Free The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair

the age.” I was beginning to see that, as adept as they were in language, the pundits had never managed or secured anything like this. That made three of us.
    Devi groaned. “We will do no such thing, C.G. You and I, with the help of our brilliant technical expert here, will determine the age from the language itself. And we will do the translation right here without a horde of water buffalo tramping through our cave. I will hire a guard.” Brilliant? I had become brilliant. Master was correct though. The writing was the best method of determining the age.
    The Ayur Veda is India's great medical treatise. Immense and old, it is divided into very detailed sections. Normally it would be easy to establish the origin by style and references. Normally. The challenge we were faced was that our discovery was closer to the trunk than the twigs—very old, uncharted territory.
    While the pundits discussed security measures, I thought about how I could re-photograph the parts I'd missed when my batteries died. It would mean another trip to the cave as soon as possible.
    Mirabai came in to clear our trays, and we made plans to re-convene the following morning. Besides being the official photographer, I was now conferred the weighty title of Keeper of the Notes and Photographs. Taking my new role seriously, I made a few notes about getting it all onto the computer and the jump drive correctly, then set everything into the inner pockets of my backpack.
    As I stood, Master patted my hand with a thank you and instructed me to arrive punctually the following morning. The rest of the afternoon was mine to enjoy.
     
    In the kitchen I paused to thank Mirabai--my Jewish grandmother in a sari--for lunch. Never left her house with an empty stomach. I glanced about, hoping to offer a bashful thank-you to Sukshmi, but she was nowhere to be seen, so I strolled to the courtyard where the midday heat blasted me like a shore wave.
    Ugly Bike lay where I’d left her--twisted like a bull in the center of a bullring. I shouldered my pack and hefted her with a little bounce to scatter the dust from her rims. As I patted off the seat and rolled her towards the gate, I heard a whispered hiss. “Bhim!” It came from the small shack near the back corner of the wall, a hut that usually had a few tools and bags of grain for the chickens that clucked about the yard. Today the door was open just enough to see the long braid and flashing eyes of Sukshmi. I rolled Ugly Bike toward the opening with a trembling that was surely being registered on a seismograph somewhere. As I went to step onto the kickstand, from inside the house, I heard Master call out. “Sukshmi!”
    Stretching out her hand, she darted past me in a bright flash of blue silk. A trace of pink drifted to the ground at my feet. I bent and picked up the folded note and slipped quietly through the wooden door in the wall.

     
     
    Twelve
    The joie de vivre that was torn from me when Lilia died left a void in my heart. And make no mistake; that is where the pain pitches its tent when love dies, that wheel in center of the chest. In the months following her death I ached in that space more than I thought physically possible, slept in fitful spurts, and wept at the tiniest suggestion of her departure. I wrapped my arms about that space in futile attempts to hold in a withering spirit. I whispered her name in the dark. Then, little by little, I stopped whispering. Silence stole across my spirit. Friends and family tried every method of intercession and salvation, but I only slipped further. Eventually only one option remained. To leave. I opted for an itinerary to another country and another life. It was my only choice, to seek another life. I crossed that threshold like a wraith, voiceless and alone.
    But there were people on my path that refused allow me to sink further. That is the way it is in a land like India; people sustain you on your path, often done in return for nothing.
    There was Sahr,