Angst

The monk pulled his robe in closer to his chest.  Overnight the snow had left a soft dusting on the ground; barely enough to cover the sparse grass but cold enough already to bite into aging bones.  This was only the beginning he knew.  Winter was harsh on Sado he had learned.  The first season of exile, two winters ago now,  it had taken all his strength to not pray  for death.  When the Emperor's soldiers had thrown him to the ground, then  boarded their boats and returned across the sea of Japan it had been early autumn and the desolation and ice still lay ahead of him, only hinted at on the wind.  But within the month he found himself shivering in the pitiful shack, taking comfort in the rituals of prayer and the  weight of the juzu beads in his fingers.  From time to time, he would stop to sip at the broth he had made from snow melted over the small fire and herbs foraged during the day.    It was at night, when the broth was gone and the rituals completed and he lay shivering by the fast fading embers, that he had to fight against the angst that wanted to skitter through his mind on spider legs, whispering that surely death was preferable to this life.  At those times he had forced himself to pray again, reminding himself this was nothing more than expiation for the slanders of lives long past and to be freed from the three evil paths in lives to come. 

He shook his head of the memories and again pulled his robe around him.  If the shack was no sturdier than the first day he had arrived, he himself was stronger.  The broth was now supplemented with rice brought to him by those who could summon the courage to battle the snow and the wind and defy the Emperor's decree to leave him to die, and was eked out in grateful handfuls as he watched the seasons turn. When he had been left by the guards he had had nothing but his monk's robes and juzu beads - the same followers who had brought rice had also brought parchment and sumi ink and another robe and if it did not hold the cold completely at bay, it at least afforded him the possibility of laundering his other one.  There were natural springs on the island but they were two days walk from the shack in the spring and summer - in the winter that distance stretched and lengthened to a week in the snow.  Even chanting the words he had expounded in the previous autumn did not shorten the trip and he was no longer a young man, so he kept his trips to the springs to those times when the weather was more clement.

He looked at the gathering clouds, heavy and grey with snow.  Those same clouds would be gathering over the mainland matching the gathering discord among those who waited and watched this game of cat and mouse between Emperor and monk.  For nearly three years he had been here on this island, defying the Emperor with his survival.  Nobody returned from Sado.  But his prophecy of the Mongol invasion had been correct and then the comet had interrupted the execution and if the Emperor was furious he was also afraid.  The monk was determined to return to the mainland - pardoned and free and with his determination grew his realisation of his mission.  It had not taken him long to begin to redact the essay he had finished the night before so that those followers who had been so loyal would not be tempted to believe the untruths their Lords and Masters and Emperor might find it fanciful to tell them.  It was not for himself he feared - it did not matter what the Emperor believed or thought or said about the monk, for he now knew he was the votary of which the great teachers had spoken.  His mission he now understood was to leave a way for those who followed to always be reminded of the Eternal Law.  His eye fell on the camphor  wood that lay nearby - the tree had fallen in a late summer storm some weeks prior and he had moved and pared what he could with his bare hands and a few tools he had found or made. Some had been used to repair the shack, some had been fashioned into rudimentary furniture.  Some had been used on the fire, permeating the shack and the surrounds with the heady smell of heated camphor.  The remainder lay, waiting for him. He moved back into the shack and added an extra handful of the precious rice to the broth. He would need his strength for what he now knew must create so that he could fufill his mission. 

The Emperor and his retinue held little interest now for the monk - they were arrogant and stubborn.  They would not listen - they had shown that already.  He had gone to them and told them of the Mongol invasion and they had laughed.  They had laughed and Japan had bled.  If they would not read the scriptures nor listen to the words, then he could do no more for them beyond pray.  But for those who visited his small Oratory here in the snow, he could do something.  Steam rose from the bowl of broth and rice and he lifted it from the flame with care.  He would eat then he would pray.  Then he would prepare the camphor.  Finally he would take the sumi ink and he would begin.