"It seems strange," he said after a while, "that those of your Order have come so far to the south and the west so suddenly."
"We are a wandering Order," replied the monk to whom he had spoken. "We follow the wind. We follow our hearts."
"To the land of rusted soil in the season of lightnings? Is there perhaps some revelation to occur hereabout, which might be enlarging to my spirit were I to behold it?"
"The entire universe is a revelation," said the monk. "All things change, yet all things remain. Day follows night. . . each day is different, yet each is day. Much of the world is illusion, yet the forms of that illusion follow a pattern which is a part of divine reality."
"Yes, yes," said Aram. "In the ways of illusion and reality am I well-versed, but by my inquiry I did mean to know whether perhaps a new teacher had arisen in this vicinity, or some old one returned, or mayhap a divine manifestation, the presence of which it might profit my soul to be aware."
As he spoke, the beggar brushed from the table before him a red, crawling beetle, the size of a thumbnail, and he moved his sandal as if to crush it.
"Pray, brother, do not harm it," said the monk.
"But they are all over the place, and the Masters of Karma have stated that a man cannot be made to return as an insect, and the killing of an insect is a karmically inoperative act."
"Nevertheless," said the monk, "all life being one, in this monastery all do practice the doctrine of ahimsa and refrain from taking life of any sort."
"Yet," said Aram, "Patanjali does state that it is the intention rather than the act which governs. Therefore, if I killed with love rather than malice, it would be as if I had not killed. I confess that this was not the case and that malice was present-therefore, even if I did not kill I do bear the burden of the guilt because of the presence of that intention. So I could step upon it now and be none the worse for it, according to the principle of ahimsa. Since I am a guest, however, I of course respect the practice and do not do this thing." With this, he moved his sandal away from the insect, which stood immobile, reddish antennae pricked upward.
"Indeed, he is a scholar," said one of the Order of Ratri.
Aram smiled. "Thank you, but it is not so," he stated. "I am only a humble seeker of truth, and on occasion in the past have I been privileged to overhear the discourses of the learned. Would that I might be so privileged again! If there were some great teacher or scholar in the vicinity, then I would most surely walk across a bed of hot coals to sit at his feet and to hear his words or observe his example. If-"
He stopped then, for all eyes had suddenly turned upon the doorway at his back. He did not move his head, but reached out to crush a beetle that stood near his hand. The tip of a small crystal and two tiny wires protruded through the broken chitin of its back.
Then he turned, his green eye sweeping across the row of monks seated between himself and the doorway, and he looked upon Yama, who wore breeches, boots, shirt, sash, cloak and gloves all of red, and about whose head was twisted a turban the color of blood.
"'If?'" said Yama. "You were saying 'if'? If some sage or some avatar of the godhead resided in the vicinity, you should like to make his acquaintance? Is that what you were saying, stranger?"
The beggar rose from the table. He bowed. "I am Aram," he stated, "a fellow seeker and traveler with all who wish enlightenment."
Yama did not return the salute. "Why do you spell your name backward, Lord of Illusion, when all your words and actions herald it before you?"
The beggar shrugged. "I do not understand what you say."
But the smile came again to his lips. "I am one who seeks the Path and the Right," he added.
"I find that hard to believe, after witnessing at least a thousand years of your treachery."
"You speak of the lifetime of gods."
"Unfortunately, I do. You have made a serious mistake, Mara."
"What may that be?"
"You feel that you must be permitted to leave here alive."
"I admit that I anticipate doing so."
"Not considering the numerous accidents which might befall a lone traveler in this wild region."
"I have been a lone traveler for many years. Accidents always happen to other people."
"You might believe that even if your body were destroyed here, your atman would be transferred remotely to another body located elsewhere. I understand that someone has deciphered my notes, and the trick is now possible."
The beggar's brows moved a quarter of an inch lower and closer together.
"You do not realize the forces which even now contain this building, defending against any such transfer."
The beggar stepped to the center of the room. "Yama," he stated, "you are a fool if you think to match your puny fallen powers against those of the Dreamer."
"Perhaps this is so. Lord Mara," Yama replied, "but I have waited too long for this opportunity to postpone it further. Remember my promise at Keenset? If you wish to continue your chain of existence you will have to pass through this, the only door to this room, which I bar. Nothing beyond this room can help you now."
Mara then raised his hands, and the fires were born.
Everything was flaming. Flames leapt from the stone walls, the tables, the robes of the monks. Smoke billowed and curled about the room. Yama stood in the midst of a conflagration, but he did not move.
"Is that the best you can do?" he asked. "Your flames are everywhere, but nothing burns."
Mara clapped his hands and the flames vanished.
In their place, its swaying head held at almost twice the height of a man, its silver hood fanned, the mechobra drew into its S-shaped strike position.
Yama ignored it, his shadowy gaze reaching now like the probe of a dark insect, boring into Mara's single eye.
The mechobra faded in mid-strike. Yama strode forward.
Mara fell back a pace.
They stood thus for perhaps three heartbeats, then Yama moved forward two paces farther and Mara backed away again. Perspiration blistered upon both their brows.
The beggar now stood taller and his hair was heavier; he was thicker about the waist and broader across the shoulders. A certain grace, not previously apparent, accompanied all his movements.
He fell back another step.
"Yes, Mara, there is a deathgod," said Yama between clenched teeth. "Fallen or no, the real death dwells in my eyes. You must meet them. When you reach the wall you can back no farther. Feel the strength go out of your limbs. Feel the coldness begin in your hands and your feet."
Mara's teeth bared in a snarl. His neck was as thick as a bull's. His biceps were as big about as a man's thighs. His chest was a barrel of strength and his legs were like great trees of the forest.
"Coldness?" he asked, extending his arms. "I can break a giant with these hands, Yama. What are you but a banished carrion god? Your frown may claim the aged and the infirm. Your eyes may chill dumb animals and those of the lower classes of men. I stand as high above you as a star above the ocean's bottom."
Yama's red-gloved hands fell like a pair of cobras upon his throat. "Then try that strength which you so mock. Dreamer. You have taken on the appearance of power. Use it! Best me not with words!"
His cheeks and forehead bloomed scarlet as Yama's hands tightened upon his throat. His eye seemed to leap, a green search-light sweeping the world.
Mara fell to his knees. "Enough, Lord Yama!" he gasped. "Wouldst slay thyself?"
He changed. His features flowed, as though he lay beneath restless waters.
Yama looked down upon his own face, saw his own red hands plucking at his wrists.
"You grow desperate now, Mara, as the life leaves you. But Yama is no child, that he fears breaking the mirror you have become. Try your last, or die like a man, it is all the same in the end."
But once more there was a flowing and a change.
This time Yama hesitated, breaking his strength.
Her bronze hair fell upon his hands. Her pale eyes pleaded with him. Caught about her throat was a necklace of ivory skulls, but slightly paler than her flesh. Her sari was the color of blood. Her hands rested upon his own, almost caressing. . .
"Goddess!" he hissed.
"You would not slay Kali . . . ? Durga . . . ?" she choked.
"Wrong again, Mara," he whispered. "Did you not know that each man kills the thing he loved?" and with this his hands twisted, and there was a sound of breaking bones.
"Tenfold be your damnation," he said, his eyes tightly closed. "There shall be no rebirth."
His hands came open then. A tall, nobly proportioned man lay upon the floor at his feet, his head resting upon his right shoulder.
His eye had finally closed.
Yama turned the corpse with the toe of his boot. "Build a pyre and burn this body," he said to the monks, not turning toward them. "Spare none of the rites. One of the highest has died this day."
Then he removed his eyes from this work of his hands, turned upon his heel and left the room.
That evening the lightnings fled across the skies and the rain came down like bullets from Heaven.
The four of them sat in the chamber in the high tower that rose from the northeast corner of the monastery.