Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  I stopped, listened.

  Up ahead I could hear running water and I made my way towards it, pushed through the tangle of branches that snagged and clawed at my old robe, and I came at last to the stream I had seen from down below, the Shirakawa River. I slumped down on a rock, my breathing shallow and quick, lungs burning, blood thudding in my head. I concentrated on slowing the breath, then I kneeled by the stream, cupped ice-cold water in my hands and drank. The shock of it revived me but made me shiver, even though my body was still on fire. Shaking, I sat back down on the rock, looked around and took my bearings.

  Sound of the water. Wind in the trees.

  The way ahead was on and up.

  One foot. The other.

  On.

  Up.

  I kept going, one foot, the other, every step hurting, struggling to draw breath. The stream disappeared, and now there was not even the semblance of a path. I stopped, surrounded by trees and dense undergrowth, no way forward, nowhere to go. Well, said an irritating Zen voice in my head, you must go nowhere.

  Again I listened, to nothing. Faint rustle of leaves in the forest. Harsh cry of a shrike. Then suddenly, in the silence beyond, came the unmistakable sound of an axe blade on wood, the sharp hack of it, thud and cut. It rang in my head like that temple-bell at Eigan-ji, the sound of nothing, and that nothing falling away. Somebody was there, a woodcutter chopping down a tree.

  Thwack.

  I made my way deeper into the woods, towards the sound.

  Thwack.

  The sound was closer, louder, then it suddenly stopped and for a moment I was lost, then I stumbled a few more steps and into a clearing where the woodsman stood, axe in hand, eyes glinting as he fixed me with his gaze.

  Well? he said.

  Whether it was the exhaustion, or the sickness, some fevered hallucination, I thought the man looked familiar. I felt I knew his face, the skin weathered, the eyes clear.

  Well? he said again as I stared at him, trying to remember, to place him.

  I am looking for Master Hakuyu, I said. I have lost my way.

  It is an arduous climb, he said, especially for someone as sick as you.

  I know, I said. I don’t know what madness possessed me.

  But you’ve come this far, he said. You may as well continue.

  He beckoned me to the other side of the clearing, pointed further up the mountain.

  Up there, he said. Do you see?

  I shaded my eyes with my hand, peered up in the direction he was pointing. But all I could see were the bare mountain peaks, now clear, now hidden in cloud and mist.

  I see nothing, I said.

  He let out a long-suffering sigh of exasperation.

  Look again, he said.

  Again the swirl of mist and cloud, the mountains emerging.

  There, he said, pointing once more. And just for a moment I saw a glimpse, a tiny patch of yellow.

  Something catching the light, I said.

  He nodded. That’s the entrance to Hakuyu’s cave. If you keep climbing, you’ll get there while it’s still light.

  I knew in the mountains distances were deceptive. I knew it was further than it looked. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, folded my hands in gassho, offering gratitude. But when I opened my eyes again, to thank my guide, he was gone. I looked around the clearing, called out Hello? But there was no sign of him. He had taken his axe and disappeared.

  And this too was familiar, reminded me of something else. And I suddenly remembered where I had seen the woodcutter before. He was the old man who had come to the temple and first told me about Hakuyu. He was the same man, I was sure of it, but different. Somehow, impossibly, he was younger, and that was why I hadn’t recognised him. I shivered, sweat drying in the cold air. I shouldered my pack again, started climbing towards that flash of light, that glimmer of gold.

  Underfoot it grew more treacherous. Scree and tree-roots and matted undergrowth gave way to mud or loose sliding soil over bare rock. I found myself caught up in twisted vines, my straw sandals soaked through, and I constantly lost my footing. The air grew thin, the chill mist clung to my clothes and I had to negotiate patches of snow and ice. I burned and froze. Once more I was racked by coughing and spat up red, red, bright against the snow.

  I had joked about my bones being found by the roadside. Notify the four winds. Up here I might never be found. Keen-eyed vultures would pick the bones clean. Wind and rain would bleach them and in time they’d dissolve into the earth.

  I looked up, and a gust of wind swirled the mist, and I saw that glint of gold, so close now, just up ahead. One last effort, to haul and drag myself up over jagged rocks, and at last I stood, breath rasping, limbs shaking, my body one long ache, covered in grime and thick greasy sweat, in front of Hakuyu’s cave. The patch of colour I’d seen was a simple bamboo blind, yellowed with age, and painted on it was the outline of a dragon, and the dragon’s eye was a dot of gold. That was what had led me all this way.

  I had to compose myself before entering the cave. I sat on a rock, looked across the incredible vista spreading out below. Mountains rose out of the mist and cloud, like islands in a vast sea. Down there was the everyday world with all its suffering and misery. Up here was another realm entirely, beyond it all, pure and clear, silent, inhabiting its own light.

  Perhaps I had in fact died and ascended to the Pure Land, abandoned my body somewhere down there on the rough slopes. But no. I moved my fingers in front of my face. I was still here, in this flesh and bone.

  Here.

  I straightened my back and breathed in and out, counted a hundred breaths. Then I did my best to wipe the dust and grime from my robes, from my skin. I approached the cave. I stopped and bowed low. Then tentative, apprehensive, I pushed aside the blind and peered inside.

  My eyes adjusted to the dimness, and I saw the cave was small, just a few feet square. It smelled musky, of old incense. There was a single low table on which three scrolls were laid out, and behind it sat the master himself, cross-legged on a rush mat. He sat, motionless, his back perfectly straight, his eyes closed in meditation. I kneeled before him, my legs aching, and I waited, and observed him more closely. He wore a big baggy jacket of coarse cloth. His hair was long and thick, flecked here and there with white and grey. His face was serene and surprisingly youthful and healthy-looking, his complexion weathered red-brown and shiny like the skin of a Chinese date. The overall impression was one of great inner strength.

  I glanced at the three scrolls, recognised them as the Doctrine of the Mean, the Diamond Sutra and the Tao te Ching. Confucius, Buddha, Lao Tsu. Three traditions brought together, in a tiny cave, high above a mountain stream, miles from any monastery or temple.

  I looked up from the scrolls to the master’s face and he opened his eyes, stared at me with a fierce intensity and at the same time an acceptance, a benign inquisitiveness. He was not at all surprised to see me there.

  You have come a long way, he said, to see this old man.

  Again I had the same sense of familiarity, of recognition. The master looked like the woodcutter who had directed me here, like the old man who had set me on my journey. Now he seemed even younger, but as I looked at him, his features seemed to change and I saw something ancient in him, something timeless.

  My vision suddenly blurred and I rubbed my eyes.

  Forgive me, I said, I am tired.

  The way is demanding, he said, and arduous. It is hardly surprising you have grown weary.

  I bowed, felt ludicrously close to tears.

  He sniffed the air and turned his gaze towards my backpack.

  If you don’t mind my asking, he said, is that tororojiru I can smell?

  Yes, I said. The innkeeper’s wife insisted I take it. Was that really just this morning? It seems a long time ago.

  Some days are longer than others, he said, and he sniffed again.

  Please, I said, would you like some?

  His eyes twinkled.

  It ha
s been a favourite of mine since my childhood, he said. And that was definitely a very long time ago!

  They say you are hundreds of years old.

  Ah, well. They say a good deal more than their prayers.

  Yes!

  Now, tororojiru?

  Of course, I said. And I took the bowl from my pack, unwrapped it and handed it to him, an offering.

  Please.

  Thank you, he said, and he took it from me, touching the bowl to his forehead. I noticed his fingernails were almost an inch long. He slurped up a mouthful of the food, ate it slowly and with great concentration.

  It is delicious, he said. But I am indeed very very old, and I eat but little. He handed the bowl back to me. Please finish it.

  The taste of the food made me realise I was hungry, and I wolfed it down.

  I thought as much, said Hakuyu. You haven’t eaten all day.

  I drank from the mountain stream, I said.

  Not enough. For the quest you need to keep your body strong.

  He picked up an old unglazed earthenware jug, poured a little water into my bowl, a little more into a simple tea-bowl of his own.

  Drink.

  I sipped and felt immediately refreshed, as if I had quaffed some rare elixir, some magic potion from a fairytale.

  Ice-cold, I said.

  It’s from the stream, he said. Meltwater from the snow.

  I set down the bowl.

  I have forgotten my manners, I said. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Ekaku.

  Yes, he said. And you are suffering from Zen sickness.

  I told him of my symptoms, in detail, left nothing out. He sat for a time, not speaking, concentrating on me with the full intensity of that gaze.

  You are a great seeker, he said, an important priest, and you come all the way up here to ask my advice?

  I was led here, I said. I was directed.

  I was about to ask him about the two men who resembled him, but he cut me short.

  What can you learn from me? he asked. I’m an old man – a very old man. I live up here in the mountains with the wild deer and other creatures. I barely survive. I get by on nuts and berries and bitter mountain fruits. Most days I am half dead. What use am I to you?

  I was suddenly cold and weary, felt once again close to tears. I begged him to help me.

  He looked at me again with that intense concentration, then he reached across and grasped my hand, took my pulse at the wrist. His thin bony fingers were strong, those long nails were hard talons.

  He checked the pulses at nine other points, along the main meridians, in my hands and feet, along the neck and spine, on the top of my head. At every point I felt a burning heat from his hands.

  At length he looked at me with great seriousness and gravity. I am sorry to have to tell you this, he said, but you are very sick indeed. I said it was Zen sickness, and this is the worst case I have ever seen. You have driven yourself far too hard in your meditation, and reduced yourself to this state. No amount of medical treatment will set you right, whether it be acupuncture, moxibustion or herbs and drugs. Even if these treatments were administered by the greatest physicians who ever lived, by P’ien Ch’iao or Ts’ang Kung or Hua T’o, there would be no hope of recovery. Even these great healers would only stand back with folded arms and look on.

  I must have looked crestfallen at his words. I felt chilled and desolate, empty of all hope.

  But there is a cure, he said. When you fall to the ground, when you hit rock bottom, it is from there that you have to raise yourself up. It was meditation that made you sick, it is meditation that will restore you to health. You have to master the art of naikan – introspective meditation. This is the only way.

  Is this what you can teach me? I asked. I could hear the eagerness and desperation in my voice.

  He smiled.

  I know a little, he said. I learned a few techniques a long time ago. If you are serious I can pass them on to you.

  I controlled the emotion I felt welling up.

  I would be eternally grateful, I said, and I kneeled and touched my forehead to the floor.

  You are determined, he said. That is good. With that spirit you will make progress. It is hard work, but the results can be remarkable. It can restore health and strength and guarantee long life.

  I am ready, I said.

  I don’t doubt it. But I have to insist you keep the teaching secret. If you pass it on without due regard, you will suffer terribly. And I too will be greatly harmed.

  You can trust me, I said.

  I am sure of it, he said. That is why you are here.

  I felt a lifting of the spirit, and almost immediately a great weariness, a difficulty in even sitting upright.

  It is late, he said, and your journey has been long. What you need now is rest.

  I began to protest but he silenced me just by raising his hand. He gave me an old threadbare blanket and indicated I should stretch out in the corner of the cave, said we would start the teaching at first light. I lay down, let go, aware of him sitting upright in the middle of the room, poised and silent and absolutely still, returning to the meditation I had interrupted with my arrival.

  The master was still sitting when I woke, the first grey light of day creeping into the cave. He opened his eyes and was immediately, fully awake. He stood up and stretched, beckoned me to follow him outside, showed me a sheltered spot where I might piss and shit. I said I had eaten and drunk so little the day before I had no need.

  So you’re already empty, he said. That’s good! And I suppose that delicious tororojiru is still being digested in your gut. Like the Buddha’s teachings.

  He led me up above the cave to a cleft in the rock where a little spring trickled out. It must be the source of the stream, that disappeared underground before re-emerging further down. He cupped the running water in his hands, drank from it, then splashed his face, told me to do the same. Again I felt refreshed, awakened.

  We sat down in front of the cave, breathed deep and looked out over that wonderful vista, that realm of mountain and cloud, and he began speaking, instructing me, in a slow measured voice.

  He began by telling a story, making an analogy.

  Sustaining life-energy means looking after your body. It is very much like ruling a country. A wise ruler concerns himself with the common people and their wellbeing. A foolish ruler thinks only of the wealthy upper classes and their pastimes and diversions. When a ruler becomes caught up in his own greed and self-interest, his ministers usurp power for themselves, the petty officials under them seek only to feather their own nests, and not one of them gives a moment’s thought to the abject poverty and suffering of ordinary folk. The people go hungry and sick, their faces gaunt and pale. Famine and starvation are rife throughout the land, and the streets of the cities are strewn with rotting corpses. The wise and the good retreat from it all and hide themselves away. The people burn and rage, provincial lords rebel and the country’s enemies mass along its borders, ready to attack. In time the whole country is overthrown and ceases to exist.

  But a wise ruler pays attention to the common good. His ministers and officials work tirelessly, mindful of the hardships and struggles of ordinary people. The farmers produce an abundance of food, the wise and the good serve the ruler, the provincial lords show respect. There are no enemies at the gate, no sounds of battle in the air, and the country grows strong.

  I gazed out over the cloudscape, imagined the unimaginable, this perfect, peaceful world.

  It is very much the same, he continued, with the human body. A wise man who has attained wellbeing takes care of the vital energies down below. When the lower body is filled with this energy, there is no place for the seven misfortunes of anger and joy, pleasure and grief, love and hate and their cause, desire. There is nowhere for the four evils to enter, born of heat and cold, wind and water. There is no need for the bitterness of potions, the jab of the needle, the burn of moxa. The heart and mind are vigorous
and healthy.

  He took in a long slow breath held it a moment, let it flow out unobstructed.

  On the other hand, he said, the foolish man allows the vital energies to rise up unchecked into his upper body where they damage his organs and his senses.

  He was talking about me now, about this miserable state I was in. I bowed, listened attentively as he emphasised his next words.

  This is why Chuang Tzu said an ordinary man breathes from his throat, a wise man breathes from his heels.

  I would write the words down, in a notebook, like a poem or an aphorism.

  An ordinary man breathes from his throat.

  A wise man breathes from his heels.

  As if understanding my thoughts, the way I was receiving the teaching, Hakuyo uttered further aphorisms, left space around them so I could let them resonate, commit them to memory.

  Energy in the lower organs, the breath is long.

  Energy in the higher organs, the breath is short.

  That was from Hsu Chun. Then came a distillation from Shang Yang.

  The upper body cool, the lower body warm.

  This is the art of sustaining life.

  He left another silence, allowing me to absorb the words, then he explained it in terms of two hexagrams from the I Ching.

  The state of sickness and decay, when the vital energies are weak, is represented by the hexagram that shows five yin lines below and one yang line above. This is known as Splitting Apart. It is like the ninth month of the year when everything drains of colour, and the leaves and flowers wither and die.

  Once more he left a silence, let me imagine the scene.

  The state of harmony, he continued, when the vital energies are in balance, is represented by the hexagram known as Earth and Heaven at Peace, three yang lines below and three yin lines above. In terms of the seasons, this corresponds to the first month when the ten thousand things are filled with the vital energy of creation and burst into blossom.