The apparent dragon
There were shrines so unobtrusive they could easily be overlooked—along seldom used forest tracks, in the hollow of a tree, beneath outcrops of rocks, by the side of the road. It was Soshin who had first shown Yugen the one in the forest where he stopped on his day of departure. Yugen loved coming across them in unexpected places, simple reminders that the sacred was everywhere.
He was exploring the last island, had discovered this shrine on a knoll behind the beach. He was glad that the beach was deserted; he felt less isolated when he was by himself. People continued to behave oddly towards him, it was not his imagination. On the ferry over here he’d said good morning to two old men who looked exactly like each other. They bent their heads, shuff led their feet on the deck and did not look up again till the monk had moved away.
Perhaps it was something invisible. Even though the urn was hidden in the backpack, perhaps people instinctively knew that the monk was carrying with him the vestiges of death.
He must continue till he had completed his task. It did not matter what people thought of him, how he was regarded or made to feel.
This shrine was larger than the one in the forest but equally unobtrusive. The monk would not have noticed it at all had he not seen the staircase. He counted the steps—there were seventy-three—as he ascended, not sure what he’d find at the top.
A low wall left the shrine open to receive the bounty of the elements. There was a small pathway of smooth round pebbles to purify the feet of visitors to the shrine. The shrubs growing alongside it, including the bushes with the small white f lowers, had recently been trimmed back—not in a mechanical straight cutting line, but carefully, each branch and twig. Sometimes half a leaf was missing.
The dwelling for the god was white concrete, its small timber doors bolted with an ornate engraved brass fitting that joined the two. The doors were subdued with age but the brass fitting had been polished so that it looked like new. On the weathered surface of the altar were small mounds of white rice with a scattering of mahogany-coloured adzuki beans.
Yugen had saved this island for last because at the ferry terminal he’d discovered that there was to be a diving women’s festival and had delayed his visit to coincide with it. Soshin had loved festivals.
Yugen remembered winter solstice celebrations at the monastery, with sweet cakes and generous quantities of rice wine. Soshin would fill the monks’ cups and say, ‘Drink up, my boys, this will protect your health in old age.’ After several cups, someone suggested a game of baseball. Even the abbot joined in, not always running to the makeshift bases in a straight line. Once Soshin hit a ball so far into the forest that it was never seen again. Sometimes monks drank so much wine that they’d suddenly lie down on the ground, even in the middle of a game, the warmth of their bodies melting the snow around them.
Yugen had forgotten the needle-cold chill of winter solstice. He’d become another creature. Now his body felt only moist sea air.
In the hazy distance was the beehive village of the island he’d visited a few days before. It appeared to be shrouded in sleep, its love story resting between tellings. In his mind Yugen saw the distinctive white rocky outcrop above the beach where the couple were harvesting seaweed, the path on the map which led to it.
The beach below the shrine where he now stood was curved, with crunchy grey sand and a smattering of broken shells. Midway along the stretch of sand, tables had been arranged corner to corner so that they made a square with open space in the middle. At the back of the beach was a long trestle table with chairs spaced evenly behind it. It already seemed as if a row of straight-backed people were sitting in them. Although the beach was empty it was strewn with footsteps. They skirted the tables, came up to the concrete path and disappeared on its hard surface.
Tomorrow the beach would be full of people eating and drinking, celebrating. Perhaps in a big festive crowd Yugen wouldn’t be noticed, he could mingle in the general camaraderie.
At the far end of the beach something odd, out of place, caught the monk’s attention. It appeared to be a dragon, a gigantic lizard, reared up on its tail, pale underbelly exposed, short forelimbs bent at the elbows, the sharp-clawed fingers of the paws outstretched, head up, mouth extending down to its shoulders.
What Yugen thought he saw could not possibly be. He tried not to dwell on it. His mind was still in recovery, pieces of it missing. After the appearance of carp at the power transmitter, he could no longer trust his powers of observation. How could he know for certain that the things he thought he saw were actually there?
When in harmony the mind’s several layers did not separate and distinguish themselves. At those moments the mind was at one with its surroundings. Like water it f lowed everywhere, settling into the shapes of the spaces it found along the way.
The monk tried not to think about the mind that was thinking about the mind, because behind that was another and another.
It was too late, he’d dwelled too long. The carp had come back. Now instead of circling they sat in a row, dressed in abbot’s robes. In front of them stood a small boy. The biggest, most senior carp asked the boy a question.
‘Dragon,’ the boy replied.
This sent the whole congregation of carp into a f lurry.
‘Did others happen to see it?’ asked one.
‘Were people pointing and staring?’ demanded another.
There was no-one else on the beach, no source of second opinion. Another objection the carp-abbots had was the creature’s inertness. Did it not tire of being in that reared-up position?
‘Reptiles can stay still for long periods of time,’ the little boy responded bravely. This did not sway the carp, however.
They ordered the boy to review the data, examine the parts once again and see if a different whole could be assembled from them. ‘Do not bring a dragon back here a second time,’ the head carp said sternly.
The boy set off once again. Out here on his own, away from the critical eye of the carp, he could play and be fanciful. He could even let the mission drop. But the boy wouldn’t let go till he’d exhausted all possibilities. If he couldn’t convince the carp of the dragon he’d put the creature in his own private cupboard where things that didn’t fit anywhere else were thrown in higgledy-piggledy.
The boy focused on the parts that he’d assembled into a dragon. He had a strange feeling that the carp were watching, waiting for him to make a mistake.
Yugen stopped, caught hold of himself. Imaginary carp were discussing an imaginary dragon. He picked up a grain of rice from the shrine altar, pressed his fingertips against its hardness, placed it in his mouth and tasted it. Rice. All his senses confirmed it.
The monk looked at the dragon again. It hadn’t gone away. It even appeared to have moved a little.