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  "Had I known at the time how well I wrought," said Yama, "I might have numbered its days intentionally. Occasionally, do I regret my genius."

  It passed beneath the Bridge of the Gods, swung above the jungle, fell away to the south. Its roar gradually diminished as it departed in that direction. Then there was silence.

  A bird made a brief piping noise. Another replied to it. Then all the sounds of life began again and the travelers returned to their trail.

  "He will be back," said Yama, and this was true. Twice more that day did they have to leave the trail as the thunder chariot passed above their heads. On the last occasion, it circled the monastery, possibly observing the funeral rites being conducted there. Then it crossed over the mountains and was gone.

  That night they made camp under the stars, and on the second night they did the same.

  The third day brought them to the river Deeva and the small port city of Koona. It was there that they found the transportation they wished, and they set forth that same evening, heading south by bark to where the Deeva joined with the mighty Vedra, and then proceeded onward to pass at last the wharves of Khaipur, their destination.

  As they flowed with the river, Sam listened to its sounds. He stood upon the dark deck, his hands resting on the rail. He stared out across the waters where the bright heavens rose and fell, star bending back upon star. It was then that the night addressed him in the voice of Ratri, from somewhere nearby.

  "You have passed this way before, Tathagatha."

  "Many times," he replied. "The Deeva is a thing of beauty under the stars, in its rippling and its folding."

  "Indeed."

  "We go now to Khaipur and the Palace of Kama. What will you do when we arrive?"

  "I will spend some time in meditation, goddess."

  "Upon what shall you meditate?"

  "Upon my past lives and the mistakes they each contained. I must review my own tactics as well as those of the enemy."

  "Yama thinks the Golden Cloud to have changed you."

  "Perhaps it has."

  "He believes it to have softened you, weakened you. You have always posed as a mystic, but now he believes you have become one — to your own undoing, to our undoing."

  He shook his head, turned around. But he did not see her. Stood she there invisible, or had she withdrawn? He spoke softly and without inflection:

  "I shall tear these stars from out the heavens," he stated, "and hurl them in the faces of the gods, if this be necessary. I shall blaspheme in every Temple throughout the land. I shall take lives as a fisherman takes fish, by the net, if this be necessary. I shall mount me again up to the Celestial City, though every step be a flame or a naked sword and the way be guarded by tigers. One day will the gods look down from Heaven and see me upon the stair, bringing them the gift they fear most. That day will the new Yuga begin.

  "But first I must meditate for a time," he finished.

  He turned back again and stared out over the waters.

  A shooting star burnt its way across the heavens. The ship moved on. The night sighed about him.

  Sam stared ahead, remembering.

  II

  Few are the beings born again among men; more

  numerous are those born again elsewhere.

  Anguttara-nikaya (I, 35)

  One time a minor rajah from a minor principality came with his retinue into Mahartha, the city that is called Gateway of the South and Capital of the Dawn, there to purchase him a new body. This was in the days when the thread of destiny might yet be plucked from out a gutter, the gods were less formal, the demons still bound, and the Celestial City yet occasionally open to men. This is the story of how the prince did bait the one-armed receiver of devotions before the Temple, incurring the disfavor of Heaven for his presumption...

  Riding into the capital of dawn at mid-afternoon, the prince, mounted upon a white mare, passed up the broad avenue of Surya, his hundred retainers massed at his back, his adviser Strake at his left hand, his scimitar in his sash, and a portion of his wealth in the bags his pack horses bore.

  The heat crashed down upon the turbans of the men, washed past them, came up again from the roadway.

  A chariot moved slowly by, headed in the opposite direction, its driver squinting up at the banner the chief retainer bore; a courtesan stood at the gateway to her pavilion, studying the traffic; and a pack of mongrel dogs followed at the heels of the horses, barking.

  The prince was tall, and his mustaches were the color of smoke. His hands, dark as coffee, were marked with the stiff ridges of his veins. Still, his posture was erect, and his eyes were like the eyes of an ancient bird, electric and clear.

  Ahead, a crowd gathered to watch the passing troop. Horses were ridden only by those who could afford them, and few were that wealthy. The slizzard was the common mount—a scaled creature with snakelike neck, many teeth, dubious lineage, brief life span and a vicious temperament; the horse, for some reason, having grown barren in recent generations.

  The prince rode on, into the capital of dawn, the watchers watching.

  Passing, they turned off the avenue of the sun and headed up a narrower thoroughfare. They moved by the low buildings of commerce, the great shops of the great merchants, the banks, the Temples, the inns, the brothels. They passed on, until at the fringe of the business district they came upon the princely hostel of Hawkana, the Most Perfect Host. They drew rein at the gate, for Hawkana himself stood outside the walls, simply dressed, fashionably corpulent and smiling, waiting to personally conduct the white mare within.

  "Welcome, Lord Siddhartha!" he called in a loud voice, so that all within earshot might know the identity of his guest. "Welcome to this well-nightingaled vicinity, and to the perfumed gardens and marble halls of this humble establishment! To your riders welcome also, who have ridden a goodly ride with you and no doubt seek subtle refreshment and dignified ease as well as yourself. Within, you will find all things to your liking, I trust, as you have upon the many occasions in the past when you have tarried within these halls in the company of other princely guests and noble visitors, too numerous to mention, such as —"

  "And a good afternoon to you also, Hawkana!" cried the prince, for the day was hot and the innkeeper's speeches, like rivers, always threatened to flow on forever. "Let us enter quickly within your walls, where, among their other virtues too numerous to mention, it is also cool."

  Hawkana nodded briskly, and taking the mare by the bridle led her through the gateway and into his courtyard; there, he held the stirrup while the prince dismounted, then gave the horses into the keeping of his stable hands and dispatched a small boy through the gateway to clean the street where they had waited.

  Within the hostel, the men were bathed, standing in the marble bath hall while servants poured water over their shoulders. Then did they annoint themselves after the custom of the warrior caste, put on fresh garments and passed into the hall of dining.

  The meal lasted the entire afternoon, until the warriors lost count of the courses. At the right hand of the prince, who sat at the head of the long, low, serving board, three dancers wove their way through an intricate pattern, finger cymbals clicking, faces bearing the proper expressions for the proper moments of the dance, as four veiled musicians played the traditional music of the hours. The table was covered with a richly woven tapestry of blue, brown, yellow, red and green, wherein was worked a series of hunting and battle scenes: riders mounted on slizzard and horse met with lance and bow the charges of feather-panda, fire-rooster and jewel-podded command plant; green apes wrestled in the tops of trees; the Garuda Bird clutched a sky demon in its talons, assailing it with beak and pinions; from the depths of the sea crawled an army of horned fish, clutching spikes of pink coral in their jointed fins, facing a row of kirtled and helmeted men who bore lances and torches to oppose their way upon the land.

  The prince ate but sparingly. He toyed with his food, listened to the music, laughed occasionally at the jesting of o
ne of his men. He sipped a sherbet, his rings clicking against the sides of the glass.

  Hawkana appeared beside him. "Goes all well with you, Lord?" he inquired.

  "Yes, good Hawkana, all is well," he replied.

  "You do not eat as do your men. Does the meal displease you?"

  "It is not the food, which is excellent, nor its preparation, which is faultless, worthy Hawkana. Rather, it is my appetite, which has not been high of late."

  "Ah!" said Hawkana, knowingly. "I have the thing, the very thing! Only one such as yourself may truly appreciate it. Long has it rested upon the special shelf of my cellar. The god Krishna had somehow preserved it against the ages. He gave it to me many years ago because the accommodations here did not displease him. I shall fetch it for you."

  He bowed then, and backed from the hall.

  When he returned he bore a bottle. Before he saw the paper upon its side, the prince recognized the shape of that bottle.

  "Burgundy!" he exclaimed.

  "Just so," said Hawkana. "Brought from vanished Uratha, long ago."

  He sniffed at it and smiled. Then he poured a small quantity into a pear-shaped goblet and set it before his guest.

  The prince raised it and inhaled of its bouquet. He took a slow sip. He closed his eyes.

  There was a silence in the room, in respect of his pleasure.

  Then he lowered the glass, and Hawkana poured into it once again the product of the pinot noir grape, which could not be cultivated in this land.

  The prince did not touch the glass. Instead, he turned to Hawkana, saying, "Who is the oldest musician in this house?"

  "Mankara, here," said his host, gesturing toward the white-haired man who took his rest at the serving table in the comer.

  "Old not in body, but in years," said the prince.

  "Oh, that would be Dele," said Hawkana, "if he is to be counted as a musician at all. He says that once he was such a one."

  "Dele?"

  "The boy who keeps the stables."

  "Ah, I see. . .. Send for him." Hawkana clapped his hands and ordered the servant who appeared to go into the stables, make the horse-boy presentable and fetch him with dispatch into the presence of the diners.

  "Pray, do not bother making him presentable, but simply bring him here," said the prince.

  He leaned back and waited then, his eyes closed.

  When the horse-boy stood before him, he asked:

  "Tell me. Dele, what music do you play?"

  "That which no longer finds favor in the hearing of Brahmins," said the boy.

  "What was your instrument?"

  "Piano," said Dele.

  "Can you play upon any of these?" He gestured at those instruments that stood, unused now, upon the small platform beside the wall.

  The boy cocked his head at them. "I suppose I could manage on the flute, if I had to."

  "Do you know any waltzes?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you play me 'The Blue Danube'?"

  The boy's sullen expression vanished, to be replaced by one of uneasiness. He cast a quick glance back at Hawkana, who nodded.

  "Siddhartha is a prince among men, being of the First," stated the host.

  "'The Blue Danube,' on one of these flutes?"

  "If you please."

  The boy shrugged, "I'll try," he said. "It's been an awfully long time. . .. Bear with me."

  He crossed to where the instruments lay and muttered something to the owner of the flute he selected. The man nodded his head. Then he raised it to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. He paused, repeated the trial, then turned about.

  He raised it once more and began the quivering movement of the waltz. As he played, the prince sipped his wine.

  When he paused for breath, the prince motioned him to continue. He played tune after forbidden tune, and the professional musicians put professional expressions of scorn upon their faces; but beneath their table several feet were tapping in slow time with the music.

  Finally, the prince had finished his wine. Evening was near to the city of Mahartha. He tossed the boy a purse of coins and did not look into his tears as he departed from the hall. He rose then and stretched, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand.

  "I retire to my chambers," he said to his men. "Do not gamble away your inheritances in my absence."

  They laughed then and bade him good night, calling for strong drink and salted biscuits. He heard the rattle of dice as he departed.

  The prince retired early so that he might arise before daybreak. He instructed a servant to remain outside his door all the following day and to refuse admission to any who sought it, saying that he was indisposed.

  Before the first flowers had opened to the first insects of morning, he had gone from the hostel, only an ancient green parrot witnessing his departure. Not in silks sewn with pearls did he go, but in tatters, as was his custom on these occasions. Not preceded by conch and drum did he move, but by silence, as he passed along the dim streets of the city. These streets were deserted, save for an occasional doctor or prostitute returning from a late call. A stray dog followed him as he passed through the business district, heading in the direction of the harbor.

  He seated himself upon a crate at the foot of a pier. The dawn came to lift the darkness from the world; and he watched the ships stirring with the tide, empty of sail, webbed with cables, prows carved with monster or maiden. His every visit to Mahartha brought him again to the harbor for a little while.

  Morning's pink parasol opened above the tangled hair of the clouds, and cool breezes crossed the docks. Scavenger birds uttered hoarse cries as they darted about loop-windowed towers, then swooped across the waters of the bay.

  He watched a ship put out to sea, tentlike vanes of canvas growing to high peaks and swelling in the salt air. Aboard other ships, secure in their anchorage, there was movement now, as crews made ready to load or unload cargoes of incense, coral, oil and all kinds of fabrics, as well as metals, cattle, hardwoods and spices. He smelled the smells of commerce and listened to the cursing of the sailors, both of which he admired: the former, as it reeked of wealth, and the latter because it combined his two other chief preoccupations, these being theology and anatomy.

  After a time, he spoke with a foreign sea captain who had overseen the unloading of sacks of grain, and now took his rest in the shade of the crates.

  "Good morning," he said. "May your passages be free of storm and shipwreck, and the gods grant you safe harbor and a good market for your cargoes."

  The other nodded, seated himself upon a crate and proceeded to fill a small clay pipe.

  "Thank you, old one," he said. "Though I do pray to the gods of the Temples of my own choosing, I accept the blessings of any and all. One can always use blessings, especially a seaman."

  "Had you a difficult voyage?"

  "Less difficult than it might have been," said the sea captain. "That smoldering sea mountain, the Cannon of Nirriti, discharges its bolts against heaven once again."

  "Ah, you sailed from the southwest!"

  "Yes. Chatisthan, from Ispar-by-the-Sea. The winds are good in this season of the year, but for this reason they also carried the ash of the Cannon much farther than any would think. For six days this black snow fell upon us, and the odors of the underworld pursued us, fouling food and water, making the eyes to weep and the throat to burn. We offered much thanksgiving when we finally outran it. See how the hull is smeared? You should have seen the sails — black as the hair of Ratri!"

  The prince leaned forward to better regard the vessel. "But the waters were not especially troubled?" he asked.

  The sailor shook his head. "We hailed a cruiser near the Isle of Salt, and we learned of it that we had missed by six days the worst dischargings of the Cannon. At that time, it burnt the clouds and raised great waves, sinking two ships the cruiser did know of, and possibly a third." The sailor leaned back, stoking his pipe. "So, as I say, a seaman can always use blessings."


  "I seek a man of the sea," said the prince. "A captain. His name is Jan Olvegg, or perhaps he is now known as Olvagga. Do you know him?"

  "I knew him," said the other, "but it has been long since he sailed."

  "Oh? What has become of him?"

  The sailor turned his head to better study him. "Who are you to ask?" he finally inquired.

  "My name is Sam. Jan is a very old friend of mine."

  "How old is 'very old'?"

  "Many, many years ago, in another place, I knew him when he was captain of a ship which did not sail these oceans."

  The sea captain leaned forward suddenly and picked up a piece of wood, which he hurled at the dog who had rounded a piling at the other side of the pier. It yelped once and dashed off toward the shelter of a warehouse. It was the same dog who had followed the prince from the hostel of Hawkana.

  "Beware the hounds of hell," said the captain. "There are dogs and there are dogs—and there are dogs. Three different kinds, and in this port drive them all from your presence." Then he appraised the other once again. "Your hands," he said, gesturing with his pipe, "have recently worn many rings. Their impressions yet remain."

  Sam glanced at his hands and smiled. "Your eyes miss nothing, sailor," he replied. "So I admit to the obvious. I have recently worn rings."

  "So, like the dogs, you are not what you appear to be—and you come asking after Olvagga, by his most ancient name. Your name, you say, is Sam. Are you, perchance, one of the First?"

  Sam did not reply immediately, but studied the other as though waiting for him to say more.

  Perhaps realizing this, the captain continued: "Olvagga, I know, was numbered among the First, though he never spoke of it. Whether you are yourself among the First, or are one of the Masters, you are aware of this. So I do not betray him by so speaking. I do wish to know whether I speak to a friend or an enemy, however."

  Sam frowned. "Jan was never known for the making of enemies," he said. "You speak as if he has them now, among those whom you call the Masters."

  The seaman continued to stare at him. "You are not a Master," he finally said, "and you come from afar."