Miss Buddha Read Online Free PDF Page B

recant anything, everything;
would assume all the sins of the world, and trade them for eternity
in hell, if only he could live one more day. One more day.
    The animal brays again, but this time
nowhere near as loudly. Almost kindly. This time it brays for him,
he thinks, a goodbye, and he looks over at the animal, but it is
being led away now, all he sees is the rump and the swish of tail.
Still, the bray was meant for him, this he suddenly knows and he is
flooded with remorse for not loving this animal until now.
    He tries again, but still cannot feel his
hands. Nor his feet. Looking down he sees they are blue with
trapped blood, spindly and blue and not such good instruments for
standing, and so he buckles again, but this time he is caught
before finding ground. Pulled up, supported now from all sides.
    Other hands—many pairs, and with what
eagerness—now begin pulling at his sack, his only clothing, and
with many words exchanged between pullers and supporters the
garment finally rises—catching first on the wooden block in his
mouth, then scraping his nose and forehead—and frees itself of its
charge. Tossed then—he cannot see in which direction—it leaves him
naked. His only clothing now the constricting leather thongs on
wrists and ankles.
    And here the voice again, the “not sharp
enough” voice. It makes a reference to the thongs, and an attempt
is made to remove these little too-tight nooses, but after a while
the voice loses patience and changes its mind and instead orders
the many hands to lead him forward, toward.
    Toward.
    Toward the stake driven into ground for the
purpose of purifying souls and now surrounded by kindling and much
wood. The reek of oil rises anew as if to signal to him its
willingness to burn. Toward this stake, and he cannot feel his feet
touching ground. Perhaps he is lifted rather than walking, and then
there is no more toward left.
    Only stake.
    Hands now press his back against the rough
wood and twist his arms back for new thongs. He can feel, in the
same manner you hear underwater, rope secure his hands and arms the
far side of the bole, and someone else is making sure that his
feet—which he still cannot feel, and which still, as he glances
down, are blue—will not stray. So much binding for such a small
man. That is his precise thought, and if the wooden block did not
fill his mouth into forced rictus he would have smiled at that.
Smiled, that he could still think lucid, even amusing—if not very
helpful—thoughts.
    They place a metal ring—fastened by a chain
somewhere above him—around his neck, and—his faculties ever
alert—he works out why: to keep him erect once the rope that ties
him to the pole has charred and crumbled.
    The ring is tight; it is more like a metal
noose than a necklace. He swallows. Can. Barely. Swallows again, or
tries to. His throat is too dry for a second swallow.
    And so they are done. Many fingers, and
parent hands and arms, retreat. He is safely secured.
    Many hands now push wood and the kindling up
against him, closing the path that gained him access to this, his
final spot on Earth.
    A tall monk in white robes raises a Bible
for him to see. Bruno looks away. The monk speaks. Bruno does not
listen. The monk moves himself and the Bible into Bruno’s line of
vision. Bruno looks away again, averting the detestable thing that
has brought this about—though, of course, he knows the book is not
to blame, but the surrounding imbeciles who—slaves to the word—know
no better.
    The tall monk moves again and speaks again,
and again Bruno refuses to listen—turning nearly shouted words into
unintelligible sounds—and refuses to look. Instead, he closes his
eyes, firmly, deciding never to open them again.
    A short-lived decision, for the sudden
crackle of flame swings them open, morbidly curious. Smoke rises,
acrid, black, oil-fed. Straight up into still morning air, and
Bruno follows its rise against pale sky where curious stars still
shine,