Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  For weeks I read the sutra every day, pored over it hour after hour. The Bodhisattvas and Arhats and countless other beings listened without end to the Buddha’s sermons, his descriptions of the various worlds and the beings who inhabited them, the future Buddhas and the worlds they would create, the blessings they would bestow.

  Turn the Dharma wheel.

  Beat the Dharma drum.

  Blow the Dharma conch.

  Let fall the Dharma rain.

  The parables at least were easier to read, simple tales, each with a simple point to make. Expedient Devices. To spread the teaching. The Dharma falls on all alike, nourishing the smallest herbs and the largest trees. Each one receives what it needs.

  The tale of the young man who falls into a drunken sleep while visiting a friend’s house, and the friend has to leave early in the morning to go to another country, and before he goes he secretly sews a pearl into the man’s clothing. And he wakes and goes out into the world, seeking wealth, trying to earn a living, not realising he carries this priceless pearl with him all along, till he meets his friend again, and his friend tells him it is there.

  So with the wealth the Buddha has bestowed on us . . .

  The tale of the young man who leaves his father’s palace and wanders in the world, and falls into poverty, and ends up shovelling dung for twenty years till his father finds him and brings him back.

  I wondered if shovelling dung for twenty years might be an easier path to enlightenment than ploughing through these scriptures.

  Then I found another of those passages that made me stop, read it again. It spoke of spreading the Dharma through the sutra.

  If there is one who reads and recites, receives and upholds the Sutra, or copies out even a single verse with reverence, know that this person in the past has already made offerings to tens of millions of Buddhas.

  Further down the page, it took it even further.

  If a good man or woman, after my extinction, can secretly explain one sentence of the Sutra to one single person, know that this person is my messenger, come to do my work.

  It also made it clear that this work would not be easy.

  Entering the fire at the end of the Kalpa and not being burned, that would not be difficult. But after my extinction, upholding the Sutra and preaching it to one single person, that would be difficult.

  Entering the fire.

  There were passages about right conduct, injunctions to monks as to how they should behave, particularly in relation to women.

  Do not take delight in looking at young women. Do not speak with young girls, maidens or widows.

  And another parable – another parable! – began: The body of a woman is filthy and impure and not a fit vessel for Dharma. Thus spake the Venerable Shariputra.

  Once more I thought of my mother, the pure simplicity of her devotion.

  And yet . . .

  The parable continued with the story of the Dragon Girl, daughter of the Dragon King and Queen, who was clearly an exception to this general rule. She possessed a rare and precious pearl which she was able to offer to the Buddha, who accepted it.

  Was that not quick? she asked, and was thus transformed into a living Buddha herself.

  So, however grudging and reluctant the admission, it was there. The possibility existed.

  I ground on through more lists, more expositions, more injunctions. My brain ached. Sometimes after hours of it I felt a sense of virtue, a kind of dutiful piety at forcing myself to sit there. At rare moments I went beyond that into a fleeting glimpse of something beyond, which was yet, at the same time, here and now.

  In a quiet place

  he collects his thoughts

  dwelling peacefully

  unmoved and unmoving

  like Mount Sumeru

  contemplating all dharmas

  as having no existence

  like empty space . . .

  Then more numbing lists, more simplistic parables, and the moment would be lost.

  Buddha spoke of the Bodhisattvas. If you were to count them for as many aeons as there are sands in the River Ganges, you could not count them all, your counting would have no end. There are as many Bodhisattvas as there are dust-motes in the great world, and each and every one of these Bodhisattvas was taught by the Buddha and transformed.

  Propagate the Dharma. Cause it to spread and grow.

  Endless, limitless, infinite numbers, to fill the mind with awe.

  I began to make notes for myself, copy out short passages, exhortations that spoke to me directly.

  Be vigorous and single-minded.

  Hold no doubts or regrets.

  Abide in patience and goodness.

  One particular Bodhisattva, Guanyin, could be invoked in times of suffering and distress.

  In times of suffering, agony, danger and death, he is our refuge and protection.

  If someone is surrounded by bandits who threaten him with knives, and he invokes Guanyin, the knives will shatter into pieces.

  If someone is pushed into a pit of fire and invokes Guanyin, the pit will be turned into a cooling pool.

  I wrote these lines beside my other notes. I read on, finally reached the last page.

  When the Buddha had spoken this sutra, all the great assembly rejoiced and received his teaching, and they made obeisance and withdrew.

  I closed the book and sat in silence for a long time. Aeons. Kalpas. Then I returned it with reverence to its special niche in the library.

  The priest realised I had read the whole sutra, from cover to cover.

  Well, he asked, what have you learned?

  I did not know what to say, so I said nothing.

  Are you banging at the gates of Paradise? he asked. Ready to ascend into Nirvana?

  Still I was silent.

  Is this the silence of the enlightened man, or are you just dumbstruck, stupefied?

  I cleared my throat.

  It was not what I had expected.

  Ah.

  This time it was the priest who let the silence sit there. After a while he spoke again.

  And what did you expect?

  I do not know.

  But you know it was not this.

  Not this. Something more.

  I thought of my mother, her eyes shining, chanting Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I felt disloyal. I thought of the passage describing those who disparage the sutra, the hundreds of painful rebirths they have to endure. I felt a twinge of fear.

  There are many beautiful passages, I said. Absolute jewels. But they are buried.

  Hidden, he said. For you to discover.

  But forgive me, they are hidden amongst so much dross, they are hard to find.

  That may be the point.

  Endless lists, I said, endless arguments about procedure and hierarchy, endless incantations. Then page after page of teaching through parables, simple tales of cause and effect.

  It had all come out of me in a rush. I bowed.

  Forgive me, I said again.

  There is nothing to forgive, he said. Perhaps some day you will read it again, perhaps in another life, and it will speak to you more directly.

  Perhaps, I said, not believing it for a moment, and feeling empty and bereft as though I had been cheated or had lost something precious.

  TWO

  FLOATING WORLD,

  FLOWER-PATH

  B

  y the time I was eighteen, in spite of the skimpy rations at the temple – the basic diet of rice and greens, a little fish from time to time – I had grown taller. And doing my share of the physical work – weeding and tending the garden, sweeping and cleaning, working in the kitchen – had made me strong. I liked nothing better than walking beyond the village and into the foothills, but also along the Tokaido and through the neighbouring towns, amazed at the passing show, the constant stream of people flowing to and from the capital. There were pedlars and salesmen and merchants touting their wares, quack doctors and medicine men, farmers taking their crops to
market, geisha with their quick mincing steps in thick-soled clogs, samurai swaggering down the middle of the road, demanding respect, aristocrats carried in their palanquins, actors and acrobats, travelling storytellers with their portable kamishibai screens.

  In the post-station at Ejiri, close to the temple, was a courtyard where groups of travelling players would sometimes perform. I heard that a troupe from Edo was passing through and would be presenting a drama based on the tale of the Forty-seven Ronin. I had been struggling in my meditation, and I thought it might lift my spirits to see the play, so I made my way to Ejiri in the early evening, and took my place among the audience gathering in the courtyard. There was a sizeable crowd, a few of my fellow monks among the villagers and townsfolk, the merchants and their families. A little platform had been built where the wealthier and more prominent patrons could sit and watch the performance in comfort.

  As the sky darkened and the lamps were lit, I looked around me, took it all in. I remembered the puppet show I had seen with my mother, how it had opened my eyes and changed my life, and I felt an anticipation overlaid with something bittersweet I couldn’t quite name, a kind of yearning for something I didn’t know.

  Everyone knew the story of the Forty-seven Ronin. It was based on real events that had happened only a year ago, but had already become a legend throughout the whole land.

  A group of forty-seven samurai had avenged the death of their lord, Asano, by murdering the man responsible, a court official named Kira. Because they had done this out of loyalty, they were allowed a noble death themselves by committing seppuku.

  The incident had inspired poetry and painting – I myself had seen a number of woodblock prints depicting the ronin – and plays based on the story drew huge audiences all over Japan. The government in Edo had banned any contemporary reference in the drama, so the play was set in the distant past, four hundred years ago, and all the names were changed. But the audience knew the real story that was being re-enacted. These heroes were men from their own time who had only recently walked the earth.

  Because I had arrived early I had a good position, next to the viewing platform. As I looked across I was momentarily distracted by a young girl seated at the front of the platform, very close to me. She caught my eye, then immediately looked away, flustered, and hid her face behind a paper fan, but just that glimpse of her beauty had unsettled me.

  The lights around the courtyard flickered, and the drama began with the thud of a drum, the shrill wail of a flute, and for the next hour reality shimmered and wavered. We were here in this courtyard, in the post-station at Ejiri, watching seven actors move through each scene, chant their scripted lines. But at the same time, at the same time, we were in Edo, looking on as the forty-seven ronin waited patiently and took their revenge on the villain Kira, walked through the snow to place his head on their lord’s grave, then sit in a half circle and fall on their own swords.

  This floating world of theatre was a thing of magic and enchantment. As the ronin fell forward they let out a collective death-cry that sent a chill down the spine. It was terrifying and magnificent, and the crowd were so caught up in the action many of them also cried out. A group of young men who had arrived late were particularly carried away, and they climbed up at the back of the little grandstand and pushed forward for a better view.

  What happened next was as strange and dreamlike as anything I had just seen on the stage. Everything seemed to slow down, as sounds and movements were heightened, intensified. I heard a cracking, straining noise and the shouts grew louder. The young girl was looking straight at me, her mouth open, confusion and alarm in her eyes. Then everything was shifting, moving, as the platform collapsed. The girl pitched forward, throwing out her arms to protect herself, and without thinking I stepped forward and caught her, cushioned her weight and broke her fall. Her head cracked against mine and I stumbled a little but managed to step back and lift her clear as the others fell around her.

  She clung to me and I held her safe. I could feel her small body shaking. I could smell her perfumed clothes, her hair, and that irrepressible little dragon reared between my legs again, roused, and I chanted the Daimoku quickly to myself, Namu Myoho Renge Kyo, trying to calm it down.

  Then an older man was at my side, speaking to me.

  I thank you for saving my daughter, he said. But now I think you can put her down.

  I set the girl down on the ground, carefully, stood back and bowed, still silently chanting the Daimoku. Now I was the one who was shaken, flustered. My face burned as the girl bowed and bowed, thanking me over and over, fluttering in front of me.

  Her father introduced himself as Mr Yotsugi. He asked my name, and said he was grateful to me, and if my superiors might give permission he would like to express his gratitude by offering me hospitality at his home.

  The ronin who had ritually disembowelled themselves just moments before had gathered round, helping people to their feet, offering sympathy. The manager was bustling among the crowd, endlessly apologising, anxiously bowing. When he stood back to let Yotsugi-san pass he bent almost double and his apologies rose to an even higher pitch as he asked if there was anything he could do to make recompense, anything at all.

  There was no harm done, said Yotsugi-san, thanks to this young man.

  Then he turned to me and told me where they lived, said he hoped I would visit them soon.

  I watched them go.

  The girl gave a last look back at me over her shoulder. She smiled and undid me completely.

  The whole of the next week, at odd moments, I found myself thinking about the girl. I remembered the way she had caught my eye and looked away, the fear as she had pitched forward, the feel and smell of her in my arms. I sat in zazen, I chanted the sutras, and the more I willed myself not to think of her, the more clearly her image arose in my mind.

  Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them.

  The scent of her. Jasmine and sweat.

  The deluding passions are inexhaustible. I vow to extinguish them.

  The sheen of her lacquer-black hair. The white nape of her neck.

  The Buddha Way is supreme. I vow to enter it.

  The warmth of her small thin body through the kimono.

  As I left the meditation hall after a particularly difficult session, torn between trying to picture her face and trying to banish it completely, the head priest called me to one side and instructed me to wait. He stood with his back to me until everyone else had left, then he turned and fixed the full intensity of his gaze on me, fierce and withering. He must have been observing my meditation, seen every thought, every desire. I bowed deep, kept my head bent.

  So, he said. This merchant, Yotsugi-san, he has a daughter.

  I felt myself burn, said Yes, my voice a squawk. Even that one word felt like a confession. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

  Her name is Hana.

  Hana. Her name. Hana. Flower.

  Hana.

  According to Yotsugi-san, you saved his daughter’s life, or at the very least kept her from serious injury.

  A faint hope. Perhaps I was not, after all, about to be damned.

  He has sent a letter singing your praises and inviting you to dine with the family this evening.

  I looked up. The gaze was just as fierce, unremitting – nostrils flared, an irritated twitch at the corner of the mouth. He breathed out, part snort, part sigh.

  Go, he said. But do not be distracted by this young woman or her father’s wealth. Stay in the Buddha-mind.

  With a curt nod, a grunt, I was dismissed.

  Do not be distracted. Stay in the Buddha-mind.

  Her name was Hana. I spoke it, tasted it in my mouth.

  Hana.

  A mantra.

  I bathed and put on my cleanest clothes, the ones that smelled least of mildew and sweat. The Yotsugi home was about a mile from the temple, and I set out walking, past a row of little shops and stalls selling fruit and vegetables, pickles and
dried fish, trinkets and knick-knacks, clogs and straw umbrellas, sweets made from bean paste, scrolls and paintbrushes, netsuke, incense. I loved the stink and fragrance of it all, the light of the day fading, oil-lamps lit for the evening. I felt light and buoyed up, exhilarated.

  An old woman bowed, in deference to my monks’ robes. I bowed lower in return. A crazy drunk laughed at me, sprayed spit, his face a toothless demon mask. I laughed right back at him, bowed again, walked on.

  The way led through some narrow back streets and past a stretch of open ground next to the graveyard. I was aware of a movement, turned and saw a scraggy-looking dog loping towards me. It stopped and growled, started barking at me. I looked around for a stone to throw at it, but there was nothing. Hackles raised, it came closer, barked louder. I turned and faced it down, barked back at it louder still, and it ran off, whimpering.

  Ha!

  I offered up a silent prayer to Kannon, for protecting me and for not letting me find a stone. The edict of the Dog Shogun was still in force. Compassion for living beings. I saw myself reported, arrested by some petty official, thrown in jail, sentenced and executed. A sad end to a young life, and before I’d even had the chance to know Hana. I laughed again, this time at myself.

  The Yotsugi residence looked modest from the outside, a solid wooden gate, weathered and worn, bamboo fencing on either side, the family name carved on an old oak panel, and beside it a length of rope, a bell-pull. I breathed deep, gathered myself and tugged at the rope. Somewhere far inside, a temple-bell clanged. I heard the shuffle and clack of wooden geta and the door creaked open. An old servant peered out at me and when I announced my name he showed me inside, led me along a walkway to the house, told me to wait in an anteroom of polished hardwood, immaculate tatami mats on the floor. In a tokonoma alcove, a single chrysanthemum had been placed in a vase in front of a hanging scroll inscribed with vigorous, fluid calligraphy reading The Flower-path. On one wall was mounted a samurai sword in its sheath. On the wall opposite hung a magnificent kimono, sleeves spread out like wings, dyed deep pink, patterned with gold-embroidered birds. The air was filled with the scent of a rich musky perfume, a dark, spicy expensive incense. I breathed it in.