Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  Back in the boatman’s hut, he gave me a little cooked rice and pickle, a bowl of miso soup. I told him he was offering a great service to the Buddha, both in taking pilgrims to the cave and in setting up his little shrine.

  I feel I have a duty, he said. And perhaps I can alleviate my past karma.

  You are continuing the work of the fisherman who first discovered the cave.

  There are those who think I am the fisherman, he said, and that I’m three hundred years old!

  Like a master I met called Hakuyu, I said. But that’s another story.

  A tall tale, he said.

  Perhaps.

  He nodded, his eyes crinkled in mirth, and we sat for a time in companionable silence. Then I said I had a humble suggestion to make.

  The cave has become known as Amida Cave, I said, and that is a good name, a fine name.

  But you have a better idea.

  Everyone who visits the cave sees what they see, depending on their faith, their spiritual development, their past karma. It’s as if they are standing in front of a bright mirror that reflects back at them everything they are. I would give it a new name. I would call it the Precious Mirror Cave.

  I recognised the look on his face, startled, as if he had been shocked awake, a moment of kensho. He folded his hands and bowed, repeated the words, quietly.

  Precious Mirror Cave.

  We sat a while longer, and I looked again at the features he’d painted on the little carved figures. I said he was clearly an artist, and I asked if he could spare a piece of paper, lend me a brush, an inkstone. He brought them out from an old wooden box under the shrine.

  I unrolled the sheet of paper, moistened the inkstone, chewed the brush to soften it. I breathed in, and on the outbreath made a few quick strokes, outlined the three figures, the Buddha flanked by the Bodhisattvas. A few more strokes and the figures were complete, their faces compassionate, benign. Above the figures I inscribed a poem.

  See just who you are

  In Amida’s Precious

  Mirror Cave.

  The boatman smiled and nodded, deeply moved. I asked for another piece of paper, and this time I drew the outline of his boat and a figure seated in it. And I wrote another poem, the words drifting round the shape of the boat.

  Steering his boat

  where it wants to go –

  Hotei out at sea.

  This time the boatman laughed and clapped his hands. Then we bowed to each other and chanted the Nembutsu one last time, and I took my leave and headed back to Shoin-ji.

  ILLUSION AND PLAY

  I

  added the story of the Precious Mirror Cave to my repertoire. One evening at Shoin-ji I told it to a few of the monks. I embellished it here and there in the telling, made it vivid and real.

  Torei wrote down my words, asked if it was another tall tale.

  You set out for the cave before dawn, he said, while it was still dark. Is this Night Boat on the Izu Peninsula? Night Boat in the Precious Mirror Cave?

  Go there and see for yourself, I said. Then you’ll know.

  Later I took out my father’s old inkstone and brush, unrolled a scroll of paper. I drew a rowing boat with no oars, Hotei lolling back in it, content, gazing up at the full moon emerging from a swirl of cloud. Above his head I wrote a poem, the words floating beneath the moon.

  Here and now I’m Hotei,

  hands clasped behind my head,

  out in a boat, moon-viewing.

  Of all the gods I loved Hotei best. Now I saw him clearly. He stood in front of me, grinning, patting his fat belly. He shouldered his bag, wandered the city streets and remote villages, he played children’s games, he sat in meditation. I drew him over and over again, and each time I drew him, his face more and more resembled my own.

  Hotei carrying a great huge mallet over his shoulder, but hurrying along, his face calm.

  This hammer’s so heavy.

  Won’t it kill me?

  Not at all!

  Hotei balancing a plate on the end of a long stick held between his teeth, at the same time juggling four balls.

  Keep it all in the air!

  Keep it moving!

  Don’t let it drop!

  Hotei looking up at a leather ball he’s just kicked high in the air.

  What’s it all about?

  Just playing kickball.

  Boot it as high as you can!

  I spread the drawings around me on the tatami. Hotei the boatman took me back to the boatman’s hut in Teishi. I lit a pipe, savoured the sweet tarry smoke filling my lungs, spreading its mellow warmth.

  Torei called from outside the door, announcing his presence, asking if he could come in. I knocked out the pipe in a little iron bowl, hid it behind me, waved away the smoke as best I could.

  Exquisite incense, said Torei after he’d bowed.

  Medicinal, I said. A comforting warmth.

  Naikan in a pipe.

  I nodded.

  Just so.

  These are new drawings, he said.

  I’m becoming Hotei, I said. Or Hotei’s becoming me.

  They’re excellent, he said, nodding.

  Rascal! I said. You think you’ll flatter your way to the Pure Land?

  I’d fail at the first barrier, he said.

  The doodlings of a madman, I said, looking at the drawings. But for all that, I suppose they’re not bad.

  I looked at the last one, Hotei booting the ball in the air, and I laughed.

  Not bad at all!

  Torei placed a sheaf of paper at my feet.

  I wrote out your story again, he said, the one about the cave. I made a fair copy so it can be circulated. It really is a marvellous tale.

  Told by the same madman, I said.

  You should publish a collection of them, he said. Tales from the Night Boat.

  Illusion on illusion, I said. But if they dupe one human being into wakefulness, they may just be worth the paper they’re printed on.

  I looked at the title page, Torei’s fluid, cursive script. Precious Mirror Cave.

  It’s good, I said. Thank you. I’ll copy it out in my own crude handwriting to be made into printers’ blocks. Then we’ll send it out to do its insidious work.

  Torei bowed.

  I’ll inscribe it, I said. Written on the Day of One Great Vehicle, under the Full Moon of Suchness, in the Village of Tranquility, Incomprehensible District, by the Priest Flowers of Emptiness.

  Disciple of High Priest Lighting-Flash-Morning-Dew, said Torei.

  Of Dream-Vision Temple, on Self-Realisation Mountain.

  Approved by Absolute Purity, Disciple of Perfect Unity.

  Abbot of the Great Temple of Dedicating-Body-And-Soul to the Dharma.

  Ha! Let anyone try arguing with that!

  When Torei had gone, I looked again at the manuscript, the drawings scattered around me. Illusion on Illusion. Expedient devices. Beating the Dharma drum. This was the path I had chosen, and I would follow it till I breathed my last.

  The boatman was a true man of Zen, selfless, plying his boat to the Buddha cave, carrying anyone who asked, man or woman, layman or monk, child or old crone, madman or saint. He didn’t judge anyone, just took them to the place where they could see for themselves. And if that wasn’t enough, he had made the shrine for those too old or fearful, too frail to make the journey.

  I saw more clearly the nature of my own work, this post-satori practice.

  I would walk the length and breadth of Japan, wherever I was invited, to preach the Dharma, continue my outpouring, my endless effluent. Torei would sweep up my leavings from the floor, shape them into books. Those who have ears, let them hear. Those who have the stomach for it, let them wolf it down.

  I’d pour out other writings, make poems, crack jokes, tell tall tales. Cock and bull, shaggy dog. I’d mimic street songs, echo voices from the Floating World. Whatever it took.

  I made more paintings of Hotei. Hotei as Hakuin. Hakuin as Hotei. Saint and madma
n. Holy fool. Sage and child. I worked on them – work that was play – through days and nights, barely sleeping, forgetting to eat.

  Hotei walking with his bag slung over his shoulder.

  Hotei sitting on his bag, meditating.

  Hotei opening his bag with his mouth. (Hotei eating his bag!)

  Nothing else for it –

  I’ll eat this

  and have a cup of tea.

  Hotei’s bag, left on the ground, just the bag, nothing else.

  Where’s he gone, this god,

  this future Buddha?

  He’s nowhere to be found.

  All he’s left behind,

  his old cloth bag.

  Hotei concealed inside his bag, just his face visible as he peers out, grinning, at two little mice, sumo-wrestling. The tiny mice grappling, one lifting the other by the belt, the tiny mouse-referee looking on, ensuring fair play.

  Here we are then –

  the Great Sumo Contest

  for mice!

  Hotei flying high in the air, his bag inflated, a kite attached to a long string pulled by five tiny figures, straining to raise the kite higher and higher in the wind.

  Heave away!

  There goes Hotei

  High as a kite!

  Seen all together, the drawings of Hotei had even more of an energy. They told a story, kamishibai images to be shown on a screen. I looked at them, spread around me, and I laughed. It was the middle of the night and the wavering flame of the oil lamp made the images dance and flicker, as if the figures had a life of their own, were moving in their own world.

  I stretched my old bones and rubbed my tired eyes. I filled a pipe and lit it with a taper from the lamp. I drew the smoke deep into my lungs, held, exhaled.

  Ah!

  Torei never remonstrated with me about the smoking. Exquisite incense. Naikan in a pipe. But he disapproved. It showed in the slight tightening of his upper lip, even as he joked. He was concerned for my welfare, and he was right. Old fool that I was. Tobacco and sugared sweets would be the death of me. And yet. Perhaps over the course of a long life, a little respite, a little ease, was permissible.

  I finished the pipe and knocked out the ash in an iron dish. Then I took up the brush again, made a quick sketch of Hotei popping a sugared sweet in his mouth. I drew him again, massively content, with a pipe in his hand, blowing out a stream of smoke. Then as if the smoke itself had taken form, I saw in it the homely female figure of Ofuku, all things to all men. Serving girl in a teahouse, dispensing Zen, compassionate courtesan challenging orthodoxy, breaking barriers. I drew her like Hotei, smiling, and on the sleeve of her kimono I drew a plum blossom, a sign that she followed the life of the spirit. She was the prostitute Yamamba in the old noh play, attaining wisdom, helping others.

  I thought of the remarkable young women I had known. Hana who had turned my head. Kazuko who had accused me. Satsu who had challenged me. Ohashi and her life of sacrifice. With great care and great lightness of touch I added a few lines to the face, made my Ofuku the embodiment of happiness.

  I set down my brush, clapped my hands and laughed.

  Now Ofuku herself became the subject of my paintings. Ofuku grinding tea, surrounded by the paraphernalia of chanoyu. Ofuku whisking the tea in a bowl. Ofuku pouring the tea.

  Hana, a lifetime ago, her movements deft and measured as she made the tea for me, the bright green froth. Our fingers touching as she handed me the bowl. The taste of Zen.

  Once more I drew the plum blossom on Ofuku’s sleeve, and I added the symbol Ju for long life. Happiness and long life, the life of the spirit. She poured more than tea. She bestowed wisdom and compassion, profound understanding. Her face shone with an inner light, the eyes twinkling.

  She has time on her hands –

  she’s grinding the finest tea

  just for you!

  Another image came to me, unbidden, and I was once more the mischievous child who had first picked up the brush, drawn that unruly dragon leaping between my legs. I smiled as I thought of him, the anguish he’d gone through. Now I found myself drawing the worldliest of men, wearing an elaborate robe. But he was down on his knees, a grimace on his face, the robe hoisted up to his waist, his arse sticking out. And behind him, also kneeling, was Ofuku, applying moxibustion.

  Here’s the cure

  for your haemorrhoids –

  a little fire!

  Purification. Curing like with like. Fire with fire.

  In that noh play, Yamamba, a famous courtesan meets a wise old woman in the mountains, and they learn from each other. I sketched the two figures. The courtesan became Ofuku. The old woman’s face looked remarkably like my own. Underneath I wrote, Ofuku meets Granny Mind-Master.

  It made me smile and I saw what I had to write. It would have the quality of a sutra, instructional. It would bring in koans and quote scripture. But the form of it would be like a street song, earthy and knockabout. Those that had ears, let them hear.

  On another trip to Kyoto, for another Dharma talk at Myoshin-ji, I had once more accompanied the good doctor, Ishii Gentoku, on a walk through the Floating World, the realm of illusion and play. Just being there, he said, was a tonic, a respite from worldly care, and he prescribed the visit as an antidote to the harshness of life at Shoin-ji.

  There was no puppet show this time, no meeting with Chikamatsu who had passed on to the other shore. But we did see another truly remarkable performance, by the great kabuki actor Ichikawa Danjuro. He played an old medicine-seller, the kind of character I’d seen often on the Tokaido, peddling their remedies, hawking their wares. And Ichikawa was thrilling, like the real thing but more so. A tall man, he ruled the stage, splendid in a jacket of orange and black, trimmed with lucky coins and decorated with bright streamers. In one hand he carried a fan, in the other a bag containing uiro, a miracle medicine, guaranteed to cure all ills.

  Diarrhoea? Constipation? Uiro is what you need. Marital troubles? Headaches? Hangover? Bad breath? Uiro will do the trick.

  He mimicked the high singsong register of the actual street-sellers and added something entirely his own, musical, incantatory, mesmerising. The words poured out of him, rhythmic and fast-flowing, rhyming and punning and tongue-twisting, never missing a beat. He soared and he carried the audience with him, and they laughed and cheered and thundered their applause at him, a wave of sheer gratitude.

  Gentoku had seen the glint in my eye, asked if this was how I would be peddling Zen. I’d laughed and said I could see it, I’d package my poison in a pill.

  Step right up! Try Hakuin’s snake-oil. It may stink of Zen, but just hold your nose. Take the potion and swallow it down. Better than uiro for effects that last. Unique Become-a-Buddha Formula. Enlightenment guaranteed!

  I spread the word to the monks and a few lay followers that I would give a special Dharma talk at Shoin-ji, and on the appointed evening the lecture hall was full.

  I began by announcing that the title of my presentation was Old Granny Mind-Master and her Tea-Grinding Song. Some of the younger monks chuckled in anticipation. Most of the older ones straightened their backs, looked straight ahead. The lay followers glanced around, bemused and uncertain.

  It’s really a talk for two voices, I explained, so I’ll channel two characters and let them speak through me.

  I breathed in, held, breathed out the voice of Ofuku, high-pitched and lilting.

  I’m Ofuku – and no jokes, please!

  No need for that kind of sleaze.

  Never mind the grubby piss-take.

  Yes, I’m from the red light district.

  But not your ordinary hooker –

  fat face, big nose, I’m quite a looker.

  It doesn’t matter what you say,

  I’m beautiful in my own way.

  They say my looks are Heaven’s blessing.

  Well, Heaven’s curse must be quite something!

  But I get love letters by the score

  and passing fancies even more.


  Don’t take me for a one-night stand,

  some flirty, flighty bird-in-the-hand.

  A man-eater, is that what you think?

  I’ll slay you with a nod and a wink.

  But listen to this, you can’t go wrong.

  Hear Old Granny’s tea-grinding song.

  With men of taste I’ll sing it well.

  The rest of you can go to hell!

  You think I’m talking through my fanny?

  Here’s the wisdom of Old Granny.

  There was laughter at that, as I knew there would be. But I cut across it, spoke in the other voice, the wail of an old crone.

  Heaven’s blessings, darkness and light,

  heat and cold, day and night.

  The winds will blow, the trees will bend,

  until time comes to an end.

  For all the blessings we’re in debt,

  something we must not forget

  from life to life – remember that,

  or you’re no better than dog or cat.

  I had them. Their attention was total, and I could sense there was something chilling about this cracked old voice coming out of my mouth.

  Mind Master is what matters most –

  without it you’re a hungry ghost,