“You fear her power?”
“Let us say,” said the priest, “that despite its magnificence, the shrine of Kali is not so frequently visited as are those of Lakshmi, Sarasvati, Shakti, Sitala, Ratri and the other less awesome goddesses.”
“But she is greater than any of these.”
“And more terrible.”
“So? Despite her strength, she is not an unjust goddess.”
The priest smiled. “What man who has lived for more than a score of years desires justice, warrior? For my part, I find mercy infinitely more attractive. Give me a forgiving deity any day.”
“Well taken,” said the other, “but I am, as you say, a warrior. My own nature is close to hers. We think alike, the goddess and I. We generally agree on most matters. When we do not, I remember that she is also a woman.”
“I live here,” said the priest, “and I do not speak that intimately of my charges, the gods.”
“In public, that is,” said the other. “Tell me not of priests. I have drunk with many of you, and know you to be as blasphemous as the rest of mankind.”
“There is a time and place for everything,” said the priest, glancing back at Kali’s statue.
“Aye, aye. Now tell me why the base of Yama’s shrine has not been scrubbed recently. It is dusty.”
“It was cleaned but yesterday, but so many have passed before it since then that it has felt considerable usage.”
The other smiled. “Why then are there no offerings laid at his feet, no remains of sacrifices?”
“No one gives flowers to Death,” said the priest. “They just come to look and go away. We priests have always felt the two statues to be well situated. They make a terrible pair, do they not? Death, and the mistress of destruction?”
“A mighty team,” said the other. “But do you mean to tell me that no one makes sacrifice to Yama? No one at all?”‘
“Other than we priests, when the calendar of devotions requires it, and an occasional townsman, when a loved one is upon the death-bed and has been refused direct incarnation—other than these, no, I have never seen sacrifice made to Yama, simply, sincerely, with good will or affection.”
“He must feel offended.”
“Not so, warrior. For are not all living things, in themselves, sacrifices to Death?”
“Indeed, you speak truly. What need has he for their good will or affection? Gifts are unnecessary, for he takes what he wants.”
“Like Kali,” acknowledged the priest. “And in the cases of both deities have I often sought justification for atheism. Unfortunately, they manifest themselves too strongly in the world for their existence to be denied effectively. Pity.”
The warrior laughed. “A priest who is an unwilling believer! I like that. It tickles my funny bone! Here, buy yourself a barrel of soma—for sacrificial purposes.”
“Thank you, warrior. I shall. Join me in a small libation now — on the Temple?”
“By Kali, I will!” said the other. “But a small one only.”
He accompanied the priest into the central building and down a flight of stairs into the cellar, where a barrel of soma was tapped and two beakers drawn.
“To your health and long life,” he said, raising it.
“To your morbid patrons—Yama and Kali,” said the priest.
“Thank you.”
They gulped the potent brew, and the priest drew two more. “To warm your throat against the night.”
“Very good.”
“It is a good thing to see some of these travelers depart,” said the priest. “Their devotions have enriched the Temple, but they have also tired the staff considerably.”
“To the departure of the pilgrims!”
“To the departure of the pilgrims!”
They drank again.
“I thought that most of them came to see the Buddha,” said Yama.
“That is true,” replied the priest, “but on the other hand, they are not anxious to antagonize the gods by this. So, before they visit the purple grove, they generally make sacrifice or donate to the Temple for prayers.”
“What do you know of the one called Tathagatha, and of his teachings?”
The other looked away. “I am a priest of the gods and a Brahmin, warrior. I do not wish to speak of this one.”