by Spence, Alan
Guraba-san. She thought of him fondly, with compassion. He had even taken to the Japanese version of his name, had it rendered in kanji script. Even though the characters meant empty room, or empty store, he liked the look of it, the sound of the words. It was endearing, and for all his fieriness, his warrior-spirit, he had something of the boy about him.
She remembered it, smiled. He had caught her in his arms, spun her round, laughing.
She bore him a child, Shinsaburo. Her son.
A dream. Let it go.
Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire.
The night she had gone to his house to tell him she was pregnant. The other one had been there, the one he married, Tsuru. She had guessed the whole story, let her believe he was gone for good, sent her packing.
Like an ancient tale, from Kabuki or Noh. One of those moments when her whole life changed, by fate, or karma or pure brute chance. If she had gone a week earlier. If the other had told the truth. Would she still have led this life? Would she have followed the Buddha-way?
Namu Amida Butsu.
The full moon had been red. She had stopped at the end of the garden, bent double and vomited. She had gone to the teahouse and packed her things, moved out of town that very night.
The birth was difficult. Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. She had almost died from loss of blood, had somehow survived. The village women had helped her, nursed her till she was strong enough to look after the boy.
She couldn’t return to the teahouse. That life was over. She worked when she could, sewed garments for women from the town, wrote letters for those who could not write. She managed, made do, eked out a living. Not good, not bad. Then she saw him in the street, a ghost, a figure from a dream but so real; and he saw her, and that life too was over.
*
She would hang the scroll with the tanka poem on the bare wall of her room, leave it as her epitaph, the way the haiku poets made their jisei, their death-verse, when they knew their time had come. She would make another copy of it, now, take it with her to the hillside, leave it as an offering.
She sat straightbacked in zazen, silent meditation, the way she did every morning, before first light. Cold, old bones aching but mind clear, heart pure, she chanted, as she always did, to Amida Buddha, the Buddha of Compassion, Buddha of the Pure Land, heard her own voice as if not her own, deep and powerful, resonant.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.
She recited a verse from the Diamond Sutra. Shiki soku ze ku.
Form is emptiness. She inhabited it, sat in this bare place, a stone garden of the mind.
Perhaps an hour passed, outer time. The first thin rays of watery sunlight came through the shoji screen, across the wooden floor, touched her feet with a faint promise of warmth. She bowed, picked up the small iron bell and struck it once, listened as the sound swelled and died in its own time away into silence once more.
Form is emptiness.
She unfolded her old limbs, joints stiff and cracking, gone beyond ache, become numb.
There was a faint sound on the verandah ouside, the lightest of footsteps shuffling across the boards. She smiled. A tray was set down. The screen opened and Gisho, the young nun, was bowing, had brought her tea. Ryonan nodded, welcomed her in.
She said one morning Gisho would find her like the Bodhidharma, Daruma, who sat so long in meditation his legs withered and fell off. That was discipline!
Gisho smiled, her eyes twinkling, said she’d had a Daruma doll at home.
Round at the bottom, said Ryonan, so he rolls. If you knock him over he bounces back up. There’s a children’s rhyme about it. Seven times down. Eight times up. So!
A good lesson.
Gisho boiled the little kettle of water, placed the powdered green leaves in Ryonan’s favourite bowl, poured in the water, let the mix settle and brew. Then briskly, with the bamboo whisk, she whipped it to a froth, turned the bowl round one and a half times and offered it to Ryonan, who bowed and thanked her, took a first sip. It was perfect, the bitterness a sharp jolt awake.
This too we owe to Bodhidharma, she said. He once fell asleep in meditation and was so angry at himself he cut off his own eyelids, so his eyes would always stay wide open. He cast the lids to one side, and where they fell, the first tea-plant grew. So, ever after the monks could drink tea, to keep themselves awake!
Again Gisho smiled. She had heard the stories many times, but never tired of them.
Ryonan took another sip, savoured it. In the outside world Gisho had trained in cha-no-yu, the art of tea, was in preparation to be a geisha. But there had been complications. Ryonan hadn’t wanted to know the details. They probably involved a man. Most stories did.
It was hardest for the pretty ones. They had most to give up. And Gisho reminded her of herself at that age, had the same fire, the same love of life, the same spirit. That might just sustain her. The way was not for the weak. She would be broken and broken again, that spirit crushed. But she might survive, break through. Eight times up.
Ryonan’s bowl was empty. She handed it to Gisho, who wiped it, deftly, with a small cloth – this too was part of her training, the formality of the ceremony – refilled it and passed it back once more, commenting on its beauty.
This old thing, said Ryonan. It’s nothing special. The glaze is cracked, the surface is chipped and worn.
That’s why I like it, said Gisho.
It serves me well, said Ryonan, then she drank the last drops. The tea is perfect. It warms this old heart.
Gisho bowed, pleased.
Since you like this so much, said Ryonan, handing the bowl to her, I would like you to have it. Keep it.
Gisho was caught off-guard, looked genuinely surprised, moved.
Now, said Ryonan. You have other tasks. Go.
*
She prepared the inkstone, unrolled the scroll of paper, pleased at the simple roughness of its texture, weighed it down with wooden blocks to hold it in place. She took up the bamboo brush, bit the tip and wet it with spittle to soften the bristles. Her teeth ached a little, but no more than the rest of her. These days life was one long ache. Existence was suffering, indeed!
But it was good to be born human, good to be here this autumn morning, good to be following the Buddha-way. Good the autumn breeze coming in through the open screen; good its chill, not yet the stark cold of winter. That would come soon enough.
She could savour a faint aftertaste of Gisho’s tea, its bright bitterness, and this too tasted of autumn. She had lit a single incense stick, its fragrance not cloying or sweet, but mellow, resinous, like autumn woodsmoke, like the deep dark scent of the old beams in the meditation hall.
She straightened her back, loaded the brush with ink and made the first stroke.
So.
The opening of the poem was about crossing hesitation-bridge. She let her hand shake a little, imbued the characters with some of the uncertainty the words implied. Hesitation-bridge. Shian Bashi.
She took in a sharp breath as the shapes of the words brought it back to her, the actual, physical bridge, her former self, the young Maki Kaga, reluctantly crossing it. So young. So young. She felt a stab of pity for her, her heedlessness, her beauty.
She dipped the brush in the ink once more.
On to the next line, the next bridge. Decision-bridge. Certainty. Mind made up. Omoikiri Bashi. She rendered it briskly, confidently. And again the very shape of the letters affected her deeply, took her back, and for a moment she was that young woman, hurrying across the second bridge, into the pleasure quarter, buoyed up and hopeful that he might visit.
That storm of the flesh, the sheer excitement, the intensity and brightness of it. Even at the time she had known it was fleeting, a dream; but how vivid, how real!
She took more ink, wrote the next line in fluid, eloquent curves. The floating world. Ukiyo.
The pleasure quarter as dream of heaven, all fragrance and elegance, the swishing
of silks, music and laughter, sheer elegance and refinement, intoxication.
All faded, gone.
She put down her brush as a sudden pain stabbed her gut. She breathed deep, tried to go beyond it. This too would pass.
Namu Amida Butsu.
*
As young Maki, she had passed through hell. The gaki, the hungry ghosts, had howled in her brain, driven out all thought, all hope.
He had gone and taken her son. They’d agreed it was the right thing, a better life for the boy, security, a good home. A life she couldn’t give him. It was for the best. But it left her desolate, facing the emptiness, nothing to live for. Nothing.
The voices howled and all she wanted was release, an end of it. The waters closed over her, filled her lungs and she started to move out, beyond the shock of cold, even beyond the struggle for breath, the inrush of the darkness. Then she was back in herself, back in this sack of bones as hands grabbed, dragged her clear into the other element, beat and pressed and pummelled her, back to this life that was all harshness and pain and gasping for air that seared the lungs as she retched and gagged and lay on the riverbank twitching and shivering, spent and half dead.
Then other hands were lifting, carrying her, wrapping her in blankets, keeping her warm. The women of the village, taking over from the men, bore her to the bathhouse, peeled off the wet clothes that clung to her. They soaped and washed her, eased her down into the hot tub. Again she was immersed in water, but this time the warmth of it was healing, restorative, brought her back from the other shore.
She was overwhelmed by the simple human kindness of these women, the sheer functional goodness of it. She cried and felt purged, empty.
*
The spasm had passed but still she didn’t pick up the brush again, sat calm and still, looking at the unfinished poem. The last line was the most important, the final statement, answer to the mystery; journey’s end. The calligraphy had to be perfect.
*
The women had looked out for her, brought her small amounts of food, rice gruel, vegetables in broth. She survived, got through it day by day. She couldn’t call it living; she existed, mind numb, body weak. She shook sometimes, shivered. She had half-drowned; she was still racked by coughing as if trying to expel the water that had filled her lungs to bursting. Cold mornings were the worst, and waking in the night, panicked and trying to gulp in air. Sometimes she thought perhaps she really had drowned, was dead, and this state was some grey afterlife, a realm of ghosts, and she herself one of them.
One morning, early, in the grey halflight, she dressed and set out walking, mindless, no idea where. She found herself on a bridge over the river, stared down at the water flowing past. At moments she could see her own reflection, not clear, broken over and over by the ripples on the surface, but there, definitely there, even if only glimpsed. Ghosts cast no reflection. So she was no ghost. Then came another sensation, eerie, as if what she looked down at was her old self, Maki, still struggling under the water, still drowning, looking up to her for help.
She stumbled off the bridge, onto the other side, continued walking down a narrow road out of town. The sky was beginning to lighten, the birds were starting their sharp cacophony, shrieking their need. She had not eaten, still had no idea where she was going. Then she tensed as she saw a dark figure approaching, a man, walking slowly. She thought of turning and running away, finding somewhere to hide. But she was too tired, her legs suddenly heavy, leaden. She stopped, waited, and as she stood there she saw the man was a monk, in black robes, his head shaved.
The monk also stopped, bowed to her, held out his begging bowl.
I have nothing, she said.
Well then, he said, give me your nothing, and he turned and walked on.
She felt as if she had been struck, a sharp blow that knocked the wind out of her.
He stopped and called back to her. Well? Are you coming or going?
Without thinking, mind empty, she dragged herself, stumbled and ran to catch him up.
*
The whole way to the temple, the monk spoke no word to her, just walked ahead, expected her to follow. Only in the way the other monks greeted him, their deference verging on fear, did she realise he was the master, Shinkan.
He gave her no instruction, handed her over to a young nun who showed her the room where she would stay. It was tiny and dusty and draughty, tatami mats worn and frayed, shoji screens ripped. There were cobwebs in the corners, bird-shit and mouse-droppings on the floor. She turned to leave but found she couldn’t move, couldn’t force herself to take one single step. The young nun had left her alone, now she reappeared with brooms and dusters, cleaning cloths and a bucket of water, nodded and rolled up her sleeves. At least this much she understood. When they’d cleaned up the room, the nun disappeared again, came back with scraps of tatami matting, odd pieces of shoji paper, a few simple tools.
They broke for food, a few minutes only, ate rice and pickles, a thin watery soup. By mid-afternoon they had done running repairs to the room, made it at least habitable. She felt a ridiculous sense of satisfaction, smiled at the nun and stepped outside.
The master was passing and she wanted to tell him how hard she had worked, cleaning and patching up the room, how she didn’t really know why she was here but was willing to stay and work for her keep.
He listened, nodded, said the first meditation session was at 3 a.m.
*
There were four nuns, who lived in a separate corner of the compound, and twenty monks. They did not mix, except in the meditation sessions, zazen, the long hours of sitting, and at mealtimes when they all sat in silence, ate their meagre rations, stared straight ahead. But right from the first day she noticed one or two of the monks glancing in her direction in that way she recognised, that grubby, furtive longing that was all the worse for being hidden.
Again she tried to speak to the master, asked him why she was here.
That is for you to ask yourself, he said. And the way to ask it is by sitting, and the way to answer it is by sitting some more, until there are no questions and nobody asking them, no striving after non-answers. It is hard work. Now, get on with it.
She blazed with irritation at that, and the anger carried her through most of a session, made her almost forget the pain in her back, her knees and ankles, her very bones. Then, when the pain demanded attention and she shifted her position, the master was standing behind her with a long flat wooden lath in his hand. She had seen this, knew what to expect. She bent forward, tensed, and the master struck her across the back, eight times, whack, each blow sharp and quick but stinging. Then the master bowed and she bowed in return, ostensibly to show her gratitude for his concern, though in reality to keep her rage in check. The master’s faint half-smile showed he saw this, then he nodded, grimfaced again, told her to continue.
Every nerve in her was screaming to leave, to run out. Nothing was stopping her. The gate was open. She sat on.
*
The second week she shaved her head. Her thick locks, lacquer-black, lay coiled in clumps on the floor. Her pate was bald, stubbly to the touch when she ran her hand over it. Her scalp stung here and there, nicked by the razor. She was glad she had no mirror to see how she looked. But the morning breeze felt cool.
Now at least the monks would stop looking at her in that way, burning her with their eyes.
No.
One night a note was slipped under her door. It was from one of the monks, declared his love for her, asked her to give him a sign and he would come to her the next night. It was unsigned, ended with a tanka poem.
Shifting and turning
the long cold night,
thinking, thinking
of nothing
but you.
At the end of the early morning zazen, she bowed to the master, asked if she could read something out. He looked surprised, but nodded permission. She uncrumpled the piece of paper, read the whole note, the poem, then she ran her gaze along th
e row of monks, said if the author of the note really did love her, he should step forward and embrace her now.
For a moment the silence deepened, then there was a gruff clearing of throats. One of the younger monks stifled a laugh, composed himself immediately.
She crunched the piece of paper once more into a ball, recited a tanka poem she had made herself, in response.
The long cold night,
thinking of nothing,
nothing at all.
My shaved head is rough
and stubbly to the touch.
The master grunted, told her to pour the tea for the monks. None of them looked her in the eye.
*
It continued. In spite of her shaved head, her drab robes, her intensity, every new monk who arrived at the temple seemed to fall in love with her, as if she still carried the fragrance and allure of the floating world. Even one or two of the older monks, toothless ascetics, looked at her with longing, made her uncomfortable. A visiting abbot from a temple in Kyoto was delivering a sermon on impermanence, the transience and illusoriness of the world. He caught her eye, stuttered, hesitated, lost his thread; then he blustered through with references to the sutra of Hui Neng, concluded with a commentary on the fleeting nature of beauty and hurried from the hall.
She asked for an audience with the master. He made her wait a week then granted her request.
When she entered his room he was seated with his back to her, intent on the scripture he was reading. He ignored her, made her wait. She sat, in silence. At last he spoke, still without turning round.
Why did Bodhidharma come from the West?
She said nothing. She was flummoxed. This was not what she had expected.
Don’t worry, he said. I’m not expecting an answer. But you know of Bodhidharma?
Yes, she said, I know some of the stories.
There are many stories, he said. Children’s tales for the most part. But they do embody some teaching.
I’m sure, she said.
