There came another shriek, and then the beating of mighty pinions as it climbed past clouds to become a tiny dot of black.
And then it fell, like a meteor, bursting into flame, all of its colors blazing and burning bright, as it grew and grew, beyond all belief that anything could live at that size, that pace, that magnificence. . . .
Half spirit, half bird, legend darkening the sky.
Mount of Vishnu, whose beak smashes chariots.
The Garuda Bird circled above Alundil.
Circled, and passed beyond the hills of rock that stood behind the city.
“Garuda!” The word ran through the town, the fields, the Temple, the grove.
If he did not fly alone; it was known that only a god could use the Garuda Bird for a mount.
There was silence. After those shrieks and that thunder of pinions, voices seemed naturally to drop to a whisper.
The Enlightened One stood upon the road before the grove, his monks moving about him, facing in the direction of the hills of rock.
Sugata came to his side and stood there. “It was but a spring ago . . .” he said.
Tathagatha nodded.
“Rild failed,” said Sugata. “What new thing comes from Heaven?”
The Buddha shrugged.
“I fear for you, my teacher,” he said. “In all my lifetimes, you have been my only friend. Your teaching has given me peace. Why can they not leave you alone? You are the most harmless of men, and your doctrine the gentlest. What ill could you possibly bear them?”
The other turned away.
At that moment, with a mighty beating of the air and a jagged cry from its opened beak, the Garuda Bird rose once more above the hills. This time, it did not circle over the town, but climbed to a great height in the heavens and swept off to the north. Such was the speed of its passing that it was gone in a matter of moments.
“Its passenger has dismounted and remains behind,” suggested Sugata.
The Buddha walked within the purple grove.
He came from beyond the hills of stone, walking. He came to a passing place through stone, and he followed this trail, his red leather boots silent on the rocky path.
Ahead, there was a sound of running water, from where a small stream cut across his way. Shrugging his blood-bright cloak back over his shoulders, he advanced upon a bend in the trail, the ruby head of his scimitar gleaming in his crimson sash.
Rounding a comer of stone, he came to a halt.
One waited ahead, standing beside the log that led across the stream.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, then he moved forward again.
It was a small man who stood there, wearing the dark garments of a pilgrim, caught about with a leather harness from which was suspended a short, curved blade of bright steel. This man’s head was closely shaven, save for a small lock of white hair. His eyebrows were white above eyes that were dark, and his skin was pale; his ears appeared to be pointed.
The traveler raised his hand and spoke to this man, saying, “Good afternoon, pilgrim.”
The man did not reply, but moved to bar his way, positioning himself before the log that led across the stream.
“Pardon me, good pilgrim, but I am about to cross here and you are making my passage difficult,” he stated.
“You are mistaken, Lord Yama, if you think you are about to pass here,” replied the other.
The One in Red smiled, showing a long row of even, white teeth. “It is always a pleasure to be recognized,” he acknowledged, “even by one who conveys misinformation concerning other matters.”
“I do not fence with words,” said the man in black.
“Oh?” The other raised his eyebrows in an expression of exaggerated inquiry. “With what then do you fence, sir? Surely not that piece of bent metal you bear.”
“None other.”
“I took it for some barbarous prayer-stick at first. I understand that this is a region fraught with strange cults and primitive sects. For a moment, I took you to be a devotee of some such superstition. But if, as you say, it is indeed a weapon, then I trust you are familiar with its use?”