Strange Light Afar by Rui Umezawa

relaxed. There is an aura of calm confidence about him, and the way the others regard him makes clear that he is their spiritual leader.
    Shakyamuni Buddha walks slowly through the crowd, exchanging smiles and some words with anyone who speaks to him. He chooses appropriate high ground and sits down, his body easing downward as if floating. Balance and simplicity guide his smallest gesture.
    The crowd around him grows until it seems to stretch forever. After a moment, a murmur ripples through the gathering  — a murmur of desire, of need. They want to know the Truth, they say. They wish him to give it to them. They ask for it, as politely as they can  — as assertively as they dare.
    A lone figure suddenly approaches Shakyamuni. I instantly recognize the mythical Brahma by his red robe, four heads and four arms, one of which now holds a garland of flowers. All his faces smile as he hands the wreath to the Enlightened One, who accepts it with a bow.
    The crowd waits in anticipation. Occasionally, someone will repeat the request for the Truth. What has the Buddha discovered in his journey?
    Shakyamuni, just as I have heard in repeated retellings of this sermon, removes a single flower and begins to turn the stem between his thumb and forefinger. The petals twirl in his hand, in front of his face, in front of everyone around him. All of his being is focused on this flower as he says nothing.
    The crowd falls into a silence made of desperate anticipation. Still, he says nothing.
    The wind rises, then dies down. Still, the Buddha watches the flower turn. The sun tips in the sky. The Buddha remains unchanged.
    There are some among the crowd who shift their weight from one side of their bottom to the other. Others look at each other. A few yawn despite themselves. Fewer and fewer among them remain watching the flower.
    I, however, am overwhelmed by the unadulterated beauty of the moment.
    Then I see him. The monk at the back of the crowd  — the one I know to be Mahakassapa  — smiles knowingly. Joy and envy rise in my chest at the same time. I know the story is about to finish, and I also know how it will end.
    I cannot allow myself not to be a part of it. I am as enlightened as any in the sangha , after all. Why should I not partake in this glory also?
    â€œAh!” I cry out. “Lord Shakyamuni Buddha! So beautiful! So revealing! There is nothing in life more meaningful than this simple flower! Praise be our master and all his wisdom!”
    No sooner do I hear myself shouting than a dark shadow casts over everything in sight. The sky quakes, and a frightening, guttural roar echoes across the mountain ridge. Lightning suddenly strikes at the center of the crowd, which scatters, screaming. The winds rise as quick as anger. Rain and dust mingle around my eyes. I squint and see both Brahma and Mahakassapa run off into the distance, faster than anyone else.
    As for the Buddha, all calm has drained from his face. His arms wave as he scampers off like the rest of his disciples. I notice for the first time that there is something vaguely familiar about him.
    A bolt of lightning obliterates a rock in front of him, making him change direction. Another strike makes him turn abruptly again. The third seems to crush what little hope he might have of escaping, and he falls to his knees, sobbing.
    â€œYou dare?”
    A voice deeper than the ocean shouts from overhead, and the ground trembles. I look up and nearly fall over when I see the towering figure of Indra, the god of rain and thunderstorms, his face scowling and full of rage. His skin appears as rough as animal hide. His sinewy muscles ripple with every movement as he descends toward the Buddha, who appears to have wet himself.
    I might have been absolutely horrified had Indra not thrown another bolt of lightning at the Buddha, resulting in his transformation right before my eyes.
    The heavenly aura around his head fades. His eyes shrink and become