Prevod

Long ago, there was a monk in the province of Shinano. Having become a monk in that remote countryside, he had not yet received the precepts, and he thought, “Somehow I must go up to the capital and receive them at the place called Tōdaiji.” By one means and another he made his way there and was ordained. Afterward he thought of returning to his own province, but then it occurred to him, “What would be the use? I will not go back to a place like that, where it is as though the Buddha’s teaching had never reached. I will remain here.” Attending upon the Buddha at Tōdaiji, he looked about in every direction, wondering where he might find a quiet place to live and practice his devotions. Far off to the southwest he could just make out a mountain. Thinking that he would live and practice there, he went away into its depths and devoted himself to austerities beyond description. In time, through his devotions, a small image in a shrine wondrously appeared. It was Bishamon. He built a little hall there and enshrined the image, and years passed as he continued his fervent practice. Now, at the foot of this mountain lived a very wealthy commoner. The holy man’s begging bowl would regularly fly to his house, and it always returned with food inside. One day, while the man had his great log storehouse open and was taking things out, the bowl flew up to beg as usual. “Here is that bowl again! What a terribly greedy bowl it is!” he said, and, picking it up, tossed it into a corner of the storehouse without putting anything in it. The bowl waited. When the man had finished putting his goods in order, he forgot about it altogether, neither filling it nor taking it outside, and locked the storehouse door and went home. A little while later, the storehouse began, for no apparent reason, to rock and sway. “What is happening? What is happening?” people cried, gathering in alarm. It rocked and rocked until it rose about a foot clear of the ground. “What can this be?” they exclaimed in bewilderment. “Of course, of course! We forgot that bowl and left it inside. Could this be its doing?” Even as they spoke, the bowl slipped out beneath the storehouse, which settled upon it, and rose straight into the air to a height of ten or twenty feet. Then it began to fly away. Everyone stared, shouting and marveling in astonishment. The owner, quite at a loss what to do, decided that he would at least see where his storehouse went, and set off after it. All the people of the neighborhood ran along as well. They watched it fly steadily onward into the mountains of Kawachi Province, where the holy man practiced his devotions, until it came down with a thud beside his dwelling. This astonished them more than ever. But the owner could not simply leave matters as they were, so he approached the holy man and said, “Something most extraordinary has happened. Whenever this bowl comes to us, we put food in it and send it back. But today, while I was busy with one thing and another, I set it inside the storehouse and forgot to bring it out again before locking the door. Then the storehouse began to shake and shake, and flew all the way here and came down on this spot. Might you give it back to me?” “It is indeed a strange thing,” the holy man replied, “but since the storehouse has flown here, I cannot let you take it back. We have nothing of the kind here, and it will be useful for storing whatever we may happen to have. But you may take everything inside it, just as it is.” “How am I to carry it all away at once?” said the owner. “There are a thousand koku of rice stored in it.” “That is quite easy. I shall see that it is all carried back to you safely.” He put one bale of rice into the bowl and sent it flying off. The remaining bales followed in its wake, one after another like a line of wild geese. Seeing them fly off together like a flock of sparrows, the owner was filled with still greater wonder and reverence. “Please, do not send it all away just yet,” he said. “Keep two or three hundred koku for your own use.” “That would never do,” said the holy man. “What use would I have for it if I kept it here?” “Then send it all back, and I will offer you ten or twenty koku.” “Only if I had need of so much,” the holy man replied. And every bale came safely to rest at the owner’s house. While the holy man was passing his days in such wondrous and devout practice, the Emperor of the Engi era fell gravely ill. Prayers of every kind were offered, sacred rites performed, and sutras recited, but nothing brought him any relief. Then someone said, “At a place called Shigi in Kawachi there is a holy man who has spent many years in religious practice without ever coming down to the villages. He is said to be wonderfully holy and possessed of miraculous powers: he sends his bowl flying through the air and performs all manner of marvels without leaving his dwelling. If you summon him and have him pray for Your Majesty, surely you will recover.” The emperor agreed, and sent a chamberlain to summon him. When the messenger arrived, he found the holy man’s appearance exceptionally venerable and impressive. He explained the imperial command and urged him to come at once. “Why am I being summoned?” asked the holy man, showing no sign whatever of stirring. “His Majesty is gravely ill,” the chamberlain explained. “You are asked to offer prayers for him.” “For that, I need not go. I can pray for him here.” “But if His Majesty should recover, how will we know that it was through your power?” “There is no need for him to know whose power brought it about. If only His Majesty feels better, that will be enough.” “Even so,” said the chamberlain, “among all the prayers being offered, it would surely be well to have some sign that the cure was yours.” “Then, when I pray for him, I will send the Sword Guardian to attend him. If His Majesty should see it in a dream or a vision, let him know that this is the sign. It is a guardian spirit clad in a robe woven of swords. As for me, I cannot possibly go to the capital.” The imperial messenger returned and reported all this. Around midday on the third day, when the emperor had scarcely even begun to doze, he saw something glittering brightly before him. Wondering what it might be, he looked, and the moment he thought, “This must be the Sword Guardian of which that holy man spoke,” he felt entirely refreshed. All distress left him, and he returned to his usual health. Everyone rejoiced, praising the holy man and marveling at his sanctity. The emperor, too, held him in boundless reverence, and sent a messenger to ask whether he wished to be made a bishop or an archbishop, or whether estates might be granted to his temple. On hearing this, the holy man replied, “A bishop or an archbishop is something I could never be. And if estates were granted to a place like this, stewards and all manner of other people would come along, bringing nothing but trouble and occasions for wrongdoing. I wish only to remain as I am.” And there the matter ended. Now, this holy man had an elder sister. Ever since he had gone away to receive the precepts, she had seen nothing of him. “What can have become of him, that he has been gone all these years?” she wondered. “I am so anxious that I shall go and look for him.” She traveled up to the capital and went about Tōdaiji and Yamashinadera, asking whether anyone knew a man called Master Myōren. But everyone said they did not; she could find no one who knew him. Worn out by her search, she thought, “What am I to do? I cannot go home until I have learned where he is.” That night she remained before the Great Buddha at Tōdaiji, praying over and over, “Please show me where Myōren is.” At last she dozed, and in a dream the Buddha spoke to her: “The monk you seek is on a mountain southwest of here. Go and look for him where the clouds trail across that mountain.” She awoke to find that dawn was near. “Oh, let daylight come quickly!” she thought, sitting there and watching. When the first faint light appeared, she looked toward the southwest. In the distance she could just make out a mountain, with purple clouds trailing across it. Overjoyed, she set off in that direction. Sure enough, she came to a place where she could see a hall and signs of someone living there. Approaching, she called, “Is Master Myōren here?” “Who is it?” he said, and came out to find his own elder sister from Shinano. “How ever did you find your way here? I never expected this!” She told him all that had happened. “How cold you must have been here,” she said. “I brought something for you to wear.” She took out a garment called a fukutai, made with unusually thick thread, closely and firmly worked into a warm, substantial fabric. Delighted, he accepted it and put it on. Until then he had worn only a single paper robe and had suffered greatly from the cold; now, with this beneath it, he was warm and comfortable. He continued his devotions for many years. His sister, who was a nun, did not return to her own province either, but remained there practicing her devotions. For all those years he wore that same fukutai as he pursued his religious practice, until in the end it was worn to tatters. The storehouse that had come riding on the bowl was called the Flying Storehouse, and the remnants of the fukutai were kept in it and are said to remain there still. Anyone who happened, through some fortunate connection, to obtain even the tiniest scrap of the garment would keep it as a protective charm. The storehouse itself, though decayed and dilapidated, is also said to remain to this day. Those who obtained even a tiny sliver of its wood kept it as a charm, and those who had an image of Bishamon carved from it and kept it by them invariably prospered. Thus, when people heard of it, they sought out anyone with a connection to the place and bought splinters of wood from the storehouse. The place is called Shigi, and such is its wondrous spiritual power that people come to worship there morning and evening to this day. It is said that this Bishamon was brought forth through the devotions of the holy man Myōren.