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  Mala stands up, shaking his head. “You are a complete and total failure. I’ll leave the ice cream here. Don’t worry, it won’t melt. Not up here.”

  In a particularly stinging blast of wind and snow, Mala leaves …

  … Kai …

  … alone.

  He finally eats the ice cream.

  He stands, and pauses for thought.

  “Good?” asks the World.

  Kai trots down the hill.

  To Arun, he gives the power of wind, to freeze or dry or scorch. To the Likely Ten he gives in order:

  pestilence

  sudden rending of flesh

  blindness and deafness

  dazed stupidity and cretinism in all its forms

  sterility and impotence

  drought and famine

  age and the death of children

  disaster: flood, earthquake, accidents of all kinds

  depression and despair

  He himself is already Fire, so he gives himself the power of kings to make things pretty.

  Together with Mala, the Likely Ten descend howling on the Neighbors. Kai stands huge and billowing in flame over the capital city.

  Fire torches all their wooden buildings, their finely carved palaces, and the beautiful verse inscribed on palm leaves.

  The soldiers of the Neighbors fall where they stand, buboes swelling up and bursting under armpits or in their groins. Others are suddenly split into two. Their fathers go deaf and blind, their faithful wives become so stupid they cannot remember their own names. The young men will find they can’t get it up. Their horses and elephants all have rabies, and the vaginas of their women blister with new and fatal contagious diseases. All—all—of their children under twelve die; a million children in one night.

  Then the sea rises up to swamp their ports and sink their ships. Earthquakes shake their sacred temples into rubble.

  Those few Neighbors who are left alive sit down and weep and surrender to dazed despair.

  Kai flies on wings of fire and seizes hold of the King of Kambu. “Remember me?” he chuckles brightly.

  He seals the body of the King in amber and uses it for his throne. He makes sure that none of the King’s sons, cousins, wives, uncles, or nephews are left alive.

  “No nonsense this time,” Kai declares from his new and sad-eyed throne. “The Commonwealth of the Neighbors is no more. It is a happy part of the Kingdom of the Sons of Kambu. I am their King.”

  It is Mala, not Arun, who chuckles and pats his shoulder. No hurricanes blew during the conquest.

  “We have swallowed you,” Kai admits. “You should have considered the possibility when you tried to swallow us. Now, my dear friends and loyal subjects. It is your turn to build a railway.”

  All the Neighbors are enslaved.

  Then do good to earn merit and undo harm

  Women become pretty. The bones in their faces shift subtly and slowly at night. Their teeth straighten. They become pregnant, if they want to be.

  Every afternoon, predictably, just before the children go to drive the oxen home, it rains. People finish their wholesome lunches listening to the pleasant sounds of rain on the roof.

  The fruits on the market stalls are round, with perfect blushes of ripeness, firm enough but sweet. They scent the air.

  Old people suddenly notice that they can stand up straight and that swinging their legs out of the hammock is easier. They find that standing first thing in the morning no longer hurts. They can dance for joy. They can work in the rice fields as the Chbap advise, and they call to their friends cheerily.

  And most strangely of all, whenever they recite the Chbap, good things happen.

  Kai chuckles to himself and confides in Arun. “I’ve given them all magic powers. What was wrong about magic was that it bent the rules unfairly for just a few people. Now, everyone has the power of magic. Everyone has the power to do good. They will realize it, but slowly.”

  “Whereas,” says Arun, his smile a bit thin, “you have a monopoly on doing harm.”

  “Yes. But I don’t have to use it.”

  “Much,” says Arun.

  Birds sing, the sun shines, people eat but don’t get fat. The Neighbors see that Sons of Kambu have a superior way of life, and envy them. “Well, you know my grandfather was Kambu,” they begin to say, as they stagger under the weight of railway ties. “I always put my superior good fortune down to that.”

  Kambu words sprinkle their speech. The Neighbors begin to recite the Chbap, and lo! Their backaches cease.

  “We have a lot to learn from these Sons of Kambu,” they agree.

  Their few surviving daughters start to wear Kambu fashion. Their eyes follow noble Sons with alluring brightness.

  And then the strangest thing of all comes to pass.

  To earn merit, Kai orders the rebuilding of temples.

  The stones are piled back more or less as they were. Kai is a follower of the Dharma, but he honors the gods that underlie that more clear-headed faith, as he sees it.

  All the artisans of the Neighbors are now either dead or senile, so good Kambu craftsmen restore the temples to Vishnu, Siva, and even Brahma. The artists love doing this, for underneath the newer religion, the old gods survived in the hearts of the people. Fine new statues of the gods are made, and the monks who were the rivals of Kai are given new jobs. They get to enrobe and feed the statues.

  The new enlarged kingdom smells of honey.

  The old gods come back.

  It starts quietly at first. Whispers are heard in cool stone galleries. The shawls and garlands of flowers that drape the statues flutter, with the wind surely, but as if the stone arm supporting them had moved.

  Water poured over the linga and the yoni tastes delicious, poised between sweet and savory. The purified water has the power to restore even Neighbor slaves to health. All anyone has to do to receive a blessing is drink and swear loyalty to the gods and their earthly representative, King Kai the Merciful.

  The temple oracles find that their ingenuity is no longer taxed. They no longer have to invent orotund but ambiguous answers to questions. Instead their heads are thrown back and a godlike voice whispers out of them. Sometimes their listeners look overjoyed by the answer, sometimes they are plunged into despair. But they no longer look baffled.

  The Sons of Kambu never quite stopped believing in even older religions. For them, everything has a spirit—a house, a tree, or even a stone.

  The food left in spirit houses is found suddenly eaten. The flowers in the beds stir and creep forward, conquering more waste ground. Roofs repair themselves and house fronts seem to adopt cheerful smiling faces.

  Finally, at least to superior persons and Brahmins, the gods themselves begin to speak.

  “More,” the gods ask. They have a great way with simplicity in speech. More sweetmeats, more incense, more garlands, more rice. A little gold or a new temple would be appropriate.

  “Well,” sniffs Kai, to wealthy dependents. “You heard what the gods told you. Build them a temple.”

  It is good way to keep his nobles occupied and leave them no extra cash for private armies.

  Suddenly there are hospitals and rest stations for travelers. New roads are built. The King is quick to point out to the gods that roads are necessary if worshippers are to bring offerings.

  Roads are also necessary for trade.

  A little grudgingly perhaps, the gods do some good. Strong trees, healthy rice, more wildlife to forage, fish in the sea, calm trade routes, and boats that do not leak. Things prosper even more.

  “This is a really good deal for you,” the gods point out to Kai.

  “And for you.” He smiles back.

  Mala is happiest of all. “I surrender to the superiority of the gods,” the World says and keeps himself in the background. The birds sing sweetly.

  Heroism is completed by inaction

  Late at night, Kai wakes up with Arun’s sword at his throat.

  A howling g
ale fills the room and pins Kai to his bed, pushing all his fire down onto the stone mattress.

  Arun wants to talk.

  He strokes Kai’s flaming hair with one hand. “What,” he asks Kai, “do you think you’re doing? If you swallow the Neighbors, you need to consider the possibility that someone else will turn around and swallow you.”

  “Arun,” says Kai in a tone of voice that embodies the realization that he should have expected this moment to come from him. “Of course I’ve considered it.”

  “Of course. But you take no action. You still have a problem taking action, after all these years. But only I know that.” Arun lightly plants a kiss on Kai’s fiery cheek. He waits for a response. Kai still takes no action.

  Arun smiles at him. “Scared old man,” he says affectionately. “Who do you think these gods are who are showing up wanting handouts and threatening to turn off the rain if they don’t get it? How long do you think they will let you rule?”

  “Until I die. They are gods and can afford to be patient.”

  “No, they can’t. Nothing is more fragile than faith.”

  “Are you warning me of danger, or asking me to retire? Or just threatening to kill me?”

  “All three,” says Arun. “These gods of yours get bored. They do terrible things. They send plagues just to keep us in line, and make us pray and give more offerings.”

  “Sounds like the Ten.”

  “Oh, we are human. They are not. We can still sympathize. They consume. Poor people always get consumed.”

  “That is the way of the World,” sighs Kai.

  “Friend of yours, is he?” Arun asks.

  “Yes.”

  Arun goes still. He strokes Kai’s head. “You have been serving everything we are taught to shun. So have I.”

  “Well, there is no guarantee that what we were taught was true. How long can you lie on top of me with a sword at my throat?”

  “Until we both die,” says Arun, passion in his eyes.

  Kai chuckles. “You are so like me when I was young.”

  Then he says it again in despair. “You are the closest thing I have to a son.”

  Arun says the obvious. “Then. Make me King.”

  Kai considers. “There is no such thing as an ex-King who is still alive. I have another proposal. I really like this idea, by the way. I make you Regent. You rule here. And I? I go on retreat and I try to recover a little bit of merit before I die. Enough to get me out of hell and perhaps be reborn as an insect or a slug.”

  “You will declare me your legitimate son, fathered in your youth. Your flesh and blood, your rightful heir. You will give me the title of Crown Prince.”

  “You’re making demands, and all you have is a sword.”

  “No, Father. I have your love. And you don’t want to be stuck in hell or reborn as a slug, and I don’t want that for you either. I want to see Kai restored to himself.”

  They look at each other a moment, pat each other’s arms, chuckle and sit up.

  “What will you do as Regent?” Kai asks.

  “I’ll make us all Buddhists. But I’ll let the worship of the old gods continue. I’ll starve them slowly. And I’ll make sure that dear old Mala is convinced that I will always give him his due.”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “Not always,” says Arun.

  The next day King Kai declares publicly that Arun is his natural son and heir. He makes him Crown Prince and announces his retirement from the capital. Arun will rule in his stead. Kai passes him the Sacred Sword. There is wild, ecstatic cheering at this delightful development.

  There are some hours of light ceremonials, a bit of singing and dancing and drinking holy water. Then Arun mounts the dais. He looks down at the sad-eyed throne and says, “Get this terrible thing out of here and cremate it with honors.”

  Kai packs what he took with him on that first quest nine years ago. The Likely Ten, now terrible to behold, safely escort Kai to the gates of the royal precinct, just to be sure that he really has gone. With every step he chuckles.

  He walks across the fields, toward the lake and across the kingdom. Everywhere people treat him with respect and kindness. This is due in part to a new Chbap that Arun commissioned and paid to have chanters repeat.

  Imitate the wisdom of the Great King Kai

  Know when to pass responsibility to your son

  Depart in good cheer

  For that quieter kingdom of the world

  Where wisdom is found in small things.

  Villagers recognize him, and beg him stay to chant at weddings. He does so in good cheer. No one accuses him of anything. Women who remember how handsome he once was place garlands of flowers around his neck and hold up their hands in prayer.

  He finally arrives at the place where the paths wind back on themselves and the trees close over. “Undo!” he says again.

  He finds the City of Likelihood, deserted and forlorn.

  He goes to the simple house of unsteady stone in which another old man died in pain. Kai unrolls a mat and finds a forgotten bowl and spoon. Even after all these years with some of the dykes fallen, sparse rice still whispers in the thousand paddies. They climb toward heaven like stairs.

  He gathers rice and stores it, some for seed, for there will be only one crop. The many deserted wooden houses will provide him with firewood. He takes the opportunity to prepare for death and accept the world as it is, and finds that there is surprisingly little to contemplate.

  He draws in a breath, and goes down into the valley to carry out his plan.

  He goes to the Machine. He is able to step through the breakage into its huge hollow coil. He climbs up the scaffolding and flaps the broken reed panels that once powered its engines. Some clay, some reed, some time—that will be all it needs.

  The Machine was built in a dead whirlpool because of the centuries of sediment deposited there. Finding clay is easy. So is finding firewood. Kai hauls huge evergreens down from the hills and lets them dry until they are tinder. He touches them and they catch fire, for magic now rules everywhere, even in Likelihood. He bakes new sections of tube. He weaves the reed into new blades for windmills.

  The Machine takes shape, the panels turn in the wind, and Kai sighs with satisfaction. He remembers the original inhabitants.

  It’s never properly been turned on.

  Don’t give him ideas!

  Too late to avoid that, I’m afraid.

  Kai once asked, “What would it do?”

  “Buzz the world,” said one old man.

  Kai slides shut portal after portal. The old machine hums. Kai remembers the one bolted portal at the top that was left open.

  Kai the warrior monk stands back and then runs up and over the round smooth sides.

  Over the last open portal dances something that looks like stars. Kai, the man of magicked fire, reaches through them, pulls the bolt shut, and locks it. He survives the sparkling blast, where elephants could not. All it does is quench his fire like cooling water.

  And all the World is deprived of magic.

  Mala descends howling in rage and grief and betrayal, and Kai smiles at him. Just after his giant wings drop off, Mala melts harmlessly into the ground, personified no longer.

  No more miracles.

  In all the temples in the lands of Kambu, the voices of the gods whisper once like dust before being blown away. Then their halls are empty. The statues are wrapped, the oracles speak, but with voices that in their hearts they know are their own.

  Kai is released for one last time from the fire in his body. He has changed the whole world forever. He made the world in which we now live. Which can hardly be called heroism completing itself through inaction.

  Soon after, he gets sick and dies alone in agony in the tiny house of wood and stone.

  And what of heroism?

  Well, the Rules don’t understand it, but they sound good, and at least they don’t say that you become a hero by being kind and doing your duty. />
  Heroism consists of the moment that you are cheered by thousands. Heroism resides in the eyes of other people, and what you can get them to believe.

  It can also be secret, without praise, and known to no one except you. That kind is a lot less fun.

  Heroism, if you want it, resides nowhere, and everywhere, in the air, whether it buzzes with magic or not. In the hard, merciless world of Likelihood, there is no meaning, except in moments. There are also no Rules.

  The old gods had been unstitched into ordinary molecules. The pretty magic of kings no longer worked. Kai’s new railway, roads, and cities were an enticement.

  Steamboats arrived from the West, bearing cannons and ambitious, likely people.

  Birth Days

  Today’s my sixteenth birthday, so I gave myself a present.

  I came out to my mom.

  Sort of. By accident. I left out a mail from Billy, which I could just have left on the machine, but no, I had to go and print it out and leave it on my night table, looking like a huge white flag.

  I get up this morning and I kinda half notice it’s not there. I lump into the kitchen and I can see where it went. The letter is in Mom’s hand and the look on her face tells me, yup, she’s read it. She has these gray lines down either side of her mouth. She holds it up to me, and says, “Can you tell me why you wouldn’t have the courage to tell me this directly?”

  And I’m thinking how could I be so dumb? Did I do this to myself deliberately? And I’m also thinking wait a second, where do you get off reading my letters?

  So I say to her, “Did you like the part where he says my dick is beautiful?”

  She says, “Not much, no.” She’s already looking at me like I’m an alien. And I’m like: Mom, this is what you get for being NeoChristian—your son turns out to be a homo. What the Neos call a Darwinian anomaly.