“Master . . . did it matter? What would you have done?” asked the youngest.
“What would I have done?” The question seemed to confuse the old monk for a moment. Then he shook his head. “It is useless to speak of what might have been done. What matters is what was done. The monk’s spiritual power was great. So great that, when Lord Goji came out to greet his new bride, he saw what his teacher saw—a fox. She smiled at Lord Goji, and she said: ‘I would have made you happy.’ Then she reverted to her true form, she and all her attendants, and they fled from Lord Goji’s house. They were never seen again.”
“What happened to Lord Goji?” asked the oldest boy.
“He searched for her, for a time.”
“Why? To punish the fox for deceiving him?”
“To find her,” the old monk said. “As to his purpose, who can say? I’m not sure even he knew. Yet, before he began his search, he said this much to his teacher: Master, I was happy.”
“That sounds rather ungrateful,” said the youngest.
The old monk shrugged. “I suppose. However, I don’t think he ever found her. In time Lord Goji returned, shaved his head, and joined the temple. He became a fine monk, one of many more fine, pious monks just like him.”
The old man rose slowly and carefully off of his cushion and started toward the door. The young monks watched him, frowning as one. Finally the oldest could stand it no longer. “Master, is that the end of the story?”
“It is,” the old monk said, not even pausing.
“But master,” the oldest persisted. “What does it mean?”
“Meaning is an illusion too,” said the old monk. “but if you insist, I’ll tell you—It means that I was a fool.”
The arguments started before he was even through the door. Some monks insisted that their own teacher was the wise teacher in the story. Others insisted just as loudly that he must be Lord Goji himself. Others said it was just a made-up story, similar to the tale of Madame White Snake told in China and the old monk was simply trying to confuse them again. “There are many such stories,” they insisted. “This one is only a little different.” “Yes, but . . . ” someone else would say, and everyone was off again. The discussions went on for days.
The old monk listened, as he always did, but would answer no more questions. He never spoke of the matter again.
The Feather Cloak
This is one version of a very old story. The difference is that this version is true. Unlike all the others, which are also true.
Long before the reign of the Emperor Sanjo, there was a mountain monk named Hakuryo. Hakuryo was not a very good monk, as those things were measured. He never could meditate properly, and the deeper meanings of the sacred scriptures always eluded him. In his favor, he was both pious and sincere, which were virtues not universally present even in the Great Monasteries of the country like Hiea-zan or Todaii-ji. He also had a remarkable talent for solitude. In fact, of all Hakuryo’s skills, being alone was probably what he did best. Yet that solitude did little to enhance his meditations.
Still, being a sincere and pious fellow, he continued to try. One day he was sitting in silent attempted meditation on a mountainside near the sea at Miwo when he heard the music of female laughter.
Ah, he thought, at last I must be near the truth. There is no one here for miles. This must be some evil spirit come to test me!
Hakuryo kept his eyes tightly shut and tried to push all thoughts aside, even that last one, but it was difficult. And evil spirit? Was he so worthy of being tested? This was exciting stuff to a rustic ascetic such as Hakuryo. He considered chanting, but was afraid that this would make the evil spirit think that he was afraid. He was not afraid.
The laughter did not stop. If anything, it became louder, more animated. Finally Hakuryo could stand it no longer and he opened first his right eye, then his left. Before him stretched the same quiet valley, the beauty of which had prompted him to choose that very spot for meditation. Beside him gurgled a small but energetic mountain stream, which flowed on down the mountainside to gather in a large quiet pool.
In that pool were now three young maidens of indescribable beauty. The laughed and splashed each other as their long black hair streamed out behind them in the clear water like separate dark rivers, all apparently oblivious to his presence. Hakuryo quickly shut his eyes again, but it was no use.
He remembered the stories of the Buddha, who was tempted by all the pleasures of the earth and yet was not dissuaded from his path. He remembered the stories he heard growing up, of tanuki and mountain goblins, of foxes and ghosts who would wear such disguises, to distract the righteous.
“It clearly has worked,” Hakuryo said finally, “for I am surely distracted.”
Hakuryo tried not to dwell on his failure. It had not been the first and, he was sadly certain, would not be the last. As he watched the young women bathing in the pool below him, he wondered if he had really been close to the truth, or was merely privy to some strange, yet esthetically pleasing, coincidence.
These girls did not seem to have much in common with the fishermen’s and farmer’s daughters with which he was, if only from about the same distance, familiar. Nor was it simply that they were beautiful, though they were. It was rather that the effect their beauty was having on him was not the sort that as a young man, monk or not, he was also familiar with. Rather, he felt nothing, save awe and wonder.
“Clearly I am in the presence of something I do not understand. If I cannot meditate upon it, then I must examine it.”
Hakuryo rose slowly; sitting in meditation usually made his legs fall asleep and this time had been no exception. He waited for the pins and needs feeling below his knees to fade enough that he dared to move again, then he crept down the hillside as silently as he could.
Getting closer did little to change his initial impressions: there were indeed three lovely young maidens bathing in the pool, and as he approached they did not suddenly turn into animal spirits to vex him or oni to devour him.
Hakuryo saw three brilliant white cloaks of an odd texture draped carefully over the low limb of an ancient hinoki that grew by the pool. He got close enough to examine them without being seen, and realized that he was looking at the legendary hagoromo, flying cloaks created for the tennin, and thus these were no human girls at all but creatures of heaven. Hakuryo realized all this just before he brushed against another low branch of that same tree. The fine, soft fronds tickled his nose and he sneezed.
In that moment the maidens’ laughter turned to shrieks. Before he could even react, two of the maidens had rushed, naked, onto the shore to seize their cloaks. For an instant Hakuryo was frozen in place as they wrapped the cloaks about their nakedness and began to rise into the air like kites.
Incredible.
The third young maiden had been farther from the shore than the other two, daring her companions to swim as far as she. Hakuryo’s astonishment did not stop him from rushing forward and seizing, before the third young maiden could return and retrieve it, the remaining cloak.
For a few moments he could only stare at her and hold his prize as the first two of maidens continued to ascend and were soon lost to sight among the clouds. It was a little while before he could turn his attention, at least for a moment, to the cloak he held. The texture was even more soft than the finest silk; the entire cloak was made of fine, downy feathers whiter than snow.
The third maiden stood in the water, glaring at Hakuryo. “Sir monk, that hagoromo belongs to me. Please give it back.”
Her voice was neither pleading nor commanding, but rather as if she calmly stated a fact and expected that fact to be acted upon. For his part, Hakuryo had thought the maiden was beautiful from a distance, but up close he realized what an inadequate word that really was for such a person. Her hair was long and blacker than obsidian, her skin white and unblemished as new snow. Her gaze made him distinctly uncomfortable, as if he were the one who stood naked, there on the shore.
“I am a tennin, as you must know by now. My name is not for one such as you to demand.”
On the one hand, Hakuryo vaguely wondered if he should feel insulted. On the other, he was so carried away by excitement that he did not care. Hakuryo found himself staring again. A tennin was a member of the Heavenly Court. He was in the actual presence of a Celestial Maiden. It was a preposterous claim for anyone to make, and yet Hakuryo did not doubt the girl’s word for a moment. If nothing else, he had the evidence of her now-vanished companions, the sight of her own exquisite person, and the wondrous cloak that he still held in his hands.
Hands, which he realized, were not the cleanest. He thought of taking a ritual bath, but that also did not seem appropriate. Yet, it seemed that he had little to fear in that regard. His hands left no sign upon the cloak, no mark or stain, as if it was quite beyond his power to affect the robe in any way at all.
“But . . . if I return your robe, you will fly away,” Hakuryo said.
She just frowned. “Of course.”
Hakuryo was a little taken aback. He had rather expected her to deny it, or to make promises, or plead. Anything but what she had said, which was that, once he returned her robe, she would leave and he would never see her again.
“No,” he said. “I cannot do that. Here.”
Hakuryo did not give the maiden her cloak of feathers, but he did remove his own outer robe and hand it to her so that she could cover herself. She accepted it reluctantly, and her nose crinkled.
“While I do appreciate the covering since I am wet and a bit chilled, are you really going to claim that this is a fair exchange?” she asked.
I really should have bathed more frequently, Hakuryo thought, but ritual impurity had always seemed so much less of a concern when he was alone. “No, but I need to think, tennin-sama, and that is very difficult to do with a naked woman so close to me.”
“I am not a woman,” she said, frowning again. “I am a tennin. Did you not understand?”
Again, Hakuryo heard the truth in her words. Yet by all appearance she was indeed a woman and, now that he had been in her presence for a bit, those aspects of her form were beginning to make themselves more familiarly known to him. “Well. You are female, at least. As a monk, I should not be even this close to you.”
“As a monk, you should not be taking what does not belong to you.”
Her words stung him, more so because he knew that she was right. And yet he still did not want to surrender the cloak. He tried to change the subject.
“If you are a creature of Heaven, what are you doing in the mortal world?”
“As a monk, you should know that even such an exalted place as the Court of Heaven is but one more step on the final journey. It does one good, from time to time, to remind oneself of how far one has come, rather than simply wondering how far one has to go,” she said. “And this quiet pool was a pleasant respite on such a hot day. Now give me my cloak.”
“I cannot,” he said.
“Why? Without it I am trapped where I do not belong. Of what possible use is my cloak to one such as yourself?”
“I could use it to fly to the heavens!” he said, seizing an inspiration.
“In which case we will both be where we do not belong. You were sent to the world of your birth for a reason, monk, even as I was. Even if you have no regard for me, why would you deprive yourself of what you were sent here to learn?”
Hakuryo could not question the theological accuracy of what she had just said, since he never really understood such esoteric points in the first place. He tried to think of something else. “I can take this robe to the temple where I was trained,” he said. “It would be revered as a national treasure!”
She sighed. “Perhaps. Bringing both yourself and your temple great acclaim within the world of men. Is that what you want?”
Hakuryo frowned. “Many men would think this more than sufficient reason to keep your wondrous cloak.”
“True, but that is not what I asked. Must I repeat myself?”
Hakuryo thought about it, and then released his breath in a great gusting sigh. Not that he would have minded such things, but he rather considered them beside the point, even if he could not quite articulate what the point, as such, was. “No,” he said finally. “That is not what I want.”
“Then give me my cloak.”
“If I do, you will leave. I don’t want you to leave,” he said. “I want you to stay.”
The tennin was silent for a time. Then, “Why?”
Hakuryo thought about it, and gave an honest answer. “I do not know.”
She looked at him then with something like pity. “You do not desire me as a man does a woman, yet I think you would try to make a wife of me, for want of an alternative.”
Hakuryo blushed, as that was precisely where his thoughts had gone. “Would that be so terrible?” he asked.
“Yes, but more for you than for me. In embracing me, you would only make of me a creature of the earth, no different than yourself. Many men would find this reason and reward enough, but not you, monk. You could never escape the knowledge of exactly what you had done to me. You would go mad.”
“I do not think it wise,” Hakuryo said, “to insult one who holds such power over you.”
The maiden looked at him then, and her eyes were sad. “I am a tennin. I do not insult you. I merely tell you the truth.”
“All my life,” Hakuryo said, “I have been searching for you. For what you are, for what you mean to this existence. How can I let you go now that I have found you?”
“What have you found?” she asked.
“Why . . . the heavens! All embodied in you. So close I can possess them, touch them . . . ”
She sighed. “You can touch me, but that’s not the same thing. Did it never occur to you that you’ve been looking for the wrong thing?”
“Wrong . . . ? I seek Enlightenment!”
“And you think it can be found in either me or a feather cloak? You are an idiot.”
“I . . . ? How dare you!”
“Tell the truth? Because I am a tennin, and can do nothing else, and I tell you truly that I am not what you seek,” the maiden said. “The gods are on the same journey as you, monk. In time, yes, even we will die and the heavens pass away to make room for what comes next. There is nothing I am, nothing I have, nothing about me that will take you one step closer to where you wish to be.”
“Still,” Hakuryo said slowly, “now and then it does one no harm to remind oneself how far one has to go, not how far they have come.”
She smiled at him, then. “Fair enough. So. Does holding my cloak and gazing at me tell you anything you did not already know?”
Hakuryo found the presence of mind to actually think about the Celestial Maiden’s question. The first thing that occurred to him was that the answer was “no.” He had always believed that one such as she existed, and from there it was no stretch at all to include the hagoromo. It wasn’t a question of belief, and never had been; faith had never been a problem. It was a question of understanding. He knew that he still did not understand. He wanted to.
“Yes,” Hakuryo said, finally. “It tells me that I cannot hold either of you and so must let you go. Still, may I ask something of you first?”
“What is it?”
“I have heard that the Celestial Maidens dance to hold the moon in its course and to honor its changes. I would think that any mortal who witnesses this dance would have an understanding far beyond that of other men. Is this so?”
“No. It’s true there are many dances,” the tennin said. “Including the Dance of the Fifteen Phases. And many reasons to dance. Some bring joy, but none of them bring understanding. They are what they are.”
“I would still like very much to see it.”
“Why?” she asked one more time.
Hakuryo thought about it. “Because I believe you when you say I cannot touch what you are. That is
really what I want to do, and yet I cannot, no matter how I might wish the truth was different.”
“That does not explain why you wish to see me dance.”
“I may not be able to capture what you are, but I can experience it, embodied in your dance. I can make that experience part of what I am.”
“You will not be able to contain it,” she said. “Any more than you can capture the divine in one tennin or a thousand feather cloaks.”
“I do not wish to contain the dance, no more than I really want to tie you to the earth,” Hakuryo said. “You are right; that would debase you and destroy me. That is not what I want.”
“Then what do you want? Do you really know?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do not want to possess you; I want to experience what you are. My meditations fail me in this, so if it is true that experience is what changes one, then, at least once in my life, I want to experience the divine. That is what I ask of you in exchange for your wondrous cloak.”
She smiled then. “Perhaps you are not such a fool after all.”
“I thought you always spoke truly,” Hakuryo said.
“I do,” she said, “which is not the same as saying that that I’m never wrong. Very well, I will dance for you. But I will need my cloak to do so.”
“How do I know you will not fly away as soon as I give it to you?”
“Deception is for the hearts of men, monk. It has no place in the heavens. I did not insult you. I ask that you grant me the same courtesy.”
Hakuryo accepted her reprimand as a just one and felt shame. He humbly and carefully handed the robe to the maiden. He was tempted to try to touch her, but he did not. He merely watched as she removed his old cloak and donned her celestial robe.
“Now you may watch me,” she said, and she walked to a place where the shore was flat and open to the sky.
As always, the Celestial Maiden had told the truth. What Hakuryo saw then he could not contain, nor grasp, nor fully describe, nor even truly remember, save that once, just once, he had seen an angel dancing, and it was enough. After a time that might have been moments or an eternity, the tennin’s delicate feet lifted from the coarse earth and she rose, still dancing, and was lost from sight in the sky.
On the Banks of the River of Heaven Page 12