“And what does that signify?” asked Yama.
“I do not actively contest. I merely defend. Mine is the power of passive opposition. Mine is the power of life, as yours is the power of death. While you can destroy anything I send against you, you cannot destroy everything, oh Death. Mine is the power of the shield, but not the sword. Life will oppose you, Lord Yama, to defend your victim.”
The Blue One turned then, mounted his blue steed and rode into the South, the Kumbhandas at his back. The sound of the music did not go with him, but remained in the air he had occupied.
Yama advanced once more, his blade in his hand. “Their efforts came to naught,” he said. “Your time is come.”
He struck forward with his blade.
The blow did not land, however, as a branch from the great tree fell between them and struck the scimitar from his grasp.
He reached for it and the grasses bent to cover it over, weaving themselves into a tight, unbreakable net.
Cursing, he drew his dagger and struck again.
One mighty branch bent down, came swaying before his target, so that his blade was imbedded deeply in its fibers. Then the branch lashed again skyward, carrying the weapon with it, high out of reach.
The Buddha’s eyes were closed in meditation and his halo glowed in the shadows.
Yama took a step forward, raising his hands, and the grasses knotted themselves about his ankles, holding him where he stood.
He struggled for a moment, tugging at their unyielding roots. Then he stopped and raised both hands high, throwing his head far back, death leaping from his eyes.
“Hear me, oh Powers!” he cried. “From this moment forward, this spot shall bear the curse of Yama! No living thing shall ever stir again upon this ground! No bird shall sing, nor snake slither here! It shall be barren and stark, a place of rocks and shifting sand! Not a spear of grass shall ever be upraised from here against the sky! I speak this curse and lay this doom upon the defenders of my enemy!”
The grasses began to wither, but before they had released him there came a great splintering, cracking noise, as the tree whose roots held together the world and in whose branches the stars were caught, as fish in a net, swayed forward, splitting down its middle, its uppermost limbs tearing apart the sky, its roots opening chasms in the ground, its leaves falling like blue-green rain about him. A massive section of its trunk toppled toward him, casting before it a shadow dark as night.
In the distance, he still saw the Buddha, seated in meditation, as though unaware of the chaos that erupted about him.
Then there was only blackness and a sound like the crashing of thunder.
Yama jerked his head, his eyes springing open.
He sat in the purple grove, his back against the bole of a blue tree, his blade across his knees.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
The rows of monks were seated, as in meditation, before him. The breeze was still cool and moist and the lights still flickered as it passed.
Yama stood, knowing then, somehow, where he must go to find that which he sought.
He moved past the monks, following a well-beaten path that led far into the interior of the wood.
He came upon a purple pavilion, but it was empty.
He moved on, tracing the path back to where the wood became a wilderness. Here, the ground was damp and a faint mist sprang up about him. But the way was still clear before him, illuminated by the light of the three moons.
The trail led downward, the blue and purple trees growing shorter and more twisted here than they did above. Small pools of water, with floating patches of leprous, silver scum, began to appear at the sides of the trail. A marshland smell came to his nostrils, and the wheezing of strange creatures came out of clumps of brush.
He heard the sound of singing, coming from far up behind him, and he realized that the monks he had left were now awake and stirring about the grove. They had finished with the task of combining their thoughts to force upon him the vision of their leader’s invincibility. Their chanting was probably a signal, reaching out to —