The Library of Fates(39)
“What kind of wisdom?”
“The wisdom that the descendants of the Diviners lost . . . the ability to speak with the sky, with the ocean, with the trees. Those who broke from the Diviners lost their old ways. Humans no longer saw themselves as protectors of the Earth, connected to it, but they believed that they owned it. Their greed led to wars that destroyed the lakes, the forests, the oceans.”
“Like the Land of Trees,” I murmured.
Varun nodded. His long fingers pointed to the ground, his voice forceful and passionate as he watched me with his intense eyes, his gaze burning into me. “This is where it existed, the Land of Trees,” he said, indicating the ground on which we walked.
My mouth dropped open. “Shalingar was the Land of Trees?”
“Very long ago. The Diviners lived within the Land of Trees. It was their home. Anyway, you know the story. People . . . wanted to turn it into a carnival ground. Maya, the leader of the Diviners, couldn’t stand for this. The conflict escalated; they were on the brink of war. But the Diviners didn’t believe in war as a solution to conflict. So Maya broke with her people and hiked up to Mount Moutza to enlist the help of the vetalas.”
“But you told me the vetalas and humans didn’t speak.”
“You’re an excellent listener.” He grinned. “Maya took a risk when she climbed Mount Moutza—she was flouting an unspoken rule that humans did not enter vetala territory. Maya begged them for help, and help they did.”
“What did they do?” I felt invested in the story now.
“Vetalas have great strength. And the ability to fly. So they transported the Diviners—or at least some of them—to a sanctuary.”
“The Janaka Caves?”
He nodded. “Sadly, they weren’t able to save the forest. And so humans eventually destroyed the Land of Trees.”
“So what good was all that work?” I said, annoyed at his story.
“You assume that’s the end to the story . . .”
“Okay, so what’s the end?”
He glanced at me intensely, and once again, I had to look away from his gaze. “The Diviners spread out all over the Earth. One group went to Macedon. They became the oracles. Another group stayed in the caves—the sanctuary the vetalas helped them find. They became the Sybillines . . . guardians of the most precious material the Earth produces.”
“Chamak.”
“Exactly. The other chapter of the story has to do with the temple at the top of Mount Moutza. When Maya climbed the mount, asking for help, a vetala fell in love with her—a divine love growing between the two of them. They spent the rest of her life together. But he was immortal, and she was human.”
“I know this story! About the vetala that wanders the Earth looking for his beloved.” I thought about Arjun then, about how we had spoken about this very part of the tale one of the last times I saw him.
Varun nodded. “Do you know why he does that?”
“I assume because he’s heartbroken.”
“Yes and no. Of course he’s heartbroken, but before she died, she made a promise to him: that if the people of her land ever needed her aid, she would return to the Earth in another incarnation. Mount Moutza itself is a temple devoted to the bond between Maya and her beloved . . . a place where miracles happen. Where vetalas and humans come together. Where any desire can be expressed and fulfilled.”
“Yeah, I don’t believe in stuff like that.”
Varun shrugged. “You don’t have to. But many do. You know, the king of Shalingar comes to the temple once a year too. He is a great devotee of Maya.”
My heart dropped into my stomach, and I felt my hand instinctively press against my rib cage. I couldn’t speak for several seconds, and Varun waited me out.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Finally, I took a deep breath. “The king of Shalingar?”
Varun nodded. “There’s a reason people come from all over the world to offer prayers to Maya. She’s our most beloved deity. She gives people courage to stand up for what they believe in.”
In the distance, I could see Mount Moutza, and if I squinted my eyes, at the very top, I could just barely make out a structure cut out of red rocks.
Was it possible that Maya the Diviner would actually descend to Earth now that we really were in trouble? I was too old for fantasies, had never believed in magic, but I desperately wanted to trust that someone would come and save us, or at the very least, someone would come and tell me what to do—how to reclaim my kingdom, how to save Arjun, and maybe, if it was even possible, how to go back in time and save my father and Mala.
I felt a hollowness in the pit of my stomach when I thought of my father making this very pilgrimage to the temple at the top of Mount Moutza. I wondered what he thought about when he went there. I wondered what he asked for. I wondered why he never brought me with him. My heart ached to speak with him again, to laugh with him.
“I wish there were something I could tell you to convince you that the story is true. But . . . you’ll have to go to the temple, see for yourself,” Varun interrupted my thoughts. I looked down at my shoes. I was wearing the white sandals that Thala had purchased in the town square, and my feet were horribly cut up and blistered. They ached with every step to Mount Moutza, but I didn’t even care. The ache in my heart hurt far worse.