“Brihadeeswara Temple?” I say, holding out my hands in a gesture of helplessness. It doesn’t register, because their eyes are fixed on Orlaith.
Sit for a minute and look cute and harmless, I tell her, and she does. Then I repeat my question and the couple finally notices me standing there. It takes two more repetitions before the man raises his arm and points in the direction we were traveling, because now that he’s noticed me, he’s wondering if I’m a bigger threat than the hound.
Why, yes, good sir, I am.
I’ve noticed that men have difficulty maintaining eye contact or even speaking to me since I got my tattoos. The Celtic knot-work isn’t anything like what they’re used to seeing; they sense that it’s not merely decorative, and the mystery discomfits them. I think they want to ask what the tattoos mean, but something keeps them silent. In this case, maybe it’s the knives strapped to my thighs and the fighting staff in my hand.
We were headed the right way, Orlaith. Let’s go.
I deliver a shallow bow to the man and say thank you before resuming our run. The rain starts to fall with urgency, fat drops hinting at a serious shower and guaranteeing that Orlaith and I will be soaked by the time we reach our destination. The street clears of its remaining few stragglers as people dive under roofs, leaving us to slice through the dark alone—a blessing, really, that allows us to travel faster.
After ten minutes or so, the tower of the temple looms out of the dark to our left, its surface lit by spotlights from below and sheets of rain glittering in the beams. We cross the canal at a bridge and arrive shortly thereafter to discover that the tower is part of a larger compound surrounded by a high wall. The entrance is a massive stone interruption in the wall, thirty feet high or more and doubly wide; its soaring arch provides shelter from the pour. It is crested with sculptures of the Vedic gods and their deeds and makes one feel small in comparison to such a monument. A solitary figure waits there—not underneath the arch but underneath an umbrella, wrapped in a sari. As I draw near I see that it is Laksha, or at least the body that Laksha currently occupies; I never know how to think of her. She changes bodies the way Atticus and I change IDs, but for now she still wears the body of Selai Chamkanni, which she had taken years ago, after she moved out of my head.
She flashes white teeth at me as I approach, and I smile in return. Atticus would probably think me too trusting of her, but I doubt he fully understands what is between us. Back in the days when I was bartending at Rúla Búla, Laksha could have killed me at any time—in fact, it would have been simpler for her—but she chose not to. I know my life is safe with her, because my death would have been more expedient. And I know, too, because of the fact that she lived in my head. That requires an enormous amount of trust, and it’s a relationship very few people can grasp, Atticus included. He thinks she could change her mind at any time, and in theory I suppose that is true. I do understand why she is to be feared by others; her power is the easily abused kind, and in the past she did abuse it, and may do so again. But I also know that I personally have nothing to fear from her.
“Laksha,” I say, moving close underneath the umbrella. “I’d hug you, but I’m soaked and you’re still somewhat dry.”
“Hug me anyway. I have come to admire this custom, and it’s been too long.” I do so but feel guilty for ruining her clothes, which always look so much more elegant than anything I ever wear. She has swaths of red and yellow fabric draped around her from shoulders to ankles, in dramatic sweeps that are simultaneously modest and profoundly sensual. Her ruby necklace, which acts as both a focus for her power and a place of refuge for her spirit, rests beneath her collarbone in plain sight, and I notice that she is wearing a ruby bindi between her eyes these days.
“You look good,” I say, noticing a few deepening crinkles around the eyes that indicate she has aged. She notices that I haven’t aged at all.
“My thanks. But I do not look as good as you. What do the Druids know that I don’t?”
“How to make the right kind of tea. What happened to Idunn’s golden apple?” Atticus had gone to great trouble to get her one; she was going to use the seeds to plant her own tree and have access to the eternal youth of the Norse gods.
“I have two different trees growing, but they have yet to bear fruit. I am hoping they will flower soon.”
“You still have plenty of time.”
“I know, but this body is not so athletic as it once was. I will need to find a new body if the apples don’t come soon. The trees are magical and may take longer than normal to produce anything.”
“I can brew Immortali-Tea if you want,” I say. “Return your body to its twenties and give you more time to wait on the tree.”
“You can? Mr. O’Sullivan taught you how to do this?”
“Yes. You’ll need to set aside a block of time to get it done, because there are side effects, but it’s not insanely difficult.”
“Let us speak of it later, then. You are here for your father.”
“Yes, where is he?”
“I do not know. I cannot divine his location. The raksoyuj possessing him has defenses.”
Orlaith, who is unable to squeeze under the canopy of the umbrella, shakes herself and sprays water in all directions. "Go inside now? Under roof?" She has an excellent point, and I pet her and shoot her a quick private apology.
“Might we be able to find someplace dry to talk more?” I ask Laksha.
“Of course. This was simply a convenient place to meet. You found it easily, yes?”
“Yeah, it’s quite a landmark.”
“Good. Follow me.” Laksha begins to walk away from the entrance of the shrine, and I’m faintly disappointed that we won’t get to talk inside. But then I remember that Atticus will come here looking for me.
“Wait,” I say. “Can we leave a message somehow for Atticus? Tell him where to find us?”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Mr. O’Sullivan will be coming?”
“Yes. I don’t know when, precisely, but I’m sure he will get here eventually.”
“You have not gone your separate ways?”
“Well, no, I never wanted that. I had a crush on him, if you remember, even before you told me he was a Druid. Turned out the feeling was mutual.”
“I see.” The rain falls uninterrupted by our voices as she digests this, the susurrus of the earth’s business always continuing, heedless of human concerns. Then, “Can you not simply call him? Text him?”
“He’s not on this plane right now.”
“Surely he will call you when he returns?”
I grin and shake my head ruefully. “Nothing is sure with Atticus.”
“There is no way to guarantee he will get any message at the shrine,” Laksha says. “Is there no other way to contact him?”
“I’m not sure … Oh! Duh. Yes, there is. Hold on a moment.” Looking down at my feet, I see that we are standing on a cobblestone path, but an expanse of grass waits a few yards away, flirting with the edges of the temple walls. “Let me talk to the elemental for a minute, and then we can go.”
“I will wait here,” Laksha says, and I nod my thanks and skip over to the grass. Orlaith follows, shaking herself again.
"What happens?" she asks.
I’m going to speak to the earth and then we can go someplace dry.
"Good plan! Talk fast?"
I will do my best.
Since I’ve never spoken to this elemental before, I feel a bit nervous about introducing myself without Atticus around. But I access my Latin headspace and speak through my binding to the earth: //Greetings / Harmony / New Druid visits//
The reply fills me with euphoria but also inspires some introspection. //Welcome / Fierce Druid / Harmony / Enjoy my lands//
I blink. Atticus told me that the elementals were calling me something like Fierce Druid, but I had yet to hear it—or feel it, I suppose—until now. Elementals don’t use words, of course, but I could feel that the image or concept of “Druid” had been modified to imply ferocity when applied to me specifically. Did they know something about me that I didn’t? Why wasn’t I Nice Druid or Mellow Druid with a Lovely Singing Voice?
//Druid comes here soon// I say, using the unmodified concept that they employed for Atticus. //Must see him / Query: Tell him my location upon arrival?//
//Yes//
//Gratitude / Harmony / Query: What shall I call you?//
//Self is of the river humans name Kaveri//
I smile in recognition. Thanjavur was in the delta region of the Kaveri River. //I will call you Kaveri / Harmony//
After that detail is attended to, Laksha leads us through a maze of narrow streets to a modest dwelling about a half mile away from the temple. Thanjavur has trees and patches of unpaved earth scattered throughout, and there is a small vegetable garden in the front of Laksha’s house, sufficient to serve as a place marker for Kaveri.
Once inside, Laksha fetches towels for us all and invites me to change into a robe while she throws my clothes into a dryer. That seems like an unnecessary delay to me.
“Won’t we be leaving soon?”
“There is time enough to get dry.” I give her my clothes, put on the robe, and get Orlaith toweled off to the point where she’s just wet instead of dripping. Laksha makes me a cup of hot chai, then takes us to a room she calls her craft room—a polite term for witchcraft. There are circles on the floor, one of salt and another painted with what I fear might be dried blood. After cautioning to avoid the circles, Laksha guides us past them to a mahogany table on the far wall and lights a few candles. Shards of pottery with raised Sanskrit letters are arranged on the table, pieced next to one another to form lines of text. Orlaith puts her nose at the edge of the table and snuffles a couple of times.
"Smells bad," she says, and then sits down.
“This vessel was unearthed not far from here,” Laksha says, pointing at the shards. “Your father was drawn to a dig north of town, and these writings are what alarmed me so. They say, ‘Keep sealed for all time. He who opens this prison will die, and rakshasas will plague the land.’ Then there are some praises to Shiva at the end.”
“That’s it? Nothing about who or what was inside?”
Laksha shrugs. “It does not say, but we can make inferences. If he has power over rakshasas, then he must either be an asura—one of the higher-powered demons that rivaled the Vedic devas—or a raksoyuj. Asuras tend to take on their own physical form, while a raksoyuj must possess others. Your father is possessed, so a raksoyuj is the most likely—”
“Wait. Why must a raksoyuj possess others?”
Laksha looks uncomfortable at my question. “How much do you know of the Hindu cycle of birth and rebirth?”
“I guess just the basics: The body dies but the spirit doesn’t. Spirits return in new bodies, and each one is trying to become pure enough to return to the source, right?”
“Precisely. And each lifetime will have few or no memories of past lives. These words suggest that the prisoner’s original body is long gone but his spirit never moved on in the cycle. It was trapped in this container instead. He was trying to prolong this particular existence by possessing others.”
I search her face for emotion and find none.
“Forgive me for saying so, but that sounds an awful lot like what you are doing.”
“I know,” she replies after a pause, her voice soft and haunted. “We are very similar. In this thing I see the end of a path I nearly walked. I am not sure the path I took is much better.”
“All right. What’s the difference between you and this raksoyuj?”
“I possess the body only. I have no traffic with the spirit. I push the occupying spirit out and take over—simply hijack the body. But he controls both the spirit and the body.”
“Didn’t you do that with me?”
“No, I shared space in your head and found unused pathways and corners of your brain to inhabit. I did not read your thoughts unless you wished to speak to me, and with rare exceptions, I only took control of your body with your permission. What he’s doing is enslaving your father. He knows what your father knows, remembers what he remembers. In outward appearance your father will look the same. But his behavior is quite different now.”
“What is he doing exactly? You said he’s spreading pestilence.”
“Yes, this is the end of the second day. The numbers of the ill are growing, and the hospitals are already strained. Doctors are confused, but people sense that the disease is unnatural. Earlier this afternoon—outside town—a woman was burned for being a witch.”
She doesn’t smile after she says that, though I wait for her to do so. When the silence lengthens, I prompt her. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I am completely serious.”
“Oh, gods. Was she a witch?”
“I do not think so. She was poor and unmarried and therefore a target. I dress like a wealthy married woman for a reason.”
“That’s terrible. Can’t believe it happened today.”
“It is easy for me to believe. Fear ignores the pace of modernity.”
“How is he spreading the disease?”
“Do you know what a rakshasa is?”
“I have a general idea. It’s a demon of some kind, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a demon in any Judeo-Christian sense. It is the rebirth of an especially wicked human into a sort of cursed half-life. They can shape-shift at will into almost anything organic that they wish—including noxious vapors. This is maya, the power of illusion. Your father is summoning rakshasas and commanding them specifically not to eat people or yank out their hearts or any number of other things but to cause this fast-moving disease that perplexes doctors. Hundreds have fallen ill in the past two days. Those who were infected first have now died. Tomorrow this will escalate and become international news, as hundreds turn to thousands.”