by Simon Rowe

The young Buddhist monk stood on the stone steps of the temple and studied the darkening sky beyond the cape. He wished the head priest would hurry back from his appointment in the neighboring town.

Having closed and bolted the heavy temple doors, he had begun turning on the courtyard stone lamps when a bell jingled behind him. He turned and squinted at the figure approaching across the flagstones. He had left his spectacles in the office but in the light of the lamps could make out the white cotton jacket and conical sedge hat that marked this person as yet another ohenro.

They arrived daily with their walking sticks in hand and their bells jingling from shoulder bags. The steep, stone stairway which climbed the hill to Tohkoh-ji, Temple of the Eastern Light, only seemed to make them more determined to reach it.

They came from all over Japan to the island of Shikoku, by tour bus, car, ferry and motorbike—sometimes in helicopters—to make offerings, say their sutras and have the temple’s seal pressed into their nokyo-cho stamp book. Then they would hurry on, to the next one of eighty-eight temples which strung around the island like beads on a juzu bracelet. Eighty-eight temples, eighty-eight seals; with their book full, their 1,200km-long pilgrimage would be complete.

The pilgrim before him was tall for a Japanese, and lean. An unshaven jaw jutted from beneath his hat square as a lantern, and shadow obscured his eyes.

“I’m sorry but the temple is closed,” the monk said.

“Do you offer lodging?” the pilgrim enquired.

“The tariff for a room at the shukubo is four thousand yen.”

“That will be fine.”

“Very well, follow me,” the monk sighed.

He led the pilgrim across the courtyard and up a wooden stairway to the annex which housed the shukubo. At the top of the stairs the monk paused.

“Where have you come from?” he asked.

“From Nakamura,” the pilgrim replied.

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“But that is almost 40 kilometres away.”

The pilgrim said nothing. He crossed the threshold to the inn and removed his hat. Beneath the light of a hanging lamp the monk again squinted. Then his eyes widened.

“Your eyes. They are…”

“My mother is Australian,” said the pilgrim, fixing the monk with a clear blue gaze.

“So, you are half,” the monk said.

The pilgrim smiled, but his mouth was weighted with weariness.

“I imagine other the temple inns are more lavish,” the monk said as they moved down a long dimly-lit hallway. Halfway along he stopped and slid back a set of paper doors to reveal a room of worn tatami mats and an open closet containing a futon and pillow filled with barley chaff. “We are not so.”

“It will be fine,” the pilgrim replied.

“You are our only guest tonight. Do you require dinner?”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

“The dining room is beside the shukubo, overlooking the courtyard. Please do not be late.”

A tray of simmered vegetables and tofu had been set on a low table at the centre of a large tatami room. The God of Thunder peered from clouds painted decoratively across the sliding doors on one side. On the other, a scroll depicting the journey of a pilgrim through craggy mountains hung in an alcove.

The pilgrim took his seat on a cushion and presently the monk appeared. He had retrieved his glasses and their magnified lenses now gave his eyes an odd bug-like quality. “Your rice,” he said, setting a bowl on the table. “The kitchen staff will bring tea shortly.”

“Would it be possible to perform my prayers after the meal?” the pilgrim asked. “I must leave early tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, as I have already said, the temple is closed and the priest will be back late. Please wait until morning.”

A tremor passed across the pilgrim’s long jaw, as if he had just crushed something between his teeth. It caused the monk to flinch.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice came from behind the door. A young woman in a headscarf and apron appeared carrying a tray. “Good evening. Here is your…” At the sight of the pilgrim’s face she froze. “…tea.”

“His mother is Austrian,” the monk blurted.

“Australian,” the pilgrim said quickly.

The woman set the teapot and cup down with a clatter.

“Your pilgrimage, it is almost finished?” asked the monk.

“There is one more temple to visit. Iwamoto-ji,” the pilgrim replied.

“Ah yes, the temple of the Five Buddhas,” the monk said. Then he added: “It is an odd place to finish your pilgrimage. Most choose to start from there.”

The pilgrim looked up quickly.

“Well, enjoy your meal. Good night,” the monk said. He ushered the staff from the room, then followed, sliding the door closed behind him.

For a while the pilgrim sat chewing his food. Then his attention turned to the clock on the far wall; it was an old Seikosha and its pendulum swung rhythmically back and forth with clean, precise clicks. The pilgrim cocked his ear.

“Please. Come in,” he said, addressing the gap in the sliding door.

It slid quickly open and the monk stumbled in. “I’m sorry, I forgot to ask…I just wanted to ask your name. For our shukubo records.”

The pilgrim stopped chewing.

“It’s Hino,” he said with a steady gaze. “Ken Hino.”

“Thank you,” said the monk quickly and turned to leave.

“May I ask yours?”

The monk hesitated.

“It’s Eijo,” he said.

“Won’t you sit down and join me, Eijo. There is something I must ask you.”

Thunder rolled across the mountains above the temple, causing the air to palpitate and the sliding doors to rattle like old bones. The monk wavered, his magnified eyes searching the room for a resting spot, anywhere but the pilgrim’s face.

“Please, I insist,” his guest said.

The monk crossed the tatami mats and lowered himself to a cushion on the opposite side of the table.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“You just gave me your name.”

“No Eijo. You know who I really am.”

“What do you mean?”

“The woman who served the tea. She knows. And she told you only moments ago.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then, I will confirm what she has just said. I am Jon Haba, wanted for killing a man in Tokyo 14 years and 364 days ago. My face is all over the news right now on account of a foolish mistake I made two days ago.”

The monk sat still, his neck muscles taut as piano wires.

“Why did I tell the exact number of days?”

The monk opened his mouth but no words were forthcoming.

“Firstly, Eijo, I am not a murderer. It was self-defence. But that is beside the point now. Are you familiar with the Statute of Limitations?”

The monk returned a vacant stare and shook his head slowly.

“Well Eijo, it goes like this. When a crime is committed in Japan, the police have exactly, and I mean exactly, 15 years to find and charge their suspect. That may not mean anything to you but it means alot to me. At 8am tomorrow I will become a free man.”

The pilgrim picked up the teapot. “Tea?” he asked the monk.

“There’s a storm coming,” the monk said quietly.

The pilgrim nodded, pouring a fresh cup of roasted green tea. “Yes, there is a storm coming.”

He placed the cup in front of the monk and resumed eating. The monk shifted on his cushion but made movement towards the tea. The pilgrim looked up, chewing his sliced burdock root and carrots.

“Will she call the police?” he asked.

“I told her to wait.”

“Where is the priest?”

“He telephoned to say he has been drinking and will stay in Shimanto tonight.”

“So, Eijo.” The pilgrim smiled, rubbing his jaw. “You are the authority here tonight. I am beholden to you.”

Rain began to fall, a fine patter at first which rose to a thunderous roar and rendered any further conversation impossible. The monk picked up the tea cup and drank quickly; it seemed to fortify him.

“Why are you making this pilgrimage?” he asked.

“A very good question, Eijo. Do you ask it to all your visitors?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what do they say?”

“They wish to cleanse themselves, to wipe their slates clean, to start…”

“Anew,” the pilgrim said. “To start their lives anew.”

The monk nodded.

“I am tired of running, Eijo. Fifteen years of always having to move, having to find new jobs, watch my words, and take care of my appearance. It is in itself a prison sentence. I also wish to start my life anew.”

He refilled the monk’s cup and continued:

“I am neither Japanese nor Australian as you can see, I am in between. I used to wear brown contact lenses and die my hair black to fit into my surroundings. But dressed as ohenro, I am not only of like appearance but also of like mind among thousands of others. I have made friends and received kindness from complete strangers, and tomorrow at 8am, I will be a free man.”

“Why did you kill the man in Tokyo?”

“I was defending my life.”

“Are you remorseful?”

“I was defending my life!” The pilgrim rammed his fist down onto the table, spilling the tea, and sending the dishes clattering. “You would have done the same.”

The monk stared, his eyes wide and round.

“One wrong turn can change a man’s life forever. One night in Tokyo changed mine. I drank too much, I sang another man’s song in a karaoke club, he fought with me and he pulled a knife. I was forced to use it against him.”

The pilgrim looked up from the palms of his hands and said: “Yes, I am remorseful.”

The rain hammered against the tiled roof of the temple, cascading from the eves and draining away in rivulets across the courtyard. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. At one point the lights cut out and the room was thrown into darkness, but the monk no longer feared for his life.

He brought more tea and two fresh cups. Into the night the men talked, as strangers might with common experiences, knowledge, loves and dislikes. They talked of the island’s weather, its seasonal flowers and seafood delicacies. They discussed the temples along the pilgrimage route and the quirks of the pilgrims who passed through them. They discovered they were men of a similar age and similar needs.

When the teapot was empty the monk glanced at the Seikosha. “It is late, Haba, and I am tired. Let us perform a prayer service at 5am and then you can be on your way.”

The pilgrim bowed his head in reverence. “You are very kind, Eijo,” he said.

“One more thing,” said the monk.

“Yes?”

“The police will probably be waiting for you at the Iwamoto-ji…”

“Don’t worry, Eijo, I have a plan.”

A heavy mist cloaked the hillside at dawn. Through it came the sound of rubber soles moving swiftly across the wet flagstones of the temple courtyard. Something metallic clicked, whispering sounded and a megaphone whined.

“Haba! We know you’re there. The temple is surrounded. Come out peacefully and you will not be harmed.” The police captain sucked in the cool moist air and glanced at the priest and the young woman from the temple kitchen crouching beside him. They looked nervously back.

Then came a heavy click and the scraping sound of a bolt being shifted from inside the main pavilion. The immense wooden door opened slowly and out stepped the monk.

“Don’t shoot! It’s Eijo,” the priest rasped.

The captain lowered the megaphone. “Where’s Haba?” he shouted.

“He has left.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t say.”

“When did he leave?”

“An hour ago.”

The captain glanced at his watch and cursed. He raised the megaphone to his mouth and barked, “Iwamoto-ji! Hurry! hurry!”

Out of the mist, a dozen heavily-armed men emerged and hustled down the stairway towards a cluster of idling black and white vehicles.

The monk’s face filled with dismay as the priest rushed towards him.

“I’m sorry we could not come sooner, Eijo. The road was blocked by the storm,” he said, placing a hand on the monk’s shoulder. There was a sourness to his breath. “Don’t worry. They will get him. There is only one road east.”

“How did you know he is going to Iwamoto-ji?” the monk asked.

“The girl called last night. She said you were being held hostage in the dining room. She overheard Haba say he had one last temple to visit.”

“What time is it now?” the monk asked.

Five kilometres away, at the tip of the cape, the pilgrim looked at his wristwatch. The mist had rolled back and the Pacific Ocean lay languid and peaceful before him. He stepped to the edge of the sea cliffs and from the shoulder bag pulled out his nokyo-cho. He flipped through the pages filled with large red seals and dark calligraphic strokes. He stopped at the 87th page where the ink was still damp from Eijo’s brush. He turned the to last page and removed a sheath of tissue paper and his gaze lingered over the seal of the Five Buddhas temple. He recalled the kindly, weathered face of the priest who had applied it 55 days earlier.

Then he removed his white jacket, untied the bell and bundled them inside his bag. With the snap of his wrist he cast his conical hat into salty air, turned west and set off towards the rest of his life.