loud Zen. So finally a delegation of city monks came out full of words, but Mugen wouldn’t listen. They said what they’d come to say and stood around waiting then went back where they belonged. Left some things in the garden. Robes and sandals and books and begging bowls and cooking pots and knives and ladles and sieves. Once autumn passes and the weeds die back, you’ll see bits of it sticking up.
I don’t understand.
It’s a story.
A story.
And yours is too. And both end.
The moon rose out of the blackness, silvering the tops of the giant bamboo so that they glittered like the surface of the sea as seen from below.
Hasegawa said, So then I guess you don’t think you’re free from the chain of unavoidable consequences…
The recluse bonze scratched himself. You don’t listen very well, do you?
No. I guess not.
Tree frogs had begun proposing an agenda for that night. The single voice starting it was soon joined by others, braiding in various opinions and refinements until the possibilities that had accumulated formed a tapestry so rich in its implications that a moment’s silence was required for the song-weavers to ponder the marvel of their design.
Women and words and reputations, said the recluse. Can I learn not to want the accidents of the world? I can learn it!
But it’s harder not to want the not-wanting, Hasegawa said, his face again turned towards the bobbing lamps of fireflies, their numbers beginning to decline as their brief evening ended. Walking. Remembering. Writing. Walking…
And you think that’s good enough?
Hasegawa sat on the edge of the veranda, the moon’s radiance leaking into the dark ligatures of the bamboo forest, filling the weedy garden, all of everything everywhere holding itself much the way fingers might be cupped on the hands of someone cradling newborn kittens. I guess even a needle thief can dream of spears, he said.
M UGEN’S METHOD OF AMBULATION involved a series of abrupt adjustments, with some choices yielding an easier route andsome not. Hasegawa followed along willingly enough as they pushed through the giant bamboo then began climbing into the cedar forest on the upper slopes. At about the hour of the horse, they reached an island of exposed granite. They drank from their water gourds then lay on their backs on the sun-flooded rock and watched a hawk tilting directly above them, gripping the air with an easy grace.
The recluse bonze sat up and unstopped his water gourd again. You ever hear the story about how old Nansen taught the truth of the dharma?
No.
Well, then. This old-time abbot Nansen, he –
No.
No?
No.
He looked at him. You decided you don’t like stories?
Hasegawa said there were times when a person didn’t want to hear explanations, teachings, anecdotes, and that for him this was one of those times, or was about to become so.
Seems to me one time is the same as any other, said the recluse, and he drank then tapped the gourd stopper back in place.
They continued hiking uphill through the middle part of the day then came to an elongated alpine dell filled with jade-green mountain ferns and ending against a towering backdrop of limestone cliffs. Mugen waded in then flopped over backwards , rolling in the ferns with his elbows flapping, carving a space for himself like some kind of mud-monkey flushed up into the open air. You go all the way back, he said, his eyes closed and breathing deeply, filling himself with the scent and sensation of the crushed ferns. See that jumble of rocks at the bottom? There’s a path there.
You’re not coming?
No.
Any reason why not?
None.
The sheer upright expanse of grey limestone was fractured into irregular pinnacles and palisades. Seepage darkened the surface of the stone, and at the base lay a tumble of mossy boulders . Hasegawa climbed up to the entrance of the limestone grotto. Hewn blocks of cliff-rock formed the front walls and entryway portal, the surfaces smoothed from centuries of
I don’t understand.
It’s a story.
A story.
And yours is too. And both end.
The moon rose out of the blackness, silvering the tops of the giant bamboo so that they glittered like the surface of the sea as seen from below.
Hasegawa said, So then I guess you don’t think you’re free from the chain of unavoidable consequences…
The recluse bonze scratched himself. You don’t listen very well, do you?
No. I guess not.
Tree frogs had begun proposing an agenda for that night. The single voice starting it was soon joined by others, braiding in various opinions and refinements until the possibilities that had accumulated formed a tapestry so rich in its implications that a moment’s silence was required for the song-weavers to ponder the marvel of their design.
Women and words and reputations, said the recluse. Can I learn not to want the accidents of the world? I can learn it!
But it’s harder not to want the not-wanting, Hasegawa said, his face again turned towards the bobbing lamps of fireflies, their numbers beginning to decline as their brief evening ended. Walking. Remembering. Writing. Walking…
And you think that’s good enough?
Hasegawa sat on the edge of the veranda, the moon’s radiance leaking into the dark ligatures of the bamboo forest, filling the weedy garden, all of everything everywhere holding itself much the way fingers might be cupped on the hands of someone cradling newborn kittens. I guess even a needle thief can dream of spears, he said.
M UGEN’S METHOD OF AMBULATION involved a series of abrupt adjustments, with some choices yielding an easier route andsome not. Hasegawa followed along willingly enough as they pushed through the giant bamboo then began climbing into the cedar forest on the upper slopes. At about the hour of the horse, they reached an island of exposed granite. They drank from their water gourds then lay on their backs on the sun-flooded rock and watched a hawk tilting directly above them, gripping the air with an easy grace.
The recluse bonze sat up and unstopped his water gourd again. You ever hear the story about how old Nansen taught the truth of the dharma?
No.
Well, then. This old-time abbot Nansen, he –
No.
No?
No.
He looked at him. You decided you don’t like stories?
Hasegawa said there were times when a person didn’t want to hear explanations, teachings, anecdotes, and that for him this was one of those times, or was about to become so.
Seems to me one time is the same as any other, said the recluse, and he drank then tapped the gourd stopper back in place.
They continued hiking uphill through the middle part of the day then came to an elongated alpine dell filled with jade-green mountain ferns and ending against a towering backdrop of limestone cliffs. Mugen waded in then flopped over backwards , rolling in the ferns with his elbows flapping, carving a space for himself like some kind of mud-monkey flushed up into the open air. You go all the way back, he said, his eyes closed and breathing deeply, filling himself with the scent and sensation of the crushed ferns. See that jumble of rocks at the bottom? There’s a path there.
You’re not coming?
No.
Any reason why not?
None.
The sheer upright expanse of grey limestone was fractured into irregular pinnacles and palisades. Seepage darkened the surface of the stone, and at the base lay a tumble of mossy boulders . Hasegawa climbed up to the entrance of the limestone grotto. Hewn blocks of cliff-rock formed the front walls and entryway portal, the surfaces smoothed from centuries of
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