Tiger’s Destiny (11 page)

Kishan’s body was stiff, his expression frozen. I jerked when I heard Lokesh’s lecherous laugh.

“It pains me to see you brought to this, my friend. But I always win, you see. It’s too bad, really, that you won’t be around to give away the bride. I’m sure she would have liked that.”

I heard the low murmur of a response, then a wet cough.

Lokesh replied, “Obstinacy must run in the family. Even now, you believe you’re going to win. Given your current circumstances, your confidence is perhaps a bit excessive. I must give you some credit, however. You managed to bloody me more than I had anticipated.”

I balled Ren’s shirt in my fist and pulled myself up to see what was happening. Mr. Kadam was lying next to the fire, the sword pinning him to the ground through his chest. He was gasping for air, one hand reaching for the sword.

My lungs seized, and I began to hyperventilate.

Bored with the proceedings, Lokesh violently kicked Mr. Kadam in his wounded leg.

“That is for distracting me from my purpose.”

He bent over Mr. Kadam’s body and twisted the sword cruelly. An evil smile spread over his face as Mr. Kadam cried out in pain. “And that . . . is for mussing my suit.”

Mr. Kadam panted and said between wet coughs, “Then . . . take . . . what you . . . came for.”

His words trailed off, and he lifted a bloody hand to his collar. With a savage jerk, he tore the amulet from his neck and held it out to Lokesh, whose eyes fixed on the piece with delight. “She will be your doom,” he proclaimed.

The moment Lokesh’s hand closed around the stone, he and the amulet disappeared in a flash, and the beasts slunk off into the brush. Mr. Kadam slumped back to the ground. Together, the three of us ran into the clearing and slid to our knees next to our beloved mentor and father.

“Kadam! Kadam!” Ren and Kishan shouted in desperation.

Blood trickled out of Mr. Kadam’s mouth. I ripped off one of my many shirts and wrapped it around the sword to try and staunch the blood that was gushing from his wound.

I yelled, “Kishan, where’s the
kamandal
?”

Kishan reached for the shell that usually hung at his throat—only to find it missing. “I don’t understand. I never take it off!”

As he tore through the tent, ripping bedding apart in a frantic search for the mermaid’s gift, I wished up a cup of water, gently lifted Mr. Kadam’s head, and pressed it to his lips.

I had the Necklace fill the cup again but Ren wrapped his hand around my wrist and stopped me.

“The sword has pierced his lung, Kelsey, and he’s lost too much blood. Without the
kamandal
. . . we can’t save him.”

Kishan returned and sunk to his knees at my side. “It’s gone. I can’t find it,” he mumbled desperately.

I heard a cough and a whisper. “Miss Kelsey.”

“Please don’t leave me,” I begged. “I can help you. Just tell me what to do.”

Mr. Kadam lifted a trembling hand and caressed my cheek. “There is nothing . . . you can do. Don’t cry. I was . . . prepared for this. I took the
kamandal
. I knew it would happen. Was . . . nec . . . necessary.”

“What? How can it be necessary that you die? We could have helped you, fought with you! Why did you hold us back?”

“If you had been here, the fight would . . . have changed. This was . . . the only way to . . . to defeat him.”

I closed my eyes, and fat drops squeezed through the tight lids. I exhaled shallowly, and then Mr. Kadam whispered painfully again.

“I need to tell you—I . . . love you. So much.”

“I love you too,” I wept.

“I’m so proud of you. All of you,” he wheezed and looked at Ren. “You must press on. Fin . . . finish what we started.” Feebly, he gripped Ren’s arm. “Ren, you must . . . find him,” Mr. Kadam said. “Find him in the . . . past.”

Ren nodded and sobbed openly. Tears ran down Kishan’s face.

Mr. Kadam closed his eyes. His hand dropped to the ground, and he smiled at me faintly. I listened to the wet rattling in his lungs as he breathed in and out, once, twice, and then no more. The man who was our friend, advisor, mentor, and father slipped away. His life forfeited for a cause we didn’t understand.

8

a farewell

P
iercing grief swelled inside me and burst, leaving me empty, hollow, a collapsed version of myself. All of my questions about our quest and Mr. Kadam’s strange words melted away into the shadowy recesses of my consciousness.

I picked up Mr. Kadam’s limp hand and stroked it over and over, willing his fingers to clasp mine. But they didn’t move. Gently, Kishan put his arms around me and tried to offer me comfort, but I sat stiffly, staring blankly at Mr. Kadam’s body.

Ren pulled the sword from Mr. Kadam’s chest and violently hurled the loathsome weapon into the jungle. Then he fell to his knees and sunk his face into his hands. The three of us sat this way until we heard a thumping sound in the sky.

Confused, I wondered briefly if it was a Stymphalian bird, but then sudden gusts of wind shook the trees and a spotlight touched the ground. I looked up to see the dark outline of a helicopter landing. Footsteps rushed toward us, and Nilima fell onto the ground next to me, crying out in grief and sorrow. Cradling her grandfather’s head on her lap, she rocked back and forth. After some time, the night became silent again.

Kishan and Nilima spoke quietly in Hindi. The two of them moved around the camp, gathering our things and stowing them in the helicopter. Kishan retrieved the Scarf from our backpack. Tenderly, he placed Mr. Kadam’s arms over his chest, touched his forehead, and murmured words to the shimmering material.

Slowly, the Scarf twisted and shot out dark threads to wrap around Mr. Kadam’s body. I watched in a mental fog as it created a burial shroud. When this was done, Kishan shook Ren to get his attention. He spoke in Hindi, and together they picked up Mr. Kadam’s body.

I heard the engine of the helicopter start up again. I knew I needed to move, but I didn’t seem able to. When Ren knelt before me, his eyes bright with tears, I felt my own well up again. I put my arms around his neck, and he swept me into his embrace and cried with me for a moment before carrying me to the helicopter. An emotional Nilima adjusted a few instruments, wiped her eyes, and took off.

As we rose into the night sky, I stared despondently at the wrapped form placed at our feet. Ren held me and rubbed my back, but his touch couldn’t stop my trembling. At some point on that long journey home, he changed into his tiger form and rested his head in my lap. Every once in a while he growled softly, sorrowfully. I buried my face in his fur and wrapped my arms around his neck. Rhythmically, I stroked his back over and over, and found solace for my sadness while comforting my tiger. Eventually, I slept.

When we landed on the practice field near the house, it was two o’clock in the morning. Ren and Kishan carried Mr. Kadam’s shrouded body to the dojo while Nilima and I walked upstairs. I slumped into the nearest chair, like a broken doll and when she brought me an icy lemon water, I started crying again.

The boys returned just as the front doorbell rang. Mr. Kadam’s old pilot, Murphy, who had flown us over the Baiga camp, was standing at the doorstep.

“I’m sorry to call at such an hour, but Kadam asked me to come here at this exact time,” Murphy explained. “A few weeks ago, Kadam gave me detailed instructions to fly here and deliver a letter. He said I was to fly you somewhere else after you read the letter. Is everything alright?”

“Please, won’t you come inside?” Nilima asked numbly. “I’m afraid Mr. Kadam has . . . has died.”

Murphy’s face crumpled, and with a shaking hand, he gave Ren an envelope bearing Mr. Kadam’s familiar script.

We all sat down in the living room as Ren skimmed through and read, “I would like to be placed in a simple wooden casket and buried next to Ren and Kishan’s parents. A pressed suit is hanging in the entry-way closet.” Ren paused. “He speaks so matter-of-factly about his own death.”

Nilima patted Murphy’s hand.

He gripped her fingers and said, “I’m so sorry, Miss. If there is anything I can do, please let me know. He was a remarkable man.”

“Yes, he was.” Her voice broke, and then we sat silently.

Time slowed. My mind was foggy and thick, and I sat there dull, heavy, and filled with sorrow, hardly listening to the rest of Mr. Kadam’s letter. I looked up when Kishan knelt by my chair and stroked my cheek.

He spoke softly, “Murphy’s going to fly us to the jungle where we first met. In Kadam’s letter, he wrote that his casket is already there. He wanted to be laid to rest near Deschen’s garden, so he would be remembered at the place where our lives came full circle. I’m not sure what that means but we will honor his wishes. If you don’t want to go, you can remain behind. Would you prefer to stay here?”

I shook my head. “No. I want to go, but I need to find something more appropriate to wear to his funeral.”

Somehow I made my way upstairs and washed my face and hands. I walked into my closet and discarded several items of clothing. Angrily, I tore through my closet, ripping clothes off hangers and throwing them violently across the room. I shredded the plastic wrapping on new clothes, then wadded the skirts into balls and pitched them at the wall.

When that wasn’t satisfying, I started on the shoes. I picked out the heaviest and hurled them. They each hit the wall with a gratifying bang. When I ran out of ammunition, I used my fists. I punched the wall over and over again until I tore the skin across my knuckles. Tears streamed down my face, and I collapsed into a wounded heap on top of my pile of shoes.

A shadow fell over my body. “What can I do?” Ren asked. He sat on the floor of my closet and pulled me onto his lap.

I sniffed. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I can see that. Someone destroyed your closet while we were away.”

I laughed wetly and then sobbed. “Did . . . did I ever tell you about my parents’ funeral? I wanted to give the eulogy. I was going to talk about my mom and dad, but when the time came, I couldn’t say a word.”

His fingertips wiped tears from my eyes. “That’s a lot to expect of a traumatized teenager.”

“I
wanted
to do it. I wanted everyone at that funeral to know what great parents I had. I wanted them to know how much I’d needed them. How important they were to me. I wanted them to know that I’d loved them.”

He pushed the hair away from my sticky cheek and tucked it behind my ear.

“When the time came, I dissolved. I stood there staring at those two caskets and couldn’t say one word. They deserved more than that. They deserved to be remembered and loved and talked about, and I let them down.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t have thought that.”

“That was the last thing I could do to honor them, and I screwed it up. I don’t want to do the same thing to Mr. Kadam.”

“Kells,” he sighed. “You honor your parents every day of your life. You don’t have to give a speech to show how much you loved them. They wouldn’t have wanted you to carry this burden all this time. They loved you. Kadam loved you too. You don’t have to say the right thing or wear the perfect dress. You honor them by living, by being the wonderful woman that you are.”

“You always know the right things to say, don’t you? Thank you,” I whispered as I clutched my shoes.

Ren brushed his fingers along my jaw and left.

I showered quickly and scrubbed my puffy, tear-streaked face. After I dressed, I wound my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and headed downstairs. Ren and Kishan had showered and changed too. Both men were wearing dress shirts and ties, and even though we’d be in the jungle, their more formal clothes seemed appropriate.

Kishan drove us to the private airport that was a few miles from the house.

As we climbed into the old propeller plane, Murphy bent over his controls and said, “Kadam loved this old plane. It’s a Lockheed Electra 10E used in World War Two. He once told me that Amelia Earhart made her famous last trip in one of these.”

The factoid made me smile and remember how fond Mr. Kadam was of sharing every little detail of his mechanical toys. But my smile fell when I stole a glance at Nilima across from us. Mr. Kadam’s death had clearly affected her terribly. Her hair hung in tangles around her tear-stained face and something she had rubbed up against had left grease stains on her lovely white blouse. She rested her head, leaning back, and closed her eyes.

Murphy smoothly lifted us into the air, and with the hum of the engines and the emotional roller coaster ride of the past twenty-four hours, it wasn’t long before I fell into a dark, confusing dream.

In the dream, a young Lokesh was standing over a monk, torturing him for information.

“Tell me of the amulet, old man,” a desperate Lokesh threatened.

The monk screamed. “Please! I beg you to have mercy!”

“Mercy will be given when you tell me what I desire to hear.”

The weakened man nodded and said, “A few centuries before the birth of my teacher, there was a great war. All the powerful kingdoms of Asia gathered together to battle a demon. A goddess arose with two faces: one face was dark and beautiful and the other was bright and more glorious than the sun. She led the armies of Asia against the armies of the demon. The armies of Asia were victorious, and, as a result, the goddess blessed each kingdom with a gift.”

“What does this have to do with the amulet?” an impatient Lokesh screamed and wrenched the man’s wrist cruelly.

“Let me . . . let me explain,” the man panted. “The goddess took the amulet from her neck and broke it into five pieces. She gave one piece to each king and admonished them to keep secret its origin and to use its power to help and protect his people. They were instructed to pass it within their family to the eldest son.”

“And which kingdoms fought in this battle?”

“The five that gathered were the people of the—”

The dream suddenly ended when Ren shook me awake.

“We’re landing,” he murmured quietly.

I looked out the window and only saw dense jungle below. “Landing where?” I asked.