it  makes a great  deal of  difference, you  see.  It  is the
difference between the  unknown  and  the  unknowable,  between  science and
fantasy--  it  is a  matter  of  essence.  The four points of the compass be
logic,  knowledge,  wisdom  and the unknown.  Some  do  bow  in  that  final
direction. Others advance upon it. To bow before the one is to lose sight of
the three. I may submit to the unknown, but never to the unknowable. The man
who bows in  that final direction is either a saint or a fool. I have no use
for either."
     Tak shrugged and sipped his wine. "But of the demons. . . ?"
     "Knowable. I did experiment with them  for many years, and I was one of
the Four who descended into Hellwell,  if you recall, after Taraka fled Lord
Agni at Palamaidsu. Are you not Tak of the Archives?"
     "I was."
     "Did you read then of the earliest recorded contacts with the Rakasha?"
     "I read the accounts of the days of their binding. . . "
     "Then you know that they are the native inhabitants of this world, that
they were present here before the arrival of Man from vanished Urath."
     "Yes."
     "They are creatures of energy, rather than matter. Their own traditions
have  it that  once  they  wore  bodies, lived in  cities.  Their  quest for
personal  immortality, however, led  them along a  different  path from that
which  Man  followed. They found  a way to perpetuate themselves  as  stable
fields of energy. They abandoned their bodies to live forever as vortices of
force.  But  pure intellect  they  are  not.  They carried  with them  their
complete egos,  and born of matter they do ever lust after the flesh. Though
they can  assume  its  appearance for  a  time,  they cannot  return  to  it
unassisted.  For ages  they did drift  aimlessly about this world. Then  the
arrival of Man  stirred them from their quiescence. They took  on the shapes
of his nightmares  to devil  him. This is why  they had  to be  defeated and
bound, far beneath the  Ratnagaris. We could  not destroy them all. We could
not  permit  them to  continue  their attempts  to  possess the machines  of
incarnation and  the bodies of  men. So  they were trapped and  contained in
great magnetic bottles."
     "Yet Sam freed many to do his will," said Tak.
     "Aye. He made and kept a nightmare  pact, so that some of them do still
walk the world.  Of all men, they respect  perhaps only Siddhartha. And <i>with</i>
all men do they share one great vice."
     "That being. . .?"
     "They do  dearly  love  to gamble.  . .  . They will make game for  any
stakes, and  gambling debts are their only point of honor. This must  be so,
or they would  not hold the  confidence of other gamesters and would so lose
that  which is perhaps their only  pleasure. Their powers being  great, even
princes will make  game with them,  hoping  to win their  services. Kingdoms
have been lost in this fashion."
     "If," said Tak, "as you feel, Sam was playing one of the  ancient games
with Raltariki, what could the stakes have been?"
     Yama  finished his wine, refilled the glass. "Sam  is a fool. No, he is
not. He  is a gambler. There is a difference. The Rakasha  do control lesser
orders of energy beings. Sam, through that ring he wears, does now command a
guard of  fire elementals, which he  won  from Raltariki. These  are deadly,
mindless creatures-- and each bears the force of a thunderbolt."
     Tak finished his  wine. "But what stakes  could Sam have brought to the
game?"
     Yama sighed. "All my work, all our efforts for over half a century."
     "You mean-- his body?"
     Yama nodded. "A human body is the highest inducement any demon might be
offered."
     "Why should Sam risk such a venture?"
     Yama stared at Tak, not seeing him. "It must have been  the only way he
could call upon his life-will, to bind him again to his task
     -- by placing himself in  jeopardy, by casting his very  existence with
each roll of the dice."
     Tak  poured  himself  another glass  of wine and  gulped  it. "<i>That</i>  is
unknowable to me," he said.
     But  Yama  shook  his head.  "Unknown, only," he  told him. "Sam is not
quite a saint, nor is he a fool."
     "Almost, though,"  Yama  decided,  and  that  night  he squirted  demon
repellent about the monastery.
     The following morning, a small  man approached the monastery and seated
himself before its  front entrance, placing  a begging bowl on the ground at
his feet. He wore a single, threadbare garment of coarse, brown cloth, which
reached to his ankles. A black patch covered his  left eye. What remained of
his  hair was dark and very long. His sharp nose, small chin, and high, flat
ears gave to  his face  a foxlike appearance. His skin  was tight-drawn  and
well-weathered. His single, green eye seemed never to blink.
     He  sat there  for  perhaps twenty  minutes before  one  of Sam's monks
noticed him and mentioned the fact to one of Ratri's dark-robed Order.  This
monk located a priest and passed the information to him. The priest, anxious
to  impress the goddess  with the  virtues of  her  followers,  sent for the
beggar to  be brought in and fed, offered  new garments and given a cell  in
which to sleep for as long as he chose to remain.
     The  beggar  accepted  the food  with  the courtesies of a Brahmin, but
declined to eat anything other than bread  and fruit.  He accepted, too, the
dark  garment  of Ratri's Order,  casting aside his begrimed smock. Then  he
looked upon the cell and the fresh sleeping mat that had been laid for him.
     "I do thank you, worthy priest," he said, in a voice rich and resonant,
and altogether  larger  than his  person. "I do  thank  you,  and pray  your
goddess smile upon you for your kindness and generosity in her name."
     The  priest smiled at this himself,  and still hoped that  Ratri  might
pass  along  the hall at that moment, to witness his kindness and generosity
in  her name. She did not, however. Few of her Order had actually  seen her,
even on the night when she put on her power and  walked among them: for only
those of the saffron robe had attended Sam's  awakening and  were certain as
to his identity. She generally moved about the monastery while her followers
were at prayer or after they  had retired for the  evening. She slept mainly
during the  day;  when  she did  cross their sight she was  well-muffled and
cloaked; her  wishes and orders she communicated directly  to  Gandhiji, the
head of the Order, who  was ninety-three years old this cycle, and more than
half blind.
     Consequently, both  her monks and those of the saffron robe wondered as
to her appearance and sought to gain possible favor in her eyes. It was said
that  her blessing  would  ensure one's being incarnated as  a Brahmin. Only
Gandhiji did not care, for he had accepted the way of the real death.
     Since she did not pass along  the hall as they stood  there, the priest
prolonged the conversation, "I am Balarma," he stated. "May I inquire  as to
your name, good sir, and perhaps your destination?"
     "I am  Aram,"  said the beggar, "who has taken upon himself  a ten-year
vow  of poverty,  and  of silence for seven.  Fortunately,  the  seven  have
elapsed,  that  I may  now  speak to  thank my benefactors and answer  their
questions. I am heading up into the mountains to find  me a cave where I may
meditate  and pray. I may, perhaps, accept your kindly hospitality for a few
days, before proceeding on with my journey."
     "Indeed," said Balarma, "we should be honored if a holy one were to see
fit  to bless our monastery with his presence. We will make  you welcome. If
there is anything you wish to assist you along your path, and we may be able
to grant this thing, please name it to us."
     Aram fixed him with his unblinking green eye  and said, "The  monk  who
first observed me did not wear  the robe of your Order." He touched the dark
garment  as he said it. "Instead, I  believe  my poor  eye did behold one of
another color."
     "Yes," said  Balarma, "for  the followers of the Buddha do shelter here
among us, resting awhile from their wanderings."
     "That  is truly  interesting," said Aram, "for I should like  to  speak
with them and perhaps learn more of their Way."
     "You should have ample opportunity if you choose to remain among us for
a time."
     "This then shall I do. For how long will they remain?"
     "I do not know."
     Aram nodded. "When might I speak with them?"
     "This  evening there  will be an  hour when  all the monks are gathered
together and free to speak as they would, save for those who have taken vows
of silence."
     "I  shall pass  the interval till then in  prayer," said  Aram.  "Thank
you."
     Each bowed slightly, and Aram entered his room.

     That  evening, Aram attended the community  hour of the monks. Those of
both Orders did mingle at this time  and engage in conversation. Sam did not
attend it himself, nor did Tak; and Yama never attended it in person.
     Aram seated  himself at the long  table  in the refectory, across  from
several  of  the  Buddha's  monks.  He  talked  for  some  time with  these,
discoursing  on  doctrine and  practice, caste  and creed,  weather  and the
affairs of the day.
     "It seems strange," he said  after a  while,  "that those of your Order
have come so far to the south and the west so suddenly."
     "We are a wandering Order," replied the monk to whom he had spoken. "We
follow the wind. We follow our hearts."
     "To the  land of rusted  soil  in  the season  of  lightnings? Is there
perhaps some revelation to occur hereabout, which  might be  enlarging to my
spirit were I to behold it?"
     "The  entire universe is  a revelation," said  the  monk.  "All  things
change, yet all things remain. Day follows night. . . each day is different,
yet  each is day.  Much  of  the world is illusion, yet the  forms  of  that
illusion follow a pattern which is a part of divine reality."
     "Yes,  yes," said  Aram.  "In the  ways  of illusion  and reality am  I
well-versed, but by  my  inquiry  I did mean  to know whether  perhaps a new
teacher had arisen in  this vicinity, or some old one returned,  or mayhap a
divine  manifestation, the presence of which it might profit  my soul  to be
aware."
     As  he spoke,  the  beggar  brushed from  the table before him  a  red,
crawling beetle, the size of a thumbnail, and he moved his sandal  as  if to
crush it.
     "Pray, brother, do not harm it," said the monk.
"But they are  all over the place, and the Masters of Karma have stated that
a man cannot be made to return as an insect, and the killing of an insect is
a karmically inoperative act."
     "Nevertheless,"  said the monk,  "all life being one, in this monastery
all do practice the doctrine of <i>ahimsa</i> and refrain from taking  life  of any
sort."
     "Yet," said Aram, "Patanjali does state that it is the <i>intention</i> rather
than the act  which governs.  Therefore, if I killed  with  love rather than
malice, it would be as if I had not killed. I confess that this was not  the
case and  that malice was present-- therefore, even if I did not  kill  I do
bear the burden of the guilt because of the presence of that intention. So I
could step  upon it  now  and be none  the  worse for it, according  to  the
principle of <i>ahimsa</i>. Since I am  a  guest,  however, I of course respect the
practice and do not do this thing." With this, he moved his sandal away from
the insect, which stood immobile, reddish antennae pricked upward.
     "Indeed, he is a scholar," said one of the Order of Ratri.
     Aram smiled.  "Thank you, but it is  not so," he  stated.  "I am only a
humble  seeker of truth, and on occasion in  the past have I been privileged
to  overhear  the  discourses  of  the learned.  Would  that  I  might be so
privileged  again! If  there  were some  great  teacher  or  scholar  in the
vicinity, then I would most surely walk across a  bed of hot coals to sit at
his feet and to hear his words or observe his example. If-- "
     He stopped then, for all  eyes had suddenly turned upon the doorway  at
his  back. He did not move  his head, but reached out to crush a beetle that
stood near his hand. The tip of a small crystal and two tiny wires protruded
through the broken chitin of its back.
     Then he turned, his green eye sweeping across the  row  of monks seated
between himself and the doorway, and he looked upon Yama, who wore breeches,
boots, shirt, sash, cloak and  gloves all of red, and about whose  head  was
twisted a turban the color of blood.
     "'If?'" said  Yama. "You  were saying 'if'? If some sage or some avatar
of the godhead  resided in  the  vicinity,  you  should  like  to  make  his
acquaintance? Is that what you were saying, stranger?"
     The beggar  rose from the table. He bowed.  "I  am Aram," he stated, "a
fellow seeker and traveler with all who wish enlightenment."
     Yama did not return the salute. "Why  do you spell your name  backward,
Lord of Illusion, when all your words and actions herald it before you?"
     The beggar shrugged. "I do not understand what you say."
     But the smile came again to his lips.  "I am one who seeks the Path and
the Right," he added.
     "I  find that  hard  to believe, after  witnessing at  least a thousand
years of your treachery."
     "You speak of the lifetime of gods."
     "Unfortunately, I do. You have made a serious mistake, Mara."
     "What may that be?"
     "You feel that you must be permitted to leave here alive."
     "I admit that I anticipate doing so."
     "Not  considering  the numerous accidents  which  might befall  a  lone
traveler in this wild region."
     "I have been a lone traveler for many years. Accidents always happen to
other people."
     "You might believe that  even if your  body were  destroyed here,  your
<i>atman</i>  would  be transferred remotely to another  body located  elsewhere. I
understand  that someone has  deciphered  my notes,  and  the  trick is  now
possible."
     The  beggar's  brows  moved  a  quarter  of an  inch  lower and  closer
together.
     "You do  not  realize the forces  which even now contain this building,
defending against any such transfer."
     The beggar stepped to  the center of the  room. "Yama," he stated, "you
are a fool if  you  think to match your puny  fallen powers against those of
the Dreamer."
     "Perhaps this is so. Lord Mara," Yama  replied, "but  I have waited too
long  for this  opportunity  to postpone it further. Remember  my promise at
Keenset? If you wish to  continue your chain of existence  you  will have to
pass through this, the only door to this room,  which I  bar. Nothing beyond
this room can help you now."
     Mara then raised his hands, and the fires were born.
     Everything was flaming. Flames leapt from the stone walls,  the tables,
the robes of the monks. Smoke billowed and curled about the room. Yama stood
in the midst of a conflagration, but he did not move.
     "Is that the best you can do?"  he asked. "Your flames  are everywhere,
but nothing burns."
     Mara clapped his hands and the flames vanished.
     In their place,  its swaying  head held at almost twice the height of a
man,  its silver  hood fanned, the  mechobra  drew  into its S-shaped strike
position.
     Yama ignored it, his shadowy gaze reaching now like the probe of a dark
insect, boring into Mara's single eye.
     The mechobra faded in mid-strike. Yama strode forward.
     Mara fell back a pace.
     They stood  thus for perhaps  three heartbeats, then Yama moved forward
two paces farther and Mara backed away  again.  Perspiration blistered  upon
both their brows.
     The beggar now stood  taller and his hair was heavier;  he was  thicker
about the  waist  and  broader  across  the  shoulders. A certain grace, not
previously apparent, accompanied all his movements.
     He fell back another step.
     "Yes,  Mara, there is a  deathgod,"  said  Yama between clenched teeth.
"Fallen or no, the real  death dwells in my eyes. You must  meet  them. When
you reach the wall you can back no farther. Feel the strength go out of your
limbs. Feel the coldness begin in your hands and your feet."
     Mara's teeth bared in a snarl.  His neck  was as thick as a bull's. His
biceps  were  as big about  as a man's thighs. His  chest was  a  barrel  of
strength and his legs were like great trees of the forest.
     "Coldness?"  he  asked, extending his arms. "I can  break a  giant with
these hands, Yama. What  are you but a  banished carrion god? Your frown may
claim the aged and the infirm. Your eyes may chill dumb animals and those of
the  lower classes of men.  I stand as high above you  as a  star above  the
ocean's bottom."
     Yama's  red-gloved  hands fell like a pair  of cobras upon his  throat.
"Then try  that strength which you so mock. Dreamer. You have taken  on  the
appearance of power. Use it! Best me not with words!"
     His cheeks and forehead bloomed scarlet  as Yama's hands tightened upon
his throat. His eye seemed to leap, a green search-light sweeping the world.
     Mara fell to his knees. "Enough, Lord  Yama!" he  gasped. "Wouldst slay
thyself?"
     He  changed. His features  flowed,  as  though he  lay beneath restless
waters.
     Yama looked down upon his own face, saw his own  red  hands plucking at
his wrists.
     "You grow  desperate  now, Mara, as the life leaves you. But Yama is no
child, that he fears breaking the mirror you have become.  Try your last, or
die like a man, it is all the same in the end."
     But once more there was a flowing and a change.
     This time Yama hesitated, breaking his strength.
     Her  bronze  hair fell upon his hands. Her pale eyes  pleaded with him.
Caught about her throat was  a necklace of  ivory skulls, but slightly paler
than her flesh. Her sari was the color of  blood.  Her hands rested upon his
own, almost caressing. . .
     "Goddess!" he hissed.
     "You would not slay Kali . . . ? Durga . . . ?" she choked.
     "Wrong again, Mara," he  whispered.  "Did  you not know  that each  man
kills  the thing he loved?" and with this his hands twisted, and there was a
sound of breaking bones.
     "Tenfold be  your damnation," he said, his eyes tightly closed.  "There
shall be no rebirth."
     His  hands came open then. A  tall, nobly proportioned man lay upon the
floor at his feet, his head resting upon his right shoulder.
     His eye had finally closed.
     Yama turned the corpse with the toe of his boot. "Build a pyre and burn
this body," he  said to the monks, not turning toward them. "Spare  none  of
the rites. One of the highest has died this day."
     Then he  removed his eyes  from this work of his hands, turned upon his
heel and left the room.

     That evening  the lightnings fled across the  skies and the  rain  came
down like bullets from Heaven.
     The four of them sat  in the chamber in  the high tower that rose  from
the northeast corner of the monastery.
     Yama paced the room, stopping at the window each time he came to it.
     The others sat watching him, listening.
     "They suspect," he  told them, "but  they do not know.  They  would not
ravage the  monastery of a fellow god, displaying before men the division of
their ranks-- not  unless they were certain. They were not  certain, so they
investigated. This means that time is still with us."
     They nodded.
     "A Brahmin who  renounced the world to find his soul  passed  this way,
suffered an accident,  died here the real death.  His body was burnt and his
ashes cast into the river that leads to the sea. This is what  occurred. . .
. The wandering monks of the Enlightened One were visiting at the time. They
moved on shortly after this occurrence. Who knows where they went?"
     Tak stood as nearly erect as he could.
     "Lord  Yama," he stated,  "while it  may  hold  for a week,  a month --
possibly even longer-- this story will come apart in the hands of the Master
to judge the first of any of those here present in this  monastery who  pass
within the  Halls of Karma.  Under the circumstances, I believe some of them
may achieve early judgment for just this reason. What then?"
     Yama rolled a cigarette  with care and precision. "It  must be arranged
that what I said is what actually occurred."
     "How can  that  be? When a man's brain is subject to karmic  play-back,
all the events he has witnessed in  his most recent  cycle of life  are laid
out before his judge and the machine, like a scroll."
     "That is correct," said Yama. "And have you. Tak of the Archives, never
heard of a  palimpsest--  a scroll which has been used previously,  cleaned,
and then used again?"
     "Of course, but the mind is not a scroll."
     "No?" Yama smiled. "Well, it was your simile  to begin with,  not mine.
What's truth, anyway? Truth is what you make it."
     He  lit  his  cigarette.  "These  monks  have witnessed a  strange  and
terrible  thing," he continued. "They  saw me take on my Aspect and wield an
Attribute. They saw Mara do the same-- here, in this monastery where we have
revived  the  principle  of <i>ahimsa</i>. They are  aware that  a god may do  such
things  without  karmic burden, but the  shock was great  and the impression
vivid. And the final  burning is still to come. By the time of that burning,
the tale I have told you must be true in their minds."
     "How?" asked Ratri.
     "This very night, this very hour," he said, "while the image of the act
flames  within their consciousness and  their thoughts are troubled, the new
truth will be forged and nailed  into place. . . . Sam, you have rested long
enough. This thing is  now  yours to  do. You must preach them a sermon. You
must call forth within them those nobler sentiments and higher qualities  of
spirit which  make men  subject to divine meddling.  Ratri  and I will  then
combine our powers and a new truth will be born."
     Sam shifted and dropped his eyes. "I don't know  if I can  do it.  It's
been so long. . ."
     "Once  a  Buddha, always  a Buddha,  Sam.  Dust  off some  of  your old
parables. You have about fifteen minutes."
     Sam held out his hand. "Give me some tobacco and a paper."
     He  accepted the  package,  rolled himself a cigarette. "Light?  . .  .
Thanks."
     He drew in  deeply, exhaled, coughed. "I'm tired  of lying to them," he
finally said. "I guess that's what it really is."
     "Lying?"  asked Yama. "Who asked you to lie about anything? Quote  them
the Sermon  on the Mount,  if you want. Or something from  the Popul Voh, or
the <i>Iliad</i>.  I don't  care what you say. Just stir them a bit, soothe them  a
little. That's all I ask."
     "Then what?"
     "Then? Then I shall proceed to save them-- and us!"
     Sam nodded slowly. "When you put it that way . . . but I'm a little out
of shape when  it comes to this sort  of thing. Sure,  I'll find me a couple
truths and throw in a few pieties-- but make it twenty minutes."
     "Twenty  minutes,  then.  And afterward we pack. Tomorrow we  leave for
Khaipur."
     "So soon?" asked Tak.
     Yama shook his head. "So late," he said.

     The  monks were seated upon the  floor of the refectory. The tables had
been moved  back against the  walls. The insects had vanished. Outside,  the
rain continued to fall.
     Great-Souled  Sam, the  Enlightened  One, entered  and  seated  himself
before them.
     Ratri came in dressed as a Buddhist nun, and veiled.
     Yama and Ratri moved to the back of  the room and settled to the floor.
Somewhere, Tak too, was listening.
     Sam sat with his eyes closed for several minutes, then said softly:
     "I have  many  names, and none  of  them matter."  He opened  his  eyes
slightly  then, but  he did not move his  head.  He  looked  upon nothing in
particular.
     "Names are not important," he said. "To speak is to  name names, but to
speak is not important. A thing happens once that has never happened before.
Seeing it, a man looks upon reality. He cannot tell others what he has seen.
Others wish to know, however, so they question him saying, 'What is it like,
this thing you have seen?' So he tries to tell them. Perhaps he has seen the
very  first fire in the  world. He tells them, 'It is red, like a poppy, but
through  it dance  other  colors.  It  has  no  form,  like  water,  flowing
everywhere. It is warm, like the sun of summer, only warmer. It exists for a
time  upon  a piece of wood, and  then the  wood is gone, as though it  were
eaten, leaving behind that which is black and can  be sifted like sand. When
the wood is gone, it too is gone.' Therefore, the hearers must think reality
is  like  a  poppy,  like water,  like  the sun, like that  which  eats  and
excretes. They think it is like to anything that they are told it is like by
the man who has known it.  But they have not  looked  upon fire. They cannot
really know  it.  They  can only know of it.  But fire  comes again into the
world, many times. More men look upon fire. After a time, fire is  as common
as grass and  clouds and the  air they breathe. They see  that, while  it is
like a poppy, it  is not a  poppy, while it is like water, it is not  water,
while it is like the sun, it is not the sun, and while it is like that which
eats and passes wastes,  it  is not  that which  eats and passes wastes, but
something different from each  of  these apart or all of  these together. So
they look upon this new thing and they make a new word to call it. They call
it 'fire.'
     "If they come upon one who  still has not seen it and they speak to him
of fire, he does  not know what they mean.  So they, in turn, fall back upon
telling him  what fire  is like. As they do  so, they  know  from  their own
experience that what they are telling him is  not the truth, but only a part
of it. They know  that  this  man will never  know reality from their words,
though all the words in the world are theirs to use. He must  look upon  the
fire, smell of  it,  warm  his hands by it, stare into its  heart, or remain
forever  ignorant. Therefore, 'fire' does not  matter, 'earth' and 'air' and
'water' do not matter. 'I' do not  matter. No  word matters. But man forgets
reality and remembers words.  The more words  he remembers, the cleverer  do
his fellows  esteem him.  He  looks  upon the  great  transformations of the
world,  but  he does  not see them as they  were seen when man  looked  upon
reality for the first time. Their names come to his lips and he smiles as he
tastes them, thinking he knows them in the naming.  The thing that has never
happened before is still happening. It is still a miracle. The great burning
blossom squats, flowing,  upon the  limb  of the world, excreting the ash of
the world, and being none of these things I  have named and at the same time
all of them, and <i>this</i> is reality-- the Nameless.
     "Therefore,  I charge you-- forget the names you bear, forget the words
I speak  as soon as they are uttered. Look, rather, upon the Nameless within
yourselves, which arises as I address it. It hearkens not to  my  words, but
to the reality within me,  of which  it  is part.  This is the  <i>atman</i>, which
hears <i>me</i> rather than my words. All else is unreal. To define is to lose. The
essence of  all things is the Nameless. The Nameless is unknowable, mightier
even than Brahma. Things pass, but  the essence remains. You sit, therefore,
in the midst of a dream.
     "Essence  dreams it a  dream  of  form.  Forms  pass,  but  the essence
remains, dreaming new dreams.  Man  names these  dreams and thinks  to  have
captured the essence, not knowing that  he invokes the unreal. These stones,
these walls, these bodies you see seated about you are poppies and water and
the sun. They are the dreams of the Nameless. They are fire, if you like.
     "Occasionally, there  may come  a dreamer  who  is  aware  that  he  is
dreaming. He  may control something of  the dream-stuff, bending  it to  his
will, or  he may awaken into greater self-knowledge. If he chooses  the path
of self-knowledge, his glory is great and he shall be for all ages like unto
a star. If he chooses instead  the way of the Tantras, combining Samsara and
Nirvana, comprehending the world and continuing to live  in it, this one  is
mighty among dreamers. He may be mighty for good or for ill, as we look upon
him--  though these terms, too,  are meaningless,  outside of the namings of
Samsara.
     "To dwell within Samsara, however,  is to  be subject  to the  works of
those  who are  mighty among dreamers. If they be  mighty for good, it  is a
golden time. If they be mighty for ill, it  is a time of darkness. The dream
may turn to nightmare.
     "It is written that  to live is  to suffer. This is  so, say the sages,
for man must work off his burden of Karma if he is to achieve enlightenment.
For this reason, say the sages, what does it profit a man to struggle within
a dream against that which  is his lot, which is the path he must follow  to
attain  liberation?  In the light  of eternal  values,  say the  sages,  the
suffering is as nothing; in the terms of Samsara, say the sages, it leads to
that which is good. What justification,  then, has a man to struggle against
those who be mighty for ill?"
     He paused for a moment, raised his head higher.
     "This  night the Lord of Illusion passed among you-- Mara, mighty among
dreamers-- mighty for ill. He  did come upon another who  may  work with the
stuff of dreams in a different way. He did meet with Dharma, who may expel a
dreamer from his dream. They did struggle, and the Lord Mara is no more. Why
did  they struggle, deathgod against  illusionist?  You say  their ways  are
incomprehensible, being the ways of gods. This is not the answer.
     "The answer, the justification, is  the same for men as it is for gods.
Good or ill, say the sages, mean nothing for they are of Samsara. Agree with
the  sages, who have taught our people for  as far as the  memory of man may
reach. Agree,  but  consider also a thing of  which the sages do  not speak.
This thing  is  'beauty,' which is  a  word-- but look  behind the  word and
consider the Way of the Nameless. And what is the way of the Nameless? It is
the Way of  Dream. And  why does the Nameless dream? This thing is not known
to any dweller within Samsara. So ask, rather, <i>what</i> does the Nameless dream?
     "The Nameless, of which we are all a part, does dream form. And what is
the  highest attribute  any form  may possess? It  is beauty. The  Nameless,
then, is an artist. The problem, therefore, is not one of good or evil,  but
one of esthetics. To  struggle against  those who are  mighty among dreamers
and are mighty for ill,  or ugliness, is not to struggle for that  which the
sages have taught us to be  meaningless in terms of Samsara or  Nirvana, but
rather it is to struggle for the symmetrical dreaming  of a dream,  in terms
of the rhythm  and the point, the balance and the antithesis which will make
it a  thing  of  beauty. Of this, the  sages say  nothing. This truth  is so
simple  that they have obviously overlooked it.  For this reason, I am bound
by the esthetics of the  situation to call it to your attention. To struggle
against the dreamers who dream ugliness, be  they men or gods, cannot but be
the will  of the Nameless. This  struggle will also  bear suffering, and  so
one's  karmic  burden  will  be lightened thereby,  just as  it  would be by
enduring the ugliness; but <i>this</i>  suffering is  productive of a higher end in
the light of the eternal values of which the sages so often speak.
     "Therefore,  I  say unto you, the esthetics of what  you have witnessed
this evening were of a high order. You may ask me,  then, 'How  am I to know
that  which  is  beautiful  and  that  which is ugly,  and  be moved  to act
thereby?' This question, I say, you  must answer for yourself.  To do  this,
first forget what I have spoken, for I have said nothing. Dwell now upon the
Nameless." He raised his right hand and bowed his head.
     Yama stood, Ratri stood, Tak appeared upon a table.
     The  four of  them left together,  knowing the  machineries of Karma to
have been defeated for a time.

     They  walked through the jagged  brilliance of the morning, beneath the
Bridge of the  Gods. Tall fronds, still wet with the night's rain, glistened
at the sides of  the trail. The tops of  trees and the peaks of the  distant
mountains rippled beyond the rising vapors. The day was cloudless. The faint
breezes of morning still bore a trace  of the night's cold. The clicking and
buzzing and chirping of the jungle accompanied the monks as they walked. The
monastery from  which  they had departed was only  partly visible  above the
upper reaches  of the treetops; high in the air above it, a twisting line of
smoke endorsed the heavens.
     Ratri's servitors bore her  litter in the midst of  the moving party of
monks,  servants and her small guard  of warriors. Sam and Yama  walked near
the head of  the band. Silent  overhead, Tak  followed, passing among leaves
and branches, unseen.
     "The pyre still blazes," said Yama.
     "Yes."
     "They burn the wanderer who suffered a heart attack as he took his rest
among them."
     "This is true."
     "For a spur of the moment thing,  you  came  up with  a fairly engaging
sermon."
     "Thanks."
     "Do you really believe what you preached?"
     Sam  laughed.  "I'm  very  gullible  when it comes to my  own words.  I
believe everything I say, though I know I'm a liar."
     Yama snorted. "The rod of Trimurti still falls upon  the backs of  men.
Nirriti stirs within his dark lair; he harasses the seaways of the south. Do
you plan on spending another lifetime indulging in metaphysics-- to find new
justification for opposing your enemies? Your talk last  night sounded as if
you have reverted to considering <i>why</i> again, rather than <i>how</i>."
     "No," said Sam,  "I just wanted to try another line on the audience. It
is  difficult  to stir rebellion  among those to whom all things  are  good.
There is no room for evil  in their minds, despite the fact that they suffer
it  constantly.  The slave  upon  the  rack who  knows that he  will be born
again-- perhaps as a  fat merchant --  if he suffers willingly-- his outlook
is  not the  same as that of a man with but one life to live.  He  can  bear
anything, knowing that great as his present pain may be, his future pleasure
will rise higher. If such a one does not choose to believe in good or  evil,
perhaps then  beauty and ugliness can be made to serve him as well. Only the
names have been changed."
     "This, then, is the new, official party line?" asked Yama.
     "It is," said Sam.
     Yama's  hand  passed through an invisible slit  in his robe and emerged
with a dagger, which he raised in salute.
     "To beauty," he said. "Down with ugliness!"
     A wave  of silence passed  across the jungle. All the life-sounds about
them ceased.
     Yama raised  one  hand, returning the dagger to its hidden  sheath with
the other.
     "Halt!" he cried out.
     He looked upward, squinting against the sun, head cocked to his right.
     "Off the trail! Into the brush!" he called.
     They moved. Saffron-cloaked bodies flashed from off the  trail. Ratri's
litter was borne in among the trees. She now stood at Yama's side.
     "What is it?" she asked.
     "Listen!"
     It came then, riding down the sky on a blast of sound. It flashed above
the peaks of the mountains,  crossed over the monastery, whipping the smokes
into  invisibility.  Explosions  of sound trumpeted its coming, and the  air
quaked as it cut its way through the wind and the light.
     It was a great-looped tau cross, a tail of fire streaming behind it.
     "Destroyer come a-hunting," said Yama.
     "Thunder chariot!" cried one of the mercenaries, making a sign with his
hand.
     "Shiva passes," said a monk, eyes wide with fear. "The Destroyer . . ."
     "Had I known at the time how well I wrought," said Yama,  "I might have
numbered its days intentionally. Occasionally, do I regret my genius."
     It passed beneath the Bridge of  the Gods, swung above the jungle, fell
away to  the south.  Its roar gradually diminished  as  it departed in  that
direction. Then there was silence.
     A bird  made a brief piping  noise. Another replied to it. Then all the
sounds of life began again and the travelers returned to their trail.
     "He will  be back," said Yama, and  this was  true. Twice more that day
did  they have to leave the trail as the thunder chariot  passed above their
heads.  On the  last occasion, it circled the monastery,  possibly observing
the  funeral rites being conducted there. Then it crossed over the mountains
and was gone.
     That night they made camp under the stars, and on the second night they
did the same.
     The third day brought them to  the river  Deeva and the small port city
of Koona. It was there that  they found  the transportation they wished, and
they set  forth that same evening,  heading south by bark to where the Deeva
joined with the mighty Vedra, and  then proceeded onward to pass at last the
wharves of Khaipur, their destination.
     As they flowed  with the river, Sam listened  to  its sounds. He  stood
upon the dark deck, his hands resting on  the rail. He stared out across the
waters where the bright heavens  rose and fell, star bending back upon star.
It  was  then  that the  night  addressed him  in  the voice of Ratri,  from
somewhere nearby.
     "You have passed this way before, Tathagatha."
     "Many times," he  replied.  "The Deeva  is a thing of beauty under  the
stars, in its rippling and its folding."
     "Indeed."
     "We go now to Khaipur and the Palace of Kama. What will you do  when we
arrive?"
     "I will spend some time in meditation, goddess."
     "Upon what shall you meditate?"
     "Upon my past lives and the mistakes they each contained. I must review
my own tactics as well as those of the enemy."
     "Yama thinks the Golden Cloud to have changed you."
     "Perhaps it has."
     "He  believes it  to have softened you,  weakened  you. You have always
posed  as a mystic, but now he believes you have become one  -- to your  own
undoing, to our undoing."
     He shook his head, turned around.  But  he did not see  her.  Stood she
there  invisible,  or  had  she  withdrawn?  He  spoke  softly  and  without
inflection:
     "I  shall tear  these stars from out the heavens," he stated, "and hurl
them in the faces of the gods, if  this be necessary. I  shall  blaspheme in
every Temple throughout  the land.  I shall take lives  as a fisherman takes
fish, by  the net, if this be necessary.  I  shall mount me  again up to the
Celestial City, though every step be a flame or a naked sword and the way be
guarded by tigers. One day will  the gods  look down from Heaven and  see me
upon the stair, bringing them the gift they fear most. That day will the new
Yuga begin.
     "But first I must meditate for a time," he finished.
     He turned back again and stared out over the waters.
     A shooting star burnt  its way across the heavens.  The ship moved  on.
The night sighed about him.
     Sam stared ahead, remembering.



        II
     <i>One time a minor rajah from a minor  principality came with his retinue
into Mahartha,  the city  that is called Gateway of the South and Capital of
the Dawn, there to purchase him a  new  body.  This was in the days when the
thread of destiny might yet be plucked from out a gutter, the gods were less
formal, the demons still bound, and the Celestial City yet occasionally open
to men. This is  the story of how the prince did bait the one-armed receiver
of devotions before the Temple,  incurring  the  disfavor of  Heaven for his
presumption. . .</i>
     <i>Few are the beings born again among men; more</i>
     <i>numerous are those born again elsewhere.</i>
     <i><i>Anguttara-nikaya (I, 35)</i></i>
     Riding into the capital  of dawn at mid-afternoon, the  prince, mounted
upon a white  mare,  passed  up  the  broad  avenue  of Surya,  his  hundred
retainers  massed  at  his back,  his adviser Strake  at his left  hand, his
scimitar in his sash, and  a  portion  of his  wealth  in the  bags his pack
horses bore.
     The heat crashed  down upon the turbans  of  the men, washed past them,
came up again from the roadway.
     A chariot moved slowly by, headed in the opposite direction, its driver
squinting up at the banner the chief retainer bore; a courtesan stood at the
gateway to her pavilion, studying  the traffic; and a pack  of mongrel  dogs
followed at the heels of the horses, barking.
     The prince was  tall, and his  mustaches were  the color  of smoke.