“ ‘One day when they were of age, the two remaining brothers determined to set out on a Quest, to seek their fortune in the wide world. For they were brave and handsome and clever—or at least the older brother was—and their village seemed too small for them. Their father pleaded with them not to go, for there are many dangers in the wide world, and he counted on their work for the farm. But try as he would, he could not dissuade them.

“ ‘Finally, he gave their Quest his blessing. “Never forget,” he said, “that you are Buddhists. Always pray to the gods. And especially in times of great peril; that is a Test of your devotion. If you are pure of heart, your prayers will be answered.”

Illustration of the vetala from the 25 Tales of the Vampire

“Tell me a story,” I demanded.

It was the first evening of one of my uncle’s rare visits, after my mother was killed.

“It’s late, Surya,” he said. “I have come a long way today, and I am tired.”

“Um—with respect—why are you telling me about all this?” asked the young monk. “I thought you were supposed to teach me the Secret of Life and Death, or something.”

“I am,” said the old man. “But the story my uncle told is personally meaningful for me. Please don’t interrupt!”

Kartika charm (on a chöd drum tail)

“Mother, what is a dakini?”

She looked troubled. “Why do you want to know, dear?”

“They said—they said—they called me a ‘dakini child.’ ”

I was close to tears. “They said—they said you were a dakini, and dakinis eat people. And dakinis are what make people sick. They said everyone knows you are a dakini because you have black skin and talk funny.” It was true that my mother spoke with an accent, and her grammar was a bit off. I was just old enough to have noticed that. And even my own skin was darker than most of the villagers. “Is it true? Are you a dakini?”

“We are starting at the beginning, aren’t we?” said the old man.

My father was a Tantrika—a Buddhist sorcerer. I never knew him. He died before I was born. He died defending our village… I was proud of that.

On that day, a girl ran into the village, exhausted, sobbing and incoherent. It seemed that her own village, a few miles to our west, had just been attacked and destroyed by the army of a rising warlord from Kannauj. They were marching east.

Our village sent a runner to the nearest garrison town to beg for help; the women and children prepared to flee, and the men—some of them—to fight to cover their escape.

The soldiers arrived minutes later. Our men were untrained, unready, and armed only with kitchen knives and farming tools. The slaughter began—but my father, sitting alone in the common space at the center of the village, singing black words, nearly turned the tide.

He turned the soldiers’ own bodies against them.

The young monk found his way up to the cave, a day’s walk from Nalanda University. He stopped at the entrance—curious, and apprehensive. He pulled aside the blanket covering the opening, and called out “Sir?”

Hello! Dear boy! Please do come in. It is so nice to meet you at last… Yes, of course I know you. You are a young man with a most unusual and valuable talent. Valuable to me, anyway, when you accompanied me on my Final Quest. What? Oh, yes, I am sorry, that Quest hasn’t happened yet. We’ve only just met, haven’t we? Time is so confusing.

Do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You will be here some while. Oh! It is so kind of you to bring me these. Would you like one yourself? No? I’m sorry, I know most people think they are horrifying; I should not have offered you one. I do adore them; I hope you don’t mind if I eat one now?

So. Your teacher, the Chancellor of Nalanda, has sent you here, yes? To learn about the Matter of Life and Death. But what you would really like to hear is about your teacher. You would like to hear how, when he and I were young, we saved Nalanda, and Buddhism, and the world. How we travelled into the realms of the dead and defeated the Dark Lord and all his armies. You have heard a little of that story, haven’t you? And you don’t know whether to believe it. The Chancellor will not speak of it. There is much he did on that Quest that most monks should not learn about, lest they get ideas…

So you hope to hear the story from me. Yet you have heard that I’m a dazed old man, who can’t remember which century he’s living in. Still, whether true history or an old man’s dream, you’d find it a good tale—and you’d learn much about your Chancellor. More than he’d like his students to know.

Disclaimers

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons living, dead, or in-between is probably intentional, but not to be taken seriously.

This novel is for entertainment purposes only. Obviously you should not assume that anything on a web site with a name like “Buddhism for Vampires” is religiously or historically accurate.

Do not try this at home. The stunts in this story were performed by highly-trained Buddhist professionals, under carefully controlled conditions. Attempts to imitate them may result in injury or undeath.