There were, of course, windows. The question as to whether a man could have entered by means of any of these windows must remain academic. Tak proved that an ape could.
Mounting the monastery roof, he proceeded to scale the tower, moving from brick to slippery brick, from projection to irregularity, the heavens growling doglike above him, until finally he clung to the wall just below the outer sill. A steady rain fell upon him. He heard a bird singing within. He saw the edge of a wet, blue scarf hanging over the sill.
He caught hold of the ledge and raised himself until he could peer inside.
Her back was to him. She wore a dark blue sari, and she was seated on a small bench at the opposite end of the room.
He clambered onto the sill and cleared his throat.
She turned quickly. She wore a veil, so that her features were indistinguishable. She regarded him through it, then rose and crossed the chamber.
He was dismayed. Her figure, once lithe, was wide about the waist; her walk, once the swaying of boughs, was a waddle; her complexion was too dark; even through the veil the lines of her nose and jaw were too pronounced.
He bowed his head. “‘And so you have drawn near to us, who at your coming have come home,” he sang, “‘as birds to their nest upon the tree.'”
She stood, still as her statue in the main hall below.
“‘Guard us from the she-wolf and the wolf, and guard us from the thief, oh Night, and so be good for us to pass.'”
She reached out slowly and laid her hand upon his head.
“You have my blessing, little one,” she said, after a time. “Unfortunately, that is all I can give. I cannot offer protection or render beauty, who lack these luxuries myself. What is your name?”
“Tak,” he told her.
She touched her brow. “I once knew a Tak,” she said, “in a bygone day, a distant place. . .”
“I am that Tak, madam.”
She seated herself upon the sill. After a time, he realized that she was weeping, within her veil.
“Don’t cry, goddess. Tak is here. Remember Tak, of the Archives? Of the Bright Spear? He stands yet ready to do thy bidding.”
“Tak. . .” she said. “Oh, Tak! You, too? I did not know, I never heard. . .”
“Another turning of the wheel, madam, and who knows? Things may yet be better than even once they were.”
Her shoulders shook. He reached out, drew back his hand.
She turned and took it.
After an age, she spoke: “Not by the normal course of events shall we be restored or matters settled, Tak of the Bright Spear. We must beat our own path.”
“What mean you?” he inquired; then, “Sam?”
She nodded.
“He is the one. He is our hope against Heaven, dear Tak. If he can be recalled, we have a chance to live again.”
“This is why you have taken this chance, why you yourself sit within the jaws of the tiger?”
“Why else? When there is no real hope we must mint our own. If the coin be counterfeit it still may be passed.”
“Counterfeit? You do not believe he was the Buddha?”
She laughed, briefly. “Sam was the greatest charlatan in the memory of god or man. He was also the worthiest opponent Trimurti ever faced. Don’t look so shocked at my saying it. Archivist! You know that he stole the fabric of his doctrine, path and attainment, the whole robe, from prehistorical forbidden sources. It was a weapon, nothing more. His greatest strength was his insincerity. If we could have him back . . .”
“Lady, saint or charlatan, he is returned.”
“Do not jest with me, Tak.”
“Goddess and Lady, I just left the Lord Yama shutting down the pray-machine, frowning his frown of success.”
“The venture was against such mighty odds. . . . Lord Agni once said that no such thing could ever be done.”
Tak stood.
“Goddess Ratri,” he said, “who, be he god or man, or anything between, knows more of such matters than Yama?”