Page 93 of Tiger's Voyage
“But it isn’t carved to symbolize anything.”
“An uncarved icon can represent something just as much as a carved one. This room is thegarbhagriha, or the womb of the temple.”
“I can see why they call it a womb. It’s dark in here,” I said.
We all stepped to the walls to study the carvings. We’d only been at it a few minutes when I caught a flash of white at the door. I turned my head, but nothing was there. Mr. Kadam said it was time to move to the next shrine. As we passed an arch that opened to the outside, I looked down at the ocean. A beautiful woman, dressed in white with a gossamer veil over her hair, was standing on the shore. She pressed a finger to her lips as she gazed up at me before melting into a nearby mulberry tree.
“Kishan? Mr. Kadam?”
“What is it?” Kishan asked.
“I saw something. A woman, she was standing there. She was dressed all in white, and she looked Indian or maybe Asian. She sort of disappeared by actually walking inside that mulberry tree.”
Kishan leaned out and scanned the grounds. “I don’t see anything now, but let’s stick together.”
“Okay.”
He took my hand as we walked into the next shrine. We passed Ren, who I hadn’t noticed standing in the darkness behind us. His arms were crossed over his chest in one of his classic “watching me” poses. In the next shrine, I stayed close to Kishan while we scanned the carvings on the wall together. I found a carving of a woman weaving at a loom and traced the outline with my finger. At her foot rested her thread basket, and one of the threads had become unraveled. Curious, I followed its thin line through several more carvings.
The thread was wrapped around the ankle of a farmer, and then a cat toyed with it. The thread trailed on through a wheat field, where I lost it and had to search several carvings before finding it again. It joined a scarf wrapped around a woman’s neck, and then wove itself into a thick rope that blazed with fire. It became a fishing net, it wrapped around a large tree, it tripped a monkey, it was held in a bird’s talon, and then … it stopped. It ended at the corner of the room, and, though I searched the adjoining wall, I couldn’t find a place where it continued.
I pressed my thumb against the carved line to feel its texture. It was so thin, my thumb could barely sense it. When I hit the corner at the end of the trail something strange happened. My thumb glowed red—only my thumb—and when I stepped back from the wall, I saw a butterfly crawl out of a crack. It began flapping its wings rapidly, but it didn’t fly. I peered at it closely and realized it wasn’t a butterfly but a large white moth.
It was hairy, almost furry, with large black eyes and some kind of brown feathery antennae that reminded me of the teeth on a baleen whale. When it flapped its wings, something happened to the wall. This small section of wall had been smooth, which was odd because the rest of the wall was covered in detailed carvings.
Thin white lines appeared, and they all radiated from the carved thread I’d been following. They glowed with a light so intense, I had to squint to watch them. When I reached to touch one, the light jumped from the wall to my hand. At the same time, the white lines burst with all the colors of the rainbow. They outlined Phet’s henna design on my hand with white light that quickly began shifting color.
I turned to look back at Kishan, but behind me was only blackness. I couldn’t speak. There was nothing I could do except watch the wall as the lines stretched faster and faster. They were drawing something—a woman, sitting by a window, embroidering. One second I was standing next to the wall, looking at the drawing, and in the next second, the woman breathed and blinked, and I was inside the drawing with her. She was the same woman I’d seen standing on the beach. She was dressed in a white silk gown and wore a gossamer veil over her hair.
She smiled and pointed to the chair across from hers. When I sat, she handed me a circular embroidery frame that had the most lovely stitched version of Durga. The stitches were so small and delicate, that it looked like a painting. She’d created flowers that looked real, and Durga’s hair flowed from her golden cap in waves that looked so soft that I had to touch it. The woman passed across a needle and a small box full of tiny seed pearls.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Durga needs her Necklace.”
“I’ve never sewn with beads before.”
“Look here … they have tiny holes. I will show you the first two, and then you can finish it.”
Deftly, she threaded the needle, made the tiniest stitch, slipped a seed pearl onto the needle, tied the thread around it, and inserted the needle back through the fabric. I watched her go through the same process again before she handed the needle to me and placed the box of pearls on the windowsill.
She picked up her frame, selected some blue thread, and continued working. After I’d affixed two beads and was satisfied with my effort, I asked, “Who are you?”
She kept her eyes on her work and answered, “I am called by many names, but the one most commonly used is Lady Silkworm.”
“Durga sent me to you. She said you would help to guide us on our journey.” I blinked. “Oh! You’re from the prophecy. You’re the lady who weaves the silk.”
She smiled while looking at her needle. “Yes. I weave and embroider silk. Once it was all I lived for, but now it is my penance.”
“Your penance?”
“Yes. For betraying the man I loved.”
I dropped the frame to my lap and stared at her. She looked up and shooed at me with her hand until I picked up the frame and continued.
“Shall I tell you what happened?” she asked. “I haven’t shared the story with anyone in many years, and something tells me you will understand.”
I nodded mutely, so she began. “Many, many years ago, women were admired for their skill in needlework. Girls were trained at a very young age, and those most highly skilled were taken to sew for the emperor. Some, a very few, even became wives for noblemen, and because of their skill, their families were well provided for.
