Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  Enmei Jikku Kannon Gyo.

  That afternoon there were heavy rains and I took shelter under an overhang of rock. When the rain had subsided I climbed down to head for home. The stream was swollen, the waters rushing fast, and I had to wade across, carrying the chisel and mallet, wrapped in cloth, above my head. Twice I stumbled, lost my footing and almost went under, the water reaching up to my chin. I made it to the other side, and I got home, drenched and shivering, my clothes sticking to me. But I was elated, and my mother could see it in me.

  Perhaps it’s time, she said.

  My mother was Nichiren Buddhist. That was why she had loved the story of Nisshin Shonin walking through fire, saving himself by chanting the Lotus Sutra. So it was no surprise when she suggested I go to Shoin-ji, a Nichiren temple. But then she said something else that did surprise me.

  And after all, she smiled, it is where your father studied as a young man.

  At first I thought I had misheard, or misunderstood.

  My father? I said. He studied at the temple?

  For a few short years, she said, he trained for the priesthood. He was taught by his uncle, Daizui-Rojin.

  My head felt cold. There was a taste like iron in my mouth.

  I didn’t know, I said. I had no idea.

  There is much you do not know about your father, she said.

  I bowed.

  Where do you think that brush and inkstone came from? she said. The ones you’ve been using.

  They were his?

  His calligraphy was good, she said, though he lacked your talent for making these drawings and bringing them to life!

  I thought of the drawing I had burned. I felt myself blush.

  So you see, she said, when he gets angry at you, or loses patience, it is not a simple matter.

  The drawing I had done of him, glowering.

  He knows how difficult that life can be, said my mother. Perhaps he is afraid for you, and thinks you are too young.

  He thinks I will fail.

  She left a silence, then continued.

  Perhaps in his heart he feels that he failed, and it pains him to think of such things, so he pushes them away.

  My father, the businessman. My father with his brusqueness, his ferocious samurai manner, inherited from his father. My father’s impatience with me, his anger at my devotions, calling it all a waste of time.

  The way is not easy, said my mother. And perhaps his real work, like mine, was to bring you into the world, to provide for you. Until now.

  Tanrei, the head priest at Shoin-ji, was old and frail. He said I might be better to follow my vocation at another temple, Daisho-ji, in the neighbouring town of Numazu. Perhaps he also thought it would be best for me to move away from home, to put some distance – even just a few miles – between myself and my parents. But he said he would accept me into the order. I would receive the tonsure and he would give me a new name.

  On the appointed day I bathed and dressed in monks’ robes of rough grey cloth. My head was shorn then lathered and shaved, scraped close to the scalp. The monk who used the razor had a steady hand and only once, when I twitched, he nicked the skin with the blade, just at the crown of my head. He dabbed the little bead of blood.

  This one’s keen, he said. He wants to open his crown chakra already.

  I rubbed my head, felt the rough stubble. I was led into the meditation hall and told to kneel in front of Tanrei who sat upright on a hard wooden bench. The sharp tang of incense filled the air.

  From today on, he said, Iwajiro is no more. You will leave the name behind as you leave behind your childhood. Your new name is Ekaku. Repeat it after me. Ekaku.

  Ekaku.

  It means Wise Crane.

  Ekaku.

  Go to the shrine room, he said, and chant the name one hundred and eight times. Let the sound of it fill you. Become the name. Ekaku.

  Ekaku.

  The monk who had shaved my head handed me a string of juzu, counting beads. From the length of it I knew there must be 108 beads, the sacred number. I would count them between thumb and forefinger as I chanted. I thanked him and sat in front of the shrine. Here too the smell of incense was strong. The very walls, the old wooden beams and pillars, were infused with its ancient musky scent.

  I straightened my back and began to chant, my own voice as strange to me as this new name, my mantra.

  Ekaku. Ekaku.

  Wise Crane.

  As I chanted I felt the sound resonate in my belly, my chest, my throat. Then the word lost all meaning, became pure sound.

  Ekaku.

  It became the cry of a bird, a white crane in flight across the evening sky.

  Ekaku.

  Then I was the crane, neck thrust forward, spreading my wings. I alighted on a rock, folded in on myself, and I was an old Chinese sage, looking out over a range of mountains.

  Ekaku.

  My finger and thumb closed on the final bead, larger than the rest. I chanted one last time.

  Ekaku.

  I stepped outside and into this new life.

  My shaved head. The spring breeze.

  A few weeks later my parents came to see me off on my journey. The arrangements had been made. The head priest at Daisho-ji would be expecting me. My father had given me a few coins tied in an old purse, enough to pay for my keep when I arrived. I thanked him and bowed low, pressed my forehead to the ground, stood up again and dusted myself down. My mother held me a moment, stood back and bowed to me with folded hands.

  I shouldered my pack and set out walking along the Tokaido. The spring morning was bright and cold. Looking up, I saw Fuji, immense above the clouds, then they swirled and closed in again, obscuring it. I turned and looked back, saw my mother and father still standing there. I waved and my mother bowed, my father gave a nod of the head and turned away, went back inside.

  Further on I stopped and put my straw kasa on my head. Again I looked back and could still see my mother, small and distant. Again I waved, and this time she also waved. I walked on. At a bend in the road, I turned and looked back one last time, and she was still there, a tiny figure, just distinguishable. I thought she was waving again, and I did the same. I kept walking, and the next time I looked I could no longer see her, or the house, or the village. The world I knew had shrunk and disappeared, and now Fuji shook off its mist and cloud and loomed there, huge and serene, a great being, dreaming itself.

  ONE TIME, ONE PLACE

  T

  he head priest at Daisho-ji, Sokudo Fueki, was a wiry, vigorous man, perhaps my father’s age, in his forties.

  So, he said, you didn’t last long at Shoin-ji. Why did they throw you out?

  The priest, I said, Tanrei Soden. He thought . . .

  That old fart, said Sokudo. He hasn’t had a thought in years. He should just write a death-verse and pack his bags, be done with it.

  I was shocked at his bluntness. Then I wondered if his words were a test.

  I’m sure he is a man of wisdom, I said, and a very capable priest.

  Oh, you’re sure, are you? said Sokudo. On the basis of what?

  I . . .

  He took one look at you, shaved your head, slapped a new name on you and shunted you out the door.

  It was true. I’d been disappointed at the speed of my departure from Shoin-ji, with barely time to let the dust settle. But I’d assumed the old man knew what was for the best.

  Your loyalty does you credit, said Sokudo. And perhaps I’m being harsh. Maybe if I get to that age I’ll be content to sit on my arse waiting for enlightenment. But right now I think it would be better to die and descend into hell.

  I felt the heat prickle my scalp, sweat run down my back.

  Descend into hell.

  He sensed my reaction.

  Ah, he said. The fear. Well, that can be a good place to start. As good as any.

  I was set a number of seemingly menial tasks – scrubbing the floors, sweeping the courtyard, scouring out the rice-pots in the kitchen
. With long sessions of zazen – seated meditation – in between, beginning early in the morning, the work filled my time and I was glad of the routine. But right from the beginning I hankered after more.

  One day Sokudo told me someone wanted to see me, a respected guest who was passing through. He led me to the shrine room and bowed to the old man seated there. I recognised him straight away – he was Kyushinbo, a wandering monk with a fearsome reputation. When I was a child he had often stayed at my parents’ home on his way along the Tokaido. They were grateful to have him visit and to offer him hospitality.

  Once he had told me I would achieve great things when I grew up. Remember the path is long and arduous, he told me. Shakyamuni was six years in the mountains. Bodhidharma was nine years at Shao-lin. You must persevere.

  He was famous for chanting the Nembutsu and he played the shakuhachi with a wild spine-chilling energy. It was rumoured he could fly through the air and he was reputed to be over a hundred years old.

  Now here he was, seated in front of me. I bowed and pressed my forehead to the floor, didn’t get up till he addressed me.

  So, he said, young crane. You have embarked on your journey.

  I didn’t know what to say. I nodded and stood silent.

  One time alone, he said. One place alone. Remember this precept. Be one-pointed in your practice. One time, one place.

  I bowed deep and he continued.

  I have three pieces of advice, he said, and I stood, ready to receive his guidance.

  First, do not waste food. When you have finished eating, clean your bowl by rinsing it with warm water, then drink the water from the bowl.

  This made sense. It was wise, and frugal, though perhaps not the kind of instruction I was expecting.

  Second, he said, never piss standing up. Always crouch down.

  Yes, I said. I mean, no.

  Third, he said, never piss or shit facing north.

  Again I was at a loss, not knowing how to respond.

  Follow these instructions rigorously, said the old man, and you will live a long healthy life.

  Remember Shakyamuni, he said. Remember Bodhidharma. Persevere.

  The interview was over. I bowed and backed out of the room.

  Later Sokudo spoke to me.

  An unexpected blessing, he said.

  Yes, I said. I am sure his advice will be . . . useful.

  He laughed.

  Persevere.

  More than anything I was eager to read the Lotus Sutra. The teaching of Nichiren had sustained my mother all her life. I could see her face, smiling at me. I remembered the feeling at that puppet show, the tale of Nisshin Shonin walking through fire, the power and intensity of the whole audience joining in the chant. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. Now I could read the sutra for myself.

  I was alone in the library, the book on the table in front of me, lifted down from its special place, unwrapped. I had lit an incense stick. I kneeled in reverence and gratitude. I chanted. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. Outside, a bird sang, a hototogisu. I bowed and opened the book, began to read.

  It was hard work.

  It wasn’t just that the Chinese characters were difficult to read, it was the words themselves, the density and weight of the thing.

  It began well enough, clearly and simply.

  Thus have I heard.

  Then it told of the Buddha dwelling on Mount Gridhrakuta, Vulture Peak, with a great gathering of Bhikshus, twelve thousand in all.

  Their names were Ajnatakaundinya, Mahakashyapa, Uruvilvakashyapa . . .

  I read with a sense of panic, fearing it would list all twelve thousand names. But it stopped after twenty or thirty, adding . . . and other great Arhats such as these.

  I breathed easier, read on as it indicated the others in attendance – eighty thousand Bodhisattvas, thousands of Gods, Dragon Kings, Asura Kings, all with their hundreds of thousands of followers.

  I read how they all walked round the Buddha, paying him homage, and he then spoke this sutra, The Great Vehicle of Limitless Principles. Then there fell from the heavens an endless rain of flowers – mandarava, mahamandarava, mahamanjushaka.

  I intoned the names. I could picture the blossoms, imagine breathing in their fragrance.

  Then Buddha emitted from between his brows a white light illuminating all the worlds. Manjushri stepped forward and spoke in verse.

  The Buddha will speak the Dharma Flower Sutra.

  All of you should now understand

  And with one heart fold your hands and wait.

  The Buddha will let fall the Dharma rain

  To satisfy all those who seek the Way.

  It had taken me a whole afternoon to read the introduction, just to get to the point where the teaching would begin. My head ached as if held tight in an iron clamp. I chanted once more, Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I bowed and closed the book.

  Perhaps it was because I was not as accomplished in Chinese as I had thought. Perhaps it was the endless lists of names and designations, the Bodhisattvas and Arhats, the Gods and Asuras. Whatever the reason, my progress through the text was slow.

  The second chapter spoke of the Buddha’s Expedient Devices, the way he taught. Tricks of the trade, I thought, then stopped myself, inwardly asking the Buddha’s forgiveness for such irreverence.

  Expedient Devices.

  He spoke at length – at great length – about the Dharma, wonderful beyond conception, profound and hard to understand. He made this clear, over and over, the difficulty of grasping the truth, even for the greatest of them.

  Thousands of beings present, listening to this, bowed and took their leave.

  Buddha spoke of their overweening pride, said they claimed to know what they did not know. Then he said he had shaken the tree and cleared its branches and leaves so only the trunk remained.

  Those who can hear the Dharma are rare, he said.

  And yet . . .

  A few pages further on he said that through these Expedient Devices the Dharma would spread.

  Even children at play, he said, who draw with a stick, or their fingernails, an image of the Buddha, will gradually accumulate merit and virtue. And if people in temples make offerings with a happy heart, or with songs and chants praise the Buddha, they have realised the Buddha Way.

  I thought of my mother. I saw her face clearly.

  Have no further doubts, said the Buddha. Let your hearts be filled with joy. You know you will reach Buddhahood.

  The third chapter began with a lengthy discourse on falling into the net of doubts, fearful that the very voice of Buddha might be a demon in disguise, come to cause confusion. But the Buddha himself spoke and made all clear, dispelled the doubts, calmed the heart.

  I ploughed on, through endless lines of incantation, singing the Buddha’s praises, telling of a future age, after limitless aeons, a Pure Land, tranquil and prosperous and abounding with gods.

  It shall have lapis lazuli for soil and trees made of seven jewels, constantly blooming and bearing fruit.

  I shifted to ease the ache in my back. I sipped bitter tea from my rough clay bowl. My head was beginning to feel clamped again, tight. I read on, through more lists, more praising, more offerings, to a passage where Buddha spoke in a parable.

  In a particular country there was a great elder, old and worn, who had limitless wealth and lived in a huge house. Hundreds of people lived there as well as all manner of other creatures. There were snakes and scorpions, lizards and rats and mice; there were owls and hawks and vultures, magpies and crows. The house was swarming, overrun with packs of scavenging dogs, and corpse-devouring wolves. It was haunted by hungry ghosts and malevolent spirits, and the whole place was rotting and falling into ruin and decay.

  One day, the owner of the house, the old man, went out through the open door, and he had hardly gone any distance when a fire broke out at the back of the house and quickly spread till all four sides were in flame. The beasts and birds and ghosts and demons all fought among themselves, devouring one a
nother.

  The old man suddenly realised that all his children had gone into the house, aeons ago, to play, and he rushed back inside to save them from the fire. But they were so intent on their play, their endless amusements, that they didn’t hear his warnings. He told them of the fire, and the hundreds of vicious creatures surrounding them, but they carried on playing and paid him no heed. So he called out to them that he had all kinds of precious things waiting for them outside. And they gave up their games and rushed out through the door, and they gathered round him where he sat, in a clearing some distance away. And he rejoiced to see them safe, and he showered them with gifts as he had promised. He used his wealth to provide fabulous jewelled carriages, pulled by pure white oxen, and the children rode off in the four directions, unobstructed, to enjoy his gifts.

  When he had told the story, the Buddha spoke.

  All living beings are my children. Deeply attached to worldly pleasures, they have no wisdom at all. The Three Realms are like a burning house, terrifying and filled with suffering. Ever present are the endless woes of birth, old age, sickness and death – these are the fires that burn without end. And although I instruct my children, they do not believe or accept, because of their deep attachment to greed and desire.

  He then went on to repeat the Four Noble Truths. Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Suffering can be conquered. There is a Way. And he held up the sutra itself as the purest vehicle for transcending desire, for going beyond suffering.

  The Buddhas rejoice in it, and all living beings should praise it.

  This very world we were living in, a burning house, collapsing all about us. I could feel the flames licking at me, hear the howls and screams of all my fellow creatures.

  I chanted once more. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I stood up and went outside, felt the cool evening breeze.