THE FOREST OF TIME
'The gate of that forest was Death.'
There was a great forest. It was full of giant trees that grew so high
and were so thick overhead that the sunshine could not get down below.
And there were huge creepers that ran from tree to tree climbing there,
and throwing down great loops of rope. Under the trees, growing along
the ground, were smaller creepers full of thorns, that tore the wayfarer
and barred his progress. The forest, too, was full of snakes that crept
along the ground, so like in their gray and yellow skins to the earth
they travelled on that the traveller trod upon them unawares and was
bitten; and some so beautiful with coral red and golden bars that men
would pick them up as some dainty jewel till the snake turned upon them.
Here and there in this forest were little glades wherein there were
flowers. Beautiful flowers they were, with deep white cups and broad
glossy leaves hiding the purple fruit; and some had scarlet blossoms
that nodded to and fro like drowsy men, and there were long festoons of
white stars. The air there was heavy with their scent. But they were all
full of thorns, only you could not see the thorns till after you had
plucked the blossom.
This wood was pierced by roads. Many were very broad, leading through
the forest in divers ways, some of them stopping now and then in the
glades, others avoiding them more or less, but none of them were
straight. Always, if you followed them, they bent and bent until after
much travelling you were where you began; and the broader the road, the
softer the turf beneath it; the sweeter the glades that lined it, the
quicker did it turn.
One road there was that went straight, but it was far from the others.
It led among the rocks and cliffs that bounded one side of the valley.
It was very rough, very far from all the glades in the lowlands. No
flowers grew beside it, there was no moss or grass upon it, only hard
sharp rocks. It was very narrow, bordered with precipices.
There were many lights in this wood, lights that flamed out like sunsets
and died, lights that came like lightning in the night and were gone.
This wood was never quite dark, it was so full of these lights that
flickered aimlessly.
There were men in this wood who wandered to and fro. The wood was full
of them.
They did not know whither they went; they did not know whither they
wished to go. Only this they knew, that they could never keep still;
for the keeper of this wood was Time. He was armed with a keen whip, and
kept driving them on and on; there was no rest.
Many of these when they first came loved the wood. The glades, they
said, were very beautiful, the flowers very sweet. They wandered down
the broad roads into the glades, and tried to lie upon the moss and love
the flowers; but Time would not let them. Just for a few moments they
could have peace, and then they must on and on. But they did not care.
'The forest is full of glades,' they said; 'if we cannot live in one, we
can find another.' And so they went on finding others and others, and
each one pleased them less.
Some few there were who did not go to the glades at all. 'They are very
beautiful,' they said, 'but these roads that pass through them, whither
do they lead? Round and round and round again. There is no peace there.
Time rules in those glades, Time with his whip and goad, and there is no
peace. What we want is rest. And those lights,' they said, 'they are
wandering lights, like the summer lightning far down in the South,
moving hither and thither. We care not for such lights. Our light is
firm and clear. What we desire is peace; we do not care to wander for
ever round this forest, to see for ever those shifting lights.'
And so they would not go down the winding roads, but essayed the path
upon the cliffs. 'It is narrow,' they said, 'it has no flowers, it is
full of rocks, but it is straight. It will lead us somewhere, not round
and round and round again--it will take us somewhere. And there is a
light,' they said, 'before us, the light of a star. It is very small
now, but it is always steady; it never flickers or wanes. It is the star
of Truth. Under that star we shall find that which we seek.'
And so they went upon their road, toiling upon the rocks, falling now
and then, bleeding with wounds from the sharp points, sore-footed, but
strong-hearted. And ever as they went they were farther and farther from
the forest, farther and farther from the glades and the flowers with
deadly scents; they heard less and less the crack of the whip of Time
falling upon the wanderers' shoulders.
The star grew nearer and nearer, the light grew greater and greater, the
false lights died behind them, until at last they came out of the
forest, and there they found the lake that washes away all desire under
the sun of Truth.
They had won their way. Time and Life and Fight and Struggle were behind
them, could not follow them, as they came, weary and footsore, into the
Great Peace.
And of those who were left behind, of those who stayed in the glades to
gather the deadly flowers, to be driven ever forward by the whip of
Time--what of them? Surely they will learn. The kindly whip of Time is
behind: he will never let them rest in such a deadly forest; they must
go ever forward; and as they go they grow more and more weary, the
glades are more and more distasteful, the heavy-scented blossoms more
and more repulsive. They will find out the thorns too. At first they
forgot the thorns in the flowers. 'The blossoms are beautiful,' they
said; 'what care we for the thorns? Nay, the thorns are good. It is a
pleasure to fight with them. What would the forest be without its
thorns? If we could gather the flowers and find no thorns, we should not
care for them. The more the thorns, the more valuable the blossoms.'
So they said, and they gathered the blossoms, and they faded. But the
thorns did not fade; they were ever there. The more blossoms a man had
gathered, the more thorns he had to wear, and Time was ever behind him.
They wanted to rest in the glades, but Time willed that ever they must
go forward; no going back, no rest, ever and ever on. So they grew very
weary.
'These flowers,' they said at last, 'are always the same. We are tired
of them; their smell is heavy; they are dead. This forest is full of
thorns only. How shall we escape from it? Ever as we go round and round
we hate the flowers more, we feel the thorns more acutely. We must
escape! We are sick of Time and his whip, our feet are very, very weary,
our eyes are dazzled and dim. We, too, would seek the Peace. We laughed
at those before who went along the rocky path; we did not want peace;
but now it seems to us the most beautiful thing in the world. Will Time
never cease to drive us on and on? Will these lights _never_ cease to
flash to and fro?'
Each man at last will turn to the straight road. He will find out. Every
man will find out at last that the forest is hateful, that the flowers
are deadly, that the thorns are terrible; every man will learn to fear
Time.
Then, when the longing for peace has come, he will go to the straight
way and find it; no man will remain in the forest for ever. He will
learn. When he is very, very weary, when his feet are full of thorns,
and his back scarred with the lashes of Time--great, kindly Time, the
schoolmaster of the world--he will learn.
Not till he has learnt will he desire to enter into the straight road.
But in the end all men will come. We at the last shall all meet together
where Time and Life shall be no more.
This is a Burman allegory of Buddhism. It was told me long ago. I trust
I have not spoilt it in the retelling.