The Kalavinka's Child and the Traveler (Part 6/Final)

"I haven't thanked you properly yet. ...Thank you so much for showing mercy to a corpse whose identity you didn't even know."

Dorje wiped his reddened eyes and nose, then turned to face Yoshitsugu and Oto once more. He raised his hands in prayer above his head and threw his entire body onto the earth. The full-body prostration—the highest form of devotion to a Buddha or a monk—resembled the exaggerated bowing performed before an emperor.

""...Please, raise your head. If anything, we should be the ones apologizing for acting on our own accord.""

A moment after Yoshitsugu spoke, fluent Tibetan overlapped his words. Two full days had passed since they met, and communication through Oto's interpretation had become quite natural.
Neither Yoshitsugu nor Oto could bear to receive such a low bow, as if they were being worshipped, when they were merely travelers themselves. Dorje did not lift his dirt-stained forehead until Yoshitsugu, losing patience, tapped him on the shoulder.

""Brother—Tilbu, was it? What will you do? Will you take him back to give him a proper memorial?""
""No.... You already laid him to rest before you met me. That is enough. There is even a grave marker already. This is the place where my brother sleeps.""

Dorje believed without a doubt that there was no falsehood in the account of the memorial service he had been told. For Dorje, who had not forgiven the brother who killed his father, the mercy the two had shown to a nameless corpse was nothing less than a virtuous act worthy of his own full-body prostration.
After a pause, Dorje took a small knife from his robe and slowly held it out toward Yoshitsugu.

""If you would be so kind, would you please accept this?""

Yoshitsugu took the knife again and examined it—the same knife that had led him to realize the relationship between Dorje and the corpse returning to the highland earth. The silver scabbard, housing a blade about a foot long, was engraved with undulating patterns and Tibetan script. When drawn, the silver blade showed no nicks or rust from blood.
No matter how many times he looked at it, it was identical, like a twin to the knife the corpse sleeping nearby had carried even in death, and which now served as his grave marker. Yoshitsugu pondered the life of the corpse, who must have looked just like Dorje.

""This is a protective blade given to you by your father, isn't it? I cannot simply accept it.""

Dorje firmly refused to take back the knife, which had been returned with a refusal voiced for both of them. Seeing a stubbornness that rivaled Yoshitsugu's own, Oto furrowed her brow slightly.

""I had intended to part with it once my business was finished anyway. ...I tried to kill my brother with this blade. Once I had that thought, I am no longer fit to carry it.""

The lips that confessed his sin were pressed into a thin line and trembled slightly. Dorje's fingers, trembling in the same way, traced the engravings on the surface of the scabbard with care.

""'Om Mani Padme Hum'.... It is the six-syllable mantra imbued with the protection of Kannon. And the pattern carved below it represents waves swaying on the surface of the sea. It signifies the protective power of Kannon, who guards all living beings even from the roughest seas. ...May your pilgrimage be peaceful and safe.""

Though his words were tinged with loneliness, they held no hesitation or regret. Sensing his firm resolve in his voice, Oto caught Yoshitsugu's eyes and nodded strongly.

""I promise. I will never let this blade be stained with blood.""

His grip tightened, and the cold metal gradually began to take on the warmth of human skin. As if savoring the weight of the vow, Yoshitsugu carefully tucked the knife into his belt.
Beside him, Oto's gaze followed the knife. Her wide, round eyes stared intently at the engraving on the scabbard.

"Kannon.... The sea...."
"...Is something the matter?"
"You know, if that's the case, I think I know it. It's not in this language, but I know a little bit."

Turning a proud, young-girl-like face toward Dorje, Oto closed her eyes, swayed her shoulders lightly, and relaxed her entire body. She inhaled the cold air, mixed with the scent of green grass, filling her small, slender frame.
Before long, a clear, ringing voice drifted away on the highland wind.

Oto recited a passage from the Lotus Sutra's Universal Gate Chapter in the Go-on pronunciation. Her voice, unhindered by anything, spread out as shimmering wavelengths toward the horizon.
Every time she revealed a glimpse of her nature as a Kalavinka—a race gifted with voice—Yoshitsugu would gasp. It was a reminder that Oto was not merely a girl who loved to sing, but a being not of this world. He even had the illusion of seeing the wings she usually kept hidden beneath her cloak, visible through the fabric.
On the other hand, Dorje, who knew nothing of Oto's exquisite voice or her true nature, let out a sigh of admiration, completely entranced.

“Ah...”

Though the vocal quality and language were different, Oto’s chanting, which carried the same solemnity as an old monk’s shomyo, guided the heart that had been disturbed by the death of his twin brother toward peace. The sensation of being held by something while drifting through the void gently enveloped his exhausted body.
Dorje spontaneously gave a name to this unknown state.
“Gyatso (Ocean).”

“...I had always believed that the ocean had nothing to do with the lives of us metalworkers. But my brother used to say it was a lonely way to live. He said he didn't want to spend his whole life trapped in Lhasa, surrounded by mountains like a prison. ...He had nowhere to run, so I wonder where he was trying to go. If he had nowhere to go, perhaps he just wanted to see the ocean, which no one in Lhasa had ever seen, at least once... I think I may have always envied the way my brother lived, acting as he pleased and never hiding his longing for the outside world.”

Dorje lowered his eyes and stared at his brother’s silent form. The corpse remained exposed to the wind, just as it had been.
Yoshitsugu neither affirmed nor denied this, keeping his mouth shut in a firm line. He had no intention of speaking for the dead, whose true wishes he could never know, nor did he intend to offer easy, lukewarm words of comfort.
As he pondered with his fist against his chin, there was a real ocean in his mind that Dorje could never know. A magnificent landscape, sometimes gentle and sometimes fierce, one he would never see again even if he looked back, came flooding back along with the emotions he had kept bottled up.
—The time to fulfill the duty of atonement is now.
Yoshitsugu’s resolve, facing the ocean in his memories, did not waver even when swallowed by the rough seas of his thoughts.

“...Can you tell him again, word for word?”
“Huh? What’s with you all of a sudden? You’ve been doing it this whole time, haven’t you?”
“...That’s right. I’m counting on you.”

Yoshitsugu opened his heavy mouth slowly, with a more solemn expression than usual. Oto followed up with a stream of Tibetan.

“‘Listen. Actually, we have crossed the ocean—’ Wait, you idiot! What are you saying!”
“I am just telling my own story. Please continue.”
“Geez, don’t say such unnecessary things... ‘We have crossed the ocean. We crossed a vast sea, far wider than the lake where we met you, and trekked across the endless deserts of the Western Regions to stand on this land today. We took a few detours, and it has been three years since we set out.’”

With the word “unbelievable” plastered across his face, Dorje looked up at Yoshitsugu again. Overwhelmed by the giant, who stood two heads taller than his own stoic figure, he lost the words to respond, his mouth hanging half-open. Oto, who was acting as the interpreter, also wore a stiff, serious expression, just like Yoshitsugu. Dorje had to admit that the two were definitely not joking.

“‘The ocean we crossed is far to the east. As long as you have life, if you do not stop your steps, you will surely reach it. If you want to see it, go see it. If you want to go, go. No one will hinder your will.’”

The declaration was an encouragement, but at the same time, it was Yoshitsugu’s act of atonement, having chosen to announce the death of the person who seemed to be his brother and strip Dorje of his purpose in life.
—Even if one purpose is lost, it is no reason not to find the next.
—If only he could find a new reason to live, like this giant in front of him—.
Under the moonlight that cast a dazzling glow, the thoughts Yoshitsugu and Oto held while passing each other finally intersected as one.

“‘The ocean... Like you two, I also...’”
“‘Yeah. Once you finish mourning your father, you can do as you please.’ Hey, if you really want to go to the ocean, be prepared. You’re definitely going to throw up!”

At the desperate words, Yoshitsugu nodded without breaking his stoic expression, and Oto gave a bitter smile, showing her teeth as she joked. The contrasting gestures seemed somewhat amusing to Dorje, and he pulled up his cheeks as much as he could, returning a slightly distorted, awkward smile.

“‘...However, I never imagined that the Buddha’s teachings had spread to such distant lands.’”
“‘I hear they were transmitted three or four hundred years ago. The sacred statues, the sutras, and the masters must have all arrived after being swallowed by rough seas.’”
“‘And you two have come all the way across the ocean on a pilgrimage... I am even more humbled.’”
“‘...We have been visiting temples along the way, but our true purpose is different. We intend to head south to Lhasa, stay for a while to prepare, and then proceed west again. To aim for the summit of that mountain range.’”

Thick fingertips pointed to the southwest. A sharp mountain range clad in eternal snow pierced the deepening orange sky. Dorje’s eyes, widened in surprise, were glued to the highest peak, which stood out like a spire.

“‘No way...! Chomolungma!? That’s impossible!’”

In his agitation, an off-key voice leaked from Dorje’s mouth.
—No one had ever heard of a traveler aiming for Chomolungma. No matter how strong a man might be, it was too reckless. And to bring a young girl along, too—.

“Chomo...? What’s that?”
“‘That is what we call the highest peak of that mountain range... No, anyway! Why do something so reckless! Are you trying to throw your lives away?’”
“‘We have a reason to aim for that place—for what you call Chomolungma. I cannot tell you the details, but... we must reach it. We have crossed deserts and oceans with no end in sight. If it is a place that can be seen, there is no reason we cannot go there.’”
“‘That is no reason at all. Could you tell me more?’”
“‘That is...’ Idiot, don’t go silent there! Say something!”

Should they tell more of the truth, or should they not—.
The breeze carried a melody that brushed away the hesitation of the two, who were at a loss for how to answer.

“...A song...”
“Oh, it’s been quite a while.”

The elegant voices of several women mingled, weaving a melody.
Yoshitsugu first heard their song after passing through the Yangguan Pass. It was a melody Oto would occasionally hum during their journey—a song that did not sound like the music of this world, sung in an unknown language, different from the refined court music or the playful songs of children he had heard in the palace.
—I want to go west, the song is calling.
On the Japanese envoy ship dancing on the rough waves, Oto had pleaded with Yoshitsugu. The mysterious song, which was nothing more than a sequence of sounds to Yoshitsugu, was the only certain, faint guidepost Oto knew.

“It certainly sounds like it’s coming from the direction of the mountains... Is it really that place?”
“Yeah! Chomolungma... or whatever you called it, it’s the top of that!”

—It’s the highest place, no doubt about it!
Even when they heard the song in the desert of Yangguan, Oto had pointed to the highest peak of the mountain range towering in the distance, asserting it with a voice full of confidence.
Yoshitsugu had no idea where the guiding song, which Oto understood as if she could touch it, was coming from. Even so, Yoshitsugu believed in Oto’s words. He had to reach it together, even if he had to crawl, and confirm it.
—If the destination is the Pure Land where the Kalavinka dance, is the girl—is Oto waiting there?

“...What on earth are you two...?”

Dorje could not hide his confusion at the two, who suddenly began to act as if they were chasing a phantom. It seemed to him that the two talking in front of him had left their bodies behind, distancing their souls from him.

“...Can you not hear it?”
“...I see. I thought so. Yeah, that’s right.”

An undeniable sorrow seeped through Oto's words, which were delivered with a feigned, knowing air.
There had been many encounters in many lands. Merchants, camel drivers, pilgrims, Zen monks, the martial artists who recklessly continued to target Yoshitsugu, and even the hermits who called themselves immortals—the number of people they had traveled with was countless. Yet, they were all merely temporary companions, destined by fate to part ways no matter how deeply their hearts had connected.
Just as the two of them had followed the guidance of a song to walk westward and eventually set foot on the path to the peak of the heavens, every traveler has a place they must go. That is precisely why meetings and partings during a journey are inseparable. Oto understood this heartless rule with a child's heart.

“We are the only ones being called. It is a place only we can go.”

At the same time, Oto knew that they were not alone. Oto relied from the bottom of their heart on the robust giant who would knock down ruffians blocking their path with a single blow, and who would not even utter a complaint when scorched by hot sands or suffering from hunger. Oto was convinced that the giant's clumsiness—his tendency to act before speaking—and his simple-minded trust in an unknown stowaway would serve as twin wings to guide them. As long as this one companion for their unknown journey existed, it was enough.

“...Fine. I am used to traveling as a pair.”

Yoshitsugu softened his stern expression slightly, affirming Oto's baseless confidence. He then walked over to the yak grazing on grass and placed his foot in the stirrup. His back, like a wall turned toward Dorje, remained silent and said nothing.

“Hey, wait, we haven't finished—”
“There is still some time before sunset, and I want to move forward even a little.” “Hey, you're going home first, right? In that case, let's at least go together as far as Lhasa. This guy doesn't talk at all, so I've been bored.”

Oto lied to Dorje with a straight face, then dragged the large cloak that covered their body and followed after Yoshitsugu. Then, they skillfully climbed the pillar-like thick arm extended from the saddle and sat on Yoshitsugu's left shoulder as if it were their own.

“W-wait a minute! I'm coming now—”

Dorje dropped his gaze toward the corpse, closed his eyes, and pressed his hands together to bid a final farewell in his heart to his brother, who had changed beyond recognition. Memories of eighteen years spent being born together, living together, and swinging hammers together flashed through his mind.
—I cannot forgive you. I cannot forgive you for killing our master, who was my life's goal, and our father. But I cannot disregard the feelings of the people who held a memorial service for you. Even if you have fallen into the Three Evil Paths, I will pray that at least some salvation may be brought to you...
When he opened his eyes after finishing his prayer, a white feather, which had not been there a moment ago, lay beside the corpse like a funeral offering. Dorje's heart was drawn to the feather, which had appeared as if invited by the wind, its appearance so unlike the jet-black vultures that ruled the plateau sky.
However, the feather was far from beautiful. Its color was far from the pure white of fresh snow, and the mottled, grayish quill had several tears in it. Imagining that such a deep wound would make it impossible for the owner of the feather to even flap its wings, he even felt pity for it.

“Hey, we're leaving you behind!”

At that instant, as if responding to Oto's call, the single feather was caught in a gust of wind and flew away.
Urged on, Dorje mounted the horse and hurriedly followed the path of the receding feather with his eyes. The sight of the feather dancing in the red-stained southwestern sky was truly elegant, and it felt as if it could easily soar over the towering sacred peaks and eventually reach the distant heavens.

“The Kalavinka's Child and the Traveler” End