The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit Page 8

  Chapter 7

  But then I was discovered. The strangers’ four boats had been pulled-up onto the beach and we’d established a strange balance. I was neither bound, nor actively threatened. Incredibly, I was ignored.

  The very men who had threatened to kill me now seemed content to ignore me as if I was an uninteresting friend. First Stranger and his three friends’ curiously flattened foreheads intrigued me. They sloped back from their eyebrows to the tops of their heads, but the paddlers with obviously lower status had heads shaped like my own. First Stranger appeared the most important of them, perhaps the second most was a man I nicknamed ‘Broken Nose.’ Angry Man’s snarling sneer seemed highlighted by the red lines painted across both cheeks. I was thankful that the older man quietly moved to sit between us.

  The stranger’s weapons were held casually now. Unarmed and frail, I was obviously not a threat. Their warm, well fitting clothes impressed me. Their necks ridged with scars, their faces and arms marked with tattoos. Even the lesser among them wore elaborate jewelry and labrets.

  As we sat there before my lean-to, they seemed to debate obscure points of order or strategy, but they did it in a most dignified and stylized manner. The strangest aspect was that, discounting Angry Man’s glares, I was disregarded despite sitting right among them.

  First Stranger would occasionally gesture toward me with his club, but it wasn’t done in anger. Broken Nose spoke readily, offering long involved speeches as if laying out a plan. Details were debated and questions asked and answered. Gesturing off-handedly toward me, Broken Nose offered his suggestion again.

  It must have been a joke or pun for the others’ gave common groan that was followed by laughter. But it seemed to have substance or serious component however. The suggestion quickly led to another exchange that seemed to entertain everyone but Angry Man and myself.

  It seemed to me that after threatening me, First Stranger might have reason to dislike me, but Angry Man was the only one scowling or expressing hostility. What reason could he have to dislike me? Whatever it was, the others didn’t seem to care. Angry Man alone appeared insulted that I remained breathing. He bristled, sneered and spit out derisions. Once he even swung his mace as if to finish me, but Broken Nose casually nudged his arm so the blow never landed. Turning back to Broken Nose, he spoke to the others with calm assurance, setting the various points of his argument to one side or the other with a flick of a stubby finger.

  The debate took considerable time, but there was no impatience I could see. Everyone listened until Broken Nose paused. Summing up his presentation, he gave a laugh that proved infectious. Around the circle, one after another, his audience took on a look of surprised amusement, as if suddenly understanding. Subdued chuckling gave way to chortles that picked up inertia until the cliffs echoed with raucous laughter.

  I looked up blankly, not comprehending. Now even Angry Man seemed to endorse whatever had been said…and find humor in it. That aspect alone convinced me that nothing good could come from what they discussed. I’d read enough to know that prisoners seldom survived except as slaves. The most obvious debate was whether my death would be quick or slow. I assumed they’d agreed upon a particularly painful one.

  Already heartsick, with their consensus the ground seemed to sink beneath me. If tortured, I would never maintain a quiet focus. A death with dignity and honor would not be mine. My fate was no longer in my hands.

  The older man stepped before me with a formal air. Obviously once quite a large man, he was still imposing despite a stoop and limp. He spoke in sweet, calm tones.

  I was surprised when he gestured for me to respond.

  I of course understood nothing of what was said, so meeting his eyes with an apologetic smile, I offered a apologetic shrug.

  He tried a different language, but I still didn’t understand. His eyes shone, revealing a desire to connect; and his intellect and sincerity were palpable. Almost pleading now, he gestured as if prompting a puppy.

  I laughed, but shook my head.

  Broken Nose tried next, but I heard only nonsense and gave a regretful headshake.

  In the long pause that followed I studied their faces. Then I politely bowed to First Stranger and asked in the simplest colloquial Cantonese, “Do you speak Chinese?”

  They were the first words I’d uttered in months, but they set off a silence that seemed to shake the air about us. The hush extended until the surf seemed deafening. I coughed to clear the rasp from my throat and asked first one and then another, “Do you speak Chinese? I am a priest…marooned here. Are there temples close?” I repeated it in exceedingly polite and formal Mandarin,.

  There was a pause so long I found myself thinking they’d understood, but one after shrugged that they hadn’t. I tried clerical Pali then the few words of Korean I’d mastered. I even mimicked bits of the seamen’s argot and regional the dialects I’d used.

  My words met nothing but silence. None among them showed the slightest recognition. One of them made a comment, another responded. That led to an explanation and then another…until they all were caught up in another debate.

  Though for the most part I was still ignored, Angry Man resumed his goading as if my trying to speak confirmed his worst suspicions. He seemed angered that I didn’t share their language, but his irritation sparked a conciliatory cry from the others and set off another round of deliberation.

  I gazed vacantly at the stranger’s elaborate boats wondering if there were fewer than I’d seen before. But I was far from sure. The situation was far too strange and my memory was not to be trusted.

  Peering about, I turned to glance back through the squared timbers of my doorway to the bowl I’d chosen for my altar. It seemed their presence and nobility fit well with my role of abbot.

  I was reminded of an old Buddhist story of a priest dangling by a root who was distracted by the beauty of a flower in the brief moment before falling to his death. The sight of that blue-glazed bowl served me that way. When I was enraptured by it’s form all else fell away. It filled my consciousness as I crawled to retrieve it. Suddenly, more than life, more than survival, I wanted those bowls honored.

  Coming back out I found the strangers had fallen silent. All eyes were upon me, but I didn’t dare meet their gaze. With a respectful bow, I offered the bowl to First Stranger.

  His unexpected cry of surprise shattered the silence and he dropped his posturing as if stung. Balancing the bowl delicately on his fingertips, he looked around at his friends with wide-eyed amazement. Inspecting the bowl with the quiet competence of an artist he balanced it lightly then tapped its side and carefully sighted across its lip before sinking back on his heels and tracing the blue-glazed patterns with a finger.

  Pleased by the respect he gave it, I watched and when our eyes finally met again I felt a unity with him akin to the one I shared with Master Lu. The tension abruptly melted when he laughed and held the bowl up, as if it confirmed his essential argument.

  Angry Man offered a token rebuttal, but it was it clear that his heart wasn’t in it. First Stranger offered him a conciliatory nod before giving me a wry smile. I tried to return it, but my face had turned wooden.

  Retrieving more bowls from my altar I handed them to the Elder, First Stranger, Broken Nose and Angry Man. Angry Man struggled to not respond when he received his and displayed a look of disbelief as I divided the teacups and small bowls among the paddlers. Ducking back under my ship-timbered doorway I collected another armload. My one nearly perfect plate went to First Stranger along with a near-perfect three-bowl set. I set them before him with a sigh of relief, grateful to be relieved from their burden.

  Cautious conversation slowly resumed, now obviously lacking the hostility I’d felt earlier. The strangers now met my eyes easily as they resumed their discussion with heightened fervor.

  Some time passed before I remembered my shards. Though next to worthless, there was no sense leaving them. Immediate silence fell and all eyes followed w
hen I slipped back into my shelter. A strange feeling of expansiveness swept over the scene as one-by-one, I dropped pieces into up-turned palms, going around five full times I made no distinction between nobles and paddlers. When finished, I held my hands palms up and bowed to each man in turn.

  For some reason that distribution of worthless shards set off a debate far more passionate than those before. It was as if the broken chips were more significant than whole cups and bowls. Broken Nose and First Stranger were now unabashed supporters, touching my arm and gesturing to me, they raised their voices with quiet confidence.

  I was surprised that barbarian conversation would be so formal and polite. It was as ritualized as the most formal monastic conventions. Yet, I still understood nothing. Having passed on the bowls I’d completed all I might hope for.

  I would die as a priest now, my karma unfettered, owning nothing.