at all in mud!" for the sixth time; this being in reference to their
conversation as to the best time of year to fight a war. Only one very new
in the business would be so boorish as to insult a neighbor's ambassador
during the rainy season, it was decided, and that one would thereafter be
marked as a nouveau roi.
As the evening wore on, the prince's physician excused himself so as to
superintend the preparation of the dessert and introduce a narcotic into the
sweetcakes being served up to the Shan. As the evening wore further on,
subsequent to the dessert, the Shan grew more and more inclined to close his
eyes and let his head slump forward for longer and longer periods of time.
"Good party," he muttered, between snores, and finally, "Elephants are no
damn good at all. . ." and so passed to sleep and could not be awakened. His
kinsmen did not see fit to escort him home at this time, because of the fact
that the prince's physician had added chloral hydrate to their wine, and
they were at that moment sprawled upon the floor, snoring. The prince's
chief courtier arranged with Hawkana for their accommodation, and the Shan
himself was taken to Siddhartha's suite, where he was shortly visited by the
physician, who loosened his garments and spoke to him in a soft, persuasive
voice:
"Tomorrow afternoon," he was saying, "you will be Prince Siddhartha and
these will be your retainers. You will report to the Hall of Karma in their
company, to claim there the body which Brahma has promised you without the
necessity of prior judgment You will remain Siddhartha throughout the
transfer, and you will return here in the company of your retainers, to be
examined by me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," whispered the Shan.
"Then repeat what I have told you."
'Tomorrow afternoon," said the Shan, "I will be Siddhartha, commanding
these retainers. . ."
Bright bloomed the morning, and debts were settled beneath it. Half of
the prince's men rode out of the city, heading north. When they were out of
sight of Mahartha they began circling to the southeast, working their way
through the hills, stopping only to don their battle gear.
Half a dozen men were dispatched to the Street of the Smiths, whence
they returned bearing heavy canvas bags, the contents of which were divided
into the pouches of three dozen men who departed after breakfast into the
city.
The prince took counsel with his physician, Narada, saying, "If I have
misjudged the clemency of Heaven, then am I cursed indeed."
But the doctor smiled and replied, "I doubt you misjudged."
And so they passed from morning into the still center of day, the Ridge
of the Gods golden above them.
When their charges awakened, they ministered to their hangovers. The
Shan was given a posthypnotic and sent with six of Siddhartha's retainers to
the Palace of the Masters. His kinsmen were assured that he remained
sleeping in the prince's quarters.
"Our major risk at this point," said the physician, "is the Shan. Will
he be recognized? The factors in our favor are that he is a minor potentate
from a distant kingdom, he has only been in town for a short period of time,
has spent most of that time with his kinsmen and he has not yet presented
himself for judgment. The Masters should still be unaware of your own
physical appearance -- "
"Unless I have been described to them by Brahma or his priest," said
the prince. "For all I know, my communication may have been taped and the
tape relayed to them for identification purposes."
"Why, though, should this have been done?" inquired Narada. "They
should hardly expect stealth and elaborate precautions of one for whom they
are doing a favor. No, I think we should be able to pull it off. The Shan
would not be able to pass a probe, of course, but he should pass surface
scrutiny, accompanied as he is by your retainers. At the moment, he does
believe he is Siddhartha, and he could pass any simple lie-detection test in
that regard-- which I feel is the most serious obstacle he might encounter."
So they waited, and the three dozen men returned with empty pouches,
gathered their belongings, mounted their horses and one by one drifted off
through the town, as though in search of revelry, but actually drifting
slowly in a southeasterly direction.
"Good-bye, good Hawkana," said the prince, as the remainder of his men
packed and mounted. "I shalt bear, as always, good report of your lodgings
to all whom I meet about the land. I regret that my stay here must be so
unexpectedly terminated, but I must ride to put down an uprising in the
provinces as soon as I leave the Hall of Karma. You are aware of how these
things spring up the moment a ruler's back is turned. So, while I should
have liked to spend another week beneath your roof, I fear that this
pleasure must be postponed until another time. If any ask after me, tell
them to seek me in Hades."
"Hades, my Lord?"
"It is the southernmost province of my kingdom, noted for its
excessively warm weather. Be sure to phrase it just so, especially to the
priests of Brahma, who may become concerned as to my whereabouts in days to
come."
"I'll do that, my Lord."
"And take especial care of the boy Dele. I expect to hear him play
again on my next visit."
Hawkana bowed low and was about to begin a speech, so the prince
decided upon that moment to toss him the final bag of coins and make an
additional comment as to the wines of Urath-- before mounting quickly and
shouting orders to his men, in such a manner as to drown out any further
conversation.
Then they rode through the gateway and were gone, leaving behind only
the physician and three warriors, whom he was to treat an additional day for
an obscure condition having to do with the change of climate, before they
rode on to catch up with the others.
They passed through the town, using side streets, and came after a time
to the roadway that led up toward the Palace of the Masters of Karma. As
they passed along its length, Siddhartha exchanged secret signs with those
three dozen of his warriors who lay in hiding at various points off in the
woods.
When they had gone half the distance to the palace, the prince and the
eight men who accompanied him drew rein and made as if to rest, waiting the
while for the others to move abreast of them, passing carefully among the
trees.
Before long, however, they saw movement on the trail ahead. Seven
riders were advancing on horseback, and the prince guessed them to be his
six lancers and the Shan. When they came within hailing distance, they
advanced to meet them.
"Who are you?" inquired the tall, sharp-eyed rider mounted upon the
white mare. "Who are you that dares block the passage of Prince Siddhartha,
Binder of Demons?"
The prince looked upon him-- muscular and tanned, in his mid-twenties,
possessed of hawklike features and a powerful bearing -- and he felt
suddenly that his doubts had been unfounded and that he bad betrayed himself
by his suspicion and mistrust. It appeared from the lithe physical specimen
seated upon his own mount that Brahma had bargained in good faith,
authorizing for his use an excellent and sturdy body, which was now
possessed by the ancient Shan.
"Lord Siddhartha," said his man, who had ridden at the side of the Lord
of Irabek, "it appears that they dealt fairly. I see naught amiss about
him."
"Siddhartha!" cried the Shan. "Who is this one you dare address with
the name of your master? I am Siddhartha, Binder of-- " With that he threw
his head back and his words gurgled in his throat.
Then the fit hit the Shan. He stiffened, lost his seating and fell from
the saddle. Siddhartha ran to his side. There were little flecks of foam at
the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were rolled upward.
"Epileptic!" cried the prince. "They meant me to have a brain which had
been damaged."
The others gathered around and helped the prince minister to the Shan
until the seizure passed and his wits had returned to his body.
"Wh-what happened?" he asked.
"Treachery," said Siddhartha. "Treachery, oh Shan of Irabek! One of my
men will convey you now to my personal physician, for an examination. After
you have rested, I suggest you lodge a protest at Brahma's reading room. My
physician will treat you at Hawkana's, and then you will be released. I am
sorry this thing happened. It will probably be set aright. But if not,
remember the last siege of Kapil and consider us even on all scores. Good
afternoon, brother prince." He bowed to the other, and his men helped the
Shan to mount Hawkana's bay, which Siddhartha had borrowed earlier.
Mounting the mare, the prince observed their departure, then turned to
the men who stood about him, and he spoke in a voice sufficiently loud to be
heard by those who waited off the road:
"The nine of us will enter. Two blasts upon the horn, and you others
follow. If they resist, make them wish they had been more prudent, for three
more blasts upon the horn will bring the fifty lancers down from the hills,
if they be needed. It is a palace of ease, and not a fort where battles
would be fought. Take the Masters prisoner. Do not harm their machineries or
allow others to do so. If they do not resist us, all well and good. If they
do, we shall walk through the Palace and Hall of the Masters of Karma like a
small boy across an extensive and excessively elaborate ant hill. Good luck.
No gods be with you!"
And turning his horse, he headed on up the road, the eight lancers
singing softly at his back.
The prince rode through the wide double gate, which stood open and
unguarded. He set immediately to wondering concerning secret defenses that
Strake might have missed.
The courtyard was landscaped and partly paved. In a large garden area,
servants were at work pruning, trimming and cultivating. The prince sought
after weapon emplacements and saw none. The servants glanced up as he
entered, but did not halt their labors.
At the far end of the courtyard was the black stone Hall. He advanced
in that direction, his horsemen following, until he was hailed from the
steps of the palace itself, which lay to his right.
He drew rein and turned to look in that direction. The man wore black
livery, a yellow circle on his breast, and he carried an ebony staff. He was
tall, heavy and muffled to the eyes. He did not repeat his salutation, but
stood waiting.
The prince guided his mount to the foot of the wide stairway. "I must
speak to the Masters of Karma," he stated.
"Have you an appointment?" inquired the man.
"No," said the prince, "but it is a matter of importance."
"Then I regret that you have made this trip for nothing," replied the
other. "An appointment is necessary. You may make arrangements at any Temple
in Mahartha."
He then struck upon the stair with his staff, turned his back and began
to move away.
"Uproot that garden," said the prince to his men, "cut down yonder
trees, heap everything together and set a torch to it."
The man in black halted, turned again.
Only the prince waited at the foot of the stair. His men were already
moving off in the direction of the garden.
"You can't do that," said the man.
The prince smiled.
His men dismounted and began hacking at the shrubbery, kicking they way
through the flower beds.
"Tell them to stop!"
"Why should I? I have come to speak with the Masters of Karma, and you
tell me that I cannot. I tell you that I can, and will. Let us see which of
us is correct."
"Order them to stop," said the other, "and I will bear your message to
the Masters."
"Halt!" cried the prince. "But be ready to begin again."
The man in black mounted the stairs, vanished into the palace. The
prince fingered the horn that hung on a cord about his neck.
In a short while there was movement, and armed men began to emerge from
the doorway. The prince raised his horn and gave wind to it twice.
The men wore leather armor-- some still buckling it hastily into
place-- and caps of the same material. Their sword arms were padded to the
elbow, and they wore small, oval-shaped metal shields, bearing as device a
yellow wheel upon a black field. They carried long, curved blades. They
filled the stairway completely and stood as if waiting orders.
The man in black emerged again, and he stood at the head of the stair.
"Very well," he stated, "if you have a message for the Masters, say it!"
"Are you a Master?" inquired the prince.
"I am."
"Then must your rank be lowest of them all, it you must also do duty as
doorman. Let me speak to the Master in charge here."
"Your insolence will be repaid both now and in a life yet to come,"
observed the Master.
Then three dozen lancers rode through the gate and arrayed themselves
at the sides of the prince. The eight who had begun the deflowering of the
garden remounted their horses and moved to join the formation, blades laid
bare across their laps.
"Must we enter your palace on horseback?" inquired the prince. "Or will
you now summon the other Masters, with whom I wish to hold conversation?"
Close to eighty men stood upon the stair facing them, blades in hand.
The Master seemed to weigh the balance of forces. He decided in favor of
maintaining things as they were.
"Do nothing rash," he stated, "for my men will defend themselves in a
particularly vicious fashion. Wait upon my return. I shall summon the
others."
The prince filled his pipe and lit it. His men sat like statues, lances
ready. Perspiration was most evident upon the faces of the foot soldiers who
held the first rank on the stairway.
The prince, to pass the time, observed to his lancers, "Do not think to
display your skill as you did at the last siege of Kapil. Make target of the
breast, rather than the head.
"Also," he continued, "think not to engage in the customary mutilation
of the wounded and the slain-- for this is a holy place and should not be
profaned in such a manner.
"On the other hand," he added, "I shall take it as a personal affront
if there are not ten prisoners for sacrifice to Nirriti the Black, my
personal patron-- outside these walls, of course, where observance of the
Dark Feast will not be held so heavily against us . . ."
There was a clatter to the right, as a foot soldier who had been
staring up the length of Strake's lance passed out and fell from the bottom
stair.
"Stop!" cried the figure in black, who emerged with six others --
similarly garbed-- at the head of the stairway. "Do not profane the Palace
of Karma with bloodshed. Already that fallen warrior's blood is-- "
"Rising to his cheeks," finished the prince, "if he be conscious -- for
he is not slain."
"What is it you want?" The figure in black who was addressing him was
of medium height, but of enormous girth. He stood like a huge, dark barrel,
his staff a sable thunderbolt.
"I count seven," replied the prince. "I understand that ten Masters
reside here. Where are the other three?"
"Those others are presently in attendance at three reading rooms in
Mahartha. What is it you want of us?"
"You are in charge here?"
"Only the Great Wheel of the Law is in charge here."
"Are you the senior representative of the Great Wheel within these
walls?"
"I am."
"Very well. I wish to speak with you in private-- over there," said the
prince, gesturing toward the black Hall.
"Impossible!"
The prince knocked his pipe empty against his heel, scraped its bowl
with the point of his dagger, replaced it in his pouch. Then he sat very
erect upon the white mare and clasped the horn in his left hand. He met the
Master's eyes.
"Are you absolutely certain of that?" he asked.
The Master's mouth, small and bright, twisted around words he did not
speak. Then:
"As you say," he finally acknowledged. "Make way for me here!" and he
passed down through the ranks of the warriors and stood before the white
mare.
The prince guided the horse with his knees, turning her in the
direction of the dark Hall.
"Hold ranks, for now!" called out the Master.
"The same applies," said the prince to his men.
The two of them crossed the courtyard, and the prince dismounted before
the Hall.
"You owe me a body," he said in a soft voice.
"What talk is this?" said the Master.
"I am Prince Siddhartha of Kapil, Binder of Demons."
"Siddhartha has already been served," said the other.
"So you think," said the prince, "served up as an epileptic, by order
of Brahma. This is not so, however. The man you treated earlier today was an
unwilling impostor. I am the real Siddhartha, oh nameless priest, and I have
come to claim my body-- one that is whole and strong, and without hidden
disease. You will serve me in this matter. You will serve me willingly or
unwillingly, but you will serve me."
"You think so?"
"I think so," replied the prince.
"Attack!" cried the Master, and he swung his dark staff at the prince's
head.
The prince ducked the blow and retreated, drawing his blade. Twice, he
parried the staff. Then it fell upon his shoulder, a glancing blow, but
sufficient to stagger him. He circled around the white mare, pursued by the
Master. Dodging, keeping the horse between himself and his opponent, he
raised the horn to his lips and sounded it three tunes. Its notes rose above
the fierce noises of the combat on the palace stair. Panting, he turned and
raised his guard in time to ward off a temple blow that would surely have
slain him had it landed.
"It is written," said the Master, almost sobbing out the words, "that
he who gives orders without having the power to enforce them, that man is a
fool."
"Even ten years ago," panted the prince, "you'd never have laid that
staff on me."
He hacked at it, hoping to split the wood, but the other always managed
to turn the edge of his blade, so that while he nicked it and shaved it in
places, the grain held and the staff remained of a piece.
Using it as a singlestick, the Master laid a solid blow across the
prince's left side, and he felt his ribs break within him. . . . He fell.
It was not by design that it happened, for the blade spun from out his
hands as he collapsed; but the weapon caught the Master across the shins and
he dropped to his knees, howling.
"We're evenly matched, at that," gasped the prince. "My age against
your fat . . ."
He drew his dagger as he lay there, but could not hold it steady. He
rested his elbow on the ground. The Master, tears in his eyes, attempted to
rise and fell again to his knees.
There came the sound of many hooves.
"I am not a fool," said the prince, "and now I have the power to
enforce my orders."
"What is happening?"
"The rest of my lancers are arrived. Had I entered in full force, you'd
have holed up like a gekk in a woodpile, and it might have taken days to
pull your palace apart and fetch you out. Now I have you in the palm of my
hand."
The Master raised his staff.
The prince drew back his arm.
"Lower it," he said, "or I'll throw the dagger. I don't know myself
whether I'll miss or hit, but I may hit. You're not anxious to gamble
against the real death, are you?"
The Master lowered his staff.
"You will know the real death," said the Master, "when the wardens of
Karma have made dog meat of your horse soldiers."
The prince coughed, stared disinterestedly at his bloody spittle. "In
the meantime, let's discuss politics," he suggested.
After the sounds of battle had ended, it was Strake-- tall, dusty, his
hair near matching the gore that dried on his blade -- Strake, who was
nuzzled by the white mare as he saluted his prince and said, "It is over."
"Do you hear that, Master of Karma?" asked the prince. "Your wardens
are dog meat."
The Master did not answer.
"Serve me now and you may have your life," said the prince. "Refuse,
and I'll have it."
"I will serve you," said the Master.
"Strake," ordered the prince, "send two men down into the town -- one
to fetch back Narada, my physician, and the other to go to the Street of the
Weavers and bring here Jannaveg the sailmaker. Of the three lancers who
remain at Hawkana's, leave but one to hold the Shan of Irabek till sundown.
He is then to bind him and leave him, joining us here himself."
Strake smiled and saluted.
"Now bring men to bear me within the Hall, and to keep an eye on this
Master."
He burned his old body, along with all the others. The wardens of
Karma, to a man, had passed in battle. Of the seven nameless Masters, only
the one who had been fat survived. While the banks of sperm and ova, the
growth tanks and the body lockers could not be transported, the transfer
equipment itself was dismantled under the direction of Dr. Narada, and its
components were loaded onto the horses of those who had fallen in the
battle. The young prince sat upon the white mare and watched the jaws of
flame close upon the bodies. Eight pyres blazed against the predawn sky. The
one who had been a sailmaker turned his eyes to the pyre nearest the gate--
the last to be ignited, its flames were only just now reaching the top,
where lay the gross bulk of one who wore a robe of black, a circle of yellow
on the breast. When the flames touched it and the robe began to smolder, the
dog who cowered in the ruined garden raised his head in a howl that was near
to a sob.
"This day your sin account is filled to overflowing," said the
sailmaker.
"But, ah, my prayer account!" replied the prince. "I'll stand on that
for the time being. Future theologians will have to make the final decision,
though, as to the acceptability of all those slugs in the pray-o-mats. Let
Heaven wonder now what happened here this day-- where I am, if I am, and
who. The time has come to ride, my captain. Into the mountains for a while,
and then our separate ways, for safety's sake. I am not sure as to the road
I will follow, save that it leads to Heaven's gate and I must go armed."
"Binder of Demons," said the other, and he smiled.
The lancer chief approached. The prince nodded him. Orders were
shouted.
The columns of mounted men moved forward, passed out through the gates
of the Palace of Karma, turned off the roadway and headed up the slope that
lay to the southeast of the city of Mahartha, comrades blazing like the dawn
at their back.
It is said that, when the Teacher appeared, those of all castes went to
hear his teachings, as well as animals, gods and an occasional saint, to
come away improved and uplifted. It was generally conceded that he had
received enlightenment, except by those who believed him to be a fraud,
sinner, criminal or practical joker. These latter ones were not all to be
numbered as his enemies; but, on the other hand, not all of those improved
and uplifted could be counted as his friends and supporters. His followers
called him Mahasamatman and some said he was a god. So, after it was seen
that he had been accepted as a teacher, was looked upon with respect, had
many of the wealthy numbered as his supporters and had gained a reputation
reaching far across the land, he was referred to as Tathagatha, meaning He
Who Has Achieved. It must be noted that while the goddess Kali (sometimes
known as Durga in her softer moments) never voiced a formal opinion as to
his buddhahood, she did render him the singular honor of dispatching her
holy executioner to pay him her tribute, rather than a mere hired assassin.
. . .
There is no disappearing of the true Dhamma
until a false Dhamma arises in the world.
When the false Dhamma arises, he makes the
true Dhamma to disappear.
Samyutta-nikaya (II, 224)
Near the city of Alundil there was a rich grove of blue-barked trees,
having purple foliage like feathers. It was famous for its beauty and the
shrinelike peace of its shade. It had been the property of the merchant Vasu
until his conversion, at which time he had presented it to the teacher
variously known as Mahasamatman, Tathagatha and the Enlightened One. In that
wood did this teacher abide with his followers, and when they walked forth
into the town at midday their begging bowls never went unfilled.
There was always a large number of pilgrims about the grove. The
believers, the curious and those who preyed upon the others were constantly
passing through it. They came by horseback, they came by boat, they came on
foot.
Alundil was not an overly large city. It had its share of thatched
huts, as well as wooden bungalows; its main roadway was unpaved and rutted;
it had two large bazaars and many small ones; there were wide fields of
grain, owned by the Vaisyas, tended by the Sudras, which flowed and rippled,
blue-green, about the city; it had many hostels (though none so fine as the
legendary hostel of Hawkana, in far Mahartha), because of the constant
passage of travelers; it had its holy men and its storytellers; and it had
its Temple.
The Temple was located on a low hill near the center of town, enormous
gates on each of its four sides. These gates, and the walls about them, were
filled with layer upon layer of decorative carvings, showing musicians and
dancers, warriors and demons, gods and goddesses, animals and artists,
lovemakers and half-people, guardians and devas. These gates led into the
first courtyard, which held more walls and more gates, leading in turn into
the second courtyard. The first courtyard contained a little bazaar, where
offerings to the gods were sold. It also housed numerous small shrines
dedicated to the lesser deities. There were begging beggars, meditating holy
men, laughing children, gossiping women, burning incenses, singing birds,
gurgling purification tanks and humming pray-o-mats to be found in this
courtyard at any hour of the day.
The inner courtyard, though, with its massive shrines dedicated to the
major deities, was a focal point of religious intensity. People chanted or
shouted prayers, mumbled verses from the Vedas, or stood, or knelt, or lay
prostrate before huge stone images, which often were so heavily garlanded
with flowers, smeared with red kumkum paste and surrounded by heaps of
offerings that it was impossible to tell which deity was so immersed in
tangible adoration. Periodically, the horns of the Temple were blown, there
was a moment's hushed appraisal of their echo and the clamor began again.
And none would dispute the fact that Kali was queen of this Temple. Her
tall, white-stone statue, within its gigantic shrine, dominated the inner
courtyard. Her faint smile, perhaps contemptuous of the other gods and their
worshipers, was, in its way, as arresting as the chained grins of the skulls
she wore for a necklace. She held daggers in her hands; and poised in
mid-step she stood, as though deciding whether to dance before or slay those
who came to her shrine. Her lips were full, her eyes were wide. Seen by
torchlight, she seemed to move.
It was fitting, therefore, that her shrine faced upon that of Yama, god
of Death. It had been decided, logically enough, by the priests and
architects, that he was best suited of all the deities to spend every minute
of the day facing her, matching his unfaltering death-gaze against her own,
returning her half smile with his twisted one. Even the most devout
generally made a detour rather than pass between the two shrines; and after
dark their section of the courtyard was always the abode of silence and
stillness, being untroubled by late worshipers.
From out of the north, as the winds of spring blew across the land,
there came the one called Rild. A small man, whose hair was white, though
his years were few-- Rild, who wore the dark trappings of a pilgrim, but
about whose forearm, when they found him lying in a ditch with the fever,
was wound the crimson strangling cord of his true profession: Rild.
Rild came in the spring, at festival-time, to Alundil of the blue-green
fields, of the thatched huts and the bungalows of wood, of unpaved roadways
and many hostels, of bazaars and holy men and storytellers, of the great
religious revival and its Teacher, whose reputation had spread far across
the land-- to Alundil of the Temple, where his patron goddess was queen.
Festival-time.
Twenty years earlier, Alundil's small festival had been an almost
exclusively local affair. Now, though, with the passage of countless
travelers, caused by the presence of the Enlightened One, who taught the Way
of the Eightfold Path, the Festival of Alundil attracted so many pilgrims
that local accommodations were filled to overflowing. Those who possessed
tents could charge a high fee for their rental. Stables were rented out for
human occupancy. Even bare pieces of land were let as camping sites.
Alundil loved its Buddha. Many other towns had tried to entice him away
from his purple grove: Shengodu. Flower of the Mountains, had offered him a
palace and harem to come bring his teaching to the slopes. But the
Enlightened One did not go to the mountain. Kannaka, of the Serpent River,
had offered him elephants and ships, a town house and a country villa,
horses and servants, to come and preach from its wharves. But the
Enlightened One did not go to the river.
The Buddha remained in his grove and all things came to him. With the
passage of years the festival grew larger and longer and more elaborate,
like a well-fed dragon, scales all a-shimmer. The local Brahmins did not
approve of the antiritualistic teachings of the Buddha, but his presence
filled their coffers to overflowing; so they learned to live in his squat
shadow, never voicing the word tirthika-- heretic.
So the Buddha remained in his grove and all things came to him,
including Rild.
Festival-time.
The drums began in the evening on the third day. On the third day, the
massive drums of the kathakali began their rapid thunder. The miles-striding
staccato of the drums carried across the fields to the town, across the
town, across the purple grove and across the wastes of marshland that lay
behind it. The drummers, wearing white mundus, bare to the waist, their dark
flesh glistening with perspiration, worked in shifts, so strenuous was the
mighty beating they set up; and never was the flow of sound broken, even as
the new relay of drummers moved into position before the tightly stretched
heads of the instruments.
As darkness arrived in the world, the travelers and townsmen who had
begun walking as soon as they heard the chatter of the drums began to arrive
at the festival field, large as a battlefield of old. There they found
places and waited for the night to deepen and the drama to begin, sipping
the sweet-smelling tea that they purchased at the stalls beneath the trees.
A great brass bowl of oil, tall as a man, wicks hanging down over its
edges, stood in the center of the field. These wicks were lighted, and
torches flickered beside the tents of the actors.
The drumming, at dose range, was deafening and hypnotic, the rhythms
complicated, syncopated, insidious. As midnight approached, the devotional
chanting began, rising and falling with the drumbeat, working a net about
the senses.
There was a brief lull as the Enlightened One and his monks arrived,
their yellow robes near-orange in the flamelight. But they threw back their
cowls and seated themselves cross-legged upon the ground. After a time, it
was only the chanting and the voices of the drums that filled the minds of
the spectators.
When the actors appeared, gigantic in their makeup, ankle bells
jangling as their feet beat the ground, there was no applause, only rapt
attention. The kathakali dancers were famous, trained from their youth in
acrobatics as well as the ages-old patterns of the classical dance, knowing
the nine distinct movements of the neck and of the eyeballs and the hundreds
of hand positions required to re-enact the ancient epics of love and battle,
of the encounters of gods and demons, of the valiant fights and bloody
treacheries of tradition. The musicians shouted out the words of the stories
as the actors, who never spoke, portrayed the awesome exploits of Rama and
of the Pandava brothers. Wearing makeup of green and red, or black and stark
white, they stalked across the field, skirts billowing, their
mirror-sprinkled halos glittering in the light of the lamp.
Occasionally, the lamp would flare or sputter, and it was as if a
nimbus of holy or unholy light played about their heads, erasing entirely
the sense of the event, causing the spectators to feel for a moment that
they themselves were the illusion, and that the great-bodied figures of the
cyclopean dance were the only real things in the world.
The dance would continue until daybreak, to end with the rising of the
sun. Before daybreak, however, one of the wearers of the saffron robe
arrived from the direction of town, made his way through the crowd and spoke
into the ear of the Enlightened One.
The Buddha began to rise, appeared to think better of it and reseated
himself. He gave a message to the monk, who nodded and departed from the
field of the festival.
The Buddha, looking imperturbable, returned his attention to the drama.
A monk seated nearby noted that he was tapping his fingers upon the ground,
and he decided that the Enlightened One must be keeping time with the
drumbeats, for it was common knowledge that he was above such things as
impatience.
When the drama had ended and Surya the sun pinked the skirts of Heaven
above the eastern rim of the world, it was as if the night just passed had
held the crowd prisoner within a tense and frightening dream, from which
they were just now released, weary, to wander this day.
The Buddha and his followers set off walking immediately, in the
direction of the town. They did not pause to rest along the way, but passed
through Alundil at a rapid but dignified gait.
When they came again to the purple grove, the Enlightened One
instructed his monks to take rest, and he moved off in the direction of a
small pavilion located deep within the wood.
The monk who had brought the message during the drama sat within the
pavilion. There he tended the fever of the traveler he had come upon in the
marshes, where he walked often to better meditate upon the putrid condition
his body would assume after death.
Tathagatha studied the man who lay upon the sleeping mat. His lips were
thin and pale; he had a high forehead, high cheekbones, frosty eyebrows,
pointed ears; and Tathagatha guessed that when those eyelids rose, the eyes
revealed would be of a faded blue or gray. There was a quality of--
translucency?-- fragility perhaps, about his unconscious form, which might
have been caused partly by the fevers that racked his body, but which could
not be attributed entirely to them. The small man did not give the
impression of being one who would bear the thing that Tathagatha now raised
in his hands. Rather, on first viewing, he might seem to be a very old man.
If one granted him a second look, and realized then that his colorless hair
and his slight frame did not signify advanced age, one might then be struck
by something childlike about his appearance. From the condition of his
complexion, Tathagatha doubted that he need shave very often. Perhaps a
slightly mischievous pucker was now hidden somewhere between his cheeks and
the corners of his mouth. Perhaps not, also.
The Buddha raised the crimson strangling cord, which was a thing borne
only by the holy executioners of the goddess Kali. He fingered its silken
length, and it passed like a serpent through his hand, clinging slightly. He
did not doubt but that it was intended to move in such a manner about his
throat. Almost unconsciously, he held it and twisted his hands through the
necessary movements.
Then he looked up at the wide-eyed monk who had watched him, smiled his
imperturbable smile and laid the cord aside. With a damp cloth, the monk
wiped the perspiration from the pale brow.
The man on the sleeping mat shuddered at the contact, and his eyes
snapped open. The madness of the fever was in them and they did not truly
see, but Tathagatha felt a sudden jolt at their contact.
Dark, so dark they were almost jet, and it was impossible to tell where
the pupil ended and the iris began. There was something extremely unsettling
about eyes of such power in a body so frail and effete.
He reached out and stroked the man's hands, and it was like touching
steel, cold and impervious. He drew his fingernail sharply across the back
of the right hand. No scratch or indentation marked its passage, and his
nail fairly slid, as though across a pane of glass. He squeezed the man's
thumbnail and released it. There was no sudden change of color. It was as
though these hands were dead or mechanical things.
He continued his examination. The phenomenon ended somewhat above the
wrists, occurred again in other places. His hands, breast, abdomen, neck and
portions of his back had soaked within the death bath, which gave this
special unyielding power. Total immersion would, of course, have proved
fatal; but as it was, the man had traded some of his tactile sensitivity for
the equivalent of invisible gauntlets, breastplate, neckpiece and back armor
of steel. He was indeed one of the select assassins of the terrible goddess.
"Who else knows of this man?" asked the Buddha.
"The monk Simha," replied the other, "who helped me bear him here."
"Did he see"-- Tathagatha gestured with his eyes toward the crimson
cord-- that?" he inquired.
The monk nodded.
"Then go fetch him. Bring him to me at once. Do not mention anything of
this to anyone, other than that a pilgrim was taken ill and we are tending
him here. I will personally take over his care and minister to his illness."
"Yes, Illustrious One."
The monk hurried forth from the pavilion.
Tathagatha seated himself beside the sleeping mat and waited.
It was two days before the fever broke and intelligence returned to
those dark eyes. But during those two days, anyone who passed by the
pavilion might have heard the voice of the Enlightened One droning on and
on, as though he addressed his sleeping charge. Occasionally, the man
himself mumbled and spoke loudly, as those in a fever often do.
On the second day, the man opened his eyes suddenly and stared upward.
Then he frowned and turned his bead.
"Good morning, Rild," said Tathagatha.
"You are . . . ?" asked the other, in an unexpected baritone.
"One who teaches the way of liberation," he replied.
"The Buddha?"
"I have been called such."
"Tathagatha?"
"This name, too, have I been given."
The other attempted to rise, failed, settled back. His eyes never left
the placid countenance. "How is it that you know my name?" he finally asked.
"In your fever you spoke considerably."
"Yes, I was very sick, and doubtless babbling. It was in that cursed
swamp that I took the chill."
Tathagatha smiled. "One of the disadvantages of traveling alone is that
when you fall there is none to assist you."
"True," acknowledged the other, and his eyes closed once more and his
breathing deepened.
Tathagatha remained in the lotus posture, waiting.
When Rild awakened again, it was evening. "Thirsty," he said.
Tathagatha gave him water. "Hungry?" he asked.
"No, not yet. My stomach would rebel."
He raised himself up onto his elbows and stared at his attendant. Then
he sank back upon the mat. "You are the one," he announced.
"Yes," replied the other.
"What are you going to do?"
"Feed you, when you say you are hungry."
"I mean, after that."
"Watch as you sleep, lest you lapse again into the fever."
"That is not what I meant."
"I know."
"After I have eaten and rested and recovered my strength-- what then?"
Tathagatha smiled as he drew the silken cord from somewhere beneath his
robe. "Nothing," he replied, "nothing at all," and he draped the cord across
Rild's shoulder and withdrew his hand.
The other shook his head and leaned back. He reached up and fingered
the length of crimson. He twined it about his fingers and then about his
wrist. He stroked it.
"It is holy," he said, after a time.
"So it would seem."
"You know its use, and its purpose?"
"Of course."
"Why then will you do nothing at all?"
"I have no need to move or to act. All things come to me. If anything
is to be done, it is you who will do it."
"I do not understand."
"I know that, too."
The man stared into the shadows overhead. "I will attempt to eat now,"
he announced.
Tathagatha gave him broth and bread, which he managed to keep down.
Then he drank more water, and when he had finished he was breathing heavily.
"You have offended Heaven," he stated.
"Of that, I am aware."
"And you have detracted from the glory of a goddess, whose supremacy
here has always been undisputed."
"I know."
"But I owe you my life, and I have eaten your bread."
There was no reply.
"Because of this, I must break a most holy vow," finished Rild. "I
cannot kill you, Tathagatha."
"Then I owe my life to the fact that you owe me yours. Let us consider
the life-owing balanced."
Rild uttered a short chuckle. "So be it," he said.
"What will you do, now that you have abandoned your mission?"
"I do not know. My sin is too great to permit me to return. Now I, too,
have offended against Heaven, and the goddess will turn away her face from
my prayers. I have failed her."
"Such being the case, remain here. You will at least have company in
damnation."
"Very well," agreed Rild. "There is nothing else left to me."
He slept once again, and the Buddha smiled.
In the days that followed, as the festival wore on, the Enlightened One
preached to the crowds who passed through the purple grove. He spoke of the
unity of all things, great and small, of the law of cause, of becoming and
dying, of the illusion of the world, of the spark of the atman, of the way
of salvation through renunciation of the self and union with the whole; he
spoke of realization and enlightenment, of the meaninglessness of the
Brahmins' rituals, comparing their forms to vessels empty of content. Many
listened, a few heard and some remained in the purple grove to take up the
saffron robe of the seeker.
And each time he taught, the man Rild sat nearby, wearing his black
garments and leather harness, his strange dark eyes ever upon the
Enlightened One.
Two weeks after his recovery, Rild came upon the teacher as he walked
through the grove in meditation. He fell into step beside him, and after a
time he spoke.
"Enlightened One, I have listened to your teachings, and I have
listened well. Much have I thought upon your words."
The other nodded.
"I have always been a religious man," he stated, "or I would not have
been selected for the post I once occupied. After it became impossible for
me to fulfill my mission, I felt a great emptiness. I had failed my goddess,
and life was without meaning for me."
The other listened, silently.
"But I have heard your words," he said, "and they have filled me with a
kind of joy. They have shown me another way to salvation, a way which I feel
to be superior to the one I previously followed."
The Buddha studied his face as he spoke.
"Your way of renunciation is a strict one, which I feel to be good. It
suits my needs. Therefore, I request permission to be taken into your
community of seekers, and to follow your path."
"Are you certain," asked the Enlightened One, "that you do not seek
merely to punish yourself for what has been weighing upon your conscience as
a failure, or a sin?"
"Of that I am certain," said Rild. "I have held your words within me
and felt the truth which they contain. In the service of the goddess have I
slain more men than purple fronds upon yonder bough. I am not even counting
women and children. So I am not easily taken in by words, having heard too
many, voiced in all tones of speech-- words pleading, arguing, cursing. But
your words move me, and they are superior to the teachings of the Brahmins.
conversation as to the best time of year to fight a war. Only one very new
in the business would be so boorish as to insult a neighbor's ambassador
during the rainy season, it was decided, and that one would thereafter be
marked as a nouveau roi.
As the evening wore on, the prince's physician excused himself so as to
superintend the preparation of the dessert and introduce a narcotic into the
sweetcakes being served up to the Shan. As the evening wore further on,
subsequent to the dessert, the Shan grew more and more inclined to close his
eyes and let his head slump forward for longer and longer periods of time.
"Good party," he muttered, between snores, and finally, "Elephants are no
damn good at all. . ." and so passed to sleep and could not be awakened. His
kinsmen did not see fit to escort him home at this time, because of the fact
that the prince's physician had added chloral hydrate to their wine, and
they were at that moment sprawled upon the floor, snoring. The prince's
chief courtier arranged with Hawkana for their accommodation, and the Shan
himself was taken to Siddhartha's suite, where he was shortly visited by the
physician, who loosened his garments and spoke to him in a soft, persuasive
voice:
"Tomorrow afternoon," he was saying, "you will be Prince Siddhartha and
these will be your retainers. You will report to the Hall of Karma in their
company, to claim there the body which Brahma has promised you without the
necessity of prior judgment You will remain Siddhartha throughout the
transfer, and you will return here in the company of your retainers, to be
examined by me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," whispered the Shan.
"Then repeat what I have told you."
'Tomorrow afternoon," said the Shan, "I will be Siddhartha, commanding
these retainers. . ."
Bright bloomed the morning, and debts were settled beneath it. Half of
the prince's men rode out of the city, heading north. When they were out of
sight of Mahartha they began circling to the southeast, working their way
through the hills, stopping only to don their battle gear.
Half a dozen men were dispatched to the Street of the Smiths, whence
they returned bearing heavy canvas bags, the contents of which were divided
into the pouches of three dozen men who departed after breakfast into the
city.
The prince took counsel with his physician, Narada, saying, "If I have
misjudged the clemency of Heaven, then am I cursed indeed."
But the doctor smiled and replied, "I doubt you misjudged."
And so they passed from morning into the still center of day, the Ridge
of the Gods golden above them.
When their charges awakened, they ministered to their hangovers. The
Shan was given a posthypnotic and sent with six of Siddhartha's retainers to
the Palace of the Masters. His kinsmen were assured that he remained
sleeping in the prince's quarters.
"Our major risk at this point," said the physician, "is the Shan. Will
he be recognized? The factors in our favor are that he is a minor potentate
from a distant kingdom, he has only been in town for a short period of time,
has spent most of that time with his kinsmen and he has not yet presented
himself for judgment. The Masters should still be unaware of your own
physical appearance -- "
"Unless I have been described to them by Brahma or his priest," said
the prince. "For all I know, my communication may have been taped and the
tape relayed to them for identification purposes."
"Why, though, should this have been done?" inquired Narada. "They
should hardly expect stealth and elaborate precautions of one for whom they
are doing a favor. No, I think we should be able to pull it off. The Shan
would not be able to pass a probe, of course, but he should pass surface
scrutiny, accompanied as he is by your retainers. At the moment, he does
believe he is Siddhartha, and he could pass any simple lie-detection test in
that regard-- which I feel is the most serious obstacle he might encounter."
So they waited, and the three dozen men returned with empty pouches,
gathered their belongings, mounted their horses and one by one drifted off
through the town, as though in search of revelry, but actually drifting
slowly in a southeasterly direction.
"Good-bye, good Hawkana," said the prince, as the remainder of his men
packed and mounted. "I shalt bear, as always, good report of your lodgings
to all whom I meet about the land. I regret that my stay here must be so
unexpectedly terminated, but I must ride to put down an uprising in the
provinces as soon as I leave the Hall of Karma. You are aware of how these
things spring up the moment a ruler's back is turned. So, while I should
have liked to spend another week beneath your roof, I fear that this
pleasure must be postponed until another time. If any ask after me, tell
them to seek me in Hades."
"Hades, my Lord?"
"It is the southernmost province of my kingdom, noted for its
excessively warm weather. Be sure to phrase it just so, especially to the
priests of Brahma, who may become concerned as to my whereabouts in days to
come."
"I'll do that, my Lord."
"And take especial care of the boy Dele. I expect to hear him play
again on my next visit."
Hawkana bowed low and was about to begin a speech, so the prince
decided upon that moment to toss him the final bag of coins and make an
additional comment as to the wines of Urath-- before mounting quickly and
shouting orders to his men, in such a manner as to drown out any further
conversation.
Then they rode through the gateway and were gone, leaving behind only
the physician and three warriors, whom he was to treat an additional day for
an obscure condition having to do with the change of climate, before they
rode on to catch up with the others.
They passed through the town, using side streets, and came after a time
to the roadway that led up toward the Palace of the Masters of Karma. As
they passed along its length, Siddhartha exchanged secret signs with those
three dozen of his warriors who lay in hiding at various points off in the
woods.
When they had gone half the distance to the palace, the prince and the
eight men who accompanied him drew rein and made as if to rest, waiting the
while for the others to move abreast of them, passing carefully among the
trees.
Before long, however, they saw movement on the trail ahead. Seven
riders were advancing on horseback, and the prince guessed them to be his
six lancers and the Shan. When they came within hailing distance, they
advanced to meet them.
"Who are you?" inquired the tall, sharp-eyed rider mounted upon the
white mare. "Who are you that dares block the passage of Prince Siddhartha,
Binder of Demons?"
The prince looked upon him-- muscular and tanned, in his mid-twenties,
possessed of hawklike features and a powerful bearing -- and he felt
suddenly that his doubts had been unfounded and that he bad betrayed himself
by his suspicion and mistrust. It appeared from the lithe physical specimen
seated upon his own mount that Brahma had bargained in good faith,
authorizing for his use an excellent and sturdy body, which was now
possessed by the ancient Shan.
"Lord Siddhartha," said his man, who had ridden at the side of the Lord
of Irabek, "it appears that they dealt fairly. I see naught amiss about
him."
"Siddhartha!" cried the Shan. "Who is this one you dare address with
the name of your master? I am Siddhartha, Binder of-- " With that he threw
his head back and his words gurgled in his throat.
Then the fit hit the Shan. He stiffened, lost his seating and fell from
the saddle. Siddhartha ran to his side. There were little flecks of foam at
the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were rolled upward.
"Epileptic!" cried the prince. "They meant me to have a brain which had
been damaged."
The others gathered around and helped the prince minister to the Shan
until the seizure passed and his wits had returned to his body.
"Wh-what happened?" he asked.
"Treachery," said Siddhartha. "Treachery, oh Shan of Irabek! One of my
men will convey you now to my personal physician, for an examination. After
you have rested, I suggest you lodge a protest at Brahma's reading room. My
physician will treat you at Hawkana's, and then you will be released. I am
sorry this thing happened. It will probably be set aright. But if not,
remember the last siege of Kapil and consider us even on all scores. Good
afternoon, brother prince." He bowed to the other, and his men helped the
Shan to mount Hawkana's bay, which Siddhartha had borrowed earlier.
Mounting the mare, the prince observed their departure, then turned to
the men who stood about him, and he spoke in a voice sufficiently loud to be
heard by those who waited off the road:
"The nine of us will enter. Two blasts upon the horn, and you others
follow. If they resist, make them wish they had been more prudent, for three
more blasts upon the horn will bring the fifty lancers down from the hills,
if they be needed. It is a palace of ease, and not a fort where battles
would be fought. Take the Masters prisoner. Do not harm their machineries or
allow others to do so. If they do not resist us, all well and good. If they
do, we shall walk through the Palace and Hall of the Masters of Karma like a
small boy across an extensive and excessively elaborate ant hill. Good luck.
No gods be with you!"
And turning his horse, he headed on up the road, the eight lancers
singing softly at his back.
The prince rode through the wide double gate, which stood open and
unguarded. He set immediately to wondering concerning secret defenses that
Strake might have missed.
The courtyard was landscaped and partly paved. In a large garden area,
servants were at work pruning, trimming and cultivating. The prince sought
after weapon emplacements and saw none. The servants glanced up as he
entered, but did not halt their labors.
At the far end of the courtyard was the black stone Hall. He advanced
in that direction, his horsemen following, until he was hailed from the
steps of the palace itself, which lay to his right.
He drew rein and turned to look in that direction. The man wore black
livery, a yellow circle on his breast, and he carried an ebony staff. He was
tall, heavy and muffled to the eyes. He did not repeat his salutation, but
stood waiting.
The prince guided his mount to the foot of the wide stairway. "I must
speak to the Masters of Karma," he stated.
"Have you an appointment?" inquired the man.
"No," said the prince, "but it is a matter of importance."
"Then I regret that you have made this trip for nothing," replied the
other. "An appointment is necessary. You may make arrangements at any Temple
in Mahartha."
He then struck upon the stair with his staff, turned his back and began
to move away.
"Uproot that garden," said the prince to his men, "cut down yonder
trees, heap everything together and set a torch to it."
The man in black halted, turned again.
Only the prince waited at the foot of the stair. His men were already
moving off in the direction of the garden.
"You can't do that," said the man.
The prince smiled.
His men dismounted and began hacking at the shrubbery, kicking they way
through the flower beds.
"Tell them to stop!"
"Why should I? I have come to speak with the Masters of Karma, and you
tell me that I cannot. I tell you that I can, and will. Let us see which of
us is correct."
"Order them to stop," said the other, "and I will bear your message to
the Masters."
"Halt!" cried the prince. "But be ready to begin again."
The man in black mounted the stairs, vanished into the palace. The
prince fingered the horn that hung on a cord about his neck.
In a short while there was movement, and armed men began to emerge from
the doorway. The prince raised his horn and gave wind to it twice.
The men wore leather armor-- some still buckling it hastily into
place-- and caps of the same material. Their sword arms were padded to the
elbow, and they wore small, oval-shaped metal shields, bearing as device a
yellow wheel upon a black field. They carried long, curved blades. They
filled the stairway completely and stood as if waiting orders.
The man in black emerged again, and he stood at the head of the stair.
"Very well," he stated, "if you have a message for the Masters, say it!"
"Are you a Master?" inquired the prince.
"I am."
"Then must your rank be lowest of them all, it you must also do duty as
doorman. Let me speak to the Master in charge here."
"Your insolence will be repaid both now and in a life yet to come,"
observed the Master.
Then three dozen lancers rode through the gate and arrayed themselves
at the sides of the prince. The eight who had begun the deflowering of the
garden remounted their horses and moved to join the formation, blades laid
bare across their laps.
"Must we enter your palace on horseback?" inquired the prince. "Or will
you now summon the other Masters, with whom I wish to hold conversation?"
Close to eighty men stood upon the stair facing them, blades in hand.
The Master seemed to weigh the balance of forces. He decided in favor of
maintaining things as they were.
"Do nothing rash," he stated, "for my men will defend themselves in a
particularly vicious fashion. Wait upon my return. I shall summon the
others."
The prince filled his pipe and lit it. His men sat like statues, lances
ready. Perspiration was most evident upon the faces of the foot soldiers who
held the first rank on the stairway.
The prince, to pass the time, observed to his lancers, "Do not think to
display your skill as you did at the last siege of Kapil. Make target of the
breast, rather than the head.
"Also," he continued, "think not to engage in the customary mutilation
of the wounded and the slain-- for this is a holy place and should not be
profaned in such a manner.
"On the other hand," he added, "I shall take it as a personal affront
if there are not ten prisoners for sacrifice to Nirriti the Black, my
personal patron-- outside these walls, of course, where observance of the
Dark Feast will not be held so heavily against us . . ."
There was a clatter to the right, as a foot soldier who had been
staring up the length of Strake's lance passed out and fell from the bottom
stair.
"Stop!" cried the figure in black, who emerged with six others --
similarly garbed-- at the head of the stairway. "Do not profane the Palace
of Karma with bloodshed. Already that fallen warrior's blood is-- "
"Rising to his cheeks," finished the prince, "if he be conscious -- for
he is not slain."
"What is it you want?" The figure in black who was addressing him was
of medium height, but of enormous girth. He stood like a huge, dark barrel,
his staff a sable thunderbolt.
"I count seven," replied the prince. "I understand that ten Masters
reside here. Where are the other three?"
"Those others are presently in attendance at three reading rooms in
Mahartha. What is it you want of us?"
"You are in charge here?"
"Only the Great Wheel of the Law is in charge here."
"Are you the senior representative of the Great Wheel within these
walls?"
"I am."
"Very well. I wish to speak with you in private-- over there," said the
prince, gesturing toward the black Hall.
"Impossible!"
The prince knocked his pipe empty against his heel, scraped its bowl
with the point of his dagger, replaced it in his pouch. Then he sat very
erect upon the white mare and clasped the horn in his left hand. He met the
Master's eyes.
"Are you absolutely certain of that?" he asked.
The Master's mouth, small and bright, twisted around words he did not
speak. Then:
"As you say," he finally acknowledged. "Make way for me here!" and he
passed down through the ranks of the warriors and stood before the white
mare.
The prince guided the horse with his knees, turning her in the
direction of the dark Hall.
"Hold ranks, for now!" called out the Master.
"The same applies," said the prince to his men.
The two of them crossed the courtyard, and the prince dismounted before
the Hall.
"You owe me a body," he said in a soft voice.
"What talk is this?" said the Master.
"I am Prince Siddhartha of Kapil, Binder of Demons."
"Siddhartha has already been served," said the other.
"So you think," said the prince, "served up as an epileptic, by order
of Brahma. This is not so, however. The man you treated earlier today was an
unwilling impostor. I am the real Siddhartha, oh nameless priest, and I have
come to claim my body-- one that is whole and strong, and without hidden
disease. You will serve me in this matter. You will serve me willingly or
unwillingly, but you will serve me."
"You think so?"
"I think so," replied the prince.
"Attack!" cried the Master, and he swung his dark staff at the prince's
head.
The prince ducked the blow and retreated, drawing his blade. Twice, he
parried the staff. Then it fell upon his shoulder, a glancing blow, but
sufficient to stagger him. He circled around the white mare, pursued by the
Master. Dodging, keeping the horse between himself and his opponent, he
raised the horn to his lips and sounded it three tunes. Its notes rose above
the fierce noises of the combat on the palace stair. Panting, he turned and
raised his guard in time to ward off a temple blow that would surely have
slain him had it landed.
"It is written," said the Master, almost sobbing out the words, "that
he who gives orders without having the power to enforce them, that man is a
fool."
"Even ten years ago," panted the prince, "you'd never have laid that
staff on me."
He hacked at it, hoping to split the wood, but the other always managed
to turn the edge of his blade, so that while he nicked it and shaved it in
places, the grain held and the staff remained of a piece.
Using it as a singlestick, the Master laid a solid blow across the
prince's left side, and he felt his ribs break within him. . . . He fell.
It was not by design that it happened, for the blade spun from out his
hands as he collapsed; but the weapon caught the Master across the shins and
he dropped to his knees, howling.
"We're evenly matched, at that," gasped the prince. "My age against
your fat . . ."
He drew his dagger as he lay there, but could not hold it steady. He
rested his elbow on the ground. The Master, tears in his eyes, attempted to
rise and fell again to his knees.
There came the sound of many hooves.
"I am not a fool," said the prince, "and now I have the power to
enforce my orders."
"What is happening?"
"The rest of my lancers are arrived. Had I entered in full force, you'd
have holed up like a gekk in a woodpile, and it might have taken days to
pull your palace apart and fetch you out. Now I have you in the palm of my
hand."
The Master raised his staff.
The prince drew back his arm.
"Lower it," he said, "or I'll throw the dagger. I don't know myself
whether I'll miss or hit, but I may hit. You're not anxious to gamble
against the real death, are you?"
The Master lowered his staff.
"You will know the real death," said the Master, "when the wardens of
Karma have made dog meat of your horse soldiers."
The prince coughed, stared disinterestedly at his bloody spittle. "In
the meantime, let's discuss politics," he suggested.
After the sounds of battle had ended, it was Strake-- tall, dusty, his
hair near matching the gore that dried on his blade -- Strake, who was
nuzzled by the white mare as he saluted his prince and said, "It is over."
"Do you hear that, Master of Karma?" asked the prince. "Your wardens
are dog meat."
The Master did not answer.
"Serve me now and you may have your life," said the prince. "Refuse,
and I'll have it."
"I will serve you," said the Master.
"Strake," ordered the prince, "send two men down into the town -- one
to fetch back Narada, my physician, and the other to go to the Street of the
Weavers and bring here Jannaveg the sailmaker. Of the three lancers who
remain at Hawkana's, leave but one to hold the Shan of Irabek till sundown.
He is then to bind him and leave him, joining us here himself."
Strake smiled and saluted.
"Now bring men to bear me within the Hall, and to keep an eye on this
Master."
He burned his old body, along with all the others. The wardens of
Karma, to a man, had passed in battle. Of the seven nameless Masters, only
the one who had been fat survived. While the banks of sperm and ova, the
growth tanks and the body lockers could not be transported, the transfer
equipment itself was dismantled under the direction of Dr. Narada, and its
components were loaded onto the horses of those who had fallen in the
battle. The young prince sat upon the white mare and watched the jaws of
flame close upon the bodies. Eight pyres blazed against the predawn sky. The
one who had been a sailmaker turned his eyes to the pyre nearest the gate--
the last to be ignited, its flames were only just now reaching the top,
where lay the gross bulk of one who wore a robe of black, a circle of yellow
on the breast. When the flames touched it and the robe began to smolder, the
dog who cowered in the ruined garden raised his head in a howl that was near
to a sob.
"This day your sin account is filled to overflowing," said the
sailmaker.
"But, ah, my prayer account!" replied the prince. "I'll stand on that
for the time being. Future theologians will have to make the final decision,
though, as to the acceptability of all those slugs in the pray-o-mats. Let
Heaven wonder now what happened here this day-- where I am, if I am, and
who. The time has come to ride, my captain. Into the mountains for a while,
and then our separate ways, for safety's sake. I am not sure as to the road
I will follow, save that it leads to Heaven's gate and I must go armed."
"Binder of Demons," said the other, and he smiled.
The lancer chief approached. The prince nodded him. Orders were
shouted.
The columns of mounted men moved forward, passed out through the gates
of the Palace of Karma, turned off the roadway and headed up the slope that
lay to the southeast of the city of Mahartha, comrades blazing like the dawn
at their back.
It is said that, when the Teacher appeared, those of all castes went to
hear his teachings, as well as animals, gods and an occasional saint, to
come away improved and uplifted. It was generally conceded that he had
received enlightenment, except by those who believed him to be a fraud,
sinner, criminal or practical joker. These latter ones were not all to be
numbered as his enemies; but, on the other hand, not all of those improved
and uplifted could be counted as his friends and supporters. His followers
called him Mahasamatman and some said he was a god. So, after it was seen
that he had been accepted as a teacher, was looked upon with respect, had
many of the wealthy numbered as his supporters and had gained a reputation
reaching far across the land, he was referred to as Tathagatha, meaning He
Who Has Achieved. It must be noted that while the goddess Kali (sometimes
known as Durga in her softer moments) never voiced a formal opinion as to
his buddhahood, she did render him the singular honor of dispatching her
holy executioner to pay him her tribute, rather than a mere hired assassin.
. . .
There is no disappearing of the true Dhamma
until a false Dhamma arises in the world.
When the false Dhamma arises, he makes the
true Dhamma to disappear.
Samyutta-nikaya (II, 224)
Near the city of Alundil there was a rich grove of blue-barked trees,
having purple foliage like feathers. It was famous for its beauty and the
shrinelike peace of its shade. It had been the property of the merchant Vasu
until his conversion, at which time he had presented it to the teacher
variously known as Mahasamatman, Tathagatha and the Enlightened One. In that
wood did this teacher abide with his followers, and when they walked forth
into the town at midday their begging bowls never went unfilled.
There was always a large number of pilgrims about the grove. The
believers, the curious and those who preyed upon the others were constantly
passing through it. They came by horseback, they came by boat, they came on
foot.
Alundil was not an overly large city. It had its share of thatched
huts, as well as wooden bungalows; its main roadway was unpaved and rutted;
it had two large bazaars and many small ones; there were wide fields of
grain, owned by the Vaisyas, tended by the Sudras, which flowed and rippled,
blue-green, about the city; it had many hostels (though none so fine as the
legendary hostel of Hawkana, in far Mahartha), because of the constant
passage of travelers; it had its holy men and its storytellers; and it had
its Temple.
The Temple was located on a low hill near the center of town, enormous
gates on each of its four sides. These gates, and the walls about them, were
filled with layer upon layer of decorative carvings, showing musicians and
dancers, warriors and demons, gods and goddesses, animals and artists,
lovemakers and half-people, guardians and devas. These gates led into the
first courtyard, which held more walls and more gates, leading in turn into
the second courtyard. The first courtyard contained a little bazaar, where
offerings to the gods were sold. It also housed numerous small shrines
dedicated to the lesser deities. There were begging beggars, meditating holy
men, laughing children, gossiping women, burning incenses, singing birds,
gurgling purification tanks and humming pray-o-mats to be found in this
courtyard at any hour of the day.
The inner courtyard, though, with its massive shrines dedicated to the
major deities, was a focal point of religious intensity. People chanted or
shouted prayers, mumbled verses from the Vedas, or stood, or knelt, or lay
prostrate before huge stone images, which often were so heavily garlanded
with flowers, smeared with red kumkum paste and surrounded by heaps of
offerings that it was impossible to tell which deity was so immersed in
tangible adoration. Periodically, the horns of the Temple were blown, there
was a moment's hushed appraisal of their echo and the clamor began again.
And none would dispute the fact that Kali was queen of this Temple. Her
tall, white-stone statue, within its gigantic shrine, dominated the inner
courtyard. Her faint smile, perhaps contemptuous of the other gods and their
worshipers, was, in its way, as arresting as the chained grins of the skulls
she wore for a necklace. She held daggers in her hands; and poised in
mid-step she stood, as though deciding whether to dance before or slay those
who came to her shrine. Her lips were full, her eyes were wide. Seen by
torchlight, she seemed to move.
It was fitting, therefore, that her shrine faced upon that of Yama, god
of Death. It had been decided, logically enough, by the priests and
architects, that he was best suited of all the deities to spend every minute
of the day facing her, matching his unfaltering death-gaze against her own,
returning her half smile with his twisted one. Even the most devout
generally made a detour rather than pass between the two shrines; and after
dark their section of the courtyard was always the abode of silence and
stillness, being untroubled by late worshipers.
From out of the north, as the winds of spring blew across the land,
there came the one called Rild. A small man, whose hair was white, though
his years were few-- Rild, who wore the dark trappings of a pilgrim, but
about whose forearm, when they found him lying in a ditch with the fever,
was wound the crimson strangling cord of his true profession: Rild.
Rild came in the spring, at festival-time, to Alundil of the blue-green
fields, of the thatched huts and the bungalows of wood, of unpaved roadways
and many hostels, of bazaars and holy men and storytellers, of the great
religious revival and its Teacher, whose reputation had spread far across
the land-- to Alundil of the Temple, where his patron goddess was queen.
Festival-time.
Twenty years earlier, Alundil's small festival had been an almost
exclusively local affair. Now, though, with the passage of countless
travelers, caused by the presence of the Enlightened One, who taught the Way
of the Eightfold Path, the Festival of Alundil attracted so many pilgrims
that local accommodations were filled to overflowing. Those who possessed
tents could charge a high fee for their rental. Stables were rented out for
human occupancy. Even bare pieces of land were let as camping sites.
Alundil loved its Buddha. Many other towns had tried to entice him away
from his purple grove: Shengodu. Flower of the Mountains, had offered him a
palace and harem to come bring his teaching to the slopes. But the
Enlightened One did not go to the mountain. Kannaka, of the Serpent River,
had offered him elephants and ships, a town house and a country villa,
horses and servants, to come and preach from its wharves. But the
Enlightened One did not go to the river.
The Buddha remained in his grove and all things came to him. With the
passage of years the festival grew larger and longer and more elaborate,
like a well-fed dragon, scales all a-shimmer. The local Brahmins did not
approve of the antiritualistic teachings of the Buddha, but his presence
filled their coffers to overflowing; so they learned to live in his squat
shadow, never voicing the word tirthika-- heretic.
So the Buddha remained in his grove and all things came to him,
including Rild.
Festival-time.
The drums began in the evening on the third day. On the third day, the
massive drums of the kathakali began their rapid thunder. The miles-striding
staccato of the drums carried across the fields to the town, across the
town, across the purple grove and across the wastes of marshland that lay
behind it. The drummers, wearing white mundus, bare to the waist, their dark
flesh glistening with perspiration, worked in shifts, so strenuous was the
mighty beating they set up; and never was the flow of sound broken, even as
the new relay of drummers moved into position before the tightly stretched
heads of the instruments.
As darkness arrived in the world, the travelers and townsmen who had
begun walking as soon as they heard the chatter of the drums began to arrive
at the festival field, large as a battlefield of old. There they found
places and waited for the night to deepen and the drama to begin, sipping
the sweet-smelling tea that they purchased at the stalls beneath the trees.
A great brass bowl of oil, tall as a man, wicks hanging down over its
edges, stood in the center of the field. These wicks were lighted, and
torches flickered beside the tents of the actors.
The drumming, at dose range, was deafening and hypnotic, the rhythms
complicated, syncopated, insidious. As midnight approached, the devotional
chanting began, rising and falling with the drumbeat, working a net about
the senses.
There was a brief lull as the Enlightened One and his monks arrived,
their yellow robes near-orange in the flamelight. But they threw back their
cowls and seated themselves cross-legged upon the ground. After a time, it
was only the chanting and the voices of the drums that filled the minds of
the spectators.
When the actors appeared, gigantic in their makeup, ankle bells
jangling as their feet beat the ground, there was no applause, only rapt
attention. The kathakali dancers were famous, trained from their youth in
acrobatics as well as the ages-old patterns of the classical dance, knowing
the nine distinct movements of the neck and of the eyeballs and the hundreds
of hand positions required to re-enact the ancient epics of love and battle,
of the encounters of gods and demons, of the valiant fights and bloody
treacheries of tradition. The musicians shouted out the words of the stories
as the actors, who never spoke, portrayed the awesome exploits of Rama and
of the Pandava brothers. Wearing makeup of green and red, or black and stark
white, they stalked across the field, skirts billowing, their
mirror-sprinkled halos glittering in the light of the lamp.
Occasionally, the lamp would flare or sputter, and it was as if a
nimbus of holy or unholy light played about their heads, erasing entirely
the sense of the event, causing the spectators to feel for a moment that
they themselves were the illusion, and that the great-bodied figures of the
cyclopean dance were the only real things in the world.
The dance would continue until daybreak, to end with the rising of the
sun. Before daybreak, however, one of the wearers of the saffron robe
arrived from the direction of town, made his way through the crowd and spoke
into the ear of the Enlightened One.
The Buddha began to rise, appeared to think better of it and reseated
himself. He gave a message to the monk, who nodded and departed from the
field of the festival.
The Buddha, looking imperturbable, returned his attention to the drama.
A monk seated nearby noted that he was tapping his fingers upon the ground,
and he decided that the Enlightened One must be keeping time with the
drumbeats, for it was common knowledge that he was above such things as
impatience.
When the drama had ended and Surya the sun pinked the skirts of Heaven
above the eastern rim of the world, it was as if the night just passed had
held the crowd prisoner within a tense and frightening dream, from which
they were just now released, weary, to wander this day.
The Buddha and his followers set off walking immediately, in the
direction of the town. They did not pause to rest along the way, but passed
through Alundil at a rapid but dignified gait.
When they came again to the purple grove, the Enlightened One
instructed his monks to take rest, and he moved off in the direction of a
small pavilion located deep within the wood.
The monk who had brought the message during the drama sat within the
pavilion. There he tended the fever of the traveler he had come upon in the
marshes, where he walked often to better meditate upon the putrid condition
his body would assume after death.
Tathagatha studied the man who lay upon the sleeping mat. His lips were
thin and pale; he had a high forehead, high cheekbones, frosty eyebrows,
pointed ears; and Tathagatha guessed that when those eyelids rose, the eyes
revealed would be of a faded blue or gray. There was a quality of--
translucency?-- fragility perhaps, about his unconscious form, which might
have been caused partly by the fevers that racked his body, but which could
not be attributed entirely to them. The small man did not give the
impression of being one who would bear the thing that Tathagatha now raised
in his hands. Rather, on first viewing, he might seem to be a very old man.
If one granted him a second look, and realized then that his colorless hair
and his slight frame did not signify advanced age, one might then be struck
by something childlike about his appearance. From the condition of his
complexion, Tathagatha doubted that he need shave very often. Perhaps a
slightly mischievous pucker was now hidden somewhere between his cheeks and
the corners of his mouth. Perhaps not, also.
The Buddha raised the crimson strangling cord, which was a thing borne
only by the holy executioners of the goddess Kali. He fingered its silken
length, and it passed like a serpent through his hand, clinging slightly. He
did not doubt but that it was intended to move in such a manner about his
throat. Almost unconsciously, he held it and twisted his hands through the
necessary movements.
Then he looked up at the wide-eyed monk who had watched him, smiled his
imperturbable smile and laid the cord aside. With a damp cloth, the monk
wiped the perspiration from the pale brow.
The man on the sleeping mat shuddered at the contact, and his eyes
snapped open. The madness of the fever was in them and they did not truly
see, but Tathagatha felt a sudden jolt at their contact.
Dark, so dark they were almost jet, and it was impossible to tell where
the pupil ended and the iris began. There was something extremely unsettling
about eyes of such power in a body so frail and effete.
He reached out and stroked the man's hands, and it was like touching
steel, cold and impervious. He drew his fingernail sharply across the back
of the right hand. No scratch or indentation marked its passage, and his
nail fairly slid, as though across a pane of glass. He squeezed the man's
thumbnail and released it. There was no sudden change of color. It was as
though these hands were dead or mechanical things.
He continued his examination. The phenomenon ended somewhat above the
wrists, occurred again in other places. His hands, breast, abdomen, neck and
portions of his back had soaked within the death bath, which gave this
special unyielding power. Total immersion would, of course, have proved
fatal; but as it was, the man had traded some of his tactile sensitivity for
the equivalent of invisible gauntlets, breastplate, neckpiece and back armor
of steel. He was indeed one of the select assassins of the terrible goddess.
"Who else knows of this man?" asked the Buddha.
"The monk Simha," replied the other, "who helped me bear him here."
"Did he see"-- Tathagatha gestured with his eyes toward the crimson
cord-- that?" he inquired.
The monk nodded.
"Then go fetch him. Bring him to me at once. Do not mention anything of
this to anyone, other than that a pilgrim was taken ill and we are tending
him here. I will personally take over his care and minister to his illness."
"Yes, Illustrious One."
The monk hurried forth from the pavilion.
Tathagatha seated himself beside the sleeping mat and waited.
It was two days before the fever broke and intelligence returned to
those dark eyes. But during those two days, anyone who passed by the
pavilion might have heard the voice of the Enlightened One droning on and
on, as though he addressed his sleeping charge. Occasionally, the man
himself mumbled and spoke loudly, as those in a fever often do.
On the second day, the man opened his eyes suddenly and stared upward.
Then he frowned and turned his bead.
"Good morning, Rild," said Tathagatha.
"You are . . . ?" asked the other, in an unexpected baritone.
"One who teaches the way of liberation," he replied.
"The Buddha?"
"I have been called such."
"Tathagatha?"
"This name, too, have I been given."
The other attempted to rise, failed, settled back. His eyes never left
the placid countenance. "How is it that you know my name?" he finally asked.
"In your fever you spoke considerably."
"Yes, I was very sick, and doubtless babbling. It was in that cursed
swamp that I took the chill."
Tathagatha smiled. "One of the disadvantages of traveling alone is that
when you fall there is none to assist you."
"True," acknowledged the other, and his eyes closed once more and his
breathing deepened.
Tathagatha remained in the lotus posture, waiting.
When Rild awakened again, it was evening. "Thirsty," he said.
Tathagatha gave him water. "Hungry?" he asked.
"No, not yet. My stomach would rebel."
He raised himself up onto his elbows and stared at his attendant. Then
he sank back upon the mat. "You are the one," he announced.
"Yes," replied the other.
"What are you going to do?"
"Feed you, when you say you are hungry."
"I mean, after that."
"Watch as you sleep, lest you lapse again into the fever."
"That is not what I meant."
"I know."
"After I have eaten and rested and recovered my strength-- what then?"
Tathagatha smiled as he drew the silken cord from somewhere beneath his
robe. "Nothing," he replied, "nothing at all," and he draped the cord across
Rild's shoulder and withdrew his hand.
The other shook his head and leaned back. He reached up and fingered
the length of crimson. He twined it about his fingers and then about his
wrist. He stroked it.
"It is holy," he said, after a time.
"So it would seem."
"You know its use, and its purpose?"
"Of course."
"Why then will you do nothing at all?"
"I have no need to move or to act. All things come to me. If anything
is to be done, it is you who will do it."
"I do not understand."
"I know that, too."
The man stared into the shadows overhead. "I will attempt to eat now,"
he announced.
Tathagatha gave him broth and bread, which he managed to keep down.
Then he drank more water, and when he had finished he was breathing heavily.
"You have offended Heaven," he stated.
"Of that, I am aware."
"And you have detracted from the glory of a goddess, whose supremacy
here has always been undisputed."
"I know."
"But I owe you my life, and I have eaten your bread."
There was no reply.
"Because of this, I must break a most holy vow," finished Rild. "I
cannot kill you, Tathagatha."
"Then I owe my life to the fact that you owe me yours. Let us consider
the life-owing balanced."
Rild uttered a short chuckle. "So be it," he said.
"What will you do, now that you have abandoned your mission?"
"I do not know. My sin is too great to permit me to return. Now I, too,
have offended against Heaven, and the goddess will turn away her face from
my prayers. I have failed her."
"Such being the case, remain here. You will at least have company in
damnation."
"Very well," agreed Rild. "There is nothing else left to me."
He slept once again, and the Buddha smiled.
In the days that followed, as the festival wore on, the Enlightened One
preached to the crowds who passed through the purple grove. He spoke of the
unity of all things, great and small, of the law of cause, of becoming and
dying, of the illusion of the world, of the spark of the atman, of the way
of salvation through renunciation of the self and union with the whole; he
spoke of realization and enlightenment, of the meaninglessness of the
Brahmins' rituals, comparing their forms to vessels empty of content. Many
listened, a few heard and some remained in the purple grove to take up the
saffron robe of the seeker.
And each time he taught, the man Rild sat nearby, wearing his black
garments and leather harness, his strange dark eyes ever upon the
Enlightened One.
Two weeks after his recovery, Rild came upon the teacher as he walked
through the grove in meditation. He fell into step beside him, and after a
time he spoke.
"Enlightened One, I have listened to your teachings, and I have
listened well. Much have I thought upon your words."
The other nodded.
"I have always been a religious man," he stated, "or I would not have
been selected for the post I once occupied. After it became impossible for
me to fulfill my mission, I felt a great emptiness. I had failed my goddess,
and life was without meaning for me."
The other listened, silently.
"But I have heard your words," he said, "and they have filled me with a
kind of joy. They have shown me another way to salvation, a way which I feel
to be superior to the one I previously followed."
The Buddha studied his face as he spoke.
"Your way of renunciation is a strict one, which I feel to be good. It
suits my needs. Therefore, I request permission to be taken into your
community of seekers, and to follow your path."
"Are you certain," asked the Enlightened One, "that you do not seek
merely to punish yourself for what has been weighing upon your conscience as
a failure, or a sin?"
"Of that I am certain," said Rild. "I have held your words within me
and felt the truth which they contain. In the service of the goddess have I
slain more men than purple fronds upon yonder bough. I am not even counting
women and children. So I am not easily taken in by words, having heard too
many, voiced in all tones of speech-- words pleading, arguing, cursing. But
your words move me, and they are superior to the teachings of the Brahmins.