"In public, that is," said the other. "Tell me not of priests. I have drunk with many of you, and know you to be as blasphemous as the rest of mankind."
"There is a time and place for everything," said the priest, glancing back at Kali's statue.
"Aye, aye. Now tell me why the base of Yama's shrine has not been scrubbed recently. It is dusty."
"It was cleaned but yesterday, but so many have passed before it since then that it has felt considerable usage."
The other smiled. "Why then are there no offerings laid at his feet, no remains of sacrifices?"
"No one gives flowers to Death," said the priest. "They just come to look and go away. We priests have always felt the two statues to be well situated. They make a terrible pair, do they not? Death, and the mistress of destruction?"
"A mighty team," said the other. "But do you mean to tell me that no one makes sacrifice to Yama? No one at all?"'
"Other than we priests, when the calendar of devotions requires it, and an occasional townsman, when a loved one is upon the death-bed and has been refused direct incarnation—other than these, no, I have never seen sacrifice made to Yama, simply, sincerely, with good will or affection."
"He must feel offended."
"Not so, warrior. For are not all living things, in themselves, sacrifices to Death?"
"Indeed, you speak truly. What need has he for their good will or affection? Gifts are unnecessary, for he takes what he wants."
"Like Kali," acknowledged the priest. "And in the cases of both deities have I often sought justification for atheism. Unfortunately, they manifest themselves too strongly in the world for their existence to be denied effectively. Pity."
The warrior laughed. "A priest who is an unwilling believer! I like that. It tickles my funny bone! Here, buy yourself a barrel of soma—for sacrificial purposes."
"Thank you, warrior. I shall. Join me in a small libation now — on the Temple?"
"By Kali, I will!" said the other. "But a small one only."
He accompanied the priest into the central building and down a flight of stairs into the cellar, where a barrel of soma was tapped and two beakers drawn.
"To your health and long life," he said, raising it.
"To your morbid patrons—Yama and Kali," said the priest.
"Thank you."
They gulped the potent brew, and the priest drew two more. "To warm your throat against the night."
"Very good."
"It is a good thing to see some of these travelers depart," said the priest. "Their devotions have enriched the Temple, but they have also tired the staff considerably."
"To the departure of the pilgrims!"
"To the departure of the pilgrims!"
They drank again.
"I thought that most of them came to see the Buddha," said Yama.
"That is true," replied the priest, "but on the other hand, they are not anxious to antagonize the gods by this. So, before they visit the purple grove, they generally make sacrifice or donate to the Temple for prayers."
"What do you know of the one called Tathagatha, and of his teachings?"
The other looked away. "I am a priest of the gods and a Brahmin, warrior. I do not wish to speak of this one."
"So, he has gotten to you, too?"
"Enough! I have made my wishes known to you. It is not a subject on which I will discourse."
"It matters not—and will matter less shortly. Thank you for the soma. Good evening, priest."
"Good evening, warrior. May the gods smile upon your path."
"And yours also."
Mounting the stairs, he departed the Temple and continued on his way through the city, walking.
When he came to the purple grove, there were three moons in the heavens, small camplights behind the trees, pale blossoms of fire in the sky above the town, and a breeze with a certain dampness in it stirring the growth about him.
He moved silently ahead, entering the grove.
When he came into the lighted area, he was faced with row upon row of motionless, seated figures. Each wore a yellow robe with a yellow cowl drawn over the head. Hundreds of them were seated so, and not one uttered a sound.
He approached the one nearest him. "I have come to see Tathagatha, the Buddha," he said.
The man did not seem to hear him.
"Where is he?"
The man did not reply.
He bent forward and stared into the monk's half-closed eyes. For a moment, he glared into them, but it was as though the other was asleep, for the eyes did not even meet with his.
Then he raised his voice, so that all within the grove might hear him: "I have come to see Tathagatha, the Buddha," he said. "Where is he?"
It was as though he addressed a field of stones. "Do you think to hide him in this manner?" he called out. "Do you think that because you are many, and all dressed alike, and because you will not answer me, that for these reasons I cannot find him among you?"
There was only the sighing of the wind, passing through from the back of the grove. The light flickered and the purple fronds stirred.
He laughed. "In this, you may be right," he admitted. "But you must move sometime, if you intend to go on living—and I can wait as long as any man."
Then he seated himself upon the ground, his back against the blue bark of a tall tree, his blade across his knees. Immediately, he was seized with drowsiness. His head nodded and jerked upward several times. Then his chin came to rest upon his breast and he snored.
Was walking, across a blue-green plain, the grasses bending down to form a pathway before him. At the end of this pathway was a massive tree, a tree such as did not grow upon the world, but rather held the world together with its roots, and with its branches reached up to utter leaves among the stars.
At its base sat a man, cross-legged, a faint smile upon his lips. He knew this man to be the Buddha, and he approached and stood before him.
"Greetings, oh Death," said the seated one, crowned with a rose-hued aureole that was bright in the shadow of the tree.
Yama did not reply, but drew his blade.
The Buddha continued to smile, and as Yama moved forward he heard a sound like distant music.
He halted and looked about him, his blade still upraised.
They came from all quarters, the four Regents of the world, come down from Mount Sumernu: the Master of the North advanced, followed by his Yakshas, all in gold, mounted on yellow horses, bearing shields that blazed with golden light; the Angel of the South came on, followed by his hosts, the Kumbhandas, mounted upon blue steeds and bearing sapphire shields; from the East rode the Regent whose horsemen carry shields of pearl, and who are clad all in silver; and from the West there came the One whose Nagas mounted blood-red horses, were clad all in red and held before them shields of coral. Their hooves did not appear to touch the grasses, and the only sound in the air was the music, which grew louder.
"Why do the Regents of the world approach?" Yama found himself saying.
"They come to bear my bones away," replied the Buddha, still smiling.
The four Regents drew rein, their hordes at their backs, and Yama faced them.
"You come to bear his bones away," said Yama, "but who will come for yours?"
The Regents dismounted.
"You may not have this man, oh Death," said the Master of the North, "for he belongs to the world, and we of the world will defend him."
"Hear me, Regents who dwell upon Sumernu," said Yama, taking his Aspect upon him. "Into your hands is given the keeping of the world, but Death takes whom he will from out the world, and whenever he chooses. It is not given to you to dispute my Attributes, or the ways of their working."
The four Regents moved to a position between Yama and Tathagatha.
"We do dispute your way with this one. Lord Yama. For in his hands he holds the destiny of our world. You may touch him only after having overthrown the four Powers."
"So be it," said Yama. "Which amon
g you will be first to oppose me?"
"I will," said the speaker, drawing his golden blade.
Yama, his Aspect upon him, sheared through the soft metal like butter and laid the flat of his scimitar along the Regent's head, sending him sprawling upon the ground.
A great cry came up from the ranks of the Yakshas, and two of the golden horsemen came forward to bear away their leader. Then they turned their mounts and rode back into the North;
"Who is next?"
The Regent of the East came before him, bearing a straight blade of silver and a net woven of moonbeams. "I," he said, and he cast with the net.
Yama set his foot upon it, caught it in his fingers, jerked the other off balance. As the Regent stumbled forward, he reversed his blade and struck him in the jaw with its pommel.
Two silver warriors glared at him, then dropped their eyes, as they bore their Master away to the East, a discordant music trailing in their wake.
"Next!" said Yama.
Then there came before him the burly leader of the Nagas, who threw down his weapons and stripped off his tunic, saying, "I will wrestle with you, deathgod."
Yama laid his weapons aside and removed his upper garments.
All the while this was happening, the Buddha sat in the shade of the great tree, smiling, as though the passage of arms meant nothing to him.
The Chief of the Nagas caught Yama behind the neck with his left hand, pulling his head forward. Yama did the same to him; and the other did then twist his body, casting his right arm over Yama's left shoulder and behind his neck, locking it then tight about his head, which he now drew down hard against his hip, turning his body as he dragged the other forward.
Reaching up behind the Naga Chief's back, Yama caught his left shoulder in his left hand and then moved his right hand behind the Regent's knees, so that he lifted both his legs off the ground while drawing back upon his shoulder.
For a moment he held this one cradled in his arms like a child, then raised him up to shoulder level and dropped away his arms.
When the Regent struck the ground, Yama fell upon him with his knees and rose again. The other did not.
When the riders of the West had departed, only the Angel of the South, clad all in blue, stood before the Buddha.
"And you?" asked the deathgod, raising his weapons again.
"I will not take up weapons of steel or leather or stone, as a child takes up toys, to face you, god of death. Nor will I match the strength of my body against yours," said the Angel. "I know I will be bested if I do these things, for none may dispute you with arms."
"Then climb back upon your blue stallion and ride away," said Yama, "if you will not fight."
The Angel did not answer, but cast his blue shield into the air, so that it spun like a wheel of sapphire, growing larger and larger as it hung above them.
Then it fell to the ground and began to sink into it, without a sound, still growing as it vanished from sight, the grasses coming together again above the spot where it had struck.
"And what does that signify?" asked Yama.
"I do not actively contest. I merely defend. Mine is the power of passive opposition. Mine is the power of life, as yours is the power of death. While you can destroy anything I send against you, you cannot destroy everything, oh Death. Mine is the power of the shield, but not the sword. Life will oppose you, Lord Yama, to defend your victim."
The Blue One turned then, mounted his blue steed and rode into the South, the Kumbhandas at his back. The sound of the music did not go with him, but remained in the air he had occupied.
Yama advanced once more, his blade in his hand. "Their efforts came to naught," he said. "Your time is come."
He struck forward with his blade.
The blow did not land, however, as a branch from the great tree fell between them and struck the scimitar from his grasp.
He reached for it and the grasses bent to cover it over, weaving themselves into a tight, unbreakable net.
Cursing, he drew his dagger and struck again.
One mighty branch bent down, came swaying before his target, so that his blade was imbedded deeply in its fibers. Then the branch lashed again skyward, carrying the weapon with it, high out of reach.
The Buddha's eyes were closed in meditation and his halo glowed in the shadows.
Yama took a step forward, raising his hands, and the grasses knotted themselves about his ankles, holding him where he stood.
He struggled for a moment, tugging at their unyielding roots. Then he stopped and raised both hands high, throwing his head far back, death leaping from his eyes.
"Hear me, oh Powers!" he cried. "From this moment forward, this spot shall bear the curse of Yama! No living thing shall ever stir again upon this ground! No bird shall sing, nor snake slither here! It shall be barren and stark, a place of rocks and shifting sand! Not a spear of grass shall ever be upraised from here against the sky! I speak this curse and lay this doom upon the defenders of my enemy!"
The grasses began to wither, but before they had released him there came a great splintering, cracking noise, as the tree whose roots held together the world and in whose branches the stars were caught, as fish in a net, swayed forward, splitting down its middle, its uppermost limbs tearing apart the sky, its roots opening chasms in the ground, its leaves falling like blue-green rain about him. A massive section of its trunk toppled toward him, casting before it a shadow dark as night.
In the distance, he still saw the Buddha, seated in meditation, as though unaware of the chaos that erupted about him.
Then there was only blackness and a sound like the crashing of thunder.
Yama jerked his head, his eyes springing open.
He sat in the purple grove, his back against the bole of a blue tree, his blade across his knees.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
The rows of monks were seated, as in meditation, before him. The breeze was still cool and moist and the lights still flickered as it passed.
Yama stood, knowing then, somehow, where he must go to find that which he sought.
He moved past the monks, following a well-beaten path that led far into the interior of the wood.
He came upon a purple pavilion, but it was empty.
He moved on, tracing the path back to where the wood became a wilderness. Here, the ground was damp and a faint mist sprang up about him. But the way was still clear before him, illuminated by the light of the three moons.
The trail led downward, the blue and purple trees growing shorter and more twisted here than they did above. Small pools of water, with floating patches of leprous, silver scum, began to appear at the sides of the trail. A marshland smell came to his nostrils, and the wheezing of strange creatures came out of clumps of brush.
He heard the sound of singing, coming from far up behind him, and he realized that the monks he had left were now awake and stirring about the grove. They had finished with the task of combining their thoughts to force upon him the vision of their leader's invincibility. Their chanting was probably a signal, reaching out to —
There! He was seated upon a rock in the middle of a field, the moonlight falling full upon him.
Yama drew his blade and advanced.
When he was about twenty paces away, the other turned his head.
"Greetings, oh Death," he said.
"Greetings, Tathagatha."
"Tell me why you are here."
"It has been decided that the Buddha must die."
"That does not answer my question, however. Why have you come here?"
"Are you not the Buddha?"
"I have been called Buddha, and Tathagatha, and the Enlightened One, and many other things. But, in answer to your question, no, I am not the Buddha. You have already succeeded in what you set out to do. You slew the real Buddha this day."
"My memory must indeed be growing weak, for I confess that I do not remember doing this thing."
"The real Buddha was named by us Suga
ta," replied the other. "Before that, he was known as Rild."
"Rild!" Yama chuckled. "You are trying to tell me that he was more than an executioner whom you talked out of doing his job?"
"Many people are executioners who have been talked out of doing their 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."
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