prematurely aged mask his eyes appeared uncommonly large, the whites tinged with blue so that they seemed even whiter, the brown irises clear and brilliant like convex mirrors. His stare was daunting in its naked, uncompromising directness.
He acquired a new name, too:
There were still vestiges of his former life, traces of racial memory, which sometimes surfaced in dreams. He could not erase them completely, even though they had no meaning or relevance in his new philosophy: The past was truly dead.
Now the time had come for this new being to fulfill the purpose for which it had been created.
He stayed three weeks in New York while arrangements were made. The ashram was a converted loft in what had been a warehouse on Cleveland Street in the SoHo district. For much of the time he sat and meditated. Whenever approached by any of the young initiates who had heard of his pilgrimage he was amazed to find that they shared his beliefs; he was no longer alone as he had been all those years ago when he set out on his quest.
In these young people he saw signs of spiritual malaise, which were symptoms of a national, perhaps worldwide, dissatisfaction: a growing body of youth looking for the way ahead and seeking it in the ancient religious teachings. How, he wondered, could this sickness and dissatisfaction be channeled and used? It was taught that the self and ultimate reality were one and the same, given expression as 'Thou are That.' Then how to reconcile this tenet of the faith with his own desire for change? The world must be reborn, just as he had been reborn. But rebirth demanded a death. It was already sliding toward the brink. He could watch it die--more, he would help it toward self-extinction.
They would follow him, these thousands of young people, if he were prepared to lead. But lead where? He must find the answer.
From New York he flew to Las Vegas and from there he went north to a small settlement between the townships of Sunnyside and Lund on the banks of the White River, overlooked by Mount Grafton. Even while flying over the Rockies and seeing once again the familiar topography, no stray thought or memory of his previous life impinged upon the serene surface of his mind.
The past was truly dead and buried.
There were a few shacks grouped around a clearing in the trees. About fifty members of the faith lived there, young men mostly, with shaved heads and saffron robes. When one of them asked why his own robes were black, Bhumi Bhap replied, 'In mourning.'
In one of the shacks he unpacked his few belongings, including his bowl and wooden spoon, asking to be excused from their company. Alone, he adopted the posture advocated by the Bhagavad-Gita, repeating silently over and over again,
Hunger sharpened his senses while meditation relaxed his mind. The outer world faded away and in a state of semitrance his cosmic awareness unfolded like a flower in the spring rain.
Listening.
Watching.
Touching.
Tasting.
Experiencing.
His senses reached out like the soft white shoots of a plant into rich moist earth. His consciousness expanded until it transcended time and space. His inner eye conjured up the blue-white bowling ball swinging through the void. Only it was not as he himself had once seen it, clear and sparkling. Now it was wreathed in a gray miasma. The atmosphere was a dense impenetrable blanket. The once-sweet rainwater that flooded from the skies scorched the flesh. The oceans moved sluggishly, clogged with dying plants and fish. Every breath was a painful gasp.
This was how it would be. This was how it must be.
His inner eye probed the future and saw the horror. It couldn't be changed. Had he not been taught to give way to the laws of nature operating inside himself in order to release his true self from that bondage? What was outward reality, after all, but a sham, a deceit, a trick of the imperfect senses? The planet was dying. What matter to him?
Surely that was the one true path? But what about his pilgrimage and its ultimate purpose? Was he now to foresake it?
Bhumi Bhap didn't know. He had failed before he had begun. He felt utter despair.
The crude wooden walls of the shack swam back into focus. The oil lamp, turned low, burned with a smoky orange light, making a steady dim circle on the sandy floor. In this circle, at his feet, he saw the scorpion.
It was the color of pale amber, its translucent body relaxed, not curled in the stinging position. The claws twitched and inched forward across the sandy floor toward him, wavering slightly as if preparing for a courtship dance. Possibly it sensed the heat of his body.
Bhumi Bhap waited, motionless, his senses quiescent.
One of the creature's claws touched the big toe of his left foot and immediately stopped. After a moment the claw opened and tentatively gripped his toe, as if testing it. The creature had to decide between three options. Food. Friend. Enemy.
Which was it to be?
Bhumi Bhap lost sight of the scorpion as it crawled beneath his bent right knee. He was being tickled on the sole of his left foot. The claws appeared, like blind insects, over the curve of his thigh. Up it came, laboring to gain a purchase, its segmented body gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
His right hand was spread on the crown of his knee and the scorpion used his fingers as the rungs of a ladder to haul itself onto the back of his hand. There it rested, claws raised in the attitude of a boxer wearing outsize gloves, prepared to defend itself.
Bhumi Bhap could hardly feel it, it was so light. Just a few grams on delicate jointed legs--yet the bulbous gland with its pointed sting at the end of the coiled tail contained enough venom to kill a creature several thousand times its size and weight, including a man.
A mosquito whined in the stillness. The oil lamp unfurled its dark ribbon of smoke to a blackened spot on the ceiling. Unlike a Christian or a muslim, Bhumi Bhap could not pray to God or Allah for deliverance from this peril; his faith admitted of no supreme deity. Instead there was the impersonal concept of a vast oceanic experience with which selfhood could be merged. Brahman, or the ultimate reality, could be attained by any method the disciple wished, providing he had dispensed with ego. And without ego there could be no fear of death of self, since that imposter no longer existed.
The scorpion (Bhumi Bhap knew) was a test. Had he felt fear he would have failed. It would have shown that his ego, his identity, was intact.
But he felt no fear.
His ego was dead.
He had passed the test A-OK.
He raised his hand and brought the scorpion level with his eyes and looked at it. The creature was alerted. Its tail sprung up and arched stiffly over its head, the sting extended and poised to attack. Slowly and carefully Bhumi Bhap placed his hand flat on the floor. The sting retracted and the tail coiled back on itself and the scorpion crawled off into the darkness.
From outside came a low rhythmic chanting. Over and over the chant was repeated until the night air vibrated and seemed to solidify around him.
With the index finger of his left hand he traced the sacred symbol in the circle of lamplight at his feet. Bhumi Bhap knew what had to be done, and knew that he had the strength and the will to do it.
He would become death, the shatterer of worlds . . .
'You think he's worried about something?' Chase scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes and peas. 'The letter doesn't actually say
so.'
