“Nevertheless,” said the monk, “all life being one, in this monastery all do practice the doctrine of ahimsa and refrain from taking life of any sort.”
“Yet,” said Aram, “Patanjali does state that it is the intention 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 ahimsa. 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 atman 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.