by Nick Lake
All the guards and serving girls admired Mokuren’s composure, but his mother was not impressed. ‘Mokuren,’ she chided, ‘please hear me. Although the pain of parting is hard to bear, you must not show weakness of the heart. Once you have left this place with the abbot, you must forget about the palace entirely and work to sever any attachment you feel to me. Throw your heart into your scholarship as you have always done, and accumulate merit for yourself through an ascetic life. Become a monk and then come back and show yourself to me, wearing your gedatsu no koromo, your robe of liberation. To become a monk in name alone, while remaining illiterate and ignorant, is a grave sin, as you know. If this is what happens to you, never return here again. I will consider us mother and son no more. But if you apply yourself and attain enlightenment, come back and visit your mother who will miss you so. I say all this not to hurt you but to strengthen your ties to Buddha’s teaching and to weaken the apron strings that tie you to me.’
With that, she presented Mokuren with a simple under-robe. ‘Let this robe, with its lack of ostentation, guide you in your studies.’
At Mount Hiei, Mokuren showed himself quickly to be a true prodigy, becoming famous at court for the depth of his learning. One day he was invited to participate in a hokke hakk, a series of lectures on the Lotus Sutra to be held at the Imperial Palace. The Empress Mother herself requested his presence. When it came time for Mokuren to return to the monastery, the Empress Mother piled gifts on his horse. Ever the loving son, Mokuren sent a portion of the gifts to his mother. However, a disapproving letter soon arrived:
Son, I received the gifts you sent. But while I am boundlessly happy with the gift you have shown for scholarship, I am displeased with the worldly gifts you have attained as a result. When I sent you off to the temple, I had no intention that you should participate in such lectures at the court, which are no better than theatrical productions. When I sent you off, I thought, ‘I have no daughters, only a son. I will send my son to become a great monk, so that he might be revered as a saint and save me in the hereafter.’ It was not my intention that you should become one of those monks who is tantamount to a lord, and who travels around in grand style to the palace and back.
At the end of the letter was a sort of religious poem:
In this revolving triple world
there is no end of loving indebtedness to parents.
To cast away indebtedness and enter the unconditioned,
that is true devotion.
Mokuren understood that he should cut off his attachment to his mother if he wished to attain enlightenment. He wrote her an apologetic letter, and then remained isolated on the mountain for many years, atoning for his sin through solitude and meditation. Always he read the sutras, remembering his mother’s admonition about ignorance and illiteracy. In winter he piled up snow next to his bed so that it would reflect the moonlight and enable him to read late into the night; in summer he captured fireflies and hung them from the eaves.
Meanwhile, Mokuren’s mother did her own part for his success: she prayed nightly that the other monks at the temple would die, so that there would be no one to eclipse her own son’s reputation.
One day, many years later, Mokuren had a premonition that his mother was going to die, and so he set off immediately for the capital to read the nenbutsu rites with her. But when he arrived she had already died. ‘For what purpose, now, was all my studying?’ he asked. ‘The one person in this world I love has gone.’ After holding the appropriate ceremonies and burying his mother, he returned to the mountain. From then on, he wore only the robe she had given him – calling it his katami no koromo, his memento robe. Even when he achieved enlightenment, in the eyes of the other monks, and was given the robe of liberation, he continued to wear the robe his mother had given him underneath it, to remind him of her. She was constantly in his thoughts – he heard from people that it was right to let the dead go, but he found that he could not accept his mother’s death.
Soon after, Mokuren’s mother began to appear to him when he was alone in his cabin, reading the sutras or meditating. She spoke to him, but the shape of her lips as she spoke did not fit to any words he knew, and he found himself going slowly mad, as he tried to understand what she wanted to tell him.
But he never could learn what she was saying. Meanwhile, he was growing weaker and weaker, his skin paler and paler. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that he himself was beginning to resemble a ghost.
Mokuren was dying, but he knew too that his mother was suffering, and he couldn’t bear it. Soon, though he didn’t know it, his enlightenment had fallen away from him as the leaves fall from trees at the first hint of winter’s hard frost. He thought only of his love for his mother, and how he could not bear for her to be in pain. He was not detached and at one with dharma – he was linked to his dead mother, as if by an umbilical cord that stretched from this world to hell.
Mokuren felt that the only way to help his mother was to go after her to hell and discover what was troubling her. He found a way to follow his mother to Enma’s realm, and from there to the realm of samsara dedicated to the gaki, the hungry ghosts. His teacher from the temple, who had died the previous winter, met him there, and warned him to be careful of the flames. Mokuren laughed. ‘Do not worry, old man,’ he said, ‘my robe of enlightenment will protect me.’ But when he looked down, he saw that he was not wearing the robe of liberation, but the faded old robe that his mother had given him, so many years before. He understood truly at that moment that he had turned his back on nirvana and, through his love for his mother, condemned himself to reincarnation in this world, or worse.
Through the holes in his robe, his skin was red raw with the heat, scarred and burnt. He was a walking wound, in agony, but he pressed on behind his teacher, farther into the realm of hungry ghosts, which was just the same as this world, only there was no grass and no leaves and no food of any kind, and everything was always on fire.
Mokuren’s teacher led him into the depths of the realm, showing him the poor sinners who were being tortured. As they walked, they passed a pot, which a demon was stirring with a spiked pole. Suddenly Mokuren’s mother raised her head from the boiling liquid. ‘That is my son!’ she cried, and now Mokuren could understand what she was saying, because he was in the land of the dead and all in the land of dead can speak the tongue of death. ‘Because you will not forget me,’ she said to Mokuren, ‘I am bound to you, unable to leave this plane of hell. I suffer helplessly, consumed by hunger that I cannot feed and thirst that I cannot slake. Help me!’ Mokuren’s teacher tried to hurry Mokuren along, telling him that this was not really his mother. But Mokuren would have known her voice anywhere, even in hell.
‘That is my mother,’ he said.
‘And that certainly is my son,’ she said. ‘I may not have seen him for many years, but he is the spitting image of his father, the emperor.’
‘Show me my mother!’ Mokuren commanded the demon, who fished her out of the pot with his spiked pole. Mokuren recognized the Sanskrit letters that he had written on her body to prepare her for her funeral, and asked her what he could do to relieve her suffering.
‘You must go back to the world and do the following things,’ she said. ‘On the fifteenth day of the seventh month you must copy the Lotus Sutra in one day. Then you must prepare an offering of clean basins full of rice and spices and the five fruits, and other offerings of incense, oil, lamps, candles, beds, and bedding, all the best of the world, to the sangha of the ten directions. On that day, all the holy assembly of Mount Hiei, whether in the mountains practising meditation, or obtaining the four fruits of the way, or walking beneath trees, should gather in a great congregation and all of like mind receive the pravarana food, accept its gift in spirit. Then, in offering the food and the readings of the sutra, you must truly let go of your love for me, and accept that I am gone. Only then will you and I be saved.’
Finally understanding why he had been met here by his great teacher, Mo
kuren returned to the world and did the things his mother had asked. Grateful, she appeared before him, telling him that she had – alone among women – been promoted to the Pure Land. He was so full of joy that he danced for an entire night.
CHAPTER 46
‘AND EVER SINCE then,’ said the priest, ‘people have followed Mokuren’s example, leaving food and drink for their dead relatives on the days of obon. People forget about Mokuren himself, but they remember the ritual.’
Taro sat on the floor of the hut, feeling empty.
‘So. . . For my mother to be at peace, I must forget her?’
‘Not forget,’ said the priest. ‘Let go.’
Taro stood, frustrated. ‘But what about when Mokuren went to hell? How did he do it? You didn’t say.’
The priest spread his hands. ‘I do not know. It is a story – it is meant to illustrate a point about attachment, and the way to enlightenment. It’s not something that happened.’
‘How do you know?’ said Taro.
‘Well. . . I don’t, I suppose,’ said the priest.
Taro shrugged. He would like to speak to his mother again, but he was not sure he was prepared to go to hell for it. Besides, his mother would not be in hell, he was almost sure of it. She had returned for obon, but so did many of the dead. It only meant that she had not yet entered the Pure Land, that her soul had remained in limbo, perhaps still being judged by Enma. She was gone now, and would return next year if she was still in the planes of existence. He cursed himself. He wished he had spoken to her about the ball when they were both on Mount Hiei, about what it was and how it worked – it would have saved so much effort, and so much heartache.
He went to the door. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For helping me.’
‘You’re going already?’
‘Yes. There are things I have to do.’ He had to go to Hiro at the ninja mountain, make sure his friend was safe, and then he had to decide what to do about the ball. Was it worth trying to recover it from the samurai who had taken it? He would need to learn who it was – the man had worn no mon. Or, if it wasn’t the true ball, he would have to look for it. But where to start?
He stilled his thoughts. The first thing was to return to Hiro. He could worry about the rest later. He opened the door and turned to the priest.
‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Goodbye,’ said the priest. ‘May the kami keep you from evil spirits.’
Taro laughed. ‘Too late for that,’ he said. And then he closed the door on the man and left.
As he started up the path that led away from the village into the hills, and from there to anywhere he wanted to go, he turned one last time and looked out to sea. The dark boats far away, laden with men who wanted him dead, and the small boats in the bay, laden with the dead themselves, were both the same size from this vantage point.
Both tiny, and frail.
He was sure that it had been Shusaku’s ghost on the ship. His spirit must have returned for obon and been drawn to Taro. In one night, Taro had been saved not once but twice: by the spirit of the ancient ama who had first dived for the ball, and by Shusaku, who had died in the courtyard of Lord Oda’s castle.
He sent out a silent thank-you to both of them, and a goodbye to his mother. Both of them, now, would be far from this shore and on their way back to hell, or limbo. But he would be back next year at the same time, to see them again. For now, he would go to the ninja mountain, to meet Hiro. Then, before making any decision about the Buddha ball, he would return with his friend to Mount Hiei. He might not be able to bring Hana back, but at least he could see her again, and witness his mother’s cremation.
He set off up the path, but stopped dead at a fork where the shadow of a tree fell over the stones.
His mother stood there, shimmering in the darkness, holding out her hands to him. She was speaking, but the words made no sense, and the shapes of her mouth corresponded to no language he knew.
CHAPTER 47
SHUSAKU LAY PANTING on the sand. The water lapped insistently at his feet, as if wanting to pull him into the sea again, as if angry with him for escaping its clutches.
He ignored it.
Over the mountains behind him, the glow of sunrise was beginning to pale the sky. He knew that he would have to find shelter soon, or experience the pain of burning again, as his scar tissue was roasted once more by the sun’s rays.
He ran his fingers over his stomach, feeling the flesh and bone already knitting itself together. It was agony, but Shusaku was used to agony. He had been a vampire a long time, and this was not the first wound he had endured. If it was, he wouldn’t have been able to pull himself through the water, wave after wave, bleeding all the while, just to reach the shore.
The strange thing was that he was not dead. Not because the wound had been a fatal one – it hadn’t.
But that was just the problem. Lord Tokugawa knew how to kill a vampire – he had dealt with ninjas before and was aware that only a direct blow to the heart, or a decapitation, would destroy them.
Yet he had not aimed for Shusaku’s heart. He had cut his stomach instead.
And there was something else. Lord Tokugawa knew he could swim.
The more Shusaku thought about it, the clearer it seemed – Lord Tokugawa had deliberately kept him alive. And he had given him the ball before he kicked him over the side. Why?
Shusaku couldn’t work it out. There was one, impossible explanation – that Lord Tokugawa had somehow recognized Taro as his son, had known who he was, and had preserved Shusaku’s life so that he could preserve Taro’s. It was said that Lord Tokugawa didn’t plan in days or even in months, but in years – that he wasn’t just several moves ahead on the chessboard, but playing an entirely different game. Could he have planned this – all of this?
But it couldn’t be. How would the daimyo have known? So far as Shusaku knew, the man had never laid eyes on Taro since he was a baby.
For now at least, it wasn’t important. What was important was that he still lived, and that Taro did too. Now he could go after the boy and help him. It had been months since he had last seen him. He had so much he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to teach. What had happened – his brush with death at Lord Oda’s castle – had made him realize how much he wanted to impart the knowledge and skills he had learned over the years. Taro had been a good pupil – the best. Shusaku almost thought of him as a son.
In a way, too, he considered the boy his redemption. He had killed so many men, and as on that night in Nagasaki, he sometimes felt them crowding around him, an entourage of the dead. There was a saying the Tendai Buddhists had – akuji mi ni tomaru. All evil done clings to the body. Occasionally Shusaku felt that this was literally true, that the ghosts of those he had killed were clinging to him. But when Taro was around, he’d felt something different – a possibility that he might redeem himself, if only he could teach Taro to make the most of his natural gifts.
Perhaps all those killings would even be worth it, if they put a good and just man on the throne of the country. A man with Taro’s instincts of kindness, protection, and compassion.
His fingers brushed against the raw edge of his wound, where it was still open and ragged to the touch.
When I move, it’s going to hurt very badly, he thought. However, the stars were starting to fade now, as the light in the east brightened. He had to get to shelter, and very quickly. He stretched out his hand to pull the ball, which he had placed on the beach beside him, against his side.
Stupid thing, he thought. It doesn’t even work. And yet Lord Tokugawa had pushed it into his hands, and Lord Tokugawa didn’t do anything without having a good reason. So although every fibre of every muscle in his body had screamed in fury at the pain of swimming with a heavy metal ball in one hand, he had kept it with him as he swam. And even though he himself was screaming inside with fury at the fact that Lord Tokugawa had wounded him, he knew he would pick up the ball and carry it with him, keeping it safe for whatever future moment
Lord Tokugawa had foreseen. Because long before Lord Tokugawa had hurt him, he had saved his life – and Shusaku owed him still. And even if Shusaku didn’t understand why, it seemed the daimyo had saved his life again. Lord Tokugawa could have killed him on that ship. He hadn’t.
Sighing, Shusaku hauled himself to his knees.
He had been right. It hurt very badly indeed.
CHAPTER 48
TARO RUSHED TO his mother, but she evaporated in front of his eyes, turned to hazy mist. He looked up the hill and there she was again, farther away from the village, still speaking to him in that nonsense language.
The language of the dead, he thought with a shiver.
Again and again she appeared, disappeared, and then shimmered into being again farther along the path. It was as if she were leading him away from Shirahama, and that was all right with him. He did not understand how it could be that she had not returned with the other spirits at the end of obon, and a chill went through him when he thought of it. What if it is my fault? he thought. What if I’m keeping her here because of my love for her, as Mokuren did? He had never felt such a mixture of emotions – to see his mother, even as a pale ghost, filled him with gladness, and yet he was afraid, too, and worried for her soul.
As he neared the Kyoto road, she appeared right in front of him, speaking more urgently this time. He felt a great weariness settle on him.
‘I can’t understand you,’ he said.
His mother’s face fell, sadness settling soft on her features. She spoke again, and again he distinguished no words he knew. He stepped forward, to try to touch her, and she was gone.
Oh, gods, he thought. I am being haunted, like Hayao, and I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.
A moment later he saw men ahead of him, blocking the path and standing among the cedar trees. Had his mother been trying to warn him again? The place was close to where he’d killed the rabbit, the day when his life changed forever, when ninjas sent by Lord Oda arrived in Shirahama and killed his father.