He was found against the Bodhi Tree’s trunk, nestled between roots that radiated outwards like the arms of an organic throne. A beard of many months’ growth curled in his lap. His eyes, piercing blue, were open.

The first person to place a candle prayer at the foot of the Bodhi Son (what they were calling him now) was a superstitious loom weaver and grandmother of three. Soon a constellation of prayers illuminated the Bodhi Tree, unburdening the sun of the holy task of warming its mystic trunk. The Bodhi Son never moved.

A cathedral of stone and wood was built carefully against the contours of the Bodhi Tree. Acolytes guarded the narthex through which supplicants passed to gaze upon the Bodhi Son and light a candle of prayer. The Bodhi Son never moved.

The cathedral was gutted, the Bodhi Tree scorched. A black blaze for a sky. The Bodhi Son sat as he had always done, his sooty face struck with tears. When the Bodhi Tree died, he blinked, and saw the world through eyes as green as the Tree’s leaves.