Forest of Demons (2 page)

“The one with the evil eyes?” Nita asked.

“Nita!” Miriam admonished, looking truly upset.

Priya resisted the urge to lower her gaze. Her strange, pale eyes were truly a burden to her. Blue as a clear sky but rimmed in twilight.

Nita sniffed. “Tell her that patience is a virtue she must foster if she is to be blessed with a place in heaven.”

Priya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “At this rate, I’ll be on the funeral pyre before I get any water.”

A couple of other women ducked their heads, chuckling into their hands. Miriam hid a smile.

Nita huffed and hoisted her matka up further. “Well, I never! But then, what can you expect from the lower classes?”

“I better get back to the temple,” Miriam said. She graced Priya with a warm smile. Guru would hear of this soon. The thought made her face heat.

Saying their good-byes, the women parted ways, leaving the well free. Priya watched Nita’s wide butt as it swayed away and wondered what the woman ate to get so huge. Most of the women in the village worked so hard that they were all slim, or downright skinny, but Nita was an exception. The queue began to move once more.

Priya was almost at the head of the queue when she spotted Chaya waddling toward her, her matka braced on her heavily pregnant belly. Her face was red with exertion, her brow beaded with perspiration. Women like Chaya were another reason why Priya was glad to be an old maid. Chaya had married for love and suffered for it by being cursed with horrific in-laws.

Priya sighed and left the queue to rush over to take the matka from her. Made from thick clay, it was heavy even when empty, yet her mother-in-law had sent her to fetch water regardless.

“Priya, thank you, sweetheart.” Chaya smiled, transforming her heart-shaped face from plain to beautiful. She placed her hands on the small of her back and kneaded the sore muscles. “I’m so ready to get this baby out.” She yawned. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to sleep through the night.”

Priya chuckled. “Well, there’ll be much less sleep once he or she is here.”

She led the way to the queue, heading for the back, but the women ushered her toward the front. Her good deed was being rewarded. Thanking them, she filled Chaya’s matka and then her own. Placing her own bucket at the side of the well, she hoisted Chaya’s to her hip.

“Come, I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Chaya protested.

“Yes. Yes I do.” Priya didn’t give her the opportunity to protest any further and set off toward Chaya’s marital home on the south side of the village.

Chaya’s in-laws were the zameendars, who owned all the land that lay beyond the village. It was in their fields that most villagers worked, earning grain for their trouble. The village shepherd also rented land to graze his sheep, and the zameendars collected taxes from him for the privilege. Priya glanced at Chaya, so round and fair and sweet. It was strange to think that only a few years ago they’d both been in pigtails, sitting beside each other on the floor of the dusty old schoolroom. Now Chaya was a wife with a child on the way, and Priya . . . well, Priya wasn’t.

They turned down a small dirt track that led behind the village to the large, sprawling farmhouse owned by Chaya’s in-laws. Affluence was judged by whether a home was thatched or tiled, and this one was neatly tiled, screaming wealth.

Chaya grabbed Priya’s elbow. “I better take that. You should go. Thank you.”

Priya frowned. “Don’t be silly. I’m here now. I might as well escort you all the way. Carrying this much weight isn’t good for the baby.” She repeated the words she had heard so many times in the village from other pregnant women. Infant mortality rates were high, and pregnant women and children were prized and treated like royalty in most cases. Priya couldn’t comprehend Chaya’s family’s blatant disregard of her condition, and there were whispers among the other villagers about it too. No one spoke up though, for to do so would put their source of wheat, corn, and sugar at risk.

Chaya had stopped walking, her eyes full of panic. “Please, Priya. If she sees you helping me, then she’ll be mad.”

Priya shrugged. “So let her be mad. You get a tongue lashing, so what? Isn’t that normal for you?”

Chaya gnawed on her bottom lip, averting her gaze, and Priya stared at her in dawning comprehension. “They beat you?”

Chaya’s head snapped up. She shook her head. “Please, you can’t say anything. If Prabhu finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Maybe if you told your husband what was happening, he might put a stop to it. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you? Do you feel you deserve this treatment?”

Chaya shook her head and reached for the matka. “Please, Priya. You’ve got a lot to learn about married life. I appreciate your help, but I have to go now.” She tugged, and Priya reluctantly released the matka.

“I’m sorry about Mala. She was a sweet girl,” Chaya said. “Guru would have made her a good match. His family would have adored her.”

Without a backward glance, Chaya waddled slowly up the lane toward her home.

Sighing in exasperation, Priya turned and made her way quickly back to the market. She had so much to do and she was already late.

Papa managed to stay in the stall until the sun turned red, and then the heat was too much for him. Priya sent him home. Pulling her scarf over her head, she parked herself on a stool under the shaded canopy of their stall. A few traders were packing up. Not everyone could withstand the heat between midday and late afternoon. It could be unbearable, as if the sun were angry, punishing them for some unrecalled past transgression.

For Priya this was the best time. The heat never really bothered her too much. Ma said it was because she was a
pari
, an angel sent to them from heaven as a boon. She never challenged that idea, because it was better than the truth—that someone had abandoned her nineteen years ago at the edge of the forest. If Papa hadn’t found her, she would have been rakshasa food for sure.

The market was at its most serene during these hours, and she took a moment to appreciate her good fortune, for despite its petty annoyances, her village was beautiful. The houses were all one-story flat affairs, painted white to reflect the sun. On the south side, the homes were surrounded by fields of wheat, corn, and sugarcane. On the north side was the river, which provided them with a bounty of fish, and to the east, the forest. She didn’t want to think about the forest, but focused instead on what lay beyond it—the Blue Road that led to Budhiman, the capital, a place of glittering finery and wonders where a king and queen ruled and everyone wore silk. At least that was what Priya had heard. How much was true and how much embellishment was a mystery, but one that she was determined to unravel for herself someday. To the west, however, was a mountain range, perilous to cross, and beyond which lay the ocean, a vast beast she had yet to set eyes on. Rumors spoke of air filled with the taste of salt and fish as big as a man. She hoped one day to see this ocean that surrounded the Isle, and the people who lived side by side with it.

For now this was home, and the most beautiful part was the temple. Tall and regal, it rose from the center of the village like a proud, white-and-gold peacock. Under the red sun, it gleamed in pink and orange hues. A place of more than worship, the temple was a place of festivities, a place of gathering, and a haven to all. It was also Guru’s home.

As if conjured by her train of thought, he appeared before her.

“Priya?”

She started, almost falling off her stool. “Guru. How . . . how are you?” Stupid question. She flushed.

He dropped his gaze and nodded, his long, thick lashes casting shadows on his high cheekbones. “There’s to be a ceremony this evening for the peace of Mala’s soul. Just a few close friends and family. Will you come?”

She nodded vehemently, her eyes welling. “Of course I will.”

Guru nodded and made to walk away. He faltered and turned back. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a small white bundle. “Fruit from the offerings this morning. I thought you might . . .” He shrugged.

Priya carefully took the offering, lifting it to her forehead in respect. “Thank you.”

This time he did leave, and Priya watched him walk away, his shoulders slumped, his feet dragging. Her chest ached to hold him, to share his grief, but she didn’t deserve to mourn any longer.

Papa returned to the stall just as the sun turned yellow. His limp was less pronounced, and he looked rested. Priya noticed for the first time how thin he’d become. In her mind he’d always been a large, sturdy figure, a behemoth of a man who used to swing her onto his shoulders and carry her high above everyone in the village. Where had that man gone? Years of hard work and lean food had stripped him of muscle, bowed his back, and sunk his cheeks.

“Your Ma needs help at home, beti.” Papa settled onto the stool she vacated. “Did you sell much?”

Priya shook her head. “Just some eggplants, onions, and potatoes. Oh, and two of Ma’s clay pots.”

Pa nodded, his expression solemn. The square was filling again, and in truth, most business would be done in the early morning and late afternoon to evening time, so why did Pa look so worried? She opened her mouth to question him, but he waved her away.

“Go, go, your Ma needs you.”

Priya sighed and on impulse pressed a quick kiss to his dry cheek. She caught the flash of his smile before she turned and hurried back through the village toward home.

She was passing the well when she felt eyes on her. Straightening her back, she continued to walk, ignoring the burning between her shoulder blades. But the urge to turn and look at him was nearly unbearable. She had almost made it out of the market square when she succumbed and snuck a peek over her shoulder.

He stood with his hammer in hand, his torso bare, glistening, and streaked with grime. His amber eyes seemed to glow in his soot-covered face. He had strange eyes like hers, but the similarity did little to lessen her disquiet.

She turned away, suddenly filled with anger and annoyance. What was his problem? Why did he have to stare at her like that, and why did she have to acknowledge him? Ravi, the village blacksmith, was older than her by a good five years and a total recluse. He never attended any functions, and barely spoke to anyone. The girls in the village used to take turns sashaying past the smithy in the hope that he would look their way, but he either ignored them or glared menacingly at them, causing them to squeal and run home. Priya was certain that if the munsiff could find a replacement, he would have politely asked Ravi to leave, although she wasn’t entirely sure that Ravi would honor that request. Ravi made people uncomfortable.

Back home, she found her mother up to her elbows in dough. “Finally, Pujariji has asked us to provide the vegetable curry and the chapatis for the ceremony tonight.”

“Did he provide the flour and the vegetables?” Priya asked.

Ma averted her gaze.

Priya’s temper flared. “So they expect us to use our personal rations? Ma, why didn’t you say something?”

“What? What could I say?” She threw up her flour-coated hands. “Mala is dead, and the pujari asked me himself. He’s a man of God. It’s as if God himself asked me to do this.”

“God wouldn’t be so callous. He’d know we have to eat too.”

“Priya!”

“If you won’t say something then I will. It’s too much.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Priya pressed her lips together and glared at her mother. She wouldn’t say anything; to do so would be to bring disgrace upon their family. She knew what an honor it was for Ma to be asked to provide the meal. She suspected the pujari was aware of this too. She wondered why Mala’s family, wealthy merchants that they were, hadn’t paid for the meal.

“Stop glowering at me and chop the potatoes. I want them small and square. No, do the onions first, finely.”

Priya blew out a sharp breath to shake off her anger. She washed her hands and settled herself on the floor with the onions, a chopping board and a knife. As she chopped she thought of Mala. Her eyes stung and welled up. She had no right to grieve, so she told herself the tears were from the onions.

The ceremony was a sad affair. There’d been very little left of Mala to burn. After prayers for the peace of her soul had been said, and hymns urging her on to the afterlife had been sung, they moved to the back room where the floor had been laid with bamboo mats. Everyone took a seat, folding their bodies into the lotus position. Ma ladled out the food onto banana leaves, which were placed before them.

Priya ate in silence. She could feel the eyes of Mala’s parents boring into her. If they knew . . . she couldn’t bear for them to know. She finished her meal and excused herself, more than ready to leave. She was at the door when Mala’s mother stopped her with a gentle hand to the elbow.

Priya took a deep breath before turning to face her. Could she read the guilt in her eyes?

Mala’s mother smiled shakily. “Priya, we know how much you meant to Mala.” She reached up and unclasped one of her necklaces. Priya’s eyes widened. She recognized it. It had belonged to Mala, a sixteenth-birthday present and one that Priya had coveted ever since.

Mala’s mother held it out. “You’ve always been like a daughter to us and a sister to Mala. She would have wanted you to have it.”

Priya stared at the chain as it swayed to and fro in the lamp light. It was truly beautiful, a twisted chain made of pure gold. Priya blinked and met Mala’s mother’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I can’t take it.” She turned and ran from the room, choking on emotions she had thought to be in control.

“Priya wait!” Guru caught up to her in the idol room, grabbing her arm and yanking her back. “What’s wrong with you? That was cruel.” His face was dark with anger.

“Cruel?” She stared at him dumbfounded.

His eyes flashed. “They offered you a piece of her, and you threw it back in their faces.”

She shook her head, blinded by hot tears. How could she explain to him, how could she make him understand?