Free A Far Horizon by Meira Chand

childhood, she had gone with the servant’s children to the hut of a shaman in the nearby village. This old crone had frightened Emily, for as she entered the hut, the woman had fastened upon her. The servant’s children had crowded about, giggling and whispering. The dark hut had smelled of dung and mustard oil, chickens entered and pecked about. A thatched roof held the heat and released it around them. Emily’s heart beat fast before the old woman, who sat cross-legged on the earthen floor. The woman’s hair was matted and wild, strange animal noises escaped her, merging with the clucking of chickens. She drew Emily forward, gnarled black fingers curling around her arm. Then the old crone had begun to rock about, her eyes rolling up until only the whites were visible. Emily thought of the boiled eggs that had lain on her plate at breakfast. The woman rocked faster and faster. The strange grunts became the hissing of snakes, the squeaking of bats, the whistling of the wind. Emily tried to pull away but the old woman strengthened her grip. The wild energy that knocked about within her seemed to shake itself free. The woman seemed to grow tall and smooth-skinned; her boiled-egg eyes protruded from her head. The force loosed within the hut seemed to enter Emily, flowing hotly through her from the old woman’s palms. The shaman still gripped her, fingers kneading rhythmically. Small as she was, Emily knew then that she had entered a crack between worlds, a place of miracles and imaginings. Her very substance ran free, dissolved. She was nothing but this inner knowing, ageless and older than the old crone, the source of the seen and hidden worlds; the source of her very self.
    Suddenly, the woman had grown quiet and slumped in a heap. Emily’s body stilled. She saw she was alone in the hut with the woman, and turned to stumble outside. The servant’s children waited there. Fearful now of adventure, they drew back at the sight of Emily. Her feet seemed not to touch the ground but to move her fluidly forward. Her hair streamed against the sky. The leaves and trees, the dark dung soil, the song of birds and the flow of the river all now seemed manifest in her. For hours she lived in a daze, telling no one of the experience. She lay on her bed and let the mercurial feelings stream through her. Eventually her body ceased its thrumming . Once more her instincts turned inwards, like the petals of a flower at the end of day. The thunder passed, the flood dried. She no longer gazed at the world through a thousand eyes. Soon she was left with only the memory. Soon that too passed and she forgot the inexplicable adventure. Until this moment, before this strange girl.
    Sati began to skip faster. Her head was full of whispers. Durga flamed within her until it felt as if the flesh fell away from her bones. On and on she whirled. The walls of the room disappeared. Durga was rapturous and shrieked with laughter, feeding on her own wildness. With a sudden twist Durga reached down and pulled up from the depths of Sati a further stream of foul words. Words absorbed from her mother’s and grandmother’s bawdy collections slipped from Sati’s mouth like silk pulled through a ring. She chanted them like an invocation, her eyes riveted on her mother. All the words were aimed at Rita like a constant battering of small, sharp stones. Hate her. Hate her. Durga’s laughter swelled in her head, like the beat of a drum with which she must keep pace. Hate her. Hate her.
    Unaware of this silent drum, satisfaction grew on Rita’s face as she watched her daughter dance about. The filth that poured from Sati’s lips was as familiar to her as the raw taste of paan in her mouth, and lacking in true impact. To Rita things appeared to be going well. She turned and saw at once that she was mistaken in her judgement. InMrs Drake’s face the colour was high, and a strange light burned in her eyes.
    ‘See, she has made the spirits come, just as I told