HIS VISITOR

For as long as anyone could remember, the Master had been blind, but he saw many things with his spiritual eye. He lived above the village in the decaying temple of the goddess Kali, trusting the Fierce Mother did not mind his company. It was quiet company—appeasement in some small part, perhaps, for the attention the villagers paid Lord Shiva, Her consort. It was said Shiva spared their homes from destruction by catching the mountain flood waters in His great matted locks. But out of respect, out of the implicit knowledge that all things were One, the people of the village paid homage to the Mother. They sent their sons to keep the Master's fire burning, and to bring him morsels of food which he accepted to please them. The Master hadn't been hungry for aeons.

Sometimes when the boys were stoking the fire, they saw the Master's face suffused with joy. His delight must have been in something distant, for he did not appear to be with them, though his body sat lithe and upright on his small mat before the fire. Their mothers had told them not to drop anything or make noise at such times, lest they frighten his soul to flight and leave his body open to habitation by a bhuta, one of the souls of the dead. And if they heard an owl's cry, they were to run home as fast as they could, for bhutas lived in the ruins of Kali's shrine and sometimes took the form of night birds.

Of an evening one of the bolder boys, tugging at the Master's robe as he shuffled about lighting incense, asked what the adept saw when he sat meditating. "Why, my boy," laughed the Master, "most often I see the blissful Lord Shiva dancing in the fire, dancing out Life and Creation, patterning out All That Is." The old man leaned into the semi-circle of curious children that crowded him.

"But sometimes . . ." he whispered, seeming to address them all with his grey, sightless eyes, "sometimes I see him with His consort the Fierce Mother, who is drunk on the blood of men, and in their horrible dancing all patterns cease. Then I am confronted with Chaos, the destruction of All Things, and the untold vastness of Nothing." The silence was thick as he finished speaking. On their necks, the children felt tiny hairs rising with the terrible truth of the Master's words. An owl's screech pierced the evening. Almost as one, the company emitted a shriek, punctuated by the clatter of wood and food dishes. There was a great scrambling and slapping of feet against stone, accompanied by the softer sounds of small bodies colliding as the boys stampeded through the archway of the shrine. Down the mountain path to the village they streamed, screaming all the way. The Master bent to feel for discarded pieces of wood on the floor. "Observe, Great Mother," he chuckled softly, "how young boys respect You."

With his third, ineffable eye, the aged Master knew the shapes that leapt round his fire. Of late, there had been a shadow that did not dance with the others. Silent, scentless, it kept vigil nightly through his meditations. "Mother," asked the old man finally, after many nights of this cold and peculiar company, "have You sent me a bhuta?"

"Bhuta . . ." echoed a deep, distinctly foreign voice. "Rakshasa, Yatu-dhana, Vetala . . ." it continued with musical precision, naming demons and drinkers of human blood. "I am none of these, I think, Learned Grandfather . . . and perhaps all."

"So you have a tongue," remarked the Master. "Tell me also—do you live?"

" That is a crafty question, Guruji. You are wise: what would you call Life-in-Death?"

"A tragedy of shadows. Bring yourself closer."

There followed a sigh, weighted with sarcasm and weariness. "I regret, but that would end badly."

The Master tilted his head. "You are so full of pride, yet you fear."

"I thirst, and I scent your blood. It is sufficient reason."

"So you think." Crinkles appeared in the delicate flesh beneath the old man's eyes. "To fear one's own desires, this is true misery." He paused and, receiving no answer, nodded to himself. "My own guru, a man of Enlightenment, told me this: eat when you are hungry; sleep when you are tired."

"A fine Buddhist adage, Grandfather, though you dwell in the house of the Blood-Drinking Goddess."

Clasping his hands before him, The Master smiled. "Ekam sat vipra bahuta vandanti. The Truth is One—knowers call It by different names. When you are as old as I am, you will see. All paths lead to the Centre…each in its time."

"How practical," observed the visitor quietly, "and yet how dangerous, were one given to excess."

"The Enlightened mind knows the path of excess leads to desolation."

The shadow honoured him with a deep bow.

"Come, child," he said. "You burn like a tiger, but you cannot harm me. Come drink, and dance with the Fierce Mother."

The hands that displaced the guru's hair were cold and pulseless. In life they had often brushed the fingers of princesses and elegant ladies. They had also come to bear calluses—in the end, manifest products of both poetry and the scythe. With the same inherent duality they moved over the Master's skin, easing his neck gently to one side, harbouring the fluid capability to sever it completely.

"Great One," spoke a frozen breeze, and the spiritual window shimmered between two souls. The Master felt no pain.

The old man lay the dark head on his shoulder. "You have suffered much, child."

"I have caused others much suffering, Father."

"It is so. But you have sought me out, and I give you this: as you drink from the Master, whom you revere, so should you drink from all you touch."

"That path is difficult," observed the low voice, without emotion.

"It runs between a precipice and a mountain," replied the Master, a bead of sweat dropping from his forehead.

For three days the Master did not stir. He sat on his rug before the fire, lids lowered, features fixed in a stern expression. The children became frightened, and more than one touched his cheek, but the skin remained warm and supple. Where was he, what fearsome vision did he behold, they asked themselves—perhaps it was Chaos unfolding, and Lord Shiva would send the Fierce Mother to drain their blood.

One of their fathers, coming down the mountain at night, had seen the shape of a great black dog crouched by the fire. He blinked, and the figure became a pale man with orange-gold eyes. Blinking a second time, he found there was nothing, no one but the ancient guru rapt in silent meditation. Upon rising the next morning he felt weak and ill rested, but could find no cause.

On the fourth day the Master opened his eyes and took a piece of fruit from one of the children. There was a rotten spot, which he spat out and held in his hand for the boys to see. "The Fierce Mother gifts us with decay, that we might rest," he said. "In resting, we might gather our energies for the next rebirth. One day, after many rebirths, we might see into the heart of things." He cast the fruit into the fire. "Then we dance into stillness." Leaping to the ceiling, the flames twined themselves in a violent spiral. There followed a rushing wind that whistled in the temple's crumbling recesses, driving the hair back from their faces. The fire extinguished itself completely.

"The gods themselves lack permanence," observed the Master, with no trace of surprise.

Stricken by this omen, the children fell to their knees before him. After a time of listening to themselves breathe, they rose, finding no change in his countenance.

"Go," the old man told them, "and bring a brand from the village to rekindle the flame. It is not for me, but for you. It has always been so."

"You are tired, Father," said the shadow.

"You have been drinking the blood of my people," replied the Master matter-of-factly.

"And this drains you, their bodhisattva, whose labour is the salvation of all things."

The old man's smile was patient. "You must not take what is not given."

"I am a hunter, Father. That is my nature."

The Master lowered his eyelids in a long blink. "It does not give you licence."

From the darkness came a quiet, amused exhalation. In a voice fastidiously devoid of sarcasm, his companion stated, "I drink when I am thirsty."

The Master was silent for a long while. "Ah," he answered finally with a small bow. "I see."

The villagers feared for the Master and for themselves now that his fire had gone out. It had been rekindled in haste lest they engender the displeasure of the Fierce Mother. Might She not persuade Lord Shiva to turn His protection from them, to dance with Her the cycle of Destruction, to allow the Mountain to run red with their wasted life? For the Mother never had enough of blood—the ancient writings said She cut Her own throat, that a constant stream might well up into her mouth. And the words of the Master, that even the gods might pass away—this was beyond comprehension. Fathers brought sons to ask the adept the meaning of this, to demand what horrors he beheld with his third eye.

"I see only the Way of things," the old man would reply, "and the True Way cannot be spoken of. Take your children home and meditate upon the purity of their hearts. In their simplicity their eyes are open, while yours are closed."

Things could be seen by night at the temple of the goddess Kali. Those who dared look told of a dark visitor with skin whiter than an Englishman's, who sat in meditation with the Master. Sometimes the Master would pace the perimeter of the fire, placing each bare foot carefully toe to heel on the stone floor. Above him in mirror aspect, walking on the ceiling, was the dark man. Black hair streamed down from the visitor's head like the great matted locks of Shiva. Those who lingered too long in idle curiosity would invariably find the eyes of the stranger upon them. This made them tremble like mice reflected in the large yellow orbs of an owl.

With the passing days, some of the children imagined they saw new wrinkles marking the skin of the Master. He seemed more frail. Beginning to believe the old man was haunted by a bhuta, the villagers had their sons lay dishes of milk round the temple to appease the spirit's thirst. They pounded nails of iron into the thresholds of their homes to ward off its entry.

"Master," ventured a small boy as he tipped a bowl of soured milk into the fire, "who is the dark man? Does he want to take you away from us?"

"My son," said the ancient, laying hold of the boy's hand, "he is my child as all of you are my children. But he is my last blade of grass. As he is rooted, so am I." The Master's touch was cold. "Please take away the milk. Its odour is offensive to him."

"Your villagers believe I draw the living essence from you, Father, leaving in its place only darkness."

The Master took the ebon head on his knee, stroking its silken mass of hair. "You are powerful with the illumination of past births, even though the death force Mara works strongly in you. Light is nothing without its complement, Darkness. Neither is transcendent. This is the Way of things. But I will tell you: the karma you have accumulated is daunting. It binds you to this body that obliges you to feed on human life. It will take many years to free yourself."

The shadow moved away from him. "When you say 'many years', Father, I see aeons. For though you make no claims, you are ancient. Ten, twenty, one hundred human lifetimes are nothing to you."

"It is so," chuckled the Master, "but even hell cannot last forever."

"As you say," answered the shadow from a moonlit window.

"Come close to me again, child. There is something I wish to give you."

There was scarcely a whisper of sound as the dark visitor knelt before him. "Great Soul. Will it end badly?"

"It will end as you choose," replied the Master, taking the frigid face in his hands. He passed his fingers over the long European features that felt like a sculpture in marble. He pressed the icy forehead to his own. "Be swift and efficient," the old man whispered, "taking only what you need. The night will come when you are strong enough to take nothing at all. The day will come when you walk in the blazing sun without pain. Then it will be time to choose, just as I have done."

The spiritual window flared, and all was vibration. It seemed for an instant the shadow might baulk, but it made no move, though crimson rivulets ran from its eye sockets.

Later, in silence, the dark visitor stretched the old man's empty body upon its mat. Reverently he folded the papery limbs into a position that befitted the adept's dignity.

On the evening of the Master's cremation, the entire village gathered 'round the flaming pyre, chanting incantations to the Fierce Mother. The small boy who had removed the bowls of milk from the temple offered up a prayer of thanks to the bhuta for not devouring the old man's remains. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, the child looked up into a pair of orange-gold eyes that seethed like the fire. "Fear not, tiny one," spoke the musical voice with its strange foreign intonation. "It was the Master who devoured the bhuta." Casting desperately about for his parents, the boy felt the cold touch leave him. He turned, and was confronted with nothing.

Wheeling high above, a pair of inky wings beat the shadows. An owl's screech pierced the night, and was lost in the song of the flames.