The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit Page 9

  Chapter 8

  First Stranger looked bemused as he sat outside my lean-to. Somehow. Though I hadn’t the faintest glimmer of what had happened, our relationship had changed. Perhaps by giving away broken bits of pottery I’d secured my survival. If that was so, I had purchased it cheaply, but I suspected something else was in play. I was far from redeemed, but a small flicker of hope shimmered. Certainly I couldn’t expect much, but postponing a painful death seemed sufficient.

  Obviously some resolution had been reached because suddenly I was jerked to my feet. But instead of being killed, Broken Nose and First Stranger stood before me and began reciting what could either have been poetry or a formalized death sentence. Since sitting down around my fire I had been little more than a witless amusement. My confusion now proved the best entertainment of all.

  Playing the congenial colleague, First Stranger took my wrist, drew me down beside him then quietly studied my face. Laying his fingers against his cheek, he said his name and repeated it. “Komkomis. Komkomis.”

  It seemed simple enough. I responded, “Kommcoomees..”

  His eyes flared and he shook his head, pronouncing the name again.

  I tried once more. “Koom-ka-mis.”

  A quick headshake cut me short and ominous rumble conveyed his disapproval.

  “Kummccuumoss…” I immediately knew I’d mangled it again and blushed as he reined-in his frustration.

  I fumbled until eventually I got close. “Kom...ko...mis.”

  Forced into accepting mediocrity, he nodded stiffly. It seemed we’d made some progress.

  Nodding, I tapped my stomach, “Chan Wing Tsit.” I pronounced the simple syllables slowly and clearly.

  The man repeated “Chnninit.” It wasn’t even close.

  “Chan...Wing...Tsit.” I repeated encouragingly.

  Glowering menacingly he said, “Chaningsit.”

  His stiff smile made it clear that risking another correction would be foolish. So, I nodded with resignation. There was approving chatter from those around us. Having satisfied that minimal social ritual, no one else risked an introduction.

  I was completely confused. After threatening me, their hostility had melted away and remolded into a strange formality. Then that evaporated, leaving a casual friendliness. It made no sense. And, why linger on my beach? Certainly they had been traveling somewhere. Why idle before my abbey as if they were friends who’d come for dinner? They sprawled about my doorway, napping and chatting among themselves.

  I slowed my breath and tried to focus. There was nothing in my situation to figure out. I was a captive. Obviously of no use, it made sense that I’d be killed.

  Then seeming from nowhere, platters of food appeared and the gathering became a picnic. Wooden bowls of water were handed about. Watching Komkomis, I mimicked the way he tossed pinches of food to the hearth as casual offerings.

  With a gesture so subtle that I hardly noticed he hadn’t spoken, Komkomis motioned that I should eat. Though his paddlers ate heartedly he himself barely nibbled.

  I hadn’t seen so much food in one place since the monastery and was so ravenous I stuffed myself shamelessly. There were so much to choose from I was agog, but my stomach resisted. I should have stopped sooner, but my desperation ruled.

  I ate far too much too quickly. It was food I wasn’t used to. I soon trembled, and grew dizzy and sick. Then the world spun and my stomach rebelled. Stumbling away to vomit, I was as sick as I have ever been.

  Behind me, the conversation barely paused. No one appeared surprised or dismayed. When I returned someone draped a blanket about me and another offered me water, but no one showed much concern. Later I noticed that someone had built up my fire as the strangers returned to debating. As I was clearly being discussed I guessed that my fate was unresolved. I hoped the killing of a prisoner wouldn’t warrant so much talk.

  I watched warily for signs of anger, but I was simply overlooked as unimportant.

  It was obvious the strangers were accomplished speakers. Even without understanding a word, the tone of their voices wrung my emotions. The best modulated of them milked passion. First feigning outrage or solemn pleading they could veer into scolding or collapse into laughter. Up until that time monastic “dharma battles” and political discussions had been the highest forms of speech I’d known—these men lifted wordplay to an art.

  I looked about trying to see my abbey as they must see it. To me the square sawn beams lent a look of stability. But I myself must have been a ragged sight; it was obvious I’d been starving and didn’t even have rags to cover myself. I hoped the bowls would raise my status.

  Suddenly, without any preliminaries the strangers rose and prodded me to their boats, settling me casually among their cargo. At least the unexpected arrival of food made sense; the number of boats had returned to what I’d originally thought.

  I felt a wistful pang. For I sensed with strange certainty that I’d never return.

  It took but a moment to cut through the surf. A moment later we skimmed beyond the breakers. Remembering the discomforts of the ship, I was surprised that this time I enjoyed sliding smoothly over the cresting swells.

  We traveled north for an hour or more, exploiting unseen coastline currents and skirting rocks. All hands but my own were paddling to the pulse of a half-sung chant. We swung out to sea to skirt a fog-shrouded stretch of brown water, then with a shout and a change of chant, we threaded the entrance of a nearly invisible bay and emerge onto placid water crowded with an amazing array of boats.

  The bay made an immediate dogleg to stretch southward like a placid river. Rafts and canoes of all sizes lined the shores and smoke from dozens of fires hung over a village set above the beach.

  After grinding ashore, I was nudged over to an irregular line of buildings painted with bold designs. Instead of the wide entrances, gates and porches known in China, a single small round door provided the only visible entry.

  The community was about the size of a moderate fishing village with perhaps a dozen prominent buildings with attached lean-tos—there seemed strangely few buildings considering the number of boats and people. It wasn’t large community, but after months of isolation it seemed that there were thousands crowding about.

  We were obviously expected. An impeccably dressed elder in a tunic and cape stepped out as we approached. He wore tasteful bracelets and necklaces and had tattoos on his arms and face. I made a respectful bow; Komkomis touched reached to touch his hand before beginning his explanation. Appearing far from pleased, he ignored me with haughty distain. Freed from his attention, I mused upon the labrets worn through his chin and septum. His forehead was as flattened as Komkomis’.

  Keeping his eyes low, Komkomis talked quickly. Explaining my presence was evidently proving difficult. The reproachful elder was unhappy, but remembering how it took Broken Nose considerable explanation before the others finally erupted in laughter, I wasn’t immediately concerned. Forgetting that my own fate lay in balance I rather enjoyed the idea of Komkomis explaining the convoluted story to a haughty, grim-faced parent.

  Abandoning his initial strategy Komkomis held up the plate and large bowl so the crowd could see, then made obviously tried to present them to the elder. Appreciative “ahhs” and excited chatter erupted around us, but the man before us only gave them a dismissive glance.

  Turning to catch my eye, Komkomis dropped his respectful look and gave me a smirking grin as if we were teenage friends caught doing hijinks. He didn’t seem in the least concerned with the elder’s reaction, but then it was my life, not his that was at stake. His cheeky grin and confidential wink certainly conveyed a lack of concern. But I grew more concerned and stood dumfounded. Nothing was close to what it seemed.

  Listening to their exchange I tried to imprint each nuance so I might learn their language if given a chance. I’d already decided to master it if allowed to live I listened closely and silently shaped what I heard with my mouth, without the faintest idea
of what it meant.

  Language study at least made sense to me; it was something I’d excelled in as a child. In the homes of scholars, learning was honored for it’s own sake. My role as Master Lu’s protégé and being sent to Korea was largely because of that.

  I was so immersed in my thoughts that I was surprised when Komkomis and the elder abruptly slipped inside. Left alone before the crowd, there was no escaping their scrutiny. I felt displayed…as if a freak.

  Cowering on my heels I glanced about. There was no chance for escape. Being left unbound might be interpreted as freedom. Even a monastery priest knew that those fleeing officials were likely to be killed. I didn’t move more than a step.

  Contrary to my first assumptions, this was not a poor fishing village. Instead of the rough clothes of fishermen or workers, even the simplest wore better clothes than the people about Nan Hua and they wore jewelry as elaborate as any I’d seen in Guangtzu. But this was not China; earlobes were stretched long, labrets were common and tattoos decorated every face. They were not Chinese.

  Only the rougher classes wore tattoos in China. Sailors and criminals were often tattooed and the mountain people my father interacted with had facial scars, but none were close to the quality of those I saw around me. Strangely, none of those watching me had the flattened foreheads of their leaders.

  Though I’d seen no silk and though styles might be considered rustic, the vests and capes and tunics worn came in innumerable styles and their jewelry was well chosen. It made me all the more self-conscious; dressed worse than a vagabond my skin was grimy from weeks of living rough.

  Komkomis and the elder eventually returned, accompanied by three men and a young, limping young woman, all with the sloping foreheads of nobility. Instead of ignoring me, the elder now seemed interested.

  I offered a low formal bow before he addressed me with genial formality. His eloquent words were musical, but of course I didn’t understand when he stepped back for my response.

  Holding his eyes with mine, I bowed respectfully, but shook my head sadly.

  Another man tried.

  Again, I shook my head. We seemed to repeat the exchanges on my beach.

  “Mika kumtux Tsinuk?” Another asked.

  I shook my head and shrugged, but recognized words used earlier.

  The leader tried a third or fourth language, then another man tried. Each time I shrugged a regretful “no.”

  The elder offered what seemed to be an assortment of dialects that got us no further. Then the woman with a limp tried another few tongues.

  Each time I listened politely, showing my engagement, but shook my head again and again.

  Silence descended, then after a few polite coughs they rolled their eyes and offered sympathetic smiles, before turning away mumbling “Cultus Lolo,” and “Mamook klahowyum.”

  I’d obviously been relegated to the status of moron. Without speech, what possible use could I possibly be?

  Judging from the look on his face, Komkomis was clearly not amused. He took my elbow and pulled me down the beach like a ragged puppy. Since he stood a hand’s breadth taller and was far more robust, I could barely maintain much dignity. I’d obviously embarrassed him and slunk along, simply thankful to be away.

  Almost as if we’d discussed my need for their language, Komkomis immediately set out teaching me. Pointing and saying a thing’s name, he expected me to repeat it. I struggled to perform for when I erred his dismay was obvious.

  “Kahmooks” were dogs, or at least the puppies scampering behind us. “Olapitski” was a word for fire. I was quickly overwhelmed and soon repeated words without understanding a shred; lamely parroting until my slipshod effort was accepted.

  We walked from one corner of the village to another and back. But wherever we wandered people wanted to talk with him. I hovered respectfully, a step or two behind, listening to the inflections of those unloading cargo, repairing nets or sitting about. Despite his status he seemed to have no problem running errands or listening to problems. Unlike Chinese bureaucrats, he apparently did anything, fetching cord or tools, consoling the distraught or listening.

  Time and again after conferring her would set off in a new direction leaving me to follow like a pet chicken. I could make little sense of it; but though disgruntled, Komkomis remained friendly. I felt myself far from free. Nothing quite added up. I figured that whatever Broken Nose’s story was, if it inspired fits of laughter it must barely be plausible.

  I knew from my father that the powerful dealt with problems ruthlessly and my presence had already proved itself awkward. Still…I hadn’t been left clinging to some rock in a rising tide…yet.

  They had been suspiciously polite after threatening me with death. But then seemed as sophisticated as Chinese scholars. What could possibly explain it?

  I told myself that explanations hardly mattered. My path to survival led through language and Komkomis wanted me to learn. That was all I could do. But I could scarcely complain.

  It seemed obvious I filled a small role within some larger strategy. Someone important must benefit or I wouldn’t live. So my position was tenuous. How much of any importance could balance on the life of a stranger? I was nothing but a scrap washed onto a barren beach. I was hardly a speck of dust. The world unfolded on a far grander scale.

  I stumbled behind Komkomis, fatigued past understanding, yet following gamely. When we were alone with me he gave complicated explanations—even though I didn’t understand a word. Around others he would address me formally, and seem to ask me questions. In turn, I would nod as if I understood. Komkomis obviously liked others assuming that that I understood their language, and pretended I knew more; explaining details and pretending to ask my opinion. But he was quick to discourage other’s questions.

  As common salutations were repeated over and over. Unconsciously I began mumbling their stock replies.

  From the front, their lodge’s modest fronts were deceptive. Though painted with striking emblems, they didn’t appear very large. However a few steps inside, the floor dropped in wide stepped shelves to form magnificent rooms whose corners receded into shadowed alcoves. Flickering fires offered a glimpse of massive carved posts and smoke-darkened ceilings lending the sense of an ancient temple.

  Returning to the lodge of the elder I hoped it was the end of our day, but Komkomis just pointed to a corner mat and muttering something I didn’t understand. If the elder and his entourage were around, they didn’t acknowledge us. Back outside, he led the way to a small hut near the beach where I mumbled a polite “Stwanint,” to those lounging by a fire. He introduced me as “Chaningsit.”

  Komkomis abruptly squelched their barrage of questions, but I stilly bowed politely. He merely disrobed and gestured that I do the same.

  I stared at him with sudden alarm. Around us, both men and women were in some stage of undress, but I was far too inhibited to join them. Since childhood I’d few casual interactions with women beyond family. I could hardly undress before them. Years had passed since I’d exchanged more than pleasantries and comments about Buddhism with women.

  Assuming I didn’t understand, Komkomis grumbled “Iktas, iktas” and repeated his pantomime of undressing. I gave him an appealing look, but clearly annoyed, he just glared at me disapprovingly.

  I was desperate to please, but unable to comply. I was almost crying from my dilemma. My feeble gestures made me feel foolish.

  Komkomis’ frustration was as obvious as the other’s amusement. With my life in the balance I agonized over crossing him. My continued existence dangled by a thread. But disrobing was simply too much to ask. I could only fumble gracelessly and mumble in Chinese.

  Then in a movement so quick and efficient it seemed practiced, I was seized, stripped naked and left mortified while everyone else laughed. Humiliated, I all but stumbled into the smoky fire when Komkomis shoved me through the mat-hung door.

  Herding me before him, Komkomis found an empty corner and exchanged nods with
those about us. The light from smoky coals revealed others condemned to the sweltering oven with us. Realizing my survival hinged upon accepting odd customs I tried to convince myself I wasn’t being baked alive. Komkomis seemed oblivious.

  I was soon swooning; smoke choked my lungs and burned my eyes as my body ran with sweat. Within minutes I was hallucinating spirits crowding among us; some recognizable, some passing through human forms as if mist. I was nearly unconsciousness when Komkomis pulled me outside. Following blindly, I was knee-deep in the bay before I came to my senses then stopped dead as Komkomis strode on and submerged.

  It took a moment to realize I was expected to follow. The bay’s cold water jolted me into vivid clarity. I had no doubts about the spirits I’d sensed, but was surprised that instead of Chinese guardians and hungry ghosts, they were clearly of this land.

  It was disconcerting that they’d revealed themselves. Chan neither supported nor challenged the reality of such spirits; it simply dismisses them as distractions. Master Lu might have explained that I was simply exchanging one set of illusions for another.

  Standing there in the night I felt oddly purified and, watching the last streaks of sunset fade into darkness, I was grateful to be returned to the regular world…even a portions impossibly far from home.

  As the last hush of twilight faded we babbled, laughing and teasing cheerfully in our own languages. Wading out of the shallows we opened our hearts and told our stories while nodding and laughing as if we understood.

  Looking where I’d been stripped, I found that my rag of a shirt and makeshift coverings had disappeared. But after wrapping me in a blanket, Komkomis led back into the swirl of his family’s lodge. I huddled in comfortable silence while all about me people behaved as families did everywhere; quieting children, sharing food and exchanging stories as all people have throughout time.

  Lit by three small fires, the lodge was comfortably warm and I settled contentedly, picking at food and listening to the chatter. It was a common everyday slice of life; wives and husbands, grandparents, uncles and aunts, enjoying each other and exchanging new and gossip as their children roamed and yawned. Wanting to appear civilized, I sat formally upright; wrapped in my blanket, a polite step behind Komkomis, as if a visiting dignitary from Nan Hua.

  I could tell from their gestures that they talked about me, yet I felt strangely accepted. Clothes and sounds, the smells and food and a thousand other details screamed that this was not China. But my karma had placed me there and thus far I’d survived. The room was warm and tolerably normal. Of course, nervous and self-conscious, I was on my best behavior. Anxious to observe the social graces I scrupulously followed my host in tossing pinches of food to the fire before eating.

  The haughty elder’s name was Comcomly. Relieved of his formal role and surrounded by family, he became a tolerant grandfather and magnet for circling children. Though obviously the patriarch, he required none of the formality a Chinese patriarch would. He seemed comfortable sitting with adults watching a child’s dance.

  But I was at the edge of dreams and nodded off. At last Komkomis squeezed my shoulder and bid me to rise. Satisfied with the day’s unfolding, I bowed politely to the room before being led to my corner mat where someone had piled soft, thick blankets, a clean tunic and a warm, Tsinuk cape.

  Warm and clean for the first time in months and with my stomach comfortably full, I slipped almost immediately into a sleep as sound as the ancient dead.