Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(29)
Deven props himself up on his elbows. “Do you really want to know?”
I swat him on the arm. “Of course we want to know,” I say. “No fair stopping in the middle of a story.”
He shoots a stern look at me. “The first rule of legends is that you never strike the storyteller.”
“Even if he is an obnoxious tease?” I ask.
His face breaks into a wide grin. He tries to force it from his face and assume a more serious expression, but he’s not having much luck. “Even then,” he says.
“Dev-en,” Mani whines. “Just tell us what happens.”
“All right,” Deven says. He clears his throat. “Finally the maiden began to turn. The prince held his breath, anxious for his first look at her face. But when he saw her, his heart sank. She wasn’t beautiful at all.”
“She wasn’t?” Mani asks.
Deven shakes his head. “She wasn’t. She was actually quite plain. The maiden saw him and asked, ‘Why have you come?’
“?‘I came to see if the legends about your beauty are true,’ the prince said.
“?‘And what have you discovered?’
“?‘I’m afraid I’ve been misled,’ the prince told her.
“The maiden was so offended by his rejection that she used her magic to create a curtain of sweet milk that tumbled from the cliffs above to shield her from the prince’s view. And then she continued to bathe. The prince turned to leave, but he hadn’t gotten very far when he heard a sound so beautiful it made him ache inside with a longing he had never known before. The maiden was singing. The prince ran back to the lake, and as he listened, he fell in love—not only with her beautiful voice, but also with the words of her songs, which revealed her heart. Suddenly he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He called out to the maiden and asked her to remove the milky curtain. Although it added much beauty to the lake, it blocked her from his view, and he desired to court her. But the maiden refused.
“The prince was determined not to leave until she changed her mind, and so he made his home near the water and spent his days talking to the maiden—telling her the stories of his youth, discussing philosophy, reciting poetry.
“Gradually the maiden’s heart softened and she fell in love with the prince. But still she wouldn’t remove the curtain. Although the prince could not remember why he had ever doubted the maiden’s beauty, she could not forget that he had once thought her plain.”
“So what happened?” I ask.
“They died—each of them in love with the other, but never seeing one another again.”
“They died?” Mani said. “That’s a terrible story.”
But I didn’t think so. It was tragic, true. But also romantic and beautiful.
“Some people say if you listen very carefully, you can still hear the maiden singing,” Deven says.
That makes us all fall silent. And for just a moment, in the rush of the waterfall, I think I can hear something that sounds like music.
“Are you up for seeing something else?” Deven asks after we’ve lunched on a picnic of samosas and maraka fruit. The sun has risen high in the sky, chasing away the crisp mountain air, and now we are bathed in a pool of buttery warmth. I’m reluctant to leave such a beautiful place, and so I don’t answer right away.
Deven studies my face. “Or we could stay here?”
“No,” I say. “We can’t have an adventure with only one stop. I just…” My voice is suddenly scratchy with emotion, and I have to pause and take a breath before I speak again. “I really love it here.” And I do. I’ve never been anywhere so serene in my entire life.
His eyes are bright. “I knew you would.” He smiles, but it’s not his usual grin—this smile spreads slowly, like spilled honey. His face looks younger and less guarded, like it did this morning when he stood outside my door in the rain. I smile back and he holds my gaze until my cheeks grow warm, and I let my eyes slide away.
He turns to Mani. “What do you think, pal? Do you want more adventure?” But Mani is already on his feet, bouncing lightly on his toes. We all laugh. Deven slings his pack over his shoulder and holds out both of his hands—one for me and one for Mani.
Deven says the walk will take over an hour, but I almost wish it would never end. We hike under huge trees that filter the light into dappled patterns on our arms and legs. The air smells so fresh that I feel like if I could just breathe deeply enough to pull it all in, it might wash away all the darkness. A songbird flits in the trees above us. With a start I realize that it looks like a miniature version of the great bird—its wings are the rich blue of lapis lazuli, edged in emerald green. I can’t pull my gaze away.
“Look,” I say, tugging on Deven’s hand, “it’s Garuda.” We stop and admire the bird for a few minutes before continuing on.
There’s a warmth radiating from my chest, and the thought crosses my mind that this must be what happiness feels like. And then, for some reason, my mind wanders to my mother. Or rather the empty space where my memories of her should be. When I was a little girl, I wondered about her incessantly—her eyes, her hair, the timbre of her voice. But I stopped thinking about her years ago, the way you avoid stepping in a puddle after a rainstorm. Because why make yourself miserable on purpose? And yet somehow the beauty of this day, its simple perfection, pushes my nonmemories of my mother forcefully to the surface. It’s as if my mind is trying to keep things in balance—like adding sour to sweet in a recipe. Gita’s stories of me as a baby include only my father. I’ve never heard her or Gopal mention my mother—though clearly I had one, even if she did agree to sell me.