Take me at my word
When I say I know nothing
Of the world. Teach me!
I took my frustration out on my crutch. What else did I have any power over?
On Mother’s crisp instructions, my original crutch had long since been replaced. If I had not been forced to use it to walk so much as a step, I would have readily admitted that the replacement was almost a work of art. The length of it was intricately carved with birds and animals, and the bar that fitted under my arm was padded carefully for comfort and topped with a thick layer of fine silk. Alas, it was made of teakwood, so it was so heavy that if it had not been gifted to me by Mother, I would have quickly replaced it with the old one.
I found after a while that Mother was shrewder than I had given her credit for. Because the crutch was heavy, I had to force my wasted muscles to work hard to use it. I discovered that it had benefited me quite by accident. One of the maids moved my new crutch out of the way when she was cleaning my room and as my old one was to hand, I used that instead. It felt so light compared to the new crutch it was almost a pleasure to use.
At first, I was delighted, but after a few minutes I felt my joy vanish. Suddenly, I felt insecure using the lighter crutch as I became certain that it would give way. After a while I put it away and picked up the new one. Perhaps the padded top had adjusted to my form. It felt right and I relished the challenge of using it to support me.
Now, I forgot all about how pleased I was with my crutch. I lowered myself lumpishly to the tatami and threw it viciously away from me, almost as if I hoped to hurt the unfeeling wood. I simmered for a while and then realized I would have to stand unaided or shuffle across the floor on my rear to retrieve it. The knowledge rounded off my misery perfectly and I groaned.
I was about to work my way clumsily across the tatami on my rear to pick up the crutch when a vision of Brother Tengen’s face came to me. How he would have loved seeing me admit defeat so easily! I said “no” out loud. I would not allow him—or any other man—to sneer at me. Nor would I let myself down. I took a deep, calming breath and placed both hands on the tatami at each side of my hips. Very carefully, I levered myself to hip level and then found I lacked the confidence to stand fully.
Although I knew I had great strength in my arms, my balance was far from sure. I teetered for long moments and almost sat down again before stubbornness returned. If I gave in now, the next time I faced a challenge, it would be easier still to give in. And the time after, and the time after that…?
With a grunt of effort, I staggered to my feet—or rather my foot. I wavered frantically and then—because I had no choice as it was either that or fall over—I put my left foot down. Although my leg stuck out at a horrible angle and no more than the pads beneath my toes touched the tatami, somehow, I balanced.
I was panting with the effort, but I had come so far, I would not back down now. For a moment, I dithered. Should I try and balance on my deformed leg while I moved the right one, or do it the other way around? I held my hands out, appealing for help to the empty room and then the decision was no longer mine.
My left leg was so weak I could feel it giving way. I took the weight off it quickly and hopped rather than walked on my right leg. I felt huge triumph as I put my left foot to the floor again, briefly, and then did it again. And again.
Actually picking up the crutch was an even greater challenge. Eventually, I balanced on my right leg and allowed my left leg to swing out as I swooped down and grabbed the crutch, tucking it beneath my arm as rapidly as I could.
I was streaming with sweat and shaking. But when I glanced across the room, I marveled at the distance I had managed to move unaided. I laughed out loud with delight and even managed to spare a grudging thank you to Brother Tengen, for surely if it hadn’t been for the thought of his smug face watching me struggle and fail, I would never have managed such an astonishing journey.
Immediately, I felt deflated. A few steps, and I was celebrating?
“The journey of a thousand days begins with a single step,” I whispered. And then I said it again, and again. My single step had been taken. I would not turn back now.
My resolve was strengthened when Brother Tengen came back.
I had spent the whole day between his visits practicing my kanji. To my great surprise, I began to find his precise kanji more attractive than Gen’s more fluid characters. It was, I supposed, rather like my affinity for figures and music. Both were equally meticulous. In any event, I was waiting for Tengen eagerly.
He looked over my efforts and placed his fingertips together in front of his chest. If I had expected praise, I was to be disappointed.
“We will move on today. I will teach you more kanji, and on my next visit I will test you on all you should have learned so far.”
Should, I noticed. It didn’t worry me. I would be perfect. My body might not be perfect at all, but there was nothing wrong with my mind, as Brother Tengen would find out.
And he obviously did. He made no comment, but very soon his teaching picked up pace. When I hesitated over a kanji, I felt his impatience glowing within him. I made sure it happened very rarely.
I forgot the pleasures of my biwa. I even gave up my daily rides on my pony. Soon, nothing mattered more to me than being able to show Tengen that I had learned everything he had shown me.
Anzu became anxious. “Mi-san,” she coaxed. “It is a lovely day. Would you like to sit in the garden?”
“Not now. I have work to do.”
She didn’t understand my needs at all, and sometimes neither did I.
One day, when I had copied kanji for Tengen endlessly, rather than learning anything new, I became dissatisfied enough to challenge him.
“I know all these,” I said dismissively. “I need to learn new kanji. And more importantly, I need to be able to make sense of them.” Tengen stared at me without speaking. I could tell from his expression that he didn’t understand what I was asking and I tried again. I pointed at my full sheet of characters. “I know all these kanji. I can write them and I can read them. But they don’t matter. They are just words. I want to be able to put them together. To make them speak.”
I thought my last words were rather poetic, but Tengen obviously disagreed.
“You wish to run before you can walk,” he snapped shortly. “You have much to learn before you can get to that stage.”
Echoes of the physician’s words! Oddly, the comment had not bothered me when the physician has said it, but I had assumed a holy man would be more thoughtful. I supposed Tengen had no idea how hurtful his words were and put the incident aside.
It was pure coincidence, but a little later that day I caught the inkpot with my sleeve and the contents spilled over Tengen’s robe. I stared in horror, thinking the rusty black ink looked like drying blood against the intense saffron of his robe.
I pulled a tenugui from my sleeve and tried to dab at the ink. I was astonished when Tengen jerked back as if my touch had burned him. When I persisted, all the time murmuring apologies, he grabbed my wrists tightly and held me away from him at arm’s length.
His grip was so tight, it felt as if iron manacles were squeezing my wrists. I stayed still, waiting for him to release me. Strangely, he did not. He did not move at all. He was trembling with rage, and I fully expected him to forget his Buddhist teachings and strike me for my clumsiness. I would not have blamed him if he had. All monks—even those in monasteries—had no possessions. His robe was probably the only one he had, and now he would have to go back to his kannushi and explain that it was ruined.
With that thought in my mind, I blurted, “I am so sorry. I will explain to Father what happened through my clumsiness and ask him to pay your kannushi for a new robe.”
He threw my hands from him so violently that I lurched back, almost losing my balance.
A maid must have heard the noise. She slid the shoji back and poked her head through timidly, her eyebrows raised in question.
Tengen sprang to his feet immediately. Even in my confusion, I had time to think that he moved with all the grace of a trained warrior. Although now was certainly not the time to ask, I thought that one day—if the day ever came when he was in a better mood—I would ask him if he was skilled in martial arts.
My small pleasure died at once as Tengen grunted with anger. I realized he thought I was laughing at him. Before I could apologize, he turned and almost ran past the maid, shouldering her aside rudely.
I smothered my mouth with my hand, lost for words. In any event he was gone before I could explain. There was nothing further I could do. Instead, I turned to practical matters and asked the maid to take up the ruined tatami and have it replaced. She bowed briefly and bent to her task, but not before I had time to catch her expression.
She was smirking, barely hiding laughter. I was so angry with myself I thought nothing of it at the time, but later, when I was alone and—of course—practicing my kanji, I wondered about it, but finally decided she had been amused by the sight of a monk losing his temper.
I only wished I had found the situation half as funny.