What did Jeevan say last time we looked at the map? Something about the closest village, but I can’t remember where he said it was … back the way we came or the other way? If I make a mistake, Jeevan could be the one paying the price … with his life.
I swallow the lump in my throat, fight back the tears that are sneaking out, and think of the warrior goddess Durga.
I kneel at the entrance to the shelter, touch Jeevan’s cheek for the final time, and listen to his rattled breath heave in and out. “I won’t leave you for long, I promise. I’ll be back before the fire dies out.”
The spirit bird calls again.
“Are you telling me to go? But how will I find my way back? The forest is vast, and without the map it all looks the same.” My hand brushes the cotton bag I brought from home and I get an idea: I’ll use the knife to cut it into strips and tie them to branches as I pass.
I lay my precious belongings to one side, pick up Jeevan’s knife, and begin cutting the bag, counting the strips as I go. It makes forty altogether, and I stuff them into my pockets.
I take one last look at Jeevan, his breath rushing in and out, his cheeks blazing, and my voice wavers. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The spirit bird remains poised on the shelter, ruffles its coppery wings, turns its head, and blinks at me.
“Bless my journey and keep Jeevan safe.” I press my hands together. “Guard him for me.”
Everything is deathly quiet as I creep away into the blanketed dawn, along the snowy path. I curl my numb fingers around one of the strips in my pocket and pull it out. I stretch up to a branch and tie it in a double knot before hurrying on.
I peer up into the sky, still semidark with the pinprick lights of stars shining through. With Jeevan by my side it would be easy to know the right star to follow. He always said the North Star was the one to navigate by—it’s the one that never moves. And if Jeevan can do it, so can I! His life depends on it. At the next clearing I look up and choose the stillest star, keep it ahead of me just like he would, and move forward.
Blood pumps in my ears as I search through the icy mist. Pale fingers of early sunlight cast long spiky shadows in the trees. What if the man-beast stories are real? I think of Nanijee, swallow my fears, feel my courage rise, and quicken my pace to find help for Jeevan, tying the strips as I go.
I keep walking through the shadowy forest, my eyes clamped firmly on the fading star, flashing furtive glances over my shoulder as invisible demons pierce their eyes into my back, until I’m tired and hungry and my legs are close to buckling beneath me.
I flop to the ground and rest against a tree, exhausted. I raise myself onto my elbows but can’t get to my feet again.
Asha, you can’t stay there. Remember my words when you fell from the mango tree and lay in a bundle by the base of the trunk, refusing to get up? I cradled you, dabbed your knees with a clean cloth, and together we walked back to the house. I fed you milky kheer between your sobs and told you the pain would soon be forgotten, but maybe the scars would stay to remind you to be strong when it happens again.
Go on, little Ashi, go on.
I push away from the tree. The final length of fabric is ready in my pocket, and I feel the rhythm of the pendant egging me on, the wild wind calling my name: Aaaa … sha!
I tug at the fabric and think of Jeevan, overcome by his fits of fever, and stagger through the craggy trees as rays of morning light creep through their branches. My heart is waking up, rapping at my ribs.
When the trees start to thin at long last as weak sunlight smudges the sky behind, I grasp the last tie with my frozen fingers and hook the fabric clumsily, lifting it slowly from my pocket, twisting it onto a branch in an awkward knot.
Aching deep into my bones, I drag myself through the final stretch of forest onto a wide plateau where coarse grasses stand to attention like ghostly snow-covered soldiers. And now that the sun has risen, I’m sure I’ll find my way back.
The memory of Jeevan’s face, fever stretched and blazing, spurs me on, giving me the strength to keep tramping forward—past trees, through tall, grassy meadows, hardly stopping to rest until the sun is almost overhead, searching for a house, a goat, anything.
I cup my hands in an icy stream that springs out of a cluster of rocks and take a long, thirst-quenching drink.
I splutter the water out … It’s faint at first, but I can hear the sound of goats bleating. I knew there would be farms out here! My heart gives a little skip—if there are goats there’ll be someone looking after them! I squint against the sun but don’t see anyone.
I begin running in the direction of the bleating and, putting my hands to my mouth, I call out, “Hey … Anybody there?” My voice is a lonely cry echoing across the wide-open land. “Anybody?” I repeat.
But there are only the bleating goats. I run toward them, slowing as I get closer, and whistle, trying to entice one toward me. I grab at a clump of bleached grass and hold the offering in the palm of my hand. “Come on … over here.”
A curious black-and-white one sidles up, nosing its way toward my outstretched
