Night Boat. Alan Spence

dedicated to Tenjin. The place was tended by a young monk who was sweeping the steps as we came in at the gate. He bowed to my mother, then to me, and asked if he could be of help to us. My mother explained about the sutra and he smiled at me, said yes. He could not have been more different from the old monk I had heard at the other temple, Shogen-ji, who had filled my head with hellfire and damnation. This young man had a mildness and a gentleness about him, a kind of lightness. He beckoned us to follow him into the shrine room, leaving our sandals outside. We kneeled beside him on the tatami floor and he lit a stick of incense at the altar. A few flowers had been placed in an old vase in front of a painting of Tenjin, one hand raised in blessing. The expression on the face was benign, kindly, but behind him a thunderbolt emerged from a cloud, and beside him was an ox, looking up at him.

      The ox is his messenger, said the monk. So the best time to pray to him is the hour of the ox, between two and three in the morning.

      My mother shifted uneasily.

      But, of course, said the monk, a young man like you should just meditate as early as you can, whenever you wake up.

      I will wake up at two, I said. The hour of the ox.

      The monk nodded approval, gave a little chuckle. Then he became serious again, reached forward and opened a drawer at the side of the shrine, drew out a scroll of paper which he unrolled and handed to me. I could only read a few of the characters, like wind and fire. But the page had an effect on me – again I felt that sensation in my chest, in my belly, and something in my forehead, a kind of tingling.

      We’ll chant, said the monk. Take it a line at a time. I’ll chant it first, then you repeat it with me.

      He folded his hands and began, his voice surprisingly deep and resonant. I folded my own hands, copied him as best I could, my own small voice cracked and high but eager, and my mother joined in, a clear sweet singsong. By the time we’d gone through the whole thing two or three times I was singing out with all my heart and soul.

      The monk bowed to me again and said I could keep the copy of the sutra, and from the same drawer he took out a smaller copy of the painting of Tenjin.

      You should take this too, he said, for your shrine.

      I carried my treasures home, overcome with excitement, and went straight to the little altar room in our house. I swept the floor and dusted the shrine. I took down the painting that hung in the alcove and replaced it with the image of Tenjin. I laid out my copy of the sutra in front of it. I emptied the ash from the incense holder and cleaned it out, lit a new stick. I pestered my mother for a few fresh flowers from the display in the front room and I put them in a vase. Then I bowed to Tenjin, and I chanted the sutra over and over till I knew the words by heart.

      It was the middle of the night. I didn’t know the exact time, but I knew it must be close to the hour of the ox. The whole house was dark and quiet as I felt my way, step by step, to the altar room where I managed to light the oil lamp, put another stick of incense in the burner. Then I kneeled on the tatami in front of the shrine, folded my hands and started to chant the sutra.

      Namu Tenman Daijizai Tenjin . . .

      I thought I was awake, but from time to time my eyes started to close and my head nodded forward, jerking me awake again. Then I would start the sutra all over again, from the beginning.

      Namu Tenman . . .

      In the flicker of the lamplight, the image of Tenjin changed, came in and out of focus. Now it was kindly, the way I had seen it before, now the expression was fierce. I invoked him to ward off demons, to keep me from the perils of hell.

      Namu Tenman . . .

      My legs began to ache. Outside a wind rose, shook the pine trees. There was a howl, a shriek. Something darted past, brushed against the shoji screen, scared me. But I told myself it was only a bat, and if it was anything else, anything worse, out there in the dark, Tenjin would protect me.

      Namu . . .

      The house itself seemed to creak and groan. Shadows shifted, wavered. Something scurried, was gone when I looked. I shivered, chanted louder.

      Namu Tenman . . . Tenjin . . .

      There was a sudden noise behind me, a rustling, a thud. I sensed a huge dark shape, looming, and a great deep voice boomed out.

      What the hell are you doing?

      It was my father, his robe pulled about him, his hair dishevelled, eyes staring.

      I am chanting the Tenjin Sutra.

      Do you know what time it is?

      The hour of the ox.

      He growled.

      The bloody hour of the bloody ox!

      It’s the best time, I said.

      It’s the middle of the bloody night!

      I bowed low, kept my head down on the tatami. I heard another rustling and smelled a faint perfume I recognised as my mother.

      The boy is doing what the monk told him, she said. He’s doing the right thing.

      He’s wasting lamp-oil, said my father. At his age this is ridiculous. You’ll turn him into a useless layabout, a lazy good-for-nothing with his head full of nonsense about burning in hell.

      At this rate, you’ll burn in hell yourself, she said. You neglect your own devotions and now you’re trying to stop the boy from following the way. You should be ashamed.

      I thought my father was going to choke. The veins stood out on his thick neck. The lamplight changed his face, made him look demonic. He let out a kind of grunt and turned away, went crashing through the house, shaking the whole wooden frame of the building as he slammed shut the shoji-screen door.

      My mother held me a moment, spoke calmly.

      Don’t be troubled, little one. You are doing what you must. This is your path. For this I bore you. Now, chant the sutra one more time, then go and get some sleep.

      TENJIN

      Encouraged by my mother, I persisted with my devotions. For weeks, months, I got up faithfully, every morning at the hour of the ox, while it was still dark. I bowed to Tenjin, I chanted the sutra. My father said nothing, but from time to time I caught him glaring at me then turning away. I continued, regardless. Then something happened that shook my faith.

      Among the boys in the village there was a sudden fashion for a game of archery, shooting at a target with a special small-scale bow and half-size arrows. My father gave me a set, perhaps to deflect my attention from what he still saw as a waste of time, and briefly I became obsessed with the game, determined to improve.

      It was summer and my brother was home from school, hanging about the house, and he watched my efforts with a mixture of irritation and amusement. Some day he would inherit the family business, run the inn, take over the way-station from my father, and already he was puffed up with the sense of himself and his place in the world.

      One particular afternoon he was lolling back on the balcony, cool in the shade, as I tried again and again to hit the little pine tree that grew in the yard. The more I tried, the louder he laughed and the wilder my shots became.

      Great samurai, he said, maybe you should try hitting a barn door!

      I tried again, missed again, and he laughed even more.

      Maybe you should pray to your Tenjin, he said. Ask him to help you out.

      I picked up my arrows and strode into the house, trying to calm myself and fight down the rage. Inside it was cooler, and without my brother taunting me I thought I might have more success. I looked around the room. One set of shoji screens was decorated with a chrysanthemum flower. The circular shape of it, the petals radiating out from the centre, to my eye made a perfect target. I