was a moment he loved. And loving it, he knew it was not fear he felt, but only the sensation that he was being hustled along towards an unforeseen decision that would take all this away from him, this which he cherished more than ever, simply because he could no longer find it in his heart to cherish it at all. He lay there, waiting. Through the open panel, across the stream, the matte of the trees was like a black rug hung up to dry and at last the right colour for being wet.
And then it came: the nightsong of the hototogisu, that precious, nondescript, and reverent little bird, a black and white cuckoo with green legs and a red maw. It says everything, and then when it has said it eight thousand and eight times, it vomits blood and dies. It is tired of saying it. But we never tire of listening.
Sometimes one even catches sight of it in the daytime, cocky on a branch, delousing itself. But it is always silent then.
It seemed to stop, he was disappointed, and then there it was again, hovering over the water. He fell asleep, and when he woke up, he felt quite young, and realized that he must have been smiling.
He was now resolute. He had made his decision. There was nothing he could do about the outside danger, but there was something he could do about the danger within. If they were so unenlightened as not to be able to control themselves, no matter how much to do so might disgust him, it was his duty to control them. In these public times even the appearance of goodness was better than no effort at all. If their devotion was a sham, therefore, willy-nilly, it must be a decent sham.
He dressed hastily, but with care, in one of his best robes, washed at the pump, and then glided busily into the Zendo hall, his body soothed by contact with the worn silk next his skin, for after the smell of baking bread, the smell of fresh warm laundry is the most benign smell.
At the threshold he stopped. The hall was completely deserted, and what was even more unusual, in disorder. For a moment he thought the monks had fled. Several of the cotton mattresses had not even been rolled up. He blinked. Then Oio was beside him. Feeling reassured, he allowed himself to seem angry.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“I could not hold them. They went down to the wall.” Oio hesitated. “To watch the army.”
Muchaku snapped his fingers. “There is no army.” Helooked round the disordered hall with disbelief. “Come,” he said, and marched down the Zendo towards the door at the farther end. He flung it open, stepped out into the court, and gathering up his skirts, trotted briskly through grasses that whipped his bare shanks with dew. Oio was behind him, but said nothing.
Already, half-way down through the orchard, they could see the priests before them, lined up along the wall, a row of brown and yellow moths. And certainly something was going on down there. The woods were restive, and there was the sound of shouting. The voice seemed to flit back and forth through the undergrowth, and yet it also seemed to come from one place.
As he hurried, something caught Muchaku’s eyes, a constant ripple in the long yellow grasses, as though some lumbering beast were careful to keep out of sight. He thought of ambush, as the ripple stalked him, but had no time for that now.
There was a keening in that wood. The monks were so fearfully concentrated, that they did not notice his approach. It occurred to him they had come to be killed, and were now waiting for the whine of an arrow, with the pathos of a row of singed squabs.
That sound out there could not be human. It had the dusty wail of a ghost in a peasant play. Then it broke off into muffled, broken sobs, the sound of a blind begger who has had his cane knocked away. It must be there somewhere, just outside the limits of his own warm-blooded world, but where? Whatever it was it was agitated. The monks began to murmur among themselves. Something out there was full of hatred. In a wavering
And then it came: the nightsong of the hototogisu, that precious, nondescript, and reverent little bird, a black and white cuckoo with green legs and a red maw. It says everything, and then when it has said it eight thousand and eight times, it vomits blood and dies. It is tired of saying it. But we never tire of listening.
Sometimes one even catches sight of it in the daytime, cocky on a branch, delousing itself. But it is always silent then.
It seemed to stop, he was disappointed, and then there it was again, hovering over the water. He fell asleep, and when he woke up, he felt quite young, and realized that he must have been smiling.
He was now resolute. He had made his decision. There was nothing he could do about the outside danger, but there was something he could do about the danger within. If they were so unenlightened as not to be able to control themselves, no matter how much to do so might disgust him, it was his duty to control them. In these public times even the appearance of goodness was better than no effort at all. If their devotion was a sham, therefore, willy-nilly, it must be a decent sham.
He dressed hastily, but with care, in one of his best robes, washed at the pump, and then glided busily into the Zendo hall, his body soothed by contact with the worn silk next his skin, for after the smell of baking bread, the smell of fresh warm laundry is the most benign smell.
At the threshold he stopped. The hall was completely deserted, and what was even more unusual, in disorder. For a moment he thought the monks had fled. Several of the cotton mattresses had not even been rolled up. He blinked. Then Oio was beside him. Feeling reassured, he allowed himself to seem angry.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“I could not hold them. They went down to the wall.” Oio hesitated. “To watch the army.”
Muchaku snapped his fingers. “There is no army.” Helooked round the disordered hall with disbelief. “Come,” he said, and marched down the Zendo towards the door at the farther end. He flung it open, stepped out into the court, and gathering up his skirts, trotted briskly through grasses that whipped his bare shanks with dew. Oio was behind him, but said nothing.
Already, half-way down through the orchard, they could see the priests before them, lined up along the wall, a row of brown and yellow moths. And certainly something was going on down there. The woods were restive, and there was the sound of shouting. The voice seemed to flit back and forth through the undergrowth, and yet it also seemed to come from one place.
As he hurried, something caught Muchaku’s eyes, a constant ripple in the long yellow grasses, as though some lumbering beast were careful to keep out of sight. He thought of ambush, as the ripple stalked him, but had no time for that now.
There was a keening in that wood. The monks were so fearfully concentrated, that they did not notice his approach. It occurred to him they had come to be killed, and were now waiting for the whine of an arrow, with the pathos of a row of singed squabs.
That sound out there could not be human. It had the dusty wail of a ghost in a peasant play. Then it broke off into muffled, broken sobs, the sound of a blind begger who has had his cane knocked away. It must be there somewhere, just outside the limits of his own warm-blooded world, but where? Whatever it was it was agitated. The monks began to murmur among themselves. Something out there was full of hatred. In a wavering
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