Under A Million Stars

Breakwater Harbor Books

Presents:

Under A Million Stars

A Collection of Short Stories

By

Mindy Haig

Copyright © 2015 by Mindy Haig

Smashwords Edition

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Cover Art by Delaney and Mindy Haig

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Table of Contents:

1. Prologue:

2. Kama Vatsya

3. Shades

4. The Phoenix and The Serpent

5. After Five

6. THE DARKNESS

7. Cybilla

8. Mare da Sogno

9. Beloved Disciple

Prologue:

"What are you thinking about?" I asked.

"The stars. Look at all the stars."

"They’re beautiful."

"There are so many of them. What if they are just a million possibilities of this exact moment? What if we are in this exact spot at this exact time but a million different scenarios are being played out? Right here, we are lovers, but there we could be meeting for the first time. Over there we could be breaking up. We could be best friends, enemies or just strangers passing in the night. We could be sharing a first kiss or you could be brutally beating me. We could be dying somewhere even as I lie here listening to your heart beat."

"Why are you thinking those thoughts? What’s wrong?"

"What if it never works out for us?"

"I don’t believe that. I won’t believe that."

"Why?"

"Because I love you. You are the other half of me. When we lie here, when we touch, I feel whole and when we’re apart all I can think about is getting back here, having you back in my arms. If every star in the night sky is part of our story, then I think each one is a time we found each other. They are every love story ever written. We were Isis and Osiris, Samson and Delilah, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, even Romeo and Juliet

"They all ended tragically!"

"Doesn’t every story of true love end tragically?"

"Of course not! Sometimes they live happily ever after."

"Says the girl who just thought I might be brutally attacking her in some version of our story."

"That was just one possibility," she laughed.

"I’d rather be your lover," I grinned.

"Well, that is a much better option. But must it be tragic? Couldn’t we be Grace Kelly and

Prince Ranier? Couldn’t we have that Cinderella story with the magical ending?"

"We could, but that isn’t the ending, it’s only the beginning. So yes, they lived, they loved, they grew old together, but eventually mortality will still separate the two hearts. It’s still tragic. Even a life with one hundred perfect years of true and undying love eventually will end."

"That’s sad. It makes the journey seem so futile."

"But it’s not! That’s what I’m trying very to tell you. You don’t get just one chance and it’s all over. Every star in the sky is you and I together, starting this journey somewhere in the past and the future. Our souls are joined. We go on forever."

"How do you know?"

"That’s love. That’s fate. That’s what we have, it’s what we are."

"Tell me the stories of what we have been. Tell me everything I have ever meant to you. Tell me what you are to me."

"Okay. If you will come back here tomorrow, I will tell you a story."

"I’ll come back," she smiled, then she kissed me goodnight.

* * *

Kama Vatsya

1.0.0: Responsibilities of The Man

1.0.1: On Words

The women spoke loudly against me.

They did not care if I heard their words.

You should keep a good distance from him, Sidra, the first warned.

He looks at you with thoughts that are impure, the other added.

You are above his station, but he sees you as Nayika, a woman he can use without sin. He will cause you many difficulties, the first continued.

The other men and families will shun you if they think he has taken your virtue, the second interjected. Beauty is not enough to secure a fortuitous marriage.

I think you mistake his interest. He is a scholar, my Sidra said as she took her eyes from mine.

You think the learned have only pure thoughts? You know what he studies! the first sneered.

Of course I know his work! But he is a man of words. He is well respected. What harm can there be in speaking to him?

They shook their heads. Words can be the most dangerous of weapons, Sidra. Words can ruin people, lives, worlds.

And I knew they spoke truly. Their words pierced me like razor sharp daggers. I ached and I bled. I should have walked away, but from the moment I saw her, I needed her.

Sidra knew her women spoke truths as well, but her eyes met mine again and she saw within me something the others did not see.

I burned.

1.0.2: On Artha

She was all of my thoughts, every waking moment and even as I took my rest she came to my dreams.

My Sidra.

Her family was well respected though not wealthy.

Conversely, I had achieved Artha, material success, but my means of reaching that success were openly questioned. That is to say my work was openly spoken about as being scandalous. And what was yet to come was even more controversial, but in my mind I was writing verses every time my eyes saw Sidra.

I knew in my heart that my success could not be complete if I could not make her mine. I would never achieve Dharma, a virtuous life, without this woman who was as a beautiful as the lotus flower and as pure as the waters of the cocoa nut.

Though as the waters could ferment into a strong elixir, so could she become something so potent that she would weaken my mind with her touch and the scent of her perfumed skin would rule me for all of time.

I knew those truths, and still I pursued her.

I would find a way to make her my wife.

But it was obvious that I could not approach her ladies in support of my intention.

My only hope was to make her feel affection for me.

I had to speak to her alone, and still publicly, because her ladies were correct, if we met in private, the world would believe that I stole her virtue.

1.0.3: On Winning Affection

But as is the custom when a girl comes of a marriageable age, Sidra was dressed and publicly flaunted. Many men looked at her. So many. I felt anger when they judged her like wares at the market. Her value was not at all based upon the fortunes of her family. No. It was the look in her eyes. It was the way her breast rose and fell with every breath. It was the nimble grace with which she moved. She was art in motion.

They did not see her as I saw her.

She was Kama, my desire.

And I wished to be Kama to her as well.

Each day I began to bring her small gifts.

I brought her a garland of woven yellow Amaranth.

She played her part well, pushing my gift away so I would have to beg her acceptance before her ladies.

Oh, but I was prepared to beg. I offer the immortal flower, to such a beauty as will never fade. I make this offer in the purest love, which shall bloom and be prosperous forever.

Her eyes lit.

My heart pounded.

Her ladies approved at last and Sidra touched my hand for just the smallest breath of a moment as she accepted my gift.

The second day I offered to her a bouquet of Ashok. The bright crimson flowers seemed to teem with life in her hand. But she dutifully pushed them back to me even as her eyes looked into mine with what must have been love because no woman had ever looked at me in such a way before.

Again, I dropped to my knees before her and gave her my words along with my gift. My lady, I offer you Ashok to symbolize a life without grief. I wish that there should be beauty wherever you walk.

One of her ladies nodded approvingly, while the other shook her head and frowned.

But my Sidra held up her graceful hand and stopped the latter from voicing her opinions, then she accepted my gift and turned away from me.

I did not know what to think, for she did not look pleased.

The women were but a few steps away when the contrary one began to scold.

I did not like to see it. I felt anger and the overwhelming need to protect her, to defend her.

You must stop encouraging him! Accepting his gifts is deterring the other men...

Again my Sidra held up her hand in dismissal. Has it not occurred to you that I have no wish to discourage Vatsya?

But he is...

Learned. Handsome. Passionate. What woman would not want such traits in a man?

His reputation...

Shall make women envy me for all of time.

You will throw away your chance at a life of luxury.

I have never known luxury, but I would rather have the look that is in his eyes than all the jewels upon Devi Parvati’s head.

Sidra’s words were spoken loud enough for me to hear, so I was encouraged even as I tried to look hopeless and abandoned.

The third day I came meekly to her. I kept my eyes lowered as I offered my gift.

She gasped when she opened the wrapping and saw Neel Kamal, the rare blue lotus, symbol of Krishna.

Sidra, if you wished for one hundred of these, I would search the worlds as Rama did to get his blessing from Devi Durga. If you wish me to stop my bid for your affection...

I don’t wish that at all, she said quickly before a single word could be uttered by her ladies. I accept your gift. Perhaps you would come visit at my home and we could sit and speak in the garden.

It would be my greatest pleasure to sit and speak with you, I said humbly.

Sidra smiled. You needn’t search the world as Rama did. Come tomorrow, in the afternoon when the sun is low in the sky.

As you wish, I answered and I watched her walk away, but my heart did pound in my chest. The time could not move quickly enough.

2.0.0: Proposing Marriage

2.0.1: On Protocol

Life is full of such strange twistings and turnings.

That I should have written the verses on how such things as marriage should be properly arranged and the expected course of action of each of the cast of characters when I was not of a position to meet any such requirements was a great irony.

But never had I expected to find such a woman that I should wish to marry even though I was of the opinion that the custom was a man’s duty.

And to say that there were not other women of her making would be as true as to say no two stars in the night sky shown with equal brightness. There was but one Sirius and there was but one Sidra.

She was the one woman who captured in me that which I thought wild and unworthy.

And my work made knowledge of women one thing at which I was certainly an expert.

So when I say that she stood above all others, I say it factually, knowledgeably.

I came as she asked, to her home.

Having a deceased father and a mother who was second wife to another man, I did not have family to make this all important connection for me.

I had many friends.

Being a man who had achieved Artha, my wealth kept many close in my acquaintance, but they were not necessarily of the caste that would make a good impression for me. No blue birds flew above my shoulder. There was no great alignment in my astrological chart. But nor did any black cats or widows cross my path. Gaining her hand seemed an impossible task, doomed to failure unless Sidra should fall completely in love with me and I could offer her father enough coins that it would help him find his son a bride of a higher caste.

Yet, though it seemed I came to them with little hope, my heart still felt some surety that Sidra knew what was inside me and that we would be together.

I brought with me generous offerings. Perfume made from the Yuthika flower, mangoes and dates, and Betel nuts. I was received warmly, if somewhat warily. Perhaps warily was not the correct word. Her mother seemed a bit scandalized while her father was more confounded. He addressed me as Vatsyayana, which was very formal and did pain me to hear.

It seemed clear they knew my work.

The lady of the house dutifully went to call forth Sidra.

Her father bid me to sit.

He asked but one question: ‘Why Sidra?’

And that was a very good question indeed. One I did not think I had a good answer for. But my spirit seemed to answer of its own will.

It is traditionally believed that marriage is not just one lifetime, but seven. Never in my years have I had any wish to marry, until the moment my eyes met Sidra’s. My soul has known hers before. My heart can love only her. I don’t know if this is our second incarnation or our last, I only know that she is my queen.

She heard my words as she stood in the entry and she pressed her hands to her heart.

If only she could have come to my arms and I could have held her pressed to me.

This was but a first meeting.

Such intimacies necessarily had to wait.

Oh patience, you are such a difficult virtue to master.

2.0.2: On Written Words

So it was that we were permitted to walk out into the garden.

Well tended it was, and blooming in a vast fortune of colors and scents that might have been most pleasing to the senses, but the beauty was dull in comparison to she who walked at my side and seemed to bloom into a woman before my eyes.

And though I wrote the protocol, I still did not know what words to speak to gage her affection for me. She knew my position. I was quite painfully clear that I wanted only her.

But it was she that spoke first.

I have read all of your work, Vatsya.

Her simple words caused flames to burn my cheeks and I felt shame, so unexpectedly, and yet so great that I failed to answer.

You are displeased? I thought you were of the opinion that all women should know those facts before they are given into marriage, she said softly.

All women but you, I whispered.

Why should that be? Why should you want a wife who is blind in the duties...

Because I wish you did not know what I have done for research. I wish you could look upon me as a good man, a worthy man.

She laughed. I knew who you were before I read your words. I did not discourage you.

Your women spoke firmly against me. Do you know that they are right to do so?

Yes, I know. I have had every conversation, every argument already within my own mind, Vatsya. But it is not your written words that keep me rapt; it is the things your eyes say when you look upon me. It is the feelings within me that your look brings to life. Perhaps they are right to speak against you, but I know inside that even if you ruined me I would not regret it. And I know if you should abandon your wish to have me as your wife, I would not find happiness with another man because no other looks at me as you do.

I meant the words I said to your father, Sidra.

And when you ask, I shall agree. So tell me, will you teach me those things that a women should know? she smiled.

Which things do you speak of? I asked timidly. There were answers I wished to hear, though they would make the blood rush in my veins.

She tilted her head and looked into my eyes. I could not look away from her. She was not shy in her private words, but well spoken, and skilled at making simple words have complex meanings.

There are verses upon verses that I would learn, some clearly say they take much practice.

And some say they cause pain.

To further the cause of pleasure.

Pleasure is not love and it can be found in many ways. Passion is satisfying for a short time only, even intense passion can be satisfied in a single act. Pain lingers. I do not wish to show you those acts meant to cause pain, Sidra.

And if it is not the acts of passion that I am speaking of? she said lightly as her eyes looked deep beyond my flesh to the bared soul within me. Would you teach me those skills upon the list of sixty-four arts?

Which do you wish to learn? I asked as I sat captive.

She laughed again. Why I would wish to learn Magic, Sorcery, so I might cast an unbreakable spell upon you that you will love only me.

Oh but I do think you have already mastered that art.

2.0.3: On Love

I came to her home a second time and a third.

We sat upon a tapestry laid out upon the ground as the afternoon sun began its race toward the horizon. And I thought to myself how wonderful it would be to lie in the moonlight in a pressing embrace with this woman for whom my heart felt the deepest love.

Though as I daydreamt there was silence in the air around us.

My Sidra was watching me.

I do wish the formalities could be cast aside, she started. I feel such desire to touch you, to feel you touch me.

Her words made the small hairs upon my arms stand. Such a spell she cast. Surely we passed at least one lifetime together for her to be able to know my thoughts and rule me so completely in so brief a time.

And then a question came that I did not expect.

What is love to you, Vatsya? What is love to man of intense pleasure?

My mind went blank and still words came from my lips. Love is Sutra. Love is the thread that binds all the other parts of life together. And you are my Sutra, that which holds me together. You are love, my love.

You say such wonderful things, and yet you write so coldly, so factually of circumstances that might be very affectionate, very tender.

I have never had a reason to be warm, to be tender, until now.

Your words make me love you and yet they say words are the most dangerous weapon and the blackest magic.

Yes, they say that, I admitted.

And you dispute it not at all? she smiled.

"Words have the power to destroy and to hurt, but they also have the power to create and to heal. Sometimes it is more than just a word that makes the moment. It is the look that passes knowingly and the gentle touch that accompanies it. I long to be touched in love, Sidra. I long to hear words of love spoken in the acts of pleasure. I long to feel the lingering satisfaction of holding the one I love long after the moment of gratification has passed. Perhaps you don’t understand this need. I don’t expect you to understand when you have not known this part of life.

I write cold, factual words because they are simple. They are clearly understood. They convey just the very basic information. My work is of a nature that were the words passionate, were it not strictly instructional, it could not be read. There are situations that would be so colored by the actions taken that people would fear to enter such relations. And that is not my intent. So I write the simplest words in the coldest form and those who read them and follow them will add the amount of passion or pain they are comfortable with. It is only now, at this very moment, Sidra, that I truly understand how important the words are. If my words truly can make you love me, then I will give you soft, honest words from my heart always."

And then she reached out to me and pressed her hand to my cheek.

In her eyes we were already lovers.

I turned my face ever so slightly, almost imperceptible, and pressed my lips to her hand. Why do you break the tradition and touch me before the arrangement is made?

You know the answer, Vatsya, but I will say the words softly, honestly, directly from my heart. I love you. And I remember that a wise man wrote in his work that love does not care for time or order. You needed to be touched by someone who loves you and I needed to touch you. Will you ask for me as your wife?

Are you certain you can be happy saying yes? I fear death less than I fear your rejection, though I fear your rejection would be death for me as my heart would have no reason to continue beating.

Will you take other wives as well?

No! You would be my only wife, my queen. And I would worship you as thus.

Then ask, and you will be my king.

And so it was that Sidra became my wife.

3.0.0: Earning Her Trust

3.0.1: On The Embrace

Custom is a cruel dictator.

And I strengthened his arm with my work.

It may well have been that my flippant statement that love cares not at all for time or order was the one thing I have written that was wholly true.

But love was like a hunted beast. It might flee and force a man to give chase. It might turn and attack the hunter with equal vigor. Or it might take a man by surprise and come to him willingly.

Marriage for love was but a novelty. That is to say that custom says a man should marry to increase his Dharma and Artha, and thusly when he has taken his wife into his home and his family, he should treat her in a way that allows love to grow.

It was sensible advice. A plain tenet of my work was encouraging that love to grow.

Oh, but that was not how it was for me.

No. I was in love; very much in love.

And so it was that I brought my wife to our home and just that suddenly I had no sense of reason. What my heart wanted and what my mind told me were at odds. I knew I needed to resist those desires of my body because I wrote the guidelines for such occasions.

How pompous was it that a man with no wife should think himself capable of telling others how to treat their wives?

Still, though my thoughts flitted and conflicted. I wished to show Sidra respect and kindness so that what spark of love she felt for me might become a burning flame.

I made her a beautiful room and I hated to see it because I wanted her to be sleeping beside me.

And to my surprise Sidra did not look pleased.

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.

I offered her kind words. I offered her fruits