by VIKING ADULT
Left for ages unrepaired,
it merged in spring into the mist,
loomed in autumn from thick fog.
The doors, blown flat by the wind,
lay rotting under fallen leaves.
Cracked roof tiles let in rain and dew,
and nothing sheltered the altar.
The temple had no priest at all,
nor any casual visitors,
save the light of sun and moon.
Mongaku made another great vow, this time to rebuild Jingoji, and to this end he promoted a subscription list, which he advertised to patrons far and wide. In the process he arrived one day at the Hjūji residence of Cloistered Emperor Go-Shirakawa.
He sent in to the sovereign an urgent appeal to contribute,
but the gentleman was engaged in music making at the time and refused to hear it.
Now, fierce ascetic that he was, Mongaku feared no man in the world.
Manners and protocol meant nothing to him.
On the assumption that his appeal had not actually reached the sovereign,
he took direct action. He burst into the small court and roared,
“You are the sovereign, are you not,
lord of mercy and compassion?
How can you close your ears against me?”
Then he unrolled his subscription list
and read out in a great voice,
I, Mongaku, a disciple of the Buddha, humbly declare the following purpose: with assistance from the greatest lords and the least of the people, from both clerics and laymen, to build a temple on the sacred ground of Mount Takao and to conduct services there for the benefit of this life and the life to come.
Hear, then, my appeal for this assistance.
Reflection reveals True Reality to be vast. Sentient beings and the Buddha go by different, provisional names, yet dark clouds of delusion mass to obscure the dharma nature, swathing the peaks of the Twelvefold Chain of Causation, dimming the radiance of the moon that shines for all time in the lotus blossom of the heart, and preventing the Three Virtues and the Four Mandalas from appearing in the lofty heavens. This is deplorable. The sun of the Buddha has set, and the realm of transmigration from birth to birth and death to death is shrouded in darkness. We lose ourselves in lust and wine. Who can put away from himself the folly of the mad elephant or of the leaping ape? We foolishly speak ill of others and of the Teaching. How, then, are we to escape attack by vengeful fiends from the King of Hell? Though I have cleansed myself of the dust of the profane world and clothed myself in monastic robes, evil leanings still mount within me day and night; morning and evening my ears remain deaf to better promptings. It is suffering to return to the fiery pit of the Three Realms and forever to turn in agony on the wheel of the Four Births. Therefore each scroll of the Buddha’s peerless Teaching, vast as these scrolls are in number, expounds the path toward buddhahood; not one, whether teaching tactful means or, directly, highest truth, fails as a guide toward the far shore. So it is that I weep before the spectacle of transience and that I urge all, high or low, clerics or laymen, to bend their steps toward the supreme lotus throne and to build a sanctuary for the King of Boundless Awakening.
On lofty Takao the trees are as those on Vulture Peak, and the mosses that carpet the plunging ravines are as those of the cave on Mount Shang. Babbling brooks stretch their cloth through the rocks, while on the heights monkeys call and sport among the branches. The nearest house is far away: no tiresome voices, no dust. At hand are only peace and untroubled faith. The lay of the land perfectly inspires adoration of the Buddha. The contribution I ask is small. Who would then refuse me? They say that the stupa a child makes from sand turns straight into the seed of future buddhahood. How much more truly must this be so of a sheet of paper or a half coin donated in a pious cause! I pray that this temple be built, that our emperor’s reign satisfy every one of his wishes, and that all people near and far, city and country, sing the praises of a new reign of Yao or Shun and smile amid the contentment of everlasting peace. May the spirits of all the dead, great and small, swiftly pass through the gate of the One True Vehicle and mount their waiting throne; may they forever take pleasure in the moon of the Buddha’s threefold infinitely living reality!
Such is the spirit that animates the work of raising these contributions.
I have spoken.
Jish 3, the third month
Mongaku
So went Mongaku’s peroration to the cloistered emperor.
9. Mongaku’s Exile
There happened then to be present in His Cloistered Eminence’s company
Chancellor Moronaga, playing the biwa and giving admirable voice to Chinese poems;
Grand Counselor Sukekata, beating the rhythm for his own rendition of folk songs and saibara;
and Suketoki, the chief right equerry; and Morisada, an adviser, playing the wagon and singing imay.163
They were having a fine time
there behind their jeweled blinds and brocade curtains,
and His Cloistered Eminence was singing along with them
when Mongaku’s bawling cut in, ruining the tuning and breaking the beat.
“Who’s that?” the sovereign asked. “Box his ears!”
The shocked younger gentlemen all rushed to oblige. One, Sukeyuki, raced ahead.
“What’s this gobbledygook?” he shouted. “Get out of here!”
“Not until His Cloistered Eminence donates an estate to Jingoji on Mount Takao,”
Mongaku snapped, and stayed put. Sukeyuki moved to slap him.
Mongaku gripped his subscription list and whacked off Sukeyuki’s court hat,
then clenched his fist and flattened him backward with a punch to the chest.
Topknot flapping in the breeze,
Sukeyuki made himself scarce, fast,
right back up onto the veranda.
Mongaku, from the fold of his robe,
drew an icily gleaming dagger,
horsetail-hair-wrapped handle and all,
and made it plain he would run through
anyone bold enough to approach him.
Charging about hither and yon,
subscription list in his left hand,
brandished dagger in his right,
he looked—so sudden was the sight—
as though each hand wielded a blade.
Senior nobles, privy gentlemen
cried out in loud astonishment,
and the concert disintegrated.
The residence was sheer bedlam.
One And Migimune, a warrior from Shinano province
then serving in the cloistered emperor’s corps of guards,
ran up, sword drawn, demanding to know what was happening.
Mongaku went after him with evident gusto, whereupon Migimune,
perhaps reluctant to cut down a monk, readjusted his grip
and dealt Mongaku’s dagger arm a great blow with the flat of his sword.
That slowed Mongaku down somewhat.
Migimune dropped his weapon, shouted “Gotcha!,” and grappled with him.
While they wrestled, Mongaku managed to stab Migimune’s right arm.
Migimune kept the pressure on him nevertheless.
Powerful men equal in strength, they thrashed about on the ground
each sometimes on top, sometimes underneath.
Onlookers of every degree, with virtuously disapproving looks,
crowded forward to wallop Mongaku themselves wherever they could,
but he ignored them, except to spout further invective.
They dragged him out the gate and turned him over to the police,
who tied him up. Standing there, restrained, he glared at the sovereign’s residence
and bellowed, hopping with rage,
“So you refuse to contribute. Fine!
But just you wait! For what you have done
to Mongaku, that same Mongaku
will see to it that you rue the day
!
The three worlds are a burning house,
and an emperor’s palace burns just as hot as anything else.
Pride yourself all you like on the excellence of your throne:
Once you’re off to the Yellow Springs,164 the demons there,
ox- and horse-headed, will get you, oh, yes—you can count on that!”
They decided that this monk was too utterly weird and marched him off to jail.
Sukeyuki stayed away from court service awhile;
he was so ashamed of having had his hat knocked off.
As a reward for having grappled with Mongaku,
Migimune received direct promotion to right equerry aide.
Meanwhile Bifukumon-in passed away and a general amnesty was declared.
Mongaku was soon released.
He might have gone somewhere else for a while, but no, he started in again fund-raising with his subscription list—and not just fund-raising either, because he also went about prophesying ruin. “Chaos awaits us!” he would bawl. “Sovereign and subject alike are doomed!” The authorities saw that they could not allow him to remain in the capital. They exiled him to Izu. Now, Nakatsuna, Lord Yorimasa’s eldest son, was then the governor of the province. By his order
Mongaku was to be sent down via the Tkaid and then by sea.
He therefore proceeded to the province of Ise
with a guard detail of two or three released prisoners in police service.
They said to him,
“It’s a custom we have, you see,
we and the other police flunkies,
when we go on this kind of job,
to do what we can for our man.
Now that you’re up against it this way,
reverend sir, and heading out
in exile to a distant province,
do you perhaps have any friends?
You might consider asking them
to provide you with a few gifts—
eatables and so on, you know.”
Mongaku answered, “Actually,
I just can’t think of anyone
to approach for a favor like that.
No, there is someone after all—
somebody in the Eastern Hills.”
They found him a bit of scruffy paper.
“I can’t write on paper like this!” he exclaimed, and threw it back at them.
“Righto,” they said, and found him something thicker.
Mongaku grinned. “To tell the truth, I can’t write at all. You, do it for me.”
He had one write this:
“I, Mongaku, was collecting contributions to rebuild Jingoji on Mount Takao,
when I collided with the present reign and fell short of my goal.
First I was jailed; then I was banished to the province of Izu.
It is a long way there. I need supplies, provisions, and so on.
Please give these to my messenger.”
The man wrote it all down. “And to whom should I address it, reverend sir?”
“To Reverend Kannon at Kiyomizu,” Mongaku replied.
“You’re joking!” they cried.
“Nonetheless I place all my faith and trust in Kannon.
Who else do you expect me to write to?”
They sailed from the harbor of Ano in Ise province.
Off the Tenryū coast of Ttmi, a sudden storm blew up great waves
that threatened to capsize them. The crew and helmsman fought to save the ship,
but the storm redoubled in fury, until some could only call Kannon’s name
while others invoked Amida a last ten times, as do the dying.
Mongaku, however, just lay there snoring, dead to the world.
Then suddenly, somehow, he awoke to the crisis. Leaping to his feet,
he stationed himself at the prow, glared out to sea, and roared,
“Are you out there, you Dragon Kings?
Hey, Dragon Kings! I’m talking to you!
What’s the matter with you, going after a ship like this—
one carrying a holy man with vows as great as mine?
Watch out, you Dragon Kings! The wrath of heaven will be upon you!”
Perhaps that is why the wind and waves soon subsided, and they reached Izu at last.
Since the day he left the city,
Mongaku had had one constant prayer:
“If I am to return to the capital,
to rebuild and dedicate Jingoji,
then on this journey I will not die.
If my vow is to be all in vain,
then I will fall somewhere on the way.”
Between the capital and Izu,
not once did the winds favor him.
A full thirty-one days the ship
hugged the coast, island to island,
while Mongaku ate nothing at all
yet still lost none of his vigor
and pursued his usual practice.
Nothing that that man did or said
ever seemed ordinary.
10. The Fukuhara Decree
They gave Mongaku into the care of Kond Kunitaka,
who lived in the hills behind Nagoya, in the province of Izu.
From there Mongaku called often on Yoritomo,
to pass the time discussing affairs old and new.
One day Mongaku remarked, “Among all the Heike lords,
it was Shigemori who had genuine courage and wisdom.
Now their day will soon be over—he died last year, in the eighth month.
To my eye no Heike or Genji currently has your promise
as a leader of men. Lose no more time, then:
Raise rebellion and take command of this land of Japan.”
Yoritomo replied, “That, reverend, is not a thought I have ever entertained.
Now that I owe my trivial life to the late Lady Ike’s words on my behalf,
I pray for her daily by chanting the essence of the Lotus Sutra.
That is my sole occupation.”
Mongaku insisted.
“There is a book where it is written:
‘Who refuses what heaven offers,
the same shall incur heaven’s blame;
failure to act when the time comes
invites nothing but disaster.’
Do you suppose that in speaking this way I mean only to test you?
Look, then, into the depths of my devotion.”
From the fold of his robe, he produced a skull wrapped in white cloth.
“What is that?” Yoritomo asked.
“This is the skull of your father, the late chief left equerry.
After the events of Heiji,
his skull moldered beneath the moss,
there before the prison gate.
No one ever said prayers for him.
Mongaku, though, had his own idea.
Yes, I begged the skull from the guards,
and by now, for ten years and more,
I have worn it around my neck,
roaming the land on pilgrimage
to great temples and sacred mountains,
praying everywhere for his soul.
Surely by now he has been spared
a whole kalpa of suffering.
So you see, I, too, have given your father faithful service.”
Although not entirely convinced,
Yoritomo, upon being told
that this was his own father’s skull,
soon enough shed many tears.
Then he got down to serious talk. “How can I possibly start an up rising,” he asked, “when I am still under imperial ban?”
“That will present no difficulty,” Mongaku answered. “I shall go up to the capital immediately and secure you a pardon.”
“But that is impossible! You are under the same ban! Your talk of obtaining a pardon for somebody else makes no sense!”
“No doubt it would be mad of me to ask a pardon for myself, but I see nothing wrong with asking one for you. It
will not take more than three days to reach the new capital, Fukuhara. Add a fourth there, while I request an imperial decree, and the whole trip should take seven or eight days at most.”
Back he then went to Nagoya, where he told his disciples he was off for a quiet seven-day retreat at the Oyama Shrine in Izu. In reality he reached Fukuhara three days later. He had a slight connection there with Fujiwara no Mitsuyoshi, a former Right Watch intendant, on whom he now called.
“I am speaking of the Izu exile Minamoto no Yoritomo,” he informed the gentleman. “If only he could obtain a decree from the cloistered emperor, lifting the imperial ban against him, he would mobilize his men throughout the eight provinces of the east, destroy the Heike, and restore peace to the realm.”
Mitsuyoshi replied, “I hardly know what to say. I have been relieved of all three of my offices, and these days things are not easy for me. Besides, His Cloistered Eminence is a prisoner. I can promise nothing. Still, I will put the idea to him.” Mitsuyoshi secretly reported the conversation to the cloistered emperor, who issued the decree immediately.
Mongaku hung the decree around his neck,
and three days later there he was again, back down in Izu.
“Confound it!” Yoritomo had meanwhile been worrying.
“There’s no telling what nonsense this holy man may be spouting
or what awful trouble he’s going to get me into.”
But no, at noon on the eighth day, Mongaku turned up.
“Your imperial decree, sir, as requested,” he said, and produced it.
The words “imperial decree” so awed Yoritomo
that he washed his hands, rinsed his mouth, put on a new hat,
donned a pure white robe, and bowed three times before reading it:
In recent years the Taira have displayed contempt for imperial rule and utter lack of respect for the way of good government. They propose to destroy the Buddha’s Teaching and to extinguish the authority of the court. Now, this realm of ours is the land of the gods, where the paired shrines of the great imperial ancestors work many wonders. Ever since the dynasty was founded, several thousand years ago, every attempt to overthrow it or to imperil the state has therefore failed. For this reason go forth now and, with the gods’ help and in conformity with this decree, chastise the Heike and disperse the enemies of the imperial line. The time has come: Exercise now the martial prowess to which you are heir, surpass the loyal service rendered by your forebears, distinguish yourself, and exalt the honor of your house. Such is the burden of this decree, which is hereby given into your hands.
