The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit Read online

  Chapter 9

  I woke with only the barest feeling of morning. In the enveloping dark I could distinguish the closed-in smells of fish, cedar, rancid fat and wood smoke. I was certainly not in China or my little hut.

  As lines of pale light appeared between roof-planks and a smudge of dawn condensed beyond the smoke vent, I gathered myself. Rising as I would have at the monastery, I folded my blankets by touch and pulled on my new clothes. Outside, early morning sounds had begun, but the lodge remained steeped in slumber. As I felt my way across the space, its door-flap suddenly pulled aside, revealing a moment of light. Then it immediately winked shut again.

  Slow streamers of fog softened edges and masked the tops of trees. Dogs scuttled under eves and in the distance women sang to encourage the dawn. Along the shore fishermen tinkered oblivious to my presence. For a moment I fantasized about stealing a boat, but immediately dismissed the folly. Even if I chose one, where could I run? Twenty thousand li from home there was no need for ropes; I was a captive, bound or not.

  I chose a small dune studded with beach grass and sat watching the cloud-veiled sun float slowly above the hills to gild the silver-pink bay with flickers of white-touched gold. I mused at how many times I’d accepted death since leaving Nan Hua, the times in the storms, the wreck, nearly freezing and starving, when meeting Komkomis. Each time I’d sincerely, accepted my end. If each time I had relinquished all claim to a future; how could any remaining life be mine?

  So far from Asia, my dreams of a priestly career were lost forever. I had no future as a priest, no family, no future as a scholar. Literacy was no doubt meaningless here. The strangest thing was that I felt no grief.

  If before I’d floated through priestly life, now I seemed to have no recognizable life at all. I was unsure whether the tradition of Buddhism had meaning here. My inexplicable survival lent a strange sense of unreality. My Path and Dharma seemed independent of Buddhist way. No amount of knowledge would resolve the question. Buddhism was absent, yet I and my Path and my sense of the Dharma was here. All I’d known and cared for, even the religion I was a priest of had disappeared like mist, yet I felt unchanged and perversely calm.

  I diagnosed that separation from own life as derangement despite my thoughts leaping with clarity. The unseen warp of my karma stretched into the unknown, leaving me humbled and ecstatic. It was said that abandoning claims to sanity was essential for progress, but I’d never before understood.

  Mahayana’s “sudden path” observing flashes of understanding fit within a context valuing the minutia of everyday life. Buddhist plodders often considered enlightenment merely a Buddhist version of the European’s after-death Heaven. But Chan was not Pure Land seeking a comfortable existence in some future. Our sages have always insisted that we already are enlightened…the point being to realize that.

  My sudden realization was even more disturbing…could a priest teach the dharma without the religion? This problem disturbed me greatly, had I spent my life studying worthless ritual?

  Komkomis found me as the morning sun warmed the dawn moist air. Villagers emerged to chores, children raced in play and nets were unrolled along the boat-lined beach. Over to the side where large seagoing canoes were beached, piles of goods were loaded and unloaded. It was a miniature version of Guangtzu. It seemed commerce was universal whether here or back in China. Except for the details it could have been a riverside village in China.

  Komkomis sank to his heels beside me, sharing my view of the bay. “Beautiful,” I nodded to the sun-lit mountains.

  “Illahee.” Despite his smile he sounded a bit sad, “Yaka hyas kloshe.”

  I dutifully mumbled “Illahee,” wishing I understood what it meant.

  We stared across the bay, but he was too wound within his own concerns to talk. As we watched, the three heavy boats we’d watched being loaded yesterday set off up the bay to a steady, rhythmic chant.

  Rising and giving a tired shrug, Komkomis gestured for me to follow. Leading me into the lodge he sought out the young woman with a twisted foot who had been with the elders. I blushed under her quizzical gaze, then she pointed us to what I assumed was breakfast. I could tell she studied me with amused interest as I followed Komkomis’ example, mimicking his behavior and choices; dried fish, some sort of cold mush and a portion of tart berry paste.

  The young woman still stared at me, considering me as if I was a puzzle. She was an usual young woman; neither shy nor coy, she was openly inquisitive. Admiring her blue-beaded hair tie and tattoos, I offered an awkward smile. She exchanged a few words with Komkomis without shifting her eyes from mine.

  Komkomis tilted his head toward her and said, “Nowamooks.”

  Smiling at her, I touched my stomach, “Chan Wing Tsit.”

  Komkomis smirked then corrected that to “Chaningsit.”

  It bothered me, but far more interested in her than his jibe, I shrugged as if I didn’t care.

  “Es tixncut,” he shrugged.

  Not knowing what that meant, I ignored him and held her gaze, repeating her name, “Nowamooks.”

  Boldly holding my eyes, she nodded back and mumbled “Chaningsit.”

  It was obvious she hadn’t missed Komkomis’ teasing or that I’d resented it. In ignoring him she seemed to ally herself with me.

  I gave an acknowledging bow and smiled before risking “ah fest suluc.” I was trying to say ‘good morning,’ but butchered the phrase and blushed, realizing too late that I’d probably said good night.

  Nowamooks laughed and slapped Komkomis’ thigh. Without the slightest shyness, she talked to him without shifting her gaze from me.

  I could feel myself melting. I was sure the meeting wasn’t accidental. Though pleased that she’d crossed our path, I’d no idea who she was.

  We repeated each other’s names in whispers and she politely fine-tuned my pronunciation of her name, but after Komkomis’ teasing I didn’t risk correcting hers. Casting among my meager stock of Tsinuk, I lowered my gaze and stuttered “U-altee.”

  She chuckled as if pleasantly surprised and shared another rapid exchange with Komkomis. Her tone had become strangely insistent. She was certainly not a demure Chinese daughter. Her directness was decidedly strange. It might be surprising, even off-putting to some, but it made her far more interesting. Komkomis had received polite deference from everyone but the elders…and her. Who could the young woman be?

  I was shyly attracted, but tried to hide it. She had a pleasant form and the blue stone earrings hanging from her ears matched her brooch and her hair tie. The labrets piercing her nose and lower lip extended beyond her cheekbones like the whiskers of a cat. Three strings of matched shells hung between small breasts and her tasteful skirt and patterned shawl were tastefully well chosen. Her head came to about my nose or Komkomis’ shoulder, but she didn’t defer to anyone and argued vigorously. For some reason Komkomis received her arguments with a tolerant smile, even politely lowering his gaze.

  I looked for clues explaining their relationship, but found none. But I was warmed by the way she include me as we sat together, meeting my eyes and gesturing inclusively. She was blatantly pushing Komkomis into some action—each time he offered an alternative, she supplied a ready answer.

  I politely shifted my gaze when she contradicted him, wondering who she could possibly be? Far too young to be his mother; I decided she must be a wife; for who but a wife endowed with a significant dowry would oppose a man of such importance?

  Hearing him laugh I glanced back in time to see a shared conspiratorial smile. They both turned to look at me, obviously agreed to some decision. Nowamooks tilted her head as if weighing how to present it.

  I nibbled a piece of fish unsure over was unfolding then turned away, feigning interest in an argument by a neighboring lodge.

  As if miffed, Nowamooks gave a resolute grunt and limped back to the other women. Chuckling, Komkomis rose and led off toward the line of boats with a wave for me to join him. He’d already
started spouting words, expecting my repetition.

  The high sun had tucked behind a bank of clouds when we next met up with Nowamooks. We strode, side by side through the village then slowly ambled along the edge of the bay. My attempts to use my new words, made Komkomis so proud he tried rubbing my ears like a puppy. When I pushed away his hand all three of us broke into laughter.

  Nowamooks and he chattered as we settled on a weatherworn log. I didn’t understand a word, but was content to watch the boats crossing the bay. Komkomis spouted a word and elbowed my ribs. I’d no idea what he’d pointed to, but duly repeated the word. Nowamooks offered a related remark, but he chose to ignore it.

  We had hardly settled when a gawky youth trotted our way at a meaningful pace. Nowamooks gave an immediate “tisk” of disapproval. I’d seen the same behavior a couple of times yesterday and could read the implications; Komkomis was needed elsewhere. He gave a tired sigh and looked up to the sky. After a rapid exchange with the youth, he made a wry comment to Nowamooks and, giving a resigned shrug, she rose to his feet.

  When I struggled to follow he pushed me back, saying, “Mitlite, Chaningsit, mitlite.” Giving a gesture that I should stay, he set off at a trot, leaving the messenger behind.

  He was out of sight before Nowamooks and I dared turn to share a smile. The sudden sense intimacy from being alone with her embarrassed me. Blushing, I turned to watch the dozens of boats that plied the bay.

  Following my gaze, she casually leaned against my shoulder and pointed to the waves lapping the beach before us. “Wecoma.” she whispered musically, mimicking waves with her hand and making a slow sweep of her arm.

  The warmth of her body against mine distracted me, but I responded, “Wecoma.” I had already learned that word for “water,” but was uncertain what she meant.

  “Canim,” she said, holding her palm vertically and pointing to the boats on the beach.

  “Nowitka...Ahha, Canim.” Yes, yes, a canoe, I replied a bit smugly.

  “Klatwaw,” she stated firmly, her hand moving like a boat. “Klatwaw.” She pointed to a boat moving across the water. “Klatwaw.”

  I watched with rapt attention, not quite understanding.

  “Canim...klatwaw...wecoma.” she repeated, enunciating each syllable as her hands moved gracefully, following the small boat’s progress.

  “Nowitka!” I exclaimed excitedly, nodding and smiling with sudden excitement. “Canim klatwa wecoma...boat, travels, water.” I repeated it excitedly in Tsinuk and Chinese, feeling happier than I’d been in a year.

  It was basic, even childish language, but putting words together seemed incredibly significant. Though undoubtedly butchering pronunciation and grammar I was bathed in summer sun. It was my first real use of words and an auspicious beginning.

  Within hours I’d learned her people were called Tsinuk, confirmed that the elder Comcomly was both village chief and her father. Another important man she pointed out had the lodge one down from Comcomly’s. Tewaugh Equannat turned out to be an uncle and an important trader.

  Nowamooks watched without expression, her lips pinched without expression. It could mean anything. Fearing disapproval I was swept by a chill. It was months before I realized that pinched-lip expression was one of happiness.

  I shared day after day with Nowamooks, connecting with Komkomis only now and again, in the passage of the day or around the evenings’ fire. Not all my time with Nowamooks was focused on language study. We found excuses to walk to the ocean or spend endless hours looking out over the bay.

  Each day brought new pleasures; stringing phrases together with the secret giddy guilt over sitting so close beside her. My childhood had been spent in study. I knew the necessary focus and diligence and took pleasure at learning. She seemed willing, even eager to dedicate hours each day to teaching. Hoping it wasn’t onerous a task, I agonized over whether my attraction was obvious. Certainly I was grateful. Secretly, I ached be her friend.

  Days stretched into weeks as I learned to exchange pleasantries and deal with everyday functions. Being under the wing of minor nobles made me feel like less of a target, but my uselessness bothered me. Unhappy at the impotent role of a guest, I pondered over whether life in Korea would have been much different.

  The continual Tsinuk socializing was my biggest burden. Traders constantly pulled their great canoes up before our lodges, expecting feasts and entertainment as they did business. Family members and neighbors expected more socializing and feasting. Night after night I duly trailed along, usually sitting behind Komkomis and feeling like an exhibit.

  Gift giving appeared to be a endless contest, each side seeking to out-do the other. In the first few weeks received three blankets, a woven hat, elaborately carved bowls, a fine woven tunic, an obsidian knife and scabbard, carved boxes and a host of lesser items. I kept the knife, tunic and hat, leaving the rest in a woven hamper to be passed along as future presents.

  Nowamooks explained, “It’s necessary, because giving binds people together…it heals minor problems. Since you’re from a noble lodge you’ll be expected to give more than others. It made little sense to me at first.

  The hospitality of noble lodges was lavish; singers would escort us from our boats to our places in a lodge. Then there would be a long ritual where guests, hosts, villagers and strangers all gave and received presents. Arriving with nothing and not understanding, gifts were routinely presented for me, though I didn’t know it for many weeks. At first I felt honored, but it became awkward once I learned of the intention to place me in debt. To be bound that way felt compromising.

  Inexplicably, Comcomly felt my presence served him in some formal situations. I sat behind him next to Komkomis as if we were counselors, enduring councils and negotiations, observing politics and commerce. We witnessed interminable contests and speeches, attending endless meetings with guests of all kinds. I was never asked questions, but I was able to listen to formal speech. As my understanding quietly increased I picked up insights into Tsinuk way that I’d otherwise never know.

  As with a Chinese magistrate hearing cases, wrongs and complaints were resolved in councils, complaints heard and “straying” items recovered, punishments decided and issues settled. But this was not Guangtzu. Here, it seemed not only nobles, but trees and lodges and even rocks could be insulted…and slights to a person’s status could be settled with death. Even looking at or away from someone at an inappropriate moment could present an actionable insult. Despite Nowamooks guidance I was constantly confused. Their conventions appeared convoluted beyond understanding.

  And another problem to my learning was that Tsinuk turned out to be more a constellation of languages instead of one. There was a trader’s jargon that visitors used and called Tsinuk, but that was wholly different from the language used among villagers and that seemed to be a variant of the speech among nobles. I learned all…from simplistic patois to the subtle and nuanced speech of council speeches.

  The Tsinuk heard about the village was fluid complex mélange of all. Chosen to match the speakers and their needs, it lent even casual communications a flavorful complexity. But it was endlessly divided and subdivided with idioms of the hearth and gossip distinct from the speech of craftsmen or warriors or the formal pidgin of trade or the careful speech of noble exchange. The carefully considered grammar used in councils was far different from that heard in flamboyant debate or story telling about evening fires.

  Adding to my confusion, languages were often switched mid-sentence.