Night Boat. Alan Spence
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calligraphy was good, she said, though he lacked your talent for making these drawings and bringing them to life!
I thought of the drawing I had burned. I felt myself blush.
So you see, she said, when he gets angry at you, or loses patience, it is not a simple matter.
The drawing I had done of him, glowering.
He knows how difficult that life can be, said my mother. Perhaps he is afraid for you, and thinks you are too young.
He thinks I will fail.
She left a silence, then continued.
Perhaps in his heart he feels that he failed, and it pains him to think of such things, so he pushes them away.
My father, the businessman. My father with his brusqueness, his ferocious samurai manner, inherited from his father. My father’s impatience with me, his anger at my devotions, calling it all a waste of time.
The way is not easy, said my mother. And perhaps his real work, like mine, was to bring you into the world, to provide for you. Until now.
Tanrei, the head priest at Shoin-ji, was old and frail. He said I might be better to follow my vocation at another temple, Daisho-ji, in the neighbouring town of Numazu. Perhaps he also thought it would be best for me to move away from home, to put some distance – even just a few miles – between myself and my parents. But he said he would accept me into the order. I would receive the tonsure and he would give me a new name.
On the appointed day I bathed and dressed in monks’ robes of rough grey cloth. My head was shorn then lathered and shaved, scraped close to the scalp. The monk who used the razor had a steady hand and only once, when I twitched, he nicked the skin with the blade, just at the crown of my head. He dabbed the little bead of blood.
This one’s keen, he said. He wants to open his crown chakra already.
I rubbed my head, felt the rough stubble. I was led into the meditation hall and told to kneel in front of Tanrei who sat upright on a hard wooden bench. The sharp tang of incense filled the air.
From today on, he said, Iwajiro is no more. You will leave the name behind as you leave behind your childhood. Your new name is Ekaku. Repeat it after me. Ekaku.
Ekaku.
It means Wise Crane.
Ekaku.
Go to the shrine room, he said, and chant the name one hundred and eight times. Let the sound of it fill you. Become the name. Ekaku.
Ekaku.
The monk who had shaved my head handed me a string of juzu, counting beads. From the length of it I knew there must be 108 beads, the sacred number. I would count them between thumb and forefinger as I chanted. I thanked him and sat in front of the shrine. Here too the smell of incense was strong. The very walls, the old wooden beams and pillars, were infused with its ancient musky scent.
I straightened my back and began to chant, my own voice as strange to me as this new name, my mantra.
Ekaku. Ekaku.
Wise Crane.
As I chanted I felt the sound resonate in my belly, my chest, my throat. Then the word lost all meaning, became pure sound.
Ekaku.
It became the cry of a bird, a white crane in flight across the evening sky.
Ekaku.
Then I was the crane, neck thrust forward, spreading my wings. I alighted on a rock, folded in on myself, and I was an old Chinese sage, looking out over a range of mountains.
Ekaku.
My finger and thumb closed on the final bead, larger than the rest. I chanted one last time.
Ekaku.
I stepped outside and into this new life.
My shaved head. The spring breeze.
A few weeks later my parents came to see me off on my journey. The arrangements had been made. The head priest at Daisho-ji would be expecting me. My father had given me a few coins tied in an old purse, enough to pay for my keep when I arrived. I thanked him and bowed low, pressed my forehead to the ground, stood up again and dusted myself down. My mother held me a moment, stood back and bowed to me with folded hands.
I shouldered my pack and set out walking along the Tokaido. The spring morning was bright and cold. Looking up, I saw Fuji, immense above the clouds, then they swirled and closed in again, obscuring it. I turned and looked back, saw my mother and father still standing there. I waved and my mother bowed, my father gave a nod of the head and turned away, went back inside.
Further on I stopped and put my straw kasa on my head. Again I looked back and could still see my mother, small and distant. Again I waved, and this time she also waved. I walked on. At a bend in the road, I turned and looked back one last time, and she was still there, a tiny figure, just distinguishable. I thought she was waving again, and I did the same. I kept walking, and the next time I looked I could no longer see her, or the house, or the village. The world I knew had shrunk and disappeared, and now Fuji shook off its mist and cloud and loomed there, huge and serene, a great being, dreaming itself.
ONE TIME, ONE PLACE
The head priest at Daisho-ji, Sokudo Fueki, was a wiry, vigorous man, perhaps my father’s age, in his forties.
So, he said, you didn’t last long at Shoin-ji. Why did they throw you out?
The priest, I said, Tanrei Soden. He thought . . .
That old fart, said Sokudo. He hasn’t had a thought in years. He should just write a death-verse and pack his bags, be done with it.
I was shocked at his bluntness. Then I wondered if his words were a test.
I’m sure he is a man of wisdom, I said, and a very capable priest.
Oh, you’re sure, are you? said Sokudo. On the basis of what?
I . . .
He took one look at you, shaved your head, slapped a new name on you and shunted you out the door.
It was true. I’d been disappointed at the speed of my departure from Shoin-ji, with barely time to let the dust settle. But I’d assumed the old man knew what was for the best.
Your loyalty does you credit, said Sokudo. And perhaps I’m being harsh. Maybe if I get to that age I’ll be content to sit on my arse waiting for enlightenment. But right now I think it would be better to die and descend into hell.
I felt the heat prickle my scalp, sweat run down my back.
Descend into hell.
He sensed my reaction.
Ah, he said. The fear. Well, that can be a good place to start. As good as any.
I was set a number of seemingly menial tasks – scrubbing the floors, sweeping the courtyard, scouring out the rice-pots in the kitchen. With long sessions of zazen – seated meditation – in between, beginning early in the morning, the work filled my time and I was glad of the routine. But right from the beginning I hankered after more.
One day Sokudo told me someone wanted to see me, a respected guest who was passing through. He led me to the shrine room and bowed to the old man seated there. I recognised him straight away – he was Kyushinbo, a wandering monk with a fearsome reputation. When I was a child he had often stayed at my parents’ home on his way along the Tokaido. They were grateful to have him visit and to offer him