camwyn | Cadhla says

that last night's VicMage session didn't totally suck. She's right, I suppose, but I would go rather farther than that. I almost have to; the game left me with my Akashic, Ho, banging at the inside of my head to let me know he had something he wanted to say. Turns out it took something like ten pages. I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to inflict it on you - in two parts, for sanity's sake.

The temple teachers and the sutras are wrong. Maybe you've heard them? Distracting thoughts are like dust on mirrors, or the buzzing of flies? Maybe the one about demons - demons are always good to get people's attention. Not that we got the demon one much in Sojiji, but it comes up every now and then. Sometimes they compare the thought process that goes on without your willing it to insects that fly through and refuse to settle down. . . anyway. The comparison is wrong, regardless.

Dealing with the thoughts that arise without your wanting it is like being nibbled on by starving ducks.

I'm serious. They cluster all around you and it's nothing but peck-peck-peck. You know they can't hurt you, they're not sharp enough to hurt, but you can't ignore them and there's no way of pushing them away forever. They want your attention, because they think you can help them. They'll keep coming back until you give them what they want, and if you try to get rid of them by force it'll only end badly. And trying to tell someone else how much it bothers you will only get you a weird look, because it's not like it's something dangerous.

I have spent the last three hours being followed around by an entire flock of starving ducks. Ever since the. . . well, the treehouse . . . the ducks have been there, peck-peck-peck at the edge of everything I do, trying to get at me when there are other things that need doing. Washing-up. Food preparation. Eating. Avoiding conversation. Cleaning the galley. Three hours of peck-peck-peck when I need it least - a ship's galley full of sharp knives and flaming stoves is no place for starving ducks, someone will get hurt. But the name of the first duck is 'Someone almost DID', and the name of her mate is 'And you know why', and the others are right behind them, peck-peck-pecking for fish or bread or anything I can give.

I would push them away if I could. The problem is that I know they're right. What I did put us in danger. It could've been worse, if it weren't for the others. It was stupid, flat out stupid, and all I can say is that I don't know what I was thinking. I had a reason, I just wish I'd told myself what that reason was!

I suppose I am going to have to sit down and let the flock come in. They won't leave until they see there's no food for them.

Dinner was over. Things were in order. Hammersmith's ship was sailing away from the Island of Lost Hermetics at a good clip. When Hsiang Ho emerged from the galley and slipped away for the ship's stern, no one took any great notice of it. If anyone thought anything at all, it might have been that he was probably going to change shape and jump overboard again. If anyone thought anything at all.

This is not the place I'd choose for sitting, but I need my reminders sometimes. It's too safe belowdecks, too quiet and still. I'd be tempted to pretend it was the old monastery at Sojiji, and that's not what I need right now. I need downtown Tokyo instead. This isn't mind-stilling zazen. This is duck hunting, and that's something different.

I don't want to do this, I don't, gods, I don't. . . *sigh* which means I need to do it. I could say all kinds of things about pain and the locus of infection, or about villains and secret doors, but I've got Peter Gabriel in my head and he said it better than I ever could:

Letting go - so hard
The way it's hurting now
To get this love untied. . .

Deep breaths, Ho. deep breaths.

So tough to stay with this thing
If I follow through -

Call up the heat of the room, the colour of the light, the smell of rhododendron pollen's touch in the honey, the sound of the voices.

- I'll face what I denied -

She tried so hard, Kate tried so hard, she almost had them, why didn't they listen?

I take these hooks out of me
And I take out the hooks that I sunk deep in your side

They could've listened. . .

*click*

That's the worst sound in the world, you know that? The absolute worst. Just - *click*. Because afterwards there's nothing outside your head but the slightly staticky silence that comes when there's no one on the line, and there's nothing inside your head except every single thing you ever wanted to say, all the words you had lined up, every thought that came to you in the dark when the other novice monks were sleeping. All those words that you were going to give. They haven't got any place to go, because of that one sound. *click*

I'm going to miss my train if I don't stop staring at the receiver.

-------------

"You're late, Andrew." Chef Griffiths. Big American fellow, early fifties, light brown hair, wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He's smiling.

"Garde-manger doesn't start for ten minutes, sir?"

"By your standards that's late. You've been coming fifteen minutes early the entire semester." He picks up the paper hat from the long steel table and rolls it up, expertly folding the tabs over to hold it in a perfect circle when he puts it on.

"Well, yeah." It's worth laughing over. "I'm sorry, sir. Terrible lapse on my part. It won't happen again."

"That's all right." Chef Griffiths waves one hand. "Don't worry about it. What kept you?"

The letter, the one in my mailbox this morning before any mail could ever have arrived, the one that had me staring at it for hours and hours that turned out to be nothing more than minutes when I looked at the clock - the one with the stamps from Japan - "This, sir."

He takes the letter. Glances at it, turns it over, raises his eyebrows. "Interesting place to get an externship," he says neutrally. "I thought you were shooting for Seattle. . . ?"

"I was, sir." He's still got the letter. "This was-" a total surprise since I didn't apply for anything outside of the continental United States "-an outside shot."

"Mmm." One more glance before he hands it back. "Going to take it?"

If it was just Udon it might not have mattered. If it was just the restaurant it could've been ignored. But there was the other letter and that's not something to be shared so easily, not something that sinks into you like a rock dropped into water, a rock that lands exactly in the hole that's been open at the bottom of your soul for as long as you can remember. . . "I think so, sir." Yes. Yes, of course, yes!

He nods, indicating the walk-in cooler with one hand. Conversation is no excuse not to make ready for class, and there's osetra caviar involved today. "Told anyone at the office yet?"

Swallow. "No, sir. It just. . . it arrived this morning."

Griffiths' eyebrows arch at that. "Early delivery?"

Your instructor in Advanced Knife Skills, Chef Cheng, is an old friend of mine. Forgive the presumption, but I have been corresponding with her about you for some time now, and I would like to extend to you an offer. You are, of course, free to refuse, but from what Shirley-san has told me of your philosophy of food and life, I suspect you have already considered the possibility of a place like Sojiji temple more than once. "I'm sorry, sir?"

He shakes his head. "Never mind. Externships - sometimes they handle the notifications differently."

"Oh. Right, sir." The tools are all laid out, the knives with the different coloured handles and the fishbone tweezers cheek-by-jowl with the little horn spoons.

"Andrew?"

"Sir. . . please don't call me that any more."

He nods. "Ho, then?"

"Yes, sir?"

The salmon we smoked a few days ago is in the back of the cooler, so his words are muffled. "Are you going to need help telling your family?"

"I- " Have a brother who's already been through something similar, and he'll be right there. "-don't think so, sir."

-------------------

Deep breath. Dial the USA country code. Exhale. Dial the number. Deep breath again.
It's ringing. Exhale.
It's not ringing. One more breath.
"Hsiang residence, James speaking-"
"H. . . hello, Dad?"
*click*
Lean head against wall. Close eyes. Exhale.

--------------

Home is where they eat your food. Home is where you open the closet and your things are there, where you don't have to paw through the supplies of a hundred other students to find the bottle you're looking for. Home is where nobody wears a jacket in the kitchen, because everybody's sick and tired of them. Home is where the goldfish look like mutants and that's okay, because that's what Dad collects. But mostly it's where they eat the same food as you.

Yu's here. His wife couldn't make it. Medical conference, or something. The important part is that Yu's here, right across the table, at what'll be Dad's left hand. Mom's at the foot of the table, because Dad's brought all the food out already. He's just getting the wine, now. It smells like a million other meals, like everything that's ever been served here, like home. . .

My stomach's in knots. I'm not going to be able to eat any of this. I mean, I didn't even hear Dad praying the grace over the food, and normally I have to listen to that because if I'm not paying attention he'll-

"Andrew? Is something wrong?" Oh gods. That was Mom.

Deep, deep breath, and somehow I find a smile to put on my face. "I got a letter at school just before the break, Mom."

"A letter?" Dad's voice from the other end of the table. Baritone, but lighter than Uncle Fang's, accented with Hong Kong instead of England. "About what?"

Got to turn towards him. Mustn't look at Yu. Yu knows. I told him already. If I look at him now it'll show in his face and it'll all fall apart. ". . . I got an externship, Dad!"

Oh, he's smiling, he's standing up, he's pleased. "This is wonderful, Andrew! They told you already? When does it start?"

"Just as. . . real soon, Dad. . . " I don't think I can even breathe. And I think he knows it, because he's not smiling at me any more. Oh, man, I can feel Yu looking at me like he's gonna spill it. "Real soon."

"How soon is soon?" Dad asks, his voice all puzzled and his face all worried.

"It's-" There is something inside my chest wrapped around my heart and pulling it down into a fire and I can't make it stop and they're all looking at me and I don't think I can even breathe and- "Dad, it's in Japan. I'm going to Japan."

I never knew how loud the aquarium filters could be, in this house. The dead silence from everybody in here might have something to do with that.

How did I stand up? I have to sit down. "I'm going to Japan," I repeat, although my mouth's so dry I don't think the sound can escape.

If I listen very hard I can hear the bubbling of the airstone in the tank full of bronze lionheads. I can hear my brother starting to draw breath, too. Dad's voice cuts him off, though. "You applied for an-"

"No, Dad. I didn't apply." I can't believe I just cut him off. I'm not sure he can, either. "The offer came. It just showed up. It's for a sushi restaurant in Tokyo-"

"Tokyo, Japan?" That's Mom, hesitant, disbelieving. I nod. Dad speaks.

"So . . . you're going to train. . . for a Japanese restaurant?"

There are words. I can't say them. They're just out of reach, so I have to nod again.

Dad's hands are flat on the table and his eyes are closed; his lips are moving in a pattern I know all too well. He prays like that when things are more than he can handle. It's his way of biting off enough to comprehend at one go, and I guess it works pretty well for him, but I've never seen him take this long at it before. At last, without opening his eyes, he says, "For how long?"

"It's a standard length externship-"

"As long as Seattle? As long as it would have been there?"

"Yes, Dad."

He exhales. "I see." And then he opens his eyes and looks at me and oh, Gods, I know that look, he's looked at Yu that way a hundred thousand times before, every time he ever misbehaved in high school and college, and I always wanted to die just watching it, make it stop

Mom's voice again. "But you'll be coming home afterwards, yes?"

"No, Mom."

From both sides: "What?" Across the table, Yu just winces.

"No." I can't keep looking at him. "I'm not. . . I'm going to be staying, probably." My voice is fading, it won't obey me. "I don't know. . . I might be-"

"You're staying in Japan. You're actually planning on staying at this - this Japanese restaurant-" I'm not looking at him, so it's only the shadow of his arm over the tablecloth that gives the angry gesture away. "I do not believe I'm hearing this! Andrew-"

Snap. "Don't call me that, Dad."

"What?"

I turn to face him. "My school name. My English name. You know I hate that name. Don't call me that-"

He's just this side of shouting. "It's a good Christian name!"

And now I'm shouting back. "Which I would imagine would be a really good thing, if I were actually a Christian!"

How fast can a man's face turn white? Dad's probably pretty close to setting the record. I don't care any more. He has to know. Mom has to know. I don't care any more. "I'm not, Dad. I'm sorry, but you know what? I'm not. Not your church- not Mom's church- I'm not. And I'll never be. I tried, Dad, you know I did, you know I went to Sunday school every week-" I'm twenty-two years old and my goddamn voice is breaking. "-and I went to services every week, and I tried so damn hard because I knew how much it mattered, but it didn't take. I don't believe any of it. You wanna know why I'm staying in Japan, Dad?" I think I have to breathe but I’m not sure how to go about pulling that off just now. "I'm a Buddhist, okay? That's why. Not a crappy one like Uncle Fang, either. A real one. I've been studying, and I've been reading, and I've been praying-"

He's still that deathly pale, but he's got enough breath in him for a snort.

The urge to smack him for it is unbelievably powerful. I have to grab the edge of the table (somehow I stood up again) to fight it down. "Yes, Dad, I have. I tried it your way. Sat with the Lutheran chaplain on campus and everything. I prayed with him, and it didn't work, because it all came down to putting everything in the hands of somebody else. Nothing I can do matters in your church, because nothing I can do is ever enough. I have to hope that somebody else will accept my unworthiness and make up for everything I've ever done." Ah, enough space to breathe. "I can't live that way, Dad. I can't. It doesn't make any sense-"

"And. . . this-" Again the angry sweep of the hand. "Japanese Buddhism-"

"It's not that it's Japanese, Dad, it's that that's where the monastery's located."

The first rock was dropped into the water, for me. The second was hurled there, a boulder into a puddle, for my father. "Monastery," he repeats.

"Yes, Dad."

"You're going to. . . " The words fail him, and he just looks at me.

"Yes, Dad."

"You're really going to. . ."

I just nod. There's nothing else left.

He's looking at the table now, staring down at his plate and his chopsticks, the little vein in the side of his neck pulsing erratically. This wasn't how I imagined it at all. I didn't mean it to hit him like this. I swear, I didn't.

Yu is looking across the table at me, the light glinting on his glasses, obscuring his expression. There's sympathy there, I know that much, but beyond that I can't tell. He's always had the way with words, that's why he went to law school. When he told Dad he wasn't going to accept baptism, he was able to talk him down. I don't think I can. But I have to try.

"Dad. . . I'm really sorry. I didn't want you to find out this way."

He glares up at me, as if I were a beloved pet that'd just tried to rip out his throat. I suppose I more or less have.

"I know. . . Dad, I know how much this means to you and Mom-"

"Then why doesn't it mean anything to you?" he answers, his words barely above a whisper. "I spend eighteen years showing you the right way to live. . ."

"The right way for you, maybe." I have to swallow. "Not for-"

"The right way to live," he repeats sharply, gaining volume this time. "The only way. Andrew-"

"Ho."

"Andrew." He draws in a deep breath, straightening up. All of a sudden he looks so very. . . I don't know. Breakable, maybe. "I thought the way you do now, when I was younger. Then I met the missionaries, and they told me about Jesus, and I realized we'd all been living our lives as if we were the most important things in the world. And that's not true."

"I know, Dad."

"No. You don't. If you did, you wouldn't be doing this to me and your mother." He points down the table, one hand shaking. "All we ever wanted was for you and Peter to grow up and be good men here in America, maybe inherit the restaurants. We wanted you to live righteous lives and believe like we did, so that you could be saved some day."

Oh, there are so many things I could say to that, but I won't, I won't, I won't.

"And now this. Now you tell us this." Anguish? Anger? Both. "At least your brother Peter is only stepping aside from the church. There's still a chance for him." Yu looks like he'd sooner swallow a live frog, but he, being wiser than I, doesn't answer that. "But you. . . you're actually turning your back. Rejecting Him."

"Dad, if you'd just listen-"

"No." He shakes his head, crossing and uncrossing his hands in front of him in a palms-down dismissal. "Andrew, there is nothing to listen to. You are leaving the country we came here to raise you in, to learn to live like the Japanese, and to throw away everything good and holy and right your mother and I have ever taught you. There is nothing to listen to."

He sits down, closes his eyes, and starts silently praying again. He won't look at me for the rest of the meal, and Mom won't do more than throw the odd embarrassed glance at me. Tonight Yu will go home early, and I'll be waiting for him two blocks away, because I haven't got any place to stay now.