Pagoda, Skull & Samurai Read online

  "Oh, all this worrying gives me a headache! If he were here now, I would probably get the usual scolding, considerate enough but most unreasonable, for worrying myself sick over nothing. I ought to stop right this minute. Oh, my head!"

  The woman, about twenty-five years of age, stopped sewing. With a grimace on her slightly pockmarked, pallid face, she rubbed patches of headache ointment on her temples. Although her features were not homely, her skin was pitifully dry and rough from malnutrition. Tattered clothes and disheveled hair added to her wretched appearance.

  All at once, the broken kitchen door clattered open. "Mama, look what I've made!"

  "Ino, how long have you been there?" exclaimed the startled mother. The next moment, however, she saw scraps of lumber piled high in imitation of a five-storied pagoda.

  "That's a good boy!" With tears in her voice, she clasped Ino into her embrace.

  <4>

  Constructed by Genta of Kawagoe, a reknowned builder of the time, Kannō Temple was indubitably without a flaw. The fifty-mat main hall with its fretted ceiling, the long winding corridors, the numerous guest halls, the Abbot's chambers, the tea room, the dormitories for students and acolytes, the priests' quarters, the cookhouse, the bath, and the entrance hall—some structures were graceful, some were patinaed, some approached stately solemnity, and some had attained solid immutability. Each of them measured up to perfection in its own way, leaving nothing more to be desired.

  Who was responsible for the transformation of an obscure old temple into one of such distinction? It was Abbot Rōen of Uda, a priest so esteemed that at the mere mention of his name even a three-year-old would fold his palms in veneration. In his youth he pursued rigorous training and religious studies at Mt. Minobu, the headquarters of Nichiren Buddhism, and in his middle years he traveled throughout sixty provinces as a mendicant practicing austerity and asceticism. He had sharpened the sword of tranquil wisdom through contemplation of Samsara, this world, and Dharma, the Law. He intoned the sacred gospel of salvation in four dialects of Sanskrit. Now a septuagenarian, the abbot was as lean as a crane, the result of abstinence from unclean food—meat, fish, and ill-smelling vegetables. His eyes were always half closed so that he might transcend the turmoil of the human sphere. Having learned the Principle of Emptiness, he no longer kindled the flames of desire in his heart. Having comprehended the truth of Nirvana, he was free from the taint of worldly attachment.

  It was not that he had wished to erect a pretentious edifice. Rather, it all started when so many disciples and students were attracted to the temple by his personal charisma and spiritual virtue that the original buildings could no longer accommodate them all. One day he had muttered to himself, "I wish our halls were a little more spacious," and soon the rumor spread that the holy Abbot had declared his intention to rebuild the temple on a larger scale. Bright disciples traveled far and wide encouraging donations for this worthy cause, while parishioners extolled the eminent virtues of the Abbot, persuading wealthy men to contribute. The Abbot himself had already commanded worshipful adoration of innumerable followers, and such active efforts spurred on the fund drive even more. From the noble lords down to the townspeople, all competed in making donations; each wished to be the first to sow seeds in the field of good fortune in hopes of reaping peace and happiness in his next life. The rich offered gold and silver, while the poor gave copper coins in strands of a hundred or two, each according to his ability. Streams of money poured in to make an ocean in no time at all. Some men of practical wisdom volunteered to oversee the entire project as agents and managers. Thus did the magnificent temple come to be completed. It is a heart-warming story.

  After the general manager, Tame'emon, had added up all the expenditures and settled the accounts without a single oversight, there still remained a large sum of surplus funds. He consulted with the administrative priest, Endō, the secular top-knot and the monastic shaven head cocked in concerted effort, but worthy ideas eluded them. They thought of buying a paddy field or dry farm land, but since more than enough fields had already been donated, there was no need to spend cash to buy more of the same. They knew very well that the Abbot would no doubt say in his hoarse voice, "How troublesome! Do as you think is best." Nonetheless, Endō in desperation found an occasion to inquire if the Abbot might have a particular wish. "Build a pagoda," said the Abbot without even glancing up. He continued to read the sutra or commentary or whatever it was in silence, but there lurked a faint gleam in the eyes behind the large tortoise-shell-framed spectacles.

  It was about two months ago that Nossori had come to request an audience with the Abbot regarding the pagoda project, with or without the knowledge that Endō had already ordered Genta to submit his estimates.

  <5>

  The man was wearing patched old workman's pants under a half coat whose customary dark blue was faded nearly beyond recognition, having been weathered, sweat-stained, and washed numerous times until the collar markings were faint and illegible. His hair was white with dust, his face sunburnt and without refinement. This undignified figure apprehensively approached the main gate of Kannō Temple, only to be halted by the gatekeeper's sharp "Who are you?"

  The startled man stared wide-eyed for a second, bowed his head deeply in excessive politeness, and replied falter-ingly, "I am a carpenter called jūbei. I have come to make a request concerning the construction project."

  Although the visitor appeared inordinately nervous, the gatekeeper disdainfully gave him permission to pass, assuming that he was one of Genta's apprentices sent over on an errand.

  Encouraged by the permission, jūbei proceeded, gawking about on the way until he reached the solemn entry hall. "Hello! Is anyone there?" he called a few times.

  "Yes," answered a little acolyte who appeared through the sliding doors. An experienced receptionist, he quickly sized up the man and stood fast, neither bowing nor stepping down to the reception level. "If you have come here on an errand, go around to the cookhouse," he said frostily and closed the doors, leaving behind a hush unmitigated except by the faint singing of a lone thrush somewhere in the trees.

  "As you say." Muttering to himself, jūbei ambled over to the cookhouse and asked for admission again.

  Tame'emon, the manager, emerged with a sanctimonious air. "Unfamiliar-looking master-carpenter, from where and with what business have you come?" He affected a deliberately stilted manner of speech and a condescending tone of voice, no doubt judging the visitor by his shabby attire.

  Totally unperturbed by the man's attitude, jūbei took a deep bow and said, "I am a carpenter called Jūbei. I have come to see the Abbot with a certain request. Please announce me to him."

  Tame'emon looked searchingly. at the visitor from his dirty head down to his sandals with their discolored thongs and replied with the all-knowing air of a shrewd manager, "No, I will not. The Abbot does not concern himself with worldly affairs. Just tell me what you want, and I might grant your request, depending on what it is."

  "That is very kind of you, but I see no use in speaking to anyone but the Abbot in person. Please, I beg you to announce me to him," answered the tactless Jūbei, insensitive to the other.

  "You didn't understand me at all, did you!" Tame'emon exclaimed angrily, nettled by Jūbei's distrust. "The Abbot has no ear for a lowly workman like you. Since there is no sense in announcing you anyway, I was only trying to help grant your request. Now that my kindness has been wasted on you, I will not listen to you another moment. Get out!" As can be expected of a small-minded man, his tone had quickly taken on harsh edges. He was already rising to go back inside.

  "But... could you just...," Jūbei began hastily.

  "Shut up! Stop bothering me!" shouted Tame'emon, quickly disappearing into the rear room.

  Jūbei stood on the dirt floor with a blank look of consternation, as if a firefly had just slipped away from his hands. Having no other recourse, he raised his voice again to ask for someone. Whether or not there was any living soul
about, deep silence reigned in the huge, chilly temple —but for the echo of his own voice, not even the sound of a cough reached his ears. He trudged back to the front entry and asked again. The spiteful-looking little acolyte peeked through the door opening. "I already told him to go around to the cookhouse," he muttered to himself, shutting the door tight.

  Jūbei shuffled back and forth between the cookhouse and the front entrance several times more until he lost his reserve and shouted in a voice loud enough to carry as far as the main hall. "I beg you! Please, I do beg you!"

  "You damned fool!" bellowed Tame'emon in an even louder voice, reappearing promptly. "Men, throw this madman out of the gate. You all know how much the Abbot abhors noise. If this racket should reach his ears, we'll wind up with a lecture."

  At his order, the servants, who had been loafing about in their quarters, came out and pounced upon jūbei and tried to drag him out. Jūbei planted himself firmly on the dirt floor to resist their attempt. "Hold his arms!" "Pull his feet!" As the servants were cursing and shrieking, the Abbot happened along, clad in a magnolia-hued kimono, holding flowers in one hand and a pair of shears with red lacquer handles in the other. He had been taking a stroll in the garden, collecting a few blossoming sprays to display in his alcove.

  <6>

  "What is all this commotion?"

  At the sound of the Abbot's authoritative voice, the lowly servants froze on the spot. Some were caught with their fists swung up midair, looking like monks petrified by an opponent's shout in the middle of a heated Zen dialogue. Others hastened to hide behind one another, tugging at their rolled-up sleeves in embarrassment. Tame'emon, who had been at the height of his haughty wrath, all but billowing flames out of flared nostrils, must have felt at least somewhat ashamed, but there was no escape for him, the ringleader. Drooping his head down and obsequiously rubbing his hands together, he began to explain the situation, coloring the story to his own advantage.

  The Abbot slowly broke into a smile, etching the lines more deeply in his thin, wrinkled face. "There was no need to make such a disturbance," he said softly. "If only you, Tame'emon, had announced him to me with good grace, there would have been no problem at all. Jūbei-dono, I believe? Follow me this way. I am sorry that you met with such a regrettable reception."

  Befitting one so admired and adored by all, the Abbot showed no disdain for the uneducated nor contempt for the lowly. With warm hospitality and serene grace, he led the way for jūbei, who was unable to hold back tears of gratitude. His compassion had penetrated even the carpenter's simple mind. The two of them traced the winding path past a stretch of moist red soil, artistically laid stepping stones, a Chinese parasol tree offering deep shade, and a graceful bamboo grove. At last, through a modest folding door they entered a small tranquil garden rather conspicuous for its lack of colorful flowers. Pine needles were scattered over an Uraku stone lantern, and the green moss covering a star-shaped water basin carved in stone seemed bright enough to clear one's eyes.

  The Abbot stepped out of his wooden clogs into a room. "Please come right up," he invited jūbei, casually dropping his sprays into a hanging vase.

  Not a man to be hesitant or sheepish, or careful enough to dust his feet with a towel, jūbei doffed his sandals, lumbered into the small tea room, and sat very close to the Abbot. His silent bow was not in exact accordance with the proper rules of the tea ceremony, but it was clearly imbued with sincerity. After a few attempts to speak, he at last forced his heavy lips to falter out words:

  "The five-storied pagoda.... I have come to make a request about the pagoda." Abruptly leaning forward, he barely managed to wring out his thought in an uneven voice. Cold perspiration moistened his forehead and armpits.

  The Abbot smiled in spite of himself and replied affably, "I don't know what you have in mind, but don't be afraid of me. You can dispense with ceremony and just speak your mind. Judging from the way you anchored yourself on the kitchen floor, I can see that you are quite determined. Please consider me as good as your friend. Take your time and speak without reserve."

  Jūbei was so moved that his round eyes, which could disparagingly be compared to an owl's, were already flooded with tears. "Thank you, Reverend. I did come with a desperate mind... that pagoda.... I am such a lowly fellow, as you can see, called by a degrading nickname, Nossori jūbei. But honestly, Reverend, I am not unskilled in my trade. I know I am a fool and I am made a fool of. I am a guileless man who cannot lie, but, Reverend, I can do carpentry. I learned the Ōsumi style in my childhood, and I am also versed in the Goto and Tatekawa styles. Please let me have... that is... I would like you to let me build the pagoda. This is what I have come to ask of you.

  "Several days ago I heard that Master Genta of Kawagoe had submitted his estimates. Reverend, I haven't had a peaceful sleep ever since. A five-storied pagoda is a rare project that might come our way but once in a lifetime, or even in a hundred years. It is not my wish to take a job away from Master Genta, to whom goodness knows how greatly indebted I am. Yet, how I envy sharp-witted people! Master Genta gets to work on a once-in-a-lifetime job, a once-in-a-hundred-year project, and his name will survive to posterity. No builder can hope for a better reward than that. Oh, I envy him, how I envy him! As far as our trade skill is concerned I am confident that with an adz and a chisel I fall behind no one, be it Master Genta or anyone else, even if a one-in-a-million chance the carpenter's ink-string marker should fail to draw a straight line. But year in, year out, I get nothing but such meager jobs as repairing the siding of a tenement or building stables and gutter covers. I tell myself time and again to accept my lot, for Heaven has not granted me sharp wits. But in my heart I cry over my misfortune every time I see inept carpenters build shrines and temples. Why, a discerning person could not help but feel sorry for the patrons and parishioners who commissioned such frauds. Sometimes I feel resentful, Reverend, and hateful toward those who have no talent but worldly wisdom. Oh, how I envy Master Genta, Reverend, who is blessed with both the wisdom and the talent! He is going to undertake a work to be envied, isn't he? But I am so... ah, Master Genta is so... ah, what misery!

  "One evening my envy grew so intense that I went to bed in tears without even speaking to my wife. During the night an awesome figure appeared and said to me, 'Build the pagoda. You must build it at once!' I started up in fright and reached into my toolbox. It was half dream and half real, Reverend. When I came fully awake, I found myself clutching at the toolbox. I had cut my fingertips on the chisel. How foolish to have crawled out of bed without even knowing it. I sat by the lamp feeling wretched and stupid. Can you, Reverend, understand how I felt then? Can you? If only someone could understand this much, I would not have to build the pagoda any more—this stupid Nossori jūbei would gladly die then. I don't particularly care to live on like a broken saw anyway. To tell you the plain truth, Reverend, ever since that night, whether I turned to the clear sky or to the dark corner of a room, I kept seeing a five-storied pagoda of plain wood looming above me, until I felt I must build one myself. Though I knew that it would not come close to the one in my vision, I set out after work every day to make a fiftieth-size model. Last night I finished it. Please take a look at it, Reverend. How ironic that I've been able to complete the work no one ordered but am not allowed to take on the work I truly want! 'Oh, there's nothing more regrettable than karma,' I lamented. 'You'd be far better off without your skill, for then you wouldn't even be aware of your own misfortune,' my wife cried, shaking the model. Since what she said was true, it made me weep all the more. Have mercy, Reverend, and let me build this pagoda. I beg you, like this."

  Folding his hands in prayer, jūbei lowered his head to the floor, tears streaming from his eyes.

  <7>

  Silent as a wooden statue of an arhat, the Abbot listened to Jūbei's rambling, all the while fingering the linden-nut beads of his rosary. He gestured to stop jūbei from bowing and made his reply:

  "I do understand. I comprehend perfectly.
You are possessed of a beautiful heart and an admirable aspiration, truly a fine exemplar for my student monks. I was moved to tears in spite of myself. By all means, I will go to see your model. However, even though I am extremely impressed with you, it is not up to me to promise on the spot that the pagoda contract will be granted to you. I want you to understand right here and now that the final decision will be handed out, not by me, but officially by Kannō Temple. I do have some free time today, and I would like very much to see your model. Could you take me to your house right now?"

  Jūbei had been pumping his head up and down blindly as if he were pounding rice with it, beaming and muttering, "Yes, yes" between the Abbot's words. At last, he exclaimed excitedly, "You grant my request? Thank you, thank you! You will come to my house, you say? That would be more than I deserve. I will fetch the model immediately. If you will pardon me...."

  With an alacrity belying his nickname, he took a deep bow and dashed home, driven by joy, almost tripping over the stepping stones on the way. Without a word to his wife, he lifted the model with the aid of a helper and rushed back to the temple. He set the pagoda in front of the Abbot and took his leave.

  The Abbot studied the model carefully. It was a splendid piece of work, not a flaw to be found anywhere—from the balance between each story, the slope of the roofs and the eaves, the height of dadoes, and the distribution of rafters down to the shape of the nine rings, the corolla basin, the dew drip, and the jewel cap atop the spire. It was so exquisite that one could hardly believe it had been created by an awkward-looking man like jūbei.