Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  The shoji screen slid open with the barest whisper and my host stepped into the room and greeted me by name.

  Welcome to my humble home, he said, and motioned me to sit.

  I kneeled on the tatami, and he sat facing me on a low wooden seat.

  Now, he said. Let us get to know each other.

  Yotsugi-san asked all the questions. He wanted to know about my family background and I told him what I knew. He was intrigued that my father was samurai and could trace his ancestry back to a warrior clan of the Kamakura period. I told him with some pride that they had fought alongside the great Minamoto no Yoshitsune.

  Excellent, he said.

  I told him my father had also spent time at Shoin-ji, where my own training had begun.

  And now he runs the busy way-station at Hara?

  Yes, I said, and I must have registered surprise that he knew this.

  Forgive me, he said. I took the liberty of making some enquiries.

  I am honoured, I said, bowing.

  I find it fascinating, he said, that your father’s early Zen training was no barrier to his becoming a successful businessman. In fact, I am sure it prepared him well for the cut and thrust of commerce.

  I heard Zen and barrier, cut and thrust, pictured a swordsman cutting down his enemies. Yoshitsune on the battlefield.

  My own modest success, he said, is founded on a love of beauty.

  He indicated the kimono on the wall.

  I deal in these gorgeous creations, for those who can afford to pay.

  The gold birds glittered against the deep pink silk. The shoji screen opened a fraction and Yotsugi-san gave the slightest nod towards the gap. It opened wider and a young woman stepped into the room and set down a lacquer tray bearing a teapot and two bowls, a bamboo whisk and a lidded box. Another maid followed behind with a heavier tray of dark wood, on it a small stove and an iron kettle. The two women backed out through the gap, bowing.

  So, said Yotsugi-san.

  I thought he was about to prepare tea for us himself. But he clapped his hands and the screen slid open once more, and kneeling there was Hana.

  I’d known I would be seeing her at some point in the evening. I had struggled between anticipating it and trying not to think of it at all. But the actuality took me completely by surprise. I felt as if I’d been struck in the chest, and just for a moment I could not draw breath.

  She wore a floral-patterned kimono in blues and greens, the sash a rich purple. Her hair was swept up, just so, held in place by a silver clasp and exposing the exquisite curve of her neck. I caught again a waft of her perfume, jasmine, and in behind it the smell of her.

  Hana.

  She kept her head down, not looking at me.

  Tea, said her father, and she bowed, glanced up, just for an instant caught my eye, gave a quick half-smile that turned me inside out.

  Tea.

  Her movements were extraordinarily graceful as she placed the kettle on the stove, wiped the bowls with the chakin linen cloth, removed the lid from the box and scooped a little tea into each bowl, all with the deftest of movements designed to keep her sleeves out of the way but performed with the flow of a dance or a piece of kabuki. I was mesmerised.

  You are familiar with the way of tea? asked her father.

  Yes, I said. No. I mean . . .

  He smiled, waited.

  I mean I have read about it, but never . . .

  So, he said. Hana will initiate you into the mysteries.

  Hana.

  I imagined making a calligraphy of her name, the brush-strokes flowing into a simple drawing of a flower.

  Hana.

  The water in the kettle had come to the boil. She poured a little into the first bowl, the one in front of me. Then she whisked the tea into a bright green froth, bowed and offered it to me, holding the bowl in both hands. I took it clumsily, touching her fingers. Her eyes smiled, and she made a slight rotating movement of her head, trying to tell me something.

  Then I remembered the form of the ritual, and I turned the bowl through a quarter-circle, sipped from the side. Nothing in my life had tasted as sweet as this bitter green tea.

  She whisked up more in the other bowl, handed it to her father who took a sip, let out a great slow sigh of satisfaction, made a comment on the fragrance of the tea, the perfect form of the bowl.

  I knew this, I had read about it. The custom was to engage in conversation about the tea, the bowls, the room, all of it. But my brain was numb and unable to link with my tongue. Hana had robbed me of language.

  The bowl is beautiful, I heard myself say. The tea is delicious. The room is . . . very nice.

  Hana bowed again, looked away. Was she trying to hide a smile?

  The taste of tea is the taste of Zen, said her father. It sounded like something he had read rather than composed himself, but I nodded appreciatively, grateful that he was trying to put me at ease.

  I sipped more of the tea, felt a warmth in my chest, a lightness in my head.

  The taste of Zen!

  And it all felt suddenly ridiculous, the stiffness and formality, the strained responses, the sheer tight-arsed artifice of it. And yet. And yet. There was the lightness. It bubbled up out of me and I laughed.

  Good, I said. It tastes good!

  Hana held out a tray of sugared sweets. I took one shaped like a flower and popped it in my mouth, let it dissolve.

  I feel I have died, I said, and awakened in the Pure Land.

  Her father chuckled, nodded approval.

  By the end of the evening I had eaten more food than I had in the previous week, all prepared by Yotsugi-san’s cook. I had downed white miso soup and noodles in a golden vegetable broth, rice and tempura, four sorts of fish. Yotsugi-san had insisted I drink a cup of sake.

  One for the road, he said. Let us drink to our continuing friendship.

  The road, I said. Friendship.

  The sake slipped down, warming, left a pleasant aftertaste. But it was deceptive. I wasn’t used to it, felt the rush to my head and again I found myself laughing.

  Yotsugi-san said I could stay in one of their guest rooms, return to the temple in the morning, but I said I couldn’t miss the sesshin, which began early. The word slipped in my mouth and I pronounced it again with great deliberation. Sesshin.

  I understand, said Yotsugi-san. But I hope, we both hope, you will visit us again soon.

  I bowed, smiled directly at Hana who smiled back.

  It would be a great honour, I said.

  On the way back past the cemetery, the same dog came running after me, yapping and snarling.

  Stupid dog! I shouted. What is wrong with you?

  He barked louder, and this time instead of barking back at him, I just laughed and that was even more effective in driving him away.

  The sesshin began at 3 a.m. with the clang of a bell. I’d had no sleep to speak of, was a little hungover from the sake, the rich food, the sheer unaccustomed intoxication of it all.

  Hana.

  Bleary and barely awake, head numb, I managed to fold up my bedding – the thin futon, the single rough blanket – and bundle it away. Then I joined the line to use the toilet, the pit dug in the dirt floor. Ignore the stink. Splash my face with cold water, taking particular care to wash my ears. Cup a little water in my hands to swill in my mouth. Swallow it down. Follow the others into the meditation hall. Sit on my cushion on the tan platform.

  We sat in two rows, facing each other. Incense was lit, a thick, heavy scent.

  Clang.

  The bell rang, deep and resonant, beginning the session. The head priest entered the room without a sound, and we sensed it, a change in the atmosphere. Backs straightened. He walked slowly, silently, behind each row, stopping here or there to administer a sharp rap with his stick on a curved spine, hunched shoulders. He stopped for a moment right behind me and I braced myself for a blow that didn’t come. I bowed with folded hands, gassho, and he moved on.

  At the end of th
e hall he stopped and turned, then he told a story, by way of instruction. It was one I had heard before and I knew it was sometimes assigned as a koan, to be addressed in meditation, an insoluble problem to push the mind beyond itself, beyond thought.

  The priest’s voice was measured, incantatory, as if imparting some ancient wisdom.

  In ancient China there was an old woman who took it upon herself to provide for a monk and support him in his practice. She had a hut built where he could meditate, and she provided a little food for him every day. This went on for twenty years, and one day she decided to test him, to find out what progress he had made. So she approached a beautiful young woman and asked her to visit the monk.

  Embrace him, she said, then ask him suddenly, What now?

  The girl did as she was instructed. She caressed the monk and said to him, What now?

  The monk remained very serious and stern.

  In the depth of winter, he said, a withered tree grows on an old rock. Nowhere is there any warmth.

  The girl returned to the old woman and reported what he had said.

  That rascal, said the old woman. To think I’ve fed and supported him for twenty years.

  She went to the monk and railed at him.

  You showed no concern for this girl, she said. You gave no thought to her situation. By all means resist the temptation of the flesh, but show at least a little compassion.

  Then she threw him out of the hut and burned it to the ground.

  When the priest had finished reciting the story, he bowed.

  Now, he said, meditate on this.

  Had the priest chosen the koan particularly for me? The thought was arrogant. The truth of the story was universal. It applied to each and every monk meditating in the zendo. And yet.

  I imagined Hana coming to me in my room, embracing me, asking me suddenly, What now?

  Hana’s fragrance. The curve of her neck.

  A withered tree on an old rock.

  The monk’s reaction was wrong.

  Nowhere is there any warmth.

  But returning the girl’s embrace would also have been wrong.

  A koan.

  This is wrong, the opposite is wrong. What now?

  Act.

  And yet.

  I hadn’t noticed the priest moving slowly along the row, his footsteps silent on the wooden boards. Then in an instant I was aware of him standing behind me, and in the same moment the swish of the stick, the keisaku, the whack between my shoulderblades jarring me awake, shaken.

  Composing myself I bowed low then entered into a deep silence, and before I knew it the bell clanged again for the end of the hour, the beginning of kinhin, walking meditation.

  The more experienced monks, more practised and adept at all this, seemed to unfold and stand upright in one fluid movement, push aside their cushions, stand catlike on their feet. I did as I had been instructed, rocked from side to side then slowly got to my feet and stood in line. Then again I followed instructions to the letter. Right fist closed around the thumb, placed on my chest and covered with the left palm. Elbows at right angles, arms in a straight line, body erect, eyes resting on the ground, two yards in front. Following the monks ahead, step forward with the left foot.

  Breathe in, step forward, breathe out. Heel and toe, sinking into the floor with every step. Feel the stiffness in the legs begin to ease, but without being caught up in that ease. See it as incidental, by the way. Stay alert and poised. Breathe. Walk.

  Clang.

  It was time to return to the cushion, to another session of seated meditation. A fresh stick of incense was lit, this time a lighter scent, pine.

  There was another koan I had read.

  What was your original face, before you were born?

  Once, on a full moon night, I had entered deeply into the question. Looking up at the moon I had seen there the Buddha-face shining, and for a moment I had known that face as my own.

  Now I found myself revisiting the koan, asking the question. What was your original face? I sat on the cushion on the hard floor in the shadowy hall, in a row of monks facing another row of monks. What was your original face?

  I sought to identify with my own Buddha-nature. But the only face I could see, with the eye of my heart, was the face of Hana. I felt as if her features were on my own face.

  The head priest had encouraged me to go to the Yotsugi residence. But he had admonished me. Do not be distracted. Stay in the Buddha-mind. Had that been my test, my koan?

  Once more the priest walked along, silent, behind the row. This time he passed me by without stopping. Someone’s stomach rumbled, gurgled. Someone coughed. The silence deepened. Time passed.

  Clang.

  The next break was when we were allowed to eat, and after the excess of the night before I was grateful for the simplicity and formality, the frugality and restraint.

  The head priest recited the threefold vow.

  Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them.

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

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

  A little hand-bell was rung, and each of us removed the cloth from a bowl and set of chopsticks in front of us. Two monks moved around the room and ladled out a little rice into each bowl, topped it with a few vegetables, placed next to it a small dish of pickle.

  The priest chanted a verse, reminding us that all food comes to us from the labours of many, and that we should receive it with utmost gratitude and humility.

  Then a lacquered bowl was passed round from hand to hand, and each of us placed in it a few grains of rice from our portion. This was an offering for the wretched spirits, the hungry ghosts, condemned by their own greed to a miserable existence in this and every other world. I imagined them consigned to one of the deeper hells, endlessly consuming and being consumed.

  The hand-bell was rung once more, and then, and only then, we ate, savouring every grain of rice, every piece of vegetable, ending with the pickle – a little daikon radish – to cleanse the palate.

  It was permitted to eat three portions of the rice. Three times the servers came round with the pot to ladle it out and the monks would wait, hands folded. Those who had eaten enough rubbed their hands together, bowed as the servers came by. I still felt the aftertaste of last night’s meal, still felt its richness bloat my stomach, so I stopped after one serving, ate the last sliver of pickle. The servers poured a little water into each bowl and we swilled it round to clean it, sipping the water, not wasting a drop. Any water left in the bowl was dripped into the same lacquered bowl, a further offering to those tortured spirits forever ravaged by hunger and thirst.

  The head priest recited a prayer of gratitude for the food, and for the strength it gave, pledged to use that strength for the benefit of all sentient beings.

  We bowed.

  The bell clanged once more.

  We stood for another round of kinhin, walking, then sat once more, backs straight, eyes fixed on the floor.

  The head priest struck the bell seven times, and the sound grew and resonated, filled the room, filled our minds. Before it had completely faded, he shouted out Mu!

  Some of the monks had been meditating on the first great koan, the first barrier to be crossed, and they meditated on this syllable, this Mu and its meaningless meaning.

  Nothing. No-thing. Emptiness.

  The priest chanted it again, louder, longer.

  Join me, he shouted. Chant!

  And they did, tentatively at first, voices shaky and wavering, with much hawking and clearing of throats, but gradually getting louder, more confident.

  Mu.

  Not from the throat, the priest shouted. From the belly!

  I started to join in, my own voice strange to me, getting stronger with every chant.

  Mu.

  It filled my head with light, radiated from my heart, growled and rumbled at the navel.

  Mu.

  It swelled
in the room till there was nothing but the sound. Nothing but. The sound. Nothing. But the sound.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  Mu.

  The bell clanged and the chanting stopped, and the silence that filled the room was profound.

  The sesshin lasted six days. The same regime, long periods of sitting interspersed with walking, chanting and koan, physical labour – helping in the kitchen or sweeping the floors or digging the garden, all done in concentrated silence, and twice a day the sparse rations, the rice and vegetables served with devotion and eaten with gratitude.

  Once the priest looked up as the meagre portions were dished out.

  No work, no food, he said. Eat what you have earned.

  On the last day he stopped walking the length of the room. He put aside the keisaku stick and bowed to us. The gesture was eloquent. It said he could do no more for us. Our realisation was our own responsibility.

  We sat on as the day darkened towards evening. The priest began intoning the Heart of Wisdom Sutra. Hannya Haramita Shingyo. Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form.

  The bell clanged one final time and the sesshin was over. The monks who had served the food went round the room, pouring tea into each bowl. I blew on my tea to cool it, then sipped it, savouring its green tang, sharp and bitter and good.

  For a time nobody made a move to leave. Then one by one the older monks stood up and moved towards the open door, and the rest of us followed, out into the night.

  Some made towards the bathhouse, joined the queue to soak in a hot tub. To ease the ache in tired legs, clenched shoulders – that too would be good. But I kept walking.

  One old monk stood absolutely still in the centre of the courtyard, looking up at the night sky through the branches of an ancient pine tree. Another sat in the graveyard, back straight, eyes closed.