To the left stands the main worship hal . The top of its tiled roof glimmers faintly, and gazing up, I have a sense that a mil ion moons have cast themselves over a mil ion roof tiles there. From nearby there comes a pigeon’s insistent cooing—it seems they live somewhere under the roof. I may be wrong, but the ground beneath the eaves appears to be scattered with smal white dots—pigeon droppings, perhaps.
Standing directly below the eaves’ drip-line is a row of weird, shadowy shapes. They’re certainly not smal plants of any sort; nor do they look like trees. They make me think of those little demons depicted praying to the Buddha in the painting of Iwasa Matabei,1 who have now left off their nembutsu prayer and are waving their arms in the dance that accompanies it.2 They dance ceremoniously, forming a line that stretches from one end of the worship hal to the other, while their shadows dance ceremoniously in a line beside them, in exact replica. The hazy moonlit spring night must have seduced them to abandon the accustomed bel and book with which the nembutsu worshippers traveled the land, gathering together on the moment’s impulse to come to this little mountain temple and dance.
When I approach, I realize they are in fact large cactuses, seven or eight feet high. They look like green cucumbers the size of gourds that have been crushed, molded into the shape of flat spatulate rice paddles, and strung together vertical y, reaching skyward, their handles pointing down.
How many paddles would it take before their ful height is reached? They look as if they might this very night force their way up through the eaves and climb to the tiled roof. Each new paddle shape, it seems to me, must appear quite suddenly, leaping into place on the plant in the space of an instant; it seems inconceivable that an old one would bear a tiny new one, which would grow slowly larger with the passing years. Those strings of paddle shapes are utterly fantastical. How can such an extraordinary plant exist? And so nonchalantly, what’s more. When asked “What is the nature of the Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?†a monk is said to have replied, “The oak tree in the courtyardâ€; if asked this question myself, I would reply without a moment’s hesitation, “A cactus in the moonlight.â€
In my youth, I read a travel journal by one Chao Buzhi,3 and I can stil recite some of it: It was in the ninth month—sky deep, dew pure and limpid, mountains empty, and the moon bright. When I looked up, al the stars were shining hugely, as if poised directly overhead. Outside the window a dozen bamboo stems, ceaselessly rustling as they brushed together.
Beyond the bamboo, plum trees and palms crowded thick, like wild-haired witches. I and my companions looked at each other; we were al unnerved, and could not sleep. We departed as dawn was breaking.
Here I pause in my mumbled recitation and suddenly laugh. With a smal adjustment in time and place, these cactuses might have unnerved me in just such a way and sent me fleeing down the mountain at the sight of them. I touch a spine with my finger and feel its irritable stab.
I turn left at the end of the paved path and arrive at the priests’ quarters. Before it stands a large magnolia tree, whose trunk must be virtual y an arm span in width. It stands tal er than the roof of the building beside it. I look up into branches, and beyond them more branches, and there beyond this tangle is the moon. In another tree the sky would not be visible through such an interlacing, and the presence of flowers would obscure it stil further; but between al these multilayered branches is empty space. The magnolia doesn’t try to confuse the eyes of the upward-gazing beholder with a jumble of twigs. Even its flowers are clearly visible; though I stare up from far below, each flower is a single, distinct form. I couldn’t count how many of these single flowers throng the whole tree, in what state of bloom, yet each remains a separate entity apart, and between them the faint blue of the night sky is clearly visible. The flowers are not a pure white—such stark whiteness would be too cold. In absolute whiteness we can discern a ploy to arrest and dazzle the eyes of the viewer, but magnolia flowers are not of this order; these blooms modestly and self-deprecatingly avoid any extremity of whiteness with their warm creamy tinge. I stand awhile on the stone paving, lost in wonder, gazing up at this towering proliferation of tender flowers that plumb the very depths of heaven. My eyes hold nothing but blossoms. Not a leaf is to be seen.
The fol owing haiku occurs to me:
My eyes lift to see
A sky that is entirely
magnolia blooms.
Somewhere the pigeons are cooing softly together.
I step into the priests’ quarters. The door has been left unlocked. This world seems to know no thieves; no dog has barked either.
“Anybody here?†I cry. Silence is the only reply.
“Excuse me?†I then try. The pigeons continue their soft coo coo.
I raise my voice and cal again, and now from far away comes an answering cry: “Ye-e-e-e-s!†I have never before received this sort of response when I cal ed at someone’s house! Final y, footsteps are heard along the corridor, and a taper casts its light beyond the wooden partition. A smal monk pops suddenly into view. It’s Ryonen.
“Is the abbot in?â€
“He is. What brings you here?â€
“Could you let him know that the painter from the hot spring inn is here?â€
“The painter? Come on in.â€
“Are you sure you shouldn’t ask him first?â€
“No, it’l be fine.â€
I slip off my shoes and enter.
“You’re not very wel mannered, are you?†he says.
“Why?â€
“You should put your shoes neatly together. Here, look at this.†He points with his taper. Pasted onto the middle of the black pil ar, about five feet above the earth floor of the entrance area, is a quartered piece of cal igraphy paper on which some words are written.
“There. Read that. ‘Look to your own feet,’ it says, doesn’t it?â€
“I see,†I say, and I bend down and arrange my shoes neatly.
The abbot’s room is beyond a right-angle bend in the corridor, beside the main worship hal . At the entrance Ryonen reverently slides open one of the paper doors and makes a low obeisance on his knees.
“Excuse me, but the painter from Shioda’s is here,†he announces, in a tone of deep deference that strikes me as rather funny.
“Is that so? Let him come in.â€
I replace Ryonen at the entrance. The room is tiny. There’s a sunken hearth in the middle, with an iron kettle singing quietly on the coals. The abbot is seated beyond it, a book in his hands.
“Come on in,†he says, removing his glasses and laying the book aside.
“Ryonen. Ryoooonen!â€
“Ye-e-e-s!â€
“A cushion for the guest, please.â€
“Ye-e-e-e-s!†Ryonen’s drawn-out cry floats back from somewhere in the distance.
“I’m glad you’ve come. You must be quite bored here.â€
“The moonlight was so lovely, I just wandered over.â€
“It’s a fine moon,†he says, opening the paper screens at the window.
Nothing is visible outside except two stepping-stones and a single pine tree. The flat garden ends at what appears to be a precipice, with the hazy moonlit sea directly below. Looking out produces the sensation of a sudden expansion of the spirit. The lights of fishing boats twinkle here and there out at sea, seeming at the far horizon to lift into the sky and imitate the stars.