mind. He had largely recovered, and he coexisted with Taraka in all his
doings, both as silent watcher and active participant.
They stood on the balcony above the garden, looking out across the day.
Taraka had, with a single gesture, turned all the flowers black. Lizardlike
creatures had come to dwell in the trees and the ponds, croaking and
flitting among the shadows. The incenses and perfumes which filled the air
were thick and cloying. Dark smokes coiled like serpents along the ground.
There had been three attempts upon his life. The captain of the palace
guard had been the last to try. But his blade had turned to a reptile in his
hand and struck at his face, taking out his eyes and filling his veins with
a venom that had caused him to darken and swell, to die crying for a drink
of water.
Siddhartha considered the ways of the demon, and in that moment he
struck.
His power had grown again, slowly, since that day in Hellwell when last
he had wielded it. Oddly independent of the brain of his body, as Yama had
once told him, the power turned like a slow pinwheel at the center of the
space that was himself.
It spun again faster, and he hurled it against the force of the other.
A cry escaped Taraka, and a counterthrust of pure energy came back at
Siddhartha like a spear.
Partly, he managed to deflect it, to absorb some of its force. Still,
there was pain and turmoil within him as the brunt of the attack touched
upon his being.
He did not pause to consider the pain, but struck again, as a spearman
strikes into the darkened burrow of a fearsome beast.
Again, he heard his lips cry out.
Then the demon was building black walls against his power.
But one by one, these walls fell before his onslaught.
And as they fought, they spoke:
"Oh man of many bodies," said Taraka, "why do you begrudge me a few
days within this one? It is not the body you were born into, and you, too,
do but borrow it for a time. Why then, do you feel my touch to be a thing of
defilement? One day you may wear another body, untouched by me. So why do
you consider my presence a pollution, a disease? Is it because there is that
within you which is like unto myself? Is it because you, too, know delight
in the ways of the Rakasha, tasting the pain you cause like a pleasure,
working your will as you choose upon whatsoever you choose? Is it because of
this? Because you, too, know and desire these things, but also bear that
human curse called guilt? If it is, I mock you in your weakness, Binder. And
I shall prevail against you."
"It is because I am what I am, demon," said Siddhartha, hurling his
energies back at him. "It is because I am a man who occasionally aspires to
things beyond the belly and the phallus. I am not not the saint the
Buddhists think me to be, and I am not the hero out of legend. I am a man
who knows much fear, and who occasionally feels guilt. Mainly, though, I am
a man who has set out to do a thing, and you are now blocking my way. Thus
you inherit my curse-- whether I win or whether I lose now, Taraka, your
destiny has already been altered. This is the curse of the Buddha-- you will
never again be the same as once you were."
And all that day they stood upon the balcony, garments drenched with
perspiration. Like a statue they stood, until the sun had gone down out of
the sky and the golden trail divided the dark bowl of the night. A moon
leapt up above the garden wall. Later, another joined it.
"What is the curse of the Buddha?" Taraka inquired, over and over
again. But Siddhartha did not reply.
He had beaten down the final wall, and they fenced now with energies
like flights of blazing arrows.
From a Temple in the distance there came the monotonous beating of a
drum, and occasionally a garden creature croaked, a bird cried out or a
swarm of insects settled upon them, fed, and swirled away.
Then, like a shower of stars, they came, riding upon the night wind . .
. the Freed of Hellwell, the other demons who had been loosed upon the
world.
They came in answer to Taraka's summons, adding their powers to his
own.
He became as a whirlwind, a tidal wave, a storm of lightnings.
Siddhartha felt himself swept over by a titanic avalanche, crushed,
smothered, buried.
The last thing he knew was the laughter within his throat.
How long it was before he recovered, he did not know. It was a slow
thing this time, and it was in a palace where demons walked as servants that
he woke up.
When the last anesthetic bonds of mental fatigue fell away, there was
strangeness about him. The grotesque revelries continued. Parties were held
in the dungeons, where the demons would animate corpses to pursue their
victims and embrace them. Dark miracles were wrought, such as the grove of
twisted trees which sprang from the marble flags of the throne room itself--
a grove wherein men slept without awakening, crying out as old nightmares
gave way to new. But a different strangeness had entered the palace.
Taraka was no longer pleased.
"What is the curse of the Buddha?" he inquired again, as he felt
Siddhartha's presence pressing once more upon his own.
Siddhartha did not reply at once.
The other continued, "I feel that I will give you back your body one
day soon. I grow tired of this sport, of this palace. I grow tired, and I
think perhaps the day draws near when we should make war with Heaven. What
say you to this. Binder? I told you I would keep my word."
Siddhartha did not answer him.
"My pleasures diminish by the day! Do you know why this is, Siddhartha?
Can you tell me why strange feelings now come over me, dampening my
strongest moments, weakening me and casting me down when I should be elated,
when I should be filled with joy? Is this the curse of the Buddha?"
"Yes," said Siddhartha.
"Then lift your curse, Binder, and I will depart this very day. I will
give you back this cloak of flesh. I long again for the cold, clean winds of
the heights! Will you free me now?"
"It is too late, oh chief of the Rakasha. You have brought this thing
upon yourself."
"What thing? How have you bound me this time?"
"Do you recall how, when we strove upon the balcony, you mocked me? You
told me that I, too, took pleasure in the ways of the pain which you work.
You were correct, for all men have within them both that which is dark and
that which is light. A man is a thing of many divisions, not a pure, clear
flame such as you once were. His intellect often wars with his emotions, his
will with his desires . . . his ideals are at odds with his environment, and
if he follows them, he knows keenly the loss of that which was old-- but if
he does not follow them, he feels the pain of having forsaken a new and
noble dream. Whatever he does represents both a gain and a loss, an arrival
and a departure. Always he mourns that which is gone and fears some part of
that which is new. Reason opposes tradition. Emotions oppose the
restrictions his fellow men lay upon him. Always, from the friction of these
things, there arises the thing you called the curse of man and mocked--
guilt!
"Know then, that as we existed together in the same body and I partook
of your ways, not always unwillingly, the road we followed was not one upon
which all the traffic moved in a single direction. As you twisted my will to
your workings, so was your will twisted, in turn, by my revulsion at some of
your deeds. You have learned the thing called guilt, and it will ever fall
as a shadow across your meat and your drink. This is why your pleasure has
been broken. This is why you seek now to flee. But it will do you no good.
It will follow you across the world. It will rise with you into the realms
of the cold, clean winds. It will pursue you wherever you go. This is the
curse of the Buddha."
Taraka covered his face with his hands. "So this is what it is like to
weep," he said, after a time.
Siddhartha did not reply.
"Curse you, Siddhartha," he said. "You have bound me again, to an even
more terrible prison than Hellwell."
"You have bound yourself. It is you who broke our pact. I kept it."
"Men suffer when they break pacts with demons," said Taraka, "but no
Rakasha has ever suffered so before."
Siddhartha did not reply.
On the following morning, as he sat to breakfast, there came a banging
upon the door of his chambers.
"Who dares?" he cried out, and the door burst inward, its hinges
tearing free of the wall, its bar snapping like a dry stick.
The head of a horned tiger upon the shoulders of an ape, great hooves
for feet, talons for hands, the Rakasha fell forward into the room, smoke
emerging from his mouth as he became transparent for a moment, returned to
full visibility, faded once more, returned again. His talons were dripping
something that was not blood and a wide burn lay across his chest. The air
was filled with the odor of singed hair and charred flesh.
"Master!" it cried. "A stranger has come, asking audience of thee!"
"And you did not succeed in convincing him that I was not available?"
"Lord, a score of human guardsmen fell upon him, and he gestured. . . .
He waved his hand at them, and there was a flash of light so bright that
even the Rakasha might not look upon it. For an instant only it lasted-- and
they were all of them vanished, as if they had never existed. . . . There
was also a large hole in the wall behind where they had stood. . . . There
was no rubble. Only a smooth, clean hole."
"And then you fell upon him?"
"Many of the Rakasha sprang for him-- but there is that about him which
repels us. He gestured again and three of our own kind were gone, vanished
in the light he hurls. . . . I did not take the full force of it, but was
only grazed by his power. He sent me, therefore, to deliver his message. . .
. I can no longer hold myself together-- "
With that he vanished, and a globe of fire hung where the creature had
lain. Now his words came into the mind, rather than being spoken across the
air.
"He bids you come to him without delay. Else, he says he will destroy
this palace."
"Did the three whom he burnt also take on again their own forms?"
"No," replied the Rakasha. "They are no more . . ."
"Describe this stranger!" ordered Siddhartha, forcing the words through
his own lips.
"He stands very tall," said the demon, "and he wears black breeches and
boots. Above the waist he has on him a strange garment. It is like a
seamless white glove, upon his right hand only, which extends all the way up
his arm and across his shoulders, wrapping his neck and rising tight and
smooth about his entire head. Only the lower part of his face is visible,
for he wears over his eyes large black lenses which extend half a span
outward from his face. At his belt he wears a short sheath of the same white
material as the garment-- not containing a dagger, however, but a wand.
Beneath the material of his garment, where it crosses his shoulders and
comes up upon his neck, there is a hump, as if he wears there a small pack."
"Lord Agni!" said Siddhartha. "You have described the God of Fire!"
"Aye, this must be," said the Rakasha. "For as I looked beyond his
flesh, to see the colors of his true being, I saw there a blaze like unto
the heart of the sun. If there be a God of Fire, then this indeed is he."
"Now must we flee," said Siddhartha, "for there is about to be a great
burning. We cannot fight with this one, so let us go quickly."
"I do not fear the gods," said Taraka, "and I should like to try the
power of this one."
"You cannot prevail against the Lord of Flame," said Siddhartha. "His
fire wand is invincible. It was given him by the deathgod."
"Then I shall wrest it from him and turn it against him."
"None may wield it without being blinded and losing a hand in the
process! This is why he wears that strange garment. Let us waste no more
time here!"
"I must see for myself," said Taraka. "I must."
"Do not let your new found guilt force you into flirting with
self-destruction."
"Guilt?" said Taraka. "That puny, gnawing mind-rat of which you taught
me? No, it is not guilt, Binder. It is that, where once I was supreme, save
for yourself, new powers have arisen in the world. The gods were not this
strong in the old days, and if they have indeed grown in power, then that
power must be tested-- by myself! It is of my nature, which is power, to
fight every new power which arises, and to either triumph over it or be
bound by it. I must test the strength of Lord Agni, to win over him."
"But we are two within this body!"
"That is true. . .. If this body be destroyed, then will I bear you
away with me, I promise. Already have I strengthened your flames after the
manner of my own land. If this body dies, you will continue to live as a
Rakasha. Our people once wore bodies, too, and I remember the art of
strengthening the flames so that they may burn independent of the body. This
has been done for you, so do not fear."
"Thanks a lot."
"Now let us confront the flame, and dampen it!"
They left the royal chambers and descended the stair. Far below,
prisoner in his own dungeon. Prince Videgha whimpered in his sleep.
They emerged from the door that lay behind the hangings at the back of
the throne. When they pushed aside these hangings, they saw that the great
hall was empty, save for the sleepers within the dark grove and the one who
stood in the middle of the floor, white arm folded over bare arm, a silver
wand caught between the fingers of his gloved hand.
"See how he stands?" said Siddhartha. "He is confident of his power,
and justly so. He is Agni of the Lokapalas. He can see to the farthest
unobstructed horizon, as though it lies at his fingertips. And he can reach
that far. He is said one night to have scored the moons themselves with that
wand. If he but touch its base against a contact within his glove, the
Universal Fire will leap forward with a blinding brilliance, obliterating
matter and dispersing energies which lie in its path. It is still not too
late to withdraw-- "
"Agni!" he heard his mouth cry out. "You have requested audience with
the one who rules here?"
The black lenses turned toward him. Agni's lips curled back to vanish
into a smile which dissolved into words:
"I thought I'd find you here," he said, his voice nasal and
penetrating. "All that holiness got to be too much and you had to cut loose,
eh? Shall I call you Siddhartha, or Tathagatha, or Mahasamatman-- or just
plain Sam?"
"You fool," he replied. "The one who was known to you as the Binder of
Demons-- by all or any of those names-- is bound now himself. You have the
privilege of addressing Taraka of the Rakasha, Lord of Hellwell!"
There was a click, and the lenses became red.
"Yes, I perceive the truth of what you say," answered the other. "I
look upon a case of demonic possession. Interesting. Doubtless cramped,
also." He shrugged, and then added, "But I can destroy two as readily as
one."
"Think you so?" inquired Taraka, raising both arms before him.
As he did, there was a rumbling and the black wood spread in an instant
across the floor, engulfing the one who stood there, its dark branches
writhing about him. The rumbling continued, and the floor moved several
inches beneath their feet. From overhead, there came a creaking and the
sound of snapping stone. Dust and gravel began to fall.
Then there was a blinding flash of light and the trees were gone,
leaving short stumps and blackened smudges upon the floor.
With a groan and a mighty crash, the ceiling fell.
As they stepped back through the door that lay behind the throne, they
saw the figure, which still stood in the center of the hall, raise his wand
directly above his head and move it in a tiny circle.
A cone of brilliance shot upward, dissolving everything it touched. A
smile still lay upon Agni's lips as the great stones rained down, none
falling anywhere near him.
The rumbling continued, and the floor cracked and the walls began to
sway.
They slammed the door and Sam felt a rushing giddiness as the window,
which a moment before had lain at the far end of the corridor, flashed past
him.
They coursed upward and outward through the heavens, and a tingling,
bubbling feeling filled his body, as though he were a being of liquid
through whom an electrical current was passing.
Looking back, with the sight of the demon who saw in all directions, he
beheld Palamaidsu, already so distant that it could have been framed and
hung upon the wall as a painting. On the high hill at the center of the
town, the palace of Videgha was falling in upon itself, and great streaks of
brilliance, like reversed lightning bolts, were leaping from the ruin into
the heavens.
"That is your answer, Taraka," he said. "Shall we go back and try his
power again?"
"I had to find out," said the demon.
"Now let me warn you further. I did not jest when I said that he can
see to the farthest horizon. If he should free himself soon and turn his
glance in this direction, he will detect us. I do not think you can move
faster than light, so I suggest you fly lower and utilize the terrain for
cover."
"I have rendered us invisible, Sam."
"The eyes of Agni can see deeper into the red and farther into the
violet ranges than can those of a man."
They lost altitude then, rapidly. Before Palamaidsu, however, Sam saw
that the only evidence which remained of the palace of Videgha was a cloud
of dust upon a gray hillside.
Moving like a whirlwind, they sped far into the north, until at last
the Ratnagaris lay beneath them. When they came to the mountain called
Channa, they drifted down past its peak and came to a landing upon the ledge
before the opened entrance to Hellwell.
They stepped within and closed the door.
"Pursuit will follow," said Sam, "and even Hellwell will not stand
against it."
"How confident they are of their power," said Taraka, "to send only
one!"
"Do you feel that confidence to be unwarranted?"
"No," said Taraka. "But what of the One in Red of whom you spoke, who
drinks life with his eyes? Did you not think they would send Lord Yama,
rather than Agni?"
"Yes," said Sam, as they moved back toward the well, "I was sure that
he would follow, and I still feel that he will. When last I saw him, I
caused him some distress. I feel he would hunt me anywhere. Who knows, he
may even now be lying in ambush at the bottom of Hellwell itself."
They came to the lip of the well and entered upon the trail.
"He does not wait within," Taraka announced. "I would even now be
contacted by those who wait, bound, if any but the Rakasha had passed this
way."
"He will come," said Sam, "and when the Red One comes to Hellwell, he
will not be stayed in his course."
"But many will try," said Taraka. "There is the first."
The first flame came into view, in its niche beside the trail.
As they passed by, Sam freed it, and it sprang into the air like a
bright bird and spiraled down the well.
Step by step they descended, and from each niche fire spilled forth and
flowed outward. At Taraka's bidding, some rose and vanished over the edge of
the well, departing through the mighty door which bore the words of the gods
upon its outer face.
When they reached the bottom of the well, Taraka said, "Let us free
those who lie locked in the caverns, also."
So they made their way through the passages and deep caverns, freeing
the demons locked therein.
Then, after a time-- how much time, he could never tell-- they had all
been freed.
The Rakasha assembled then about the cavern, standing in great
phalanxes of flame, and their cries all came together into one steady,
ringing note which rolled and rolled and beat within his head, until he
realized, startled at the thought, that they were singing.
"Yes," said Taraka, "it is the first time in ages that they have done
so."
Sam listened to the vibrations within his skull, catching something of
the meaning behind the hiss and the blaze, the feelings that accompanied it
falling into words and stresses that were more familiar to his own mind:
We are the legions of Hellwell, damned,
The banished ones of fallen flame.
We are the race undone by man.
So man we curse. Forget his name!
This world was ours before the gods,
In days before the race of men.
And when the men and gods have gone,
This world will then be ours again.
The mountains fall, the seas dry out,
The moons shall vanish from the sky.
The Bridge of Gold will one day fall,
And all that breathes must one day die.
But we of Hellwell shall prevail,
When fail the gods, when fail the men.
The legions of the damned die not.
We wait, we wait, to rise again!
Sam shuddered as they sang on and on, recounting their vanished
glories, confident of their ability to outlast any circumstance, to meet any
force with the cosmic judo of a push and a tug and a long wait, watching
anything of which they disapproved turn its strength upon itself and pass.
Almost, in that moment, he believed that what they sang was truth, and that
one day there would be none but the Rakasha, flitting above the peeked
landscape of a dead world.
Then he turned his mind to other matters and forced the mood from him.
But in the days that followed, and even, on occasion, years afterward, it
returned to plague his efforts and mock his joys, to make him wonder, know
guilt, feel sadness and so be humbled.
After a time, one of the Rakasha who had left earlier re-entered and
descended the well. He hovered in the air and reported what he had seen. As
he spoke, his fires flowed into the shape of a tau cross.
"This is the form of that chariot," he said, "which blazed through the
sky and then fell, coming to rest in the valley beyond Southpeak."
"Binder, do you know this vessel?" asked Taraka.
"I have heard it described before," said Sam. "It is the thunder
chariot of Lord Shiva.
"Describe its occupant," he said to the demon.
"There were four. Lord."
"Four?"
"Yes. There is the one you have described as Agni, Lord of the Fires.
With him is one who wears the horns of a bull set upon a burnished helm--
his armor shows like aged bronze, but it is not bronze; it is worked about
with the forms of many serpents, and it does not seem to burden him as he
moves. In his one hand he holds a gleaming trident, and he bears no shield
before his body."
"This one is Shiva," said Sam.
"And walking with these two there comes one all in red, whose gaze is
dark. This one does not speak, but occasionally his glances fall upon the
woman who walks by his side, to his left. She is fair of hair and
complexion, and her armor matches his red. Her eyes are like the sea, and
she smiles often with lips the color of the blood of men. About her throat
she wears a necklace of skulls. She bears a bow, and upon her belt is a
short sword. She holds in her hands a strange instrument, like a black
scepter ending in a silver skull that is also a wheel."
"These two be Yama and Kali," said Sam. "Now hear me, Taraka, mightiest
of the Rakasha, while I tell you what moves against us. The power of Agni
you know full well, and of the One in Red have I already spoken. Now, she
who walks at the left hand of Death bears also the gaze that drinks the life
it beholds. Her scepter-wheel screams like the trumpets that signalize the
ending of the Yuga, and all who come before its wailing are cast down and
confused. She is as much to be feared as her Lord, who is ruthless and
invincible. But the one with the trident is the Lord of Destruction himself.
It is true that Yama is King of the Dead and Agni Lord of the Flames, but
the power of Shiva is the power of chaos. His is the force which separates
atom from atom, breaking down the forms of all things upon which he turns
it. Against these four, the freed might of Hellwell itself cannot stand.
Therefore, let us depart this place immediately, for they are most assuredly
coming here."
"Did I not promise you, Binder," said Taraka, "that I would help you to
fight the gods?"
"Yes, but that of which I spoke was to be a surprise attack. These have
taken upon themselves their Aspects now, and have raised up their
Attributes. Had they chosen, without even landing the thunder chariot,
Channa would no longer exist, but in the place of this mountain there would
be a deep crater, here in the midst of the Ratnagaris. We must flee, to
fight them another day."
"Do you remember the curse of the Buddha?" asked Taraka. "Do you
remember how you taught me of guilt, Siddhartha? I remember, and I feel I
owe you this victory. I owe you something for your pains, and I will give
these gods into your hands in payment."
"No! If you would serve me at all, do it at another time than this!
Serve me now by bearing me away from this place, far and fast!"
"Are you afraid of this encounter. Lord Siddhartha?"
"Yes, yes I am! For it is foolhardy! What of your song-- 'We wait, we
wait, to rise again!'? Where is the patience of the Rakasha? You say you
will wait for the seas to dry and the mountains to fall, for the moons to
vanish from the sky-- but you cannot wait for me to name the time and the
battlefield! I know them far better than you, these gods, for once I was one
of them. Do not do this rash thing now. If you would serve me, save me from
this meeting!"
"Very well. I hear you, Siddhartha. Your words move me, Sam. But I
would try their strength. So I shall send some of the Rakasha against them.
But we shall journey far, you and I, far down to the roots of the world.
There we will await the report of victory. If, somehow, the Rakasha should
lose the encounter, then will I bear you far away from here and restore to
you your body. I would wear it a few hours more, however, to savor your
passions in this fighting."
Sam bowed his head.
"Amen," he said, and with a tingling, bubbling sensation, he felt
himself lifted from the floor and borne along vast cavernways uncharted by
men.
As they sped from chamber to vaulted chamber, down tunnels and chasms
and wells, through labyrinths and grottoes and corridors of stone, Sam set
his mind adrift, to move down the ways of memory and back. He thought upon
the days of his recent ministry, when he had sought to graft the teachings
of Gotama upon the stock of the religion by which the world was ruled, He
thought upon the strange one, Sugata, whose hands had held both death and
benediction. Over the years, their names would merge and their deeds would
be mingled. He had lived too long not to know how time stirred the pots of
legend. There had been a real Buddha, he knew that now. The teaching he had
offered, no matter how spuriously, had attracted this true believer, this
one who had somehow achieved enlightenment, marked men's minds with his
sainthood, and then gone willingly into the hands of Death himself.
Tathagatha and Sugata would be part of a single legend, he knew, and
Tathagatha would shine in the light shed by his disciple. Only the one
Dhamma would survive. Then his mind went back to the battle at the Hall of
Karma, and to the machinery still cached in a secret place. And he thought
then upon the countless transfers he had undergone before that time, of the
battles he had fought, of the women he had loved across the ages; he thought
upon what a world could be and what this world was, and why. Then he was
taken again with his rage against the gods. He thought upon the days when a
handful of them had fought the Rakasha and the Nagas, the Gandharvas and the
People-of-the-Sea, the Kataputna demons and the Mothers of the Terrible
Glow, the Dakshinis and the Pretas, the Skandas and the Pisakas, and had
won, tearing a world loose from chaos and building its first city of men. He
had seen that city pass through all the stages through which a city can
pass, until now it was inhabited by those who could spin their minds for a
moment and transform themselves into gods, taking upon them an Aspect that
strengthened their bodies and intensified their wills and extended the power
of their desires into Attributes, which fell with a force like magic upon
those against whom they turned them. He thought upon this city and these
gods, and he knew of its beauty and its tightness, its ugliness and its
wrongness. He thought of its splendor and its color, in contrast to that of
the rest of the world, and he wept as he raged, for he knew that he could
never feel either wholly right or wholly wrong in opposing it. This was why
he had waited as long as he had, doing nothing. Now, whatever he did would
result in both victory and defeat, a success and a failure; and whether the
outcome of all his actions would be the passing or the continuance of the
dream of the city, the burden of the guilt would be his.
They waited in darkness.
For a long, silent while they waited. Time passed like an old man
climbing a hill. They stood upon a ledge above a black pool, and waited.
"Should we not have heard by now?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"What shall we do?"
"What do you mean?"
"If they do not come at all. How long shall we wait here?"
"They will come, singing."
"I hope so."
But there came no singing, or movement. About them was the stillness of
time that had no objects upon which to wear.
"How long have we waited?"
"I do not know. Long."
"I feel that all is not well."
"You may be right. Shall we rise a few levels and investigate, or shall
I bear you to your freedom now?"
"Let us wait awhile longer."
"Very well."
Again, there was silence. They paced within it.
"What was that?"
"What?"
"A sound."
"I heard nothing and we are using the same ears."
"Not with the ears of the body-- there it is again!"
"I heard nothing, Taraka."
"It continues. It is like a scream, but it does not end."
"Far?"
"Yes, quite distant. Listen my way."
"Yes! I believe it is the scepter of Kali. The battle, then, goes on."
"This long? Then the gods are stronger than I had supposed."
"No, the Rakasha are stronger than I had supposed."
"Whether we win or lose, Siddhartha, the gods are presently engaged. If
we can get by them, their vessel may be unattended. Do you want it?"
"Steal the thunder chariot? That is a thought. . . . It is a mighty
weapon, as well as transportation. What might our chances be?"
"I am certain the Rakasha can hold them for as long as is necessary--
and it is a long climb up Hellwell. We need not use the trail ourself. I
grow tired, but I can still bear us across the air."
"Let us rise a few levels and investigate."
They left their ledge by the black pool, and time beat again about them
as they passed upward.
As they advanced, a globe of light moved to meet them. It settled upon
the floor of the cavern and grew into a tree of green fire.
"How goes the battle?" asked Taraka.
"We hold them," it reported, "but we cannot close with them."
"Why not?"
"There is that about them which repels. I do not know how to call it,
but we cannot draw too near."
"How then do you fight?"
"A steady storm of rocks rages about them. We hurl fire and water and
great spinning winds, also."
"And how do they respond to this?"
"The trident of Shiva cuts a path through everything. But no matter how
much he destroys, we raise up more against him. So he stands like a statue,
uncreating storms we will not let end. Occasionally, he swerves to kill,
while the Lord of Fires holds back the attack. The scepter of the goddess
slows those who face upon it. Once slowed, they meet the trident or the hand
or the eyes of Death."
"And you have not succeeded in harming them?"
"No."
"Where do they stand?"
"Part way down the well wall. They are still near to the top. They
descend slowly."
"How many have we lost?"
"Eighteen."
"Then it was a mistake to end our waiting to begin this battle. The
cost is too high and nothing is being gained. . .. Sam, do you want to try
for the chariot?"
"It is worth a risk. . .. Yes, let us try."
"Go then," he instructed the Rakasha who branched and swayed before
him. "Go, and we shall follow more slowly. We will rise along the side of
the wall opposite them. When we begin the ascent, redouble your attack.
Occupy them entirely until we have passed. Hold them then to give us time in
which to steal their chariot from the valley. When this has been
accomplished, I will return to you in my true form and we can put an end to
the fighting."
"I obey," replied the other, and he fell upon the floor to become a
green serpent of light, and slithered off ahead of them.
They rushed forward, running part of the way, to conserve the strength
of the demon for the final necessary thrust against gravitation. They had
journeyed a great distance beneath the Ratnagaris, and the return trip
seemed endless.
Finally, though, they came upon the floor of the well; and it was
lighted sufficiently so that, even with the eyes of his body, Sam could see
clearly about him. The noise was deafening. If he and Taraka had had to rely
upon speech for communication, there would have been no communication.
Like some fantastic orchid upon an ebon bough, the fire bloomed upon
the wall of the well. As Agni waved his wand, it changed its shape,
writhing. In the air, like bright insects, danced the Rakasha. The rushing
of winds was one loudness, and the rattling of many stones was another.
Above it all was the ululating cry of the silver skull-wheel, which Kali
waved like a fan before her face; and this was even more terrible when it
rose beyond the range of hearing, but still screamed. Rocks split and melted
and dissolved in midair, their white-hot fragments leaping like sparks from
a forge, out and downward. They bounced and rolled, and glowed redly in the
shadows of Hellwell. The surrounding walls of the well were pocked and
gouged and scored in the places where the flame and the chaos had touched.
"Now," said Taraka, "we go!"
They rose into the air and moved up the side of the well. The power of
the Rakasha's attack increased, to be answered with an intensified
counterattack. Sam covered his ears with his hands, but it did no good
against the burning needles behind his eyes, which stirred whenever the
silver skull swept in his direction. A short distance to his left, a whole
section of rock vanished abruptly.
"They have not detected us," said Taraka.
"Yet," answered Sam. "That accursed Fire god can look through a sea of
ink to spot a shifting grain of sand. If he turns in this direction, I hope
you can dodge his-- "
"How was that?" asked Taraka, as they were suddenly forty feet higher
and somewhat farther to the left.
They sped upward now, and a line of melting rock pursued them. Then
this was interrupted as the demons set up a wailing and tore loose gigantic
boulders, which they hurled upon the gods, with the accompaniment of
hurricanes and sheets of fire. They reached the lip of the well, passed
above it and scurried back out of range.
"We must go all the way around now, to reach the corridor which leads
to the door."
A Rakasha rose from out of the well and sped to their side.
"They retreat!" he cried. "The goddess has fallen. The One in Red
supports her as they flee!"
"They do not retreat," said Taraka. "They move to cut us off. Block
their way! Destroy the trail! Hurry!"
The Rakasha dropped like a meteor back into the well.
"Binder, I grow tired. I do not know whether I can bear us from the
ledge outside all the way to the ground below."
"Can you manage it part of the way?"
"Yes."
"That first three hundred feet or so where the trail is narrow?"
"I think so."
"Good!"
They ran.
As they fled along the rim of Hellwell, another Rakasha rose up and
kept pace with them.
"I report!" he cried. "We have destroyed the trail twice. Each time,
the Lord of Flames has burnt a new one!"
"Then naught more can be done! Stay with us now! We need your
assistance in another matter."
It sped on ahead of them, a crimson wedge lighting their way.
They rounded the well and raced up the tunnel. When they reached its
end, they hurled the door wide and stepped out onto the ledge. The Rakasha
who had led the way slammed the door behind them, saying, "They pursue!"
Sam stepped over the ledge. As he fell, the door glowed for an instant,
then melted above him.
With the help of the second Rakasha, they descended the entire distance
to the base of Channa and moved up a trail and around a bend. The foot of a
mountain now shielded them from the gods. But this rock was lashed with
flame in an instant.
The second Rakasha shot high into the air, wheeled and vanished.
They ran along the trail, heading toward the valley that held the
chariot. By the time they reached it, the Rakasha had returned.
"Kali and Yama and Agni descend," he stated. "Shiva stays behind,
holding the corridor. Agni leads the pursuit. The One in Red helps the
goddess, who is limping."
Before them, in the valley, lay the thunder chariot. Slim and
unadorned, the color of bronze, though it was not bronze, it stood upon a
wide, grassy plain. It looked like a fallen prayer tower or a giant's house
key or some necessary part of a celestial instrument of music that had
slipped free of a starry constellation and dropped to the ground. It seemed
to be somehow incomplete, although the eye could not fault its lines. It
held that special beauty that belongs to the highest orders of weapons,
requiring function to make it complete.
Sam moved to its side, found the hatch, entered.
"You can operate this chariot. Binder?" asked Taraka. "Make it race
through the heavens, spitting destruction across the land?"
"I'm sure Yama would keep the controls as simple as possible. He
streamlines whenever he can. I've flown the jets of Heaven before, and I'm
banking that this is of the same order."
He ducked into the cabin, settled into the control seat and stared at
the panel before him.
"Damn!" he announced, his hand starting forward and twitching back.
The other Rakasha appeared suddenly, passing through the metal wall of
the ship and hovering above the console.
"The gods move rapidly," he announced. "Particularly Agni."
Sam snapped a series of switches and pressed a button. Lights came on
all over the instrument panel and a humming sound began within it.
"How far is he?" asked Taraka.
"Almost halfway down. He widened the trail with his flames. He runs
upon it now, as if it were a roadway. He burn obstacles. He makes a clear
path."
Sam drew back on a lever and adjusted a dial, reading the indicators
before him. A shudder ran through the ship.
"Are you ready?" asked Taraka.
"I can't take off cold. It has to warm up. Also, this instrument board
is trickier than I'd thought."
"We run a close race."
"Yes."
From the distance, there came the sounds of several explosions rising
above the growing growl of the chariot. Sam pulled the lever forward another
notch, readjusted the dial.
"I go to slow them," said the Rakasha, and vanished as he had come.
Sam drew the lever two notches farther, and somewhere something
sputtered and died. The ship stood silent once more.
He pushed the lever back into its former position, spun the dial,
pushed the button again.
And again a shudder ran through the chariot, and somewhere a purring
began. Sam drew the lever one notch forward, adjusted the dial.
After a moment, he repeated it, and the purr became a soft growl
"Gone," said Taraka. "Dead."
"Who? What?"
"The one who went to stop the Lord of Flames. He failed."
There were more explosions.
"Hellwell is being destroyed," said Taraka.
Perspiration upon his brow, Sam waited with his hand on the lever.
"He comes now-- Agni!"
Sam looked through the long, slanted shield plate.
The Lord of Flames came into the valley.
"Good-bye, Siddhartha."
"Not yet," said Sam.
Agni looked at the chariot, raised his wand.
Nothing happened.
He stood, pointing the wand; and then he lowered it, shook it.
He raised it once more.
Again, no flame issued forth.
He reached behind his neck with his left hand, performed some
adjustment upon his pack. As he did this, light streamed from the wand,
burning a huge pit in the ground at his side.
He pointed the wand again.
Nothing.
Then he began running toward the ship.
"Electrodirection?" asked Taraka.
"Yes."
Sam drew back upon the lever, adjusted the dial farther. A huge roaring
grew about him. He pressed another button and there came a crackling sound
from the rear of the vessel. He moved another dial as Agni reached the
hatch.
There was a flash of flame and a metallic clanging.
He rose from his seat and moved out of the cabin and into the corridor.
Agni had entered, and he pointed the wand.
"Do not move-- Sam! Demon!" he cried, above the roar of the engines;
and as he spoke, his lenses clicked red and he smiled. "Demon," he stated.
"Do not move, or you and your host will burn together!"
Sam sprang upon him. Agni fell easily when he struck, for he had not
believed that the other would reach him.
"Short circuit, eh?" said Sam, and hit him across the throat.
"Or sunspots?" and he struck him in the temple.
Agni fell to his side, and Sam hit him a final blow with the edge of
his hand, just above the collarbone.
He kicked the wand the length of the corridor, and as he moved to close
the hatch he knew that it was too late.
"Go now, Taraka," he said. "This is my fight from here on. You can do
nothing more."
"I promised my assistance."
"You have none to give, now. Get out while still you can."
"If such is your will. But I have a final thing to say to you -- "
"Save it! Next time I'm in the neighborhood-- "
"Binder, it is this thing I learned of you-- I am sorry. I - "
There was a terrible twisting, wrenching sensation within his body and
mind, as the death-gaze of Yama fell upon him and struck deeper than his own
being.
Kali, too, looked into his eyes; and as she did so, she raised her
screaming scepter.
It was as the lifting of one shadow and the falling of another.
"Good-bye, Binder," came the words within his mind.
Then the skull began its screaming.
He felt himself falling.
There was a throbbing.
It was within his head. It was all about him.
He was awakened by throbbing, and he felt himself covered with aches,
as with bandages.
There were chains upon his wrists and his ankles.
He was half seated on the floor of a small compartment. Beside the
doorway sat the One in Red, smoking.
Yama nodded, said nothing.
"Why am I alive?" Sam asked him.
"You live for purposes of keeping an appointment made many years ago in
Mahartha," said Yama. "Brahma is particularly anxious to see you once
again."
"But I am not especially anxious to see Brahma."
"Over the years, that has become somewhat apparent."
"I see you got out of the mud all right."
The other smiled. "You are a nasty man," he said.
"I know. I practice."
"I gather your business deal fell through?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Perhaps you can try recouping your losses. We're halfway to Heaven."
"Think I'd have a chance?"
"You just might. Times change. Brahma could be a merciful god this
week."
"My occupational therapist told me to specialize in lost causes."
Yama shrugged.
"What of the demon?" Sam asked. "The one who was with me?"
"I touched it," said Yama, "hard. I don't know whether I finished it or
just drove it away. But you needn't worry about it again. I doused you with
demon repellant. If the creature still lives, it will be a long time before
doings, both as silent watcher and active participant.
They stood on the balcony above the garden, looking out across the day.
Taraka had, with a single gesture, turned all the flowers black. Lizardlike
creatures had come to dwell in the trees and the ponds, croaking and
flitting among the shadows. The incenses and perfumes which filled the air
were thick and cloying. Dark smokes coiled like serpents along the ground.
There had been three attempts upon his life. The captain of the palace
guard had been the last to try. But his blade had turned to a reptile in his
hand and struck at his face, taking out his eyes and filling his veins with
a venom that had caused him to darken and swell, to die crying for a drink
of water.
Siddhartha considered the ways of the demon, and in that moment he
struck.
His power had grown again, slowly, since that day in Hellwell when last
he had wielded it. Oddly independent of the brain of his body, as Yama had
once told him, the power turned like a slow pinwheel at the center of the
space that was himself.
It spun again faster, and he hurled it against the force of the other.
A cry escaped Taraka, and a counterthrust of pure energy came back at
Siddhartha like a spear.
Partly, he managed to deflect it, to absorb some of its force. Still,
there was pain and turmoil within him as the brunt of the attack touched
upon his being.
He did not pause to consider the pain, but struck again, as a spearman
strikes into the darkened burrow of a fearsome beast.
Again, he heard his lips cry out.
Then the demon was building black walls against his power.
But one by one, these walls fell before his onslaught.
And as they fought, they spoke:
"Oh man of many bodies," said Taraka, "why do you begrudge me a few
days within this one? It is not the body you were born into, and you, too,
do but borrow it for a time. Why then, do you feel my touch to be a thing of
defilement? One day you may wear another body, untouched by me. So why do
you consider my presence a pollution, a disease? Is it because there is that
within you which is like unto myself? Is it because you, too, know delight
in the ways of the Rakasha, tasting the pain you cause like a pleasure,
working your will as you choose upon whatsoever you choose? Is it because of
this? Because you, too, know and desire these things, but also bear that
human curse called guilt? If it is, I mock you in your weakness, Binder. And
I shall prevail against you."
"It is because I am what I am, demon," said Siddhartha, hurling his
energies back at him. "It is because I am a man who occasionally aspires to
things beyond the belly and the phallus. I am not not the saint the
Buddhists think me to be, and I am not the hero out of legend. I am a man
who knows much fear, and who occasionally feels guilt. Mainly, though, I am
a man who has set out to do a thing, and you are now blocking my way. Thus
you inherit my curse-- whether I win or whether I lose now, Taraka, your
destiny has already been altered. This is the curse of the Buddha-- you will
never again be the same as once you were."
And all that day they stood upon the balcony, garments drenched with
perspiration. Like a statue they stood, until the sun had gone down out of
the sky and the golden trail divided the dark bowl of the night. A moon
leapt up above the garden wall. Later, another joined it.
"What is the curse of the Buddha?" Taraka inquired, over and over
again. But Siddhartha did not reply.
He had beaten down the final wall, and they fenced now with energies
like flights of blazing arrows.
From a Temple in the distance there came the monotonous beating of a
drum, and occasionally a garden creature croaked, a bird cried out or a
swarm of insects settled upon them, fed, and swirled away.
Then, like a shower of stars, they came, riding upon the night wind . .
. the Freed of Hellwell, the other demons who had been loosed upon the
world.
They came in answer to Taraka's summons, adding their powers to his
own.
He became as a whirlwind, a tidal wave, a storm of lightnings.
Siddhartha felt himself swept over by a titanic avalanche, crushed,
smothered, buried.
The last thing he knew was the laughter within his throat.
How long it was before he recovered, he did not know. It was a slow
thing this time, and it was in a palace where demons walked as servants that
he woke up.
When the last anesthetic bonds of mental fatigue fell away, there was
strangeness about him. The grotesque revelries continued. Parties were held
in the dungeons, where the demons would animate corpses to pursue their
victims and embrace them. Dark miracles were wrought, such as the grove of
twisted trees which sprang from the marble flags of the throne room itself--
a grove wherein men slept without awakening, crying out as old nightmares
gave way to new. But a different strangeness had entered the palace.
Taraka was no longer pleased.
"What is the curse of the Buddha?" he inquired again, as he felt
Siddhartha's presence pressing once more upon his own.
Siddhartha did not reply at once.
The other continued, "I feel that I will give you back your body one
day soon. I grow tired of this sport, of this palace. I grow tired, and I
think perhaps the day draws near when we should make war with Heaven. What
say you to this. Binder? I told you I would keep my word."
Siddhartha did not answer him.
"My pleasures diminish by the day! Do you know why this is, Siddhartha?
Can you tell me why strange feelings now come over me, dampening my
strongest moments, weakening me and casting me down when I should be elated,
when I should be filled with joy? Is this the curse of the Buddha?"
"Yes," said Siddhartha.
"Then lift your curse, Binder, and I will depart this very day. I will
give you back this cloak of flesh. I long again for the cold, clean winds of
the heights! Will you free me now?"
"It is too late, oh chief of the Rakasha. You have brought this thing
upon yourself."
"What thing? How have you bound me this time?"
"Do you recall how, when we strove upon the balcony, you mocked me? You
told me that I, too, took pleasure in the ways of the pain which you work.
You were correct, for all men have within them both that which is dark and
that which is light. A man is a thing of many divisions, not a pure, clear
flame such as you once were. His intellect often wars with his emotions, his
will with his desires . . . his ideals are at odds with his environment, and
if he follows them, he knows keenly the loss of that which was old-- but if
he does not follow them, he feels the pain of having forsaken a new and
noble dream. Whatever he does represents both a gain and a loss, an arrival
and a departure. Always he mourns that which is gone and fears some part of
that which is new. Reason opposes tradition. Emotions oppose the
restrictions his fellow men lay upon him. Always, from the friction of these
things, there arises the thing you called the curse of man and mocked--
guilt!
"Know then, that as we existed together in the same body and I partook
of your ways, not always unwillingly, the road we followed was not one upon
which all the traffic moved in a single direction. As you twisted my will to
your workings, so was your will twisted, in turn, by my revulsion at some of
your deeds. You have learned the thing called guilt, and it will ever fall
as a shadow across your meat and your drink. This is why your pleasure has
been broken. This is why you seek now to flee. But it will do you no good.
It will follow you across the world. It will rise with you into the realms
of the cold, clean winds. It will pursue you wherever you go. This is the
curse of the Buddha."
Taraka covered his face with his hands. "So this is what it is like to
weep," he said, after a time.
Siddhartha did not reply.
"Curse you, Siddhartha," he said. "You have bound me again, to an even
more terrible prison than Hellwell."
"You have bound yourself. It is you who broke our pact. I kept it."
"Men suffer when they break pacts with demons," said Taraka, "but no
Rakasha has ever suffered so before."
Siddhartha did not reply.
On the following morning, as he sat to breakfast, there came a banging
upon the door of his chambers.
"Who dares?" he cried out, and the door burst inward, its hinges
tearing free of the wall, its bar snapping like a dry stick.
The head of a horned tiger upon the shoulders of an ape, great hooves
for feet, talons for hands, the Rakasha fell forward into the room, smoke
emerging from his mouth as he became transparent for a moment, returned to
full visibility, faded once more, returned again. His talons were dripping
something that was not blood and a wide burn lay across his chest. The air
was filled with the odor of singed hair and charred flesh.
"Master!" it cried. "A stranger has come, asking audience of thee!"
"And you did not succeed in convincing him that I was not available?"
"Lord, a score of human guardsmen fell upon him, and he gestured. . . .
He waved his hand at them, and there was a flash of light so bright that
even the Rakasha might not look upon it. For an instant only it lasted-- and
they were all of them vanished, as if they had never existed. . . . There
was also a large hole in the wall behind where they had stood. . . . There
was no rubble. Only a smooth, clean hole."
"And then you fell upon him?"
"Many of the Rakasha sprang for him-- but there is that about him which
repels us. He gestured again and three of our own kind were gone, vanished
in the light he hurls. . . . I did not take the full force of it, but was
only grazed by his power. He sent me, therefore, to deliver his message. . .
. I can no longer hold myself together-- "
With that he vanished, and a globe of fire hung where the creature had
lain. Now his words came into the mind, rather than being spoken across the
air.
"He bids you come to him without delay. Else, he says he will destroy
this palace."
"Did the three whom he burnt also take on again their own forms?"
"No," replied the Rakasha. "They are no more . . ."
"Describe this stranger!" ordered Siddhartha, forcing the words through
his own lips.
"He stands very tall," said the demon, "and he wears black breeches and
boots. Above the waist he has on him a strange garment. It is like a
seamless white glove, upon his right hand only, which extends all the way up
his arm and across his shoulders, wrapping his neck and rising tight and
smooth about his entire head. Only the lower part of his face is visible,
for he wears over his eyes large black lenses which extend half a span
outward from his face. At his belt he wears a short sheath of the same white
material as the garment-- not containing a dagger, however, but a wand.
Beneath the material of his garment, where it crosses his shoulders and
comes up upon his neck, there is a hump, as if he wears there a small pack."
"Lord Agni!" said Siddhartha. "You have described the God of Fire!"
"Aye, this must be," said the Rakasha. "For as I looked beyond his
flesh, to see the colors of his true being, I saw there a blaze like unto
the heart of the sun. If there be a God of Fire, then this indeed is he."
"Now must we flee," said Siddhartha, "for there is about to be a great
burning. We cannot fight with this one, so let us go quickly."
"I do not fear the gods," said Taraka, "and I should like to try the
power of this one."
"You cannot prevail against the Lord of Flame," said Siddhartha. "His
fire wand is invincible. It was given him by the deathgod."
"Then I shall wrest it from him and turn it against him."
"None may wield it without being blinded and losing a hand in the
process! This is why he wears that strange garment. Let us waste no more
time here!"
"I must see for myself," said Taraka. "I must."
"Do not let your new found guilt force you into flirting with
self-destruction."
"Guilt?" said Taraka. "That puny, gnawing mind-rat of which you taught
me? No, it is not guilt, Binder. It is that, where once I was supreme, save
for yourself, new powers have arisen in the world. The gods were not this
strong in the old days, and if they have indeed grown in power, then that
power must be tested-- by myself! It is of my nature, which is power, to
fight every new power which arises, and to either triumph over it or be
bound by it. I must test the strength of Lord Agni, to win over him."
"But we are two within this body!"
"That is true. . .. If this body be destroyed, then will I bear you
away with me, I promise. Already have I strengthened your flames after the
manner of my own land. If this body dies, you will continue to live as a
Rakasha. Our people once wore bodies, too, and I remember the art of
strengthening the flames so that they may burn independent of the body. This
has been done for you, so do not fear."
"Thanks a lot."
"Now let us confront the flame, and dampen it!"
They left the royal chambers and descended the stair. Far below,
prisoner in his own dungeon. Prince Videgha whimpered in his sleep.
They emerged from the door that lay behind the hangings at the back of
the throne. When they pushed aside these hangings, they saw that the great
hall was empty, save for the sleepers within the dark grove and the one who
stood in the middle of the floor, white arm folded over bare arm, a silver
wand caught between the fingers of his gloved hand.
"See how he stands?" said Siddhartha. "He is confident of his power,
and justly so. He is Agni of the Lokapalas. He can see to the farthest
unobstructed horizon, as though it lies at his fingertips. And he can reach
that far. He is said one night to have scored the moons themselves with that
wand. If he but touch its base against a contact within his glove, the
Universal Fire will leap forward with a blinding brilliance, obliterating
matter and dispersing energies which lie in its path. It is still not too
late to withdraw-- "
"Agni!" he heard his mouth cry out. "You have requested audience with
the one who rules here?"
The black lenses turned toward him. Agni's lips curled back to vanish
into a smile which dissolved into words:
"I thought I'd find you here," he said, his voice nasal and
penetrating. "All that holiness got to be too much and you had to cut loose,
eh? Shall I call you Siddhartha, or Tathagatha, or Mahasamatman-- or just
plain Sam?"
"You fool," he replied. "The one who was known to you as the Binder of
Demons-- by all or any of those names-- is bound now himself. You have the
privilege of addressing Taraka of the Rakasha, Lord of Hellwell!"
There was a click, and the lenses became red.
"Yes, I perceive the truth of what you say," answered the other. "I
look upon a case of demonic possession. Interesting. Doubtless cramped,
also." He shrugged, and then added, "But I can destroy two as readily as
one."
"Think you so?" inquired Taraka, raising both arms before him.
As he did, there was a rumbling and the black wood spread in an instant
across the floor, engulfing the one who stood there, its dark branches
writhing about him. The rumbling continued, and the floor moved several
inches beneath their feet. From overhead, there came a creaking and the
sound of snapping stone. Dust and gravel began to fall.
Then there was a blinding flash of light and the trees were gone,
leaving short stumps and blackened smudges upon the floor.
With a groan and a mighty crash, the ceiling fell.
As they stepped back through the door that lay behind the throne, they
saw the figure, which still stood in the center of the hall, raise his wand
directly above his head and move it in a tiny circle.
A cone of brilliance shot upward, dissolving everything it touched. A
smile still lay upon Agni's lips as the great stones rained down, none
falling anywhere near him.
The rumbling continued, and the floor cracked and the walls began to
sway.
They slammed the door and Sam felt a rushing giddiness as the window,
which a moment before had lain at the far end of the corridor, flashed past
him.
They coursed upward and outward through the heavens, and a tingling,
bubbling feeling filled his body, as though he were a being of liquid
through whom an electrical current was passing.
Looking back, with the sight of the demon who saw in all directions, he
beheld Palamaidsu, already so distant that it could have been framed and
hung upon the wall as a painting. On the high hill at the center of the
town, the palace of Videgha was falling in upon itself, and great streaks of
brilliance, like reversed lightning bolts, were leaping from the ruin into
the heavens.
"That is your answer, Taraka," he said. "Shall we go back and try his
power again?"
"I had to find out," said the demon.
"Now let me warn you further. I did not jest when I said that he can
see to the farthest horizon. If he should free himself soon and turn his
glance in this direction, he will detect us. I do not think you can move
faster than light, so I suggest you fly lower and utilize the terrain for
cover."
"I have rendered us invisible, Sam."
"The eyes of Agni can see deeper into the red and farther into the
violet ranges than can those of a man."
They lost altitude then, rapidly. Before Palamaidsu, however, Sam saw
that the only evidence which remained of the palace of Videgha was a cloud
of dust upon a gray hillside.
Moving like a whirlwind, they sped far into the north, until at last
the Ratnagaris lay beneath them. When they came to the mountain called
Channa, they drifted down past its peak and came to a landing upon the ledge
before the opened entrance to Hellwell.
They stepped within and closed the door.
"Pursuit will follow," said Sam, "and even Hellwell will not stand
against it."
"How confident they are of their power," said Taraka, "to send only
one!"
"Do you feel that confidence to be unwarranted?"
"No," said Taraka. "But what of the One in Red of whom you spoke, who
drinks life with his eyes? Did you not think they would send Lord Yama,
rather than Agni?"
"Yes," said Sam, as they moved back toward the well, "I was sure that
he would follow, and I still feel that he will. When last I saw him, I
caused him some distress. I feel he would hunt me anywhere. Who knows, he
may even now be lying in ambush at the bottom of Hellwell itself."
They came to the lip of the well and entered upon the trail.
"He does not wait within," Taraka announced. "I would even now be
contacted by those who wait, bound, if any but the Rakasha had passed this
way."
"He will come," said Sam, "and when the Red One comes to Hellwell, he
will not be stayed in his course."
"But many will try," said Taraka. "There is the first."
The first flame came into view, in its niche beside the trail.
As they passed by, Sam freed it, and it sprang into the air like a
bright bird and spiraled down the well.
Step by step they descended, and from each niche fire spilled forth and
flowed outward. At Taraka's bidding, some rose and vanished over the edge of
the well, departing through the mighty door which bore the words of the gods
upon its outer face.
When they reached the bottom of the well, Taraka said, "Let us free
those who lie locked in the caverns, also."
So they made their way through the passages and deep caverns, freeing
the demons locked therein.
Then, after a time-- how much time, he could never tell-- they had all
been freed.
The Rakasha assembled then about the cavern, standing in great
phalanxes of flame, and their cries all came together into one steady,
ringing note which rolled and rolled and beat within his head, until he
realized, startled at the thought, that they were singing.
"Yes," said Taraka, "it is the first time in ages that they have done
so."
Sam listened to the vibrations within his skull, catching something of
the meaning behind the hiss and the blaze, the feelings that accompanied it
falling into words and stresses that were more familiar to his own mind:
We are the legions of Hellwell, damned,
The banished ones of fallen flame.
We are the race undone by man.
So man we curse. Forget his name!
This world was ours before the gods,
In days before the race of men.
And when the men and gods have gone,
This world will then be ours again.
The mountains fall, the seas dry out,
The moons shall vanish from the sky.
The Bridge of Gold will one day fall,
And all that breathes must one day die.
But we of Hellwell shall prevail,
When fail the gods, when fail the men.
The legions of the damned die not.
We wait, we wait, to rise again!
Sam shuddered as they sang on and on, recounting their vanished
glories, confident of their ability to outlast any circumstance, to meet any
force with the cosmic judo of a push and a tug and a long wait, watching
anything of which they disapproved turn its strength upon itself and pass.
Almost, in that moment, he believed that what they sang was truth, and that
one day there would be none but the Rakasha, flitting above the peeked
landscape of a dead world.
Then he turned his mind to other matters and forced the mood from him.
But in the days that followed, and even, on occasion, years afterward, it
returned to plague his efforts and mock his joys, to make him wonder, know
guilt, feel sadness and so be humbled.
After a time, one of the Rakasha who had left earlier re-entered and
descended the well. He hovered in the air and reported what he had seen. As
he spoke, his fires flowed into the shape of a tau cross.
"This is the form of that chariot," he said, "which blazed through the
sky and then fell, coming to rest in the valley beyond Southpeak."
"Binder, do you know this vessel?" asked Taraka.
"I have heard it described before," said Sam. "It is the thunder
chariot of Lord Shiva.
"Describe its occupant," he said to the demon.
"There were four. Lord."
"Four?"
"Yes. There is the one you have described as Agni, Lord of the Fires.
With him is one who wears the horns of a bull set upon a burnished helm--
his armor shows like aged bronze, but it is not bronze; it is worked about
with the forms of many serpents, and it does not seem to burden him as he
moves. In his one hand he holds a gleaming trident, and he bears no shield
before his body."
"This one is Shiva," said Sam.
"And walking with these two there comes one all in red, whose gaze is
dark. This one does not speak, but occasionally his glances fall upon the
woman who walks by his side, to his left. She is fair of hair and
complexion, and her armor matches his red. Her eyes are like the sea, and
she smiles often with lips the color of the blood of men. About her throat
she wears a necklace of skulls. She bears a bow, and upon her belt is a
short sword. She holds in her hands a strange instrument, like a black
scepter ending in a silver skull that is also a wheel."
"These two be Yama and Kali," said Sam. "Now hear me, Taraka, mightiest
of the Rakasha, while I tell you what moves against us. The power of Agni
you know full well, and of the One in Red have I already spoken. Now, she
who walks at the left hand of Death bears also the gaze that drinks the life
it beholds. Her scepter-wheel screams like the trumpets that signalize the
ending of the Yuga, and all who come before its wailing are cast down and
confused. She is as much to be feared as her Lord, who is ruthless and
invincible. But the one with the trident is the Lord of Destruction himself.
It is true that Yama is King of the Dead and Agni Lord of the Flames, but
the power of Shiva is the power of chaos. His is the force which separates
atom from atom, breaking down the forms of all things upon which he turns
it. Against these four, the freed might of Hellwell itself cannot stand.
Therefore, let us depart this place immediately, for they are most assuredly
coming here."
"Did I not promise you, Binder," said Taraka, "that I would help you to
fight the gods?"
"Yes, but that of which I spoke was to be a surprise attack. These have
taken upon themselves their Aspects now, and have raised up their
Attributes. Had they chosen, without even landing the thunder chariot,
Channa would no longer exist, but in the place of this mountain there would
be a deep crater, here in the midst of the Ratnagaris. We must flee, to
fight them another day."
"Do you remember the curse of the Buddha?" asked Taraka. "Do you
remember how you taught me of guilt, Siddhartha? I remember, and I feel I
owe you this victory. I owe you something for your pains, and I will give
these gods into your hands in payment."
"No! If you would serve me at all, do it at another time than this!
Serve me now by bearing me away from this place, far and fast!"
"Are you afraid of this encounter. Lord Siddhartha?"
"Yes, yes I am! For it is foolhardy! What of your song-- 'We wait, we
wait, to rise again!'? Where is the patience of the Rakasha? You say you
will wait for the seas to dry and the mountains to fall, for the moons to
vanish from the sky-- but you cannot wait for me to name the time and the
battlefield! I know them far better than you, these gods, for once I was one
of them. Do not do this rash thing now. If you would serve me, save me from
this meeting!"
"Very well. I hear you, Siddhartha. Your words move me, Sam. But I
would try their strength. So I shall send some of the Rakasha against them.
But we shall journey far, you and I, far down to the roots of the world.
There we will await the report of victory. If, somehow, the Rakasha should
lose the encounter, then will I bear you far away from here and restore to
you your body. I would wear it a few hours more, however, to savor your
passions in this fighting."
Sam bowed his head.
"Amen," he said, and with a tingling, bubbling sensation, he felt
himself lifted from the floor and borne along vast cavernways uncharted by
men.
As they sped from chamber to vaulted chamber, down tunnels and chasms
and wells, through labyrinths and grottoes and corridors of stone, Sam set
his mind adrift, to move down the ways of memory and back. He thought upon
the days of his recent ministry, when he had sought to graft the teachings
of Gotama upon the stock of the religion by which the world was ruled, He
thought upon the strange one, Sugata, whose hands had held both death and
benediction. Over the years, their names would merge and their deeds would
be mingled. He had lived too long not to know how time stirred the pots of
legend. There had been a real Buddha, he knew that now. The teaching he had
offered, no matter how spuriously, had attracted this true believer, this
one who had somehow achieved enlightenment, marked men's minds with his
sainthood, and then gone willingly into the hands of Death himself.
Tathagatha and Sugata would be part of a single legend, he knew, and
Tathagatha would shine in the light shed by his disciple. Only the one
Dhamma would survive. Then his mind went back to the battle at the Hall of
Karma, and to the machinery still cached in a secret place. And he thought
then upon the countless transfers he had undergone before that time, of the
battles he had fought, of the women he had loved across the ages; he thought
upon what a world could be and what this world was, and why. Then he was
taken again with his rage against the gods. He thought upon the days when a
handful of them had fought the Rakasha and the Nagas, the Gandharvas and the
People-of-the-Sea, the Kataputna demons and the Mothers of the Terrible
Glow, the Dakshinis and the Pretas, the Skandas and the Pisakas, and had
won, tearing a world loose from chaos and building its first city of men. He
had seen that city pass through all the stages through which a city can
pass, until now it was inhabited by those who could spin their minds for a
moment and transform themselves into gods, taking upon them an Aspect that
strengthened their bodies and intensified their wills and extended the power
of their desires into Attributes, which fell with a force like magic upon
those against whom they turned them. He thought upon this city and these
gods, and he knew of its beauty and its tightness, its ugliness and its
wrongness. He thought of its splendor and its color, in contrast to that of
the rest of the world, and he wept as he raged, for he knew that he could
never feel either wholly right or wholly wrong in opposing it. This was why
he had waited as long as he had, doing nothing. Now, whatever he did would
result in both victory and defeat, a success and a failure; and whether the
outcome of all his actions would be the passing or the continuance of the
dream of the city, the burden of the guilt would be his.
They waited in darkness.
For a long, silent while they waited. Time passed like an old man
climbing a hill. They stood upon a ledge above a black pool, and waited.
"Should we not have heard by now?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"What shall we do?"
"What do you mean?"
"If they do not come at all. How long shall we wait here?"
"They will come, singing."
"I hope so."
But there came no singing, or movement. About them was the stillness of
time that had no objects upon which to wear.
"How long have we waited?"
"I do not know. Long."
"I feel that all is not well."
"You may be right. Shall we rise a few levels and investigate, or shall
I bear you to your freedom now?"
"Let us wait awhile longer."
"Very well."
Again, there was silence. They paced within it.
"What was that?"
"What?"
"A sound."
"I heard nothing and we are using the same ears."
"Not with the ears of the body-- there it is again!"
"I heard nothing, Taraka."
"It continues. It is like a scream, but it does not end."
"Far?"
"Yes, quite distant. Listen my way."
"Yes! I believe it is the scepter of Kali. The battle, then, goes on."
"This long? Then the gods are stronger than I had supposed."
"No, the Rakasha are stronger than I had supposed."
"Whether we win or lose, Siddhartha, the gods are presently engaged. If
we can get by them, their vessel may be unattended. Do you want it?"
"Steal the thunder chariot? That is a thought. . . . It is a mighty
weapon, as well as transportation. What might our chances be?"
"I am certain the Rakasha can hold them for as long as is necessary--
and it is a long climb up Hellwell. We need not use the trail ourself. I
grow tired, but I can still bear us across the air."
"Let us rise a few levels and investigate."
They left their ledge by the black pool, and time beat again about them
as they passed upward.
As they advanced, a globe of light moved to meet them. It settled upon
the floor of the cavern and grew into a tree of green fire.
"How goes the battle?" asked Taraka.
"We hold them," it reported, "but we cannot close with them."
"Why not?"
"There is that about them which repels. I do not know how to call it,
but we cannot draw too near."
"How then do you fight?"
"A steady storm of rocks rages about them. We hurl fire and water and
great spinning winds, also."
"And how do they respond to this?"
"The trident of Shiva cuts a path through everything. But no matter how
much he destroys, we raise up more against him. So he stands like a statue,
uncreating storms we will not let end. Occasionally, he swerves to kill,
while the Lord of Fires holds back the attack. The scepter of the goddess
slows those who face upon it. Once slowed, they meet the trident or the hand
or the eyes of Death."
"And you have not succeeded in harming them?"
"No."
"Where do they stand?"
"Part way down the well wall. They are still near to the top. They
descend slowly."
"How many have we lost?"
"Eighteen."
"Then it was a mistake to end our waiting to begin this battle. The
cost is too high and nothing is being gained. . .. Sam, do you want to try
for the chariot?"
"It is worth a risk. . .. Yes, let us try."
"Go then," he instructed the Rakasha who branched and swayed before
him. "Go, and we shall follow more slowly. We will rise along the side of
the wall opposite them. When we begin the ascent, redouble your attack.
Occupy them entirely until we have passed. Hold them then to give us time in
which to steal their chariot from the valley. When this has been
accomplished, I will return to you in my true form and we can put an end to
the fighting."
"I obey," replied the other, and he fell upon the floor to become a
green serpent of light, and slithered off ahead of them.
They rushed forward, running part of the way, to conserve the strength
of the demon for the final necessary thrust against gravitation. They had
journeyed a great distance beneath the Ratnagaris, and the return trip
seemed endless.
Finally, though, they came upon the floor of the well; and it was
lighted sufficiently so that, even with the eyes of his body, Sam could see
clearly about him. The noise was deafening. If he and Taraka had had to rely
upon speech for communication, there would have been no communication.
Like some fantastic orchid upon an ebon bough, the fire bloomed upon
the wall of the well. As Agni waved his wand, it changed its shape,
writhing. In the air, like bright insects, danced the Rakasha. The rushing
of winds was one loudness, and the rattling of many stones was another.
Above it all was the ululating cry of the silver skull-wheel, which Kali
waved like a fan before her face; and this was even more terrible when it
rose beyond the range of hearing, but still screamed. Rocks split and melted
and dissolved in midair, their white-hot fragments leaping like sparks from
a forge, out and downward. They bounced and rolled, and glowed redly in the
shadows of Hellwell. The surrounding walls of the well were pocked and
gouged and scored in the places where the flame and the chaos had touched.
"Now," said Taraka, "we go!"
They rose into the air and moved up the side of the well. The power of
the Rakasha's attack increased, to be answered with an intensified
counterattack. Sam covered his ears with his hands, but it did no good
against the burning needles behind his eyes, which stirred whenever the
silver skull swept in his direction. A short distance to his left, a whole
section of rock vanished abruptly.
"They have not detected us," said Taraka.
"Yet," answered Sam. "That accursed Fire god can look through a sea of
ink to spot a shifting grain of sand. If he turns in this direction, I hope
you can dodge his-- "
"How was that?" asked Taraka, as they were suddenly forty feet higher
and somewhat farther to the left.
They sped upward now, and a line of melting rock pursued them. Then
this was interrupted as the demons set up a wailing and tore loose gigantic
boulders, which they hurled upon the gods, with the accompaniment of
hurricanes and sheets of fire. They reached the lip of the well, passed
above it and scurried back out of range.
"We must go all the way around now, to reach the corridor which leads
to the door."
A Rakasha rose from out of the well and sped to their side.
"They retreat!" he cried. "The goddess has fallen. The One in Red
supports her as they flee!"
"They do not retreat," said Taraka. "They move to cut us off. Block
their way! Destroy the trail! Hurry!"
The Rakasha dropped like a meteor back into the well.
"Binder, I grow tired. I do not know whether I can bear us from the
ledge outside all the way to the ground below."
"Can you manage it part of the way?"
"Yes."
"That first three hundred feet or so where the trail is narrow?"
"I think so."
"Good!"
They ran.
As they fled along the rim of Hellwell, another Rakasha rose up and
kept pace with them.
"I report!" he cried. "We have destroyed the trail twice. Each time,
the Lord of Flames has burnt a new one!"
"Then naught more can be done! Stay with us now! We need your
assistance in another matter."
It sped on ahead of them, a crimson wedge lighting their way.
They rounded the well and raced up the tunnel. When they reached its
end, they hurled the door wide and stepped out onto the ledge. The Rakasha
who had led the way slammed the door behind them, saying, "They pursue!"
Sam stepped over the ledge. As he fell, the door glowed for an instant,
then melted above him.
With the help of the second Rakasha, they descended the entire distance
to the base of Channa and moved up a trail and around a bend. The foot of a
mountain now shielded them from the gods. But this rock was lashed with
flame in an instant.
The second Rakasha shot high into the air, wheeled and vanished.
They ran along the trail, heading toward the valley that held the
chariot. By the time they reached it, the Rakasha had returned.
"Kali and Yama and Agni descend," he stated. "Shiva stays behind,
holding the corridor. Agni leads the pursuit. The One in Red helps the
goddess, who is limping."
Before them, in the valley, lay the thunder chariot. Slim and
unadorned, the color of bronze, though it was not bronze, it stood upon a
wide, grassy plain. It looked like a fallen prayer tower or a giant's house
key or some necessary part of a celestial instrument of music that had
slipped free of a starry constellation and dropped to the ground. It seemed
to be somehow incomplete, although the eye could not fault its lines. It
held that special beauty that belongs to the highest orders of weapons,
requiring function to make it complete.
Sam moved to its side, found the hatch, entered.
"You can operate this chariot. Binder?" asked Taraka. "Make it race
through the heavens, spitting destruction across the land?"
"I'm sure Yama would keep the controls as simple as possible. He
streamlines whenever he can. I've flown the jets of Heaven before, and I'm
banking that this is of the same order."
He ducked into the cabin, settled into the control seat and stared at
the panel before him.
"Damn!" he announced, his hand starting forward and twitching back.
The other Rakasha appeared suddenly, passing through the metal wall of
the ship and hovering above the console.
"The gods move rapidly," he announced. "Particularly Agni."
Sam snapped a series of switches and pressed a button. Lights came on
all over the instrument panel and a humming sound began within it.
"How far is he?" asked Taraka.
"Almost halfway down. He widened the trail with his flames. He runs
upon it now, as if it were a roadway. He burn obstacles. He makes a clear
path."
Sam drew back on a lever and adjusted a dial, reading the indicators
before him. A shudder ran through the ship.
"Are you ready?" asked Taraka.
"I can't take off cold. It has to warm up. Also, this instrument board
is trickier than I'd thought."
"We run a close race."
"Yes."
From the distance, there came the sounds of several explosions rising
above the growing growl of the chariot. Sam pulled the lever forward another
notch, readjusted the dial.
"I go to slow them," said the Rakasha, and vanished as he had come.
Sam drew the lever two notches farther, and somewhere something
sputtered and died. The ship stood silent once more.
He pushed the lever back into its former position, spun the dial,
pushed the button again.
And again a shudder ran through the chariot, and somewhere a purring
began. Sam drew the lever one notch forward, adjusted the dial.
After a moment, he repeated it, and the purr became a soft growl
"Gone," said Taraka. "Dead."
"Who? What?"
"The one who went to stop the Lord of Flames. He failed."
There were more explosions.
"Hellwell is being destroyed," said Taraka.
Perspiration upon his brow, Sam waited with his hand on the lever.
"He comes now-- Agni!"
Sam looked through the long, slanted shield plate.
The Lord of Flames came into the valley.
"Good-bye, Siddhartha."
"Not yet," said Sam.
Agni looked at the chariot, raised his wand.
Nothing happened.
He stood, pointing the wand; and then he lowered it, shook it.
He raised it once more.
Again, no flame issued forth.
He reached behind his neck with his left hand, performed some
adjustment upon his pack. As he did this, light streamed from the wand,
burning a huge pit in the ground at his side.
He pointed the wand again.
Nothing.
Then he began running toward the ship.
"Electrodirection?" asked Taraka.
"Yes."
Sam drew back upon the lever, adjusted the dial farther. A huge roaring
grew about him. He pressed another button and there came a crackling sound
from the rear of the vessel. He moved another dial as Agni reached the
hatch.
There was a flash of flame and a metallic clanging.
He rose from his seat and moved out of the cabin and into the corridor.
Agni had entered, and he pointed the wand.
"Do not move-- Sam! Demon!" he cried, above the roar of the engines;
and as he spoke, his lenses clicked red and he smiled. "Demon," he stated.
"Do not move, or you and your host will burn together!"
Sam sprang upon him. Agni fell easily when he struck, for he had not
believed that the other would reach him.
"Short circuit, eh?" said Sam, and hit him across the throat.
"Or sunspots?" and he struck him in the temple.
Agni fell to his side, and Sam hit him a final blow with the edge of
his hand, just above the collarbone.
He kicked the wand the length of the corridor, and as he moved to close
the hatch he knew that it was too late.
"Go now, Taraka," he said. "This is my fight from here on. You can do
nothing more."
"I promised my assistance."
"You have none to give, now. Get out while still you can."
"If such is your will. But I have a final thing to say to you -- "
"Save it! Next time I'm in the neighborhood-- "
"Binder, it is this thing I learned of you-- I am sorry. I - "
There was a terrible twisting, wrenching sensation within his body and
mind, as the death-gaze of Yama fell upon him and struck deeper than his own
being.
Kali, too, looked into his eyes; and as she did so, she raised her
screaming scepter.
It was as the lifting of one shadow and the falling of another.
"Good-bye, Binder," came the words within his mind.
Then the skull began its screaming.
He felt himself falling.
There was a throbbing.
It was within his head. It was all about him.
He was awakened by throbbing, and he felt himself covered with aches,
as with bandages.
There were chains upon his wrists and his ankles.
He was half seated on the floor of a small compartment. Beside the
doorway sat the One in Red, smoking.
Yama nodded, said nothing.
"Why am I alive?" Sam asked him.
"You live for purposes of keeping an appointment made many years ago in
Mahartha," said Yama. "Brahma is particularly anxious to see you once
again."
"But I am not especially anxious to see Brahma."
"Over the years, that has become somewhat apparent."
"I see you got out of the mud all right."
The other smiled. "You are a nasty man," he said.
"I know. I practice."
"I gather your business deal fell through?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Perhaps you can try recouping your losses. We're halfway to Heaven."
"Think I'd have a chance?"
"You just might. Times change. Brahma could be a merciful god this
week."
"My occupational therapist told me to specialize in lost causes."
Yama shrugged.
"What of the demon?" Sam asked. "The one who was with me?"
"I touched it," said Yama, "hard. I don't know whether I finished it or
just drove it away. But you needn't worry about it again. I doused you with
demon repellant. If the creature still lives, it will be a long time before