The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

You know he is supposed to have cut off his own eyelids?

  And tea-plants grew from them.

  Yes.

  He turned for the first time since she’d come into the room. He held in his hand an open razor, its blade glinting in the light from the candle on his shrine. He placed the razor in front of her.

  There is a saying that the way of truth is narrower than the razor’s edge.

  She kept silent, looked at the blade, imagined its sharpness.

  Have you heard the story of the nun Ryonan?

  No, she said.

  She was a rare beauty, he said. She was descended from a famous warrior, Shingen, and inherited some of his spirit. With her beauty and refinement she was a favourite at the court of the Empress. But when the Empress died, she saw how fleeting was human life. Her youth and beauty would fade; she resolved to turn her back on the world and study Zen. Unfortunately her family had other ideas. They forced her into marriage, but agreed that she could become a nun after she had borne three children. She did their bidding, bore the children; then she shaved her head and went to a Zen temple. However, the master would not accept her. He said she was too beautiful, even with her head shaved and in her nun’s garb.

  She went to another master, the story was the same. She travelled the country and everywhere met with the same rejection. Her beauty was a curse.

  Maki felt a coldness like stone chill her belly. The master continued his story.

  At last she came to the master Hakuo, in Edo. Like all the rest, he turned her away. She was far too beautiful. Her good looks would only cause trouble. So she went to the kitchen, got a red-hot poker, and held it to her face.

  Maki flinched.

  The master waited a moment, went on.

  She burned herself badly. The scars would mar her looks forever. She went back to Hakuo, who took one look and said, Fine, you can stay.

  Maki was shaking. She felt tears choke her, felt misery and hopelessness and rage.

  The master said, She took on the name Ryonan, which means Clear Realisation. She wrote of her experience in a poem, in the tanka form which you yourself favour.

  In the Empress’s palace

  I burned incense

  to perfume my clothes.

  Now I burn my face

  to enter the Zen temple.

  The master left a silence, then he pushed the open razor closer to Maki.

  Well? he said.

  Time passed. She heard the wind in the trees, felt a thin trickle of sweat down her back. The shaking stopped. Her mind was clear and cold, awareness centred on her own breath, her heartbeat. She could still leave at any time. The gate was still open. Nothing was forcing her to stay.

  She reached forward and picked up the razor, held it out. One sharp gash should be enough to slice the flesh, leave a scar. She braced herself.

  Namu Amida Butsu.

  She closed her eyes, struck. But before the blade could reach her face, she felt her wrist gripped hard.

  The master had grabbed it, eased the razor from her grasp.

  You are strong, he said. With this kind of determination you can succeed. You must not be deflected from your purpose by these foolish men and their unwelcome attentions. The problem is theirs, not yours.

  And he gave her the name Ryonan, said, May your realisation be clear.

  *

  It all seemed so long ago, a lifetime. But the memory of it was vivid, intense. She remembered exactly how it felt, the panic, then the detachment, the actual feel of the razor in her hand.

  She had once asked the master, years later, What if you had not caught my hand? What if I had slashed myself, even cut my own throat?

  He had answered roughly, There is no What if? There is only what happens, what is.

  But from that day on, the day she became Ryonan, it had changed. It was as if she had scarred herself, carried the mark. Her gaze turned inward. The look on her face was calmness and strength. In itself it was protection from the monks, withered their ardour, made them think twice.

  The thought of it now made her smile. Poor foolish men, trying to douse that fire, or channel it into their meditation.

  Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire.

  Right up till the last moment, before liberation, before realisation, the dragon could still rear up, still roar.

  Her smile became a chuckle. Even this morning, when she’d thought with compassion about Guraba-san, she had seen him clearly, the golden young man he had been. And that tenderness, that fondness, had allowed a faint memory, a stirring, even in this old flesh. She might tell young Gisho, if she thought it would not be discouraging!

  It was as well she had no mirror to look at. The face that looked back at her would be the face of an old crone, wrinkled and gaunt, a leathery old lizard. It was years since she had seen her reflection, except for the odd glimpse in passing, crossing the river and glancing down, seeing it there, still broken and broken, unclear.

  *

  The last time she had seen an actual mirror, she had been in middle age. At the master’s suggestion, she had gone beyond the village to the town, to beg from door to door, chanting as she went.

  I go to the Buddha for refuge. I go to the order for refuge. I go to the dharma for refuge.

  At one house an old woman had bowed, invited her in. She had left her geta, her wooden sandals, at the door, stepped inside and stood waiting in the cool hall.

  The sounds and scents of domesticity came to her. The smoky sesame and ginger smell of noodles cooking in hot oil; the shrill singsong voices of children playing. The old woman’s grandchildren, life continuing, living itself, from generation to generation.

  She took off her old straw kasa that was hat and umbrella to her, shelter and shade, protected her whatever the season.

  Basho had written a haiku.

  When I think it is my own

  snow on my kasa

  it feels light.

  She smiled at that, looked up and saw another nun, older than herself, face weathered, smiling back at her. She was startled, hadn’t noticed her. She bowed, and the other did the same. She put a hand to her face, and so did the other. Then she realised, it was a looking-glass. This was her face as the world saw it, the face of a stranger, and yet …

  The struggle was there, the years of hardship, in the lines around the mouth, on the forehead. But something shone in the eyes, an inner light, a clarity; it had more beauty in its way than young Maki’s easy charm, though it had even been part of that. In behind the young woman’s mask, it had been there all along.

  She bowed to this other, this reflection, herself.

  Namu Amida Butsu.

  The old woman of the house came out, gave her some rice, a few coins.

  She bowed, offered gratitude, put on her kasa and her sandals, walked on.

  It was later that same day that she saw him, tall, unmistakable, walking on the other side of the road. His hair, his whiskers, had started to grey, but he still looked handsome, had grown distinguished. The woman walking behind him must be Tsuru, older, heavier, and behind her was the boy. She felt a sharp little intake of breath, a sudden stab to the heart.

  Guraba-san glanced across at her. Was there something, a moment in the eyes? A flicker? Recognition? Remem brance? He doffed his hat with a touching politeness, a gentlemanliness, that tugged at her. Tsuru looked right through her, saw nothing and nobody, an ageing nun, a shabby mendicant. The boy stopped, crossed the road towards her. A young man almost, in a school uniform, dark military tunic buttoned up to the neck. He peered through round-framed glasses, looked at her, looked into her. His hair was darker than it had been, but still light brown, halfway to fair. She almost broke as he reached out his hand, and she realised he was offering alms. Her own hand shook as she held out the begging bowl and he dropped in a single silver coin, bowed.

  She bowed deeply, thanked him, invoked the blessings of Buddha Amitaba on his head.

  Tsuru called out to him. Tomisaburo.
The name they had given him to sound like his father’s. Tom Glover. Tomi Guraba.

  Her son, Shinsaburo. But no longer hers. In reality, never had been. Not Guraba’s either, or Tsuru’s. How could anyone own another? This young man was living the life he had to, following his karma, as they all followed theirs.

  The family group headed on up Minami Yamate to their home. Ryonan took the coin from her bowl, kissed it. For the first time since she’d taken her vows, there were tears in her eyes.

  *

  She had kept the coin, turned it now in her wrinkled hand. She would give it to Gisho, along with her few other meagre possessions. She would take nothing with her.

  She had already given Gisho her tea-bowl, seen the momentary flutter of alarm in the girl’s eyes, the apprehension, the half-knowing fear of what the gift might mean.

  She had said often enough she would be like the nun Eshun. When it’s my time, she said to Gisho, I’ll tell you, and I’ll go.

  Eshun had reached the age of sixty, announced she was leaving the world. She had a funeral pyre built, then sat cross-legged in the middle of it, had it set alight.

  As the flames rose, a monk shouted in to her, Is it hot in there?

  She shouted back, What a stupid question! And she died, and burned.

  When it’s my time, I’ll tell you, and I’ll go.

  The look in Gisho’s eyes.

  It was time.

  She turned her attention once more to the scroll with her unfinished calligraphy, the tanka poem.

  The great master Genshin had described the Pure Land as absolute perfection, said the way to attain its bliss was by chanting the name of Amida, the Buddha of compassion.

  Namu Amida Butsu.

  Once again she loaded the tip of the brush with ink, wrote the character with a single, confident flourish.

  Jodo. Pure Land.

  There.

  It was done, complete.

  She laid down the brush, rang the iron bell to summon Gisho, tell her.

  *

  The two headstones stood side by side, a few feet apart, in the Sakamoto Cemetery. The one on the left was taller, narrower, carved with Japanese script. Tsuru Glover. 1850–1899. Ryonan knew enough of English notation, its alphabet, to read the inscription on the other stone. Thomas Blake Glover. 1838–1911.

  A visitor to the monastery had told her the year before, had read an account in the newspaper. Guraba-san, the visitor said, had been a great man, one of the founders of modern Japan. He had died in Tokyo after a long illness, been cremated, the ashes brought back to Nagasaki and buried here. The casket had been carried in procession through the town, led by his son, Tomisaburo. Many dignitaries had attended, including some who had travelled all the way from Tokyo.

  Ryonan had thanked the visitor, vowed to come here and pay her last respects when the time came.

  She bowed to Glover’s gravestone, asked the blessings of Amida Buddha to guide him on his continuing journey. Then she bowed to Tsuru’s grave, wished the same for her, that she too in her turn might receive the Buddha’s blessings.

  Acceptance. Forgiveness. May all sentient beings become enlightened.

  Namu Amida Butsu.

  She took the rolled-up scroll from her sleeve, read once more her final tanka poem, her jisei, nodded approval at the calligraphy.

  Crossed hesitation-bridge

  and decision-bridge,

  passed through

  the floating world

  to the pure land.

  A few simple offerings had been left in front of the graves; a sake flask, a holder for sticks of incense, a handful of flowers in an earthenware jar. She placed the scroll beside them, bowed, moved on.

  *

  According to Genshin, she had read, all the pleasures and glory of the world are as nothing, a drop in the ocean, compared to the beauty and delight of the Pure Land. The Land itself is made of emerald, and in each of its precincts are millions of temples, pagodas of silver and gold. In the gardens are silver ponds, covered with lotus blossoms that sparkle in myriad colours. Birds of every description hover in the air, singing, and above them soar the sweet-voiced Kalavinka, winged beings with the faces of beautiful women. Crystal streams and rivers flow sparkling across the landscape, bordered by sacred trees. The trees have silver stems and golden branches and blossoms of coral and pearl. From the trees hang jewelled cords, each attached to a sacred bell, ringing out the message of the Supreme Law. The air is filled with intoxicating fragrance, the sweetness of flowers, the richness of incense. The sky never darkens, shines with endless light, and petals eternally rain down. Sweet music constantly flows, from nameless musical instruments that play themselves, without being touched, and celestial beings endlessly sing in praise of Tathagata Buddha.

  She stopped for breath halfway up the hill, near Ipponmatsu where her son might still be living. She wished him well. May he one day attain enlightenment. She carried on up the slope.

  The going was hard, and she sweated in spite of the autumn cool. The old shrine at the top of the hill had fallen into disuse, lay abandoned, a ruin. A good place for her to sit and rest her old bones.

  She leaned against a stone wall, sheltered, warmed a little by the late afternoon sun. From here she could see the city spread out below. Near Ipponmatsu were a few other western houses, a settlement. She looked beyond them, past the pleasure quarter, down to the harbour, Dejima Island. She had looked out at this with Guraba-san, a lifetime ago.

  Things changed, did not change. Now there were the docks and the factories, the shipyards, but beyond all that, the hills across the bay, swathed in the rich red of the maple trees in their full autumn glory.

  This.

  Somewhere in the distance, hidden from view, was the temple where she’d lived through all these years of struggle, striving to be true to the Buddha-way.

  This too.

  A dream.

  Carrying on the air she heard the harsh rasping cry of a cicada. Soon its day would be done, just its dried-up husk remain. Cutting across it came the cry of a shrike, piercing and melancholy, and beating across the sky came a flight of wild geese, a straggled line, rehearsing their departure.

  She caught the scent of woodsmoke, and she breathed it in, bittersweet incense, sat up and focused her gaze.

  Genshin had written that the power of concentration, awakened imagination, can lead directly to the Pure Land. Focus on a single lotus flower can open out to infinity, beyond all horizons. He spoke of meditation on the lotus seat in which the Buddha sits, the lotus of the heart.

  Up here there were no lotuses blooming, only a scraggy chrysanthemum hugging the wall, a scatter of morning-glories.

  She smiled at them and they nodded, acknowledging her gaze.

  She slowed her breathing, felt it come and go of itself.

  The lotus of the heart. She felt it open, petal by petal.

  The jewel in the lotus.

  Om.

  The city sparkled beneath her. This place. This time. The Pure Land.

  One day it would all be dust again. Civilisations came and went, rose and fell. Tathagata breathed in, breathed out.

  Form is emptiness.

  She sat as the light began to fade and the evening grew chill. But nothing touched her. She had gone beyond it all.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is a work of fiction, obviously, a work of the imagination, but I’ve tried to make the historical background as accurate as possible, while not letting the facts get in the way of the story! There are a number of people who have helped the book along and I want to give them my thanks. To Alex McKay, not only for his fine biography of Thomas Glover, The Scottish Samurai, but for his generosity and kindness in sharing his vast knowledge and his research materials with me. To Sachiko McKay for adding her own advice on matters linguistic and cultural. To Brian Burke-Gaffney, author of Starcrossed, A Biography of Madame Butterfly, for his help on my visit to Nagasaki and for his Crossroads magazine and website, th
e fount of all knowledge on Nagasaki and its history. To Mari Imamura for translating some passages into Japanese. To Richard Scott Thomson for believing in the film version of this story, which one day will be made! To Steve McIntyre and Scottish Screen for develop ment funding and to Bob Last for his input. To Isobel Murray and the late Giles Gordon for suggesting the material might make a good novel! To Liam McIlvanney, David Mitchell, Sian Preece and Amanda Booth for putting material my way. To Judy Moir for her initial response to the opening chapters. To my agent Camilla Hornby for encouragement and support through the writing process. To all at Canongate, especially Jamie Byng for Thinking Big, Francis Bickmore for being a courteous, meticulous and creative editor, Jo Hardacre for pitching the book and Jessica Craig for selling it worldwide. To Janani for living with this. To Sri Chinmoy for his constant inspiration and for showing me how much I could push myself.

  Domo arigato gozaimasu!

  also by Alan Spence

  FICTION

  Its Colours They Are Fine

  The Magic Flute

  Stone Garden

  Way to Go

  POETRY

  ah!

  Seasons of the Heart

  Glasgow Zen

  Still

  Clear Light

  PLAYS

  Sailmaker

  Space Invaders

  Changed Days

  The Banyan Tree

  On the Line

  The 3 Estaites

  First published in Great Britain in 2006

  by Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  This digital edition published in 2009

  by Canongate Books Ltd

  Copyright © Alan Spence, 2006

  The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted

  Words to Nagasaki by Mort Dixon © 1928,

  Warner Chappell Music

  Every effort has been made to trace and contact

  copyright holders. If there are any inadvertent omissions