Читать книгу Night Boat - Alan Spence - Страница 9

TENJIN

Encouraged by my mother, I persisted with my devotions. For weeks, months, I got up faithfully, every morning at the hour of the ox, while it was still dark. I bowed to Tenjin, I chanted the sutra. My father said nothing, but from time to time I caught him glaring at me then turning away. I continued, regardless. Then something happened that shook my faith.

Among the boys in the village there was a sudden fashion for a game of archery, shooting at a target with a special small-scale bow and half-size arrows. My father gave me a set, perhaps to deflect my attention from what he still saw as a waste of time, and briefly I became obsessed with the game, determined to improve.

It was summer and my brother was home from school, hanging about the house, and he watched my efforts with a mixture of irritation and amusement. Some day he would inherit the family business, run the inn, take over the way-station from my father, and already he was puffed up with the sense of himself and his place in the world.

One particular afternoon he was lolling back on the balcony, cool in the shade, as I tried again and again to hit the little pine tree that grew in the yard. The more I tried, the louder he laughed and the wilder my shots became.

Great samurai, he said, maybe you should try hitting a barn door!

I tried again, missed again, and he laughed even more.

Maybe you should pray to your Tenjin, he said. Ask him to help you out.

I picked up my arrows and strode into the house, trying to calm myself and fight down the rage. Inside it was cooler, and without my brother taunting me I thought I might have more success. I looked around the room. One set of shoji screens was decorated with a chrysanthemum flower. The circular shape of it, the petals radiating out from the centre, to my eye made a perfect target. I set myself to hitting it right in the middle, the heart of the flower. I got it in my sights, let fly and missed, the arrow skittering through the open half of the screen and into the room beyond. It was frustrating, twanging the string, seeing the arrow float harmlessly wide of its target.

I had to concentrate. One of the older boys I’d seen practising spoke mysteriously of kyudo, the way of the bow, as if it was a kind of meditation in itself. You have to act as if you are not acting, he said. Pull the bowstring as if you are not pulling it. Aim at the target as if there is no target.

None of this made any sense to me. It all just sounded like so much nonsense, and the boy, like my brother, was full of himself, cocksure. Nevertheless, he hit the target more often than not, so perhaps if I tried not trying, I would improve. And after all, I knew a little about discipline, I got up every morning at the hour of the ox to chant the sutra. Perhaps my brother was right, and Tenjin would help me.

I stood a moment and folded my hands, chanted the opening verse. Then I picked up the bow and breathed deep. I concentrated my gaze on the painted chrysanthemum, at the point right in the centre, the target. I remembered the older boy, tried to copy the way he stood, the way he held his arm out straight, grasping the bow, the way he placed the arrow, pulled back the string. I tried to empty my mind, I asked Tenjin for help.

Now.

I released the arrow, saw it fly, higher than I’d shot it before, wide of the target and through the gap into the next room. In the room was the tokonoma alcove where a special scroll hung, a painting of the poet Saigyo standing under a willow tree, composing verses. My mother had very few possessions she treasured – a hair clasp, a silk kimono with a lotus pattern, a little wooden statue of Kannon, Bodhisattva of mercy, and this scroll with the painting of Saigyo.

The arrow had flown straight and true, as if guided by some malevolent spirit. It had hit the scroll, pierced the poet’s left eye.

I dropped the bow and ran into the room. I pulled out the arrow and that only made things worse as the arrow tore a bigger hole, as if Saigyo’s eye had been gouged out. I let out a cry then pressed my head to the ground. I asked Tenjin to protect me, to let my crime somehow go undiscovered. But my brother had heard the noise and came rushing in.

You’re dead, he said.

And my father was standing in the doorway.

What is it now? he asked. And he looked where my brother was pointing. He saw the damage to the picture and he grabbed the arrow from me, picked up the bow.

Useless! he said, and he strode off.

Then I saw that my mother had come into the room, stood staring at the scroll. She said nothing, and the look in her eyes was not anger, but sadness, and that was much much worse.

That night I couldn’t sleep, turned this way and that, tortured. If I hadn’t picked up the bow. If I hadn’t fired at the target. If I hadn’t tried not to try. And the final, terrible thought, if I hadn’t asked Tenjin for help. He had failed me. But I mustn’t think that. Ultimately Tenjin would protect me, he would save me from hell.

I was wide awake at the hour of the ox – I hadn’t slept. So I sat as usual in front of the shrine and lit a stick of incense.

There was something I had heard, a way of reading the smoke from the incense. I would ask the deity a question, and the smoke would give the answer. I folded my hands.

Great Tenjin, I sit at your feet and ask you this question. If you can save me from the burning fires of hell, make this smoke rise straight up. But if you cannot help me, make the smoke blow this way and that.

I concentrated intensely, my eyes clenched shut, my folded hands pressed tight together. Then carefully I opened my eyes and peered at the smoke. It rose in a long white line towards the ceiling, straight and unbroken. I felt sheer relief, elation. Tenjin had given me a sign. I laughed and let my hands fall to my lap, and immediately the smoke started writhing and breaking up, dispersing and drifting across the room.

The answer was clear. Tenjin could not protect me. I was damned.

Next morning I was miserable. There was no point in getting out of bed, no point in eating, or playing. No point in chanting the sutra. No point in anything.

My mother came to me in my room.

It was just an old painting, she said, a dusty old scroll. It can probably be patched up. And if it can’t, it doesn’t matter. It’s not worth the misery.

It’s not just the painting, I said. And I told her about asking Tenjin, and the smoke from the incense giving me my answer.

And, of course, she said, you’re such a terrible, terrible sinner.

I could see she was trying not to smile, but I turned away. This was serious.

In the first place, she said, sometimes it’s better if we face up to things. It’s better for our karma if we take our medicine. And second, you’re being very hard on Tenjin! Are you going to give up on him just like that, and believe some hocus pocus about incense smoke? Are you going to be like that smoke, at the mercy of a puff of wind, blowing you this way and that?

I felt something in my chest, a bubble bursting, and I let out a great sob.

There, she said, hugging me. There.

A puppet show was advertised in nearby Suwa, and my mother said she would take me.

They’re performing a wonderful story, she said, about the great teacher Nisshin Shonin. I wanted to know what happened in the story, but she wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t want to spoil it for me, she would let me see it for myself.

The performance was outdoors, in a temple courtyard. It was early evening, the light beginning to fade, and lamps had been lit all around. A little stage had been set up with a simple black curtain as backdrop. I had never been to a puppet show, or any kind of theatre, so I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew from my mother’s quiet excitement it must be something special. The place was crowded but we had arrived early and sat near the front.

A group of musicians sat at the side of the stage and suddenly, with the whack of wooden clappers, they began to play, the ripple and twang of a koto, wail of a samisen, breathiness of a shakuhachi flute. Immediately the atmosphere changed. The sense of anticipation intensified and it felt as if we were in a special place. I hadn’t seen the puppeteers come on stage, but suddenly they were there, dressed in black, the little puppet figures slumped in front of them.

At first I felt a slight disappointment. The puppeteers were in full view, it would be obvious they were manipulating the figures, it would be distracting, it would spoil the illusion.

Then the music changed, a rapid drumbeat, a man’s voice chanting, intoning the story, and slowly, slowly, one of the puppet figures began to move. The little body straightened up, the little head raised, the little hands came together. He bowed and the little eyes blinked once, stared straight out, right at me, and I caught my breath, completely and utterly transfixed.

The everyday world fell away. None of it mattered, the courtyard, the crowd, the stage, the puppeteers, none of it was real. We had been drawn into another world where this little being was fully alive. He was Nisshin Shonin, come to life.

He told us of the true path to enlightenment, the chanting of the Lotus Sutra, and how his devotion to that path might cost him his life. He had fallen foul of the Shogun, Yoshinori, and been denounced as a heretic. Now he was to be tortured and forced to give up his faith.

Another figure loomed beside him. This was Lord Tokimune, the Shogun’s henchman.

Tell me, he demanded. If you follow the teachings of the Lotus Sutra, can you bear the heat of a blazing fire?

A true devotee, said Nisshin, can enter into a raging fire without being harmed.

Indeed? said Tokimune. Let us put this to the test.

I felt the fear again, for Nisshin, for myself. My throat was dry, a sick emptiness in my stomach. The voices and the music said the torturers were piling up firewood and setting it alight. I could smell it, I could feel the heat. Nisshin was ordered to walk through the flames. He moved forward, hands folded in front of him. He wavered a moment, as if from the intense heat, then he gathered himself again. The music grew louder and through it came the chant from the sutra.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

He stood, unscathed.

This is the protection of Kannon Bodhisattva, he said, and I felt a thrill, a tingling in my spine. The audience shouted their approval, applauded. I thought the show was over. But the music changed again as Tokimune stepped forward.

So you can bear a little heat, he said. But do you think this can be compared to the fires of hell?

I would not be so arrogant, said Nisshin.

We must give you a sterner test, said Tokimune. Now, kneel.

The music changed again, thud of a deeper drum, screech and wail of the flute and strings. Two more figures appeared, summoned by Tokimune. They moved awkwardly, carried between them two poles, and suspended from the poles was an iron pot, a cauldron. Tokimune explained that the cauldron was red-hot and the two men could hardly bear the heat. Nisshin was kneeling in front of them, and with difficulty they raised the pot over his head as he chanted once more.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

The sky had darkened and a breeze made the lanterns flare. Steam and smoke rose from the cauldron as the two men shook from the effort of holding it up. The music grew louder still, the howling of demons, as the cauldron was placed on Nisshin’s head, and he flinched and the audience gasped and I thought my heart would stop. I clung to my mother’s sleeve.

Courage, she said.

Then we heard it, getting stronger, rising above the cacophony.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

The two bearers staggered back and let the cauldron fall to the ground. Nisshin stood up, folded his hands and continued his chant.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

There was a cheer and a few people at the back started chanting along with Nisshin.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

More and more people joined in, and my mother was chanting, and I was too, and so was everyone else in the audience.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.

The voices rose together, like one great voice, into the night, and I felt lifted up, outside myself. I had tears in my eyes, and my mother wiped them with her sleeve. On the way home I told her I knew what I wanted to be. I would be like Nisshin. I would leave home and be a monk.

Yes, she said. Yes. When it’s time.