The Voss Coin

by A B Alexander

  Monks are supposed to be peaceful; it’s all about Zen, so I should be OK now.

  The procession continued into the early afternoon with the monks rotating carrying duties. Finally, after many hours of walking, they reached an enormous ancient wooden gate. On either side of the gate resided two statues of protector deities, indicating the entrance. The elderly monk immediately stopped chanting and the gates creaked open. They cautiously carried Kevin through the entrance and into the cobblestone courtyard while a young monk rang on a bell over and over. It was a small Buddhist temple built in the style of an imperial palace, surrounded by tranquil rocks and a pond garden. The temple was built at the base of a small waterfall, which added a surreal and mystic quality. The monks lined up in front of the main entrance to the temple and waited. He remained still on the stretcher and analyzed his surroundings. Parts of the garden were overgrown, which was very unlike the Japanese.

  The bell ringing stopped, and a burly monk appeared at the top of the temple steps. He was above average height and had a chubby cherub face. He resembled a lightweight sumo wrestler, which likened his appearance to the Buddha himself. Immediately everybody in the courtyard kneeled. Kevin’s back touched the ground as his stretcher was lowered. The Buddha monk strutted down the entrance steps and headed toward Kevin. He spoke accented English with a deep, guttural voice.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Voss, and welcome to Kakusareta Temple—or Hidden Temple in your language. This is the most remote temple in the Kii Mountains, and you’re the first Westerner to visit our holy site. This is a special honor and gift bestowed to you by the material forces that drive history. You’ll find in our temple the greatest exploration of all, which is self-understanding and embracing your primal instincts.”

  He stopped momentarily and laid both his beefy palms on Kevin’s chest. He smiled broadly, revealing gaps in his overly large incisors.

  “For now, you must rest and we’ll meet again once you’re ready.”

  With that, he turned around and headed back inside the temple.

  The monks resumed chanting and burned incense around Kevin’s stretcher. It seemed like some kind of purification ritual to enable him to enter their lodgings. Kevin’s mind reverted to the words of the Buddha monk.

  What exactly did he mean by material forces that drive history?

  He pondered the meaning of the words, fully aware that this quote was attributed to Karl Marx. The concept was in line with Marx’s ethos and political beliefs. The basic meaning is that it is man’s desire for material goods such as food, wealth, territory, and resources that lead to their actions and hence influence history.

  Did this indicate that his captors had purely material objectives, or was the exact opposite true and they shared Marx’s communist ideals?

  The monks stopped chanting, indicating the conclusion of the ceremony. Kevin dropped his arms to the ground, either side of the stretcher, fingers scraping against the dirt. He tilted his head to the side, eyes glazed from exhaustion, watching the monks carry him inside. The interior was a maze of corridors divided by Fusuma, which is a traditional Japanese sliding room partition made of cloth within a wooden frame. They were beautifully painted with images of birds and the surrounding mountains. The monks kept opening and closing different Fusuma, venturing deeper into the temple. They entered more than twenty different tatami rooms and traversed countless corridors. There were no windows or exit routes that Kevin could notice. It occurred to him that he had no chance of finding his way out of there alone, a sort of semi-liberal jail.

  He peered into some of the open rooms as they passed. Most of them consisted of just an empty open space with tatami flooring. In one such room, he saw a small group of kneeling monks, lighting incense below a Buddhist statue. The smell and smoke from the incense made his eyes water. Suddenly one monk turned around, and he was wearing a Guy Fawkes mask just like the one Kevin had seen in Tokyo.

  “STOPPP, who the fuck are you?” Kevin screamed out from the stretcher. The group carrying Kevin halted and stared at him inquisitively. The young monk closest to Kevin placed his forefinger on his mouth and whispered, “Shhh Shhhh, you OK now, no make noise.” In panic, Kevin pointed to the praying monks, who stood up to see what was the commotion. He rubbed his eyes from the smoke and studied the room. He couldn’t find any trace of the mask.

  “Prayer time for monk, all good, no worry,” said the young monk. The incense burnt Kevin’s eyes and lungs like a hot iron rod. He let out a deeply resigned sigh, raising his hand to signal he was OK.

  The monks continued carrying him through the maze, eventually arriving at his room. It was completely Zen, empty except for a low table in the center, a few cushions, and a sacred niche with a Buddhist statue, a scroll, and a place to light incense. The monks watchfully lowered the stretcher onto the tatami floor. Two monks brought in a futon mattress and placed it in the right corner of the room. They assisted Kevin onto the futon and left. He let out a deep sigh, expelling the acute stress from his mind. He had barely survived the hardest night of his life. Out of all the bad surprises that life can throw, he had never imagined he would find himself in this situation. Despite the initial state of shock and denial of his new reality, it was now fading. It’s time to bite the bullet and get my life back.

  He summoned energy from deep within and wriggled toward the center table. It contained a red lacquered tray with many small dishes. The main dish was a broth of dried kelp comprised of tofu and mushrooms with a ponzu sauce for dipping. There was a bowl of rice, some brown slosh that looked like miso soup, some pickles, and a few grapes. He slurped up the food like a starving hyena and was quickly overcome by a wave of intense heartburn. He gasped for air, gripping his breastbone. It felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. He reached for the bulbous ceramic flask with a narrow neck and gulped down its entire contents of sake. The hot rice wine torched his lungs while it entered his digestive system. Eventually his heartburn eased and with a bloated stomach, he crawled back onto the futon to get some rest. His face was red hot from the sake but the discomfort gradually turned to a pleasant warmness rippling through his body. He laughed hysterically, and the painted birds on the Fusuma doors flew around the room. He closed his eyes to stop his head spinning and fell asleep in a drunken stupor.

  Whooooshhh, the Fusuma doors slid open, stirring Kevin back to consciousness. He struggled to open his dry eyes but was quickly roused by an undeniably feminine sweet wooden scent. The young Japanese woman removed her slippers and entered the room. Her delicate bare feet revealed a neat French pedicure, flowing effortlessly across the tatami floor. She wore a colorful Kimono robe with traditional wide sleeves and a broad black sash tied around the waist. Her shining long black hair was gelled back and fell like a waterfall down to her buttocks. She had curved eyebrows perched upon wide lids making her eyes look rounder and larger. They gleamed with emotion, soothed by long, dark, fluttering lashes. Her narrow nose blended perfectly with her slim face and luscious natural lips. Kevin was taken aback by her unusual beauty and well-groomed appearance, she seemed more appropriate for an Issey Miyaki fashion show than a Buddhist temple. With a slightly bowed head, she kneeled beside the futon and placed her palms together in a praying motion. “Pliiz, yuu koom noiww,” she said with a soft, shy voice, avoiding eye contact. He stared at her radiantly stunning face; she remained motionless looking down at the floor.

  “Where’re you taking me?” he quizzed her.

  The woman remained silent and still, not daring to flinch. Again, he asked her, this time with a louder, authoritative tone. “Where the hell are we going?”

  The woman, growing uneasy, replied humbly, “No English. Pliiz, yuu koom noiww?” Her faint eyebrows pinched together, tensely staring at the base of the futon. He was frustrated that she couldn’t understand him but her courteous approach and gentleness overcame his hesitation. “OK, Utsukushii, let’s go,” he said smiling warmly, trying to ease the tension. She blushed from his compliment, c
ontinuing to avoid eye contact.

  “Looks like the monks don’t call you beautiful,” he chuckled. He hobbled to his feet and nodded politely that he was ready. She swiftly turned around and headed out the door into the complex corridor of never-ending Fusuma.

  He trailed her into the darkness, the hallways illuminated only by the Warosoku candle in her finely manicured hands. Kevin could smell the plant and vegan-only ingredients of the burning candle, indicating that it was made in strict adherence to the traditional Buddhist ideology that prohibits the intentional killing of animals. The paintings on the Fusuma doors jumped out at him from the shadows of the candlelight, his enlarged pupils struggling to adjust. The rooms they passed along the way were eerily silent. Utsukushii slid open multiple Fusuma doors and walked through countless empty rooms and winding corridors. Suddenly, he heard faint sounds coming from his left. He turned toward them and stared in awe at the giant Chinese dragon painted on the Fusuma door. The low candlelight and the out-of-character painting completely startled him. So far, he’d seen only paintings of mountains, birds, and trees, all natural and tranquil artwork that blended perfectly with the spiritual location. A dragon did not belong in a Buddhist temple. This piqued his curiosity and he extended his arm to slide open the door. Immediately, Utsukushii slapped his hand forcefully and whispered, “No no no, yuu no go. Yuu follo only.” He was shocked by her aggressive reaction; she was a gentle creature, but her response was dragon-like.

  “OK, I’m sorry, I follow only,” he conceded.

  She continued to weave through the dark temple, this time increasing her pace significantly. He struggled to keep up and feared that if he lost her, he would be consumed by the outer space–like darkness, lost in eternity. Finally, she paused and waited for him. As soon as he reached her, she slid open a large Fusuma door and a gust of cool crisp mountain air rushed into his lungs. The evening’s wholesome meal and the cold breeze rejuvenated him. He followed her down the cobblestone steps and into the courtyard below.

  Torches were perched evenly on each side, their flames illuminating the night. This was not the same courtyard he’d entered earlier. He raced after the bright Kimono robe in front of him and glanced back at the roof of the temple. From its angle, it seemed that he was directly behind the entrance. By the direction they were walking, he noticed they were headed for a small dry-stone building to the right of the courtyard. She stopped in front of the rustic wooden door and removed a long metal key from her robe. The large door creaked open. She turned toward him and motioned with both palms to wait at the entrance. He observed her, while she rushed inside and lit up the torches one by one. Swiftly as the wind, she reappeared in the entrance of the door. She bent her head slightly forward and motioned him inside.

  He entered the small outer room and awaited her instruction. She placed her fine hands on his chest and began to unbutton his white poplin shirt, revealing his muscular torso. He grabbed her by the wrists and said roughly, “Stop, no more OK.” He was physically and mentally exhausted and had had enough of this string of Japanese women fucking with his body and mind.

  She looked up at him innocently and said “Shawaa, okaayyy?” She pinched her nose with her forefinger and thumb, waving her other hand near her face, signaling that he smelled bad. He stared into her gleaming eyes and they both burst out laughing. She hugged him, placing her head on his bare chest. “It’s OK no worry,” she whispered. Her words deeply consoled him, in the way in which only one prisoner can relate to another. He suspected that she was being held at the temple against her will—her eyes and body language conveyed an innocence lost. One thing he was certain of, she was no longer the good girl that she once was.

  She unbuckled his cowhide leather belt and seductively unzipped his pants, all while looking up directly into his eyes with an inviting expression. She proceeded to meticulously remove his shoes and socks. Finally, she removed his boxers and placed them with the remainder of his clothes in a nearby straw basket. She briefly glanced from the corner of her eye at his manhood while she took his hand and led him into the communal bathing area. There was a row of showers, and in the middle of the room a bath that was the size of a small jacuzzi. She placed a wooden chair directly below the shower head and motioned Kevin to sit down. She turned on the tap and a mass of warm droplets engulfed his aching body. He lowered his chin onto his chest, processing everything that had happened to him. He would never again take anything for granted, even simple things like a hot shower. Realizing his pain, she proceeded to affectionately lather his entire muscular frame with a soaped sponge. She mechanically soaped his genitals, respecting his body by avoiding arousal. She treated him like a Roman statue, covering every visible limb and sinew. Once he was rinsed off, she guided him to the steaming hot bath. He slumped into the water, it was deliciously relaxing. She gently massaged his scalp while he napped. By the time he got out of the water to get dressed, most of his tension was gone. The density of the darkness signaled the late hour: it was already deep into the night. She dried his body soothingly and adorned him with a saffron monk robe. “Yuu monk noiw, me Utsukushii,” she teased him.

  He laughed heartily and took her head in his hands. She was almost a full head shorter than him. He kissed her smooth almond-scented forehead and said appreciatively, “Arigato, thank you.” She nodded understandingly and pouted her lips.

  Suddenly, a loud chuff chuff chuff sound, coming from just outside the communal bath house, interrupted their moment.

  She quickly grabbed a torch and said with urgency, “Bagk tuu tempal ruum noiw.” He immediately followed her as she raced out of the building and through the courtyard. He figured the sound was coming from just beyond the outer walls. They sprinted up the cobblestone steps back into the temple. He briefly paused near the top and glanced beyond the wall. From his elevated position he got a clear view of the flat grass valley. Burning torches positioned in a circular shape served as a makeshift helipad. An executive black helicopter had just landed, and out piled men dressed in tuxedos, waistcoats, and bow ties, their faces concealed by different types of Venetian masks. Many of them had glasses of champagne or wine in hand and it seemed that they had arrived at the temple for an after party. Before he could fully comprehend the unveiling bizarreness, she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the darkness of the temple. She was in a state of utter panic, pulling him full speed through the pitch darkness. She didn’t even bother to light the candle on the way in and he wondered whether they were aimlessly escaping an unknown threat. Every few minutes she would pause briefly, the eerie silence interrupted by the whooshing sound of sliding Fusuma doors. The darkness was so intense that even after his eyes adjusted, he couldn’t see her shape directly in front him. They were both panting heavily, and his pace slowed.

  “Moove mooove, pliiz,” she begged from him and tugged his arm harder.

  He pushed himself to move quicker, aware that they were in grave danger. He felt like he was flailing underwater in a black ocean, unable to reach the surface. They stepped through another whooshing sound and stopped abruptly. He could hear her scrambling and within seconds the warm glow of the candle illuminated the space. He was surprised to find himself back in his room. It was literally impossible that she’d correctly covered that entire maze in complete darkness. Her eyes wide with fear, she placed her forefinger to her lips and motioned him to lie down quietly. He slumped onto the hard cotton futon, limbs burning from exhaustion. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep but from his many previous trips to Japan he was certain of one thing: he hated the Japanese futon mattress.

  It’s just a matter of getting used to it. Can’t be that millions of Japanese are wrong by not adopting the standard western bed.

  She kneeled beside the futon, her firm buttocks resting on bare soles. She leaned in to his ear and whispered, “Shawaa too long, problem problem.” She pointed her index finger at him, then toward her eyes and said, “yuu see nodhing, OK?”

  He nodded and
held her trembling hands. She slowly stood up and waved him good night. He watched her hurriedly leave the room, wondering exactly what she was afraid off. The night’s events were indeed peculiar, but he couldn’t relate to her panic just yet. He let his mind drift off; he had other things to worry about.

  7

  In Search of Nirvana

  A loud gong served as Kevin’s alarm clock. He stretched his aching limbs and let out a bearish yawn. He felt better, that’s for sure; last night’s bath time had been miraculous. Just as he sat up on the futon, the Fusuma doors whooshed open. The same elderly monk appeared at the entrance, his sunken eyes carefully studying Kevin’s robe. “OK, you dressed good, come please.” He stood up and headed toward the door. The elderly monk pulled out an orange piece of cloth and tied it around Kevin’s face. He could see nothing through the blindfold as he ambled behind the sound of the monk’s steps. They walked for what seemed like several minutes until he heard the distinct traditional Buddhist chants. The chanting was coming from either side of him, and he could feel their presence, like a guard of honor. The elderly monk stopped, pushed him down to his knees, and stripped off the blindfold. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the new surroundings. The Buddha monk sat cross-legged on a golden pedestal approximately 4 feet above the tatami mat. The room contained about fifty monks who were kneeling on either side. He spoke with a deep guttural voice. “Good morning, did you sleep well?”

  Kevin nodded humbly, avoiding eye contact. It fully dawned on him that this was no traditional Buddhist temple.

  The Buddha monk clapped his hands and said, “Please join us in morning prayers.”

  A monk to the left of the room began rhythmically beating on a huge barrel-like drum. Sharp, rapid beats of boom boom boom ba boom boom boom echoed through the room. All the monks chanted in rhythmic unison with the drum beats. In the front, a medium-sized fire was stoked, illuminating the face of a large golden Buddha statue. The Buddha monk flopped off the pedestal and kneeled down like everybody else on the tatami floor. His voice changed to a higher pitch as he led the chanting. Kevin maintained a respectful demeanor, bowing his head throughout the prayers. The ritual lulled him into a hypnotic state, losing track of time. The chanting and drum beats ended with a loud cling of two small brass cymbals. The non-rhythmic clinging sound startled Kevin and snapped him back into the moment. He looked around the room, all the monks were prostrated with their forehead almost touching the ground. He copied them and rested his forehead on the tatami floor. The position was awkward but not uncomfortable.