LITMIR.BIZ

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as only some reach Nirvana, others must be damned. There can be no true Nirvana till all attain it, and the cleft between Nirvana and Samsara itself be overcome."

      The second monk had not once raised his eyes to meet the gaze of his Master, so he did not now lower his brow as he fell silent.

      The Saint held his peace for some moments and then said, "Well done, O nobly born! You have been faithful over a little truth; I will entrust to you much truth in the days to come."

      At this my heart burned with envy (for the first monk was indeed I), but then I wondered what the third of our number might say, since surely the truth was now divulged. At least he might hope to match it, though no longer the first to utter it.

      Iodasaph, blessed be he, next turned to him, expectantly. After a few moments the Saint said to him, "And have you nothing to say concerning the koan, my brother? What make you of it?"

      The third monk spoke not, but began to bleat like a goat, or perhaps it was a sheep, for I know not the difference. At this, the Saint sat back in his seat and smiled a great smile.

      3. The Transformation Body

      One evening Saint Iodasaph sat alone in the meeting hall of the monastery. The sun declined, and as its slanting, bloodied rays came through the window trellises at more acute angles, they began to illumine the figure now of one brother, now of another, as one by one they began to drift in, as if in answer to some inaudible summons. Each took his seat on the stone floor, surrounding Saint Iodasaph in a rough circle. He seemed unaware of them, and none of them spoke. Some watched him; others closed their eyes, perhaps in true meditation, perhaps merely in imitation of their master.

      Only the soft glow of butter lamps illumined the forms of the brethren when Iodasaph at last broke the silence. He did not seem surprised to see them around him, though he had chosen the place, many hours earlier, for its lack of occupation. It was as if the settling darkness had made visible a throng of ghosts who had remained invisible in the daylight.

      He spoke as if he had called them as an audience, and perhaps he had. "O monks, hear the tale of the Bodhisattva Jesus, and of his Great Transformation. It was at noon in the hot wilderness where he had led his disciples. Some napped. One of these was John. He felt something awaken him, and he stirred. Accustomed as he was to the harsh light of the desert sun, still his veiled eyes ached as from a greater floodtide of light. Daring to open them, he looked upon the form of his Master, which now shone white like iron in a furnace. His countenance was radiant, and a nimbus flared about his head. As he stood thus, the form of the Bodhisattva seemed to tower unto nine feet. His ears had great lobes, and a tuft of hair marked the place of the third eye.

      "John hastened to awaken his companions Peter and James. 'Behold,' he whispered, 'it is the Lord, and he bears on his body the marks of the superman.' But they, seeing for themselves, were so affrighted that they dared not even to speak.

      "The Bodhisattva turned and began to climb the face of the hill. Saying nothing, the three followed, John taking the lead. Peter was last, and as he hastened after them, he turned to see the rest of his companions, whether they followed or not. But to his surprise, though all alike were now awake, not one seemed to see Jesus as other than they were accustomed to seeing him. None so much as made to shield his eyes. None made to follow.

      "The three disciples reached the crest of the hill but moments behind their Lord. They were winded with the effort, but the Bodhisattva Jesus seemed in no wise discomfited.

      "And then Peter wondered at his eyes, whether they had lied to him and more of his companions had not followed him after all. But then how had they scaled the height ahead of them? For beside the Bodhisattva there were now to be seen standing two great forms, Moses and Elijah, or as some say, Dipankara and Gautama. All shone like unto pillars of fire.

      "Overcome, the disciples fell prostrate. Strangely, Peter found his tongue loosened, and he said, 'Master, blessed are we, for our eyes have beheld the Mystery of the Sambogkya! If it please you, let us build here three stupas, one for you, and two for the great Dharma-givers.'

      "But at once the likeness of a dove appeared, as it were resting above the head of the Bodhisattva Jesus, and there sounded a Voice from the Clear Light: 'Hear ye him, O nobly born, for he is your Inmost Self.' And with that, the disciples found themselves alone on the hilltop. In the silence of amazement, or of realization, I know not, they descended.

      "As they came in sight of their fellows, some of them already asleep once more in the hot afternoon sun, Peter noticed that Jesus, in his accustomed form, walked beside them once again. After a few moments the Bodhisattva spoke: 'Tell the vision to no one.'

      "At this Peter was greatly amazed and said, 'Why, Lord?'

      "Jesus stopped and looked into his eyes. For a moment Jesus' eyes seemed to blaze again, and he said to Peter, 'Because they must see it for themselves.'"

      Saint Iodasaph fell silent. After this a space of about half an hour elapsed as the monks considered what they had heard. At length one waxed bold and asked, "Then, Lord, why did you tell the vision to us?"

      The Saint replied, "If you heard me truly, then I did not tell it to you." Most lowered their eyes in dismay, not understanding these words. But one monk smiled, averting his gaze from the floodlight which now filled the meeting hall, but which only he saw.

      4. The Man Beset by Robbers

      One cold dusk the monks awaited the return of their Master, Saint Iodasaph, from his monthly tour of the nearby mountain villages. Dusk passed into darkness, and still the Saint did not appear. All alike began to grow apprehensive. They knew well that certain wild beasts sometimes wandered among the crags, and if the winter was exceedingly cold and their customary prey rare, they were known to turn upon men. So the brothers hastened to form a search party and set off to look for him.

      As the rest of the sangha fretfully fingered their prayer beads, the brother stationed nearest the monastery door thought he heard something coming in the wind. He motioned the rest to silence, and as their chanting stilled, the sound of the rasping and slapping of sandals worn by men carrying a burden could clearly be heard.

      The door opened and slammed shut again, yielding to the ferocity of the mountain winds. But now the brothers, their search successful, were safely inside. The Saint, whose bleeding but impassive form they bore, had indeed been set upon, but by no fleshly beast of prey. The high, howling winds had blown up unexpectedly once the Saint had taken to the paths, and in their fury they had knocked loose the keystone of a great heap of rocks and boulders packed into a crevasse. These fell, picking up speed as they exulted in their new freedom, and the greater part of them made straight for the Saint.

      But the old man's frame, while spare, was yet spry, and he saw the descending burden in time to step out of its path. Only a single stone found its way to him, striking his leg and snapping it as one snaps the bone of a fowl. He was by this time no great distance from the monastery, and he had not long to wait till the brethren, tracing his accustomed route, found him in a state of placid meditation.

      As Saint Iodasaph lay abed through the following days, he discouraged no visitor, and many came away with tales and conundra to keep them busy for many weeks.

      One day as he lay among the monks, one of them inquired of him concerning Karma and its allotment. How, a novice wondered, could such misfortune betake the Saint, when the sins of all the others were so much the more grievous?

      At this the venerable Iodasaph smiled and replied, "My brother, Karma misses nothing and is always diligent even in the payment of long outstanding debts. I doubt not that in some previous life I had lived as such a rogue that the whole rock pile had long ago been prepared for my mortal ruin. Yet through the study of the Dharma, I have mitigated that fate to such a degree that only the single stone still bore its grudge against me. And it kept its appointment with my leg, though all its stony compatriots had lost interest in the rest of me.

      "Do

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