ANANDA GAGGED.
He grabbed the edge of his robe to cover his nose. What was that smell? He tried to see through the darkness, but the door they’d used to enter the hut had slammed shut behind them. There was no light. This kind of smell is sure to be sickness, Ananda worried to himself. They should leave immediately.
“Bhante, we should not be here,” Ananda pleaded. “This is unsafe.” His imagination was running rampant. Anything could be hiding in the darkness. They were, after all, deep inside the forest, where spirits and demons and wild animals lurked.
“Please, Bhante. I will not forgive myself if any harm comes to you.”
Ananda tried to steer the Buddha away from the rot that was festering. The Buddha, however, stayed where he was.
“We have come precisely for this,” the Buddha replied. “We are here for him.”
Him?
The Buddha walked to the other side of the small hut and pushed open the window shutters, flooding the space with light and fresh forest air. The room was visible now.
It was spare in its contents: a few dishes, a pile of rag robes heaped in the corner, and a straw mat on the ground covered by a worn blanket. Flies buzzed all around.
Then something beneath the blanket moved. Ananda recoiled; the Buddha, however, did not flinch. The Buddha got down on his knees and pulled back the blanket. There, before them, was a monk too weak to move the blanket himself.
Ananda dropped the edge of the robe he was
