by Ben Stevens
‘You’re taking nonsense, Ennin. Utter nonsense,’ declared the daimyo. ‘Yes – severely ill I may be, but not with this so-called ‘Mad Dog Sickness’. For I can tell you, absolutely emphatically, that I was neither bitten nor scratched the entire time I was in China.’
‘No,’ nodded my master. ‘But the person who donated one of the lenses from their eyes to you was, before they died of the sickness. Doubtless the surgeon named Hu already knew they were about to expire, when he said that you might have to wait a few days for his ‘miraculous’ operation.
‘A little unethical, it must be said, to remove a lens (presumably without permission) from a cadaver. And yet what you did with his daughter was infinitely worse, and – although I have no children myself – I can well understand a father wishing to pay a man such as yourself back a thousand times.’
“Pay back’?’ repeated the daimyo, his solitary eye wide with fear and shock.
‘Yes... To pay you back with the gift of sight – one might say, a gift almost as precious as life itself – whilst at the same time cursing you with certain death.
‘And, moreover, a death that will be protracted and extremely painful,’ continued my master. ‘A death robbing you of every dignity and plunging you into an abyss of screaming madness before you finally, mercifully, expire. Not for nothing is it called the ‘Mad Dog Sickness’, after all...
‘Through this new lens of yours, Saji – that was how the disease was transmitted to you, wholly on purpose, by the Chinese surgeon named Weiyong Hu. There was no need for an infected animal to bite, scratch or do anything else to you. Off you sailed on your ship, congratulating yourself on your fiendish brilliance and your marvellous new eye, never so much as suspecting the foul disease that had so ingeniously been transmitted into your body.
‘I have to say that although there are very few men I truly respect, Weiyong Hu is certainly one of them. I would sincerely like to meet with him one day, although, sadly, I fear that this may never happen...’
Thus finished my master with an almost sombre air, as Saji the daimyo suddenly began to shriek. As though what he’d just been told was too much for his decaying brain to possibly comprehend, and thus he was already beginning to slide into madness.
Quickly, my master moved towards the man and pressed two fingers against one side of his neck. A look of startled surprise briefly crossed Saji’s face, before he lapsed into unconsciousness. My master stepped back, as a second later the sliding door crashed open and the burly samurai and the physician entered the room.
‘We heard lord Saji shout out...’ said the samurai, looking with a little suspicion first at the ‘sleeping’ daimyo, and then at my master.
‘It is indeed a mercy that he is now unconscious,’ returned my master gravely, shaking his head. ‘This sickness of his – whatever it is – has clearly affected his brain. What he said... It made no sense at all to me. I fear lord Saji has already become mad, so that it may be best if he is just sedated as much as is possible, before...
‘Well – I fear only death lies ahead. There can be no hope for recovery now.’
‘Then you have no idea what this ‘sickness’ is, obviously,’ remarked the doctor, his face displaying his pleasure at my master’s apparent ignorance.
‘I do not,’ replied my master, again shaking his head in a rueful manner. ‘I am sorry, but I can do nothing for lord Saji.’
The samurai raised his eyebrows, and then produced a small pouch from inside his kimono.
‘You came here at least, Ennin-sensei, so here is a token payment in gratitude.’
‘Thank you,’ said my master, ‘but I never accept payment if I have not served any purpose. I can only advise that you make lord Saji as comfortable as possible, and try to ignore any strange, perhaps distressing comments he shouts out in his increasing delirium.’
‘Thank you, Ennin-sensei. Your advice is noted,’ stated the samurai, who was obviously as simple as he was loyal to his dying daimyo.
The doctor stood watching my master with a sneer, which faltered somewhat as my master said to him –
‘I fear you will be kept busy, these next few weeks to come. I cannot be wholly certain that this sickness is not transmutable just by the breath of the patient, so you should be extremely careful. It may even take a few months to show the first set of symptoms... But that, really, is as much as I can say.
‘In any case, I bid you good-evening.’
And with that, my master and I left the dying daimyo’s bedchamber.
The Rain Player
A few of us were gathered for the unique musical performance, to be given early that evening. The multi-stringed instrument lay on its stand in the centre of the stone courtyard of the Chinese temple, the sky above low and threatening. It was the middle of the rainy season – so it seemed we did not have long to wait before the ‘musician’, as it were, made its appearance and thus began to ‘play’ that remarkable and intricate-looking instrument.
The creator of this instrument sat close to my master and me. Kawasaki was a thin, sensitive-looking young man whose long and almost ‘spidery’ looking fingers were never quite still; always twitching slightly with some apparent nervousness. As a shamisen player Kawasaki was apparently almost without peer – yet it was for this remarkable instrument at which I was currently looking that he was chiefly famous. The sound was reputed to be sublime, so that my master and I had been fortunate indeed to receive an invitation to come and hear it.
And yet – would the rain actually fall…?
Yes, of course it would. Big fat drops now splashing all around. The first of the strings were struck and the immediate beauty of the sound at once shimmered within my very soul. I was somehow reminded of – no, somehow transported to – deep and lonely ponds and streams hidden away in forests and on mountains, never once seen by human eyes, red and orange flashing koi and other, more mysterious creatures teeming within them…
More strings were struck, the rain falling ever faster and heavier. A great whirling in my mind, so that I was scarcely even conscious of my surroundings anymore. The rain dripping from the stone statues of Confucius’s ancient disciples stood around the courtyard; for this was one of those few Chinese temples, scattered across Japan, that pay homage to Confucius’s teachings as much as they do Buddha’s.
The rain flowed off from the courtyard, into the narrow channels that took it who knew where. My master, I, Kawasaki and those few others in attendance were protected from the elements by a low roof, behind us the tatami-matted room in which we would dine once the rain had finished its performance upon this remarkable instrument. The priest of this temple had already stated his delight at not only being able to hear this performance, but also to have the opportunity to converse with my famous master following its completion.
Issekinichou, as it were – to ‘kill two birds with one stone’.
A quick glance at my master showed that he was as absorbed in this wonderful, ethereal music being performed by the heavens as everyone else. It would certainly come as some relief to him – this chance to relax – following the frustration of our most recent case.
The legendary swordsman, Oyama, found dead on a lonely forest path in a region near this one. Oyama had still been wearing his two swords, so quickly had death come upon him. But what manner of death this had been, my master had been wholly unable to determine. To all appearances, Oyama had just suddenly dropped down as he walked – his ceaseless patrolling of Japan, always searching for his next opponent, finally now come to an end.
‘Absolutely no sign of foul play,’ my master had mused. ‘No sign of injury, and with the swordsman’s face as relaxed – as reposed – as any face I’ve ever seen, alive or dead.’
This last statement had certainly been true. Whatever the reason for Oyama’s death, from his appearance, he appeared to have spent his final moments in a state of virtual ecstasy…
Finally the performance came to an end. A slight break in the r
ain was sufficient to end my near-hypnotic state. This conclusion came with a profound feeling of regret; the sensation that never again would my thoughts be so sublime, were I not to hear this music even just one more time. I gave no indication of such thoughts, however, as along with my master, the master-musician Kawasaki and those few others I entered into that tatami room, where monks quickly spread a variety of dishes (along with some welcome flasks of sake) upon the low table.
We began to eat, as the priest spoke of the large, wooden fish which hung just outside.
‘You will notice its belly is almost completely worn away,’ declared the priest. ‘This is because we have struck it twice daily, with a beater, for many years. Once before we pray in the morning, and again before final prayers in the evening. This fish is a mythical creature reputed to live in China’s Yangtze River, which as you can see carries within its mouth a ball-like object symbolizing desire. When the fish is struck, so is our desire – and all other human weaknesses which prevent us from fully knowing the Buddha – symbolically expelled…’
It was obvious that the priest enjoyed talking about his temple, with its hanging wooden fish, courtyard, stone statues of Confucius’s disciples and slightly smoky, red-beamed buildings. Along with the other guests, my master nodded politely as he listened – yet it was apparent to me, his servant of some years, that his real interest lay in the musician who was sat opposite him at the low table.
Kawasaki’s long, sensitive fingers now wielded a pair of chopsticks, which operated almost like some strangely malevolent insect, selecting pieces of fish and vegetables from the assorted trays with almost lightening speed and accuracy, transferring the food to Kawasaki’s own plate. He ate and drank in a strange sort of rhythm, his slightly protruding eyes fixed upon the priest as that man spoke.
Finally the priest tired of talking about his surroundings, and instead addressed the musician –
‘A most splendid performance, Kawasaki-sensei! Thank you for honoring my temple by coming here, and allowing us to listen to your extraordinary instrument.’
‘Thank you for having permitted me to give a performance here at your honorable temple,’ returned Kawasaki politely, as custom required. ‘I go next to the Temple of the White Crane, which is in the region bordering this one.’
‘Ah yes,’ nodded the priest. ‘For this, you will have to walk through the forest which grows between the two regions. There is but a narrow path, and I fear the walk is not a wholly pleasant one during the rainy season.’
‘I have a straw-lined cloak, hat and sandals, plus a case for my instrument – which is, of course, naturally waterproof in any case. So it shan’t be so bad,’ returned the musician.
‘The strings make such a… striking sound, when struck by the falling rain,’ observed the priest almost distantly. ‘Please, what way are these strings tuned, and how can they sound so…’
The priest’s mouth moved impotently, vainly searching for the last word. At last he gave up, pulling a rueful expression to show that he’d not the slightest idea of how to best describe the absolute glory of all that he and all of us assembled here in this room had heard.
‘The instrument took me some years to design and make,’ replied Kawasaki, something in his words and manner slightly evasive. He would hardly desire to give a full and detailed explanation in answer to the priest’s fumbled, almost gasping question, of course. The very mystery behind such matters was the reason for Kawasaki’s evident genius, after all.
‘Of course, of course,’ nodded the priest, though for a moment his expression appeared almost cheated.
With those fluid and for some reason ever-so-slightly menacing movements of his chopsticks, the musician snatched at another choice morsel, transferring this to his plate.
‘And for you, Ennin-sensei – you enjoyed this concert?’ inquired the priest then.
Kawasaki glanced almost shyly at my master, who was still more famous throughout Japan than that remarkable young musician.
My master nodded that strikingly bald head, the eyes above the curiously high cheekbones appearing a little introspective, and addressing Kawasaki as much as the priest replied –
‘It was… riveting. Truly something to remember for the rest of my life.’
The chopsticks darted out to one of the plates again as the musician’s face simultaneously flushed with pleasure at such praise, coming from someone with such a formidable reputation as my master. As for my master, he suddenly gave that slight, distant smile which showed me (along with the characteristic shrinking of his pupils) that he’d just realized something; had some suspicion proved correct. But I also thought I detected a note of sadness behind that smile; some sense of reluctant resignation…
The priest gave a discreet cough, and then said –
‘I understand you have been looking into this unfortunate business concerning Motoki Oyama.’
When my master glanced a little curiously at him, the priest hurriedly continued –
‘Forgive my mentioning this matter, Ennin-sensei, but, you see, Oyama-san once stayed at this temple. I spoke with him for some time… I found him to be a most intelligent young man…’
‘Yes, Jushoku,’ returned my master, addressing the priest with a similar tone of respect. ‘Such was my impression of Oyama also, on the several occasions that we met and spoke. A wild figure, driven by some inner demon that compelled him to challenge all those who dared lay claim that they were a better fighter than he.
‘And he beat them all – although once he told me that the cries of all those whom his two swords had left bereaved, the widows and children of the other swordsmen, would follow him to his grave…’
I felt a slight shudder pass down my spine at these words. I knew the legend of Oyama well enough. How when still a boy he’d beaten a famous samurai using only a bokken or wooden sword; how he never even washed, so determined was he never to be taken by surprise by a paid ninja or just one of those many enemies who desired his death, but who did not have the courage to challenge him directly. Indeed a wild, in fact almost poetic figure – the personification of the budo or martial soul of Japan…
And now he lay dead, and no one – not even my master – could say what had killed him…
‘Kawasaki-sensei, you are staying at this temple tonight? And you too, Ennin-sensei, along with your servant?’ said the priest then, in a somewhat obvious attempt to change the rather gloomy line of conversation.
‘Thank you, Jushoku,’ nodded the young musician. ‘I will leave early tomorrow for the Temple of the White Crane, no matter what the weather.’
‘Yes, Jushoku, with your gracious permission I and my servant will also stay,’ said my master then. ‘We will also take our leave tomorrow – although where we will go from here, I have not yet decided.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ mumbled the aging priest; and with that, he made an effort to draw some of the other guests into conversation, and the discussion of the dead swordsman named Oyama ceased.
When we took our breakfast in the same tatami room the following morning, served by a silent monk, we discovered that Kawasaki had already departed the temple.
‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘He left, taking with him that remarkable instrument of his.’
Then the priest appeared slightly pensive.
‘Forgive me, Jushoku,’ said my master, ‘but you have some source of… worry, concerning Kawasaki-san?’ (My master refrained, I observed, from giving the young musician quite such a respectful title as sensei.)
The priest looked a little shrewdly at my master.
‘There truly is no disguising anything from you, Ennin-sensei,’ he said. ‘Yes, I have a concern for him, but quite probably there is absolutely no cause for this concern.
‘It’s just… Well, the swordsman named Oyama met his end on such a lonely forest path as Kawasaki-sensei is no doubt currently taking… A forest path no great distance from here, and with the nature of Oyama’s death still such a mys
tery…’
My master nodded, but gave no reply. Then a monk entered, to request that the priest come with him to attend to some matter in the temple hall.
‘I will say farewell here, Ennin-sensei,’ said the priest. ‘These things always take time…’
I followed my master’s movements, as he stood and bowed to the priest.
‘Thank you, Jushoku, for all your hospitality,’ said my master.
‘It has been a pleasure to have someone as renowned as you visit my humble temple,’ returned the priest, giving a bow that was somewhat less low – he had been the host, after all.
‘I hope one day to see you again,’ said the priest, by way of parting.
Barely a few minutes later, my master said to me –
‘Come, Kukai, we will also take our leave.’
‘If I may ask, master, where are we going to now?’
‘I believe we will follow in the footsteps of young Kawasaki-san. We have no other business of any real importance to attend to, in any case.’
‘You think… you think there is something in what the priest of this temple just said, master?’ I blurted.
My master gave a slight shrug.
‘Who can say?’ he returned rhetorically. ‘But we’ll follow Kawasaki, in any case.’
It was soon after that that we came across Kawasaki, sat in a clearing along the forest path. He had beside him that remarkable instrument, carried in a case of wood.
‘I thought… I thought I heard something,’ he said hesitantly, his eyes darting off into the thick bamboo and vegetation that lay either side of the pathway.