Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [165]
“So you see, Moirin!” She smiled at me. “The Lady of Rats.”
I smiled back at her. “I see.”
We made an offering to the goddess herself, who was depicted as a beautiful warrior woman seated on a tiger. I thought of my warrior princess Snow Tiger, and hoped it was a good omen.
Over the course of days, we made offerings at more temples than I could remember: Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, who I understood formed a great triad that created the beginning, middle, and end of the world. Krishna the lover, generous Lakshmi, and fierce Kali with her out-thrust tongue and her necklace of skulls; and others I could not recall. There were gods and goddesses dancing, meditating, resting on great serpents. Hanuman, who was a monkey, which quite delighted me. Blue-skinned gods, black-skinned goddesses, many with a multitude of arms. It was all very strange, though beautiful in an unfamiliar way.
There was even one god, Ganesha, who had the head of an elephant on a man’s body. When I asked Amrita why in the world it was so, she laughed and said there were different stories, and that it had never occurred to her to wonder which was true.
“Why do you think it odd?” she asked, teasing me. “You liked Hanuman. And you worship a bear!”
“Aye, but not a woman with a bear’s head!” I protested.
We journeyed through the streets in Amrita’s palanquin, carried by strapping fellows and surrounded by a contingent of devoted guards bearing armloads of flowers and offering goods. Everywhere we went, the folk of Bhaktipur greeted their Rani with joyful bows, and it was clear to me that she was much beloved. One thing troubled me, though.
The untouchables, the no-castes.
I came to recognize them quickly by the way they took care to avoid all contact with others, by the way they moved swiftly out of our path to ensure their shadows should not pollute the Rani’s palanquin. As we made our rounds with our abundant offerings, receiving the blessing of temple priests, I found myself thinking about the no-caste girl who had wished to make an offering for her sick mother, clutching her precious armful of tattered marigolds.
On the way back to the palace, I asked Amrita why the girl wasn’t allowed to enter the temple.
“Because she is unclean, her presence would profane it,” she said in her lilting voice. “Only those born to the four castes are allowed to enter the temples, or to listen to the teaching of the priests and receive their blessing.”
It shocked me. “Why?”
“Because that is their kharma, Moirin,” Amrita said patiently. “All of us must obey our kharma. It is the way the world is ordered.”
“I was not born to any caste,” I observed.
“That is not true.” She touched my arm. “You are descended from royalty in your own country. You and I, we are the same caste.”
“Mayhap, but…” I struggled to frame my thoughts. “To deny anyone their gods is cruel.”
Amrita raised her graceful brows. “Do your gods give themselves to everyone? Your bear-goddess and your Elua and Naamah and the others?”
I began to utter an indignant yes, but the word faltered in my mouth. I fell silent, thinking. Among the Maghuin Dhonn, not everyone who passed through the stone doorway was accepted as one of Her own children. Where did those who were rejected turn? What gods took them in, claimed them for their own? Offered them the solace of faith? I didn’t know.
Blessed Elua and his Companions turned no one away, not so far as I knew. And yet… I did not recall ever hearing of anyone not of D’Angeline blood worshipping the gods of Terre d’Ange.
The bright lady stirred in my thoughts, reminding me of blessings bestowed; but when I thought on it further, I had to acknowledge that the Emperor of Ch’in’s daughter and the nephew of the Patriarch of Riva met my lady Amrita’s definition of caste.
It made me unsure.
“No,” I said at length. “Maybe