Author's note: Anyone remotely familiar with the events in Saiyuki will know exactly what Hakkai can (and will) do to atone. I hope that knowing just adds to the anticipation. And if you don't know, then for the love of angst, why are you reading this? Heh, it turns out that I do get to end this chapter right where I wanted to. Go figure.
When I wake up, I feel more refreshed than just a night of peaceful sleep can account for. I have a name. I wash mindfully, relishing the feel of the rough sponge and cold water against my skin. Each sensation just reaffirms that I am alive.
I have a name.
It's clear now that this must have been what Sanzo was occupied with for the last five days. Each step to the kitchen is taken mindfully, the impact of heel and force of the toes working in smooth rhythm. I realize that there is a primal joy in everything being as it should be, whether the experience is good, bad, or indifferent. It can only be experienced if one accepts everything for what it is and does not judge it. This secret song of life is surely nirvana; neither wanting nor not-wanting, neither pleasure nor pain, neither good nor bad. It simply is. With this feeling of universal harmony filling me, the simple journey from baths to kitchen becomes the most satisfying few minutes I have ever experienced. Everything, from the coarse cloth against my skin and the clean morning breeze to the cool dimness of the dining hall and the aloof disdain of the monks and priests, is exactly how it should be. If my smile is a bit more friendly and less impersonal as I collect breakfast and a tray, well, it's still friendly and there's nothing wrong with that.
The glorious sensation of being one with the universe fades quickly, but its passing does not leave me disappointed. This, too, is how it should be – everything ending in its own time, each moment shining all the brighter because it will not last. Sanzo still looks worn out when he opens the door, but with none of the awkwardness and pain that my presence had caused him since the day of his hangover. There is a kind of relief behind his mask of surliness, as though a great wrong has been set right again. Considering how much he has made himself responsible for my fate, I can guess what might be behind the relief. I smile contentedly as we eat, and several times his lips twitch as though he were trying not to smile, or perhaps repressing a smirk.
There is a knock at the door as I collect the remains of our meal and pile them onto the tray. Sanzo speaks briefly with the messenger, then flourishes a sheet of parchment and lays it on the table.
"Bastard moves quick when he wants to," he growls, not quite able to keep the note of satisfaction from his voice.
Leaving the dishes where they are, I lean over the page and begin translating the formal characters that form a stately design on the page. Having studied that folio of formal documents helps; I am able to make sense of nearly every pictogram. It is an official pronouncement of identity, such as would be kept on record at a temple for christened births and the formal re-naming of new Sanzo priests. It has been signed by the High Abbot, although I can't make out what the symbols of his name translate to. There is another set of symbols I don't entirely understand: my new name. The middle symbol, I recognize. I've seen it many times in the phrase "Eightfold Path". But the ones on either side are ones I haven't seen, and with a sheepish smile I straighten and turn to Sanzo.
"Ah, I'm afraid my understanding of the formal characters isn't as good as I'd hoped. Could you tell me what these mean?" I point to the characters of my name, and Sanzo leans over to see which ones I need translated.
There is a moment of silence, which suddenly turns ominous. Sanzo is bent over the parchment, but considering my urge to edge away from him, I am certain that he is giving it the glare Goku received just before Sanzo left at the start of the rainy season. I don't want to die before I find out what my name means. Sanzo straightens abruptly and pulls his gun out of one sleeve.
"I'll be right back," he snarls, and heads for the door. I can hear him mutter something about a scribe, and killing, and then the door shuts behind him.
After a few minutes, I can faintly hear some gunshots and Sanzo's angry voice. I toy with the idea of taking the dishes back to the kitchen, but I wouldn't want Sanzo to have to hunt me down when he returns. Even aside from my oath to not cause him trouble, I don't want to do anything that would get me on the receiving end of his temper. As it turns out, it's only a few minutes before Sanzo storms back in, still angrier than he was at himself last night.
He paces around the room for a minute, possibly trying to calm down. If this is the case, however, it doesn't work. He begins muttering about someone backstabbing me, and taking his words out of context, and being on guard for every little thing. Each phrase is a little louder than the one before it, and soon I am treated to an angry rant more thorough and descriptive than anything I've ever heard before. Once the initial shock fades – I never expected to hear a Sanzo priest use such colorful language about the upper priesthood of a temple – I am quite impressed with the creative phrases and descriptions that roll off his tongue like a blasphemous sutra. The depths of Sanzo's dislike of the other priests goes far beyond anything I would ever have imagined, and I understand now why he was so certain I wouldn't be a stain on his reputation.
Finally, Sanzo winds down and sits at the table across from me, massaging his temples. "This isn't what I intended," he says with a grimace.
"Ah, I gathered not, considering." Sanzo just scowls at the offending parchment again. "Perhaps you could show me what you did intend?"
Sanzo twists around and grabs pen and paper from his desk, drawing three pictograms before sliding the scrap paper over to me. "These three sound roughly the same. This one," he says, pointing to the top character, "is the one I'd intended. It means reform, renewal, or rebirth."
Eightfold rebirth – rebirth through the Eightfold Path. My hands clench beneath the table, digging into the muscles of my legs. I'm not worthy of such a noble name.
Sanzo points to the middle symbol. "I thought they might use this one; it means repentance."
He glances at me, and I nod. Repentance through the Eightfold Path – still very fitting and something I would be comfortable with. Then he points to the third character, the one on my naming certificate.
"I'd forgotten about this one. I didn't think they would be so petty as to backstab you like this." He glares at the symbol as though it personally had offended him. "I should have known better. It means admonishment, warning, and punishment."
Punishment in the form of the Eightfold Path. Exactly what my sentence was, and the very thing I've been struggling to shape my new life into.
"It's alright." My voice is quiet. "It still fits." Sanzo shifts his glare to meet my calm gaze, and gives a long-suffering sigh. "I know it's not what you intended, and the gesture honors me much more than I deserve. But…" I look down at my hands, still clenched around the unbleached wool covering my legs. "I can never forget the actions that brought me here, lest they be repeated."
"Keeping it in memory doesn't mean hanging a stone around your neck over it forever," Sanzo says sourly.
I don't look up; I don't want to see what's in Sanzo's eyes. "This chain of words I wear willingly." I can't help but remember the night I promised. I'm not the only one hanging myself with the ropes of my past, but it's not my place to say anything about how Sanzo has chosen to live his life.
The theory is that by giving you a new name, you are being given the chance to be something else.
Some day, maybe, I will feel that I have truly been reborn. Right now, I am still repenting, still punishing myself. I glance at Sanzo, but he is scowling at the three characters on the scrap paper. He looks up as I unclench my hands and lay them on the table.
"Perhaps," I say in perfect Right Speech, "in time, the name will hold a different meaning for me." My normally bland smile holds a touch of amusement as I remember the impressive display of creative description. "Think of it as an excuse to harass them for me someday."
Sanzo just snorts and glares at the sheet of paper again.
"I'm going to bring the dishes back," I say calmly. Sanzo gives a brief nod. "Shall I meet you here with lunch?"
"No," he says, and I can hear the lingering tension in his voice. "I'm going into town; I'll get something there. I won't be back until late. You can stay in here if you want, but be in your cell at sunrise." He fixes me with a darkly amused look as I open my mouth to protest. "They'll come for you at sunrise to bring you before the High Abbot so he can give you your name." The amused look turns into a smug one at having beaten the High Abbot to it. "Obviously, don't let them know that you already know it."
"Ah, of course." I bow slightly and pick up the breakfast tray.
"Hey." Sanzo's voice, carefully surly once again, stops me at the door. "Have you thought about what you're going to do once they let you out of here?"
"Ah, no, I hadn't." My fingers tighten on the tray and I don't look back, lest he see how badly that question has shaken me.
"Might want to think about that," he says, and I nod before letting myself out.
The library, normally a good place to lose myself for a few hours, is not where I find myself going. With the prospect of being "released" from the temple looming over me, my feet take me to the thorny alcove that has sheltered me so many times. The air is heavy and still, heat and humidity building up in preparation for the cloudburst yet to come. The stone Buddha smiles calmly, undisturbed by the impending precipitation. My thoughts do not fare nearly as well. To Sanzo, the temple is a prison – something to be endured. Among other things, his rant against the temple as a whole taught me that. Once I am formally given my name, he will likely pack up and leave with Goku. But while it is a prison to him, it is a refuge to me. I can afford to be honest in the privacy of my own mind; I am hiding here, seeking safety in a simple life where there is little to distract me from my penance.
Reverently, I kneel before the stone Buddha and mindfully examine my thoughts and feelings. It takes a long time before the swirl and tangle are sorted out. When I have finally managed to achieve stillness, two facts emerge from the silent pool of my mind. First, my desire to stay here and hide is just that – a desire. Second, while I have begun to atone for failing Kanan, I have done nothing to begin to atone for my sin of murder. I still have no ideas as to what I could do to atone for such sins, but I am not likely to find my answer while shut away from the world. My vows dictate that my wants are forfeit. As much as I wish it were not so – indeed, because of it – my decision has been made for me. When I am released with my new name, I must leave the temple.
I can feel my lips form a bitter, lopsided smile. It is simplicity itself to renounce the comforts of society when they are not present. Living an equally austere lifestyle while such comforts are readily accessible is much more difficult. The Second Noble Truth points out that suffering is caused by desire, and I still deserve to suffer even if that suffering is not physical injury.
The rain comes, big fat drops that soak me to the skin as I kneel there admiring how neatly my path has been laid before me. I let the gentle pummeling drown out the emotions that threaten to rise within me like a cloud of carrion flies as I contemplate life outside the temple, but no answers come to me. By the time the dinner bell rings, I am starting to shiver in the now-cold rain, my chi is pulsing faintly underneath my skin, and I know that I must leave the temple but have no idea what else to do with myself. Well, no idea past the immediate need for food. Stiffly, I get to my feet and stifle a wince as my legs scream their complaint. It's not violently self-inflicted pain, but it is still pain and I walk slowly so as to be more mindful of it. Mindfulness forms a shell around me as I collect my frugal dinner, and the few sharp, almost angry looks that get thrown my way impact harmlessly against this shell of mindful acceptance. I find a seat in a corner and eat mindfully.
Sanzo said they would come for me at dawn. So I must not only be in my cell before sunrise, but I must be clean and dressed. Where am I going to spend the night? The trickle of water creeping away from me reminds me that I am still soaked, and that I probably should not be wet when they come for me. That means I will have to be awake far enough beforehand that I can bathe and let my hair dry, and there is no point in changing into a dry robe only to change again when I bathe. Since I'm already wet, I may as well find some corner outside and meditate further on what it is I'll be doing with my life, then get ready before dawn and go to my cell. If I were to follow my earlier logic, I should go to my cell simply because I desire to spend as little time there as possible. I know what the result of that action will be, however, and sending myself into a mindless, gibbering panic would be counter-productive – not to mention worrying Sanzo.
When I have finished eating, I slip back into the gardens in search of someplace where I can meditate in relative seclusion and protection from the rain. The rain is lightening up as the sky runs out of ammunition, but it will be dark soon and any wet surface will be that much colder. As the sun nears the horizon, I come across a path defined by brick walls that reach over my head. There are niches built into the wall every so often, with carved Buddha statues sitting in them. One of them must have been broken at some point, because there is an empty niche. The design of the wall is such that the niches are dry, and the Buddha statues life-sized. I can't resist; it's too perfect.
It takes little effort to lever myself into the empty niche, and only a little bit of fumbling to arrange myself into the lotus position, mimicking the statue across from me. I can see the sky clearly enough beyond the other wall; I will be able to judge the hour without much difficulty. And with the brick wall protecting me from the wind, I almost feel warm. Satisfied with my choice, I turn my attention inward and contemplate the unanswered questions of what I'm going do with myself and how I'm going to atone for the lives I ended.
When I judge it to be close to dawn, I reluctantly climb down from my perch. Hours of contemplation have resulted only in half-formed ideas becoming tangled with fear and guilt and worthlessness; I am no closer to an answer than I was this morning. The tangle of emotion gnaws at me as I wash, trying to be mindful of the sensations. If I can focus enough on what's going on outside, perhaps that will silence what's going on inside. It doesn't help. The problem worries at me as I attempt to finger-comb my hair, making me irritable with the tangles. I wish for a comb, or better yet, a razor. No wonder monks shave their heads. I pause for a moment as that thought filters through the maze of wanting and not-wanting, vows and embracing hardships. No, I will not shave my head. I will not take the easy path and simply avoid the whole issue. Idly, I smooth my hair away from my left ear and walk mindfully to my cell, trying not to feel like I am walking to my doom. It won't be too long before they come for me; I can deal with this. I put one hand on the heavy wood of the door and push, stepping into my cell with a boldness I do not feel.
"Where've you been?"
The voice is raspy, somewhere between a growl and a wheeze. I can see a pale figure in the corner, slouched in the chair, and smell cigarette smoke. As I'm trying to figure out if it's really Sanzo or just his corpse, the figure raises one awkward hand to his face and takes a drag. The dim glow reveals long streaks of blood on both face and arm, and I can see that the wrist has been slashed open. No wonder the cigarette is being held so awkwardly. The corpse tilts his head to the side and blows the smoke out, blood matting his hair so completely that there is no sign of any other color. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness of my cell slowly, and my brain is realizing with equal speed that something's wrong. Sanzo hasn't accused me of failing him yet, and I doubt my subconscious is doing it out of kindness.
The figure turns his blood-streaked face back to me. "I guess you just forgot about me," he says in a voice filled with hopeless resignation. "Now that you have a name again."
He takes another drag on the cigarette, and I can make out more detail now. I want to run, to deny the hallucinatory accusation. But I can't.
"No," I say slowly as the guilt sinks its claws into my chest. I can feel my vows constrict around me, forcing the words from my throat. "I haven't forgotten you, Gojyo."
