The Buddha raised the crimson strangling cord, which was a thing borne only by the holy executioners of the goddess Kali. He fingered its silken length, and it passed like a serpent through his hand, clinging slightly. He did not doubt but that it was intended to move in such a manner about his throat. Almost unconsciously, he held it and twisted his hands through the necessary movements.
Then he looked up at the wide-eyed monk who had watched him, smiled his imperturbable smile and laid the cord aside. With a damp cloth, the monk wiped the perspiration from the pale brow.
The man on the sleeping mat shuddered at the contact, and his eyes snapped open. The madness of the fever was in them and they did not truly see, but Tathagatha felt a sudden jolt at their contact.
Dark, so dark they were almost jet, and it was impossible to tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. There was something extremely unsettling about eyes of such power in a body so frail and effete.
He reached out and stroked the man’s hands, and it was like touching steel, cold and impervious. He drew his fingernail sharply across the back of the right hand. No scratch or indentation marked its passage, and his nail fairly slid, as though across a pane of glass. He squeezed the man’s thumbnail and released it. There was no sudden change of color. It was as though these hands were dead or mechanical things.
He continued his examination. The phenomenon ended somewhat above the wrists, occurred again in other places. His hands, breast, abdomen, neck and portions of his back had soaked within the death bath, which gave this special unyielding power. Total immersion would, of course, have proved fatal; but as it was, the man had traded some of his tactile sensitivity for the equivalent of invisible gauntlets, breastplate, neckpiece and back armor of steel. He was indeed one of the select assassins of the terrible goddess.
“Who else knows of this man?” asked the Buddha.
“The monk Simha,” replied the other, “who helped me bear him here.”
“Did he see”—Tathagatha gestured with his eyes toward the crimson cord—that?” he inquired.
The monk nodded.
“Then go fetch him. Bring him to me at once. Do not mention anything of this to anyone, other than that a pilgrim was taken ill and we are tending him here. I will personally take over his care and minister to his illness.”
“Yes, Illustrious One.”
The monk hurried forth from the pavilion.
Tathagatha seated himself beside the sleeping mat and waited.
It was two days before the fever broke and intelligence returned to those dark eyes. But during those two days, anyone who passed by the pavilion might have heard the voice of the Enlightened One droning on and on, as though he addressed his sleeping charge. Occasionally, the man himself mumbled and spoke loudly, as those in a fever often do.
On the second day, the man opened his eyes suddenly and stared upward. Then he frowned and turned his bead.
“Good morning, Rild,” said Tathagatha.
“You are . . . ?” asked the other, in an unexpected baritone.
“One who teaches the way of liberation,” he replied.
“The Buddha?”
“I have been called such.”
“Tathagatha?”
“This name, too, have I been given.”
The other attempted to rise, failed, settled back. His eyes never left the placid countenance. “How is it that you know my name?” he finally asked.
“In your fever you spoke considerably.”
“Yes, I was very sick, and doubtless babbling. It was in that cursed swamp that I took the chill.”
Tathagatha smiled. “One of the disadvantages of traveling alone is that when you fall there is none to assist you.”
“True,” acknowledged the other, and his eyes closed once more and his breathing deepened.
Tathagatha remained in the lotus posture, waiting.
When Rild awakened again, it was evening. “Thirsty,” he said.
Tathagatha gave him water. “Hungry?” he asked.
“No, not yet. My stomach would rebel.”
He raised himself up onto his elbows and stared at his attendant. Then he sank back upon the mat. “You are the one,” he announced.
“Yes,” replied the other.