by Alan Spence
Always different, always the same.
The finished scroll was a mandala. It directly invoked the power of the word.
JU
Developing the theme, I quickly made another painting with 100 more versions of Ju, but in the centre I placed a drawing of Fukurokuju with his great elongated head, a brush in his hand as if he himself had just painted the hundred versions.
Underneath I added a verse in which the god praised the efficacy of the painting, saying it was the equal of the Lotus Sutra. He indicated also that he had been specially commissioned to do the painting by Old Man Hakuin.
Arrogance? Sacrilege?
Fukurokuju’s smile.
JU
After the gods, the demons. After heaven, hell.
I made a scroll depicting one hundred demons, conjured them from my imagination, from childhood nightmares, from drawings I’d seen by other artists, generation after generation invoking the same tormented beings, facing them down. There were creatures I recognised, remembered from my own encounters with the other worlds – ghosts and spirits and goblins and ghouls. The huge demon that had entered my room on Mount Iwataki and croaked out my name. Ekaku . . . Ekaku . . .
I drew him the way I remembered, fierce and threatening. I gave him a long beaklike nose and bulging eyes, named him Tengu.
I drew horned devils and gaki, hungry ghosts. I drew a tall fearsome goblin with one staring eye in the centre of his forehead. In front of him I drew a blind man with a stick squaring up to him.
Growl away, one-eyed goblin.
You don’t scare me.
I have no eyes at all,
I can see beyond seeing.
You’re the one who should be afraid!
Laugh at them and send them packing. That was the way to deal with these creatures of the night. By the time I’d finished painting, the scroll was covered with them, fighting for space, crowding each other out. The way it would be in hell.
I took another sheet of paper, drew Shoki the demon-slayer preparing to make a huge pot of soup. The ingredients are four demons he’s grinding down to make miso for the broth. The demons look up at him in torment, but he’s relentless, grinding, grinding, using a mortar and pestle. A small boy, Shoki’s son, helps by holding the bowl steady. He’s grinning, eager to taste the concoction.
By far the best miso –
I can’t wait to try
this demon-soup!
Another image of Shoki, almost identical, looking down, not into a grinding-bowl, or a cooking pot, but into a pool, and startled to see his own face looking back at him. The last demon he has to face.
PRECIOUS
MIRROR CAVE
O
ut along the Izu peninsula was a cave that had gained a reputation as a sacred place, a shrine where pilgrims – those who had eyes to see – could behold a miraculous vision. There were some who saw nothing, or dismissed what they saw as a trick of the light, a chance formation of rock worn down by the waves. But for others, what they saw was transformative, a glimpse into the Pure Land.
The stories went back more than a century, to an old fisherman who lived in the small village of Teishi. He was miserable in his work, forced to kill thousands of fish, each one a sentient being. He knew he was nearing the end of his life, and he felt he was piling up terrible karma, day after day, and would be punished for it in this world or the next.
He started chanting the Nembutsu, invoking the compassion of Amida Buddha. Whatever his sins, Amida would forgive him and protect him from harm. He chanted the Nembutsu night and day, with great intensity and devotion. He focused on it with total concentration to the exclusion of all else. It was more important to him than eating or sleeping. There were days when he even forgot to look after his nets or cast them on the water. The Nembutsu was everything and he chanted it constantly, on dry land, in his boat close to the shore or far out on the ocean. He chanted at dawn, at noon, at twilight, in the dark night.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.
This was his real work.
One evening as the light began to fade he was returning to shore and saw in the distance a strange glow playing on the surface of the water. He steered his boat towards it and saw that it seemed to be coming from a cave, almost hidden, at the foot of a sheer cliff. By the time he got close to it, the glow had disappeared and the dark had closed in. He could barely see into the mouth of the cave, and the rise and swell of the waves carried him dangerously close to the cliff. At high tide, he could see, the waters would flood in and completely fill the cave. He resolved to come back in daylight when the tide was low.
A few days later he returned to the spot and negotiated the entrance to the cave, using his oar as a pole against the rock walls, easing his boat inside. Although outside the sun was high in the sky, in the cave it was dark, and the darkness deepened the further in he went, until it was total, all engulfing. He couldn’t see the boat, not his own body, not his hand in front of his face, not the tip of his own nose. He could see nothing. He shivered and his legs shook. He lost all sense of direction. In the midst of the void he folded his hands and chanted.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.
His mind grew calm, empty. A great stillness pervaded him. He opened his eyes and saw that the walls of the cave were glowing with a soft light, a wonderful radiance, and he seemed to breathe in a rare and subtle fragrance. As he gazed and continued to chant, there in the heart of the light three figures took shape, the form of Amida Buddha flanked by his attendant Bodhisattvas. The fisherman lost all bodily consciousness, felt suffused with light, became nothing but light itself.
When he returned to his everyday self, inhabited his body once more, there were tears streaming down his face. He sensed that hours had passed and he heard the waves crashing into the cave. He knew if he didn’t move quickly, the waters would block his exit and swamp the boat. He bowed farewell to the three holy figures and again used his oar to pole his way out, through the cave-mouth to the open sea, all the time still chanting the Nembutsu.
When he returned to shore, the villagers saw he had changed. He inhabited a great stillness and an inner light shone from his face. He told them of the vision he had been granted, and from that day on, the cave became a place of pilgrimage.
I had heard this story as a child growing up in Hara. The Izu peninsula was not far away, and tall tales were common currency along the Tokaido, told and retold in the inns and way-stations. Some small incident would be told as a story, then become a parable, grow into legend or myth. The Fisherman and the Cave was one such story, and I had heard many first-hand accounts from pilgrims who had gone to the place and seen the light for themselves.
One particularly bumptious layman had recently visited Shoin-ji and told us of his own experience. He was eager to quote a great priest who said, A man of great faith sees a great Buddha. A man of little faith sees a little Buddha. A man of no faith sees nothing at all.
And what did you see? I asked the layman.
Ah, he said, and he cast his glance downwards with an air of humility and self-effacement. There were some, he said, who were clearly struggling, peering into the darkness and rubbing their eyes, then looking around them with barely disguised scorn.
The layman mimicked the seekers he described, rubbing his own eyes, looking bemused. Someone chuckled.
There were others, he said, who clearly saw something, but it was small and indistinct, barely discernible.
He indicated the size of the pathetic vision, a few inches high.
And you? I asked again. What did you see?
Once more he cast his gaze down to the ground, then he straightened up and puffed out his chest.
The three figures, he said. The Buddha and his two celestial attendants. Twenty, no, thirty feet high, radiating golden light.
His eyes shone as he grew intoxicated by his own words.
I could hear heavenly music, the like of which I’d ne
ver heard. The air was filled with a fragrance I’d never known.
He dabbed his eyes with his sleeve, sniffed loudly.
It was wonderful, he said. Glorious.
Indeed, I said. Perhaps I should visit this wondrous cave myself and gain a glimpse of the Pure Land.
You must, he said. You must.
As it happened, I had occasion to visit Izu a few weeks later. I was delivering a Dharma talk on the Unreal and the Real, and I took the opportunity to slip away and travel by boat to Teishi on the southern tip of the peninsula. This was where the old fisherman had lived and I put up for the night at a cheap inn. It was winter and only a handful of pilgrims had arrived in the village, ready to visit the cave at the first low tide. There were four of us, waiting on the shore in the morning – two middle-aged businessmen, a young monk and myself, this old reprobate on his endless journey.
The older of the businessmen had travelled from Kyoto. He was shrivelled and thin, shivered in the cold even though he was wrapped in layers of clothes. The doctors had told him he didn’t have long to live, and he had come here in expectation of seeing the shining form of Amida Buddha, praying to him for mercy and whatever grace he might bestow.
The other businessman was dismissive. He lived not far away, in Numazu, and he’d heard so many stories about the cave that he’d come to examine the phenomenon, settle an argument or two.
As far as I’m concerned, he said, it’s all illusion. The figures are some stunted rock formation, weathered by the sea. They just happen to resemble the Buddha and the Bodhisattvas. It’s pure chance, and folk are so desperate and gullible they see what they want to see.
And what about the light? said the sick man.
Phosphorescence, said the other. Something in the seawater on the walls of the cave. You see it out at sea sometimes, way down in the deep.
The sick man looked around, desperate, caught the young monk’s eye.
You, he said. You believe.
The monk was counting his prayer beads between finger and thumb, silently chanting the Nembutsu. He replied without pausing.
I expect nothing. This is a holy place. I come to pay my respects.
And you? said the sick man, turning to me.
The Buddha gives to each of us according to our needs, I said. Let us see what we shall see.
At that, the boatman appeared, a solid, stocky man, perhaps in his forties. His manner was gruff, businesslike, but not unkind. He helped each of us, in turn, into the boat, and pushed off. He made no small talk but concentrated fully on rowing, his stroke measured and rhythmic as we cleaved through the waves.
Offshore it was even colder. The wind scythed, cut to the bone. I wrapped my old robe tighter about me, pulled my hood up over my head and practised the naikan introspection that had saved me all these years. I felt the warmth in the navel centre drawn up to the chest and spread through my whole being. I felt compassion for the sick man, was sorry I could not teach him this. He huddled in the stern of the boat, wrapped in his layers, shivering.
The other man, the doubter, clenched his teeth against the cold, stared straight ahead. The young monk kept his eyes closed, telling his beads, chanting his prayer. The boatman rowed.
The journey only took half an hour, perhaps less. The boatman steered us into the mouth of the cave – it was maybe twenty feet across, the cliffs towering above. We were carried in on a sudden surge, turned a bend and were engulfed by the darkness. It was total and it closed us in. Not a glimmer of light penetrated. We sat in the heart of the void.
I could hear the lapping of the waves against the boat, the young monk chanting the Nembutsu.
Now, said the boatman. Wait.
The waves lapped. The monk chanted.
Faintly, faintly, a light began to spread at the far end of the cave, and silhouetted against it I could see the three figures, just as they had been described. I couldn’t make out the faces, but the shapes, the configuration, were unmistakable. Amida Buddha flanked by the two Bodhisattvas. I heard the sick man moan, the other man let out a gasp, and the young monk continued to chant. Namu Amida Butsu.
I joined him, folding my hands in gassho.
Namu Amida Butsu.
The others added their voices, and the boatman joined in.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Above the dank salty smell of the cave I could sense a subtle fragrance, like jasmine. Then the sick man let out a howl of pain, and the light faded, and we were back once more in the dark.
On the journey back to shore the businessman was chattering, ecstatic.
I can’t believe it, he said. I saw it. It was real. It was larger than life.
The boatman laughed.
Another satisfied customer!
And you, said the businessman, turning to the young monk. Your chanting certainly worked!
It was there, said the monk. Small and indistinct, but definitely there.
And you? he asked me, eager.
Yes, I said. I saw.
He looked at the sick man, didn’t ask. But after a time the sick man spoke, his voice desolate.
I saw nothing, he said. I saw the darkness. I saw my own death.
I was troubled by the fact that the faces of the Buddha and his attendants had been indistinct and I hadn’t been able to see them clearly. Perhaps I had been distracted by my companions, by their anxiety and need, their arrogance and desperation. Perhaps the fault was my own and in spite of all my introspection I was simply not receptive. Whatever the truth of it, I resolved to visit the cave again.
I’d meditated at the hour of the ox, and it was still dark when I made my way from the inn down to the shore. The cold had teeth, the wind off the sea was vicious, and my feet in their old straw sandals slipped and sank into the shifting shingle at every step, grit between my toes. The only light was a faint glow from the boatman’s hut – a patchwork construction that looked as if it might be swept away by wind and wave at any moment. I stood in front of the door, and before I could announce my presence, the boatman called out a greeting and invited me to enter. I stepped inside and bowed to him, and he stood up and bowed in return.
Sensei, he said. I am honoured by your visit.
It was warm after the cold outside, and my numbed hands and feet began to thaw. The room was dim and smoky, from the little oil lamp sputtering, from the soot-blacked iron stove in the corner, burning wood, from the boatman’s bamboo pipe which he had just laid aside. And in amongst the thick mix of smells was a tang of cooked fish, the redolence of old incense.
Please, said the boatman, and he cleared space for me to sit on the tatami.
I sat cross-legged and looked round the room. Against the far wall was a little shrine, lit by a single candle, and in its flickering light I saw three standing figures, the Buddha and his two attendants, exactly as they appeared in the cave. I drew breath in amazement, bowed to the figures.
An old friend of mine carved these from driftwood, after he’d been to the cave. The robes and the features I painted myself.
A wonderful likeness, I said, and I bowed again.
I thought perhaps . . . he began, then faltered, uncertain.
You thought what?
There are many people who cannot make the journey to the cave, he said. They may be too old, or infirm, or the tides may be too high at the time they are here. I thought if they were to see these figures, they might at least feel something of Amida’s presence.
I was suddenly, deeply moved by this act of compassion, the man’s understanding and single-mindedness.
The Buddha is here, he said, just as much as he is in the cave. Those who have eyes, let them see.
We sat for a moment in silence, and I gazed at the little images, the three figures in the flickering candlelight, and they seemed alive. I nodded to the boatman and smiled, bowed. He brought out a little flask and two small ceramic cups, asked if I would like a little sake to warm me against the cold. I thanked him, said yes. H
e poured and I sipped, felt the slight burn of it in my throat, the warmth spreading in my chest.
Perhaps not as powerful as naikan meditation, I said. But a good quick short-term remedy.
Sakasaraba! he said, raising his own cup. He swigged the sake, then picked up the pipe he’d set down. He caught my glance, asked if I would also like a smoke. Again I thanked him, said yes.
Purely medicinal, he said. Fortification on a cold winter morning.
He took down another pipe from a rack, filled it and handed it to me, lit it with a taper then lit his own. We sat puffing away, content.
This too, I said.
Like two old Chinese sages.
Han-Shan and Shih-Te.
The sweet fragrant smoke filled the little hut.
Nevertheless, I said. I would like to visit the cave once more.
He nodded, said simply, Yes.
An hour later, the sky still not light, I sat in the back of the boat as it pulled out from shore. The wind whipped even harder, freezing, drove icy spray into our faces. Again I wrapped my old frayed robe tight about me, entered into naikan, generating warmth. When we reached the cave, the sun had still not risen over the horizon. Seabirds screeched and shrieked above the cliff face. The boatman held steady against the tide, negotiated the entrance to the cave, caught the swell and we were inside. This time the darkness was even deeper than before, dark within dark, intense and palpable. I could feel it on my skin, then in an instant there was no barrier, no distinction between myself and the dark. I inhabited it. The darkness was in me. I was the dark.
Then it happened, as it had before. It began with the faintest glimmer of light, barely discernible, then little by little it spread along the far wall. The boat creaked and rocked, and the boatman chanted, Namu Amida Butsu. The light increased and the figures took shape, stood before us. Another surge carried us closer and they loomed above, the height of a man or larger. I heard my own voice joining in the chant. Namu Amida Butsu. The faces grew clear, distinct, the two Bodhisattvas serene, inward, the Buddha radiant, all compassion. He smiled down at me and tears of gratitude were flowing down my face. They tasted sweet.