It shimmered in the hazy light of high afternoon, and sparkled briefly, before stabilising into a shimmering white corona. Rama stood transfixed, the half-eaten ber in his hand, staring at the apparition that had replaced the old tribal woman. He knew he ought to be drawing his sword and paying heed to Lakshman’s shouts, but he felt no fear or alarm at the supernatural transformation of the outcast. Instead, he felt a great sense of calm and contentment, the kind of feeling he associated as a young boy with lying with his head in his mother’s lap and falling asleep listening to her sing his favourite lullabies. A sense of being protected and safe. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in the past several days; quite the opposite, in fact. And because of this, it suffused his body with a great lethargy. The being that stood in the place of the one called Shabbri was also an old woman. Her features were as lined and weathered as Shabbri’s had been, but they were subtly different.
