The island of Shikoku, Japan, Thursday, the 10th of May, 2001

The sounds of a train with numerous rail cars crossing its tracks were odd because there is no train line nearby. Struggling to get her too large feet into some outside slippers, she ran out into the Temple courtyard, to find the young Priest closing up each Temple by shunting the sliding doors along their tracks. Clickety clack — clickety clack. In minutes, all were sealed. Then he took out a butane gas cylinder and deftly torched the last flames of incense sticks and lingering candlewicks. The efficiency was to be admired. The noisy ferocity and violence were unusual in such a setting. This is the home of the Saba Daishi — and that story started some 1200 years ago.

At that time, Kobo Daishi came to this place during a teaching tour and spent the night under a pine tree. That night he dreamed of a holy figure and learned that this was a sacred place. The next morning, the Daishi called out to a passing packhorse driver, “Hey, what’s in the basket on your horses back? The man answered, “Salted mackerels.”

“Won’t you give me one?” the Daishi asked. He was traveling throughout the land in order to test people and help them attain understanding. The packhorse driver was being tested; but not realizing this, he changed his expression, spoke abusively to the Daishi, and left. The Daishi chanted while watching him go.

When the man had led his horse as far as the place we walk up now called Horse-pulling Hill, the horse suffered a sudden attack of colic and was unable to move. No matter how much the man tugged at the bridle and beat the horse with his whip, the horse simply stood and suffered, eyes turning bloodshot and foam dripping from its mouth. They were too far along a dangerous road to find help and the man would not think of leaving his horse behind. He didn’t know what to do.

Suddenly, he remembered the teachings of Kobo Daishi, and quickly retraced his steps, running further and further looking for the Daishi. When he found him the man begged the Daishi’s forgiveness, repented, and raising a salted mackerel reverently to his head, offered it to the Daishi. The packhorse driver apologized again and again. Kobo Daishi was moved by his sincerity and the mans complete change of heart and thus, handed him some healing water, saying “Give this to your horse.”

The man had been forgiven. With joy in his heart and the healing water in his hand, he set off for the place where he had left his horse. He gave the horse, which had been in agony, every last drop of water, from which the horse recovered immediately, standing up as if nothing had ever been wrong. Even before he could experience more happiness and joy, the packhorse driver’s body began to tremble at the thought of the miracle the Daishi had performed.

“I can’t stay here like this.” So saying, he took up the bridle and led the horse back to the Daishi. Once there, he prostrated himself and worshipped, exhausting all of the words of gratitude known. Kobo Daishi, who had watched this with downcast eyes, back to the ocean and salted mackerel in hand, slowly turned his back on the man and gently slid the fish into the sea. He chanted. Wondering what was happening next, the packhorse driver looked into the water. He drew in a sharp breath, as he saw the mackerel that, surely had long since ended its life, swim strongly away.

The man, having seen this miracle with his own eyes, was filled with reverence and adoration for the Daishi, and experienced a religious awakening. He built a hermitage and gave service to the Buddha for the rest of his long life. The hermitage saw the passing of many years and many people until it became the temple, which is known as Saba (mackerel) Daishi.

When she returned to her lodging, the same elevator music had looped around, still trying to find its way to San Jose. Everyone had bathed and were in their sharply pressed yakata jackets. Precisely at the noted time, the bell was rung, an announcement was made, and everyone trooped off, as one, to the Dining Hall. The Young Priest had changed roles and was now in full habit, leading the Heart Sutra in prayer before the meal began. His timing was crisp and to the point, as if this routine is down to the minute of each day. No syllable was wasted when drawing breath. He just kept going, picking up after the unannounced sound. Once the meal was over, everyone was invited to read the marketing material that was alongside their tray, and to buy a thin wooden sliver on which they could write their wish. Leaving the Dining Hall, the elevator music was still looping, a synthetic ‘ping-pong’ sounded somewhere in the distance, and there was a benign calm about the place that seemed to sanitize life and all of its pain, away.

Rising early, because everyone else was already awake and chattering, she followed the trail of clacking slippers back out through the courtyard, where they had been very neatly left outside an entrance that was not obvious the evening before. Quietly she slipped her too small slippers off, and walked barefoot into the carpeted hallway, down into a subterranean womb, where rushing noise and a steady beat could be heard. She stumbled, not sure where her attention should be in the dimming light of the candle lit corridor. And then, after what must have been minutes, she was at the mouth of the cave, seemingly dwarfed by the ceremony already in process.

The Young Priest was there, off to the side, while his Father sat center stage, facing the flames. On the counter side was a very robust Priest, bare to the waist and already sweating profusely, drumming the hypnotic underlying beat.

The Older Priest was leading the chant. His voice merging in two tones, reverberating and forcing you back against the wall. The sinews in his face were etched with a sinister shadow from the fire that seemed to tease him at will. You could feel the danger. You could smell his musk. The other Priests would join as chorus, chanting, and fill the cave with a sound so raw that the hair on her arms stood up. Skin tingled, and it was as if a primeval current was in the air – fed by the fire and forced to participate by the Priest. He would feed the demon with the wish sticks from last night. Angrily the flames would voraciously consume, greedily searching, looking for more. The chanting would ascend an octave, and the rhythm would take up a new faster beat. You could taste the mystery as one fed off the other, not knowing who was in control. The sparks became more intense, spitting at each other in mid air. Heat robbed the air of purity. It was pure theater of the mystical kind.

Smoke made her eyes watery, but she was drawn into the scene and couldn’t pull away. Her breathing matched his. The perspiration on his brow flew when he reached to throw new slivers, the chanting running into itself, separating with each new breath. Rivulets of sweat ran down the back of his neck. His robes were taunting the flames to come out. And the drum was throbbing harder, with a cadence and frenzy that filled the Almighty. The last words of the Heart Sutra were said in a dry, raspy, exhaling gasp. Every last ounce of energy spent retaining control against the grasping of the flames.

Then it was done. The furnace was damped down, while the chanting diminished. Suddenly dim lights were on, and the smoke had magically, under directed cue, disappeared. His robes wore his work, with stains from the performance. The skin over his skull pulled tight from exhaustion, his voice spent from commitment. All sense of time was gone. This could have been twelve hundred years ago for all that those attending could tell.

An unspoken signal activated the audience to walk slowly around the perimeter of the cavern, praying as one, before ascending the corridor, back up into the light. They all found their slippers, and went back to the Dining Hall, just in scheduled time for the morning meal. The Young Priest was there, and led the Heart Sutra, politely, blandly, thanking everyone for graciously attending.

With the last strains of

“LA is a great big freeway,”
looping in her head, she walked through the courtyard, soaking in one last moment, before heading to the gate.

“Put a hundred down and buy a car.”
The Older Priest was already at his place, multi tasking with calligraphy, answering the phone and being the personality to meet each new wave of Henro.

“In a week you’ll be a TV star.”
She bowed one last time to Saba Daishi, with his mackerel and rosary in his hands, and wondered if he knew what was going on.

“Weeks turn into years.”
This is the last temple to be found in the prefecture of Tokushima-ken — the land of Awakening Faith. Her own journey has been a sequence of light and dark, of knowing and not knowing and realizing that nothing really is as it seems. The next prefecture is called Kochi-ken, or Tosa-no-kuni. Tosa is the Devils land — neither lodging nor Settai are to be given.

“Love brings only tears, Do you know the way to San Jose? I’ve been away so long I might get lost and lose my way”
She needed time to understand what she had just experienced and to sense more clearly the relationship between benign and brimstone. For now though, she had to walk a full day to get to her next accommodation. There would be plenty of time for channel surfing along the way.

Zen