and she moved as if mounted on sticks. There were scratches and welts on her and she carried a knife in one hand. “Exalted Shiva,” she said to him as she bent low before him. “Take my life from me.”

Saint-Germain reached out to the woman and lifted her up. His compelling eyes were compassionate and grieving. “I am not Shiva. Keep your life, use it for something better than this.” He reached for the knife, but before he touched her, the woman wrenched away from him and in a series of short, gouging strokes of the blade almost eviscerated herself before she fell. Not since his own death had Saint-Germain known such inner darkness as possessed him now. He started to rise, to walk toward the altar where Tamasrajasi lay in flowers and blood. If destruction was so precious to her, that much he would give her.

So great was the noise within the temple that the thunder of the crashing wall of water as it bore down the narrow defile was inaudible until the first of the flood struck the stone pillars.

Tamasrajasi saw Saint-Germain come toward her, and assumed the momentary faltering of the worshipers in their demented activities was in anticipation of what he would do to her when he reached the altar. She held out her arms to him and scowled when he looked away from her toward the wall. The angry scream she was ready to give became a horrified sigh as the roar grew louder and one of the pillars buckled.