The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit

  Chapter 13

  It was an accepted fact that the most significant trader among the Tsinuks was Nowamooks’ uncle Tewaugh. He had lodges both in Nahcotta and at Yakaitl-Wimakl on the Great River. His Nahcotta lodge, two down from Comcomly’s was comfortably substantial if not huge. Whale and eagle patterns were repainted on its face twice a year. As trader he controlled boats coursing both the coast far north and up and down the lower River.

  He sat beside Comcomly on formal occasions, but he had an unsavory reputation. There were rumors of goods switched after purchase, miscounting and outright theft as well as violence. But Nowamooks’ devotion to him was obvious. As her mother’s brother, he doted on her and her brothers. I felt grateful that he’d accepted me. Despite the gossip in my eyes he was worthy of respect.

  Among Tsinuks, the relationship of a maternal uncle combined the roles of both father and grandparents in China. He was responsible for guiding, teaching and smoothing the way into adulthood. Children’s clan was passed on through their mothers and clan was more important than paternal family.

  Though acting as if didn’t Nowamooks must have known of the gossip. But one afternoon, something changed. Emerging from a meeting with her mother she took me aside and whispered, “Tewaugh. Never cross him, Chaningsit.”

  I searched her face for an explanation.

  “Please,” she urged, “it’s important.”

  “Why would I cross him? How? I’m not a trader. Did I do something?”

  “There was gossip…” she waved vaguely.

  I had certainly heard rumors connecting him to murder and double-dealing, but he’d been charming and kind to me. He’d offered me advice and constantly indulged Nowamooks. I wasn’t involved in anything he cared about.

  I smiled, but the bleakness of her gaze held me fast. “There are reasons, Chaningsit. I’m serious…he’s powerful.”

  “So are your father and brother.”

  “They’re not like him.” She shook her head and then quietly murmured, “Chaningsit. He’s different…he does bad things. You’d be a bug beneath his heel.” She paused, her face expressionless.

  “But I’m nothing to him. I have no influence…know nothing. Why would he hurt me?”

  She shook her head slowly and sadly. “He might not notice you were there.”

  “Have I done something?” Suddenly I was alarmed.

  She shrugged, “Something serious is happening. My mother said your name was mentioned. Maybe it’s nothing, but things sometimes often turn on very small matters. If he thought…”

  She licked her lips and glanced around before leaning close to whisper, “It’s his totem…it’s beyond his control. He appears human, but he’s really a sick bear who’s lost his soul. He’s here in Nahcotta hiding from enemies because an upriver trader’s boats and crew disappeared… it’s whispered it was his doing.” Nowamooks offered me an uncertain smile. “They’ve vowed revenge, but live far upriver and lack proof. Being nervous makes him crazy.”

  I bobbed my head as if I understood, but was confused. Then I turned to look out over the bay. I felt I was doomed to ignorance. Facts swirled like cabbage in a soup. But I could make no sense of them.

  Once on an outing picking blackberries Nowamooks told me some news. “It’s said Tewaugh traded a canoe and clamming rights to the Multnomahs…from the “curve of the bears” to “the three boulders” for ten boxes of salmon. He took away the salmon in the boat they say he’d offered, leaving them with an old leaky one…and the rights he traded belonged to someone else. The Multnomahs are furious, but who can they appeal to?”

  “Someone else claimed Tewaugh’s Eagle Society arranged the marriage between a chief’s son and the daughter of Tewaugh’s second cousin. The groom’s family gave away all they owned in preparation, indebting themselves…then it was claimed there’d never been an offer of marriage.”

  The first story might be serious. But since the Multnomahs were his bitter rivals the idea of him trading was doubtful. I’d already heard the second one. Since Tewaugh wouldn’t profit it didn’t ring true. Komkomis thought the idea of Tewaugh playing matchmaker was ridiculous. Even if someone used his name he probably hadn’t endorsed it. The real question was why Nowamooks would tell me the stories.

  A silence descended and we focused upon stripping berries as we moved from patch to patch. Doing it efficiently was difficult. As usual, though trying as hard as I might, I got more scratches and less fruit than anyone else.

  “Did you know that Tsinuk isn’t our real name?” Nowamooks asked conversationally, casually dropping a handful of berries into my basket.

  “It never entered my mind.” Actually, of course I’d heard the ceremonial name used formally, but I’d never had cause to use it myself. I kept picking as if I’d not noticed her added handful. What were names? I myself had a family name, different personal names and a Buddhist name, yet here they called me Chaningsit. I was a son, a grandson, brother, and cousin while still being Chan, Mahayana and of the Sudden School. I was citizen of Guangtzu, Guangzhou and China and now Nahcotta. What did it matter?

  “It’s true. Before my great-great-grandmother’s day we called ourselves the real people.”

  I nodded politely. It was probably normal.

  “It’s bad for business to be special. And everybody considers themselves ‘the people’…like they are the only ones here.” She chuckled. “My grandmother said the Chehalis called us Tsinuk…then traders did. We just got used to it.”

  “Trade is more important than what name folks use. Traders call us Tsinuk and our trading language is called ‘Tsinuk,’ but that’s not what we speak among ourselves. Some traders don’t even know it’s used with strangers. But who would tell them different? Embarrassing customers doesn’t profit, so no one complains.”

  I bobbed my head, wondering if she was leading into a joke. I knew some traders shared a close version of our language. The Cowlitz and Chehalis and Quinault languages were similar. The Muckleshoot and Nisqually pronounced things different than the Willapa and Kwalhioquas.

  Nowamooks chuckled. “We’ve intermarried so much, sometimes there’s not much difference. My cousin married into the Willapa and her kids think they’re Tsinuk!”

  I smiled indulgently, not terribly impressed. Languages spread and changed. Guangzhou alone had numerous dialects and argots; river people and farmers spoke different variations, coolies different from craftsmen and intellectuals. In markets you heard Cantonese, but bureaucrats spoke Mandarin. Our family used that at home and for private conversation.

  Every sector had it’s own dialects and idioms. Languages both divided and connected. If you wanted differences, you’d find one.

  Even if nobody else did, I half thought myself Tsinuk and visiting traders usually assumed I was. I feared Nowamooks’ comment implied that in her eyes I’d never be. My heart ached, but I turned her way and smiled. How human; I wanted acceptance and to be unique. It was ok for others to think me different, but not Nowamooks.

  “Why don’t you talk more, Chaningsit?” She dropped another handful of berries in my basket. “You speak OK when you want to.”

  I pursed my lips considering how to respond. Why didn’t I? I knew the words, but feared mistakes. I dropped a small handful of berries in her basket and offered a grin before stepping away to ponder.

  Maybe I should talk more. After my disgrace, I feared looking foolish, but perhaps it was merely human. If I made a fool of myself talking with traders they would be gone a few days later. Even if I didn’t understand Tsinuk jokes perhaps I could learn to tell one. I’d memorized the ten thousand brush strokes; certainly I could learn a story.

  I had changed since washing ashore. Even if I wasn’t fully accepted, Nahcotta was my home. I was less Chinese each I woke here. I was as comfortable in my woven tunic and rush cape as I’d once felt in my robes. I told myself that striding my Path was what was important, not social acceptance. Once I started thinking in Tsinuk, hearing it felt n
atural.

  I spoke formal Tsinuk better than most locals, knew Tsinuk lore and culture to some depth. Among noble friends, my greatest defect was my rounded forehead setting me among commoners, slaves and distant traders.

  Once, watching a clutch of noble girls with flattened foreheads giggling down a hillside trail Nowamooks murmured that. “It made them beautiful.”

  I nodded at the time, not sure that I agreed, but I was beginning to understand what she meant. The freedom of wealth and status… being of a special group was a kind of beauty. I questioned my own desire to feel special.

  With the coming of fall the wind turned icy and the rains returned. And with winter, the community’s essential culture changed. In the evenings, people gathered by clan instead of family. People’s names and even the names of common objects were different. Winter was a mystic time of dances and long sagas of totem history, a time of ritual, connections and deep reflection. I felt in tune with its spiritual tone and was thankful I was here.

  But to my dismay, with the season whole swaths of language changed. Now speech was embroidered with nuances of status and clan. I seemed unable to keep the details straight. It wasn’t just language, for contradictions abounded. Some things were restricted for the use of certain people, while identical ones weren’t. Some subjects could only be mentioned with circumspection, some places were taboo for no apparent reason.

  I couldn’t make sense of things as a variation of something Chinese. There were too many differences. Thinking in Tsinuk opened the door to accepting things as uniquely Tsinuk. Translation was impossible. But once I gave up trying, I began to understand.

  Nowamooks spent hours explaining nuances, mostly the arbitrary whims of totems central to Tsinuk life. But the more I learned the more ignorant I realized I was. Again I was awash with details. Nowamooks allowed no rest, arguing I wasted time in meditation.

  Knowing Tsinuk made connections. Nowamooks felt that my totems taught me Tsinuk so I might be counseled. I thanked her politely for the insight.

  I felt I was finally seeing the world as others did. When someone said “fish” they meant a Tsinuk one. I had totem stories as connotations and my comprehension felt sharp. My ear, if not my tongue, had grasped the language and I was making headway with Nootka, Sahaptin, Penutian, Kiksht, and Kwalhioquathe. Comcomly liked me behind him when he spoke. His personal fire was kept small, limited to an important few. About larger ones, storytelling and singing were common; often speeches and debates.

  Comcomly’s fire was the most interesting, his influential guests had fascinating insights and I was entertained by revelations and intrigue. I enjoyed being as invisible as the walls.

  Few traders visited in winter, but messengers between the influential flowed constantly. There was worrisome gossip about Tewaugh. The tension on the Great River was twisting itself into knots. When councils became fevered Tewaugh, Comcomly and Kilakota whispered in private tête-à-têtes.

  The topics were often so sensitive I felt inhibited about asking questions. But on the River something unseen writhed with deathly seriousness. In a sudden upsurge of activity, messengers would suddenly appear at dusk, share a single discussion and disappear at dawn. Though I was present for many discussions when the air vibrated with dread, the vital bits were often couched in metaphor too arcane to pierce.

  Being the eldest, Nowamooks brother Yakala would inherit their father’s wealth and if the community accepted him his role as chief. That seemed assured. He already taken on clan responsibilities and had an air of leadership. I assumed he didn’t like me for he’d never once offered a casual greeting.

  Yakala couldn’t evade his social duties, dutifully marrying sisters in early spring; two daughters of a neighboring chief. The bellies of both were already rounding. He was a serious, somber soul.

  Yakala was responsible, but both Komkomis and Nowamooks distressed their parents. Perhaps it’s inevitable that younger children, without the burdens of the eldest, would drive parents crazy purposefully resisting direction. With twisted foot and reputation for being headstrong, Nowamooks was additionally plagued by not having had a child yet. Rumors of infertility explained the eligible young nobles’ disinterest despite her family’s wealth.

  Of Kilakota’s three children Komkomis was the most cheerful. He simply didn’t bother being serious. He was popular because he was helpful. I felt I understood how he lived his life; diligence with details and acceptance of his niche. But he didn’t take things seriously.

  Kilakota was frustrated that he seemed content to remain unmarried. Nowamooks confided that he discouraged his mother’s choices just to foil her matchmaking. He told me that with Yakala doing the family’s trade he had no way to assemble a bride price. Both were easily true.

  Uncle Tanaka claimed Kilakota was more powerful than either Comcomly or Tewaugh. While they traded goods, she exchanged information. She was immensely wealthy in her own right. The three together controlled most everything of significance between our two Tsinuk villages.

  Kilakota played hostess to the constant flow of traders and kept her finger on the pulse of swirling intrigues. She monitored the region’s unfoldings with passion and though she claimed trade didn’t interest her, I knew better; she followed business as closely as she did disputes.

  Always a helpful friend to our visitors, she gave assistance with disarming ease, advising on who might be trusted and passing messages through her networks of friends. She and Comcomly headed the local hierarchy with influence far beyond family.

  I feared that she might disapprove of my connecting with Nowamooks, but she remained warm and apparently consoled to our situation. In our afternoon chats she would ask about whatever I’d been listening to and occasionally offered motherly advice. It was obvious I wasn’t an appropriate son-in-law, but her concern was for Nowamooks.

  Her distress at the brewing trouble seemed out of character; then I realized its seriousness.

  Soon after I met him Uncle Tanaka told me Nowamooks’ name meant “sea otter,” I thought it pretty and evocative. I told her I thought the name fit her. She responded by hitting me quite hard then offering a kick that didn’t land, but she didn’t hide her smile.

  One blustery day with streaks of scuttling clouds Nowamooks and I bantered pleasantly while wading the wetlands to gather wappato. I was half-distracted as we dug, only half attentive when something caught my attention. I had been torn between work and the distraction of Nowamooks breasts when I heard Kilakota’s name.

  “…she’s silent chief of many lodges.” Nowamooks smirked. Though suddenly interested, I couldn’t ask her to repeat it without admitting my inattention.

  “…thinks men’s councils ‘care more for words than action,’…and seldom make real changes. If she doesn’t change what created the problems she doesn’t feel she’s earned her fee. Instead of looking important, she does things that matter.”

  I nodded. Few doubted Kilakota’s shrewdness. Her insight, prestige and personal wealth were legendary. No one questioned her influence. With friends nearly everywhere she heard and understood everything.

  Helping people was part of it. But she monitored conflicts and politics more deeply than Comcomly, closeting herself with in her corner alcove and talking to messengers far into the night. Despite storms that kept traders in their lodges, her runners and envoys were in constant motion.

  The lodge was full and crowded. Despite the close quarters she was secretive and discrete. No one in our lodge would dare betray her.

  In the winter season without the distractions of trade Kilakota and Nowamooks interpreted dreams. They tussled with difficult totems and addressed a flood of everyday issues for people wanted reassurances about life. But they kept abreast of ongoing intrigues and spent whole days dissecting political problems. Certainly, as in common Chinese homes, in humbler lodges people deal with everyday issues, but Comcomly’s lodge was like a court complex; where politics and maneuvering were a given.

  When I a
sked Nowamooks about offering such advice, she answered cryptically, “The future is always uncertain. People ask advice.”

  She and her mother certainly followed the Great River’s rumors. It was said they knew more of the tensions in distant lodges than those living there. Kilakota’s information was legendary. “Her mice pass on everything,” Nowamooks assured me. “Even Tewaugh seeks her advice.”

  Like a Chinese dowager queen, I thought. “Your mother’s mice?”

  Nowamooks gave a crafty smile. “Small mice hear things that no one could possibly hear and then almost magically, it’s whispered in her ear. Not only trade and politics, successful marriages can hinge knowing vulnerabilities. Supplying information effecting romance and business earns profitable obligations. She’s wealthy, an unmet obligation is worth more than payment.”

  I smiled, “She trades information?”

  Nowamooks shrugged defensively, “It’s not quite business…friends and family seldom pay more than a token and when people are confused or weak she takes nothing. Most problems aren’t momentous; usually jealousy, hurt feelings and bad decisions. People like to know other’s secrets…and when things of importance hang in the balance information’s worth a lot.”

  She gave a knowing nod and leaned forward. “If you had northern blankets to trade you’d want to know if someone had piles already waiting to be sold. You’d want to know if anyone wanted them. The knowledge is worth something.”

  “But of course, real secrets are really profitable. Even you Chaningsit…you’re not a trader or noble, but I’ve been offered a lot to tell your secrets. People assume you’re hiding here. You might have enemies who would pay dearly to find you. Maybe you know dark secrets. No one is really sure, so the price gets driven higher.”

  Nowamooks gave a crafty smirk. “In all the known world you are the only one who has secrets no one can guess. Kilakota and I say nothing so it’s assumed it’s very important.”

  “Anyway, I don’t know any of your secrets. Don’t you want to know other’s?”

  Of course I wanted to know some things. But gossiping about family was embarrassing and I couldn’t imagine buying gossip. I stared down at my hands uneasily. She usually warned me against knowing hidden things.

  She gave me a playful poke. Her family had more secrets than I would ever fathom. Seeing her subtle shift of balance I anticipated her next jab and caught the threatening finger with an open-eyed smile offering a playful threat to twist it.

  She offered a false whimper and sad-eyed look I rewarded by letting go. I was a lucky and happy man; she shows she cares, even teasing.

  My position was ripe with contradictions. Though only nominally Tsinuk I had far more intimate access to the important discussions than others. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I was or wasn’t Tsinuk.

  The troubles on the river, reports of cargo hijacked, boats stolen. Exaggeration and distractions were expected of course. I had few insights. Given their experience and knowledge, it was hard to know what the Tewaugh or Kilakota expected. It made little sense that they would value my views.

  Nowamooks steered clear of gossip about her mother and uncle, it made me uneasy as well. She usually harped on the dangers of knowing such things, now she wanted to discuss them.

  “Kilakota looks beneath to what isn’t mentioned.”

  “Mice passing-on secrets?”

  “She has them everywhere. Tidbits are passed on to settle debts, or gain favor. Things are said around servants and women that maybe shouldn’t be. Women of great influence come to her. Women who want to solve things quietly instead of bringing them to council. They can pay generously, but they are also powerful. My mother trades favors.”

  Wrinkling her nose she smirked, “She has so many mice, no one can keep secrets.” She laughed, “She’s joked that she’d rather hear lies than truth because they are far more interesting…and profitable. Hearing a lie she looks for the truth and the reason why it was told. That information is valuable.

  I nodded. It was a far blunter a revelation than most would dare give. But I wasn’t sure why she told me.

  “People seldom need great truths. People want to know which puddles to step around. No one wants to do business with or marry into a family going bankrupt or with serious problems…not without a secret to hold over them. Whether negotiating dowries or trade, knowing secrets is civilized.”

  “Information is valuable. My mother’s as wealthy as my uncle, but doesn’t show it. She doesn’t need the business…she likes it.”

  It made sense, but as Nowamooks was her mother’s daughter; there must be reasons for her discussing it. “What does she think of me?”

  She offered an indulgent smile and disinterested shrug. “You? Well…you’re unique…she thinks you might be valuable someday…maybe.”

  It seemed a matter-of-fact admission. With the implication of no value, it wasn’t a complement. But was generally positive. I watched a shy smile flicker her lips.

  After a thoughtful moment she added, “She thinks you’re good for me.”

  I smiled at the sweetness of the thought, but returned to her earlier comment. “Maybe valuable?”

  “Chaningsit, You are unusual…a noble from afar with powerful totems? Nobody knows where you’re from. Even Komkomis and I know nothing. There has to be some way to profit from it, ‘eh? You are a good man, but strange. Actually, I don’t think she knows what to do with you.”

  “Do with me?”

  She smiled coyly. “You’ve been given the role of a distant noble…you have status. Comcomly has you sit behind him so others wonder what subtle magic you provide. What would Kilakota do with you? What do you think? You’d be worthless as a slave. But no one questions your story…you’re the foreign noble shaman”

  I shrugged. I hoped she was teasing. I thought my reports on what I heard in councils had value. But Nowamooks didn’t mention them. Maybe Kilakota didn’t think much of it.

  “I try to be helpful. But hate being used.” It sounded like pouting.

  She leaned back and quietly studied my face. “Everything is used Chaningsit…otherwise it’s useless. Everyone uses and changes everyone else, just as everything is eaten eventually. Isn’t that simply a truth?

  Of course it was. I nodded and felt myself blush. It hardly mattered what I thought. I owed her family my life and was happy to be with her. My eyes strayed from her face to her belly and breasts. I felt myself responding.

  “Aren’t there things you want, Chaningsit?” she whispered coyly.

  “I’m human.” I admitted, blushing, not wanting to admit my leering.

  “Yes…a male human,” she observed innocently as she drew a finger down my stomach. Her mouth was a lipless line; her thighs parted a bit, her belly rose appealingly. She seemed to glow.

  I fumbled to answer, but found it impossible to meet her eyes.

  She whooped… “You’re embarrassed. Oh you are… Yes…yes.” She scrunched her nose and grinned. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.” She reached to stroke my stomach and slid her had further.

  To change the subject I asked, “What does she think of your brothers?”

  “Kilakota?” She shrugged off the question as impertinent and grasped me firmly. “How would anyone know what she thinks? She says Yakala doesn’t spend enough time with his totems and that Uncle Tewaugh leads him astray.”

  I was getting distracted and tried to maintain focus. “And Komkomis?” As Comcomly’s second son, he was more than just another village man. Still, little of Comcomly’s prestige and none of the wealth or rank would follow him.

  Not stopping her touching, she continued. “She thinks Komkomis is a good son. But he’s not Yakala.”

  My mind was going to mush. So I abandoned all thoughts and gave myself over to her hands and my own desire.

  Since first learning enough Tsinuk to discuss things I’d tried explaining Buddhism, but no one wanted to hear it. Despite their preoccupation with totems, there is
incredibly little interest in spiritual views beyond their own. Occasionally Nowamooks indulged me by listening, but she did so with the wide-eyed amusement one brings to fairytales. Uncle Tanaka listened more politely, but never asked questions. No one had interest in my foreign ways. I’d noticed long before that dukkha, the Buddhist idea of suffering, made no sense at all to them, for their world didn’t run “like an untrue wheel,” the world they knew was a bountiful miracle. They lived in paradise, set there by great spirits.

  Without the starting point of suffering, the four noble truths made no sense. I realized with some shock that Tsinuks often already seemed to share the views of sages and that everything is the only way it can be.

  I’d abandoned transplanting Buddhism here. Instead, I just encouraged compassion, mindfulness and clarity. Though its contents are valuable, no one wanted the old Buddhist box they were washed ashore in.

  I spent time wondering if totems fit easily with the Dharma? Chan priests perform ceremonies placating mountain spirits and ocean gods. Totems and Bodhisattvas are equally illusion and real. The best we can hope for is a bit of clarity. The desire for more is natural. But assuming one can get beyond illusion is only another illusion.

  I was an inadequate Buddhist teacher, but finally understood Chan Master Lin-chi’s statement that, “terms like enlightenment, bodhi and nirvana are hitching posts for donkeys.”

  Just as Chan’s single-mindedness about meditation paled beside Yakala’s Sun Dance. Tsinuk totem spirits were legitimate dharma doors. Whether or not such things were essential, they lent meaning to spiritual practice.

  The sixth patriarch’s explanation of why he’d received the lineage’s succession finally made sense as well. When asked why he was chosen, Hui-neng explained, “It’s because I don’t understand Buddhism.” Instead of understanding…he simply lived it. Perhaps like him, I too was realizing that I didn’t understand…I simply lived.

  Experience and acceptance brings understanding. Buddhism is a collection of empty concepts. It is a finger pointing at the moon. When Buddhism becomes the focus instead of enlightenment, the true Buddha dharma is lost.