Dan Simmons - Song of Kali

"I closed my eyes and offered a wordless prayer — to which deity I do not recall. A gasp from Sanjay made me look again.

"The corpse breathed. Air whistled through the open mouth and the cadaverous chest rose once, twice, and then settled into a rasping, laboring rhythm. Suddenly, in one fluid movement, the body rose to a sitting position. Slowly, most reverently, it kissed the sole of Kali's foot with its lipless mouth. Then it swung its legs from the base of the idol and shakily stood. The face turned directly toward me and I could see slits of moist flesh where the nose had once been. It took a step forward.

"I could not look away as the tall form stiffly covered the three paces which separated us. It loomed above me, blocking out the goddess except for the gaunt face staring over its shoulder. It breathed with difficulty, as if the lungs were still filled with water. Indeed, when the thing's jaw lowered a bit as it walked, water gushed from the open mouth and streaked its heaving chest.

"Only when it stood a mere foot in front of me was I able to lower my eyes. The river stench of it flowed over me like a fog. The resurrected thing slowly brought forth its white palm until it touched my forehead. The flesh was cool, soft, slightly moist. Even after it lifted its hand and moved slowly to the next initiate, I could feel the imprint of its palm above my eyes, burning into my fevered skin like a cold flame.

"The Kapalikas began their final chant. My own lips moved without my volition to join in the prayer.

"The hymn ended. Two priests joined the first Brahman to help the newly reawakened one into the shadows at the rear of the temple. The other Kapalikas filed out another way. I looked around our inner circle and realized that the fat man was no longer with us. The six of us left stood in the dimness and stared at one another. Perhaps a minute thus passed before the chief priest returned. He was dressed the same, he looked the same, but he was different . There was a relaxed quality to his walk, an informality to his posture. It reminded me of an actor after a successful play, moving among the audience, removing one character to wear another.

"He smiled, approached us happily, and shook our hands, each in turn, saying to each, 'Namaste. You are now Kapalika. Await the next call of your beloved goddess.'

"When he said this to me, the touch of his hand on mine was less real than the imprint on my forehead which still tingled.

"A black-garbed man led us to the anteroom, where we dressed in silence. The other four bade their farewells and left together, chattering like schoolchildren released from detention. Sanjay and I stood alone by the door.

"'We are Kapalika,' whispered Sanjay. He broke into a brilliant grin and held out his hand. I looked at him, looked at his open hand, and spat on the floor. Then I turned my back to him and left the temple without speaking.

"I have not seen him since. For months I have moved through the city, sleeping in hidden places, trusting no one. Always I have awaited and feared the 'call of my beloved goddess.' None came. At first I was relieved. Then I was more frightened than at first. Now I do not care. Recently I have openly returned to the University, to familiar streets, and to places I once frequented. Places like this.

"People seem to know that I have changed. If acquaintances see me they move away. People on the street glance at me and leave me room to pass. Perhaps I am Untouchable now. Perhaps I am Kapalika despite my panicked flight. I do not know. I have never returned to the temple or the Kalighat. Perhaps I am marked not as a Kapalika but as a prey of the Kapalika. I wait to find the answer.

"I would like to leave Calcutta forever but I have no money. I am only a poor person of Sudra caste from the village of Anguda, but also one who may never be able to go back to what he was.

"Only Mr. Krishna has continued to be my friend. It is he who called upon me to tell you my story. I am now finished with that story."

Krishna's voice barely croaked out the translation of the last sentence. I blinked and looked around. The proprietor's feet protruded from where he slept on the floor behind the counter. The room was quiet. There were no sounds from outside the building. My watch read 2:20.

I stood abruptly, accidentally knocking over the chair. My back ached and my spirit sagged from jet lag and fatigue. I stretched and kneaded the aching muscles near my spine.

Muktanandaji looked exhausted. He had removed his thick glasses and was rubbing tiredly at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Krishna reached for the last of Muktanandaji's cold coffee, gulped it down, and tried repeatedly to clear his throat.

"Do you . . . hrrghhhh . . . do you have questions, Mr. Luczak?"

I stared down at the two of them. I didn't trust my own voice to work. Krishna noisily cleared his nostrils with his fingers, spat on the floor, and spoke again. "Do you have any questions, sir?"

I stared impassively for a few more seconds before replying. "Only one question," I said. Krishna's eyebrows went up politely.

"What the hell," I began, ". . . what the goddamned hell does that . . . that story . . . have to do with the poet M. Das?" My fist seemed to slam down on the table of its own accord. The coffee cups leaped.

It was Krishna's turn to stare. I seemed to remember such a stare from my kindergarten teacher when I was five and had soiled my pants one day during nap time. Krishna turned to Muktanandaji and spoke five words. The young man wearily returned the heavy glasses to his face and answered in even fewer syllables.

Krishna looked up at me. "Surely you must know that it was M. Das we spoke of."

"Which?" I said stupidly. "Who? What the shit do you mean? Do you mean to say that the priest was the great poet, M. Das? Are you serious?"

"No," said Krishna levelly. "Not the priest."

"Well, who —"

"The sacrifice," said Krishna slowly as if speaking to a dull child. "The offering. Mr. M. Das was the one Mr. Muktanandaji brought as sacrifice."

That night I dreamed of corridors and caverns. Then the dream location shifted to the wholesale furniture warehouse on the near Southside of Chicago where I had worked during the summer of my sophomore year in college. The warehouse was closed but I continued to wander through an endless series of display rooms all crowded with furniture. The air smelled of Herculon fabric and cheap wood polish. I began to run, dodging through the tightly packed displays. I had suddenly remembered that Amrita and Victoria were still in the store somewhere and that if I didn't find them soon, we would all be locked in overnight. I didn't want them alone there, waiting for me, locked into the darkness. I ran, shouting their names, moving from room to room, shouting.

The phone rang. I reached for our travel alarm clock on the bedside table but the sound continued. It was 8:05 A.M. Just as I figured out that it was the telephone making the noise, Amrita came in from the bathroom and answered it. I dozed during her conversation. The sound of the shower running brought me up out of sleep again.

"Who was it?"

"Mr. Chatterjee," Amrita called over the running water. "You won't be able to pick up Das's manuscript until tomorrow. He apologized for the delay. Other than that, everything's all set."

"Mmmm. Damn. Another day."

"We're invited to tea at four."