“We will speak of this again, sister.” Ektha squeezed my hand. “Don’t think I will forget.”
A wave of heat crashed over me, filling my mouth with the taste of smoke and salt. Soot and ash swirled in the air, sullying my once pristine white sari and turning me gray. There would be no relief today, not even from the breeze, as we stood on the beach and stared at the smoke billowing ever higher.
My eyes burned, but rubbing them did no good. I had run out of tears long ago. I traced my thumb over the bracelet from Samanth. Its red and gold threads were frayed and faded, but I refused to let it go. It was the last gift from a lifelong friend.
The flames of the pyres had begun to die down, leaving us under the dark sky with only the moon and glowing embers to light the night. The priests had finished their chants long ago, but few people had left the beach. We stayed together in silence, unwilling to go back to our homes?—as if doing so would somehow signal that we had accepted reality and permitted this moment to be woven into our history. For now, if we stood here, perhaps we could reject incorporating it into the fabric of our being.
I glanced past Ektha and Nikith and to my uncle, who remained steadfast at Jagath’s side. Jagath was more than our trusted general. He was Uncle Trimulya’s friend, insomuch as someone could be friends with the raja. But there was no doubt that my uncle was there as a friend today. After paying his respects to the other mourning families, Uncle Trimulya stayed by Jagath’s side as he sent his oldest son to the Spirits.
Jagath had hardly moved since arriving on the beach. He was a statue at the head of the pyre, with Thevan standing close on his father’s left. In truth, though, Thevan was far away. He stared at the waters beyond the pyre, determinedly refusing to look at the decorated wooden structure in front of him. His eyes were glazed with tears, and the rivulets running down his cheeks left ghosts of his sorrow in their tracks.
A monk arrived with a bowl of milk and offered it to Jagath. My uncle’s general looked down at the bowl, moving his eyes alone, but otherwise stayed motionless. No matter how much closer the monk pushed the bowl toward Jagath’s hands, he refused to take it. He clenched his fists, and his lower lip began to quiver.
Thevan stared resolutely out to the sea.
My uncle cleared his throat and inclined his head toward me. My mouth went dry. It wasn’t my place. Even Ektha appeared troubled as she looked from our uncle to me. That milk would extinguish the final flames of the pyre; pouring it was the sacred right of the closest family member. With Samanth’s father and brother right there, it seemed wrong for me to take the bowl. But neither of them moved. And the monk was likely to continue to try to push the milk into their hands even though neither wanted to take it.
I stepped next to Thevan and reached for the bowl. The monk opened his mouth to protest but then glanced at my uncle and thought better of it. The wooden bowl was warm in my hands, and I did my best to keep it steady as the sands shifted beneath my feet, creating ripples on the surface.
Even those tiny grains of sand were making their impact known. But I was here, fully grown and unable to change anything about this moment.
No matter what I did, Samanth would be gone.
Just like my mother.
And my father.
And the Spirits knew how many more.
Through the smoke that enveloped us, I saw Uncle Trimulya’s wince as he shifted his weight. He needed to get back to the infirmary again. Soon. The healers had placed a hard splint to support him as he stood on the beach, but the wound was almost certainly throbbing by now and would need to be rebandaged. Probably elevated as well, but the raja would be far too impatient for such a thing.
I nudged Thevan with my toes. He ignored me, so I placed one foot on top of his and applied slowly increasing pressure until he looked at me in wide-eyed surprise. In the darkness, the light of the embers shone in his tears. I wanted to step away and give him the time he needed to mourn, but I held the bowl of milk out to him instead.
Thevan glanced down and shook his head. “Please,” he whispered.
“This is not mine.” My voice was dry and scratchy even without an attempt to whisper. “It is taking everything your father has to keep standing. This will be too much. You must do this for your brother.”
“And what of me?” Thevan’s eyes flashed in anger and something I couldn’t quite see. “What if it is too much for me? Who will be at my side?”
“You can do this.” Our hands were almost touching, and I sent strength to him through the space in between. “I am standing right here. Just as I have always been. Just as I ever will be.”
“That’s the kind of promise that lights a fire of its own,” he said. “Do not make it lightly.”
Thevan held my gaze as shadows from the flickering flames raced across his face. For a brief moment, the light illuminated his pain before the darkness covered it again. My hand burned with the desire to reach up and caress his cheek, filling the hollows with my warmth. But I kept it still, embracing him with my eyes alone until he finally took the bowl from me.
I made my way to my uncle. The fire spat again, sending out sparks as some of the wood cracked and fell. A few landed on my sari, and I frantically patted the bright orange sparks until they dimmed into nothing and left only tiny holes behind. My uncle put a hand on my arm and shifted his weight so he could lean on me when I reached his side. Pain crisscrossed his face as he tried not to wince.
After paying our final respects, Nikith and I helped my uncle make his way back, with Ektha following close behind. I looked over my shoulder at the beach one last time. A shiver ran up my spine, and I reached for my bracelet but felt only my skin, which stung as I touched it. My bracelet was gone, and a raised blister stung beneath my fingertips. I hadn’t even noticed when it happened, but I must have gotten burned when the sparks flew out. There was no sign of my bracelet in the sand, and it was difficult to see anything with so little light. Somehow, I didn’t need to see it to be certain the singed threads had joined the swirling plumes of the pyre.
By morning, my bracelet would be gone. As would all the ashes. Even our footprints in the sand would be washed away, erased as the earth reset.
And Samanth would be a memory.
The little girlwith big brown eyes had grown since her last visit.
She still had the round cheeks of youth, but her face had begun to take the shape of the woman she would become. Abbakka walked beside Matanta, one hand placed gently on his flank, following the movement of his body more than the path of his paws. In her other hand, she held a stick and parted the tall grasses in front of her as they made their way forward. Adaiman twittered above their heads, flashing their green wings and tails as they flew.
“You are quiet today.” Matanta’s low voice rumbled in his rib cage, tingling Abbakka’s fingertips.
