The Nightingale

by Kara Dalkey

  “Come, come, my lords,” said Niwa, gesturing with one knobby arm. “She is this way.” He hobbled off with surprising speed.

  The Minister and the young Fujiwara got hastily to their feet and scuffled after the little gardener. As he led them through gardens and down hallways, curious courtiers and ladies-in-waiting followed behind, eager to see what was happening. Soon Hidoi, Niwa and the Minister found themselves at the head of a long, colorful parade of laughing people. The Minister tried to wave them away, saying, “This is serious business!” to no avail. Hidoi, to Netsubo’s irritation, was enjoying himself immensely. Niwa, if he noticed those who followed at all, made no sign of it.

  At last, the gardener led the procession into the Imperial Dining Room. It was currently empty, except for a kitchen maid who knelt wiping the polished wood floor. “Well, here we are,” said Niwa.

  Seeing no one of any consequence, the Minister turned angrily to Niwa and raised his hand to cuff the old man for tricking them into a useless chase.

  “No, no!” cried Niwa, raising his arms to ward off blows. “She is here! Look!” The gardener hurried over to the kitchen maid and grasped her gently by the shoulders. “Katte-san, get up. These gentlemen here wish to speak to you.”

  The kitchen maid gasped and slowly stood. Shyly facing away, she said, “What do my lords wish of this lowly one?”

  “Niwa-san says you have heard the excellent flautist who plays by the Kamo River,” prompted Hidoi.

  Katte glanced at Niwa who nodded at her encouragingly. “Yes, my lords. There is a lady who sits beneath a pine tree on the riverbank, playing the most beautiful music this lowly one has ever heard.”

  “Who is she?” Netsubo demanded. “Tell us her name!”

  “I have not presumed to ask her name, sir. I know her only as the Lady of the Pine Curtain.”

  Netsubo threw up his hands in exasperation. “You are nearly no help at all! How are we to find this nameless lady?”

  “Please excuse me, my Lords, but she may be playing there now. This lowly one can lead you to her.”

  “Do so, immediately! And I tell you, if you lead us astray you will be scrubbing the palace latrines instead of the kitchen floors!”

  So as the courtiers watched in wonder, the parade began anew, this time with the kitchen maid at its head. Out away from the palace she led them, toward the Kamo River. At the river’s edge she stopped and looked about, listening.

  “Well?” said the Grounds Minister.

  “My Lord, I fear the voices of the others are too loud—”

  “Silence!” the Minister bellowed at the nobles behind him. In a moment, they quieted until one could hear the whistling of the wind through the pine trees.

  Hidoi frowned. “That doesn’t sound like excellent music.”

  “No, my Lord. That is the wind. Please follow me.”

  Katte led them south along the river’s edge until they came to a large pine, whose snow-covered boughs reached down to the ground. From behind the branches came exquisite music. It was soothing as the calls of evening birds, beguiling as the laughter of mountain streams, yet awe-inspiring as temple bells. The paraders stood smiling with amazement and joy.

  Presently the music stopped, and Netsubo called out, “Lady of the Pine Curtain! Come out and show yourself to us! It is I, the Minister of the Imperial Grounds, who demands this!”

  There was silence a moment. And then the pine boughs parted and a young woman, face modestly hidden behind her sleeves, emerged. “Good afternoon, father,” she said. “Are you looking for me?”

  In the Plum Pavillion

  Moonlight flowed into the Plum Pavillion, a milky river of pale light. The blinds and shoji between the main room and the veranda had been raised and opened to welcome the radiance of the full moon. Small braziers of coals and paper lanterns were set among the nobles in the room and the ladies seated behind large screens, to give a little warmth and light. To Uguisu, seated behind a kicho of thin silk, the lights seemed like glowing stars, reflecting the night sky outside. In this setting she could easily understand why the Imperial Palace was poetically referred to as “heaven.”

  Nonetheless, despite the beauty around her, Uguisu felt uneasy. She was acutely aware that somewhere behind her curtain, amid the myriad perfumes and rustling silks, sat the Emperor himself, waiting for her to play. Discreet murmurs of cultured voices around her speculated softly on what she might look like, be like. Though she wore many layered kimonos and sat behind a kicho, Uguisu did not feel nearly hidden enough. She held her hands over her own little brazier, wishing they would stop trembling.

  Suddenly someone tugged on her sleeve. Her father, who sat just outside her kicho, hissed. “You must play, Uguisu! His Majesty is becoming impatient.”

  “Of course, father. I’m sorry.” She raised the flute to her lips, fearing it might fall from her fingers she trembled so. But as the first notes spilled out, she felt her fear flow with them, and the music carried her far beyond her cares.

  The flute sang of the beauty of the winter’s full moon, sang lovingly of a gentle snowfall, with undertones that hinted at the buds of spring that lay beneath it. The flute sang on of the camaraderie of friends bringing warmth to a winter’s evening, weaving in familiar strains of saibara in inventive ways. The flute sang of love sadly parted and love joyfully regained.

  At last, Uguisu felt the music run down like a lantern of a departing friend receding in the distance. Reluctantly, she let it end and, with a sigh, set the flute down on her lap. Around her there was only silence.

  Then there came excited murmurs of wonder. “Look at the Emperor!” people whispered to each other. “Look at the Emperor!”

  Curiosity overcame Uguisu’s sense of propriety, and she peeked out between two panels of her curtain. In the center of the room sat a handsome man, perhaps of forty years, dressed in magnificent white brocade, with under-robes of deep purple. And on his enraptured, noble face lay a glistening tear.

  Uguisu gasped and pulled back the curtain, her heart pounding. Then came the Emperor’s voice—she knew it could only be his voice—saying:

  “The nightingale brings joyous rains from Heaven,

  So long unshed. What shall they bring to her?”

  “His Majesty wishes to reward you,” her father whispered. “You must answer, but answer wisely. Much depends on your reply.”

  Uguisu felt her throat tighten and her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. There was only one answer which felt right to her, though it would no doubt upset her father. In a soft tremulous voice she replied:

  “The rains of Heaven nourish all the earth,

  The nightingale finds this reward enough.”

  To her surprise, Uguisu heard whisperings appreciative of her response. “How elegantly restrained!” they said. “How gentle and ladylike!”

  The Emperor said, “If my tears of happiness are your reward, then play on and you shall be many times repaid.”

  So Uguisu again raised up her flute and played long into the night, and no one noticed the cold of the winter wind.

  New Year’s Eve

  “Hand me another bundle,” said Kitsune as she finished filling another basket with brightly tasseled talismans for the Day of the Hare.

  “Here you are,” said Nikao, giving her more of the little sticks. “I am so excited! It was so dreary not having New Year celebrations last year. This New Year shall seem twice as fine!”

  “Now that His Majesty is happy again, and no longer in mourning,” said Shonasaki, “the New Year shall dawn as bright as a new day.”

  Kitsune laughed. “His Majesty is apparently anticipating the dawn—they say the lamps have been burning late into the night in Seriyō Palace. I hear he is planning some surprises for tomorrow.”

  “More surprises!” said Nikao. “As if these past few days have not provided surprises enough.”

  “Indeed,” said Shonasaki. “I shall never forget the look on the Grounds Minister’s face when h
e discovered the flautist by the Kamo was his own daughter!”

  “And he tried to be so stern during the search.” Nikao took on an expression of mock severity and, brandishing a hare-stick, said, “This is serious business!”

  All three ladies instantly dissolved into helpless laughter.

  Kitsune, who recovered first, said, “Well, and who would have expected it of little Uguisu? She must have been hiding her skill behind a mountain to not be noticed for so long.”

  “Especially from her father,” added Nikao, “though I suppose he has been busy with other things of late. Ah, but she played so beautifully that night!”

  “It is surprising that she has chosen the flute as her instrument. I could understand a koto, or a biwa, but flute is a man’s instrument.”

  “Should a young girl not be interested in playing upon a man’s instrument?” said Shonasaki, one eyebrow arched.

  Kitsune threw a cushion at her. “Oooh, you’re horrid, Shonasaki!” She said, smiling despite her words.

  “But delightfully horrid,” added Nikao.

  Suddenly there came from outside the sound of running feet and twanging bows. Nikao gasped with joy. “They’re running the Demon Chase again!”

  Kitsune moved toward the blinds. “Oh, I wish we could see it!”

  “I sometimes wonder,” said Shonasaki, “if the poor man in the demon mask ever gets hit by the arrows they fire at him.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Kitsune, “I’m sure the guardsmen try to miss.”

  “Oh, I hope they chase all the evil spirits and demons of unhappiness from the palace!” said Nikao.

  “There are no demons or evil spirits in the palace, Nikao,” Kitsune chided. “The guardsmen and the iris balls see to that. And tomorrow the iris will be taken down and replaced with these sticks.”

  “And these sticks will stay up till the Iris Festival in summer,” Shonasaki added.

  “But if the talismans keep all demons and spirits out,” said Nikao, “why do we have a Demon Chase the last night of the year?”

  “To show any demons who might be watching what we’ll do to them if they try to get in,” said Kitsune.

  “Speaking of watching demons,” Shonasaki said mischievously, “I hear Kazenatsu was doing all he could to catch a glimpse of Uguisu while she was here.”

  “Don’t say such things,” said Kitsune, “or I shall become terribly jealous.”

  “Oh, you needn’t lose hope for Kazenatsu,” said Shonasaki. “He will have competition enough. There is a rumor that the Emperor himself will invite Uguisu to come to Court.”

  “He will?” said Nikao, shocked. “You don’t think—”

  “Don’t be silly. She’s much too common,” said Kitsune. “He’ll probably just install her as a lady-in-waiting to one of his lesser ladies and only bring her out when he wants a little music.”

  “Who can say?” said Shonasaki, staring absently at one corner of the room. Taking up a brush, she wrote on snow-white paper:

  “A nightingale emerged from the snow.

  A phoenix for the new year? What betides?”

  Raising the brush, Shonasaki stared, dissatisfied, at her work. Then a gust of cold wind came under the blinds and caught the paper, tumbling it across the floor. With a cry, the poet scrambled after it, overturning a basket of talismans as she went.

  SPRING

  The tide rises, the tide falls.

  This is the spring sea:

  Days of tides turning.

  —Buson

  NEW YEAR’S DAY

  It was dawn on the First Day of the First Month of the New Year. The early rays of sunlight slipped between the palace buildings, their pale pink glow touching the frost on tree branches as if presaging the plum and cherry blossoms to come.

  The Emperor sat in the Eastern Garden of the Seriyō Den and looked up at the stars that had not yet been chased away by the morning sun. Among them he found his guardian star. With a pang of sweet memory, he recalled the night, so long ago, that he learned of it. His father had taken him on his lap and pointed to the sky, saying, “See that point of light, my son—the bright one there, by The Weaver. That is your guardian star.” And his father had whispered the star’s secret name to him, and said, “May it guide you to wisdom, now and when you become Emperor in my place.” The Emperor idly wondered if the star had guided to him the little flute player who had made him happy again.

  The Emperor faced south, toward the great Shrine of Ise, and softly intoned the secret name of his star. Then he bowed twice in each of the four cardinal directions, once to the heavens and once to the earth. He bowed to the burial place of his ancestors, saying, “Revered Ones, may this year of my reign bring greater prosperity to our empire, which you have given me as my heritage. And may no evil spirits or demons find their way into our land, to disturb the peace of our palace, our capital, or our empire.”

  Sitting up, the Emperor gazed once more into the morning sky, and saw a bright shooting star fall from near The Weaver towards the northeast.

  An omen! thought the Emperor. The Weaver is of yin nature, and the northeast is an unlucky direction. Yet the star moves from the realm of Tsuki-yomi, Kami of Darkness, towards the realm of Amaterasu, Kami of the Sun and Grandmother of all Emperors. What can this mean?

  Picking up a bundle beside him, the Emperor rose and walked across the garden to the Imperial Shrine. Passing beneath the torii, the sakaki trees, and the carved gates, the Emperor prepared his mind to commune with his sacred Ancestress. He paused at the ablution pavillion to ritually cleanse his hands and mouth. Then, removing his shoes, eboshi cap and court cloak, he entered the shrine.

  Waiting to meet him was Nakatomi, High Priest of the Imperial Shrine. Nakatomi was an elderly man, and had inherited his position. But not without some help from the Fujiwara, the Emperor thought sardonically.

  The Emperor followed the old priest into the sanctuary. He kneeled on a cushion and removed from the bundle he carried a bolt of damask silk of the purest white. The priest took this and approached the altar. On the altar there stood a cabinet of gold and cedarwood. Within the cabinet lay the Octagonal Mirror, the sacred shintai of Amaterasu.

  The Emperor wished that the cabinet would be opened, so that he might see again the beautiful golden face of the Sun Kami. But the cabinet was only opened at times of great national import, and he had only seen the Mirror once, on the day that he had become Emperor.

  As the priest placed the silk cloth on the altar, the Emperor thought he could see glimmers of pale golden sunlight through the seams of the cabinet.

  “Amaterasu is pleased with your offering,” the priest said. Together he and the Emperor said prayers for the New Year. Then the priest said, “Do you have anything you wish to ask?”

  “Yes. This morning I received what I believe to be an omen,” and the Emperor described the shooting star. “Does this have meaning?”

  The priest bowed and turned back to the altar. The Emperor thought he saw the priest’s cheeks twitch as he chanted, but in the gloom of the shrine he could not be sure. After a minute the priest faced the Emperor again and said, “The meaning is this: Soon you will again have an empress and she will bear you a son, who will be emperor after you.”

  And who told you to give me this meaning, Amaterasu or Daimigi-san? “Is that all? I detected ill aspects in the omen.”

  “There are … elements of conflict, Your Majesty, but that is the basic meaning.”

  Naturally there will be conflict. I do not want Daimigi’s daughter.

  “Is there anything else you would ask, Your Majesty?”

  What I truly wish to ask I dare not say in front of you. “No, but I shall offer a private prayer before I go.” Bowing deeply, the Emperor thought, Amaterasu, Mother of the Sun and Holy Grandmother to all emperors, if there is mercy within you I pray that you free this humble descendant from the smothering yoke of the Fujiwara and restore to me the power that is the birthright of your children. Then t
he Emperor rose and returned to the Seriyō Den.

  Laid out on a low table in the Private Dining Chamber were dishes of rice cakes, radishes and melons, all considered auspicious for ensuring good health during the year. A cluster of cups held various types of spiced wine prepared by the Palace Medicinal Office. Sipping from a cup, the Emperor wondered if it were true that the wine had been tasted by specially chosen virgins before being given to him. The wine was said to be an elixir of long life. It would be useful if that were more than fable, thought the Emperor. Today began his forty-first year of life—long past the age at which the last few emperors had abdicated (at the behest of the Fujiwara) to pursue their own interests. I might have done so, too, had I a son. Thirty years of married life had produced several daughters but only a few sickly, short-lived sons. I suppose I should not be surprised that Daimigi is putting on the pressure.

  His Majesty had now and then entertained flights of fancy in which, flying in the face of Buddhist doctrine, he made his eldest daughter Empress Regent. There had been worthy empresses in the past—such as the mighty Empress Jingo who had led her army on military expeditions to Korea five hundred years before. But no, the Fujiwara would never accept such a thing, and my daughter would be driven into abdication and exile. It could even bring the warrior-priests snarling down from Mount Hiei to “cleanse” the city of its “evil influences.”

  A little page boy in a bright red robe and shoulder-length hair appeared by the sliding door. “His Lordship Fujiwara no Daimigi-sama and his sons have arrived, Your Imperial Majesty, to pay their respects for the New Year. They await audience with you.”

  No doubt he has by now discovered my little changes in the promotions proceedings for tomorrow. Well, Daimigi-san, I shall have to keep you waiting a day longer before you have an explanation from me. The Emperor turned to the page and said, “Tell Daimigi-san that I have been given an omen of great import. I will be observing a day of abstinence to meditate on its meaning. Please extend my regrets that I may not receive today the respects of him and his sons.”