March passed away and April followed, and still the two fought their way through the mighty hills, surrounded by possible dangers, but encountering none. The days were growing hot; and, when the moon was full they sometimes travelled by night, but this not often, because of the wild creatures that loved to roam abroad during the quiet hours. The time passed too quickly. Oman, now inured to constant exercise, throve on it and grew strong. His limbs began to show muscle, and his body renewed its vigor, till he looked a straight and handsome youth. And as his physique developed, so also his mind. Hushka never ceased his instructions in the Dharma, nor did Oman fail to treasure his master’s lightest precept. He was familiar now with what lay before him during the Vassa season. He learned the mode of daily life; the rules of procedure in the Samgha, or community of brethren; and also the ritual of the general confession, the Patimokkha, held fortnightly, on new and full moon days during the Vassa. But the multitude and minuteness of the laws, and the petty tyranny they exercised, remained happily unguessed by him; for Hushka was too wise to burden his mind in the beginning with what would soon become a natural part of existence.
Oman’s present life was beautiful to him. The magnificence of the scenery amid which they lived, the season of the year, when the earth was at its height of joy, still more, perhaps, the beautiful influence of Hushka’s companionship and the spirituality of what he taught, combined to waken in Oman a buoyancy of spirit, a sense of hope and of ideality, that furnished him strength to sustain the years of bitter tribulation and trial that were still to be his.
At length one day Oman and Hushka, side by side, staves in hand, reached the treeless summit of a high hill, up the side of which they had toiled throughout the morning, Hushka for a purpose, Oman following unquestioningly. When they stood upon the crest, there spread before them a mighty prospect, fair and far-reaching in the clear light of noon. In the distance, a mere sinuous, sparkling thread, was a river, bordered by a strip of green plain. Nearer yet, a deep-hued patch of foliage marked a jungle, dwindled by height and distance. Then came foothills, curving round and out, like a rough causeway, toward that fast-flowing river; and, in the midst of rocky cliffs and sudden tufts of foliage, were to be seen the low roofs and white walls of many buildings.
“Look,” said Hushka, gently: “yonder is Bágh. Our pilgrimage is over. We have crossed the Vindhyas. June is here, and it is the Vassa season. Art thou ready, Oman?” And he turned to examine his pupil’s face.
Oman neither spoke nor answered the look. He was beyond himself. Suddenly, out of the dark fastnesses of the past, shot a gleam of light. A new vista was opening before his eyes. Memory—fleeting, evanescent—hovered over him. His mind was struggling to penetrate the land of forgetfulness. The gates seemed still barred; and yet—here was a key. That river—that shining river, yonder, in the light—he knew it well,—so well that he was shuddering at sight of it.
“Oman,” repeated Hushka, disturbed at the look in his pupil’s eyes.
With that one word, the dream broke. Oman turned sharply, stared for a second into his Master’s face, and then, in a voice of the far away, answered: “Yes, I am ready, master. Let us descend. Let us enter the Vihara of Truth.”
CHAPTER VI
THE VIHARA OF TRUTH
The town of Bágh, begun in a little valley, had gradually spread, up an open hillside looking toward the southeast, and over and beyond the jungle, to the Narmáda plain. The great Viharas were two or three miles south of the village, built, all nine of them, in the flat of a ravine, with wooded hillsides rising abruptly on either side. It was not until the morning after their view from the hilltop that Hushka and Oman made their appearance here. They had arrived in Bágh at dusk the evening before, unusually wearied by an unusual day’s toil. Now, after passing the night in Bágh, they had come, in the glow of a June morning, fiercely hot, but filled with that glorifying sense of summer that cannot be burnt away even by the deadly rays of an Indian sun, to begin the Vassa season.
Along the path from the town, and through the ravine itself, they met with what seemed to Oman, brought up to regard Buddhism as a dead faith, a surprising number of Bhikkhus, all, apparently, like themselves, returning from the pilgrimage. And Oman further wondered by what feat of perfect calculation they had managed to arrive from their wanderings on this particular day. As a matter of fact, some that they passed had been in the neighborhood for a week or more; and others would continue to arrive through the next week. There were perhaps a hundred and fifty men in all, including fourteen or fifteen novices; and there were few here who could remember a time when there had been more in the valley. Yet tradition told a great tale. For, whereas now, all these men lived in a single Vihara, the last in the row of the great buildings, in the days of the past every one of the nine huge monasteries had been filled to overflowing, and twenty-five hundred men had passed their Vassa in the ravine.