by I. J. Parker
He grunted. “I should have taken care of them. If you had brought him to me, no doubt I would have agreed to an adoption.”
“I went home and gathered all the gold I could find, and Kohime added what she had saved, and we went back to her. But when we told her what we wanted, she became upset and cried she would rather die than sell her son. She snatched up the boy and ran out into the garden. We were afraid she would do something desperate. Kohime went after her and tried to take the child. They fought …”
Lord Masuda stopped her. “Here is Kohime now. Let her speak for herself.”
Kohime had been weeping. Her round face was splotched and her hair disheveled. She threw herself on the floor before her father-in-law. “I didn’t mean to kill her,” she wailed. “I thought she was going into the lake with the child and grabbed for her. When we fell down, the boy ran away. She bit and kicked me. I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly I was bleeding and afraid. My hand found a loose stone on the path and I hit her with it. I didn’t mean to kill her.” She burst into violent tears.
Lord Masuda sighed deeply.
Lady Masuda moved beside Kohime and stroked her hair. “It was an accident, Father. The boy came back,” she said, her voice toneless. “He had a wooden sword and he cut Kohime with it. I saw it all from the veranda of the villa. When Kohime came running back to me, she was covered with blood. I took her into the house to stop the bleeding. She said she had killed the woman.” She brushed away tears.
A heavy silence fell. Then Akitada asked gently, “Did you go back to make sure Peony was dead, Lady Masuda?”
She nodded. “We were terrified, but after a while we both crept out. She was still lying there, quite still. The boy was holding her hand and weeping. Kohime said, ‘We must hide the body.’ But there was the boy. Of course we could not take him back with us after what had happened. We thought perhaps we could make it look as if she had fallen into the water by accident. We decided that I would take away the boy, and Kohime would hide the body because she is the stronger. I tried to talk to the child, but it was as if his spirit had fled. His eyes were open, but that was all. He let me take him, and I carried him away from the house. I did not know what to do, but when I saw a woman in the market packing up to return to her village, I gave her the money and the child.”
The warden muttered, “All that gold, and the Mimuras beat and starved him.”
“And you, Kohime?” asked Lord Masuda.
Kohime, the plain peasant girl in the fine silks of a noblewoman, said with childlike simplicity, “I put Peony in the lake. It wasn’t far, and people thought she’d drowned herself.”
“Dear heaven!” muttered the warden and looked sick.
“You have both behaved very badly,” said Lord Masuda to his daughters-in-law. “What will happen to you is up to the authorities now.”
After a glance at the warden, who shook his head helplessly, Akitada said, “Peony’s death was a tragic accident. No good can come from a public disclosure now. It is her son’s future we must consider.”
The warden was still staring at Kohime. “It was getting dark,” he muttered. “You can see how two hysterical women could make such a mistake.”
“You are very generous.” Lord Masuda bowed. “In that case, I shall decide their punishment. My grandson will be raised as my heir by my son’s first lady. It will be her opportunity to atone to him. Kohime and her daughters will leave this house and reside in the lake villa, where she will pray daily for the soul of the poor woman she killed.” He looked sternly at his daughters-in-law. “Will you agree to this?”
They bowed. Lady Masuda said, “Yes. Thank you, Father. We are both deeply grateful.”
Akitada looked after the women as they left, Lady Masuda with her arm around Kohime, and thought of how she had said, “Loosing a child is the most terrible loss of all.”
When they were gone, the old lord clapped his hands. “Where is my grandson?”
The boy came, clean and beautifully dressed, and sat beside his grandfather. “Well, Yori,” the old man asked, “shall you like it here, do you think?”
The boy looked around and nodded. “Yes, grandfather, but I would like Patch to live here, too.”
• • •
They put down their offering of fish. The cat was watching them from the broken veranda. It waited until they had withdrawn a good distance before strolling up and sniffing the food. With another disdainful glance in their direction, it settled down to its meal, and Akitada threw the net. But the animal shied away at the last moment and, only partially caught, streaked into the house, dragging the net behind. A gruesome series of yowls followed.
“Patch got hurt,” cried the boy. “Please go help her.”
Reluctantly, Akitada climbed into the villa. He used the same post from which he had looked for the ghost, but this time, he crossed the broken veranda and stepped into the empty room. Walking gingerly on the broken boards, he found the cat in the next room, rolling about completely entangled in the netting. He carefully scooped up the growling and spitting bundle and returned. He already had one leg over the banister when he heard the mournful sound of the ghost again. Passing the furious cat down to the boy, he looked back over his shoulder.
One of the long strips of oiled paper covering a window had come loose and slid across the opening as a breeze from the lake caught it. Its edge brushed the floor and made the queer wailing sound he had heard.
So much for ghosts.
Outside, Patch, a very real cat, began to purr in Yori’s arms.
• • •
It was almost dark before Akitada returned to the inn to collect his belongings and pay his bill. He would not reach home until late, but he wanted to be with his wife on this final night of the festival. They would mourn their son together, sharing their grief as they had shared their love.
When he rode out of Otsu, people were lighting the bonfires to guide the dead on their way back to the other world. Soon they would gather on the shore to send off the spirit boats, and the tiny points of light would bob on the waves until it looked as if the stars had fallen into the water.
Some day he would return to visit this Yori, the child who had come into his life to remind him that even in the darkest depth of despair man may find a spark of new hope.
This is another New Year’s story. Here, the holiday marks a chance for a new beginning for Akitada, who has become increasingly alienated from his family and friends. Tora turns up, and Bishop Sesshin is an old friend from the novel Rashomon Gate. Moon cakes were traditionally served during this season.
Moon Cakes
Heian-kyo (Kyoto): around the New Year, 1021 to 1022:
THE old monk leaned heavily on his tall staff. He wore a thin, worn robe, and the drifting snow had dusted his large-brimmed straw hat and the ragged straw cape with white. His straw sandals clung to feet that were blue with cold.
Hossho, who had gate duty at the temple, eyed him suspiciously. The monk looked weak with fatigue as he took the steps one at a time, resting often, making small gasping sounds of effort or pain. Hossho had no patience with wandering beggars who thought they served the Buddha by renouncing the world so completely that they became a burden on others. This one looked like one of those hermits who spend their lives in some primitive hut on a mountaintop, eating bark and acorns, and then decide to seek out a temple because they are sick and need a place to die.
It was sinful, to his way of thinking, to run up new debts when one should be clearing his accounts before the New Year. This old beggar was bringing bad luck—and probably disease—at this auspicious time.
“You, there,” he called out from a safe distance. “Best not tarry here. It’s getting dark and the snow’s getting worse. I’m about to lock up for the night.”
The old monk stopped and raised his head so he could look up at Hossho from under the brim of his hat. His face was deeply lined and pale except for some feverish redness under the eyes. “I need to sta
y overnight,” he said in a meek voice. “Just until the New Year.”
Hossho shook his head firmly. “Not here, old fellow. We’re full up for the celebrations.” In fact, room might have been found, but the abbot had invited noble visitors and would not want them offended by the sight and smell of this one—or worse, infected by whatever disease the man carried.
Because of the meekness of the man’s plea, Hossho expected him to turn around promptly and retreat under the rock he had crawled from, but the old monk’s eyes narrowed, he grasped his staff more firmly and took the last steps with surprising energy.
“You have no business turning people away,” he said quite sharply. “Now go to your abbot and tell him that I must stay.” He waved Hossho away with an imperious gesture.
Hossho opened his mouth in outraged response, but the strange monk hobbled past him and lowered himself to the ground under the sweeping roof of the temple gate. He clearly was not going to leave, and Hossho did not want to touch him. Biting his lip, he went for reinforcements.
• • •
The day after New Year’s, the sun reappeared, the snow began to melt and Akitada took his dog for a walk to check for signs of spring among the many trees along the banks of the Kamo River.
An hour later, they were back, muddy, chilled, and limping. The dog had picked up a thorn in one paw, and Akitada’s old leg injury rebelled against the cold and exertion. Akitada sat down in the warm sunshine on the steps to his house to remove the thorn and then brush dirt and twigs out of the dog’s coat. After his unfortunate remark about the excessively sweet moon cakes this morning, he had no wish to offend his wife and staff again. His household had been under the impression that he was fond of the sweet confection and had gone to great lengths to procure the ingredients and to prepare the cakes for the New Year. Now an instant coldness had spread through the family, and Akitada had escaped to the less complicated relationship with his dog.
The dog, aptly named Trouble, had been with him for several years now and, because both managed to give offense to the women in the household despite their best intentions, a bond had formed between them. Akitada was brushing, making soothing comments, and getting his face licked when the tall, well-dressed monk arrived.
Young monks of a lofty type were not seen very often at his house, and Akitada suspected this one might be lost.
“Yes?” he asked while Trouble went to investigate the visitor.
“The servant sent me to you.” The monk twitched his neat black silk robe away from the dog’s inquisitive nose and stared down at Akitada, whose muddy gown was covered with gray dog hairs. “Umm, Lord Sugawara?” he asked dubiously, kicking the persistent dog away. Trouble wrinkled up his nose and growled.
“Yes.” Akitada called the dog back and resumed brushing him. He aimed the strokes of his brush vigorously in the monk’s direction. “And you are?”
The monk stepped away from the cloud of dog hairs and extended a folded note with two fingers. “Shinnyo, private secretary to His Imperial Highness, the bishop,” he said stiffly and cast a disbelieving glance at the semi-ruinous state of the Sugawara residence. It was clear that he thought master, dog, and house well-matched and unworthy of his visit.
But Akitada forgot him. He had laid down the brush and unfolded the note. Only one member of the imperial family was a bishop, and he was an old friend.
• • •
A few hours later, he sat, more suitably attired, in Bishop Sesshin’s study, sipping hot tea and feeling sorrowful.
Sesshin had grown shockingly old. Once a plump man, filled with lively energy, he had shrunk to a mere shadow of himself. His eyes were still kind, but his hands shook and his skin hung in yellow folds where the flesh had disappeared from the bones. It was all too easy to see the grinning skull beneath the face.
Worse, there was a vagueness in Sesshin’s manner that suggested he had little patience for business with the living any longer. Seeing him this way grieved Akitada greatly because he was fond of Sesshin.
“You and your family are well, I trust?” the bishop asked Akitada after a long silence.
“Yes, Excellency.” No point in reminding this unworldly man that they had lost their only child in the recent epidemic and were patching up the pieces of their married life.
“Good,” Sesshin murmured, plucking at his sleeve.
Akitada shifted a little to ease his painful leg and wondered if Sesshin had forgotten that he sent for him. “I hope all is well with your Excellency?” he ventured after another long pause.
Sesshin tried to speak and coughed instead, a cough that left him gasping. Shinnyo, the secretary, rushed over to hand him his cup and help him drink. “I’m old and weary and shall die soon,” Sesshin said when the fit was over. Akitada opened his mouth to protest, but Sesshin waved the words away. “Don’t bother, Akitada. There is no time.” Each sentence was an effort for the prince bishop, who spoke in short gasps, catching his breath in between. “I have sent for you … because something has happened that I wish to set right if I can. It involves a member of my family … and may affect the imperial succession.”
Akitada hid his shock and waited.
Sesshin took a ragged breath and said, “You may leave us now, Shinnyo.” He waited until the door had closed behind the secretary, then said, “There’s a person, a very highly-placed person …” He paused to take another sip of tea with a hand that shook so badly that he spilt some. The fine brocade stole, Akitada saw, was already stained. Sesshin began again. “Never mind. I trust you and hate all this secrecy. The second prince is in trouble.”
Prince Atsuhira was Sesshin’s nephew and uncle to the reigning emperor who was still very young. The prince had a reputation for great charm and learning and was very well liked by high and low alike.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Akitada said, aware that it probably was.
“It may cost him his life,” Sesshin said bleakly. “He wrote a letter to a young woman. A letter from a man in love is from a man not in his right mind.” He took another sip of tea. “It expresses a wish that he were emperor … so that he could make her his empress.”
“Oh!” That was indeed serious. Wishing to remove an emperor in order to ascend the throne oneself was a matter of high treason. Akitada asked, “Who has the letter now?”
Sesshin was racked by another cough and reached for his cup again. “You get right to the point as always,” he said after a moment. “I do not know. And, yes, in the wrong hands, that letter is his end. It will be interpreted … as calling on the gods to strike His Majesty dead. The prince has a poetic temperament. He doesn’t always mean what he writes. In any case … I was offered the letter … for a very large amount of gold. A friend was to make the payment and bring the letter to me.” Sesshin’s breath rattled alarmingly after this effort.
Akitada thought. “There may not have been a letter, Excellency,” he suggested. “A daring criminal may merely have pretended to have it in order to collect the gold.”
Sesshin shook his head. “I’m not in my dotage, Akitada. He provided a copy and I showed it to the second prince. The prince admitted to writing it. No, an evil man has got hold of the letter. And my friend has disappeared. Along with the gold.”
More puzzling information. The prince-bishop’s friend must be a person of high rank, and those who “live above the clouds” did not disappear unless they wished to do so. “Do you want me to find him?”
Sesshin looked bleak. “He may be dead. I want you to find the letter. Since nothing has happened, there may still be time. Do you know Kiyomizu-dera?”
“The Pure Water Temple? Yes, of course.”
“I know the abbot and though it was not easy at my age, I paid him a visit the night before the New Year. That accounts for my illness. My friend was to bring the letter to me there. He never came.” The bishop gave Akitada a pleading look. “Since he would not betray me, he must be dead. Will you help? Perhaps I’m sending you on a dangerous j
ourney, but I may not live long.” He broke off to cough again.
Akitada said quickly, “I am honored by your trust and shall do my utmost.” He tried to sound optimistic but was more at sea than ever. “Who is this friend, Excellency?”
“A hermit. His name used to be Ueda. Please find out what happened. Quietly. We can trust no one.”
The name meant nothing to Akitada. He felt completely inadequate to the request but said, “Of course, Excellency. Where does this Ueda live?”
“I believe he travels among the temples near the capital. But you must not ask for him by name. Thank you, Akitada.” Sesshin sighed and closed his eyes.
When the secretary saw Akitada out, he said, “He is very ill. I have to lift him. He can no longer stand or walk without support. Please be sure to do whatever he asks. The worry is very bad for him.”
Akitada revised his first impression. He still did not like Shinnyo very much, but the young monk clearly cared for the ailing bishop.