Then it fell to the ground and began to sink into it, without a sound, still growing as it vanished from sight, the grasses coming together again above the spot where it had struck.
"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 —
There! He was seated upon a rock in the middle of a field, the moonlight falling full upon him.
Yama drew his blade and advanced.
When he was about twenty paces away, the other turned his head.
"Greetings, oh Death," he said.
"Greetings, Tathagatha."
"Tell me why you are here."
"It has been decided that the Buddha must die."
"That does not answer my question, however. Why have you come here?"
"Are you not the Buddha?"
"I have been called Buddha, and Tathagatha, and the Enlightened One, and many other things. But, in answer to your question, no, I am not the Buddha. You have already succeeded in what you set out to do. You slew the real Buddha this day."
"My memory must indeed be growing weak, for I confess that I do not remember doing this thing."
"The real Buddha was named by us Sugata," replied the other. "Before that, he was known as Rild."
"Rild!" Yama chuckled. "You are trying to tell me that he was more than an executioner whom you talked out of doing his job?"
"Many people are executioners who have been talked out of doing their jobs," replied the one on the rock. "Rild gave up his mission willingly and became a follower of the Way. He was the only man I ever knew to really achieve enlightenment."
"Is this not a pacifistic religion, this thing you have been spreading?"
"Yes."
Yama threw back his head and laughed. "Gods! Then it is well you are not preaching a militant one! Your foremost disciple, enlightenment and all, near had my head this afternoon!"
A tired look came over the Buddha's wide countenance. "Do you think he could actually have beaten you?"
Yama was silent a moment, then, "No," he said.
"Do you think he knew this?"
"Perhaps," Yama replied.
"Did you not know one another prior to this day's meeting? Have you not seen one another at practice?"
"Yes," said Yama. "We were acquainted."
"Then he knew your skill and realized the outcome of the encounter."
Yama was silent.
"He went willingly to his martyrdom, unknown to me at the time. I do not feel that he went with real hope of beating you."
"Why, then?"
"To prove a point."
"What point could he hope to prove in such a manner?"
"I do not know. I only know that it must be as I have said, for I knew him. I have listened too often to his sermons, to his subtle parables, to believe that he would do a thing such as this without a purpose. You have slain the true Buddha, deathgod. You know what I am."
"Siddhartha," said Yama, "I know that you are a fraud. I know that you are not an Enlightened One. I realize that your doctrine is a thing which could have been remembered by any among the First. You chose to resurrect it, pretending to be its originator. You decided to spread it, in hopes of raising an opposition to the religion by which the true gods rule. I admire the effort. It was cleverly planned and executed. But your biggest mistake, I feel, is that you picked a pacifistic creed with which to oppose an active one. I am curious why you did this thing, when there were so many more appropriate religions from which to choose."
"Perhaps I was just curious to see how such a countercurrent would flow," replied the other.
"No, Sam, that is not it," answered Yama. "I feel it is only part of a larger plan you have laid, and that for all these years — while you pretended to be a saint and preached sermons in which you did not truly believe yourself—you have been making other plans. An army, great in space, may offer opposition in a brief span of time. One man, brief in space, must spread his opposition across a period of many years if he is to have a chance of succeeding. You are aware of this, and now that you have sown the seeds of this stolen creed, you are planning to move on to another phase of opposition. You are trying to be a one-man antithesis to Heaven, opposing the will of the gods across the years, in many ways and from behind many masks. But it will end here and now, false Buddha."