The scuffle drew more attention, and now Siddhartha could see others approaching from the main part of the village. “Let’s go,” urged Channa.
“Why? They’re not dangerous.” This went without saying since the newcomers were as old as the first ones they’d met.
Channa was restless nonetheless. “I could knock them all down with one swipe of my sword,” he said. “But it’s still not safe.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with them?”
Channa didn’t know how much Siddhartha was oblivious of, so he spoke as if to a small child. “These people were at court when you were born, and even then they were too old to be kept around. Those over there, walking with crutches, they’re lame. They’ve been sick, but nobody treated them. The ones who are coughing with their mouths covered over with cloth, don’t touch them. They’re sick; they carry disease, and we could get it too. I’m still young and healthy, thank you.”
“We’ll become like them?” asked Siddhartha, genuinely puzzled.
“Someday.”
“All of us?”
“All of us,” said Channa. Ignoring what Siddhartha would think, he kicked at a barefoot old woman who had crawled on the ground to touch his sandals.
Siddhartha was muttering words to himself that were never spoken around him. Old. Lame. Sick. Diseased. How could he ever have imagined that he had suffered? Not compared to this.
“How do they stand it?” he murmured. Now the gathering crowd’s mood had changed. Their hollow faces darkened, and there was angry muttering.
“They realize we’ve come from the court,” said Channa. He and Siddhartha were dressed in plain white cotton, but the mounts’ trappings were stamped with the royal insignia. “Get on your horse. We’re going.”
Siddhartha climbed up again, but instead of turning Kanthaka toward home, he kept riding into the forgotten city. The streets were lined with haggard ghosts, and eyes bulging from hunger stared at him. Siddhartha prayed that his aunties hadn’t been banished here when they had disappeared from court.
There was one building better repaired than the others, and no one stood in front of it. For some reason Siddhartha stopped, his attention drawn to its covered windows and a Shiva statue at the door decorated with wilting wildflowers. “I want to go inside,” he said.
“No, you don’t,” Channa said.
The smell coming from the building was unmistakable. Siddhartha had come across that smell in the woods where a rotting deer carcass lay. He dismounted and pushed the door open. He stepped into a dim, moist, fetid room. In the watery beams of light coming through the shutters Siddhartha could see someone sleeping on a table, naked except for a light sheet across the torso. No, not sleeping but lying motionless. The man’s face was gray-white, eyes closed, and his slack, sagging mouth made him look both angry and sad.
“What is this place?” Siddhartha asked. He could guess well enough, but talking helped him avoid getting sick.
“The house of the dead. Don’t get close. They’re not blessed.”
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Siddhartha saw that there were other corpses on the floor, laid side by side and covered with burlap; the worst smell came from them. The man on the table must be newly dead.
Siddhartha wasn’t aware that he had moved closer. He reached out and touched the corpse, eerily certain that the old man would wake with a start. The coldness of the flesh surprised him; it felt colder than the air in the room. Despite the fact that the man was dead, Siddhartha wanted to apologize. He hadn’t asked permission to touch him, and they were strangers.
“Is this all for them?” he asked. “Do the dead live in their house?”
“No, they’ll rot if they stay here. Bodies are burned,” explained Channa.
Siddhartha winced. “So one day you might burn me,” he murmured. Channa had lingered by the door, and his reaction to Siddhartha’s curiosity was a growing impatience.
“What’s wrong with that? I’m glad if they burn me. My ashes will go into the river. When there’s nothing left for demons to grab on to, I’ll go to heaven. You’ll have to break my skull with an ax to let my spirit out first.”
If Channa intended to shock Siddhartha, it didn’t work. Bemused, Siddhartha muttered, “Is that how it’s done? Then why are they still here? Don’t they have axes?”
Channa shrugged. “There’s no wood and nobody strong enough to cut some. They probably wait for wandering monks to come through.”
Channa’s impatience wouldn’t allow them to stay any longer. Siddhartha took the hand of the corpse, which had fallen limply to its side, and replaced it across the man’s chest. When he came out of the house of the dead, the crowd outside looked angrier than before.
“Prince?” someone called out. “Are you the king’s son? Do you like what you’ve done to us?” He hadn’t counted on being recognized. A sense of shame kept him from speaking.
I will try to help you, I promise, he thought. Muttered threats surrounded Siddhartha as he walked up to Kanthaka. An old woman spat on the ground while an unseen voice said, “Better your mother had died sooner, you hear me? Why were you ever born?”
“Stop it!” One of the old men stepped forward, raising his hands and shushing the others. His starved body was wrapped in dirty hemp cloth, but underneath Siddhartha glimpsed saffron rags, the color of Canki’s robes.
“The gods, not this noble youth, have brought such misfortune on us. We should give him money to take back and make offerings for us.” Scorn greeted the old priest’s suggestion; he wriggled his way through the crowd. “Blessings, blessings,” he muttered as he edged closer to Siddhartha.
The old priest smelled almost as bad as the corpses. He smiled toothlessly, and Siddhartha was ashamed of himself for drawing back. “Bend close, young prince, and let me whisper a special blessing in your ear.”
Siddhartha forced himself to lean over, closing his eyes against the old man’s fetid breath. “I accept your blessing,” he said politely.
“And I curse you to hell unless you take me back with you.” The vehemence in the old priest’s voice was like cobra venom. Siddhartha jerked back. Without a word he jumped into the saddle. He felt the priest’s tight, bony grip on his ankle, but he kicked free and galloped off. Behind him the population of the forgotten city jeered and catcalled. Others cried out piteously, and when he could no longer hear any of them, Siddhartha stopped. Kanthaka’s sides were heaving; so were Siddhartha’s. He leaned over and whispered, “Forgive me,” into Kanthaka’s ear, even though he hadn’t driven him that hard.
Channa caught up where the road was starting to slope back upward and become a mountain trail again. Siddhartha waited for him. “How often have you come here?” he asked.
“Once or twice. But you’re not coming back. What’s here for you? Your father won’t let you save them, and by the time you’re king they’ll all be dead. Face facts. One strong wind this winter is all it would take.”
Siddhartha hated these words but didn’t argue. The sun was still mercilessly hot, and they had given their goatskins of water to the old ones.
Channa’s right. It should be called the king’s city. His conscience searched for what to do. Should he go back and farm the fields himself with a few slaves from the palace, against his father’s wishes? Would it do the slightest good to send them to the forgotten city? Underneath all this was Sujata, who haunted him now more than at the moment he had learned she was gone. For a fleeting instant he could see her on a table in the house of the dead.
It was at that painful moment that Siddhartha caught a glimpse of someone. A naked hermit was hidden in the thick underbrush, crouching on his heels. His sun-brown skin made him nearly invisible against the ground except for his beard, which was nearly white. If Siddhartha hadn’t happened to turn for a last glimpse behind, he would have missed him.