“But won’t the master be very angry with you?”
Senjumaru’s determination to go and discover the real nature of women so as to dispel the clouds of delusion in his mind touched Rurikōmaru deeply. He felt uneasy, though, at letting his only friend face the perils of the outside world alone. What would he do if he encountered the dragon god of Lake Biwa or the giant centipede of Mount Mikami? Would he not, perhaps, be bound hand and foot by some woman and dragged into a dark cellar somewhere? And if by chance he should return alive, would he be allowed to stay on the holy mountain, after breaking the master’s strict rule never to leave the mountain without his permission?
Senjumaru’s answer to all this was clear and firm: “Of course I realize that there are all sorts of dangers waiting for me outside here. But to be caught on the fangs of some wild animal or the blade of a bandit would also be a way of following the Law. Wouldn’t it be better to lose my life than to continue being tormented by these passions? Besides, from what the older monks say, it seems the capital is only a journey of two leagues from here, so if I leave early in the morning, I might be back by a little past noon. And if the capital seems too far, I can just go to Sakamoto at the foot of the mountain. They say you can see women there, too. If I can get away for just half a day without the master’s noticing, I should be able to see my plan through. And even if I’m found out later, I’m sure the master will be pleased to learn that these obstacles on the path of my enlightenment have been removed. I appreciate your worrying about me, but please don’t try to stop me. My mind is made up.”
Senjumaru looked at the disk of the sun as it rose, gliding through the dawn mists that hung over the surface of Lake Biwa, spread out beneath them. Laying a hand on Rurikōmaru’s shoulder, he said to him soothingly: “And today is the perfect chance for it. If I leave now, I can be back by two or so. I’ll return safe and sound, you just wait and see, with some interesting tales to tell you this evening.”
“If you really are going, then take me along with you,” said Rurikōmaru, weeping. “With luck, you should come back safely, but even if it is only a halfday’s journey, something might happen to you. Who knows when we might meet again? You say you’re ready to give your life if you have to: how can I say good-bye to you like this, it’s too unkind! And what if the master asked me where you went—what could I answer? If I’m going to be scolded anyway, I’d rather leave the mountain with you. If it’s ‘following the Law’ for you, why then, it’s the same for me as well!”
“No. My mind is chained in darkness, yours isn’t. We’re as different as charcoal and snow. You’re as pure as crystal; there’s no need for you to test your faith in ways that put you in danger. If something happened to you, what excuse could I ever offer to our master? If it were some amusing place I was going to, I’d never leave you behind, but the outside world is a disgusting, terrifying sort of place. If all goes well and I come back, the scales will have fallen from my eyes and I’ll be able to tell you all about it, in detail, so you’ll understand the meaning of illusion without having to see the outside world yourself. Just stay here and wait. If the master asks anything, say you wandered off on a mountain path and lost sight of me.”
Senjumaru drew closer to Rurikōmaru and pressed his cheek sadly against the younger boy’s, remaining like that for some time. To leave behind—even for a short while—the holy mountain and this friend from whom he’d never been parted was both a painful and a daring thing to do. He felt something akin to the excitement of a warrior going into battle for the first time. The fear that he might actually die and the hope that he could win through and return victorious swirled within him.
Two then three days passed, but Senjumaru did not return. Fearing that he might have tumbled into one of the mountain gorges and died there, his fellow acolytes and monks split up into several parties and set out in all directions, scouring the mountain for traces of him, but in vain.
“Master, I’ve done a very wicked thing: I lied to you the other day.” Rurikōmaru prostrated himself before the master and confessed how for the very first time he’d broken the commandment against false speech. It was about ten days after Senjumaru had disappeared. “I was lying when I said I lost sight of Senjumaru on the way back from Yokawa. He isn’t anywhere on the mountain now. I know it was wrong of me to tell an outright lie, even if someone asked me to. Please forgive me. Oh, why didn’t I stop Senjumaru from ever leaving?” The boy lay flat on the floor, his body shaking with sobs of remorse.
He had looked on Senjumaru as his elder brother, and now where was he? Was he sleeping among the tufts of moor grass somewhere, wet with dew? He’d firmly promised to come back within half a day, so something must have happened to him. Knowing this, it made no sense to be searching the mountain when they ought to be combing the world outside instead. And if he had fortunately survived, Rurikōmaru hoped they’d save him from that fearful world without delay. These were his feelings as he decided to risk a harsh scolding and tell the master everything about Senjumaru’s motives for leaving the mountain.
“Well, it’s like tossing a pebble into the ocean. There’s no telling what might have become of him, out there in the world.” The master had closed his eyes and taken a deep breath before speaking slowly, with great concentration, so as to impress the gravity of the situation on the lad. “Still, you did well not to be misled yourself and to stay on the mountain. You’re the younger of the two, but your character has always been different from Senjumaru’s. It’s a matter of breeding, I suppose.”
Senjumaru’s parents, though well-to-do, came from peasant stock, while Rurikōmaru was the scion of an aristocratic family that served at court. The word “breeding” had often been used when people drew comparisons between the two boys, in looks or temperament. Rurikōmaru had heard it himself before, but now for the first time from the master’s own lips.
“It was wicked of him to break the rules and decide on his own to go, but I daresay he’s paying for his foolishness now, so I feel sorry for him, too. He may have been eaten by wild dogs or attacked by bandits—I’m sure something bad has happened to him. Perhaps we should assume he’s no longer of this world and offer up prayers for his soul. You, at any rate, must be careful never to give way to worldly passions. Let Senjumaru’s fate be a lesson to you!” The master looked into Rurikōmaru’s large, lively eyes and gently patted him on the back, as if to say, “What a good, clever lad you are!”
From then on, each night Rurikōmaru had to sleep alone in the room right next to the master’s. “I’ll be back soon,” Senjumaru had said when they parted and then went off toward Yase along a rugged, almost untraveled mountain path, so as not to be seen by anyone. Night after night in his dreams Rurikōmaru saw that receding figure growing smaller and smaller, vanishing in the distance. Looking back, he felt a certain guilt at not having forced Senjumaru to give up his plan, so likely to lead to his death. Yet had he gone with him then, what disaster might have awaited him? The thought made him bless his own good fortune. “The Buddha was protecting me. From now on I’m going to do whatever my master says, so as to become in the end as pure in heart as any holy man should be. Then I’ll pray constantly for Senjumaru’s salvation.”
Rurikōmaru vowed this repeatedly to himself. If he really did have the sort of gifts the master was always praising him for, then he would surely be able to endure every sort of hard and painful practice, finally awakening to the truth of the Dharma Realm of Suchness and attaining the state of Wondrous Enlightenment. The very thought made the flame of faith blaze up within his earnest young mind.
At last autumn came. A half year had passed since Senjumaru had left the mountain. The loud whirring of cicadas which had filled the mountainsides was now replaced by the melancholy sound of the higurashi, or “evening cicada,” and the leaves of the forest trees grew gradually yellower. One evening after vespers Rurikōmaru was descending the stone stairway in front of the Monju Pavilion, going toward his quarters, when he heard
someone calling to him from the top of the stairway in a low, hesitant voice: “Excuse me, but might you be Rurikōmaru? I’ve come with a message for you from my master, from the village of Fukakusa in Yamashiro. I was told to hand this letter to you directly.” The man, half-hidden in the shadows of the pavilion gate, beckoned to him, making many little bows and revealing in a meaningful fashion the edge of a letter which he had concealed in his kimono sleeve. “Don’t worry, it’s all explained here. My master told me to show you this letter, in private if possible, and bring back your reply.”
Rurikōmaru looked suspiciously at the fellow, a man of about twenty with scraggly whiskers and the lowly manner of a servant. He took the letter, though, and looked at the writing on the front. “Why, it’s Senjumaru’s hand!” he cried out despite himself. The man, trying to quiet him, went on to say: “Yes, it’s true. It’s good you haven’t forgotten. The sender of this letter is indeed Senjumaru, your good friend and now my master. This past spring, soon after leaving the mountain, he fell into the clutches of a slave trader and had a very hard time. But his luck hadn’t run out, for just two months ago he was sold to be the servant of a rich man in Fukakusa. His gentle looks won the heart of the rich man’s daughter, and now he’s the son-in-law of the family, with everything he could desire.
“And so I’ve brought you this letter which will tell you all about the world outside, just as my master promised. It’s not at all the terrifying place he thought it was when he was on the holy mountain. Women aren’t like snakes or wild animals at all. No, they’re prettier than the flowers of spring and as loving as the Buddha. It’s all explained in detail in this letter.
“My master Senjumaru is loved by a lot of other women too, not only the rich man’s daughter: Tomorrow, it’s off to Kamizaki; today, to Kanishima and Eguchi—he wanders about here and there, attended by a crowd of courtesans more beautiful even than the twenty-five bodhisattvas. He passes his days in pleasure, like a butterfly in springtime, fluttering over the fields and hills. And here you are, knowing nothing about what the world out there has to offer; leading a dreary life on this mountain. My master feels sorry for you; he wants you to come to Fukakusa, if possible, and share his happiness, for old times’ sake. I can see for myself that you’re an even better-looking and more charming young acolyte than my master must have been. It’s a terrible waste for you to spend your life up here. Just think how admired and wanted someone with your looks would be if you went out into the world! Anyway, please read this letter and see whether or not I’m telling the truth. And then by all means come with me to Fukakusa. I have to leave now for Katata Bay in the province of Ōmi, but I’ll be back here by dawn tomorrow. Think it over carefully till then; and when you’ve decided, wait for me beneath this gate, taking care that no one sees you. I promise that nothing bad will come of this. And nothing would make my master happier than to see you return with me!”
Looking at the man’s smiling face, Rurikōmaru felt somehow afraid. He hadn’t had time fully to taste the joy of this unexpected message from the friend he’d not seen for six months; and now this grave proposition, which might well determine the rest of his life, was suddenly thrust before him. It seemed for a while as if he couldn’t breathe, as if his eyes had grown dim. He stood there trembling, rooted to the spot.
I don’t know where to begin or where to stop, trying to describe all that’s happened to me since that day, the letter began. I’d have liked to go to the holy mountain myself so I could see you again after so long and tell you everything in person. But for one who bas broken the monastic rules, the lofty summit of the One Vehicle of Salvation towers too high above me to look upon; and the valley of the One Taste of Truth lies too deep for me to approach. . . .
Rurikōmaru stood there blankly, hardly knowing what he was doing. He held the letter loosely in one hand, hurriedly reading a sentence here, a sentence there.
During all the time that has passed since I left, promising to return within half a day, you must have thought I’d deceived you. That thought fills me with pain and regret. I never had any such intention. I was on my way back that evening and had already reached Kiraragoe when suddenly a man rushed out at me from the shadows. I found myself being gagged and blindfolded and dragged who knows where. Horrified, I thought that the Buddha’s punishment had been swift indeed, that I’d be taken alive across the River of the Dead to experience the eight torments of Hell!
But though there were praiseworthy lines like those above, there was also one beginning boldly with the words “It’s a sheer delight!” which seemed to hold neither gods nor buddhas in awe.
The truth is, the outside world is not a dream, not an illusion. It’s a sheer delight—in fact a paradise, the Western Pure Land here on earth. I have no use anymore for the doctrine of “Three Thousand Phenomena in a Single Thought” or for the meditation on “The Perfect Interpenetration of the Three Truths.” Believe me, the joy of being just a common layman involved with the passions is infinitely preferable to being an ascetic practicing the “Perfect and Sudden Way” to enlightenment. I urge you to change your way of thinking and come down the mountain at once.
Could this really be Senjumaru speaking? Senjumaru, who had been so devout, who had hated the very sound of the word “passion”—could these really be his thoughts? The sacrilegious comments that filled the letter, the strangely excited tone, the enthusiasm which seemed somehow overwrought, all aroused a feeling of revulsion in Rurikōmaru, yet at the same time, and to an equal degree, caused the curiosity about the outside world that had been building up inside him for a long time to well forth.
Tomorrow morning will do very well, so please think it over carefully. It goes without saying that you mustn’t speak of this to anyone. Everything the monks on that mountain tell you is a pack of lies. They’ll say anything to an innocent lad like you to make you give up any thought of the greater world outside. Anyway, take a good look at this letter and then decide for yourself. All right?
The servant could see from the look on Rurikōmaru’s face that he was hesitant and suspicious, so he spoke to him again in a reassuring manner, then, with several hurried little bows, ran down the steps.
Even so, Rurikōmaru could not stop trembling. The man had left behind a burden so heavy it overwhelmed the heart of this innocent, serious-minded youth. His whole future would depend on the reply he had to give by the next morning. This was the first time he had ever had to make such a great decision for himself. That realization itself made his heart pound uncontrollably.
That night, overcome by anxiety and excitement, he was incapable of calmly considering the problem he’d been presented with. He decided to wait until he was feeling calmer and then try again to read that strange letter filled with the most amazing revelations about the long-hidden secret of “women.” Leaving it sitting on top of his desk, he closed his eyes and earnestly prayed to the Buddha. The letter brought news of his beloved friend, yet it made him feel angry and resentful, since it amounted to a surprise attack on his firm determination to devote himself to the most intense religious training and to accrue merit in accordance with the karmic relations he had established.
“If I read it again, it will lead me astray. Wouldn’t it be better to burn it?” he told himself; but the next minute he laughed at his own cowardice: “I’m not such a weakling that I need to be so afraid!” Whether he was to be led astray or not depended solely on the will of the Buddha. Senjumaru claimed that the world outside was not an illusion, but how far was he to be believed? How much of it was mere temptation? And if he couldn’t resist that kind of temptation, hadn’t he already been abandoned by the Buddha? A sneaking curiosity that kept raising its head left him unable to resist asking such questions and making such excuses.
It is hard to convey the gentleness and beauty of women, either in words or pictures. To what shall I compare them? . . . Just yesterday I embarked at Yodo Harbor and went to a place called Eguchi where from the houses along the riverbank
came a throng of courtesans paddling their little boats toward us. It seemed like Seishi Bodhisattva’s descent from Paradise or an apparition of the Willow Kannon: I was filled with joy and gratitude! Before long they surrounded our boat and began singing popular songs so gaily that I begged them to sing one for me—any one would do. Then one of the women, beating time on the gunwale of the boat, sang: “Even holy Shakamuni / Who went from passion to perfect peace / Once knew the mother of his son / Ragora, ’tis said.” Over and over she sang it, so entertainingly. . . .
Throughout this passage Senjumaru seemed to be doing his utmost to destroy Rurikōmaru’s devotion to the Way. It was a shout of joy and praise from a youth who for the first time in his sixteen years of life had been shown what the world could be. In one part of the letter, Senjumaru became ecstatic; in another, he railed against the master who had deceived him for so long; in another, he vowed eternal friendship for Rurikōmaru, his childhood companion, and urged him to leave the mountain. Rurikōmaru felt he had never been so impressed by anything he’d ever read before, not even the words of sacred scripture.
The Pure Land of Perfect Bliss, believed to be billions of worlds away, lies just below your mountain, and living bodhisattvas in great numbers are waiting to welcome you there at any time.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 84