Gladly would I become your executioner, dispatching for you your enemies
with a saffron cord-- or with a blade, or pike, or with my hands, for I am
proficient with all weapons, having spent three lifetimes learning their
use-- but I know that such is not your way. Death and life are as one to
you, and you do not seek the destruction of your enemies. So I request
entrance to your Order. For me, it is not so difficult a thing as it would
be for another. One must renounce home and family, origin and property. I
lack these things. One must renounce one's own will, which I have already
done. All I need now is the yellow robe."
"It is yours," said Tathagatha, "with my blessing."
Rild donned the robe of a buddhist monk and took to fasting and
meditating. After a week, when the festival was near to its close, he
departed into the town with his begging bowl, in the company of the other
monks. He did not return with them, however. The day wore on into evening,
the evening into darkness. The horns of the Temple had already sounded the
last notes of the nagaswaram, and many of the travelers had since departed
the festival.
For a long while, the Enlightened One walked the woods, meditating.
Then he, too, vanished.
Down from the grove, with the marshes at its back, toward the town of
Alundil, above which lurked the hills of rock and around which lay the
blue-green fields, into the town of Alundil, still astir with travelers,
many of them at the height of their revelry, up the streets of Alundil
toward the hill with its Temple, walked the Buddha.
He entered the first courtyard, and it was quiet there. The dogs and
children and beggars had gone away. The priests slept. One drowsing
attendant sat behind a bench at the bazaar. Many of the shrines were now
empty, the statues having been borne within. Before several of the others,
worshipers knelt in late prayer.
He entered the inner courtyard. An ascetic was seated on a prayer mat
before the statue of Ganesha. He, too, seemed to qualify as a statue, making
no visible movements. Four oil lamps flickered about the yard, their dancing
light serving primarily to accentuate the shadows that lay upon most of the
shrines. Small votive lights cast a faint illumination upon some of the
statues.
Tathagatha crossed the yard and stood facing the towering figure of
Kali, at whose feet a tiny lamp blinked. Her smile seemed a plastic and
moving thing, as she regarded the man before her.
Draped across her outstretched hand, looped once about the point of her
dagger, lay a crimson strangling cord.
Tathagatha smiled back at her, and she seemed almost to frown at that
moment.
"It is a resignation, my dear," he stated. "You have lost this round."
She seemed to nod in agreement.
"I am pleased to have achieved such a height of recognition in so short
a period of time," he continued. "But even if you had succeeded, old girl,
it would have done you little good. It is too late now. I have started
something which you cannot undo. Too many have heard the ancient words. You
had thought they were lost, and so did I. But we were both wrong. The
religion by which you rule is very ancient, goddess, but my protest is also
that of a venerable tradition. So call me a protestant, and remember-- now I
am more than a man. Good night."
He left the Temple and the shrine of Kali, where the eyes of Yama had
been fixed upon his back.
It was many months before the miracle occurred, and when it did, it did
not seem a miracle, for it had grown up slowly about them.
Rild, who had come out of the north as the winds of spring blew across
the land, wearing death upon his arm and the black fire within his eyes--
Rild, of the white brows and pointed ears-- spoke one afternoon, after the
spring had passed, when the long days of summer hung warm beneath the Bridge
of the Gods. He spoke, in that unexpected baritone, to answer a question
asked him by a traveler.
The man asked him a second question, and then a third.
He continued to speak, and some of the other monks and several pilgrims
gathered about him. The answers following the questions, which now came from
all of them, grew longer and longer, for they became parables, examples,
allegories.
Then they were seated at his feet, and his dark eyes became strange
pools, and his voice came down as from Heaven, clear and soft, melodic and
persuasive.
They listened, and then the travelers went their way. But they met and
spoke with other travelers upon the road, so that, before the summer had
passed, pilgrims coming to the purple grove were asking to meet this
disciple of the Buddha's, and to hear his words also.
Tathagatha shared the preaching with him. Together, they taught of the
Way of the Eightfold Path, the glory of Nirvana, the illusion of the world
and the chains that the world lays upon a man.
And then there were times when even the soft-spoken Tathagatha listened
to the words of his disciple, who had digested all of the things he had
preached, had meditated long and fully upon them and now, as though he had
found entrance to a secret sea, dipped with his steel-hard hand into places
of hidden waters, and then sprinkled a thing of truth and beauty upon the
heads of the hearers.
Summer passed. There was no doubt now that there were two who had
received enlightenment: Tathagatha and his small disciple, whom they called
Sugata. It was even said that Sugata was a healer, and that when his eyes
shone strangely and the icy touch of his hands came upon a twisted limb,
that limb grew straight again. It was said that a blind man's vision had
suddenly returned to him during one of Sugata's sermons.
There were two things in which Sugata believed: the Way of Salvation
and Tathagatha, the Buddha.
"Illustrious One," he said to him one day, "my life was empty until you
revealed to me the True Path. When you received your enlightenment, before
you began your teaching, was it like a rush of fire and the roaring of water
and you everywhere and a part of everything-- the clouds and the trees, the
animals in the forest, all people, the snow on the mountaintop and the bones
in the field?"
"Yes," said Tathagatha.
"I, also, know the joy of all things," said Sugata.
"Yes, I know," said Tathagatha.
"I see now why once you said that all things come to you. To have
brought such a doctrine into the world-- I can see why the gods were
envious. Poor gods! They are to be pitied. But you know. You know all
things."
Tathagatha did not reply.
When the winds of spring blew again across the land, the year having
gone full cycle since the arrival of the second Buddha, there came one day
from out of the heavens a fearful shrieking.
The citizens of Alundil turned out into their streets to stare up at
the sky. The Sudras in the fields put by their work and looked upward. In
the great Temple on the hill there was a sudden silence. In the purple grove
beyond the town, the monks turned their heads.
It paced the heavens, the one who was born to rule the wind. . . . From
out of the north it came-- green and red, yellow and brown. . . . Its glide
was a dance, its way was the air. . . .
There came another shriek, and then the beating of mighty pinions as it
climbed past clouds to become a tiny dot of black.
And then it fell, like a meteor, bursting into flame, all of its colors
blazing and burning bright, as it grew and grew, beyond all belief that
anything could live at that size, that pace, that magnificence. . . .
Half spirit, half bird, legend darkening the sky.
Mount of Vishnu, whose beak smashes chariots.
The Garuda Bird circled above Alundil.
Circled, and passed beyond the hills of rock that stood behind the
city.
"Garuda!" The word ran through the town, the fields, the Temple, the
grove.
If he did not fly alone; it was known that only a god could use the
Garuda Bird for a mount.
There was silence. After those shrieks and that thunder of pinions,
voices seemed naturally to drop to a whisper.
The Enlightened One stood upon the road before the grove, his monks
moving about him, facing in the direction of the hills of rock.
Sugata came to his side and stood there. "It was but a spring ago . .
." he said.
Tathagatha nodded.
"Rild failed," said Sugata. "What new thing comes from Heaven?"
The Buddha shrugged.
"I fear for you, my teacher," he said. "In all my lifetimes, you have
been my only friend. Your teaching has given me peace. Why can they not
leave you alone? You are the most harmless of men, and your doctrine the
gentlest. What ill could you possibly bear them?"
The other turned away.
At that moment, with a mighty beating of the air and a jagged cry from
its opened beak, the Garuda Bird rose once more above the hills. This time,
it did not circle over the town, but climbed to a great height in the
heavens and swept off to the north. Such was the speed of its passing that
it was gone in a matter of moments.
"Its passenger has dismounted and remains behind," suggested Sugata.
The Buddha walked within the purple grove.
He came from beyond the hills of stone, walking. He came to a passing
place through stone, and he followed this trail, his red leather boots
silent on the rocky path.
Ahead, there was a sound of running water, from where a small stream
cut across his way. Shrugging his blood-bright cloak back over his
shoulders, he advanced upon a bend in the trail, the ruby head of his
scimitar gleaming in his crimson sash.
Rounding a comer of stone, he came to a halt.
One waited ahead, standing beside the log that led across the stream.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, then he moved forward again.
It was a small man who stood there, wearing the dark garments of a
pilgrim, caught about with a leather harness from which was suspended a
short, curved blade of bright steel. This man's head was closely shaven,
save for a small lock of white hair. His eyebrows were white above eyes that
were dark, and his skin was pale; his ears appeared to be pointed.
The traveler raised his hand and spoke to this man, saying, "Good
afternoon, pilgrim."
The man did not reply, but moved to bar his way, positioning himself
before the log that led across the stream.
"Pardon me, good pilgrim, but I am about to cross here and you are
making my passage difficult," he stated.
"You are mistaken, Lord Yama, if you think you are about to pass here,"
replied the other.
The One in Red smiled, showing a long row of even, white teeth. "It is
always a pleasure to be recognized," he acknowledged, "even by one who
conveys misinformation concerning other matters."
"I do not fence with words," said the man in black.
"Oh?" The other raised his eyebrows in an expression of exaggerated
inquiry. "With what then do you fence, sir? Surely not that piece of bent
metal you bear."
"None other."
"I took it for some barbarous prayer-stick at first. I understand that
this is a region fraught with strange cults and primitive sects. For a
moment, I took you to be a devotee of some such superstition. But if, as you
say, it is indeed a weapon, then I trust you are familiar with its use?"
"Somewhat," replied the man in black.
"Good, then," said Yama, "for I dislike having to kill a man who does
not know what he is about. I feel obligated to point out to you, however,
that when you stand before the Highest for judgment, you will be accounted a
suicide."
The other smiled faintly.
"Any time that you are ready, deathgod, I will facilitate the passage
of your spirit from out its fleshy envelope."
"One more item only, then," said Yama, "and I shall put a quick end to
conversation. Give me a name to tell the priests, so that they shall know
for whom they offer the rites."
"I renounced my final name but a short while back," answered the other.
"For this reason, Kali's consort must take his death of one who is
nameless."
"Rild, you are a fool," said Yama, and drew his blade.
The man in black drew his.
"And it is fitting that you go unnamed to your doom. You betrayed your
goddess."
"Life is full of betrayals," replied the other, before he struck, "By
opposing you now and in this manner, I also betray the teachings of my new
master. But I must follow the dictates of my heart. Neither my old name nor
my new do therefore fit me, nor are they deserved-- so call me by no name!"
Then his blade was fire, leaping everywhere, clicking, blazing.
Yama fell back before this onslaught, giving ground foot by foot,
moving only his wrist as he parried the blows that fell about him.
Then, after he had retreated ten paces, he stood his ground and would
not be moved. His parries widened slightly, but his ripostes became more
sudden now, and were interspersed with feints and unexpected attacks.
They swaggered blades till their perspiration fell upon the ground in
showers; and then Yama began to press the attack, slowly, forcing his
opponent into a retreat. Step by step, he recovered the ten paces he had
given.
When they stood again upon the ground where the first blow had been
struck, Yama acknowledged, over the clashing of steel, "Well have you
learned your lessons, Rild! Better even than I had thought!
Congratulations!"
As he spoke, his opponent wove his blade through an elaborate double
feint and scored a light touch that cut his shoulder, drawing blood that
immediately merged with the color of his garment.
At this, Yama sprang forward, beating down the other's guard, and
delivered a blow to the side of his neck that might have decapitated him.
The man in black raised his guard, shaking his head, parried another
attack and thrust forward, to be parried again himself.
"So, the death bath collars your throat," said Yama. "I'll seek
entrance elsewhere, then," and his blade sang a faster song, as he tried for
a low-line thrust.
Yama unleashed the full fury of that blade, backed by the centuries and
the masters of many ages. Yet, the other met his attacks, parrying wider and
wider, retreating faster and faster now, but still managing to hold him off
as he backed away, counterthrusting as he went.
He retreated until his back was to the stream. Then Yama slowed and
made comment:
"Half a century ago," he stated, "when you were my pupil for a brief
time, I said to myself, 'This one has within him the makings of a master.'
Nor was I wrong, Rild. You are perhaps the greatest swordsman raised up in
all the ages I can remember. I can almost forgive apostasy when I witness
your skill. It is indeed a pity. . ."
He feinted then a chest cut, and at the last instant moved around the
parry so that he lay the edge of his weapon high upon the other's wrist.
Leaping backward, parrying wildly and cutting at Yama's head, the man
in black came into a position at the head of the log that lay above the
crevice that led down to the stream.
"Your hand, too, Rild! Indeed, the goddess is lavish with her
protection. Try this!"
The steel screeched as he caught it in a bind, nicking the other's
bicep as he passed about the blade.
"Aha! There's a place she missed!" he cried. "Let's try for another!"
Their blades bound and disengaged, feinted, thrust, parried, riposted.
Yama met an elaborate attack with a stop-thrust, his longer blade again
drawing blood from his opponent's upper arm.
The man in black stepped up upon the log, swinging a vicious head cut,
which Yama beat away. Pressing the attack then even harder, Yama forced him
to back out upon the log and then he kicked at its side.
The other jumped backward, landing upon the opposite bank. As soon as
his feet touched ground, he, too, kicked out, causing the log to move.
It rolled, before Yama could mount it, slipping free of the banks,
crashing down into the stream, bobbing about for a moment, and then
following the water trail westward.
"I'd say it is only a seven- or eight-foot jump, Yama! Come on across!"
cried the other.
The deathgod smiled. "Catch your breath quickly now, while you may," he
stated. "Breath is the least appreciated gift of the gods. None sing hymns
to it, praising the good air, breathed by king and beggar, master and dog
alike. But, oh to be without it! Appreciate each breath, Rild, as though it
were your last-- for that one, too, is near at hand!"
"You are said to be wise in these matters, Yama," said the one who had
been called Rild and Sugata. "You are said to be a god, whose kingdom is
death and whose knowledge extends beyond the ken of mortals. I would
question you, therefore, while we are standing idle."
Yama did not smile his mocking smile, as he had to all his opponent's
previous statements. This one had a touch of ritual about it.
"What is it that you wish to know? I grant you the death-boon of a
question."
Then, in the ancient words of the Katha Upanishad, the one who had been
called Rild and Sugata chanted:
"'There is doubt concerning a man when he is dead. Some say he still
exists. Others say he does not. This thing I should like to know, taught by
you.' "
Yama replied with the ancient words, "'On this subject even the gods
have their doubts. It is not easy to understand, for the nature of the atman
is a subtle thing. Ask me another question. Release me from this boon!'"
"'Forgive me if it is foremost in my mind, oh Death, but another
teacher such as yourself cannot be found, and surely there is no other boon
which I crave more at this moment.'"
"'Keep your life and go your way,'" said Yama, plunging his blade again
into his sash. "'I release you from your doom. Choose sons and grandsons;
choose elephants, horses, herds of cattle and gold. Choose any other boon--
fair maidens, chariots, musical instruments. I shall give them unto you and
they shall wait upon you. But ask me not of death.'"
"'Oh Death,' " sang the other, "'these endure only till tomorrow. Keep
your maidens, horses, dances and songs for yourself. No boon will I accept
but the one which I have asked-- tell me, oh Death, of that which lies
beyond life, of which men and the gods have their doubts.'"
Yama stood very still and he did not continue the poem. "Very well,
Rild," he said, his eyes locking with the other's, "but it is not a kingdom
subject to words. I must show you."
They stood, so, for a moment; and then the man in black swayed. He
threw his arm across his face, covering his eyes, and a single sob escaped
his throat.
When this occurred, Yama drew his cloak from his shoulders and cast it
like a net across the stream.
Weighted at the hems for such a maneuver, it fell, netlike, upon his
opponent.
As he struggled to free himself, the man in black heard rapid footfalls
and then a crash, as Yama's blood-red boots struck upon his side of the
stream. Casting aside the cloak and raising his guard, he parried Yama's new
attack. The ground behind him sloped upward, and he backed farther and
farther, to where it steepened, so that Yama's head was no higher than his
belt. He then struck down at his opponent. Yama slowly fought his way
uphill.
"Deathgod, deathgod," he chanted, "forgive my presumptuous question,
and tell me you did not lie."
"Soon you shall know," said Yama, cutting at his legs.
Yama struck a blow that would have run another man through, cleaving
his heart. But it glanced off his opponent's breast.
When he came to a place where the ground was broken, the small man
kicked, again and again, sending showers of dirt and gravel down upon his
opponent. Yama shielded his eyes with his left hand, but then larger pieces
of stone began to rain down upon him. These rolled on the ground, and, as
several came beneath his boots, he lost his footing and fell, slipping
backward down the slope. The other kicked at heavy rocks then, even
dislodging a boulder and following it downhill, his blade held high.
Unable to gain his footing in time to meet the attack, Yama rolled and
slid back toward the stream. He managed to brake himself at the edge of the
crevice, but he saw the boulder coming and tried to draw back out of its
way. As he pushed at the ground with both hands, his blade fell into the
waters below.
With his dagger, which he drew as he sprang into a stumbling crouch, he
managed to parry the high cut of the other's blade. The boulder splashed
into the stream.
Then his left hand shot forward, seizing the wrist that had guided the
blade. He slashed upward with the dagger and felt his own wrist taken.
They stood then, locking their strength, until Yama sat down and rolled
to his side, thrusting the other from him.
Still, both locks held, and they continued to roll from the force of
that thrust. Then the edge of the crevice was beside them, beneath them,
above them. He felt the blade go out of his hand as it struck the stream
bed.
When they came again above the surface of the water, gasping for
breath, each held only water in his hands.
"Time for the final baptism," said Yama, and he lashed out with his
left hand.
The other blocked the punch, throwing one of his own.
They moved to the left with the waters, until their feet struck upon
rock and they fought, wading, along the length of the stream.
It widened and grew more shallow as they moved, until the waters
swirled about their waists. In places, the banks began to fall nearer the
surface of the water.
Yama landed blow after blow, both with his fists and the edges of his
hands; but it was as if he assailed a statue, for the one who had been
Kali's holy executioner took each blow without changing his expression, and
he returned them with twisting punches of bone-breaking force. Most of these
blows were slowed by the water or blocked by Yama's guard, but one landed
between his rib cage and hipbone and another glanced on his left shoulder
and rebounded from his cheek.
Yama cast himself into a backstroke and made for shallower water.
The other followed and sprang upon him, to be caught in his impervious
midsection by a red boot, as the front of his garment was jerked forward and
down. He continued on, passing over Yama's head, to land upon his back on a
section of shale.
Yama rose to his knees and turned, as the other found his footing and
drew a dagger from his belt. His face was still impassive as he dropped into
a crouch.
For a moment their eyes met, but the other did not waver this time.
"Now can I meet your death-gaze, Yama," he stated, "and not be stopped
by it. You have taught me too well!"
And as he lunged, Yama's hands came away from his waist, snapping his
wet sash like a whip about the other's thighs.
He caught him and locked him to him as he fell forward, dropping the
blade; and with a kick he bore them both back into deeper water.
"None sing hymns to breath," said Yama. "But, oh to be without it!"
Then he plunged downward, bearing the other with him, his arms like
steel loops about his body.
Later, much later, as the wet figure stood beside the stream, he spoke
softly and his breath came in gasps:
"You were-- the greatest-- to be raised up against me-- in all the ages
I can remember. . . . It is indeed a pity . . ."
Then, having crossed the stream, he continued on his way through the
hills of stone, walking.
Entering the town of Alundil, the traveler stopped at the first inn he
came to. He took a room and ordered a tub of water. He bathed while a
servant cleaned his garments.
Before he had his dinner, he moved to the window and looked down into
the street. The smell of slizzard was strong upon the air, and the babble of
many voices arose from below.
People were leaving the town. In the courtyard at his back,
preparations for the departure of a morning caravan were being made. This
night marked the end of the spring festival. Below him in the street,
businessmen were still trading, mothers were soothing tired children and a
local prince was returning with his men from the hunt, two fire-roosters
strapped to the back of a skittering slizzard. He watched a tired prostitute
discussing something with a priest, who appeared to be even more tired, as
he kept shaking his head and finally walked away. One moon was already high
in the heavens-- seen as golden through the Bridge of the Gods -- and a
second, smaller moon had just appeared above the horizon. There was a cool
tingle in the evening air, bearing to him, above the smells of the city, the
scents of the growing things of spring: the small shoots and the tender
grasses, the clean smell of the blue-green spring wheat, the moist ground,
the roiling freshet. Leaning forward, he could see the Temple that stood
upon the hill.
He summoned a servant to bring his dinner in his chamber and to send
for a local merchant.
He ate slowly, not paying especial attention to his food, and when he
had finished, the merchant was shown in.
The man bore a cloak full of samples, and of these he finally decided
upon a long, curved blade and a short, straight dagger, both of which he
thrust into his sash.
Then he went out into the evening and walked along the rutted main
street of the town. Lovers embraced in doorways. He passed a house where
mourners were wailing for one dead. A beggar limped after him for half a
block, until he turned and glanced into his eyes, saying, "You are not
lame," and then the man hurried away, losing himself in a crowd that was
passing. Overhead, the fireworks began to burst against the sky, sending
long, cherry-colored streamers down toward the ground. From the Temple came
the sound of the gourd horns playing the nagaswaram music. A man stumbled
from out a doorway, brushing against him, and he broke the man's wrist as he
felt his hand fall upon his purse. The man uttered a curse and called for
help, but he pushed him into the drainage ditch and walked on, turning away
his two companions with one dark look.
At last, he came to the Temple, hesitated a moment and passed within.
He entered the inner courtyard behind a priest who was carrying in a
small statue from an outer niche.
He surveyed the courtyard, then quickly moved to the place occupied by
the statue of the goddess Kali. He studied her for a long while, drawing his
blade and placing it at her feet. When he picked it up and turned away, he
saw that the priest was watching him. He nodded to the man, who immediately
approached and bade him a good evening.
"Good evening, priest," he replied.
"May Kali sanctify your blade, warrior."
"Thank you. She has."
The priest smiled. "You speak as if you knew that for certain."
"And that is presumptuous of me, eh?"
"Well, it may not be in the best of taste."
"Nevertheless, I felt her power come over me as I gazed upon her
shrine."
The priest shuddered. "Despite my office," he stated, "that is a
feeling of power I can do without."
"You fear her power?"
"Let us say," said the priest, "that despite its magnificence, the
shrine of Kali is not so frequently visited as are those of Lakshmi,
Sarasvati, Shakti, Sitala, Ratri and the other less awesome goddesses."
"But she is greater than any of these."
"And more terrible."
"So? Despite her strength, she is not an unjust goddess."
The priest smiled. "What man who has lived for more than a score of
years desires justice, warrior? For my part, I find mercy infinitely more
attractive. Give me a forgiving deity any day."
"Well taken," said the other, "but I am, as you say, a warrior. My own
nature is close to hers. We think alike, the goddess and I. We generally
agree on most matters. When we do not, I remember that she is also a woman."
"I live here," said the priest, "and I do not speak that intimately of
my charges, the gods."
"In public, that is," said the other. "Tell me not of priests. I have
drunk with many of you, and know you to be as blasphemous as the rest of
mankind."
"There is a time and place for everything," said the priest, glancing
back at Kali's statue.
"Aye, aye. Now tell me why the base of Yama's shrine has not been
scrubbed recently. It is dusty."
"It was cleaned but yesterday, but so many have passed before it since
then that it has felt considerable usage."
The other smiled. "Why then are there no offerings laid at his feet, no
remains of sacrifices?"
"No one gives flowers to Death," said the priest. "They just come to
look and go away. We priests have always felt the two statues to be well
situated. They make a terrible pair, do they not? Death, and the mistress of
destruction?"
"A mighty team," said the other. "But do you mean to tell me that no
one makes sacrifice to Yama? No one at all?"'
"Other than we priests, when the calendar of devotions requires it, and
an occasional townsman, when a loved one is upon the death-bed and has been
refused direct incarnation-- other than these, no, I have never seen
sacrifice made to Yama, simply, sincerely, with good will or affection."
"He must feel offended."
"Not so, warrior. For are not all living things, in themselves,
sacrifices to Death?"
"Indeed, you speak truly. What need has he for their good will or
affection? Gifts are unnecessary, for he takes what he wants."
"Like Kali," acknowledged the priest. "And in the cases of both deities
have I often sought justification for atheism. Unfortunately, they manifest
themselves too strongly in the world for their existence to be denied
effectively. Pity."
The warrior laughed. "A priest who is an unwilling believer! I like
that. It tickles my funny bone! Here, buy yourself a barrel of soma-- for
sacrificial purposes."
"Thank you, warrior. I shall. Join me in a small libation now -- on the
Temple?"
"By Kali, I will!" said the other. "But a small one only."
He accompanied the priest into the central building and down a flight
of stairs into the cellar, where a barrel of soma was tapped and two beakers
drawn.
"To your health and long life," he said, raising it.
"To your morbid patrons-- Yama and Kali," said the priest.
"Thank you."
They gulped the potent brew, and the priest drew two more. "To warm
your throat against the night."
"Very good."
"It is a good thing to see some of these travelers depart," said the
priest. "Their devotions have enriched the Temple, but they have also tired
the staff considerably."
"To the departure of the pilgrims!"
"To the departure of the pilgrims!"
They drank again.
"I thought that most of them came to see the Buddha," said Yama.
"That is true," replied the priest, "but on the other hand, they are
not anxious to antagonize the gods by this. So, before they visit the purple
grove, they generally make sacrifice or donate to the Temple for prayers."
"What do you know of the one called Tathagatha, and of his teachings?"
The other looked away. "I am a priest of the gods and a Brahmin,
warrior. I do not wish to speak of this one."
"So, he has gotten to you, too?"
"Enough! I have made my wishes known to you. It is not a subject on
which I will discourse."
"It matters not-- and will matter less shortly. Thank you for the soma.
Good evening, priest."
"Good evening, warrior. May the gods smile upon your path."
"And yours also."
Mounting the stairs, he departed the Temple and continued on his way
through the city, walking.
When he came to the purple grove, there were three moons in the
heavens, small camplights behind the trees, pale blossoms of fire in the sky
above the town, and a breeze with a certain dampness in it stirring the
growth about him.
He moved silently ahead, entering the grove.
When he came into the lighted area, he was faced with row upon row of
motionless, seated figures. Each wore a yellow robe with a yellow cowl drawn
over the head. Hundreds of them were seated so, and not one uttered a sound.
He approached the one nearest him. "I have come to see Tathagatha, the
Buddha," he said.
The man did not seem to hear him.
"Where is he?"
The man did not reply.
He bent forward and stared into the monk's half-closed eyes. For a
moment, he glared into them, but it was as though the other was asleep, for
the eyes did not even meet with his.
Then he raised his voice, so that all within the grove might hear him:
"I have come to see Tathagatha, the Buddha," he said. "Where is he?"
It was as though he addressed a field of stones. "Do you think to hide
him in this manner?" he called out. "Do you think that because you are many,
and all dressed alike, and because you will not answer me, that for these
reasons I cannot find him among you?"
There was only the sighing of the wind, passing through from the back
of the grove. The light flickered and the purple fronds stirred.
He laughed. "In this, you may be right," he admitted. "But you must
move sometime, if you intend to go on living-- and I can wait as long as any
man."
Then he seated himself upon the ground, his back against the blue bark
of a tall tree, his blade across his knees. Immediately, he was seized with
drowsiness. His head nodded and jerked upward several times. Then his chin
came to rest upon his breast and he snored.
Was walking, across a blue-green plain, the grasses bending down to
form a pathway before him. At the end of this pathway was a massive tree, a
tree such as did not grow upon the world, but rather held the world together
with its roots, and with its branches reached up to utter leaves among the
stars.
At its base sat a man, cross-legged, a faint smile upon his lips. He
knew this man to be the Buddha, and he approached and stood before him.
"Greetings, oh Death," said the seated one, crowned with a rose-hued
aureole that was bright in the shadow of the tree.
Yama did not reply, but drew his blade.
The Buddha continued to smile, and as Yama moved forward he heard a
sound like distant music.
He halted and looked about him, his blade still upraised.
They came from all quarters, the four Regents of the world, come down
from Mount Sumernu: the Master of the North advanced, followed by his
Yakshas, all in gold, mounted on yellow horses, bearing shields that blazed
with golden light; the Angel of the South came on, followed by his hosts,
the Kumbhandas, mounted upon blue steeds and bearing sapphire shields; from
the East rode the Regent whose horsemen carry shields of pearl, and who are
clad all in silver; and from the West there came the One whose Nagas mounted
blood-red horses, were clad all in red and held before them shields of
coral. Their hooves did not appear to touch the grasses, and the only sound
in the air was the music, which grew louder.
"Why do the Regents of the world approach?" Yama found himself saying.
"They come to bear my bones away," replied the Buddha, still smiling.
The four Regents drew rein, their hordes at their backs, and Yama faced
them.
"You come to bear his bones away," said Yama, "but who will come for
yours?"
The Regents dismounted.
"You may not have this man, oh Death," said the Master of the North,
"for he belongs to the world, and we of the world will defend him."
"Hear me, Regents who dwell upon Sumernu," said Yama, taking his Aspect
upon him. "Into your hands is given the keeping of the world, but Death
takes whom he will from out the world, and whenever he chooses. It is not
given to you to dispute my Attributes, or the ways of their working."
The four Regents moved to a position between Yama and Tathagatha.
"We do dispute your way with this one. Lord Yama. For in his hands he
holds the destiny of our world. You may touch him only after having
overthrown the four Powers."
"So be it," said Yama. "Which among you will be first to oppose me?"
"I will," said the speaker, drawing his golden blade.
Yama, his Aspect upon him, sheared through the soft metal like butter
and laid the flat of his scimitar along the Regent's head, sending him
sprawling upon the ground.
A great cry came up from the ranks of the Yakshas, and two of the
golden horsemen came forward to bear away their leader. Then they turned
their mounts and rode back into the North;
"Who is next?"
The Regent of the East came before him, bearing a straight blade of
silver and a net woven of moonbeams. "I," he said, and he cast with the net.
Yama set his foot upon it, caught it in his fingers, jerked the other
off balance. As the Regent stumbled forward, he reversed his blade and
struck him in the jaw with its pommel.
Two silver warriors glared at him, then dropped their eyes, as they
bore their Master away to the East, a discordant music trailing in their
wake.
"Next!" said Yama.
Then there came before him the burly leader of the Nagas, who threw
down his weapons and stripped off his tunic, saying, "I will wrestle with
you, deathgod."
Yama laid his weapons aside and removed his upper garments.
All the while this was happening, the Buddha sat in the shade of the
great tree, smiling, as though the passage of arms meant nothing to him.
The Chief of the Nagas caught Yama behind the neck with his left hand,
pulling his head forward. Yama did the same to him; and the other did then
twist his body, casting his right arm over Yama's left shoulder and behind
his neck, locking it then tight about his head, which he now drew down hard
against his hip, turning his body as he dragged the other forward.
Reaching up behind the Naga Chief's back, Yama caught his left shoulder
in his left hand and then moved his right hand behind the Regent's knees, so
that he lifted both his legs off the ground while drawing back upon his
shoulder.
For a moment he held this one cradled in his arms like a child, then
raised him up to shoulder level and dropped away his arms.
When the Regent struck the ground, Yama fell upon him with his knees
and rose again. The other did not.
When the riders of the West had departed, only the Angel of the South,
clad all in blue, stood before the Buddha.
"And you?" asked the deathgod, raising his weapons again.
"I will not take up weapons of steel or leather or stone, as a child
takes up toys, to face you, god of death. Nor will I match the strength of
my body against yours," said the Angel. "I know I will be bested if I do
these things, for none may dispute you with arms."
"Then climb back upon your blue stallion and ride away," said Yama, "if
you will not fight."
The Angel did not answer, but cast his blue shield into the air, so
that it spun like a wheel of sapphire, growing larger and larger as it hung
above them.
Then it fell to the ground and began to sink into it, without a sound,
still growing as it vanished from sight, the grasses coming together again
above the spot where it had struck.
"And what does that signify?" asked Yama.
"I do not actively contest. I merely defend. Mine is the power of
passive opposition. Mine is the power of life, as yours is the power of
death. While you can destroy anything I send against you, you cannot destroy
everything, oh Death. Mine is the power of the shield, but not the sword.
Life will oppose you, Lord Yama, to defend your victim."
The Blue One turned then, mounted his blue steed and rode into the
South, the Kumbhandas at his back. The sound of the music did not go with
him, but remained in the air he had occupied.
Yama advanced once more, his blade in his hand. "Their efforts came to
naught," he said. "Your time is come."
He struck forward with his blade.
The blow did not land, however, as a branch from the great tree fell
between them and struck the scimitar from his grasp.
He reached for it and the grasses bent to cover it over, weaving
themselves into a tight, unbreakable net.
Cursing, he drew his dagger and struck again.
One mighty branch bent down, came swaying before his target, so that
his blade was imbedded deeply in its fibers. Then the branch lashed again
skyward, carrying the weapon with it, high out of reach.
The Buddha's eyes were closed in meditation and his halo glowed in the
shadows.
Yama took a step forward, raising his hands, and the grasses knotted
themselves about his ankles, holding him where he stood.
He struggled for a moment, tugging at their unyielding roots. Then he
stopped and raised both hands high, throwing his head far back, death
leaping from his eyes.
"Hear me, oh Powers!" he cried. "From this moment forward, this spot
shall bear the curse of Yama! No living thing shall ever stir again upon
this ground! No bird shall sing, nor snake slither here! It shall be barren
and stark, a place of rocks and shifting sand! Not a spear of grass shall
ever be upraised from here against the sky! I speak this curse and lay this
doom upon the defenders of my enemy!"
The grasses began to wither, but before they had released him there
came a great splintering, cracking noise, as the tree whose roots held
together the world and in whose branches the stars were caught, as fish in a
net, swayed forward, splitting down its middle, its uppermost limbs tearing
apart the sky, its roots opening chasms in the ground, its leaves falling
like blue-green rain about him. A massive section of its trunk toppled
toward him, casting before it a shadow dark as night.
In the distance, he still saw the Buddha, seated in meditation, as
though unaware of the chaos that erupted about him.
Then there was only blackness and a sound like the crashing of thunder.
Yama jerked his head, his eyes springing open.
He sat in the purple grove, his back against the bole of a blue tree,
his blade across his knees.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
The rows of monks were seated, as in meditation, before him. The breeze
was still cool and moist and the lights still flickered as it passed.
Yama stood, knowing then, somehow, where he must go to find that which
he sought.
He moved past the monks, following a well-beaten path that led far into
the interior of the wood.
He came upon a purple pavilion, but it was empty.
He moved on, tracing the path back to where the wood became a
wilderness. Here, the ground was damp and a faint mist sprang up about him.
But the way was still clear before him, illuminated by the light of the
three moons.
The trail led downward, the blue and purple trees growing shorter and
more twisted here than they did above. Small pools of water, with floating
patches of leprous, silver scum, began to appear at the sides of the trail.
A marshland smell came to his nostrils, and the wheezing of strange
creatures came out of clumps of brush.
He heard the sound of singing, coming from far up behind him, and he
realized that the monks he had left were now awake and stirring about the
grove. They had finished with the task of combining their thoughts to force
upon him the vision of their leader's invincibility. Their chanting was
probably a signal, reaching out to --
There! He was seated upon a rock in the middle of a field, the
moonlight falling full upon him.
Yama drew his blade and advanced.
When he was about twenty paces away, the other turned his head.
"Greetings, oh Death," he said.
"Greetings, Tathagatha."
"Tell me why you are here."
"It has been decided that the Buddha must die."
"That does not answer my question, however. Why have you come here?"
"Are you not the Buddha?"
"I have been called Buddha, and Tathagatha, and the Enlightened One,
and many other things. But, in answer to your question, no, I am not the
Buddha. You have already succeeded in what you set out to do. You slew the
real Buddha this day."
"My memory must indeed be growing weak, for I confess that I do not
remember doing this thing."
"The real Buddha was named by us Sugata," replied the other. "Before
that, he was known as Rild."
"Rild!" Yama chuckled. "You are trying to tell me that he was more than
an executioner whom you talked out of doing his job?"
"Many people are executioners who have been talked out of doing their
with a saffron cord-- or with a blade, or pike, or with my hands, for I am
proficient with all weapons, having spent three lifetimes learning their
use-- but I know that such is not your way. Death and life are as one to
you, and you do not seek the destruction of your enemies. So I request
entrance to your Order. For me, it is not so difficult a thing as it would
be for another. One must renounce home and family, origin and property. I
lack these things. One must renounce one's own will, which I have already
done. All I need now is the yellow robe."
"It is yours," said Tathagatha, "with my blessing."
Rild donned the robe of a buddhist monk and took to fasting and
meditating. After a week, when the festival was near to its close, he
departed into the town with his begging bowl, in the company of the other
monks. He did not return with them, however. The day wore on into evening,
the evening into darkness. The horns of the Temple had already sounded the
last notes of the nagaswaram, and many of the travelers had since departed
the festival.
For a long while, the Enlightened One walked the woods, meditating.
Then he, too, vanished.
Down from the grove, with the marshes at its back, toward the town of
Alundil, above which lurked the hills of rock and around which lay the
blue-green fields, into the town of Alundil, still astir with travelers,
many of them at the height of their revelry, up the streets of Alundil
toward the hill with its Temple, walked the Buddha.
He entered the first courtyard, and it was quiet there. The dogs and
children and beggars had gone away. The priests slept. One drowsing
attendant sat behind a bench at the bazaar. Many of the shrines were now
empty, the statues having been borne within. Before several of the others,
worshipers knelt in late prayer.
He entered the inner courtyard. An ascetic was seated on a prayer mat
before the statue of Ganesha. He, too, seemed to qualify as a statue, making
no visible movements. Four oil lamps flickered about the yard, their dancing
light serving primarily to accentuate the shadows that lay upon most of the
shrines. Small votive lights cast a faint illumination upon some of the
statues.
Tathagatha crossed the yard and stood facing the towering figure of
Kali, at whose feet a tiny lamp blinked. Her smile seemed a plastic and
moving thing, as she regarded the man before her.
Draped across her outstretched hand, looped once about the point of her
dagger, lay a crimson strangling cord.
Tathagatha smiled back at her, and she seemed almost to frown at that
moment.
"It is a resignation, my dear," he stated. "You have lost this round."
She seemed to nod in agreement.
"I am pleased to have achieved such a height of recognition in so short
a period of time," he continued. "But even if you had succeeded, old girl,
it would have done you little good. It is too late now. I have started
something which you cannot undo. Too many have heard the ancient words. You
had thought they were lost, and so did I. But we were both wrong. The
religion by which you rule is very ancient, goddess, but my protest is also
that of a venerable tradition. So call me a protestant, and remember-- now I
am more than a man. Good night."
He left the Temple and the shrine of Kali, where the eyes of Yama had
been fixed upon his back.
It was many months before the miracle occurred, and when it did, it did
not seem a miracle, for it had grown up slowly about them.
Rild, who had come out of the north as the winds of spring blew across
the land, wearing death upon his arm and the black fire within his eyes--
Rild, of the white brows and pointed ears-- spoke one afternoon, after the
spring had passed, when the long days of summer hung warm beneath the Bridge
of the Gods. He spoke, in that unexpected baritone, to answer a question
asked him by a traveler.
The man asked him a second question, and then a third.
He continued to speak, and some of the other monks and several pilgrims
gathered about him. The answers following the questions, which now came from
all of them, grew longer and longer, for they became parables, examples,
allegories.
Then they were seated at his feet, and his dark eyes became strange
pools, and his voice came down as from Heaven, clear and soft, melodic and
persuasive.
They listened, and then the travelers went their way. But they met and
spoke with other travelers upon the road, so that, before the summer had
passed, pilgrims coming to the purple grove were asking to meet this
disciple of the Buddha's, and to hear his words also.
Tathagatha shared the preaching with him. Together, they taught of the
Way of the Eightfold Path, the glory of Nirvana, the illusion of the world
and the chains that the world lays upon a man.
And then there were times when even the soft-spoken Tathagatha listened
to the words of his disciple, who had digested all of the things he had
preached, had meditated long and fully upon them and now, as though he had
found entrance to a secret sea, dipped with his steel-hard hand into places
of hidden waters, and then sprinkled a thing of truth and beauty upon the
heads of the hearers.
Summer passed. There was no doubt now that there were two who had
received enlightenment: Tathagatha and his small disciple, whom they called
Sugata. It was even said that Sugata was a healer, and that when his eyes
shone strangely and the icy touch of his hands came upon a twisted limb,
that limb grew straight again. It was said that a blind man's vision had
suddenly returned to him during one of Sugata's sermons.
There were two things in which Sugata believed: the Way of Salvation
and Tathagatha, the Buddha.
"Illustrious One," he said to him one day, "my life was empty until you
revealed to me the True Path. When you received your enlightenment, before
you began your teaching, was it like a rush of fire and the roaring of water
and you everywhere and a part of everything-- the clouds and the trees, the
animals in the forest, all people, the snow on the mountaintop and the bones
in the field?"
"Yes," said Tathagatha.
"I, also, know the joy of all things," said Sugata.
"Yes, I know," said Tathagatha.
"I see now why once you said that all things come to you. To have
brought such a doctrine into the world-- I can see why the gods were
envious. Poor gods! They are to be pitied. But you know. You know all
things."
Tathagatha did not reply.
When the winds of spring blew again across the land, the year having
gone full cycle since the arrival of the second Buddha, there came one day
from out of the heavens a fearful shrieking.
The citizens of Alundil turned out into their streets to stare up at
the sky. The Sudras in the fields put by their work and looked upward. In
the great Temple on the hill there was a sudden silence. In the purple grove
beyond the town, the monks turned their heads.
It paced the heavens, the one who was born to rule the wind. . . . From
out of the north it came-- green and red, yellow and brown. . . . Its glide
was a dance, its way was the air. . . .
There came another shriek, and then the beating of mighty pinions as it
climbed past clouds to become a tiny dot of black.
And then it fell, like a meteor, bursting into flame, all of its colors
blazing and burning bright, as it grew and grew, beyond all belief that
anything could live at that size, that pace, that magnificence. . . .
Half spirit, half bird, legend darkening the sky.
Mount of Vishnu, whose beak smashes chariots.
The Garuda Bird circled above Alundil.
Circled, and passed beyond the hills of rock that stood behind the
city.
"Garuda!" The word ran through the town, the fields, the Temple, the
grove.
If he did not fly alone; it was known that only a god could use the
Garuda Bird for a mount.
There was silence. After those shrieks and that thunder of pinions,
voices seemed naturally to drop to a whisper.
The Enlightened One stood upon the road before the grove, his monks
moving about him, facing in the direction of the hills of rock.
Sugata came to his side and stood there. "It was but a spring ago . .
." he said.
Tathagatha nodded.
"Rild failed," said Sugata. "What new thing comes from Heaven?"
The Buddha shrugged.
"I fear for you, my teacher," he said. "In all my lifetimes, you have
been my only friend. Your teaching has given me peace. Why can they not
leave you alone? You are the most harmless of men, and your doctrine the
gentlest. What ill could you possibly bear them?"
The other turned away.
At that moment, with a mighty beating of the air and a jagged cry from
its opened beak, the Garuda Bird rose once more above the hills. This time,
it did not circle over the town, but climbed to a great height in the
heavens and swept off to the north. Such was the speed of its passing that
it was gone in a matter of moments.
"Its passenger has dismounted and remains behind," suggested Sugata.
The Buddha walked within the purple grove.
He came from beyond the hills of stone, walking. He came to a passing
place through stone, and he followed this trail, his red leather boots
silent on the rocky path.
Ahead, there was a sound of running water, from where a small stream
cut across his way. Shrugging his blood-bright cloak back over his
shoulders, he advanced upon a bend in the trail, the ruby head of his
scimitar gleaming in his crimson sash.
Rounding a comer of stone, he came to a halt.
One waited ahead, standing beside the log that led across the stream.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, then he moved forward again.
It was a small man who stood there, wearing the dark garments of a
pilgrim, caught about with a leather harness from which was suspended a
short, curved blade of bright steel. This man's head was closely shaven,
save for a small lock of white hair. His eyebrows were white above eyes that
were dark, and his skin was pale; his ears appeared to be pointed.
The traveler raised his hand and spoke to this man, saying, "Good
afternoon, pilgrim."
The man did not reply, but moved to bar his way, positioning himself
before the log that led across the stream.
"Pardon me, good pilgrim, but I am about to cross here and you are
making my passage difficult," he stated.
"You are mistaken, Lord Yama, if you think you are about to pass here,"
replied the other.
The One in Red smiled, showing a long row of even, white teeth. "It is
always a pleasure to be recognized," he acknowledged, "even by one who
conveys misinformation concerning other matters."
"I do not fence with words," said the man in black.
"Oh?" The other raised his eyebrows in an expression of exaggerated
inquiry. "With what then do you fence, sir? Surely not that piece of bent
metal you bear."
"None other."
"I took it for some barbarous prayer-stick at first. I understand that
this is a region fraught with strange cults and primitive sects. For a
moment, I took you to be a devotee of some such superstition. But if, as you
say, it is indeed a weapon, then I trust you are familiar with its use?"
"Somewhat," replied the man in black.
"Good, then," said Yama, "for I dislike having to kill a man who does
not know what he is about. I feel obligated to point out to you, however,
that when you stand before the Highest for judgment, you will be accounted a
suicide."
The other smiled faintly.
"Any time that you are ready, deathgod, I will facilitate the passage
of your spirit from out its fleshy envelope."
"One more item only, then," said Yama, "and I shall put a quick end to
conversation. Give me a name to tell the priests, so that they shall know
for whom they offer the rites."
"I renounced my final name but a short while back," answered the other.
"For this reason, Kali's consort must take his death of one who is
nameless."
"Rild, you are a fool," said Yama, and drew his blade.
The man in black drew his.
"And it is fitting that you go unnamed to your doom. You betrayed your
goddess."
"Life is full of betrayals," replied the other, before he struck, "By
opposing you now and in this manner, I also betray the teachings of my new
master. But I must follow the dictates of my heart. Neither my old name nor
my new do therefore fit me, nor are they deserved-- so call me by no name!"
Then his blade was fire, leaping everywhere, clicking, blazing.
Yama fell back before this onslaught, giving ground foot by foot,
moving only his wrist as he parried the blows that fell about him.
Then, after he had retreated ten paces, he stood his ground and would
not be moved. His parries widened slightly, but his ripostes became more
sudden now, and were interspersed with feints and unexpected attacks.
They swaggered blades till their perspiration fell upon the ground in
showers; and then Yama began to press the attack, slowly, forcing his
opponent into a retreat. Step by step, he recovered the ten paces he had
given.
When they stood again upon the ground where the first blow had been
struck, Yama acknowledged, over the clashing of steel, "Well have you
learned your lessons, Rild! Better even than I had thought!
Congratulations!"
As he spoke, his opponent wove his blade through an elaborate double
feint and scored a light touch that cut his shoulder, drawing blood that
immediately merged with the color of his garment.
At this, Yama sprang forward, beating down the other's guard, and
delivered a blow to the side of his neck that might have decapitated him.
The man in black raised his guard, shaking his head, parried another
attack and thrust forward, to be parried again himself.
"So, the death bath collars your throat," said Yama. "I'll seek
entrance elsewhere, then," and his blade sang a faster song, as he tried for
a low-line thrust.
Yama unleashed the full fury of that blade, backed by the centuries and
the masters of many ages. Yet, the other met his attacks, parrying wider and
wider, retreating faster and faster now, but still managing to hold him off
as he backed away, counterthrusting as he went.
He retreated until his back was to the stream. Then Yama slowed and
made comment:
"Half a century ago," he stated, "when you were my pupil for a brief
time, I said to myself, 'This one has within him the makings of a master.'
Nor was I wrong, Rild. You are perhaps the greatest swordsman raised up in
all the ages I can remember. I can almost forgive apostasy when I witness
your skill. It is indeed a pity. . ."
He feinted then a chest cut, and at the last instant moved around the
parry so that he lay the edge of his weapon high upon the other's wrist.
Leaping backward, parrying wildly and cutting at Yama's head, the man
in black came into a position at the head of the log that lay above the
crevice that led down to the stream.
"Your hand, too, Rild! Indeed, the goddess is lavish with her
protection. Try this!"
The steel screeched as he caught it in a bind, nicking the other's
bicep as he passed about the blade.
"Aha! There's a place she missed!" he cried. "Let's try for another!"
Their blades bound and disengaged, feinted, thrust, parried, riposted.
Yama met an elaborate attack with a stop-thrust, his longer blade again
drawing blood from his opponent's upper arm.
The man in black stepped up upon the log, swinging a vicious head cut,
which Yama beat away. Pressing the attack then even harder, Yama forced him
to back out upon the log and then he kicked at its side.
The other jumped backward, landing upon the opposite bank. As soon as
his feet touched ground, he, too, kicked out, causing the log to move.
It rolled, before Yama could mount it, slipping free of the banks,
crashing down into the stream, bobbing about for a moment, and then
following the water trail westward.
"I'd say it is only a seven- or eight-foot jump, Yama! Come on across!"
cried the other.
The deathgod smiled. "Catch your breath quickly now, while you may," he
stated. "Breath is the least appreciated gift of the gods. None sing hymns
to it, praising the good air, breathed by king and beggar, master and dog
alike. But, oh to be without it! Appreciate each breath, Rild, as though it
were your last-- for that one, too, is near at hand!"
"You are said to be wise in these matters, Yama," said the one who had
been called Rild and Sugata. "You are said to be a god, whose kingdom is
death and whose knowledge extends beyond the ken of mortals. I would
question you, therefore, while we are standing idle."
Yama did not smile his mocking smile, as he had to all his opponent's
previous statements. This one had a touch of ritual about it.
"What is it that you wish to know? I grant you the death-boon of a
question."
Then, in the ancient words of the Katha Upanishad, the one who had been
called Rild and Sugata chanted:
"'There is doubt concerning a man when he is dead. Some say he still
exists. Others say he does not. This thing I should like to know, taught by
you.' "
Yama replied with the ancient words, "'On this subject even the gods
have their doubts. It is not easy to understand, for the nature of the atman
is a subtle thing. Ask me another question. Release me from this boon!'"
"'Forgive me if it is foremost in my mind, oh Death, but another
teacher such as yourself cannot be found, and surely there is no other boon
which I crave more at this moment.'"
"'Keep your life and go your way,'" said Yama, plunging his blade again
into his sash. "'I release you from your doom. Choose sons and grandsons;
choose elephants, horses, herds of cattle and gold. Choose any other boon--
fair maidens, chariots, musical instruments. I shall give them unto you and
they shall wait upon you. But ask me not of death.'"
"'Oh Death,' " sang the other, "'these endure only till tomorrow. Keep
your maidens, horses, dances and songs for yourself. No boon will I accept
but the one which I have asked-- tell me, oh Death, of that which lies
beyond life, of which men and the gods have their doubts.'"
Yama stood very still and he did not continue the poem. "Very well,
Rild," he said, his eyes locking with the other's, "but it is not a kingdom
subject to words. I must show you."
They stood, so, for a moment; and then the man in black swayed. He
threw his arm across his face, covering his eyes, and a single sob escaped
his throat.
When this occurred, Yama drew his cloak from his shoulders and cast it
like a net across the stream.
Weighted at the hems for such a maneuver, it fell, netlike, upon his
opponent.
As he struggled to free himself, the man in black heard rapid footfalls
and then a crash, as Yama's blood-red boots struck upon his side of the
stream. Casting aside the cloak and raising his guard, he parried Yama's new
attack. The ground behind him sloped upward, and he backed farther and
farther, to where it steepened, so that Yama's head was no higher than his
belt. He then struck down at his opponent. Yama slowly fought his way
uphill.
"Deathgod, deathgod," he chanted, "forgive my presumptuous question,
and tell me you did not lie."
"Soon you shall know," said Yama, cutting at his legs.
Yama struck a blow that would have run another man through, cleaving
his heart. But it glanced off his opponent's breast.
When he came to a place where the ground was broken, the small man
kicked, again and again, sending showers of dirt and gravel down upon his
opponent. Yama shielded his eyes with his left hand, but then larger pieces
of stone began to rain down upon him. These rolled on the ground, and, as
several came beneath his boots, he lost his footing and fell, slipping
backward down the slope. The other kicked at heavy rocks then, even
dislodging a boulder and following it downhill, his blade held high.
Unable to gain his footing in time to meet the attack, Yama rolled and
slid back toward the stream. He managed to brake himself at the edge of the
crevice, but he saw the boulder coming and tried to draw back out of its
way. As he pushed at the ground with both hands, his blade fell into the
waters below.
With his dagger, which he drew as he sprang into a stumbling crouch, he
managed to parry the high cut of the other's blade. The boulder splashed
into the stream.
Then his left hand shot forward, seizing the wrist that had guided the
blade. He slashed upward with the dagger and felt his own wrist taken.
They stood then, locking their strength, until Yama sat down and rolled
to his side, thrusting the other from him.
Still, both locks held, and they continued to roll from the force of
that thrust. Then the edge of the crevice was beside them, beneath them,
above them. He felt the blade go out of his hand as it struck the stream
bed.
When they came again above the surface of the water, gasping for
breath, each held only water in his hands.
"Time for the final baptism," said Yama, and he lashed out with his
left hand.
The other blocked the punch, throwing one of his own.
They moved to the left with the waters, until their feet struck upon
rock and they fought, wading, along the length of the stream.
It widened and grew more shallow as they moved, until the waters
swirled about their waists. In places, the banks began to fall nearer the
surface of the water.
Yama landed blow after blow, both with his fists and the edges of his
hands; but it was as if he assailed a statue, for the one who had been
Kali's holy executioner took each blow without changing his expression, and
he returned them with twisting punches of bone-breaking force. Most of these
blows were slowed by the water or blocked by Yama's guard, but one landed
between his rib cage and hipbone and another glanced on his left shoulder
and rebounded from his cheek.
Yama cast himself into a backstroke and made for shallower water.
The other followed and sprang upon him, to be caught in his impervious
midsection by a red boot, as the front of his garment was jerked forward and
down. He continued on, passing over Yama's head, to land upon his back on a
section of shale.
Yama rose to his knees and turned, as the other found his footing and
drew a dagger from his belt. His face was still impassive as he dropped into
a crouch.
For a moment their eyes met, but the other did not waver this time.
"Now can I meet your death-gaze, Yama," he stated, "and not be stopped
by it. You have taught me too well!"
And as he lunged, Yama's hands came away from his waist, snapping his
wet sash like a whip about the other's thighs.
He caught him and locked him to him as he fell forward, dropping the
blade; and with a kick he bore them both back into deeper water.
"None sing hymns to breath," said Yama. "But, oh to be without it!"
Then he plunged downward, bearing the other with him, his arms like
steel loops about his body.
Later, much later, as the wet figure stood beside the stream, he spoke
softly and his breath came in gasps:
"You were-- the greatest-- to be raised up against me-- in all the ages
I can remember. . . . It is indeed a pity . . ."
Then, having crossed the stream, he continued on his way through the
hills of stone, walking.
Entering the town of Alundil, the traveler stopped at the first inn he
came to. He took a room and ordered a tub of water. He bathed while a
servant cleaned his garments.
Before he had his dinner, he moved to the window and looked down into
the street. The smell of slizzard was strong upon the air, and the babble of
many voices arose from below.
People were leaving the town. In the courtyard at his back,
preparations for the departure of a morning caravan were being made. This
night marked the end of the spring festival. Below him in the street,
businessmen were still trading, mothers were soothing tired children and a
local prince was returning with his men from the hunt, two fire-roosters
strapped to the back of a skittering slizzard. He watched a tired prostitute
discussing something with a priest, who appeared to be even more tired, as
he kept shaking his head and finally walked away. One moon was already high
in the heavens-- seen as golden through the Bridge of the Gods -- and a
second, smaller moon had just appeared above the horizon. There was a cool
tingle in the evening air, bearing to him, above the smells of the city, the
scents of the growing things of spring: the small shoots and the tender
grasses, the clean smell of the blue-green spring wheat, the moist ground,
the roiling freshet. Leaning forward, he could see the Temple that stood
upon the hill.
He summoned a servant to bring his dinner in his chamber and to send
for a local merchant.
He ate slowly, not paying especial attention to his food, and when he
had finished, the merchant was shown in.
The man bore a cloak full of samples, and of these he finally decided
upon a long, curved blade and a short, straight dagger, both of which he
thrust into his sash.
Then he went out into the evening and walked along the rutted main
street of the town. Lovers embraced in doorways. He passed a house where
mourners were wailing for one dead. A beggar limped after him for half a
block, until he turned and glanced into his eyes, saying, "You are not
lame," and then the man hurried away, losing himself in a crowd that was
passing. Overhead, the fireworks began to burst against the sky, sending
long, cherry-colored streamers down toward the ground. From the Temple came
the sound of the gourd horns playing the nagaswaram music. A man stumbled
from out a doorway, brushing against him, and he broke the man's wrist as he
felt his hand fall upon his purse. The man uttered a curse and called for
help, but he pushed him into the drainage ditch and walked on, turning away
his two companions with one dark look.
At last, he came to the Temple, hesitated a moment and passed within.
He entered the inner courtyard behind a priest who was carrying in a
small statue from an outer niche.
He surveyed the courtyard, then quickly moved to the place occupied by
the statue of the goddess Kali. He studied her for a long while, drawing his
blade and placing it at her feet. When he picked it up and turned away, he
saw that the priest was watching him. He nodded to the man, who immediately
approached and bade him a good evening.
"Good evening, priest," he replied.
"May Kali sanctify your blade, warrior."
"Thank you. She has."
The priest smiled. "You speak as if you knew that for certain."
"And that is presumptuous of me, eh?"
"Well, it may not be in the best of taste."
"Nevertheless, I felt her power come over me as I gazed upon her
shrine."
The priest shuddered. "Despite my office," he stated, "that is a
feeling of power I can do without."
"You fear her power?"
"Let us say," said the priest, "that despite its magnificence, the
shrine of Kali is not so frequently visited as are those of Lakshmi,
Sarasvati, Shakti, Sitala, Ratri and the other less awesome goddesses."
"But she is greater than any of these."
"And more terrible."
"So? Despite her strength, she is not an unjust goddess."
The priest smiled. "What man who has lived for more than a score of
years desires justice, warrior? For my part, I find mercy infinitely more
attractive. Give me a forgiving deity any day."
"Well taken," said the other, "but I am, as you say, a warrior. My own
nature is close to hers. We think alike, the goddess and I. We generally
agree on most matters. When we do not, I remember that she is also a woman."
"I live here," said the priest, "and I do not speak that intimately of
my charges, the gods."
"In public, that is," said the other. "Tell me not of priests. I have
drunk with many of you, and know you to be as blasphemous as the rest of
mankind."
"There is a time and place for everything," said the priest, glancing
back at Kali's statue.
"Aye, aye. Now tell me why the base of Yama's shrine has not been
scrubbed recently. It is dusty."
"It was cleaned but yesterday, but so many have passed before it since
then that it has felt considerable usage."
The other smiled. "Why then are there no offerings laid at his feet, no
remains of sacrifices?"
"No one gives flowers to Death," said the priest. "They just come to
look and go away. We priests have always felt the two statues to be well
situated. They make a terrible pair, do they not? Death, and the mistress of
destruction?"
"A mighty team," said the other. "But do you mean to tell me that no
one makes sacrifice to Yama? No one at all?"'
"Other than we priests, when the calendar of devotions requires it, and
an occasional townsman, when a loved one is upon the death-bed and has been
refused direct incarnation-- other than these, no, I have never seen
sacrifice made to Yama, simply, sincerely, with good will or affection."
"He must feel offended."
"Not so, warrior. For are not all living things, in themselves,
sacrifices to Death?"
"Indeed, you speak truly. What need has he for their good will or
affection? Gifts are unnecessary, for he takes what he wants."
"Like Kali," acknowledged the priest. "And in the cases of both deities
have I often sought justification for atheism. Unfortunately, they manifest
themselves too strongly in the world for their existence to be denied
effectively. Pity."
The warrior laughed. "A priest who is an unwilling believer! I like
that. It tickles my funny bone! Here, buy yourself a barrel of soma-- for
sacrificial purposes."
"Thank you, warrior. I shall. Join me in a small libation now -- on the
Temple?"
"By Kali, I will!" said the other. "But a small one only."
He accompanied the priest into the central building and down a flight
of stairs into the cellar, where a barrel of soma was tapped and two beakers
drawn.
"To your health and long life," he said, raising it.
"To your morbid patrons-- Yama and Kali," said the priest.
"Thank you."
They gulped the potent brew, and the priest drew two more. "To warm
your throat against the night."
"Very good."
"It is a good thing to see some of these travelers depart," said the
priest. "Their devotions have enriched the Temple, but they have also tired
the staff considerably."
"To the departure of the pilgrims!"
"To the departure of the pilgrims!"
They drank again.
"I thought that most of them came to see the Buddha," said Yama.
"That is true," replied the priest, "but on the other hand, they are
not anxious to antagonize the gods by this. So, before they visit the purple
grove, they generally make sacrifice or donate to the Temple for prayers."
"What do you know of the one called Tathagatha, and of his teachings?"
The other looked away. "I am a priest of the gods and a Brahmin,
warrior. I do not wish to speak of this one."
"So, he has gotten to you, too?"
"Enough! I have made my wishes known to you. It is not a subject on
which I will discourse."
"It matters not-- and will matter less shortly. Thank you for the soma.
Good evening, priest."
"Good evening, warrior. May the gods smile upon your path."
"And yours also."
Mounting the stairs, he departed the Temple and continued on his way
through the city, walking.
When he came to the purple grove, there were three moons in the
heavens, small camplights behind the trees, pale blossoms of fire in the sky
above the town, and a breeze with a certain dampness in it stirring the
growth about him.
He moved silently ahead, entering the grove.
When he came into the lighted area, he was faced with row upon row of
motionless, seated figures. Each wore a yellow robe with a yellow cowl drawn
over the head. Hundreds of them were seated so, and not one uttered a sound.
He approached the one nearest him. "I have come to see Tathagatha, the
Buddha," he said.
The man did not seem to hear him.
"Where is he?"
The man did not reply.
He bent forward and stared into the monk's half-closed eyes. For a
moment, he glared into them, but it was as though the other was asleep, for
the eyes did not even meet with his.
Then he raised his voice, so that all within the grove might hear him:
"I have come to see Tathagatha, the Buddha," he said. "Where is he?"
It was as though he addressed a field of stones. "Do you think to hide
him in this manner?" he called out. "Do you think that because you are many,
and all dressed alike, and because you will not answer me, that for these
reasons I cannot find him among you?"
There was only the sighing of the wind, passing through from the back
of the grove. The light flickered and the purple fronds stirred.
He laughed. "In this, you may be right," he admitted. "But you must
move sometime, if you intend to go on living-- and I can wait as long as any
man."
Then he seated himself upon the ground, his back against the blue bark
of a tall tree, his blade across his knees. Immediately, he was seized with
drowsiness. His head nodded and jerked upward several times. Then his chin
came to rest upon his breast and he snored.
Was walking, across a blue-green plain, the grasses bending down to
form a pathway before him. At the end of this pathway was a massive tree, a
tree such as did not grow upon the world, but rather held the world together
with its roots, and with its branches reached up to utter leaves among the
stars.
At its base sat a man, cross-legged, a faint smile upon his lips. He
knew this man to be the Buddha, and he approached and stood before him.
"Greetings, oh Death," said the seated one, crowned with a rose-hued
aureole that was bright in the shadow of the tree.
Yama did not reply, but drew his blade.
The Buddha continued to smile, and as Yama moved forward he heard a
sound like distant music.
He halted and looked about him, his blade still upraised.
They came from all quarters, the four Regents of the world, come down
from Mount Sumernu: the Master of the North advanced, followed by his
Yakshas, all in gold, mounted on yellow horses, bearing shields that blazed
with golden light; the Angel of the South came on, followed by his hosts,
the Kumbhandas, mounted upon blue steeds and bearing sapphire shields; from
the East rode the Regent whose horsemen carry shields of pearl, and who are
clad all in silver; and from the West there came the One whose Nagas mounted
blood-red horses, were clad all in red and held before them shields of
coral. Their hooves did not appear to touch the grasses, and the only sound
in the air was the music, which grew louder.
"Why do the Regents of the world approach?" Yama found himself saying.
"They come to bear my bones away," replied the Buddha, still smiling.
The four Regents drew rein, their hordes at their backs, and Yama faced
them.
"You come to bear his bones away," said Yama, "but who will come for
yours?"
The Regents dismounted.
"You may not have this man, oh Death," said the Master of the North,
"for he belongs to the world, and we of the world will defend him."
"Hear me, Regents who dwell upon Sumernu," said Yama, taking his Aspect
upon him. "Into your hands is given the keeping of the world, but Death
takes whom he will from out the world, and whenever he chooses. It is not
given to you to dispute my Attributes, or the ways of their working."
The four Regents moved to a position between Yama and Tathagatha.
"We do dispute your way with this one. Lord Yama. For in his hands he
holds the destiny of our world. You may touch him only after having
overthrown the four Powers."
"So be it," said Yama. "Which among you will be first to oppose me?"
"I will," said the speaker, drawing his golden blade.
Yama, his Aspect upon him, sheared through the soft metal like butter
and laid the flat of his scimitar along the Regent's head, sending him
sprawling upon the ground.
A great cry came up from the ranks of the Yakshas, and two of the
golden horsemen came forward to bear away their leader. Then they turned
their mounts and rode back into the North;
"Who is next?"
The Regent of the East came before him, bearing a straight blade of
silver and a net woven of moonbeams. "I," he said, and he cast with the net.
Yama set his foot upon it, caught it in his fingers, jerked the other
off balance. As the Regent stumbled forward, he reversed his blade and
struck him in the jaw with its pommel.
Two silver warriors glared at him, then dropped their eyes, as they
bore their Master away to the East, a discordant music trailing in their
wake.
"Next!" said Yama.
Then there came before him the burly leader of the Nagas, who threw
down his weapons and stripped off his tunic, saying, "I will wrestle with
you, deathgod."
Yama laid his weapons aside and removed his upper garments.
All the while this was happening, the Buddha sat in the shade of the
great tree, smiling, as though the passage of arms meant nothing to him.
The Chief of the Nagas caught Yama behind the neck with his left hand,
pulling his head forward. Yama did the same to him; and the other did then
twist his body, casting his right arm over Yama's left shoulder and behind
his neck, locking it then tight about his head, which he now drew down hard
against his hip, turning his body as he dragged the other forward.
Reaching up behind the Naga Chief's back, Yama caught his left shoulder
in his left hand and then moved his right hand behind the Regent's knees, so
that he lifted both his legs off the ground while drawing back upon his
shoulder.
For a moment he held this one cradled in his arms like a child, then
raised him up to shoulder level and dropped away his arms.
When the Regent struck the ground, Yama fell upon him with his knees
and rose again. The other did not.
When the riders of the West had departed, only the Angel of the South,
clad all in blue, stood before the Buddha.
"And you?" asked the deathgod, raising his weapons again.
"I will not take up weapons of steel or leather or stone, as a child
takes up toys, to face you, god of death. Nor will I match the strength of
my body against yours," said the Angel. "I know I will be bested if I do
these things, for none may dispute you with arms."
"Then climb back upon your blue stallion and ride away," said Yama, "if
you will not fight."
The Angel did not answer, but cast his blue shield into the air, so
that it spun like a wheel of sapphire, growing larger and larger as it hung
above them.
Then it fell to the ground and began to sink into it, without a sound,
still growing as it vanished from sight, the grasses coming together again
above the spot where it had struck.
"And what does that signify?" asked Yama.
"I do not actively contest. I merely defend. Mine is the power of
passive opposition. Mine is the power of life, as yours is the power of
death. While you can destroy anything I send against you, you cannot destroy
everything, oh Death. Mine is the power of the shield, but not the sword.
Life will oppose you, Lord Yama, to defend your victim."
The Blue One turned then, mounted his blue steed and rode into the
South, the Kumbhandas at his back. The sound of the music did not go with
him, but remained in the air he had occupied.
Yama advanced once more, his blade in his hand. "Their efforts came to
naught," he said. "Your time is come."
He struck forward with his blade.
The blow did not land, however, as a branch from the great tree fell
between them and struck the scimitar from his grasp.
He reached for it and the grasses bent to cover it over, weaving
themselves into a tight, unbreakable net.
Cursing, he drew his dagger and struck again.
One mighty branch bent down, came swaying before his target, so that
his blade was imbedded deeply in its fibers. Then the branch lashed again
skyward, carrying the weapon with it, high out of reach.
The Buddha's eyes were closed in meditation and his halo glowed in the
shadows.
Yama took a step forward, raising his hands, and the grasses knotted
themselves about his ankles, holding him where he stood.
He struggled for a moment, tugging at their unyielding roots. Then he
stopped and raised both hands high, throwing his head far back, death
leaping from his eyes.
"Hear me, oh Powers!" he cried. "From this moment forward, this spot
shall bear the curse of Yama! No living thing shall ever stir again upon
this ground! No bird shall sing, nor snake slither here! It shall be barren
and stark, a place of rocks and shifting sand! Not a spear of grass shall
ever be upraised from here against the sky! I speak this curse and lay this
doom upon the defenders of my enemy!"
The grasses began to wither, but before they had released him there
came a great splintering, cracking noise, as the tree whose roots held
together the world and in whose branches the stars were caught, as fish in a
net, swayed forward, splitting down its middle, its uppermost limbs tearing
apart the sky, its roots opening chasms in the ground, its leaves falling
like blue-green rain about him. A massive section of its trunk toppled
toward him, casting before it a shadow dark as night.
In the distance, he still saw the Buddha, seated in meditation, as
though unaware of the chaos that erupted about him.
Then there was only blackness and a sound like the crashing of thunder.
Yama jerked his head, his eyes springing open.
He sat in the purple grove, his back against the bole of a blue tree,
his blade across his knees.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
The rows of monks were seated, as in meditation, before him. The breeze
was still cool and moist and the lights still flickered as it passed.
Yama stood, knowing then, somehow, where he must go to find that which
he sought.
He moved past the monks, following a well-beaten path that led far into
the interior of the wood.
He came upon a purple pavilion, but it was empty.
He moved on, tracing the path back to where the wood became a
wilderness. Here, the ground was damp and a faint mist sprang up about him.
But the way was still clear before him, illuminated by the light of the
three moons.
The trail led downward, the blue and purple trees growing shorter and
more twisted here than they did above. Small pools of water, with floating
patches of leprous, silver scum, began to appear at the sides of the trail.
A marshland smell came to his nostrils, and the wheezing of strange
creatures came out of clumps of brush.
He heard the sound of singing, coming from far up behind him, and he
realized that the monks he had left were now awake and stirring about the
grove. They had finished with the task of combining their thoughts to force
upon him the vision of their leader's invincibility. Their chanting was
probably a signal, reaching out to --
There! He was seated upon a rock in the middle of a field, the
moonlight falling full upon him.
Yama drew his blade and advanced.
When he was about twenty paces away, the other turned his head.
"Greetings, oh Death," he said.
"Greetings, Tathagatha."
"Tell me why you are here."
"It has been decided that the Buddha must die."
"That does not answer my question, however. Why have you come here?"
"Are you not the Buddha?"
"I have been called Buddha, and Tathagatha, and the Enlightened One,
and many other things. But, in answer to your question, no, I am not the
Buddha. You have already succeeded in what you set out to do. You slew the
real Buddha this day."
"My memory must indeed be growing weak, for I confess that I do not
remember doing this thing."
"The real Buddha was named by us Sugata," replied the other. "Before
that, he was known as Rild."
"Rild!" Yama chuckled. "You are trying to tell me that he was more than
an executioner whom you talked out of doing his job?"
"Many people are executioners who have been talked out of doing their