Krsna of Vrindivan

Orange... everywhere it thrummed in vibrant hues; rising from the shimmering sunset, enriching the strange and flowing garments, the fragrance of the ever present spices, it was the color of this place. It was the color of the suffocating and all engulfing heat, cascading down from a pitiless sun that reigned, godlike, above them. Noise and squalor, riches and holy poverty... and all around, multitudes of varying shades of brown skin, delicate features, almond eyes that ran the gamut from deepest mahogany to sea foam green. Curiously watching... the sight before them strange enough to transcend good manners.

The Lord of Selcouth and a small party of nobles rode their fine Andalusian mounts through the sea of people who parted slowly before them as if before Moses’ staff. In their travels the men had met Spanish mystics, been entranced by sacred Sufi melodies in Tunis, had conversed with Gnostic priests in the holy land, but nothing could compare with the wonder that was India.They had come to the fabled shores in search of knowledge, both mystic and arcane. Selcouth, himself a collector of all manner of rare and magical artifacts, had travelled forth to view first hand the Singh Stambh, the great iron pillar of Delhi, said to possess untold magical power, and to view the antics of the Siavite jangamas ascetics, and perhaps gain some wisdom. They had come now to Vrindivan to explore the city that was said to be the dwelling place of the 8th avatar of Vishnu, the Lord Krishna. It was said there was much mystical activity in this place, and so this society of learned men had come to experience it for themselves.
The fine horses and unusual clothing of the travellers drew the attention of the crowds, who stopped in whatever activity they happened to be performing in order to watch the procession pass. Silence seemed to fall upon the busy city square for many long moments, and the only sound that could be heard was the jingle of the bridles and the soft clipping of hooves on dust... until a loud bellow broke the crowd’s reverie.

The bellow came from the throat of Padvan Singh, a carpet maker and general blustering personage, who had just tossed a few coppers to the nearest chai wallah, and was standing with his cup held out, waiting for his hot beverage. Like Padvan, and the rest of the crowd, the wallah was distracted by the curious sight, and overfilled the carpet merchant’s cup, letting the boiling liquid spill down onto the man’s bare, dusty foot. He found a cup broken over his head for his pains, and the crowd laughed and jeered and called out to Padvan. The spell had been broken and the sea of humanity continued in its constant ebb and flow, as if the strangers had never been.

As the small group rode in silence along the river watching the heat shimmer up from the banks they came upon an odd sight. Nearly 100 women, young and old, sat swathed in white linen and dusted with ashes, singing on the river’s edge. They did not have the gaily colored saris or gold bangles of the other women busily moving through the square. Their voices were lifted in mournful reverence as they swayed gently, their strange, repetitive words filling the air...

Govinda Jaya Jaya
Gopala Jaya Jaya
Radha Ramana Hare
Govinda Jaya Jaya

Selcouth was fascinated by this curious sight. He raised a hand, calling a halt, and gestured their Italian guide to him. “Giosafat, what manner of ritual is this?” He asked, gesturing to the women. The guide came close by, he was a small, travel wizened man with tanned skin deeply lined by sun and wind. He called one of the porters over and spoke to the man in rapid Hindi. The man looked reluctantly at the women and then answered in a few short sentences. The guide looked surprised then turned to Selcouth.

“These women have been thrown away.”

“Thrown away?” Selcouth said with astonishment. “What does this mean?”

“They are widows, sir.” The guide stated.

“And do they have no family to care for them? Surely there are not so many who have no people?” His eyes roamed over the women who he now saw were thin and ill fed, and whose garments were threadbare.

The guide again spoke to the porter who, though seeming reluctant, explained further.

“They are widows, they can not remarry. Their families throw them out, throw them away. They come here to live in ashrams and sing to Lord Krishna. If they sing Bajhans, they will get a cup of rice from the priest. They are cursed, they have no husband.”

Selcouth looked appalled. Of all the foreign customs he had encountered in his travels, this was one of the strangest he had yet heard. He thought of his wife Elspeth and his young daughter Anatisha at home, what if he were to die on his journey? He could not imagine them here in such a terrible state of misfortune... then something caught his eye, a young girl, perhaps no more than three. Her hair was shorn from her head, and by the looks of it, it had been done roughly. She had milky skin and almond eyes, and sat with such solemnity as she chanted with the rest, that the man’s heart went out to her.

“What of that child there?” He asked the guide. Giosafat gestured for the girl to come to him and she stood and came, but not with the tumbling gait of a child. She moved with a strange grace and held herself with such dignity that again Selcouth found himself at once charmed and dismayed. He looked down at the girl and saw, with wonder, that her eyes were unusual in color... like the horizon betwixt sea and sky, neither green nor blue, but some unnameable shade in between.

Selcouth gestured absently at Giosafat, his eyes not leaving the girl... “Her name, what is her name?”

Giosafat spoke to the girl, who did not cower from the stranger, but rather fixed him with a steady gaze as she listened to his query. When she answered, her voice was quiet and dignified.

“She says she has no name sir, she says it was taken from her when she was brought here. The other women call her Krsna, after their pagan lord who was said to have been a child in this city.”

The girl Krsna turned her strange eyes back to Selcouth.

“Who would bring a child to such a place and leave it?” He demanded, his sensibilities outraged.

Again the exchange between guide and girl in the lilting language.

“She says her grandmother brought her here after her husband died sir. She says she had been betrothed to a man, but he died before she came of age. She is of the Brahmin caste, sir. She can not remarry, it is forbidden. She should have died with her husband, but her grandmother kept her from being thrown on the pyre by her husband’s family. She brought the girl here, to Vrindivan.”

Selcouth, who was a man of unusual sensitivity for his time, was mortally outraged. It was not unheard of, even in his land, to betroth girls in their infancy... but to kill a child because the man she was betrothed to had died. It was barbaric. He felt righteous indignation rise within him as he looked down at the small girl, who gazed steadily back up at him, eyes hollow, face pinched with hunger. He thought of his own daughter and his heart was broken.

“We will take her.” He said with finality.

“B..but sir! We can not just... I mean, how can we just take her?” The guide spluttered his protests at this unexpected turn of events. The other men’s voices rose as they sought to bring their comrade to reason.

“We will take her! That is an end to it!” Selcouth shouted, and the rigid set of his jaw told the others there would be no argument. The guide cringed and trotted over to the oldest of the other women. There was some haggling, and voices were raised... finally, after tossing some coins in the begging bowl, the guide trotted back and mounted his horse.

Selcouth reached down and pulled Krsna up, settling her in front of him. They rode on and the child never looked back.

On that day, for seven silver coins, Krsna, widow of Vrindivan, became Krsna, Lady of Selcouth.

Some Lay Dreaming... (by Velveeta Biedermann)

Velveeta watched as Krsna hurried off to see after cook. She knew
that she should probably follow and help her sister but at this
moment, she felt the need to put some space between them. Velveeta
wasn’t sure she wanted to be chastised again for exploring the land
that they called home. Quickly making up her mind, she grabbed a
cloak hanging by the door and wrapped it around her shoulders,
bringing the hood up to cover her hair. With a furtive glance over her
shoulder, headed back out into the rain.

The rain had lessened and was now just a light drizzle as it fell
softly on her. She walked, not paying attention to where she was
heading and if truth be told, not really caring. The musty, earthy
smell of the wet ground was a pleasant sensation for her. It made her
feel comfortable. Not closed in and suffocated like the manor did at
times. Velveeta knew her sisters meant well but at times she really
missed her father. He never scolded her when her dress was dirty or
when she failed to do her chores. Instead he would cluck his tongue
and with a smile in his eye ask in a stern voice “What am I going to
do with you?” Velveeta would grin back, her green eyes sparkling “The
same as you always do Father!” and they would both laugh, the incident
forgotten. She was roused from her memories as a deer bounded across
her path and she watched as it disappeared into the forest. The wind
picked up and she looked around trying to figure out where she was as
she drew the cloak tighter around her. it was then that she saw the
white branches of the Brenhines Wen and heard Krsna’s warning from
earlier “I have told you to keep away from there..." Velveeta
straightened her shoulders and with a resolve, headed for the tree,
mainly because she was told not to, and she was tired of being treated
like a child.

Velveeta moved through the forest coming up with reasons as to why she
was near the tree, ready to answer the question, or accusations, she
knew would come when the sisters found out she was here. With a
start, she realized she was upon the majestic white tree before she
knew it and looked around, hoping no one was near enough to see her.
Velveeta looked at the tree with a sense of wonderment. It looked so
out of place in the forest, surrounded by the dark green of the other
trees that the branches almost seemed to shimmer. She moved towards
it, feeling a sense of calm settle over her as she sat on the fallen
fallen branch. The offerings of the villagers to the Brenhines Wen
sat near the broad base of the tree. Tucked in the little bunches of
flowers and wood carvings, Velveeta recognizes an offering of barley
stalks tied with a kind of patterned cloth that one of the peasant
women weaves, left for her sick child.

She raised one knee and with a sigh, rested her head on it. “It’s not
so bad here...” She thought as she watched the branches almost dance
around her. Lost in her thoughts she didn’t see the man approach,
appearing almost from a swirl of mist. “You have been told about this
place, little one. Why are you here?” The deep, calming voice
stirred Velveeta but it took her a moment to realized she knew it
“Father?” she asked in shock. The man took a few steps, bridging the
distance between them “Aye. And again I ask, why are you here?” She
looked at him with wonder. He looked younger then she remembered, his
hair didn’t hold as much grey and he just seemed...taller to her.
Velveeta slowly rose and walked to him, placing her hand on his arm.
Her hand tingled at the touch but she ignored it, choosing instead to
concentrate on how strong he felt. Just like she remembered.
“Father... I....” she was never at a loss for words... except for
now. “I don’t know” she said softly, a perplexed look on her face.
He gave a shake of his head and when she looked at him again, she saw
that twinkle in his eye that she remembered and she smiled. “You
need to listen to your sisters, little one” Before she could utter a
complaint against this, he tipped her chin up and placed a finger on
her lips, as if to silence her. “Come, I have something to show
you.” He took her by the hand and lead her away from the Brenhines
Wen.

In a blink of an eye they were at another spot on the estate.
Velveeta looked around, trying to get her bearings but couldn't find a
landmark she recognized. Puzzled, she looked up to father. “It is
time.” He said as he took a step to the side, and in doing so,
revealing the entrance to a cave. “Marcus will help you find your
way.” She had a million questions for her father but before she could
ask even one, he seemed to shimmer and start to fade “And Velveeta?
You mustn’t tell your sisters about this. They have to find their own
way.” She started to reach for him, to stop him from leaving when she
heard a voice from behind her “Good day, Lady Velveeta” Velveeta spun
and let out a gasp. “You seem to know my name and yet I don’t believe
I’ve made your acquaintance” She managed to get out while maintaining
her composure. “I am Marcus” said the dragon.

Velveeta let out a scream and sitting upright, looked around widely.
She was under the Brenhines Wen. “It was all a dream.....” she tried
to tell herself as she stood, brushing off her skirts. Velveeta looked
at the the tree with wonderment and fear and started to back away from
it She hadn’t brought an offering for her dream and legend had it
that the Brenhines Wen could pull her back, to live in the dream world
forever. Velveeta hurried back to the manor, one thought on her mind
“I need to find Marcus.”

A Story From Before the Mist (by Kevin Nordwind)

The drizzle and fog covered the sounds of the horses hooves in the
dirt and stone as he approached to the edged of town. Not that he was
trying to avoid being seen. His wool cloak and hood wrapped tight in
the wet rain, his horse kept a steady rhythm as he had done a thousand
times before. The guards ate edge of town stood under a makeshift
cover of hides while they warmed themselves by a small fire. When they
finally heard him, he was practically on top of them.

They moved quickly into position. Two on the right side, and three on
the left, away from his sword arm. "Halt!" one called. "What business
do ye have here?" questioned the obvious leader. He had a straighter
stand and looked like he had been around a field or two in his day.
The others stood vigilant, but not as sure of themselves.

"I come from Conwy with a message for the Bishop" he said as his horse
shifted slightly below him. His eyes moved back and forth below his
hood, assessing each man. He beckoned the lead guard forward with his
hand. "I have a letter of travel with the seal of the Bishop himself."
He patted the bag that was hanging at his side under his cloak that
was only opened enough to see. The leader slowly approached, keeping
himself on sheathed sword side. Smart Kevin thought. He knows that he
has more time to move away should I draw my sword.

The lead guard moved closer with his torch. He could not see into the
hood at the strangers face, but he did look quickly at his boots. A
mans boots told you a lot about the man. These were well worn but of
solid build. Mud caked on the bottom as you would expect. But he grew
nervous as he could see the mans boots were stained with blood. I was
soaked into the creases in the leather. He approached with more
caution. As the stranger pulled his cloak aside far enough to show the
bag, but not wide enough to let the drizzle get to him. His hands were
worn as well, tough, calloused. But not as a Farmers or Blacksmiths
was. His were weather worn. And there was no doubt as to the mans
background when the hilt of his sword glinted in the light from his
torch. "Aye, let me have a look"he said as he reached out and took
another step that would put him in reach of a blade.

The horse quivered slightly at the shift of weight as the stranger
reached in his bag and pulled a parchment to hand to the Guard. He was
betting that the guard could not read. But bet he knew the seal of the
Bishop. The Guard took the parchment and recognized the seal. He
glanced quickly up at the stranger then asked. "Deliver a message, is
that you are here for?"

"That and a place to dry and rest. That is all. I will be gone before
daybreak." He was sure that the tavern he knew was next to some
stables where his steed could get some grain and get out of the
weather. He reached back for the parchment and placed it back in his
bag. The guard looked at him closely and finally catching glimpse of
his face in the dim flicker of the torch.

"Do I know you?" he asked. "Have you ever been to Wrecsam before?" The
guard seemed to have a faint hint of a memory of that face. He looked
for any other telltale signs that this stranger was known to him.

"Many times my good man. Many Times." With that he squeezed his legs
around the horse which slowly moved forward slowly towards the other
guards. With a nod from the lead, the others parted to let him pass.
"Now get out of this weather. Not fit for Man or Beast" he called back
over his shoulder to the group as he waved. He could hear them as the
horse slowly moved towards the center of town, "Did ye know him
Allister?" and a short reply "I am not sure, but I think I have seen
him before". Then the fog and drizzle silenced any sounds from them.

It a few short hours, it would all be over. Just one stop, then bed
the horse and he could get some mead and some food. The horses hooves
kept a steady pace as he slumped on its back. He was sure that he was
not followed. he wound his way through streets he knew as he made his
way to the church. He reached it sooner than he would have wanted, he
was still tense from the ride. His arm still throbbed and the twitch
in his sword hand was still there. His nerves were still on edge.

He dropped off and tied his horse, stepped back and gave it a pat and
rub between the eyes. Shaking the wet from his cloak, he opened it
wide and dropped the hood. He moved to the steps and pushed the door
open. He stood inside the doorway letting his eyes adjust. As he
looked around, he saw the deacon look at him. He nodded and the deacon
acknowledged him and hurried off. Within a few minutes, the Bishop was
walking among the pews towards him.

"Your safe. Good, we were worried" said the Bishop as he put an arm on
his shoulder and moved him to an alcove off to the side. The bishop
was a tall thin man that looked more like a haggard man from the
fields than a man of the church. "Did you have any trouble on the
way?" he asked.

"None more than usual" Kevin answered as he reached for another
parchment in his bag. He knew the Bishop was worried, but also knew
the man did not want to know more than what he had told him. The roads
between Wrecsam and Conwy were always dangerous. Better to spare the
man details of the desperate men and the sites he had seen and dealt
with over the past fortnight. He passed the parchment to th Bishop who
quickly checked the seal, then opened it. He watched the Bishops eyes
as he read the note. He hid whatever it was he was thinking well.

"Thank you for this Kevin. We have waited a long time for this."His
eyes came up from the parchment and he hurriedly slipped it under his
robes and his hands came back into view with a small pouch. "A little
something extra above the price we agreed upon. Now I must go and deal
with this. Is there anything more I can do for you?" he asked as he
clapped the traveler on his shoulder. "Food, Drink?"

"No, its late. I need to tend to my horse. Then I will make my way to
the tavern for some food and a bed." With that the Bishop smiled at
him and turned to walk away. Within a few feet he stopped and looked
back.

"Bless you son, you have done enough. I know that this was your last
call. Do go with Gods blessings, and find peace."

With that he was gone. The church was now empty except for the deacon
at the front of the church tending to some candles. He took a moment
in the shadows to breathe. He looked up at the windows and the class
that kept the rain out. Without saying anything, he left, quietly
pulling the door closed as he did.

He mounted, and without speaking or much movement, he guided the steed
back down the road in the direction he had come. Towards the stables
and tavern. Just a few hours and it would all be over. All of it.

...to be continued