Haryō's Blown-Hair Sword

Engo's commentary on the case

Haryō never moves a weapon, yet how many people throughout the four seas and five lakes lose their tongues? Unmon received people just this way. Haryō was Unmon's true son, though each had his own strategy. Thus it is said, “I love Shaoyang's newly settled pivot: throughout his life he drew nails and pulled wedges for people.” This exchange is exactly like that. Within one sentence the three sentences are naturally present: the sentence that encloses heaven and earth, the sentence that cuts off the many streams, and the sentence that follows wave and current. The answer is extraordinary. Reverend Yuan of Fushan said, “For one who has not broken through, investigating the sentence is inferior to investigating its meaning. For one who has broken through, investigating the meaning is inferior to investigating the sentence.” Three venerable monks in Unmon's line were asked about the blown-hair sword; all answered, “Done!” Haryō alone gave an answer surpassing the word “Done.” This is obtaining the sentence. Tell me: are “Done!” and “Every coral branch props up the moon” the same or different? As said before: the three sentences can be distinguished, yet one arrowhead crosses the open sky. To understand this exchange, affective dust and conceptual thought must be completely exhausted. Only then can you see what Haryō means by “Every coral branch props up”—the base text is anomalous at this point. If you construct another rationale, it becomes still more impossible to grasp. The line comes from Chanyue's poem “Thinking of a Friend”: Thick as iron on Iron-Ring Mountain, Thin as patterned silk on the immortal Shuangcheng; Phoenix chicks on a Shu loom move and stumble, Every coral branch props up the moon. Hidden in Wang Kai's house, hard to dig out; Yan Hui, a hungry man, grieves at snow from heaven. An ancient cypress, brush-straight, unbroken by thunder; A snow-robed stone woman, the immortality peach chipped. Wearing it into the dragon palace, one walks slowly; Embroidered curtains and silver mat—how uneven! Only this is unknown: the black dragon has lost its pearl. Do you know or not?⁴ Haryō took one line from the poem to answer the question about the blown-hair sword. That was quick. Test a blade by blowing a hair onto it: the hair severs by itself. An exceptionally sharp sword is therefore called a “blown-hair sword.” Haryō answered directly at the place of the monk's question. The monk's head fell without his knowing it. “He would level what is uneven. Great skill resembles clumsiness.” In ancient times, when a swordsman on the road saw injustice—the strong oppressing the weak—he sent a flying sword to take the oppressor's head. Thus a lineage teacher hides a jeweled sword in his brows and hangs a golden hammer in his sleeve to decide matters of injustice. Haryō's reply would level what is uneven. Because his words are exceedingly ingenious, they appear clumsy. Why? He does not brandish the sword face to face. Off in a secluded place, one stroke secretly takes a person's head without the person noticing. “Now a finger, now a palm; leaning on heaven, it shines upon snow.” Understand, and it is like a long sword leaning against heaven, awesome and severe. An ancient said: The mind-moon, alone and round, Its light swallows the ten thousand forms. The light does not illuminate objects; Nor do objects remain. Light and objects both forgotten— What is it then? This jeweled sword sometimes appears on a finger, suddenly within a palm. Long ago, when Chief Seat Qing reached this point, he raised his hand and asked, “Do you see?” Yet it need not be on the hand or fingers. Setchō borrows a road and passes through, letting you see the ancient's intent. Can any place whatsoever fail to be the blown-hair sword? Thus it is said, “At the third tier, waves rise high and a fish becomes a dragon; a fool still bails water from the night pond.” The Garden of the Ancestral Court, quoting the Traditions of Filial Children, tells this story. One summer, the queen of Chu cooled herself while embracing an iron pillar and was said to conceive, later giving birth to a lump of iron. The king ordered Ganjiang to forge it into a sword. After three years Ganjiang produced a pair, female and male. He secretly kept the male and presented the female to the king. Locked in its box, it often cried mournfully. The ministers said the female sword longed for the male. Enraged, the king ordered Ganjiang's arrest and execution. Knowing what would happen, Ganjiang hid the sword in a house pillar. He told his wife Moye: “The sun rises at the north window. On the southern mountain stands its pine; the pine grows from stone, and the sword is within.” She later bore a son named Red-Brows. At fifteen he asked about his father. She told him the story. After long reflection he split the pillar, found the sword, and constantly desired revenge. The king offered a large reward for Red-Brows, who fled. Soon a stranger from Zeng Mountain offered to avenge his father, asking for the young man's head and sword. Because his father had been tortured and killed without guilt, Red-Brows gave both. The stranger presented the head to the delighted king and suggested boiling it in oil. When it would not decompose, he induced the king to inspect the cauldron. From behind, the stranger cut off the king's head, which fell in. The two heads bit each other. Fearing Red-Brows would lose, the stranger cut off his own head to help. All three bit one another and soon decomposed. The Sichuan text lacks this King of Chu passage.² Setchō says this sword can lean against heaven and shine upon snow. Ordinarily one says that the light of a long sword leaning against heaven can illuminate snow. Its function is such that no master smelter can grind it down, while even a fine craftsman never finishes polishing. That craftsman is Ganjiang; the story makes this clear. At the verse's end Setchō reveals it: “Different! Different!” This too is extraordinary. It has another excellence, unlike an ordinary sword. What is the different place? “Every coral branch props up the moon.” It illumines what came before and cuts off what follows, standing alone at the world's center without equal. Ultimately, what is it? Everyone's head has fallen. This old monk has one more little verse: Ten thousand measures fill the boat—take them freely in hand; Yet because of one grain, a jar swallows a snake. Raising the old case through a hundred turns, How much sand is cast from people's eyes?