The Clever Hawk

by Ronan Frost

  Chapter Thirteen

  I counted the passing of every single day. A week passed, then two. Each day I was given three meals, simple affairs of rice and mountain vegetables, soup flavored with soybeans. It was different to the heavier, meaty meals of the castle. I found I felt lighter, stronger, and leaner, and by incremental degrees, my awareness grew, taking in the aura of divinity that imbued the forest and the hillside. There was no doubting the feeling of power bestowed upon the temple by its lofty position overlooking the city of Kyoto below.

  I worked with a fierce resolve, trying to find some kind of routine. I found that the harder I labored and the more taxed my body, the deeper I slept and the less dreams plagued my thoughts. That moment before I fell asleep when it seemed every part of my body were anchored with ten times its own weight, that was worth every drop of sweat. Yet despite my efforts, I saw in the eyes of those around me a distrust and felt the prick of their distain.

  The longer I worked the more I disliked Kan’emon. His great beard and tangle of unruly hair stood in stark contrast to the mostly hairless men around him. He would lounge around all day, and was never satisfied with the speed or quality of my work. He would complain of his hunger and demand food when quite clearly I was working as fast as I could in preparing it. At times I wondered if he knew how to do anything at all, for he would often complain at the most menial of tasks. For instance, he would call me to come running to fetch a towel after his bath that he himself could have gotten more easily. I would be soaked to the elbows from scrubbing clean huge pots in the kitchen and hand him his towel and he would reprimand me for making it damp where I held it, and send for another. It was not the gruff manner of the stern but fair master, but stemmed from a deep distrust of me. I could not guess what Yobutomo had told him about me, but from the way he acted, it did not sit well with him.

  Bent over double at the hip, running a cleaning cloth over the reeded flooring, I paused at a doorway, the chill wind gusting in. I saw monks drilling martial arts in the courtyard as they had done every day, no matter the weather. All the time Kan’emon would remain indoors, yet this morning he had joined his fellows and I felt drawn to watch as he moved among the men with the ponderous minimalism of the obese. The monks had divided themselves into two groups, and were fighting a mock battle with naginata; cushioned bags slipped over the bladed end of their long metal-shod staff. Their black robes were in the manner of the samurai; sleeves tied back with a sash crossed at the back, legs of trousers tucked through the belt to give freedom of movement.

  I watched the practice battle unfold, finding myself urging whoever was against Kan’emon, wishing to see the big man at least bruised. Yet despite everything, Kan’emon dispatched foe after foe, his movements apparently slow but somehow just enough to deflect a blow, each offensive strike holding measured power and deliberation. With a twist of his naginata he knocked a man off his feet and shoved the padded end into his stomach while still in mid-air. Landing with a heavy thump the unfortunate monk gasped to catch his breath.

  From his flank another monk approached, his staff arcing through the air. Kan’emon sensed the attack and twisted, but not quite fast enough, and the weapon hit his shoulder. My smirking satisfaction was short-lived, for as he ducked away from the blow, minimizing its impact, Kan’emon’s naginata pivoted about and swatted, using his opponent’s momentum to cause him to stumble and crash to the ground.

  The battle seemed over. I could see Kan’emon’s chest working, his breath only slightly elevated as he helped the fallen to their feet. The others picked themselves up, some walking with more care than others. Sensing my gaze, Kan’emon looked in my direction, and I quickly resumed my chores.

  Enryaku-ji was like no place I had ever seen before. Now and again there would be a brawl between rival sub-temples as each vied for the attention of rich patrons. Each faction claimed its own special mystic power of healing or wisdom, and to claim the wealth of a nobleman or merchant who had come to the temple seeking enlightenment was a prize worth more than a little deception and even physical aggression. I came to distinguish those who were true monks and those who had been brought in as mercenaries simply dressed to look the part, leading to an arms race of purchased muscle. This infiltration of swords-for-hire brought with them prostitutes, and it was not uncommon to see them wander between buildings of the temple grounds, walking with seductive step and clothing that drew and tempted the eye. I confess that more than once I found myself enraptured as they walked, but this strange new feeling of rising lust inevitably led to bleakness, for always my thoughts would revert to Aki, now long since cold in the ground.

  Not only were women and children allowed within the temple complex, I had even seen groups of women training in the martial yards; most were excellent shots with the longbow, and a few skirmished with the naginata, using the length and reach of the long pole-arm to compensate for their smaller stature. They also, like many of the warrior monks, were practiced in the use of the arquebuses; long barreled firearms, much sleeker and refined than the ones I had seen used in Miyamori Castle. The sizzle and sharp crack of gunpowder was not an uncommon sound during the day, both in the training yard and also, less commonly, wielded against their fellow monk in angry skirmishes. The smell of firearms would linger in the air, and brought back memories of festivals and fireworks. Again, thoughts that led to Aki.

  Although the temple complex was simply a large armed camp threatened to be overrun with drunkards and whores, it was held together by a certain sense of kinship, and the skirmishes never grew to the point of all-out bloodshed. Although I drew upon skills of observation Master Masakage had taught me, overhearing idle talk and also when possible meetings between Kan’emon and other temple leaders, I could not determine what that common thread was, and it remained a mystery to me for some time.

  Every now and again, I would catch sight of a monk wearing all white. Whenever I saw him my curiosity piqued. He carried out the usual chores and I saw him often in the library, studying the scrolls and teachings, for long stretches of time during the day he would vanish into the forest, returning at odd hours looking weary, and I wondered where he had been. He moved through the temple complex almost like a ghost, and was treated with a strange kind of respect. One day, I found occasion to ask one of my fellow students about the monk in white, but the only answer I got was that he was in undergoing the trials of the kaihogyo, but when pressed, I could glean no further information from him.

  Yobutomo did not stay at Enryaku-ji for long, and the one morning he simply disappeared, leaving me at the temple with the promise he would soon return. Although I had never felt at home within Miyamori Castle I at least knew my place. Now I found myself constantly scanning the faces of strangers, knowing it was pointless, yet unable to stop myself from trying to find shadows of recognizable features. Unpinned from the world, lost in the sea of strangers, I realized how much comfort I had come to gain in that sense of belonging.

  Internally I roiled with conflicting emotions. The journey upon foot with Yobutomo through the forests and mountains imbued a tantalizing taste of what freedom could be, a feeling that I toed the edge of something vast. The key was my own body working in synchrony with the world, propelling me along that infinite tunnel formed by overhead branches, a world that did not require the crutch of familiarity. It was with this desire for something I knew lay hidden within the temple that finally drove me to intercept the monk in white one day. I stood in his path, forcing him to stop and regard me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  The monk wore a curiously shaped hat, formed by two long tubes of woven material and tied beneath his chin. He removed it and tucked it under his arm.

  “I must study,” he said.

  “Where have you been? Where did you go today?”

  “For one-thousand days, I must run the trails circling the mountains of this temple.” He paused and must have sensed that this did not impress me as perhaps it should have.
He gave a smile that, despite his obvious weariness, held an otherworldly depth. “In this, my seventh and final year, the sacred course runs for fifty-two miles.”

  Comprehension began to dawn. “Every day, you run for fifty-two miles?”

  “Every single day, for one hundred days straight.”

  “But that’s… That’s impossible.”

  “Once begun, there is no escape from the sacred vow. If I fail, I must take my own life.”

  “Why? Why do you do it?”

  “Only when the body and the mind are emptied, can we be transformed. If you are interested, there are many texts in the temple library.” He gave me another smile, then continued on his way, leaving me with thoughts spinning in my head.