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We’d an almost telepathic bond to begin with, Kit and I. It drew us to each other, grew stronger in our years together. Empathy, proximity, meditation . . . Love? Then love can be a weapon. Spin its coin and it comes up yang.
Burn bright, Shere Khan, in the jungle of the heart. This time we are the hunter. Timing is all—and suki, the opening . . .
I watch the changes of the sky until a uniform brightness is achieved, holds steady. I finish my tea. I rise and fetch my gear, don my backpack, take up my staff. I head for the short hall which leads to a side door.
“Madam! Madam!”
It is one of the place’s employees, a small man with a startled expression.
“Yes?”
He nods at my pack.
“You are leaving us?”
“I am.”
“You have not checked out.”
“I have left payment for my room in an envelope on the dresser. It says ‘cashier’ on it. I learned the proper amount last night.”
“You must check out at the desk.”
“I did not check in at the desk. I am not checking out at the desk. If you wish, I will accompany you back to the room, to show you where I left the payment.”
“I am sorry, but it must be done with the cashier.”
“I am sorry also, but I have left payment and I will not go to the desk.”
“It is irregular. I will have to call the manager.”
I sigh.
“No,” I say. “I do not want that. I will go to the lobby and handle the checking out as I did the checking in.”
I retrace my steps. I turn left toward the lobby.
“Your money,” he says. “If you left it in the room you must get it and bring it.”
I shake my head.
“I left the key, also.”
I enter the lobby. I go to the chair in the corner, the one farthest from the work area. I seat myself.
The small man has followed me.
“Would you tell them at the desk that I wish to check out?” I ask him.
“Your room number. . . ?”
“Seventeen.”
He bows slightly and crosses to the counter. He speaks with a woman, who glances at me several times. I ca
“He will bring the key and the money from your room,” she says. “Have you enjoyed your stay?”
“Yes,” I answer. “If it is being taken care of, I will leave now.”
I begin to rise.
“Please wait,” she says, “until the paperwork is done and I have given you your receipt.”
“I do not want the receipt.”
“I am required to give it to you.”
I sit back down. I hold my staff between my knees. I clasp it with both hands. If I try to leave now she will probably call the manager. I do not wish to attract even more attention to myself. I wait. I control my breathing. I empty my mind.
After a time the man returns. He hands her the key and the envelope. She shuffles papers. She inserts a form into a machine. There is a brief stutter of keys. She withdraws the form and regards it. She counts the money in my envelope.
“You have the exact amount, Mrs. Smith. Here is your receipt.”
She peels the top sheet from the bill.
There comes a peculiar feeling in the air, as if a lightning stroke had fallen here but a second ago. I rise quickly to my feet.
“Tell me,” I say, “is this place a private business or part of a chain?”
I am moving forward by then, for I know the answer before she says it. The feeling is intensified, localized.
“We are a chain,” she replies, looking about uneasily.
“With central bookkeeping?”
“Yes.”
Behind the special place where the senses come together to describe reality I see the form of a batlike epigon taking shape beside her. She already feels its presence but does not understand. My way is mo chih ch’u, as the Chinese say—immediate action, without thought or hesitation—as I reach the desk, place my staff upon it at the proper angle, lean forward as if to take my receipt and nudge the staff so that it slides and falls, passing over the countertop, its small metal tip coming to rest against the housing of the computer terminal. Immediately, the overhead lights go out. The epigon collapses and dissipates.
“Power failure,” I observe, raising my staff and turning away. “Good day.”
I hear her calling for a boy to check the circuit box.
I make my way out of the lobby and visit a rest room, where I take a pill, just in case. Then I return to the short hall, traverse it, and depart the building. I had assumed it would happen sooner or later, so I was not unprepared. The microminiature circuitry within my staff was sufficient to the occasion, and while I would rather it had occurred later, perhaps it was good for me that it happened when it did. I feel more alive, more alert from this demonstration of danger. This feeling, this knowledge, will be of use to me.
And it did not reach me. It accomplished nothing. The basic situation is unchanged. I am happy to have benefited at so small a price.
Still, I wish to be away and into the countryside, where I am strong and the other is weak.
I walk into the fresh day, a piece of my life upon the breakfast moment’s mountain.
3. Mt. Fuji from Hodogaya
I find a place of twisted pines along the Tokaido, and I halt to view Fuji through them. The travelers who pass in the first hour or so of my vigil do not look like Hokusai’s, but no matter. The horse, the sedan chair, the blue garments, the big hats—faded into the past, traveling forever on the print now. Merchant or nobleman, thief or servant—I choose to look upon them as pilgrims of one sort or another, if only into, through, and out of life. My morbidity, I hasten to add, is excusable, in that I have required additional medication. I am stable now, however, and do not know whether medication or meditation is responsible for my heightened perception of the subtleties of the light. Fuji seems almost to move within my gazing.
Pilgrims . . . I am minded of the wanderings of Matsuo Basho, who said that all of us are travelers every minute of our lives. I recall also his reflections upon the lagoons of Matsushima and Kisagata—the former possessed of a cheerful beauty, the latter the beauty of a weeping countenance. I think upon the complexion and expressions of Fuji and I am baffled. Sorrow? Penance? Joy? Exaltation? They merge and shift. I lack the genius of Basho to capture them all in a single character. And even he . . . I do not know. Like speaks to like, but speech must cross a gulf. Fascination always includes some lack of understanding. It is enough for this moment, to view.
Pilgrims . . . I think, too, of Chaucer as I regard the print. His travelers had a good time. They told each other dirty stories and romances and tales with morals attached. They ate and they drank and they kidded each other. Canterbury was their Fuji. They had a party along the way. The book ends before they arrive. Fitting.
I am not a humorless bitch. It may be that Fuji is really laughing at me. If so, I would like very much to join in. I really do not enjoy moods such as this, and a bit of meditation interruptus would be welcome if only the proper object would present itself. Life’s soberer mysteries ca
Damn! My presence must at least be suspected, or the epigon would not have come. Still, I have been very careful. A suspicion is not a certainty, and I am sure that my action was sufficiently prompt to preclude confirmation. My present location is beyond reach as well as knowledge. I have retreated into Hokusai’s art.
I could have lived out the rest of my days upon Oregon’s quiet coast. The place was not without its satisfactions. But I believe it was Rilke who said that life is a game we must begin playing before we have learned the rules. Do we ever? Are there really rules?