Bija!" Ajatashatru yelled, reborn Bodhisattva or
not, she had to mind him. "Get back here before you
get hurt."
"Have to—" she insisted, straining up, plump hands fumbling at one of the demon faces, hooking fingers into
the fanged mouth. "Have to get my pictures! I forgot
my pictures!"
"Reverend—"
What had seemed a warped crack in the demonic face
split apart to reveal a hidden space. Bija fumbled out a
tightly bound armful of ancient fan books, bound in red
thread, edges gilded to protect against rot. They were
nearly as tall as Bija and Ajatashatru watched, fists
clenched, as she tottered down the pile of boxes and
carefully across the floor. When she was near enough,
he snatched her up, books and child both, hugging her
hard and panting as if
he'd run across
the breadth of the
Gwanwi in midsummer.
"Do not go wandering, Reverend," he begged, "please, do not do
that to me. I don't want any more gray
hairs." He had none, of course, and never would.
Bija patted his cheek gently and gave him a childish
kiss. "I'm sorry Ajat, I had to get my pictures."
Sighing wearily, Ajatashatru put Bija on her feet and
patted her rump to get her moving back to the others.
Reborn Bodhisattva of compassion or not, she was still
a little girl and he imagined the years ahead, struggling to guide the child while respecting the ancient
soul within. He sighed, last time the Blue Bodhisattva
had come to them, he'd been nearly adult, old enough t o
take
his place as
master of the temple and
relieve Ajatashatru of one small part of his duty.
Bija was terribly young. Ajatashatru bowed his head,
accepting the burden he'd carry for years yet.
When they were nearly back at the prayer room
in which they'd chosen to take refuge, Bija paused.
"Something's wrong," she said softly. Ajatashatru
flicked off his flashlight and peered past her. There
was too much light ahead, steady and bright, not the
flicker of butter lanterns. A mouse scrabbled across
his hands and Ajatashatru flinched, hissing under his
breath at the touch of the filthy creature. He hated
mice, hated vermin of all kinds, and no compassionate
enlightenment was going to change that. The mouse
— actually several mice — paused quite openly,
standing on their hind legs to sniff the air,
their tiny eyes black and expressionless. Ajatashatru ignored them
as they scurried
aw a y , but Bija watched them with wide eyes.
"Stay here," he whispered, drawing his warded gun.
Gold wire gleamed on it; the barrel sprang from the
mouth of a guardian daemon and the bullets within
could harm anything from a ghost of the dead to
one of the fey creatures from beyond the world to
simple flesh and blood. Whispering protective charms
under his breath, Ajatashatru slipped past Bija, moving
as silently as the falling snow outside and prayed
for the lives of the children he'd left behind.
The prayers Ajatashatru murmured had been taught
him in an ancient era, when the gods were close to
men and the spirit of the mountain range granted
him strength, power, speed and endurance. This time,
he sought the favor of the shadows, the demons of
silence and darkness that he might pass unseen like
a ghost.
When he
crept to the edge
of the room, he met the ugly
pale gaze of a foreigner. Despite the
shadows Ajatashatru had drawn across himself and the silence he'd called down, the woman
saw him as clearly as if it were mid-day. She twisted
her hand and the child kneeling at her feet made a
gagging sound, clawing wildly at his neck. Luam, one eye
swelling shut and his knuckles scraped, was battered
from a battle he should never have had to fight.
The others were huddled against one wall, under
the hard gaze of men in black military parkas carrying
machine guns. Everyone except Sister Gua, who lay in a
pool of her own blood, dark eyes staring sightlessly u p
to the
s a c r e d
paintings on the listing
ceiling. The children were silent as mice and pale
with terror. Ajatashatru was painfully satisfied to
see they remembered their lessons; none of them
cried, and none of them revealed any hint of weapons or defenses they still might carry.
"Come in," she said, her harsh accent ruining the
graceful language of the gods. "Ancient one."
Ajatashatru stood, sighing, and let his prayers fall
away, revealing himself as nothing more than a short,
middle-aged man with centuries lurking behind his eyes.
"What do you want, enemy?"
The woman bared her teeth at him, twisting the garrote again, and there was something in her — some foulness hidden beneath a too thin veneer of civilization — that made Ajatashatru shift uneasily.
Mice, startled by the lights and noise
after so long left alone in
the old nunnery, were
s c r a m b l i n g across
the floor
and along the walls,
their small squeaks making the hair rise on the
nape of Ajatashatru's neck. "What do you think, you
moron. The child. Give us the child and the Book, and
we'll leave you to starve in peace."
The Reverend is not here," Ajatashatru said plainly,
pleased that he could speak the truth, especially when
the woman's gaze grabbed his, twisting like a knife in his
mind, striving to reduce him to her helpless thrall. He
stood stiffly, battling the nasty creep of the woman's
mind, gathering his own defenses, turning to the colors
of the prayer painting a wise sage had given him 70
years before. Laid out on the surface of his mind, blue,
gold and crimson swam across his inner eye, the path
of strength in compassion under his feet and rising
up like lions behind him. The scrabble of sharp
attention, slid within him like mice in
a cupboard, chasing him past his
first line of defense.
Ajatashatru fled deeper, where he summoned necessary suffering and turned to battle his invader.
Crawling within the privacy of his memories, within
the dignity of his mind were vermin. The horrible, violating sickness of it nearly left Ajatashatru defeated
and he barely took up his sacred weapons with a disgusted cry, striking out at the woman's mind with his
own. Yet, she scrabbled and clawed and crawled and
bit and ...
"No!" Ajatashatru cried out, jolted back to consciousness to find himself writing on the floor and weeping
in revulsion. "Stop! Gods, stop, stop... please!"
The woman laughed at him, high pitched and sharp,
like the squeal of a rat. "Poor little man, are you
afraid of me?"
"What use is the child to you?" He snarled.
"One of you—"
Scavenger,
he thought in
disgust, one who
crawled in the filth, tearing
away the lives and souls of others
to stave off their own natural death.
She only laughed again, "Fifty-million dollars is
what that precious Reborn of yours is worth. I have
expensive tastes," she bared sharpened teeth at him,
"so I'd suggest you hand both the child and the Book
over before you and I... get better acquainted."
Ajatashatru recoiled at the sick suggestiveness in her
voice but remained stubbornly silent. Spiritual defilement, no matter how terrible, was a price he'd willingly
pay and there was nothing in his face, his mind or his voice to
betray the Reborn he was eternally dedicated to protect. Yet,
Bija had
ideas of her own.
"You burned the Book," she said, walking into the room,
a wide-eyed little girl dressed in a worn quilted coat
and a cat-eared yellow hat. She crouched down beside
Ajatashatru and patted his shoulder with mittened
hands. "It's alright, Ajat."
"No," he groaned in despair. "It's not."
Bija straightened up. "I am the Reborn Blue Bodhisattva," she said firmly. Satisfaction gleamed in the woman's
pale eyes.
But—
"No," Gutja stood, blood from a cut on his temple
turning his face into a demon's mask. "I am the Reborn."
Vashra stood beside him and shook his head. "No —"
The children stood, each of them, and claimed
the Reverend title and nothing but truth
shone in their eyes, even as their enemy
snarled, brutally searching
their minds for deception. For each of the children spoke the truth; all the
children of Anga Lashan were chosen to be Reborn,
raised to take that mantle. That none of them knew,
ultimately, who would take the Reborn title, was a
small detail in a greater truth. Ajatashatru closed
his eyes against the swelling grief and pride. He could
hide behind mystic defenses, and defy their enemies with
curses and prayer, but there would always be someone stronger in violence, someone who could eventually defeat him. Nothing could defeat the simplest and
greatest truth of Anga Lashan; all children were
the children of compassion.