No one appeared
at the entrance to greet them; even so Sensei bowed deep and offered a short
prayer of thanks for their safe delivery. Shigoto was tired and somewhat
confused after the long journey, his throat was dry, his stomach empty, and his
legs stiff and aching for rest. “Shigoto, do you forget your manners, do you
not bow to greet our kind host?” He bowed toward the empty porch out of a sense
of duty, but as he straightened up there in the entrance way stood a figure of
an elderly man, dressed with a simple kimono of a dark colour. Looking Shigoto
directly in the eye, his voice was soft, yet firm, ‘Greetings young man, so
kind of you to bring this rascal to visit. Please forgive the humbleness of
this abode.” Before he had time to reply, Maguro Sensei had slipped off his
sandals and entered the cottage leaving him standing outside. Gingerly picking
up the two sacks again, pushing his aching limbs into action once more he
followed the two men inside.
Leaving his
sandals neatly next to Sensei’s he entered the dark interior, following the
sound of voices toward the back of the building. There he found the two men
comfortably settled on thin cushions, an iron kettle suspended over a few coals
sighing softly to itself. He dropped the two sacks softly to the bare wooden
floor, and took a place slightly to one side and behind Sensei; at last he
could rest his limbs. The two men seemed to be already deep in conversation, a
creeping tiredness washed over Shigoto’s body, he was pleased that he was not
required to make polite conversation. The room was as simple as could be, bare
polished wooden floor, a low writing desk with ink stone and a ceramic pot with
a few hair brushes of different sizes were the only pieces of furniture. The
paper screens had been opened completely to allow an unobstructed view of the
landscape beyond. Mountain after mountain stretched as far as the eye could
see, between the mountains, valleys plunged steep sided, the bottom of the
valleys were filled with various shades soft verdant greens. The house seemed
to be perched at the very edge of the world itself; the sound of running water
in the distance was both refreshing and calming.
The two older
men's conversation seemed to merge with the warming kettle, Shigoto was deeply
weary after the journey, and tiredness was now dragging heavily at his limbs
and his eyes. They were sat in a simple room with open views out where the
paper-covered doors had been slid back. The floor was plain boards polished by
use, in the centre of the room was a sunken hearth, above which was suspended a
large black stained kettle. On one side of the room the wall was lined with
shelves, crowding onto the shelves were what seemed like hundreds of ceramic
jars of myriad colours and shapes with lids, though he looked, he could not
find two the same. The room had an atmosphere of deep rural quiet, and a sense
of peacefulness and tranquillity that mirrored its isolated position, as
Shigoto took in the space where they sat, he was aware that the whole room was
pervaded by a scent he could not quite trace the origin of. There was an
earthiness, a faintly sweet fragrance that reminded him of plants and flowers,
with out bringing neither a clear recognition of either the source or the
precise constituents of the complex makeup of the scent. In one corner of the
room was the tokonoma, an alcove in which a piece of calligraphy composed of a
few dynamic strokes was hung, below it was a small vase with a handful of
simple leaves and a shower of tiny white flowers held aloft by the thinnest of
stems.
His attention drifted away from the
alcove toward the paper-covered screens that made up the remaining interior
walls of the room they sat in. At
first glance he thought the paper was streaked with age or stains, then as he
peered closer he realised that in fact they had been painted in a soft, thin
pale ink, in some parts the ink so barely stained the water that it hardly
marked the paper with ghostly shapes that seemed to exist only at the fringes
of the perception. Yet, the more he looked though, the more he began to see,
the paintings were landscapes, with mountains, streams, forest and mists. A
small bowl of tea had been placed in front of him, the vapours from which rose
up to him brought to mind the scent of spring moss after a shower of rain. His
eyes roamed from the paintings to the scenery beyond the veranda and back to
the paintings, there hardly seemed to be any difference between one and the
other. Perhaps Kirifuda san had made the painting by looking out onto that very
same view Without having to move a muscle, he found himself travelling
effortlessly through the landscape before him, from mountain peak to mountain
peak, roaming the thickly forested valley sides, seeing the fish beneath the
clear rushing water of the streams, it was as if he was a bird, completely free
to go wherever he choose to. High or low, it was all the same somehow. First he
drifted up one valley, its sides were thickly crowded with trees, and the sound
of the hurrying river below, no more than the sighing of a kettle. Then he
turned about and followed the flow downstream, the river joined with another
and the valley broadened out. If he glanced upwards he could see the mountains
rising way above him, their peaks garlanded with wreaths of cloud.
“So, young Shigoto,
I hear that you wish to become a garden maker following the path of your
Sensei.” Kirifuda spoke in a quiet voice that held its knowledge and authority
in reserve. The words of their host brought him back to the room.
“Tell me, what
do you think of my efforts then?”
The older man was sat cross legged on a thin cushion floor, comfortably
cradling a small rough ceramic bowl in his two hands, his quiet eyes looking
toward Shigoto.
Shigoto did not
know quite how to reply, did he mean the paintings? But Kirifuda san’s thin arm
stretched out to indicate the space beyond the veranda, as he looked again
Shigoto realised that beyond the veranda lay a small carefully tended garden,
but only a matter of only a few paces deep. In his shock and confusion Shigoto
mumbled something indistinct, and then Maguro Sensei straightened his posture
as he sat, a smile playing about his lips.
“Kirifuda san,
forgive us, this young man has made a long journey. Finish up your tea Shigoto,
your horse will be pining for company. Then perhaps when you have checked on
the beast, you had better get some rest yourself.”
“Yes, Sensei.” Still uncertain as to where he
really was and what it was he had really been looking at, Shigoto swallowed the now
stone-cold tea in one awkward gulp, and then hurried out to see to the horse.
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