Strange Light Afar Read online

  Hakuryo saw tears on Otoki’s face for the first time. Short breaths fluttered as she tried to speak.

  “I cannot … I cannot go home. I have nowhere to go.”

  The fisherman fell into his usual silence.

  Over the next few days, Hakuryo tended to Otoki, who had fallen into a deep depression. He let her sleep as much as she wanted in his futon, only rousing her to feed her.

  He prepared each meal with the deft skill and care of someone who had been cooking for himself for a long time. He boiled shaved bonito flakes along with kelp before mixing it with fresh miso. He sliced tuna, carefully avoiding the tendons, and arranged the pieces on a plate.

  But she ate next to nothing. The cats were overjoyed with the abundance of leftovers.

  Eddies of cold emotion swirled in Otoki as Haku tended to her. Time and again she thought of him and her robe on a wobbly boat. She could not believe his carelessness.

  But what was done could not be undone, and he was clearly trying to make amends. He continued to go out to fish during the day but spent the evenings nursing her. He slept on the bare floor while she remained in his bedding. And he never once complained.

  She found her anger slowly turning and receding like the tide. Her immortal elders had taught her the virtues of benevolence and forgiveness. These teachings returned to her little by little.

  Then on a day when the seas were particularly calm, Hakuryo returned to his hut to find Otoki up and about. The hut had been tidied so neatly that he hardly recognized his home. And she told him it was now her turn again to cook for him.

  Haku felt his knees give way. Kneeling at her feet, he sobbed into his hands and begged for her forgiveness.

  “Forgiveness is already yours,” she told him kindly. “You must know that.”

  Their lives quickly fell into a routine. He went on his boat each morning to fish and did not come home until late afternoon. She tended to the hut and the meals. Haku procured more bedding from the village, and they laid their futons side by side each night. He also brought home some clothing, and now she looked just like a woman from the village.

  Sabu returned one day with more dried bonito and seaweed to sell. The old man’s jaw fell when he saw an unfamiliar but beautiful woman cleaning the hut. Otoki inspected his merchandise and negotiated prices as if she had lived there for years.

  The sun was already slanting toward the west, and Haku appeared before long with the day’s catch. His heavy steps paused when he saw Sabu talking with Otoki over tea, but otherwise he did not react to the merchant’s presence.

  Otoki poured him his own tea.

  “She is perfect for you,” Sabu whispered to Haku while Otoki tended to the animals. “Where did she come from?”

  Haku sipped his tea in silence. He only betrayed emotion when Otoki opened the birdcage to clean it.

  “Be careful!” he shouted. “Or it will get away!”

  “Easy now,” Sabu said, resting a hand on Haku’s shoulder. “Nothing to be upset about. She is only trying to help.”

  Otoki smiled at them both.

  She had grown content in her new role. She only felt a bit uneasy whenever she overheard Haku talking to his pets. It was not anything in particular that he said to the cats and the bird and the turtle. She only wished he would have as much to say to her.

  Still, he was genuinely kind to her. He brought her colorful conch and abalone shells. He was attentive when she recounted stories about the heavenly palaces.

  On the few occasions when she could not help crying as she reminisced, he was tender and understanding, brewing her tea and listening to her recall her life in a place higher in the sky than he could ever imagine.

  They never spoke of how long she might stay. They both knew she had nowhere to go. He also knew he did not want her to leave.

  Ribbons of early light spilled through thick clouds one morning after a heavy rain the night before. A light breeze brushed away the lingering humidity. Otoki closed her eyes and allowed the coolness to wash over her hair.

  “You can stay as long as you’d like,” Haku finally told her. “Truth be told, I am hoping you will decide to live here with me forever.”

  The implication of his words was clear, and she was surprised to find that they pleased her. Without another word, he draped his nets over his shoulder and left the hut. She watched his back disappear toward his fishing boat. His wide shoulders reminded her of a mountain range, silent and unchanging.

  In heaven, she had been an immortal. Now, a life on earth with a man who cared for her was perhaps the best she could hope for. It was a life different from what she had expected, but one to which she was becoming accustomed.

  Later that day, as she prepared the evening meal, she saw that they were out of kelp. She knew Sabu was not scheduled to come by for another week, so set off toward the village to find him.

  The sand was still moist from the rain. The wind and surf had eroded the earth around tree stumps and rocks between Haku’s hut and the village. Salt drying on a few such rocks shimmered in the warmth.

  Something caught her eye. The sunlight reflected off it yellow and gold instead of white and silver. A sun burning among stars. The light flickered beneath a large boulder standing silently against the sea and sky, uncannily familiar.

  The familiarity was cold and unpleasant.

  She saw as she reached the rock that it had been buried deep and had only surfaced because of the previous night’s rainstorm. Grunting from the effort, she pawed and dug at the sand with her bare hands. A lifetime passed before enough of the garment was uncovered for her to pull the rest from the ground.

  Even covered in gravel and mud, the robe had lost none of its radiance. It shone into her eyes that quickly welled with tears. Delight collided with confusion and anger. She collapsed in a heap and buried her face in the robe.

  Flashes of memories, recent yet distant, spread behind her eyelids, then faded away. His kindness, his deep voice, his gentle and hesitant touch, all sank into darkness. She freed a mournful cry, which was immediately swept away by the wind.

  Hakuryo felt light-hearted — an unfamiliar sensation — as he carried the pail containing the day’s catch back to his hut. Someone other than his pets was now waiting for him to return. Someone who had dinner ready for him, who tidied the small but comfortable hut, who washed his clothes.

  The sky was darkening. Clouds gathered along the horizon where the sun was sinking. He hurried up the beach, eager to see the smile that always brightened everything around him. The sand gave way under each step he took.

  He began to notice the rhythm of the ocean. It was not so much that music was on the wind. The wind had become music — swirling, singing voices that rose, then fell. The melody, barely discernible, was sad and forlorn.

  Shadows flickered beneath his feet, and he realized there was something unusually bright above his head.

  When he looked up, what he saw made him stumble backwards and fall.

  Ribbons of light twisted in the wind, surrounding Otoki’s body as she floated in thin air. The light emanating from the feathered robe was blinding. Yet he could not look away. The gold rays split into moving arcs of every hue imaginable.

  What held his gaze most, however, was her unspeakably sad face. Pinwheels of light spun around her as she held her shoulders, holding the robe tightly closed as if she worried she would lose it again.

  “I trusted you,” she said to him as she drew nearer. “I forgave and trusted you. I shared your loneliness and thought you shared mine. But now I see that you cared about nothing but yourself.”

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Her body slowly began to turn in place. Hakuryo could not stop shaking.

  “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “I leave you only with this one gift — a dance with which to remember me.”

&nbs
p; Suddenly, she lifted her arms and pirouetted as her body flew upwards. Then she slowly glided down along a gentle slope. With a wave of her wrist, she rose again, always turning. Light followed her like children. Colors cradled and lifted her. Bands of incandescent white wove among her constantly moving limbs. The feathered robe opened, revealing a magnificent kimono made of gold and red silk.

  Hakuryo had never seen anything so beautiful and knew he never would again. When he realized this, he also understood that Otoki’s dance was as much a curse as a gift. A lifelong reminder of what he had lost — or of something he had never truly possessed.

  “Otoki!” he shouted. “Please forgive me!”

  The ethereal music overwhelmed his cry. By the time it faded away, she was gone.

  The sun suddenly appeared from behind the clouds. Hakuryo looked up and wondered whether she had climbed through the clouds, high above his selfish longing that, unlike the wind, never waned.

  He slowly rose to his feet and shuffled back to his hut.

  Days later, when Sabu came by, the elderly merchant saw his friend puttering about in familiar silence, mending his nets, feeding his cats, making sure the door to the birdcage was securely closed. Bedding, unwashed plates and clothing were scattered about the floor.

  When Sabu asked about Otoki, Haku grunted angrily and waved at him to go away.

  Sabu shook his head. Some things were too good to be true. Other things were too set in their ways. He left the young fisherman alone, tending to his pets.

  The waves never stopped crashing against the barren shore.

  ◊

  SIX

  VANITY

  ◊

  I am a man who loves too much. One who gives too much for too little. Who loves the fire that burns. Who offers his heart to the knife.

  I fell in love for the first time when I was four years old, a lifetime before I shaved my head and donned these monk’s robes. Even then I had more energy, more joy than was good for me. My knees were always bruised and cut. Dirt was a shadow cast over my brow and chin. My nose was constantly running, and so was I.

  Her name was Miho. Her father owned a vegetable and fruit stand on one of Kyoto’s main throughways. She was just two years older than I, but mature beyond her years. More alert and attentive than most adults, she one day noticed drool hanging from my gaping mouth as I stood over the cucumbers. I was too busy being hungry to notice her slip one into the sleeve of her kimono.

  I jumped when I felt her hand on mine. She led me around the corner into a side street.

  Once we were out of sight, she handed me the plump, juicy cucumber. She ran off before anyone missed her, and before I had a chance to thank her. She was as graceful as a falcon in flight. The sound of my teeth crushing the cucumber was deafening.

  I went to the vegetable stand every day after that. Miho gave me more things to eat for a few days, but then suddenly stopped. She told me I could not stand in front of the stall if I was not going to buy anything. This did not matter. I loved her. I kept watch over her from across the street.

  Our eyes met several times over the following week. Then her father appeared out of nowhere and told me to go away or he would put a broomstick to my head.

  It was at this very moment that I realized I not only loved Miho, but also this man who cared for her. I smiled at him. He raised an eyebrow and warned me that he was serious, then went back to work.

  He did remain true to his word, and chased me away with a broom later in the afternoon.

  My love poured forth in all directions. I brought home stray animals — cats, dogs, rabbits, turtles, birds — and kept them in cages behind the back fence until the neighbors complained about the smell and the noise. My mother cursed the day I was born as she opened the cages and shooed my new friends away.

  One crow seemed reluctant to leave — it had probably grown accustomed to being fed — but my mother threw stones at it until it flew away toward the mountains.

  The second great love of my life was Sayuri. She ran errands for her father, who owned the biggest kimono shop in our section of the capital. Among her regular stops was my uncle’s dumpling shop where I worked. I felt thunder explode behind my ears when I first looked upon her beauty.

  I gave her so many free dumplings that my uncle began to dock my pay. This did not matter. I would have given her all the dumplings in Japan if I could.

  In truth, I loved all the women who came to the shop. I also gave them free food when my uncle was not looking. Sayuri, though, made my heart race the fastest.

  My dream of our future together shattered one winter’s day when the kimono shop ordered five dozen skewers of dumplings and some rice flour cakes to celebrate the first day of work in the New Year. I, of course, volunteered to make the delivery.

  How could I have known that by coming through the back door I would find Sayuri in the arms of another man?

  Gozo was the son of a sandal maker. Sayuri explained to me that they had been seeing each other for more than a year and were planning to make use of the New Year’s celebrations to announce their love to their families.

  I threw my hands over my head. What about us? What about our future? What about all those free dumplings?

  She looked at me as if I had just turned into something very unappetizing and asked Gozo to show me out the gate.

  I realized for the first time that my capacity to love was more a curse than a gift. I considered throwing myself into the river to make Sayuri understand the pain she had inflicted on me. It turned out, however, that the river had frozen over the previous night.

  I suppose I could have found other ways to take my own life, but I took the unusually cold weather as a sign. Someone was watching over me. Someone who loved me for my pain.

  My discovery of Sayuri’s affair, it turned out, was a blessing in disguise. It made me renounce the floating, materialistic world for the humble lifestyle of a traveling monk.

  My parents protested, but we had been fighting about one thing or another ever since I was a child. I had long since stopped listening to them. The constant yelling and screaming made my head hurt. I was born to love, not fight. My love for the spirit of the Buddha became the greatest love of my life.

  With my head shaven to a fine sheen and wearing humble earth-colored robes, I now travel as free as the summer breeze, stopping at villages to collect alms for the poor, nurse the ill and spread the teachings of enlightenment. However, begging for alms is tiring, and I often collect barely enough for a decent meal for myself. And tending to the sick can be tricky because I don’t want to catch anything and fall ill myself. Who would look after the poor and decrepit then?

  This is why I tend to focus on teaching, which I find absolutely invigorating! I go around telling people what to do and derive satisfaction from their gratitude. The faithful gather wherever I go and hang on my every word as I spread the love.

  This truly is the life I was meant to live.

  So now I am walking along a dirt path down the side of Mt. Hiei. Perfect clouds are scattered across the sky. Birds sing in harmony, and the winds carry the fragrance of mountain flowers. It is as though the day is singing my praises.

  A winged shadow blocks the sun. In the next moment, a tengu lands in front of me, his arms akimbo and chest inflated. This is not the demon with the red face and inhumanly long nose. Rather, he is a lower-class tengu with the face of a crow.

  I have never been fond of the stories people tell of the tengu — pagan gods or demons, depending on who is telling the story. They mostly stay away from humans, but occasionally kidnap one of us to have for supper.

  The day suddenly turns cold. I must admit to being terribly frightened as the demon peers into my face, but the tengu suddenly cries out in joy and kneels at my feet.

  “Master!” he shouts. “Oh, happy day! How I have waited to bask in your presence
again!”

  I am completely bewildered, as I have never seen this tengu before — or any tengu, for that matter. He seems genuinely hurt when I tell him this.

  “Are you toying with me, Master? Do you truly not recognize this face?” The tengu’s small dark eyes dart back and forth. From the neck up, he truly looks like a nervous blackbird.

  “I know no one with the face of a crow — unless they are crows, of course. Wait a minute …”

  The tengu squawks in excitement. I can barely understand what he is carrying on about.

  “Yes, yes, Master! It is I! The crow you took in and fed when you were but a child! I probably would have starved had you not cared for me.”

  “Oh, my. I had no idea you were a tengu.”

  “That’s what makes your act of giving all the more gracious. That you would be so kind to a dumb animal!”

  “Well … that is just my way.” An unfamiliar warmth flushes my cheeks. Not many express their appreciation for my love as clearly as this. Not even the poor and needy to whom I profess my wisdom are as forthcoming with their thanks. Mostly they shy away. I am unaccustomed to such praise.

  But why should I be?

  “It is truly fortuitous that I spotted you,” says the tengu. “I have always wanted to repay you for your kindness. With all due modesty, I am not without my share of preternatural powers. I can grant any wish that you would like.”

  I quickly wave the suggestion away.

  “I’ve long since given up the comforts of the world. There may have been a time you could have enticed me with promises of riches, fame, good food and the love of a woman, but I left all that behind me when I entered the priesthood.”

  Fleeting images of Miho and Sayuri flash across my eyes. The tengu, however, does not dismiss me so easily.

  “As you say, there are base, material wishes — those that are pleasurable but empty and fleeting. But are there not also more noble desires? The burning thirst for knowledge or understanding, for example?”