Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  Unless the Shogun himself intervenes, the people will rise up and rebel. They will turn on the ministers and petty officials. And who can blame them?

  A cornered rat

  will bite a cat.

  And it will not end there. The uprising will continue till the government itself is overthrown.

  I folded my hands and bowed to these frail, brave monks.

  Sentient beings are numberless, I chanted.

  Together, as one, they gave the response. We vow to save them all.

  I made a painting of Fuji for the Abbot of far-off Jisho-ji temple in Kyushu. I laid out a large sheet of paper and sketched in the shape of the mountain in three strokes, then filled in the background so the mountain stood out white and clear, dominating the landscape.

  I remembered the simple drawing I had once done, the poem I had written.

  Miss Fuji,

  Cast aside your hazy robe

  And show me your snowy skin.

  I had glimpsed that beautiful woman, a courtesan, looking out at me as she passed by in her palanquin. The Daimyo’s procession. I remembered it all, the great army of retainers and attendants, the pikeman pissing in the dust.

  In this new painting I drew a few figures on the lower slopes of Fuji, two of them seated, gazing up at the mountain, three of them, pilgrims, making their way along the path. The scene was one of simple devotion, tranquillity, the mountain majestic, transcendent.

  Below that I drew the Daimyo’s procession in all its busy intensity, snaking along the Tokaido, the tiny figures walking forward, not looking up.

  I set down my brush, stood in front of the painting, taking it in, and Torei joined me.

  They cannot see what is in front of them, he said. They ignore the great truth towering above them. They are caught up in worldly show, marching towards oblivion.

  The Daimyo are born to great wealth, I said, and can do great good. This is because of merit from past lives. But if they forget this and misuse their power, they are bound straight for hell.

  The news along the Tokaido was grimmer every day. Now the talk was of famine, pure and simple. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people had perished. There were bodies in fields and forests, on riverbanks and right by the side of the road. We heard stories of old folk just walking out into the night, refusing to be a burden. And hardened though we were to samsara, to suffering on earth, there were tales that made us weep, of newborn babies left out in the cold to die, culled by families who could not feed one more hungry mouth.

  A petty official of the Daimyo, a miserable cur in human form, passed through the village, encouraging the practice.

  It was far better, he said, to abandon these excess children, leave them to freeze and starve, rather than beating them to death, crushing them with stones at birth, which was usual in some other, more barbaric provinces in the far north.

  I felt a great rage when Torei told me this.

  Perhaps the Shogun should order a cull of petty officials.

  Perhaps, said Torei, his voice lifeless, flat.

  Existence is suffering.

  This too.

  The monks could do little to help. They too were growing weaker, falling sick. Some of them left while they could still walk, made for Numazu where there might at least be a little food, or they headed home to be with parents who might be dying.

  My own family home, the old inn, was closed and boarded up. Hara was a ghost town, overrun with rats. The good doctor Gentoku himself fell ill and took to his bed.

  I ate only a mouthful of rice gruel a day, sipped a little rainwater. The skin on my belly hung slack. I no longer resembled Hotei.

  On the anniversary of Bodhidharma’s death, we sat in meditation, no more than twenty of us, skeletons in black robes. I was moved to compose a verse.

  Great angry winds sweep the land,

  Scattering demons, idle spirits.

  Twenty brave men, iron-willed

  Chew on nothing, savour emptiness.

  The twenty became fifteen, then ten, as one by one they sickened and died.

  Many of them were young, had arrived eager to learn. I had bombarded them, beaten and pummelled the teaching into them, and they had taken it, year after year, uncomplaining, heroic. Now they were dust under the pine trees. They had come from emptiness, dwelled in emptiness, returned to emptiness.

  And yet.

  I missed them all. Old Kakuzaemon gone. He said he would cook for us all in the great cauldron of hell. And Teki who had looked after the cat and its descendants. And Gedatsu who came back for my watery Dharma-gruel. Jun and Ko who had pushed me to publish my books.

  I grieved for them, and the rest of the monks, and for all of humanity. I wept.

  Time passed. The seasons turned. Crops grew again. The survivors got on with their lives. I looked at those gravestones in the little cemetery under the pines. I resolved to write a letter to Ikeda Tsugumasa, Daimyo of Okayama. I had heard he was a serious man, practised in meditation and the art of the brush. Among his class, perhaps he alone might listen to my words, might consider the need for reform.

  I summoned Torei to my quarters, said I would dictate the letter if he would kindly write it down.

  My calligraphy grows ever more illegible, I said. Thick, clumsy strokes, one word confused with another, mistakes everywhere. I know your own style can be as slapdash as mine, but I also know you can be painstaking and meticulous when you need to be.

  He bowed.

  Every stroke of your brush is imbued with your life-force, your chi, he said. But it is an honour to copy your words. I shall be careful, and attentive.

  And I shall be concise, I said.

  I began by addressing the Daimyo with the utmost formality, showing the greatest possible respect. I expressed the profound sadness I felt on contemplating the recent famine, the loss of life on such a scale in our province and throughout Japan. I mentioned our own losses at Shoin-ji.

  As a monk, I said, I had vowed to alleviate suffering, and I knew that he, as a follower of the Buddha-way, would uphold the same principle.

  I paused and Torei looked up, waiting.

  However . . . he said.

  However comes later, I said. But comes later still.

  I continued, expressing my sympathy for the Daimyo’s own burdens, not least the necessity of having to comply with the Shogun’s directive that a residence be maintained in Edo for the Daimyo’s wife and family.

  Where they are effectively held hostage, said Torei, to ensure the Daimyo’s loyalty.

  That’s the truth of it, I said. But it’s not always necessary to express the truth so directly. Now . . .

  However?

  Not yet.

  I understood, I said in the letter, that this meant the Daimyo had to travel back and forth to Edo and would have to be accompanied by members of his household.

  More than a thousand of them, said Torei.

  Perhaps you should hand me the brush, I said, and dictate the letter yourself.

  I wouldn’t dream of it, he said, and he dipped the brush in the ink once more.

  Well then, I said.

  However?

  However, I said, and I pointed out to the Daimyo that the sheer scale of the processions, the massive numbers in the entourage and retinue, could be perceived as excessive and extravagant. It is argued that it is necessary for protection, that without it the lord would be prey to brigands along the road. But I myself could not remember the last time such an attack took place. And surely ten loyal retainers, well trained, would be enough of a deterrent? If a ruler was wise and benevolent, it would be more than enough. If he put the needs of his people first, his enemies would be few.

  I paused again.

  But, said Torei.

  But, I said. The Daimyo march along the Tokaido accompanied by an entire army, not to mention the courtiers and concubines, the dancing girls and other entertainers. And the truth of it is that the poor and needy are forced to pay for this extravagance, and
the processions grow ever more lavish as the Daimyo compete with each other to put on the biggest display of wealth.

  At times of great hardship, such behavior is unbearable, and the people will not bear it.

  A cornered rat will bite a cat, said Torei.

  Indeed, I said. Well remembered.

  You said it in the talk you gave during the famine.

  Yes.

  Perhaps we might combine that talk with this letter. The two would reinforce each other and make a powerful statement.

  Then I could send the whole thing to the Daimyo.

  Do you think he will react favourably?

  If his commitment to the Buddha-way is genuine.

  And if it is not?

  Then perhaps he will send one of his swordsmen to discuss the matter with me. My head on a pike overlooking the Tokaido – now that would be a powerful statement.

  The image was too vivid for Torei. He could clearly envisage it as a reality, my severed head, the eyes pecked out, a grim warning to all who transgressed. His face grew pale. His hand shook and he had to set down his brush.

  Nevertheless, I said. We should edit this diatribe of mine into a book.

  Torei composed himself, straightened his back.

  Yes.

  Another portion of my poison slobber to be dished out. I shall call it Hebi-ichigo.

  Snake-strawberries.

  They are weeds, I said, and they stay close to the ground, in the dirt where they grow. They taste bitter and have the reputation of being poisonous, but they cure all manner of ailments.

  Torei nodded.

  I told you my mother was skilled in the use of herbal remedies, he said. She used the strawberries to cure diarrhoea and haemorrhoids, toothache and headache, pain in the joints.

  Anything that ails you.

  Almost.

  So. Hebi-ichigo it is. The book shall be called Snake-strawberries. And if it eases the suffering of one human being, it will have done its work.

  I recited the Four Noble Truths, and Torei joined me.

  Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Desire can be conquered, there is a way. The way is to follow the Buddha-path.

  I went to the little graveyard, chanted a sutra for the monks we had lost. Dust under the pines. I was returning to my quarters, crossing the courtyard, when something caught my eye, a movement on the ground, something tiny and frantic in the shade. I looked closely, saw it was a cicada, struggling to cast off its skin. With great difficulty it succeeded in getting its head free, then its front and back legs – hands and feet – one after the other. Only its left wing remained caught, stuck, and no matter how hard it tried it was unable to shake off the dead husk. I was moved to pity for its predicament and I thought I could help. I leaned forward and eased it free with my fingernail, watched the cicada take a few stuttering steps. But its movement was awkward, unbalanced. The wing I had touched stayed shut tight and refused to open. My efforts to help had caused damage, and the little creature was unable to fly as it should.

  And sentient beings were numberless. And I had vowed to save them all.

  OPENING THE GATES

  I

  had been seated in zazen for many hours, mind sharp and clear, beyond the body’s deep ache, the dull pain in bone and sinew. Perhaps one day I would be like Daruma, the Bodhidharma, I would sit so long my legs would atrophy and fall off.

  Slowly, inch by inch, I stood up and stretched my limbs, my back, my neck. I stepped outside to the raked sand of the garden, breathed in the air. It was late afternoon, shading towards evening. A cicada rasped its harsh cry and it was music. Wind stirred the pines, wafted their sharp green scent.

  One of the monks, Betsu, brought me tea in an iron kettle and poured some into my favourite bowl, old and misshapen, the glaze rough and unfinished. I took the bowl and sipped the tea and it was good. Its smokiness tasted of autumn.

  Betsu had stepped back, still holding the kettle, but I sensed there was something he wanted to say. I looked at him, raised my eyebrows.

  Well?

  He bowed, uncomfortable.

  I didn’t want to disturb you, he said.

  But?

  There is someone here to see you. He has been waiting for some time.

  He wants to speak to me?

  Betsu hesitated.

  He insists on it.

  I held out my bowl, indicated Betsu should refill it.

  Who is he? I asked.

  Again Betsu hesitated, mindful that my questions could be double-edged and wondering whether he should answer that the man was a living Buddha, yet to be realised.

  That is what he must ask himself, he said. Who am I?

  Very good, I said. But for once I was asking a simple question. Who is this fellow waiting to see me?

  His name is Nobushige, said Betsu. He is a soldier, a samurai warrior.

  I knew of this man. He fancied himself as an expert on Zen, a sword-wielder cutting through ignorance. That was one way of looking at it.

  I sipped my tea. The sand of the garden was pure white, raked into sworls and patterns. The single rock sat in the midst of it, placed just so. A mountain above the mist. Island in a vast expanse of sea.

  Time passed.

  I had finished the tea. I handed the empty bowl back to Betsu, bowed to him. He bowed deeper.

  I will see this idiot samurai, I said.

  The man was waiting in the courtyard, just inside the temple gate. He stood with his arms folded, his expression ferocious. He was not used to being kept waiting.

  Who are you? I asked, catching him off guard.

  I am Nobushige, he said, and he stood to attention, bowed stiffly.

  I know your name, I said. But who are you?

  His hair was swept up in the samurai topknot. He wore a grey robe with his clan crest on the sleeve, Tucked into the sash around his waist were two swords, one long, one short. He gave the impression of great strength, immense physical power. I had no doubt he was a formidable warrior. But that samurai arrogance, that rage barely held in check, might be his undoing.

  The waiting had made him angry. My question had made it worse.

  Well? I asked.

  He composed himself, straightened his back and stood tall.

  I am samurai, he said. I have fought in many battles. I guard my lord with my life.

  So why have you come here to see me?

  Again my brusqueness unsettled him.

  I wanted to ask you a question.

  Ask.

  I want to know, he said, if paradise and hell really exist.

  I threw back my head and laughed, and that shocked him even more.

  What a useless question! Are you one of those cowards who only does the right thing out of fear? This is your morality. You do good for fear of hell and in greedy expectation of paradise.

  Now he glared at me, clenched his fists.

  You say you guard your lord with your life, but what kind of master would employ a beggar like you?

  He snorted through his nose, as if breathing fire. His hand rested on the hilt of his long sword.

  So, you have a sword, but what use is it? I am sure the blade is too dull and blunted to be able to cut off my head.

  To criticise his precious sword was an insult too far. He let out a roar and drew the sword, raised it above his head, ready to strike me down.

  For a moment I was in the heart of a great silence, as if I stood outside myself, separate, dispassionate, observing these events unfold as they must. If this was my death, so be it. The swordblade flashed, moved slowly as if through water.

  I stared Nobushige in the eye, heard my own voice, strong and unwavering.

  Here open the gates of hell.

  He looked as if he had been struck. And in that instant, he saw, he understood. He lowered the sword, replaced it in its sheath, and I spoke again, that same certainty in the voice, but this time more quietly.

  Here open the gates of paradise.

  He took in
a long slow breath, held it a moment, breathed out. He bowed low from the waist.

  Thank you for your teaching, he said.

  It is yours, I said. Use it.

  When he had gone I sat a while in the garden and sipped more tea, mind open to all of it, hell and paradise, a flashing swordblade, as the evening grew cool and the light began to fade, lingering on the raked white sand.

  DAIMYO

  O

  ne bright fine spring morning, Fuji shimmering in the haze, there was a commotion at the temple gate and a young monk came running, stopped in front of me and bowed.

  There are visitors, he said, bobbing his head and pointing. Dignitaries . . . An entourage . . .

  I looked and saw a pikeman striding in through the gate. He stopped and looked around, then turned and nodded, and a little procession followed him in, four young retainers carrying a norimon on their shoulders, and behind them two horses led by a groom and behind that four armed men, samurai, bringing up the rear, watchful and on guard. One of them carried a banner bearing the butterfly crest of the Ikeda clan. As I watched it flutter in the breeze, the pikeman stepped forward and spoke.

  You are Hakuin Ekaku, master of Shoin-ji?

  My head, mounted on a pike, overlooking the Tokaido.

  I am, I said, bowing.

  The curtains in the norimon stirred and I had a memory of that procession I’d seen long ago, the courtesan’s face looking out at me.

  The pikeman stood to attention.

  My Lord craves an audience with you.

  I am sure I can make the time, I said, and I heard what might have been a chuckle from behind the curtain. The norimon was set down and a young nobleman stepped out. He wore a broad-sleeved hitatare jacket, deep red, with the same butterfly crest on the sleeve.

  I am Ikeda Tsugumasa, he said, Daimyo of Okayama.

  I am honoured, I said.

  I have tasted your Hebi-ichigo, he said, your Snake-strawberries. And as you can see, I am still alive.