Summer

July had come into Hokkaidō with the relentless insistence of climbing wisteria; grabbing onto the very air and curling around it. The old man had never much cared for warm weather, even when he was young and hale, though he supposed it could be worse. He'd been to Tokyo once during the summer months. Far too sticky. Too busy. Too much of everything.

Kachou Fuugetsu... flower, bird, wind and moon – an old proverb but a good one -- to experience the beauties of nature was a far better thing than that noisy city, he mused. Chewing on a blade of grass, he looked out over the trees which were shrouded in the familiar fog that wafted up off the lake. "Thank the gods, I have another day," he whispered, going back to the small piece of wood he'd been whittling. Three hours of work and he was nearly done shaping what would be a dog-shaped katabori-netsuke. In his youth, he'd been able to carve one in less than an hour, but his fingers had lost their strength. Even so, his carvings were still exquisite. He sold them to souvenir shops in Teshikaga-chō. It gave him some pocket change, and that wasn't so bad.

In the old days, when this hermitage was a renowned house of healing, he had carved mostly to amuse himself when there was nothing better to do, but no one clung to the old ways anymore and the nameless hermitage he called home was forgotten. He was the last of his order – a dying breed of healers, who had once commanded the attention of kings. The old man laughed which quickly turned into a nasty, glottal cough that winded him badly. It soon passed.

He spit out the blade of grass, hobbling over to a small bucket filled with water. Grabbing the long wooden ladle resting inside, he lifted it up to his lips and took a long drink. The old man wiped off the excess that had dribbled down his chin and returned to his carving. Digging the knife into the soft boxwood, his mind lingered in the past for a bit. But his concentration soon shifted. From the depths of the wood, the youkai who'd taken up residence returned with an armful of fire wood. Koma trailing behind him like an obedient retainer. The old man grunted in an amused sort of way. Perhaps we serve kings still, he thought.

These past two months he had learned quite a bit from this youkai, though he said very little. His name was Sesshoumaru, he came from Honshū, and he had been ill, very ill, up until recently; some kind of mental problem. From what little the youkai had said, something terrible had come of it which, Mushin supposed, was why he was here rather than back in that noisy city.

The youkai's doctor had told him the fresh air would do him good, a surprisingly wise conclusion, considering the source. Mushin had little use for modern doctors. All talk, they were. They knew half as much as they thought, and understood even less. In any event, the old man couldn't help but be grateful this youkai had been sent this way. He had never eaten so well. They had fallen into a comfortable rhythm of sorts. The youkai helped when he could. Hunting, chopping wood, and generally doing most of the things the old man found hard to do, and the old man gathered his herbs and cooked what the youkai caught.

He paused in his carving to light up his pipe. The youkai didn't like it much, he could tell by the way his lip would curl ever so slightly, but he had never said anything. Mouthing the pipe, he let the smoke curl out the sides of his mouth before exhaling slowly. The scent of the tobacco was heavy and sweet. He began to carve again, watching the youkai sagely and wondering what this king had done to abandon his kingdom.

Curiosity finally got the better of him, so he asked, "Why are you here, youkai?"

Sesshoumaru stiffened, turning his back on the old man. "My reasons are my own."

It was quiet for five good minutes. The youkai had relaxed a bit, perhaps thinking the old man had just let it go as he had in the beginning.

"Hmph. It was a woman, wasn't it?"

That got the youkai's attention. "How do you know that?!" he demanded darkly, golden eyes bearing down on the slumped figure of the old man. The rage in his words was palpable.

Mushin cackled, and for a moment the youkai wondered if the codger had gone mad. "What else would it be?" The tension, which had sprung up so quickly, had died with equal rapidity. "So, out with it."

The youkai turned away and began stacking wood; for a bit the old man thought he might not answer. But then, as he arranged the wood, the youkai told his tale. He had a wife – a woman with hair as black as inky midnight and eyes that glowed like sapphires. He loved her more than anything else. He had mistreated her, though he had not meant to. There were technical bits that Mushin didn't understand, but somehow this mental problem of his had caused a great rift in the relationship. Mushin did not understand psychology, but he did know that the mind was a funny thing. In the war, he'd seen a man shoot his own brother in a rage. Minutes later that same man, realizing what he'd done, had wept like a child. The human mind was capable of great weakness. He supposed that youkai were not so different then...

And as the youkai recounted how he'd wronged the woman he'd loved, Mushin listened quietly, non-judgmentally. The youkai left nothing out. He told the old man about the death of his mother and how hard he'd taken it. Recounted how, in his grief, he'd pushed everyone away, even her... especially her. He told him about the drinking and the arguments. How she had stayed with him to the bitter end, never truly giving up on him -- until the infidelity. Once she'd found out about that, there had been a big blow up. She accused him of not loving her. It had made him so angry...

He had never laid a hand on her before then. The youkai told him that the look on her face that night still haunted him. Her wide eyes and the way that they gazed at him in silent accusation, horror reflected in their depths; the way her hand had hovered just over her lip, which had been split. She carefully cradled her chin, fat drops of dark blood oozing out from between slender fingers as it fell and spattered on the white carpet.

Bastard...

It was the last word she'd ever spoken directly to him.

She had left that night and he had not stopped her. He'd sat down in their den, head in his hands as he realized what it was he'd done. Not just that night, but it and all the nights before. The cumulative anguish and guilt nearly overwhelmed him. But he'd been determined. He had decided, after a long night alone, sobering up, that he would apologize for everything and do whatever it would take to make it right. Whatever she wanted him to do, he would. He loved her... Four days later, he received the divorce papers. Shortly after that, there was a failed suicide attempt and he'd been institutionalized for a brief time. When he had finally come back to himself, after months of effort, she had found another and with this man she'd become pregnant. Sesshoumaru thought he had come to terms with it, but the pain proved too hard to bear. Fearing a relapse, he did as his doctor ordered and left the noisy city.

By the end of the story, the wood had been stacked quite neatly and Mushin knew what it was the youkai had really come for. Exhaling plumes of smoke from his nostrils and mouth, the old man beckoned the youkai over and Sesshoumaru obeyed. Grabbing the youkai's hand, he firmly pressed the hilt of the knife into Sesshoumaru's palm. Fingers curling over leather smoothed by years of use, he looked at the old man with a befuddled expression.

"Do you know the Hannya-haramita Sutra?"

"Yes."

"Carve this sutra into the boardwalk until you are purged of all negative emotion. Then and only then, will you find peace."

The youkai looked at the knife, still bitterly confused but he did as he was told. Kneeling onto the walkway, he prepared to carve his first character.

"Wait," the old man said, throwing a string of beads at the youkai, which he easily caught. "You'll wear these."

"Why?"

"In these hands, you have so much power. Learn what it is to be without it," the old man replied. The youkai glared at him, horrified by the mere suggestion. For the first time ever while in the presence of this demon, it was the old man who was angered. "You think redemption is so easy? That it can be won with no effort? This is why you fail! You have so much but know so little," he barked, jabbing a finger at the youkai emphatically. A jarring series of coughs followed, brought on by the old man's high temper. Once he recovered, he spoke again, voice raspy and strained from the abuse. "It's only after the rain that the earth hardens, boy. Remember that."

The youkai's eyes widened slightly, looking down at his hands. With an imperceptible nod, he wound the sacred beads around his wrist methodically. They glowed and after a moment, he felt his strength leave him. Once it was gone, he began to carve.

It took him two days to finish.

Mushin looked over the youkai's work, and gave him an approving grunt as he ground the herbs collected days previously to a fine powder. He swept it into a small clay bowl, adding water and stirring it with one thick finger. Once it had reached the consistency that he wanted, he gave it to the youkai, who had been standing there waiting for him. Wiping his finger on his pants, he toddled back and retrieved three more clay bowls, one larger than the other that was filled with clean water. He approached the first character the youkai had carved and set them down, patting the space next to him.

The youkai sat down, wondering what the old man was going to do now; long silver hair pooling around him. Mushin grabbed a smallish hank and dipped it into one of the bowls, staining it a bright, cherry red as it absorbed the ink he'd just made. He did not notice the youkai's annoyed scowl. Bending over, he carefully painted the first character carved. He settled back once his work was done and examined it. Apparently happy, he cleaned off the lock of hair he'd used and handed the youkai a different bowl of colored ink.

"Paint the characters. With each stroke, feel that the anger has truly left your heart, and let peace fill the empty space left behind."

The youkai nodded. Combing his hands through is hair he braided it and bound it. Dipping the tip into a bowl and he began to paint the second character.

Another two days passed, and the boardwalk surrounding the hermitage was now covered with the brightly colored characters that made up the Hannya-haramita sutra. The old man surveyed the youkai's work, idly scratching his neck. He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. Slowly he approached the worn stone statue of the Bosatsu that sat just inside the hermitage. He put a hand on its head, back turned to his youkai companion.

"You will take this statue to the top of yon mountain," the old man said, gesticulating to peak rising above them. "Once you reach the top, put the Buddha on the pedestal you find there." He gazed back, gauging the youkai's reaction: impassive, but strangely eager. Good. "You will meditate, reciting the sutra you just wrote. Take no food with you. No water. You will have only what the gods give you."

"When should I return?"

"When it is time and you are ready."

The youkai debated the vagaries of that answer until he understood. He stepped forward and picked up the surprisingly heavy statue and then he climbed the hill. Without his youkai strength to help him, the journey was difficult and he faltered many times. And once he reached the small mountain's peak, he was exhausted. Hands trembling, he placed the Buddha on the pedestal and turned around to gaze at the valley below. It was breathtaking, and he finally understood why the old man had sent him up here. He saw his own insignificance and in seeing and understanding, he could find what it was he was looking for. Settling down on the cold ground in full lotus position, he began his meditation.

Five days later, he came down from the mountain, Buddha in hand, weighing less than he had before in more than one way. The monk saw the difference and was pleased. Tired, but feeling more serene than he had in his entire life, the youkai gently put the Buddha back in its rightful place. He sat down next to the old man, who was resting on the boardwalk petting Koma while he stared out into the distance. Without even glancing at the youkai, Mushin handed him the knife again.

"There is one last step," the old man said.

The youkai took it, his brows furrowed. "I don't understand."

"Your hair. Cut it all off." He could tell the youkai was very displeased with the idea. "Let this last thing go. It's only hair."

Sesshoumaru hesitated for a moment, his hand wrapped around his long braid. His indecision was short lived as pulled the length taught, cutting the braid with one stroke. It fell, landing on the boardwalk with a perfunctory thump. He used the knife to shorten what was left, and then once it was short enough, the old man had brought him a stone razor to shave the rest. He didn't stop until he was as bald as the old man.

The old man smiled, puffing on his pipe slowly. "Good."

And the youkai smiled back.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he rid himself of his former life – leaving it all behind to follow the curious routines of the old man until it became second nature for both of them. The old man had never taken an apprentice. He had been quite sure he would die without one and had accepted it. But the gods had sent him the youkai and he had taken up the position, though he was surely much older than the old man. Clearly, they needed each other. It was meant to be, and so it was that the days passed, turning into months which turned into years.

Cultural Notes/Translations

Hannya-haramita sutra -- Also known as the Prajñāpāramitā Hṛdaya in the original Sanskrit, in English: The Heart of Great Wisdom Sutra or simply the Heart Sutra. A well known Buddhist sutra for its brevity and depth of meaning, the Heart sutra is said to remove all suffering.

Bosatsu -- Japanese translation of Sanskrit word: Bodhisattva, i.e. Buddha, one who seeks enlightenment.

Katabori-netsuke -- Small carved figures made from bone or wood. Originally, these little pieces of art were used to secure purses, fans, etc. to an obi. Now they are enjoyed for their pure esthetic appeal.

Kachou Fuugetsu -- An old Japanese proverb with the literal meaning: flower, bird, wind and moon. It is meant to evoke an appreciation in nature.

Teshikaga-chō -- A small town in Hokkaidō near Lake Mashū.

Honshū -- Japan's largest island; Tokyo, Kyoto and Osaka are all located on this island.

Hair-cutting -- In Japanese tradition, it is a symbolic gesture performed to cut all ties to the world (most usually by Sumo wrestlers or Buddhist monks).