The Fourth Circle (2 page)

The sound, however, became distorted, expanded, built itself up into heights, and in a few steps more had soared above the threshold of hearing, into regions audible perhaps to other, more perfect ears. Silence followed in its wake—tense, expectant: heralding the Circle.

He recognized the Circle now that he found himself on its perimeter. Contrary to what he had half-expected, there were no markings on the ground, no visible structure at all. The gloomy landscape, under its layer of loose resilient dust, stretched monotonously before him to the horizon in hushed anticipation of the azure dawn. He knew that he had arrived.

His place was empty. He could not discern any others before he stepped past the rim.

He held back for a moment before taking that final step. This was no hesitation caused by a sudden arousal of apprehension, but rather a gathering, a focusing. He felt a sudden wild upsurge in the wells of memory, the pressure of the mainstream of remembrance that might burst out onto the surface at any moment now, flinging wide the gates of the past. He understood that the final step would bring him only nonessential answers to nonessential questions. The purpose of the Circle continued to lie beyond his grasp, but now, standing on the edge, he finally understood that he was here to learn not answers, but new questions: questions that could only be asked when the Circle was closed—questions that mattered.

Stretching his hand over his shoulder, he drew the heavy brown cloth hood over his head mechanically, unaware until that moment of its existence, or of the robe, which reached almost to his heels. He did not know why he did so: it simply seemed the proper thing to do. The Circle did not require humility, but then covering his head was no token of humility.

No other preparations were necessary. Although the third sun had not yet touched the horizon behind his back, the landscape flushed dark blue with a premonition of the coming dawn. There were no further reasons for hesitation. In the distended silence, filled with a strange mixture of muted joy and melancholy, he stepped into the Circle.

CIRCLE THE FIRST

ENVELOPED IN THE morning sounds of the surrounding jungle, the little temple was awash with the moist air of a late monsoon. The sounds were those of birth and death, sounds from which only an uninitiated newcomer might extract some bizarre beauty. The temple, however, was as indifferent to life and death as it was to beauty. It had stood there for more than a thousand years, a mute, un-caring witness to countless cycles in the rise and fall of the living substance amidst which it loitered like an intruder. The millennium had only slightly dented its initial shapeliness, chipping at the edges, filling its pores with small plants the roots of which were doing the work of deconstruction, infinitely slowly but inexorably, achieving an effect opposite to that of the gentle flow of a river, which takes rough stones and polishes them to rounded pebbles.

The unconcerned attitude of the temple to the world around it perfectly suited the deity it housed. The large statue of Buddha, taking up most of the central space, watched the jungle with unblinking stone eyes that had long since passed the threshold of Nirvana.

Somewhere deep in the mists of bygone time, this particular shrine, though among the smallest of the many temples the area boasted, for a while drew a teeming river of pilgrims, rushing to show their respect to the oldest founder of a great religion of mankind.

But eternal tranquility, stretching over the vast plains that lay beyond the often impassable ravines of human passion and vanity, required suffering. In other places, suffering consisted of different trials: climbing endless stairways—high enough to drive even the most determined over the brink of desperation—or taking bizarre vows, in some cases lasting for decades.

Here, to reach the heart of the subcontinent, the impassable jungle full of lurking dangers, known and unknown, had to be traversed. For many, the arduousness of the achievement offered a guarantee that the journey would be successful; hence the great attraction of this small shrine. But since disproportio-nately few returned from the journey and since the tales they wove mostly concerned the terrible fate of other less fortunate pilgrims and made no mention of Nirvana, the ancient wisdom of survival came to prevail over the luxurious wish for metaphysical elevation. There were fewer daring travelers, and then still fewer, until finally only true devotees remained, monks fanatically indifferent both to suffering and courage, whose lives were given to the unswerving search for the ultimate goal.

It was a small temple, so it could provide permanent shelter to only a few Buddhist priests. In the millennium gone by, two monks had usually resided here. They gladly accepted the meager charity and abundant dangers of the ev-er-hostile jungle, so as to achieve untrammeled solitude in which they could give themselves up to meditation.

The outside world only rarely upset this fragile tranquility. Fifty years or more might elapse without the shrine seeing a single visitor, and when visitors finally did come, they usually came to replace aged or already dead predecessors.

The newcomers were neither encouraged nor discouraged by others' experiences on the ascent to Nirvana. In the spirit of the basic tenet of their religion, they accepted everything with impassivity, preoccupied only by the quest for the Way.

Only in the last few decades of the temple's first millennium did the world beyond the vast sea of trees start to announce itself more perceptibly. First came white wispy signs at very high altitudes in the sky, slender writings trailed by minute pencils, the meaning of which the monks could not quite fathom. Then whole groups of visitors began arriving in strange, noisy vehicles, which though not pulled by any animal, somehow drove a path through the jungle. Sometimes they floated down from the sky in squat, egg-shaped vessels with no wings, but with four long arms growing out of the head flailing madly around. Then in the small clearing before the temple, leaves and dust as well as panic-stricken birds, scared out of the trees by the vast metal birds of prey, would fly wildly in all directions.

These travelers differed from the marauding bands on missions of plunder that had reached the shrine several times in the past. Because the treasures of the temple were worthless in worldly terms—lacking the giant gold-plated statues of Buddha kept in larger temples to the south—the raiders, enraged by the futility of their efforts, would vent their anger by killing and destroying. Unlike the monks, who, however indifferent to the world and bound to their faith, were not immune to the lethal strokes of a sword or knife (nor to other blows less lethal but more painful, calculated to make the agony last as long as possible), the statue of Buddha remained steadfast, as it should, mocking with immense calmness the angry looters' inability to do it harm, even when they broke off two massive toes
from the foot and a hefty piece of the nose. Indeed, a falling chunk of the left nostril killed one robber and permanently crippled two others.

The new visitors did not want to hurt anyone. Except for their rackety arrivals and departures, they were quiet and full of respect for the ancient holy objects.

The only disturbance they made was brief, when their small black boxes flashed whitely in the darkness inside the temple. They did not stay long and often left presents, which undoubtedly had value in the world from which they came but meant nothing to monks in the heart of the jungle, beyond the influence of time.

Then, all at once, time started to flow in the little shrine.

2. THE HAUNTED CEILING

DAMNED EVIL SPIRITS, may their seed be wiped out!

To assail him now, out of season, when there is so much work to be done! The walls stand dry, waiting. This weather will not last, but still he does not stir.

Withdrawn, wrapped up in himself, not a squeak out of him, something evil troubles him. He has eyes only for that, that thing of his up there, may it be accursed! The Unclean One, God forgive me, is after him; I see this, but I cannot help. The monachs notice it also, they look at us furtively; they suspect something, the long-robed ones, there is vrag's work here, they are remembering the stories that follow us. As soon as my back is turned, they murmur amongst themselves, whispering and shaking their heads. They think I do not see, but I see everything. I even see what they do when they think nobody is watching. Spawn of Sotona! I have been watching them all my life, the reprobates! Still, we make our living from them, so what do I care? It is not for me to pass judgment. There is One who will judge, and they will be the first to come before Him. Mine is to do my work. To look after the Master, to bring him food and materials, to be at his bidding, to mix the colors for him, prepare his brushes, put up the scaffolding, wash his shirts and small clothes, clean up after him, make his bed, and strive to please him, just so he may paint. But he has ceased to paint.

The walls gape empty; soon it will be autumn. The iguman of the monastery is beginning to shake his head, but the Master cares not a jot. It was not like that before. I know him; I have spent almost half my life with him. He knew how to bend to his work, oh yes. To make everything sizzle. To use paints faster than I could make them. Clap your palms together, and there, the frescoes are finished.

Beauty untold, that a man might just stand and look. How he can paint the Son of God and all the other saints! His Hrist is always different, the other brethren too, God forgive me, but Marya is always the same. He only saw her once, at the church fair while he was still apprenticed to the late Theophilus, may the earth lie lightly on him. I know, I was already with him by then, but he will not admit that it is she. But what's the harm? And he forgets nothing. What he sees once, what his eye captures, comes out of his hand, identical to the last hair. Sotona's gift, not God's, but let that be.
Once he became known, everybody started calling for us. There is no monastery in these parts we have not painted. We traveled north, too, to the great rivers, and even the godless people asked for us, may the vrag wipe out their seed. Quick he is, and good, powerfully good. No better Master than he, but when he is painting, God save us, something takes hold of him, as if all the vrags of Hell were chasing him. He never gets tired. Sometimes he almost begins to foam at the mouth. Behind the pillars, the monachs hide, watching him covertly and crossing themselves. Easy for them to make the sign of the cross; it is not they who bear the brunt, but I. I used to bless myself too in the beginning, but a man becomes indifferent, hardened, with no time for making the sign of the cross.

And then a moment comes when there is no work to be done, when the weather is not dry and the frescoes will not stick to the foundation, and he is another man. As good as gold. Does not make me do anything. Takes everything nice and easy. Is willing to do my work. Sees that I have grown old, so he even brings me my food. I tell him not to do that when others are looking, not to bring shame on us. He laughs at that, caring nothing for the bad opinion of others. We have long talks then. He can speak as well as he paints and is a joy to listen to. Not that I understand everything. Though about his watching people, I do. He likes to stand aside in some corner and watch, at gatherings and fairs, all the livelong day.

Looks around at people, cattle, tents, green fields, and hills. Draws a figure or two in charcoal, but mostly commits them to memory. Later I recognize the peasants in the frescoes. Isus is that ragged boy selling a cow, God forgive me, or the fire-swallower outside his tent. His saints are mostly horse dealers or cattle drovers, God save us. Only Marya does not change; she too was a little peasant girl, dried up like a prune by now and snag-toothed I shouldn't wonder, but on the walls she does remain the same as then. And on so many! Nobody knows, so nobody complains about it. If the igumans knew, they would chase us to Hell itself. God knows, for He knows everything, but what's the harm? It does not bother Him. Or maybe He has begun to punish him for it now? May Heaven have mercy on us if that is so.

There are other things beyond my understanding too. Come autumn, when the rain pours down without stopping, something gets into him, like sorrow, but different. He becomes pensive, discouraged, talks about evil spirits, small and green, who crawl into his head, troubling and tormenting him from inside, addling his brain. They insist that he must do something, I don't know what, he cannot explain, but he resists, albeit feebly, does not succumb to the vrags, damn them, who give him no peace, even in his sleep. In the night I see him turning and sweating, tossing in his bed, then with a yell he awakens and looks at me in bewilderment, does not recognize me, waves his arms around, drives me away from him, as if I myself were, God forbid, one of the goblins. But this runs its course and passes. The weather changes, snows fall, and the evil spirits run away. Seems they do not like whiteness. In it, their tracks might remain. No hiding this from the peasants at whose houses we spend the night, they see all, hear all. Later they catch me alone and question me in a roundabout sort of way, so as not to wrong the Master, but still afraid of a curse falling on their house, of the Archfiend who might befoul their hearth. And I say to them: it is nothing, the Master has a fever, so he raves like a child burning with illness, the air is not good for him here, or the water, who knows? They accept this, without grumbling, but I see they are relieved when we leave. They burn tamyan in the house and call the priest to expel the evil from their home.