STEALING KOREAN GINSENG

It was early 18^th century in Korea. Sung Won, an 11-year old boy, was plodding along a busy street in the capital city of Hanyang. He was deeply depressed. He had walked for two hours to visit his uncle to ask him for some nourishing food for his sick mother, but he had only given the boy a few eggs.

“Sorry your mother’s sick, but my family is, you see, as poor as yours. I can’t afford to give you any more. How many times have I helped you? This is the limit. Say to your mother: ‘as long as you depend on me, you’ll become as lazy as a pig.’ So, don’t visit me again. OK? Now, go back, I am busy,” his uncle had said. He had a greasy face and was clad in nice clothes. When Sung Won was leaving his house, he heard a lot of chickens crowing and cows lowing.

Sung Won remembered what the doctor said: “your mother is suffering from malnutrition. Feed her well, such as meat and eggs. If possible, Korean ginseng. It is esparkially good for her health.”

Sung Won desperately wanted Korean ginseng. He knew it was the best nutritious food, but it was too expensive. So he had asked his uncle to give him some eggs or chicken. While going back home, he thought she would be disappointed to know of her brother’s unkindness.

The autumn sun was beginning to set coloring the sky red. He was walking a narrow mountain road, when heard a painful groan. Curious, he walked nearer to the noise, and found a middle-aged heavy-bearded man lying on the road, his whole body paralyzed. He was unable to speak; his mouth was trembling. He lifted his shaking hand awkwardly trying to point to his left leg. His face was all sweat.

Instantaneously Sung Won realized that the man had been bitten by a poisonous snake. He knew how to treat him, for his late father had saved him when he was poisoned by a snake. He rolled up the man’s trouser and discovered two bite marks on his leg.

Sung Won tore his clothes, made a string, and tied the upper part of his leg tightly, put his mouth on the wounds and sucked out the poisoned blood hard again and again, and went into the bush to find medical plants. Soon he returned with a bunch of herbs. He chewed it and pasted it on the wounds. He let the man drink some water from his flask.

Soon the man began to recover.

　　“Thank you very much. You have saved my life,” he said and began to open his bag of furoshiki cloth. There was a lot of Korean ginseng in it. He picked two and gave them to Sung Won.

“Thank you. Frankly speaking, my mother is sick in bed. The doctor said Korean ginseng was effective to help her recove,” Sung Won said.

“Is that so?  Then, I’ll give you one more, but don’t tell anybody, even to your mother, that I gave you these,” the man said with cunning eyes.

“Why?”

“No reason. Just follow my words. Do you understand?” the man said with a threatening voice.

“All right,” the boy said obediently.

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

When Sung Won returned home, his mother, Min Ji, was lying in bed.

“Oh, you must be tired. Did my brother give you any eggs?” she asked.

“Yes. Here,” Sung Won showed the few eggs and three Korean ginseng roots.

“What a surprise! Did he give you the ginseng, too?” Min Ji said.

“No, I found them on the mountain road on my way home,” he said.

“Is that true? I can’t believe such precious herb roots were left on the road,” she said.

“I was surprised, too. So, I looked around but there was no one and so, I picked them up. Even if I didn’t pick them up, someone else would have done so,” he said.

Min Ji was suspicious, but since his words sounded true and since she did not want to doubt him, she believed him.

One afternoon a week later, Min Ji was doing some sewing. She had recovered her health after drinking the ginseng decoction every day. Sung Won was absent. That morning he had gone to his uncle to help him harvest rice.

Suddenly Min Ji heard a strong knock on the door, followed by a man’s voice.

“Good afternoon. We are from the Hanyang Police Department. Open the door.”

Min Ji hurriedly did so and found two police officers.

“We are visiting houses one after another to get information concerning the criminal who stole a lot of Korean ginseng from the Noble Kim’s house a week ago. Did you see any suspicious people around his house, or have you heard anything about the theft? Any information would be helpful,” one of them said.

   Min Ji instantaneously thought of her son. He might have stolen them, she thought.

   “I’m sorry I don’t have any information,” she said trying to sound as natural as possible though her heart was beating hard.

   “Thank you, but if you remember anything that will help us, please let us know. Thank you for your cooperation. Good day,” he said and left the house.

   Min Ji was worried. She couldn’t breathe normally. Her son might have stolen the ginseng. He said they had been left on the road. Did he tell a lie? No, he was not such a bad boy. But they said the ginseng had been stolen just a week ago. Sung Won brought them just a week ago, too. He was beside the bed when the doctor said, “Korean ginseng is especially effective for your recovery.” He must have desired for my recovery so strongly that he must have stolen them. Oh, she was sorry for him. She must not let them arrest her beloved son. She should turn herself in and “confess” her crime. Min Ji hurried to the police department.

When she arrived there, she “confessed” to the department chief that she had stolen the Korean ginseng. Since she had worked for the Noble Kim’s house as a maid for 12 years until she was fired because of her illness, she knew the geography of the house. She made up how she had stolen them. Believing her, the chief sentenced her to corporal punishment. Usually theft was punished with 30 times of flogging, but since she “confessed,” she was to be flogged 20 times.

The police department announced the sentence on the bulletin board in front of the department office. It read:

   “Park Min Ji shall be flogged 20 times for stealing Korean ginseng from the Noble Kim house on October 4. The punishment will be executed in the execution ground at noon on October 13.”

  Reading the announcement, Min Ji’s neighbor, a woman around 50 named Ji Hyun, rushed to Sung Won’s house.

   “Sung Won! Terrible news! Your mother is going to be flogged,” she panted.

   “Jesus! Why?” Sung Won asked.

   “For stealing ginseng,” she said.

   “Oh, no! When is she going to be punished?”

   “At this moment!”

“Where?”

   “In the execution ground.”

Sung Won ran and ran shedding tears. “She sacrificed herself to save me,” he said to himself. He hoped he would reach the execution ground before she was beaten.

   When Sung Won got to the place, he saw a crowd. He pushed his way to the front and saw his mother bound on her stomach on the scaffold. Several officers and two men with a rod were standing on either side of the scaffold. Sung Won rushed to his mother.

   “Mother, I am sorry. I didn’t pick up the ginseng. A stranger gave them to me,” Sung Won said.

   “Then, why didn’t you say so first?” she said feebly.

   An officer grabbed Sung Won by the arm and said, “Don’t interrupt us, boy,” as he dragged him away from his mother.

“Because he ordered me to keep my mouth shut,” Sung Won said in a loud voice so that she could hear.

   “Thank God. I knew he was not a bad boy,” she said to herself.

   “Wait a moment,” the police department chief ordered and stepped up to the boy.

   “Is it true that a stranger gave you the ginseng?” the chief said.

   “Yes. A man gave them to me because I saved his life,” Sung Won said.

   “You saved his life?”

   “He was bitten by a poisonous snake. I sucked the bad blood out of his leg.”

   “Sounds true, but can you prove it?” the chief said.

   Sung Won did not know what to say. It was impossible for him to prove it. He looked at his mother and then at the onlookers waiting for the flogging.

   “Unless you prove it, we must execute the punishment because she herself confessed the crime,” he said.

   The crowd jeered.

   “Flog the bitch! Flog the bitch!”

   Sung Won did not know what to do. He stared at the chief and looked at the crowd in vexation, when suddenly he saw the man in the crowd, the man who had given him the ginseng. Sung Won rushed to him and grabbed him by the arm.                                      

“This is the man,” Sung Won screamed. “He gave me the ginsengs.”

Embarrassed, the man tried to pull back his arm away from him, but the boy was clutching him with all his might. People in the crowd were surprised and looked at them.

“Good God, get off me!” the man said trying to twist his arm to escape from him, but the boy grabbed it all the more tightly.

“Officer, this is the man! He gave me the ginseng,” Sun Won shouted at the top of his voice.

Three officers rushed to them.

“Do you know the boy?” one of the officers said to the man.

“No. I dunno,” he said.

“The boy says you gave him ginseng,” the officer said.

“I’ve never seen him before,” he said.

“Boy,” the officer said to Sung Won. “Aren’t you confusing him with someone else?”

“No, I am not. This is the man, I’m sure,” Sung Won said.

“Can you prove it?” the officer said.

“Officer, please let me go,” the man begged.

“Yes, I can. He has two bite marks on his left leg,” Sung Wong said. “Please roll up his left trouser.”

The officer rolled it up as the other officers held the man.

Two bite marks were on his leg.

“You are under arrest,” the officer said.

 

The next day, Sung Won and his mother Min Ji were invited to the police department. They were guided to the department chief’s room, where the chief was waiting for them. When they entered the room, he stood up.

“Welcome Sung Won, welcome Min Ji,” he said beaming a smile. “Thanks to your cooperation, we were able to arrest the thief. We would like to present you with a token of thanks.”

The chief ordered one of the men to bring the gift. Soon the man brought dozens of ginseng roots and a bale of rice. The chief gave them to the boy.

“Take care of your mother, good boy,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” Sung Won and Min Ji said.

After a moment of hesitation, Sung Won said, “Sir, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Yes. I rarely grant favors, but l'll permit you to ask,” the chief said.

“I would like you to reduce the thief’s sentence, for he gave us the ginseng,” Sung Wong said.

“Oh, I know. I was planning the reduction,” the chief said. “He is not a bad man through and through.”

Sung Won and Min Ji looked at each other. They looked relieved.

The end

SHAKLED BY SUTRAS

SHAKLED BY SUTRAS

 

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

My family’s religion is Buddhist Shingon sect. So, I had interest in the founder of Shingon, the monk Kukai, in my boyhood. Another thing I was interested in was an ancestral treasure scroll. It was decorated in the alcove next to the Buddhist altar whenever the Buddhist memorial service was held. On the scroll was written a phrase of the sutra “Namu-kanze-jizai-bosatsu” (Buddha of Compassion). Whenever the chanting of the sutra was finished, the priest and my father would often refer to “Dogon” in their conversation, while looking at the scroll. As a child, I wondered what “Dogon” was.

   Dogon’s diary was discovered during the renovation of Zentsuji Temple in Kagawa Prefecture according to the Asahi Newspaper dated on September 30, 2012. Dogon was a notable priest in the 9^th century Japan, who recommended Kukai to become a priest (See “Sango-shiiki” written by Kukai). The discovery of the diary was “epoch making for the Buddhist history in Japan.”

   In March I retired from teaching at the age of 60 and went on the Pilgrimage of the 88 Temples in Shikoku. I arrived at the 75^th temple of Zentsuji in May, and had a chance to read Dogon’s diary. As it was written in classical Chinese, I was not able to comprehend it. However, thanks to the help of the head priest of the temple, Jikan, I grasped the content.

   The diary was written between May, 779 when Dogon went to Tang as a member of Japanese official diplomatic delegation to China and February, 801 when he returned to Japan. He wrote in it how he studied Tantric Buddhism from the monk Bùkōng; how he felt inferior to one of his classmates, the monk Hui-kuo; and how he had come to reach enlightenment.

   His diary moved me so much that I thought it would be a waste of a valuable asset if it was not published. However, since it was written in classical Chinese, the general public could not understand it at all. Therefore, with the permission of Jikan, I decided to make it into a story and publish it. I know it is a reckless attempt, but I would be happy if the readers would get the idea of how Dogon lived.

Chapter 2

On May 8, 779, I went over to Chang'an, the Chinese capital, as a member of a Japanese diplomatic delegation to study Buddhist Tantrism from Bùkōng, a grand disciple of Xuanzang. In those days, Hui-kuo, two years senior to me, was also studying Tantrism from him.

   Xuanzang had been to India and brought back a large number of Sanskrit sutras to Chang'an and translated them into Chinese investing 19 years. The whole translation works consisted of 1,347 volumes. I read aloud day after day the innumerous number of sutras trying to understand them, and transcribed them onto wood strips with the greatest care.

   The transcribed sutras included Sotsuji Sutra, Kongocho Sutra, Dainichi Sutra, Dainichi-kyoso, the Heart Sutra, Rishu Sutra, Yugi Sutra, and Yoryakunenjyu Sutra. The number of wood strips amounted to over 5,000.

I discussed Buddhist Tantrism with Hui-kuo to attain a deep understanding. To tell the truth, however, I felt inferior to him because he seemed to understand it more thoroughly than I. I did not know why he had such a deep comprehension of it although he and I had been studying it under Bùkōng.

One day, Bùkōng said, “If you want to read a sutra, you must not read it.” His words were like a riddle and I could not understand it at all to my disappointment. However hard I tried to solve the riddle, I failed, until finally I asked Hui-kuo what Bùkōng had meant.

“I think I understand it,” he replied.

To hear that, I thought momentarily that he had said so out of vanity, but on second thought I changed my mind. I knew he was not such a person. I thought he was being considerate to me. That was why he said, “I ‘think’ I understand it,” I thought.

I was frustrated. I thought it a shame that I did not understand Bùkōng’s words as a priest sent to Chang'an by the Japanese government. I thought I had not read the sutras thoroughly enough. Therefore, I resumed reading them aloud even more diligently than before. Thanks to that, I came to recite almost perfectly the Three Shingon Buddhism Sutras: Sotsuji Sutra, Kongocho Sutra, and Dainichi Sutra. However, three years passed like an arrow without understanding Bùkōng’s words.    

On November 28, 781, three days before leaving Chang'an, I visited Hui-kuo at Seiryuji Temple. We drank and discussed Buddhist Tantrism. Soon the topic of conversation moved to calligraphy. Hui-kuo was one of the three best calligraphers in those days.

He was able to write with ease Chinese characters in cursive, square, seal, or any other styles. I was far behind him in both the study of Buddhist Tantrism and writing Chinese characters. Since I wanted to be competent in calligraphy, I asked him what the knack was.

“My calligraphy is nothing compared to Rin-So’s or Kokan’s, but I always keep this rule in mind when I use an ink brush,” he said. “It is: first, do not write with your fingers, but write with your hand; second, do not write with your hand, but write with your arm; third, do not write with your arm, but write with your shoulder; fourth, do not write with your shoulder, but write with your body; fifth, do not write with your body, but write with your mind; sixth, do not write with your mind, but write with detachment; and finally write freely. I think this rule is similar to Bùkōng’s words in the core: ‘If you want to read a sutra, you must not read it.’”

Hearing him, I was able to figure out Bùkōng’s words vaguely, but I thought I needed some more time to get the real understanding of his words. I admired Hui-kuo for detecting the similarity between the calligraphy rule and Bùkōng’s words. I made up my mind to introduce to Hui-kuo a priest who would visit Chang'an as a member of the next delegation.

On December first, I prepared to board the ship to return to Japan. The things I was going to bring back to Japan were: 140 volumes of wood sticks consisting of 5,000 wood sticks, Buddha statues, Buddha’s ashes, Compassion Buddha statues, miniature shrines, Buddhist altar articles, mandala pictures, and beads. I wrapped the 140 volumes of wood sticks with oiled paper with five volumes in each bundle so that they would not get wet with sea water. I also wrapped all the other items with oiled paper. I put them in a portable wickerwork chest. On the chest, I wrote words from a sutra “Namu Kanze Jizai Bosatsu” in sumi ink. The chest weighed nearly ten kilograms.

The return trip to Japan was as follows:

December 12:  The ship left Suzhou Port for Japan. It took the southern course.

January 23, 782:  Reached Amami Islands. The damaged parts of the ship were fixed. It was revictualed.

January 27:  Reached Bonotsu, Satsuma Peninsula, and waited for the leading wind.

January 31:  Left Bonotsu.

February 6:  Reach Nagasaki Port. Scheduled to sail to Hakatatsu through the Sea of Genkai.

   Around the noon when the ship was sailing the Sea of Genkai, the sky was covered with dark clouds and the heavy wind began to rough the sea. In case the ship sank, I bound the three wooden boxes to the mast and asked a sailor to bind the chest to my body.

Soon the wind became foul and the sea ran high. The storm lasted for hours till the evening, destroying both masts and tearing the canvases. With the helm broken, the ship drifted along to the north until it became stranded. Soon the bow broke and the ship broke into three parts. When it began to sink, I jumped into the sea. Luckily the chest I shouldered functioned as a buoyancy bag. I narrowly kept floating. I saw in front of me a few men desperately clinging to a mast, going up and down the waves.

I did not know how long I drifted. The storm had abated. I felt icy cold and exhausted. I saw only the dark sky and the dark sea. When I happened to look at the Buddhist rosary which I thought I was clasping hard, I found it had gone. I had a feeling of foreboding. Would I have to die in the dark sea alone? I knew several Japanese official ships to China had sunk. Did the deceased delegation members feel the same way as I was feeling then? Would the remaining wooden sticks disappear? Gradually my eyesight became dim, and my hearing weak. Suddenly I saw a dozen of bright Buddha in front of me, which then turned into my mother’s faces. I was losing consciousness. I left it to fate.

 

When I awoke, I found myself lying on a bed. I heard birds chirping. It looked like morning. A young monk was sitting beside me. My chest was at the corner of the room.

“Ah, at last you are awake,” the monk said.

I did not know how to talk. I collected myself.

“Where am I?” I said in a feeble voice.

“Koura in Matsue. This is Koenji Temple,” he said.

“Matsue? In Izumo Domain?”

“Yes. Please wait a moment. I’ll call the chief monk,” he said and left the room.

I was surprised to know that the ship had drifted as far as Matsue offing. I wondered whether Ambassador Kiyonao Fuse, Vice Ambassador Hironari Tajihino, officers, secretaries, and other members of the delegation were alive. Was I the only one who had survived? I was disappointed that the three boxes had sunk to the bottom of the sea. However, I was still alive and the chest was intact. I thanked Buddha.

   Soon the chief monk appeared. I tried to get up to greet him.

   “Oh, don’t, please lie down,” he said. “My name is Shingyo, the chief monk of the temple. I am honored to have such a high rank monk as you in my temple. I thank Buddha for this.”

He then talked about how I had been carried to the temple the previous night.

According to him, a fisherman found me lying almost dead on Koura beach the previous night. He thought I was a monk because I was clad in a monk garb, my head clean-shaven, and Buddhist rosaries around my neck. A portable chest was bound to my body. On its surface was written a phrase from a Buddhist sutra in ink. He guessed that I had been on board the wrecked ship off Matsue. He gathered fellow fishermen and carried me to the temple.

   “You went over to Tang to study Buddhism as one of the Japanese delegates, I presume. I say this because one of the fishermen said that he had seen the same type of ship drifting off Inasa beach a few years before. Later he learned that the ship had carried the Japanese delegates to Tang.”

   “You’re right. My name is Dogon. I am a monk dispatched to Tang by the Imperial court to study Buddhist Tantrism,” I said.

   Shingyo was delighted to hear that and wanted me to stay in the temple as long as I could and talk about Tang and Buddhism.

   I stayed there for five days till February 11. I recovered considerably from the verge of death. I thought I had to report to the Nara Imperial Court as soon as possible. I told Shingyo that I wanted to leave for the Nara court since I had gotten well. He advised me, however, to wait till spring because crossing over the mountains at that time of the year would be too cold and dangerous. But I was resolute, and so Shingyo consented to me.

  A six days’ walk along the Izumo Highway covering about 13 kilometers would take one to Himeji, a city on the Seto Inland Sea. A half a day’s sail from Himeji would then take one to Suminoetsu. Nara was a stone’s throw away from it.

  Shingyo gave me a lot of things in preparation for my trip: cotton-wadded kimono, straw sandals, medicine, and for victuals, roasted peas, dried chestnuts and sweet potatoes, and baked rice. He also gave me a set of flints to build a fire in a cold weather.

   On the early morning of February 13, I bade farewell to Shingyo, who showed a painful reluctance.

   February 14  Passed through Yonego. Stayed at Mizoguchi

   February 15  Passed through Neu and Sakaihara. Stayed at a Shisho inn near Shijyu-magari-toge Hill.

   February 16  Passed through Yakushi-do. Stayed at a Mikamo inn.

   On the early morning of February 17, the owner of the inn said looking up at the cloudy sky, “I’m afraid it will snow today. I suggest you postpone the departure.”

   “Thank you for your advice, but if I go over Kubikiri Hill, the rest will be easy. All I have to do is just walk down the slope until I reach Katsuyama. I want to report to the Imperial court as soon as possible. So I will depart.”

   “But, Kubikiri Hill is the most difficult spot along the highway. Sometimes travelers freeze to death. I won’t insist, but I recommend you to give up departing today,” the innkeeper pleaded.

   “You don’t say. I won’t freeze to death. I will build a fire in case,” I said.

   Leaving the inn, I walked along the mountain highway under a dark sky. I went up the slope of Kubikiri Hill hurriedly so that I would reach Katsuyama before the snowfall. When I almost got to the top of the hill, I sprained my ankle. As I was carrying the heavy chest on my back, the weight of the load sharply hit me on the ankle with every step I took. I limped feebly. I was far behind schedule. I thought I could not reach the destination before sundown. I managed to arrive at Koyasu-kannon-do around four o’clock, the time I would have reached Katsuyama. After a short break, I resumed walking expecting I would reach my destination in about two hours. As I was inching along the mountain road, it began to snow. The wind started to blow from all directions. Gradually the snow became heavier, the wind wilder, obliterating the sight before me. I had to find somewhere to avoid the snowstorm. Soon the mountain path was covered with incessant snow. All the tall beech trees surrounding me turned as white as the trees painted in a Chinese ink-wash painting of winter scenery. In a blink of an eye, the road disappeared. I was anxious. Icy wind pierced me to the bone like a blade. My entire body was covered with snow. I was like a snowman. I was icy cold.

   As I was struggling looking desperately for a shelter in the wild snowstorm, I saw vaguely something like a cave behind white trees. I forced myself to drag my legs towards it.

The cave looked like a decayed stone chamber tomb about a meter wide and 4 meters deep. It managed to protect me from the blizzard. I trod to the end of the cave, took out the Buddha statue from the chest, and put it on a niche in the end of the wall. I sat cross-legged carefully so that I would not hurt my injured leg. I looked up at the statue and prayed. I felt Buddha’s gentle eyes looking down at me. I thanked Buddha for saving me in the sea and in the snowstorm.

   My body was shivering with cold. I had to build a fire or I would die from the cold. I gathered dead branches and fallen leaves. I struck a light with the flint, but however hard I tried, the charred cloth did not catch the spark. I thought the cloth might be damp. I had to find a substitute for the cloth. The leaves did not do; they were damp. I looked around for something that would catch the spark. I hit upon a good idea: I could use the oiled paper that wrapped the wood sticks.

  I took out the paper, struck the flint, and tried to light it again and again, but failed. I thought the paper was, strangely enough, damp, too. I was freezing cold. Wasn’t there anything that would catch the spark? Then I flashed an idea again: I could use the mandala cloth. The Kongokai Diamond mandara and the Taizokai Womb mandara. But I couldn’t burn them. To burn them meant to burn hundreds of Buddha images painted on them.

  My fingers were getting numb from cold. I was afraid. Unless I built a fire as soon as possible, my fingers would not move smoothly enough to use the flints. My breath turned to frost instantly. Every time I breathed, the frost stuck around my mouth and cheeks like a beard. It accumulated on my face. When I touched my cheek, it felt rough. I had never experienced such icy cold weather. My fingers turned blue and numb. My sense of touch was dull. I was afraid that the numbness in my fingers would spread to my hands, to arms, and to my body. I could not lose any time. I had to build a fire before my hands turned completely numb.

   However, I couldn’t imagine that I would die in such a dark cold chamber. I had so far been saved by Buddha. Buddha had guarded me. I had been lucky. Buddha would surely save me as before, I believed. I thought I should not be overanxious. I had to collect myself. I had to calm down.

I felt hungry. I had not eaten anything since I had injured my leg. I opened the chest and tried to take out a bag of dried sweet potatoes with my fingers, but they did not feel anything. I felt like they were someone else’s. Impatient, I thrust both hands as deep as where the bag might be, pinched it with my wrists after several trials, and pulled it out. I rubbed my hands against each other and put them flat on my chest to warm them up. After a while I successfully opened the bag and ate some potatoes.

After I ate them, I thought I had to move my body so that I would not sleep. I tried to move my arms and head. I tried to twist my body, but I failed for they were like rocks. I gave up moving.

Soon I felt sleepy and against my will I fell asleep, but suddenly driven by some unknown power I awoke. I must not sleep. I would die if I slept. I had a mission to take the sutra wood sticks to the Nara Court. The snowstorm was still wild outside the cave.

Wasn’t there any other way to build a fire without using the mandara cloth? I looked around for anything that might catch the fire. There was nothing that would do the job. The mandara cloth was the only solution. I thought Buddha would forgive me for using it.

I took out the Kongokai mandara cloth and tore it into small pieces. I rumpled them hard to make them into cotton-like material. Then I struck the flint hoping the mandara cotton would catch the fire. I failed and failed but after a dozen trials the cotton caught the fire and began to emit smoke. I blew it with care. Suddenly the cotton ignited with flame. Immediately I put the end of the other mandara cloth over the flame. It caught fire.

I carefully placed the rest of the mandara cloth, the oiled paper, fallen leaves, and dead twigs and branches. At last I succeeded in building a fire. My efforts were rewarded. The fire warmed my face, hands, and body. It lit the cave. I felt alive, but at the same time I felt guilty. I felt pain watching the mandara cloth burning. Now the fire was burning 405 Buddha images painted on the cloth. And now it was burning the Dainichi Nyorai Buddha in the center of the cloth. Damnation!

Soon I was afraid that the fire would extinguish in no time. I thought I had to get something to burn. I looked out of the cave. It was dark, still snowing and blowing hard. I could not go out to get some twigs. It was too cold and even if I collected some, they were wet and would not catch fire. Even while I was wondering what to do, the fire was abating. I had to do something to keep the fire burning. I looked around and saw the chest. That’s it. I grabbed it and tore it into pieces. I put some on the weakening fire. First they gave off smoke but soon they started to flame.

   Again I was seized with fear. The chest pieces would soon burn out. I had nothing to burn except the sutra wood sticks. Was it allowed to burn them? I had already burned two pieces of mandara cloth. Was it all right for me to burn even the wood sutras? Wasn’t it blaspheming Buddha? Wouldn’t I fall into hell?

   I wondered. I thought if I died there, some travelers would find the sutra sticks some day. But if I died, who would convey what I had studied from the monk Bùkōng to the court? Who would tell them what I had studied from the monk Hui-kuo? Who would introduce the next monk who would be sent to Tang to Hui-kuo? Who would tell them what I had seen and heard in the capital of Chang'an? Which would be more important, my survival or sutra wood sticks? What if no traveler entered that cave? The sticks would decay and perish. I could recite the three main Sanbu-kyo sutras and the Heart Sutra. I could write all of the sutras by heart. If I survived at the cost of the sutra wood sticks and returned to the court, they would despise me saying, “How sinful to burn sutras just to warm himself?” But whatever insults they would hurl at me, I could stand against them. To carry the sutra wood sticks to the court was not the only mission I had. Anybody could do that. I had a mission to convey what I had studied in Tang.

I had reached a conclusion.

I grabbed a bunch of sutra wood sticks. It was the Heart Sutra. I would burn it last, I thought. I grabbed another bunch. It was the Kongocho Sutra. It described the fundamental spirit of Buddhist Tantrism. I couldn’t burn it. I would burn it later. The next bunch was the Sotsuji-kyo Sutra. I could recite it perfectly, but couldn’t take the plunge and burn it. I thought I couldn’t burn any of them. I watched the weakening fire. Couldn’t I survive the blizzard without burning them?

The icy wind blew into the cave hard cutting through my body. The dying fire was flickering. The cave was getting dark. It felt like I was in the midst of a freezing pond. I trembled. My breath turned into frost. My spit turned into hail. How cold! I again felt sleepy. I fell into a doze, and the next moment, I was awakened. I repeated dozing and awakening. I must not sleep, I told myself.

I made up my mind: I would burn the Buddhist sutras.

I grabbed the nearest bunch. It was the Dainichi Sutra. I unlaced the strings that tied the sticks. The bunch came apart. I picked up one of the sticks and put it on the embers. It emitted smoke, but soon ignited with flame. It illuminated the cave warming up my hands and face. Soon the flame abated. I picked another stick. I saw the sutra written on it. I read it aloud and then burned it. Thus I burned the Dainichi Sutra wood sticks one after another. Buddha would punish me. I would fall into the pits of hell. Devils would pull out my tongue. I would be boiled. I would drown in the blood pond.

Next I burned the Sotsuji-kyo Sutra, and then the Kongo-kyo Sutra. A pang of remorse ached in my heart. But what else could I do? I had no choice.

The snowstorm, though abated, was still raging. Now I had only one bunch of sutra sticks, the Heart Sutra. It consisted of only 262 Chinese characters. They were written on about 30 wood sticks. Looking at them, I thought my three-year hard study in Tang was condensed on them. I couldn’t burn them. How could I? But the snowstorm was blowing hard. I must burn them. I must survive. I should not freeze to death.

The fire was flickering. I unlaced the strings, held the first stick, and read aloud the sutra written on it.

Makahanyaharamitashingyo 

I put it on the dying fire. It caught fire and began to burn silently. I picked up the next stick and read the sutra aloud.

   Kanjizaibosatsu

The stick began to give off smoke. It hated to burn, wriggling and resisting under pain and sorrow. Soon it spewed flames and charred, and finally was reduced to ashes.

I picked up another stick. I read the sutra in a trembling but loud voice.

 

Gyojinhanyaharamitaji

 

Thus I threw the sutra sticks into the fire one after another till finally there were only four sticks left. On them was written the mantra of the Heart Sutra. My eyes were nailed to the sutra characters. I quivered. I got tense. My throat got dry. I closed my eyes and prayed. Then I read each character in a strong voice:

 

Gyatei-gyatei Hara-gyatei Haraso-gyatei Bojisowaka

 

My voice resonated in the cave. I put the sticks on the fire. My heart ached. The last sutra sticks were turning into ashes. My three-year hard study in Tang was evaporating in front of my eyes. I had not yet understood the esoteric point of the Heart Sutra, but I was obliterating it.

The last flickering flame became weaker and weaker until it suddenly vanished, leaving the cave completely dark. I was disappointed. I was lonely. I hated myself. The sutra wood sticks had been always with me. I had awoken with them, worked with them, and went to sleep with them. Now they were irretrievable. Now they had gone.

I felt a sudden quietness. I looked out of the cave. The blizzard had stopped. The east sky was vaguely bright. It was dawn. Soon the sun was rising over the mountain ridge, sending rays toward the cave through the cloud. I turned around and looked at the Buddha statue on the wall. It reflected the morning sunlight and glittered. Struck with awe, I sat up right and prayed:

 

Gyatei-gyatei Hara-gyatei Haraso-gyatei Bojisowaka

I felt a profound stillness. Nothing was heard except for twittering birds. It felt as if all the sutras jam-packed in my head had disappeared. What had long occupied my brain had vanished. My head was empty. What was this feeling? I gazed at the Buddha statue. It looked at me with gentle eyes. I felt relieved from burden. I felt free from the shackle of sutras. I remembered what Hui-kuo had told me about the knack of calligraphy: “write freely.” I realized that I had long been bound with Buddha sutras. I had not been able to step out of the boundary of Buddha sutras. I realized that if one wanted to really understand sutras, one’s brain must be free and unbounded. I came to understand the monk Bùkōng’s words: “If you want to read sutras, don’t try to read them.” The more you made efforts to read them, the more tightly you would be bound with them. I should not be too eager to read them. I should read them in an unrestrained relaxed manner. In short, I should read them freely. How simple! I had been reciting the Buddha sutras again and again, day after day, as if I had been obsessed by them, without realizing the simple rule.

The Buddhist wood sticks were reduced to nothing, but out of nothing came something new.

The sun illuminated the deepest corner of the cave. The time to start came. I grabbed the Buddha statue, put it in my bosom kimono pocket, and stepped out of the cave.

   

                      The end