Dear readers,
Hello, hello! We hope you're ready for the official launch of our FIRST novel, Goldspun by Swetha S. because IT IS FINALLY HERE! And to celebrate this exciting achievement, guess what? We're letting you read an exclusive preview from the book! Check out the first chapter of the Tamil-inspired, young adult fantasy featuring badass women and magical Kurinji flowers.
"As I stared at the cloth, I noticed the finesse in its weaves and rippling colours. I tilted my head one way, finding it blue and straightened once more, finding it purple. It was as though the saree was spun out of a peacock’s feather. "
CHAPTER ONE
In my world, every story started with a prayer to the gods—except mine. This was because I was a peasant, and a peasant’s story didn’t contain the kadavul vaazhthu—a poem written in praise of the gods. In fact, a peasant’s story wasn’t written at all. It was meant to live for only as long as sound existed, fading before anyone could capture it in palm leaves.
But I was going to change that. That night, I removed my anklets and tiptoed up the stairs of the temple. It was too early for the traders to be riding their bronze chariots or bullock carts carrying produce across the street. Even the daughter of the temple’s priest hadn’t arrived to sweep the floor yet. My mother was likely still asleep in her bed, dreaming of being a god-loving peasant, peaceful without the knowledge that her daughter was stepping into the temple. It was the perfect time.
I scurried through the path behind a banyan tree, past the shut doors of the sanctum sanctorum, and arrived at the library. I peered into the library expecting to find it empty. But it was crowded with children and men. How early had they arrived? The sun had not even risen and the owls were still hooting. But the men squinted at sheets of dried palm leaves, straightened them, and grabbed a stylus. The stylus, a glorified nail, had a sharp edge with which the men scratched the palm leaf’s surface, creating impressions shaped in strange squiggles. They were called letters and the letters joined to form words.
Deeper inside the library were rows of shirtless boys and a few girls sitting in front of their teacher. Their necks were decorated with the golden chain they wore to mark themselves as scholars. The teacher walked around, showing them how to write and read each letter by drawing them with his finger on a plate of rice. Later in the morning, they would move outside—I knew that because for the past few years I’d overheard their lessons and studied the letters. I’d memorised the sounds, followed the strokes and practised them, adding them one by one to my repertoire. I’d understood how sentences worked, how they fell together and created a narrative. The only thing that was left for me to do was write on a palm leaf.
But I stood stuck to the cold granite walls of the library. I couldn’t move, knowing that once I did, nothing would be the same. If I were caught, I would be put on trial in front of a flame and condemned to anything from getting whipped to death.
The night was still and quiet. The leaves in the trees that surrounded the temple barely moved, holding their breath. It would soon be morning and this moment would be gone.
I was drenched in the richest clothes and jewels I owned. And it was dark. The scholars wouldn’t notice my calloused hands or my sun tan. They wouldn’t see that the silk I wore was tattered from being passed on to my mother by my grandmother, or that the gold was blackened from being stuffed inside rice sacks. They wouldn’t be able to tell that I was a peasant. They would only see a quiet girl slipping in and out with her head bowed.
I drew in a deep breath and shuffled in front of the doorway. I ran a trembling hand along my hair and summoned all the strength in my body. I walked into the library casually as if it wasn’t abnormal for me to be there. The men turned and looked in my direction. Some squinted, and I struggled to keep from shivering under their scrutiny. But they turned back around and continued working. I headed towards one of the shelves of books scattered around as if I knew what I was doing. I grabbed the first book I touched and hurried to a corner.
Amma had told me the scholars were chosen with a gift of the Golden Kurinji flower by gods—the gods who drew our rivers and borders. They had lived through the three cycles in their past lives—as peasants, traders, and royals. They’d collected knowledge and wisdom over their past lives, becoming wiser and more discerning than anyone else in our kingdom. Yet all that wisdom wasn’t enough to deduce who I truly was.
I grabbed a bunch of empty leaves heaped in a corner of the room and arranged them on the wooden table just as I’d seen the other scholars do. Atop the wooden table was a lone stylus waiting for a scholar. When I touched it, its cold, sharp bite tugged me out of my mind. I was really there. I was really going to do it. I slid my palm along the leaf’s smooth surface.
For a brief moment, a small voice inside my head screeched abandon everything! It told me that I was meddling with the cycles, the very nature of our world. If I were truly capable of polluting everyone, this could bring trouble to not only the scholars but to everyone I loved. But I flicked those worries away and touched the nail to the leaf. It made a small scratching noise as I dragged it. I looked around, worried the others would’ve heard. But they were too focused on their own work.
Little by little, I wrote the first vowel.
I straightened once I was done and admired my own work. It was not as small and perfect as the men’s letters were. But it was my very first letter. Despite its shaky curves and its unclosed circles, it looked brilliant in the moonlight.
As I smiled at the letter, a shadow crawled over it. Someone stood behind me. I did not want to try writing another letter. I was afraid whoever was standing would figure out that I’d never written before. But I had to do something. I grabbed the book and fanned it open. But I couldn’t focus on any of the words. Only the foreboding shadow was visible to me.
“Oi, girl, who are you?” a man asked in his sophisticated city accent.
I had completely forgotten about the language. If I opened my mouth, he would know from the first syllable that I was a peasant.
“I’m asking you a question. Answer me,” the man asked again. The other scholars raised their heads.
I closed the book and rose to my feet. The man continued to look at my face, but I turned around swiftly and walked to the shelf. I replaced the book I’d taken, the leaves I hadn’t used, and walked towards the exit, all while refusing to look the scholar in the eye.
“Oi! Stop! Where do you think you’re going?” the scholar asked. But I walked on. I pretended he wasn’t there, that I wasn’t trespassing.
“I thought you’d sent her here, Great Scholar,” someone said.
The others chimed in.
“I’ve never seen this girl before.”
“She doesn’t seem to be from around here.”
“We weren’t expecting a guest.”
I did not wait to hear more statements. I stepped out of the doorway and strode into the night. In the background, I heard the man who’d questioned me leave the library. His footsteps thudded behind me. But I did not turn around. Hiding my face with both hands, I scurried towards the steps. The scholar started running too, but he was slower. He probably wasn’t used to bustling about the house, wiping it twice a day, and sweeping its dust. I sprinted down the stairs and up the street. His footsteps eventually faded, and when I turned a corner, he was no longer behind me.
Once I returned to my home, I knew I was supposed to discard my clothes and get back into bed. Only then could I pretend to wake up with my mother. But when I looked up at the sky, the stars were still around, and I couldn’t help but sit underneath them in our open courtyard. I grabbed a bowl of rice flour and drew a few letters on the muddy earth. I then disintegrated the squiggles into a translucent layer of flour with a swish of my feet. This remained a secret between me and the millions of stars I found when I lifted my chin.
But I knew I had to get out of there or the secrets would eventually burst out of me.
I entered the kitchen, dressed in the normal half saree I wore most days. I picked up sprigs of curry leaves and washed them. I’d somehow gotten away with everything I’d done that morning, and that left me with a spring in my step. My mother stood by the stove, sautéing sizzling onions and tomatoes. Just as she opened her mouth to ask for the leaves, I held them out. She frowned at me, perhaps annoyed that I’d done it right this time.
“Looks like you were awake early today,” she said.
“It was hot. I was standing in the back to cool down,” I said. My mother never went to the back in the morning.
“You better not be doing anything untoward,” my mother muttered, ripping the curry leaves from their stems and tossing them into the frying pot, raising puffs of smoke.
I leaned by the counter and played with the pallu of my half saree.
“What are you standing here for?” she snapped. “Go, fetch water.”
Whatever cheer was left on my face melted. I turned around and lifted a clay pot. But my feet ached at the mere thought of having to walk that far. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. “We could just get the water from the pond nearby,” I muttered. “I’ve seen the trader girls who are allowed to use the pond. They don’t look that different from me. No one will know.”
“You know we’re not supposed to drink from the ponds used by the others.”
“Why not?” I asked. “What if we did?”
Mother grabbed her coconut-shell spoon. “What has gotten into you today?”
“Surely, drinking water from the same pond as us isn’t going to kill them!”
My mother’s eyes widened. She leaned back a little to peer out the doorway, ensured my brothers wasn’t around, and placed a finger on her lips. I opened my mouth to challenge her again. But she wagged her hot spoon at me, and I silenced. She continued sautéing, but I lingered by the counter, still unconvinced.
“I don’t see why everything has to be this way. Why must I not touch or talk to certain people? Why must I not drink water from the nearest pond? I am tired of it all.”
“You’ve not even spent sixteen years on earth.” My mother sniggered. “These are simple guidelines that will help us move up the cycle in our next birth.”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make much sense.”
“It is the natural order and it makes perfect sense,” she replied through gritted teeth. “The scholars are learned individuals naturally adept at studying and writing. The royals, on the other hand, are meant to be our protectors. Only they have the natural authority required to command us and rule over us.”
As the words remained in the air, she ordered me to bring over the next ingredient, a spice blend she’d domineered my brothers into grinding for her. I handed her the bowl of powder. I wondered what the difference between the command of a royal and the command of my peasant mother was, but I didn’t voice my question in fear of her spoon.
“Only those belonging to the trader cycle are capable of owning land and are gifted with the skill and cunning required to deal with money.”
I grunted. “But we are fine with money, Amma.”
“You saw what your father did,” she said. “He relied only on planting the Eokel trees in the Kurinji flower fields for sustenance. But then, the tribes that used to grow the trees angered the king. Now the trees have disappeared with the tribes, and so has the rice on our plates. If he were a trader, he’d have been wiser.”
I sighed. I didn’t know how to oppose my mother on that.
Noticing my silence, my mother droned on. “We, the peasants, were meant to serve the others. It is in our very nature. Only through service can we be born as a trader in our next life, a royal in the one after, and hopefully a scholar at last.”
I didn’t tell her, but I didn’t feel a natural affinity for servitude as my mother claimed we did. I had just entered a temple, grabbed a stylus and written my first letter. I didn’t even have to wait three lifetimes. I was as far from a peasant as I could be. Perhaps I was a scholar, separated from my scholar mother at birth. How else could I understand writing or be interested in knowledge? Mistakes such as this happened sometimes, I was sure. That made more sense than the idea of being born into a life of servitude.
“Go, now,” my mother said. “Stop arguing and do something useful.”
I dragged my feet to the riverbank, muttering to myself. I walked all the way from the outskirts—where my humble house with a leaky roof was situated—to the other side of the city. Holding the pot on my hip, I pushed through the bustling crowds of the markets where traders peered at me from tiny dwellings built on top of their shops. I even crossed the quieter part of the marketplace where richer traders like our landlords lived in houses that spanned a street. Wiping sweat off my forehead, I proceeded onto lean roads snaking through the royal’s part of the city. Multi-storied houses painted in rich reds, greens, and pinks towered over me, bathing me in their tinted lights.
If I lifted on my feet and peered through an alley between two buildings, I could see the palace in the middle of the city, rising above every other building with its sculpture-filled spires and bright white cupolas. If I headed back a few streets, past the backs of the terracotta roofed houses where scholars lived, I would arrive at the crystal gopuram of the temple I’d visited that morning. But I kicked a rock and stomped to the river. I had to fetch water and walk back another hour.
I finally entered the forest named Mullai that concealed the river from the city. I followed its usual meandering trail, its vegetation cleared by frequent use, revealing the orange sand underneath. When I arrived at the river bank, I paused briefly, wiped sweat off my neck, and cooled my feet in the sand. In the distance, a silver object was lying across the ground, right next to a shining turquoise silk saree. Pulled by the familiarity of the object, I walked over and knelt closer. I noticed its purposefully crafted tapered point and the many floral carvings that filled its body. It was a stylus akin to the one I’d held that morning.
I glanced around with alarm. This meant a scholar must be there somewhere. But all I could see was the ceaseless river glittering under the sunlight and the lush green trees shedding their yellowed leaves. Its owner was nowhere to be found. I knelt by the stylus so I could have a clearer look. As I stared, I heard a splash from the river, then the ringing of anklets. Of course, she was bathing in the water. Now even this river would be out of bounds for us peasants.
The stylus rolled with an incoming breeze and settled atop the silk saree lying next to it. Almost by instinct, I reached across and snatched up the stylus, fearing the wind would blow it away. The sound of anklets grew louder and louder, but the stylus remained in my hand. If the scholar were to catch me touching it, I would be in trouble. I quickly inserted the stylus into the waistband of my skirt and concealed it with my pallu.
I leaned over the silk, pretending to be analysing it. I could claim I was simply curious about the saree if the scholar were to question me. It was bad, but excusable—not as bad as touching a stylus, for sure.
As I stared at the cloth, I noticed the finesse in its weaves and rippling colours. I tilted my head one way, finding it blue and straightened once more, finding it purple. It was as though the saree was spun out of a peacock’s feather.
Finally, the sound of anklets stopped.
“Try touching it.”
I whirled towards the silvery voice of a girl. She stood gracefully, her hair in wet curls around her head, her eyes calm as the grand temple’s pond and her lithe body wrapped in a thin, silk cloth. I shrivelled from the saree, but she walked closer and knelt next to me. She smiled and lifted the saree precariously, crumpling its smooth fabric. She cracked it like a whip and spread it again, this time onto both our laps.
My fingers hovered over the silk, over the intricate golden designs. The cloth was seemingly awake, alive, woven by the gods themselves. It was charged with power that crackled at my fingertips. I couldn’t touch it.
She reached across, grabbed my hand and placed my spread palm on the saree.
A wave of fear ran down my spine. Did she know who I was? If she did, she did not seem to care. She guided my palm across the textured designs, along the perfect weaves, atop the stones embedded in golden wires. I touched the stones with the tip of my fingers, explored their edges and planes, memorised their intricate shapes.
“Where do you live?” she asked me.
I chewed my lip. With the location of my house, she’d know that I’m a peasant and deem me impure.
When I didn’t respond, her eyes moved to my empty neck, perhaps in search of the pendant that pronounced one a scholar. I stole a look at her neck as well. She wore an intricate necklace. It was a squiggle like the letters I drew on the courtyard floor. In its shape, it contained the power to narrate a story. It drew a flower, a lion, a leaf. She wordlessly returned her attention to the saree and flipped it over. As she held it out to me, something fell from its folds. A red velvet pouch clinking with cowrie shells.
We both simultaneously realised what had happened. My eyes met hers and we paused for a second, letting the realisation sink in. She was a foreseer.
The foreseers were an elite kind of scholars trained to predict the future. Most scholars in the city advised royals and a select few traders in matters of divinity and education, but the elite scholars lived away in recluses to avoid our pollution. She, being an elite scholar, must have been one of the fine women who found my very breath offending. But her warm hands still remained on my wrist. She didn’t flinch or shriek.
I rose to my feet, letting the silk slide off my lap and fall to the ground slowly. The girl gazed at me, still smiling. Though she didn’t rip her hand away from mine as the others would have, I found myself backing away. She eventually let go. I ran to the river, scooped water with my pot, and hurried back out the trail.
Once I was sufficiently away from the river, I looked back at where the foreseer likely remained. The stylus pressed against my waist. I touched it and wondered if she would miss it. For the first time, I regretted having taken it.
You can find out what happens next by purchasing a copy of Goldspun here, and don't forget to use the "15% off" voucher for a discount! Thank you so much to everyone who pre-ordered a copy, we hope you enjoy Goldspun! Make sure to keep an eye out for the postman, and get ready for an exciting adventure!
Sincerely,
Team Meraki
Comentarios