by Kara Dalkey
The yellow cat stopped well away from Su K’an, raised her nose and cautiously sniffed the air. Slowly, Hinata’s ears flattened against her head and she lowered herself into a crouch. A low growl rumbled in her throat as her fur began to stand on end.
“Hinata?” the Emperor said, confused.
Suddenly, the cat sprang at the Chinese woman, howling and spitting and slashing with her claws. The Emperor stood and rushed to her, grabbing the cat below her forelegs and raising her up. “Hinata! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?” The Emperor shook the cat for emphasis.
Hinata hissed at the Emperor.
“How dare you!” The Emperor flung the cat towards a far wall where she fell heavily on her side. “Guard!” called the Emperor, and two Inner Guardsmen came rushing in. “Chase the cat Hinata out of the Palace grounds. She is banished! And should she try to return … kill her.”
The guardsmen bowed and went to do their duty, but Hinata had already slipped out through the shoji and disappeared. With a sigh, the Emperor turned to Su K’an who was taking her hands from her face. He was pleased to note no sharp claw had marred its perfection. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Your Gracious Majesty. The cat did not harm me.”
The Emperor sat back on his dais with a fleeting smile of relief and embarrassment. “I regret that you were subjected to such a disturbance. She has never acted like that before.”
“Perhaps it is because I smell … foreign.”
“Yes, perhaps. Well, you needn’t worry about her any longer. Please play your delightful tune once more.”
With a pleased smile, the courtesan again raised the silver flute to her lips.
Moon Viewing
Water lapped quietly against the side of the dragon-boat on the lake in the Seriyō Garden. The autumn evening was cool, but the air still held some of the scent and warmth of late summer. Somewhere, away on the lake’s edge, crickets sang a lively tune while fireflies danced. Overhead, the full moon shone brilliant, so bright it hurt to look at it. But, then, this was the Fifteenth Day of the Eighth Month, when the moon was said to be at its most beautiful. The Moon God had not disappointed the mortals below this year, and all at court sat out on balconies, or on boats in the lakes of the palace gardens, to admire.
Fujiwara no Daimigi scarcely allowed any of this to distract him as he carefully watched the other two people in the imperial dragon boat. The Emperor and the Chinese courtesan Su K’an sat laughing together, seemingly oblivious to Daimigi’s gaze, though at times Su K’an would glance in his direction.
She is an interesting mystery, thought Daimigi. Unlike the other ladies at court, she never hid behind a kicho, but boldly displayed her beauty before all. And her beauty was such that no one objected. Tonight, Daimigi noticed, her face seemed as pale and radiant as the moon. Many noble courtiers had risked imperial ire by openly writing poems to her playing upon the comparison. But the Emperor was so enchanted with her that he didn’t seem to mind.
But where did she come from? Daimigi had made some discreet inquiries and learned that no one knew of any expeditions to arrive from China bearing such a “gift.” The scholars he had spoken to knew of no such thing, although they also said their Emperor acted in mysterious ways, and certainly would not have informed such lowly ones as they of his intentions. None of Netsubo’s household knew, or was willing to say, how he learned of her. Were it not for her beauty, and refined manners that were clearly the product of a life in an imperial court, Daimigi would be highly suspicious.
And what does our Emperor intend to do with her? I can only hope she does not distract him from his duty. The one good thing about her arrival, Daimigi considered, was that the upstart Uguisu was now further from the Emperor’s mind. In the distance, an occasional mournful strain of her flute music would drift out over the water. Drifting away she is indeed. With luck, the Emperor will send her away soon. Particularly if “luck” is given some assistance. Ah, well. Daimigi sighed and shifted his weight, causing the boat to rock a little. Let us see how the coins fall for me this evening.
“My lord,” Daimigi said to the Emperor, “perhaps on this suitably romantic evening we should at last discuss that matter that was brought up at the sumo selection—your marriage to my daughter.”
The Emperor turned and in the dim light the Chancellor could see he was scowling fiercely. “No, I do not see that it is appropriate to bring up that matter at this time. How could you suggest such a thing with Su K’an as my guest here?”
Because I am informing her of her place, you dolt.
But before Daimigi could reply with something considerably more polite, Su K’an laughed and said, “Oh, do not worry about me. Your Lord Chancellor is right.”
The Emperor looked at her in astonishment. “What?”
“It is indeed proper. The ladies of your court have explained the situation to me and I understand. Your people would no more accept a foreign Empress than would mine. And I am told your Empresses always come from the Fujiwara family. So of course you should marry the Chancellor’s daughter.”
Amida help us! thought Daimigi, a reasonable woman!
“You would … approve?” the Emperor asked.
Su K’an laughed again. “It is not my place to give approval to Your Majesty. Besides, I am not so proud to think that I might hold the heart of an Emperor for long.”
“You may hold mine, Su K’an for a very long time. And you would have no need to feel jealous. Daimigi’s daughter is still a child.”
“Then that will be even more charming,” said Su K’an. “I would be happy to take the child into my household and treat her as my own. I could train her in the ways of my own court, and make quite a lady of her.”
“One moment,” said Daimigi, trying to keep the anger from his voice. “I am not certain I would approve of this ‘training.’ As a Fujiwara, my daughter has been given the best education in court etiquette, graces and skills. She has no need of foreign influences.”
Su K’an bowed. “Forgive me, Your Excellency. I am quite sure you have given her the best training available in this tiny island Empire. But remember that I am from the ancient and mighty Empire of China. And no doubt there is a thing or two that I know that your daughter does not.”
The Emperor laughed gently. “She has a point, Daimigi-san, you must admit.”
Calming himself with effort, Daimigi said, “My lord, as you may recall, the reason your illustrious ancestor ceased sending embassies to China was because the T’ang dynasty was seen to be in decline and—”
“But it is clear,” said the Emperor, “from the appearance of Su K’an here, that they still have much to offer us.”
“It would also please me,” said Su K’an, “to assist the young Empress when she has her child. For one so young will surely need an older woman to guide her. Since the only child I have had was a son I lost long ago, it would please me to help raise another.”
“You are good to me, Su K’an,” the Emperor said softly.
“It suits me to be good to you,” she replied with a small smile, her dark eyes glittering.
“Your Majesty, I will not allow—”
“You will not allow what, Daimigi-san?” asked the Emperor. “You are not in a position to not allow things. In fact, I will only marry your daughter if she is given over to the care of Su K’an. And her child as well. Now what say you?”
Daimigi let out his breath through clenched teeth. It was most important that a Fujiwara become Empress, and he could only hope her Fujiwara training would not become tainted by this foreign influence. As for the son and heir, well, there would be time enough to gain control of him. “Very well, Your Majesty. As you wish.”
The Emperor sighed. “Well, now that is settled. You may pick whatever day you wish for the wedding feast.”
“But it should be soon,” said Su K’an. “For the sake of your people.”
“If you think so,” said the Emperor. “Soon, then.” He returned to hi
s sake cup and the beauty of Su K’an’s face.
Daimigi roughly leaned back against the boat cushions and frowned. He had his way, but it seemed more of a defeat than a victory. As he tried to let his spirits settle, he saw Su K’an lean over the water as she laughed at the Emperor’s clever words. As she did so, Daimigi thought there was something odd about her reflection in the water. But before he could sit up further to look, she reached her hand down to rinse out a cup, disturbing the reflection.
Hmm. An illusion of the moonlight, and my anger, no doubt. Nothing more.
The Competition
“Must I be in the same room with her?” Uguisu asked. She sat near the veranda blinds, gazing out at the falling leaves that were heavy with autumn raindrops.
“Of course you must,” said Nikao. “It is part of the form of the uta-awase. The subjects of a poetry contest must be present to lend inspiration. But we must find something more colorful for you to wear, so that you will not seem so …drab next to her.”
“It will be so much fun,” said Kitsune. “We haven’t had a good competition in the Palace for too long. Especially one of such importance.”
“Importance?” asked Shonasaki.
“Yes, importance, little Head-in-the-Clouds. The Chancellor himself organized the contest, and he and the Emperor will both be judges.”
Shonasaki gave Kitsune a long, measuring stare.
Uguisu felt only heaviness in her chest. “So today my lord Emperor chooses between her and me.” She knew Su K’an was attracting a growing portion of the court’s attention. Courtiers and servants went about humming her one song, and expressed more interest in Chinese literature and culture. Uguisu was mostly ignored. In one way she was grateful for this; the Emperor no longer came to her, so she could no longer endanger him. But she found that she missed his kind attention. And it saddened her that he had not even replied to her warning poem.
“Nonsense!” said Kitsune. “They will be choosing the best poetry, not the best person.”
“At Court,” murmured Shonasaki, “that is much the same thing.”
The day continued to be dreary and rainy, and the Court was happy for an event that encouraged them to remain indoors. The audience chamber of the Seriyō Den was quite full of perfumed ladies and noblemen—which made Uguisu feel all the more shy and nervous.
Because Su K’an did not use a kicho, Uguisu was denied one, and had to sit openly before the assembled nobles. How they stared! She felt absolutely naked, despite her twelve kimonos and court cloak, and often hid her face behind her fan. She wondered how far she must have fallen from the Emperor’s favor that he forced her to endure this.
But the noblemen stared most at Su K’an, who looked regal and magnificent in a cloak of midnight blue, patterned with chrysanthemums in gold thread. Her hair and face were perfection itself. Uguisu felt quite plain beside her, despite the bright red kimonos Nikao had found for Uguisu to wear. Even the Emperor, sitting with the Chancellor on the Imperial dias, looked most often in Su K’an’s direction.
If only once more he would look upon me fondly.
Uguisu sighed and noticed that Su K’an was smiling at her. It was not a pleasant smile. Uguisu somehow managed to smile in return and bowed. Su K’an merely nodded. Something about the Chinese woman’s eyes seemed familiar, the way they gleamed like dark burning coals. But Uguisu could not remember where she had seen such eyes before.
Maid-servants entered with bowls of rice and bottles of sake for refreshment. “Let us have some music as we dine!” called out one of the noblemen. “Yes!” called another. “Now that we have both flautists together, let them play a duet.”
There were immediate murmurs of agreement throughout the hall, and the Emperor waved his fan to order it done. Uguisu trembled with fear and wondered if she could possibly protest. She had never played a duet with anyone. And she felt intimidated by the very presence of Su K’an.
The courtesan leaned towards her and said softly, “You needn’t worry. I play only one tune. It should be easy enough for you to follow.”
Then Su K’an began, playing on her silvery flute the cheery, bright song she always played. And Uguisu raised her wooden flute and tried to play along. But where Su K’an’s notes were merriest, Uguisu’s were sad, for her feelings of fear and isolation kept creeping into her music. The discord this created was horrible to hear, and after only a minute Uguisu had to stop. “This is impossible,” she said. “Forgive this inadequate one, my lords, but my hands play according to my moods, not my will. I cannot follow another.”
“A great pity,” said the Emperor. “I had hoped there could be harmony between the two of you.”
The double meaning was not lost on Uguisu. She closed her eyes and sighed again. “But let Su K’an continue!” said one of the nobles. “Even if Uguisu cannot play, let us still hear that happy tune.”
So Su K’an began again the same song she always played, that the court never seemed to tire of.
Uguisu, meanwhile, hid her face behind her sleeves, wanting to melt into the floor out of embarassment and shame.
When Su K’an finished, the Emperor signaled that it was time for the poetry contest to begin. The dishes and bottles were taken away and a space was cleared in the center of the room, crowding the nobles against the kichos of their ladies. Then Shonasaki, Nikao and Kitsune came forward, and sat in a line to the left of the Emperor. They were to be the Team of the Left, and would write poems in favor of Uguisu. Page boys placed paper, brushes and inkstones before each of the ladies-in-waiting. Nikao seemed to have difficulty controlling her giggles, and Uguisu worried about what poems she might write. The Team of the Right, consisting of three of Su K’an’s ladies-in-waiting, seated themselves at the Emperor’s right and were also provided with writing implements. Uguisu knew almost nothing about them, save that they had some scholarship in Chinese literature, and they were highly regarded at court. No doubt it was thought that this would aid them in their poetic defense of Su K’an.
Next, the gentlemen who would read the poems aloud were announced and came forward. Kazenatsu would read for the Team of the Left. Uguisu wondered if this showed some favor for her side from the Fujiwara—for it would be ironic if true. But after a moment, seeing the looks Kazenatsu and Kitsune exchanged, she realized it was a favor for someone else.
Then the reader was announced for the Team of the Right—the Minister of the Household, Echizen no Netsubo.
Uguisu felt as if struck by lightning. My own father reads for the team against me! She searched his face for some reassurance, some indication that he felt it was only a game. But her father would not even look at her.
The Emperor slapped his fan against the dais to silence the murmuring crowd. “Let the uta-awase begin! It has been decided that the Team of the Left shall be first.”
Shonasaki bent over her paper and began to write. It had been said the night before that having Shonasaki first writer of the team would give Uguisu a good strong beginning—for the first writer invented the imagery that all the other poets would have to ring changes upon. But Uguisu felt it hardly mattered now.
The poem was handed to Kazenatsu, who read in a strong, clear voice,
“Deep as the waters of Lake Biwa,
is the music of our lady,
upon whom Benten smiles.”
There came murmurs of approval at this poem, and even Uguisu was amazed by Shonasaki’s skill. Benten was the only goddess among the seven deities of luck, and was the patron of music and literature, as well as the Bringer of Happiness. She was also associated with wealth and happy marriage, and was said to live with the Dragon King beneath the waters of Lake Biwa. Not only was Uguisu smiled upon by Benten, but the poem strongly identified her with the goddess. A powerful image indeed.
The first writer for the Team of the Right, however, quickly finished her poem and handed it to Netsubo, who read,
“Sunlight on the waters of Lake Biwa,
Is the music of our l
ady,
Who has also known the court of Dragons.”
Expressions of approval were made to this poem also, whose last line led to many interesting interpretations.
It now became Nikao’s turn, and Uguisu worried as she hesitated, it seemed, too long. But in a few minutes, Nikao managed to set brush to paper and shortly handed a poem to Kazenatsu.
“Sunlight comes and goes with clouds and nightfall,
Yet beneath the Heavens Biwa remains,
Deep and constant.”
Uguisu was not happy with this poem. Not only did it simplify the poetic imagery, but it brought in hints of her relations to the Emperor. Was Nikao saying Su K’an was a passing fancy while Uguisu would remain? Was she suggesting Su K’an’s affections for the Emperor were shallow? There were disapproving mutterings from the nobles as the second of the Team of the Right began her poem. When Netsubo read it, Uguisu realized just how foolish Nikao’s poem had been.
“The waters of Lake Biwa are nourished
By the rains of Heaven,
Only to flow away, out to the sea.”
It was a very subtle rebuke, subtly handled. It implied Uguisu did not return the care of the Emperor, preferring to put her energies into her own interests. Uguisu closed her eyes, praying that Kitsune could somehow salvage the situation. Kitsune was not as poetically inclined as Shonasaki, but she could be clever, when she chose. With some relief, Uguisu saw her write her poem very quickly. Kazenatsu read,
“Without the sea, there are no rains from Heaven,
Biwa is more than Heaven’s mirror,
Her dragons lie within her, not above.”
For a moment there was stunned silence. Then came angry murmurs from the crowd. Did Uguisu think herself above the Emperor!? Uguisu saw the Emperor scowl at Kitsune and hid her face behind her sleeves, knowing she had lost. How could Kitsune say such things?
The last poet on the Team of the Right snatched up her brush and eagerly began to write, but with a snap of his fan the Emperor ordered her to stop. Turning to Kitsune, he asked, “What does your poem mean?”