Mountain of Skulls
Years ago, I read a Buddhist parable—as recounted in Lafcadio Hearn’s famous collection Kwaidan—wherein a Bodhisattva leads a young man up a mighty misty mountain, that he might have a vision of the sacred at the peak. The way is rough and rude, the vapors thick, such that he cannot see the ground beneath his feet. He treads upon round and rolling stones, which cause him to stumble, sometimes bursting underfoot. Drawing near the summit as the dawn begins to break, with the fog now burning away, the young man realizes, to his horror, that the mountain upon which he stands is in fact an unfathomably vast heap of human skulls. “Do not fear,” the Bodhisattva cries, “for all of them are your own!” This grisly image understandably stuck with me. In context, it refers to the Buddhist belief in reincarnation, a nigh-endless series of lifetimes culminating at long last in Enlightenment. The young man has lived countless lives, that he might now glimpse a vision of divine eternal Truth. Christia...