Segaki, page 3
But he must pretend, he knew, that nothing was wrong. So must they all. For the rest of the day, and for the rest of every day.
It was not the civil wars that bothered him. In ordinary times wars took place chiefly in valleys, and might be watched or ignored with equal safety from the nearest hill. The anarchy of a general insurrection was another matter. For most people cannot contain a peace. It makes them costive. They must have a bowel movement every day and one war every generation, for though they say they loathe violence, we always deny what we like best. When hatred is undisciplined, and runs like water down the nearest convenient course, then even those who have built safely above the high water mark of human avarice and fear are apt to be flooded out.
And that was what was happening now.
Even belief had its politics, and he was an astute administrator, just naïve enough to believe in self-interest, and therefore a capable diplomat. One has to be something of a child to win out over the grown-ups. And that was what he had become, in order to secure a little peace. But now that both opposition and protection were being swept away, there would be danger everywhere.
He could afford to be serene, for it was not actually this danger that troubled him. It was something in himself. Also, the monks under him were becoming vague with anxiety. Always in the Angrya season his best disciples went away, for that was their duty. It was the futile who stayed behind.
These he did not find reassuring. He did not see himself as a hen with her brood of chicks. He could not bear them today. He had not been able to bear them for some time, which was what really made him uneasy. It was a failure of will, or of insight, for what is insight if it is not accompanied by a firm will? He stayed in his own quarters, that formal little shed, as abstract as a tea house, open to the gardens on one side and to the waterfalls on the other, for the rest of the day.
Perhaps, by becoming absorbed into the rhythm of the water, he could re-establish the rhythm of his own belief, for after all, the two were equally symbolic of the same thing, being not symbols at all, except for convenience and to the uninformed eye, but the thing itself.
Unfortunately his hearing was acute. And his own quarters were separated only by the pump court and the bath house from the Zendo hall in which the remaining monks, not more than ten or twelve, were supposedly meditating.
If you could achieve insight while gossiping, they would have achieved it years since. Two weeks ago a band of sumo wrestlers had asked lodging in return for a performance. They had been fine big stupid men, alert and forceful, without a thought in their heads, but by nature gentle. They had that well conditioned fat that looks as though it could be peeled away in strips and then put back on, without doing any damage, and their toes turned up with great elegance. They were as affectionate as large dogs, and just about as lost without a master. The monks doted on sumo wrestlers. But they had forced him to send these away, afraid that they were enemies in disguise.
He could not really blame them. Far away, at Kamakura, an entire monastic order had been burned alive with its abbot. But he could not see what difference that made. Neither had the abbot. It was said he had entered the bonfire with the polite resignation of an exile going down the plank to his boat, with a last look round, to memorize everything, and that was all.
Yet the incident had been disturbing. His brother was at Kamakura, or rather, not far from there, at a rural town up in the hills.
Over the sounds of the waterfall, on which he tried to concentrate, he could hear the pattering gossip of the monks, as they came to and fro all day. He knew very well what they had to say.
But he could not hide from them forever. At about nine, in the warm, restless night, when even the guttering lamps looked sticky, he crossed the pump court and walked quietly into the Zendo hall. It was the centre of the monastery. On either side of the aisle a raised platform ran the length of the building. When full this could accommodate thirty monks, each with his tatami mat and bedroll. Here they were supposed to spend their days in meditation, but the place was now half-empty. It had echoes. The twelve remaining brothers were huddled under their cotton comforters, but he doubted if they were asleep. Inside the door, on his left, the supervisor of the hall was not lying down, but sat bolt upright, staring at the open doorway. Muchaku was startled. But this man. was more reliable than the others. Muchaku beckoned him out into the pump court.
Oio’s face was grave and blue in the starlight. “It was hard to get them to sleep. You should not have left us alone today.”
Muchaku shrugged.
“They say there is an army out there.”
“There is no army.”
“There is something.”
“Oh yes, there is always something out there. But fear won’t send it away.” Muchaku looked at Oio curiously. “And what do you think?”
Oio kept his thoughts to himself. He always did. “I thought it better to watch.”
“What good would watching do?” Muchaku asked irritably. “Go back to your mat and go to sleep.” Oio usually upset him, and did now.
“Will you sleep?” he said.
“Yes, of course, why not?” The man was fond of him, and therefore saw too much. Muchaku’s temper was worn. He did not want it to fray in front of Oio. He walked to his own quarters, without looking back, and slid the panel closed behind him. But he did not sleep.
He only pretended.
One is used to taking the immutability of nature for granted. There is no certainty more calm than that of a summer’s night. But now that blandness was pocked with little doubts. The crack of a twig, a sudden listlessness in the sound of falling water, the stifled silence of the tree toads, now seemed to mean something other than themselves. And indeed the beauty of nature is both so austere and so intense, that it cannot fail to make us wary, if we are aware of it at all.
As he lay there in the dark, all the familiar noises whirled through unexpected dimensions, like the ceiling to a drunk. And is not fear a form of drunkenness? A little too much of it, and the floor begins to slip.
The night was very long. Then there was a hush. It was a moment he loved. And loving it, he knew it was not fear he felt, but only the sensation that he was being hustled along towards an unforeseen decision that would take all this away from him, this which he cherished more than ever, simply because he could no longer find it in his heart to cherish it at all. He lay there, waiting. Through the open panel, across the stream, the matte of the trees was like a black rug hung up to dry and at last the right colour for being wet.
And then it came: the nightsong of the hototogisu, that precious, nondescript, and reverent little bird, a black and white cuckoo with green legs and a red maw. It says everything, and then when it has said it eight thousand and eight times, it vomits blood and dies. It is tired of saying it. But we never tire of listening.
Sometimes one even catches sight of it in the daytime, cocky on a branch, delousing itself. But it is always silent then.
It seemed to stop, he was disappointed, and then there it was again, hovering over the water. He fell asleep, and when he woke up, he felt quite young, and realized that he must have been smiling.
He was now resolute. He had made his decision. There was nothing he could do about the outside danger, but there was something he could do about the danger within. If they were so unenlightened as not to be able to control themselves, no matter how much to do so might disgust him, it was his duty to control them. In these public times even the appearance of goodness was better than no effort at all. If their devotion was a sham, therefore, willy-nilly, it must be a decent sham.
He dressed hastily, but with care, in one of his best robes, washed at the pump, and then glided busily into the Zendo hall, his body soothed by contact with the worn silk next his skin, for after the smell of baking bread, the smell of fresh warm laundry is the most benign smell.
At the threshold he stopped. The hall was completely deserted, and what was even more unusual, in disorder. For a moment he thought the monks had fled. Several of the cotton mattresses had not even been rolled up. He blinked. Then Oio was beside him. Feeling reassured, he allowed himself to seem angry.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“I could not hold them. They went down to the wall.” Oio hesitated. “To watch the army.”
Muchaku snapped his fingers. “There is no army.” He looked round the disordered hall with disbelief. “Come,” he said, and marched down the Zendo towards the door at the farther end. He flung it open, stepped out into the court, and gathering up his skirts, trotted briskly through grasses that whipped his bare shanks with dew. Oio was behind him, but said nothing.
Already, half-way down through the orchard, they could see the priests before them, lined up along the wall, a row of brown and yellow moths. And certainly something was going on down there. The woods were restive, and there was the sound of shouting. The voice seemed to flit back and forth through the undergrowth, and yet it also seemed to come from one place.
As he hurried, something caught Muchaku’s eyes, a constant ripple in the long yellow grasses, as though some lumbering beast were careful to keep out of sight. He thought of ambush, as the ripple stalked him, but had no time for that now.
There was a keening in that wood. The monks were so fearfully concentrated, that they did not notice his approach. It occurred to him they had come to be killed, and were now waiting for the whine of an arrow, with the pathos of a row of singed squabs.
That sound out there could not be human. It had the dusty wail of a ghost in a peasant play. Then it broke off into muffled, broken sobs, the sound of a blind begger who has had his cane knocked away. It must be there somewhere, just outside the limits of his own warm-blooded world, but where? Whatever it was it was agitated. The monks began to murmur among themselves. Something out there was full of hatred. In a wavering line they drew back from the wall, as though they had come to watch a bonfire that was suddenly too warm. It was they now who made the noise. The wood was desperately still.
Behind Muchaku the rustling began in the grasses again. A black mass heaved up and charged. Despite himself he jumped. But as the object hurtled forward, it became suddenly that whipped hound. The hound began to bay. The monks turned, terrified. Now they were being attacked from the rear. They did not even see Muchaku. They hissed and murmured. The dog circled them, ran to the edge of the wall, barked, bayed, but mostly whined, pawing the stone edge of the parapet frantically, trying to make up its mind, pattering up and down, looking for some more favourable place, then squatting on its haunches and baying again.
It was impossible to tell from whom the first stone came. It was an unsure stone, and the first shower of pebbles was tentative. Then fear and hatred found an outlet, and the stones became heavier. They struck at Muchaku, but he scarcely noticed. He was watching the dog. The dog did not notice either. It winced when a bigger stone hit its rump, let loose an agonizing yelp, and pawing at the coping again, launched itself into space.
Muchaku hurried forward to where it had stood. The dog landed with a splayed flop, righted itself, and charged limply towards the silent wood. The shrubs rustled, but there was no other sound. The dog seemed to know exactly where to go, and the barrier of undergrowth healed behind it with a shocking vaginal suck.
The moment was suspended. The monks saw Muchaku now. He paid no attention to them. Still holding up his skirts, he stood on the extreme edge of the wall. He was really angry. That leap must have hurt the dog. And that was true. As the wind shifted, he could hear it whimpering. But it was with someone, and someone it trusted and loved, for the whimper had a companionable sound.
Again he caught, incautiously, that silvery glint. “You there,” he ordered. “Come out of there.”
There was no answer. The monks drew back out of sight. He glanced at them contemptuously. “I said come out. Are we anything to be afraid of? Look at us! Are you ashamed to be seen? What is it you want?”
With a dewy shake, the branches parted, and a figure lumbered heavily and drunkenly out, followed by the dog. It was a Samurai. He had his helmet well down. It was impossible to see his face. His armour was heavy and clacked with every movement. The figure was chunky and squat, and absurdly, involuntarily graceful, like a man dancing on his toes on ground suddenly hot. He could not keep still, but pranced up and down like an agitated beetle. His draped trousers, cut too full in the old style, were gorgeous stuff, but ripped, fouled, and torn, and his felt boots were as battered. Then he began to gibber and howl again, his voice an enormous lethal moan.
“What is it you want? How long have you been in the woods out there?”
The man’s voice rose to an anguished shriek. “I don’t want anything,” he howled. “Not anything.”
“Are there others with you?”
“Dead. All dead.”
Muchaku squinted in the sun. He recognized the man’s crest. It was the Noto chrysanthemum. “Has the Lord of Noto sent you here?”
“I have been here for two days.”
“If you don’t want anything, why are you here?”
“Because you have nothing to give me,” shouted the man. Muchaku had the impression of two startled grey eyes, bulging with terror. “Have you?”
This last was a scream. It fluttered through the brisk mountain air like torn paper.
Muchaku frowned and turned to the monks. “Open the gate and let him in, and the dog too. Put him in the guest house,” he ordered.
The monks neither answered nor stirred, but they dropped their eyes to the ground.
“I will do it,” said Oio, with a withering glance at the monks. “You other cowards can cook his food.”
Muchaku smiled. “Find out who he is and what he wants,” he said. “And then come to me.”
Oio went off. One of the monks now stepped forward and cleared his throat. “We would not have stoned the dog, but we thought it was a demon,” he said.
“Bats hang upside down on the arm of the Nio,” said Muchaku, the Nio being the two wooden Demon guardians that stand on either side of the door of every temple. It was a Koan, a metaphysical riddle that can only be answered by concentrating upon it so hard that one sees that all answers are also riddles, and so comes to understand the essential nonsense of trying to express anything at all, once one has understood its nature, which is inexpressible. No matter how long they meditated, these deadwood boobies would never realize that. They thought there was some trick or clue concealed, a magic password to the fisherman’s treasure. But the riddle would keep them quiet for a while. At times Zen was very practical.
He went to his own quarters, slid the panel closed, and composed himself. At noon he had a thin gruel and a little rice. Then he watched the ripples in the pool. An abbot who no longer believes any of it has grave responsibilities towards those who are faithful. He owes something, but what, an apology. For though he no longer believes, he still believes, he can feel it, in something, and therefore what he thought he believed in was not what he believed in at all. So it is only when one can no longer give one’s best, that one realizes that one never gave it at all, which left him feeling rather chastened, on the whole.
Oio did not appear until late that afternoon, and when he did, though he was as impassive as ever, his face was pale. “Our protector, the Lord of Noto, is dead,” he said, and then brought out the whole story.
The war had at last reached the province. The petty overlord of the next district had taken advantage of the confusion to seize Noto for himself. The Lord of Noto was relatively peaceable, and had held power for so long he had forgotten to grip it tight. His castle had been taken by treachery and burned, the women raped and killed, the heirs male murdered, the peasants terrorized, and what wealth there was confiscated.
“And this man?”
He was a younger son, away on the coast. When he came back he found the ruins still smouldering. He wandered through them and found only a charred dress. What soldiers there were went over to the winning side. So he was Lord of Noto now, and Lord of nothing. He had been hiding in the woods for three days, with his dog. He was half-starved.
“And what does he want?”
“Lessons in Bushido. The Hagakure.” Oio hesitated. “He cannot read.”
Muchaku’s eyebrows went up. He pursed his lips. “Let him stay here until he is better.”
“He demands to see you.”
Muchaku thought that over and shook his head. “No, I will not see him. But let him stay until the end of the week, until he is better.”
He dismissed Oio and looked at the pool again. Zen was popular with the Samurai, because it provided them with a discipline that made fighting endurable, and a few special psychological skills, how to shoot an arrow, how to engage in hand to hand fighting, with the best chance of success. There was a philosophy behind it, but it was the petty blood-thirsty skill in front of it that was in demand. The Hagakure was a receipt book of such things. It was true, Muchaku had a copy by him. It was a fashionable book among members of his class. But he had put that behind him. He did not want to see it in front of him now.
“When you are at the parting of the ways, do not hesitate to choose the way to death. No special reason for this, except that your mind is thus made up and ready to see to the business. We all prefer life to death and our planning and reasoning will be naturally for life … therefore every morning and every evening, have the idea of death vividly impressed in your mind. When your determination to die at any moment is thoroughly established your life will be faultless and your duties fully discharged.” That was the wisdom hidden under the leaves, the Hagakure, and it was a true and indispensable wisdom. But it was followed by specific recipes for the exact torsion of a bow, the precise moment to rise up on one’s toes and bring the scimitar down on the opponent’s head, how to strike when one’s conviction of winning assured a clean stroke. And that he would not teach.
