A BUDDHIST TALE FROM THE SUBCONTINENT OR THE PARABLE OF THE PERFECT ANSWER, ACCOMPANIED BY SILLY GESTURES AND BAD ACCENTS It was the season of the monsoon; the great sky dragons fought above the land and their blood rained down unceasingly on the verdant jungle. It was the month of Kober, and the 14 th day, and so the day of petitions for wisdom. Through the hopeful throngs passed the procession of the King of Pradesh. It was proceeded by one hundred dancers, with bells on ankles and wrists, then ten ranks of the Heavenly Guard, striking their bronze shields with their war clubs every three paces. Then came the Exalted One, his advisors and courtiers, and then the seven great horns of the Royal Fanfare, sounding discordantly every fifteen paces like the disconsolate bellow of a dying elephant. “If this is the Royal Music,” a traveller from a distant land observed between bellows, “it’s nae wonna the kings are all bloody mad”. “Aye. And if this is how they travel,” his companion replied, “it’s nae wonna they never bloody gan onywhar.” At the Pavilion of Truth, the monks courteously parted the King from the procession, for it was...

MORNINGSTAR He watches. That’s what he does. The Morningstar is faint now. He watches and he waits. He lives in the now. Not the might be and might have been. Not the was and will be. Now is the time to watch and wait. Old habits from times and places past give him the tools. He could teach patience to rocks, he could. At other times, he can be many things, has been many things, may be many things. Pupil, soldier, follower, leader. Son, husband, father, brother … uncle. Now he is just the watcher, as difficult to make out as the Morningstar in the early dawn. It’s cold and there’s drifts of mist, which is just right, just as it must be. He feels the tightening in his belly. Somehow he knows that today, he is lucky. The great balance of the world means that someone else will be equally unlucky today. He is sure he knows who it must be. He lifts the stubby telescope, slowly, with no sudden movements. Its barrel is matt and the lens is hooded so no reflection will give him away. His one eye slips into line and he is transported. He...

AMENDS You’ve gone and fucking done it at last Jim, he said, as he dragged himself across the muddy farm yard, wet with May showers, one leg just about helping, the other, the stump, no bloody use, as ever. It’s about fucking time, he thought. One last part of his plan. He reached up and released the catch that let the pigs into the yard, and smiled tiredly to himself. Gotcha, ya bastards. Pigs will eat anything in time. Even his dead body. The bees were gone. There was a week old letter to Amanda on the computer complaining that they had gone. They’d find that, the clever bastards and they’d think they knew he was alive well after the bees had left. There would be no hint of how he’d done it for the insurers to latch onto. Just a letter complaining there’d be no more SleepyBees honey and the maintenance payments would be late. Well, the money would be there this time, eventually, just from a different source, from the clever bastards in the insurance company. He laughed, but it came out as a cough and he could taste the blood in his mouth. Not long now...