Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [229]
My head hung low, my hair brushing the earth. I was tired and drained, but my diadh-anam burned bright within me. I did not feel lessened by the effort. It was as Master Lo had taught me. When I used my gift as it was meant to be used, it would come back to me. With a weary laugh, I dragged myself upright, setting onto my heels.
Bhaktipuri folk swarmed the field, gathering blossoms. Hasan Dar and his men handed out needles and thick, waxed thread for the stringing of garlands. Men and women sang and sewed, happy to take part in a miracle.
Bao helped me to my feet and slid his arm around my waist. “Well done, Moirin.”
I leaned against him, drawing strength from his presence. “Let us hope it all goes as well.”
“How can it not, young goddess?” Amrita kissed my cheek. “I named you so rightly! You have made a miracle happen here.”
From the miraculous field of marigolds, the Rani’s procession returned to the outskirts of the city, to the slums where the untouchables dwelled. I daresay no other ruler in the history of Bhaktipur had visited the place, and I loved her all the more for doing it.
In some ways, it was not so terrible as I had expected; in others, it was worse. Young Sudhakar, who had served as the Rani’s liaison to the no-caste encampment in this matter now served as our guide, as though we were visiting a foreign land. He pointed out the vast pits dug into the earth where the gathered ordure of Bhaktipur’s upper castes was spread and covered with a layer of barley-straw.
“You see,” he said helpfully, pointing at an older patch of ground where vines spread. “In time, it becomes fertile soil. We could not survive without it.”
But ah, gods! The level of poverty was staggering. The dwellings in which they lived were crude, ramshackle affairs, in some instances nothing more than a length of ragged cloth stretched between poles. The faces that peered out at us were wary and fearful, not willing to trust to this seeming turn of fortune. A few folk had bright, hopeful eyes, but far, far more were dull and sullen with despair. All of them kept their distance, trained by a lifetime of experience not to sully folk such as us with so much as a shadow or a breath.
“People of Bhaktipur,” the Rani Amrita said in a gentle tone. “The gods have seen fit to send me a message, and from this day forward, I proclaim that there shall be no more division between caste and no-caste into clean and unclean. All shall be given opportunities to rise in status through hard work and dedication. By the will of the gods, I declare the rules of untouchability are no more. All men shall be brothers, and all women sisters.” She held out a garland of marigolds. “Come! I invite each and every one of you to come to the river and take part in a ritual of purification to celebrate this new beginning.”
No one moved.
If I’d had the strength, I’d have lent Amrita a bit of glamour once more, but the marigold field had drained me too deeply. It would be a day or more before I was able to summon the twilight.
She stood patiently, holding out the garland, Ravindra at her side. Carts heaped with garlands waited behind them. Sudhakar shifted from foot to foot, looking earnest. The crowd that had accompanied us began to murmur, while the untouchables remained silent.
At last, beneath the shadow of a hovel consisting of a piece of rusted tin propped on a few posts, a small figure stirred, a young girl of some eleven or twelve years, turning to her mother and whispering a question. The mother nodded, and the girl stepped forth.
I recognized her. She was the girl I had seen being assaulted for attempting to enter a temple when I had first arrived in Bhaktipur.
“So, little one!” By the smile in Amrita’s voice, I could tell she had recognized the child, too. “It falls to you to be bold, eh?” She