[POTC fic series] - SAILING IN SAMSARA, C.3 - The Paths of Krishna and Kali - 4/4 - rated NC-17
Sailing in Samsara, C.3 - The Paths of Krishna and Kali - part four
Falling prostrate, hands pressed to her eyes, she sighed again. She could just make out Jack’s voice shouting orders before the wind howled. She sprawled there for several minutes, her breath becoming slow and even. Sleep prickled behind her eyelids, and she allowed the blackness to swallow her, cool and delicious.
She wasn’t sure how long she dosed before she felt a smooth hand tapping her cheeks, urging her awake. Sleep crumbled away like caked dirt from her skin, and she awoke to the gentle rhythm of Sara’s hands in her hair. Jack’s sister was propped beside her, legs stretched long, her head resting in the cradle of Sara’s hip and thigh.
“What’s happened?” Elizabeth asked, her voice cautious.
Sara did not look at her, but rather watched the windows with vacant eyes, staring into the jet sway of night. The wind whipped the glass furiously, and Elizabeth knew the storm was at it’s fullest force.
“You hit your head hard, Beta. You shouldn’t sleep too long-long, hmmm?” Her voice was low, and Elizabeth strained to hear her. Sara’s fingers continued their long path down her scalp, and her general dislike of the woman aside, Lizzie felt herself comforted in a way she’d thought was lost to her. A vision of her mother sputtered to life, glowing briefly.
Attempting to sit up, Sara’s palm stilled her, returned her throbbing head to its warm pillow. “Na, Beta, it is not so good to sit, kya? You just stay as you are, yani, I am not minding.”
Unsure of how to react, Elizabeth settled against the pillows. Sara turned her haze downward, wet-lashed, and began to speak. “You heard it all, didn’t you -the talking between Raj and I?”
Feeling suddenly trapped and awkward, Elizabeth broke eye contact and returned her attention to the windows, the distant shiver of lantern light quivering from deck and through the panes, the room’s only illumination. “Yes, a part of it at least.”
“Then you should know, yes,” Sara’s hand stalled on her forehead, “that I do love him. He is my brother, Beta. When we were small-small, he was my only real friend.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth remained frozen in place, barely breathing as she waited for the next words.
“I was just so angry, isn’t it? So, so angry, Beta. Sometimes, this rage is the only thing that keeps me afloat, yes?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you should know this. Family is family always, of that I am sure. If you have brothers and sisters, you know this.”
“No brothers or sisters, actually. But I do understand.”
Sara shifted her gaze to the windows again, fingers slinking across Elizabeth’s scalp, fingernails scraping her skin in tingling trails. Her headache dulled, and warm drowsiness slipped over her, honeyed and tranquil. Remembering how her mother would pet her hair as a little girl, rocking her to sleep, she felt the ghost of long-dried tears build behind her eyes.
“I had a son,” Sara continued, voice hollow and steady. “His name was Varun. He had the same smirking smile as Raj, and our Ammah’s light giggle, like bells and temple chimes. And he had my husband’s strong brow; his eyes were the color of moist earth.”
Unsure of how to respond, Elizabeth edged a cautious hand to Sara’s knee and patted her there.
“Oh, and how he loved Raj-Bhai. Called him Captain Uncle despite my coaxing that he should use Raj-mama, or Thambi-mama, or even Ranjit-Uncle like a proper little boy. But Varun was enamored of his uncle, and Raj loved it, ate up the name with such happy pride. Whenever he could visit - too far between, mostly - he would bring Varun strange little presents and tell him stories and stories until the night was fall-falling. They would run and play in the mango groves like two children.”
Elizabeth heard Sara sniffle, but her tone remained measured. Imagining a younger Jack dashing through orchards, raucous and free, Lizzie felt her own throat catch painfully.
“But one day, after Raj had left us to return to the seas, a garrison of British soldiers came to our home, wanting information on my brother. They were Beckett-ji’s thugs, paid by his mommy-daddy’s money, I have no doubts.”
“You knew Cutler Beckett?”
“Knew?” Sara snorted, her head jerking. “Yes, knew him too well, it would seem. Matlab, Beckett and my brother met in Bombay. Raj-Bhai was 15, maybe, and I was still a small-small girl. After the incident, my brother’s great fall, I pleaded for Raj-Bhai’s life. Beckett left me with little honor, but Raj escaped and I - it is a long, long story, Beta - but I found my way out of Bombay and into the arms of my Kumar.” Sighing heavily, her fingers became limp and stilled in Elizabeth’s hair. “So Beckett discovered us, demanded that we tell him my brother’s destination. Only Kumar knew, as I had been shopping in the village that morning, and so -“ her voice broke, quivered. “And so they strung him to a tree when he refused to tell them Raj’s location. They had my arms restrained - Beckett himself, the haraami, held me against him - and whispered in my ears that I would watch them die.”
Turning blank eyes to Elizabeth again, tears slipping slowly down her cheeks, Sara continued. “The tortured Kumar slowly. I was screaming, and Varun thrashed and shook. I only remember pleading, begging and begging and begging that they end it, kya? When they moved to Varun, I fell into slices. My skin slid from my body like peel from an overripe mango, and I felt Kali rise within me, felt my body darken to a midnight color. Kali, the great mother. The slayer of demons and kings. I fought away from Beckett - long enough to distract the soldiers from my son - and struck a bargain with those men, for Varun.”
Elizabeth shuddered, squeezed shut her eyes and tried to steal herself for what intuition suggested would follow. Vaguely, in the corner of her mind still half-dosing, she wondered whether Sara would have given up Jack had she known his location.
Remembering the mast, remembering the cold rust of manacles snapping closed on his wrists, she felt she knew the answer and shivered again.
“Those soldiers, they had come some ways from Bombay, and they had seen few women in the marchings. I offered them the only asset I had, and they took it there, again and again as Beckett watched, his mouth shut tight-tight. When it was done, they dragged me to their carts wrapped in a rice sack, for prisons or worse. But I could hear Varun crying, and so I knew he lived. I heard Beckett telling them to take him away, that he would bring many profits. I do not know what became of him after that.” Sara swiped her cheek roughly with the back of her hand. “I escaped from them in Bombay, fled to Jaipur. Once I was able to find safe enough passage back to Calcutta, all word of Varun was swept away. I returned to Jaipur, travelling as a dancer and a courtesan, and I never saw Raj again - not until these few evenings ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Sara.”
Sara’s turned, eyes ice-blue in the dim light, and she cocked her head as if in challenge. “Tell me something, won’t you, Beta?”
“If I can.”
“I heard stories about you - about Raj - many years later. Some say you fed him to his death. Is this so?”
Elizabeth sighed heavily, rolled away to face the door. She was still unable to speak of the incident without feeling the corpse-cold of the water that day, without the vapors of the world’s end swirling mistily at the back of her throat. “Yes,” she finally replied, her blood chilled and her knuckles clenched. “Yes, I did.”
“To save yourself?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth turned, her mouth firmly set as she met Sara’s gaze. “To save myself. And my fiancé - my best friend. And to save the crew. But mostly,” she turned away again, the cabin lurching violently as the storm raged outside. For a moment, she thought she heard the mast creak and groan. “Mostly, to save him.”
“Ah, so this is as I thought.” Elizabeth felt Sara’s hands rubbing her back in tender, firm strokes. “Then you have the blood-fire, kya? You have Kali in you as well as Durga, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth sat up slowly, her sore head roaring in protest, and met Sara’s eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Ah yes, these are our stories, ji? Do you believe in God, Elizabeth?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”
“God, for our people, is all energy, is the taste in the water and the light in the fire. God is many women, many men, and above all is Brahman, is the energy that makes the rocks solid and the ocean’s wet. When in female form, God is Saraswati, consort of Brahma - the other half of the process of creation. The energy of conception, athe? Do you understand this?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Vaah, Beta. Saraswati means “owning water” in your language, kya? She is the goddess of rivers, of arts and of learnings. This is her first stage. Ki, she is also Lakshmi, the purveyor of wealth and luck, of the home and the joys of prayer and power. Vishnu the Sustainer of Life, is her male consort. And then there is Durga. She is the consort of Shiva the Destroyer, and she shows us the strength of women. Riding a tiger, she slays the evil armies of our enemies in order to shield the lives of the virtuous. She is justice, is the pains of childbirth, and the protection of children.”
“I see. It’s like a metaphor for birth, life, and death.”
“Very good, Beta. But do not confuse these steps as separate, as occurring one after another like walking. Instead they exist together, are one and the same.”
“And Kali?”
“Ah, Kali is both the creative and the destructive power of time. She is the shakti of the universe - the final, total energy - in female form. Fierce and terrible, she burst from the head of Durga, her dark-blue skin glowing, severed arms and feet dangling from her waist. She is the mother of time, is the passing of time, and is the mouth that is swallowing - devouring - time itself. Kali is the mother of language - the great mother we have all known and will continue to know - and though she may comfort us, in the end she is death, and she shall destroy us all. The beginnings and the endings, you see?”
“Yes. I believe I do - much more completely now.” Remembering Sara’s dance as Kali in the brothel, Elizabeth felt a sharp pang of warning in her side. Mind racing, she struggled to remember all the details of that night - and of the following evenings on ship. Even as Sara drew her back to her lap, resuming her motherly affections, the slithering, spiraling sense of mistrust would not recede.
Until Sara began to croon what sounded like a lullaby, soft and mellow. Curiosity besting her anxiety, as often was the case, Elizabeth pushed aside her doubts and set herself to the task of gathering information.
“What tune was that? It was lovely.”
“A lullaby. Raj says our mother sung it to us, although I cannot remember. He would sing-sing it when I was small, to help me sleep. You should rest, Beta. The night is long, ji?”
‘Would you tell me about him - just a little bit - about who he was as a boy?”
“What would you like to know?”
~
Sara had talked for what seemed like hours. Elizabeth had been swept away, had swum in the images, often screwing shut her eyes in order to capture a particularly vivid picture of Jack. By the time sleep claimed then, the storm had gentled and the night had begun to purple with the lifting dawn.
Elizabeth awoke to the door creaking open and to the tender rocking of the ship, morning sighing through the window panes in misty, lavender breaths. She was pillowed against Sara, the strong fragrance of jasmine and camphor washing over her. Her eyes were swollen, felt bloated from the tears she’d shed. Lifting her fingers to her cheeks, she felt wetness, tasted saline in the corners of her mouth. Must have cried in my sleep as well, she thought groggily. Disentangling herself from Sara’s warm arms, she sat upright and turned to see Jack stagger through the door.
“Jack!” Her voice crackled, thin from crying.
Sara rose at that moment, yawning and stretching in the same feline, exaggerated manner as her brother. Seeing him, Saraswati shot of bed, helping him stubble forward and veering him towards a chair.
“Leave it go, little sis,” he said, leaning against the table and brushing her hand from his arm. She nodded, becoming visibly chilly and aloof. She seemed pale and topaz-skinned in the light.
“Raj.” She bowed slightly, hands tented. Turning to Elizabeth, she repeated the motion. “Elizabeth.” Gathering the end of her long scarf to shelter herself from the early morning cool, she called to Tej - who scurried from beneath the bunk - and she slipped out the door, mongoose at her heels.
Jack slipped off belts and sashes quickly, tugging his boots from his feet.
“Was a beast out there, Bess. Marty took a bit of rigging to the eye - nearly slid overboard.”
“You look terrible, Jack.”
“Just tired is all.” He tottered towards her, bare feet squeaking against the dry boards.
He fell to the bed, wobble-kneed. Water puddled in the sheets. She stripped him quickly, tossing his clothes to the floor, his coat buttons momentarily tangling in his hair. Wet to his bones, he was seal-sleek and grayed in the dim light, his hair dewy, prismatic. He was a windblown leaf shivering, copper and rail-thin and older in his exhaustion. Exaggerated worry guided her to tug her own shirt above her head and begin wiping the rain from his body. He sighed, mumbling something sweet-sounding as she patted dry his thighs, his chest, the patches of hair under his arms and between his legs. Drawing his head into her lap, she unfastened the thick braid clinging to his back, the smaller plaits coaxed free until she held the untamed mass of it. She wrung dry his hair in firm strokes, rolling the ends between her palms. Ruffling the knotted locks with her shirt, she moved from root to end, drying him vigorously.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen his hair completely loose and free, the tiny braids and snarled ropes unhindered in their spread. Sprawled there, he painted a picture of the past for her. She recalled a beach long ago, his dark eyes and careless hair fetching, unfathomable, as they spun around a bonfire. Noting the volume, and lifting the mass to feel its weight, she twisted the whole mess into a long coil and squeezed the tips with her now-sopping shirt one last time, for good measure. She rubbed his scalp with the pads of her fingers, worked in strong, circular motions until she felt him relax against her legs.
“Don’t fuss, Bess.” His voice was gravel. He rolled a bit, pressed his lips to her thigh and then settled into her lap again. “Nice view, though.” His eyebrow lifted lazily but his eyes remained closed.
She stroked the skin above his brows, swept her thumbs in arches across his forehead and gentled out the tension there. The air whispered chill syllables against her exposed breasts, urging her nipples to turgid peaks. She became acutely aware of the silken curls surrounding his cock, still water-glossy and clinging to his thighs, of the rope marks slanting angrily across his chest. They had tied him to the wheel. From the raw indentations, she gathered the storm had fought him fiercely. She touched her fingers to the slight dip of his sternum, pressed the flat of her hand to his powder burns. Shifting from under him, she crouched beside him and wriggled free of her breeches. She leaned over him and blew on his wounds, soothed them with soft breaths. Straddling his hips, she scooted across him and settled against his flaccid length. His hair was slick, coiling in a cool, damp kinks against her center. He groaned and fidgeted as he grew solid beneath her.
“I want you, Jack. Right now.” She lifted his hand, drew his fingers into her mouth and sucked.
“Mmm, Bess. So tired, luv. The flesh is willing but -“
“Shhh. Be quiet, Captain Sparrow. You talk too much.” Her voice broke, something greater than lust welling in her, pressing against her ribs. Reaching between her thighs she stroked his length, dampening him with her juices as she rocked against him. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever told him she loved him, if she’d ever spoken those words seriously, resolutely and without a rush of desire to guide her. She sighed his name, a prayer, and positioned him against her opening.
Pausing for a moment, Elizabeth imagined curling beside him, imagined tucking herself into the fold at shoulder and pectoral. And she imagined her voice, a rusted whisper against his skin, telling him that the winds and the tides will wing him away one day, will leave her on a barren slip of land with nothing but his ghost. The heat pooling inside her won the battle. She could not stall herself, was poised and frantic to claim him, to capture him deep in her womb and own him there.
Thighs straining against the tip of his cock, she moved her hand from between her legs and traced the edges of his lips. He took her fingers into her mouth, and she pushed against him. She felt him break inside her, felt his wrenching fragility in starbursts. Stilling her hips, she leaned into him, kissed him gentle and sweet and felt him grow inside her, harder, his hands moving to her hips. Her breasts glanced across his chest, and she grasped his cock with her muscles, tightening around him and bracing herself against he shoulders. She bent to kiss his eyelids. Clutched at his hair. Feeling raw, the air prickling her skin, she swallowed a lump of emotion and focused on riding him steadily. He opened his eyes and looked at her, exhaustion and tenderness and something aching there, a lazy smile curling the corners of his lips. She returned the grin, her cheeks wrinkling in stiff crinkles where her tears had dried. He lifted a hand to graze the red paths, fingertips swiping her swollen lids as if to chase away her phantom sadness.
Desperation clawed at her, forced her into panicked thrusting. Because he will die one day. Because he has died at her hand. Because she can count at least twenty gray hairs crowning his head, slim and silvered by the dawn. And mostly, because she feared the mystery in him, feared he was a bird poised at the tip of her palm, ready and flexing for flight.
She gulped and strained, drowning in an ocean of sighs.