In the paradise that is the Pure Land of the Amida Buddha, there is beauty everywhere. Here, free from the suffering and strife of the mortal world, souls can spend their days in pursuit of enlightenment, listening to the teachings of Amida and the songs of the karyōbinga. These celestial creatures soar overhead, their bodies those of a colorful bird, their tails like that of a phoenix, their heads and arms those of a bodhisattva, their melodies beyond compare. So vital is music to their lives, they begin singing even before they hatch from their eggs, joining the glorious chorus.
In the paradise that is the Pure Land of the Amida Buddha, all live in bliss.
In the paradise that is the Pure Land of the Amida Buddha… there was suddenly a discordant note.
The adult karyōbinga swooped down, searching for the source of the discord. A few of them stopped singing, the better to listen. Before long, they tracked the wrong notes to a small egg, sitting in its bed of moss amidst all the others.
There was nothing visibly wrong with the egg. It looked no different from the rest. But the music coming from it… ugh.
One of the karyōbinga wrapped the egg up in a length of muffling silk and flew high into the sky, where it could not be heard quite so clearly—except by the one carrying it, who fought not to wince. There they waited respectfully for Amida to finish his current sermon.
Then they flew down and, with a bow of apology, presented the egg to the Buddha. “Something seems to have gone wrong with this one,” the karyōbinga said—even though such a thing ought to be impossible, in the paradise of the Pure Land.
The Buddha smiled and took the bundle, unwrapping the silk. The noises coming from inside the egg wandered cheerfully from almost-note to not-quite-note without any regard for concepts like “interval” or “tuning.” Despite the off-key mess, the Amida Buddha, in his boundless compassion, stroked the egg fondly.
“Nothing has gone wrong,” he said to the adult karyōbinga. “This one understands bliss in a way the others do not. They are in a state of utter contentment, enjoying the music they make.”
Now the karyōbinga could no longer suppress the wince. “But—o Buddha of Immeasurable Light and Life—that isn’t music.”
Amida Buddha set the egg on a cushion at his side. “Is it not?” he said mildly. “Perhaps such a thing is in the ear of the listener. Meditate upon this, my goodly bird, and perhaps someday you will understand the truth as this little egg does.”
Content within its shell, the unhatched karyōbinga sang on.
About the author:
Marie Brennan is a former anthropologist and folklorist who shamelessly leans on her academic fields for inspiration. She is the author of more than twenty novels and eighty short stories, and her work has been nominated for the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy Awards. As half of M.A. Carrick, she has also written the Rook and Rose epic fantasy trilogy, beginning with The Mask of Mirrors.
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