The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit Read online

  Chapter 11

  Sudden enlightenment acknowledges that lives often change in an instant. Abrupt changes are natural. Suddenly one unremarkable spring morning, unbelievable numbers of salmon filled Willapa bay as if drawn by the spells of a sorcerer.

  It changed everything.

  From shore to shore fish crowded so close they splashed out onto the banks. And just like that, a celebration erupted. At the head of a procession two little boys struggled to help carry a silver fish bigger than themselves. Work was abandoned and a holiday spirit prevailed. Light-hearted foolishness and silliness filled the village.

  But the next morning, from the earliest dawn light we worked shoulder-to-shoulder to deal with the bounty. Huge enchanted fish were pulled from the water faster than they could be carried away.

  Komkomis and I dragged them to another crew that gutted and split them, slicing the flesh into chunks that separated as the skin was stretched. A few times a day, a ritual was performed returning the entrails to the river. We humans worked to exhaustion. Day after day the salmon remained so thick no boats risked travel.

  I struggled beside Komkomis from dawn to dark with the warm air as thick as syrup. The flies all but overwhelmed us we worked. It seemed we were producing an incredible amount, but Nowamooks insisted we were merely drying a token few. Upriver, where it was hotter and drier people dried a hundred times more. They dried the fish for later pounding and packing into bentwood boxes for trade.

  Still, there was a magic to the fish that left us giddy. It wasn’t simply a promise of food and prosperity; it was tangible proof that our spirits’ power enveloped us and that we were in balance with the universe. The hugeness of the miracle dwarfed our petty human pretensions. Beside the enormity of nature, human life paled like an eerie ghost story. Miraculous enchanted fish that fought for the honor of nourishing our lives.

  “It is their nature.” Komkomis shrugged as we lugged fish to the drying racks. I was unsure just what that meant, but didn’t get an explanation. It certainly appeared that the fish came simply to give themselves. I struggled to make sense of what was beyond explanation. Life suddenly seemed a dream.

  “It’s their nature to be eaten?” I asked doubtfully.

  Komkomis shrugged. “It’s the nature of all life. Life eats and is eaten. The salmon know we honor them. They come because we are both in tune with life.” He shrugged at my stupidity.

  Returning for another load, he added, “How could it be different in your land? When the world’s balanced, everything is eaten; fish, people, plants, totem spirits, eventually everything is another’s food. This salmon’s time is now. Yours and mine will be tomorrow.”

  And so I learned that both Tsinuks and Buddhists recognized that we were merely parts of the Tao. The insight was deep Dharma. I was humbled that such a realization would rise naturally from this soil, for it wasn’t as obvious in China. Master Lu could have added little to my epiphany. The Tsinuk knew their place as solidly as mountains.

  Pondering it over the next few days didn’t deepen my understanding. When our racks were overloaded and work finally ground to a halt I suddenly realized that many of those who had worked beside me had disappeared.

  Komkomis waved vaguely to the dance lodge beyond the southern edge of the village. “Preparing…dancers and helpers have to purify themselves. The willows are fully leafed and there’s a lot left to do.”

  None of that meant a thing to me. I nodded politely and went to sit in a sweat lodge. Our supper was notably quieter and solemn, but not even Nowamooks would explain it.

  Early the next morning as streaks of high clouds caught the first light three Black Mouth warriors came through the village in full regalia, beating a drum for attention, they looked fierce and trailed a collection of young boys. People sat about waiting to hear their message. Then mothers again sang to their babies and elders blew new life into coals to start the morning fires. I made my way to meditate thinking of the Black Mouth’s message.

  “The Sun Dance…tomorrow, at dawn.”

  The next morning, as the sun cut through the clouds and the mist wisped away, we crowded into the ceremonial lodge to the throb of a single drum. The village respectfully divided by clan; Ravens on one side, Eagles the other. Like my first days at the monastery I was shown a place by the door, for I was neither fish nor fowl; an outsider beneath the rank of children.

  Drums pounded slowly as five naked men entered to prostrate themselves and sit before a small fire. Nowamooks’ brother Yakala was first among them. Those watching were dead silent and the swirling tension wound so tightly I could hardly breathe. All about me, people stood trembling, their eyes unnaturally wide. It was obvious something serious was happening.

  The steady drumbeat froze me into immobility. Then suddenly other drums joined-in and Yakala began a song that was taken up by his colleague and then the community. Rattles and drums built up a rhythm, driving everything faster, the song came in percussive bursts sweeping the room into a manic frenzy.

  As things reached their peak a sudden crash was followed by a silence so absolute and profound I heard the twittering of birds outside. An eerie feeling of solemnity clutched my chest as Comcomly and another man gave short humorless talks describing the world’s need for healing and the power of the coming ceremony. Their terse simplicity was totally unlike the animated speeches I’d grown used to.

  The mood was overwhelming. A solitary drum set a slow beat as we filed out, all eyes to the ground, without a single whispered word.

  Yakala and his colleagues remained behind, alone, staring fixedly into the fire as the flap was pulled over the door. We villagers, much subdued, returned to our chores and lodges to spend the day in quiet reflection. Despite my questioning no one offered a single answer. The village felt strange and the day stretched endlessly with everything cloaked in a hush so thick that even children stopped running about.

  The following morning, we gathered again outside the lodge and stood in silence despite the steadily falling mist. I stood nervously beside Komkomis, as the sound of drums arose. Drummers emerged in single file, then dancers in costume. One man had a bundle of sticks on his back another furs; others wore the masks of various totems.

  Hearing the next song the audience let out a shout and joined in. Swept up in the moment I sang with everyone else. When our voices quieted, one-by-one the drums went silent until only a single small drum led us in.

  Inside, the throb of big drums resumed and Yakala stepped forward. My breath caught in my throat as deep slits were cut near his collarbones. His blood flowed freely down his body as sticks were pushed through the slits.

  My hands squeezed into fists and the emotions about me twisted into knots as Yakala began to chant and dance. When the next man stepped forward to be cut Yakala began a haunting song and looked far off into the future as ropes were slung over a rafter beams and tied to the pegs piercing his skin. He continued to sing as he was hoisted into the air and his blood flowed until it puddled beneath him. One after the other the dancers were readied hung aloft, until all twisted slowly in the air, singing with raspy voices.

  I trembled and watched enraptured. Tears coursed my cheeks and I cried, singing with those around me. Poles drummed against the roof, rattles shook and drums were tapped, but there was none of the gaiety of the gatherings I’d witnessed before. Yakala and his colleagues hung before us, twisting in small circles as they dangled, dripping blood as they chanted or sounded whistles, hanging until silent and unconscious.

  It was a spiritual practice beyond anything I’d ever imagined. It was a ritual of enormous significance. But I had little idea what it meant. Eventually the drums fell mute and we exited. I stumbled at the doorway, silenced, humbled and numb, unsteadily following whoever was before me as we filed back into the day.

  “Its Yakala’s second Sun Dance…the first he’s been allowed to sponsor.” Komkomis’ voice was quietly respectfully. We stood before our lodge as he held my fingers to his ch
est and murmured, “I danced two years ago.” I reached to touch the scars on his chest, moved by his reverential hush. “Ensuring the world’s balance, it’s the most important ritual in life.”

  I bowed exceedingly low before him, recognizing the seriousness with which the Tsinuks held their responsibility to heal the world. I knew next to nothing of it, but as a priest I understood sacred practice. I wondered if all Tsinuks were priests that accepted such spiritual roles.

  Komkomis continued, “Tonight, they’ll have visions and their totems will gain power.”

  Consumed with the image of Yakala bloodied and spinning, I gave an involuntary shiver. I remembered the blood oozing down his body and dripping from his toes, his skin beading with sweat as he mumbled his totem’s songs. He hung with half-closed eyes sustained by little more than the heartbeat tap of the drums.

  The third day of the ceremony was much like the second. We sang to the salmon and the sun and inevitable change. My voice rang as I lent my slight weight toward the world’s balance. It didn’t matter that it was neither Tsinuk nor Chan, I simply sang as a priest, praying deeply and sincerely as a human. Again the dancers’ skin was pierced and drawn aloft to sing until fainting from the pain. Watching Yakala hanging, my skin crawled. I was humbled by the ceremony. Overcome by my emotions, I sang and pounded my hand against a post until I bled.

  This time, we watched as the dancers were lowered and revived. It seemed I floated weightless, carried on by the drums until the sun touched the horizon.

  Returning to our alcove Nowamooks lay beside me, her voice subdued and quiet. For the first time since the dance began she talked about the political issues unfolding about us. Still focused upon Yakala, I only half-listened. Daughter of two powerful political leaders, she had been raised around political plots and machinations.

  The next day we stood in the rain, listening to the muffled songs of the dancers inside, until the sun finally won out over the clouds and the dancers emerged, dragging their bundles and masks by the pegs fixed in their skin by crusted blood.

  I don’t know how long that dancing lasted, but suddenly, without warning, the ceremony was over. All the tension of the ceremony dissolved and the community chattered among themselves, returning to lodges to feast and acknowledge the dancers’ sacrifice. Appreciative speeches resounded and great piles of gifts were awarded. I hadn’t eaten since the evening before, but barely nibbled. Within my chest, my heart still trembled unsteadily. Compared to the sun dance, Chan’s silent days facing walls paled to insignificance.

  The next afternoon in a council of Komkomis’ father, we sat together just behind him, observing trade negotiations. One my roles had grown to include trying to remember what was offered by each party and tracking the evolving details. Though the worth of the items traded was the starting point, negotiations often hinged on side issues and the relationships of those involved. I struggled to serve Nowamooks family in this role. Having a part in things that was recognized and seemed honored made me feel that I’d turned a corner and had a social function beyond just gathering wood.

  Politics and trade were the Tsinuk passions. With Nowamooks help I struggled to make sense of the maneuverings and intrigue that boiled about us. In Nan Hua I’d followed the senior priests’ maneuvers, but they were mere drops of mist compared to the flood involved in Tsinuk conspiracies. Every day, either Nowamooks or Komkomis insisted on rehashing whatever details I’d winnowed from the veiled half-truths and misdirection spewed in the councils we witnessed. It was obvious they were asking for Kilakota or Comcomly and would report what I said back to them. Whether it involved trade or political envoys, once I realized my input was respected, I took the role of observer seriously.

  Remembering trade details was straightforward and easy enough. But soon I was being asked my impression of those involved or my views the tensions reported by an upriver relative or about what I thought of the attacks on trader’s boats. Comcomly and Kilakota were far more concerned with possible intrigues and nuances such as whether the northern origin of a trader’s clothes or jewelry meant he might be less friendly with conservative upriver people.

  Listening for that kind of detail wasn’t easy, for it was read in nervous glances and the avoidance of a subject or the too easy reference of others. Nowamooks tutored me on the importance of this level of concern. Stray glances influenced interpretation, subtle nuances could be read as warnings just as the details of casual gossip might reveal betrayals or alliances or lend insight into things of vital interest. Sitting in the shadows the traders or envoys haughtily ignored me, but I could read their faces clearly I was free to consider layered meanings and try to interpret the concerns underlying their causal comments.

  Tewaugh, Nowamooks’ uncle, was particularly good at leading visitors into revealing themselves. He, like Nowamooks’ parents were eager to discuss my observations afterward, but I seldom received more than a nod of thanks for my effort. Still, I relished the role. It placed me in the midst of important, even vital concerns. Perhaps being an outsider allowed me to more easily view things clearly, but once taught what to look for, I found the task challenging but not impossible. I weighed the tensions and issues I observed and sought the reason for the deceptions common to both trade and politics. Kilakota and Comcomly wanted to hear of the conflict between what was obvious and what was avoided. Finding my reports respected, I felt encouraged to go further and further. It was gratifying to receive respectful attention when dealing with meaningful issues.

  I began to understand Nowamooks’ insistence that I understand the subtleties of her world. Her tutoring was the only reason I could perform on any level at all. She’d forced me to memorize the eccentricities of the totems that played important roles in Tsinuk life. She’d insisted I learn of their cultural metaphors and political obscurities and she’d drilled me on the stories and old legends until seeing similar things playing out seemed normal. She taught me how everything was connected; totem spirits walked among us, our myths were set upon the trails we walked daily. Every rock and tree about us had known the exploits of the ancestors and totems that shared our lives.

  Chinese culture separates spiritual pursuits from worldly and business matters, but for Tsinuks everything had spiritual significance and spiritual concerns directly affected our social and commercial worlds. Nahcotta was a village of businessmen-priests. I constantly amended my understanding of things for political machinations and trade were interwoven with family and nearly everything had a spiritual aspect.

  Humans walked the same paths and paddled the same waters as spiritual and mythic being. We crossed the same fallen trees and drank from the same streams. Stories of coyote, grizzly and salmon were as immediate as family gossip. The world hummed with invisible forces. Those sharing the world scampering, slithering and flying were as important to understand as traders.

  It was like reading meanings from complex, richly embroidered tapestries. My understanding expanded as I learned the nuances of each colorful thread. Once Nowamooks taught me to feel their power, I grew to sense the work of totems, even if my eyes never could quite see them.

  Anxious to rebuild my reputation, I assumed stiffly formal ways, mimicking Comcomly’s silent moment before speaking, Tewaugh’s noncommittal nod, and Komkomis’ pinch of food. As a priest I was probably already more reserved than many and my recent insecurity reinforced it. I cultivated an image of quiet formality. I sat or stood with my head erect and back held straight. My demeanor was reserved and self-controlled. I modeled myself after Comcomly and Master Lu. Nowamooks teased that I’d become more Tsinuk than those around us. She smirked, but instead of chastened I felt encouraged and redoubled my effort.

  I continued sandwiching meditation between my other responsibilities. To most I was simply a quiet eccentric who kept true to his path by sitting at the edge of the bay. In a community obsessed with their totems it wasn’t unusual behavior. Without rattles, drums or songs, my practice was hardly interesting; the demands
or other’s totems were far more entertaining.

  While my life was simple, Nowamooks balanced family commitments and business and an extensive array of friends. Her mother had certain expectations about the responsibilities of a chief’s daughter. It was at her mother’s urging that Nowamooks took a young artisan under her wing.

  Just passing into womanhood and unmarried, Tlkul Te-peh was one of a slew of distant cousins, but admittedly a special one. She had developed incredible carving skill simply watching her uncles and cousins. The carvers of that family were easily the best of our village, but it was whispered Tlkul Te-peh surpassed them without any formal training…and that created problems.

  Her jealous uncles withdrew their support and that caused family problems. A young woman without influence or wealth couldn’t even dreams of joining the Turtle Society and taking carving as a vocation. It was far beyond her means and without a sponsor... Purchasing memberships in the proper societies and the rights to carve lucrative symbols was an expensive investment.

  It took Nowamooks a month working behind the scenes to arrange a solution. Taking Tlkul Te-peh under her wing demanded placating the uncle as well as arranging for food and shelter and professional costs; Kilakota quietly interceded with the Turtle Society, convincing and rewarding elders supporting her membership, Nowamooks would cover her initiation fees and her ongoing expenses as well as the rights us use profitable symbols, and additional training plus a stock of clear cedar and a goodly supply of knives and scrappers. Having learned business at her parent’s knees, she was nothing if not thorough.

  Tlkul Te-peh was given Turtle initiation. I thought Nowamooks’ assistance endearing, but knew better than to mention it. I assumed Nowamooks would resist her mother’s expectations, but perhaps it was simply good advice. Nowamooks insists it’s merely doing profitable business.

  She wrangled permission for Tlkul Te-peh to move to our lodge. When I asked, she simply grinned and shrugged, “She’s an investment. If she had smart uncles instead of jealous ones I wouldn’t have the opportunity.” Leaning against me, she smiled smugly. “She needed help.”

  I suspected that last was only to please me. It did.

  Since coming to Nahcotta I had meditated under sheltering trees—it was better than huddling under the eves with all the comings and goings about the lodge, but I grieved my beachside abbey.

  Nowamooks mentioned that another sweat lodge was needed, I wanted a place out of the rain to meditate and Uncle Tanaka wanted a small fire circle where he could commune with his totems and gossip with friends. It seemed a perfect situation.

  Following Nowamooks’ advice, I paid Uncle Tanaka two new blankets and a bag of tobacco for guiding me through the rituals and construction of some small shelters. After sweating for purity, we performed rituals and walked around the village three times to gain the village spirits’ support. Once we began searching, we found only a few really realistic sites. The one we chose was nestled in a fold just above my meditation knoll. Neatly circled by trees it felt isolated. Its moss covered rocks lent a sense of age and gravity.

  What started as a simple rain-shelter quickly swelled. The project became a common focus for Uncle Tanaka and I. After scraping the three areas flat enough to serve as floors Uncle Tanaka picked out cedar posts and rafter poles. Digging holes and locking posts in place with rocks he bent poles for curved rafters and found hides and discarded blankets for a covering, then turned to building a fire circle beside his lean-to.

  The nearby boulders and a dense stand of trees lent the look of a Taoist temple. Though wholly Tsinuk it sparked my Buddhist memories. Again I was building a kind of priest’s hut beside a mist-shrouded grove even if it wasn’t bamboo. It made me feel more Buddhist.

  We’d nearly finished when Nowamooks appeared, casually asking me to meet her mother at the beach. I turned to Uncle Tanaka who hid a smile and waved me on. I wandered down with Nowamooks to a small crowd gathered by something in the water. Without my knowledge, Kilakota had paid to have the square-hewn ship-beams that formed the doorway to my abbey towed here as a present.

  I was moved to tears when I recognized it. That she would know it might be important, humbled me. It was the most meaningful gift I’ve ever received.

  Stood upright to frame my door it lent a formal substance. The square-sawn timbers bestowed an elegance contrasting wonderfully with moss-grown rocks. It evoked the feel of a rustic temple. I was inspired me to haul baskets of shells to pave its floor and the meandering path that led through boulders. With its east-facing orientation, view of the bay and twisting trail, positive energy would flow and pool while and the negative would be obstructed. But it was impossible to explain such things to others.

  I didn’t explain my wanting a small patch to tend as a garden either. Gardening was foreign to Tsinuks and Uncle Tanaka teased me endlessly as I pulled the weeds that sprung up. Even considering the eccentricities of other Tsinuks, tending plants was behavior bordering on insanity. I didn’t risk more than pulling weeds and encouraging moss. Having a path that meandered instead of heading straight for it’s termination was inexplicable. Lining it with shells was seen as a joke.

  People came to watch me pull unwanted sprigs and found teasing irresistible, but since true disapproval would be shown by silence, their laughter was reassuring. I found myself pleased they’d come at all.

  Strangely, reclaiming Buddhist ways made me feel more Tsinuk. I considered that contradiction as I plucked weeds and rolled stones to more pleasing positions. Drifting away from the outward tradition I remained true to its essentials.

  The truth that I taught was simple. Clear perception was realization and acceptance led me toward Enlightenment. All existence is dependent and distinctions are counter-productive. Instead of quoting sutras I merely taught the Way, encouraging skillful action, compassion and insight instead of passed-down wisdom. Truth was truth; I didn’t worry whether it was Tsinuk or Buddhist.

  I tended the moss about my temple and placed driftwood on my altar for the same reason noble families flattened their children’s foreheads or others served their totems. It was awkward at times, but considering the world’s illogic, there was little shame being a stranger plucking weeds in a misting rain.

  I was proud to pay Nowamooks to perform the dedicating rituals. I retreated to my new temple and Uncle Tanaka to his lean-to. Within hours our first guests crowded into the sweat lodge..

  One regular visitor of mine was a shy, awkward young woman named Ta-mo-lich. I’d look up and find her before me when I finished my meditation. She would sit quietly to a side, eyes bright, simply waiting. Unusually calm, she seemed as content to sit quietly as I was. She came so often she seemed to almost share my practice—and I was the better for it. Shyness made her hesitant—it was aggravated by a frustrating stutter, but she needed to talk and I was available. Unsure what was relevant, I simply encouraged her to discover her own spiritual way and her choose the pace and topics of our talks.

  Instead of offering suggestions I listened. She’d had a hard path. As she’d lost her parents and siblings to sickness as I had, we seemed to have a bond. Growing up in the small lodge of rowers and laborers was difficult for a sensitive, stuttering child; losing her parents made it worse.

  The families of poor workers everywhere live hard lives. With little softness or subtlety in their lives, rough behavior was the rule. Having few friends to defend her, she’d been teased unmercifully, tormented and seldom encouraged. Once realizing that I ignored her stutter, she chattered almost normally.

  I listened as a friend, but knew next to nothing of the complexities girls faced approaching womanhood. Coming often, she talked freely. I held back from asking about the bruises that marked her, but mentioned them to Nowamooks.

  Willapa Bay with its half-dozen small villages formed a community with few secrets. Of course she knew of Ta-mo-lich; a girl with status barely above a slave, with her parents dead and the poverty of her lodge, her options were limited.<
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  Nowamooks talked with Tzum Tupso, her uncle Tewaugh’s wife, who was Ta-mo-lich’s distant cousin. In time, Tzum invited the girl for a visit and ended up inviting her move in. So, the greatest of her problems was solved without going to council—just as Nowamooks thought best.

  Here in Nahcotta I’m called a shaman, but in truth I’m only a priest of a tradition no one had heard of. While most shaman dealt with practical problems as a matter of course and served far more as physicians than priests. They were healers, totem speakers and bonesetters, while I was one without magic or special gifts.

  I, however, am not a healer, I can’t talk to totems or see the future; I simply listened to those who wanted to talk. Listening is such a simple thing that it often feels barren, but it’s often the wisest of all things one might do. After moving to Tzum and Tewaugh’s, her bruises healed and she was discovered scratching designs on pieces of wood. Her skill recognized.

  Ta-mo-lich and I had talked for months as she grew comfortable and her stutter receded, but she never once mentioned drawing.

  Some months later she brought something to show me, an old cedar tray on which she’d drawn a design and added red clay over areas she wanted to inlay with abalone shell. It was an ingenious design that used her personal totems and clan symbols, leaving unauthorized ones in silhouette.

  It was a clever way of avoiding the problem of not having authorization. The result was striking. The old tray was on its way to being transformed. Its juxtaposed symbols were interwoven so cleverly their forms seemed to move. Kneeling happily beside me, she chattered with hardly a stutter. As if she was a little sister, I offered proud encouragement.

  Despite it’s obvious beauty, Ta-mo-lich wasn’t interested in the tray. Looking up, she smiled and blushed. “I don’t like my ss..stuttering. Will you talk with m..m..my totems? People say they’re fighting.”

  I squeezed her hand and smiled. It had been over a month since she’d stuttered so badly. “If it’s your totems, ask Nowamooks.”

  Her look of abandonment shocked me. I reached to touch her hand, intending to be reassuring…but she pulled back.

  “You won’t help me?” Her voice sounded lost.

  “Of course I will…but I’m not skilled with totems. I can talk with you and help in ordinary ways.

  She peered at me, confused. “But you’re a shaman.” Her disappointment was palpable and she wasn’t alone. None of the Tsinuks appears to believe my claims of having no magic, no songs or ways to intervene. Even Nowamooks thinks I’m merely being humble.

  When Ta-mo-lich looked away embarrassed, my stomach clenched, but what else could I do? Buddhist priests address suffering, ignorance and delusion. She suffered and her stuttering might have arisen from that, but I couldn’t pretend to intercede with her totems. I felt like a failure. Too often people assumed I withheld help out of disrespect or spite. It wasn’t that at all.

  Of course Nowamooks did help her when she was asked. Afterwards she told me how that Ta-mo-lich’s totems hadn’t been warring, but were simply unhappy because she hadn’t served them as an artist.

  She explained to the girl that her problem would resolve if she dedicated herself to her art. Extracting her from her uncle’s lodge was peripheral as was offering to be her patron. If she would take her art seriously, Nowamooks would purchase the needed rights and buy her materials. She arranged for her to move from Tewaugh’s and share an alcove with Tlkul Te-peh. Of course it seemed self-serving; a commercial venture instead of generosity. But both of them were pleased with the solution and Ta-mo-lich’s stutter receded.

  Hiding my smile I nodded my support; intrigued at how easily Nowamooks solved practical problems with commercial solutions. Addressing Ta-mo-lich’s totems, serving the community and good business interlaced without conflict. There was no division between the practical and spiritual and business here. I suspected Nowamooks, Tzum and Kilakota had planned it all, but being a man and an outsider, I’d never learn the truth.

  Nowamooks explained that explained had been trying to get pregnant to improve her marriage prospects. A woman with proven fertility was a far more attractive wife. Nowamooks, Tzum Tupso and Kilakota often strategized to derive answers through their “women’s ways.” Even I could see that marriage was an obvious route of escape.

  In a matter of months Nowamooks became the patron of two devoted artisans who could produce high-end products for specialty hungry traders. As far as business, it was an amazing coup. Cornering even a portion of the upper-end market would earn significant profit. With their skill and her business acumen their work would be traded far up the Great River and into the great lodges of the distant north. And, with the recognition and wealth they’d earn, both young women would have their choice of husbands.

  I was happy for Ta-mo-lich, but unhappy with myself. I could never be a true shaman…or priest here. I was split between Tsinuk and Chinese ways. I was an expert on something no one understood or valued and would never repay the debt I owed.

  No doubt eventually, if the dharma was to survive in this land it will have to be a natural part of people’s lives, not something foreign and imported. Perhaps in enough time the images of totems and Bodhisattvas will merge. Totems are easier than hungry ghosts to envision. The dharma was Buddhism stripped of imagery. But without it’s imagery, Buddhism would be a weak cup of tea. Still, how else could it survive?

  But even as that insight appeared I doubted. Was I really considering abandoning a linage that stretched back a thousand years? Lesser priests had kept the tradition whole as they trudged the paths of distant worlds. Why was I so weak? I cursed my bloated ego…imagining myself a Sage. But secretly felt sure I saw the Dharma clearly.

  I felt thoroughly ashamed. I should be content with consoling the lost and gathering firewood. How I served wasn’t important—I should do what I could do. Being midwife to the Dharma in this new land was an egotistical dream.

  I had a responsibility to Nowamooks and her family. Instead of teaching the Dharma¸ perhaps I should simply serve them. Having now gained some proficiency with Tsinuk, I could focus on mastering the gestures and silences that comprised the more meaningful half of speech.