The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

Oman recovered himself before he sat down again; and, his rice finished, he washed both bowls, and dried them with leaves. Then he rose, supposing that they were to proceed. It seemed, however, that this was the hour for meditation. In imitation of the Sramana, who was wont to sit in concentrated thought for days at a time at the foot of some forest tree, Hushka and his pupil, obeying one of the few rules of “hours,” seated themselves, cross-legged, under different trees, and remained there for a long time, motionless, wrapped in contemplation of Nirvâna—the bliss of emancipation. It was the first time that Oman had ever performed this especial act of worship, which is common to all the higher Indian religions. He found it more interesting than he had imagined it could be; and was glad to think that, at Bágh, much of it would be required in his studies.

By two o’clock the wanderers were on their way again, and Hushka told his pupil where they were to pass the night. Some miles farther on, in a valley, was a large banyan grove, inhabited by hermits of various sects, among whom were half a dozen Buddhists, who passed their lives in rigid asceticism, but had abandoned the routine of pilgrimage and Vassa.

For a long time they proceeded on their way, following the track of the sun into the southwest, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Then Oman, as much out of desire to listen to Hushka’s melodious voice as to learn something of the Being both were worshipping, began to question his master concerning the holy life. And Hushka, taking up his duty, recited to his companion the history of the life of Gautama Sramana, from the hour of his birth in the forest of Kapila-Vastu, until that of his death in the forest of Tirhut, where he fell back into the arms of his disciples, murmuring: “I am exhorting you for the last time. Transitory things are perishable. Without delay, qualify yourselves for Nirvâna.”

The life-story, told simply, but with an eloquence born of reverent love, moved Oman powerfully. Here, indeed, was a man!—a man who had lived a comprehensible life and had died naturally. To his mind, crammed with legendary tales of Vedic demigods and monsters, with all their meaningless miracles and overinterpreted allegorical deeds, there was something in this remarkable, but perfectly credible history, that brought conviction of the truth of the Buddha’s doctrines. The life he had lived was enviable. Evidently he had seen clearly from the very beginning; had known his course and had run it, gathering strength as he went on. True, the Buddha had been born into honor and riches, and had never had the terrible struggles of loneliness forced on him. But he had chosen these for himself; and he had voluntarily made himself outcast from men.

These musings occupied Oman till the sun was setting on their first day’s journey. They were now descending the slope that led into the valley of the banyan tree. When they reached its level, and could look down the long aisle of trunks into the green twilight of this natural temple, Oman felt a throb of pleasure, as one at home. They entered in silence, and had not walked far before the light of a fire became visible among the trees in the distance. Thither they bent their steps, and, reaching it, found that it burned before the entrance of a small building, built around the tree trunks. Beside this shrine and before the fire were half a dozen naked men, their black hair wild and dishevelled, their bodies caked with dirt and disfigured with scars of flagellation.

“These are Agivakas. We do not stop here,” murmured Hushka, as they approached.

Oman looked at the repulsive creatures curiously. They were passed, however, without any salutation, with not even a look, so far as the ascetics were concerned; and presently the yellow-robed were out of sight of their dancing fire. The green interior of the grove was now nearly dark. Hushka quickened his steps; and Oman, spent though he was with unwonted exercise, followed bravely, knowing that they must reach protection that night, since to sleep in the open, in this mountain region, was a danger not lightly to be undergone. However, further firelight among the trees presently reached them, and they proceeded with new heart, soon arriving at the Buddhist retreat. Here was no temple. Five tonsured men, clean-shaven, clad in worn yellow robes, sat round their fire, partaking of a supper of millet-seed and water. This meal the Upagghaya and his pupil received a cordial invitation to join; and it was taken for granted that they would also sleep there. To Oman, weary as he was, the mere fact of eating, of being near a shining fire, of seeing around him friendly faces, of listening to talk from which he was not excluded, brought an almost overpowering sense of happiness. Here was such companionship as he had not known since his baby days. Here were no curious, repellent eyes upon him. And, suddenly, the feminine in him rose, bringing to his eyes tears which it took all his angry self-control to keep from falling.

That night Oman slept the sweet sleep of healthy fatigue; but he wakened early, and in a new world. The fire had died. Far overhead the first glimmer of dawn shone down in a veil of translucent, deep green light—like the light in the sea. The air was vibrating softly with the twittering chorus of myriad birds that made their home in the banyan tree. Otherwise, there was a great, morning silence. Oman, drowsy, and unwilling to move, lay like one in a trance, looking, listening, wondering, at the beauty around him. Presently it was transformed. Every one was awake, and up and moving about; but the past half hour lay deep in his heart, and the pureness of it remained with him always.

The morning repast was hastier than had been that of the evening; and about sunrise the pilgrims, after many good wishes and farewells from those they were leaving, set forth again on their way. This time they took no food with them in their bowls; for in the early afternoon they should reach a mountain village where, after Hushka had preached in the bazaar, they were sure to obtain at least one meal. This morning’s walk was difficult, for it lay steadily uphill. Hushka, however, kept the mind of his pupil too much occupied for him to feel the weariness of the road. The master talked to him of religion, explained the canon of Buddhist law in its simple form, and repeated long passages from holy books. Oman listened intently to everything. His new religion delighted him anew. The laws that he heard seemed to him divinely wise, so well were they adapted to human weakness. And all the time, in his subconsciousness, he had another joy: that to-day he should again hear Hushka speak to many people. The Bhikkhu’s conversation was precious; but Oman, thirsting for a broader triumph, was waiting to watch his magnetism again gather up an antagonistic audience and draw them to his feet.

And Oman came to taste the fulness of this delight; for, wherever they went, success followed Hushka’s preaching. What it was—the expression of his great eyes, the low, musical, leisurely tones of his admirably managed voice, or perhaps just the words he spoke—his pupil could not determine: probably a measure of all three. At any rate, even in this day of the fall of the great faith, in many towns from Bágh to Dhár and even farther to the north, the annual coming of the Bhikkhu Hushka was awaited as an event; and where he stopped for the first time, he was remembered with delight, and his return hoped for. Nor, after one of his discourses, was there to be found even a Brahman, that had heard him, who had anything but words of praise for his eloquence.