“I have no answer for that question, Tak, because there is none. But how can you say of a certainty that he has netted us our fish?”
“Because he is Yama.”
“Then take my arm, Tak. Escort me again, as once you did. Let us view the sleeping Boddhisatva.”
He led her out the door, down the stairs, and into the chambers below.
Light, born not of torches but of the generators of Yama, filled the cavern. The bed, set upon a platform, was closed about on three sides by screens. Most of the machinery was also masked by screens and hangings. The saffron-robed monks who were in attendance moved silently about the great chamber. Yama, master artificer, stood at the bedside.
As they approached, several of the well-disciplined, imperturbable monks uttered brief exclamations. Tak then turned to the woman at his side and drew back a pace, his breath catching in his throat.
She was no longer the dumpy little matron with whom he had spoken. Once again did he stand at the side of Night Immortal, of whom it has been written, “The goddess has filled wide space, to its depths and its heights. Her radiance drives out the dark.”
He looked but a moment and covered his eyes. She still had this trace of her distant Aspect about her.
“Goddess. . .” he began.
“To the sleeper,” she stated. “He stirs.”
They advanced to the bedstead.
Thereafter to be portrayed in murals at the ends of countless corridors, carved upon the walls of Temples and painted onto the ceilings of numerous palaces, came the awakening of he who was variously known as Mahasamatman, Kalkin, Manjusri, Siddhartha, Tathagatha, Binder, Maitreya, the Enlightened One, Buddha and Sam. At his left was the goddess of Night; to his right stood Death; Tak, the ape, was crouched at the foot of the bed, eternal comment upon the coexistence of the animal and the divine.
He wore an ordinary, darkish body of medium height and age; his features were regular and undistinguished; when his eyes opened, they were dark.
“Hail, Lord of Light!” It was Ratri who spoke these words.
The eyes blinked. They did not focus. Nowhere in the chamber was there any movement.
“Hail, Mahasamatman — Buddha!” said Yama.
The eyes stared ahead, unseeing.
“Hello, Sam,” said Tak.
The forehead creased slightly, the eyes squinted, fell upon Tak, moved on to the others.
“Where . . . ?” he asked, in a whisper.
“My monastery,” answered Ratri.
Without expression, he looked upon her beauty.
Then he shut his eyes and held them tightly closed, wrinkles forming at their corners. A grin of pain made his mouth a bow, his teeth the arrows, clenched.
“Are you truly he whom we have named?” asked Yama.
He did not answer.
“Are you he who fought the army of Heaven to a standstill on the banks of the Vedra?”
The mouth slackened.
“Are you he who loved the goddess of Death?”
The eyes flickered. A faint smile came and went across the lips.
“It is he,” said Yama; then, “Who are you, man?”
“I? I am nothing,” replied the other. “A leaf caught in a whirlpool, perhaps. A feather in the wind. . .”
“Too bad,” said Yama, “for there are leaves and feathers enough in the world for me to have labored so long only to increase their number. I wanted me a man, one who might continue a war interrupted by his absence — a man of power who could oppose with that power the will of gods. I thought you were he.”
“I am”—he squinted again”—Sam. I am Sam. Once—long ago . . . I did fight, didn’t I? Many times . . .”
“You were Great-Souled Sam, the Buddha. Do you remember?”
“Maybe I was . . .” A slow fire was kindled in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said then. “Yes, I was. Humblest of the proud, proudest of the humble. I fought. I taught the Way for a time. I fought again, taught again, tried politics, magic, poison . . . I fought one great battle so terrible the sun itself hid its face from the slaughter—with men and gods, with animals and demons, with spirits of the earth and air, of fire and water, with slizzards and horses, swords and chariots—”