that is pure hellfire."
"In the meantime," said Sam, "I suggest you solicit aid of my followers
or learn the difficult art of mud-breathing."
He picked his way across the field, Yama's eyes burning into his back.
When he reached the trail, he turned. "And you may want to mention in
Heaven," he said, "that I was called out of town on a business deal."
Yama did not reply.
"I think I am going to make a deal for some weapons," he finished,
"some rather special weapons. So when you come after me, bring your girl
friend along. If she likes what she sees, she may persuade you to switch
sides."
Then he struck the trail and moved away through the night, whistling,
beneath a moon that was white and a moon that was golden.
IV
It is told how the Lord of Light descended into the Well of the Demons,
to make there a bargain with the chief of the Rakasha. He dealt in good
faith, but the Rakasha are the Rakasha. That is to say, they are malefic
creatures, possessed of great powers, life-span and the ability to assume
nearly any shape. The Rakasha are almost indestructible. Their chiefest lack
is a true body; their chiefest virtue, their honor toward their gambling
debts. That the Lord of Light went to Hellwell at all serves to show that
perhaps he was somewhat distraught concerning the state of the world. . . .
When the gods and the demons, both offspring of Prajapati, did battle
with one another, the gods seized upon the life-principle of the Udgitha,
thinking that with this would they vanquish the demons.
They meditated upon the Udgitha which functions through the nose, but
the demons pierced it through with evil. Therefore, with the breath one
smells both that which is pleasant and that which is foul. Thus the breath
is touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha as words, but the demons pierced it
through with evil. Therefore, one speaks both truth and falsehood. Thus
words are touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha which functions through the eye, but
the demons pierced it through with evil. Therefore, one sees both what is
pleasing and what is ugly. Thus the eye is touched by evil.
They meditated upon the Udgitha as hearing, but the demons pierced it
through with evil. Therefore, one hears both good things and bad. Thus the
ear is touched by evil.
Then did they meditate upon the Udgitha as the mind, but the demons
pierced it through with evil. Therefore, one thinks what is proper, true,
and good, and what is improper, false, and depraved. Thus the mind is
touched by evil.
Chhandogya Upanishad (I, ii, 1-6)
Hellwell lies at the top of the world and it leads down to its roots.
It is probably as old as the world itself; and if it is not, it should
be, because it looks as if it were.
It begins with a doorway. There is a huge, burnished metal door,
erected by the First, that is heavy as sin, three times the height of a man
and half that distance in width. It is a full cubit thick and bears a
head-sized ring of brass, a complicated pressure-plate lock and an
inscription that reads, roughly, "Go away. This is not a place to be. If you
do try to enter here, you will fail and also be cursed. If somehow you
succeed, then do not complain that you entered unwarned, nor bother us with
your deathbed prayers." Signed, "The Gods."
It is set near the peak of a very high mountain named Channa, in the
midst of a region of very high mountains called the Ratnagaris. In that
place there is always snow upon the ground, and rainbows ride like fur on
the backs of icicles, which sprout about the frozen caps of cliffs. The air
is sharp as a sword. The sky is bright as the eye of a cat.
Very few feet have ever trod the trail that leads to Hellwell. Of those
who visited, most came only to look, to see whether the great door really
existed; and when they returned home and told of having seen it, they were
generally mocked.
Telltale scratches about the lock plate testify that some have actually
sought entrance. Equipment sufficient to force the great door could not be
transported or properly positioned, however. The trail that leads to
Hellwell is less than ten inches in width for the final three hundred feet
of its ascent; and perhaps six men could stand, with crowding, upon what
remains of the once wide ledge that faces that door.
It is told that Pannalal the Sage, having sharpened his mind with
meditation and divers asceticisms, had divined the operation of the lock and
entered Hellwell, spending a day and a night beneath the mountain. He was
thereafter known as Pannalal the Mad.
The peak known as Channa, which holds the great door, is removed by
five days' journey from a small village. This is within the far northern
kingdom of Malwa. This mountain village nearest to Channa has no name
itself, being filled with a fierce and independent people who have no
special desire that their town appeal on the maps of the rajah's tax
collectors. Of the rajah, it is sufficient to tell that he is of middle
height and middle years, shrewd, slightly stout, neither pious nor more than
usually notorious and fabulously wealthy. He is wealthy because he levies
high taxes upon his subjects. When his subjects begin to complain, and
murmurs of revolt run through the realm, he declares war upon a neighboring
kingdom and doubles the taxes. If the war does not go well, he executes
several generals and has his Minister of Peace negotiate a treaty. If, by
some chance, it goes especially well, he exacts tribute for whatever insult
has caused the entire affair. Usually, though, it ends in a truce, souring
his subjects on fighting and reconciling them to the high tax rate. His name
is Videgha and he has many children. He is fond of grak-birds, which can be
taught to sing bawdy songs, of snakes, to which he occasionally feeds
grak-birds who cannot carry a tune, and of gaming with dice. He does not
especially like children.
Hellwell begins with the great doorway high in the mountains at the
northernmost comer of Videgha's kingdom, beyond which there are no other
kingdoms of men. It begins there, and it corkscrews down through the heart
of the mountain Channa, breaking, like a corkscrew, into vast cavernways
uncharted by men, extending far beneath the Ratnagari range, the deepest
passageways pushing down toward the roots of the world.
To this door came the traveler.
He was simply dressed, and he traveled alone, and he seemed to know
exactly where he was going and what he was doing.
He climbed the trail up Channa, edging his way across its gaunt face.
It took him the better part of the morning to reach his destination,
the door.
When he stood before it, he rested a moment, took a drink from his
water bottle, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiled.
Then he sat down with his back against the door and ate his lunch. When
he had finished, he threw the leaf wrappings over the edge and watched them
fall, drifting from side to side on the air currents, until they were out of
sight. He lit his pipe then and smoked.
After he had rested, he stood and faced the door once again.
His hand fell upon the pressure plate, moved slowly through a series of
gestures. There was a musical sound from within the door as his hand left
the plate.
Then he seized upon the ring and drew back, his shoulder muscles
straining. The door moved, slowly at first, then more rapidly. He stepped
aside and it swung outward, passing beyond the ledge.
There was another ring, twin to the first, on the inner surface of the
door. He caught at it as it passed him, dragging his heels to keep it from
swinging so far as to place it beyond his reach.
A rush of warm air emerged from the opening at his back.
Drawing the door closed again behind him, he paused only to light one
of the many torches he bore. Then he advanced along a corridor that widened
as he moved ahead.
The floor slanted abruptly, and after a hundred paces the ceiling was
so high as to be invisible.
After two hundred paces, he stood upon the lip of the well.
He was now in the midst of a vast blackness shot through with the
flames of his torch. The walls had vanished, save for the one behind him and
to the right. The floor ended a short distance before him.
Beyond that edge was what appeared to be a bottomless pit. He could not
see across it, but he knew it to be roughly circular in shape; and he knew,
too, that it widened in circumference as it descended.
He made his way down along the trail that wound about the well wall,
and he could feel the rush of warm air rising from out of the depths. This
trail was artificial. One could feel this, despite its steepness. It was
precarious and it was narrow; it was cracked in many places, and in spots
rubble had accumulated upon it. But its steady, winding slant bespoke the
fact that there was purpose and pattern to its existence.
He moved along this trail, carefully. To his left was the wall. To his
right there was nothing.
After what seemed an age and a half, he sighted a tiny flicker of light
far below him, hanging in midair.
The curvature of the wall, however, gradually bent his way so that this
light no longer hung in the distance, but lay below and slightly to his
right.
Another twisting of the trail set it directly ahead of him.
When he passed the niche in the wall wherein the flame was cached, he
heard a voice within his mind cry out:
"Free me, master, and I will lay the world at thy feet!"
But he hurried by, not even glancing at the almost-face within the
opening.
Floating upon the ocean of black that lay beneath his feet, there were
more lights now visible.
The well continued to widen. It was filled with brightening glimmers,
like flame, but not flame; filled with shapes, faces, half-remembered
images. From each there rose up a cry as he passed: "Free me! Free me!"
But he did not halt.
He came to the bottom of the well and moved across it, passing among
broken stones and over fissures in the rocky floor. At last he reached the
opposite wall, wherein a great orange fire danced.
It became cherry-red as he approached, and when he stood before it, it
was the blue of a sapphire's heart.
It stood to twice his height, pulsing and twisting. From it, little
flamelets licked out toward him, but they drew back as if they fell against
an invisible barrier.
During his descent he had passed so many flames that he had lost count
of their number. He knew, too, that more lay hidden within the caverns that
open into the well bottom.
Each flame he had passed on the way down had addressed him, using its
own species of communication, so that the words had sounded drumlike within
his head: threatening words, and pleading, promising words. But no message
came to him from this great blue blaze, larger than any of the others. No
forms turned or twisted, tantalizing, within its bright heart. Flame it was,
and flame it remained.
He kindled a fresh torch and wedged it between two rocks.
"So, Hated One, you have returned!"
The words fell upon him like whiplashes. Steadying himself, he faced
the blue flame then and replied:
"You are called Taraka?"
"He who bound me here should know what I am called," came the words.
"Think not, oh Siddhartha, that because you wear a different body you go now
unrecognized. I look upon the flows of energy which are your real being--
not the flesh that masks them."
"I see," replied the other.
"Do you come to mock me in my prison?"
"Did I mock you in the days of the Binding?"
"No, you did not."
"I did that which had to be done, to preserve my own species. Men were
weak and few in number. Your kind fell upon them and would have destroyed
them."
"You stole our world, Siddhartha. You chained us here. What new
indignity would you lay upon us?"
"Perhaps there is a way in which some reparation may be made."
"What is it that you want?"
"Allies."
"You want us to take your part in a struggle?"
"That is correct."
"And when it is over, you will seek to bind us again."
"Not if we can work out some sort of agreement beforehand."
"Speak to me your terms," said the flame.
"In the old days your people walked, visible and invisible, in the
streets of the Celestial City."
"That is true."
"It is better fortified now."
"In what ways?"
"Vishnu the Preserver and Yama-Dharma, Lord of Death, have covered the
whole of Heaven, rather than just the City-- as it was in days of old-- with
what is said to be an impenetrable dome."
"There is no such thing as an impenetrable dome."
"I say only what I have heard."
"There are many ways into a city. Lord Siddhartha."
"You will find them all for me?"
"That is to be the price of my freedom?"
"Of your own freedom-- yes."
"What of the others of my kind?"
"If they, too, are to be freed, you must all agree to help me lay siege
to that City and take it."
"Free us, and Heaven shall fall!"
"You speak for the others?"
"I am Taraka. I speak for all."
"What assurance do you give, Taraka, that this bargain will be kept?"
"My word? I shall be happy to swear by anything you care to name -- "
"A facility with oaths is not the most reassuring quality in a
bargainer. And your strength is also your weakness in any bargaining at all.
You are so strong as to be unable to grant to another the power to control
you. You have no gods to swear by. The only thing you will honor is a
gambling debt, and there are no grounds for gaming here."
"You possess the power to control us."
"Individually, perhaps. But not collectively."
"It is a difficult problem," said Taraka. "I should give anything I
have to be free-- but then, all that I have is power -- pure power, in
essence uncommittable. A greater force might subdue it, but that is not the
answer. I do not really know how to give you satisfactory assurance that my
promise will be kept. If I were you, I certainly would not trust me."
"It is something of a dilemma. So I will free you now-- you alone-- to
visit the Pole and scout out the defenses of Heaven. In your absence, I will
consider the problem further. Do you likewise, and perhaps upon your return
an equitable arrangement can be made."
"Accepted! Release me from this doom!"
"Know then my power, Taraka," he said. "As I bind, so can I loose--
thus!"
The flame boiled forward out of the wall.
It rolled into a ball of fire and spun about the well like a comet; it
burned like a small sun, lighting up the darkness; it changed colors as it
fled about, so that the rocks shone both ghastly and pleasing.
Then it hovered above the head of the one called Siddhartha, sending
down its throbbing words upon him:
"You cannot know my pleasure to feel again my strength set free. I've a
mind to try your power once more."
The man beneath him shrugged.
The ball of flame coalesced. Shrinking, it grew brighter, and it slowly
settled to the floor.
It lay there quivering, like a petal fallen from some titanic bloom;
then it drifted slowly across the floor of Hellwell and re-entered the
niche.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Siddhartha.
"Yes," came the reply, after a time. "Your power is undimmed. Binder.
Free me once more."
"I grow tired of this sport, Taraka. Perhaps I'd best leave you as you
are and seek assistance elsewhere."
"No! I gave you my promise! What more would you have?"
"I would have an absence of contention between us. Either you will
serve me now in this matter, or you will not. That is all. Choose, and abide
by your choice-- and your word."
"Very well. Free me, and I will visit Heaven upon its mountain of ice,
and report back to you of its weaknesses."
"Then go!"
This time, the flame emerged more slowly. It swayed before him, took on
a roughly human outline.
"What is your power, Siddhartha? How do you do what you do?" it asked
him.
"Call it electrodirection," said the other, "mind over energy. It is as
good a term as any. But whatever you call it, do not seek to cross it again.
I can kill you with it, though no weapon formed of matter may be laid upon
you. Go now!"
Taraka vanished, like a firebrand plunged into a river, and Siddhartha
stood among stones, his torch lighting the darkness about him.
He rested, and a babble of voices filled his mind-- promising,
tempting, pleading. Visions of wealth and of splendor flowed before his
eyes. Wondrous harems were paraded before him, and banquets were laid at his
feet. Essences of musk and champac, and the bluish haze of burning incenses
drifted, soothing his soul, about him. He walked among flowers, followed by
bright-eyed girls who bore his wine cups, smiling; a silver voice sang to
him, and creatures not human danced upon the surface of a nearby lake. "Free
us, free us," they chanted. But he smiled and watched and did nothing.
Gradually, the prayers and the pleas and the promises turned to a chorus of
curses and threats. Armored skeletons advanced upon him, babies impaled upon
their blazing swords. There were pits all about him, from which fires leapt
up, smelling of brimstone. A serpent dangled from a branch before his face,
spitting venom. A rain of spiders and toads descended upon him.
"Free us-- or infinite will be thy agony!" cried the voices.
"If you persist," he stated, "Siddhartha shall grow angry, and you will
lose the one chance at freedom which you really do possess."
Then all was still about him, and he emptied his mind, drowsing.
He had two meals, there in the cavern, and then he slept again.
Later, Taraka returned in the form of a great-taloned bird and reported
to him:
"Those of my kind may enter through the air vents," he said, "but men
may not. There are also many elevator shafts within the mountain. Many men
might ride up the larger ones with ease. Of course, these are guarded. But
if the guards were slain and the alarms disconnected, this thing might be
accomplished. Also, there are times when the dome itself is opened in
various places, to permit flying craft to enter and to depart."
"Very well," said Siddhartha. "I've a kingdom, some weeks' journey
hence, where I rule. A regent has been seated in my place for many years,
but if I return there I can raise me an army. A new religion moves now
across the land. Men may now think less of the gods than once they did."
"You wish to sack Heaven?"
"Yes, I wish to lay open its treasures to the world."
"This is to my liking. It will not be easily won, but with an army of
men and an army of my kind we should be able to do it. Let us free my people
now, that we may begin."
"I believe I will simply have to trust you," said Siddhartha. "So yes,
let us begin," and he moved across the floor of Hellwell toward the first
deep tunnel beading downward.
That day he freed sixty-five of them, filling the caverns with their
color and their movement and their light. The air sounded with mighty cries
of joy and the noise of their passage as they swept about Hellwell, changing
shape constantly and exulting in their freedom.
Without warning, then, one took upon itself the form of a flying
serpent and swept down toward him, talons outstretched and slashing.
For a moment, his full attention lay upon it.
It uttered a brief, broken cry, and then it came apart, falling in a
shower of blue-white sparks.
Then these faded, and it was utterly vanished.
There was silence in the caverns, and the lights pulsed and dipped
about the walls.
Siddhartha directed his attention toward the largest point of light,
Taraka.
"Did that one attack me in order to test my strength?" he inquired. "To
see whether I can also kill, in the manner I told you I could?"
Taraka approached, hovered before him. "It was not by my bidding that
he attacked," he stated. "I feel that he was half crazed from his
confinement."
Siddhartha shrugged. "For a time now, disport yourselves as you would,"
he said. "I would have rest from this task," and he departed the smaller
cavern.
He returned to the bottom of the well, where he lay down upon his
blanket and dozed.
There came a dream.
He was running.
His shadow lay before him, and, as he ran upon it, it grew.
It grew until it was no longer his shadow but a grotesque outline.
Suddenly he knew that his shadow had been overrun by that of his pursuer:
overrun, overwhelmed, submerged and surmounted.
Then he knew a moment of terrible panic, there upon the blind plain
over which he fled.
He knew that it was now his own shadow.
The doom which had pursued him no longer lay at his back.
He knew that he was his own doom.
Knowing that he had finally caught up with himself, he laughed aloud,
wanting really to scream.
When he awoke again, he was walking.
He was walking up the twisted wall-trail of Hellwell.
As he walked, he passed the imprisoned flames.
Again, each cried out to him as he went by:
"Free us, masters!"
And slowly, about the edges of the ice that was his mind, there was a
thawing.
Masters.
Plural. Not singular.
Masters, they had said.
He knew then that he did not walk alone.
None of the dancing, flickering shapes moved through the darkness about
him, below him.
The ones who had been imprisoned were still imprisoned. The ones he had
freed were gone.
Now he climbed the high wall of Hellwell, no torch lighting his way.
But still, he saw.
He saw every feature of the rocky trail, as though by moonlight.
He knew that his eyes were incapable of this feat.
And he had been addressed in the plural.
And his body was moving, but was not under the direction of his will.
He made an effort to halt, to stand still.
He continued to advance up the trail, and it was then that his lips
moved, forming the words:
"You have awakened, I see. Good morning."
A question formed itself in his mind, to be answered immediately
through his own mouth:
"Yes, and how does it feel to be bound yourself, Binder-- in your own
body?"
Siddhartha formed another thought:
"I did not think any of your kind capable of taking control of me
against my will-- even as I slept."
"To give you an honest answer," said the other, "neither did I. But
then, I had at my disposal the combined powers of many of my kind. It seemed
to be worth the attempt."
"And of the others? Where are they?"
"Gone. To wander the world until I summon them."
"And what of these others who remain bound? Had you waited, I would
have freed them also."
"What care I of these others? I am free now, and in a body again! What
else matters?"
"I take it, then, that your promised assistance means nothing?"
"Not so," replied the demon. "We shall return to this matter in, say, a
lesser moon or so. The idea does appeal to me. I feel that a war with the
gods would be a very excellent thing. But first I wish to enjoy the
pleasures of the flesh for a time. Why should you begrudge me a little
entertainment after the centuries of boredom and imprisonment you have
wrought?"
"I must admit, however, that I do begrudge you this use of my person."
"Whatever the case, you must, for a time, put up with it. You, too,
shall be in a position to enjoy what I enjoy, so why not make the best of
it?"
"You state that you do intend to war against the gods?"
"Yes indeed. I wish I had thought of it myself in the old days.
Perhaps, then, we should never have been bound. Perhaps there would no
longer be men or gods upon this world. We were never much for concerted
action, though. Independence of spirit naturally accompanies our
independence of person. Each fought his own battles in the general conflict
with mankind. I am a leader, true-- by virtue of the fact that I am older
and stronger and wiser than the others. They come to me for counsel, they
serve me when I order them. But I have never ordered them all into battle. I
shall, though, later. The novelty will do much to relieve the monotony."
"I suggest you do not wait, for there will be no 'later', Taraka."
"Why not?"
"I came to Hellwell, the wrath of the gods swarming and buzzing at my
back. Now sixty-six demons are loose in the world. Very soon, your presence
will be felt. The gods will know who has done this thing, and they will take
steps against us. The element of surprise will be lost."
"We fought the gods in the days of old . . ."
"And these are not the days of old, Taraka. The gods are stronger now,
much stronger. Long have you been bound, and their might has grown over the
ages. Even if you command the first army of Rakasha in history, and backing
them in battle I raise me up a mighty army of men-- even then, will the
final result be a thing uncertain. To delay now is to throw everything
away."
"I wish you would not speak to me like this, Siddhartha, for you
trouble me."
"I mean to. For all your powers, if you meet the One in Red he will
drink your life with his eyes. He will come here to the Ratnagaris, for he
follows me. The freedom of demons is as a signpost, directing him hither. He
may bring others with him. You may find them more than a match for all of
you."
The demon did not reply. They reached the top of the well, and Taraka
advanced the two hundred paces to the great door, which now stood open. He
stepped out onto the ledge and looked downward.
"You doubt the power of the Rakasha, eh. Binder?" he asked. Then,
"Behold!"
He stepped outward, over the edge.
They did not fall.
They drifted, like the leaves he had dropped-- how long ago?
Downward.
They landed upon the trail halfway down the mountain called Channa.
"Not only do I contain your nervous system," said Taraka, "but I have
permeated your entire body and wrapped it all about with the energies of my
being. So send me your One in Red, who drinks life with his eyes. I should
like to meet him."
"Though you can walk on air," said Siddhartha, "you speak rashly when
you speak thus."
"The Prince Videgha holds his court not far from here, at Palamaidsu,"
said Taraka, "for I visited there on my return from Heaven. I understand he
is fond of gaming. Therefore, thither fare we."
"And if the God of Death should come to join the game?"
"Let him!" cried the other. "You cease to amuse me, Binder. Good night.
Go back to sleep!"
There was a small darkness and a great silence, growing and shrinking.
The days that followed were bright fragments.
There would come to him snatches of conversation or song, colorful
vistas of galleries, chambers, gardens. And once he looked upon a dungeon
where men were hung upon racks, and he heard himself laughing.
Between these fragments there came to him dreams and half dreams. They
were lighted with fire, they ran with blood and tears. In a darkened,
endless cathedral he rolled dice that were suns and planets. Meteors broke
fire above his head, and comets inscribed blazing arcs upon a vault of black
glass. There came to him a joy shot through with fear, and he knew it to be
mainly that of another, but it was partly his, too. The fear-- that was all
his.
When Taraka drank too much wine, or lay panting on his wide, low couch
in the harem, then was his grip loosened somewhat, upon the body that he had
stolen. But Siddhartha was still weak with the mind-bruise, and his body was
drunk or fatigued; and he knew that the time had not yet come to contest the
mastery of the demon-lord.
There were times when he saw, not through the eyes of the body that had
once been his, but saw as a demon saw, in all directions, and stripped flesh
and bone from those among whom he passed, to behold the flames of their
beings, colored with the hues and shades of their passions, flickering with
avarice and lust and envy, darting with greed and hunger, smouldering with
hate, waning with fear and pain. His hell was a many-colored place, somewhat
mitigated only by the cold blue blaze of a scholar's intellect, the white
light of a dying monk, the rose halo of a noble lady who fled his sight, and
the dancing, simple colors of children at play.
He stalked the high halls and wide galleries of the royal palace at
Palamaidsu, which were his winnings. The Prince Videgha lay in chains in his
own dungeon. Throughout the kingdom, his subjects were not aware that a
demon now sat upon the throne. Things seemed to be the same as they had
always been. Siddhartha had visions of riding through the streets of the
town on the back of an elephant. All the women of the town had been ordered
to stand before the doors of their dwellings. Of these, he chose those who
pleased him and had them taken back to his harem. Siddhartha realized, with
a sudden shock, that he was assisting in the choosing, disputing with Taraka
over the virtues of this or that matron, maid or lady. He had been touched
by the lusts of the demon-lord, and they were becoming his own. With this
realization, he came into a greater wakefulness, and it was not always the
hand of the demon which raised the wine horn to his lips, or twitched the
whip in the dungeon. He came to be conscious for greater periods of time,
and with a certain horror he knew that, within himself, as within every man,
there lies a demon capable of responding to his own kind.
Then, one day, he fought the power that ruled his body and bent his
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 lon