“So, he has gotten to you, too?”
“Enough! I have made my wishes known to you. It is not a subject on which I will discourse.”
“It matters not—and will matter less shortly. Thank you for the soma. Good evening, priest.”
“Good evening, warrior. May the gods smile upon your path.”
“And yours also.”
Mounting the stairs, he departed the Temple and continued on his way through the city, walking.
When he came to the purple grove, there were three moons in the heavens, small camplights behind the trees, pale blossoms of fire in the sky above the town, and a breeze with a certain dampness in it stirring the growth about him.
He moved silently ahead, entering the grove.
When he came into the lighted area, he was faced with row upon row of motionless, seated figures. Each wore a yellow robe with a yellow cowl drawn over the head. Hundreds of them were seated so, and not one uttered a sound.
He approached the one nearest him. “I have come to see Tathagatha, the Buddha,” he said.
The man did not seem to hear him.
“Where is he?”
The man did not reply.
He bent forward and stared into the monk’s half-closed eyes. For a moment, he glared into them, but it was as though the other was asleep, for the eyes did not even meet with his.
Then he raised his voice, so that all within the grove might hear him: “I have come to see Tathagatha, the Buddha,” he said. “Where is he?”
It was as though he addressed a field of stones. “Do you think to hide him in this manner?” he called out. “Do you think that because you are many, and all dressed alike, and because you will not answer me, that for these reasons I cannot find him among you?”
There was only the sighing of the wind, passing through from the back of the grove. The light flickered and the purple fronds stirred.
He laughed. “In this, you may be right,” he admitted. “But you must move sometime, if you intend to go on living—and I can wait as long as any man.”
Then he seated himself upon the ground, his back against the blue bark of a tall tree, his blade across his knees. Immediately, he was seized with drowsiness. His head nodded and jerked upward several times. Then his chin came to rest upon his breast and he snored.
Was walking, across a blue-green plain, the grasses bending down to form a pathway before him. At the end of this pathway was a massive tree, a tree such as did not grow upon the world, but rather held the world together with its roots, and with its branches reached up to utter leaves among the stars.
At its base sat a man, cross-legged, a faint smile upon his lips. He knew this man to be the Buddha, and he approached and stood before him.
“Greetings, oh Death,” said the seated one, crowned with a rose-hued aureole that was bright in the shadow of the tree.
Yama did not reply, but drew his blade.
The Buddha continued to smile, and as Yama moved forward he heard a sound like distant music.
He halted and looked about him, his blade still upraised.
They came from all quarters, the four Regents of the world, come down from Mount Sumernu: the Master of the North advanced, followed by his Yakshas, all in gold, mounted on yellow horses, bearing shields that blazed with golden light; the Angel of the South came on, followed by his hosts, the Kumbhandas, mounted upon blue steeds and bearing sapphire shields; from the East rode the Regent whose horsemen carry shields of pearl, and who are clad all in silver; and from the West there came the One whose Nagas mounted blood-red horses, were clad all in red and held before them shields of coral. Their hooves did not appear to touch the grasses, and the only sound in the air was the music, which grew louder.
“Why do the Regents of the world approach?” Yama found himself saying.
“They come to bear my bones away,” replied the Buddha, still smiling.