Night Boat Read online

  No!

  I heard my own voice, screaming, filling the place, till the girl covered her ears and the two men stopped their talking and stared, and my mother picked me up and wrapped me in my robe and carried me outside.

  That night my father heard what had happened. He raged at me.

  Why do you behave like this? Are you a baby?

  I said nothing.

  If you’re going to scream and cry like a little girl, at least tell us why.

  I’ll tell my mother, I said, and no one else.

  He looked for a moment as if he might slap me. Instead he let out a huge, long-suffering sigh and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he called my mother to come and talk to me.

  So, little one, she said. That was quite a performance.

  I stood with my head bowed, looked down at my feet in the straw sandals I wore indoors. This was me, standing here.

  Well? she said.

  It was the flames, I said. And the noise. And the heat.

  Ah, she said.

  I was afraid.

  Of hell?

  I nodded.

  We have to put an end to this, she said. This fear is consuming you.

  But how? If hell is waiting for us, how can we not be afraid? And if there is no escape, what is the point of anything we do?

  There is a way, she said. But now it’s late and you need to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning, I promise.

  In the morning! That was no time, no time at all. She would tell me. I would know. I ran to her and she hugged me, stroked my back. The cotton of her robes smelled of incense from the shrine.

  Some time in the night I heard a voice from behind the shoji screen, thin and wavery, a demon-voice wailing.

  You’re going to burn in hell . . .

  I sat up, alarmed, but immediately the demon let out a chuckle and I recognised the voice of my older brother Yozaemon. I laughed and lay down again. Everything was going to be all right. I slept well, released from the fear. In fact my sleep was so deep I woke late, well after eight, and the morning sun was streaming in through the shoji screen. I jumped up and threw my clothes on, rushed into the kitchen to find my mother. But she was bustling about the stove, cooking miso soup in a heavy iron pot.

  Not now, she said, shooing me away. I don’t want you getting under my feet.

  But you said!

  Not now.

  Well, when?

  Later. As soon as I can. Now go and play.

  She was hot and harassed, but she managed a smile.

  Go!

  I barely flinched at the little flames licking the bottom of the pot.

  Outside I heard a gang of the neighbourhood children shrieking and yelling. I ran over, saw them kicking up dust, leaping and dancing like demons. One or two of them had sticks and were beating the ground with them, their screams getting more excited, high-pitched, as they stamped and screeched. I pushed through and saw what they were doing. They had tipped out a nest of baby crows and the boys ran and jumped and struck, chasing them, trying to stamp on them or hit them with the sticks.

  I was excited and horrified all at once. There was a huge exhilaration in the game, in the hitting and beating and striking out, trying to crush and kill, and the crows were carrion, they were vermin, to be rid of them was good. But I could feel the panic and terror of the tiny birds as they fluttered and scurried, tried to escape. I felt it in my stomach, an agitation, discomfort, and maybe torturing the birds was a sin. I was suddenly hot, felt the prickle of tears. I pushed through the crowd of boys and ran back to the house.

  My mother had said she would tell me, as soon as she could. But now she was sitting on the porch, talking to a neighbour whose husband was ill.

  These things are sent to try us, said my mother.

  What’s for us will not go by us, said the woman.

  They were sipping tea. They could talk like this for hours.

  He was fine in the morning, said the woman. Then in the afternoon he took a turn for the worse.

  It’s often the way of it.

  My mother looked over to me.

  I haven’t forgotten, she said. I’ll talk to you soon. Now go and play a little longer.

  Soon. A little longer. The whole morning could pass by and they would still be talking. I heard my mother tell the woman to burn the moxa herbs on her husband’s spine, and to continue chanting the sutras.

  Back outside I saw the gang of boys running off into the distance, whooping and brandishing their sticks in the air. There was no trace of the baby crows, then I saw a scraggy stray cat had dragged one of the tiny carcasses into the shade of a tree and was holding it down with its paws, tearing it apart with its teeth, crunching the little bones.

  My mother was still talking to the woman. At least they had stood up now, but that might mean nothing. They could still take another hour to get to the door and for the woman to actually leave. It was unbearable.

  My head hurts, I shouted. I have a fever.

  My mother smiled, nodded at the woman.

  This young man has things on his mind!

  When more time had passed, and the woman had finally gone, my mother turned to me.

  So, she said. Your head aches. You have a fever. Let us deal with those things first.

  No! You said you would tell me!

  But headache and fever are no joke, she said, and she placed her cool hand on my forehead.

  The thought had been niggling at me, and now it began to grow, that she didn’t have an answer after all, and she had been lying and stalling just to keep me quiet.

  Tell me!

  A remedy is called for, she said.

  You told that woman to burn moxa and chant the sutras, I said. Is that what you’re going to tell me?

  You were listening, she said. You have big ears!

  Tell me!

  Moxa would help your headache.

  But moxa meant burning, and the fear would be there again.

  Not moxa!

  She laughed.

  You’re the wisest child in the world, she said. You’ve found the answer all by yourself. No moxa, you only have to chant a sutra. But not just any sutra. You have to chant the Tenjin Sutra.

  Tenjin. I said the name. Tenjin.

  Tenjin is the deity of Kitano shrine, she said. In life he was Michizane, a scholar and poet, a great calligrapher. As a god he is Tenjin, with the power of fire and thunder. He can drive out angry ghosts and conquer the fear of hell.

  Tenjin, I said again. Tenjin.

  All you have to do, said my mother, is chant the sutra, every morning when you wake and every night before you sleep. It is only a few lines long, a hundred Chinese characters, but it is very powerful.

  I felt a kind of fire kindle in me, in the centre of my chest, and below that, in my belly. I was excited, impatient.

  Teach it to me now!

  She laughed.

  Come, she said, holding out her hand, and she led me out by the back door.

  Where are we going?

  Sanen-ji, she said.

  Sanen-ji was the Pure Land temple, across the road from our house. It had a shrine room and a little sacred grove dedicated to Tenjin. The place was tended by a young monk who was sweeping the steps as we came in at the gate. He bowed to my mother, then to me, and asked if he could be of help to us. My mother explained about the sutra and he smiled at me, said yes. He could not have been more different from the old monk I had heard at the other temple, Shogen-ji, who had filled my head with hellfire and damnation. This young man had a mildness and a gentleness about him, a kind of lightness. He beckoned us to follow him into the shrine room, leaving our sandals outside. We kneeled beside him on the tatami floor and he lit a stick of incense at the altar. A few flowers had been placed in an old vase in front of a painting of Tenjin, one hand raised in blessing. The expression on the face was benign, kindly, but behind him a thunderbolt emerged from a cloud, and beside him was an ox, looking up at him.

  The ox is his
messenger, said the monk. So the best time to pray to him is the hour of the ox, between two and three in the morning.

  My mother shifted uneasily.

  But, of course, said the monk, a young man like you should just meditate as early as you can, whenever you wake up.

  I will wake up at two, I said. The hour of the ox.

  The monk nodded approval, gave a little chuckle. Then he became serious again, reached forward and opened a drawer at the side of the shrine, drew out a scroll of paper which he unrolled and handed to me. I could only read a few of the characters, like wind and fire. But the page had an effect on me – again I felt that sensation in my chest, in my belly, and something in my forehead, a kind of tingling.

  We’ll chant, said the monk. Take it a line at a time. I’ll chant it first, then you repeat it with me.

  He folded his hands and began, his voice surprisingly deep and resonant. I folded my own hands, copied him as best I could, my own small voice cracked and high but eager, and my mother joined in, a clear sweet singsong. By the time we’d gone through the whole thing two or three times I was singing out with all my heart and soul.

  The monk bowed to me again and said I could keep the copy of the sutra, and from the same drawer he took out a smaller copy of the painting of Tenjin.

  You should take this too, he said, for your shrine.

  I carried my treasures home, overcome with excitement, and went straight to the little altar room in our house. I swept the floor and dusted the shrine. I took down the painting that hung in the alcove and replaced it with the image of Tenjin. I laid out my copy of the sutra in front of it. I emptied the ash from the incense holder and cleaned it out, lit a new stick. I pestered my mother for a few fresh flowers from the display in the front room and I put them in a vase. Then I bowed to Tenjin, and I chanted the sutra over and over till I knew the words by heart.

  It was the middle of the night. I didn’t know the exact time, but I knew it must be close to the hour of the ox. The whole house was dark and quiet as I felt my way, step by step, to the altar room where I managed to light the oil lamp, put another stick of incense in the burner. Then I kneeled on the tatami in front of the shrine, folded my hands and started to chant the sutra.

  Namu Tenman Daijizai Tenjin . . .

  I thought I was awake, but from time to time my eyes started to close and my head nodded forward, jerking me awake again. Then I would start the sutra all over again, from the beginning.

  Namu Tenman . . .

  In the flicker of the lamplight, the image of Tenjin changed, came in and out of focus. Now it was kindly, the way I had seen it before, now the expression was fierce. I invoked him to ward off demons, to keep me from the perils of hell.

  Namu Tenman . . .

  My legs began to ache. Outside a wind rose, shook the pine trees. There was a howl, a shriek. Something darted past, brushed against the shoji screen, scared me. But I told myself it was only a bat, and if it was anything else, anything worse, out there in the dark, Tenjin would protect me.

  Namu . . .

  The house itself seemed to creak and groan. Shadows shifted, wavered. Something scurried, was gone when I looked. I shivered, chanted louder.

  Namu Tenman . . . Tenjin . . .

  There was a sudden noise behind me, a rustling, a thud. I sensed a huge dark shape, looming, and a great deep voice boomed out.

  What the hell are you doing?

  It was my father, his robe pulled about him, his hair dishevelled, eyes staring.

  I am chanting the Tenjin Sutra.

  Do you know what time it is?

  The hour of the ox.

  He growled.

  The bloody hour of the bloody ox!

  It’s the best time, I said.

  It’s the middle of the bloody night!

  I bowed low, kept my head down on the tatami. I heard another rustling and smelled a faint perfume I recognised as my mother.

  The boy is doing what the monk told him, she said. He’s doing the right thing.

  He’s wasting lamp-oil, said my father. At his age this is ridiculous. You’ll turn him into a useless layabout, a lazy good-for-nothing with his head full of nonsense about burning in hell.

  At this rate, you’ll burn in hell yourself, she said. You neglect your own devotions and now you’re trying to stop the boy from following the way. You should be ashamed.

  I thought my father was going to choke. The veins stood out on his thick neck. The lamplight changed his face, made him look demonic. He let out a kind of grunt and turned away, went crashing through the house, shaking the whole wooden frame of the building as he slammed shut the shoji-screen door.

  My mother held me a moment, spoke calmly.

  Don’t be troubled, little one. You are doing what you must. This is your path. For this I bore you. Now, chant the sutra one more time, then go and get some sleep.

  TENJIN

  E

  ncouraged by my mother, I persisted with my devotions. For weeks, months, I got up faithfully, every morning at the hour of the ox, while it was still dark. I bowed to Tenjin, I chanted the sutra. My father said nothing, but from time to time I caught him glaring at me then turning away. I continued, regardless. Then something happened that shook my faith.

  Among the boys in the village there was a sudden fashion for a game of archery, shooting at a target with a special small-scale bow and half-size arrows. My father gave me a set, perhaps to deflect my attention from what he still saw as a waste of time, and briefly I became obsessed with the game, determined to improve.

  It was summer and my brother was home from school, hanging about the house, and he watched my efforts with a mixture of irritation and amusement. Some day he would inherit the family business, run the inn, take over the way-station from my father, and already he was puffed up with the sense of himself and his place in the world.

  One particular afternoon he was lolling back on the balcony, cool in the shade, as I tried again and again to hit the little pine tree that grew in the yard. The more I tried, the louder he laughed and the wilder my shots became.

  Great samurai, he said, maybe you should try hitting a barn door!

  I tried again, missed again, and he laughed even more.

  Maybe you should pray to your Tenjin, he said. Ask him to help you out.

  I picked up my arrows and strode into the house, trying to calm myself and fight down the rage. Inside it was cooler, and without my brother taunting me I thought I might have more success. I looked around the room. One set of shoji screens was decorated with a chrysanthemum flower. The circular shape of it, the petals radiating out from the centre, to my eye made a perfect target. I set myself to hitting it right in the middle, the heart of the flower. I got it in my sights, let fly and missed, the arrow skittering through the open half of the screen and into the room beyond. It was frustrating, twanging the string, seeing the arrow float harmlessly wide of its target.

  I had to concentrate. One of the older boys I’d seen practising spoke mysteriously of kyudo, the way of the bow, as if it was a kind of meditation in itself. You have to act as if you are not acting, he said. Pull the bowstring as if you are not pulling it. Aim at the target as if there is no target.

  None of this made any sense to me. It all just sounded like so much nonsense, and the boy, like my brother, was full of himself, cocksure. Nevertheless, he hit the target more often than not, so perhaps if I tried not trying, I would improve. And after all, I knew a little about discipline, I got up every morning at the hour of the ox to chant the sutra. Perhaps my brother was right, and Tenjin would help me.

  I stood a moment and folded my hands, chanted the opening verse. Then I picked up the bow and breathed deep. I concentrated my gaze on the painted chrysanthemum, at the point right in the centre, the target. I remembered the older boy, tried to copy the way he stood, the way he held his arm out straight, grasping the bow, the way he placed the arrow, pulled back the string. I tried to empty my mind, I asked Tenjin for
help.

  Now.

  I released the arrow, saw it fly, higher than I’d shot it before, wide of the target and through the gap into the next room. In the room was the tokonoma alcove where a special scroll hung, a painting of the poet Saigyo standing under a willow tree, composing verses. My mother had very few possessions she treasured – a hair clasp, a silk kimono with a lotus pattern, a little wooden statue of Kannon, Bodhisattva of mercy, and this scroll with the painting of Saigyo.

  The arrow had flown straight and true, as if guided by some malevolent spirit. It had hit the scroll, pierced the poet’s left eye.

  I dropped the bow and ran into the room. I pulled out the arrow and that only made things worse as the arrow tore a bigger hole, as if Saigyo’s eye had been gouged out. I let out a cry then pressed my head to the ground. I asked Tenjin to protect me, to let my crime somehow go undiscovered. But my brother had heard the noise and came rushing in.

  You’re dead, he said.

  And my father was standing in the doorway.

  What is it now? he asked. And he looked where my brother was pointing. He saw the damage to the picture and he grabbed the arrow from me, picked up the bow.

  Useless! he said, and he strode off.

  Then I saw that my mother had come into the room, stood staring at the scroll. She said nothing, and the look in her eyes was not anger, but sadness, and that was much much worse.

  That night I couldn’t sleep, turned this way and that, tortured. If I hadn’t picked up the bow. If I hadn’t fired at the target. If I hadn’t tried not to try. And the final, terrible thought, if I hadn’t asked Tenjin for help. He had failed me. But I mustn’t think that. Ultimately Tenjin would protect me, he would save me from hell.