The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit

By Richard Bell

What does a Buddhist priest have to offer a complex, sophisticated culture steeped in political and commercial intrigue?

Shipwrecked and alone among people of an ancient tradition with deep understanding of spiritual and pragmatic ways, who speak numerous languages and are preeminent traders maintaining deep and powerful social and spiritual customs, a young priest is forced to come to grips with the deeper teachings of his own path.

This historical novel follows him as his assumptions of superiority fall away and he explores both the deeper aspects of Buddhism and the complex indigenous spiritual and cultural traditions he finds himself immersed in.

The Chinook people were among the most sophisticated and successful trading communities of the nations of not only the Pacific Northwest, but of the entire Continent. Their business and political machinations rivaled those of any empire or culture in history. Murder, love, intrigue and endless plots drive our protagonist's journey of personal and cultural discovery as he comes to grips with both his own and his new family's challenges, strengths and weaknesses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Bell
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301113033

Richard Bell

Richard Bell teaches Early American history at the University of Maryland. He has received several teaching prizes and major research fellowships including the National Endowment for the Humanities Public Scholar Award. His first book, We Shall Be No More: Suicide and Self-Government in the Newly United States, was published in 2012. He is also the author of Stolen: Five Free Boys Kidnapped into Slavery and Their Astonishing Odyssey Home.

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The Moss Garden Journal

Of Chan Wing Tsit

By Richard Bell

Copyright 2013 by Richard Bell

Mail to: [e-mail]

ISBN: 9781301113033

Smashwords edition 2013

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Historical Overview:

About 1750 a Chan Buddhist priest named Chan Wing Tsit was shipwrecked on the Pacific’s eastern shore just south of the Columbia River. It is assumed this narrative was written sometime about 1770-80. Its early provenance is uncertain, but in 1879 it was hidden away so securely that for almost a hundred years it lay forgotten.

On April 22, 1974, during historic renovations, the five cedar-boxes containing the manuscript were found in a bricked-over niche in the basement of the small home and clinic once owned by Dr. Avery Jessels, a physician practicing near The Dalles in the Oregon Territories. Each box contained a card inscribed Rowan Three Rocks, 13 July, 1869 and the physician’s carefully, rounded signature. The Three Rocks family was of the dominant Chinook community of the Lower Columbia. (Tsinuk is a historic and perhaps more phonetic rendering of Chinook). Despite extensive efforts, no living family has been verified, but they were of the Lower Columbia River Salish language/cultural group who’s villages extended west from (modern) Vancouver, Washington, to the river’s mouth and northward up the Pacific coast to Long Beach, Washington.

Rendered in tiny Chinese characters on fragile birch-bark sheets, the manuscript was stored in matching bentwood cedar boxes, exquisitely carved with Coastal Salish, Raven Clan symbols. Included with the manuscript were a ribbon-decorated cotton shirt, a well-used hunting knife and a medicine bag of talismans that included shards of Chinese porcelain typical of the early 1700's. Apparently after generations of safekeeping within Rowan Three Rocks’ family, the manuscript had been placed, inexplicably, in the hands of Dr. Jessels.

Through the early 1800’s, disease decimated the Pacific Northwest’s original communities, destroying traditional cultures. Euro-American settlers seized land and drove entire communities into homelessness. By 1850, starvation and sickness were endemic. Anti-Indian lynching, extortion and gratuitous violence were common and the widespread wanton destruction of native property likely provoked the extreme measures taken to hide the work.

Of historic interest within the narrative is the mention of an infant named Comcomly, the grandson of the Comcomly, (the Chinook Chief) of this account. Once grown, the child (as the Chinook Chief roughly 45years later) met with Lewis and Clark at the westernmost point of their 1803 expedition. The battle described between indigenous communities has been extensively documented, as has a tsunami (now placed in 1700), noted in a passing reference as striking some generations earlier than the events as told.

The contemporary language of this rendering echoes the reminiscence’s descriptive style. This narrative reminiscence was almost inevitably produced at a time when there was no one else, at the time or within the foreseeable future, able to read it. Its writing and preservation were acts of faith. Interestingly, though the narrative simply ends shortly after a historic event prior to 1860, some of the wood for the boxes is dated at least two decades later. The manuscript slipped from view and languished unrecognized until its eventual rediscovery in a University of Oregon basement in 2008. Translation consumed nearly three years, a task complicated by the substrate’s extreme frailty, the need for computer enhancement of the faded writing and the writer’s idiosyncratic conventions.

There has been conjecture that prior to recovery, a few of the unnumbered pieces of substrate may have been handled and then either replaced incorrectly or lost. The work is published now essentially as found, despite possible temporal idiosyncrasies. Indigenous place and cultural names have been employed where identifiable; other names are presented in commonly accepted forms. Dated by the author’s reference to his Chan Buddhist teacher, the Chan Wing Tsit’s story begins in the first half of the eighteenth century, some time before 1750, in Guangzhou (Canton), Guangdong province, China.

Richard Bell. 19, March 2013.

Chapter 1

Strangers raced up the beach screaming. I watched and considered my situation.

I wasn’t dreaming. There was nothing to be done, so I would be worthy of my tradition and sit, sick of heart but accepting the certainty of my life being over. My survival had been a fluke.

I smiled and made a gesture of welcome, for the strangers’ clubs would serve me. They would relieve me of my hopeless discomfort…for the results of cold and starvation would be just as certain and far more painful.

Stranded as I was on a narrow beach, escape was impossible. An honorable death was all I could hope for. I wouldn’t shy from what was before me, so sat sick and exhausted…longing for release.

Over the past year my closest family and friends had died and on my ill-fated journey here the captain and sailors conveying me had slipped beyond life’s trials. I alone had been doomed to survival. Nan-Hua no longer mattered; my career had been a dream. All I wished was to follow the others into stillness. The refuge of death looked benign.

My attackers were strong, thick-bodied men; of a different species from the bloated bureaucrats my father served, their bodies far stronger than monastery priests. My gaunt frame exposed weakness while their bodies pulsed with vigor. A filthy rag, moss and tree-bark barely covered my bruised skin while they wore warm, elegant clothes, capes and finely woven hats. Their tattoos and scars lent the look of guardian demons.

The first offered a leering grimace. I returned a stiff smile and a nod. He displayed his mace, but I shrugged. It was beautifully made, but I was too tired for pretense.

After raising his weapon to strike, he paused as his friends approached. Their screams echoed off the cliffs as his club swung. The mace made a smooth swift arc, but halted inexplicably a finger’s width from my skull. Wary and confused, I watched as he swung with flashing speed again and again. The razor-like edges nicked my shoulder and cut my ear so that blood flowed down my neck. I’d assumed his cooperation when I accepted death; it was the first mistake of many.

He crouched before me staring into my eyes and whispering with obvious frustration. The next two swings cut my chin and nicked my throat, but it was done so skillfully my head barely rocked.

In all truth I was far more shaken by his not killing me than my nearness to death. I was ready for my end. My spirit was light and empty. I ached for a single, clean strike that would relieve me of my burdens.

His friends proved strange ghoulish spectators. They seemed to have missed that I was far from aggressive. The one I labeled Angry Man leaned close to growl saliva spattering curses then stalked about as if drunk with blood lust, taunting and grinning with pleasure.

Studying me carefully, First Stranger again displayed his weapon. Our eyes connected as he drew back his arm. Perversely, instead of fear I felt only gratitude. Meeting his gaze, I gave a tight-lipped smile then an encouraging nod. He swung again, but it seemed that time itself slowed. His mace almost hung suspended; out of sync. I awaited oblivion as it whistled in its lethal sweep. But it simply grazed my scalp.

His eyes held mine a long empty moment. Then, still watching my face, he gave a disgusted headshake and turned to consult his friends.

Life is illusion. I mumbled to him in Chinese. I had no idea what had happened. Certain that I’d shown neither strength nor resolve, I was embarrassed. However it might seem; instead of bravery I was merely too weak and slow to flinch.

Strange as it seems, my life began then, with the strangers’ arrival.

Chapter 2

Growing up in Guangzhou as a later son of a mid-level lower-ranking bureaucrat, and grandson of a scholar I had an extensive education by tutors before entering the Nan Hua monastery. First and second sons might expect university education and careers, but I was destined for the monastery. Once ordained, I stayed to serve Master Lu as the bright young protégé of a venerable abbot.

Influenza swept Guangzhou twice that winter, taking both noble and plain as well as my father, mother and both elder brothers. It brought piled tasks before me faster than I could address them. As the monastery’s priest-managers died I inherited responsibilities beyond my experience. Writing reports and making suggestions, I moved from one office to another to simply maintain basic functions.

The civil bureaucracy my father served was famously efficient and organized, but the monastery was simply disparate elements stitched together with little plan or thought. Week after week I ended unfinished projects and simplified functions I barely understood,. I deciphered receipts, read old reports and sorted piles of notes trying to guess the plans and intentions of the original managers.

Having no other forms to follow I modeled my effort on my father’s work. I reassured teachers and calligraphers that their work would continue. I found money to pay past due kitchen bills, reviewed contracts and made lists of purveyors. Without any real over-view I set up procedures and forwarded recommendations to the abbot.

Unlike government agencies, no element in the monastery seemed to keep efficient records or file reports that explained what was ongoing, completed or planned. Simply maintaining essential functions like the kitchen presented outrageous problems. Projects ran-aground and stranded with no one knowing what their original aims had been. Loose ends dangled chaotically. I reviewed finances, studied correspondence and past decisions and passed-on what was left to likely candidates.

One day I was summoned to Master Lu. Concerned for my clerical career and spirits, he decided to send me for maturation to a sister monastery in Korea. I would pass on messages and serve as envoy at a minor conference. Most importantly I was to observe and befriend young scholars and priests, building alliances with the next generation’s abbots. Master Lu insisted that my true mission was to make contacts and be a bridge between temples in our rapidly changing world.

For a provincial like myself who had never set a foot outside the province, a journey to Korea seemed an incredible adventure. Traditionally, young priests beg for food and shelter as they wander between temples. But as an emissary from the Sixth Patriarch’s own temple, I would arrive with significant standing.

Since ordination and the influenza deaths, my life had been over-filled with responsibility. This trip would be a fortuitous beginning to a priestly career, but my daily life continued unchanged. In the months before I left I would continue to straighten disorder and create order out of chaos, feeling more of a bureaucratic char than priest.

Then the epidemic returned and with the next wave of Judge Yan’s hand my departure was postponed again through summer.

But time did pass. In the week before leaving I felt like a baby bird hopping out a branch, knowing I’d either fall to the ground or soar. On my final day at Nan Hua I waited with my bundle packed, my good-byes exchanged and messages tucked away, waiting at the gate for Master Lu’s blessing. I already felt a world away. With my head freshly shaved I wore my newly washed everyday robe with my formal robe folded in my bag. Standing by the temple gate I felt estranged. My heart had already disconnected from the long-familiar walls that enclosed my youth.

Master Lu approached me slowly. Taking me by the elbow, we walked a few steps in silence.

I expected advice or words of wisdom, but when he finally paused we merely stood looking in silence into each other’s eyes. His face was relaxed and his eyes were clear; I felt transparent as he gazed into my soul.

When at last, a silent encouraging smile flicked the corners of his mouth, I felt I’d understood and made a brief nod of recognition. He shut his eyes as in a moment of prayer then reopened them, shiny with un-shed tears and a smile. I wanted to believe that it showed me his love and pride. That wonderful minute stretched on. And when it inevitably passed his smile relaxed, returning the stolid expression I’d always known.

His eyes brushed closed again as he offered a benedictory bow. Giving my arm an encouraging squeeze he simply murmured Good journey.

Chapter 3

In my walk from Nan Hua to the river, the familiar streets became dirtier, people poorer and buildings more crowded and squalid. I mused on Master Lu’s silent lecture. Such connections are a classic element of our Chan tradition; deep communicated without concepts. It was just what it seemed like, a teacher seeing a student onto the endless roads ahead…and nothing of importance had left unsaid. I’d understood his heart and his deepest understanding of Chan and was warmed and inspired by his trust. If indeed I saw tears maybe they glistened for a son he never had.

Feeling aware of every sound and sight, I felt I learned something profound. Pausing to watch a clutch of children crossing a street, I realized I was smiling. Never had I felt so ready for the world.

I remember that walk to the river; the cloud-streaked skies stretching above the alleys and tenements, the kitchen gardens rich with smells of manure and compost. Open doorways and porches revealed women weaving and men doing daily chores. Children ran about as an old shopkeeper watched me pass before his open stall and his neighbor wooed a customer with a line of chatter.

As I paused at a corner, some young women offered polite bows before moving on, but one seemed to pause and after a nervous glance to her friends, looked back at me and pursed her lips as if to say something. I looked up and met her eyes.

Given the morning I’m sure my smile was warm; I certainly would have stopped if she had lingered a moment longer. But being a priest the situation was awkward and with a glance ahead to her friends she pinched her lips and turned away. If I wasn’t a priest would she have stopped and talked? If I had been a merchant’s boy, an apprentice or scholar…anything but a priest, would she have dared to linger and speak? Or did she merely have a problem that needed a priestly ear?

The girls disappeared into a doorway and I continued on. The world was colorful and vibrant, I wanted to soak up each nuance and take it with me. Cart ruts, splashed footprints, yellowed leaves and the dark turned-soil of winter gardens…each nuance seemed rich with special meaning. Every shadow had fine distinctions, every half-glimpsed fragment held meaning; curbside pavements, wooden steps…laundry hung to dry. For me each thing was laden with significance. How had I walked through it for so many years without seeing? Why was I only aware as I left?

Dark clouds massed overhead. On both sides of the street, doors and windows were opened to the heavy air, offering views of households, goods piled to ceilings and workers assembling brooms. An unseen rooster gave a half-hearted crow; a baby’s cry overlay chanted nursery rhymes. Chickens clucked as they picked at insects in the remains of summer gardens. Women sipped tea and gossiped, but instead of words, I only caught their pleasure at being together. An unseen argument flared in a shadowed alley. Young girls by a window sang a popular song, their voices contrasting against the commotion, sawing and shouts from building site next door. The world unfurled about me, alive and droning with reassuring normality and humbling me with its richness. The scene deserved a poem of poignant simplicity, I had the inspiration, but lacked time and paper and ink. The moment, merely an incredible, everyday blessing, was destined to pass un-memorialized.

Built at what was once the city’s outskirts, the Nan-Hua monastery was now well within its urban bustle. It would be a long difficult walk through the city’s crowded neighborhoods to reach the harbor; and an impossible job to find a specific ship amid the ever-shifting mazes of piers and quays.

It was arranged that I would travel by boat…thus avoiding the streets. The idea had appeal; as a boy I’d accompanied my father along the route, watching the Pearl River’s eroding banks give way to swarming piers whose pilings sprouted as thick as hair along the harbor’s busy wharves.

I was an insecure and doubtful first-time traveler despite repeated assurances that the details had been arranged through my landing in Korea. Knowing my inexperience I was awed by the incredible faith being placed on me. I was an untested young priest. My incompetence shamed me. Still in my childhood neighborhood, before even reaching the river I had been humbled by how much of the world I’d never seen.

By the time the river was in sight I was almost in tears. Every nuance sparked insights and staggered me. Far from important, I was a trifling speck in a teeming, over-filled world. My senses had opened wide as I inhaled the world’s essence and awakened to who I was.

The boatman was waiting at the rickety pier just as I was told he would be.

Tottering toward him just before me, an elderly couple clasped each other with obvious pleasure. And though it appeared a common trip for them, they chattered as if they were on a true adventure.

I, in contrast, feigned experience I didn’t have. I pretended it was commonplace even while I was almost breathless at the novelty. The old woman dipped her head in respect for my robe and I touched my palms in a blessing as the boatman settled her with infinite patience and then assisted her partner with their bags.

So far, everything was unfolding as planned. But strangely, after helping the elderly couple so gently and despite my respectful bow, the boatman simply snatched my bundle and pushed me to my seat. Suddenly he was in a rush.

Surprised by the change, I fumbled insecurely; Do you know the Guangzhou wharfs…Auntie Chen at the Eternal Blossom…she knows which ship…

Nodding impatiently he slipped my fare into his purse and taking up his oar he mumbled, Don’t worry. I know where you go.

Timidly and blushing with embarrassment I took my seat at the boat’s pointed prow. Behind me the boatman’s oar rasped rhythmically between its dowels. Auntie Chen’s…of course. I discussed it with your Abbot…

I turned in surprise for the comment was uttered so casually an equal could have made it. Master Lu had described the boatman as a friend. What connection could there be between a venerable abbot and a riverside boatman? Childhood acquaintance? Distant relative? Ignorant and inexperienced, I was unsettled by the way he shrugged-off of the distinctions that defined my self-importance.

We skimmed easily across the brown water. Our little boat was not the smallest of those plying the river, but with our boatman’s skill with his stern-oar we seemed among the nimblest as we flitted through the churning mélange of boats and cumbersome rafts.

Working skiffs and passenger boats coursed the surface like water bugs. It was a floating village, a mobile market where both shops and customers bobbed and rearranged. Barges burdened with barrels or timbers wallowed slowly beside long low flat-bottomed scows carrying produce. Small boats careened about us or idled much as people would in a market. The succulent aromas from boats equipped with braziers, steaming pots and trays of food advertised food of every description. Some boats were stocked with dry goods; others displayed fish or household goods. Every sort of service and craft was offered. Furniture and medicine, eels and catfish, spices or fabric; anything one wanted seemed available.

The smells of fish, peppers, ginger, spices, cabbage and farm animals transported me. On one side of us, bundles of scaffold poles extended from a low-slung scow that maneuvered beside a barge stacked with sweet smelling rope. On the other, towering over a tiny red boat, bales of thatching-reeds rose to an impossible height and trailed the scent of freshly cut grass.

A minute later we were enveloped in a cloud of savory smells wafting from a long low-roofed boat set with braziers. Sizzling skewers of pork and fish were tended by a woman who called out her menu while folding rice into banana leaves and serving customers as they swung alongside. The aromas moistened my mouth and tightened my stomach, but there was no chance that we would stop.

Smelling sweat and something strongly fermented I identified a boat working upriver in the calmer water, carrying coolies. The men chattered cheerfully, washing and joking as they traveled, pleased to be heading home after their long night’s work.

Cutting across our path, a boat carried an official perched on a high, unstable-looking chair. Elevated above our low-life clutter, his status didn’t seem to bring him comfort. He looked distressed and unhappy under his lacquered hat and silk robes. His boatmen, in their clean blue shifts, pushed through with aggressive self-importance, exploiting every opportunity to hurry their charge along.

Every moment and experience seemed richer than normal. The fetid odor of stagnant water and riverside refuse competed with the urban smells of night soil, evoking complex associations. The sweet, marshy reek of rotting vegetation gave way to the hovering foulness of crowded hovels. On higher banks stood estates with high masonry walls and stately residences swarming with uniformed staff who tended pristine gardens and delivered tea to moon-watching towers.

Suddenly widening and growing choppy, the river abruptly turned from brown to gray as it took a sharp turn east. Our craft veered away from the thousand-island maze and labyrinthine sloughs long famous for harboring pirates. A martial-looking wharf with four military boats and uniformed guards made a significant presence on the southern shore. Across the widening river, the northern bank was a maze of industrial wharfs and shipyards. Those suddenly gave way to the piers of the commercial harbor.

Much of China’s trade moved through Guangtzu and its foreign cantons. Hundreds of ships served by thousands of working boats could be counted on any day. Beyond the harbor and another sharp bend the river swung south again, broadening as it emptied into an enormous bay and the endless sea. Both river currents and ocean