The Mahabharata of Palmira

3 The parting

3 The parting

A jug of water stood shaded on the tiles beside Palmira. She drank a little from a cup on the table. The two boys were very quiet, but fidgeting.

Palmira took a long, deep breath, glanced through the creepers on the south wall, towards the grey outline of the hills beyond, and began her story.

•

It was midnight. A young woman, hardly more than a girl, crept quietly out of a tiny, broken-down hovel. She was in a little clearing, from which a single path led into the dense surrounding wood. The air was not clear enough to see the stars, but there were no clouds to disturb the moon shining alone in the black sky. The girl was walking quickly along the narrow path. She was carrying a bundle which must have been very heavy, because she had to stop every few paces to catch her breath. Her bare feet did not seem to feel the pain as they stepped on snapping twigs. They were hardened. Her big toes were long, leaning in sharply towards her other toes. She was covered in deerskins which were ragged, dirty and torn. She was crying softly as she went, snuffling between gasps for breath.

The path opened onto a river bank. She stood still for a few minutes, holding her bundle tightly, her eyes on the sparkling water, listening to the river. When her breath had steadied she looked round. She caught sight of something nearby along the bank and slowly bent her knees into a crouch, lowering her bundle and cradling it in her lap.

Then she gently placed the bundle on the ground and waded into the overgrown reeds that hid the margin of the river. She came out of the reeds carrying a large basket. It was made of wicker, in two halves fastened with leather straps. The wickerwork was tightly bound with waxed hide to keep out the water. The wax caught the moonlight as she put the basket down by her bundle. She undid the fastenings, removed the upper half, and took out a large sack and a tiny pillow. She wrapped her bundle in the sack and, straining with the weight, put it into the basket. Only the sleeping face of the baby was now visible.

Her hands moved across the sack and touched the boy’s cheeks. She cradled his head, kissed it, and placed the tiny pillow beneath him to soften the hardness of the wicker. She carefully replaced the upper half of the basket and fastened it tightly.

She tried to lift the basket clear of the ground. It was too heavy so she dragged it slowly towards the water’s edge. She waded in again, drawing the basket with her into the reeds. She slowly moved clear into the very centre of the river, where the water was still only waist deep. She held the basket steady in the current and whispered to her son, the two of them alone in the moonlit stream.

‘Oh my child, may the gods protect you from all who dwell in water, land, in sky and heaven. May all the paths you take bring you fortune, and let no one stand against you in your chosen way. May all those whose paths cross yours find in their hearts only love, and all evil chased away. Happy is the sun who will be able to watch over you. Blessed also is the mother who will take you for her son and name you, and who will suckle you when you are hungry.’

She let go her tight grip, and the basket flew away from her in the brisk current as though it had never been still. A voiceless cry choked on her lips as she arched helplessly towards the dwindling shadow.