Part 4: "Gray hair does not make a man an elder. He is but ripe in age; And may simply be called a foolish, doddering old man. To be considered truly an elder A man must practice truthfulness, Righteousness, harmlessness Restraint, and self-control, Be free of stain and rich in wisdom." -- The Dhammapada Methos could not disguise his considerable shock at those flatly spoken words. "No, you're mistaken. I must have hit my head on a rock. I was merely unconscious." Tsong Khapa chuckled to himself. "I may not have lived as long as you, my badly lying friend, but I still recognize a dead man. Where are your wounds? You have none -- or perhaps they are invisible." Considering his options, Methos carefully studied his apparent savior. Well into middle age, his hands showing the thick calluses of one who had spent many hours doing prostrations on hard rocky surfaces, this monk was dressed in the well-worn, unpretentious robes of a holy man on a lengthy retreat. Only the pointed yellow cap, covering his head and ears, set him apart from other monks Methos had previously encountered in this land. His face was calm, his dark eyes twinkling with a refreshing mixture of wisdom and humor, and, above all, abiding inner peace. Methos was immediately jealous of the latter. For all his years, centuries, millennia of existence, that was an emotion which seemed to elude him. Every other human emotion was his intimate friend. Peace, however, seemed as illusive and, perhaps, as purely legendary as the Prize, itself. Tsong Khapa finally broke the uneasy silence. "Do you have a name?" "Methos." The monk calmly continued without any question of the strange sound of that name. "I have heard of those of extraordinary longevity -- those blessed with freedom from ordinary diseases of the body, but not of the soul. Those who seem not to age, at least to our eyes. Those whom Yama, Death himself, can only touch in one brutal way. But touch you, he will, as he does us all." The monk carefully pressed one flat hand against Methos' chest. "No matter what kind of body you assume at birth, death comes -- and not always at a time of our choosing." The ancient Immortal's sarcastic sense of humor returned faster than his strength. "I seem to have been quite successful in outrunning him thus far -- or out cunning him." "You may be correct about that, but do not ever forget that even the longest life can be snuffed out in an instant. In the past there has never been any living being who has escaped being gobbled up by the cannibal of impermanence. Your turn will come. Yama comes for us all. When the past karma that caused this life is spent, you will be connected with new karma and led away by the Lord of Death." "I wonder what sort of karma led to *this* life," Methos sadly murmured. "White or black. Some days I cannot tell whether my continued existence is a reward or a punishment." "That one cannot say for sure. Only the omniscient ones can know the reason for it all." Tsong Khapa pondered thoughtfully for a moment. "Long life is usually said to be the mark of positive karma in a previous life, but the suffering you feel within this life comes from nonvirtue -- either accumulated in this life, your previous life, or lives eons past. Nonvirtue eventually causes suffering -- that is inevitable. It is a simple matter of cause and effect. Even in one hundred eons karma does not perish. When the circumstances and the time arrive, beings surely feel its effect." "The wheel spins ever on," Methos sadly mused, shrugging up into a sitting position within his enveloping blanket. Tsong Khapa nodded with knowing satisfaction. "You are not a stranger to the dharma." "I had a friend in this land, many years ago, who spent time in a cave, such as this. He taught me of your Buddha, of your path." "He is not *my* Buddha -- he is *the* Buddha. He is many Buddhas. He taught us of *the* path -- the one true path which leads to the cessation of suffering. That is the only way to truly escape karma." Methos politely smiled, and with reverently palm to palm pressed hands, bowed over slightly. "No disrespect meant." Tsong Khapa bowed slightly in return. "I am not offended by your lack of faith. Your lack of faith affects you, and you alone." The sudden shivering of Methos' flesh, as the Immortal wrapped the blanket more completely around himself, was immediately observed by the monk. "Here, let me get you some proper clothes." With a comforting smile Tsong Khapa stood, collected a neatly folded pile of garments from one corner of the cavern and handed the cloth over. "I am afraid I only have a spare robe and a cloak, but it should protect you from the cold." "Thank you -- this is most kind." Methos bowed slightly to the monk as he graciously accepted the clothing. As he unwound the blanket from his chilled body, he slowly stood, but wobbled precariously. The monk instantly grabbed him by the arm and steadied the Immortal until he found his balance. "Careful, my pale friend. You are still weak. You look as though you have not eaten in days." "I haven't." With a sad nod of his head, the monk released Methos' arm. "I will make you a proper meal and some hot tea. Rest, regain your strength. You are safe here." As Methos wrapped himself in the plain garments of a monk, he watched as Tsong Khapa pulled a spare pair of yak leather boots from the same corner and offer them as well. Here was a man who plainly had so little, but was more than willing to share all that he had with a stranger. He accepted the boots with another bow, then sat cross-legged on the floor while Tsong Khapa prepared tea for them both. "How long have you been on retreat here?" he finally asked. Tsong Khapa shrugged. "Some months. Time is of no consequence. I remain until I feel it is time to leave. My students are building a new monastery just over the ridge. I remain here until it is complete. I expect they will interrupt my solitude with news of its opening very soon. Until that time, I remain here, alone, and pray that Ganden will become a blessed and holy place of study and reflection for many lifetimes to come." He handed a simple bowl to Methos with both hands. "Drink this first -- it will settle your stomach and prepare you for solid food. My students bring me offerings of food, both for the altar, and for my stomach." Accepting the bowl with both hands, Methos eagerly sipped the thick, salty tea, winced at its high temperature, then gingerly sipped another portion. The monk patiently waited as his guest drank his tea. He studied the foreign features in the flickering lamp light, and thought back to when he had unceremoniously dragged the unconscious man into his cave. "When I first brought you here, you were mumbling to yourself -- you were having a vision?" Methos wasn't sure if that was truly a question or a statement of fact. "I was dreaming, a strange, nonsensical dream. A nightmare." Turning away, Tsong Khapa began to put together a meal of dried yak meat and berries for his guest. "All existence is a dream, in a sense, an ignorant delusion. Sometimes we cannot easily tell a true vision from a meaningless dream. That is why we should examine our dreams closely, to see if the bodhisattvas are whispering in our ears." Avoiding having to rebut that logic, Methos instead silently studied the details of the cramped cave. His eyes were drawn to the reflection of the lamp light in a line of bronze offering bowls carefully set along the edge of the altar. Behind he spied the usual trappings of a Buddhist altar -- stupa, dorje and bell, images of the Buddhas and their attendants. Hanging behind the altar were intricately painted cloth thangkas, and hand painted depictions on the rock face itself. Methos felt his blood curdle at the sight of a wrathful visage staring back at him from the wall. "That's who I saw painted on the cliff -- before I fell."