Читать книгу Night Boat - Alan Spence - Страница 13

FLOATING WORLD,

FLOWER-PATH

By the time I was eighteen, in spite of the skimpy rations at the temple – the basic diet of rice and greens, a little fish from time to time – I had grown taller. And doing my share of the physical work – weeding and tending the garden, sweeping and cleaning, working in the kitchen – had made me strong. I liked nothing better than walking beyond the village and into the foothills, but also along the Tokaido and through the neighbouring towns, amazed at the passing show, the constant stream of people flowing to and from the capital. There were pedlars and salesmen and merchants touting their wares, quack doctors and medicine men, farmers taking their crops to market, geisha with their quick mincing steps in thick-soled clogs, samurai swaggering down the middle of the road, demanding respect, aristocrats carried in their palanquins, actors and acrobats, travelling storytellers with their portable kamishibai screens.

In the post-station at Ejiri, close to the temple, was a courtyard where groups of travelling players would sometimes perform. I heard that a troupe from Edo was passing through and would be presenting a drama based on the tale of the Forty-seven Ronin. I had been struggling in my meditation, and I thought it might lift my spirits to see the play, so I made my way to Ejiri in the early evening, and took my place among the audience gathering in the courtyard. There was a sizeable crowd, a few of my fellow monks among the villagers and townsfolk, the merchants and their families. A little platform had been built where the wealthier and more prominent patrons could sit and watch the performance in comfort.

As the sky darkened and the lamps were lit, I looked around me, took it all in. I remembered the puppet show I had seen with my mother, how it had opened my eyes and changed my life, and I felt an anticipation overlaid with something bittersweet I couldn’t quite name, a kind of yearning for something I didn’t know.

Everyone knew the story of the Forty-seven Ronin. It was based on real events that had happened only a year ago, but had already become a legend throughout the whole land.

A group of forty-seven samurai had avenged the death of their lord, Asano, by murdering the man responsible, a court official named Kira. Because they had done this out of loyalty, they were allowed a noble death themselves by committing seppuku.

The incident had inspired poetry and painting – I myself had seen a number of woodblock prints depicting the ronin – and plays based on the story drew huge audiences all over Japan. The government in Edo had banned any contemporary reference in the drama, so the play was set in the distant past, four hundred years ago, and all the names were changed. But the audience knew the real story that was being re-enacted. These heroes were men from their own time who had only recently walked the earth.

Because I had arrived early I had a good position, next to the viewing platform. As I looked across I was momentarily distracted by a young girl seated at the front of the platform, very close to me. She caught my eye, then immediately looked away, flustered, and hid her face behind a paper fan, but just that glimpse of her beauty had unsettled me.

The lights around the courtyard flickered, and the drama began with the thud of a drum, the shrill wail of a flute, and for the next hour reality shimmered and wavered. We were here in this courtyard, in the post-station at Ejiri, watching seven actors move through each scene, chant their scripted lines. But at the same time, at the same time, we were in Edo, looking on as the forty-seven ronin waited patiently and took their revenge on the villain Kira, walked through the snow to place his head on their lord’s grave, then sit in a half circle and fall on their own swords.

This floating world of theatre was a thing of magic and enchantment. As the ronin fell forward they let out a collective death-cry that sent a chill down the spine. It was terrifying and magnificent, and the crowd were so caught up in the action many of them also cried out. A group of young men who had arrived late were particularly carried away, and they climbed up at the back of the little grandstand and pushed forward for a better view.

What happened next was as strange and dreamlike as anything I had just seen on the stage. Everything seemed to slow down, as sounds and movements were heightened, intensified. I heard a cracking, straining noise and the shouts grew louder. The young girl was looking straight at me, her mouth open, confusion and alarm in her eyes. Then everything was shifting, moving, as the platform collapsed. The girl pitched forward, throwing out her arms to protect herself, and without thinking I stepped forward and caught her, cushioned her weight and broke her fall. Her head cracked against mine and I stumbled a little but managed to step back and lift her clear as the others fell around her.

She clung to me and I held her safe. I could feel her small body shaking. I could smell her perfumed clothes, her hair, and that irrepressible little dragon reared between my legs again, roused, and I chanted the Daimoku quickly to myself, Namu Myoho Renge Kyo, trying to calm it down.

Then an older man was at my side, speaking to me.

I thank you for saving my daughter, he said. But now I think you can put her down.

I set the girl down on the ground, carefully, stood back and bowed, still silently chanting the Daimoku. Now I was the one who was shaken, flustered. My face burned as the girl bowed and bowed, thanking me over and over, fluttering in front of me.

Her father introduced himself as Mr Yotsugi. He asked my name, and said he was grateful to me, and if my superiors might give permission he would like to express his gratitude by offering me hospitality at his home.

The ronin who had ritually disembowelled themselves just moments before had gathered round, helping people to their feet, offering sympathy. The manager was bustling among the crowd, endlessly apologising, anxiously bowing. When he stood back to let Yotsugi-san pass he bent almost double and his apologies rose to an even higher pitch as he asked if there was anything he could do to make recompense, anything at all.

There was no harm done, said Yotsugi-san, thanks to this young man.

Then he turned to me and told me where they lived, said he hoped I would visit them soon.

I watched them go.

The girl gave a last look back at me over her shoulder. She smiled and undid me completely.

The whole of the next week, at odd moments, I found myself thinking about the girl. I remembered the way she had caught my eye and looked away, the fear as she had pitched forward, the feel and smell of her in my arms. I sat in zazen, I chanted the sutras, and the more I willed myself not to think of her, the more clearly her image arose in my mind.

Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them.

The scent of her. Jasmine and sweat.

The deluding passions are inexhaustible. I vow to extinguish them.

The sheen of her lacquer-black hair. The white nape of her neck.

The Buddha Way is supreme. I vow to enter it.

The warmth of her small thin body through the kimono.

As I left the meditation hall after a particularly difficult session, torn between trying to picture her face and trying to banish it completely, the head priest called me to one side and instructed me to wait. He stood with his back to me until everyone else had left, then he turned and fixed the full intensity of his gaze on me, fierce and withering. He must have been observing my meditation, seen every thought, every desire. I bowed deep, kept my head bent.

So, he said. This merchant, Yotsugi-san, he has a daughter.

I felt myself burn, said Yes, my voice a squawk. Even that one word felt like a confession. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

Her name is Hana.

Hana. Her name. Hana. Flower.

Hana.

According to Yotsugi-san, you saved his daughter’s life, or at the very least kept her from serious injury.

A faint hope. Perhaps I was not, after all, about to be damned.

He has sent a letter singing your praises and inviting you to dine with the family this evening.

I looked up. The gaze was just as fierce, unremitting – nostrils flared, an irritated twitch at the corner of the mouth. He breathed out, part snort, part sigh.

Go, he said. But do not be distracted by this young woman or her father’s wealth. Stay in the Buddha-mind.

With a curt nod, a grunt, I was dismissed.

Do not be distracted. Stay in the Buddha-mind.

Her name was Hana. I spoke it, tasted it in my mouth.

Hana.

A mantra.

I bathed and put on my cleanest clothes, the ones that smelled least of mildew and sweat. The Yotsugi home was about a mile from the temple, and I set out walking, past a row of little shops and stalls selling fruit and vegetables, pickles and dried fish, trinkets and knick-knacks, clogs and straw umbrellas, sweets made from bean paste, scrolls and paintbrushes, netsuke, incense. I loved the stink and fragrance of it all, the light of the day fading, oil-lamps lit for the evening. I felt light and buoyed up, exhilarated.

An old woman bowed, in deference to my monks’ robes. I bowed lower in return. A crazy drunk laughed at me, sprayed spit, his face a toothless demon mask. I laughed right back at him, bowed again, walked on.

The way led through some narrow back streets and past a stretch of open ground next to the graveyard. I was aware of a movement, turned and saw a scraggy-looking dog loping towards me. It stopped and growled, started barking at me. I looked around for a stone to throw at it, but there was nothing. Hackles raised, it came closer, barked louder. I turned and faced it down, barked back at it louder still, and it ran off, whimpering.

Ha!

I offered up a silent prayer to Kannon, for protecting me and for not letting me find a stone. The edict of the Dog Shogun was still in force. Compassion for living beings. I saw myself reported, arrested by some petty official, thrown in jail, sentenced and executed. A sad end to a young life, and before I’d even had the chance to know Hana. I laughed again, this time at myself.

The Yotsugi residence looked modest from the outside, a solid wooden gate, weathered and worn, bamboo fencing on either side, the family name carved on an old oak panel, and beside it a length of rope, a bell-pull. I breathed deep, gathered myself and tugged at the rope. Somewhere far inside, a temple-bell clanged. I heard the shuffle and clack of wooden geta and the door creaked open. An old servant peered out at me and when I announced my name he showed me inside, led me along a walkway to the house, told me to wait in an anteroom of polished hardwood, immaculate tatami mats on the floor. In a tokonoma alcove, a single chrysanthemum had been placed in a vase in front of a hanging scroll inscribed with vigorous, fluid calligraphy reading The Flower-path. On one wall was mounted a samurai sword in its sheath. On the wall opposite hung a magnificent kimono, sleeves spread out like wings, dyed deep pink, patterned with gold-embroidered birds. The air was filled with the scent of a rich musky perfume, a dark, spicy expensive incense. I breathed it in.

The shoji screen slid open with the barest whisper and my host stepped into the room and greeted me by name.

Welcome to my humble home, he said, and motioned me to sit.

I kneeled on the tatami, and he sat facing me on a low wooden seat.

Now, he said. Let us get to know each other.

Yotsugi-san asked all the questions. He wanted to know about my family background and I told him what I knew. He was intrigued that my father was samurai and could trace his ancestry back to a warrior clan of the Kamakura period. I told him with some pride that they had fought alongside the great Minamoto no Yoshitsune.

Excellent, he said.

I told him my father had also spent time at Shoin-ji, where my own training had begun.

And now he runs the busy way-station at Hara?

Yes, I said, and I must have registered surprise that he knew this.

Forgive me, he said. I took the liberty of making some enquiries.

I am honoured, I said, bowing.

I find it fascinating, he said, that your father’s early Zen training was no barrier to his becoming a successful businessman. In fact, I am sure it prepared him well for the cut and thrust of commerce.

I heard Zen and barrier, cut and thrust, pictured a swordsman cutting down his enemies. Yoshitsune on the battlefield.

My own modest success, he said, is founded on a love of beauty.

He indicated the kimono on the wall.

I deal in these gorgeous creations, for those who can afford to pay.

The gold birds glittered against the deep pink silk. The shoji screen opened a fraction and Yotsugi-san gave the slightest nod towards the gap. It opened wider and a young woman stepped into the room and set down a lacquer tray bearing a teapot and two bowls, a bamboo whisk and a lidded box. Another maid followed behind with a heavier tray of dark wood, on it a small stove and an iron kettle. The two women backed out through the gap, bowing.

So, said Yotsugi-san.

I thought he was about to prepare tea for us himself. But he clapped his hands and the screen slid open once more, and kneeling there was Hana.

I’d known I would be seeing her at some point in the evening. I had struggled between anticipating it and trying not to think of it at all. But the actuality took me completely by surprise. I felt as if I’d been struck in the chest, and just for a moment I could not draw breath.

She wore a floral-patterned kimono in blues and greens, the sash a rich purple. Her hair was swept up, just so, held in place by a silver clasp and exposing the exquisite curve of her neck. I caught again a waft of her perfume, jasmine, and in behind it the smell of her.

Hana.

She kept her head down, not looking at me.

Tea, said her father, and she bowed, glanced up, just for an instant caught my eye, gave a quick half-smile that turned me inside out.

Tea.

Her movements were extraordinarily graceful as she placed the kettle on the stove, wiped the bowls with the chakin linen cloth, removed the lid from the box and scooped a little tea into each bowl, all with the deftest of movements designed to keep her sleeves out of the way but performed with the flow of a dance or a piece of kabuki. I was mesmerised.

You are familiar with the way of tea? asked her father.

Yes, I said. No. I mean . . .

He smiled, waited.

I mean I have read about it, but never . . .

So, he said. Hana will initiate you into the mysteries.

Hana.

I imagined making a calligraphy of her name, the brush-strokes flowing into a simple drawing of a flower.

Hana.

The water in the kettle had come to the boil. She poured a little into the first bowl, the one in front of me. Then she whisked the tea into a bright green froth, bowed and offered it to me, holding the bowl in both hands. I took it clumsily, touching her fingers. Her eyes smiled, and she made a slight rotating movement of her head, trying to tell me something.

Then I remembered the form of the ritual, and I turned the bowl through a quarter-circle, sipped from the side. Nothing in my life had tasted as sweet as this bitter green tea.

She whisked up more in the other bowl, handed it to her father who took a sip, let out a great slow sigh of satisfaction, made a comment on the fragrance of the tea, the perfect form of the bowl.

I knew this, I had read about it. The custom was to engage in conversation about the tea, the bowls, the room, all of it. But my brain was numb and unable to link with my tongue. Hana had robbed me of language.

The bowl is beautiful, I heard myself say. The tea is delicious. The room is . . . very nice.

Hana bowed again, looked away. Was she trying to hide a smile?

The taste of tea is the taste of Zen, said her father. It sounded like something he had read rather than composed himself, but I nodded appreciatively, grateful that he was trying to put me at ease.

I sipped more of the tea, felt a warmth in my chest, a lightness in my head.

The taste of Zen!

And it all felt suddenly ridiculous, the stiffness and formality, the strained responses, the sheer tight-arsed artifice of it. And yet. And yet. There was the lightness. It bubbled up out of me and I laughed.

Good, I said. It tastes good!

Hana held out a tray of sugared sweets. I took one shaped like a flower and popped it in my mouth, let it dissolve.

I feel I have died, I said, and awakened in the Pure Land.

Her father chuckled, nodded approval.

By the end of the evening I had eaten more food than I had in the previous week, all prepared by Yotsugi-san’s cook. I had downed white miso soup and noodles in a golden vegetable broth, rice and tempura, four sorts of fish. Yotsugi-san had insisted I drink a cup of sake.

One for the road, he said. Let us drink to our continuing friendship.

The road, I said. Friendship.

The sake slipped down, warming, left a pleasant aftertaste. But it was deceptive. I wasn’t used to it, felt the rush to my head and again I found myself laughing.

Yotsugi-san said I could stay in one of their guest rooms, return to the temple in the morning, but I said I couldn’t miss the sesshin, which began early. The word slipped in my mouth and I pronounced it again with great deliberation. Sesshin.

I understand, said Yotsugi-san. But I hope, we both hope, you will visit us again soon.

I bowed, smiled directly at Hana who smiled back.

It would be a great honour, I said.

On the way back past the cemetery, the same dog came running after me, yapping and snarling.

Stupid dog! I shouted. What is wrong with you?

He barked louder, and this time instead of barking back at him, I just laughed and that was even more effective in driving him away.

The sesshin began at 3 a.m. with the clang of a bell. I’d had no sleep to speak of, was a little hungover from the sake, the rich food, the sheer unaccustomed intoxication of it all.

Hana.

Bleary and barely awake, head numb, I managed to fold up my bedding – the thin futon, the single rough blanket – and bundle it away. Then I joined the line to use the toilet, the pit dug in the dirt floor. Ignore the stink. Splash my face with cold water, taking particular care to wash my ears. Cup a little water in my hands to swill in my mouth. Swallow it down. Follow the others into the meditation hall. Sit on my cushion on the tan platform.

We sat in two rows, facing each other. Incense was lit, a thick, heavy scent.

Clang.

The bell rang, deep and resonant, beginning the session. The head priest entered the room without a sound, and we sensed it, a change in the atmosphere. Backs straightened. He walked slowly, silently, behind each row, stopping here or there to administer a sharp rap with his stick on a curved spine, hunched shoulders. He stopped for a moment right behind me and I braced myself for a blow that didn’t come. I bowed with folded hands, gassho, and he moved on.

At the end of the hall he stopped and turned, then he told a story, by way of instruction. It was one I had heard before and I knew it was sometimes assigned as a koan, to be addressed in meditation, an insoluble problem to push the mind beyond itself, beyond thought.

The priest’s voice was measured, incantatory, as if imparting some ancient wisdom.

In ancient China there was an old woman who took it upon herself to provide for a monk and support him in his practice. She had a hut built where he could meditate, and she provided a little food for him every day. This went on for twenty years, and one day she decided to test him, to find out what progress he had made. So she approached a beautiful young woman and asked her to visit the monk.

Embrace him, she said, then ask him suddenly, What now?

The girl did as she was instructed. She caressed the monk and said to him, What now?

The monk remained very serious and stern.

In the depth of winter, he said, a withered tree grows on an old rock. Nowhere is there any warmth.

The girl returned to the old woman and reported what he had said.

That rascal, said the old woman. To think I’ve fed and supported him for twenty years.

She went to the monk and railed at him.

You showed no concern for this girl, she said. You gave no thought to her situation. By all means resist the temptation of the flesh, but show at least a little compassion.

Then she threw him out of the hut and burned it to the ground.

When the priest had finished reciting the story, he bowed.

Now, he said, meditate on this.

Had the priest chosen the koan particularly for me? The thought was arrogant. The truth of the story was universal. It applied to each and every monk meditating in the zendo. And yet.

I imagined Hana coming to me in my room, embracing me, asking me suddenly, What now?

Hana’s fragrance. The curve of her neck.

A withered tree on an old rock.

The monk’s reaction was wrong.

Nowhere is there any warmth.

But returning the girl’s embrace would also have been wrong.

A koan.

This is wrong, the opposite is wrong. What now?

Act.

And yet.

I hadn’t noticed the priest moving slowly along the row, his footsteps silent on the wooden boards. Then in an instant I was aware of him standing behind me, and in the same moment the swish of the stick, the keisaku, the whack between my shoulderblades jarring me awake, shaken.

Composing myself I bowed low then entered into a deep silence, and before I knew it the bell clanged again for the end of the hour, the beginning of kinhin, walking meditation.

The more experienced monks, more practised and adept at all this, seemed to unfold and stand upright in one fluid movement, push aside their cushions, stand catlike on their feet. I did as I had been instructed, rocked from side to side then slowly got to my feet and stood in line. Then again I followed instructions to the letter. Right fist closed around the thumb, placed on my chest and covered with the left palm. Elbows at right angles, arms in a straight line, body erect, eyes resting on the ground, two yards in front. Following the monks ahead, step forward with the left foot.

Breathe in, step forward, breathe out. Heel and toe, sinking into the floor with every step. Feel the stiffness in the legs begin to ease, but without being caught up in that ease. See it as incidental, by the way. Stay alert and poised. Breathe. Walk.

Clang.

It was time to return to the cushion, to another session of seated meditation. A fresh stick of incense was lit, this time a lighter scent, pine.

There was another koan I had read.

What was your original face, before you were born?

Once, on a full moon night, I had entered deeply into the question. Looking up at the moon I had seen there the Buddha-face shining, and for a moment I had known that face as my own.

Now I found myself revisiting the koan, asking the question. What was your original face? I sat on the cushion on the hard floor in the shadowy hall, in a row of monks facing another row of monks. What was your original face?

I sought to identify with my own Buddha-nature. But the only face I could see, with the eye of my heart, was the face of Hana. I felt as if her features were on my own face.

The head priest had encouraged me to go to the Yotsugi residence. But he had admonished me. Do not be distracted. Stay in the Buddha-mind. Had that been my test, my koan?

Once more the priest walked along, silent, behind the row. This time he passed me by without stopping. Someone’s stomach rumbled, gurgled. Someone coughed. The silence deepened. Time passed.

Clang.

The next break was when we were allowed to eat, and after the excess of the night before I was grateful for the simplicity and formality, the frugality and restraint.

The head priest recited the threefold vow.

Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them.

The deluding passions are inexhaustible. I vow to extinguish them.

The Buddha Way is supreme. I vow to enter it.

A little hand-bell was rung, and each of us removed the cloth from a bowl and set of chopsticks in front of us. Two monks moved around the room and ladled out a little rice into each bowl, topped it with a few vegetables, placed next to it a small dish of pickle.

The priest chanted a verse, reminding us that all food comes to us from the labours of many, and that we should receive it with utmost gratitude and humility.

Then a lacquered bowl was passed round from hand to hand, and each of us placed in it a few grains of rice from our portion. This was an offering for the wretched spirits, the hungry ghosts, condemned by their own greed to a miserable existence in this and every other world. I imagined them consigned to one of the deeper hells, endlessly consuming and being consumed.

The hand-bell was rung once more, and then, and only then, we ate, savouring every grain of rice, every piece of vegetable, ending with the pickle – a little daikon radish – to cleanse the palate.

It was permitted to eat three portions of the rice. Three times the servers came round with the pot to ladle it out and the monks would wait, hands folded. Those who had eaten enough rubbed their hands together, bowed as the servers came by. I still felt the aftertaste of last night’s meal, still felt its richness bloat my stomach, so I stopped after one serving, ate the last sliver of pickle. The servers poured a little water into each bowl and we swilled it round to clean it, sipping the water, not wasting a drop. Any water left in the bowl was dripped into the same lacquered bowl, a further offering to those tortured spirits forever ravaged by hunger and thirst.

The head priest recited a prayer of gratitude for the food, and for the strength it gave, pledged to use that strength for the benefit of all sentient beings.

We bowed.

The bell clanged once more.

We stood for another round of kinhin, walking, then sat once more, backs straight, eyes fixed on the floor.

The head priest struck the bell seven times, and the sound grew and resonated, filled the room, filled our minds. Before it had completely faded, he shouted out Mu!

Some of the monks had been meditating on the first great koan, the first barrier to be crossed, and they meditated on this syllable, this Mu and its meaningless meaning.

Nothing. No-thing. Emptiness.

The priest chanted it again, louder, longer.

Join me, he shouted. Chant!

And they did, tentatively at first, voices shaky and wavering, with much hawking and clearing of throats, but gradually getting louder, more confident.

Mu.

Not from the throat, the priest shouted. From the belly!

I started to join in, my own voice strange to me, getting stronger with every chant.

Mu.

It filled my head with light, radiated from my heart, growled and rumbled at the navel.

Mu.

It swelled in the room till there was nothing but the sound. Nothing but. The sound. Nothing. But the sound.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Mu.

The bell clanged and the chanting stopped, and the silence that filled the room was profound.

The sesshin lasted six days. The same regime, long periods of sitting interspersed with walking, chanting and koan, physical labour – helping in the kitchen or sweeping the floors or digging the garden, all done in concentrated silence, and twice a day the sparse rations, the rice and vegetables served with devotion and eaten with gratitude.

Once the priest looked up as the meagre portions were dished out.

No work, no food, he said. Eat what you have earned.

On the last day he stopped walking the length of the room. He put aside the keisaku stick and bowed to us. The gesture was eloquent. It said he could do no more for us. Our realisation was our own responsibility.

We sat on as the day darkened towards evening. The priest began intoning the Heart of Wisdom Sutra. Hannya Haramita Shingyo. Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form.

The bell clanged one final time and the sesshin was over. The monks who had served the food went round the room, pouring tea into each bowl. I blew on my tea to cool it, then sipped it, savouring its green tang, sharp and bitter and good.

For a time nobody made a move to leave. Then one by one the older monks stood up and moved towards the open door, and the rest of us followed, out into the night.

Some made towards the bathhouse, joined the queue to soak in a hot tub. To ease the ache in tired legs, clenched shoulders – that too would be good. But I kept walking.

One old monk stood absolutely still in the centre of the courtyard, looking up at the night sky through the branches of an ancient pine tree. Another sat in the graveyard, back straight, eyes closed.

I walked round the courtyard, breathed the cool night air. I stopped by the gate, stood gazing at the patterns weathered into the old, dark wood with its knots and sworls, its landscapes. The big, heavy wooden bolt had been slid shut. I slid it open and stepped outside, looked up. The sky was clear, the bright stars high and far. Worlds. Worlds away. Away in that infinite vastness, but also here, in this heart of mine. Vastness and brightness. Here.

After the intensity of the sesshin a great emptiness overwhelmed me. I no longer recognised myself, but the head priest assured me this was no bad thing.

What is this self you want to recognise? he said. And who are you that wants to recognise it?

When Yotsugi-san sent another message, inviting me to visit him at his home once more, I was numbed. I did not know what to do.

The priest read Yotsugi-san’s letter.

This merchant, he said, is a benefactor of the temple. He has made a substantial donation.

He turned the letter between forefinger and thumb, examined it as if it might have a secret to reveal.

However, he said, and he paused. There is the daughter.

The silence he left extended endlessly, a silence to be endured as my face burned and sweat trickled down my back.

Is the merchant simply extending his patronage? Or is he looking for a son-in-law?

Perhaps, he continued at last, you should meditate further on the koan I used during sesshin. The old woman burns down the monk’s hut.

Embrace him, the old woman had said, then ask him, What now?

What now?

So it really had been directed at me. And once you became a monk, everything, everything, was a koan.

I walked the same road to the Yotsugi residence. I even saw the same dog. But everything was different. Now I knew this was my koan.

Yotsugi-san welcomed me warmly, asked politely how the sesshin had gone. I stared at him, found words.

It has been a time of great . . . intensity.

Intensity is good in a young man, he said. So too is . . . lightness.

I truly did not know what to say. My tongue was useless, a heavy clapper in the great dull bell of my skull, unable to make a sound.

Just as before, the shoji screen opened a fraction and the two young women stepped into the room, set down the teapot and bowls, the utensils of chanoyu, then the heavier tray with the stove, the iron kettle. Just as before, the two women backed out, bowing, like players in kabuki or noh.

The screen slid closed and I sat staring at it. I knew what came next but still I was not prepared. It opened again with a swish, and she was there, in the room, bowing and kneeling on the tatami and just as before I felt as if I had been punched in the chest and I gulped in air.

She was there in front of me, just as before, but this time the kimono was deep red silk shot through with purple.

Hana.

The smell of her, her own scent overlaid with jasmine. Sheen of glossy black hair, swept up.

She was actually there, utterly herself. Just as before.

Ekaku-san, she said, bowing again, hands folded. Welcome back to our home.

My own hands felt clumsy as I brought them together in gassho. My face burned, as red as her kimono.

Thank you, I heard myself say. It is a great honour to be here.

So.

Just as before.

The faintest smile lingered at the corners of her red, red mouth as she looked down and busied herself with the tea powder and the bamboo spoon, the boiling water, the whisk.

I had no small talk whatsoever. Language had left me.

Her father intervened.

This incense is called Spring Snow, he said. I think it is particularly fine.

Particularly, I said, and could say not one word more.

The boiling water poured on the powdered leaves. The tea whisked to bright froth. The deftness of movement. I was mesmerised.

Ekaku-san was telling me, said her father, about his experience of sesshin. He spoke of its great . . . intensity.

Yes, I said, rallying. It was most . . . intense.

Perhaps you could tell us more, he said.

Much of it, I said, is beyond words.

As are a great many things, said Hana, handing me the bowl.

This time I made a point of taking it carefully, mindful of my great clumsy hands. But this time, it was quite deliberate, she let her fingers touch mine, held them there a moment, just long enough.

I ventured the opinion, said her father, voice droning, that intensity was admirable, but perhaps it had to be tempered by lightness.

Yes, I said, aware that I sounded idiotic, but savouring the word as much as the tea. Lightness.

I sipped.

The tea, I said, is exquisite.

Silence.

Perhaps, said Yotsugi-san eventually, your mind is still in sesshin.

The effects last for some time, I said.

And throughout the sesshin itself, is everyone silent, day and night?

There are long periods of silence, I said. But there is chanting from the sutras, and concentration on a koan, directed by the priest.

Ah, he said, grabbing onto the word. Koans!

Are they not very . . . difficult? said Hana, furrowing her brow.

Poison fangs and talons, said her father. A quagmire to drag you under.

He was puffed up, full of his own erudition.

I read about koans, he said, when I was a young man like you. Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

We meditated on that, I said, and one other.

Which one?

The words were out before I could stop them.

Old-woman-burns-down-the-hut.

He frowned, as if I had contradicted him.

I’m not familiar with that one, he said. It must be more obscure.

Reluctantly I told him the story. I blushed ferociously when I spoke the line at the heart of it.

The young girl caressed him, then asked, What now?

I stared at the tatami as I said it, avoided looking at Hana. My face burned. When I reached the last line, the old woman’s rant at the monk, Yotsugi-san barked out a laugh.

She told him, he said. No uncertain terms! Nowhere is there any warmth. Just what we were talking about earlier. Intensity without lightness.

My bones felt dense, my flesh heavy. I felt trapped in my body, desperate to flee but unable to move. And once again the thought came to me that this was my koan. This here and now.

I had no idea how long we had sat. We had eaten, though I had little stomach for it. When I glanced at Hana I could see she was uncomfortable on my behalf. She nodded in sympathy when she caught my eye, kept a smile on her face when her father spoke. And he saw nothing, understood nothing, just talked and laughed, drank sake, told endless anecdotes, his face a kabuki mask, his words washing over me.

When the evening was over, he gave an exaggerated bow, laughed again.

Burned down his hut!

He bade me goodnight and asked Hana to see me out. In the doorway she said she hoped I would not be put off coming to visit again. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. I folded my hands in gassho and she held them a moment in her own small hands. Lightness. Softness and warmth. She raised her right hand, touched her fingers to my lips. I couldn’t breathe.

What now?

This was more intense than any koan. The world around me was dust and ash. I dreaded hearing from Yotsugi-san, I yearned to hear from him. When I thought of Hana I felt my heart being torn from my chest. I felt moments of wild exhilaration, but deep in my core I knew it was illusion, all of it, a kind of madness.

Shakyamuni’s advice to monks in the Lotus Sutra was clear.

Do not take delight in looking at young women. Do not speak with young girls, maidens or widows.

And yet.

The sheer intensity of the feeling. The sweetness.

A month went by and the madness persisted. I would think I had conquered the emotion and it would overwhelm me again. I felt adrift, between two worlds.

The priest summoned me, kept me waiting outside his room for a time, then shouted to me to come in. I knew he could see through me, and this time I was sure he would confront me and tell me I was worthless.

I opened my mouth to speak but he raised his hand, said, No words!

He sat, straight-backed, breathed in and out slowly. I listened to the breath come and go. A thin-legged spider made its zigzag way across the tatami. I waited.

Eventually the priest spoke, a weariness in his voice.

There is a verse, he said, ascribed to the monk Shoshu Shonin who resided on Mount Shosha in Harima.

When worldly thoughts are intense, then thoughts of the Way are shallow.

When thoughts of the Way are intense, then worldly thoughts are shallow.

He wrote those words more than five centuries ago.

The priest looked at me, his gaze direct, but not unkind.

It is no small matter to attain human birth. And to arrive at a point where you are shaking off the world, and following the Buddha-path is the result of many lifetimes of seeking and striving.

He breathed deep again, recited the Four Noble Truths.

Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Desire can be conquered. There is a Way.

The Way is not easy, he said. But nothing else has any meaning.

He folded his hands, bowed.

Nothing.

Another month, and the priest summoned me again. He had received a letter from Yotsugi-san, dealing mainly with financial matters, his donations to the temple. But he had made a point of thanking me once again and wishing me well. He was most grateful for my actions in saving his daughter from injury. He would not be offering hospitality in the near future as he and his daughter were moving to Kyoto where his wife was already in residence.

It is my understanding, said the priest, that the daughter is to be married to a young nobleman from a Kyoto family.

He paused, then handed me a small scroll, rolled up and sealed.

This was enclosed with the letter, he said. It is addressed to you.

I bowed and took the scroll outside. The seal showed a flower. I opened it and read, a poem from the Kokinshu, copied out in delicate script.

Over and over

Like endless waves,

My heart is carried away

By memories of the one

Who has stolen it.

It was stamped with the same seal, the flower, Hana. The paper smelled of jasmine.