Here at its edge, here in the shade, here Ryūnosuke stood before the stone lantern, staring again, transfixed again …
‘No one knows for sure’, said the monk, ‘how this stone lantern, this Hidden Icon, came to be here …’
Again, Ryūnosuke reached out across the centuries, over the ocean of history, and touched the surface of the lantern, then bending down, squatting down, he ran his fingers gently over the stone image of the Holy Mother, Her arms raised, folded and crossed before Her breasts and over Her heart, his fingers warm and the stone warm, warm to his touch, warm from Her touch, Her touch in his heart, in the chambers of his heart.
‘If you would like,’ said the monk, ‘please do rest in the shade of the room which looks out upon our garden.’
Ryūnosuke thanked the monk, and for all his kindness in showing him the Great Bell of Nanbanji and the Stone Lantern of the Holy Mother, and then the monk left Ryūnosuke sitting on the polished dark wooden steps in the shade of the veranda, staring out at the Garden of Boulders …
On the steps, in the shade and in the silence, his eyes closing then opening again, how long he stayed sat there he did not know, nor could he tell what time of day it was, what day or even year it was. But in the shade and in the silence, now Ryūnosuke sensed a shadow over him, falling behind him now, a shadow in the shade, a shade within a shade, and Ryūnosuke turned, and Ryūnosuke saw –
A Western man, well-built and tall, sockless and barefoot in a three-piece suit, his long hair oiled and slicked back, nose large and face puffed, he smiled down at Ryūnosuke and said in accented English, ‘I must say, I do say, I rather like this garden, this Garden of Boulders. And you …?’
Ryūnosuke looked up at the man, this Western man, and with a brief nod of his head then said, ‘I agree, it is very attractive.’
‘Attractive’, echoed the man, ‘because, quintessentially, Japanese.’
Ryūnosuke smiled slightly. ‘Perhaps, but there must be many attractive gardens in the west that are not Japanese.’
‘Sadly, that is no longer true,’ said the man. ‘It is already closing time in the Gardens of the West, their grounds overgrown and their gates locked. And I’m afraid if you do not take care, soon here, too, your gardens will close …’
‘Really,’ said Ryūnosuke, looking from the man back out at the garden, not knowing what else he could or would like to say.
Now, with the palm of his hand, the man gently touched Ryūnosuke on his back as he sat down beside him on the dark polished steps of the veranda and softly said, ‘But I’m sorry to paint such a gloomy picture and to disturb you, as you sit here before such a beautiful sight.’
‘Not at all,’ said Ryūnosuke. ‘In fact, your enthusiasm for this garden only refreshes my tired eyes and their gaze.’
‘And so what do you see’, asked the man, ‘with your fresh eyes?’
Ryūnosuke now regretted his last remark, surveying the scene before him, struggling to think of anything astute to say, anything but ‘Harmony.’
‘Exactly,’ said the man. ‘Harmony, and forgive me if you are already aware of its design and history, but the theme of this Buddhist temple garden is the Ise Shrine, Ise Jingū in Mie Prefecture, which, as you know, is the chief shrine of all the Shintō shrines in Japan. Yet this Buddhist garden has a forest to Amaterasu-ōmikami, the sun goddess, and a tiny shrine to Toyouke-no-ōmikami, the goddess of agriculture. You know, it was once common to see Buddhist and Shintō objects enshrined at the same place because, until your Meiji Restoration – or revolution, whichever you prefer – it was a popular belief in Japan that the native Shintō deities were actually various forms of the Buddha that existed to help and save people. Hence, you sense the harmony of this garden, for we feel the attraction of its syncretism.’
Looking out over the main garden of the Shunkōin Temple, over the Garden of Boulders, Ryūnosuke said, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘And yet you felt it still,’ said the Western man. ‘In your heart, your Japanese heart.’
Ryūnosuke smiled, then said, ‘Well, in truth, this Japanese heart came here in search of just one thing: the Bell of Nanbanji.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said the man – an echo of the words Mokichi Saitō had said to Ryūnosuke that afternoon, three years ago, in his office at the Nagasaki Prefectural Hospital – but this Western man, he said these words with sadness not disdain, and now went on, ‘Ah, yes, yes, Nanbanji …
‘What a place it was – on this side of the Kamo River, on its western bank, between Sanjō and Shijō, close to where the Rokkaku-dō still stands – an enormous place, enclosed by walls of wood, with two gates to the south, the main temple was laid out in the shape of the cross, and its bell tower with its cross on its roof could be seen for miles and miles, and the ringing of the Great Bell, sounding the hours, calling the faithful, could be heard all across the old capital of Kyoto, in all our ears and in all our hearts, echoing in our hearts, in the chambers of our hearts. Listen … Listen, Ryūnosuke …’ In the shade, on the steps, Ryūnosuke abruptly turned to look at this man, this stranger who had just said his name, who knew his name, who was looking at him, was smiling at him, a finger to his lips, another to his ear, and now to his eye as he whispered, ‘Listen, Ryūnosuke, and look …’
The finger of the man now moved from his eye, pointing out towards the garden, Ryūnosuke following the path of the finger of the man out over the Garden of Boulders, watching it lifting, his finger lifting, lifting
