jobs," replied the one on the rock. "Rild gave up his mission willingly and
became a follower of the Way. He was the only man I ever knew to really
achieve enlightenment."
"Is this not a pacifistic religion, this thing you have been
spreading?"
"Yes."
Yama threw back his head and laughed. "Gods! Then it is well you are
not preaching a militant one! Your foremost disciple, enlightenment and all,
near had my head this afternoon!"
A tired look came over the Buddha's wide countenance. "Do you think he
could actually have beaten you?"
Yama was silent a moment, then, "No," he said.
"Do you think he knew this?"
"Perhaps," Yama replied.
"Did you not know one another prior to this day's meeting? Have you not
seen one another at practice?"
"Yes," said Yama. "We were acquainted."
"Then he knew your skill and realized the outcome of the encounter."
Yama was silent.
"He went willingly to his martyrdom, unknown to me at the time. I do
not feel that he went with real hope of beating you."
"Why, then?"
"To prove a point."
"What point could he hope to prove in such a manner?"
"I do not know. I only know that it must be as I have said, for I knew
him. I have listened too often to his sermons, to his subtle parables, to
believe that he would do a thing such as this without a purpose. You have
slain the true Buddha, deathgod. You know what I am."
"Siddhartha," said Yama, "I know that you are a fraud. I know that you
are not an Enlightened One. I realize that your doctrine is a thing which
could have been remembered by any among the First. You chose to resurrect
it, pretending to be its originator. You decided to spread it, in hopes of
raising an opposition to the religion by which the true gods rule. I admire
the effort. It was cleverly planned and executed. But your biggest mistake,
I feel, is that you picked a pacifistic creed with which to oppose an active
one. I am curious why you did this thing, when there were so many more
appropriate religions from which to choose."
"Perhaps I was just curious to see how such a countercurrent would
flow," replied the other.
"No, Sam, that is not it," answered Yama. "I feel it is only part of a
larger plan you have laid, and that for all these years -- while you
pretended to be a saint and preached sermons in which you did not truly
believe yourself-- you have been making other plans. An army, great in
space, may offer opposition in a brief span of time. One man, brief in
space, must spread his opposition across a period of many years if he is to
have a chance of succeeding. You are aware of this, and now that you have
sown the seeds of this stolen creed, you are planning to move on to another
phase of opposition. You are trying to be a one-man antithesis to Heaven,
opposing the will of the gods across the years, in many ways and from behind
many masks. But it will end here and now, false Buddha."
"Why, Yama?" he asked.
"It was considered quite carefully," said Yama. "We did not want to
make you a martyr, encouraging more than ever the growth of this thing you
have been teaching. On the other hand, if you were not stopped, it would
still continue to grow. It was decided, therefore, that you must meet your
end at the hands of an agent of Heaven-- thus showing which religion is the
stronger. So, martyr or no, Buddhism will be a second-rate religion
henceforth. That is why you must now die the real death."
"When I asked 'Why?' I meant something different. You have answered the
wrong question. I meant, why have you come to do this thing, Yama? Why have
you, master of arms, master of sciences, come as lackey to a crew of drunken
body-changers, who are not qualified to polish your blade or wash out your
test tubes? Why do you, who might be the freest spirit of us all, demean
yourself by serving your inferiors?"
"For that, your death shall not be a clean one."
"Why? I did but ask a question, which must have long since passed
through more minds than my own. I did not take offense when you called me a
false Buddha. I know what I am. Who are you, deathgod?"
Yama placed his blade within his sash and withdrew a pipe, which he had
purchased at the inn earlier in the day. He filled its bowl with tobacco,
lit it, and smoked.
"It is obvious that we must talk a little longer, if only to clear both
our minds of questions," he stated, "so I may as well be comfortable." He
seated himself upon a low rock. "First, a man may in some ways be superior
to his fellows and still serve them, if together they serve a common cause
which is greater than any one man. I believe that I serve such a cause, or I
would not be doing it. I take it that you feel the same way concerning what
you do, or you would not put up with this life of miserable asceticism --
though I note that you are not so gaunt as your followers. You were offered
godhood some years ago in Mahartha, as I recall, and you mocked Brahma,
raided the Palace of Karma, and filled all the pray-machines of the city
with slugs . . ."
The Buddha chuckled. Yama joined him briefly and continued, "There are
no Accelerationists remaining in the world, other than yourself. It is a
dead issue, which should never have become an issue in the first place. I do
have a certain respect for the manner in which you have acquitted yourself
over the years. It has even occurred to me that if you could be made to
realize the hopelessness of your present position, you might still be
persuaded to join the hosts of Heaven. While I did come here to kill you, if
you can be convinced of this now and give me your word upon it, promising to
end your foolish fight, I will take it upon myself to vouch for you. I will
take you back to the Celestial City with me, where you may now accept that
which you once refused. They will harken to me, because they need me."
"No," said Sam, "for I am not convinced of the futility of my position,
and I fully intend to continue the show."
The chanting came down from the camp in the purple grove. One of the
moons disappeared beyond the treetops.
"Why are your followers not beating the bushes, seeking to save you?"
"They would come if I called, but I will not call. I do not need to."
"Why did they cause me to dream that foolish dream?"
The Buddha shrugged.
"Why did they not arise and slay me as I slept?"
"It is not their way."
"You might have, though, eh? If you could get away with it? If none
would know the Buddha did it?"
"Perhaps," said the other. "As you know, the personal strengths and
weaknesses of a leader are no true indication of the merits of his cause."
Yama drew upon his pipe. The smoke wreathed his head and eddied away to
join the fogs, which were now becoming more heavy upon the land.
"I know we are alone here, and you are unarmed," said Yama.
"We are alone here. My traveling gear is hidden farther along my
route."
"Your traveling gear?"
"I have finished here. You guessed correctly. I have begun what I set
out to begin. After we have finished our conversation, I will depart."
Yama chuckled. "The optimism of a revolutionary always gives rise to a
sense of wonder. How do you propose to depart? On a magic carpet?"
"I shall go as other men go."
"That is rather condescending of you. Will the powers of the world rise
up to defend you? I see no great tree to shelter you with its branches.
There is no clever grass to seize at my feet. Tell me how you will achieve
your departure?"
"I'd rather surprise you."
"What say we fight? I do not like to slaughter an unarmed man. If you
actually do have supplies cached somewhere nearby, go fetch your blade. It
is better than no chance at all. I've even heard it said that Lord
Siddhartha was, in his day, a formidable swordsman."
"Thank you, no. Another time, perhaps. But not this time."
Yama drew once more upon his pipe, stretched, and yawned. "I can think
of no more questions then, which I wish to ask you. It is futile to argue
with you. I have nothing more to say. Is there anything else that you would
care to add to the conversation?"
"Yes," said Sam. "What's she like, that bitch Kali? There are so many
different reports that I'm beginning to believe she is all things to all men
-- "
Yama hurled the pipe, which struck him upon the shoulder and sent a
shower of sparks down his arm. His scimitar was a bright flash about his
head as he leapt forward.
When he struck the sandy stretch before the rock, his motion was
arrested. He almost fell, twisted himself perpendicularly and remained
standing. He struggled, but could not move.
"Some quicksand," said Sam, "is quicker than other quicksand.
Fortunately, you are settling into that of the slower sort. So you have
considerable time yet remaining at your disposal. I would like to prolong
the conversation, if I thought I had a chance of persuading you to join with
me. But I know that I do not-- no more than you could persuade me to go to
Heaven."
"I will get free," said Yama softly, not struggling. "I will get free
somehow, and I will come after you again."
"Yes," said Sam, "I feel this to be true. In fact, in a short while I
will instruct you how to go about it. For the moment, however, you are
something every preacher longs for-- a captive audience, representing the
opposition. So, I have a brief sermon for you. Lord Yama."
Yama hefted his blade, decided against throwing it, thrust it again
into his sash.
"Preach on," he said, and he succeeded in catching the other's eyes.
Sam swayed where he sat, but he spoke again:
"It is amazing," he said, "how that mutant brain of yours generated a
mind capable of transferring its powers to any new brain you choose to
occupy. It has been years since I last exercised my one ability, as I am at
this moment-- but it, too, behaves in a similar manner. No matter what body
I inhabit, it appears that my power follows me into it also. I understand it
is still that way with most of us. Sitala, I hear, can control temperatures
for a great distance about her. When she assumes a new body, the power
accompanies her into her new nervous system, though it comes only weakly at
first. Agni, I know, can set fire to objects by staring at them for a period
of time and willing that they burn. Now, take for example the death-gaze you
are at this moment turning upon me. Is it not amazing how you keep this gift
about you in all times and places, over the centuries? I have often wondered
as to the physiological basis for the phenomenon. Have you ever researched
the area?"
"Yes," said Yama, his eyes burning beneath his dark brows.
"And what is the explanation? A person is born with an abnormal brain,
his psyche is later transferred to a normal one and yet his abnormal
abilities are not destroyed in the transfer. Why does this thing happen?"
"Because you really have only one body-image, which is electrical as
well as chemical in nature. It begins immediately to modify its new
physiological environment. The new body has much about it which it treats
rather like a disease, attempting to cure it into being the old body. If the
body which you now inhabit were to be made physically immortal, it would
someday come to resemble your original body."
"How interesting."
"That is why the transferred power is weak at first, but grows stronger
as you continue occupancy. That is why it is best to cultivate an Attribute,
and perhaps to employ mechanical aids, also."
"Well. That is something I have often wondered about. Thank you. By the
way, keep trying with your death-gaze-- it is painful, you know. So that is
something, anyway. Now, as to the sermon-- a proud and arrogant man, such as
yourself-- with an admittedly admirable quality of didacticism about him--
was given to doing research in the area of a certain disfiguring and
degenerative disease. One day he contracted it himself. Since he had not yet
developed a cure for the condition, he did take time out to regard himself
in a mirror and say, 'But on me it does look good.' You are such a man,
Yama. You will not attempt to fight your condition. Rather, you are proud of
it. You betrayed yourself in your fury, so I know that I speak the truth
when I say that the name of your disease is Kali. You would not give power
into the hands of the unworthy if that woman did not bid you do it. I knew
her of old, and I am certain that she has not changed. She cannot love a
man. She cares only for those who bring her gifts of chaos. If ever you
cease to suit her purposes, she will put you aside, deathgod. I do not say
this because we are enemies, but rather as one man to another. I know.
Believe me, I do. Perhaps it is unfortunate that you were never really
young, Yama, and did not know your first love in the days of spring. . . .
The moral, therefore, of my sermon on this small mount is this-- even a
mirror will not show you yourself, if you do not wish to see. Cross her once
to try the truth of my words, even in a small matter, and see how quickly
she responds, and in what fashion. What will you do if your own weapons are
turned against you, Death?"
"You have finished speaking now?" asked Yama.
"That's about it. A sermon is a warning, and you have been warned."
"Whatever your power, Sam, I see that it is at this moment proof
against my death-gaze. Consider yourself fortunate that I am weakened -- "
"I do indeed, for my head is about to split. Damn your eyes!"
"One day I will try your power again, and even if it should still be
proof against my own, you will fall on that day. If not by my Attribute,
then by my blade."
"If that is a challenge, I choose to defer acceptance. I suggest that
you do try my words before you attempt to make it good."
At this point, the sand was halfway up Yama's thighs.
Sam sighed and climbed down from his perch.
"There is only one clear path to this rock, and I am about to follow it
away from here. Now, I will tell you how to gain your life, if you are not
too proud. I have instructed the monks to come to my aid, here at this
place, if they hear a cry for help. I told you earlier that I was not going
to call for help, and that is true. If, however, you begin calling out for
aid with that powerful voice of yours, they shall be here before you sink
too much farther. They will bring you safely to firm ground and will not try
to harm you, for such is their way. I like the thought of the god of death
being saved by the monks of Buddha. Good night, Yama, I'm going to leave you
now."
Yama smiled. "There will be another day, oh Buddha," he stated. "I can
wait for it. Flee now as far and as fast as you can. The world is not large
enough to hide you from my wrath. I will follow you, and I will teach you of
the enlightenment that is pure hellfire."
"In the meantime," said Sam, "I suggest you solicit aid of my followers
or learn the difficult art of mud-breathing."
He picked his way across the field, Yama's eyes burning into his back.
When he reached the trail, he turned. "And you may want to mention in
Heaven," he said, "that I was called out of town on a business deal."
Yama did not reply.
"I think I am going to make a deal for some weapons," he finished,
"some rather special weapons. So when you come after me, bring your girl
friend along. If she likes what she sees, she may persuade you to switch
sides."
Then he struck the trail and moved away through the night, whistling,
beneath a moon that was white and a moon that was golden.
It is told how the Lord of Light descended into the Well of the Demons,
to make there a bargain with the chief of the Rakasha. He dealt in good
faith, but the Rakasha are the Rakasha. That is to say, they are malefic
creatures, possessed of great powers, life-span and the ability to assume
nearly any shape. The Rakasha are almost indestructible. Their chiefest lack
is a true body; their chiefest virtue, their honor toward their gambling
debts. That the Lord of Light went to Hellwell at all serves to show that
perhaps he was somewhat distraught concerning the state of the world. . . .
When the gods and the demons, both offspring of Prajapati, did battle
with one another, the gods seized upon the life-principle of the Udgitha,
thinking that with this would they vanquish the demons.
They meditated upon the Udgitha which functions through the nose, but
the demons pierced it through with evil. Therefore, with the breath one
smells both that which is pleasant and that which is foul. Thus the breath
is touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha as words, but the demons pierced it
through with evil. Therefore, one speaks both truth and falsehood. Thus
words are touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha which functions through the eye, but
the demons pierced it through with evil. Therefore, one sees both what is
pleasing and what is ugly. Thus the eye is touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha as hearing, but the demons pierced it
through with evil. Therefore, one hears both good things and bad. Thus the
ear is touched by evil.
Then did they meditate upon the Udgitha as the mind, but the demons
pierced it through with evil. Therefore, one thinks what is proper, true,
and good, and what is improper, false, and depraved. Thus the mind is
touched by evil.
Chhandogya Upanishad (I, ii, 1-6)
Hellwell lies at the top of the world and it leads down to its roots.
It is probably as old as the world itself; and if it is not, it should
be, because it looks as if it were.
It begins with a doorway. There is a huge, burnished metal door,
erected by the First, that is heavy as sin, three times the height of a man
and half that distance in width. It is a full cubit thick and bears a
head-sized ring of brass, a complicated pressure-plate lock and an
inscription that reads, roughly, "Go away. This is not a place to be. If you
do try to enter here, you will fail and also be cursed. If somehow you
succeed, then do not complain that you entered unwarned, nor bother us with
your deathbed prayers." Signed, "The Gods."
It is set near the peak of a very high mountain named Channa, in the
midst of a region of very high mountains called the Ratnagaris. In that
place there is always snow upon the ground, and rainbows ride like fur on
the backs of icicles, which sprout about the frozen caps of cliffs. The air
is sharp as a sword. The sky is bright as the eye of a cat.
Very few feet have ever trod the trail that leads to Hellwell. Of those
who visited, most came only to look, to see whether the great door really
existed; and when they returned home and told of having seen it, they were
generally mocked.
Telltale scratches about the lock plate testify that some have actually
sought entrance. Equipment sufficient to force the great door could not be
transported or properly positioned, however. The trail that leads to
Hellwell is less than ten inches in width for the final three hundred feet
of its ascent; and perhaps six men could stand, with crowding, upon what
remains of the once wide ledge that faces that door.
It is told that Pannalal the Sage, having sharpened his mind with
meditation and divers asceticisms, had divined the operation of the lock and
entered Hellwell, spending a day and a night beneath the mountain. He was
thereafter known as Pannalal the Mad.
The peak known as Channa, which holds the great door, is removed by
five days' journey from a small village. This is within the far northern
kingdom of Malwa. This mountain village nearest to Channa has no name
itself, being filled with a fierce and independent people who have no
special desire that their town appeal on the maps of the rajah's tax
collectors. Of the rajah, it is sufficient to tell that he is of middle
height and middle years, shrewd, slightly stout, neither pious nor more than
usually notorious and fabulously wealthy. He is wealthy because he levies
high taxes upon his subjects. When his subjects begin to complain, and
murmurs of revolt run through the realm, he declares war upon a neighboring
kingdom and doubles the taxes. If the war does not go well, he executes
several generals and has his Minister of Peace negotiate a treaty. If, by
some chance, it goes especially well, he exacts tribute for whatever insult
has caused the entire affair. Usually, though, it ends in a truce, souring
his subjects on fighting and reconciling them to the high tax rate. His name
is Videgha and he has many children. He is fond of grak-birds, which can be
taught to sing bawdy songs, of snakes, to which he occasionally feeds
grak-birds who cannot carry a tune, and of gaming with dice. He does not
especially like children.
Hellwell begins with the great doorway high in the mountains at the
northernmost comer of Videgha's kingdom, beyond which there are no other
kingdoms of men. It begins there, and it corkscrews down through the heart
of the mountain Channa, breaking, like a corkscrew, into vast cavernways
uncharted by men, extending far beneath the Ratnagari range, the deepest
passageways pushing down toward the roots of the world.
To this door came the traveler.
He was simply dressed, and he traveled alone, and he seemed to know
exactly where he was going and what he was doing.
He climbed the trail up Channa, edging his way across its gaunt face.
It took him the better part of the morning to reach his destination,
the door.
When he stood before it, he rested a moment, took a drink from his
water bottle, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiled.
Then he sat down with his back against the door and ate his lunch. When
he had finished, he threw the leaf wrappings over the edge and watched them
fall, drifting from side to side on the air currents, until they were out of
sight. He lit his pipe then and smoked.
After he had rested, he stood and faced the door once again.
His hand fell upon the pressure plate, moved slowly through a series of
gestures. There was a musical sound from within the door as his hand left
the plate.
Then he seized upon the ring and drew back, his shoulder muscles
straining. The door moved, slowly at first, then more rapidly. He stepped
aside and it swung outward, passing beyond the ledge.
There was another ring, twin to the first, on the inner surface of the
door. He caught at it as it passed him, dragging his heels to keep it from
swinging so far as to place it beyond his reach.
A rush of warm air emerged from the opening at his back.
Drawing the door closed again behind him, he paused only to light one
of the many torches he bore. Then he advanced along a corridor that widened
as he moved ahead.
The floor slanted abruptly, and after a hundred paces the ceiling was
so high as to be invisible.
After two hundred paces, he stood upon the lip of the well.
He was now in the midst of a vast blackness shot through with the
flames of his torch. The walls had vanished, save for the one behind him and
to the right. The floor ended a short distance before him.
Beyond that edge was what appeared to be a bottomless pit. He could not
see across it, but he knew it to be roughly circular in shape; and he knew,
too, that it widened in circumference as it descended.
He made his way down along the trail that wound about the well wall,
and he could feel the rush of warm air rising from out of the depths. This
trail was artificial. One could feel this, despite its steepness. It was
precarious and it was narrow; it was cracked in many places, and in spots
rubble had accumulated upon it. But its steady, winding slant bespoke the
fact that there was purpose and pattern to its existence.
He moved along this trail, carefully. To his left was the wall. To his
right there was nothing.
After what seemed an age and a half, he sighted a tiny flicker of light
far below him, hanging in midair.
The curvature of the wall, however, gradually bent his way so that this
light no longer hung in the distance, but lay below and slightly to his
right.
Another twisting of the trail set it directly ahead of him.
When he passed the niche in the wall wherein the flame was cached, he
heard a voice within his mind cry out:
"Free me, master, and I will lay the world at thy feet!"
But he hurried by, not even glancing at the almost-face within the
opening.
Floating upon the ocean of black that lay beneath his feet, there were
more lights now visible.
The well continued to widen. It was filled with brightening glimmers,
like flame, but not flame; filled with shapes, faces, half-remembered
images. From each there rose up a cry as he passed: "Free me! Free me!"
But he did not halt.
He came to the bottom of the well and moved across it, passing among
broken stones and over fissures in the rocky floor. At last he reached the
opposite wall, wherein a great orange fire danced.
It became cherry-red as he approached, and when he stood before it, it
was the blue of a sapphire's heart.
It stood to twice his height, pulsing and twisting. From it, little
flamelets licked out toward him, but they drew back as if they fell against
an invisible barrier.
During his descent he had passed so many flames that he had lost count
of their number. He knew, too, that more lay hidden within the caverns that
open into the well bottom.
Each flame he had passed on the way down had addressed him, using its
own species of communication, so that the words had sounded drumlike within
his head: threatening words, and pleading, promising words. But no message
came to him from this great blue blaze, larger than any of the others. No
forms turned or twisted, tantalizing, within its bright heart. Flame it was,
and flame it remained.
He kindled a fresh torch and wedged it between two rocks.
"So, Hated One, you have returned!"
The words fell upon him like whiplashes. Steadying himself, he faced
the blue flame then and replied:
"You are called Taraka?"
"He who bound me here should know what I am called," came the words.
"Think not, oh Siddhartha, that because you wear a different body you go now
unrecognized. I look upon the flows of energy which are your real being--
not the flesh that masks them."
"I see," replied the other.
"Do you come to mock me in my prison?"
"Did I mock you in the days of the Binding?"
"No, you did not."
"I did that which had to be done, to preserve my own species. Men were
weak and few in number. Your kind fell upon them and would have destroyed
them."
"You stole our world, Siddhartha. You chained us here. What new
indignity would you lay upon us?"
"Perhaps there is a way in which some reparation may be made."
"What is it that you want?"
"Allies."
"You want us to take your part in a struggle?"
"That is correct."
"And when it is over, you will seek to bind us again."
"Not if we can work out some sort of agreement beforehand."
"Speak to me your terms," said the flame.
"In the old days your people walked, visible and invisible, in the
streets of the Celestial City."
"That is true."
"It is better fortified now."
"In what ways?"
"Vishnu the Preserver and Yama-Dharma, Lord of Death, have covered the
whole of Heaven, rather than just the City-- as it was in days of old-- with
what is said to be an impenetrable dome."
"There is no such thing as an impenetrable dome."
"I say only what I have heard."
"There are many ways into a city. Lord Siddhartha."
"You will find them all for me?"
"That is to be the price of my freedom?"
"Of your own freedom-- yes."
"What of the others of my kind?"
"If they, too, are to be freed, you must all agree to help me lay siege
to that City and take it."
"Free us, and Heaven shall fall!"
"You speak for the others?"
"I am Taraka. I speak for all."
"What assurance do you give, Taraka, that this bargain will be kept?"
"My word? I shall be happy to swear by anything you care to name -- "
"A facility with oaths is not the most reassuring quality in a
bargainer. And your strength is also your weakness in any bargaining at all.
You are so strong as to be unable to grant to another the power to control
you. You have no gods to swear by. The only thing you will honor is a
gambling debt, and there are no grounds for gaming here."
"You possess the power to control us."
"Individually, perhaps. But not collectively."
"It is a difficult problem," said Taraka. "I should give anything I
have to be free-- but then, all that I have is power -- pure power, in
essence uncommittable. A greater force might subdue it, but that is not the
answer. I do not really know how to give you satisfactory assurance that my
promise will be kept. If I were you, I certainly would not trust me."
"It is something of a dilemma. So I will free you now-- you alone-- to
visit the Pole and scout out the defenses of Heaven. In your absence, I will
consider the problem further. Do you likewise, and perhaps upon your return
an equitable arrangement can be made."
"Accepted! Release me from this doom!"
"Know then my power, Taraka," he said. "As I bind, so can I loose--
thus!"
The flame boiled forward out of the wall.
It rolled into a ball of fire and spun about the well like a comet; it
burned like a small sun, lighting up the darkness; it changed colors as it
fled about, so that the rocks shone both ghastly and pleasing.
Then it hovered above the head of the one called Siddhartha, sending
down its throbbing words upon him:
"You cannot know my pleasure to feel again my strength set free. I've a
mind to try your power once more."
The man beneath him shrugged.
The ball of flame coalesced. Shrinking, it grew brighter, and it slowly
settled to the floor.
It lay there quivering, like a petal fallen from some titanic bloom;
then it drifted slowly across the floor of Hellwell and re-entered the
niche.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Siddhartha.
"Yes," came the reply, after a time. "Your power is undimmed. Binder.
Free me once more."
"I grow tired of this sport, Taraka. Perhaps I'd best leave you as you
are and seek assistance elsewhere."
"No! I gave you my promise! What more would you have?"
"I would have an absence of contention between us. Either you will
serve me now in this matter, or you will not. That is all. Choose, and abide
by your choice-- and your word."
"Very well. Free me, and I will visit Heaven upon its mountain of ice,
and report back to you of its weaknesses."
"Then go!"
This time, the flame emerged more slowly. It swayed before him, took on
a roughly human outline.
"What is your power, Siddhartha? How do you do what you do?" it asked
him.
"Call it electrodirection," said the other, "mind over energy. It is as
good a term as any. But whatever you call it, do not seek to cross it again.
I can kill you with it, though no weapon formed of matter may be laid upon
you. Go now!"
Taraka vanished, like a firebrand plunged into a river, and Siddhartha
stood among stones, his torch lighting the darkness about him.
He rested, and a babble of voices filled his mind-- promising,
tempting, pleading. Visions of wealth and of splendor flowed before his
eyes. Wondrous harems were paraded before him, and banquets were laid at his
feet. Essences of musk and champac, and the bluish haze of burning incenses
drifted, soothing his soul, about him. He walked among flowers, followed by
bright-eyed girls who bore his wine cups, smiling; a silver voice sang to
him, and creatures not human danced upon the surface of a nearby lake. "Free
us, free us," they chanted. But he smiled and watched and did nothing.
Gradually, the prayers and the pleas and the promises turned to a chorus of
curses and threats. Armored skeletons advanced upon him, babies impaled upon
their blazing swords. There were pits all about him, from which fires leapt
up, smelling of brimstone. A serpent dangled from a branch before his face,
spitting venom. A rain of spiders and toads descended upon him.
"Free us-- or infinite will be thy agony!" cried the voices.
"If you persist," he stated, "Siddhartha shall grow angry, and you will
lose the one chance at freedom which you really do possess."
Then all was still about him, and he emptied his mind, drowsing.
He had two meals, there in the cavern, and then he slept again.
Later, Taraka returned in the form of a great-taloned bird and reported
to him:
"Those of my kind may enter through the air vents," he said, "but men
may not. There are also many elevator shafts within the mountain. Many men
might ride up the larger ones with ease. Of course, these are guarded. But
if the guards were slain and the alarms disconnected, this thing might be
accomplished. Also, there are times when the dome itself is opened in
various places, to permit flying craft to enter and to depart."
"Very well," said Siddhartha. "I've a kingdom, some weeks' journey
hence, where I rule. A regent has been seated in my place for many years,
but if I return there I can raise me an army. A new religion moves now
across the land. Men may now think less of the gods than once they did."
"You wish to sack Heaven?"
"Yes, I wish to lay open its treasures to the world."
"This is to my liking. It will not be easily won, but with an army of
men and an army of my kind we should be able to do it. Let us free my people
now, that we may begin."
"I believe I will simply have to trust you," said Siddhartha. "So yes,
let us begin," and he moved across the floor of Hellwell toward the first
deep tunnel beading downward.
That day he freed sixty-five of them, filling the caverns with their
color and their movement and their light. The air sounded with mighty cries
of joy and the noise of their passage as they swept about Hellwell, changing
shape constantly and exulting in their freedom.
Without warning, then, one took upon itself the form of a flying
serpent and swept down toward him, talons outstretched and slashing.
For a moment, his full attention lay upon it.
It uttered a brief, broken cry, and then it came apart, falling in a
shower of blue-white sparks.
Then these faded, and it was utterly vanished.
There was silence in the caverns, and the lights pulsed and dipped
about the walls.
Siddhartha directed his attention toward the largest point of light,
Taraka.
"Did that one attack me in order to test my strength?" he inquired. "To
see whether I can also kill, in the manner I told you I could?"
Taraka approached, hovered before him. "It was not by my bidding that
he attacked," he stated. "I feel that he was half crazed from his
confinement."
Siddhartha shrugged. "For a time now, disport yourselves as you would,"
he said. "I would have rest from this task," and he departed the smaller
cavern.
He returned to the bottom of the well, where he lay down upon his
blanket and dozed.
There came a dream.
He was running.
His shadow lay before him, and, as he ran upon it, it grew.
It grew until it was no longer his shadow but a grotesque outline.
Suddenly he knew that his shadow had been overrun by that of his pursuer:
overrun, overwhelmed, submerged and surmounted.
Then he knew a moment of terrible panic, there upon the blind plain
over which he fled.
He knew that it was now his own shadow.
The doom which had pursued him no longer lay at his back.
He knew that he was his own doom.
Knowing that he had finally caught up with himself, he laughed aloud,
wanting really to scream.
When he awoke again, he was walking.
He was walking up the twisted wall-trail of Hellwell.
As he walked, he passed the imprisoned flames.
Again, each cried out to him as he went by:
"Free us, masters!"
And slowly, about the edges of the ice that was his mind, there was a
thawing.
Masters.
Plural. Not singular.
Masters, they had said.
He knew then that he did not walk alone.
None of the dancing, flickering shapes moved through the darkness about
him, below him.
The ones who had been imprisoned were still imprisoned. The ones he had
freed were gone.
Now he climbed the high wall of Hellwell, no torch lighting his way.
But still, he saw.
He saw every feature of the rocky trail, as though by moonlight.
He knew that his eyes were incapable of this feat.
And he had been addressed in the plural.
And his body was moving, but was not under the direction of his will.
He made an effort to halt, to stand still.
He continued to advance up the trail, and it was then that his lips
moved, forming the words:
"You have awakened, I see. Good morning."
A question formed itself in his mind, to be answered immediately
through his own mouth:
"Yes, and how does it feel to be bound yourself, Binder-- in your own
body?"
Siddhartha formed another thought:
"I did not think any of your kind capable of taking control of me
against my will-- even as I slept."
"To give you an honest answer," said the other, "neither did I. But
then, I had at my disposal the combined powers of many of my kind. It seemed
to be worth the attempt."
"And of the others? Where are they?"
"Gone. To wander the world until I summon them."
"And what of these others who remain bound? Had you waited, I would
have freed them also."
"What care I of these others? I am free now, and in a body again! What
else matters?"
"I take it, then, that your promised assistance means nothing?"
"Not so," replied the demon. "We shall return to this matter in, say, a
lesser moon or so. The idea does appeal to me. I feel that a war with the
gods would be a very excellent thing. But first I wish to enjoy the
pleasures of the flesh for a time. Why should you begrudge me a little
entertainment after the centuries of boredom and imprisonment you have
wrought?"
"I must admit, however, that I do begrudge you this use of my person."
"Whatever the case, you must, for a time, put up with it. You, too,
shall be in a position to enjoy what I enjoy, so why not make the best of
it?"
"You state that you do intend to war against the gods?"
"Yes indeed. I wish I had thought of it myself in the old days.
Perhaps, then, we should never have been bound. Perhaps there would no
longer be men or gods upon this world. We were never much for concerted
action, though. Independence of spirit naturally accompanies our
independence of person. Each fought his own battles in the general conflict
with mankind. I am a leader, true-- by virtue of the fact that I am older
and stronger and wiser than the others. They come to me for counsel, they
serve me when I order them. But I have never ordered them all into battle. I
shall, though, later. The novelty will do much to relieve the monotony."
"I suggest you do not wait, for there will be no 'later', Taraka."
"Why not?"
"I came to Hellwell, the wrath of the gods swarming and buzzing at my
back. Now sixty-six demons are loose in the world. Very soon, your presence
will be felt. The gods will know who has done this thing, and they will take
steps against us. The element of surprise will be lost."
"We fought the gods in the days of old . . ."
"And these are not the days of old, Taraka. The gods are stronger now,
much stronger. Long have you been bound, and their might has grown over the
ages. Even if you command the first army of Rakasha in history, and backing
them in battle I raise me up a mighty army of men-- even then, will the
final result be a thing uncertain. To delay now is to throw everything
away."
"I wish you would not speak to me like this, Siddhartha, for you
trouble me."
"I mean to. For all your powers, if you meet the One in Red he will
drink your life with his eyes. He will come here to the Ratnagaris, for he
follows me. The freedom of demons is as a signpost, directing him hither. He
may bring others with him. You may find them more than a match for all of
you."
The demon did not reply. They reached the top of the well, and Taraka
advanced the two hundred paces to the great door, which now stood open. He
stepped out onto the ledge and looked downward.
"You doubt the power of the Rakasha, eh. Binder?" he asked. Then,
"Behold!"
He stepped outward, over the edge.
They did not fall.
They drifted, like the leaves he had dropped-- how long ago?
Downward.
They landed upon the trail halfway down the mountain called Channa.
"Not only do I contain your nervous system," said Taraka, "but I have
permeated your entire body and wrapped it all about with the energies of my
being. So send me your One in Red, who drinks life with his eyes. I should
like to meet him."
"Though you can walk on air," said Siddhartha, "you speak rashly when
you speak thus."
"The Prince Videgha holds his court not far from here, at Palamaidsu,"
said Taraka, "for I visited there on my return from Heaven. I understand he
is fond of gaming. Therefore, thither fare we."
"And if the God of Death should come to join the game?"
"Let him!" cried the other. "You cease to amuse me, Binder. Good night.
Go back to sleep!"
There was a small darkness and a great silence, growing and shrinking.
The days that followed were bright fragments.
There would come to him snatches of conversation or song, colorful
vistas of galleries, chambers, gardens. And once he looked upon a dungeon
where men were hung upon racks, and he heard himself laughing.
Between these fragments there came to him dreams and half dreams. They
were lighted with fire, they ran with blood and tears. In a darkened,
endless cathedral he rolled dice that were suns and planets. Meteors broke
fire above his head, and comets inscribed blazing arcs upon a vault of black
glass. There came to him a joy shot through with fear, and he knew it to be
mainly that of another, but it was partly his, too. The fear-- that was all
his.
When Taraka drank too much wine, or lay panting on his wide, low couch
in the harem, then was his grip loosened somewhat, upon the body that he had
stolen. But Siddhartha was still weak with the mind-bruise, and his body was
drunk or fatigued; and he knew that the time had not yet come to contest the
mastery of the demon-lord.
There were times when he saw, not through the eyes of the body that had
once been his, but saw as a demon saw, in all directions, and stripped flesh
and bone from those among whom he passed, to behold the flames of their
beings, colored with the hues and shades of their passions, flickering with
avarice and lust and envy, darting with greed and hunger, smouldering with
hate, waning with fear and pain. His hell was a many-colored place, somewhat
mitigated only by the cold blue blaze of a scholar's intellect, the white
light of a dying monk, the rose halo of a noble lady who fled his sight, and
the dancing, simple colors of children at play.
He stalked the high halls and wide galleries of the royal palace at
Palamaidsu, which were his winnings. The Prince Videgha lay in chains in his
own dungeon. Throughout the kingdom, his subjects were not aware that a
demon now sat upon the throne. Things seemed to be the same as they had
always been. Siddhartha had visions of riding through the streets of the
town on the back of an elephant. All the women of the town had been ordered
to stand before the doors of their dwellings. Of these, he chose those who
pleased him and had them taken back to his harem. Siddhartha realized, with
a sudden shock, that he was assisting in the choosing, disputing with Taraka
over the virtues of this or that matron, maid or lady. He had been touched
by the lusts of the demon-lord, and they were becoming his own. With this
realization, he came into a greater wakefulness, and it was not always the
hand of the demon which raised the wine horn to his lips, or twitched the
whip in the dungeon. He came to be conscious for greater periods of time,
and with a certain horror he knew that, within himself, as within every man,
there lies a demon capable of responding to his own kind.
Then, one day, he fought the power that ruled his body and bent his
became a follower of the Way. He was the only man I ever knew to really
achieve enlightenment."
"Is this not a pacifistic religion, this thing you have been
spreading?"
"Yes."
Yama threw back his head and laughed. "Gods! Then it is well you are
not preaching a militant one! Your foremost disciple, enlightenment and all,
near had my head this afternoon!"
A tired look came over the Buddha's wide countenance. "Do you think he
could actually have beaten you?"
Yama was silent a moment, then, "No," he said.
"Do you think he knew this?"
"Perhaps," Yama replied.
"Did you not know one another prior to this day's meeting? Have you not
seen one another at practice?"
"Yes," said Yama. "We were acquainted."
"Then he knew your skill and realized the outcome of the encounter."
Yama was silent.
"He went willingly to his martyrdom, unknown to me at the time. I do
not feel that he went with real hope of beating you."
"Why, then?"
"To prove a point."
"What point could he hope to prove in such a manner?"
"I do not know. I only know that it must be as I have said, for I knew
him. I have listened too often to his sermons, to his subtle parables, to
believe that he would do a thing such as this without a purpose. You have
slain the true Buddha, deathgod. You know what I am."
"Siddhartha," said Yama, "I know that you are a fraud. I know that you
are not an Enlightened One. I realize that your doctrine is a thing which
could have been remembered by any among the First. You chose to resurrect
it, pretending to be its originator. You decided to spread it, in hopes of
raising an opposition to the religion by which the true gods rule. I admire
the effort. It was cleverly planned and executed. But your biggest mistake,
I feel, is that you picked a pacifistic creed with which to oppose an active
one. I am curious why you did this thing, when there were so many more
appropriate religions from which to choose."
"Perhaps I was just curious to see how such a countercurrent would
flow," replied the other.
"No, Sam, that is not it," answered Yama. "I feel it is only part of a
larger plan you have laid, and that for all these years -- while you
pretended to be a saint and preached sermons in which you did not truly
believe yourself-- you have been making other plans. An army, great in
space, may offer opposition in a brief span of time. One man, brief in
space, must spread his opposition across a period of many years if he is to
have a chance of succeeding. You are aware of this, and now that you have
sown the seeds of this stolen creed, you are planning to move on to another
phase of opposition. You are trying to be a one-man antithesis to Heaven,
opposing the will of the gods across the years, in many ways and from behind
many masks. But it will end here and now, false Buddha."
"Why, Yama?" he asked.
"It was considered quite carefully," said Yama. "We did not want to
make you a martyr, encouraging more than ever the growth of this thing you
have been teaching. On the other hand, if you were not stopped, it would
still continue to grow. It was decided, therefore, that you must meet your
end at the hands of an agent of Heaven-- thus showing which religion is the
stronger. So, martyr or no, Buddhism will be a second-rate religion
henceforth. That is why you must now die the real death."
"When I asked 'Why?' I meant something different. You have answered the
wrong question. I meant, why have you come to do this thing, Yama? Why have
you, master of arms, master of sciences, come as lackey to a crew of drunken
body-changers, who are not qualified to polish your blade or wash out your
test tubes? Why do you, who might be the freest spirit of us all, demean
yourself by serving your inferiors?"
"For that, your death shall not be a clean one."
"Why? I did but ask a question, which must have long since passed
through more minds than my own. I did not take offense when you called me a
false Buddha. I know what I am. Who are you, deathgod?"
Yama placed his blade within his sash and withdrew a pipe, which he had
purchased at the inn earlier in the day. He filled its bowl with tobacco,
lit it, and smoked.
"It is obvious that we must talk a little longer, if only to clear both
our minds of questions," he stated, "so I may as well be comfortable." He
seated himself upon a low rock. "First, a man may in some ways be superior
to his fellows and still serve them, if together they serve a common cause
which is greater than any one man. I believe that I serve such a cause, or I
would not be doing it. I take it that you feel the same way concerning what
you do, or you would not put up with this life of miserable asceticism --
though I note that you are not so gaunt as your followers. You were offered
godhood some years ago in Mahartha, as I recall, and you mocked Brahma,
raided the Palace of Karma, and filled all the pray-machines of the city
with slugs . . ."
The Buddha chuckled. Yama joined him briefly and continued, "There are
no Accelerationists remaining in the world, other than yourself. It is a
dead issue, which should never have become an issue in the first place. I do
have a certain respect for the manner in which you have acquitted yourself
over the years. It has even occurred to me that if you could be made to
realize the hopelessness of your present position, you might still be
persuaded to join the hosts of Heaven. While I did come here to kill you, if
you can be convinced of this now and give me your word upon it, promising to
end your foolish fight, I will take it upon myself to vouch for you. I will
take you back to the Celestial City with me, where you may now accept that
which you once refused. They will harken to me, because they need me."
"No," said Sam, "for I am not convinced of the futility of my position,
and I fully intend to continue the show."
The chanting came down from the camp in the purple grove. One of the
moons disappeared beyond the treetops.
"Why are your followers not beating the bushes, seeking to save you?"
"They would come if I called, but I will not call. I do not need to."
"Why did they cause me to dream that foolish dream?"
The Buddha shrugged.
"Why did they not arise and slay me as I slept?"
"It is not their way."
"You might have, though, eh? If you could get away with it? If none
would know the Buddha did it?"
"Perhaps," said the other. "As you know, the personal strengths and
weaknesses of a leader are no true indication of the merits of his cause."
Yama drew upon his pipe. The smoke wreathed his head and eddied away to
join the fogs, which were now becoming more heavy upon the land.
"I know we are alone here, and you are unarmed," said Yama.
"We are alone here. My traveling gear is hidden farther along my
route."
"Your traveling gear?"
"I have finished here. You guessed correctly. I have begun what I set
out to begin. After we have finished our conversation, I will depart."
Yama chuckled. "The optimism of a revolutionary always gives rise to a
sense of wonder. How do you propose to depart? On a magic carpet?"
"I shall go as other men go."
"That is rather condescending of you. Will the powers of the world rise
up to defend you? I see no great tree to shelter you with its branches.
There is no clever grass to seize at my feet. Tell me how you will achieve
your departure?"
"I'd rather surprise you."
"What say we fight? I do not like to slaughter an unarmed man. If you
actually do have supplies cached somewhere nearby, go fetch your blade. It
is better than no chance at all. I've even heard it said that Lord
Siddhartha was, in his day, a formidable swordsman."
"Thank you, no. Another time, perhaps. But not this time."
Yama drew once more upon his pipe, stretched, and yawned. "I can think
of no more questions then, which I wish to ask you. It is futile to argue
with you. I have nothing more to say. Is there anything else that you would
care to add to the conversation?"
"Yes," said Sam. "What's she like, that bitch Kali? There are so many
different reports that I'm beginning to believe she is all things to all men
-- "
Yama hurled the pipe, which struck him upon the shoulder and sent a
shower of sparks down his arm. His scimitar was a bright flash about his
head as he leapt forward.
When he struck the sandy stretch before the rock, his motion was
arrested. He almost fell, twisted himself perpendicularly and remained
standing. He struggled, but could not move.
"Some quicksand," said Sam, "is quicker than other quicksand.
Fortunately, you are settling into that of the slower sort. So you have
considerable time yet remaining at your disposal. I would like to prolong
the conversation, if I thought I had a chance of persuading you to join with
me. But I know that I do not-- no more than you could persuade me to go to
Heaven."
"I will get free," said Yama softly, not struggling. "I will get free
somehow, and I will come after you again."
"Yes," said Sam, "I feel this to be true. In fact, in a short while I
will instruct you how to go about it. For the moment, however, you are
something every preacher longs for-- a captive audience, representing the
opposition. So, I have a brief sermon for you. Lord Yama."
Yama hefted his blade, decided against throwing it, thrust it again
into his sash.
"Preach on," he said, and he succeeded in catching the other's eyes.
Sam swayed where he sat, but he spoke again:
"It is amazing," he said, "how that mutant brain of yours generated a
mind capable of transferring its powers to any new brain you choose to
occupy. It has been years since I last exercised my one ability, as I am at
this moment-- but it, too, behaves in a similar manner. No matter what body
I inhabit, it appears that my power follows me into it also. I understand it
is still that way with most of us. Sitala, I hear, can control temperatures
for a great distance about her. When she assumes a new body, the power
accompanies her into her new nervous system, though it comes only weakly at
first. Agni, I know, can set fire to objects by staring at them for a period
of time and willing that they burn. Now, take for example the death-gaze you
are at this moment turning upon me. Is it not amazing how you keep this gift
about you in all times and places, over the centuries? I have often wondered
as to the physiological basis for the phenomenon. Have you ever researched
the area?"
"Yes," said Yama, his eyes burning beneath his dark brows.
"And what is the explanation? A person is born with an abnormal brain,
his psyche is later transferred to a normal one and yet his abnormal
abilities are not destroyed in the transfer. Why does this thing happen?"
"Because you really have only one body-image, which is electrical as
well as chemical in nature. It begins immediately to modify its new
physiological environment. The new body has much about it which it treats
rather like a disease, attempting to cure it into being the old body. If the
body which you now inhabit were to be made physically immortal, it would
someday come to resemble your original body."
"How interesting."
"That is why the transferred power is weak at first, but grows stronger
as you continue occupancy. That is why it is best to cultivate an Attribute,
and perhaps to employ mechanical aids, also."
"Well. That is something I have often wondered about. Thank you. By the
way, keep trying with your death-gaze-- it is painful, you know. So that is
something, anyway. Now, as to the sermon-- a proud and arrogant man, such as
yourself-- with an admittedly admirable quality of didacticism about him--
was given to doing research in the area of a certain disfiguring and
degenerative disease. One day he contracted it himself. Since he had not yet
developed a cure for the condition, he did take time out to regard himself
in a mirror and say, 'But on me it does look good.' You are such a man,
Yama. You will not attempt to fight your condition. Rather, you are proud of
it. You betrayed yourself in your fury, so I know that I speak the truth
when I say that the name of your disease is Kali. You would not give power
into the hands of the unworthy if that woman did not bid you do it. I knew
her of old, and I am certain that she has not changed. She cannot love a
man. She cares only for those who bring her gifts of chaos. If ever you
cease to suit her purposes, she will put you aside, deathgod. I do not say
this because we are enemies, but rather as one man to another. I know.
Believe me, I do. Perhaps it is unfortunate that you were never really
young, Yama, and did not know your first love in the days of spring. . . .
The moral, therefore, of my sermon on this small mount is this-- even a
mirror will not show you yourself, if you do not wish to see. Cross her once
to try the truth of my words, even in a small matter, and see how quickly
she responds, and in what fashion. What will you do if your own weapons are
turned against you, Death?"
"You have finished speaking now?" asked Yama.
"That's about it. A sermon is a warning, and you have been warned."
"Whatever your power, Sam, I see that it is at this moment proof
against my death-gaze. Consider yourself fortunate that I am weakened -- "
"I do indeed, for my head is about to split. Damn your eyes!"
"One day I will try your power again, and even if it should still be
proof against my own, you will fall on that day. If not by my Attribute,
then by my blade."
"If that is a challenge, I choose to defer acceptance. I suggest that
you do try my words before you attempt to make it good."
At this point, the sand was halfway up Yama's thighs.
Sam sighed and climbed down from his perch.
"There is only one clear path to this rock, and I am about to follow it
away from here. Now, I will tell you how to gain your life, if you are not
too proud. I have instructed the monks to come to my aid, here at this
place, if they hear a cry for help. I told you earlier that I was not going
to call for help, and that is true. If, however, you begin calling out for
aid with that powerful voice of yours, they shall be here before you sink
too much farther. They will bring you safely to firm ground and will not try
to harm you, for such is their way. I like the thought of the god of death
being saved by the monks of Buddha. Good night, Yama, I'm going to leave you
now."
Yama smiled. "There will be another day, oh Buddha," he stated. "I can
wait for it. Flee now as far and as fast as you can. The world is not large
enough to hide you from my wrath. I will follow you, and I will teach you of
the enlightenment that is pure hellfire."
"In the meantime," said Sam, "I suggest you solicit aid of my followers
or learn the difficult art of mud-breathing."
He picked his way across the field, Yama's eyes burning into his back.
When he reached the trail, he turned. "And you may want to mention in
Heaven," he said, "that I was called out of town on a business deal."
Yama did not reply.
"I think I am going to make a deal for some weapons," he finished,
"some rather special weapons. So when you come after me, bring your girl
friend along. If she likes what she sees, she may persuade you to switch
sides."
Then he struck the trail and moved away through the night, whistling,
beneath a moon that was white and a moon that was golden.
It is told how the Lord of Light descended into the Well of the Demons,
to make there a bargain with the chief of the Rakasha. He dealt in good
faith, but the Rakasha are the Rakasha. That is to say, they are malefic
creatures, possessed of great powers, life-span and the ability to assume
nearly any shape. The Rakasha are almost indestructible. Their chiefest lack
is a true body; their chiefest virtue, their honor toward their gambling
debts. That the Lord of Light went to Hellwell at all serves to show that
perhaps he was somewhat distraught concerning the state of the world. . . .
When the gods and the demons, both offspring of Prajapati, did battle
with one another, the gods seized upon the life-principle of the Udgitha,
thinking that with this would they vanquish the demons.
They meditated upon the Udgitha which functions through the nose, but
the demons pierced it through with evil. Therefore, with the breath one
smells both that which is pleasant and that which is foul. Thus the breath
is touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha as words, but the demons pierced it
through with evil. Therefore, one speaks both truth and falsehood. Thus
words are touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha which functions through the eye, but
the demons pierced it through with evil. Therefore, one sees both what is
pleasing and what is ugly. Thus the eye is touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha as hearing, but the demons pierced it
through with evil. Therefore, one hears both good things and bad. Thus the
ear is touched by evil.
Then did they meditate upon the Udgitha as the mind, but the demons
pierced it through with evil. Therefore, one thinks what is proper, true,
and good, and what is improper, false, and depraved. Thus the mind is
touched by evil.
Chhandogya Upanishad (I, ii, 1-6)
Hellwell lies at the top of the world and it leads down to its roots.
It is probably as old as the world itself; and if it is not, it should
be, because it looks as if it were.
It begins with a doorway. There is a huge, burnished metal door,
erected by the First, that is heavy as sin, three times the height of a man
and half that distance in width. It is a full cubit thick and bears a
head-sized ring of brass, a complicated pressure-plate lock and an
inscription that reads, roughly, "Go away. This is not a place to be. If you
do try to enter here, you will fail and also be cursed. If somehow you
succeed, then do not complain that you entered unwarned, nor bother us with
your deathbed prayers." Signed, "The Gods."
It is set near the peak of a very high mountain named Channa, in the
midst of a region of very high mountains called the Ratnagaris. In that
place there is always snow upon the ground, and rainbows ride like fur on
the backs of icicles, which sprout about the frozen caps of cliffs. The air
is sharp as a sword. The sky is bright as the eye of a cat.
Very few feet have ever trod the trail that leads to Hellwell. Of those
who visited, most came only to look, to see whether the great door really
existed; and when they returned home and told of having seen it, they were
generally mocked.
Telltale scratches about the lock plate testify that some have actually
sought entrance. Equipment sufficient to force the great door could not be
transported or properly positioned, however. The trail that leads to
Hellwell is less than ten inches in width for the final three hundred feet
of its ascent; and perhaps six men could stand, with crowding, upon what
remains of the once wide ledge that faces that door.
It is told that Pannalal the Sage, having sharpened his mind with
meditation and divers asceticisms, had divined the operation of the lock and
entered Hellwell, spending a day and a night beneath the mountain. He was
thereafter known as Pannalal the Mad.
The peak known as Channa, which holds the great door, is removed by
five days' journey from a small village. This is within the far northern
kingdom of Malwa. This mountain village nearest to Channa has no name
itself, being filled with a fierce and independent people who have no
special desire that their town appeal on the maps of the rajah's tax
collectors. Of the rajah, it is sufficient to tell that he is of middle
height and middle years, shrewd, slightly stout, neither pious nor more than
usually notorious and fabulously wealthy. He is wealthy because he levies
high taxes upon his subjects. When his subjects begin to complain, and
murmurs of revolt run through the realm, he declares war upon a neighboring
kingdom and doubles the taxes. If the war does not go well, he executes
several generals and has his Minister of Peace negotiate a treaty. If, by
some chance, it goes especially well, he exacts tribute for whatever insult
has caused the entire affair. Usually, though, it ends in a truce, souring
his subjects on fighting and reconciling them to the high tax rate. His name
is Videgha and he has many children. He is fond of grak-birds, which can be
taught to sing bawdy songs, of snakes, to which he occasionally feeds
grak-birds who cannot carry a tune, and of gaming with dice. He does not
especially like children.
Hellwell begins with the great doorway high in the mountains at the
northernmost comer of Videgha's kingdom, beyond which there are no other
kingdoms of men. It begins there, and it corkscrews down through the heart
of the mountain Channa, breaking, like a corkscrew, into vast cavernways
uncharted by men, extending far beneath the Ratnagari range, the deepest
passageways pushing down toward the roots of the world.
To this door came the traveler.
He was simply dressed, and he traveled alone, and he seemed to know
exactly where he was going and what he was doing.
He climbed the trail up Channa, edging his way across its gaunt face.
It took him the better part of the morning to reach his destination,
the door.
When he stood before it, he rested a moment, took a drink from his
water bottle, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiled.
Then he sat down with his back against the door and ate his lunch. When
he had finished, he threw the leaf wrappings over the edge and watched them
fall, drifting from side to side on the air currents, until they were out of
sight. He lit his pipe then and smoked.
After he had rested, he stood and faced the door once again.
His hand fell upon the pressure plate, moved slowly through a series of
gestures. There was a musical sound from within the door as his hand left
the plate.
Then he seized upon the ring and drew back, his shoulder muscles
straining. The door moved, slowly at first, then more rapidly. He stepped
aside and it swung outward, passing beyond the ledge.
There was another ring, twin to the first, on the inner surface of the
door. He caught at it as it passed him, dragging his heels to keep it from
swinging so far as to place it beyond his reach.
A rush of warm air emerged from the opening at his back.
Drawing the door closed again behind him, he paused only to light one
of the many torches he bore. Then he advanced along a corridor that widened
as he moved ahead.
The floor slanted abruptly, and after a hundred paces the ceiling was
so high as to be invisible.
After two hundred paces, he stood upon the lip of the well.
He was now in the midst of a vast blackness shot through with the
flames of his torch. The walls had vanished, save for the one behind him and
to the right. The floor ended a short distance before him.
Beyond that edge was what appeared to be a bottomless pit. He could not
see across it, but he knew it to be roughly circular in shape; and he knew,
too, that it widened in circumference as it descended.
He made his way down along the trail that wound about the well wall,
and he could feel the rush of warm air rising from out of the depths. This
trail was artificial. One could feel this, despite its steepness. It was
precarious and it was narrow; it was cracked in many places, and in spots
rubble had accumulated upon it. But its steady, winding slant bespoke the
fact that there was purpose and pattern to its existence.
He moved along this trail, carefully. To his left was the wall. To his
right there was nothing.
After what seemed an age and a half, he sighted a tiny flicker of light
far below him, hanging in midair.
The curvature of the wall, however, gradually bent his way so that this
light no longer hung in the distance, but lay below and slightly to his
right.
Another twisting of the trail set it directly ahead of him.
When he passed the niche in the wall wherein the flame was cached, he
heard a voice within his mind cry out:
"Free me, master, and I will lay the world at thy feet!"
But he hurried by, not even glancing at the almost-face within the
opening.
Floating upon the ocean of black that lay beneath his feet, there were
more lights now visible.
The well continued to widen. It was filled with brightening glimmers,
like flame, but not flame; filled with shapes, faces, half-remembered
images. From each there rose up a cry as he passed: "Free me! Free me!"
But he did not halt.
He came to the bottom of the well and moved across it, passing among
broken stones and over fissures in the rocky floor. At last he reached the
opposite wall, wherein a great orange fire danced.
It became cherry-red as he approached, and when he stood before it, it
was the blue of a sapphire's heart.
It stood to twice his height, pulsing and twisting. From it, little
flamelets licked out toward him, but they drew back as if they fell against
an invisible barrier.
During his descent he had passed so many flames that he had lost count
of their number. He knew, too, that more lay hidden within the caverns that
open into the well bottom.
Each flame he had passed on the way down had addressed him, using its
own species of communication, so that the words had sounded drumlike within
his head: threatening words, and pleading, promising words. But no message
came to him from this great blue blaze, larger than any of the others. No
forms turned or twisted, tantalizing, within its bright heart. Flame it was,
and flame it remained.
He kindled a fresh torch and wedged it between two rocks.
"So, Hated One, you have returned!"
The words fell upon him like whiplashes. Steadying himself, he faced
the blue flame then and replied:
"You are called Taraka?"
"He who bound me here should know what I am called," came the words.
"Think not, oh Siddhartha, that because you wear a different body you go now
unrecognized. I look upon the flows of energy which are your real being--
not the flesh that masks them."
"I see," replied the other.
"Do you come to mock me in my prison?"
"Did I mock you in the days of the Binding?"
"No, you did not."
"I did that which had to be done, to preserve my own species. Men were
weak and few in number. Your kind fell upon them and would have destroyed
them."
"You stole our world, Siddhartha. You chained us here. What new
indignity would you lay upon us?"
"Perhaps there is a way in which some reparation may be made."
"What is it that you want?"
"Allies."
"You want us to take your part in a struggle?"
"That is correct."
"And when it is over, you will seek to bind us again."
"Not if we can work out some sort of agreement beforehand."
"Speak to me your terms," said the flame.
"In the old days your people walked, visible and invisible, in the
streets of the Celestial City."
"That is true."
"It is better fortified now."
"In what ways?"
"Vishnu the Preserver and Yama-Dharma, Lord of Death, have covered the
whole of Heaven, rather than just the City-- as it was in days of old-- with
what is said to be an impenetrable dome."
"There is no such thing as an impenetrable dome."
"I say only what I have heard."
"There are many ways into a city. Lord Siddhartha."
"You will find them all for me?"
"That is to be the price of my freedom?"
"Of your own freedom-- yes."
"What of the others of my kind?"
"If they, too, are to be freed, you must all agree to help me lay siege
to that City and take it."
"Free us, and Heaven shall fall!"
"You speak for the others?"
"I am Taraka. I speak for all."
"What assurance do you give, Taraka, that this bargain will be kept?"
"My word? I shall be happy to swear by anything you care to name -- "
"A facility with oaths is not the most reassuring quality in a
bargainer. And your strength is also your weakness in any bargaining at all.
You are so strong as to be unable to grant to another the power to control
you. You have no gods to swear by. The only thing you will honor is a
gambling debt, and there are no grounds for gaming here."
"You possess the power to control us."
"Individually, perhaps. But not collectively."
"It is a difficult problem," said Taraka. "I should give anything I
have to be free-- but then, all that I have is power -- pure power, in
essence uncommittable. A greater force might subdue it, but that is not the
answer. I do not really know how to give you satisfactory assurance that my
promise will be kept. If I were you, I certainly would not trust me."
"It is something of a dilemma. So I will free you now-- you alone-- to
visit the Pole and scout out the defenses of Heaven. In your absence, I will
consider the problem further. Do you likewise, and perhaps upon your return
an equitable arrangement can be made."
"Accepted! Release me from this doom!"
"Know then my power, Taraka," he said. "As I bind, so can I loose--
thus!"
The flame boiled forward out of the wall.
It rolled into a ball of fire and spun about the well like a comet; it
burned like a small sun, lighting up the darkness; it changed colors as it
fled about, so that the rocks shone both ghastly and pleasing.
Then it hovered above the head of the one called Siddhartha, sending
down its throbbing words upon him:
"You cannot know my pleasure to feel again my strength set free. I've a
mind to try your power once more."
The man beneath him shrugged.
The ball of flame coalesced. Shrinking, it grew brighter, and it slowly
settled to the floor.
It lay there quivering, like a petal fallen from some titanic bloom;
then it drifted slowly across the floor of Hellwell and re-entered the
niche.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Siddhartha.
"Yes," came the reply, after a time. "Your power is undimmed. Binder.
Free me once more."
"I grow tired of this sport, Taraka. Perhaps I'd best leave you as you
are and seek assistance elsewhere."
"No! I gave you my promise! What more would you have?"
"I would have an absence of contention between us. Either you will
serve me now in this matter, or you will not. That is all. Choose, and abide
by your choice-- and your word."
"Very well. Free me, and I will visit Heaven upon its mountain of ice,
and report back to you of its weaknesses."
"Then go!"
This time, the flame emerged more slowly. It swayed before him, took on
a roughly human outline.
"What is your power, Siddhartha? How do you do what you do?" it asked
him.
"Call it electrodirection," said the other, "mind over energy. It is as
good a term as any. But whatever you call it, do not seek to cross it again.
I can kill you with it, though no weapon formed of matter may be laid upon
you. Go now!"
Taraka vanished, like a firebrand plunged into a river, and Siddhartha
stood among stones, his torch lighting the darkness about him.
He rested, and a babble of voices filled his mind-- promising,
tempting, pleading. Visions of wealth and of splendor flowed before his
eyes. Wondrous harems were paraded before him, and banquets were laid at his
feet. Essences of musk and champac, and the bluish haze of burning incenses
drifted, soothing his soul, about him. He walked among flowers, followed by
bright-eyed girls who bore his wine cups, smiling; a silver voice sang to
him, and creatures not human danced upon the surface of a nearby lake. "Free
us, free us," they chanted. But he smiled and watched and did nothing.
Gradually, the prayers and the pleas and the promises turned to a chorus of
curses and threats. Armored skeletons advanced upon him, babies impaled upon
their blazing swords. There were pits all about him, from which fires leapt
up, smelling of brimstone. A serpent dangled from a branch before his face,
spitting venom. A rain of spiders and toads descended upon him.
"Free us-- or infinite will be thy agony!" cried the voices.
"If you persist," he stated, "Siddhartha shall grow angry, and you will
lose the one chance at freedom which you really do possess."
Then all was still about him, and he emptied his mind, drowsing.
He had two meals, there in the cavern, and then he slept again.
Later, Taraka returned in the form of a great-taloned bird and reported
to him:
"Those of my kind may enter through the air vents," he said, "but men
may not. There are also many elevator shafts within the mountain. Many men
might ride up the larger ones with ease. Of course, these are guarded. But
if the guards were slain and the alarms disconnected, this thing might be
accomplished. Also, there are times when the dome itself is opened in
various places, to permit flying craft to enter and to depart."
"Very well," said Siddhartha. "I've a kingdom, some weeks' journey
hence, where I rule. A regent has been seated in my place for many years,
but if I return there I can raise me an army. A new religion moves now
across the land. Men may now think less of the gods than once they did."
"You wish to sack Heaven?"
"Yes, I wish to lay open its treasures to the world."
"This is to my liking. It will not be easily won, but with an army of
men and an army of my kind we should be able to do it. Let us free my people
now, that we may begin."
"I believe I will simply have to trust you," said Siddhartha. "So yes,
let us begin," and he moved across the floor of Hellwell toward the first
deep tunnel beading downward.
That day he freed sixty-five of them, filling the caverns with their
color and their movement and their light. The air sounded with mighty cries
of joy and the noise of their passage as they swept about Hellwell, changing
shape constantly and exulting in their freedom.
Without warning, then, one took upon itself the form of a flying
serpent and swept down toward him, talons outstretched and slashing.
For a moment, his full attention lay upon it.
It uttered a brief, broken cry, and then it came apart, falling in a
shower of blue-white sparks.
Then these faded, and it was utterly vanished.
There was silence in the caverns, and the lights pulsed and dipped
about the walls.
Siddhartha directed his attention toward the largest point of light,
Taraka.
"Did that one attack me in order to test my strength?" he inquired. "To
see whether I can also kill, in the manner I told you I could?"
Taraka approached, hovered before him. "It was not by my bidding that
he attacked," he stated. "I feel that he was half crazed from his
confinement."
Siddhartha shrugged. "For a time now, disport yourselves as you would,"
he said. "I would have rest from this task," and he departed the smaller
cavern.
He returned to the bottom of the well, where he lay down upon his
blanket and dozed.
There came a dream.
He was running.
His shadow lay before him, and, as he ran upon it, it grew.
It grew until it was no longer his shadow but a grotesque outline.
Suddenly he knew that his shadow had been overrun by that of his pursuer:
overrun, overwhelmed, submerged and surmounted.
Then he knew a moment of terrible panic, there upon the blind plain
over which he fled.
He knew that it was now his own shadow.
The doom which had pursued him no longer lay at his back.
He knew that he was his own doom.
Knowing that he had finally caught up with himself, he laughed aloud,
wanting really to scream.
When he awoke again, he was walking.
He was walking up the twisted wall-trail of Hellwell.
As he walked, he passed the imprisoned flames.
Again, each cried out to him as he went by:
"Free us, masters!"
And slowly, about the edges of the ice that was his mind, there was a
thawing.
Masters.
Plural. Not singular.
Masters, they had said.
He knew then that he did not walk alone.
None of the dancing, flickering shapes moved through the darkness about
him, below him.
The ones who had been imprisoned were still imprisoned. The ones he had
freed were gone.
Now he climbed the high wall of Hellwell, no torch lighting his way.
But still, he saw.
He saw every feature of the rocky trail, as though by moonlight.
He knew that his eyes were incapable of this feat.
And he had been addressed in the plural.
And his body was moving, but was not under the direction of his will.
He made an effort to halt, to stand still.
He continued to advance up the trail, and it was then that his lips
moved, forming the words:
"You have awakened, I see. Good morning."
A question formed itself in his mind, to be answered immediately
through his own mouth:
"Yes, and how does it feel to be bound yourself, Binder-- in your own
body?"
Siddhartha formed another thought:
"I did not think any of your kind capable of taking control of me
against my will-- even as I slept."
"To give you an honest answer," said the other, "neither did I. But
then, I had at my disposal the combined powers of many of my kind. It seemed
to be worth the attempt."
"And of the others? Where are they?"
"Gone. To wander the world until I summon them."
"And what of these others who remain bound? Had you waited, I would
have freed them also."
"What care I of these others? I am free now, and in a body again! What
else matters?"
"I take it, then, that your promised assistance means nothing?"
"Not so," replied the demon. "We shall return to this matter in, say, a
lesser moon or so. The idea does appeal to me. I feel that a war with the
gods would be a very excellent thing. But first I wish to enjoy the
pleasures of the flesh for a time. Why should you begrudge me a little
entertainment after the centuries of boredom and imprisonment you have
wrought?"
"I must admit, however, that I do begrudge you this use of my person."
"Whatever the case, you must, for a time, put up with it. You, too,
shall be in a position to enjoy what I enjoy, so why not make the best of
it?"
"You state that you do intend to war against the gods?"
"Yes indeed. I wish I had thought of it myself in the old days.
Perhaps, then, we should never have been bound. Perhaps there would no
longer be men or gods upon this world. We were never much for concerted
action, though. Independence of spirit naturally accompanies our
independence of person. Each fought his own battles in the general conflict
with mankind. I am a leader, true-- by virtue of the fact that I am older
and stronger and wiser than the others. They come to me for counsel, they
serve me when I order them. But I have never ordered them all into battle. I
shall, though, later. The novelty will do much to relieve the monotony."
"I suggest you do not wait, for there will be no 'later', Taraka."
"Why not?"
"I came to Hellwell, the wrath of the gods swarming and buzzing at my
back. Now sixty-six demons are loose in the world. Very soon, your presence
will be felt. The gods will know who has done this thing, and they will take
steps against us. The element of surprise will be lost."
"We fought the gods in the days of old . . ."
"And these are not the days of old, Taraka. The gods are stronger now,
much stronger. Long have you been bound, and their might has grown over the
ages. Even if you command the first army of Rakasha in history, and backing
them in battle I raise me up a mighty army of men-- even then, will the
final result be a thing uncertain. To delay now is to throw everything
away."
"I wish you would not speak to me like this, Siddhartha, for you
trouble me."
"I mean to. For all your powers, if you meet the One in Red he will
drink your life with his eyes. He will come here to the Ratnagaris, for he
follows me. The freedom of demons is as a signpost, directing him hither. He
may bring others with him. You may find them more than a match for all of
you."
The demon did not reply. They reached the top of the well, and Taraka
advanced the two hundred paces to the great door, which now stood open. He
stepped out onto the ledge and looked downward.
"You doubt the power of the Rakasha, eh. Binder?" he asked. Then,
"Behold!"
He stepped outward, over the edge.
They did not fall.
They drifted, like the leaves he had dropped-- how long ago?
Downward.
They landed upon the trail halfway down the mountain called Channa.
"Not only do I contain your nervous system," said Taraka, "but I have
permeated your entire body and wrapped it all about with the energies of my
being. So send me your One in Red, who drinks life with his eyes. I should
like to meet him."
"Though you can walk on air," said Siddhartha, "you speak rashly when
you speak thus."
"The Prince Videgha holds his court not far from here, at Palamaidsu,"
said Taraka, "for I visited there on my return from Heaven. I understand he
is fond of gaming. Therefore, thither fare we."
"And if the God of Death should come to join the game?"
"Let him!" cried the other. "You cease to amuse me, Binder. Good night.
Go back to sleep!"
There was a small darkness and a great silence, growing and shrinking.
The days that followed were bright fragments.
There would come to him snatches of conversation or song, colorful
vistas of galleries, chambers, gardens. And once he looked upon a dungeon
where men were hung upon racks, and he heard himself laughing.
Between these fragments there came to him dreams and half dreams. They
were lighted with fire, they ran with blood and tears. In a darkened,
endless cathedral he rolled dice that were suns and planets. Meteors broke
fire above his head, and comets inscribed blazing arcs upon a vault of black
glass. There came to him a joy shot through with fear, and he knew it to be
mainly that of another, but it was partly his, too. The fear-- that was all
his.
When Taraka drank too much wine, or lay panting on his wide, low couch
in the harem, then was his grip loosened somewhat, upon the body that he had
stolen. But Siddhartha was still weak with the mind-bruise, and his body was
drunk or fatigued; and he knew that the time had not yet come to contest the
mastery of the demon-lord.
There were times when he saw, not through the eyes of the body that had
once been his, but saw as a demon saw, in all directions, and stripped flesh
and bone from those among whom he passed, to behold the flames of their
beings, colored with the hues and shades of their passions, flickering with
avarice and lust and envy, darting with greed and hunger, smouldering with
hate, waning with fear and pain. His hell was a many-colored place, somewhat
mitigated only by the cold blue blaze of a scholar's intellect, the white
light of a dying monk, the rose halo of a noble lady who fled his sight, and
the dancing, simple colors of children at play.
He stalked the high halls and wide galleries of the royal palace at
Palamaidsu, which were his winnings. The Prince Videgha lay in chains in his
own dungeon. Throughout the kingdom, his subjects were not aware that a
demon now sat upon the throne. Things seemed to be the same as they had
always been. Siddhartha had visions of riding through the streets of the
town on the back of an elephant. All the women of the town had been ordered
to stand before the doors of their dwellings. Of these, he chose those who
pleased him and had them taken back to his harem. Siddhartha realized, with
a sudden shock, that he was assisting in the choosing, disputing with Taraka
over the virtues of this or that matron, maid or lady. He had been touched
by the lusts of the demon-lord, and they were becoming his own. With this
realization, he came into a greater wakefulness, and it was not always the
hand of the demon which raised the wine horn to his lips, or twitched the
whip in the dungeon. He came to be conscious for greater periods of time,
and with a certain horror he knew that, within himself, as within every man,
there lies a demon capable of responding to his own kind.
Then, one day, he fought the power that ruled his body and bent his