The last kingdom before the mountain was called the Kingdom of Brass-Measure, or the district of it where a rich man lived who had made a vow, and the vow shapes the chapter: had sworn to feed ten thousand monks before he died, as an act of merit, and he had fed nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-six, and the pilgrims, arriving four short of ten thousand, completed his vow.
He was overjoyed. He kept them for days, feasted them, honoured them, treated the completion of his life's great merit as the blessing it was, and when they finally insisted on leaving — the mountain so close now, the Buddha almost in sight — he saw them off with tears and gifts and gratitude. There was no demon in any of this. It was simply a good man, near the end of the road, being good to the pilgrims, which after sixty-five chapters of ambush and fire and cages felt almost strange.
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