Strange Light Afar Page 7

  This gives me pause. I look toward a mountain ridge where a few small clouds have gathered.

  “Since you put it that way, I do have one desire. I have always regretted not being alive at the time of the great Buddha. In particular, I would have given anything to be able to witness his sermon on Vulture Peak.”

  “Is that it?” the tengu laughs. “Why, it turns out my gift is the ability to travel in any direction in space and in time. I can certainly take you to Griddhraj Parvat and allow you to hear the Awakened One speak.”

  I cannot believe my ears. Can I truly be so blessed?

  Before I can say anything, however, the tengu waves his arms, and the clouds come upon us, enveloping me in a white mist. I shiver as cold beads of moisture sneak down my back. I feel my feet lift from the ground, and the vague sensation that I am flying.

  The sensation does not last long. My feet strike the ground again, and the clouds quickly part, revealing another mountainous landscape. This one is unfamiliar to me. I notice how hot the air is. My heavy robes are stifling, and I feel a bit faint.

  There is suddenly a hand on my shoulder, and I scream. I turn and am relieved to find it’s the tengu.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “What did you do? Where are we?”

  “Why, this is Vulture Peak.”

  The tengu’s words make me gasp. This is the legendary summit where the Buddha imparted his most celebrated teachings to his followers? History was made in this very place where I am standing. I am now breathing the same air as the Enlightened One.

  “Yes, and we do not have much time. The community is about to gather for the sermon.”

  I am so excited I could explode. The tengu appears indifferent when I tell him this.

  “Listen to me carefully,” he says. “Temporal displacement is a tricky thing. You actually are not fully present in this space-time. If you were, we might wind up with a very messy causality paradox on our hands. So while you will be able to see them, they will not be to see you.”

  I have no idea what he is saying but pretend to be interested. He lowers his voice to a whisper when he notices that people are starting to gather.

  “You can sit here and watch for as long as you like, but do not under any circumstances try to talk to any of them. In fact, don’t say anything at all. They cannot see you but will be able to hear you. If they discover you are here, it could bring about terrible consequences. And by no means call out to Shakyamuni Buddha by name.”

  This seems simple enough.

  “Don’t worry. I just want to watch. I will not make a sound.”

  He looks at me worriedly but in the end nods.

  “All right. I have other things to which I need to attend. I will be back after everything is over, so wait for me. Don’t go anywhere.”

  The tengu flies off, and I turn my attention to the gathering crowd. Each one of them appears weary. Their robes are threadbare and their shoulders and elbows are dry and cracked.

  Their faces light up, however, when another figure appears from beyond the rocks. This one is different, although it is difficult to say how. His gait is steady, his limbs relaxed. There is an aura of calm confidence about him, and the way the others regard him makes clear that he is their spiritual leader.

  Shakyamuni Buddha walks slowly through the crowd, exchanging smiles and some words with anyone who speaks to him. He chooses appropriate high ground and sits down, his body easing downward as if floating. Balance and simplicity guide his smallest gesture.

  The crowd around him grows until it seems to stretch forever. After a moment, a murmur ripples through the gathering — a murmur of desire, of need. They want to know the Truth, they say. They wish him to give it to them. They ask for it, as politely as they can — as assertively as they dare.

  A lone figure suddenly approaches Shakyamuni. I instantly recognize the mythical Brahma by his red robe, four heads and four arms, one of which now holds a garland of flowers. All his faces smile as he hands the wreath to the Enlightened One, who accepts it with a bow.

  The crowd waits in anticipation. Occasionally, someone will repeat the request for the Truth. What has the Buddha discovered in his journey?

  Shakyamuni, just as I have heard in repeated retellings of this sermon, removes a single flower and begins to turn the stem between his thumb and forefinger. The petals twirl in his hand, in front of his face, in front of everyone around him. All of his being is focused on this flower as he says nothing.

  The crowd falls into a silence made of desperate anticipation. Still, he says nothing.

  The wind rises, then dies down. Still, the Buddha watches the flower turn. The sun tips in the sky. The Buddha remains unchanged.

  There are some among the crowd who shift their weight from one side of their bottom to the other. Others look at each other. A few yawn despite themselves. Fewer and fewer among them remain watching the flower.

  I, however, am overwhelmed by the unadulterated beauty of the moment.

  Then I see him. The monk at the back of the crowd — the one I know to be Mahakassapa — smiles knowingly. Joy and envy rise in my chest at the same time. I know the story is about to finish, and I also know how it will end.

  I cannot allow myself not to be a part of it. I am as enlightened as any in the sangha, after all. Why should I not partake in this glory also?

  “Ah!” I cry out. “Lord Shakyamuni Buddha! So beautiful! So revealing! There is nothing in life more meaningful than this simple flower! Praise be our master and all his wisdom!”

  No sooner do I hear myself shouting than a dark shadow casts over everything in sight. The sky quakes, and a frightening, guttural roar echoes across the mountain ridge. Lightning suddenly strikes at the center of the crowd, which scatters, screaming. The winds rise as quick as anger. Rain and dust mingle around my eyes. I squint and see both Brahma and Mahakassapa run off into the distance, faster than anyone else.

  As for the Buddha, all calm has drained from his face. His arms wave as he scampers off like the rest of his disciples. I notice for the first time that there is something vaguely familiar about him.

  A bolt of lightning obliterates a rock in front of him, making him change direction. Another strike makes him turn abruptly again. The third seems to crush what little hope he might have of escaping, and he falls to his knees, sobbing.

  “You dare?”

  A voice deeper than the ocean shouts from overhead, and the ground trembles. I look up and nearly fall over when I see the towering figure of Indra, the god of rain and thunderstorms, his face scowling and full of rage. His skin appears as rough as animal hide. His sinewy muscles ripple with every movement as he descends toward the Buddha, who appears to have wet himself.

  I might have been absolutely horrified had Indra not thrown another bolt of lightning at the Buddha, resulting in his transformation right before my eyes.

  The heavenly aura around his head fades. His eyes shrink and become small black pools. His nose curves into a beak.

  When the metamorphosis is complete, I am aghast to realize that he is not at all the Enlightened One but the same tengu who offered to grant me my one wish.

  He looks at me angrily, sobbing.

  “You fool! I told you not to speak! Did I not tell you to be absolutely quiet? Didn’t I?”

  “Silence!”

  Both the tengu and I shrink into ourselves when Indra speaks. He looks down upon us, taller than the tallest pine.

  “Foolish demon. How dare you assume the form of our Lord Buddha? Is there no limit to your insolence?”

  The tengu remains on his knees, kowtowing wildly. He talks about me as if I cannot hear him.

  “Forgive me, Master! I only wanted to teach this fool a lesson! He is the same idiot who put me in a cage half my size years ago. He kept vermin and other creatures in simila
r cages outside in all kinds of weather, often forgetting to feed us for days!”

  What is this tengu going on about? I often marvel at how some people’s memories are so unreliable.

  Indra shakes his head, which is as large as a house, and extends his immense hand.

  “Vengeance is far from a worthy cause, and certainly no excuse for your blasphemous behavior. Come with me and accept your punishment.”

  “No!”

  The tengu suddenly jumps to his feet, and before I can even blink, flies into a crack running down the face of an immense cliff.

  I am dumbfounded. The crowd has dispersed, and now only rocks and boulders remain, scattered across the ridge. The sun reappears from behind the clouds. Indra stares for a while at the spot where the tengu disappeared, but finally shakes his head before turning to me.

  “And what do you have to say for yourself, foolish mortal?”

  I resent his presumption. I tell him I am an innocent victim who should be returned to his homeland in Japan.

  “You are in Japan.”

  “This isn’t India?”

  Indra throws his head back and laughs.

  “No, my friend. I am afraid you are in Satsuma.”

  I realize the stifling heat is due to the fact that I am now much farther south than where the tengu first spotted me.

  “I still need help getting home. I am after all just an innocent victim duped by a misguided demon.”

  “You are no innocent,” Indra laughs again. “You consider yourself selfless, but vanity is your greatest sin.”

  The words tumbling from his mouth are completely meaningless to me. What is he going on about when he should be helping me to get home?

  “I should reprimand you severely as well for not knowing your place, but your presumption amuses me. And your intentions, as misguided as they are, seem virtuous. I shall leave you here on this mountain and consider that adequate punishment.”

  He bids me farewell and summons the funnel cloud that lifts him back into the heavens.

  When the air stills again, I find the heat suffocating. Nothing but rock all around, and for the first time I fear dying of hunger and thirst. The mountain ridges stand against the scorching rays of the sun, defiant.

  I consider Indra’s words for a moment but then see a distant village across the valley below. If I am lucky, I shall reach it by nightfall. I shall ask for food and water and, in return, I shall impart to the villagers the story of how I encountered supernatural creatures who envied me for my capacity to love.

  My legs find renewed strength when I consider how much this will be appreciated. I make my way down the mountain, humming as if I were once again a small boy.

  ◊

  SEVEN

  PARADISE

  ◊

  My village is at the foot of a mountain, by the seashore. The meltwater flowing from the snow-capped peaks in springtime is perfect for brewing rice wine fit for gods. Where the mouth of the river meets the ocean is bed to a constellation of shellfish.

  And the fish! Every season brings a bounty. Fatty yellowtail in winter. The barracuda are fine in the summer, raw with a touch of vinegar and soy sauce.

  All this under a sky that is mostly blue with just the right amount of rain.

  And yet, whatever the season, I can hardly drag myself from my futon in the morning.

  My mother inevitably calls from the kitchen once, then twice. After three times, she stops. I would go back to sleep, except I can hear her muttering under her breath, which is worse than yelling.

  It’s my turn to yell when I see that she’s hidden the sake again.

  “But it’s still morning,” she pleads. “Too early for rice wine.”

  My anger feels like it belongs to someone else — someone who does not see the tears that trace the same tracks along the folds on her face every morning. Where is my sake? There is a vague sense of relief as my arms flail, throwing whatever it finds against the walls. Anger spills out of me. My rice bowl shatters against the frame of the door.

  Then, as she does every morning, my mother brings me the hollow gourd that is my wine flask. The jagged edge of the morning is smoothed over after a couple of mouthfuls. I feel better and would apologize for my outburst, but there is no point. She knows our daily routine will repeat itself until one of us dies or runs away.

  Any change would be a blessing. In the meantime, there is the sake.

  I chew on grilled fish and pickled radish, but I have no appetite. Leaving half the breakfast she has prepared, I get up and walk to the door. My nets lie tangled in a heap. I lift the mess that still smells of fish, even though no fish has touched it for weeks.

  “The boats are gone,” she says. “They cast off three hours ago. In fact, they’ll probably be back soon.”

  I know this. She knows I know this. I throw the nets on the floor and grab a fishing rod instead. She does not look up from clearing my plates.

  The salt winds swell my breath when I step into the sun. The high branches of black pines sway and murmur. The fresh air clears most of the mist from my mind. I try to rid what remains with more wine.

  Laughter drifts from the beach where a group of children huddle over a rock on the sand. As I draw closer, I see the rock inch toward the circle of feet.

  One of the larger boys pokes the turtle with a stick. It retreats into its shell lazily and lies unmoving as the boys taunt and spit on it.

  When an animal knows there is no hope, it smothers its own will to survive. Otherwise, life becomes too painful to bear. I’ve seen it in fish. I’ve seen it in nestlings that have fallen from trees.

  And now there is this turtle.

  The boys notice me.

  “There’s Taro!”

  “What’re you looking at, Taro?”

  I draw closer. The turtle shell remains at their feet, unmoving. One of the runts pinches his nose.

  “You smell like sake, Taro.”

  “Don’t you know it’s still morning, Taro?”

  I try to think of something clever to say.

  “Shut up.”

  “Oooh, one tough mama’s boy.”

  “Does your mama know you missed the boats again, Taro?”

  From the way they talk, you would never guess that I am nearly twice their age and three times their size.

  I push my way into their circle and pick up the turtle. I feel the tip of a stick poke my shoulder. I hear them snickering. A chill crawls down my skin like ants.

  “What do you think you’re doing, mama’s boy?”

  “I said shut up!”

  I turn and scowl. One of them swings his stick at my bare ankle. The sting is sharp and focused at first. Then the pain dulls and spreads.

  This almost feels good. Soon they’re laughing and cursing and throwing stones at my back. Nothing hurts too badly. Ignoring them is easy. I press the turtle against my chest and leave them to look for something else to do on this day that is as empty as any other.

  I walk along the beach, where the sand lifts, then falls in the wind. I place the turtle at the edge of the tide. The waves breathe. The soft ground below the turtle erodes, and the creature tips slightly into the water. The next wave takes it away.

  I watch dumbly. The sake is nearly gone. The water laps at my feet as I lie down on the warm sand.

  Time passes, and I drift into the void behind my eyelids.

  “You can leave this place, you know.”

  I sit up. The turtle has grown as large as a rowboat. Its voice is deep and soothing. It speaks our village dialect. It crawls slowly out of the water toward me.

  I suddenly realize that I’m not afraid. There are times when my own lack of emotion surprises even myself. I did not cry when my father died, as my mother is fond of reminding me. The only emotion I ever express to her is anger. And I am
angry at her every single day.

  “Where would I go?” It is as though I meet talking turtles every day.

  “I can take you to a beautiful palace I know. It’s under the sea.”

  “Then how can I get there? I don’t breathe water.”

  “You can ride on my back. As long as you have hold of me, you will be fine. There is no need to be afraid.”

  I honestly am not. There is so little to lose or fear. I think of my mother. I see her gathering what little food there is around the house for supper. I shake the image from my head before climbing onto the turtle’s shell.

  “Will there be sake?” I remember to ask too late, as we submerge under the white crests.

  The sea is warmer than it has ever been. I can barely feel the water as schools of fish swim by. They do not seem surprised to see me. We swim over kelp growing among bright coral. Shellfish and crab stroll along the sea floor.

  Hard to believe all of these creatures kill and eat each other to survive.

  “We only eat what we need.”

  The turtle speaks directly to my mind, which is how I understand that it can also hear my thoughts.

  From the murky depths emerges a high wall that is made of crystal of all hues, glowing in the dim darkness. The wall is as high as a cliff, and I understand for the first time the depths we have reached. Underneath its jagged surface, luminous colors move and shift, fragmented light shimmering in the crystals.

  The turtle calls it Ryugu Palace. I nearly fall off its shell when I realize we are on our way to the home of the Dragon King. He could have mentioned this earlier, I think. The Dragon King is said to capsize ships and feed on its sailors. I would not have been so eager to come to a place where I am considered a delicacy.

  “There is no need to worry,” the turtle says, chuckling. “You are my invited guest.”

  We approach an archway at the foot of the wall. An iron gate swings back slowly.

  When we swim through it, I see that we are in a long corridor. At the other end, a light grows brighter and larger as we draw near. The turtle and I float upward, and we soon break the water’s surface. I find myself in an immense hall lit with countless oil lamps, but the air is as fresh as it is by the seashore.