The height of the year is not far-off, and I am pleased to tell you that I have sent a caravan to the east coast, to the city of Rajmundri, for the purpose of gaining a foothold in the markets there. If we have stations here in Asirgarh and in Sirpur, it is useful to take advantage of trading in the Indian Ocean as well as in the various islands to the south. I have pursued other ventures as well, and I have reason to hope that within five years, your dream of a network of markets from the West to the East will be made real. So long as there are no more invasions, or trade routes are not compromised, we should continue to flourish.
But peace may be ending to the west of Asirgarh. The Rajput of Beragar has begun his campaign by moving north and west, which does not impose upon this city directly, but may interfere with our trading with the west coast, which is a great disappointment now that we have ships of our own to cross the Arabian Sea. War is never good for commerce, and if half of what is said of this man is true, we must be prepared to fend off worse than a few attacks on small villages. I have heard that Deogir is moving to intercept the Beragar army, which could mean fighting within the month.
I have hope of concluding an arrangement with Azizi Iniattir, who has been in contact with a merchant of Lhasa, calling himself Lonpah
ST'amloatohr; this merchant is a most enterprising fellow, with many interesting items to bring to market. Azizi Iniattir has initiated trade with this fellow and has recommended that I become part of their association, for the man appears to be able to handle goods enough to do business with all of us. If this continues to be the case, I will, of course, extend the markets to you; I do not imagine there have been many goods in the markets of Fustat that came from the Land of Snows.
It has been a profitable spring, I must inform you, one that has exceeded my expectations and that gives me optimism for the future. We have increased our goods in the warehouse we purchased by nearly fifty percent in the last four months. Much of what we have stored will be gone before the storms come, which is as it should be. We Parsi may have been driven out of our homeland because we continue to follow Zarathustra rather than later prophets, but we may yet make a place for ourselves in the broader world, and in a manner that does credit to all of us, as well as bringing good things to all of us.
I am pleased to say that I have found another wife and I am completing my arrangements with her family to bring her to my house. It will be a useful thing to have her here, for it will be to our advantage to have more children to run our enterprise as it grows larger. I am already considering sending one of my sons to learn to be the master of a ship, so that in time we may have our own Captains as well as the ships themselves. You may think this is too much, but I am certain that it would benefit our House to have a few men experienced with the seas to advise us, and to watch after our cargos as no one else could.
The signs are for heavy storms when they come, or so I hear from the herdsmen, who know how to read the sky and earth better than any priest. If that is the case, we should be sure our caravans are instructed to be cautious in their travels; I have already ordered many leaders to be wary of the weather, for it is better that they remain in a town for three months than that they be caught in tempests on the road, and lose half of what they are carrying, as well as ponies, donkeys, oxen, and camels. You may disagree with me, but I am sure that we are better served by circumspection than by rashness.
I hope this may be in your hands before the storms strike. If it is not, then I hope that you have good fortune and that after the dark of the year, you may show even more profit and trade than you have done so far, to the advancement of our fortunes and our House.
Zal Iniattir
11
Built at the crest of a small ridge, the funeral pyre stood out against the evening sky like a ruined temple. Tulsi had supervised its hasty construction, insisting the logs that formed its base be tied together with oiled rags; the four men who had been the escort for her wagon had obeyed her orders explicitly for fear of what the Rajput would do if they failed.
"Take him on a litter and put that on top of the pyre," Tulsi said as soon as they were done making the pyre and had returned to the wagon where Sanat Ji Mani lay.
"It is not very sturdy— the pyre is not," said Kantu Asar, pointing up at the pyre and shaking his hands.
"It is sturdy as it needs to be," she said, using their language with an ease that surprised them. "It will be ashes by morning, in any case."
"That it will," said one of them. "Is he ready to be carried? Are there any more rituals, or have you prepared him?"
"He is ready," said Tulsi, who had found washing and dressing Sanat Ji Mani's supposed corpse for burning an unnerving experience; he had looked so lifeless, so unnaturally still, his skin so waxen, that she wondered if he had actually slipped away from her. Only a covert squeeze of her wrist had reassured her and given her the inclination to go on, clothing him in pale cotton robes and leggings that made it appear his right leg was twice the girth of his left. The wrappings she had used would provide protection for his feet after he escaped from the pyre, and could be used to cover his skin to avoid sunlight. The thought of these things made her shudder, but she concealed her
anxiety and stayed with the four men who had been her escort as they bore the litter through the camp and up to the pyre.
After the men set the litter on the pyre, they moved away. "Do you need a torch?" one of the Kheb cousins asked.
"I need something to light it with," said Tulsi, a bit sharply. "Is the Rajput going to watch?"
"No," said Challa Bahlin. "He will send Vayu Ede to observe for him. It is what the Rajput has declared."
"Because the Rajput has what he wants," said Tulsi, letting her bitterness show. "Very well. Bring me a torch as soon as Vayu Ede gets here." She glanced behind her, and saw that the ridge backed onto a defile with a trickle of water at the bottom of it. She gauged the distance from the ridge to the floor of the defile and decided it was worth the risk.
"Do you have any prayers to give?" Kantu Asar asked.
"I gave them when I prepared the body," said Tulsi, looking up at the still figure on the pyre: would this work? she asked herself.
"Then it is only a matter of Vayu Ede seeing," said Sambarin Kheb. He looked down at the camp. "They will watch when the fire is lit."
The other three made sounds of agreement.
"Be sure you stand well back. You do not want to be burned," said Tulsi, wishing she could limber up with stretches and jumps, but that, she knew, might reveal more than she wanted of what she was about to do.
"You will be in danger," said Garanai Kheb. "The fire—"
"That is my concern," said Tusli, her expression forbidding. "Do not linger; go down the hill, fetch me a torch, and wave to me as soon as Vayu Ede is here."
The men put their hands together and bowed as formally as they might have to an officer— a tribute none of them had ever before offered a woman— then turned away and did as she had ordered them; a short while later, Challa Bahlin returned with a lit torch which he handed to Tulsi in silence, then retreated down the slope, as hurriedly as he could without risking falling. A number of soldiers had gathered at the foot of the rise, curious enough to want to see the immolation.
Tulsi looked over her shoulder again, checking out the defile. It was deep enough to be dangerous in its way, but not so deep that falling into it was nothing less than suicide. She felt her body thrum
with readiness. How much she wanted this to be over! "Where is Vayu Ede?" she asked the wind. "It will be dark soon." It was an effort to contain herself, for it would be so easy to set the whole pyre alight now, but it would dishonor the Rajput, and that could cause the soldiers to stop the burning. Shaking her head, she paced around the wooden structure to provide some outlet for the tension building in her. Finally the wizened figure of Vayu Ede emerged from the gathering crowd. He lifted his hands and began to recite some poetry that Tulsi had never heard before; she stopped still and let him go on. When he became silent, she went to the far end of the pyre, lifting her torch, and set it to the oiled rags holding the structure together.
At once the fire leaped up, stinking of oil and burning cloth; the green wood sputtered but was slow to light. Coughing in the billow of acrid smoke, Tulsi selected another large knot of fabric and lit it as well, sending a new mass of smoke into the evening breeze. Her eyes watered and she batted at the dark cloud as she tried to reach a third knot. The cloth caught fire and this time the wood began to crackle and hiss as the fire finally got hold of it. Now was the time. Tulsi flung the torch over the edge of the crest into the defile, and as it fell like a burning star, she sprang into the air and leaped atop the pyre, her hands raised so she might be seen. But her footing was uncertain and the cloth knotting the logs and branches together were burning brilliantly, and the whole of the pyre began to shift, the supports starting to give way.
There were shouts from below, and one of the four escorts started toward the pyre, only to be held back by his fellows.
With a moan, the pyre broke apart, most of it tipping toward her, away from the camp and toward the defile, the litter on which Sanat Ji Mani lay in a stupor sliding toward her. For a long, terrible moment, they teetered together, and then the pyre went to pieces, flinging Tulsi and Sanat Ji Mani backward into the defile with burning debris and charred branches falling with them. Cries of horror and dismay followed them down into the defile until they landed amid logs, branches, and scraps of burning cotton on the low-growing scrub that lined the shallow creek at the bottom.
The constellations of early summer told Sanat Ji Mani that it was after midnight when he finally opened his eyes. He smelled the resi
due of the fire around him, and he realized his clothing had been partially burned, leaving a stretch of his thigh exposed. As he tried to sit up, a sharp pain told him he had broken a rib, which explained why it had taken him so long to come to himself. It would be two or three years before the bone knit again; he had endured broken ribs before and knew what he would have to stand while it healed; he hoped he had enough cloth in the padding on his leg to wrap his chest. He had to wait while the dizziness passed, then he struggled to his feet, testing his right foot with care. Moving with great care not only to keep his balance but to go along silently, he began to search the defile, looking for Tulsi, his night-seeing eyes able to pierce the darkness as he made his way over the uneven ground and in among the bushes that crowded up to the stream. Knowing that he would have to find shelter before morning, he made his search diligently and swiftly, circling out from where he had come to, half-afraid that he might find her injured or worse.
Toward dawn he found an overhang that led to the small mouth of a cave. He hesitated before going in, for he knew he was in no condition to fight for the space with anything much larger than a mongoose. Finding a stone ledge just inside, he climbed onto it, easing himself down in order to minimize the hurt from his rib, and promised himself to search again at nightfall. He would be able to call for her then, for the Rajput's army would be gone. He tried to chuckle and winced instead at the thought that he was finally free.
With sundown came wakefulness and a new level of apprehension, for there was the smell of carnage on the air. Emerging from the cave, he prepared himself to find Tulsi's body, but although the odor of blood and feces was strong, he did not see her. Reluctantly he followed the smell to four carcases, men who had died hideously, their bones exposed where scraping knives had gone as far as the netting that confined the men would allow. Their heads had been cut off and set up beside the remains of their bodies: Sambarin Kheb, Garanai Kheb, Challa Bahlin, and Kantu Asar stared with empty sockets that swarmed with insects at the partially reassembled pyre. Sanat Ji Mani put his hand to his face, knowing these men had died because he and Tulsi were not found. The only scrap of hope he took from these wretched remains was the certainty that Tulsi was not dead.
All through the next night he searched for Tulsi, calling her name and trying to pick up a trace of her; by the end of the night, he had to admit that she was gone. He accepted this with resignation, telling himself that she might have struck out for Chaul at once, for fear that the Rajput's men might search the defile, as he had seen they had done. In addition to the four pathetic carcases, he had seen the tracks of many men on the second night, and had supposed that there had been an enormous effort had been made to find them, or at least to determine what became of their corpses. If Tulsi had not lost consciousness, had been relatively unhurt, or had been truly terrified— she might have tried to rouse him and failed— she could have decided to press on as she said she would do. For the first time he regretted that she had chosen not to come to his life, to complete the blood-bond that would forever link them no matter how far apart they were. But she had chosen not to come to his life, and all he could determine was that he had no sense of her death. As he settled down for another day in the cave, he knew it was useless to linger in the mountains any longer; it was time to go westward, to the coast, and down the coast to Chaul.
