Silver- Second book

Epilogue

 Prologue

1795 A.D

Vishakhaphatnam, India- Non-existant now

The Demon

    Ebony clouds streaked though the cold, muddy water, making it appear unnatural even as the sun was setting. Sounds of twigs snapping and leaves rustling bought the previously silent jungle to life. I started to breath so fast, it hurt and made my throat feel dry, but I was smart enough to make myself stop, because that is the sound that tigers and other beasts will be listening for. It’s how they work, turning our own fears into our killers. In the jungle, the wind betrays us too, carrying our smells to a tiger’s nose. The wind that is turning my nose and fingers red is trying to kill me right now, and if I stay here, then I’d be letting it.

    Quickly, I dunked my soaked, black hands into the freezing water, scrubbing at them so hard, I was afraid I would rub all of the skin off. I pulled them out, feeling relieved to see that all of the ink stains were out and they were back to their normal brown color. Smiling relief, I tossed my wet, sticking black hair back under my sari, hoping mother will forgive me for dirtying it, then I pushed myself off of the ground, sprinting as fast as I could back into the city. Thankfully, most people were already inside. After the Kshatriyas found what remained of a Vaisyas’s child yesterday, several Kshatriyas left this morning for a hunting expedition to find the tiger that had murdered the child. Meanwhile, the Brahmin here warned us to close ourselves into our homes earlier, otherwise, we would be next. I hoped the Brahmin was just trying to scare us, though, because if he is right, then I know who will feed the tigers tonight.

    I almost didn’t recognize the sound of my bare feet slapping onto the familiar front steps of my papa’s house, but as soon as I did, my mind raced through what I was going to tell them as I pounded rapidly onto the door.

    “Open, open please!” I cried. Being a married girl now, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be crying. But, Paulomi told me that since I am seven, it is okay to cry if I am by myself and if I am not crying before my husband. I may not be crying by myself, but I am not crying before my husband, and even if I was, it wouldn’t matter. His father had already disgraced me and thrown me out of his home. Our home.

    The door opened finally, and Mama’s face scowled down at me, her thick, brown lips raising up over her front teeth in disgust. Usually, I would cringe under this scowl, and her large, hating black eyes sometimes scared me to the point of tears. But, now, it was all I could do not to embrace her and cry into her shoulder, even though I knew she would push me away and slap me for it.

    “Putana.” She hissed my name.

    “Please, Mama! Tungar will not let me stay with him. He says he will kill me if he ever sees me again.” I sobbed, remembering my disgrace. Of course, after my wedding, I listened carefully to Mama’s instructions on being a perfect wife. At eleven, my husband, Jahi, was only a few years older than myself and hardly seemed very interested with me, but his father, Tungar, was very bossy and demanding of me, even though I was Jahi’s. Still, I did whatever either of them told me to and I kept my veiled eyes on the ground to avoid drawing attention to them. I spoke only when I was spoken to, I played each of my instruments with careful perfection and I cleaned each floorboard until it shined. Most importantly, I made sure never—ever—to remove my sari or my veil. For two weeks, I was respectable enough to be called a good wife, and the other wives even chided in me and pet me atop my head. But, Tungar had to ruin it all. On the third week after my marriage, I was just about ready to prepare myself for bed when Tungar cornered me outside of the nursery. I bowed politely and apologized for entering his path before I tried to scurry past him, but Tungar blocked my path.