Part 5: "We should be obsessed with these afflictions. Resenting them, we do battle while making an exception for only those afflictions That are destroyers of other afflictions. Better that I be burnt or be killed, Or that my head be cut off, Than that I should ever bow Before my enemies, the afflictions." -- Engaging in the Bodhisattva Deeds Tsong Khapa glanced over his shoulder at the startled Immortal, then directed his eyes toward where Methos stared. "Dharmaraja -- he is my protector. I found you near my private chapel. I go there everyday to make special offerings for the protection of my students and the completion of my monastery." The monk studied his guest's intent interest in the painting, then brought a bowl of food to Methos. "Did he come to you in your dream?" "Yes... no... it wasn't exactly the same, but... very similar." Methos paused, accepting the bowl. "He wasn't trampling a man, or a bull, but he had the face of a bull. Wait, he had many faces, perhaps nine. My face was one of those, near the very top. It was my face as I *was*. It was another me, from another time. One I do not care to remember." Tsong Khapa nodded slowly, sitting cross legged next to the Immortal. "That was Yamantaka who came to you. He is the one who took the form of Yama, of Death himself, in order to vanquish Death." "*I* was Death, long ago," Methos sadly whispered, staring into his bowl of food. Suddenly he felt his bottomless hunger disappear, his self loathing so absolute he could not think of tasting food, at this moment. He gently set the bowl onto the floor beside him and shrugged his cloak around him. He waited for Tsong Khapa to say something, *anything*, but the monk remained silent, unfazed, apparently patiently waiting, himself, for Methos to continue. Methos lowered his eyes to the gray floor of the cave, fixating on parallel grooves he suspected as being from repeated prostrations. "I killed indiscriminately, for power, for pleasure, then, simply, out of habit. It was what I was good at." He raised his eyes and saw Tsong Khapa had begun silently counting out mantras on his mala. "I'd forgotten how I came to be that way -- part of me knew I hadn't always been a killer, but I could not seem to stop. It was all I knew." Nodding in nonjudgmental understanding, Tsong Khapa wrapped his rosary around his wrist again. "If in our preceding life we have contracted the habit of killing, then in our succeeding reincarnations we naturally have a tendency to commit acts analogous to their cause. The decision to kill is undoubtedly the effect of a habit acquired in a preceding life." "So the cycle is endless? I killed in this life because I killed in the last? Since I killed in this life, I will kill in the next? Is that your path -- dooming me to be a murderer for all eternity?" The despair in Methos' voice appeared to affect the monk deeply. He raised his pressed hands to his lips in prayer and muttered a short request to the Buddhas which included Methos' name. "You refrained from killing, eventually. You realized the error of your ways. You developed the wisdom to realize what you were doing was wrong and hurtful, not only to your victims but to yourself." "Don't make me out to be a reformed saint," Methos warned. "I no longer kill for pleasure, but I will defend myself to the death, when necessary." He paused, drew in a deep breath and wiped a hand across his dirt streaked brow. "Does it really matter that I've changed? My black karma seems to haunt me, all these years later. Whatever good I've done won't help me in this lifetime, and I'm not certain I believe in other lifetimes." "Your belief or disbelief does not make the law of reincarnation any more or less real," Tsong Khapa warned, with slight humor. "There are three divisions of karma -- that which shows its results in the same lifetime, that which brings results in the next life, and that which brings results in far future lives. This is true for both the good and the evil that we do. Both the white and the black. The good that you do now may ripen to fruition in this same lifetime." He waited as Methos silently studied the floor again. "Tell me more about this dream." "The wrathful... Yamantaka became another, the color of the sky. He was peaceful, yet he bore a sword of flames in one hand. His face was my face -- but I've never looked that peaceful." Tsong Khapa instinctively raised his pressed together hands to the crown of his head and bowed toward the altar. He muttered a flurry of Tibetan prayers under his breath, then turned his attention back to the perplexed Immortal. "That was my lord Manjushri -- my teacher, my mentor. Surely you are blessed if he has spoken to you, as he has to me." "He didn't speak to me -- he *was* me. Rather, I was him. But nothing was said." Scowling slightly, Tsong Khapa unwrapped his mala from his wrist. "Have you had formal training in the highest yoga tantra from a qualified teacher?" "Some. Apparently not nearly enough, but some." The concern evaporated from the monk's face. Nodding, he began to run the beads through his fingers, mouthing a silent mantra for a few moments before continuing. "That is very good. To properly do self-generation of a deity requires the proper initiations. To do so improperly is to invite disaster." Smiling, he gestured toward a bronze statue of Manjushri tucked in one corner of his altar. "My lord Manjushri bears the book of wisdom on one shoulder, and the ignorance cleaving sword in one hand." "That's not exactly how I've tended to use a sword," Methos lamely joked, then regretted. "I tend to cleave heads from their shoulders," he explained with deathly seriousness. "Even now?" "No, not if I can avoid it. Only if there is no other way to escape with my life." Methos shifted against the hard floor of the cave, feeling parts of his body falling asleep. "As I told you, violence holds no delight for me, anymore. It's still a necessity, upon occasion, but I can't say as I find anything to rejoice about in killing." "Then you have indeed been touched by my lord's sword of wisdom. You have learned that negative actions cause negative karma to accumulate, and, hence, suffering." "Something like that. I've found I don't relish suffering much -- especially my own." "That is the beginning of profound wisdom, my friend." Tsong Khapa laid his mala in his lap. "Attachment, hatred, and ignorance are the three poisons which are responsible for most negative actions. In your case, ignorance caused hatred, which caused killing, the main cause for your particular black karma." "You make is sound so neat and tidy, so straightforward." "It is. Delusions are responsible for wrong action. Since delusions do not reside in the essential nature of the mind, they can be purged and cleared from your mind. You can achieve the clear light of wisdom." Methos found he could not disagree with this logic. "I learned long ago that senseless killing was not the way I wanted to spend my existence. I wanted to experience the world. I wanted to meet new people, talk to them, learn from them, not kill them." "A wise decision, indeed. One may conquer a million men in a single battle; however, the greatest and best warrior conquers himself. Conquest of one's self is the greatest victory of all. I hope you always remember that it is up to you whether you do bad things or hurt someone. Do not do either. We all have the choice to be good or bad -- no one makes that choice for us." "I hope I always will remember that." Methos glanced at the bowl of food and felt hungry again. He scooped up the bowl with one hand and rested it in his lap. He tentatively ate a berry, then another, savoring the flavor, the texture, the sensation of food sliding down his throat. He didn't notice Tsong Khapa's prayer begin, but felt guilty as soon as he heard it. It felt utterly disrespectful to be eating while the monk prayed. He stopped and watched as the monk went into a kind of trance. Tsong Khapa swayed slightly as he flipped rapidly through his mala beads, his eyes shut, his concentration absolute. His lips were barely moving, the sound of breathing the only utterance from the Tibetan's lips. Then the sound began, and grew into a deep, earthy chant which repeated urgently for an entire round of the mala. "Om ah ra pa tza na dhi, Om ah ra pa tza na dhi, Om ah ra pa tza na dhi...." Methos closed his eyes and found himself swept away in the comforting drone. Before he realized it, he had joined in, chanting alongside the monk although he was not familiar with this particular mantra. Tsong Khapa drew out the last repetition of the mantra, then took a deep breath in and frantically repeated the last, seed, syllable until his breath gave out. When he was done, he opened his eyes and smiled at the Immortal. "Eat, please. I have fed your soul. Your stomach needs attention now." Methos pressed his palms together and made a slight bowing motion before reclaiming his meal. "Was that the mantra of Manjushri?" he politely asked between chews of the dried yak meat. "One of them. It is good to say, as often as you can, while you reflect on wisdom." Tsong Khapa allowed Methos to eat in peace for a few minutes before asking more questions. "Was Manjushri the last blessed one you saw?" Shaking his head, Methos washed down his meal with a mouthful of rapidly cooling tea. "I saw myself as a Buddha reflected in the mirror -- one I seem to remember seeing before when I was last in a hermitage. I, rather *he* was a brighter blue, dressed in gold, with a dorje in one hand. There was a golden aura surrounding him, in all directions." "Akshobhya, the unshakeable one." Tsong Khapa said another brief, silent prayer. "It is indeed auspicious that you saw him reflected in a mirror. He was sharing with you his mirror-like wisdom -- that which reflects all things with perfect calmness. It is said that 'Just as one sees one's own reflection in a mirror, so the Dharmakaya is seen in the mirror of wisdom'." "Just how is this wisdom different from that of Manjushri?" The monk seemed slightly amused with Methos' question, but patiently explained without condescension. "The wisdom of all the Buddhas and bodhisattvas is perfect -- it is complete. However, each chooses to be a beacon for a different aspect of wisdom in order to help imperfect sentient beings. Akshobhya concentrates on the wisdom one requires to apply antidotes to hatred and anger, to purify negative actions and karma." The familiar smirk appeared for the first time in this conversation. "Purifying *my* negative actions would present quite a unique challenge, even for a Buddha." Tsong Khapa was unshaken. "The Blessed One said, 'By oneself is evil done, by oneself is one made pure. By oneself is evil undone, by oneself is one made pure. Each one is responsible for purity and impurity; no one can cleanse another'." Methos reflected on this with deathly seriousness, then set his half eaten meal aside. He raised his eyes to meet Tsong Khapa's intense, yet serene gaze. "And what if your mountain of black karma is too steep to conquer?"