Chapter One: The Bowl That Had No Bottom

The Master said: “When the granary is empty, a man watches his neighbor. When the granary is full, he watches his gate. But when the granary cannot be emptied, what shall he watch?”

His disciples offered answers.

Only the cook remained silent.

For this reason, the cook was summoned to the castle.

In the seventh year of Lord Nao’s reign, a white bowl was discovered beneath the roots of a dead persimmon tree. Whoever emptied it found it full again. Rice followed rice; broth followed broth. If one desired a peach, a peach appeared, warm as though it had ripened against a wall in sunlight.

The bowl granted no wine.

This was taken as evidence of its virtue.

Lord Nao ordered it placed in the Hall of Measured Gifts. By autumn, the hall had been renamed the Hall of Gifts, for the officer responsible for measurement had resigned.

By winter, no one was hungry.

That was when the swords began to fall.

The first belonged to Captain Isamu, who had carried his blade through nineteen engagements without once striking stone. At the ceremony celebrating the abolition of famine, he drew it to salute his lord and cut the cord of his own trousers.

No one laughed.

The court historian wrote: The captain demonstrated the insufficiency of knots.

Three days later, two guards exchanged scabbards without noticing. A swordsman of the western barracks tried to sheathe his weapon in a bamboo flute. During a dispute concerning precedence at a doorway, Lord Nao’s nephew seized his sword by its blade and gravely presented the hilt to his enemy.

The enemy, unwilling to benefit from discourtesy, seized it in the same fashion.

Both men were praised for restraint.

Soon there was scarcely a warrior in the province who had not dropped, misdrawn, misplaced, or sat upon his sword. Yet their hands remained steady when lifting bowls.

This distinction troubled the ministers.

The cook’s name was Ren. His father had been a cook, and his grandfather a judge; the family did not speak of the grandfather.

When Ren entered the audience chamber, Lord Nao asked, “Does abundance weaken the wrist?”

“An empty kettle is also light,” said Ren.

“Then why do my warriors disgrace themselves?”

“What work do they perform?”

“They protect the food.”

“From whom?”

Lord Nao looked toward his ministers. The ministers looked toward the captain. The captain looked toward the place where his sword ordinarily hung.

Ren bowed.

“It is difficult,” he said, “to hold an answer after the question has departed.”

The Minister of Rites objected that a sword had many purposes besides protecting grain: it defended honor, maintained distinctions, and discouraged improper speech.

While enumerating these purposes, he knocked the captain’s recovered sword from its stand with his sleeve.

The incident was omitted from the record.

That evening, Ren was permitted to examine the bowl.

A young samurai named Sada accompanied him. Sada had bound his sword to his belt with three lengths of cord, a precaution now common among the most distinguished families.

“Do you believe it is enchanted?” Sada asked.

“I have seen it produce an eel in midwinter.”

“I meant the swords.”

Ren turned the bowl over.

On its underside were nine characters. Eight had been worn nearly smooth. The ninth meant return, although Sada thought it meant hunger.

They fetched the court scholar, who explained that both readings were mistaken.

“The inscription says: ‘What is given remains in the giver.’”

“There are only nine characters,” said Sada.

“The meaning is extensive.”

Ren placed the bowl upright and asked for a plum.

A plum appeared.

He set it beside the bowl and asked for the same plum.

A second appeared, bearing the same small scar.

Sada ate the first. Ren cut open the second. Within it lay a stone split neatly in two.

“I bit that,” Sada whispered.

“In this plum?”

“In the other.”

The scholar excused himself. He had remembered an appointment made many years before.

Near midnight, Ren went to the western barracks. He found the soldiers at supper, though supper had begun at sunset.

Whenever a man finished his portion, another arrived from the hall. Some ate from appetite, some from courtesy toward the servants, and some because they could no longer remember what had formerly ended a meal.

Between dishes they practiced drawing their swords.

A veteran rose, bowed, and drew a ladle.

He stared at it for a long time.

Ren asked him what he had been thinking.

“Of tomorrow.”

“And what did you expect tomorrow?”

“The same.”

At this, Sada loosened one of the cords around his scabbard.

Ren stopped his hand.

“Not yet.”

Outside, snow was falling upon the abandoned fields. Somewhere beneath it lay the roots of the persimmon tree.

“Master,” Sada said—for he had begun calling the cook this without permission—“if the bowl feeds everyone, what does it receive?”

Ren did not answer.

From the barracks came the clatter of another fallen sword, followed by apologies, followed by the servants announcing the next course.

Only then did Ren speak.

“Tomorrow we must find the man who buried it.”

“And if he is dead?”

“We must discover what he was trying to finish.”