The CyberSybils Unroll Scroll Nine ~ Jaisal

JAISAL

She was as the Golden Mirage, that glittering fortress built as acknowledgement and offering to her cruel temperament. Ninety-nine bastions had the respectful Rawal decreed erected atop Tricuta Hill, ninety-nine the hermit Eesul insisted, for she was the hundredth, the shining pinnacle of Jaisal-mer.

The camels bowed when she would exit her pavilion, brown-skinned boys a-quiver with delight at the sweet music made by the silver bells adorning their Rajni's kohl-coloured sari. And when Jaisal, rode her humped-back steed toward the wind-carved dunes of the Thar desert, all men bowed down and hid their faces in the hot sand, respectful of the one who was Kali made-manifest on earth.

The tarps of her sanguine tents stood outside the walls of the city. None dared approach the shapes unless summoned, none would dare anger the Rani. Late into the night, her musicians would play: their bows lit on sarangis, hands pounding the tablas, fingers plucking at sarode strings, accompanied by the sitar's loud wail. And Jaisal, the Black Queen, would dance the steps of the Natya Shastra, hips wrapped in tiger-hide swaying to melody, long, dark arms moving her whips of mystery through shadow-flight against the walls of a silk-covered abode.

Within the fortress could be found the magnificence of the merchants, carved mansions called the haveli, and the temples, the ancient libraries where her name was inscribed. The old men all knew the force of her passion and to be sent beyond the gates, from the pols, as gift to wild Jaisal's abandon, was all that the young men would dream in their heads.

In the Spring of the Peacock, a carved chest of ivory was sent from the fort, lashed atop a fine, four-legged ship of the desert, the animal making a trek not unknown. The beast stopped, without prompting, once it reached ropes slashed to stakes, a boundary marker well-known to the caravans that passed.

The dark boys appeared without from within, nimbly untying, then sliding, the box to the ground. True servants they pushed the box to their Mistress, each knowing themselves wholly unworthy to perform the sacred task.

"More tribute," laughed the Black One while she lifted the white lid. "How fitting, how proper, what chattel has wise Eesul sent from the town?"

Bound-up in strong brass chains, tumbled out a strong youth. His skin so like polished sandalwood, bright eyes filled with fear.

"Dear Mistress, your captive..."

The sound of a lash broke his speech.

"None dare to address me," the Rajni rebuked. "Are you not my menial, a servant, no better than dog?"

Soon lips sought out shoes tailored from tinsel of gold. Curled-toes worthy the Bhavatarini, who danced atop Lord Shiva's bared breast.

The lute known as sarode, began the howl of the baleful. The court players took notice and notes rang aloud.

"Yes, worship, adore me," declared sister of Sati, "and I gift you the Turkshead, a knotted flail of repair. What say you to that, dusky priest of Parvati, of Durgha, of Bhavani, of Kali, of me?"

"Your singletails drape about my oiled body as would a python 'round the sandalwood tree and bring me delight."

And at the sound of the words once spoke to Kalaratri, the mirror-strewn robes swirled to rhythms, two Turks lifted on high, and from the forehead of Jaisal, demon Jaisal, leapt the flame of the Third Eye.

The ninety-nine bastions shook upon the sands, then they sighed.