By late afternoon, they all knew. Every last pilgrim and student and hanger-on had gathered in the sal-tree grove, in concentric circles, with downcast eyes. The Master had arranged himself on a mound of simple blankets, resting his head on a nice tasseled pillow. His face was greener than before, but he appeared composed.
“Listen,” he said. “I just want to clear something up, so there’s no confusion when I’m gone. I haven’t chosen anyone to take my place. I don’t want you guys to keep hiking around India; we look like a circus. Split up. Go home. Spread what you’ve learned.”
“What does Perfection feel like?” cried a desperate voice, somewhere in the grove.
“How do you feel right now?” asked the Buddha.
“Sad,” answered the voice. “Scared.”
“That’s what Perfection feels like,” said the Master. “Don’t worry. In a while, it will feel different.”
Soft voices, confusion.
“Listen,” said the Master, coughing. “Don’t search the ends of the Earth looking for your happiness. Perfection is being happy with what you are right now.”
“What if you’re an asshole?” someone called.
The Master offered a weak smile. “I doubt very much,” he said, “that many happy people are assholes.”
Then he died.
Ompati stared off into space. His eyes glazed with shock.
“His last word was ‘assholes,’?” he observed.
“I don’t think he would have minded,” said Milo. Then he said, “Look!” and pointed. Lots of people were pointing.
Flowers were dropping from the sal-tree branches. Light red blossoms fluttered like moths on their way to the ground, drifting over the dead Master, over the grass, and over the pilgrims.
“That’s better,” said Ompati.
—
Milo found his bo tree once again and had a seat.
He would meditate. What else could he do?
He could go back to Moosa. Why not? No one needed to hear the teachings of the Master more than the idiots of Moosa.
Ducks, he thought, closing his eyes. Cats. The moon. Death. The wind.
He could hear the villagers at a distance, gathering over in the sal-tree grove. They would let the Master lie there for some time that way, so that he could be seen. In three days, like it or not, they’d have to cremate him.
Maybe they’ll let me have some of the ashes, he thought.
Did he deserve that? He still didn’t know.
He hoped his older voices and past lives would offer some kind of remark, but the voices had gone eerily silent. He was left with a feeling that they had been super-happy with him and that he had screwed this up.
“Open your eyes,” said Ompati’s voice. “You know you can’t meditate for shit, so just open your damn eyes.”
Milo opened his eyes.
Ompati stood before him.
“You did it, didn’t you?”
Milo squinted. He looked up at the sky.
“I don’t know…” Milo began.
“Don’t dishonor yourself!” Ompati shouted.
“All right,” said Milo. “Yes. I did it. I found a mushroom in the woods before I went to beg for his dinner. A certain kind of mushroom. I mashed some of it into the pomegranate I brought him. There you are. That’s your answer.”
Ompati trembled visibly. “Why?” he asked.
“You know why. His story is more important than his life. He knew it. We all know it. I did something that was necessary. I am, perhaps, his greatest friend.”
Was this true? He felt doubtful. He could hear his soul voices, darkly muttering.
He would meditate on it, he decided, all the way back to Moosa.
“I’m sorry,” said Ompati.
“Sorry for what?” asked Milo.
“I’m afraid I mixed the uneaten half of the Master’s pomegranate into a salad.”
Milo’s stomach gave a seasick lurch.
“Yes?” he asked.
“The salad we split for a snack, earlier.”
A bird called. Milo watched the moon among tree branches.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, the wave returns to the river.”
“Indeed,” said Ompati, sitting down beside him.
Together, they waited, meditating about beets and monsoons and gods and brothels and other fine things they had known.
They breathed in. They breathed out.
“Cats,” said Milo.
“Shhh,” said his friend.
Milo didn’t wake up beside the river this time.
He didn’t even wake up in the desert.
He was sitting at the bottom of a deep well. Sort of like a jail cell but without a sink or a toilet.
“Great,” he muttered.
It didn’t take a wise man to guess that this was where you went if you murdered the Buddha.
“Hello?” he called.
No one answered. Would they just leave him here and forget about him? Were they that mean?
Dammit, he had one more life to live! Somebody was going to listen to him, by God. He began looking around for a stick, for some rocks, anything he could throw. He would throw one hell of a fit, if they thought they could just stick him down here— Something interrupted the light and came tumbling down the well.
A rope ladder. It snapped to an end just in front of his face and swung back and forth.
“Climb up here,” snarled Nan’s voice. “Want you to see something.”
Milo growled in frustration. He had really been looking forward to throwing his fit.
He climbed the ladder.
At the top, there was Nan, with a cat or two, standing in what looked like someone’s backyard.
Most of the yard was packed with people—standing, sitting on blankets, sitting on lawn chairs. They were all facing the same direction, paying not the least bit of attention to Milo.
Even Nan ignored him. She, too, was turned away, watching something.
The house and the backyard were built on a hillside, and the hillside overlooked a river. Most of the landscape was hidden beneath a crowd like Milo had never seen, spilling down the hill and stretching for miles.
It was a festive crowd, to say the least. They wore bright colors. There were flags and hand-painted signs. There were shirtless drunks with painted chests and eighteen thousand different kinds of music playing. It was Woodstock Meets the Super Bowl.
Milo stepped up beside Nan.
“What—” he began.
“Shut up and watch,” Nan barked. “You might learn something in the hour or two you have left.”
What?
His heart pounded. They meant to space him. Or “Nothing” him, or whatever you wanted to call it. God…what did that mean for Suzie? She had been nearly gone, that night on the train. What about now? Was she still out there? Or had she gone ahead of him, into Nowhere?
The crowd grew louder. They sang out in raw joy and gladness.
The source of the joy and gladness appeared, not far away, downhill.
It was the Buddha, arriving in the afterlife. He made his way pleasantly, humbly, through the crowd. He was young again, Prince Siddhartha, with shining black hair falling over one shoulder.
Would the Master recognize him? (Help him?)
Milo waved both arms and shouted, “Hey! Up here!”
Nan elbowed him in the gut, sneering, “Keep still, you. That’s the greatest soul that ever lived, down there. You’re just the bastard who killed him.”
Milo wheeled on her, turning red. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand!” he bellowed. “I did the most difficult thing imaginable, for the good of the Master and everyone in the world—”
Nan elbowed him again.
“You get everything wrong,” she muttered. “You always go too far.”