Modern Classics of Fantasy, page 41
When he came to a place where the ground was broken, the small man kicked, again and again, sending showers of dirt and gravel down upon his opponent. Yama shielded his eyes with his left hand, but then larger pieces of stone began to rain down upon him. These roiled on the ground, and, as several came beneath his boots, he lost his footing and fell, slipping backward down the slope. The other kicked at heavy rocks then, even dislodging a boulder and following it downhill, his blade held high.
Unable to gain his footing in time to meet the attack, Yama rolled and slid back toward the stream. He managed to brake himself at the edge of the crevice, but he saw the boulder coming and tried to draw back out of its way. As he pushed at the ground with both hands, his blade fell into the waters below.
With his dagger, which he drew as he sprang into a stumbling crouch, he managed to parry the high cut of the other’s blade. The boulder splashed into the stream.
Then his left hand shot forward, seizing the wrist that had guided the blade. He slashed upward with the dagger and felt his own wrist taken.
They stood then, locking their strength, until Yama sat down and rolled to his side, thrusting the other from him.
Still, both locks held, and they continued to roll from the force of that thrust. Then the edge of the crevice was beside them, beneath them, above them. He felt the blade go out of his hand as it struck the stream bed.
When they came again above the surface of the water, gasping for breath, each held only water in his hands.
“Time for the final baptism,” said Yama, and he lashed out with his left hand.
The other blocked the punch, throwing one of his own.
They moved to the left with the waters, until their feet struck upon rock and they fought, wading, along the length of the stream.
It widened and grew more shallow as they moved, until the waters swirled about their waists. In places, the banks began to fall nearer the surface of the water.
Yama landed blow after blow, both with his fists and the edges of his hands; but it was as if he assailed a statue, for the one who had been Kali’s holy executioner took each blow without changing his expression, and he returned them with twisting punches of bone-breaking force. Most of these blows were slowed by the water or blocked by Yama’s guard, but one landed between his rib cage and hipbone and another glanced off his left shoulder and rebounded from his cheek.
Yama cast himself into a backstroke and made for shallower water.
The other followed and sprang upon him, to be caught in his impervious midsection by a red boot, as the front of his garment was jerked forward and down. He continued on, passing over Yama’s head, to land upon his back on a section of shale.
Yama rose to his knees and turned, as the other found his footing and drew a dagger from his belt. His face was still impassive as he dropped into a crouch.
For a moment their eyes met, but the other did not waver this time.
“Now can I meet your death-gaze, Yama,” he stated, “and not be stopped by it. You have taught me too well!”
And as he lunged, Yama’s hands came away from his waist, snapping his wet sash like a whip about the other’s thighs.
He caught him and locked him to him as he fell forward, dropping the blade; and with a kick he bore them both back into deeper water.
“None sing hymns to breath,” said Yama. “But, oh to be without it!”
Then he plunged downward, bearing the other with him, his arms like steel loops about his body.
Later, much later, as the wet figure stood beside the stream, he spoke softly and his breath came in gasps:
“You were—the greatest—to be raised up against me—in all the ages I can remember… It is indeed a pity…”
Then, having crossed the stream, he continued on his way through the hills of stone, walking.
* * * *
Entering the town of Alandil, the traveler stopped at the first inn he came to. He took a room and ordered a tub of water. He bathed while a servant cleaned his garments.
Before he had his dinner, he moved to the window and looked down into the street. The smell of slizzard was strong upon the air, and the babble of many voices arose from below.
People were leaving the town. In the courtyard at his back, preparations for the departure of a morning caravan were being made. This night marked the end of the spring festival. Below him in the street, businessmen were still trading, mothers were soothing tired children and a local prince was returning with his men from the hunt, two fire-roosters strapped to the back of a skittering slizzard. He watched a tired prostitute discussing something with a priest, who appeared to be even more tired, as he kept shaking his head and finally walked away. One moon was already high in the heavens—seen as golden through the Bridge of the Gods—and a second, smaller moon had just appeared above the horizon. There was a cool tingle in the evening air, bearing to him, above the smells of the city, the scents of the growing things of spring: the small shoots and the tender grasses, the clean smell of the blue-green spring wheat, the moist ground, the roiling freshet. Leaning forward, he could see the Temple that stood upon the hill.
He summoned a servant to bring his dinner in his chamber and to send for a local merchant.
He ate slowly, not paying especial attention to his food, and when he had finished, the merchant was shown in.
The man bore a cloak full of samples, and of these he finally decided upon a long, curved blade and a short, straight dagger, both of which he thrust into his sash.
Then he went out into the evening and walked along the rutted main street of the town. Lovers embraced in doorways. He passed a house where mourners were wailing for one dead. A beggar limped after him for half a block, until he turned and glanced into his eyes, saying, “You are not lame,” and then the man hurried away, losing himself in a crowd that was passing. Overhead, the fireworks began to burst against the sky, sending long, cherry-colored streamers down toward the ground. From the Temple came the sound of the gourd horns playing the nagaswaram music. A man stumbled from out a doorway, brushing against him, and he broke the man’s wrist as he felt his hand fall upon his purse. The man uttered a curse and called for help, but he pushed him into the drainage ditch and walked on, turning away his two companions with one dark look.
At last, he came to the Temple, hesitated a moment and passed within.
He entered the inner courtyard behind a priest who was carrying in a small statue from an outer niche.
He surveyed the courtyard, then quickly moved to the place occupied by the statue of the goddess Kali. He studied her for a long while, drawing his blade and placing it at her feet. When he picked it up and turned away, he saw that the priest was watching him. He nodded to the man, who immediately approached and bade him a good evening.
“Good evening, priest,” he replied.
“May Kali sanctify your blade, warrior.”
“Thank you. She has.”
The priest smiled. “You speak as if you knew that for certain.”
“And that is presumptuous of me, eh?”
“Well, it may not be in the best of taste.”
“Nevertheless, I felt her power come over me as I gazed upon her shrine.”
The priest shuddered. “Despite my office,” he stated, “that is a feeling of power I can do without.”
“You fear her power?”
“Let us say,” said the priest, “that despite its magnificence, the shrine of Kali is not so frequently visited as are those of Lakshmi, Sarasvati, Shakti, Sitala, Ratri and the other less awesome goddesses.”
“But she is greater than any of these.”
“And more terrible.”
“So? Despite her strength, she is not an unjust goddess.”
The priest smiled. “What man who has lived for more than a score of years desires justice, warrior? For my part, I find mercy infinitely more attractive. Give me a forgiving deity any day.”
“Well taken,” said the other, “but I am, as you say, a warrior. My own nature is close to hers. We think alike, the goddess and I. We generally agree on most matters. When we do not, I remember that she is also a woman.”
“I live here,” said the priest, “and I do not speak that intimately of my charges, the gods.”
“In public, that is,” said the other. “Tell me not of priests. I have drunk with many of you, and know you to be as blasphemous as the rest of mankind.”
“There is a time and place for everything,” said the priest, glancing back at Kali’s statue.
“Aye, aye. Now tell me why the base of Yama’s shrine has not been scrubbed recently. It is dusty.”
“It was cleaned but yesterday, but so many have passed before it since then that it has felt considerable usage.”
The other smiled. “Why then are there no offerings laid at his feet, no remains of sacrifices?”
“No one gives flowers to Death,” said the priest. “They just come to look and go away. We priests have always felt the two statues to be well situated. They make a terrible pair, do they not? Death, and the mistress of destruction?”
“A mighty team,” said the other. “But do you mean to tell me that no one makes sacrifice to Yama? No one at all?”
“Other than we priests, when the calendar of devotions requires it, and an occasional townsman, when a loved one is upon the deathbed and has been refused direct incarnation—other than these, no, I have never seen sacrifice made to Yama, simply, sincerely, with goodwill 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 goodwill 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.”
