Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (11)

 

On October 25, 1046, Kyoto is in a state of wild excitement over the purification ceremonies preceding the grand harvest ritual, celebrated for the first time by Emperor Go-Reizen (1025–1068) since his accession to the throne on April 8, 1045. 

As for me, I am completely immersed in my own purification and ablution routines to visit Hase-dera Temple, packing up to set out on this very day. My family tries their hardest to block my way, exclaiming, “This is a once-in-a-reign spectacle! Even those countryside folk from around the capital are flocking to see it! You must be out of your mind to abandon Kyoto on this exact day, when you have countless other dates to choose from. Your bizarre behavior will surely become a laughingstock for generations!” My brother flairs up in a spectacular rage. My husband, however, shrugs and says, “Oh, just let her go. There is no stopping her when she gets like this.” Following my own whim, my husband lets me depart. His weary indulgence toward the desperate single-mindedness of my peripheral soul pierces my guilty conscience.

I do feel a bit of pity for my attendants. From their peripheral positions, their hearts are yearning to catch a glimpse of the glamorous central ceremony. Yet, I think to myself, “What use do we have for such worldly shows? The Buddha will surely be pleased with someone who possesses the frantic single-mindedness of a misplaced soul to visit Him at a chaotic time like this. Divine favor will definitely be ours!” And so, we steal away before the break of dawn.

The grand ceremonial parade is to head east along Nijo Oji Street. We, however, march deliberately west against the tide. My attendants dress in pure white, with our blazing pine torches flaring before us. Everyone on horseback, in carriages, or on foot—scurrying past us toward the viewing stands—stares in utter amazement and gasps, “What on earth is that? What is that?” They certainly do not miss us. Some even openly jeer or mock our bizarre little procession.

As I pass by the mansion of Fujiwara Yoshinori (1002–1048), the Commander of the Bodyguards, his attendants are standing outside the wide-open gates. They burst out laughing and sneer, “Look at them crawling off to a temple, when there are countless other days and months in the world to choose from!” Yet, one of them says with unexpected gravity, “What is a fleeting show to entertain our eyes for a mere moment? They must have an unshakeable resolve. Divine favor will surely be theirs. How foolish we are! We ought to fix our minds on what truly matters, just like them, instead of wasting our time sightseeing.”

I wanted to escape Kyoto before the streets were exposed by the morning sun, so we sneaked away in the dead of night. We wait for our lagging attendants at the grand gate of Hosho-ji Temple, wondering if this suffocatingly thick fog will ever thin out. Meanwhile, those local rustics keep flowing in from the countryside like a relentless river. Nobody even dreams of stepping aside to make room for us. Even the local children are ill-mannered and vulgar enough to squeeze past my carriage with reckless friction, tossing words of bewilderment and contempt at us.

I feel a sharp twinge of regret for setting out on this exact day. Yet, praying to the Buddha with all my might, as if to drown out the awkward ache in my soul, I finally arrive at the ferry crossing of the Uji River. Even there, the local crowds are surging up toward Kyoto in thick throngs. Seeing this endless sea of people, the ferrymen become entirely full of themselves, swelling with instant pride. Tucking up their sleeves and turning their faces away, they lean idly on their poles, refusing to bring their boats to the riverbank anytime soon. They just look around, whistling with an infuriatingly indifferent air.

Stranded there for what feels like an eternity, unable to cross, I begin to scan the scenery—and suddenly, it all comes rushing back. Looking at this very river, the raw obsession of my youth flashes back with terrifying clarity. This is the place I used to dream of while devouring The Tale of Genji, which tells of Princesses Oikimi, Nakanokimi, and Ukifune, the nieces of the Shining Prince, who lived right here. After the long illusion, I find myself on a ferry and we manage to squeeze across the river and go to view the Uji Mansion. Gazing at the secluded residence, I am caught in another haunting delusion: if I were Ukifune, how would I be abandoned and hidden away within these very walls?

[Editor's Note: Princess Yushi's foster father, Fujiwara Yorimichi, converted the Uji Mansion into Byodo-in Temple in 1052.]

As we started before daybreak, my attendants are utterly exhausted. We rest at Yahiroji to eat. There, our guard thoroughly spooks us, warning, “Isn’t that Mount Kurikoma ahead, the notorious haunt of bandits? Since evening is drawing in, keep your weapons ready.” I listen to his words with a shudder, but we manage to pass the mountain safely. The sun is just touching its summit when we finally reach Lake Nieno. My attendants scatter in several directions to seek lodging, only to return with bleak news: there is no proper place to stay, save for a wretched, low-class hut. Having no other choice, we take it.

[Editor’s note: Yahiroji is believed to be around modern-day Noroji Tono, Joyo, Kyoto 610-0111.]

The house to which this hut belongs is occupied by only two humble caretakers, as the owner’s family have all gone up to Kyoto. Those two men do not sleep a wink that night. They keep pacing in and out, restlessly patrolling around the house. The women waiting in our screened recess finally ask, “Why are you walking about so much?” The men reply, “Why, you ask? We’ve rented this place to perfect strangers. What if they steal our only cooking pot? Fretting over what we’d do, we just can’t stop walking.” Hearing this, I find the situation both eerie and utterly hilarious.

In the early morning, we set off again. We stop to pray at Todai-ji Temple. We also visit Isonokami Jingu Shrine, which looks ancient and stands on the very verge of ruin. That night, we lodge at a temple in Yamabe. Although I am dead tired, I manage to recite a few sutras before drifting off to sleep. In my dream, a woman of exquisite nobility and purity appears. I draw closer to where she stands. A harsh wind is howling. She notices me, and with a gentle smile, asks, “For what purpose have you come all this way?” I answer, “How could I possibly help coming?” She then tells me, “You belong in the Inner Palace, conversing with the lecturer's wife.” I awake finding the dream profoundly delightful and promising, and I begin to pray even more fervently than before.

We cross the Hatsuse River and arrive at Hase-dera Temple in the evening. After purifying myself, I go up to the temple hall. I stay there for three days. On the final night before our departure, I doze off. In the dead of night, I dream that someone throws a cedar twig into my room, saying, “This is a token bestowed by Goddess Inari.” I am startled awake, only to find it is nothing but a dream.

We leave the temple far before dawn. Unable to find proper lodging, we are forced to spend yet another night in a wretched, pint-sized hut before crossing Nara-saka Hill. “This place looks incredibly shady and suspicious—no one dares sleep!” our people whisper, while others hiss, “Even if something catastrophic happens, don't you dare panic! Just play dead and stop breathing!” Hearing these frantic, paranoid warnings, I endure the night in miserable terror, feeling as though I survive a thousand years in a single night. When the day finally dawns and we skedaddle out of there, we are flabbergasted to learn the truth: we have been sleeping right inside a literal robbers' den all along, and the mistress of the house is up to some deeply sinister, shady business behind our backs.

We cross the Uji River in a howling wind, our ferryboat passing close beside the traditional ajiro fishing nets:

I have known the ajiro net only by its name,

Yet here I am, desperately counting each wooden pole,

Trying to anchor my mind caught up in waves of delusion

That endlessly crash and close in between them.