which to sleep for as long as he chose to remain.
The beggar accepted the food with the courtesies of a Brahmin, but
declined to eat anything other than bread and fruit. He accepted, too, the
dark garment of Ratri's Order, casting aside his begrimed smock. Then he
looked upon the cell and the fresh sleeping mat that had been laid for him.
"I do thank you, worthy priest," he said, in a voice rich and resonant,
and altogether larger than his person. "I do thank you, and pray your
goddess smile upon you for your kindness and generosity in her name."
The priest smiled at this himself, and still hoped that Ratri might
pass along the hall at that moment, to witness his kindness and generosity
in her name. She did not, however. Few of her Order had actually seen her,
even on the night when she put on her power and walked among them: for only
those of the saffron robe had attended Sam's awakening and were certain as
to his identity. She generally moved about the monastery while her followers
were at prayer or after they had retired for the evening. She slept mainly
during the day; when she did cross their sight she was well-muffled and
cloaked; her wishes and orders she communicated directly to Gandhiji, the
head of the Order, who was ninety-three years old this cycle, and more than
half blind.
Consequently, both her monks and those of the saffron robe wondered as
to her appearance and sought to gain possible favor in her eyes. It was said
that her blessing would ensure one's being incarnated as a Brahmin. Only
Gandhiji did not care, for he had accepted the way of the real death.
Since she did not pass along the hall as they stood there, the priest
prolonged the conversation, "I am Balarma," he stated. "May I inquire as to
your name, good sir, and perhaps your destination?"
"I am Aram," said the beggar, "who has taken upon himself a ten-year
vow of poverty, and of silence for seven. Fortunately, the seven have
elapsed, that I may now speak to thank my benefactors and answer their
questions. I am heading up into the mountains to find me a cave where I may
meditate and pray. I may, perhaps, accept your kindly hospitality for a few
days, before proceeding on with my journey."
"Indeed," said Balarma, "we should be honored if a holy one were to see
fit to bless our monastery with his presence. We will make you welcome. If
there is anything you wish to assist you along your path, and we may be able
to grant this thing, please name it to us."
Aram fixed him with his unblinking green eye and said, "The monk who
first observed me did not wear the robe of your Order." He touched the dark
garment as he said it. "Instead, I believe my poor eye did behold one of
another color."
"Yes," said Balarma, "for the followers of the Buddha do shelter here
among us, resting awhile from their wanderings."
"That is truly interesting," said Aram, "for I should like to speak
with them and perhaps learn more of their Way."
"You should have ample opportunity if you choose to remain among us for
a time."
"This then shall I do. For how long will they remain?"
"I do not know."
Aram nodded. "When might I speak with them?"
"This evening there will be an hour when all the monks are gathered
together and free to speak as they would, save for those who have taken vows
of silence."
"I shall pass the interval till then in prayer," said Aram. "Thank
you."
Each bowed slightly, and Aram entered his room.
That evening, Aram attended the community hour of the monks. Those of
both Orders did mingle at this time and engage in conversation. Sam did not
attend it himself, nor did Tak; and Yama never attended it in person.
Aram seated himself at the long table in the refectory, across from
several of the Buddha's monks. He talked for some time with these,
discoursing on doctrine and practice, caste and creed, weather and the
affairs of the day.
"It seems strange," he said after a while, "that those of your Order
have come so far to the south and the west so suddenly."
"We are a wandering Order," replied the monk to whom he had spoken. "We
follow the wind. We follow our hearts."
"To the land of rusted soil in the season of lightnings? Is there
perhaps some revelation to occur hereabout, which might be enlarging to my
spirit were I to behold it?"
"The entire universe is a revelation," said the monk. "All things
change, yet all things remain. Day follows night. . . each day is different,
yet each is day. Much of the world is illusion, yet the forms of that
illusion follow a pattern which is a part of divine reality."
"Yes, yes," said Aram. "In the ways of illusion and reality am I
well-versed, but by my inquiry I did mean to know whether perhaps a new
teacher had arisen in this vicinity, or some old one returned, or mayhap a
divine manifestation, the presence of which it might profit my soul to be
aware."
As he spoke, the beggar brushed from the table before him a red,
crawling beetle, the size of a thumbnail, and he moved his sandal as if to
crush it.
"Pray, brother, do not harm it," said the monk.
"But they are all over the place, and the Masters of Karma have stated that
a man cannot be made to return as an insect, and the killing of an insect is
a karmically inoperative act."
"Nevertheless," said the monk, "all life being one, in this monastery
all do practice the doctrine of ahimsa and refrain from taking life of any
sort."
"Yet," said Aram, "Patanjali does state that it is the intention rather
than the act which governs. Therefore, if I killed with love rather than
malice, it would be as if I had not killed. I confess that this was not the
case and that malice was present-- therefore, even if I did not kill I do
bear the burden of the guilt because of the presence of that intention. So I
could step upon it now and be none the worse for it, according to the
principle of ahimsa. Since I am a guest, however, I of course respect the
practice and do not do this thing." With this, he moved his sandal away from
the insect, which stood immobile, reddish antennae pricked upward.
"Indeed, he is a scholar," said one of the Order of Ratri.
Aram smiled. "Thank you, but it is not so," he stated. "I am only a
humble seeker of truth, and on occasion in the past have I been privileged
to overhear the discourses of the learned. Would that I might be so
privileged again! If there were some great teacher or scholar in the
vicinity, then I would most surely walk across a bed of hot coals to sit at
his feet and to hear his words or observe his example. If-- "
He stopped then, for all eyes had suddenly turned upon the doorway at
his back. He did not move his head, but reached out to crush a beetle that
stood near his hand. The tip of a small crystal and two tiny wires protruded
through the broken chitin of its back.
Then he turned, his green eye sweeping across the row of monks seated
between himself and the doorway, and he looked upon Yama, who wore breeches,
boots, shirt, sash, cloak and gloves all of red, and about whose head was
twisted a turban the color of blood.
"'If?'" said Yama. "You were saying 'if'? If some sage or some avatar
of the godhead resided in the vicinity, you should like to make his
acquaintance? Is that what you were saying, stranger?"
The beggar rose from the table. He bowed. "I am Aram," he stated, "a
fellow seeker and traveler with all who wish enlightenment."
Yama did not return the salute. "Why do you spell your name backward,
Lord of Illusion, when all your words and actions herald it before you?"
The beggar shrugged. "I do not understand what you say."
But the smile came again to his lips. "I am one who seeks the Path and
the Right," he added.
"I find that hard to believe, after witnessing at least a thousand
years of your treachery."
"You speak of the lifetime of gods."
"Unfortunately, I do. You have made a serious mistake, Mara."
"What may that be?"
"You feel that you must be permitted to leave here alive."
"I admit that I anticipate doing so."
"Not considering the numerous accidents which might befall a lone
traveler in this wild region."
"I have been a lone traveler for many years. Accidents always happen to
other people."
"You might believe that even if your body were destroyed here, your
atman would be transferred remotely to another body located elsewhere. I
understand that someone has deciphered my notes, and the trick is now
possible."
The beggar's brows moved a quarter of an inch lower and closer
together.
"You do not realize the forces which even now contain this building,
defending against any such transfer."
The beggar stepped to the center of the room. "Yama," he stated, "you
are a fool if you think to match your puny fallen powers against those of
the Dreamer."
"Perhaps this is so. Lord Mara," Yama replied, "but I have waited too
long for this opportunity to postpone it further. Remember my promise at
Keenset? If you wish to continue your chain of existence you will have to
pass through this, the only door to this room, which I bar. Nothing beyond
this room can help you now."
Mara then raised his hands, and the fires were born.
Everything was flaming. Flames leapt from the stone walls, the tables,
the robes of the monks. Smoke billowed and curled about the room. Yama stood
in the midst of a conflagration, but he did not move.
"Is that the best you can do?" he asked. "Your flames are everywhere,
but nothing burns."
Mara clapped his hands and the flames vanished.
In their place, its swaying head held at almost twice the height of a
man, its silver hood fanned, the mechobra drew into its S-shaped strike
position.
Yama ignored it, his shadowy gaze reaching now like the probe of a dark
insect, boring into Mara's single eye.
The mechobra faded in mid-strike. Yama strode forward.
Mara fell back a pace.
They stood thus for perhaps three heartbeats, then Yama moved forward
two paces farther and Mara backed away again. Perspiration blistered upon
both their brows.
The beggar now stood taller and his hair was heavier; he was thicker
about the waist and broader across the shoulders. A certain grace, not
previously apparent, accompanied all his movements.
He fell back another step.
"Yes, Mara, there is a deathgod," said Yama between clenched teeth.
"Fallen or no, the real death dwells in my eyes. You must meet them. When
you reach the wall you can back no farther. Feel the strength go out of your
limbs. Feel the coldness begin in your hands and your feet."
Mara's teeth bared in a snarl. His neck was as thick as a bull's. His
biceps were as big about as a man's thighs. His chest was a barrel of
strength and his legs were like great trees of the forest.
"Coldness?" he asked, extending his arms. "I can break a giant with
these hands, Yama. What are you but a banished carrion god? Your frown may
claim the aged and the infirm. Your eyes may chill dumb animals and those of
the lower classes of men. I stand as high above you as a star above the
ocean's bottom."
Yama's red-gloved hands fell like a pair of cobras upon his throat.
"Then try that strength which you so mock. Dreamer. You have taken on the
appearance of power. Use it! Best me not with words!"
His cheeks and forehead bloomed scarlet as Yama's hands tightened upon
his throat. His eye seemed to leap, a green search-light sweeping the world.
Mara fell to his knees. "Enough, Lord Yama!" he gasped. "Wouldst slay
thyself?"
He changed. His features flowed, as though he lay beneath restless
waters.
Yama looked down upon his own face, saw his own red hands plucking at
his wrists.
"You grow desperate now, Mara, as the life leaves you. But Yama is no
child, that he fears breaking the mirror you have become. Try your last, or
die like a man, it is all the same in the end."
But once more there was a flowing and a change.
This time Yama hesitated, breaking his strength.
Her bronze hair fell upon his hands. Her pale eyes pleaded with him.
Caught about her throat was a necklace of ivory skulls, but slightly paler
than her flesh. Her sari was the color of blood. Her hands rested upon his
own, almost caressing. . .
"Goddess!" he hissed.
"You would not slay Kali . . . ? Durga . . . ?" she choked.
"Wrong again, Mara," he whispered. "Did you not know that each man
kills the thing he loved?" and with this his hands twisted, and there was a
sound of breaking bones.
"Tenfold be your damnation," he said, his eyes tightly closed. "There
shall be no rebirth."
His hands came open then. A tall, nobly proportioned man lay upon the
floor at his feet, his head resting upon his right shoulder.
His eye had finally closed.
Yama turned the corpse with the toe of his boot. "Build a pyre and burn
this body," he said to the monks, not turning toward them. "Spare none of
the rites. One of the highest has died this day."
Then he removed his eyes from this work of his hands, turned upon his
heel and left the room.
That evening the lightnings fled across the skies and the rain came
down like bullets from Heaven.
The four of them sat in the chamber in the high tower that rose from
the northeast corner of the monastery.
Yama paced the room, stopping at the window each time he came to it.
The others sat watching him, listening.
"They suspect," he told them, "but they do not know. They would not
ravage the monastery of a fellow god, displaying before men the division of
their ranks-- not unless they were certain. They were not certain, so they
investigated. This means that time is still with us."
They nodded.
"A Brahmin who renounced the world to find his soul passed this way,
suffered an accident, died here the real death. His body was burnt and his
ashes cast into the river that leads to the sea. This is what occurred. . .
. The wandering monks of the Enlightened One were visiting at the time. They
moved on shortly after this occurrence. Who knows where they went?"
Tak stood as nearly erect as he could.
"Lord Yama," he stated, "while it may hold for a week, a month --
possibly even longer-- this story will come apart in the hands of the Master
to judge the first of any of those here present in this monastery who pass
within the Halls of Karma. Under the circumstances, I believe some of them
may achieve early judgment for just this reason. What then?"
Yama rolled a cigarette with care and precision. "It must be arranged
that what I said is what actually occurred."
"How can that be? When a man's brain is subject to karmic play-back,
all the events he has witnessed in his most recent cycle of life are laid
out before his judge and the machine, like a scroll."
"That is correct," said Yama. "And have you. Tak of the Archives, never
heard of a palimpsest-- a scroll which has been used previously, cleaned,
and then used again?"
"Of course, but the mind is not a scroll."
"No?" Yama smiled. "Well, it was your simile to begin with, not mine.
What's truth, anyway? Truth is what you make it."
He lit his cigarette. "These monks have witnessed a strange and
terrible thing," he continued. "They saw me take on my Aspect and wield an
Attribute. They saw Mara do the same-- here, in this monastery where we have
revived the principle of ahimsa. They are aware that a god may do such
things without karmic burden, but the shock was great and the impression
vivid. And the final burning is still to come. By the time of that burning,
the tale I have told you must be true in their minds."
"How?" asked Ratri.
"This very night, this very hour," he said, "while the image of the act
flames within their consciousness and their thoughts are troubled, the new
truth will be forged and nailed into place. . . . Sam, you have rested long
enough. This thing is now yours to do. You must preach them a sermon. You
must call forth within them those nobler sentiments and higher qualities of
spirit which make men subject to divine meddling. Ratri and I will then
combine our powers and a new truth will be born."
Sam shifted and dropped his eyes. "I don't know if I can do it. It's
been so long. . ."
"Once a Buddha, always a Buddha, Sam. Dust off some of your old
parables. You have about fifteen minutes."
Sam held out his hand. "Give me some tobacco and a paper."
He accepted the package, rolled himself a cigarette. "Light? . . .
Thanks."
He drew in deeply, exhaled, coughed. "I'm tired of lying to them," he
finally said. "I guess that's what it really is."
"Lying?" asked Yama. "Who asked you to lie about anything? Quote them
the Sermon on the Mount, if you want. Or something from the Popul Voh, or
the Iliad. I don't care what you say. Just stir them a bit, soothe them a
little. That's all I ask."
"Then what?"
"Then? Then I shall proceed to save them-- and us!"
Sam nodded slowly. "When you put it that way . . . but I'm a little out
of shape when it comes to this sort of thing. Sure, I'll find me a couple
truths and throw in a few pieties-- but make it twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes, then. And afterward we pack. Tomorrow we leave for
Khaipur."
"So soon?" asked Tak.
Yama shook his head. "So late," he said.
The monks were seated upon the floor of the refectory. The tables had
been moved back against the walls. The insects had vanished. Outside, the
rain continued to fall.
Great-Souled Sam, the Enlightened One, entered and seated himself
before them.
Ratri came in dressed as a Buddhist nun, and veiled.
Yama and Ratri moved to the back of the room and settled to the floor.
Somewhere, Tak too, was listening.
Sam sat with his eyes closed for several minutes, then said softly:
"I have many names, and none of them matter." He opened his eyes
slightly then, but he did not move his head. He looked upon nothing in
particular.
"Names are not important," he said. "To speak is to name names, but to
speak is not important. A thing happens once that has never happened before.
Seeing it, a man looks upon reality. He cannot tell others what he has seen.
Others wish to know, however, so they question him saying, 'What is it like,
this thing you have seen?' So he tries to tell them. Perhaps he has seen the
very first fire in the world. He tells them, 'It is red, like a poppy, but
through it dance other colors. It has no form, like water, flowing
everywhere. It is warm, like the sun of summer, only warmer. It exists for a
time upon a piece of wood, and then the wood is gone, as though it were
eaten, leaving behind that which is black and can be sifted like sand. When
the wood is gone, it too is gone.' Therefore, the hearers must think reality
is like a poppy, like water, like the sun, like that which eats and
excretes. They think it is like to anything that they are told it is like by
the man who has known it. But they have not looked upon fire. They cannot
really know it. They can only know of it. But fire comes again into the
world, many times. More men look upon fire. After a time, fire is as common
as grass and clouds and the air they breathe. They see that, while it is
like a poppy, it is not a poppy, while it is like water, it is not water,
while it is like the sun, it is not the sun, and while it is like that which
eats and passes wastes, it is not that which eats and passes wastes, but
something different from each of these apart or all of these together. So
they look upon this new thing and they make a new word to call it. They call
it 'fire.'
"If they come upon one who still has not seen it and they speak to him
of fire, he does not know what they mean. So they, in turn, fall back upon
telling him what fire is like. As they do so, they know from their own
experience that what they are telling him is not the truth, but only a part
of it. They know that this man will never know reality from their words,
though all the words in the world are theirs to use. He must look upon the
fire, smell of it, warm his hands by it, stare into its heart, or remain
forever ignorant. Therefore, 'fire' does not matter, 'earth' and 'air' and
'water' do not matter. 'I' do not matter. No word matters. But man forgets
reality and remembers words. The more words he remembers, the cleverer do
his fellows esteem him. He looks upon the great transformations of the
world, but he does not see them as they were seen when man looked upon
reality for the first time. Their names come to his lips and he smiles as he
tastes them, thinking he knows them in the naming. The thing that has never
happened before is still happening. It is still a miracle. The great burning
blossom squats, flowing, upon the limb of the world, excreting the ash of
the world, and being none of these things I have named and at the same time
all of them, and this is reality-- the Nameless.
"Therefore, I charge you-- forget the names you bear, forget the words
I speak as soon as they are uttered. Look, rather, upon the Nameless within
yourselves, which arises as I address it. It hearkens not to my words, but
to the reality within me, of which it is part. This is the atman, which
hears me rather than my words. All else is unreal. To define is to lose. The
essence of all things is the Nameless. The Nameless is unknowable, mightier
even than Brahma. Things pass, but the essence remains. You sit, therefore,
in the midst of a dream.
"Essence dreams it a dream of form. Forms pass, but the essence
remains, dreaming new dreams. Man names these dreams and thinks to have
captured the essence, not knowing that he invokes the unreal. These stones,
these walls, these bodies you see seated about you are poppies and water and
the sun. They are the dreams of the Nameless. They are fire, if you like.
"Occasionally, there may come a dreamer who is aware that he is
dreaming. He may control something of the dream-stuff, bending it to his
will, or he may awaken into greater self-knowledge. If he chooses the path
of self-knowledge, his glory is great and he shall be for all ages like unto
a star. If he chooses instead the way of the Tantras, combining Samsara and
Nirvana, comprehending the world and continuing to live in it, this one is
mighty among dreamers. He may be mighty for good or for ill, as we look upon
him-- though these terms, too, are meaningless, outside of the namings of
Samsara.
"To dwell within Samsara, however, is to be subject to the works of
those who are mighty among dreamers. If they be mighty for good, it is a
golden time. If they be mighty for ill, it is a time of darkness. The dream
may turn to nightmare.
"It is written that to live is to suffer. This is so, say the sages,
for man must work off his burden of Karma if he is to achieve enlightenment.
For this reason, say the sages, what does it profit a man to struggle within
a dream against that which is his lot, which is the path he must follow to
attain liberation? In the light of eternal values, say the sages, the
suffering is as nothing; in the terms of Samsara, say the sages, it leads to
that which is good. What justification, then, has a man to struggle against
those who be mighty for ill?"
He paused for a moment, raised his head higher.
"This night the Lord of Illusion passed among you-- Mara, mighty among
dreamers-- mighty for ill. He did come upon another who may work with the
stuff of dreams in a different way. He did meet with Dharma, who may expel a
dreamer from his dream. They did struggle, and the Lord Mara is no more. Why
did they struggle, deathgod against illusionist? You say their ways are
incomprehensible, being the ways of gods. This is not the answer.
"The answer, the justification, is the same for men as it is for gods.
Good or ill, say the sages, mean nothing for they are of Samsara. Agree with
the sages, who have taught our people for as far as the memory of man may
reach. Agree, but consider also a thing of which the sages do not speak.
This thing is 'beauty,' which is a word-- but look behind the word and
consider the Way of the Nameless. And what is the way of the Nameless? It is
the Way of Dream. And why does the Nameless dream? This thing is not known
to any dweller within Samsara. So ask, rather, what does the Nameless dream?
"The Nameless, of which we are all a part, does dream form. And what is
the highest attribute any form may possess? It is beauty. The Nameless,
then, is an artist. The problem, therefore, is not one of good or evil, but
one of esthetics. To struggle against those who are mighty among dreamers
and are mighty for ill, or ugliness, is not to struggle for that which the
sages have taught us to be meaningless in terms of Samsara or Nirvana, but
rather it is to struggle for the symmetrical dreaming of a dream, in terms
of the rhythm and the point, the balance and the antithesis which will make
it a thing of beauty. Of this, the sages say nothing. This truth is so
simple that they have obviously overlooked it. For this reason, I am bound
by the esthetics of the situation to call it to your attention. To struggle
against the dreamers who dream ugliness, be they men or gods, cannot but be
the will of the Nameless. This struggle will also bear suffering, and so
one's karmic burden will be lightened thereby, just as it would be by
enduring the ugliness; but this suffering is productive of a higher end in
the light of the eternal values of which the sages so often speak.
"Therefore, I say unto you, the esthetics of what you have witnessed
this evening were of a high order. You may ask me, then, 'How am I to know
that which is beautiful and that which is ugly, and be moved to act
thereby?' This question, I say, you must answer for yourself. To do this,
first forget what I have spoken, for I have said nothing. Dwell now upon the
Nameless." He raised his right hand and bowed his head.
Yama stood, Ratri stood, Tak appeared upon a table.
The four of them left together, knowing the machineries of Karma to
have been defeated for a time.
They walked through the jagged brilliance of the morning, beneath the
Bridge of the Gods. Tall fronds, still wet with the night's rain, glistened
at the sides of the trail. The tops of trees and the peaks of the distant
mountains rippled beyond the rising vapors. The day was cloudless. The faint
breezes of morning still bore a trace of the night's cold. The clicking and
buzzing and chirping of the jungle accompanied the monks as they walked. The
monastery from which they had departed was only partly visible above the
upper reaches of the treetops; high in the air above it, a twisting line of
smoke endorsed the heavens.
Ratri's servitors bore her litter in the midst of the moving party of
monks, servants and her small guard of warriors. Sam and Yama walked near
the head of the band. Silent overhead, Tak followed, passing among leaves
and branches, unseen.
"The pyre still blazes," said Yama.
"Yes."
"They burn the wanderer who suffered a heart attack as he took his rest
among them."
"This is true."
"For a spur of the moment thing, you came up with a fairly engaging
sermon."
"Thanks."
"Do you really believe what you preached?"
Sam laughed. "I'm very gullible when it comes to my own words. I
believe everything I say, though I know I'm a liar."
Yama snorted. "The rod of Trimurti still falls upon the backs of men.
Nirriti stirs within his dark lair; he harasses the seaways of the south. Do
you plan on spending another lifetime indulging in metaphysics-- to find new
justification for opposing your enemies? Your talk last night sounded as if
you have reverted to considering why again, rather than how."
"No," said Sam, "I just wanted to try another line on the audience. It
is difficult to stir rebellion among those to whom all things are good.
There is no room for evil in their minds, despite the fact that they suffer
it constantly. The slave upon the rack who knows that he will be born
again-- perhaps as a fat merchant -- if he suffers willingly-- his outlook
is not the same as that of a man with but one life to live. He can bear
anything, knowing that great as his present pain may be, his future pleasure
will rise higher. If such a one does not choose to believe in good or evil,
perhaps then beauty and ugliness can be made to serve him as well. Only the
names have been changed."
"This, then, is the new, official party line?" asked Yama.
"It is," said Sam.
Yama's hand passed through an invisible slit in his robe and emerged
with a dagger, which he raised in salute.
"To beauty," he said. "Down with ugliness!"
A wave of silence passed across the jungle. All the life-sounds about
them ceased.
Yama raised one hand, returning the dagger to its hidden sheath with
the other.
"Halt!" he cried out.
He looked upward, squinting against the sun, head cocked to his right.
"Off the trail! Into the brush!" he called.
They moved. Saffron-cloaked bodies flashed from off the trail. Ratri's
litter was borne in among the trees. She now stood at Yama's side.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Listen!"
It came then, riding down the sky on a blast of sound. It flashed above
the peaks of the mountains, crossed over the monastery, whipping the smokes
into invisibility. Explosions of sound trumpeted its coming, and the air
quaked as it cut its way through the wind and the light.
It was a great-looped tau cross, a tail of fire streaming behind it.
"Destroyer come a-hunting," said Yama.
"Thunder chariot!" cried one of the mercenaries, making a sign with his
hand.
"Shiva passes," said a monk, eyes wide with fear. "The Destroyer . . ."
"Had I known at the time how well I wrought," said Yama, "I might have
numbered its days intentionally. Occasionally, do I regret my genius."
It passed beneath the Bridge of the Gods, swung above the jungle, fell
away to the south. Its roar gradually diminished as it departed in that
direction. Then there was silence.
A bird made a brief piping noise. Another replied to it. Then all the
sounds of life began again and the travelers returned to their trail.
"He will be back," said Yama, and this was true. Twice more that day
did they have to leave the trail as the thunder chariot passed above their
heads. On the last occasion, it circled the monastery, possibly observing
the funeral rites being conducted there. Then it crossed over the mountains
and was gone.
That night they made camp under the stars, and on the second night they
did the same.
The third day brought them to the river Deeva and the small port city
of Koona. It was there that they found the transportation they wished, and
they set forth that same evening, heading south by bark to where the Deeva
joined with the mighty Vedra, and then proceeded onward to pass at last the
wharves of Khaipur, their destination.
As they flowed with the river, Sam listened to its sounds. He stood
upon the dark deck, his hands resting on the rail. He stared out across the
waters where the bright heavens rose and fell, star bending back upon star.
It was then that the night addressed him in the voice of Ratri, from
somewhere nearby.
"You have passed this way before, Tathagatha."
"Many times," he replied. "The Deeva is a thing of beauty under the
stars, in its rippling and its folding."
"Indeed."
"We go now to Khaipur and the Palace of Kama. What will you do when we
arrive?"
"I will spend some time in meditation, goddess."
"Upon what shall you meditate?"
"Upon my past lives and the mistakes they each contained. I must review
my own tactics as well as those of the enemy."
"Yama thinks the Golden Cloud to have changed you."
"Perhaps it has."
"He believes it to have softened you, weakened you. You have always
posed as a mystic, but now he believes you have become one -- to your own
undoing, to our undoing."
He shook his head, turned around. But he did not see her. Stood she
there invisible, or had she withdrawn? He spoke softly and without
inflection:
"I shall tear these stars from out the heavens," he stated, "and hurl
them in the faces of the gods, if this be necessary. I shall blaspheme in
every Temple throughout the land. I shall take lives as a fisherman takes
fish, by the net, if this be necessary. I shall mount me again up to the
Celestial City, though every step be a flame or a naked sword and the way be
guarded by tigers. One day will the gods look down from Heaven and see me
upon the stair, bringing them the gift they fear most. That day will the new
Yuga begin.
"But first I must meditate for a time," he finished.
He turned back again and stared out over the waters.
A shooting star burnt its way across the heavens. The ship moved on.
The night sighed about him.
Sam stared ahead, remembering.
One time a minor rajah from a minor principality came with his retinue
into Mahartha, the city that is called Gateway of the South and Capital of
the Dawn, there to purchase him a new body. This was in the days when the
thread of destiny might yet be plucked from out a gutter, the gods were less
formal, the demons still bound, and the Celestial City yet occasionally open
to men. This is the story of how the prince did bait the one-armed receiver
of devotions before the Temple, incurring the disfavor of Heaven for his
presumption. . .
Few are the beings born again among men; more
numerous are those born again elsewhere.
Anguttara-nikaya (I, 35)
Riding into the capital of dawn at mid-afternoon, the prince, mounted
upon a white mare, passed up the broad avenue of Surya, his hundred
retainers massed at his back, his adviser Strake at his left hand, his
scimitar in his sash, and a portion of his wealth in the bags his pack
horses bore.
The heat crashed down upon the turbans of the men, washed past them,
came up again from the roadway.
A chariot moved slowly by, headed in the opposite direction, its driver
squinting up at the banner the chief retainer bore; a courtesan stood at the
gateway to her pavilion, studying the traffic; and a pack of mongrel dogs
followed at the heels of the horses, barking.
The prince was tall, and his mustaches were the color of smoke. His
hands, dark as coffee, were marked with the stiff ridges of his veins.
Still, his posture was erect, and his eyes were like the eyes of an ancient
bird, electric and clear.
Ahead, a crowd gathered to watch the passing troop. Horses were ridden
only by those who could afford them, and few were that wealthy. The slizzard
was the common mount-- a scaled creature with snakelike neck, many teeth,
dubious lineage, brief life span and a vicious temperament; the horse, for
some reason, having grown barren in recent generations.
The prince rode on, into the capital of dawn, the watchers watching.
Passing, they turned off the avenue of the sun and headed up a narrower
thoroughfare. They moved by the low buildings of commerce, the great shops
of the great merchants, the banks, the Temples, the inns, the brothels. They
passed on, until at the fringe of the business district they came upon the
princely hostel of Hawkana, the Most Perfect Host. They drew rein at the
gate, for Hawkana himself stood outside the walls, simply dressed,
fashionably corpulent and smiling, waiting to personally conduct the white
mare within.
"Welcome, Lord Siddhartha!" he called in a loud voice, so that all
within earshot might know the identity of his guest. "Welcome to this
well-nightingaled vicinity, and to the perfumed gardens and marble halls of
this humble establishment! To your riders welcome also, who have ridden a
goodly ride with you and no doubt seek subtle refreshment and dignified ease
as well as yourself. Within, you will find all things to your liking, I
trust, as you have upon the many occasions in the past when you have tarried
within these halls in the company of other princely guests and noble
visitors, too numerous to mention, such as -- "
"And a good afternoon to you also, Hawkana!" cried the prince, for the
day was hot and the innkeeper's speeches, like rivers, always threatened to
flow on forever. "Let us enter quickly within your walls, where, among their
other virtues too numerous to mention, it is also cool."
Hawkana nodded briskly, and taking the mare by the bridle led her
through the gateway and into his courtyard; there, he held the stirrup while
the prince dismounted, then gave the horses into the keeping of his stable
hands and dispatched a small boy through the gateway to clean the street
where they had waited.
Within the hostel, the men were bathed, standing in the marble bath
hall while servants poured water over their shoulders. Then did they annoint
themselves after the custom of the warrior caste, put on fresh garments and
passed into the hall of dining.
The meal lasted the entire afternoon, until the warriors lost count of
the courses. At the right hand of the prince, who sat at the head of the
long, low, serving board, three dancers wove their way through an intricate
pattern, finger cymbals clicking, faces bearing the proper expressions for
the proper moments of the dance, as four veiled musicians played the
traditional music of the hours. The table was covered with a richly woven
tapestry of blue, brown, yellow, red and green, wherein was worked a series
of hunting and battle scenes: riders mounted on slizzard and horse met with
lance and bow the charges of feather-panda, fire-rooster and jewel-podded
command plant; green apes wrestled in the tops of trees; the Garuda Bird
clutched a sky demon in its talons, assailing it with beak and pinions; from
the depths of the sea crawled an army of horned fish, clutching spikes of
pink coral in their jointed fins, facing a row of kirtled and helmeted men
who bore lances and torches to oppose their way upon the land.
The prince ate but sparingly. He toyed with his food, listened to the
music, laughed occasionally at the jesting of one of his men. He sipped a
sherbet, his rings clicking against the sides of the glass.
Hawkana appeared beside him. "Goes all well with you, Lord?" he
inquired.
"Yes, good Hawkana, all is well," he replied.
"You do not eat as do your men. Does the meal displease you?"
"It is not the food, which is excellent, nor its preparation, which is
faultless, worthy Hawkana. Rather, it is my appetite, which has not been
high of late."
"Ah!" said Hawkana, knowingly. "I have the thing, the very thing! Only
one such as yourself may truly appreciate it. Long has it rested upon the
special shelf of my cellar. The god Krishna had somehow preserved it against
the ages. He gave it to me many years ago because the accommodations here
did not displease him. I shall fetch it for you."
He bowed then, and backed from the hall.
When he returned he bore a bottle. Before he saw the paper upon its
side, the prince recognized the shape of that bottle.
"Burgundy!" he exclaimed.
"Just so," said Hawkana. "Brought from vanished Uratha, long ago."
He sniffed at it and smiled. Then he poured a small quantity into a
pear-shaped goblet and set it before his guest.
The prince raised it and inhaled of its bouquet. He took a slow sip. He
closed his eyes.
There was a silence in the room, in respect of his pleasure.
Then he lowered the glass, and Hawkana poured into it once again the
product of the pinot noir grape, which could not be cultivated in this land.
The prince did not touch the glass. Instead, he turned to Hawkana,
saying, "Who is the oldest musician in this house?"
"Mankara, here," said his host, gesturing toward the white-haired man
who took his rest at the serving table in the comer.
"Old not in body, but in years," said the prince.
"Oh, that would be Dele," said Hawkana, "if he is to be counted as a
musician at all. He says that once he was such a one."
"Dele?"
"The boy who keeps the stables."
"Ah, I see. . .. Send for him." Hawkana clapped his hands and ordered
the servant who appeared to go into the stables, make the horse-boy
presentable and fetch him with dispatch into the presence of the diners.
"Pray, do not bother making him presentable, but simply bring him
here," said the prince.
He leaned back and waited then, his eyes closed.
When the horse-boy stood before him, he asked:
"Tell me. Dele, what music do you play?"
"That which no longer finds favor in the hearing of Brahmins," said the
boy.
"What was your instrument?"
"Piano," said Dele.
"Can you play upon any of these?" He gestured at those instruments that
stood, unused now, upon the small platform beside the wall.
The boy cocked his head at them. "I suppose I could manage on the
flute, if I had to."
"Do you know any waltzes?"
"Yes."
"Will you play me 'The Blue Danube'?"
The boy's sullen expression vanished, to be replaced by one of
uneasiness. He cast a quick glance back at Hawkana, who nodded.
"Siddhartha is a prince among men, being of the First," stated the
host.
"'The Blue Danube,' on one of these flutes?"
"If you please."
The boy shrugged, "I'll try," he said. "It's been an awfully long time.
. .. Bear with me."
He crossed to where the instruments lay and muttered something to the
owner of the flute he selected. The man nodded his head. Then he raised it
to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. He paused, repeated the trial,
then turned about.
He raised it once more and began the quivering movement of the waltz.
As he played, the prince sipped his wine.
When he paused for breath, the prince motioned him to continue. He
played tune after forbidden tune, and the professional musicians put
professional expressions of scorn upon their faces; but beneath their table
several feet were tapping in slow time with the music.
Finally, the prince had finished his wine. Evening was near to the city
of Mahartha. He tossed the boy a purse of coins and did not look into his
tears as he departed from the hall. He rose then and stretched, smothering a
yawn with the back of his hand.
"I retire to my chambers," he said to his men. "Do not gamble away your
inheritances in my absence."
They laughed then and bade him good night, calling for strong drink and
salted biscuits. He heard the rattle of dice as he departed.
The prince retired early so that he might arise before daybreak. He
instructed a servant to remain outside his door all the following day and to
refuse admission to any who sought it, saying that he was indisposed.
Before the first flowers had opened to the first insects of morning, he
had gone from the hostel, only an ancient green parrot witnessing his
departure. Not in silks sewn with pearls did he go, but in tatters, as was
his custom on these occasions. Not preceded by conch and drum did he move,
but by silence, as he passed along the dim streets of the city. These
streets were deserted, save for an occasional doctor or prostitute returning
from a late call. A stray dog followed him as he passed through the business
district, heading in the direction of the harbor.
He seated himself upon a crate at the foot of a pier. The dawn came to
lift the darkness from the world; and he watched the ships stirring with the
tide, empty of sail, webbed with cables, prows carved with monster or
maiden. His every visit to Mahartha brought him again to the harbor for a
little while.
Morning's pink parasol opened above the tangled hair of the clouds, and
cool breezes crossed the docks. Scavenger birds uttered hoarse cries as they
darted about loop-windowed towers, then swooped across the waters of the
bay.
He watched a ship put out to sea, tentlike vanes of canvas growing to
high peaks and swelling in the salt air. Aboard other ships, secure in their
anchorage, there was movement now, as crews made ready to load or unload
cargoes of incense, coral, oil and all kinds of fabrics, as well as metals,
cattle, hardwoods and spices. He smelled the smells of commerce and listened
to the cursing of the sailors, both of which he admired: the former, as it
The beggar accepted the food with the courtesies of a Brahmin, but
declined to eat anything other than bread and fruit. He accepted, too, the
dark garment of Ratri's Order, casting aside his begrimed smock. Then he
looked upon the cell and the fresh sleeping mat that had been laid for him.
"I do thank you, worthy priest," he said, in a voice rich and resonant,
and altogether larger than his person. "I do thank you, and pray your
goddess smile upon you for your kindness and generosity in her name."
The priest smiled at this himself, and still hoped that Ratri might
pass along the hall at that moment, to witness his kindness and generosity
in her name. She did not, however. Few of her Order had actually seen her,
even on the night when she put on her power and walked among them: for only
those of the saffron robe had attended Sam's awakening and were certain as
to his identity. She generally moved about the monastery while her followers
were at prayer or after they had retired for the evening. She slept mainly
during the day; when she did cross their sight she was well-muffled and
cloaked; her wishes and orders she communicated directly to Gandhiji, the
head of the Order, who was ninety-three years old this cycle, and more than
half blind.
Consequently, both her monks and those of the saffron robe wondered as
to her appearance and sought to gain possible favor in her eyes. It was said
that her blessing would ensure one's being incarnated as a Brahmin. Only
Gandhiji did not care, for he had accepted the way of the real death.
Since she did not pass along the hall as they stood there, the priest
prolonged the conversation, "I am Balarma," he stated. "May I inquire as to
your name, good sir, and perhaps your destination?"
"I am Aram," said the beggar, "who has taken upon himself a ten-year
vow of poverty, and of silence for seven. Fortunately, the seven have
elapsed, that I may now speak to thank my benefactors and answer their
questions. I am heading up into the mountains to find me a cave where I may
meditate and pray. I may, perhaps, accept your kindly hospitality for a few
days, before proceeding on with my journey."
"Indeed," said Balarma, "we should be honored if a holy one were to see
fit to bless our monastery with his presence. We will make you welcome. If
there is anything you wish to assist you along your path, and we may be able
to grant this thing, please name it to us."
Aram fixed him with his unblinking green eye and said, "The monk who
first observed me did not wear the robe of your Order." He touched the dark
garment as he said it. "Instead, I believe my poor eye did behold one of
another color."
"Yes," said Balarma, "for the followers of the Buddha do shelter here
among us, resting awhile from their wanderings."
"That is truly interesting," said Aram, "for I should like to speak
with them and perhaps learn more of their Way."
"You should have ample opportunity if you choose to remain among us for
a time."
"This then shall I do. For how long will they remain?"
"I do not know."
Aram nodded. "When might I speak with them?"
"This evening there will be an hour when all the monks are gathered
together and free to speak as they would, save for those who have taken vows
of silence."
"I shall pass the interval till then in prayer," said Aram. "Thank
you."
Each bowed slightly, and Aram entered his room.
That evening, Aram attended the community hour of the monks. Those of
both Orders did mingle at this time and engage in conversation. Sam did not
attend it himself, nor did Tak; and Yama never attended it in person.
Aram seated himself at the long table in the refectory, across from
several of the Buddha's monks. He talked for some time with these,
discoursing on doctrine and practice, caste and creed, weather and the
affairs of the day.
"It seems strange," he said after a while, "that those of your Order
have come so far to the south and the west so suddenly."
"We are a wandering Order," replied the monk to whom he had spoken. "We
follow the wind. We follow our hearts."
"To the land of rusted soil in the season of lightnings? Is there
perhaps some revelation to occur hereabout, which might be enlarging to my
spirit were I to behold it?"
"The entire universe is a revelation," said the monk. "All things
change, yet all things remain. Day follows night. . . each day is different,
yet each is day. Much of the world is illusion, yet the forms of that
illusion follow a pattern which is a part of divine reality."
"Yes, yes," said Aram. "In the ways of illusion and reality am I
well-versed, but by my inquiry I did mean to know whether perhaps a new
teacher had arisen in this vicinity, or some old one returned, or mayhap a
divine manifestation, the presence of which it might profit my soul to be
aware."
As he spoke, the beggar brushed from the table before him a red,
crawling beetle, the size of a thumbnail, and he moved his sandal as if to
crush it.
"Pray, brother, do not harm it," said the monk.
"But they are all over the place, and the Masters of Karma have stated that
a man cannot be made to return as an insect, and the killing of an insect is
a karmically inoperative act."
"Nevertheless," said the monk, "all life being one, in this monastery
all do practice the doctrine of ahimsa and refrain from taking life of any
sort."
"Yet," said Aram, "Patanjali does state that it is the intention rather
than the act which governs. Therefore, if I killed with love rather than
malice, it would be as if I had not killed. I confess that this was not the
case and that malice was present-- therefore, even if I did not kill I do
bear the burden of the guilt because of the presence of that intention. So I
could step upon it now and be none the worse for it, according to the
principle of ahimsa. Since I am a guest, however, I of course respect the
practice and do not do this thing." With this, he moved his sandal away from
the insect, which stood immobile, reddish antennae pricked upward.
"Indeed, he is a scholar," said one of the Order of Ratri.
Aram smiled. "Thank you, but it is not so," he stated. "I am only a
humble seeker of truth, and on occasion in the past have I been privileged
to overhear the discourses of the learned. Would that I might be so
privileged again! If there were some great teacher or scholar in the
vicinity, then I would most surely walk across a bed of hot coals to sit at
his feet and to hear his words or observe his example. If-- "
He stopped then, for all eyes had suddenly turned upon the doorway at
his back. He did not move his head, but reached out to crush a beetle that
stood near his hand. The tip of a small crystal and two tiny wires protruded
through the broken chitin of its back.
Then he turned, his green eye sweeping across the row of monks seated
between himself and the doorway, and he looked upon Yama, who wore breeches,
boots, shirt, sash, cloak and gloves all of red, and about whose head was
twisted a turban the color of blood.
"'If?'" said Yama. "You were saying 'if'? If some sage or some avatar
of the godhead resided in the vicinity, you should like to make his
acquaintance? Is that what you were saying, stranger?"
The beggar rose from the table. He bowed. "I am Aram," he stated, "a
fellow seeker and traveler with all who wish enlightenment."
Yama did not return the salute. "Why do you spell your name backward,
Lord of Illusion, when all your words and actions herald it before you?"
The beggar shrugged. "I do not understand what you say."
But the smile came again to his lips. "I am one who seeks the Path and
the Right," he added.
"I find that hard to believe, after witnessing at least a thousand
years of your treachery."
"You speak of the lifetime of gods."
"Unfortunately, I do. You have made a serious mistake, Mara."
"What may that be?"
"You feel that you must be permitted to leave here alive."
"I admit that I anticipate doing so."
"Not considering the numerous accidents which might befall a lone
traveler in this wild region."
"I have been a lone traveler for many years. Accidents always happen to
other people."
"You might believe that even if your body were destroyed here, your
atman would be transferred remotely to another body located elsewhere. I
understand that someone has deciphered my notes, and the trick is now
possible."
The beggar's brows moved a quarter of an inch lower and closer
together.
"You do not realize the forces which even now contain this building,
defending against any such transfer."
The beggar stepped to the center of the room. "Yama," he stated, "you
are a fool if you think to match your puny fallen powers against those of
the Dreamer."
"Perhaps this is so. Lord Mara," Yama replied, "but I have waited too
long for this opportunity to postpone it further. Remember my promise at
Keenset? If you wish to continue your chain of existence you will have to
pass through this, the only door to this room, which I bar. Nothing beyond
this room can help you now."
Mara then raised his hands, and the fires were born.
Everything was flaming. Flames leapt from the stone walls, the tables,
the robes of the monks. Smoke billowed and curled about the room. Yama stood
in the midst of a conflagration, but he did not move.
"Is that the best you can do?" he asked. "Your flames are everywhere,
but nothing burns."
Mara clapped his hands and the flames vanished.
In their place, its swaying head held at almost twice the height of a
man, its silver hood fanned, the mechobra drew into its S-shaped strike
position.
Yama ignored it, his shadowy gaze reaching now like the probe of a dark
insect, boring into Mara's single eye.
The mechobra faded in mid-strike. Yama strode forward.
Mara fell back a pace.
They stood thus for perhaps three heartbeats, then Yama moved forward
two paces farther and Mara backed away again. Perspiration blistered upon
both their brows.
The beggar now stood taller and his hair was heavier; he was thicker
about the waist and broader across the shoulders. A certain grace, not
previously apparent, accompanied all his movements.
He fell back another step.
"Yes, Mara, there is a deathgod," said Yama between clenched teeth.
"Fallen or no, the real death dwells in my eyes. You must meet them. When
you reach the wall you can back no farther. Feel the strength go out of your
limbs. Feel the coldness begin in your hands and your feet."
Mara's teeth bared in a snarl. His neck was as thick as a bull's. His
biceps were as big about as a man's thighs. His chest was a barrel of
strength and his legs were like great trees of the forest.
"Coldness?" he asked, extending his arms. "I can break a giant with
these hands, Yama. What are you but a banished carrion god? Your frown may
claim the aged and the infirm. Your eyes may chill dumb animals and those of
the lower classes of men. I stand as high above you as a star above the
ocean's bottom."
Yama's red-gloved hands fell like a pair of cobras upon his throat.
"Then try that strength which you so mock. Dreamer. You have taken on the
appearance of power. Use it! Best me not with words!"
His cheeks and forehead bloomed scarlet as Yama's hands tightened upon
his throat. His eye seemed to leap, a green search-light sweeping the world.
Mara fell to his knees. "Enough, Lord Yama!" he gasped. "Wouldst slay
thyself?"
He changed. His features flowed, as though he lay beneath restless
waters.
Yama looked down upon his own face, saw his own red hands plucking at
his wrists.
"You grow desperate now, Mara, as the life leaves you. But Yama is no
child, that he fears breaking the mirror you have become. Try your last, or
die like a man, it is all the same in the end."
But once more there was a flowing and a change.
This time Yama hesitated, breaking his strength.
Her bronze hair fell upon his hands. Her pale eyes pleaded with him.
Caught about her throat was a necklace of ivory skulls, but slightly paler
than her flesh. Her sari was the color of blood. Her hands rested upon his
own, almost caressing. . .
"Goddess!" he hissed.
"You would not slay Kali . . . ? Durga . . . ?" she choked.
"Wrong again, Mara," he whispered. "Did you not know that each man
kills the thing he loved?" and with this his hands twisted, and there was a
sound of breaking bones.
"Tenfold be your damnation," he said, his eyes tightly closed. "There
shall be no rebirth."
His hands came open then. A tall, nobly proportioned man lay upon the
floor at his feet, his head resting upon his right shoulder.
His eye had finally closed.
Yama turned the corpse with the toe of his boot. "Build a pyre and burn
this body," he said to the monks, not turning toward them. "Spare none of
the rites. One of the highest has died this day."
Then he removed his eyes from this work of his hands, turned upon his
heel and left the room.
That evening the lightnings fled across the skies and the rain came
down like bullets from Heaven.
The four of them sat in the chamber in the high tower that rose from
the northeast corner of the monastery.
Yama paced the room, stopping at the window each time he came to it.
The others sat watching him, listening.
"They suspect," he told them, "but they do not know. They would not
ravage the monastery of a fellow god, displaying before men the division of
their ranks-- not unless they were certain. They were not certain, so they
investigated. This means that time is still with us."
They nodded.
"A Brahmin who renounced the world to find his soul passed this way,
suffered an accident, died here the real death. His body was burnt and his
ashes cast into the river that leads to the sea. This is what occurred. . .
. The wandering monks of the Enlightened One were visiting at the time. They
moved on shortly after this occurrence. Who knows where they went?"
Tak stood as nearly erect as he could.
"Lord Yama," he stated, "while it may hold for a week, a month --
possibly even longer-- this story will come apart in the hands of the Master
to judge the first of any of those here present in this monastery who pass
within the Halls of Karma. Under the circumstances, I believe some of them
may achieve early judgment for just this reason. What then?"
Yama rolled a cigarette with care and precision. "It must be arranged
that what I said is what actually occurred."
"How can that be? When a man's brain is subject to karmic play-back,
all the events he has witnessed in his most recent cycle of life are laid
out before his judge and the machine, like a scroll."
"That is correct," said Yama. "And have you. Tak of the Archives, never
heard of a palimpsest-- a scroll which has been used previously, cleaned,
and then used again?"
"Of course, but the mind is not a scroll."
"No?" Yama smiled. "Well, it was your simile to begin with, not mine.
What's truth, anyway? Truth is what you make it."
He lit his cigarette. "These monks have witnessed a strange and
terrible thing," he continued. "They saw me take on my Aspect and wield an
Attribute. They saw Mara do the same-- here, in this monastery where we have
revived the principle of ahimsa. They are aware that a god may do such
things without karmic burden, but the shock was great and the impression
vivid. And the final burning is still to come. By the time of that burning,
the tale I have told you must be true in their minds."
"How?" asked Ratri.
"This very night, this very hour," he said, "while the image of the act
flames within their consciousness and their thoughts are troubled, the new
truth will be forged and nailed into place. . . . Sam, you have rested long
enough. This thing is now yours to do. You must preach them a sermon. You
must call forth within them those nobler sentiments and higher qualities of
spirit which make men subject to divine meddling. Ratri and I will then
combine our powers and a new truth will be born."
Sam shifted and dropped his eyes. "I don't know if I can do it. It's
been so long. . ."
"Once a Buddha, always a Buddha, Sam. Dust off some of your old
parables. You have about fifteen minutes."
Sam held out his hand. "Give me some tobacco and a paper."
He accepted the package, rolled himself a cigarette. "Light? . . .
Thanks."
He drew in deeply, exhaled, coughed. "I'm tired of lying to them," he
finally said. "I guess that's what it really is."
"Lying?" asked Yama. "Who asked you to lie about anything? Quote them
the Sermon on the Mount, if you want. Or something from the Popul Voh, or
the Iliad. I don't care what you say. Just stir them a bit, soothe them a
little. That's all I ask."
"Then what?"
"Then? Then I shall proceed to save them-- and us!"
Sam nodded slowly. "When you put it that way . . . but I'm a little out
of shape when it comes to this sort of thing. Sure, I'll find me a couple
truths and throw in a few pieties-- but make it twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes, then. And afterward we pack. Tomorrow we leave for
Khaipur."
"So soon?" asked Tak.
Yama shook his head. "So late," he said.
The monks were seated upon the floor of the refectory. The tables had
been moved back against the walls. The insects had vanished. Outside, the
rain continued to fall.
Great-Souled Sam, the Enlightened One, entered and seated himself
before them.
Ratri came in dressed as a Buddhist nun, and veiled.
Yama and Ratri moved to the back of the room and settled to the floor.
Somewhere, Tak too, was listening.
Sam sat with his eyes closed for several minutes, then said softly:
"I have many names, and none of them matter." He opened his eyes
slightly then, but he did not move his head. He looked upon nothing in
particular.
"Names are not important," he said. "To speak is to name names, but to
speak is not important. A thing happens once that has never happened before.
Seeing it, a man looks upon reality. He cannot tell others what he has seen.
Others wish to know, however, so they question him saying, 'What is it like,
this thing you have seen?' So he tries to tell them. Perhaps he has seen the
very first fire in the world. He tells them, 'It is red, like a poppy, but
through it dance other colors. It has no form, like water, flowing
everywhere. It is warm, like the sun of summer, only warmer. It exists for a
time upon a piece of wood, and then the wood is gone, as though it were
eaten, leaving behind that which is black and can be sifted like sand. When
the wood is gone, it too is gone.' Therefore, the hearers must think reality
is like a poppy, like water, like the sun, like that which eats and
excretes. They think it is like to anything that they are told it is like by
the man who has known it. But they have not looked upon fire. They cannot
really know it. They can only know of it. But fire comes again into the
world, many times. More men look upon fire. After a time, fire is as common
as grass and clouds and the air they breathe. They see that, while it is
like a poppy, it is not a poppy, while it is like water, it is not water,
while it is like the sun, it is not the sun, and while it is like that which
eats and passes wastes, it is not that which eats and passes wastes, but
something different from each of these apart or all of these together. So
they look upon this new thing and they make a new word to call it. They call
it 'fire.'
"If they come upon one who still has not seen it and they speak to him
of fire, he does not know what they mean. So they, in turn, fall back upon
telling him what fire is like. As they do so, they know from their own
experience that what they are telling him is not the truth, but only a part
of it. They know that this man will never know reality from their words,
though all the words in the world are theirs to use. He must look upon the
fire, smell of it, warm his hands by it, stare into its heart, or remain
forever ignorant. Therefore, 'fire' does not matter, 'earth' and 'air' and
'water' do not matter. 'I' do not matter. No word matters. But man forgets
reality and remembers words. The more words he remembers, the cleverer do
his fellows esteem him. He looks upon the great transformations of the
world, but he does not see them as they were seen when man looked upon
reality for the first time. Their names come to his lips and he smiles as he
tastes them, thinking he knows them in the naming. The thing that has never
happened before is still happening. It is still a miracle. The great burning
blossom squats, flowing, upon the limb of the world, excreting the ash of
the world, and being none of these things I have named and at the same time
all of them, and this is reality-- the Nameless.
"Therefore, I charge you-- forget the names you bear, forget the words
I speak as soon as they are uttered. Look, rather, upon the Nameless within
yourselves, which arises as I address it. It hearkens not to my words, but
to the reality within me, of which it is part. This is the atman, which
hears me rather than my words. All else is unreal. To define is to lose. The
essence of all things is the Nameless. The Nameless is unknowable, mightier
even than Brahma. Things pass, but the essence remains. You sit, therefore,
in the midst of a dream.
"Essence dreams it a dream of form. Forms pass, but the essence
remains, dreaming new dreams. Man names these dreams and thinks to have
captured the essence, not knowing that he invokes the unreal. These stones,
these walls, these bodies you see seated about you are poppies and water and
the sun. They are the dreams of the Nameless. They are fire, if you like.
"Occasionally, there may come a dreamer who is aware that he is
dreaming. He may control something of the dream-stuff, bending it to his
will, or he may awaken into greater self-knowledge. If he chooses the path
of self-knowledge, his glory is great and he shall be for all ages like unto
a star. If he chooses instead the way of the Tantras, combining Samsara and
Nirvana, comprehending the world and continuing to live in it, this one is
mighty among dreamers. He may be mighty for good or for ill, as we look upon
him-- though these terms, too, are meaningless, outside of the namings of
Samsara.
"To dwell within Samsara, however, is to be subject to the works of
those who are mighty among dreamers. If they be mighty for good, it is a
golden time. If they be mighty for ill, it is a time of darkness. The dream
may turn to nightmare.
"It is written that to live is to suffer. This is so, say the sages,
for man must work off his burden of Karma if he is to achieve enlightenment.
For this reason, say the sages, what does it profit a man to struggle within
a dream against that which is his lot, which is the path he must follow to
attain liberation? In the light of eternal values, say the sages, the
suffering is as nothing; in the terms of Samsara, say the sages, it leads to
that which is good. What justification, then, has a man to struggle against
those who be mighty for ill?"
He paused for a moment, raised his head higher.
"This night the Lord of Illusion passed among you-- Mara, mighty among
dreamers-- mighty for ill. He did come upon another who may work with the
stuff of dreams in a different way. He did meet with Dharma, who may expel a
dreamer from his dream. They did struggle, and the Lord Mara is no more. Why
did they struggle, deathgod against illusionist? You say their ways are
incomprehensible, being the ways of gods. This is not the answer.
"The answer, the justification, is the same for men as it is for gods.
Good or ill, say the sages, mean nothing for they are of Samsara. Agree with
the sages, who have taught our people for as far as the memory of man may
reach. Agree, but consider also a thing of which the sages do not speak.
This thing is 'beauty,' which is a word-- but look behind the word and
consider the Way of the Nameless. And what is the way of the Nameless? It is
the Way of Dream. And why does the Nameless dream? This thing is not known
to any dweller within Samsara. So ask, rather, what does the Nameless dream?
"The Nameless, of which we are all a part, does dream form. And what is
the highest attribute any form may possess? It is beauty. The Nameless,
then, is an artist. The problem, therefore, is not one of good or evil, but
one of esthetics. To struggle against those who are mighty among dreamers
and are mighty for ill, or ugliness, is not to struggle for that which the
sages have taught us to be meaningless in terms of Samsara or Nirvana, but
rather it is to struggle for the symmetrical dreaming of a dream, in terms
of the rhythm and the point, the balance and the antithesis which will make
it a thing of beauty. Of this, the sages say nothing. This truth is so
simple that they have obviously overlooked it. For this reason, I am bound
by the esthetics of the situation to call it to your attention. To struggle
against the dreamers who dream ugliness, be they men or gods, cannot but be
the will of the Nameless. This struggle will also bear suffering, and so
one's karmic burden will be lightened thereby, just as it would be by
enduring the ugliness; but this suffering is productive of a higher end in
the light of the eternal values of which the sages so often speak.
"Therefore, I say unto you, the esthetics of what you have witnessed
this evening were of a high order. You may ask me, then, 'How am I to know
that which is beautiful and that which is ugly, and be moved to act
thereby?' This question, I say, you must answer for yourself. To do this,
first forget what I have spoken, for I have said nothing. Dwell now upon the
Nameless." He raised his right hand and bowed his head.
Yama stood, Ratri stood, Tak appeared upon a table.
The four of them left together, knowing the machineries of Karma to
have been defeated for a time.
They walked through the jagged brilliance of the morning, beneath the
Bridge of the Gods. Tall fronds, still wet with the night's rain, glistened
at the sides of the trail. The tops of trees and the peaks of the distant
mountains rippled beyond the rising vapors. The day was cloudless. The faint
breezes of morning still bore a trace of the night's cold. The clicking and
buzzing and chirping of the jungle accompanied the monks as they walked. The
monastery from which they had departed was only partly visible above the
upper reaches of the treetops; high in the air above it, a twisting line of
smoke endorsed the heavens.
Ratri's servitors bore her litter in the midst of the moving party of
monks, servants and her small guard of warriors. Sam and Yama walked near
the head of the band. Silent overhead, Tak followed, passing among leaves
and branches, unseen.
"The pyre still blazes," said Yama.
"Yes."
"They burn the wanderer who suffered a heart attack as he took his rest
among them."
"This is true."
"For a spur of the moment thing, you came up with a fairly engaging
sermon."
"Thanks."
"Do you really believe what you preached?"
Sam laughed. "I'm very gullible when it comes to my own words. I
believe everything I say, though I know I'm a liar."
Yama snorted. "The rod of Trimurti still falls upon the backs of men.
Nirriti stirs within his dark lair; he harasses the seaways of the south. Do
you plan on spending another lifetime indulging in metaphysics-- to find new
justification for opposing your enemies? Your talk last night sounded as if
you have reverted to considering why again, rather than how."
"No," said Sam, "I just wanted to try another line on the audience. It
is difficult to stir rebellion among those to whom all things are good.
There is no room for evil in their minds, despite the fact that they suffer
it constantly. The slave upon the rack who knows that he will be born
again-- perhaps as a fat merchant -- if he suffers willingly-- his outlook
is not the same as that of a man with but one life to live. He can bear
anything, knowing that great as his present pain may be, his future pleasure
will rise higher. If such a one does not choose to believe in good or evil,
perhaps then beauty and ugliness can be made to serve him as well. Only the
names have been changed."
"This, then, is the new, official party line?" asked Yama.
"It is," said Sam.
Yama's hand passed through an invisible slit in his robe and emerged
with a dagger, which he raised in salute.
"To beauty," he said. "Down with ugliness!"
A wave of silence passed across the jungle. All the life-sounds about
them ceased.
Yama raised one hand, returning the dagger to its hidden sheath with
the other.
"Halt!" he cried out.
He looked upward, squinting against the sun, head cocked to his right.
"Off the trail! Into the brush!" he called.
They moved. Saffron-cloaked bodies flashed from off the trail. Ratri's
litter was borne in among the trees. She now stood at Yama's side.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Listen!"
It came then, riding down the sky on a blast of sound. It flashed above
the peaks of the mountains, crossed over the monastery, whipping the smokes
into invisibility. Explosions of sound trumpeted its coming, and the air
quaked as it cut its way through the wind and the light.
It was a great-looped tau cross, a tail of fire streaming behind it.
"Destroyer come a-hunting," said Yama.
"Thunder chariot!" cried one of the mercenaries, making a sign with his
hand.
"Shiva passes," said a monk, eyes wide with fear. "The Destroyer . . ."
"Had I known at the time how well I wrought," said Yama, "I might have
numbered its days intentionally. Occasionally, do I regret my genius."
It passed beneath the Bridge of the Gods, swung above the jungle, fell
away to the south. Its roar gradually diminished as it departed in that
direction. Then there was silence.
A bird made a brief piping noise. Another replied to it. Then all the
sounds of life began again and the travelers returned to their trail.
"He will be back," said Yama, and this was true. Twice more that day
did they have to leave the trail as the thunder chariot passed above their
heads. On the last occasion, it circled the monastery, possibly observing
the funeral rites being conducted there. Then it crossed over the mountains
and was gone.
That night they made camp under the stars, and on the second night they
did the same.
The third day brought them to the river Deeva and the small port city
of Koona. It was there that they found the transportation they wished, and
they set forth that same evening, heading south by bark to where the Deeva
joined with the mighty Vedra, and then proceeded onward to pass at last the
wharves of Khaipur, their destination.
As they flowed with the river, Sam listened to its sounds. He stood
upon the dark deck, his hands resting on the rail. He stared out across the
waters where the bright heavens rose and fell, star bending back upon star.
It was then that the night addressed him in the voice of Ratri, from
somewhere nearby.
"You have passed this way before, Tathagatha."
"Many times," he replied. "The Deeva is a thing of beauty under the
stars, in its rippling and its folding."
"Indeed."
"We go now to Khaipur and the Palace of Kama. What will you do when we
arrive?"
"I will spend some time in meditation, goddess."
"Upon what shall you meditate?"
"Upon my past lives and the mistakes they each contained. I must review
my own tactics as well as those of the enemy."
"Yama thinks the Golden Cloud to have changed you."
"Perhaps it has."
"He believes it to have softened you, weakened you. You have always
posed as a mystic, but now he believes you have become one -- to your own
undoing, to our undoing."
He shook his head, turned around. But he did not see her. Stood she
there invisible, or had she withdrawn? He spoke softly and without
inflection:
"I shall tear these stars from out the heavens," he stated, "and hurl
them in the faces of the gods, if this be necessary. I shall blaspheme in
every Temple throughout the land. I shall take lives as a fisherman takes
fish, by the net, if this be necessary. I shall mount me again up to the
Celestial City, though every step be a flame or a naked sword and the way be
guarded by tigers. One day will the gods look down from Heaven and see me
upon the stair, bringing them the gift they fear most. That day will the new
Yuga begin.
"But first I must meditate for a time," he finished.
He turned back again and stared out over the waters.
A shooting star burnt its way across the heavens. The ship moved on.
The night sighed about him.
Sam stared ahead, remembering.
One time a minor rajah from a minor principality came with his retinue
into Mahartha, the city that is called Gateway of the South and Capital of
the Dawn, there to purchase him a new body. This was in the days when the
thread of destiny might yet be plucked from out a gutter, the gods were less
formal, the demons still bound, and the Celestial City yet occasionally open
to men. This is the story of how the prince did bait the one-armed receiver
of devotions before the Temple, incurring the disfavor of Heaven for his
presumption. . .
Few are the beings born again among men; more
numerous are those born again elsewhere.
Anguttara-nikaya (I, 35)
Riding into the capital of dawn at mid-afternoon, the prince, mounted
upon a white mare, passed up the broad avenue of Surya, his hundred
retainers massed at his back, his adviser Strake at his left hand, his
scimitar in his sash, and a portion of his wealth in the bags his pack
horses bore.
The heat crashed down upon the turbans of the men, washed past them,
came up again from the roadway.
A chariot moved slowly by, headed in the opposite direction, its driver
squinting up at the banner the chief retainer bore; a courtesan stood at the
gateway to her pavilion, studying the traffic; and a pack of mongrel dogs
followed at the heels of the horses, barking.
The prince was tall, and his mustaches were the color of smoke. His
hands, dark as coffee, were marked with the stiff ridges of his veins.
Still, his posture was erect, and his eyes were like the eyes of an ancient
bird, electric and clear.
Ahead, a crowd gathered to watch the passing troop. Horses were ridden
only by those who could afford them, and few were that wealthy. The slizzard
was the common mount-- a scaled creature with snakelike neck, many teeth,
dubious lineage, brief life span and a vicious temperament; the horse, for
some reason, having grown barren in recent generations.
The prince rode on, into the capital of dawn, the watchers watching.
Passing, they turned off the avenue of the sun and headed up a narrower
thoroughfare. They moved by the low buildings of commerce, the great shops
of the great merchants, the banks, the Temples, the inns, the brothels. They
passed on, until at the fringe of the business district they came upon the
princely hostel of Hawkana, the Most Perfect Host. They drew rein at the
gate, for Hawkana himself stood outside the walls, simply dressed,
fashionably corpulent and smiling, waiting to personally conduct the white
mare within.
"Welcome, Lord Siddhartha!" he called in a loud voice, so that all
within earshot might know the identity of his guest. "Welcome to this
well-nightingaled vicinity, and to the perfumed gardens and marble halls of
this humble establishment! To your riders welcome also, who have ridden a
goodly ride with you and no doubt seek subtle refreshment and dignified ease
as well as yourself. Within, you will find all things to your liking, I
trust, as you have upon the many occasions in the past when you have tarried
within these halls in the company of other princely guests and noble
visitors, too numerous to mention, such as -- "
"And a good afternoon to you also, Hawkana!" cried the prince, for the
day was hot and the innkeeper's speeches, like rivers, always threatened to
flow on forever. "Let us enter quickly within your walls, where, among their
other virtues too numerous to mention, it is also cool."
Hawkana nodded briskly, and taking the mare by the bridle led her
through the gateway and into his courtyard; there, he held the stirrup while
the prince dismounted, then gave the horses into the keeping of his stable
hands and dispatched a small boy through the gateway to clean the street
where they had waited.
Within the hostel, the men were bathed, standing in the marble bath
hall while servants poured water over their shoulders. Then did they annoint
themselves after the custom of the warrior caste, put on fresh garments and
passed into the hall of dining.
The meal lasted the entire afternoon, until the warriors lost count of
the courses. At the right hand of the prince, who sat at the head of the
long, low, serving board, three dancers wove their way through an intricate
pattern, finger cymbals clicking, faces bearing the proper expressions for
the proper moments of the dance, as four veiled musicians played the
traditional music of the hours. The table was covered with a richly woven
tapestry of blue, brown, yellow, red and green, wherein was worked a series
of hunting and battle scenes: riders mounted on slizzard and horse met with
lance and bow the charges of feather-panda, fire-rooster and jewel-podded
command plant; green apes wrestled in the tops of trees; the Garuda Bird
clutched a sky demon in its talons, assailing it with beak and pinions; from
the depths of the sea crawled an army of horned fish, clutching spikes of
pink coral in their jointed fins, facing a row of kirtled and helmeted men
who bore lances and torches to oppose their way upon the land.
The prince ate but sparingly. He toyed with his food, listened to the
music, laughed occasionally at the jesting of one of his men. He sipped a
sherbet, his rings clicking against the sides of the glass.
Hawkana appeared beside him. "Goes all well with you, Lord?" he
inquired.
"Yes, good Hawkana, all is well," he replied.
"You do not eat as do your men. Does the meal displease you?"
"It is not the food, which is excellent, nor its preparation, which is
faultless, worthy Hawkana. Rather, it is my appetite, which has not been
high of late."
"Ah!" said Hawkana, knowingly. "I have the thing, the very thing! Only
one such as yourself may truly appreciate it. Long has it rested upon the
special shelf of my cellar. The god Krishna had somehow preserved it against
the ages. He gave it to me many years ago because the accommodations here
did not displease him. I shall fetch it for you."
He bowed then, and backed from the hall.
When he returned he bore a bottle. Before he saw the paper upon its
side, the prince recognized the shape of that bottle.
"Burgundy!" he exclaimed.
"Just so," said Hawkana. "Brought from vanished Uratha, long ago."
He sniffed at it and smiled. Then he poured a small quantity into a
pear-shaped goblet and set it before his guest.
The prince raised it and inhaled of its bouquet. He took a slow sip. He
closed his eyes.
There was a silence in the room, in respect of his pleasure.
Then he lowered the glass, and Hawkana poured into it once again the
product of the pinot noir grape, which could not be cultivated in this land.
The prince did not touch the glass. Instead, he turned to Hawkana,
saying, "Who is the oldest musician in this house?"
"Mankara, here," said his host, gesturing toward the white-haired man
who took his rest at the serving table in the comer.
"Old not in body, but in years," said the prince.
"Oh, that would be Dele," said Hawkana, "if he is to be counted as a
musician at all. He says that once he was such a one."
"Dele?"
"The boy who keeps the stables."
"Ah, I see. . .. Send for him." Hawkana clapped his hands and ordered
the servant who appeared to go into the stables, make the horse-boy
presentable and fetch him with dispatch into the presence of the diners.
"Pray, do not bother making him presentable, but simply bring him
here," said the prince.
He leaned back and waited then, his eyes closed.
When the horse-boy stood before him, he asked:
"Tell me. Dele, what music do you play?"
"That which no longer finds favor in the hearing of Brahmins," said the
boy.
"What was your instrument?"
"Piano," said Dele.
"Can you play upon any of these?" He gestured at those instruments that
stood, unused now, upon the small platform beside the wall.
The boy cocked his head at them. "I suppose I could manage on the
flute, if I had to."
"Do you know any waltzes?"
"Yes."
"Will you play me 'The Blue Danube'?"
The boy's sullen expression vanished, to be replaced by one of
uneasiness. He cast a quick glance back at Hawkana, who nodded.
"Siddhartha is a prince among men, being of the First," stated the
host.
"'The Blue Danube,' on one of these flutes?"
"If you please."
The boy shrugged, "I'll try," he said. "It's been an awfully long time.
. .. Bear with me."
He crossed to where the instruments lay and muttered something to the
owner of the flute he selected. The man nodded his head. Then he raised it
to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. He paused, repeated the trial,
then turned about.
He raised it once more and began the quivering movement of the waltz.
As he played, the prince sipped his wine.
When he paused for breath, the prince motioned him to continue. He
played tune after forbidden tune, and the professional musicians put
professional expressions of scorn upon their faces; but beneath their table
several feet were tapping in slow time with the music.
Finally, the prince had finished his wine. Evening was near to the city
of Mahartha. He tossed the boy a purse of coins and did not look into his
tears as he departed from the hall. He rose then and stretched, smothering a
yawn with the back of his hand.
"I retire to my chambers," he said to his men. "Do not gamble away your
inheritances in my absence."
They laughed then and bade him good night, calling for strong drink and
salted biscuits. He heard the rattle of dice as he departed.
The prince retired early so that he might arise before daybreak. He
instructed a servant to remain outside his door all the following day and to
refuse admission to any who sought it, saying that he was indisposed.
Before the first flowers had opened to the first insects of morning, he
had gone from the hostel, only an ancient green parrot witnessing his
departure. Not in silks sewn with pearls did he go, but in tatters, as was
his custom on these occasions. Not preceded by conch and drum did he move,
but by silence, as he passed along the dim streets of the city. These
streets were deserted, save for an occasional doctor or prostitute returning
from a late call. A stray dog followed him as he passed through the business
district, heading in the direction of the harbor.
He seated himself upon a crate at the foot of a pier. The dawn came to
lift the darkness from the world; and he watched the ships stirring with the
tide, empty of sail, webbed with cables, prows carved with monster or
maiden. His every visit to Mahartha brought him again to the harbor for a
little while.
Morning's pink parasol opened above the tangled hair of the clouds, and
cool breezes crossed the docks. Scavenger birds uttered hoarse cries as they
darted about loop-windowed towers, then swooped across the waters of the
bay.
He watched a ship put out to sea, tentlike vanes of canvas growing to
high peaks and swelling in the salt air. Aboard other ships, secure in their
anchorage, there was movement now, as crews made ready to load or unload
cargoes of incense, coral, oil and all kinds of fabrics, as well as metals,
cattle, hardwoods and spices. He smelled the smells of commerce and listened
to the cursing of the sailors, both of which he admired: the former, as it