A Short Visit to the Grave of the Haiku Master
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The Journal of the Walk, Wednesday, April 16th

I found myself on a hard, well-trod dirt path that wound through a plain of dark grass, gently sloping hills, and light gray clouds against an azure spring sky. Even though the path gave one the impression that it had seen many feet over the years, I went hours without encountering another soul. Normally, I take such solitude as an excuse to drink in the scenery around me, but my surroundings offered me little in the way of variety — I was especially disappointed by the lack of birds on such a clear day — so I eventually became quite lost in my own thoughts. It was because of this daydreaming that I did not immediately notice when the path gradually turned from dirt to smooth cobblestone, though I was quickly snapped out of my trance when I came upon the first house on what I was to learn was the outskirts of a small village.

The village, I would later find out, consisted of some hundred people, mostly cattle farmers who sold milk, meat, and leather to travelers like myself. The first home I saw, like most of the homes I would later see, was a log cabin consisting of only a few small rooms; where the logs came from, I cannot say. I knocked on the door, but I received no response. I peered into a window on the side of the cabin, saw a tidy and well-kept kitchen, and decided that it would be best not to invite myself in. I might have waited until a resident appeared and asked them for lodging if it had been close to nightfall, but I still had plenty of daylight with which to press on.

When I made my way back to the path, I took notice of additional homes not far from the first, as well as a small herd of cattle grazing on a nearby hill. I decided that, rather than approaching every house until I met a resident — if all of these homes were occupied, I did not want to be a disturbance — I would continue on the path until I either encountered someone else on it, came upon a change in scenery, or needed to find shelter for the night. After a dozen or so houses whose occupants did not show themselves, I found myself standing at the intersection between my path and another. I turned to the right and saw more houses; I turned to the left and saw a larger, steeper hill than any I could recall seeing earlier. I noticed that the path ended only a short distance up the hill, but I could make out a figure doing something at the top, so I decided to investigate.

As I made my way down the new path, I took notice of a few people watching me from their tiny square windows. I thought little of it — I take no issue with being scrutinized — but I now wonder if it is unusual for an unfamiliar face to be seen in that part of the village. After all, a passing traveler who has somewhere to be would have little reason to take that road. I hope that I was not unduly intruding on a space that they felt was theirs.

I came to the hill, which was more manageable than it appeared from a distance, and began making my way up. I began to hear someone talking at the top as I did so, and I presumed that it was the figure I had seen earlier. I strained to make out what they were saying and who (or what) they were saying it to, but their voice was too low for the words to be discernible, or perhaps I need to clean my ears more thoroughly. It may also have been the wind.

When I reached the top of the hill, I found a lone man sitting cross-legged and wiping a gray stone with a white cloth. He was an older-looking man with a bald head and wrinkled face; though he was clean-shaven, I could easily imagine him with a long, flowing beard. In addition to the stone in his hand, which he continued wiping as I approached, several similar stones were sitting in a pile to his left. If he noticed my presence, he gave it no acknowledgement. I stood behind him, watched him work in silence for a few moments, and decided to say something.

"Excuse me," I said as I moved from behind him to beside him, "if you don't mind me asking, what are you doing?"

He looked up at me with a warm and knowing expression. "You're not from here, are you?" I shook my head, and he continued: "No, I thought not. Nobody from this village would question me so."

I bowed my head. "I apologize. I did not mean to intrude. If you would prefer to be left alone, I can—"

He burst out into a hearty laugh. "No, no, you have done nothing wrong. In fact, I relish the chance to talk with strangers." He patted the grass beside him. "By all means, have a seat and stay a while."

Grateful that all was not as I feared, I sat cross-legged next to him and looked at the stone in his hand. It was smaller than his palm, but it glimmered in the afternoon sun, no doubt as a result of his labor. He gestured toward me with the hand that was holding it.

"You wish to know what I'm doing?"

I nodded. "If you do not mind sharing with me."

"No, not at all. These stones," he performed a sweeping motion in their direction with his arm, "mark the grave of Claudio, the great poet. I am here to keep them pristine."

I leaned forward to get a better look. "A poet, you say?" They seemed to me like a meager grave for someone of such renown, but I am not one to judge the customs of others.

If he could read my thoughts on my countenance, he gave no acknowledgement, and he soon continued: "Indeed. He was mostly a writer of haiku, which he was a true master of, but he dabbled in other forms throughout his life."

I furrowed my brow, trying to recall if I had heard of such a poet before on my travels. "I see. This Claudio, is he known all around this plain?"

He chuckled. "No, I'm afraid not. You will not hear his name outside this village."

I shrugged. Perhaps, I thought, he was one of those great individuals who has no desire for fame, an attitude I certainly have respect for. Perhaps the old man was playing a joke on me, the one person in this land who has not heard of the great Claudio, and we would have a good laugh about it later. Either way, I continued my questioning: "Well, you said that he was mostly a writer of haiku? Might I be able to find his work anywhere in this village?"

He shook his head. "Regrettably, you are not likely to happen upon his verse through simple wandering. He published little in his life, preferring to keep his work to those close to him, and I doubt that many of them would share it with a stranger such as yourself. It means a great deal to them."

I frowned. I am not one to pry, but my wondering had become quite large by this point. "Why did he not put his work out into the world? You make it sound like he could have been widely recognized if he did."

A solemnity seemed to blanket him. "He… did not believe that his work was worthy. We all told him otherwise, but we could never convince him to publish more than a smattering. It was a terrible shame; he had such a wonderful ability when he wrote the haiku."

Something in his wording stuck out to me: "What kind of ability? Do you mean that they were well-written?"

He was silent for a moment. Little by little, the warmth returned to his expression, and it seemed more reverent than before. "Well, they were quite excellent pieces of writing, but that was not all. I cannot say for sure what it was, but when he put pen to paper, it was as if the words on the page transported the reader to the subjects he wrote about. Here," he said as he set the stone and cloth down, turned away from me, and produced a scrap of yellowed paper, "this was one he gave to me shortly before his passing. Read it and know for yourself."

I took the paper in both hands and beheld the neat print on it:

Floating on the lake
Bright green on dark blue water
Splotches of algae

As I took in the words and ran my fingers over the long-dried ink, I began to feel peculiar sensations: a cool breeze in my hair, moist grass under my feet, the sound of rippling water in my ears. I closed my eyes, and I could see the lake — perhaps it was a lake from my memory that was changed just enough to match the poem — as clear as day. I have long felt that algae is wonderful in the same way that all living things are, but I do not believe that I ever truly appreciated how beautiful it can be until that moment.

I opened my eyes to find the old man staring intently at me. My expression must have told him everything he needed to know, for he quickly began to reveal a knowing smile.

He leaned in closer. "Incredible, is it not?"

For a moment, I could not summon words. Eventually, they came to me: "That… does that happen with everything he wrote?"

He shrugged. "Everything of his that I was ever fortunate enough to lay eyes on."

I was in disbelief. "How could he have believed that this was unworthy? It would be one thing if he simply didn't want the attention, but this…if others had the chance to know of this, he could have been renowned all over!"

Bittersweetness washed over his face. "I know. We all told him as much, but he could never bring himself to believe us. He worked as a farmer, same as most people here, and wrote for us when he did not have to work. He lived well, and he lived long, but he lived an ordinary life. When he passed away, he left us no writings that we did not already possess. We could try to send the scraps we have out into the wider world, but we know that is not what he would have wished. His writing will fade with the paper it is written on."

I nodded solemnly. "These stones, they were his wish for a grave, then?"

As if my words reminded him of the purpose of his being there, he turned back to the pile. "Indeed. He did not ask for them to be polished, but we all agree that he deserves it. It is a grave worthy of him, I feel."

As he relayed this information to me, I felt conflicted. I understood that they would respect his wishes, of course, but I thought it a terrible shame that such powerful work should be forgotten so quickly. Seeming to read my expression once again, he continued: "Fret not, my friend. We will keep him alive for as long as we can. We are all getting to be quite up in years now, as you can see," he said as he chuckled, "but when we are gone, we will pass what we have to our children."

I hope that the look I was giving him communicated my understanding. "I hope that they keep it as well-preserved as you have."

He smiled. "I hope so as well."

There was silence for a while as he gradually returned to his work with me watching over his shoulder, and then I flushed with realization: "Oh, I'm very sorry. I don't believe that I ever asked for your name."

He let out a hearty laugh. "No, that is quite alright. I am called Donahue, and I cherish that name."

Again, he continued in silence for some time. Eventually, I became aware of the time passing, and I decided that it would be best for me to leave him to his work and continue exploring the village. He looked up at me as I rose to head back down the hill.

"Going so soon? It is rare for me to make a new acquaintance these days. I am sure that we would have much more to discuss with each other."

I bowed. "Apologies, but I am a wanderer at heart, and I must continue wandering. If I pass through here again, I'll be sure to visit."

He nodded and stood up alongside me. "I understand, but before you depart, there is one last thing I wanted to share with you." He pointed toward where I entered the village; I turned to find that he was directing my attention to the first house I inspected on the outskirts. "That house over there was his. His wife still lives there. If you want to know what difference a man with no fame to speak of can make, pay her a visit."

I thanked him and went on my way. I contemplated returning to the house once I was back at the crossroads, but the sun was well on its way to the horizon by that point, and I felt that I already understood what I needed to, so I decided to press on in search of lodging before it grew dark. As I turned back onto the original path, a flock of bluebirds landed on the grass around a nearby house and began pecking at the soil. I continued on after admiring them for a moment.

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