Perhaps we will meet again in another life. Now you must save yourself. Follow the trail of the amber spears of stone, and seek out nourishment in the dark corners of the caves of black rock. Farewell, Hari. Farewell."

Hari watched in joy and sadness as Pudmini faded away, the faint echoes of her voice yet lingering in distant chambers. Sobs joined with the far-off echoes, and he realized they were his own.

He wondered what new body her soul now resided in. Her soul was noble, he knew, and he chose to think of her cradled in the arms of a queen, child to a king, a princess with a destiny.

Pangs of hunger returned him to the harsh reality of his own predicament. He sought out the caves of black rock where he found edible mushrooms growing in abundance. He consumed them with avidity, and they seemed a princely meal indeed. Then returning to the corridor from which hung the amber spears, he set about following their trail as Pudmini had advised.

And I have achieved another seduction, and the mortal man has another escape from death.

There is more to this than the caverns.

Hari guessed that many days must have passed, and at last the stone floor began to slope upward. High-pitched cries reached his ears and seemed to be coming from somewhere in front of him. They became louder, and as he entered a large cavern an amazing sight greeted him. The roof of the cavern was covered in a living mass of wriggling brown bats. Countless in number, their furry snouts and membranous wings twitched constantly, and their tiny clawed thumbs seemed to be pointing directly at him.

Suddenly, as though on cue, the tiny creatures took wing, forming a dense cloud of flapping monsters in miniature. They darted and wheeled in a graceful ballet, circling the great gallery in close formation, miraculously avoiding colliding with one another. The whirling circle then broke and the formation began leaving the cavern. Hari saw that the bats too followed the trail of the amber spears, and he hurried on after them.

See. Winged fingers point the way.

The upward incline of the floor became steeper and the walls gradually narrowed. Hari's heart leapt when he saw that the cave opening was just ahead.

"God is good!" he cried, as he dashed out into the cool night air. But then he looked about and gasped, for the face of god was not smiling.

It was as though he had stepped into an alien world. The curvature of the sky was bent and broken, and blinding colors flashed and swished across the firmament. Luminous streamers streaked by overhead, arching sky-curtains of flaming violet fluttered eerily, and elliptical rings of yellow light darted through the heavens.

Above the tumultuous maelstrom in the sky's cup there glowed two spectral moons, terrifying in their magnificence. Recalling the description in the explorer's diary, Hari now knew where he was: the Land of Peril.

He shuddered and looked back toward the safety of the cave. "No!" he screamed. "I will not go back." He shook his fist at the turbulent heavens. "I will fight your demons!"

Yes, I counted on that foolishness.

Clenching his jaw, he set his step toward the dark hill that loomed below the southern horizon, which he knew could only be Demon Knoll, domain of the fearful cloud monster.

The eyes of the twin moons followed him and took on a pale penumbral glow. The perimeter of the easternmost moon brightened and expanded, then broke free and drifted outward to form a brilliant ring around the now paling central disk. The encircling corona began to pulsate, and with each pulsation contracted toward the inner orb, hugging it ever tighter. Upon reaching the outer edge of the moon, the ring continued to shrink, consuming the very moon itself.

Hari tried not to look and felt trickles of sweat running down his back.

The remaining moon brightened and cast off its encircling red mantle, which floated upward and formed a shimmering double moonbow. The heavens hissed in disapproval, and spear-like bolts flashed across the twisting firmament. Great pillars, vertical shafts of red light, shot up from the horizon and across the face of the moon as though to hold up the wavering superstructure. Out of the distant space a ragged ball of green fire appeared and rolled across the heavens, growing ever larger until it dwarfed the moon itself. Straight it sped toward the monstrous pillars of light, colliding with them in an explosion of eye-searing color, threatening to split the very sky asunder.

Hari threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his arms. Was the end of the world at hand? he wondered. But when next he looked up, as if by magic the sky was clear and serene, save for a few dancing beads of light that zigged and zagged about playfully. The heavens seemed to glow in mock contentment, or perhaps amusement.

Suddenly tired, he stretched out on a bed of moss beneath an overhanging rock. Though intending only to rest for a moment, he fell into a sound sleep.

He awoke to see the face of Surya greeting him as it pushed its way up over the eastern hills.

The sun fluttered a moment, and then it suddenly disappeared. Hari jumped to his feet, alarmed, only to see Surya once again rising up proudly in the same place it had risen a moment before. He realized then that the sun he had first seen had been only a reflection, an early image of the real sun mirrored against the sky.

He continued on toward Demon Knoll and had not gone far when a hot dry wind came up and dark low-lying clouds rolled in over the hills. Flashes of forked lightning cracked horizontally through the air, followed by roaring peals of thunder. The air became mysteriously alive, tingling his skin.

Invisible currents pushed and tugged at him, and miniature atmospheric whirlpools whipped at the earth. Ahead he could see strange glowing balls rolling along the ground at great speed, and when they struck a boulder or outcropping they exploded violently. One was heading straight at him, and he dived aside to avoid being struck. The fiery ball exploded against some rocks behind him and shattered into myriad tufts of flame, which danced about in ghostly fashion before flickering out.

He will not always be so fortunate. Soon—soon.

Whirling columns of air followed in the lightning's wake. Like omnivorous devil-demons, the spinning wind-eddies raced along the ground, sucking up dirt and stones, which they hurled about wildly. Hari hugged the earth to avoid being struck. Then as suddenly as it started, the turmoil ceased and the air grew calm again.

When finally he reached the base of Demon Knoll, it was nearly evening. The humpback rise loomed vacant and foreboding over the surrounding land, silently declaring its mastery over all. A stationary cloudbank surrounded by mist hung over its crest. Determined to pass over the hill before dark, he began the ascent without delay.

The incline was not steep and there were few obstructions in his path. Much to his surprise, he reached the summit quickly and without difficulty.

The top of the hill was flat, and looking about, he could see no sign of danger. Then he looked up and his heart leapt to his throat. There, staring down at him from the low-lying cloudbank, was a giant demon face. Trembling, he gaped in frozen silence at the monstrous visage. It floated just above him in the cloud shadows, its features ugly and distorted, altering constantly into myriad grotesque shapes. Unable to move or tear his eyes away, Hari waited for death to strike him.

But nothing happened. His wits returned to him, and he wondered if the cloud demon might not be harmful after all. Then a bizarre thought came to him. Could it be?

In a sudden leap he dived backward to a position just below the top of the hill. He crouched down so that his body would not be visible to the gaze of the demon. He waited several minutes, then slowly raised his head just far enough to get a clear view of the hovering cloudbank. The monster was gone! He had guessed right.

To confirm his theory, he stood once more upon the hilltop, only to find that the monster had also returned—as he had expected. He stepped to the left and the demon moved with him. He jumped to the right and the demon mimicked him again. He clapped his hands and laughed out loud, and the demon seemed almost to smile. He was right: the monster was nothing more than an apparition, a phenomenon of nature. The explanation was simple. The sun was low on the horizon, and so looked up at the crest upon which he stood. Like a great projector, it cast his shadow onto the cloudbank, as it would anyone's who stood upon the hill. The distortions were created by the convoluting movements of the clouds themselves.

He grimaced and shook his head from side to side, which the shadow-image faithfully imitated, and it was not until darkness threatened that he gave up the game and made his way down the far side of the hill.

He found a shallow crevice to rest in for the night. Though hardly comfortable, it shielded him for the turmoil of the heavenly fireworks. As he munched on a mushroom, he thought about home, especially his mother's wonderful cooking and his own soft bed, and he wondered if he would ever escape this unfriendly land.

The next day he made good headway. The land became flat and sandy and the surrounding mountains closer. His eyes ached from the bright sand, which shimmered in waves of yellow-gold like a great phantom lake. In the distance a dark band appeared in the sand, stretching the full width of the land from mountain to mountain. He wondered what it could be. When he reached the darkened area his heart sank. A great chasm split the land, impossible to cross, as though some angry god had run a finger across the earth and cut it open. He fell to his knees, too benumbed to cry out or weep.

Long he gazed at the brooding chasm, even as the blazing eye of Surya, ever watching, inched past its zenith. As though in sympathy, or perhaps defiance, the dark band also crept forward like some great black lizard. Hari shook his head to clear his vision. The chasm moved again. He jumped to his feet and ran toward the opening, but it as quickly moved away from him. He stopped and it stopped. Finding a stone, he hurled it into the center of the dark band, only to see a splash of sand leap up where the stone had struck.

He has fathomed its bluff. You hoped he would kill himself by reacting to fancies, but he has not.

He has been lucky. But luck can turn both ways. He has not yet escaped the Land of

Peril.

How foolish he felt. There was no chasm. It was only a mirage, a trick of sun and sand. Would he never learn? Oh well, he thought, perhaps next the sun will fall out of the sky and roll at my feet. If so, he would pay no attention.

He passed through the sandy wilderness without further incident and by midafternoon reached the base of the mountains. The towering giants arose abruptly out of the earth to form a walled barrier. He knew that somewhere in the fortress was a breach, the pass which the explorer had called Yama's Cut.

As he walked eastward along the base of the mountains, he caught a faint whiff of fragrance in the air. The odor gradually became stronger, and he saw ahead a large purple cloud hanging low in the air, hugging the cliffside. Through the dense mist he could make out an opening in the mountain wall, doubtless the pass he sought. He remembered the explorer's diary telling of the deadly mist that hung over Yama's Cut—the breath of demons—and wondered if it was poisonous. No matter, the pass was his only means of escape and he had to take it.

He entered the cloud. Its sweet pungency was sickening and burned his eyes. He groped his way to the gap in the mountain wall, and within its narrow confines the purple mist was even denser.

His head began to spin and he fell to his knees. But closer now to the ground, he found that the air was clearer. His breathing became easier. Surely the goddess Lakshmi still traveled with him, he thought.

As his eyes cleared he saw he was in a passage that cut straight through the mountains. He also saw the source of the pungent mist: champak bushes, row upon row of champak bushes growing all along the passage. He laughed as he surveyed the thousands of lovely purple starlike blossoms.

Champaks: he knew they loved the shade and craved protection, and here was the perfect arboretum for them. The cloud of perfume that filled the air was nothing more than the pollen emitted from the dense clusters of flowers.

He continued on through the pass crawling on his hands and knees. The going was slow, though in places the champaks thinned out and he was able to walk. Finally, to his great relief, he found himself on the far side of the mountains.

So he has escaped it despite you.

But I did not intervene. The move remains mine.

He emerged beneath a still blue sky, the great vault of Indra, and spread out before him was a scene to gladden the heart: an expanse of rolling green hills dotted with silk-cotton, mango, and gova trees; gold-tipped fields sprinkled with yellow carnations, primroses, and daisies, guarded by great flowering rhododendrons and proud bougainvilleas. Lapwings and kites darted about the lea, and overhead a flock of crimson-billed kingfishers flew toward the westering sun. A lone crow shook its wings in a nearby neem tree, disturbing its delicate lacework leaves, and squawked in raucous counterpoint to the sweet melody of the lark.

The burden Hari carried became lighter as he breathed in the serene beauty of his new surroundings. He would have liked to languish here awhile, to do nothing but sit upon a hill and gaze out upon the majesty of nature, the great gift of Brahma. But he had a task to perform, and so, with a sigh, he turned his step southward toward the city of the rajah.

9

The Loan

Hari spent a peaceful night beneath the protective branches of a tamarind and was awakened in the morning by the cooing of a dove among its russet pods. He rose and stretched, shaking off his weariness, even as the eastern sky shed its mantle of white and struck fire from the golden pearls of dew upon the grass. A faint fragrance of the champak came to him, and he smiled, for bits of its pollen still clung to his tunic.

As he walked along munching on a mango, a brightly banded caterpillar crept out of the grass onto the path. He stopped, watched its graceful undulations, and waited until it crossed the open path and reached the safety of the grass beyond. He had noticed that his were not the only eyes that followed the slow-crawling creature. From a nearby tree a jaybird squawked in protest at the human's intervention, which had allowed its breakfast to escape.

By way of compensation Hari broke off a piece of the mango he was eating and tossed it on the ground for the ruffled bird. Without a note of appreciation, the jay promptly descended on the juicy fruit and proceeded to consume it greedily. Oh well, thought Hari, perhaps a thank-you was not called for. No doubt the jay's culinary preferences ran more toward caterpillars than mangoes.

Ordinarily he would not have interfered in nature's ways, but of late he had he seen the footprints of Yama on the path before him, and he would put them behind him if he could. Besides, the caterpillar was quite lovely, and as a vegetarian he knew there were alternatives to flesh-eating.

But suppose, he asked himself, that the jaybird depended upon a diet of caterpillars to survive.

How could he then in good conscience deprive the bird of necessary sustenance? Morally and logically, the answer was clear: he could not. All his life he had been brought up on morality and logic; it had been drummed into his head daily by the village pundit. But now, somehow, such reason seemed cold and distant. Perhaps some irrationality had crept into his character, a flaw that his teacher and, indeed, any self-respecting Brahmin, would find appalling. But he was glad he had saved the caterpillar.

Toward evening he came upon a small village, a welcome sight. After many days of solitary wandering he looked forward to the company of other human beings.

As he entered the village, he saw there was a crowd gathered in front of one of the clay houses that lined the main street. The assembly was subdued, the people talking in hushed voices; some of the women were weeping. He asked a man standing at the perimeter of the group the reason for the gathering, thinking that perhaps an important personage had died. He was told that the house was that of the village guru, an elderly and much venerated teacher in the community, who was ill. It was feared the guru might die soon, so the villagers had come to the old master's house to pay him homage.

Hari also learned from the bystander that it was a custom in the village for all newcomers to appear before the guru, and as he was a stranger, he was encouraged to join the gathering of devotees who were beginning to file into the house. Not to respect such a custom, he knew, would be an offense. Also, he would be unlikely to obtain a free meal and a roof over his head if he did not comply.

He joined the end of the queue as it filed into the house and waited patiently as it wove its way slowly from room to room. Upon entering a large parlor, he could see there were three people seated yoga-style on the floor receiving the visitors. The first was a frail elderly man, bearded and wearing the simple white gown of a master-teacher—doubtless the guru. Each of the visitors bowed low before the old man and exchanged a few polite words, the more worshipful kneeling to touch his feet and then their eyes. The guru did his best to discourage this act of supreme reverence, thereby revealing his own humility. His gentle eyes blinked with pleasure each time he recognized a familiar face, and Hari could see the old teacher was loved by all.

Seated next to the guru were two attractive young women, both garbed in the robes of disciples.

They in their turn greeted the visitors with a polite nod and clasped upturned hands. The visitors then passed out of the house through a door at the far end of the parlor, some leaving small gifts on the mat at the exit.

The line gradually dwindled until only Hari remained. He approached the guru and bowed before him. The guru smiled, his old eyes twinkling as he studied the newcomer's face.

"Ah, it seems we have a special visitor tonight, Sharmila, a young Brahmin no less," declared the guru. "Welcome to this humble house, young man. We are pleased to have you. It is not often we have the pleasure of welcoming strangers to our village—we are so far off the beaten track. But forgive me, I must present you to these lovely ladies. To my right is my wife, Sharmila, my most devoted disciple and the flower of my life. And next to Sharmila is her equally lovely sister, Shanta, also a devoted disciple, and a dedicated teacher to the children of the village—although I fear we may soon lose her to the university at Agrapoor. As for myself, I am Sundar, also a teacher, and like yourself a victim of Brahminical heritage—a condition that can be overcome, I assure you."

The old man chuckled at his own joke, but then began a fit of coughing. It was several minutes before he was able to continue.

"Forgive me. My body seems to have reached its limit somewhat ahead of my spirit. But now tell us who you are, young man, and what brings you to our humble village."

"My name is Hari, O Guruji, a student from a village in the northeast of Madra. In my wanderings it was by accident that I happened upon your village. I regret I have no gift to offer, but accept my prayers for your health and my humble thanks for your kind welcome."

"That is more than gift enough, young Hari," said the guru. "You are as well-spoken as you are well-mannered. Sharmila and I insist you stay with us this night that we may have the pleasure of your company. Do we not, Sharmila?"

"Yes, my husband, assuredly. We would be most pleased and honored."

O, were it but my move, one of these two beauteous young women would be the seventh seduction!

Yes, I knew you would come up with some such, if I failed to gain and hold the move.

How lovely and feminine she is, thought Hari as he bowed in appreciation of the invitation.

"Good, then it is settled," declared the guru. "While Sharmila sees to the preparation of our evening meal, we will retire to the library to chat further. Shanta, I hope you will stay and dine with us."

Look into his mind! See what he contemplates!

Your luck is obscene!

As is your character, so we are even.

"I thank you and beg your forgiveness, Master," Shanta replied, "but I can not. This evening I am expecting a visit from the head pundit—the Mahomahopadyaya—of Agrapoor University. Whether I am successful in obtaining the teaching appointment I have applied for may well depend on my interview this night. Although the pundit is visiting me to assess my character and learning, I thought to provide an encouraging environment by setting out a good meal before him."

"Most wise, Shanta," said the guru. "But your character is saintly and your scholarship superb, so if the pundit is not a fool I am sure you will be found acceptable—even if your chapatis are overcooked."

As Shanta rose from her sitting position on the floor, she bumped her head on a protruding wall shelf. Hari heard not one but two "ouches" uttered at the same time, one from Shanta and the other from Sharmila in the adjoining kitchen. Sharmila poked her head around the door, looked at Shanta, and when she saw that her sister was not injured, she giggled, as did Shanta. The guru did not notice the incident as he struggled to gain his feet. Hari helped the old man up and supported him as he walked on unsteady legs to the small library next to the parlor. Shanta voiced a final farewell as she left the house, and Sharmila resumed her preparations for the evening meal.

Hari deposited the guru in a comfortable chair in the library and accepted another for himself at the guru's invitation. The old teacher stroked his beard for several minutes before speaking.

"Hari, I would say something to you, something that is important to me. And then I would ask you a question—a somewhat unusual question. It is a personal matter, and for that I beg your indulgence. I believe you to be a man of virtue and good character, a person of discretion and judgment. And as you are an educated Brahmin, I am sure you will appreciate the subtleties and complexities of the matter I am about to explain in an appropriately detached manner. When I am finished, you may even be agreeable to performing a small service for an old man not long for this life."

It was clear that something of serious consequence was afoot. "I shall be glad to help in any way I may," Hari said. For this was an essential part of his search for truth and wisdom: he wished to learn how best to help others, especially those most deserving. Whatever service the guru wished would surely be instructive as well as beneficial.

"Let me begin by telling you of my marriage to Sharmila. We were wed two years ago, at the time my health began to fail. She was one of my most devoted disciples, and she unselfishly insisted on looking after me in my waning years. Rightly or wrongly, I married her, although she was young enough to be my granddaughter. At the time, other than her sister, she had only a father, who has since died, and he cared only for the reflected honor of his daughter's marriage to the village guru and thought not of the life she would lead. And in truth, I did not fully consider the matter either, although I have thought about it many times since." The old man allowed a small sigh of regret to escape him.

After a moment he resumed his narration. "She cared for me well, and I grew to love her dearly.

Because of declining health, I could not provide her with the normal corporeal enjoyments of married life. Yet she never complained, although I know she must have suffered because of it. She remained faithful always, the model of a self-sacrificing and virtuous wife.

"I hoped and prayed my health and body might revive, if only for a little while, that I might give to Sharmila at least some measure of the pleasure that is the right of any spouse. But the depreciation of time would not relent, and my condition gradually worsened. Now the shadow of Yama is upon me, and my Sharmila will soon be alone. She can not marry again, for custom forbids it. Nor would she wish to. Rather, I believe she is intent on remaining here the rest of her life that she may impart my teachings to the children of the village. Ah, how this old heart breaks when I consider that my beloved Sharmila, yet in the flower of her youth, must live out her life unfulfilled, without ever knowing the joys of physical love.

"So you see, Hari, why my heart is heavy. How often have I wished there was a moment of youth I might steal and share with Sharmila. Such are the foolish fancies of an addled old man. But it was that idle wish that set me to thinking—not of stealing, but of borrowing a moment of youth. The idea, I know, sounds absurd, but it is not. Let me explain."

Hari's surprise must have shown on his face, for the old guru smiled as he continued. "If you look around this room, you will see books on many subjects, not a few on the art and practice of Hatha-Yoga. My teacher was an eminent practitioner of Hatha-Yoga, and it was from him that I learned and eventually mastered the difficult art of spiritual transmigration. Only a few experts have successfully accomplished spirit transfer. I have done so on two occasions, both times in my younger years under the tutelage of my master-teacher. Though I have not performed a spiritual transfer in a long time, it is a skill that once learned is not forgotten.

"This brings me to the question I wish to ask you, Hari. It is not a question that is easy to ask, even by an old guru who has spent his life asking more questions than he has been able to answer. It is a boon I seek of you. Though your acquiescence will mean much to me, know that if you refuse, I will understand—indeed, I might well refuse myself if I were in your place. So do not feel obligated where no obligation exists. Whatever answer you give, I will accept, and we will enjoy our dinner all the same.

"What I wish to ask of you is the loan of your body for one night that I may lie with my wife.

You can understand that I could not ask this of anyone in the village where everyone knows one another. Also, Sharmila, I am sure, would not be comfortable if I wore the body of someone she knew in another capacity, and there could be no assurance that sooner or later the lender of the body might not misspeak and reveal the incident. You, being a stranger who will soon be leaving the village, are an ideal candidate. Of course, Sharmila would have to agree, but I am confident I can convince her.

"Well, I have said enough. Perhaps too much. I would not blame you if you conclude that you are in the company of a crazy old man. Perhaps I am. But what I have said is true, and I am confident that I can perform a spiritual transfer without any harm to your body or your spirit. The decision is yours."

A long silence ensued as Hari sifted through the confusion of thoughts that filled his head.

"O Master," he said finally, "I would ask a question. What happens to my spirit when yours has entered my body? And what of your body when it has lost its spirit?"

"Your spirit, Hari, will remain in your own body, even as my spirit enters your body to take possession of your thoughts and movements. You will not be wholly unaware of my spiritual presence, nor will you lose all bodily control. I can achieve dominant control, but only if your spirit permits it. Your spirit and your will must assume a passive role during the brief period of the possession. As for my own body, it will remain alive and simply lie at rest, dormant, until I transfer my spirit back into it."

But it will count as a seduction, for his body will have congress with another woman.

And if he gets killed in this village, it counts too.

Another long silence followed as Hari considered the matter further. He felt genuine sorrow and compassion for the ailing guru. Too, as a student and a Brahmin, he was respectful of the revered status of the master-teacher, and it was in the Brahminical tradition that he should obligingly render service to others. And the experience would do him no harm.

"Master, I will gladly make my humble body available to you for a night's employ. Tell me what I must do."

"My thanks to you, O Hari," said the guru with an equanimity and humility that belied the joy in his heart. Only the trembling in his fingers betrayed the emotion of the moment.

"There is nothing to be done just yet. First I must discuss the matter privately with Sharmila so that she will understand and be agreeable. She already knows that I have the ability to perform spiritual transfer, and so will not be disbelieving of the arrangement we have made. I am confident she will comply, for she will think the experience to be a pleasing thing for me, and she strives to please me in every way she can. I will go speak with her now. Make yourself at home in my absence and browse through my collection of books if you like. I will return presently."

The old guru pulled himself to his feet and shuffled out of the room.

Hari surveyed the shelves of books and selected one entitled: Strange Phenomena of Nature.

He thought perhaps to find within its pages some clues to the strange happenings he had observed while traveling through the Land of Peril.

When the guru returned to the library, he was pleased to find his guest deeply engrossed in a book.

"Ah, yes: Your choice is a good one," said the guru. "A most revealing tome, and well documented. But now it is time for dinner. Come along. And if Sharmila seems a bit shy, I am sure you will understand. She consented to our arrangement as I knew she would, and I will perform the transfer after dinner." He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Ah, this old nose is not dead yet—I can smell the curry and pickles from here. Prepare yourself for some fine food, my boy, for Sharmila is a magical cook."

At the dinner table Sharmila busied herself with arranging the dishes just so, and occupied herself with a myriad of minor details so as to avoid looking into Hari's eyes. Hari understood and did his best not to contribute to her unease, so he concentrated on sampling the many savory dishes and listening to the guru lightheartedly expound upon the subject of reincarnation.

"It is written that the rebirth of a human into the form of an animal is retrogressive—a punishment for a life of sin," said the guru. "But I have my doubts. Why is an animal necessarily a lower form?

Animals do not sin. They are born innocent and remain so. If they kill it is usually to survive; they act on instinct. But man? Ah, how well he has taught himself the fine art of inhumanity. Even the gods seem not to value the human form over that of creatures. Consider the great number of godly incarnations that take the form of animals."

"But," asked Hari, "among the creatures, are not some higher than others, just as among humans?"

"Perhaps so," replied the guru. "But higher in what way? The noble eagle soars majestically on the wind currents and then descends from on high to rend and consume the small ground squirrel. Yet the eagle is revered and the squirrel is scorned. But the squirrel kills not and eats not of the flesh. He eats as we do, of fruits, nuts, and vegetables. He does not kill but is killed, victim to the strong and powerful. Therefore, I ask you, would it not be better to be reborn as a ground squirrel than as an eagle—or a man?" The guru chuckled, pleased at the inevitability of his logic.

"O my husband," chimed in Sharmila, "if you will permit an observation. Before you begin burrowing holes in your next life, perhaps you would do well to consider what might be in store for the ground squirrel in its next life."

The guru and Hari laughed at these words, and Hari saw that Sharmila was as clever as she was beautiful. But he also wondered how serious the guru might be, for very few men, if given the choice, would choose to be a squirrel rather than an eagle. It almost seemed that the guru believed that he did have such a choice. That spoke well for his sincerity, for it was easy to advocate a humble reincarnation when there was no prospect of it. Just as it was easy for a poor man to renounce the trappings of wealth, and difficult for a rich man to do the same.

After dinner the guru showed Hari to a guest bedroom and there explained the next step in preparing for the spiritual transfer. "Are you ready, then, Hari?"

"Yes, I am ready."

"Good. Now lie down on the bed and relax yourself. Assume a comfortable position. You need only shut your eyes and empty your mind. Intoning the primal word will help you do this. I will go now to the vacant room adjacent to my bedroom. From there I will perform the transfer. It is not necessary that I be in the same room with you to detach and transfer my spirit, and you can understand that the ritual is secret and can not be seen by another. Remain passive and I will take control of thought and movement. My spirit will direct your body to leave this room, whereupon I will take it to my own bedroom where Sharmila awaits.

"Later in the night I will return your body to this bed and release my spirit, which will return to its own body. Then all will be as before."

With that the guru bowed and left the room. Hari lay quietly on the bed, his eyes closed, and inwardly sounded the primal word as he awaited the coming of the guru's spirit.

But let us see what the sister is up to.

That innocent is boring. Still, who knows?

Upon leaving the house of the guru, Shanta made her way toward her own dwelling down the road. The sting from having bumped her head against the shelf in the guru's parlor was all but gone, and she smiled to herself as she recalled that she and Sharmila had cried "ouch" at the same time.

When they were children, she remembered, they had suffered pain together then too, and experienced the same pleasures as well, though their lives had not been so exciting that bodily pleasure or pain had visited them very often.

Everyone in the village knew that she and Sharmila were twins, although not identical. But among the living only the two sisters knew that they had been born joined together at the shoulder and had been skillfully separated at birth without injury to either by the village midwife, who had since died.

Only the slightest of scars remained. And no one but they knew that since their birth each experienced the same physical sensations of the other.

If Shanta ate a spicy dish, Sharmila also experienced the taste, and if Sharmila sniffed a fragrant flower, Shanta too enjoyed the smell. And if Shanta cut her finger, Sharmila's finger, though it would not bleed, would feel the same pain. Indeed, each had become so accustomed to experiencing the ordinary daily sensations of the other that sometimes neither was sure who was the initiator and who the recipient of their common feelings. It was only that rare and unexpected event that caused them to be aware of their unusual talent as well. If their empathy did not extend to seeing and hearing, for that they were grateful. All their lives they had kept their secret to themselves lest they be thought of as freaks. Sharmila had not even told her husband.

Shanta arrived home and set about putting the finishing touches on the evening meal. She wanted the dinner to be perfect and dearly hoped it would be to the liking of the pundit. More than anything in her life she wanted the university appointment. Everything was in order. The parlor and dining room were neat to a fault, her meager library was prominently displayed, and she had on her best sari.

A loud rapping sounded at the door as might be delivered by an angry woodpecker. Shanta nervously brushed away the imaginary wrinkles in her sari, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

There stood her guest for the evening.

"Pundit Rajagopala, how good to see you again, and how kind of you to come," said Shanta effusively, her palms pressed tightly together. "Please come in."

"Harumph, well yes, yes," sputtered the pundit in a haughty tone, his puffy red face screwing itself up disdainfully as he looked around in undisguised disapproval. He was short and portly with close-set blinking eyes and thick lips, entirely bald, and moved about in much the same manner as an overweight duck.

"Please make yourself at home, Master. This is the most comfortable chair. Will you take some tea?"

"Tea? Yes. Plain and not too strong. Yes, properly served, tea should not be too strong.

Harumph."

But we must not neglect the guru's activity.

You watch the seduction; I will watch the pundit's meal. Neither aspect of this episode

should be missed. I shall assuage my boredom with thoughts of future conquests.

Agreed. Here is my report.

Hari lay still in his bed awaiting the coming of the guru's spirit. Sharmila too lay in her bed, expectant and apprehensive, her eyes fastened on the door, waiting for her husband to enter in the body of Hari. She did not know exactly what to expect from the experience, for her husband had not been very specific about the details.

Hari felt a tingling sensation, which soon dissipated, and he became aware of the presence of the guru's spirit within him. He marveled at its richness, serenity, and gentle nobility. Relaxing his will, he let the guru take control of his body, which then rose from the bed and left the room. Although his brain no longer instructed his movements, he could sense the excitement and anticipation that emanated from the guru's spirit.

Sharmila watched in wide-eyed fascination as the body of Hari entered the room and sat down on the bed next to her. If the voice that spoke to her was young and strong, the words and gestures were familiar, and she felt assured that it was her husband who now attended her. She gradually relaxed, and when the firm young body pressed gently against her, she did not protest.

As the lovemaking intensified, Hari did his best to submerge his spirit and remove himself from the sensual emanations that assailed his body so as not to trespass upon the privacy of the guru and his young wife. But this became increasingly difficult as the waves of emotion heightened and splashed upon the shores of his senses. He could sense Sharmila's wonderment at the new emotions she was experiencing, nor could he help feeling her firm young breasts press against his body and the pulsing warmth deep within her.

Then, inexplicably, his body faltered, and in his mind he heard the voice of the guru calling to him. "Help me, Hari," it said. "I need your youthful spirit to assist me. My spirit is too weak to accomplish the task alone. Please help me. She will not know."

Hari could feel the guru's spirit weakening, and he obligingly tried to reinforce it with his own. He did not want to dominate or even become a full partner in the lovemaking, so he participated only enough to reinvigorate the flagging activity and restore it to its former pitch. By exercising due restraint he succeeded in playing the minor role of accompanist to the now fast-moving duet, rather than become a soloist or third performer in a whirling trio. In his best altruistic fashion, he bravely endured the many pleasures and delights that intruded upon his being.

When finally the guru's spirit relaxed, its task complete, Hari willed that his own spirit retreat so that the guru and his wife might be alone together. It was not until late in the night that he became aware of his body returning to its bed and the guru's spirit departing. Tired from the night's labor, he soon fell asleep.

And here is my report.

The wry expression on the pundit's face as he sipped tea gave way to a look of lofty indulgence as he turned his attention to Shanta.

"I assume," he squeaked, "that your knowledge of the Vedas is thorough and complete?"

"Oh yes, Master," replied Shanta eagerly.

"And that you are proficient in the Indian system of logic?"

"Oh yes, indeed."

"And that you are fluent in the major languages of the south and also three of the Indic languages of the north?"

"I am fluent in Bengali, Master. But I did not know of the requirement of three northern languages."

"Hmm. Three. Yes, three. Well, I must tell you, there are several candidates for the faculty opening, and the language requirement is important. Yes, quite important."

Shanta's heart sank at these words, but she bravely maintained her poise.

"You must surely be hungry by now, Shriman Rajagopala. May I serve you some curried eggplant and chutney? And please have some roti and chapatis."

"Ah, yes, by all means. As the sage so wisely said, there is a time for all things, and all things in their time. The body is the vessel of the soul and must have its due."

It was as Shanta was serving her guest a second helping of eggplant that she felt a warm caressing sensation in her breasts, which so surprised her that she nearly dumped the dish on the pundit's lap.

"Oh, please forgive my clumsiness," she exclaimed.

"Harumph. Yes, of course."

The caressing sensation in Shanta's breasts suddenly increased in intensity and was now accompanied by a disturbing hotness in her lips. She sucked in her breath audibly and instinctively clapped her hands to her breasts in surprise and disbelief. This action so startled the pundit that he ceased masticating and stared open-mouthed at the amazing scene of Shanta holding her ample breasts in her cupped hands.

"Oh!—Oh, forgive me, Master, just a touch of—of indigestion," she said with forced calmness.

"Please, have some more dhal."

Shanta bit her lip to avoid showing any reaction to the strangely pleasant sensation that newly assaulted her anatomy, this time in a distinctly more private place. Her thighs shuddered beneath her sari and feelings of overwhelming delight coursed through her body. She began to writhe in her chair and breathe heavily, and she involuntarily uttered little cries of "oh" and "ah," her eyes the while lighting up like fiery stars. The pundit dropped a half-eaten chapati from his gaping mouth, his eyes fairly popping out of his head. If he was flabbergasted at Shanta's incredible behavior, he was also keenly aware of the erotic nature of the display, such that he became excited and his lingam rose.

Shanta strained to gain control of herself, and in a supreme effort aided by unmitigated but well-disguised panic, she managed to reduce her writhing to a slow rhythmic undulation. But the seductive swaying of her hips only served to excite the pundit the more. Could it be, he wondered, that this lovely young woman was erotically attracted to him?

"I sometimes have an allergic reaction to chutney, O Master," she said, trying to explain her reactions. She realized now that her sister must be having an affair. Her partner certainly knew what he was doing! "It causes an itch, and—oh!—ah!—oooh!" Shanta gasped and sucked in her breath, her eyelids fluttered wildly, her lips opening and closing of their own volition. Her billowing breasts pushed hard against her sari, threatening the security of the fabric, and her arms and legs shuddered visibly. Finally she let out a long low rapturous moan the like of which her astonished guest had never heard nor dreamed of, but which his anatomy comprehended all too well, for it pulsated and emitted a moist response, much to the pundit's dismay. The pundit gulped audibly as bits of drool gathered on his lower lip, his hands surreptitiously moving to cover the widening stain on the leg of his dhoti.

But the woman was paying almost no attention to him. Shanta's breathing slowed, and she cleared her throat as she gradually regained her composure.

"These allergy attacks are infrequent, but they can be most annoying," she said in a tone of mock impatience, her voice cracking slightly. She avoided looking directly into her guest's eyes.

"Um, yes. I have no concern. Yes, not at all. I understand," stammered the pundit. "Chutney will do that. Yes." But he was not at all sure that the cause of the remarkable performance was indeed the chutney. Other intriguing possibilities raced through his mind, suggesting fantastic opportunities for the future. His now languid lingam twitched, as if to urge him to consider the potential advantages of having such a talented teacher at the university, isolated as it was, and of which he was the undisputed commander, not to mention the counselor to new members of the faculty with whom he often found it necessary to work quite closely.

"Will you have some rice pudding for dessert?" asked Shanta nervously.

"Ah, pudding. Yes. That is, no. Uh, did you say you can write as well as read Bengali?"

"Oh yes, Master."

"Well then, in that case the requirement is satisfied. You are qualified and may consider yourself hired."

"Oh! Thank you, Master," exclaimed Shanta. "Thank you. How can I ever repay you for this most singular opportunity?"

"Ah, well. Harumph. Who can tell. Yes. You can report to the university whenever you wish, but no later than two months from now. Housing and servants will be provided, of course. We can meet and work out your teaching schedule together when you arrive. Yes. Now I must be on my way. A fine meal. Good night."

Shanta did not notice that the pundit held his satchel over his left leg as he waddled toward the exit, for her head was in the clouds. She had feared that she had botched the meal and interview, but it seemed that she had after all made a favorable impression.

As she cleaned up the dishes, she sang to herself and could hardly wait until the morning to tell Sharmila and the guru the good news. She must also remember to ask her sister about the odd sensations she had felt at dinner. The experience had not been at all unpleasant, except for the time and place, and if her body insisted on misbehaving again in the same way, she would willingly tolerate it, but hopefully there would be some advance warning so she could retreat to the privacy of her bedroom and not inflict any discomfort on others. If this was the way of love between a man and woman, she would not be averse to experiencing it directly at some near stage in her life.

Now do I strike. I shall put the realization into the pundit's mind that his hostess was

suffering the effect of her twin sister's activity—and he will soon conclude that such

goings-on cannot be the result of the ancient guru's passion. He will believe that adultery

has been committed.

But the guru will explain that this was not the case, if there is any challenge.

I think not, for the guru is dying.

Hari awoke the next morning to the sound of wailing and weeping coming from somewhere in the house. Alarmed by the commotion, he jumped out of bed, hurriedly dressed, and went to investigate. A group of villagers was assembled in the parlor, the men in a clot whispering and shaking their heads, the women weeping and moaning and rocking to and fro. He squeezed through the crowd and followed a procession of village elders into one of the bedrooms. There he saw to his great shock the body of the guru, pale and lifeless, lying on the bed, a bouquet of flowers upon his breast.

Sharmila was kneeling beside the body, shivering and weeping. At that moment Shanta came rushing into the room. She uttered an agonized cry and fell to her knees beside her sister.

Tears trickled down Hari's face. He felt to be very much an outsider in this moment of intimacy, and he quietly returned to the guest room. He guessed the cause of the guru's death and knew he had played a part in it. The old man's spirit had not been strong enough to endure the excitement of the previous evening. If only he had refused the guru's request to borrow his body, perhaps the old master might still be alive.

There was a knock on the door and Sharmila entered. She managed a wan smile.

"Hari, I know that you are saddened by my husband's death. But his last hours were happy ones because of you. He was very grateful, and so am I. His time was near at hand, and with your help he lived his final moments as he wished to. Now his spirit lives in another life. But he has not left us, for there remain his deeds, his mark upon this village, and our memories."

"Surely so," Hari agreed. "Yet I feel a share of responsibility."

"Have no such concern. He spoke of you before he died, saying that he would repay your favor in his next life, if not in this life." She wiped her tearful eyes. "The funeral pyre is being prepared. I hope you will attend the ceremony."

"I will come." said Hari. "And I thank you for your kind words. Yes, I too will long remember him."

The guru's body was placed upon a platform of logs and fagots in a meadow at the edge of the village. The villagers assembled in a half circle around the pyre, Sharmila and Shanta foremost among a small group of disciples. Hari stood by himself at the outer perimeter of the gathering. He had attended cremation ceremonies before in his own village and had found the experience distasteful, though he knew it was a deeply rooted custom.

Attendants poured ghee over the fagots, which would help spread the flames. A carven urn was brought forth to house the ashes of the deceased. A Vedic priest chanted devotional prayers for the departed spirit of the guru and to the glory of the puissant pantheon of gods. As custom required, Sharmila walked thrice around the pyre, touched the feet of her husband and then her own eyes, broke her bangles upon the wood of the pyre, and wiped the beauty spot from her forehead. She then rejoined the group of disciples. Since the guru had no son, the priest assumed the task of setting the sacred torch to the pyre. As the spears of flame leapt up, as though to the bosom of Agni, their master, so a great wail rose up from the assembled villagers.

Then a squat gross man approached, whom Hari guessed must be the pundit Shanta had entertained. "There is something that must be said," he declared. "I have reason to believe that there is scandal here that must be dealt with."

"Can't you see that this is a funeral?" the priest demanded, irritated. "Whatever your business is, it can surely wait until we have done proper honor to our beloved guru."

"But it is his honor I am concerned with. I have cause to believe that his wife had congress with a man not her husband, on the eve of his demise. There must be punishment of both adulteress and lover!"

Hari was shocked by this interpretation of the night's events. But if the people believed it—

You made your move. Here is my countermove.

From where he stood Hari could not see Sharmila in the crowd, or that some of the widows and elderly women of the village had gathered around her, perhaps responsive to the suggestion of scandal the pundit was trying to make. They were whispering and hissing, repeating a single word over and over again: suttee—suttee—suttee. Only too late did he see her as she ran to the flaming pyre and flung herself upon it. Nor did he hear Shanta cry out or see her faint as she shared her sister's brief moment of searing pain. But he did see the pundit, his prime witness suddenly lost, throw up his hands in disgust. There was no longer a case to be made, for if there had been a crime, its prime witness was gone, and a sinner had been punished.

Hari stood frozen, shocked and dismayed. When finally his wits returned, he heard cries of praise from the villagers for Sharmila's noble sacrifice. A deep hatred welled up within him, hatred for the barbaric ways of his people, and he felt himself not one of them. Indeed, had he ever been?

The wind shifted and brought to him the odor of burning flesh. He turned and ran.

10

The Sack of Grain

And now I have accomplished seven seductions, and if you are unable to kill the handsome mortal man with your next move, I will have won the contest and will be free of you for a full century, not one moment less. I delight in the very notion.

By no means so hasty, creature. Remember that I challenged the seduction involving

the she-demon, because neither of us had any part in that; it happened without our

influence.

It was a fair seduction! And anyway, you cheated.

I notified a higher authority. Now I believe it is time to ask for that decision.

What higher authority?

Yama, the god of death, as death is my object. Will you accept his decision?

I shall have to.

O Yama, you know the issue and the facts of the case. What do you say?

A dense bank of clouds hung low in the sky, blocking out the waxing sun, casting a pallid shadow over the land. The countryside was bleak and colorless. For a moment the bank seemed to intensify, and to become truly terrible.

The she-demon seduction is null.

The narrow path upon which Hari traveled cut straight across open fields, gradually tapering to a thin line in the distance, terminating in a small black dot where it touched the horizon. Hari had only the grasshoppers to keep him company, which flitted through the air all about him. One landed on his forearm. The insect rubbed its legs together and flicked its antennae as it surveyed its strange perch.

In a sign of approval, or perhaps disgust, Hari could not tell, the fearless creature opened its mandibles and deposited a drop of sticky brown substance on his arm, then flew away.

There you are. You have only six seductions—and it remains my move.

I think it would have been another decision, had I taken it to a more romantic god.

Now will I make that move.

The sky brightened, melting away the cloud shadows, and ahead Hari saw there was a path from the west which joined the one he was on. Through the glare Hari could make out the blurred outline of a lone figure on the path walking in his direction. The two travelers arrived at the fork at the same time.

But all you did was motivate that harmless low-caste wanderer to intercept our mortal man.

That is enough, I think.

Hari saw that the other was a young man about his own age, though clearly poor and of low caste. He was barebreasted and without sandals and wore only a tattered half-dhoti; his dense black hair was matted and unkempt and his thin dark-skinned body unwashed. Yellowed teeth poked out of a slack half-opened mouth set too low in a face that was scarred and pockmarked. His ears stuck out comically, belying the dark deepset eyes that peered out furtively beneath unbroken eyebrows.

Our man will simply dismiss him, and think no more of it, for he is of far higher station.

You underestimate his folly. He has been singularly lucky, but now he shall become

singularly unlucky.

Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, the young man stepped back and bowed to Hari, waiting for the Brahmin to pass by first. Fortunately the sun did not cast his unclean shadow upon the high-caste traveler—he yet carried scars for not having been attentive to such carelessness in the past.

Hari spoke: "Good afternoon. It seems we are the only travelers on this lonely road, and as we seem to be going in the same direction, why do not we travel along together? It will relieve the monotony. My name is Hari. What is yours?"

Ugh! This could mean trouble.

The young man was startled at Hari's cordiality, for he was accustomed to being at best ignored and usually scorned by persons of higher caste.

"O Swami, my name is Suka. I would be very honored to walk with you. Thank you, thank you," he replied, his voice timid and subservient.

"Very well, Suka. Then come, let us be on our way."

The two walked along, Suka keeping slightly to the side and a little behind Hari and not daring to speak unless spoken to first.

"Are you from this region, Suka?"

"Oh no, Swami, I am from farther north."

"And where is it that you are traveling to?"

"Oh, anywhere. It does not matter. It is the same everywhere. Anyplace is better than my village."

"Ah, you are a wanderer in search of knowledge and adventure, then?"

"Oh no, Swami, I am just running away. I lived with my uncle and he always beat me. So I pushed him into a dung pile and ran away."

"You have no other family, then?"

"My father and mother and youngest sister are dead. I have no brothers. My other sisters are married—their husbands do not want me. Before she died, my youngest sister liked me. Her name was Ambika. My uncle arranged her marriage, but her husband beat her. Ambika wanted to return to my uncle's house. We could have taken care of each other. But my uncle would not take her back, and her mother-in-law wanted more dowry to be paid. My uncle would not pay more, and so Ambika's husband and mother-in-law burned her alive. They killed Ambika, but my uncle did not care. He only kept me so I could work for him. He is a gatherer of wood and dung-cakes. He said I did not find enough wood and was lazy. So every day he beat me. I am glad I ran away."

"What will you do now, Suka? What of your future? Can you read or write?"

"Oh no, Swami. No one in my family can do that. There are no teachers for the low-castes in my village. Future? I do not know that word, Swami."

"Well, today you are traveling with me. What will you do next month? Or next year?"

"I have never thought of that. I know only today. Yes, the weight of each day is enough. It would be too heavy if I added tomorrow's weight to today's."

"Hmm. Yes, there is something to be said for traveling light."

"Ah, yes! That is so, Swami," exclaimed Suka, suddenly beaming. "Light and free, with no cares." Suka then realized that he had spoken to a Brahmin without having first been asked a question. Fearfully, he dropped back a few paces, unsure of what to expect. When nothing terrible happened, he resumed his former position but remained wary. He knew from bitter experience that one could never tell about the moods of the upper castes.

Toward evening a farmhouse came into view.

"Well, Suka, shall we stop at that farm ahead and see if we can find a bed for the night and perhaps a bite to eat?"

"Yes, Swami, a good idea. Let us try. But please, Swami, it will be better if you talk."

Hari laughed. "Very well, Suka."

As they neared the farmhouse, they saw a farmer weeding in a field near the road. The farmer saw them and approached. He was a large man with graying hair and stern demeanor. Judging from the deep furrows in his brow that made a permanent frown, Hari was unsure of the reception that awaited.

"Blessings upon you, good sir," said Hari. "We seek the owner of this fine farm to ask for shelter for the night."

Seeing that Hari was a Brahmin, like it or not, the farmer well knew his obligation. "I am the owner. I suppose I can find room for you in the house. But as for that one," pointing to Suka, "if he is not your servant he can move on."

"No, he is a traveler like myself," said Hari, his voice yet civil though he felt a surge of anger. "He also seeks shelter for the night. Surely you can provide shelter for my companion too and thereby earn credit in the next life."

The farmer hesitated, eyeing Suka suspiciously. Condescending to address the low-caste directly, he said in a surly tone: "Well, worthless one, you will have to work for your keep. There are still two hours of light left. You can thrash the millet stalks piled up by the barn. And you can sleep in the stalls."

Turning to Hari, the farmer's tone became more amiable. "You may go to the house if you like.

My wife will give you some cool water. Dinner will be at sundown."

"I thank you," said Hari. "But a little exercise before eating will do me good. I will join Suka here in thrashing the stalks. And as I do not wish to intrude, I too will sleep in the stalls."

Suka stared in disbelief at Hari, thinking him quite mad. Who can understand a Brahmin? he wondered.

The farmer shrugged. "As you like," he replied curtly, and returned to his work, muttering the while and wondering what kind of Brahmin would keep the company of a low-caste, let alone speak up for one. A poor farmer, he was not far above the level of a low-caste himself. If a Brahmin put himself on the same level as a low-caste good-for-nothing, where did that leave him? Social order depended on strict obedience to the rules of class structure; otherwise how was one to know who one was? How dare this young Brahmin break the sacred code, curse him!

As Hari and Suka walked past the farmhouse on the way to the barn, the farmer's wife and a young woman, doubtless the farmer's daughter, appeared at the door. Hari nodded politely to them and gave the hand sign of greeting. The farmer's wife returned the salutation while the young woman simply stared.

At the side of the barn they found a stack of stalks and set to flailing them against the barn wall.

The shed seeds they swept into a pile to be later winnowed. Suka worked in fits and starts, stopping frequently to gaze idly about. Hari worked steadily, and though annoyed at Suka's loafing, said nothing.

Now I initiate my final seduction. I can hardly wait to be free of you.

It was not long before the farmer's daughter appeared carrying a cup of cool well water for each of the young workers. Hari thanked her and saw that she was robust and quite attractive, and especially well endowed. She wore a coquettish look that she made no effort to conceal and swiveled her torso provocatively, her long black tresses swishing to and fro, as she watched the boys drink.

Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she first studied the one and then the other.

And observe my counter, now that I have established a male in the presence of the

subject.

Hari smiled, thanked her again for the drink, then returned to his work without paying her further heed. But Suka leered at her boldly, looking her up and down, which she ostentatiously pretended not to notice, thus advertising to Suka her vainglorious pleasure. Suka knew that her caste was not far above his own, so that a conquest was not beyond the hopes of one even such as he.

"I wonder what there is around here to do for fun," said Suka to no one in particular.

"Are you addressing me?" inquired the young lady in a pompous voice.

"Who else would I be talking to?" shot back Suka in a slightly rude tone.

"Some people just do not have manners," the young lady exclaimed, studying Hari out of the corner of her eye to see if he showed any signs of interest in the conversation. Hari kept to his work.

"You will find the thrashing easier if you hold the stalks further back," she said to Hari in a friendly yet flirtatious tone, swinging her hips as she spoke.

"I thank you for that advice," said Hari as he lengthened his grasp. "Yes, it is easier that way."

"You are being of great help to my father. Perhaps you can remain awhile. Farm life can be fun as well as work, you know."

You have motivated the low-caste man to desire the woman, but I had already motivated her to desire the Brahmin. She will not be dissuaded. See, she is giving him every chance.

Hari glanced at her and smiled. "Oh, I am sure it can. But I must be on my way in the morning. I thank you for the thought."

A fool and his seduction are soon parted.

"Tell me what kind of fun you mean," interjected Suka in a suggestive voice.

"I am sure you would like to know," she answered sarcastically, whereupon she wheeled about in mock anger and headed for the house. After a few steps she stopped suddenly and turned, exclaiming in a pretentious singsong voice: "My name is Nalini!" She then continued on her way.

Suka called after her in an exaggerated imitation of her singsong voice: "Goodbye, Nalini!" Hari was embarrassed by Suka's behavior, but said nothing. After all, he told himself, Suka was only having fun in his own way.

Suka resumed his daydreaming until he saw that the farmer was approaching, whereupon he snatched up the last bunch of stalks and energetically began pounding them against the barn wall. The farmer surveyed the work that had been done and seemed satisfied.

"The winnowing can wait," said the farmer. "It grows dark, so you two can stop work. There is a well by the stalls to wash. You will find some food on a bench near the back door of the house."

With that the farmer walked off, his manner toward Hari distinctly less cordial than before.

As Hari washed at the well, he saw that Suka barely sprinkled a few drops of water on his hands and face and grimaced at that. Suka muttered to himself, for he would not have made even that small pretense at washing were it not for the Brahmin's elaborate display of cleansing the body.

Behind the farmhouse, as the farmer had promised, they found their dinner: a bowl of vegetable curry, some sambar, a platter of rice, a bowl of milk, and two mangoes. Suka waited for Hari to take his share of the food first, and dearly hoped there would be a decent portion left over for him. He could hardly believe his ears when Hari invited him to help himself first, which convinced him that this was a crazy Brahmin indeed.

Suka reached into the curry bowl with his left hand and plunged his right into the rice, emerging with the lion's share of both. He proceeded to stuff both his hands into his mouth at the same time, gulping down the food in great quantities, bits of it dribbling down his face. Hari took some sambar, milk, and a mango before they too became polluted, and left the rest to Suka, who, from his eager display and accompanying sound effects, was probably hungrier anyway.

When the food was gone, Suka wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, burped loudly, broke wind, and uttered a grunt of satisfaction. He and Hari then headed for the stalls, which were located beyond the barn, to find a place to bed for the night.

The stalls were in a small outbuilding which contained two compartments separated by a wooden partition. One of the compartments housed several sacks of grain, which lay side by side on the floor. The other was empty, except for a heavy floor-covering of hay.

"It seems we can each have a private room to ourselves, Suka. Do you have any preference?

We can take some of the hay from this stall and put it in the other so we will both be comfortable."

"Oh no, Swami, you take the hay. I am used to hardness for my sleep. Hay is too soft for me. I will sleep on the bags of grain."

"Very well, Suka, if you prefer. Good night, then. Until morning and the call of Surya."

Suka bowed. "Good night, Swami."

Hari closed only the bottom half of the swinging door at the front of the stall, leaving the top open so that he could see the stars. There was also a small rear window which he opened to let the night breeze pass through. Lying on his back he inhaled deeply of the cool sweet air which mingled with the fragrance of freshly cut hay. He yawned. Taking the book the guru had given him from beneath his tunic, he placed it under his head to use as a pillow. Through half-shut eyes he watched the twinkling stars—were they perhaps the beautiful nymphs of Indra's heaven winking at him?—and listened to the soft chirping of the crickets echoing in the vast silence beyond. A small lizard clung to the wall, and the light of a moon sparkled in its unblinking eyes, reflecting a ray of peace into Hari's soul.

But his tranquility was short-lived, for from the next stall there suddenly arose a raucous noise not unlike the snorts of a chained bullock that had winded a cow in heat. Suka! He was snoring. Hari sighed at his karma and turned over on his side. But to no avail. The snoring grew louder, taking on a dissonant, irregular sonority that crescendoed and exploded into a staccato-like sputtering, culminating in a horrendous sneeze. Thereafter, for a time, the snoring was quieter and assumed a rhythmical regularity, punctuated only occasionally by a hissing wheeze or multitonal nasal whistle. For that, Hari was grateful.

It was during one of Suka's less turbulent intervals that Hari heard footsteps coming down the path toward the stalls. The footsteps got closer, then stopped quite close by. Hari pretended to be asleep, but kept his eyes open a slit. In the moonlight he saw a head slowly rising above the edge of the stall door, and when it reached full ascendance he saw that it was Nalini. "Brahmin!" she whispered. "I have come to show you what we do for fun."

Hari could no longer feign ignorance. "I thank you, but I am weary and prefer to sleep."

The utter dimwit!

"You reject me?" she demanded, rapidly developing a fury.

Hari had encountered such a reaction before, so was wary. "By no means. I merely feel that such a liaison is inappropriate in this, ah, circumstance, and beg you to return to your home."

She made an exclamation of disgust. Then the head quickly lowered itself and disappeared. The footsteps resumed and seemed to be heading for the next stall.

Why do you not touch her again, and make her seek your man more ardently?

Because as you know it is a lost cause, when he refuses her. I shall save my move to save his life, if he blunders worse.

Suka, fast asleep, did not hear the stall door open. Only when he felt a smart pinch on his buttocks did he jump up, his hand automatically clapping itself against the offending part of his anatomy, for, having frequently been bitten by insects in the night, he was quite adept at taking instant revenge.

Lo: there standing before him was none other than Nalini, and she was wearing nothing but a thin nightcloth around her body and a smirk on her face. Suka instantly guessed the reason for her nocturnal visit.

"The Brahmin is in the next stall," he said derisively. "You came to the wrong place."

"I know where the Brahmin sleeps," she replied haughtily, being careful not to speak too loudly, yet at the same time loudly enough to be sure that Hari overheard. "I came to the right place. It is you I want." With that, Nalini slipped out of her nightgown and stood unclothed before Suka, naked except for the gold chain she wore around her neck.

Suka could hardly believe his good fortune and fairly drooled at her voluptuousness. Having lived a life of want where grasping at every opportunity without hesitation often meant the difference between feast and famine, he delayed not to appease his escalating appetite. Grabbing Nalini roughly by the arm, he pulled her down onto the sacks of grain and proceeded to assault her without further ado. And as it happened, perhaps not surprisingly, this economical approach pleased Nalini immensely, and she quickly rose to a blissful pitch of intensity that matched and even surpassed her partner's.

You see, all I needed to do was provide an object to focus your mortal man's

foolishness, and he ruins your ploy himself. This is better than gambling on single moves

that you can then counter.

There are other women.

If he does not blunder himself into death before he accepts them.

Hari, in the next stall, could not help but hear the conversation and ensuing sound effects through the partition. Nalini's choice of a lover at first amazed him and even pinched his ego. But on reflection he realized their basic compatibility. Nalini wanted immediate physical gratification and was not interested in lofty conversation or the subtleties of foreplay. And perhaps she wanted more than just one night's companionship. Perhaps she wanted a permanent relationship—something a Brahmin could not give her, but a homeless low-caste just might, with the proper incentive.

Hari's musings were interrupted by a scratching sound accompanied by an occasional clucking, and he could see through the moonlit space beneath the stall door that a chicken was picking around on the ground outside. He watched as the chicken's feet made their way along the outside wall of the stall in the direction of the grain compartment before disappearing from sight beyond the edge of the door.

The chicken, upon a well-trodden mission, spotted the familiar space beneath the door of the grain stall and easily squeezed through. Once inside it commenced to search out bits of grain that were inevitably scattered on the floor, emitting a contented cluck whenever a choice morsel presented itself.

Engrossed in its culinary quest, the fowl ignored the strange motions and even stranger sounds of the two humans lying astride the sacks. However, it was not long before the floor was picked clean, and the chicken discovered a good reason to abandon its indifference to strange motions of the humans.

There was a small hole in one of the grain sacks upon which the two humans lay, and whenever the uppermost delivered a particularly hard thrust to the undermost, the resulting shock to the sack caused a few grains to pop out onto the floor. The chicken was delighted at discovering this new source of supply, which seemed a veritable cornucopia. It now stood watching the kinetic exhibition with awakened interest, waiting patiently for that special thrust that would deliver up its next ration of grain.

The clucks of pleasure from the chicken mingled with the grunts and groans of the human activators, and although Hari next door was oblivious to the casual links in the chain that led to the chicken's stomach, he fairly grimaced at the rudely imposed cacophony of the unlikely trio of Suka, Nalini, and their unwitting accompanist.

Suddenly the trio became a quartet as above the din Hari heard the sound of the farmer's voice in the distance. "Come, chick! Come chick!" the farmer was calling. Hari leapt up and peered through a crack in the door. Walking slowly toward the stalls he could see the farmer, lantern in hand, searching about and calling the recalcitrant chicken.

"Come chick! Come chick!" the farmer cried. "Bish! Bish! Bish! Back to your coop."

Hari guessed the farmer knew the chicken's favorite haunts and would look for it in the grain stall. The thought of Suka and Nalini being caught unawares in naked embrace by the farmer filled Hari with terror. The consequences could be devastating, too horrible even to contemplate. He must warn them. No, that would be dangerous. What if Nalini or Suka should panic and do something foolish and bring down disaster on them both? Better that the chicken should be moved elsewhere and used to lure the farmer away from the stalls.

Quickly and quietly Hari crept on all fours out of his stall and into the grain compartment, opening both doors just enough to squeeze through. Keeping to the shadows, he snuck up on the unsuspecting chicken from behind and grabbed it, clapping one hand over its beak to prevent an outcry. Suka and Nalini, yet in the throes of passion, were oblivious to their surroundings and so did not see him—to his great relief. Clasping the struggling chicken to his breast, he crept out of the stall and into the cover of the tall grass that lined the path. Slowly and with difficulty, scratching his legs and arms in the rough grass, he crawled toward the farmhouse. Upon reaching a position behind the farmer and well toward the house, he released his hand from the chicken's beak and gave the creature a good squeeze, whereupon to his relief it uttered a resounding squawk. He peered through the grass and saw the farmer, now only yards from the stalls, stop and turn around. "Chick! Chick!" the farmer called. "Where are you, you feathered offspring of a demon?"

Hari crawled several yards closer to the farmhouse and again gave the chicken a healthy squeeze. But by this time the fowl had become quite exasperated, and instead of sounding off it chose to grasp Hari's nose in its beak. Hari muffled a cry, cursed the fickle fowl beneath his breath, and realized he would have to assume the task of baiting the farmer himself. Taking a deep breath he pursed his mouth and let out a magnificent squawk, which was apparently sufficiently authentic for the farmer to start walking back toward the house. The chicken too was evidently impressed, and without further encouragement began to sound off of its own accord, perhaps choosing not to be outdone by the strange human's clumsy imitation.

At a turn in the path Hari dashed out of the grass and made his way unseen to the chicken coop, a small structure that stood alone not far from the farmhouse. Upon seeing its home, the chicken set up a loud ruckus which ceased only when Hari thrust the unruly bird through the door of the coop.

Looking back, Hari saw that the farmer was fast approaching. He was in the open now, and there was not enough time to run for cover without being seen. There was no help for it—he must join the chicken.

Into the coop he scrambled, barely squeezing through the door on all fours. Luckily, the pen was solidly built and well enclosed, and would serve to conceal him as long as the farmer did not peer in through the door.

The farmer came up to the coop and called out: "Chick! Chick! Are you in there?"

The chicken, settled comfortably on a roost just above Hari's head, chose not to answer. Hari worried that if the farmer did not hear from the chicken forthwith, he might look in through the doorway. He knew that if he was discovered there would be no explaining the situation. And the shock might well be injurious to the farmer. There was nothing else to do but for him to take the part of the chicken and reply to the farmer's call.

Hari inhaled deeply, shut his eyes, and emitted what turned out to be a reasonable facsimile of a satisfied chicken squawk. But just as he did so the fowl also decided to speak out. However, the chicken's cry was at a decidedly higher pitch than his roommate's, and Hari prayed silently to the goddess Lakshmi that the farmer had heard only one combined squawk and not two. The goddess was compassionate, and the farmer, satisfied that the chicken was safely back in its pen, closed the coop door and returned to the farmhouse.

Hari breathed a deep sigh of relief, though the chicken apparently did not share the Brahmin's feelings. Having failed to expose the intruder in its house, the fowl issued a final and decisive protest in the form of a prodigious dropping which it deposited squarely atop Hari's head. Hari clenched his teeth in utter frustration, and reminded himself that he was a vegetarian and bound not to harm any of nature's innocent creatures.

Having determined it was now safe to leave the coop, Hari backed up against the door, only to discover to his horror that it would not open. Turning himself around, not without difficulty, and thereby further decorating his anatomy with excrement, he saw that the door had been latched from the outside. He pushed his forefinger through a wire opening in the door, but could not reach the latch.

He sighed and settled back to ponder the matter.

An hour passed before a solution suggested itself. He could use the chain holding the medallion which hung around his neck to lift up the latch. But, alas, the chain was not quite long enough.

Looking about he found some moulted chicken quills on the floor of the coop. These he braided together and onto the chain to increase its length, and lo, he was then able to reach and lift the latch handle.

Exhausted, Hari made his way back to the stall and flopped down on his bed of hay. He could hear Suka snoring next door, and guessed that Nalini had long since returned to the house. Sleep fell upon him like a leaden weight.

Nalini arose at sunrise as was the custom on the farm. She was in a cheerful mood and hummed softly as she helped her mother prepare the breakfast table. Her father, accustomed to silence at that hour of the morning, grumbled and cast a disapproving glance at his daughter. His brows knitted.

"Nalini, come here," he ordered in a gruff tone. Nalini did as she was bade. "Where is your gold chain?" he asked. He had given the chain to her when she was a child, and she had never taken it from her neck. It had been his mother's and was the only piece of jewelry the family possessed.

"Oh! He must have taken it last night!" Nalini blurted out without thinking.

"Who took it?" Her father shouted angrily as he grabbed her by the wrist. Nalini was terrified.

"It was—" She realized that the truth would be utterly disastrous, so shaded it somewhat. "It was the Brahmin!"

Ah! Now it comes!

"So! You were cavorting with the Brahmin in the stalls, were you? And he stole your chain, did he?" With that the farmer smacked Nalini across the face and sent her sprawling, whereupon she commenced wailing at the top of her lungs.

The farmer stormed out of the house in a rage and headed for the stalls. On his way he picked up a stout stick from the ground, which he swished through the air a few times to test its feel.

Jolted from his sleep by a sharp pain on his back, Hari leapt to his feet. There before him stood the farmer, red-faced and shaking with rage, clutching an upraised stick. The stick descended swiftly and caught Hari in the side. Taken by surprise, Hari could only gape at the enraged farmer in utter bewilderment. Before he could speak the stick descended again, this time hard across his shoulders.

Quickly reaching for his book, he held it up just in time to shield himself from a blow across the face.

He realized this was not a time for rational inquiry, but rather one for running. But the heavy bulk of the farmer blocked the doorway. So with a leap and a bound Hari hurled himself through the open rear window, and as he sailed through the air he felt the stick slash across his buttocks.

His landing was a soft one, if not wholly aesthetic. He dropped head first into a pile of cow dung. Trying desperately to gain his feet, he fell back repeatedly in the slippery muck, thereby spreading the sticky feculence liberally over his body. It was hardly a consolation that the offal salved the pulsating welt on his buttocks. That he was involuntarily merdiverous he was sure did not technically violate vegetarian rules.

He escaped the mire only by crawling out on his hands and knees. Fortunately his book had been thrown clear of the dung heap. He picked it up just as the farmer rounded the corner, rushing at him stick in hand and yelling something about a chain. Without stay or delay Hari took to his feet and galloped off through the fields toward the main path, leaving a trail of dung in his wake. He could hear the farmer shouting at him as he ran, and he did not slow his pace until the farm was far behind him.

Panting, he sat down on a rock by the path to catch his breath, only to be greeted by the fetid odor he carried about with him. Too, his feet were sore and he realized that he must have left his sandals behind in the farmer's stall. Flies gathered around him in swarms, covering every part of his body, and he repeatedly had to remind himself of his Brahminical heritage which forbade him from swatting the bothersome insects. So he took to his feet; at least when he kept moving most of the flies left his body. He prayed he would soon find water that he might wash himself.

He wondered why the farmer had beaten him and what had happened to Suka. He hoped that the poor low-caste had escaped unharmed.

The land became greener as low rolling hills replaced the flat open fields. He came upon a stream where he washed his body and clothing, then sat beneath a banyan tree to read while he waited for his tunic to dry in the sun.

Further along the path he came upon a grove of coconut palms, and there lying beneath one of the trees fast asleep and snoring loudly, a half-eaten coconut on his lap, was Suka. Wrapped around Suka's arm was a golden chain, and on his feet were Hari's sandals. Hari shook his head and sighed, then carefully eased the sandals off the sleeper's feet, slipped them on his own, and continued on his journey.

Well, it seems our man is still alive and well.

If I failed, so did you. The game is not over.

11

The Lake Palace

From the summit of a cloud-capped hill Hari could make out the spires of the rajah's palace glistening in the distance. The city of Pitali at last.

It began to drizzle and he quickened his pace. The deaths of the guru and Sharmila lay heavy upon him and, too, he was worried about the old rana. How strange, he thought: only a short while ago his life had been simple and carefree, blind to the serpents of misfortune that now seemed to lurk beneath every rock. He had left home in search of adventure, to consume the pleasures of the moment, only to find that pleasure had a cost, a cost measured in sorrow and pain. He understood now the wisdom of his village teacher, the need for mortals to escape the reality of the senses, to close out the world and merge with the universal soul. Time wore a new face, and in its unblinking eyes he saw reflected the ceaseless tides of past and future sweeping all before, tossing up scraps of mortal souls like so much drift upon the sea.

Upon arriving at the city gates, he was allowed to pass through after only a cursory search. The streets were bustling with activity and everything appeared quite normal. The chief guard at the palace gate remembered him and personally escorted him to a receiving room in the main building. Before long the rajah's advisor, the dewan Amul, arrived and greeted him, courteously if coolly. The advisor explained that the rajah was at the moment presiding at a state meeting but would see him shortly.

Amul then summoned a servant and ordered that Hari be shown to the same room in the palace he had occupied previously.

It was not long before a guard knocked on Hari's door, saying that the rajah was ready to receive him. He was led to a private audience chamber and in a few moments the rajah arrived. Hari could not help noticing that the rajah seemed tired and careworn.

"Ah, I am glad to see you again, my young friend," he said, embracing Hari warmly. "And all in one piece. Good. We missed you.

"I want to hear your report, but first I have news for you. Much has happened since we last spoke. To begin with, not five days ago I had a state visit from the Rana of Madresh himself. I can see you are surprised. I was myself. Until now he had been quite aloof and, indeed, suspect. Hence the reason I sent you to Madresh. But that matter is now cleared up, with good result I am happy to say. The rana told me an interesting story.

"It seems there was a plot within his own palace to assassinate him and usurp the throne. The perpetrator and pretender was none other than his own dewan, one Koti, who was joined in the treachery by the rani herself and a handful of others—an army general and several well-placed officers. It was they who had isolated the rana and discouraged him from any contact with neighboring chiefs of state. Fortunately, for the rana as well as for us, the old fox somehow learned of the plot. His palace guard was still loyal, and in a single night the rana captured or killed the leaders of the cabal—that is, all but the two main devils. The dewan and the rani escaped. The rana learned that they rode north to ally with the Mogul king, Akbar.

"The rana also mentioned a young traveler, a Brahmin, who he believed was unjustly victimized by this Koti, and perhaps killed. The Brahmin's disappearance seemed to be of great concern to the king. I guessed it was you."

"Yes, Lord, it was," said Hari, relieved to learn that the rana was alive and well.

"Well, I will send the rana a message letting him know that you have been rediscovered. He left a cartful of homing pigeons with me for the very purpose of expediting messages, and I also gave him some birds from my palace loft.

"But it is this Akbar that has me worried now. Not much is known about him. He is said to have Turkish blood in his veins and to have beheaded a Hindu with one stroke of his scimitar at the age of fourteen. Some say he is an illiterate barbarian, and others say he is a man of culture—a philosopher no less. But more to the point, he is said to have an army numbering in the tens of thousands. If so, he would be a formidable foe indeed. As a protective measure I have been trying to convince the other provincial kings of the south to join with me in an alliance for our common defense.

"Yes, for all his might, it may be that this Akbar is mad. It is said he seeks to combine and unite under one roof all the religions and cultures on the continent. What insanity! With such ideas perhaps he will defeat himself.

"As for the rani and the dewan, Koti, I am sure Akbar welcomed them with open arms. Now he has a queen of the south to show off as a supplicant. According to intelligence the rana has received, Akbar has given Koti a high rank in his army. Hmm. The Mogul had better watch his back.

"Now I must tell you some sad news, Hari. Our friend the zamindar is dead. I just received the report, and am massing my troops to occupy the area and wreak vengeance if they can, though I fear it is already too late. Apparently a surprise attack was made on his palace. His troops were badly outnumbered. I am sure he and his men fought valiantly, but the raiders used flame-arrows and set the palace afire. No one survived. A tragic event—one that will not happen again if I can help it. We do not know who the attackers were. They may have been a roving band of outlaws, or mercenaries, or a raiding party from the north. It may be that Akbar is behind it, but there is no proof. I have had reports of spies dressed in black riding about the hills by night, and we have been trying to capture one of them to learn what we can. But they have evaded us thus far."

But that is not true! The zamindar was never attacked.

It was a false report, made by a spy the rajah does not suspect. The intent is to cause

him to organize for a fancied threat in the wrong direction, so that he will be ill prepared

for the real threat when it comes. His enemy is cunning.

But this affects my mortal man, for he has the zamindar's amulet, and now may fail to return it.

That is no concern of ours, as we did not cause this report to be made. In a few days the

truth will be ascertained—by which time there may be another false report from another

direction, putting the rajah farther off balance. Mortal politics can be pretty to watch.

I suppose so, for monsters. Meanwhile, we shall complete our contest. You shall not deny me my final seduction.

Nor do I wish to deny you your effort, for then the move will be mine, and I will kill

him and win your favors for the coming century.

The mere thought appalls me.

The mere thought of your being appalled delights me. I shall encourage you to scream

with revulsion as I endlessly smite your lusciousness.

Never!

"And now tell me of your exploits in Madresh," said the rajah. "Did you learn anything that might be of value in dealing with this new threat from the north?"

Hari only half heard the rajah's question. He was thinking of the zamindar, recalling his infectious laugh, the merry twinkle in his eye, and his many kindnesses to him. And he thought of Balu, too. And Meena, lovely Meena. He choked back a sob. It was surely his fault, for he had deprived the zamindar of his protection: the talisman.

"Was there nothing, then, Hari?" asked the rajah.

"Oh, please forgive me, Lord. I was distracted by the unfortunate news, for the zamindar was a fine man. Yes, there is something that might be of value."

But he has no suspicion of the truth: that it is a lovely lie.

Because he is a good mortal man, who is not of a suspicious nature. I like him well for that.

Naïveté must be hard to come by, for a creature like you. Yet you know you can never

touch him directly, whereas I am freely available.

I enjoy his embrace when I enter a mortal woman he clasps; I feel her feelings, and I shall do that often once I am rid of you.

"Suspecting that I was a spy, the Rani of Madresh sent me into a vast underground cavern to die. The cavern extends for many leagues from a point near the rana's palace to the northern edge of the Land of Peril. I discovered the southern exit to the caverns and thereby entered and passed safely through the Land of Peril into Madra. I am sure that no one knows of this secret route which leads to the north. Perhaps it could be of some importance in the future. The secret of passing through the underground caverns is to follow the way of the amber spears which grow from the ceiling. As for the strange phenomena in the Land of Peril, they are all natural—freak events of nature. They are fearful to behold, but it is mostly one's own imaginary terrors that are dangerous, not the region itself. Once warned and instructed, an army could pass northward through the Land of Peril and the caverns safe and unseen."

The oaf has a better grasp of military relevance than I supposed.

"Also, in the southern part of the caverns I saw rich deposits of iron ore and a vast supply of saltpeter. There are also great quantities of bat guano, enough to fertilize many fields for many years."

And of commerce and agriculture.

"Ah, Hari, these are valuable discoveries indeed!" exclaimed the rajah. "Amazing, quite amazing.

You have done a great service to your country and your ruler. For such knowledge, you have earned a reward. Name it and I will grant it. What is your wish?"

"I thank you, my rajah. But to be able to help is enough. I have only one wish at the moment and that is to return home. It has been long since I have seen my family, and I miss them."

Yet he remains a fool. He could have had an appointment to the zamindar's position.

Except that that position is not open. In any event, he is a seeker of grace, not of power, and I respect that.

Respect it? You are falling in love with the simpleton.

"I understand your feelings, Hari. Very well, but I will be sorry to see you go. Know that the doors of my palace will always be open to you. But before you depart I pray you will visit a few days with me at my lake palace which is but a few leagues to the south. The rest will do you good."

Hari bowed in acceptance.

"Good! My daughters are already there and will be glad to see you again. Sukunya has asked about you often. Since no one knows about your secret mission to Madresh, she thinks you have been off wandering through the countryside making merry. So you may be in for some teasing."

Hari returned to his room, bathed, and donned fresh clothing. He was then led by a servant to the royal stables where the rajah awaited him.

"We will travel by horse," said the rajah. "It will be fast and also fun. Pick out a steed that suits you."

Hari looked over the many magnificent horses and chose a speckled Arabian that was slightly smaller but perkier than the rajah's black stallion. In one of the stalls he saw his friend who had earlier carried him to Madresh, and he patted the old fellow on the neck. The horse nodded and snorted, although whether in happy recognition or disapproval at his choice of steeds, Hari could not tell.

"The old boy may not be much to look at or very fast," said the rajah, "but he is faithful and reliable nonetheless. And since he performed his duty so well in delivering you to the border, he has earned the right to loll around and enjoy his oats."

The rajah and Hari mounted their steeds, both resplendent in jewel-encrusted saddles and red tassels, and followed their equestrian escort through the city streets and into the southern hills. The afternoon was bright and they moved along at a steady canter.

It was not long before the lake palace came into view. The rajah leaned forward and whispered something to his stallion. Then in a burst of speed the horse charged ahead, outrunning the entire party, the rajah urging him on. Chagrined at the rajah's behavior, the captain of the escort, whose duty it was to remain close to and protect his master, immediately took off in pursuit, galloping at full speed and signaling the rest of the troop to follow. Hari joined in the chase. His Arabian was fast and soon passed the guards and came abreast of the rajah.

"A race!" shouted the rajah. "First to the palace gate!" Hari nodded and urged his steed forward.

The Arabian gradually pulled ahead, but the black had greater stamina. In the last half-league the speckled tired and slowed, and the rajah arrived at the palace gate several lengths ahead. Hari bowed to the victor and they both laughed heartily. The captain, red-faced, pulled up behind them and barked orders for his men to fall into formation and escort the rajah into the palace grounds. The rajah suppressed his merriment so as not to further embarrass the captain, satisfying himself with an exchange of amused smiles with Hari.

Hari marveled at the beauty of the palace. Constructed of white marble, it stretched in a long, graceful semicircle around the contour of a shimmering blue lake. Slender turrets rose from each corner, and running between were scalloped portals inlaid with semiprecious stones and laced screens intricately carved from stone. Etched in the marble walls were elaborate floral designs, graceful arabesques, and figures of the gods at love and play. Walled gardens and cascading fountains lined the walkways, beyond which stately rows of cypresses hovered along the water's edge. White swans glided beneath the overhanging branches, which bowed to them in the breeze.

Within the palace the walls were of polished marble of many hues, their edges accented with agate and jasper engraved in floral designs. The inner hallway was painted with panoramic scenes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata; its domed ceiling sparkled with inset jewels to simulate the stars and planets by night and the sun and sky by day.

Hari was shown to a room overlooking the lake, and from his balcony he watched the rajah's majestic sailboat gliding into dock. The triplets were aboard and waved to him excitedly. He watched them as they disappeared into the palace, Sukunya hindmost. Seeing her reminded him that he had better check the lock on his door. Much to his relief he found that the door had no lock, which he presumed was the case in all the rooms. He did not want to be trapped again by the crafty Sukunya and have to pay an outrageous price to be released. It did not occur to him that a door lock also served another purpose—to keep people out.

At dinner Suseela and Saras plied him with questions about his travels, and they listened in fascination and feigned terror as he told them about the terrible cloud monster and the poisonous purple mist. They applauded and breathed a great sigh of relief when he explained the scientific reasons for these phenomena. Sukunya, though, was more interested in hearing about his romantic adventures, but he cleverly avoided answering her questions directly so that she pouted and wrinkled her brow.

Now I make my move. I touch Suseela with passion for the handsome quest.

But Sukunya's passion has not yet worn off. Perhaps it is deceit as much as coupling

that she enjoys.

Hari has little remaining interest in Sukunya, however; she made him work too hard before. He seeks to avoid her. So Suseela will have the advantage in snaring him.

After dinner Suseela and Saras insisted on taking Hari for a moonlight sail, though Sukunya showed little interest. Finding it impossible to refuse the invitation, accompanied as it was by not a little arm pulling, especially by Suseela, he consented, although he would rather have retired early to catch up on his sleep. But the sail proved enjoyable and he was glad he went. The view of the palace and the starlit heavens reflected in the lake was breathtaking, and the cool breeze that blew in his face and filled the sails relaxed his mind and soothed his soul. Too, he enjoyed watching the fish jump beside the boat, their silver bodies glittering in the moonlight; Suseela attracted great schools of them by tossing bits of bread overboard, and he could not help noticing that in her distraction she displayed rather more flesh than was proper. Naturally he did not speak of that, and neither did he embarrass her by becoming obvious in his attention. Ducks swam alongside quacking for a handout and performed funny antics as they chased about trying to steal one another's piece of bread.

"Perhaps it is time to return to the palace," Saras remarked after a time.

"Oh, are you tired, my sister?" Suseela inquired solicitously. "I remain full of energy." She darted a glance at Hari. "And I am sure our honored guest wishes to see all of what the lake has to offer.

Why don't you return, and I will undertake to show him what he may not suspect?"

"I could not do that," Saras protested. "For it is well known that appearance is as important as reality, and some might insinuate that a princess who sailed alone with a visitor was compromised by the mere fact of it. I would not want my selfishness to bring any such hint of a taint to your reputation.

I shall remain."

"It is good to have a sister who is so solicitous of my reputation," Suseela said, though somehow her appreciation seemed less than wholehearted.

They showed him the remaining wonders of the lake, and Suseela especially seemed eager to make his excursion comfortable. But she remained somewhat careless about her dress and posture, so that though Hari would never be so crass as to remark on it to any person, he was satisfied that her feminine endowments were in every respect the match for those of her sister Sukunya. In fact he could not help wondering what her body might feel like, were he able to explore it more closely. He almost wished that Saras had elected to go to shore early, though of course that thought was unfair to Suseela's reputation.

It was late when the boat docked, and after bidding the girls good night, aware of an uncommonly long glance from Suseela as she returned his courtesy, Hari went directly to bed.

As he crawled beneath the blankets his leg bumped into something. He lifted a corner of the blanket to see what it was, only to discover a strange leg. He raised the blanket higher and saw that the leg had a mate and was attached to a quite naked and lovely female torso.

What is this?

Delicious deceit.

"Oh!" came a voice from under the blanket. Hari saw a hand appear above the covers. The hand pulled the blanket down to reveal none other than the, face of—of whom? It was one of the triplets, but which one?

"Hari! What are you doing in my bed?" the young lady asked in an astonished voice. "You woke me up. Why are you here?"

"Ah—ah—" stammered Hari nervously. "Who—which sister are you?"

"Which do you suppose I am?" she returned archly.

Hari, ashamed of himself, replied with the name of the one he wanted her to be. "Suseela."

"Suseela!" She sounded outraged, but he did not understand that at first. He took her tone for agreement. "What makes you say that?"

"I noted the care with which you attended me on the boat, and I must confess that I was intrigued by your form. But I apologize for intruding on you, and I shall immediately withdraw. The doors look alike, and I must have come to the wrong room."

"On the boat? How did you interact with me there?"

"I am sure it was merely your distraction," he said, concerned that he not give further offense.

"At times your limbs inadvertently showed, and I could not help appreciating their rondure and symmetry."

"My accidental exposure," she said thoughtfully. "I begin to understand. It seems that what one sister likes, so does another."

Hari began to suffer doubt. "You are Suseela? I did not hear you deny it, but neither did I hear you accede to it."

She came to a decision. "You guessed at the one who seemed to show interest in you today.

Were you to guess again, whom would you choose?"

He realized that there was potential awkwardness here. But all he could do was name the next one he would like her to be. Familiarity was better than outraged innocence. "Sukunya."

"This time you are correct."

He was not sure of that, because of the deviousness of her attitude. He had been deceived about their identities before. "You are—"

"Sukunya, of course."

"How—how do I know you are Sukunya?"

"Well, if it were anyone else but me, you would be hearing screams, not questions. Have we not been in similar circumstances before?"

Hari now believed it was Sukunya, and for that much he was grateful.

"I—I thought this was my bedroom," he explained. "Please forgive me. I will go now."

"Just a moment," snapped Sukunya in an angry tone as she grasped Hari by the arm. "You enter my room and bed uninvited, you wake me up, you look upon my unclothed body, and then you rudely dismiss me. Am I so ugly that you should insult me that way?"

"Shh—shh, Sukunya, please do not raise your voice," whispered Hari in near panic. "Someone will hear. I did not mean to insult you, please believe me. Of course you are beautiful. You are very beautiful. But—but I did not mean to disturb your sleep—it was an accident. I am only leaving so you can continue with your sleep."

Sukunya kept her grasp on his arm. "But since you woke me, I am no longer sleepy. You will have to make me sleepy again."

"How can I do that? Do you want me to tell you a story?"

"O Hari! You say that I am beautiful, but then you insult me again!"

"Shh—Please, Sukunya, you are raising your voice. Please talk softly, I beg of you."

"I will talk softly if you do not insult me."

"But I was not insulting you, I was only—"

"You were!"

"But how?"

"Well, if you are so blind, let us take it step by step. You said I was beautiful, did you not?"

"I did—and you are."

"And is a beautiful woman desirable or undesirable to a man?"

"Well, desirable, of course, but—"

"Good! Then is it fair to conclude that you, Hari, desire me?"

"Well—well, yes, but there is a proper time and place for the satisfaction of desires."

"Such as being in bed at night alone with the woman of your desire?"

"Uh—no. I mean yes!" Hari felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"And are we not now so situated?" she asked.

"Well, yes—but the woman must also be desirous of the man, which she surely would not be if she had been disturbed and upset by someone, would she?"

"Oh, but I do desire you, Hari. Now, you see, you have proved both to yourself and to me that there can be only one conclusion. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes," said Hari, his tone now one of total resignation and surrender. "I must want to make love to you."

"Oh Hari, do you?" asked Sukunya lovingly.

Hari bowed to the inevitable and commenced to make love to Sukunya, albeit with only half a heart—at least at first. Sukunya's prodigious lovemaking skills were such that he could not help but rise to the occasion, and so they coupled and clipped with exceeding passion until there came unto them that moment of supreme delight which is the gift of Kama, the god of love.

Upon completing the exercise, Hari was about to rise from the bed when Sukunya stopped him.

"Where are you going, my lover?" Sukunya asked, her voice a soft purr.

"Back to my own bedroom," he replied, dreading her next demand.

"That will not be necessary," she said as she hopped from the bed and slipped into a red robe which she had earlier hidden under the bed. "This is your bedroom, my love. My room is down the hall. Did you not see that the decor is not in my color? Good night!" With that Sukunya quietly ducked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Hari sat on his bed with his mouth open. "How stupid I am!" he blurted as he clapped his hand to his brow. "She tricked me again!"

He jumped out of bed and dragged a heavy chair over to the door and propped it against the door handle. He then went out on the balcony to be sure there was no possible way anyone might enter from outside. Satisfied that his quarters were secure, he returned to bed. Oh well, he thought, and he smiled. It had not really been so terrible an experience after all, but he was grateful that Sukunya's sisters did not have her appetite or her cleverness.

Perhaps it was just as well that he did not hear the light footsteps that approached his door thereafter, or the quiet knock at the door, or the cautious testing of it. The door was securely blocked, and he was fatigued. After a time the footsteps departed.

And so your seventh seduction is balked by the wiles of your third seduction. The same

woman twice does not count double. She was not on the boat, so was able to reach his

bedroom first, and use him up before your choice arrived. Seldom have I enjoyed watching

mortal schemes more. Now it is my move.

May your luck be as ill as mine!

That night Hari dreamed he was lost in a strange city. He ran from street to street asking people where he was and the way out of the city, but no one paid him any attention. He saw many familiar faces—Meena, Sumi, Pudmini, Sharmila, Kamala, and Sukunya—but none of them recognized him or would speak to him. Suddenly the city melted away and he was running in a dark forest. He called out but no one answered. The ground opened beneath him and he fell into a deep hole which became brighter and brighter as he fell. A great cloud of butterflies appeared, attached themselves to his clothing, and lifted him out of the hole. They carried him high over the forest and the ocean toward his home, but a flock of birds descended and ate the butterflies, and he fell into the sea.

The days that followed were enjoyable. Hari swam, sailed, went horseback riding with the rajah, and in the evening took long walks by himself around the lake. He kept his door firmly barricaded and slept well. One morning Suseela found a helpless bluebird beneath a tree and came running to Hari with tears in her eyes. The bird had somehow gotten sticky tree-sap on its wing feathers and was unable to fly.

Together they cleaned the poor bird, Hari holding its wings outstretched while Suseela patiently dabbed at it with a damp cloth. When its wings were dry, Suseela placed the bird gently on the ground, whereupon it fluffed up its feathers and flew off amidst a twitter of complaints. They both laughed at the happy conclusion of their efforts, and Hari saw that Suseela had a good heart and shared his love for nature's creatures. She also liked his company, but of course he was careful not to presume on that, and did not compromise her reputation by allowing himself to be seen alone with her too long. If at times she seemed saddened or frustrated, he felt sure that he was not the cause.

The utter ninny!

A perceptive judgment

On the evening of his fifth day at the lake palace, Hari announced at dinner that he would be leaving in the morning. He declined the rajah's offer of an armed escort, nor would he accept the gift of a horse, explaining his desire to walk. The rajah understood and restrained his daughters' protests and entreaties for him to remain. Sukunya was more reticent than her sisters if only because she was the most disappointed, though Suseela seemed almost as troubled. Hari saw the hurt look in their eyes and smiled at them warmly to let them know that he would miss them too, in his own way. But he was careful not to reveal in his smile or his eyes any message that might be interpreted as a nocturnal invitation, for this night as usual a chair would be firmly propped against his door.

What am I to do with you, you noble idiot?

It seems really too bad that you will never have the chance to seduce him in your own

right, as it is clear that you have fallen in love with him.

I confess it, the more fool I.

That night as he stood on his balcony watching the ripples on the lake wash over the reflection of the moon, his thoughts turned to the talisman. He could no longer return it to the zamindar, and it was not something he wished to keep himself. Nor did he think it wise to give it to the rajah. Although the rajah was benevolent and farsighted, he was not experienced in the ways of magic. In times of war or other great need, he might be tempted to draw upon the powers of the talisman and so fall into the clutches of the terrible she-demon. No, the risk was too great.

Hari could think of only one person who understood the powers of the talisman and could be trusted with its care: the guru, Narusimhum. On his journey home he would stop at the guru's mountain cave and give him the amulet.

The rajah arose early in the morning to see Hari off. Suseela and Saras, still half asleep and in their nightgowns, waved to him from their balconies. Saras was decorous, but Suseela, ever the careless one, accidentally leaned too far forward and showed more of her well-formed bosom than was seemly for a princess. It was perhaps fortunate that he was leaving, for otherwise he might have been sorely tempted by untoward thoughts. Sukunya was nowhere to be seen.

"Hari, since you will not accept a boon from me," said the rajah, "I have taken the liberty of having a small gift sewn into the lining of your tunic."

"Thank you, Lord," Hari replied, and he bowed low to show his respect and appreciation.

Under the circumstances, he could not refuse.

"Farewell, then, Hari. I feel certain we shall meet again. May Lakshmi travel with you. And be careful."

Once outside the palace grounds, Hari stopped a moment to look back. He saw a lonely figure in a cupola atop the palace and knew it was Sukunya. He waved, but she did not return the wave. He turned and continued on his way. It was not until he had reached the distant hills and was lost from sight that the watching figure left the cupola.

12

The Rider in Black

Hari chose the least trodden paths that he might see more of nature and less of people. Once he saw a tigress and her two cubs in the brush devouring a doe. Another time he witnessed in a rocky crevass the strange mating ritual of the king cobra, and nearby he saw the hooded serpent's bridal gift: a paralyzed snake-bitten rat that also watched the love ritual, its glazed terror-stricken eyes only too aware of its fate.

What, are you not going to cause that male cobra to attack our mortal man?

No. While he carries that talisman he remains somewhat charmed, and threats tend to

turn aside. I shall wait until he divests himself of it. Then he will be most vulnerable. As I

think you know.

Yes. I think it has also charmed him somewhat to my cost, helping him to avoid additional seductions he thinks he does not want. So if you do not kill him, I shall certainly seduce him.

Atop a hill Hari surprised a flock of feral rollers basking in the sun, their turquoise wings outspread to catch the warmth, and they exploded in a rainbow of color, loosing clouds of feathers into the air. He watched the feathers slowly seesaw downward, some catching in his hair; their iridescence shimmered in the bright sunlight, decorating the grass like so many velvet jewels. Amidst the grassy treasure he found the limp body of one of the rollers, its neck broken from having struck an overhead branch in its panicked flight. If only he had not frightened them, he thought.

Further along he nearly trod upon a fledgling dove that had fallen from its nest. Though not yet able to fly, it was quite able to run and gave him a merry chase through the grass until he finally cornered it. Gently he picked up the angry ball of feathers, which peeped in protest. He knew it would have to be returned to its nest lest it become a snack for a passing snake. He spotted the nest in a nearby tree and began the climb, though not without difficulty, for he had to pull himself up with one hand while carefully holding the bird in the other. The scratches and scrapes he earned for his trouble, he silently endured.

Upon reaching the nest, he discovered that another problem presented itself: the brooding mother dove, all puffed up and glowering, refused to budge an inch to make room for her fallen baby.

There was nothing to be done but simply stuff the fledgling under the obstinate hen, which set off a tumult of peeping from yet another chick that was buried somewhere beneath its mother. The returned birdling, happy to be home, joined its sibling in a frantic duet, while the angry mother bird delivered the human intruder a nip on the finger. Though not painful, the bite caused its startled recipient to topple from the tree.

Oh, not for only passion have I lost my heart to a mortal.

Hari lay sprawled on the grass, unhurt save for a knee scrape. A moment later the hatchling he had rescued fell to the ground next to him. It had been rejected by its mother and pecked to death.

Hari wept unashamedly and raised his fist to the heavens.

He did not understand why the gods heaped such suffering on the innocent creatures of the earth and on the mortals who sought to preserve and protect them. The injustice of it angered and frustrated him. He knew what his village teacher would say, who was always able to explain away any dilemma.

It is a matter of balance in the universe, he would say. The discomfort received is in proportion to the pleasure obtained. A mortal able to embrace and enjoy Brahma's creations can not help but be sensitive to their destruction and rebirth. Others blind to Brahma's wonders may suffer less, but their souls are the poorer for it. One must experience pleasure and pain in order to defeat and rise above them.

In the early afternoon, as he was passing through a narrow valley, he saw a flash of movement behind a distant stand of trees. He thought it was a horse, but could not be sure, for it could have been a deer or the sunlight playing tricks with his eyes as it filtered through trees and clouds.

The hills grew smaller, dwindling to hillocks, and finally crept beneath the flat skin of the earth and disappeared. By late afternoon he reached a brown grassland, a dreary expanse completely vacant of green, broken only by craggy ridges and stony outcroppings. The forbidding scene gave him pause, but to look for another route now would mean backtracking and the waste of many hours.

Better to spend the night where he was, he decided, and continue on through the grassland in the morning.

He slept fitfully, unable to dispel the feeling that he was being watched. At first light he set out.

The path gradually narrowed and was eventually swallowed up in matted grass and heavy weeds.

Unseen holes and broken roots tripped his feet, bogs and mires sucked at his legs, thorns and brambles stabbed at his flesh. The air became stifling, and reeked with the odor of rotting vegetation.

A foul mist rose up to form a dense canopy overhead, all but blotting out the sunlight.

Weirdly shaped shelves of stone appeared out of the gloom, forming a great circle. Like ghostly markers, they pointed to a large moss-covered mound at their center. The humpbacked rise looked to Hari like an ancient burial place, and he trod not upon its dim shadow that fell upon hollow beds of long-dead reeds and husks of withered pods.

By afternoon the land hardened and its breast rose up out of the mire. Matted weeds gave way to coarse reeds and patches of ragged brush, and clumps of rough green grass struggled through the dust and stones. The wan orb of the sun reappeared, revealing the lost path, and a cool breeze arose.

A cricket crawled from beneath a rock seeking the sunlight, but the dry reeds hissed and frightened it back into the shadows.

Soon jagged ridges and ramparts appeared, and in the distance, sketched against the still gray sky, loomed the outline of snowcapped mountains. Wispy bands of dark clouds hung about the lofty summits and barren ridges, casting eerie shadows on the lower cliffsides. However forbidding, the sight lightened Hari's heart, for he knew that deep within the mountain fastness was his destination—the cave of the guru.

As he started the climb through the rocky foothills, he heard the neighing of a horse, but looking about, saw no sign of man or beast. He proceeded warily, keeping to the shadows of the outcroppings that lined the trail. A chill wind swept down from the snowy heights and whipped at him, slowing his progress. At a narrow turn in the path a barrage of stones tumbled down the cliffside, which he barely evaded, and he wondered if the demons of the mountains were trying to prevent him from delivering the talisman to the guru. In the dim heights above he could make out eddies of snow whirling about the jagged caps like so many demented ghosts, and in the distance a low rumbling told of an avalanche somewhere deep in the mountains—or was it the mountains whispering angrily of an alien in their midst?

The mountains' shadows deepened, calling down the night, and on a cliffside ahead he saw a pale light flickering like a solitary firefly lost in the fastness: the cave of the guru at last. As he climbed the rocky slope to the cave entrance, the weight of the talisman around his neck seemed to grow lighter, and he wondered that he had not been aware of its heaviness before.

"Come in, come in, my friend," came the familiar voice of the guru Narusimhum from inside the cave. "The night air is chilly and I have prepared some hot refreshments for us."

Hari pulled himself up to the cave entrance and saw within the smiling old guru sitting crosslegged on a blanket before a small fire. On the fire was a steaming teakettle, and set out on a mat were two cups and a plate of chapatis. Everything looked exactly the same as when he last visited, as though time had somehow overlooked the guru and his small corner of the universe.

Hari bowed low before the old master.

"Ah, I am glad to see you again, my young friend," said the guru cheerily. "Come, sit down and help yourself to some tea and a bite to eat."

"I thank you for your kind hospitality, Master."

Hari was cold and hungry, and the meager repast seemed a veritable feast.

"You were indeed fortunate to escape the she-demon," said the guru. "And you were wise always to keep the talisman with you."

A look of surprise came over Hari's face.

"Master, I do not know how you came by the knowledge of my encounter with the she-demon, but had it not been for you the creature would surely have killed me. It was your words that saved me, and for that I am most grateful."

"Well, you were clever to divine the meaning of my words. For many, the press of necessity closes rather than opens the mind. But you should not have called up the demoness—that was dangerous and foolish. Perhaps I should have given you more warning, but I did not think you would be able to invoke her even if you tried."

"I was fortunate—or unfortunate. I happened to pronounce her name correctly. Still—" He peered questioningly at the guru.

"Yes, my young friend, I have followed your exploits with interest from within these very walls.

This old man has his ways. Mmm."

"O Master, then you must know the fate of the zamindar."

"Yes. I learned about the news that messenger brought, though my informant hinted that all was not as it seemed. Very sad. Dark clouds from the north are spreading over the southern lands, though I can not tell whether it be for good or ill."

"If you mean war, how can that be good?"

"War is never desirable, my friend. It was its aftermath I was wondering about. It could bring a new age. Oh, but there are more immediate matters that concern us. I speak of the talisman. What will you do with it now?"

"It is a weight I wish to shed. I came here to deliver it into your hands. You know best what to do with it."

"I am glad you have so decided. There is little I do not know about the talisman and its history. I will keep it safe and see that it does not fall into the wrong hands."

Hari lifted the amulet from around his neck and handed it to the guru. The old master examined it carefully, nodding to himself, and placed it around his own neck.

"O Guruji," said Hari, "I have been curious about the letters etched on the other side of the talisman. Can you tell me something of their meaning?"

The guru smiled, then rose and retreated into the darkness at the back of the cave. He returned carrying a rolled parchment. Hari could see that it was worn and very old. The guru reseated himself and carefully set the parchment down on the blanket beside him.

"There will be no harm in enlightening you, but you must never reveal what you are about to learn, just as you must never again speak of the talisman. Do you swear?"

"I swear, Master."

"Good. Now, the talisman is very old, made by the hand of the Asura king himself, master of demons. He fashioned it as a means of releasing the love-demoness from a rock beneath the earth where she had been imprisoned by the good rishi, Baksura. But the laws of good and evil require balance, so when the Asura king etched the name of the she-demon on one side of the talisman, he was obliged to engrave yet another name on the opposite side—that of a benevolent demon. Without that balance the magic of the talisman would be ineffective. But the Asura king was cunning, and he carved on the talisman the name of a demon whose powers were limited. He chose an old air demon of ancient times whose only magic power was in seeing the present and the past. Of course, that is by no means a trivial power, but it is less than what most demons are capable of.

"I am sorry to say that the air demon was unable to help you when you released the she-demon.

But he has been of great value at other times. Indeed, only by his vigilance has the talisman been kept safe these past three hundred years—with the one exception. And he is very wise in the ways of the world. Ah, many are the wondrous tales to be told of how the old fellow thwarted the plans of ambitious rishis and magicians who desperately sought the talisman. By his powers of sight the machinations of the evil power-seekers were observed. And by being forewarned, the noble ancestors of the zamindar were able to protect the talisman.

"This parchment I hold is an ancient tantra which tells the origin of the talisman and the secret names inscribed thereon. It is useless to speak the name of the she-demon without having possession of the talisman. But not so for the air demon. He can be summoned without the talisman because of an oversight of the Asura king. This tantra holds the secret of summoning him. One need only hold the parchment and utter his name written therein and he will appear. Of course, he may also be invoked by the possessor of the talisman, in the same manner as you called up the demoness."

Hari smiled to himself, remembering the many times he had imagined the terrible monster he might loose upon the world if he dared utter the mysterious word upon the back of the amulet.

"Many times I have used the parchment to call forth the air demon," continued the guru. "And through his eyes I have observed many things—including your exploits, my young friend. But, to my knowledge, the talisman itself has never been used to call up the air demon. So why do not we give it a test? I think you will like the old gentleman. He and I have become quite friendly over the years and have spent many days together debating the habits of gods and mortals. But first I must be sure that his name on the talisman is identical to that in the mantra. Hmm. Yes, it is.

"Now do not be frightened if the demon arrives with a little fanfare. The old rascal enjoys putting on a show."

The guru cleared his throat and held the talisman up to his eyes. Hari watched closely to be sure the guru was peering at the right side of the amulet lest the unthinkable occur.

"Arunakachandumunshasa!" cried the guru.

For a few moments nothing happened. Then a low rumbling sounded and the ground began to tremble, which rattled the teakettle and loosed a few small stones from the ceiling. A thick jet of green smoke shot up from the floor and billowed outward, threatening to fill the cave. The guru and Hari held their breath and fanned the air to keep from choking.

The sound of coughing came from somewhere within the cloud, and as the air began to clear Hari saw, sitting yoga-style on the ground before him, an old man waving his arms about trying to keep the smoke out of his face. Hari suppressed a grin. Garbed in a stained white robe and a scarlet turban that sat askew his wrinkled brow, the old demon was red-faced and slightly plump and sported a luxurious snow-white beard that badly needed combing. His dark eyes blinked in surprise, as though he did not know where he was or how he had gotten there. Altogether, Hari thought he looked like someone's kindly old grandfather.

"Phoo!" exclaimed the demon. "I thought to try green smoke this time to celebrate my first calling by the talisman, but something seems to have gone wrong. Too much smoke. Phoo!"

"Welcome, my old friend," said the guru. "The green smoke was a fine idea. Very colorful. I hope I did not interrupt you in the midst of anything important."

"I was napping—which is not unimportant at my age. But as King Solomon used to say, a week's nap is enough for any demon, so it is just as well you awakened me."

"May I offer you some tea and chapatis?" asked the guru.

"Hmm. Perhaps a bite." The demon helped himself to a chapati and began munching it around the edges.

"May I present a young Brahmin to you, Hari by name," said the guru. "His affairs, er, travels are already quite familiar to you."

Hari bowed to the demon.

"Ah yes! Yes indeed! My boy, following your adventures makes me wish I were young again. I am pleased to see you in the flesh—in person. And I am glad you were not harmed by the she-demon. You are a brave young man." The demon's face brightened. "And now that the courtesan princess of the rock-demons has been returned to her prison, perhaps I can take that heavenly vacation in Indraloka I have promised myself these past two hundred years. Ah, the gods know how to live well."

"By all means, do so," insisted the guru. "I have disturbed you much too often of late. I can see no need to call on you again soon. When you return, perhaps we can talk about certain developments in the north."

The demon waved a hand in the air. "Ah, my friend, you never disturb me. I enjoy our visits.

And if I do not hear from you before long, I will come to see you anyway."

"Well said, old friend, well said," exclaimed the guru. "You are always welcome. Hari, do you have something you would like to ask our esteemed visitor before he leaves? Something about the past or present? Or perhaps something that may be troubling you? I know there are many questions on your mind, but now you may ask only one of them. Neither wisdom nor magic must be abused."

Hari thought a moment. He realized that this was an exceedingly rare opportunity that would probably never come again, so he needed to make the best possible use of it. As it happened, there was something he wished to know about. When he had traveled here from the palace of the rajah, he thought he was being followed, and he wondered who it was. Should he ask such a question? If he did, the guru might be saddened that he had wasted his question on so trivial a matter.

And indeed the guru knew that Hari was troubled by more serious questions, for he was wise in the ways of such things. The guru read the suffering in Hari's eyes, and guessed that in his travels his young friend had experienced life in ways that he had not expected or wanted, that he had heard the world's heartbeat and found it to be fickle. And so he might want to ask a question the answer to which would lighten the weight he carried.

So Hari decided not to ask the simple question. Instead he would ask a significant one. But what could that be? He knew better than to inquire about the meaning of life, for that would surely entail a prolonged discussion and was probably a matter of interpretation anyway. He should ask something practical yet ultimately meaningful. But what could that be?

Then a question came to him. "What is it that I must do, to be of the greatest service to myself and those whose friendships I value, that I would not think of myself?"

The demon nodded. "I had thought you were about to ask something selfishly trivial, such as whether you were being followed from the palace, and if so, by whom and for what reason. And my friend the guru would have been rightly disgusted at such a waste of opportunity."

"I confess, that was my first inclination," Hari said, abashed. "Only the realization that such a question would disappoint the guru dissuaded me. I sought a more significant question, so that I would not be exposed as the shallow ignoramus I am."

The guru laughed. "It is a wise supplicant who sees his triviality coming, and avoids it. All of us have consequential and inconsequential aspects warring for attention, but few of us exert some control over their expression." He turned to the demon. "But I am curious, my friend: what would you have said, had he asked that question?"

"Yes, my young Brahmin," replied the demon, assuming a pose, "you were being followed from the time you left the rajah's lake palace. It was the captain of the rajah's guard who was tracking you on the instruction of the rajah himself. When you refused an escort, the rajah ordered his captain to follow and watch over you until you reached the safety of the mountains."

Hari nodded, not surprised, and in his heart he felt a warm affection for the kindly rajah, despite his surreptitious act.

"I thank you," he said to the demon. "You have put to rest at least one of my cares."

"A small service for one who so nobly sparred with the immortal enchantress and won," replied the demon. "Now, however, I shall address your actual question, whose answer is simple but has perhaps surprising ramifications. You must take back the talisman."

"What?" Hari and the guru asked together, equally startled.

What?

He is aware of us!

The demon smiled. "It seems that you both have a sudden problem with your ears. I said—"

"I heard what you said!" the guru said. "But why did you say it?"

"I am glad you were the one to ask that question, my friend, for I could not have answered it had Hari asked it, being limited to a single answer for him. For you I will answer, and if he happens to overhear, that is his good fortune. The reason he must take back the talisman is that he has not completed his commitment with respect to it."

"But his commitment was to return it to its owner, and he is unable to do that."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the zamindar is dead!"

"And the blame is surely mine," Hari said with grief. "For I should not have deprived him of its protection, thus leaving him vulnerable to disaster."

"Now that is a curious statement, considering that the zamindar and all his retinue remain alive and healthy."

"Alive!" the guru and Hari said together. Then the guru continued "But you told me—"

"That news of his violent death had been received. That was true. But the message was false, rendered by a spy whose purpose was to cause the rajah to make a tactical error. A fell ploy, but effective."

"But why did you not clarify that for me at the time?"

The demon shrugged. "It is, as you know, my custom to address only the questions I am asked.

You did not ask."

The guru looked almost as chagrined as Hari felt. Then, without a word, he removed the amulet from his neck and gave it to Hari. It seemed that he had inadvertently received a lesson in humility.

"I thank you most sincerely for the information that my friend the zamindar is alive," Hari said to the demon. "I never thought to question the news."

"Therefore you would not have thought to ask for the amulet back," the demon said. "That was a condition of your question, and a remarkably clever one. But I might mention, strictly as an incidental, that the need for cleverness has by no means passed, and the outcome of your larger quest is by no means determined. I might also hint, were I inclined, that there are factors closely affecting you about which you have no slightest inkling."

That's sufficient, demon! You may not inform him of us.

Agreed. Divert yourself in some other manner hereafter.

The guru and the demon then became involved in a philosophical debate about the sex of the Supreme God, whether it was indeed neutral, and whether it was possible for Brahma to have created the universe by laying it as an egg. The discussion continued on for hours, and eventually Hari drifted off to sleep. But he remained grateful for the amazing information the demon had so unexpectedly provided. A certain joy had replaced a certain sadness.

When he awoke the sun was shining brightly through the cave entrance, and the guru and the demon were still deeply engaged in debate. He nibbled on a cold chapati as he waited for the conversation to end, or at least to falter, so that he might make his farewells. Considering the intensity of the debate and the status of its participants, he dared not interrupt. Finally, seeing no break in sight, for the discussion had not yet advanced beyond the first of ten logical principles relating to the egg-laying propensity of a neuter god, he decided he would depart. He faced the debaters and bowed low before them, and in so doing did not notice the brief trace of a smile pass across the guru's face.

This time as he climbed down from the cliffside to the path, he heard no parting words of wisdom from the guru, and he wondered whether the silence boded good or ill.

The chariot of Surya arched toward its zenith, igniting heaven's cup, even as Hari passed out of the mountains into a broad green valley. The sight of grass, hill, and tree beneath the bright blue sky soothed his heart, and he plucked a ripe mango to taste its sweetness. Having yet a long way to go, he decided to leave the beaten path that wound through the hills and head straight northwest toward his village.

Now do I make my move, though I am annoyed that the demon interfered, leaving the

mortal man with the talisman.

Hari had not gone far when there appeared on a hill ahead a lone horseman garbed in black mounted on a jet stallion. Both rider and horse stood motionless, like an ebon statue against a wall of light-blue sky. A silk scarf covered the bottom half of the rider's face, hiding his features. But his dark staring eyes Hari saw, and he felt them burning into him. He remembered the rajah telling of roaming spies dressed in black, and he wondered if this might be one of them. It was surely not the rajah's captain, who should have gone home by now.

Suddenly the rider came to life. He lashed his mount, which whinnied and pounded at the earth, then shot forward with lowered head. Hari watched in helpless fascination as the ebon steed galloped down the slope toward him. He saw the rider reach down and unsheath a graceful curved scimitar, such as were used in the north; its shiny blade glittered hynotically in the bright sunlight. In a swift movement the rider swung the weapon high, as though to pierce the heavens, and leaned forward into the wind, somber and unyielding.

O Ravana, he can not escape that cruel warrior!

With a calmness that surprised him—perhaps there had not been enough time to prepare his thoughts—Hari realized that he was about to be killed. Well, at least he would face Yama with dignity. But another voice within him, less accepting, screamed out and set him on alert. His body became taut and he quickly looked right and left, searching for something, anything, that might provide some cover. But there was nothing—he was out in the open and helpless.

What is your point, Mohini?

As rider and steed bore down upon him, he could see the white froth spewing from the horse's mouth, the beast's flaring nostrils and dark frantic eyes, eyes that betrayed fear and desperation and seemed to say: am I not also a victim like yourself, but another spoke in the wheel of life, death, and rebirth? And reflected deep within those wild eyes he saw the terrible third eye of the she-demon, which became the glaring jeweled eye of Kali and the searing flame of Sharmila's pyre; and, too, he saw the thousand eyes of the gods mocking him in their indifference.

Spare him, and I will yield to your desire.

But in the eye of the rider he saw naught but hate. Why such hatred? he wondered. It saddened him. As if in reply to his question, the wind quickened and blew the rider's scarf to one side. And Hari saw that the attacker was none other than Koti. Koti, the advisor to the rana of Madresh, whose affair with the rana's young wife, Kamala, Hari had inadvertently exposed. Now the reason for the man's hatred was clear, though perhaps he should have blamed himself for his treachery, rather than Hari for exposing it.

I shall have my desire in a moment anyway, as your mortal man dies.

I will give you two centuries!

But your awareness will always be on him, because you will love him as long as he

lives. I want your full attention, whether positive or negative. I want you to know

throughout who is having at you. Your mortal man is doomed.

O Hari—I love you, but I can not save you.

Even as the graceful blade arced downward—perhaps there was a murmur somewhere in the heavens—a ground squirrel popped out of a nearby hole and darted across the grass in the path of the galloping steed. Frightened by the flash of the small animal, the horse jolted to a stop, hurling its rider forward through the air. Koti, sword in hand, sailed over Hari's head and came down in a heap upon the grass. The terrified horse ran off through the hills.

You interfered!

Hari stood frozen, his heart pounding, watching to see if Koti would stir. But the body lay still.

Carefully he approached the prone figure, which was lying on its face. Grasping one arm, he pulled the body over. Koti's head lolled to one side: his neck was broken and he was quite dead.

I did not. It is my move, but there were no female creatures near enough to use. That squirrel is male.

Hari stared at the lifeless body. The questions that assailed him he tried to push from his mind.

He knew now there were questions beyond logic, at least the logic he had been taught and understood. There were some things he would just have to accept. Or else escape from.

That squirrel interfered deliberately! If not one of us, who motivated it?

Perhaps he should become the disciple of a sannyasi, he thought. The life of an ascetic had much to offer. Not least he would learn how to conquer the torment of the senses, to deaden life's pain.

Almost, I recognize it. There is a familiar aura.

He had no tools to bury Koti's body or materials to prepare a cremation. He would have to leave it untended. That the corpse would be consumed by vultures or other creatures did not disgust him, for it seemed a more humane way of leaving this life than simply going up in a puff of funereal smoke which benefited no one.

Yes, I have seen that aura before. But who?

The ground squirrel suddenly reappeared and came running over to him and stood up on its haunches. He broke off a weed pod and gave it some seeds, a meager offering, he thought, considering that the small creature had saved his life. The squirrel chattered its appreciation and munched on the seeds contentedly.

The guru whose young wife he serviced in Hari's body!

As he gazed into the creatures dark eyes, Hari remembered something the old guru, Sundar, had told him: "Would it not be better to be reborn as a ground squirrel than as an eagle—or a man?" Hari wondered: Could it be?

Disgusting. To be deprived of a century of brutal delight by a mere mortal

reincarnation!

The squirrel finished its meal, washed its face thoroughly with its tiny paws, elaborately groomed its tail, then uttered a series of small squeaks before running off into the grass. Hari smiled.

13

The Zamindar

Hari reached the zamindar's palace in due course, having suffered no further mishaps along the way. He was glad that he would be able to return the talisman and honor his word, yet also saddened to realize that he had not achieved the worldly knowledge and personal enlightenment he sought. He had seen many marvelous things, and experienced a number of straits and emotions, but somehow remained dissatisfied.

Now it was time to return to his village, as he had promised his mother and sister, and to assume the responsibilities of his station. He would be expected to take a wife, though that still did not truly tempt him. How could he settle down with a simple village girl, after having been seduced by a princess, a priestess, and a she-demon, among others? And how could any ordinary experience match that of making love to a lady spirit whose supple body could be heard and felt but not seen?

He had hoped to lead an ascetic life, or at least a simple one, while traveling, but had not succeeded for the most part. Yet perhaps that meant he was not suitable for a career of contemplation, so should give up the effort and return home to live out of his life in the normal dull manner.

Have no fear, ignorant mortal man. Life will not be your problem.

You haven't killed him yet, Ravana.

But I will, as soon as I get my move. And you will have to give me that move, when you

try for your seventh seduction. And that will have to be here, because he is about to give up

his quest and return home.

There are women to seduce him at his home village.

But there he'll have to marry his seductress, and complicate his life, for everything is

known. Even if I don't kill him, he would soon become too dull to interest you. Home

village marriage does that to a mortal man.

You are right. I must seduce him here. Now do I make my move: Leela will not rest until she has had her will of him.

The guard recognized Hari and admitted him. But when he entered the palace, it was the zamindarini who greeted him. She wore a shimmering gown whose material seemed to become translucent as it flexed with her motions. "What may I do for you, handsome traveler?" she inquired warmly.

Hari was not entirely easy with this. He remembered that Leela had an ardent nature, and a fickle one; she might have grown tired of her lover Balu, or perhaps have worn him out. "I have come to return the zamindar's medallion, as I promised, and then continue on to my home."

"Ah, but you can not do that," she said. "For my husband and Balu are out on a mission, and will not return till tomorrow. However, I shall be happy to entertain you until then."

Hari's disquiet remained. In the absence of her husband and lover, she might seek certain personal attention. "Perhaps I should depart, and return tomorrow."

"By no means, Hari!" she said, taking his hand and drawing him forward. "What would my husband think if I denied you the hospitality he surely wishes you to have? I insist on taking care of your needs this night."

That was exactly his concern. She had tried to seduce him during his prior visit here and, with no one but the palace staff in attendance, she might have something similar in mind now. She had shown that she was not a woman to be readily denied, and there would be no chance to trick her this time.

Had he realized that she was here alone, without the zamindar and Balu, he would not have entered the palace.

Precisely, my love.

She moved her grip from his hand to his arm, and drew it in close to her torso so that he could not help but feel the softness of it. She gave him a rather direct stare, by this token warning him of the likely consequence of further tacit resistance. She had before threatened to accuse him of impropriety, unless he committed the impropriety, and she was evidently ready to do so again. "Then I am constrained to accept your kind hospitality," he said reluctantly. Perhaps he could sneak out when she wasn't watching him.

And now do I make my countermove: the zamindar will develop a sudden suspicion,

and return secretly to verify it When he catches them, he will of course have to kill them

both, to salvage his honor. And you, marvelous creature, can abate this disaster only by

touching Leela's mind and causing her to desist her seduction.

But then she would be liable to accuse him anyway, to protect her reputation.

Exactly. Leela is a dangerous tool for your purpose. Perhaps when your mortal man is

dead, I will require you to enter her, and I will enter a stablehand, and we shall perform

such delights as will amaze the mortal realm, not to mention the animals. Thus will I

achieve variety during my century of pleasure with you.

You absolutely disgust me. I will dance for sheer glee when I am free of you for a century.

Leela brought Hari into the banquet hall. "I shall serve you the finest meal, to make you amenable."

"I would prefer to clean up and retire, as I am weary from my traveling. Any scraps will do for my sustenance."

"Ah, but my husband would not countenance such inhospitality. I shall attend to your needs with my very own hands. Let me take you into my personal lavatory and strip and clean you."

"On reconsideration, perhaps I am ready for a more formal meal now."

"How very nice!" Leela clapped her hands, and a servant appeared. Hari was both relieved and concerned to see that it was Meena, his romance of the prior visit. He would much rather have been alone with Meena, and knew she did not like seeing him with Leela, but at least she would be able to appreciate that he was helpless in the situation. Perhaps she would find a way to rescue him from it.

Did Leela know of his affair with Meena? he wondered. The two of them had been discreet, yet such news tended to circulate, and he thought it likely that she did know. So was this use of Meena to serve them a warning to him? He could not safely assume that it wasn't. Yet Leela gave no evidence of hostility toward Meena; she simply directed her to serve the meal, and to be on hand for whatever was needed.

While these thoughts percolated through Hari's troubled mind, Leela was giving Meena directions. Soon Meena left the hall, to return in a moment with a tray bearing the first course of the meal: a steaming lentil soup. "Eat, traveler," Leela said heartily. "You must have good sustenance for the ordeal ahead."

"Ordeal?"

The zamindarini sent a sidelong glance at him. "Your onward trek through the world tomorrow or a subsequent day," she explained. She moved slightly, and her gown seemed to become entirely transparent in front, showing her finely formed breasts.

"Of course," he agreed, not sure that it would be wise to feel relieved. A trek across the countryside normally was not considered to be an ordeal. He took a spoonful of the soup. It was very good.

And very highly spiced. Hari enjoyed spiced food, as did all his countrymen, but this was extraordinary. His mouth was soon on fire, and he had difficulty breathing.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Leela inquired solicitously. "Don't be bashful about eating, considering your hunger. Here, let me help you." And she took the spoon from his flaccid hand and ladled another dip of soup into his mouth. "Be sure to let me know when you have enough." She brought up a third spoonful.

Hari tried to demur, but the only sound he could make was a strained squeak. His eyes were watering and his throat was burning right down to his stomach.

"I am so glad you like this soup," Leela said warmly. "I had it made specially for my husband, but I am sure he would want you to have it too. Have some more." She shoved another dose at him.

This time Hari had the sense to close his mouth. The soup, balked, splashed into his nose, which was shortly a raging inferno. He coughed and sputtered, completely at her mercy, embarrassing himself by his uncouth display.

"You poor thing," she said. "You are choking. I am so sorry; it must be my fault for being so careless." And she took hold of his head and pressed it to her resilient bosom. This had a remarkable effect: it not only soothed his face, it transferred the burning sensation to his groin.

By the time the agony of his head subsided, the front of her gown was wet with his involuntary tears. He tried to apologize, but Leela hardly seemed displeased. "Let me just change into something more appropriate," she said, rising gracefully. "Continue with your soup; I shall return in a moment."

She departed from the banquet hall, and despite his distress of mouth and eyes, he could not help observing the provocative sway of her hips. The heat of his nether portion did not abate; rather it continued to intensify.

As soon as Leela was gone, Meena appeared. "She did that on purpose," she whispered fiercely. "To punish you for preferring me to her. Here is safe soup." She set down another bowl that looked just like the original one, and took away the hot one. "What she gave you not only burns the mouth, it has a more subtle effect, generating a strong desire to—" She hesitated, coloring delicately.

Hari realized what the nature of the other effect was. No wonder his groin was pained! "What does she want of me?" Hari asked, though there really was no mystery.

"She wants to seduce you, and she will beat me if I interfere."

"But you are the only one I wish to be with," Hari protested, with some slight exaggeration.

"Then stave her off somehow, and I will come to you tonight, as before, if I can escape her observation." Meena glanced momentarily down, appreciating his condition, and smiled. Then she was away with the fire-soup.

Cheered by that notion, Hari sipped his new soup rapidly, and was just finishing it when the zamindarini returned. Now she wore a gown fashioned of finely woven strips that slid aside as she moved, showing whatever aspect of her body she might choose. It was an effect that caused him to react again in spite of himself, for whatever might be lacking in her nature, it was not her physical endowments.

Meena brought in the next course, which was an exquisite salad fashioned of chick peas, onions, green leaves, radishes, and herbs. Hari sampled it somewhat hesitantly, but the seasoning was within bounds. Leela attended to him solicitously, making quite sure he had the very best of it, and every time she leaned toward him, more of her torso showed. He hoped that his eyes were not bulging from their sockets. In fact his eyes were not the only type of bulging causing mischief. He sipped freely of the wine, in an effort to conceal his reaction.

Then she served him a course of spinach and eggplant with spiced rice and curry sauce. Again he was concerned about the intensity of the spicing, but it was excellent without being extreme.

Evidently she believed that one full bowl of hot soup—hot in temperature, spicing, and effect—sufficed. It was a reasonable belief; even a fraction of that bowl seemed like more than enough.

Finally she served an excellent fried pastry with honey and rose water. By the time he finished that, he was quite full, and the wine had dulled his sensitivities somewhat, so that he no longer tried to avoid the increasingly intimate glimpses of her torso her gown provided. Not even when she crossed her legs and her thigh showed all the way to the hip.

Still, he carefully fended off her suggestive remarks, pleading fatigue, and finally she consented to allow him to retire alone for the night. She did not even seem unduly disappointed. Had he been less oblivious, he would have been concerned about that oddity.

She remains as interested as ever; she is merely more subtle than he credits.

As the zamindar is more subtle than she credits. He has now returned with Balu, and

they are watching from outside, having sworn the palace guards to secrecy.

He retired to his room, the same one he had had before. He was relieved, because had Leela pressed him more closely he well might have succumbed to her blandishments. He knew her nature, and certainly did not wish to betray the hospitality of the zamindar, but never before had he been subjected to such a continuous display of fine feminine flesh, while in such a state of agitation. Had it not been for the intermittent presence of Meena to remind him of his other interest, the zamindarini might in the end have seduced him right there. But perhaps it had been her purpose only to tease him, to generate a desire for her that she could then deny him, punishing him again for escaping her before.

First the hot spices, then the hot temptation. He had survived both, but suppose her revenge was a triple ploy?

He lay on the bed, restless despite his fatigue of body and fullness of belly. The soup had not yet worn off. What might Leela be up to next?

He had better lock and barricade the entrance. He got up from the bed and crossed the room in the darkness. But before he found his way to the door, there was a light knock on it.

He froze. Was he too late?

"Hari," a feminine voice whispered. "It is Meena."

Meena! For the moment he had forgotten her promise to come to him if she could. She had become somewhat possessive of him during his prior visit, but he did like her, and his interest in her had freshened somewhat after absence. Also, Leela's blandishments, not to mention her soup, had stirred him to a state that would not be denied. Though he was tired, he now realized why he was restless. Meena was exactly the person he needed at this time.

He found the door in the darkness and let her in. He smelled her perfume as she entered and kissed him. "We must be quick and silent in the darkness," she whispered. "She is checking on me often, to be sure I do not receive what she does not. I can not stay long, but I could not stay away either, my love."

How well he understood! But hasty love was better than none, and his pitch of excitement was such that haste was probably inevitable. So he brought her to the bed, pausing only to lock the door, and they both flung off their garments and fell on the bed in an intimate clasp. Only the medallion swinging from the chain about his neck remained between them. Their act of passion was as swift and explosive as a summer storm, for all its silence. It was as if lightning leapt between them, igniting them, causing both their bodies to stiffen in ultimate fulfillment.

Such was their rapture of the occasion that neither one heard the slight sound at the door.

Suddenly the door burst open and three people charged into the room. One bore a bright lamp and one bore a sword.

Hari and his lover were still locked in their intimacy. Shocked, he gazed wildly around, while she hid her face.

Balu held the lamp. The zamindar held the sword. And beside them stood Meena holding the key to the door.

Meena? How could that be? Yet it did seem to be. Then who was this in his embrace?

Balu stepped forward with the lamp, grabbed the woman's hair, and yanked her head up so that her face came into view. Hari gasped as he recognized Leela. She had tricked him, pretending to be Meena, and his urgency had been such that he had never thought to question it. She had even worn Meena's perfume and made over her hair to Meena's style. In the darkness—

"So my suspicion is confirmed," the zamindar said grimly, albeit sadly. "My wife has betrayed my marriage, and my guest has betrayed my hospitality. The penalty is death."

Both Balu and Meena looked appalled, though both also looked angry, understandably. They thought that Hari had deliberately betrayed them both, but Meena did not want Hari killed and Balu did not want Leela dead. They were however helpless in this situation.

"Have you anything to say for yourselves before you lose your heads?" the zamindar asked as he lifted his terrible gleaming sword.

Ah, victory is at hand.

Leela was silent, knowing that she had no defense. Hari tried to think of a way to explain that his betrayal had been inadvertent, but he knew there was no way to prove that, and in any event he was guilty of the fact if not of the intent. And, he had to admit to himself, despite its brevity it had been a remarkably intense and satisfying event. So he gave himself up for lost.

But there was one thing he had to do before he died, as a matter of what honor remained to him.

"I promised to return your medallion," he said to the zamindar. "That much I shall do while I am able."

The zamindar looked surprised. Perhaps he had anticipated tearful pleading from one or the other. "Thank you," he said gruffly.

Hari struggled to take the chain from his neck. The medallion was wedged between his chest and Leela's full breasts. He had to use one hand to squeeze a breast aside in order to get the medallion out. In any other circumstance this would be a gross impropriety, but as it was, it hardly mattered. In a moment both of them would be dead.

Finally he got the medallion up. He lifted the chain over his head and held the disk out toward the zamindar. "I thank you for the use of this talisman," he said. "It served me well."

As he spoke, his fingers rubbed along the surface of the medallion. A notion occurred. "But allow me to make one further use of it, before I give it up," he said. Then, without waiting for the response, he spoke the name inscribed there: "Arunakachandumunshasa!"

"You are summoning the she-demon!" the zamindar cried, appalled. "She will destroy us all!"

"By no means," Hari protested. "I would not repay your kindness with such distress."

A low rumbling sounded and the palace trembled. Blue smoke descended from the ceiling, thickening into a column. Gradually the smoke thinned and dissipated and the plump old air demon was revealed, his turban askew as usual. He shook himself, causing his long white beard to ripple.

"That is not the she-demon," the zamindar said, amazed.

The demon's eye fell on Hari. "So you had the wit to summon me," he remarked. "What is your concern—though I have my suspicions." He chuckled.

"Merely to thank you for your past help," Hari said humbly. "I did not want to die without doing that. You were the one who informed me that the news of the zamindar's death was false, so that I could after all return the talisman to him and maintain my honor. Now I am doing that, and thanking you. I hope you will serve the zamindar as you served me. Apparently he does not know of your availability."

The air demon looked at the zamindar. "So it seems. That explains why he never summoned me.

Well, sir, allow me to introduce myself. I am the Demon of Air, bound to the nether side of your talisman as a counter to the she-demon. My power does not match hers, for I am getting old and frail, but I am knowledgeable about the present and the past."

"Why should this man summon you, instead of the she-demon, when he had the power to do so?" the zamindar asked, his lifted sword trembling.

"Sir, I will answer your questions at such time as you summon me," the air demon said. "But I am at present in the power of Hari, and will address only his concerns. However, were I to remark on your question, I might simply point out that Hari is a man of charming innocence and honor who means you no harm. He was tricked into a liaison with your wife, supposing her to be another woman in the dark. Realizing that he has wronged you, however inadvertently, he still means you no harm, and is attempting merely to acquit himself of his obligations with such honor as remains to him before he dies.

"It does seem unfortunate that his innocence should be the cause of his undoing, but this is at times the way of karma. Now I shall bid him fair parting, and await your summons when you hold the talisman again." He fixed his old eyes on Hari. "It has been a pleasure to know one as pure of intention and confused of application as yourself, young traveler. I look forward to meeting your spirit, in due course." He faded out.

The zamindar stood open-mouthed, staring at the spot the demon had vacated. "He spoke the truth?" he asked.

"He cannot do otherwise," Hari reassured him. "Now if you will take your medallion and put it away, so it will not be soiled by blood—"

But the zamindar did not reach for the talisman. "What am I to do with this situation?" he asked in bewilderment. "How can I execute a man whose betrayal was inadvertent and unintended, and who does not blame me even when I blame him?"

Then Meena spoke up. "If you will forgive my speaking, my master, I may have a suggestion.

Hari seems to have done you the favor of showing you the nature of your wife. Perhaps only she should be executed, and Hari sent on his way without further action."

Did you touch her?

No. I had no need to, for she wishes no harm to come to Hari. She is prepared to give him up, in order to save him.

"Perhaps so," the zamindar agreed, evidently still confused. He turned to Balu. "What do you say, my trusted advisor?"

Leela perked up. "Trusted advisor!" she exclaimed with outrage. "Let me tell you—"

Then she broke off, for Meena had taken a step toward her with the evident intention of jamming the large key down her throat.

"Obviously it is your wife who is at fault," Balu said quickly. "She is rumored to be a passionate woman, and must have thought to achieve fulfillment from the traveler without his knowledge by visiting him anonymously in the dark. He should be let go, being innocent in intention, but death may be too good for her. For one thing, her family has connections that might prove to be awkward, if they chose not to believe her infidelity. It might be better to divorce her and enlist her silence, sparing you public embarrassment."

Did you touch him?

No. I had no need to, for the fool loves her despite her nature and wishes to save her if

he can.

"How could I enlist her silence?" the zamindar asked.

"My lord, if you will marry her to me, I will guarantee it. She will never care to confess the shame of a lower-caste marriage, and will do her utmost to conceal it from her family. You will then be free to marry a woman more to your liking, and thus improve your satisfaction in life."

The zamindar looked at Leela. "Will you swear silence about what has passed this night, if I spare your life and marry you to Balu?"

Leela, realizing that this was a considerably better offer than she would otherwise receive, nodded. "I will, my lord. I will never speak word of this solitary indiscretion."

An unruly breath of air must have passed through the room at that moment, for both Meena and Balu suffered coughing fits, and even Hari felt a catch in his throat. The zamindar did not notice, however. "Then it shall be done," he decided. "Disengage and go with Balu."

Leela drew herself away from Hari, to whom she had remained embarrassingly connected, and quickly got into her gown. In a moment she and Balu were gone.

"But I do not wish to live alone," the zamindar said with a sigh. "And I do not wish to risk another marriage like the first. I need a quiet, obedient, undemanding woman who understands me."

"There is one near," Hari said as he donned his own clothing.

"Oh, there is?" the zamindar asked in surprise.

"Meena is royal born, and is as fine a person and lovely a woman as any man could ask. Have you not noticed how quiet and discreet she is?"

The zamindar turned his gaze on Meena. "Why, it is true! You are high caste, and beautiful, and I have never had a complaint of your service. However—"

"Only at my lord's pleasure," Meena said, evidently realizing that this was an opportunity that was unlikely to be repeated. "I am not a hungry woman, in certain respects."

"Then I shall marry you, for indeed you are worthy and I trust your discretion." He turned again to Hari. "It seems I owe you not mischief, but gratitude, for you have changed my life abruptly for the better. Now I will accept the medallion back from you, and will enjoy your company for the duration of your stay here."

"You are welcome," Hari said, at last turning over the talisman.

The contest is done, horny freak. I have completed my seventh seduction, and you have failed to kill the mortal man.

Alas, you are correct You have escaped me, luscious goddess. But there will be other

centuries, and you will remain as delectable during them. You have not seen the last of my

horns.

And so it was. Leela disappeared into Balu's apartment, and it seemed that he was forever disciplining her, for there were often moans to be heard at night. But she made no complaint, and spoke no word of the changed situation to others. Meena did not join the zamindar, for that would have been indiscreet before the marriage, but their betrothal was announced and she moved to a far more elegant suite where she was richly attended, as befitted her new station. Hari had many rewarding conversations with the zamindar, and showed him exactly how to pronounce the air demon's name so as to summon him, while never making the mistake of summoning the she-demon. It was an excellent time.

But all good things pass, and it came time for Hari to move on. He had promised to return home before too long, and further delay would cause his mother and sister to fret. So he bid farewell to the zamindar and his betrothed, and set out afoot for his home village, relieved that things had turned out so well, though it was sad to leave his friends behind. He promised to visit on another occasion.

Yet now as he turned his face toward home, he experienced an abiding regret. He had sought enlightenment, and had failed to achieve it. He was still the same somewhat naïve young man he had been when he started. And he still had the same desire for something more in life than just settling down in the home village with a home-grown girl and generating a family. He had associated with men of great power and dallied with royal women; how could he settle for a minor life? He knew he should, and perhaps in spirit he was willing, but his heart was loath.

14

Mohini

Heads turned and hands touched in greeting as Hari walked through the streets of his ancestral village. Maidens smiled coyly and their hearts fluttered when they saw him. Hope sprang alive in their dainty breasts, for the young Brahmin was a prize catch, one who thus far had eluded the marriage net. But perhaps now there would be an opportunity for another cast.

His mother was picking flowers in the front garden when she saw him. She dropped the blooms she had gathered, tears rushed to her eyes, and she held out her arms to him, her lips silently speaking his name. His sister, Devi, came running out of the house, her face happy and shining, and she too embraced him. He shared in their joy, glad to see them well and to be home again.

He told them of his travels, though he omitted certain details so as not to worry them. They attended his every word, Devi in wide-eyed fascination and his mother in unrevealing solemnity.

Then he remembered the rajah's gift. He located a bulge in the lining of his tunic and forced out two small objects through the threads. His mother and sister gaped in disbelief at what he held in his hand: two magnificent blood-red rubies. He gave one to each of them. If they had found his story to be too incredible, particularly his friendship with the rajah, the sight of the sparkling gems totally dispelled their doubts.

But it was the very wonder of the tale that worried his mother. She was concerned that the excitement and intoxication of such experiences might have changed her son so that he might not be content to remain in the village, to settle down, marry, and raise a family. But she gave no notice of her concern, at least not at the moment.

Wise woman.

Later in the day a friend of Hari's, one Chandu, came by to renew acquaintances, and although Hari was glad to see his friend again, he was keenly conscious of the distance that had grown between them. Chandu's jokes about the village girls and the old schoolteacher somehow did not seem very funny anymore, and their chatty conversation seemed much like others they had had before. He chose not to tell his friend very much about his travels, for he did not wish to put up with the inevitable teasing and mocking expressions of disbelief.

At twilight he sat on the back veranda with his mother watching the glow of the sun slowly fade from pink to amber. From inside the house he could hear the rhythmical click-clacking of Devi's spinning wheel, which seemed to say that all was right with the world. And, indeed, the unchanging sameness of the house and village, the nearness of his mother and sister, gave him a feeling of belonging and security. He realized that the old ways were not wrong, merely dull.

But all was not unchanged. He saw the lines of worry around his mother's eyes that had not been there before, and how the streaks of gray in her hair had widened since he had gone away. She saw him looking at her and smiled.

"Share your thoughts with your mother, my son."

"Oh, I was just daydreaming. Mother, are you and Devi happy—in this house—in this village?"

"Well of course, my son. What a strange question! This was your father's house. Where else would we be happy or wish to live?"

"Forgive me, Mother. It was a silly question."

When his mother next spoke, her voice was quiet and hesitant. "Hari, there is a matter I would discuss with you, which concerns your sister, Devi."

"Yes, Mother?"

"Devi has reached the age of marriage. A suitable husband will have to be found for her. I thought of asking your uncle Arun to begin making inquiries among the Brahmin families of the village.

But now that you are home, perhaps you would prefer to take on that task. Devi does not complain, but I think she may be a little anxious. It should not be difficult to locate good prospects. She is attractive and a good homemaker, and your blessed father left us with sufficient means so that a modest dowry can be provided."

Hari shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"I would like to help Devi, Mother. But I think that Uncle Arun would probably be better. He is much respected in the village and knows many families well. I am sure that Devi would benefit from having many more candidates if the matter were placed in our uncle's hands."

"Well, perhaps so, my son. I will ask Arun, then." Hari could tell that his mother was deeply disappointed at his reply. But she assumed a positive expression and proceeded to her next concern.

"Oh, did Devi tell you?" she asked in a tone of feigned cheeriness. "While you were away our next-door neighbor's youngest daughter, Valli, asked about you many times. It is no secret that she likes you. As you know, her father is a large landowner who is much respected in the village. He has arranged very successful marriages for his three oldest daughters, and I would not be surprised if one day soon he approaches me to inquire about you."

Hari inhaled deeply. "Mother, Valli is a nice girl and no doubt will make a fine wife. But I am not ready to talk of marriage. I am not at all sure I want to marry. I do not mean to disappoint you, but there are other things on my mind at the moment. I pray that you will understand."

"Perhaps your soul is troubled, my son. You left us because there were questions on your mind.

I had hoped that by traveling awhile you would satisfy your curiosity about the world and find answers to your questions. But is the world really so different from our village?"

"I—I am not sure, Mother. But if I have questions, they are not the same ones I had before."

"Your father used to say that searches begin and end on one's own doorstep. Always he looked to the sacred texts to guide our lives." She took a breath that was almost a sigh. "Hari, do your mother a favor. Go to see your old teacher, the pundit Bava. He is a wise man and you were one of his best pupils. I know he would be glad to see you again, and perhaps he can advise you."

"Very well, Mother, if it pleases you."

The following morning, after making the required courtesy calls on his uncles and aunts, and politely enduring their lectures on the joys and duties of marriage, Hari made his way to the hut of the pundit, Bava, on the outskirts of the village. As a student he had studied the Vedas as well as philosophy, logic, and mathematics under the pundit's tutelage, and he well remembered how the old Brahmin would become impatient with him because of his incessant questioning. Whenever his mind strayed into forbidden territory, the pundit would steer him back to the right path, step by step, through impeccable logic. Hari smiled to himself as he recalled that the pundit's questions, unlike his own, always seemed to have such clear satisfying answers.

Upon arriving at the pundit's house, Hari found the old teacher seated cross-legged on the floor deep in meditation. He looked exactly the same as always. His face was thin and pale and wore a look of utter calm, disturbed only by a long nose which curved gracefully downward, ending in a sharp point that nearly touched his thin straight lips. Long white hair poured down his craggy frame like a waterfall, joined by the teeming flow of his beard. He was garbed in a white dhoti, though his upper torso was bare, and his brow was stained with three ash stripes.

Hari knew that the pundit sometimes fell asleep during his meditations, but as he was considering whether to make a noise of some kind to rouse the old teacher, the pundit's eyes blinked open. The two dark pinpoints fastened on the young visitor.

"Here is a face I have not looked upon since the season of monsoons," said the pundit. His voice was thin and high, yet serene. "Come in."

Hari entered and prostrated himself before the pundit before seating himself on the floor.

"It has reached these old ears that you have been on a journey," said the teacher.

"Yes, Master." Hari suddenly realized that he had forgotten to ask the pundit's blessing before embarking on his travels and so had been unintentionally disrespectful. He felt embarrassed.

"And was your journey fruitful?"

"Well, in some ways, Master."

"Yet I see that your soul is restless. Did not your travels affirm what you have been taught?"

"I—I am not sure. No, not always."

"No? Hmm. Perhaps you were busy attending to matters of a transitory nature. I will not try to guess what they might be. But there is value in all experience—even the ephemeral can sometimes be of value in bringing about insight and realization.

"But I do not think you have come here today just to visit. That has not been your habit in the past. Something is troubling you. Tell me what it is."

Hari lowered his head. "O Master, I am not sure. I saw much pain and uncertainty in my travels.

And also beauty. But to look into the eyes and soul of the world is a fearful thing. The world's soul is laden with sorrow, and now my soul too is heavy. I did not ever think the taste of worldly life would be so bitter. I would lighten the burden if I could. I thought of becoming a sannyasi, an ascetic who lives by begging, though I fear that would disappoint my family."

The pundit nodded. "Hari, the world sets many snares and shows us many false trails, which are not always easy to avoid. One does not become a sannyasi to escape, but to seek.

"In your search for knowledge your vision has been obscured by Maya, the veil of illusion. You have forgotten the lesson of the Vedas and the meaning of yoga. You no longer strive for Atman, the silent formless depth of being within us and all things. Have you forgotten that there are things that can not be learned from experience or found in books? The intellect is useful, but it too is transitory. The essence of self is not to be found in mind or body. You were taught that the senses must be cleansed if you are to achieve intuition and insight and bring peace to your soul. But you have forgotten these things. You have fallen victim to selfish desires.

"You feel disquiet, but you are disquieted by that which is changeful yet can not be changed.

This earthly life is unstable. Peace and stability must be sought elsewhere. You are attracted to and repelled by the world, and yet you do not see that it is the selfsame desire and fear which troubles you. Cherish not the world of illusion. Cast out desire. The world must be rejected if it is to be surpassed, if your spirit is to be unshackled.

"I can not grasp your foot and set it upon the path to Moksha. That you must do for yourself.

But perhaps I can shine a small light through a window in the house of your soul that you may see the wisdom of our sacred ways.

"Meditate upon what I have said. Then come to see me again."

The pundit closed his eyes and resumed his meditation. Hari prostrated himself before the teacher and departed. As he left he noticed that some fruit and milk had been set by the door of the hut by a villager, and he realized that he had forgotten to bring a food offering himself. Indeed he had become selfish and neglectful of the proprieties.

The afternoon was bright and lazy. Hari sat alone upon a grassy hill in the shade of a tree to ponder the pundit's words. But he found it difficult to concentrate. The breeze was fragrant with the smell of lilac, and the drifting clouds were building wondrous palaces in the sky. In the branches above his head a pair of blackbirds were busily building a nest, and their comings and goings and incessant chatter made it impossible for him to think.

As he watched the clouds in their work, his hands played idly with the grass, and he felt something rub against his fingers. Looking down, he saw sliding through the grass a small green snake trailing a half-shed skin. Its shiny new coat glistened in the sunlight in contrast to the tattered brown shell it dragged behind.

"I think we may suffer from a similar problem," he said to the snake. "But perhaps I can help you, at least this time. Next time you will be on your own."

Hari pinned the trailing end of the dead skin to the ground with his forefinger, and as the snake slid forward the old skin peeled cleanly from its body, revealing a smooth bright coat beneath. The snake stopped and raised its head. Hari could feel its unblinking eyes looking deeply into his own.

"I hope life will be a little easier for you now, my friend," he said to the snake.

The snake darted out its tiny red-forked tongue, which quivered like a striking arrow; then it lowered its head and slithered away through the grass.

That evening Hari's mother asked about his visit with the pundit.

"Did your teacher give you any useful advice, my son?"

"Yes, in a way, Mother. He is wise in matters of the spirit, though in worldly matters I am less sure. I still have questions."

"My son, there are always questions," his mother interrupted. Her tone was hard and impatient.

"The world is full of questions. But one can not stop living or avoid one's obligations and destiny simply because of questions. I had hoped the pundit would reveal to you your sacred duty."

A bolt of pain shot through Hari at these words.

There was a long silence. When next she spoke, his mother's voice was soft, almost pleading.

"Hari, your sister and I love you. We want you to be happy, to take your rightful place as your father's son in the village. You are well liked and respected by everyone. The pattern of our lives is set, and the road you must follow is the same that your father walked, and his father before him. So it has been for many generations. You are our only son, and in you are the seeds of generations of our family to come.

"Why do you keep putting off marriage? And why have you not spoken with your uncle Arun about helping him manage the family properties? There is a time in life for all things. Now is the time for you to choose a wife and settle down. If you wait much longer the best choices will be taken. Will you not at least think upon this matter, my son?"

Hari sighed. "Mother, I know you and Devi are concerned about me. And there is much in what you say. I will think on it as you ask."

"Thank you, my son. As for the worldly questions you spoke of, there is a wise woman, a mataji, who came to the village not long ago. She is the niece of the old mataji, Aparna, who died but two months back. Like Aparna, the new mataji gives advice to the women of the village. She lives in Aparna's house at the southern end of the village. I have not seen this new mataji myself, but some of the other women tell me that she gives sound advice on domestic matters. Go and see her, my son. It can do no harm, and you might find the visit to be helpful."

Hari had no wish to upset his mother further. "Very well, I will go tomorrow if it pleases you."

The following morning Hari managed to find a number of unnecessary tasks to do around the house and yard, which served to delay his promised visit to the mataji. He hated having to go. The idea of consulting a domestic advisor to the village women was nothing less than humiliating. But he had promised. He prayed no one would find out.

In the early afternoon when few villagers were about the streets, Hari made his way to the mataji's house. It was small and unassuming, but well kept and quiet by itself, nestled quaintly between two grassy hillocks and covered with flowering vines. He knocked lightly on the door, hoping that no one would be at home. Unfortunately, a voice from inside answered: "Come in."

He entered into a small parlor, which was simply furnished with three chairs and a small table. A curtain was drawn across one side of the room to separate it from the rest of the house.

"Please be seated," came a woman's voice from behind the curtain. It was soft and lilting and had a tone of quiet confidence. Hari sat in one of the chairs.

"Good day, Mataji, and thank you," he said in his most courteous voice, though it was slightly forced. He waited for the mataji to emerge from behind the curtain, but she did not.

"Please introduce yourself," she said. "I do not see many men here."

"My name is Hari, as was my father's. I live in the village with my family—my mother and sister."

"Yes, I know," said the voice. "Now I recognize you. I have heard of your family and have seen you pass by my house." There followed another long silence.

"O Mataji, will you be coming out so that we may converse? If this is an inconvenient time for me to visit, I can return another day."

"No, now is fine. In dispensing advice, I have found it better to remain behind the curtain. It is easier that way for my guests to speak freely about what is in their hearts."

Hari guessed that the real reason the mataji chose to remain hidden was because she was much younger than most of the women who sought her advice.

"Tell me, what is it that troubles you?" asked the voice. "Nothing we speak of will pass beyond these walls."

"O Mataji, I would ask about the world of the senses. The sacred texts tell us we should cleanse ourselves of our desires. Might I ask your view on this matter?"

"We are flesh, and desire springs from the flesh. We can as much separate the two as the warmth can be separated from the sun or the fragrance from the flower."

"Are our teachings, then, in error?"

"You must not be a purist. Our faith is a flexible instrument and may play many different melodies, some sweeter than others. Its virtue is that it can embrace all conditions, and by so doing has survived many centuries. Look around you. The villagers live simple lives and think not of weighty philosophical questions. They live much in the world of the senses, yet it would never occur to them that they are not good Hindus. Perhaps you ask too many questions. Accept what your senses tell you. There is virtue, and even wisdom, in the simple life of the senses—as long as excesses are avoided."

"Indeed, that has been my problem. I have sought enlightenment, yet somehow the things of the senses have overwhelmed me, and I have spent more time in the arms of young women than in converse with men of wisdom. I find myself dissatisfied with the notion of either complete asceticism or complete acceptance of the kind of life my family wishes me to have. My spirit has sought grace, but my flesh has found pleasure, and neither seems to be exactly what I wish for my life."

"Some do not readily fit in the forms of the world," she agreed. "Some are obliged to compromise, to straddle realms as it were, partaking of the virtues and liabilities of each."

"You speak well," said Hari. "Might I ask the source of your knowledge? Do you have a teacher? Which books have you consulted?"

"I have no teacher or books. There are some things that can not be learned except through experience or spiritual guidance."

"O Mataji, please forgive my next question if it is too personal, but I would ask how one who is yet young has gained enough experience to have learned so much about the world?"

A long silence followed. When finally the mataji spoke her voice was distant, almost somber.

"I was born into experience. I was nurtured on it, and I have denied it. I have seized it and exploited it. I have known its misery and its grandeur, its power and decadence. And once, in the arms of a man, I knew its sweetness and divinity. In a small village surrounded by a high wall, beneath the fallen eye of the goddess Kali."

Hari's breath caught and he leapt to his feet. Could it be? He pulled back the curtain and there before him stood Sumi. Sumi: once high priestess of Kali, she who had tried to kill him and then saved his life, she who had traded away a lifetime of power to share but a brief moment of passion with him.

He could only gape at her in utter amazement. Sumi! Here in his own village. Then he remembered her telling of an aunt in a distant village, a place where she would go to make a new life for herself. Surely the goddess Lakshmi, or Kama, the love god, must have planned this, he thought.

Close, lovely mortal man. It was an Apsara who brought her here after she had settled elsewhere. She is not really Aparna's niece, but the villagers have no way to know, and she is doing a better job than a true niece would have done.

As he stared into her eyes, his look of amazement melted into a warm, happy smile. How lovely she looked, exactly as he last saw her. She might be a goddess herself, he thought, with such soft delicate features, full breasts, and slender waist—or perhaps a temple courtesan with her full plum lips, eager flashing eyes, and dark exotic tresses.

"But now I must tell you something you may not wish to hear," she continued. "It is something I did not know myself, when I rescued you from my own anger in that far village. I spoke of spiritual guidance: what I did then was not my own devising, but was prompted by a spirit who entered me and—" She paused, her eyes dropping as if she were embarrassed. "And caused me to develop a sudden, intense, physical passion for you. Thus I acted as I did, and forfeited my power."

"You were possessed by an evil spirit?" Hari asked, amazed.

"Not evil, merely interested in saving your life. She did this by touching the mind or heart of a woman who was in a position to help you. I was that woman, on that occasion. And since, I have learned much about you from the spirit."

Hari hardly credited what she was saying, yet could not completely doubt it either. "There were other occasions?"

"Did you not wonder at how attractive women found you to be as you traveled?"

"Why no. The girls of my village find me attractive."

"But does it seem natural that a priestess or a princess or even a queen should find you so, and go to any lengths to indulge in coupling with you? These are normally quite reserved ladies."

Hari realized that she had a point. Princesses ordinarily did not throw themselves at poor travelers. "Perhaps my male vanity prevented me from questioning it. You say that a spirit caused these women to act as they did?"

"Yes, in essence."

"But why would such a spirit have any interest in me? I am not remarkable."

"She was indulging in a competition with another spirit, and it was necessary for her to cause seven different women to seduce you. Now she has accomplished that. But in the process she came to like you rather well, and wishes to associate with you further. Do you suppose you could entertain the notion?"

"Associate with a spirit? But the spirits can not be seen or heard or felt. Only the one in the cave, briefly—"

"Pudmini the Bootham, in the endless caverns. She could be heard and felt, as you discovered.

But once you lessened her burden, she became completely spiritual and could no longer be detected by mortals."

"How could you know that?" Hari asked, astonished. "I told no one!"

"The spirit told me—not Pudmini, but the one who followed you."

"But how could that be, if she can not be seen or heard or felt?"

"She can enter the minds of mortals and stir in them thoughts or emotions. Because I was a priestess of Kali, she was able to enter my mind more deeply, and reveal the thoughts she wished to communicate to you. Now she wishes to know whether you are willing to come to know her better, knowing her for what she is."

"But if I can not sense her, how can I know her?"

"By the women she possesses for you. Her powers of influence over mortals are limited. She can enter only females, and can instill only certain feelings, which are usually temporary unless the woman has a basic affinity for the type of feeling generated. But should she find an amenable host she could do considerably more, becoming for that time almost mortal. That is the case with me: I am allowing her into my mind and speaking for her, because of the reward she offers me in return. But she could do it with any other woman, if you truly accepted her, and—"

Hari remained confused and troubled by these revelations, but part of him saw the rationale of it, and saw how well it fitted in with his experience. He was beginning to believe. "And—?"

"And loved her."

"Love a formless spirit?"

"Her form would be that of the woman she possessed at the time. Her words would be her own."

Hari shook his head. "It would not be love for the woman I saw, but for the spirit who possessed her—who might at any time fly away to possess some other woman."

"Which other woman would then have the same love for you the spirit does, being then the same person."

"But that would mean that my love was any woman, or no woman. How would I know her?"

"By her words and actions. You would not mistake her, whatever her form of the moment."

"But I could not settle down with a different woman each day! The village would never allow it."

"True. You would have to select a local woman to be your apparent wife. She would have to agree to let the spirit possess her and speak and act through her, as is the case with me at present.

And to allow you to be with whatever other woman the spirit possessed for you."

"For me?"

"She would seek only to please you, by the intensity of her desire for you and the variety of forms she could assume for your pleasure."

The belief was solidifying, and so was his interest. "As was the case when I traveled?"

"As was the case, from Meena on through Leela. Did you not find them to be varied and accommodating?"

"I tried to avoid Leela! She tricked me in the darkness, just as I tricked her before."

"But in that darkness, before you knew—did you have any complaint of the occasion?"

Hari remembered the overwhelming intensity of the event. "It could be like that, again?"

"With any mortal woman you wish. If you give the spirit the power."

That made him wary again. "The she-demon wanted me to speak her name a second time, to give her power, but I would have regretted it had I done so. How can I trust this other spirit?"

"Trust can come only with time. But she can have mortal power only with your acceptance and love. If she betrays you, your love will wither. Then she will fade."

"I must think about this," he said uncertainly.

"Of course. It is your decision. She will accede to your desire of whatever nature, for the duration of your life, for it is but an instant to her. Simply tell her what you want, for once she possesses a mortal woman she cannot divine your thoughts directly."

"She can read my thoughts when she is in the spirit state?"

"Yes. She is unable to enter and control a man, but she can fathom his thoughts."

"Then she will know what I decide."

"Yes. I have presented her case; now you must do as you see fit. She bids you parting, for now, but she will return the instant you wish it."

Then something changed in Sumi. It was subtle, but Hari could tell that a quality had departed from her.

"But I had another question," he protested. "Perhaps two."

Sumi raised her eyes. "Perhaps I can answer them."

"What is her name?"

"Mohini the Apsara."

"Mohini," he repeated, liking it. "And what of the women she possesses? What of their own spirits?"

"They are present, but in reduced circumstances. That is why they must agree to her possession, for they can rise and hurl her forth from their bodies if they wish. It is only when she puts a notion into their minds that they think is their own that it has full effect. When they know her, they have power to expel her."

"How can you be sure of this?"

"Because I have been knowingly possessed by her, after being unknowingly prompted to passion for you. I have experienced both forms of her involvement. I know their natures."

"And now you are yourself again?"

"Yes. My task is done."

Hari remembered how the guru Sundar had transferred his spirit to Hari's own body, so that he might indulge himself in one act of love with his dutiful young wife, Sharmila. That participation had not been burdensome to Hari, and indeed it had had its own reward. He appreciated how Mohini the spirit could similarly enter the body of a woman and partake of her activities without harming her in mind or body. The guru had been old and frail; Mohini lacked substance. Their needs were in their fashions similar. There seemed to be no reason to distrust the process, though it was not a thing it would be easy to explain to others.

True.

Hari thought of another question. "What reward did she promise you?"

"I think you know it."

He read a question in her eyes, a question rimmed with tears, to which his heart well knew the answer. No doubts assailed him now as they came together and embraced. Gently he pressed her to him and set his lips to hers. All was feeling: the soft warmth of her body as it bent willingly against his, her pounding heart and swelling breasts, the passion in her kiss. And like a candle flame-kissed, the weight upon his soul melted away, even as his spirit took flight, soaring into the timeless oblivion of pure delight, to that blissful dimension the gods had set aside for mortals that they might glimpse the infinite and touch the edge of eternity.

Sumi gave wholly of herself, and long did Hari linger in her arms. And in those moments of sweet calm between the sea-waves of passion, Hari became aware of Sumi's true feelings toward him. Her gentle caresses, her tenderness, the adoration in her eyes, her soft whisperings, all spoke of love. It was a message his heart could not help but heed, and which his mind was powerless to deny.

"Yet, this is temporary?" he asked when the edge of passion had been blunted.

"Perhaps. I was, it seems, more than ready to accede to her nudge."

"Then maybe it should be you whom—whom I marry.

She considered. "I think not."

"Not?" he asked, surprised. "Why?"

"Because I am a jealous, hot-tempered woman. I would be enraged if I caught you in the embrace of another woman after you had pledged yourself to me. That would interfere with much of what Mohini offers you."

"You love me, yet you tell me this?"

"I tell you this because I love you. Because I also know that my love may fade, being perhaps artificial, and that you deserve what Mohini offers. It is in your nature to crave more variety than any one mortal woman can provide."

"But if I marry some other woman, then you will not have even this much with me."

"I will—if you choose me as an alternate woman."

"You would prefer to be an alternate, to being the primary? Will you not be as jealous whatever your state?"

"No, for my expectations will differ. I will know that when you come to me, it is only because you truly desire me, not because you are committed to me. I crave your love, not your commitment.

Meanwhile, I shall have a good position here, that is fulfilling in other ways, and is perhaps more appropriate for one who is unmarried. So I think you should go and find some simple village girl who will gladly settle for what you offer and not be jealous."

Hari considered that. "Perhaps you are right, Sumi. I thank you for your assessment of the situation."

"Understand, Hari, if I thought for a moment I could be what I needed to be, I would instantly marry you. But I have learned much realism recently, and believe I know what is best for us both. I am not denying you passion, only marriage."

"I thank you again. Surely there will be another occasion, soon."

"I thank you for that belief," she said, smiling a bit wanly. It had clearly been a difficult decision for her.

That evening on the veranda Hari's mother cast anxious glances at him, but said nothing. He observed his mother's uneasiness and knew its cause.

"Did you visit the mataji today, my son?" she asked finally.

"Yes, Mother."

"And was she as wise as the village women say?"

"Well, yes, in her way. But she is yet young, not much older than Devi, and so still has much to learn." He knew it would be unwise to tell her of the true nature of his dialogue with Sumi.

"Was she of no help to you, then?"

"She was extremely helpful, Mother. It is sometimes useful to have the detached view of one who knows of life's day-to-day problems."

"Yes, my son, that is quite true. There is a practical side to life which can not be ignored. If the mataji made you see that, then she is clever indeed. Yes, our traditions also come from the earth, not only from the hands of the gods in Swarga."

A period of silence followed, broken only by the chirps of the crickets beneath the veranda and the click-clack of Devi's spinning wheel.

"And have you thought further on the matter we discussed last evening, my son?"

"Yes, Mother. I have a better understanding now of some of the questions that have been on my mind. And I have made some decisions. I will marry, perhaps soon. But it will be a woman of my own choosing."

His mother's hands and body shook with her pleasure. "Oh my son, you have brought great joy to your mother's heart. Devi too will be pleased, as will your aunts and uncles."

"You mentioned that Valli may be interested in me. I have not heeded her at all recently. As I recall, she is a rather pretty and agreeable girl."

His mother smiled, immediately aware of the change in his interest. "You have indeed not been observing her, my son. She has in recent months become uncommonly beautiful, yet remains quite pliable. She would not give you any argument about anything, ever. Unless by some ill chance you wished not to beget children."

Hari smiled. "There will be no such ill chance. Perhaps we should invite her to dinner tomorrow.

I think I may have something of import to discuss with her. Is that all right?"

"Yes, of course. Her family is well respected in the village and we will be honored."

O my darling mortal man! You have decided. You will never regret this.

For Hari was thinking about the prospect of having a stable, socially acceptable marriage, while also having the apparent love of any woman he might choose, wherever he might travel, including one or two or even three lovely princesses. He rather thought he could learn to love the spirit behind the form, as well as the woman who enabled him to participate. Mohini—already the name was assuming significance. Valli, who would be there when the spirit was not, to bear his children and care for them.

He could be a responsible citizen without giving up his wayward dreams.

He was definitely not cut out to be an ascetic, he concluded.

Definitely not, my precious one.

Authors' Notes

Piers Anthony

This may be hard to believe, but I have been trying to avoid collaborations. So how is it that at this writing in June 1993 the last three novels I have done have been collaborative? Well, I consider each case separately on its merits. I do turn down most offers of collaboration, and sometimes there are hurt feelings about that, but I accept those that seem to have merit, and that I think I can contribute to meaningfully. Sometimes in Authors' Notes I spell out exactly what each collaborator did, and sometimes I don't. I will say that in this case I wrote some of each chapter and all of one chapter, while Alfred Tella wrote all the rest. His was the original manuscript; I did the revising. This is the general pattern of most of my collaborations. I'm quite reasonable about it: all I want is to have everything my way. And no, I did not originate the vegetarian theme, though I am a vegetarian.

Because my collaborator did most of the work, this project did not take me long. Not much happened to me in this limited period, except that I broke my glasses on the way home from attending my wife and daughter's joint birthday celebration; the case got caught by a closing car door. Naturally the same-day-service type of optician did not have in stock the standard frames I had gotten four years before and had to special-order them, leaving me to struggle through using my heavy computer glasses full-time for how much over a week is not known at the moment. A sore nose can be marvelously irritating and unconducive to thoughts of spirituality.

But I also read a novel. I mean someone else's novel. I was curious about The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller, then over forty weeks on the national bestseller lists and still #1. What's the secret to such success? It's a small novel, simply told, about a four-day affair between a wandering photographer and an Iowa farmer's wife. Not much there, obviously. But by the time I finished it, the story had gotten to me, and I was in a daze. Evidently my reaction is not unique; there's just something about that story. So for those who are curious whether a rattlesnake will be poisoned if bitten by another, or whether a commercial writer can be moved by someone else's commercial writing, the answer is yes. Am I jealous? Of course.

Alfred Tella

I was dubious about collaborations in fiction until I read the magnificent trilogy of novels by George S. Viereck and Paul Eldridge entitled My First Two Thousand Years, Salome, and The Invincible Adam. Since then I've read other coauthored novels that worked and have become curious to make the experiment. Different authors have different strengths, and the right combination can bring synergy to a common product.

Why Piers as a partner? Because he is a gifted writer whose novels I enjoy, and because we share certain values, among them an appreciation of history and an affection for nature, critters, and our planet. If we're not quite kindred souls, the spiritual overlap is considerable. We've been corresponding ever since Piers blurbed my 1990 novel, Sundered Soul.

Asian cultures, mythologies, and tales have always held a special fascination for me, and the Indian setting of The Willing Spirit was inspired by such classics as the Panchatantra, the Ramayana, and the Vickram stories, and also by my friendships with Indo-Americans. The stories and fables from the ancient Sanskrit are timeless, and in many ways are the progenitors of modern fantasy.

If you're wondering about all those pigeons in Chapter 7, it's because I have a pigeon loft at home—actually, a converted garage with a built-on aviary. (The car stays outside.) The birds are the fancy varieties, in many colors and sporting lovely body ornaments—crests, hoods, and feathered feet. If you're curious, take a look at the striking color photographs in Wendell Levi's book, Encyclopedia of Pigeon Breeds. Even better, visit a local pigeon show!

My wife and I live in northern Virginia surrounded by trees and wildlife, friends all. Some of our more unusual visitors have been a stripeless skunk, a white deer, a maskless mother raccoon (with masked babies), a house-eating woodpecker, and a television-addicted flying squirrel who watches from a tree outside our living room window.

An acknowledgment: Some of the ingredients used in the divine creation of women (Chapter 7) owe to F. W. Bain's translation from the ancient Sanskrit, as given in a recipe in his 1898 book, A Digit of the Moon.

Copyright © 1996 by Piers Anthony Jacob and Alfred Tella

ISBN: 0-812-57146-0