Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  an empty house fallen to ruin,

  with snakes and vermin overrun.

  Without it great sages are nothing special,

  the finest palace is just a hovel.

  Meditation’s a waste of time,

  preaching’s so much slobber and slime.

  But living it, now that’s the thing,

  beyond all joy and suffering.

  And who’s in touch with this infinite chi?

  Granny Mind-Master, that’s me!

  I spoke again as Ofuku.

  Granny Mind-Master, how old are you?

  I replied as Old Granny.

  Old as the Void, I swear it’s true.

  Old Man Space could die any day.

  But me? I’m really here to stay.

  Again I was Ofuku. I could feel my face change back again.

  Granny Mind-Master, where do you live?

  Then Granny was replying, getting into full flow, spewing out philosophy, rattling off one koan after another.

  That information I’ll gladly give.

  I live in a shack in the Cinnabar Field

  where all life’s ailments can be healed.

  It’s just south of the navel centre.

  Go there, knock the door and enter.

  It’s right beside the ocean of chi.

  Dive in and feel the energy.

  I know these koans through and through –

  The poisonous fangs of Joshu’s Mu.

  Where do you go when you die?

  Stop that boat from sailing by.

  Scramble down the mountain trail

  in less than no time, do not fail.

  What’s the colour of the wind?

  What’s the sound of just one hand?

  I burned that monk’s hut to the ground.

  His realisation was far from sound.

  (Live by the Dharma, embrace right action,

  but show at least a little compassion!)

  Jump the barriers, now, don’t wait –

  the carp fly over the dragon gate

  the foxes leap Inari shrine.

  Fly high, you’ll transcend space and time.

  Granny took a breath. Ofuku got in a quick response.

  And after satori, Old Lady, what then?

  Do you just sit back and wallow in Zen?

  Granny wound up, concluded with a flourish.

  Enlightenment is just the start –

  to pass it on’s the hardest part.

  Even Yamamba the prostitute knew

  what was what, she saw it true.

  She saw it and she understood –

  preaching the Dharma’s the greatest good.

  Find a true teacher, know his worth.

  Establish the Buddha-life on earth.

  Keep going, keep going, you have to try.

  And now Old Granny bids you goodbye.

  I bowed, first as Ofuku then as Granny. There was a slight uncertainty in the audience / congregation. Then they also bowed, and some applauded and one or two laughed. Suio looked irritated and left without saying a word. Torei said if he could have the text he would copy it out. Gentoku said he would make arrangements for publication.

  I’ve already done the drawings, I said. I just need to add a few more verses to make the manuscript more substantial.

  More weighty, said Gentoku.

  Then I can thump folk on the head with it if they don’t understand.

  Whatever it takes, said Gentoku, bowing low.

  STONE GARDEN

  E

  ver since my childhood, looking up at great Fuji from Hara, I had taken inspiration from contemplating mountains. I drew strength from them, identified with their unshakable nature, rock-solid, grounded.

  The winds blow –

  the mountain

  is unmoved.

  Even after Fuji had erupted, thrown fire and rock from its core, it had settled once more, secure in its own nature, the ground of its being. This was how we should be.

  Because of this I had a weakness for stone gardens – a flat expanse of raked white sand or gravel, broken by a single well-placed rock. In the absence of real towering peaks, these scaled-down mountains could quicken the heart. Reducing it even further, I even loved bonsan and suiseki, the miniature landscape, the tiny rock garden laid out on a tray. I had collected a few of these over the years, and when I was sick at heart, it was a great solace to me, a great delight, to lose myself in these little worlds and to write about them.

  I was born with a great love of rocks and streams –

  In this little stone I see a huge mountain.

  No one can climb this tiny peak.

  No mountain on earth can surpass it.

  The good doctor Ishii Gentoku diagnosed this obsession as a chronic illness, a form of desire that would eventually lead me to hell. Nevertheless, on the basis of treating like with like, he gave me the most wonderful gift – he made provision for an actual stone garden to be created at Shoin-ji.

  From the moment he told me of his plan, I was as excited as a schoolboy on a feast-day, a young man anticipating a meeting with his love. I was anxious and eager, slept even less than usual, waking every night at the hour of the ox.

  The ground was cleared and rolled flat, covered with pure white sand. But that was just the beginning. Doctor Ishii had arranged for a massive spirit-rock to be transported from the village of Hina at the very base of Mount Fuji. This was a huge task, an unimaginable undertaking that would require a whole squad of labourers. The rock would be hauled and dragged down to the riverside and loaded onto a great raft to be floated to the ocean, then towed by a bigger boat along the coast to the beach near Hara, and from there, somehow, it would be grappled and manhandled the short distance to Shoin-ji.

  I was numbed at the thought of it, the enormity, the actuality, and more than once I told the good doctor it was too much and he should abandon his plan. But somehow he didn’t quite believe I was being sincere.

  In any case, he said, think of the merit I shall accumulate, the good karma.

  Ah yes, I said. So, karmically, I am doing you a huge favour!

  Indeed, he said, his eyes twinkling, and he bowed.

  The night before the rock was due to arrive I didn’t sleep at all. Well before dawn I was moving around the compound, calling out instructions. I browbeat the cook, the venerable Kakuzaemon, to get on with boiling up a huge pot of rice. It steamed and hissed on the stove, its lid clattering. I rounded up the youngest, strongest monks to be ready for the task ahead.

  It was still dark as I paced up and down, anxious for the safety of the crew and their precious cargo. The mountain streams were swift and cold, their currents treacherous. The spirit-rock was no ordinary lump of stone. The river-gods would covet it for their own watery kingdom. They would try to capsize the raft at every turn. I invoked the protection of the mountain-gods and of Shakyamuni Buddha.

  I marshalled my troops – the crew who had woven the bamboo ropes stood ready, there were lookouts stationed at every vantage point with instructions to call me as soon as the raft was sighted. I had barely sat down again to meditate, breathing deep to calm my excitement, when I heard shouts from outside.

  One of the lookouts called out first – he was young and his eyesight was keen.

  The raft! The magic rock!

  I clattered in my wooden sandals down to the beach where everyone had gathered, shouting and cheering like the crowd at a country fair. The roars got louder with every surge that brought the raft closer to shore. I felt my own heart thud in my chest and I laughed with sheer exhilaration. The raftsmen were unharmed, the rock was safe. Shakyamuni and the mountain-gods had prevailed. What I didn’t realise was that the hardest part of the work was still to come.

  The weight of the rock was immense and pressed down on the raft that rode low in the water, buffeted this way and that by the tide. Steering was almost impossible and at every moment the top-heavy load threatened to tip over.

  The bamboo
ropes were cast out and lashed to the raft, and the monks on shore struggled to hold firm, their heels sinking into the sand. The other monks waded into the water, tried to heave and shove the raft ashore, but they lost their footing, staggered and fell, floundering in the crash of the waves.

  As they stood up and regained their footing, a cheer went up. Doctor Ishii had arrived with his labourers – eight or nine of them, strong as wrestlers. Dressed only in loincloths, they too waded in, and at first, like the monks, they struggled to keep their feet. Three times they tried and failed, then something came right, the rhythm of it, and they all pushed together, caught the lift of the wave, and the raft pitched forward, and the great rock toppled over onto the sand. There was another cheer and the men punched the air in triumph then slumped to their knees, exhausted, catching their breath. The cook brought food for them – rice and soup – and water to drink, and they gathered their strength again. I thanked them all, overcome with gratitude for their efforts.

  Now I could take a closer look at the rock, and it was magnificent, veined and patterned, mottled with bright green moss that seemed to glow.

  Well? said Doctor Ishii. What do you think?

  I am speechless, I said.

  He laughed.

  Now that is unusual!

  I have no words, I said, to thank you for this.

  He bowed, then spoke to the labourers again, said there was still a long way to go, the temple garden was a distance away, and as in any undertaking the last part of the journey was often the most difficult.

  I had no idea how true his words would prove to be.

  For half an hour the workers grappled and heaved and strained to no effect. The rock didn’t move an inch. Again they slumped to their knees, half dead from the effort. They took a hard-earned break, drew breath. The sweat ran down their backs. Grey sand clung to their bare feet and legs. Once more the cook brought them water in a stone jug and they glugged it down, cup after cup. Then as if they had been commanded, they stood up and spat on their palms, rubbed them together, pumped their fists and set to once more, heaving and straining, every muscle and sinew tensed. But the rock refused to budge, implacable, sunk in the wet sand, and for the first time the men looked despondent, beaten.

  To have come so far.

  Now here’s a real koan to be solved, I said. Can we bend solid matter to our will? And what if the stone itself doesn’t want to move?

  The monks waited, expecting me to say more. The other workmen stared at me, vacant. I looked at the rock, felt the life of it, its sheer solid entity and presence.

  Clearly we need a miracle, I said.

  Nobody spoke. The tide lapped closer to the base of the rock. The wind picked up, the sky darkened as clouds went scudding across. Then in the distance, rising above the wind and the waves, came the sound of voices, calling together in unison, rhythmic. It faded out then rose again, caught by the wind, and gradually it came closer, distinguishable as a group of men, chanting.

  One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . .

  They came into view, a dozen of them, led by another friend and benefactor Nakai Zenzo. Each of the men carried a log over the right shoulder, swung the left arm wide for balance as they moved at a slow march, and as they got closer they alternated their counting with the Daimoku, chanted to the same rhythm.

  Namu Myoho Renge Kyo . . .

  They stopped beside the rock and Nakai stood in front of me, bowed deep.

  Perhaps we can be of assistance, he said.

  I think Shakyamuni himself has sent you, I said. Once he went to the mountain, now he is having the mountain brought to us!

  I stood back as Nakai organised the men. The first log was placed on the sand, right against the rock, and the others were laid side by side, forming a kind of path. Then the men gathered behind the rock and Nakai ordered them into three rows, arms round each other’s shoulders, interlinked, and they leaned and pushed forward into the rock, all their strength combined as they drove forward as one. At the third push, the rock tipped and toppled with a great crash onto the logs, and they gave but held, sank a little into the sand.

  Now, said Nakai, and the men pushed again, and the rock eased forward a few inches as the logs rolled under it.

  Here is your miracle, said Doctor Ishii.

  I laughed.

  The path itself is moving!

  Ishii’s labourers got in front of the rock and tied the bamboo ropes round it. They formed a line, like a tug-of-war team, and they pulled as Nakai’s men pushed, and little by little, inch by inch, the rock moved up the beach, and across to the temple, and into the little area of pure white sand that sat there waiting for it. With one last almighty heave, the whole workforce pushing together, the rock juddered and came to rest, not quite in the centre of the garden, but a little to one side.

  Wonderful, I said. It could not be better.

  A great cheer went up from the monks and labourers alike. Ishii and Nakai were grinning at each other, then Ishii turned to me.

  You’ve worked these men so hard, he said. You’ll definitely go to hell!

  Well then, I said, you and I will meet there and discuss philosophy for all eternity.

  The cook was ushering everyone inside to sit and eat – I could smell the rice and vegetables, the fish stock, the noodles and broth. And for a moment everything seemed to slow down, and I saw it all with the vivid clarity of a dream. I saw the tiredness in every face, the sheer effort that had gone into the task, but shining through that was a kind of joy, and once again I was overwhelmed with gratitude.

  For the second night in a row I didn’t sleep. At first light, as the monks in the meditation hall chanted the sutras, I went outside and stood in front of the rock, walked round it, looked at it from every side. From one angle it looked like an ancient dragon, the moss on its back bright emerald green, from another it was a towering mountain peak. All around it the sand had been scattered, the ground rutted and churned up, by the sheer brute physical work of heaving and dragging, cajoling it into place. I fetched my rake and a flat-bladed spade and I set about levelling the ground again, raking the sand into patterns around the rock, concentric circles, ripples spreading out. A great sense of purity entered into me, right into my bones, permeated my entire being.

  I sat cross-legged in front of the rock, back straight, and entered into zazen. Now the rock had the dignity of a venerable sage, immersed in meditation, beyond all resentment and desire. The sky lightened and I sat on, rock-like, adamantine, unshakable.

  EIGHT

  DUST UNDER

  THE PINES

  L

  ife at Shoin-ji continued from year to year, moved at its own pace, followed its own necessity. One time, one place. The little community of Hara had its own existence, linked to us but separate, dreaming its own dream at the foot of Great Fuji. But along the Tokaido came news of the wider world, of politics and commerce, wealth and power. From Edo and Kyoto came rumour and gossip, tales of scandal and intrigue.

  Inu-Kubo the Dog Shogun had died, murdered, they said, by his wife who then, conveniently, killed herself. The successor was a six-year-old child who only lived a few more years. I imagined the drama Chikamatsu would have made of it all, his little puppets, more than human, bringing the stories to life.

  The present Shogun was Yoshimune, by all accounts wily and cultured. It was said he imported foreign books, spoke of trading with the barbarians in the even wider world, far to the West. He drove through reforms, raised taxes, brought a measure of stability and prosperity, at least for the wealthy merchants.

  Rations at Shoin-ji were meagre at the best of times. The monks subsisted, survived, on a handful of rice a day. On good days there might be a dash of fish broth, a few drops of shoyu – with or without maggots – a little pickle. I watched them endure, grow thin and dried out. Their skin grew pallid, drawn taut over their bones. But their eyes shone, their will was strong, their inner fire burned.

  Then everything changed for the
worse. A summer of drought was followed by winter storms. The rice crop failed. Locusts blackened the fields, stripped them of anything that had managed to grow. The people went hungry and had nothing to spare.

  And yet that very summer the Daimyo’s procession had passed along the Tokaido, right past the temple gates, bigger and louder, brasher and more extravagant than ever. And how had he paid for this excessive display? By raising the taxes, taking an ever higher percentage of the rice crop, the little the farmers had managed to grow.

  To those who have, it shall be given. From those who have not, it shall be taken away. That had a fine Zen ring to it, ironic. But the reality was bitter and wretched and bleak. People were starving, and dying.

  I railed against it all in a talk to the monks and laymen. Torei wrote down what I said, kept a record. I quoted from my story of Hakuyu in his cave. Torei looked up a moment, quizzical, then continued writing.

  When a ruler becomes caught up in his own greed and self-interest, his ministers usurp power for themselves, and no one gives a moment’s thought to the abject poverty and suffering of ordinary folk. The people go hungry and sick. Famine and starvation are rife throughout the land.

  This is what we are seeing, I said. These Daimyo live in luxury with never a thought for the poor, except to bleed them dry. It is their blood and sweat that pays for the Daimyo’s indulgence, the food and drink, the vast entourage of retainers. It pays for the dancing girls and prostitutes gathered from the pleasure quarters of Kyoto, used for a time and cast aside, replaced over and over. And every time they are replaced, at greater cost, the Daimyo sends out his ruthless ministers to raise the taxes again and again.

  And when there are summer droughts and winter storms, and the crops fail, the people are left with nothing. They starve and sicken and die.

  I stopped for a moment, looked at the monks, themselves suffering and undernourished, but every one of them listening, attentive. Torei’s brush paused, resumed when I continued.