Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment

6

It took Devadatta most of the night to figure out how to escape from the cave. While there was still a glimmer of light in the sky, he staved off despair by scouring crevices for kindling to burn and scraps of vegetation to gnaw on. Not that he could have started a fire with his bare hands. Eventually he stopped this fruitless activity and busied himself with hating Mara. He fantasized about the revenge he would wreak if he survived. The night was so thick he lost all concept of time. Finally there was nothing to do but curl up on the stone floor of the cave, shivering and defiant, and wait to die.

It took a while longer to give up hope entirely. Only when there was no possible way out did his mind stop whirling in panic, and then Devadatta considered a simple question: Could demons physically transport a person anywhere? What if the cave was just an illusion? The moment he considered this possibility, two things happened. He heard the faintest echo of Mara laughing at him, and he fell fast asleep. When he woke up, he was lying on the ground near the pavilion on the spot where the demon had shown himself. Devadatta sat up, rubbing his stiff, aching limbs. The sun was setting, and so he must have lain unconscious there for hours.

He walked onto the veranda that circled the pavilion. Torch flames were reflected on the water of the lotus pond. From the distance he heard drunken laugher. The king’s revelries were continuing into the night. Devadatta headed toward the sound. For some mysterious reason his ordeal in the cave didn’t drain him. He felt stronger, in fact. He craved more than ever to do exactly what he had set out to do that morning: lure one of the maids into a corner and torment Siddhartha. Both desires came to mind again, and they aroused him to the point that he began to run. Devadatta didn’t care if he ran into a girl or Siddhartha first. Neither would come away forgetting the encounter.

Why can demons roam the mind in this way, taking advantage of innocent people? What made Devadatta prey to the terrors of the cave was a tiny thing: he was claustrophobic. As an infant he had almost suffocated in his thick swaddling clothes when a careless nurse left him wrapped up in the sun. Mara knew this weakness, and all he had to do was to throw his cloak over the boy. Devadatta’s mind would do the rest. It would erupt with the memory of being suffocated and begin to panic. It was easy for the demon to shape mindless panic into a nightmare. The boy couldn’t wake up from the nightmare; it held him in its grip for as long as Mara wanted. A moment of terror could be transformed into a week in the dreaded cave. And Mara could accomplish the same thing with anyone.

ALONE AND DISCONSOLATE, Siddhartha roamed the grounds. It had become his habit to be alone as much as he could. He felt he had no other choice. “People seem to be afraid of me. They barely look at me or they run away. Why?” he had asked Channa not long before.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Channa shot back.

“Not you. The whole rest of the world.”

This wasn’t exactly true. If you are holding a fragile egg and are afraid of dropping it, you are afraid not of the egg but of the consequences. The same was true of the courtiers around Siddhartha. So many doors were shut to Siddhartha, so many faces held low to the ground, so many eyes averted that he felt bewildered and mistook their attitude for fear. Even Bikram fell to his knees and prostrated himself when Siddhartha came into the stables. The only exception was if Channa was also present; the king had told Bikram he could stand then because a father shouldn’t be humbled in front of his own son.

“They’re just scared not to be perfect,” said Channa when Siddhartha wouldn’t let the thing go. “The king would find out.”

“And then what?”

Channa pointed to the high palace walls. “He throws them out. That’s what I hear.” Channa thought of the horses he and his father buried beyond the walled perimeter. “Only they’re not dead.”

Siddhartha knew in his heart of hearts that the horses that disappeared from the stables didn’t leave alive, and it made him anxious that something dark happened to a lord or lady who suddenly vanished from the morning levee when the king assembled the court for a greeting and allowed them to watch silently as he ate breakfast. None of Siddhartha’s favorites had disappeared yet, thankfully.

“When I’m the king, nobody gets thrown over the wall,” he said, but that was a rare remark; Channa would never recall another time when Siddhartha referred to taking the throne, not in the near future, the distant future, or ever.

Siddhartha’s mind was wandering through these gloomy thoughts as he stood alone by his favorite pool, the one surrounded by tall reeds. He knelt down and paddled his hands in the cool water. The pond was shallow there, and in the shadow of a floating lotus he saw something-the nymph of a dragonfly creeping slowly over the mud. Siddhartha watched it. The miniature monster moved steadily, fearlessly, on the prowl. A tiny silver minnow swam by, and with a startling leap the nymph snatched it in its jaws. The minnow shuddered once and was still, its eyes open and shiny even as it died. Siddhartha shuddered along with it. Why did he feel the pain of such a tiny, insignificant creature?

“A very good question. Maybe it’s your gift.” Startled, Siddhartha stood up to see an old man in front of him, a hermit. His skin was brown and weather worn. He wore a flimsy silk shawl thrown over his torso and a rough hemp skirt. The hermit was leaning on his staff by the waterside, gazing at the boy, his eyes unreadable in their depth.

The hermit said, “You found me. And very quickly at that.”

“I didn’t find anyone. I was just here,” Siddhartha protested.

The hermit smiled, which made papery creases at the corners of his eyes, something Siddhartha had never seen before. Everything about the stranger made him seem like an apparition. “These things don’t work quite the way you suppose. I am Asita.”

An older boy, or a very different one, would have wanted to know how someone else’s voice got into his head. Siddhartha accepted that something inexplicable could still be real. “Why are you here? Does my father know?”

“Another good question. To which I can give a simple answer, since your other question is more complicated. Your father would be very displeased to see me here. Does that matter?” Before Siddhartha could reply, Asita said, “Of course it does. He’s the one you look up to.”

Siddhartha took this as a criticism. “Everyone looks up to him. He’s king here.”

“Let’s not worry about that for the moment. Have you heard other voices in your head? Tell me the truth.” Siddhartha hung his head. “I thought as much. You have a feeling nature, a very deep one. You will sense things that other people can’t. Unfortunately, not all those things will be good for you. There’s nothing I can do about that, do you understand?”

“I don’t want to be different, but you say I have to be. No, I don’t understand.”

Asita took a step toward him and laid a rough hand on his shoulder. “No mother, and a father you trust completely. We have to take that into account.”

Siddhartha grew more uneasy. “I can hear the guards coming. You have to go. You said you shouldn’t be here.” Soldiers were shouting at each other from the far side of the pond, and the voices were getting closer.

The stranger shook his head. “I can take care of them.”

Whatever he meant was a mystery to Siddhartha, because Asita did nothing that he could see. Yet when three guards came combing the tall reeds, they didn’t see the two of them standing there in plain sight. The boy hesitated.

“It’s your choice,” said Asita calmly. “Call for them, or stay and listen to me.” Without a word, the boy waited until the guards were safely away. “Good,” Asita said. “I am only here to show you a few things. If I keep protecting you, you won’t find your own way, and you must do that.”

“How have you been protecting me? Are you the one who keeps me here, inside these walls?”

“No. I have been protecting you in many ways, but not physically.”

Asita bent down and looked the boy in the eye. “Your father wants to live through you. But he doesn’t have that right. Believe me.” Siddhartha looked away, biting his lip. “You are so young. I only wish-” Asita’s voice trailed off, and he stood up again. “No one’s fate was ever decided by talking. I have something to show you, and now it’s time.”

Overhanging the water was a large rose-apple tree in full bloom. “I told you that you have a gift, but it’s not a simple one. Already you have begun to experience it, but each time you do, you are tempted to run away. Does this tree remind you of anything?” Siddhartha shook his head.

“You were barely four years old. It was time for the spring plowing, and your father held a feast like this one. It was his role to go out into the fields and plow with the common farmers, a great sight. Everyone wanted to see it, including your nurses. So they left you under a rose-apple tree, just like this one. You don’t remember at all?”

Siddhartha didn’t know what to say. A strange sense inside him, like a clearing mist, made him uncertain. Asita went on. “Nobody realized it, but you were watching closely, and as the plow blades turned the fresh earth over, you saw something very tiny but very disturbing. The bodies of insects and worms had been chopped into bits by the plow, along with other small newborn creatures. How did you feel?”

“I can’t remember how a baby feels.”

Asita’s gaze didn’t waver, and Siddhartha hung his head. It took a moment before he murmured, “I wanted to cry. Why should I cry over a half a worm?”

“You felt as if you had seen your own family hurt, and this frightened you, didn’t it? No need to answer. We both know. The feeling was too big for you. But something else happened next-”

At that instant Siddhartha lost the sound of Asita’s voice, because the clearing mist inside him revealed the scene the hermit was describing. Siddhartha saw himself in his baby’s robes sitting under the tree. He saw himself look up at the overhanging blossoms, and suddenly he was back there again. But what he felt was no longer anguish at the small creatures cut to bits by the plow. Something new had washed over him. The beautiful tree, the immense blue sky, the inrush of the spirit of spring-they made him hurt again, but this time with a pang of pure joy. And yet somehow the two things were connected. The sight of violence, which hurt so much, transformed into a joy that wanted to burst out of his chest.

Siddhartha came back to himself, gazing at Asita, who seemed to be reading his thoughts. “That was your gift. You mustn’t run away from it.”

“Did I run away then?”

“No, you didn’t have a conscience then.” Asita said. “You didn’t know enough to feel ashamed or different. You fell into that beautiful thing for hours, and when they found you, everyone was astonished that you hadn’t moved from the same spot all day. They were so astonished they didn’t even notice something much more interesting.”

Siddhartha held up his hand. “Don’t say it.”

“Ah. So someone did notice.”

Although he had sat under the rose-apple tree all day, the tree’s shadow hadn’t moved. It stood in the same place overhead. And so the child was shielded against the sun’s fierce heat until his nurses ran back again.

“Is that what you call protecting me?” asked Siddhartha, unsure whether to look upon this as a miracle or just one more thing that made him not like other children.

“You are troubled, and you shouldn’t be. Come.”

Asita sat down under the tree now. Siddhartha watched as the hermit crossed his legs and straightened himself until his spine was perfectly erect. From long practice he made this look effortless.

“Now, you try,” Asita said.

The boy imitated the position, which felt strangely comfortable considering that he had never seen it before.

“Hands like this.” Asita held one hand on each knee and circled his thumb and forefinger. Siddhartha followed and then closed his eyes after he saw the hermit close his. They were both quiet. At first the boy was only aware of his surroundings. The air was cooler under the tree; the noon sun filtered lazily through the still canopy of leaves and flowers. Siddhartha felt drowsy, and for a moment he might have nodded off. But he was awake when the voice in his head said, Can you be still, without thinking? Don’t talk to yourself. Just breathe gently.

These words came into his head like his own thoughts, but he knew that they must be Asita’s. The two of them seemed to be connected. Siddhartha accepted this fact without questioning it. The old hermit wasn’t like anyone he had ever met. Certainly not like Canki, whom the boy vaguely feared. Then Siddhartha caught himself. He wasn’t supposed to think. After a moment his mind stilled. This happened naturally, like a breeze calming over a cool lake. He became aware of his breath going in and out in a soft rhythm. The whole thing was pleasant, soothing. He had the sense, almost physical, that he was sinking down into the earth or was being lowered into a well. Only his descent wasn’t frightening and what waited below wasn’t sheer blackness. It was more like a welcoming sleep, except that he remained awake in its arms.

Siddhartha lost track of time. Once he opened his eyes again, Asita was leaning on his staff watching him.

“They’re coming for you,” he said soberly. Siddhartha knew he meant the guards sent out by his father. “Can you remember what I’ve just showed you?”

Siddhartha nodded, although he wasn’t really sure that he had been shown anything. Asita picked up his doubt.

“Here is your safety. This is going to be your special place. When you feel confused or when someone is trying to make you what you are not, come back to this tree. Sit and close your eyes. Wait for the silence. Do nothing to make it come to you. It will come of its own accord.”

They could hear the return of soldiers shouting to each other by the pond. “Will I find you here?” asked Siddhartha.

Asita shook his head. “I had to think long and hard about even coming today. You are still in danger.”

“From what?” Siddhartha’s spirit was so settled that he was only mildly disturbed by Asita’s veiled warning.

“From everyone who thinks they know what your future should be. You are not alone. They are always watching.”

“I know.” Siddhartha’s voice was as sober as the hermit’s.

“Well, let that be. I am withdrawing my protection now, as of this moment. I don’t want to be like one of them.”

Asita’s voice had become tender and somewhat strange. Siddhartha didn’t understand why the old man’s gaze seemed so sad, or why he took a moment to bend over and touch Siddhartha’s feet. But the moment he did, the boy found himself closing his eyes again, and once more he descended into the well of silence, deeper this time, deep enough so that he didn’t hear Asita depart.

“Hey, over here!”

The shout was close by, and Siddhartha heard running footsteps approaching. He slowly opened his eyes to see a ring of guards around him. Some looked agitated, others relieved. The officer among them gave an order: “Run and tell the king.” He knelt down beside Siddhartha. “Where have you been? Did someone take you away?”

Siddhartha shook his head. He wished they would all leave. It would be much better if they did, if he didn’t have to return with them.

He wanted to close his eyes again, but instead he heard himself say, “I’ve just been here. Sitting by myself.”

The officer looked doubtful. “We’ve circled the place half a dozen times.”

If this was an implied question, Siddhartha didn’t answer it. He was too aware that his body was getting to its feet, as if another person were in charge of his muscles. He himself was still inside the silence. More people were running up now, including various courtiers dressed for the feast, some wobbly from drink. What time was it? He was surprised to see the sun low on the horizon.

The soldiers led the way, and Siddhartha felt himself return to the world. Everything was back in focus. His father greeted him with open arms and not a word about whether he had fought with Devadatta. With the tension broken, the revels became twice as raucous, continuing long past midnight. Siddhartha was allowed to stay up. He spent a closely guarded hour watching the dancers and tumblers, then went to his room and threw himself into bed, exhausted but with a head full of images that kept him awake a long time.

ERASING A MEMORY isn’t a simple process like erasing scribbles off a chalkboard. The eyes have the longest memory, followed by the nose. Who doesn’t remember the blinding white snows of yesterday, the swooning scent of a rose, the brilliance of an unfurled peacock’s tail? But try to imitate a robin’s song, something you’ve heard a thousand times. Few people can. Still less can we remember anything told us that was wise. Siddhartha swore to himself that he would never forget Asita’s words, but the years passed and the hermit’s message became more and more vague. Besides, what are a few profound sentences compared to the thousands of days that follow? In the prince’s case, each day was full to bursting, and by the time he was nearing adolescence, Siddhartha had forgotten that he had ever been under Asita’s protection or that it had ever been withdrawn.

The king kept his word and allowed his son’s education to be completely ruled by the high Brahmin. Canki’s was the first face the prince saw when he stepped out of his room in the morning and the last when he returned at night. Naturally, this constant familiarity made him trust his teacher. The heavy hulk of a man treated him well and told him many useful things. It was rather like being followed around by a learned ox. But just as naturally, Siddhartha escaped his schooling whenever he got the chance. He had worn a path to the stables by the time he was six, and it deepened every year. There he could waste endless time with Channa, whether to lie in the straw and discuss the future, saddle a horse to ride (both boys together, one to hold the reins, the other to kick with his spurs), or groom a mount that was lathered up and quivering from a hard workout. Most of the time they practiced fighting, the one thing Channa never tired of.

If Bikram happened to be watching over them, then the boys’ fighting followed strict rules. “We may have to kill, but we don’t butcher. We fight with style,” Bikram insisted. “Style is what makes the battling human.” He only half believed this motto, but it gave him a sense of dignity, and when he couldn’t help but see the carnage of battles long past in his mind’s eye, Bikram’s only refuge was his dignity-he had killed too many enemies the dirty way.

Before being handed a sword, each boy had his chest wrapped in thick straw padding bound with burlap on the outside. Their blades, shorter and lighter than a warrior’s, were dulled along the edge and the points shielded with a lead ball. These measures ensured that neither would get seriously hurt. “Don’t dull ’em so much as they won’t feel it,” Bikram ordered the armorer. “Bruises but no blood.”

As referee, he shouted, “Touch!” to make them part each time one sword made a hit. But there was only so much that could be done about Channa’s fierce temper. The boy would keep whaling away even after his foe was hit, and then Bikram would jerk him back with a scolding oath and a cuff on the ear. They both knew he was secretly proud.

Often Siddhartha felt bad about besting his friend. But Channa had it coming. Each small victory he managed meant days of listening to him crow. Both of them bore colorful bruises from the blunted blades.

One day, when the boys had just turned fourteen together, it began as a typical match. Channa tirelessly lunged and slashed, which was his favored style. Siddhartha would watch and sidestep when he could, playing the sinuous panther to Channa’s clumsy bull.

“Hit!” Channa cried out, but he was premature. He had only landed a glancing blow to Siddhartha’s burlap tunic. The reckless thrust gave him too much momentum, and as he hurtled past, Siddhartha slapped him on the butt with the flat of his blade.

“I called a hit, didn’t I?” Channa grumbled. Siddhartha just shrugged. Channa hated the grin on his friend’s face, and rather than argue he risked a second lunge, which also missed. Siddhartha fisted Channa’s shirt in his free hand, lifted his sword to his friend’s throat, and drove him back against the stable wall. Their breath hit each other’s faces as they glared at each other.

Is this what my father takes such joy in? Siddhartha asked himself. He knew by the way he talked about war and being in battle how his father felt about the struggle to survive under bloody conditions.

There was no referee this day because Bikram had been called to the smithy to help hold an unruly warhorse that was being shod. The boys took advantage by fighting harder to test each other’s limits.

Setting himself, feet apart and weight balanced as he’d been instructed, Siddhartha attacked with his blade. He had already learned that he had reach and height as his advantage. He’d grown to be the leaner and taller of the two. He struck quickly, getting as much brawn behind the blow as he could. Channa lifted his sword and blocked, steel ringing against steel. The harsh noise always made a few of the horses snort and stamp nervously in their stalls.

“Just say when you want me to stop playing around,” Siddhartha taunted. They were both sweating heavily after an hour’s practice. The swelling of muscles in their limbs was suggesting the contours of men, not boys.

“Playing around?” Channa said. “I’m getting sore from holding back so you can stay in the match.”

Although his strength was flagging and air burned his lungs as he breathed, Siddhartha pursued Channa, driving his foe before him.

“Hit!”

This time it was Channa calling out that he had been struck with the point of Siddhartha’s sword in the chest. The prince smiled grimly, shaking his head. Let’s have this one out, the smile said. Seeing Channa stumble off balance, Siddhartha tossed his sword with a quick twist of the wrist and caught the hilt overhand, using it like a dagger to plunge into Channa’s heart. He felt the fierce exultancy of his dominance, and in an instant he was kneeling over Channa’s body, the edge of his blade tight against his friend’s throat.

He let Channa up, not looking into his eyes. If their gazes met, he knew Channa wouldn’t be able to disguise a flicker of hatred, the despising look of the defeated. There was something else too. He thought he heard someone approaching all but silently. But before he could find out, Siddhartha felt his legs go out from under him. As he had turned away, Channa had stuck his boot out and tripped him. Siddhartha fell facedown on the stable floor, spitting out dung dust. The next thing he knew Channa had rolled him over and was shoving the point of his sword into Siddhartha’s throat. Even shielded with lead, the tip dug painfully into his flesh.

“You forgot to finish me off,” Channa said. He wore his usual gloating grin, the one reserved for when he recovered from the threat of defeat. But his eyes were dark with a feeling that left a cold spot in Siddhartha’s heart

“See?” Channa said, leaning over him so their faces were only inches apart. “That’s the difference between you and me, Siddharth’.” He smiled confidently. “I’m not even thinking about not killing you.”

“Did one of you girls talk about killing?” The two boys were startled. Without a sound Devadatta had appeared. “You’ll never see the day, I promise.” He drew closer, bestowing a pitying smile on them.

“Care to give it a try?” Channa blurted out impetuously. He raised his sword under Devadatta’s chin.

Siddhartha stiffened. The three of them were constantly in each other’s company. “Throw the three of them together,” Canki had advised Suddhodana. “If we isolate the prince, he will sense that we have designs on him.” It was another of the small irritants in their relationship that the Brahmin couldn’t stop talking like a conspirator. “Why teach him to hate Sakya’s enemies when we only have to put him in the same room with an enemy of his own?” The jealousy that Devadatta harbored toward his younger cousin was no secret.

“I don’t mind the boy and his cousin. They’re both royal,” Suddhodana conceded. “But why Channa?”

“We will give the prince someone he can trust and confide in. The day will come when you won’t be able to read his mind, and he will stop telling you what he really thinks. Then we can turn to Channa and find out everything.”

Secretly the king had doubts about this plan, but he had his own reasons for agreeing to the Brahmin’s suggestions. Devadatta would be able to report on the priest’s lessons in case they went too far in extolling the Brahmins at the expense of warriors. And Channa might serve as an informer in Siddhartha’s private life-Canki was right about that.

This arrangement at school sorely rankled Devadatta from the first. He, a Kshatriya, had never physically touched or shared food with anyone like Channa, a despised half-caste. This was the term for someone of unknown parentage, and it was true that Channa had never known his mother. Her name was never mentioned, nor did his father say why she had abandoned them. Bikram himself had been born in the stables he now managed. When Canki gathered his three pupils for lessons, Devadatta turned his back on Channa; there was never an occasion when he addressed him directly. For Channa to dare to pick a fight with him now was an outrage.

Devadatta considered what to do. The two obvious possibilities were to dismiss the taunt with cold silence or attack without warning. Inflicting a swiping cut with his dagger would do. But Devadatta was eighteen now, already a man. Men don’t respond to boys’ threats. The nicety of the question teased him, and he decided the one thing he couldn’t do was let the insult pass.

“What sort of test did you have in mind?” he asked. He spoke slowly, and as he did, he lifted up the point of Channa’s sword and unscrewed the lead ball. “We’ve had enough of pretending.”

Channa was brave, but he was also fourteen. He stared nervously at the naked point of his sword as Devadatta pulled his own weapon from its scabbard.

“Up to you, boy,” Devadatta said. He watched Channa’s Adam’s apple tremble. They both knew that Devadatta could run him clean through without fear of reprisal.

But there was something else that no one but Devadatta knew. The fear he inspired did not come from his own menace. Siddhartha may have forgotten Asita, but his cousin had not forgotten Mara. He wasn’t allowed to. The demon fanned every ember of resentment in him until it glowed red hot. There was no mistaking the demonic element in Devadatta’s character. When he picked a fight, he could intuitively read his opponent’s weakness, and he gave no quarter once the clash began. Mara had also made him an extraordinary seducer. Devadatta moved in with unswerving confidence, capable of using honeyed flattery or the grossest suggestion, and he didn’t give up until the prize was won. His passions had drawn him into the lowest places-alleys and taverns where the pretensions of caste were thrown aside. However, it was not this that made him extraordinary in matters of lust. It was his complete ferocity toward any rival, even a husband, who stood in his way. Devadatta didn’t mind using a blade to persuade another man that his woman was free for the taking. There were rumors of clandestine murders that had resulted when the man put up too much resistance. Whether the rumors were true or not, more than a few villagers walked around with livid scars on their faces or across their chests.

“I don’t want to fight you. We were just practicing,” Channa mumbled.

“Not good enough. You challenged me. Now you have a choice. Apologize on your knees, or get ready to wake up dead tomorrow.” Devadatta smiled, but he wasn’t pressing the issue for his own amusement. He had a point to make about crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed. If Channa had been able to see beyond Devadatta’s threats, he would have realized that his enemy wasn’t secure enough at court to actually kill Siddhartha’s best friend.

“Stop it!” Siddhartha stepped in between the two. He had hesitated for a moment, knowing that if he intervened, the fight would be deflected toward him. Channa would hotly deny that he was about to back down; Devadatta would curse Siddhartha for snatching away his prey. But that didn’t happen. Instead, both opponents shoved him aside with looks of hot rage.

“No, this has gone far enough.” Siddhartha stepped in again, and this time Devadatta screamed at him with pure malevolence, “Get out of the way!” But the hand that knocked him back with a stiff, clipped punch was Channa’s. The look in his friend’s eyes said, Don’t you dare save me from this! I will never forgive you.

Siddhartha was stunned. He couldn’t actually see Mara working inside his cousin, but he saw that Devadatta was not an arrogant aristocrat at all. He was a slave to his violent passions. And Channa was too. At that moment there was no difference between them.

They’re not even people. What’s happened to them?

Siddhartha asked this question, and his vision seemed to pierce the two. Their bodies became transparent, like the filmy membrane of a fish’s tail, but instead of seeing blood coursing through the membrane, Siddhartha saw lives. Each person was a package containing many lives, all crammed into the tiny space of a body. A wave of hostility surged from the darkest past of both fighters. Devadatta was only the carrier of this wave, its instrument, as infected people carry typhoid. But Channa? How could he be a carrier too?

Siddhartha did not reason any of this out. He felt it. Neither Devadatta nor Channa had looked his way. He drew his sword and leveled it between them. “Go ahead and fight,” he said, staring them both down. “But you will have to fight with my sword between you, and if you touch it, you have challenged me, and that’s the same as challenging the throne. Is that what you want?”

Neither knew if this was a ridiculous ploy or brilliant diplomacy. The two foes backed away, continuing their combat through hating looks. Devadatta sheathed his weapon, gave an arrogant bow, and left without a word. Channa ran away with a look of barely concealed contempt. The wind blew through the stable windows; gradually the air cleared. It was left to Siddhartha to wonder if his gift had visited him again. If it had, why should he take on the pain that others denied they even had?

I’m the one they’re going to blame. I kept them from killing each other.

The deepest cut, the one that would not heal for years, was the contempt he’d seen in Channa’s eyes. If he as much as Devadatta was a carrier of hatred, then there was no difference between them, and the distinction between friend and enemy was meaningless. Something between Siddhartha and Channa, the unspoken vow two boys take that nothing will ever step between them, at that moment started to die. There was no escaping it. Yet if Siddhartha could have found a way to erase just one memory, this would have been the one.