Japanese Gothic Tales (4 page)

6

The priest put a hard on his knee. "I guess I didn't expect to hear you say that."

"Why not?" his visitor asked, though it wasn't hard to guess the answer.

The Priest was a small man with cheeks that puffed out when he smiled. 'Isn't it obvious?" he replied. "Young people these days, you know-' He laughed. "Not that I'm that old myself."

"Oh, no. I understand," the visitor said.
"You're talking about teenagers
, students, right? No need to hold back. That's what's wrong. That's just your problem." He found himself rearranging his legs little by little. "I agree that the teac
hings of Buddhism have grown sta
le," he continued. "I don't even know
which sect you belong to here. B
ut, as you say, the people who come are usually well along in years. Salvation is difficult for people who've been to college. They don't think they need Kannon.

"But really, these days it's the old people who are
dishonest and wicked. They stop right in the middle of chanting a sutra to nag their daughters-in-law. They recite prayers with their shirts off and while holding eel skewers between their teeth. It wasn't always that way. There's plenty of room for argument, I know, but I think things were a little better back when people lived with some idea of heaven and hell in their heads. These days, we go a
round thinking we gain enlighten
ment on our own. In the worst cases, someone looks at a painting of hell and blurts out, 'Not bad at all.'

"But it's the young people, you know," the wanderer continued. "The one; you don't expect to come to the temple. They're the ones who are most attracted to the teachings. They're desperate for peace and life.
Some
go insane. Some even commit suicide in their searching.

"It doe
sn't matter who it is. You might think, 'Now there's a real twentieth-century person,' but go right up to him and say, 'Hail, Amida, Giver of Light and Truth,' and see what happens. Whether it's a ma
n
or a woman, some of them will faint, some will say they want to shave their heads and follow the Way, and still others will clap their hands and gain enlightenment on the spot. Some might even want to die because they see the light.

"It's tr
ue. I'm not kidding. That's how powerful the teachings
of Buddha are. Now is the time for Buddhism to shine. Why do people like you vacillate and withdraw?"

"I see. Yes. Certainly." The priest listened carefully. "Well, I do hear about how our intellectuals are going through great turmoil these days, how there are those who claim to have seen God, some who have been visited by the Buddha, others who say they are the Savior, and even others like the Divine Wind group in Kumamoto who recently staged uprisings for the sake of religion. Be that as it may, these are matters of lofty argument and research, not about these things we priests look after, these . . . idols." He looked over at the small shrine and continued. "If a statue is well made, the world thinks it's an object of art, a piece of sculpture. Maybe, as you say, Buddhism will flourish in the future. But what about these idols? What do you do with them? If we all became believers, what would happen to those who say they worship the
image
of Buddha? Now that's the crucial point. Naturally, we'd appreciate it if people like you thought about the difference between Buddhism and idol worship. I was of the opinion that you thought of them as works of art. That's why I invited you to come and take a stroll."

"But how could we possibly do without idols?" the wanderer responded. "Without images, what would we have to believe in? Your mistake, sir, is in calling them idols. They have names, every one of them. Shaka, Monju, Fugen, Seishi, Kannon. They all have names."

7

"It's the same with people," the wanderer continued. "If they're strangers, they mean nothing to us. But let's give them names. With a name a person becomes father, mother, brother, sister. And in that case, would you still treat them like strangers? Idols are no different. If they're just idols, they mean nothing to us. But the one here in your main hall is Kannon. And so we believe in it, don't we?"

He pointed to the main hall. "You could say a carved figure is nothing but wood or metal or earth, decorated with gold, silver, and gems to add color. But what about people? Skin, blood, muscle, the five organs, the six organs, join them together, add some clothes, and there you have it. Never forget, sir, that even the most beautiful woman is nothing more than this."

He faced the priest. "You might say that people have spirits and idols don't. But, sir, it's precisely our understanding of the spirit that causes us either to see our way or to find it, to feel threatened or to gain peace. To worship, to believe. How can you practice archery without a target? Even acrobats and jugglers have to study. So to those who say they don't need idols I have to ask, 'Is it enough to yearn for your beloved, to love and to pine for someone without ever thinking you'll be together someday? Is it all right never to see her? And if you do see her, then is it acceptable never to speak to her? And if you speak to her, wouldn't you want to touch her hand? And if you touch her hand, would it matter if you never slept together?' Ask them that.

"The truth is that you'd want to embrace the one you love even if it could only happen in your dreams. Come now. Even if it were a fantasy, you'd still want to see the gods, wouldn't you? Shaka, Monju, Fugen, Seishi, Kannon. Tell me that you aren't thankful for their images."

The priest's face became animated and his eyes shone so that the wanderer could almost count the points of stubble around his smile. "Well said. Most interesting."

The priest put a hand on his knee and touched the other to his forehead. "In a nap at midday I met my beloved. Then did I begin to believe in the things we call dreams." He quietly mumbled the lines of the verse pasted on the pillar.

The wanderer looked over to where the spiderwebs framed the brush's brilliant trace.

"Now that you've spoken I feel embarrassed, and unless I explain why you'll never understand. It's about this poem. 'In a nap at midday. . . "

"Poem?"

"That's right. See those things over there? Those are all name tags that visitors to my temple have put up. Some of them are advertisements—for medicine and for whatever. It's a custom, so I don't mind. I don't know how they put them up, or when. But that one, over there on the pillar-"

"You mean the poem?"

"Then you saw it."

"Just a while ago, when you called to me."

"It caught your eye, no
doubt. I know who wrote it."

"A woman, right?"

"That's correct. Apparently it's an old poem. Ono no Komachi's my guess."

"Yes, I think that's right."

"Well, the woman who put it up there was just as beautiful as Komachi."

"You mean the Tamawaki lady?" The wanderer's voice was clear and steady, but in spite of himself he revealed his interest.

"I see. When you brought up the subject of lovers a while ago, I didn't fault you as your purpose was clear. Like 'the moon shining faintly upon the edge of Bright Mountain,' perhaps you were using a metaphor to link the desire for Kannon with this ancient poem

'Then did I begin to believe in the things we call dreams.'

"There are plenty of examples of rare beauties who accept the Buddha and receive Nirvana. Some might be quick to condemn the woman for going around scribbling love poems. But that, too, depends on your point of view. Even in the sutras it says, 'If a woman seeks a man, Kannon will give help,' so we shouldn't be trying to find fault. And yet, a man died because of that poem."

The wanderer's surprise was even greater than when he saw the snake in the field of yellow blossoms.

8

"You probably won't believe it. It's such a bizarre story." The priest touched his cheek, looked down at the floor, and thought for a moment. "If you don't want to blame the poem, I guess you could say he died from delusion."

"But that's a shocking thing to say! Tell me, what happened?" The wanderer had already started to edge forward on his knees. Eager to hear more of what promised to be a good story, he removed his hunting cap from the bosom of his kimono and set it aside. Outside, the spring wind sounded in the pines, not as it swept down from the sky but as it rose, lighter than a human being, to gently caress the heavens.

The priest looked at the votive lamp standing before the Kannon statue. "Well then, since you asked. It was the man I was telling you about, the gentleman who came to stay in the hut down the hill. I guess you could say he died of longing for the woman who wrote that poem about dreaming. Or maybe we should call it lust. That’s the gist of it."

"Amazing. I didn't know that sort of thing still happened. What sort of man was he?"

"He was a man like you."

"What!" The priest didn't seem to be trying to trick his visitor, and yet he had served up more than just tea. It was like getting whacked on the back thirty times by a Zen master. "That's quite a comparison." The wanderer laughed it off.

"I shouldn't have said that, considering your remarks, and how similar your circumstances are with the other—"

"Don't worry about that. I've always wanted to die of love anyway. Heaven knows, a man doesn't get many chances these days to go down in battle. So if I'm going to die in bed, let it be from love. 'Born into a wealthy family, he died of passion.' What more could you ask for? We all want romance, even if it means the agony of separation. The only real problem is that dying of lust is even harder than saving money."

"Quite a sense of humor, I must say." The priest laughed.

"No, I'm serious. That's why it sounds like a joke. I envy that fellow's luck, actually. Being able to find someone like that, a woman you'd kill yourself for."

"She is beautiful. There's no question about that. And not that hard to find, either. You wouldn't have to dive to the bottom of the sea or climb to heaven in order to meet her."

"So she's still alive."

"Yes. She lives right here."

"Here?"

"That's correct. Right here in Kunoya."

"In Kunoya?"

"Sir, on your way here today, you must have passed right by her house."

"Her house?" As he asked, the sight of the young weaver woman working amid the brilliant yellow of the rape blossoms flashed before his eyes. "You mean the young woman in the farmhouse?"

"No, no. I'm talking about a very wealthy man's wife."

"So it's not her," the priest's guest mumbled to himself. Then of the priest he asked, "A rich man's wife, is she? A flower with an owner."

"That's right. That's why, sir."

"Oh, I get it. An affair. So she's really that attractive, is she?"

"Definitely. In the summer months we get thousands of visitors from Tokyo, and some of the women are very striking. But not one of
them comes close.

"So you're saying that if I saw her, I'd fall in love with her too, is
that it? Sounds dangerous."

"Why?" the priest asked in a serious tone of voice.

"I'll have to be careful on the way home, I guess. So where is it?
This rich man's house."

"It's on the corner, the two-story one."

"What?" The visitor shuddered.

9

The hut's thatched roof blended into the rape blossoms far below. The waves showed their white tips as the pine-blowing wind blew in a faint banner of mist. Down the mountainside, nothing jutted higher than the thatched roof of the hut, tucked among the soft crimson of
plum blossoms.

"That's where the woman lives." Suspecting nothing, the priest
continued. "She moved in last fall, just about the time I rented the hut out to the gentleman I mentioned to you. I won't reveal his name."

"That's fine with me."

"He was staying at that hut when he died one night in the ocean."

"Drowned?" the visitor asked.

"It seems so. His body washed up on the shore. Was it an accident? A suicide? Of course, everyone suspected suicide when they first heard of it. But, as I said, it seems his death was connected with that poem—

"No kidding."

"Just two months after the gentleman passed away, she moved in over there." The priest pointed do
wn the mountain toward the two-
story house, his sleeves forming a veil of blackness. "At the time of the incident, the family was still living together in a house down by the water. That's the main residence, even now. But they also have a large
store in Yokohama where the husband spends most of his time. Here in Kunoya, the wife lives quietly with a few other young women.

"So that's their second home."

"Actually, no. It gets a bit complicated. That two-story house is the main residence. That's where her husband was born. Back then, though, the family was just barely making it, and the house was nothing like it is now, just a leaky thatched roof that let in the rain and the moonlight. Tamawaki's father passed away a while ago. He was a tenant farmer. But extremely frugal. After saving up for a number of years, he was able to rent a small plot of land adjoining the back gate of our hut. This used to be quite a complex. I understand the head priest's retreat was there.

"Anyway, it was spring, time to plant beans—warm enough for the gentle heat waves to be rising from the paddy levees. Carrying a hoe on his shoulder, Tamawaki's father came to a spot at the bottom of the hill he was reclaiming. I heard it happened around noon, when his son came to call him in for lunch.

"It was cold when he set out early that morning, wearing a padded cotton coat, but the weather was good and he worked straight through. By noon he was hard at it, stripped to the waist, a towel wrapped around his head. As he had already taken care of his rented land, he was trying to increase his acreage by hacking away at the hill. When his boy showed up to call him in, he said, 'Let me take a smoke,' and hacked one last time at the mountainside. Then guess what happened? The earth suddenly grew soft, and his hoe sank deep into the ground. When he pulled it out, the hoe was wet and covered with something sticky and red."

"A corpse?" the visitor broke in.

"Oh, no." The priest shook his head. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"I see. Hidden treasure."

"That's right. When you're out on the ocean, the sight of red fish scales is startling indeed. And of all the colors that seep from the earth, the most surprising of all, more than purple or yellow or blue, is red.

"My god!” the old man thought, getting excited. Another two or three hacks, and suddenly he had a hole. He lay down against the mountain, and looking in like this.”