A simple question that covered so much, and yet at the moment I didn’t have a clear answer. I think I understood more of what had happened than Kanemore did, but the “why” of it all was as big a mystery to me as it was to him. I shared the one thing I thought I knew for certain.
“I’ve only been able to think of one clear reason. I have been drinking for the past day or so to see if I could perhaps forget that reason.”
“Have you succeeded?”
“No.”
He leaned against the rail with me. Out on the water, the mists were forming into the likenesses of young women. Kanemore glanced at them nervously. “Then share that reason with me. Preferably someplace else.”
I smiled. “You must drink with me then.”
“If needs must then let’s get to it.”
I picked up Teiko’s letter and we left the ghostly women behind. From there we went to the Widow Tamahara’s establishment, as it was the closest. Usually it was filled with drinking samuru, but for the moment all was quiet. We found an unused table, and Kanemore ordered saké, which the smiling Widow Tamahara delivered personally. Kanemore poured out two generous measures, and we drank in companionable silence until Kanemore could stand it no longer. “So. What is the answer you drink to forget?” he asked, as he topped off his cup and my own. “Why did Teiko kill herself?”
“The only obvious and immediate answer is that, upon her death, you would be free to return to the capital and look after Takahito.”
He frowned. “But you were going to be with her.”
I sighed deeply. “Which did not alter her plans in the slightest, as apparently I was not an acceptable alternative.”
“That is a very sad thing to bear,” he said after a while, “and also very odd. I know my sister was fond of you.”
“Maybe. And yet . . . ”
“Yet what?”
I took a deep breath and then an even deeper drink. “And yet there is a voice deep in my brain that keeps shouting that I am a complete and utter ass, that I do not understand anything, and the reason Teiko killed herself had nothing to do with me. Try as I might, drink as I might, that troublesome fellow only shouts louder.”
“You have suffered greatly because of my family,” Kanemore said. “And I know that I have no right to ask more of you. Yet it was my sister’s wish that you read her letter. Will you grant her last request?”
I didn’t answer right away. “I once asked what you were afraid of, Kanemore-sama. I think it only fair to tell you what I am afraid of. I am very afraid of what Princess Teiko will say to me now.”
Yet there was never really any question of refusing. I took out the letter. After hesitating as long as I dared I broke the seal. In doing so I discovered that, when I feared the very worst, I had shown entirely too little imagination.
And, yes, I was in fact a complete and utter ass.
The letter was very short, and this is most of what it said:
“The crane flies above
The lake’s clear shining surface.
White feathers glisten,
Made pure by sacred water,
As the poet’s book was cleansed.”
At the end of the poem she had simply written: “Forgive me—Teiko.”
I thought, perhaps, if one day I was able to forgive myself, maybe then I would find the strength to forgive Teiko. Not this day, but that didn’t matter. I had other business. I put the letter away.
“Kampai, Kanemore-sama. Let us finish this jar of fine saké.”
I knew Kanemore was deeply curious about the letter but too polite to ask, for which I was grateful. He hefted the container and frowned. “It is almost empty. I’ll order another.”
“No, my friend, for this is all we will drink tonight. From here we will visit the baths, and then go to sleep, for tomorrow our heads must be clear.”
“Why? What happens tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we restore your sister’s honor.”
The Imperial Court was composed more of tradition and ritual than people. Everything in its time, everything done precisely so. Yet it was astonishing to me how quickly matters could unfold, given the right impetus.
Kanemore kneeled beside me in the hall where justice, or at least Fujiwara no Sentaro’s version of it, was dispensed. The Minister had not yet taken his place on the dais, but my attention was on a curtained alcove on the far side of the dais. I knew I had seen that curtain move. I leaned over and whispered to Kanemore.
“His Majesty Reizei is present, I hope?”
“I believe so, accompanied by Chancellor Yorimichi I expect. He will not show himself, of course.”
Of course. The acknowledged presence of the Emperor in these proceedings was against form, but that didn’t matter. He was here, and everyone knew it. I was almost certain he would be, once word reached him. Kanemore, through another relative in close attendance on His Majesty, made sure that word did so reach him. I think Lord Sentaro convened in such haste as a way to prevent that eventuality, but in this he was disappointed. He entered now, looking both grave and more than a little puzzled.
Kanemore leaned close, “I’ve sent a servant for a bucket of water, as you requested. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Kanemore was obviously apprehensive. Under the circumstances I did not blame him. Yet I was perfectly calm. I claimed no measure of courage greater than Kanemore’s; I simply had the distinct advantage that I no longer cared what happened to me.
“What is this matter you have brought before the Imperial Ministry?” Lord Sentaro demanded from the dais.
“I am here to remove the unjust stain on the honor of the late Princess Teiko, daughter of the Emperor Sanjo, Imperial Consort to the late Emperor Suzaku II,” I said, clearly and with more than enough volume to carry my words throughout the room.
There was an immediate murmur of voices from the clerks, minor judges, members of the Court, and attendants present. Lord Sentaro glared for silence until the voices subsided.
“This unfortunate matter has already been settled. Lady Teiko was identified by my nephew, who died a hero’s death in Mutsu province. Consider your words carefully, Lord Yamada.”
“I choose my words with utmost care, Your Excellency. Your nephew was indeed a hero and brought honor to the Fujiwara family. He did not, however, name Princess Teiko as his lover. This I will prove.”
Lord Sentaro motioned me closer, and when he leaned down his words were for me alone. “Shall I have cause to embarrass you a second time, Lord Yamada?”
Up until that point I almost felt sorry for the man, but no longer. Now my blade, so to speak, was drawn. “We shall soon see, Lord Minister of Justice. May I examine the letter?”
He indicated assent and I returned to my place as Lord Sentaro’s stentorian voice boomed across the room. “Produce my nephew’s letter so that Lord Yamada may examine it and see what everyone knows is plainly written there.”
A few snickers blossomed like weeds here and there in the courtroom despite the seriousness of the proceedings, but I ignored them. A waiting clerk hurried up, bowed low, and handed me the letter in question. I unrolled it and then signaled Kanemore who in turn signaled someone waiting at the back of the room. A young man in Taira livery came hurrying up with a bucket of clear water, placed it beside me, and then withdrew.
Lord Sentaro frowned. “Lord Yamada, did you neglect to wash your face this morning?”
More laughter. I was examining the poem closely and did not bother to look up. “The water is indeed to wash away a stain, Lord Sentaro. Not, however, one of mine.”
The letter was not very long, and mostly spoke of the things Kiyoshi had seen and the hardships of the camp. The poem actually came after his personal seal. I unrolled the letter in its entirety, no more than the length of my forearm, and carefully dipped the paper into the water.
There was consternation in the court. Two guards rushed forward, but one glare from Prince Kanemore made them hesitate, looking t
o Lord Sentaro for instruction.
“Lady Teiko’s sin dishonors us all,” Lord Sentaro said, and his voice was pure sweet reason, “but the letter has been witnessed by hundreds. Destroying it will change nothing.”
“I am not destroying the letter, Lord Sentaro. I am merely cleansing it. As the poet Ono no Komachi did in our great-grandsires’ time.”
Too late the fool understood. A hundred years before, a Lady of the Court had been accused by an enemy of copying a poem from an old book and presenting the piece as her own work. She faced her accuser and washed the book in question in clear water, just as I was doing now, and with the same result. I held the letter up high for all to see. Kiyoshi’s letter was, of course, perfectly intact.
Except for the poem. That was gone.
More consternation. Lord Sentaro looked as if someone had struck him between the eyes with a very large hammer. I didn’t wait for him to recover.
“It is a sad thing,” I said, again making certain my voice carried to every corner—and alcove—of the court, “that a mere hundred years after the honored poet Ono no Komachi exposed this simple trick we should be deceived again. The ink in Fujiwara no Kiyoshi’s letter is of course untouched, for it has been wedded to this paper for the past fifteen years. Clearly, the poem slandering Princess Teiko was added within the month.”
“Are you accusing me —” Lord Sentaro stopped, but it was too late. He himself had made the association; I needed to do little else.
“I accuse no one. I merely state two self-evident facts: That Teiko-hime was innocent, and that whoever wrote the poem accusing her had both access to the letter,” and here I paused for emphasis, “and access to a Fujiwara seal. These conclusions are beyond dispute, Excellency. At the present time the identity of the person responsible is of lesser concern.”
The man was practically sputtering. “But . . . but she was here! Why did Princess Teiko not speak up? She said nothing!”
I bowed low. “How should innocence answer a lie?”
The murmuring of the witnesses was nearly deafening for a time. It had only just begun to subside when a servant appeared from behind the alcove, hurried up to the dais, and whispered briefly in Lord Sentaro’s ear. His face, before this slowly turning a bright pink, now turned ashen gray. Kanemore and I bowed to the court as the official proceedings were hastily declared closed. The proceedings that mattered most, I knew, had just begun.
That evening Kanemore found me once more on Shijo Bridge. The moon was beginning to wane, now past its full beauty, but I still watched its reflection in the water as I waited for the ghosts to appear. Kanemore approached and then leaned against the rail next to me.
“Well?” I asked.
“Teiko’s honors and titles are to be posthumously restored,” he said. “Lord Sentaro is, at his own expense and at Chancellor Yorimichi’s insistence, arranging prayers for her soul at every single temple in Kyoto.”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Kanemore-sama, you don’t sound happy about it.”
“For the memory of my sister, I am,” he said. “Yet one could also wish we had discovered this deception soon enough to save her. Still, I will have satisfaction against Lord Sentaro over this, Minister of Justice or no.”
I laughed. “No need. Even assuming that the expense of the prayers doesn’t ruin him, Lord Sentaro will be digging clams at the beach at Suma or Akashi within a month, or I will be astonished,” I said. “It’s enough.”
“Enough? It was his slander that killed my sister! Though I must ask, while we’re on the subject—how did you know?”
I had hoped to spare us both this additional pain, but clearly Kanemore wasn’t going to be content with what he had. There was that much of his sister in him.
“Lord Sentaro did not kill your sister, Kanemore-sama. We did.”
One can never reliably predict a man’s reaction to the truth. I thought it quite possible that Kanemore would take my head then and there. I’m not sure what was stopping him, but while he was still staring at me in shock, I recited the poem from his sister’s letter. “I trust you get the allusion,” I said when I was done.
From the stunned look on the poor man’s face it was obvious that he did. “Teiko knew the poem was a forgery? Why didn’t she—”
At that moment Kanemore’s expression bore a striking resemblance to Lord Sentaro’s earlier in the day. I nodded.
“You understand now. Teiko knew the poem was forged for the obvious reason that she did it herself. She used a carefully chosen ink that matched the original for color but was of poorer quality. I don’t know how she acquired the proper seal, but I have no doubt that she did so. It’s likely she started the original rumors as well, probably through her maids. We can confirm this, but I see no need.”
Kanemore grasped for something, anything. “If Lord Sentaro thought the letter was genuine, that does explain why he didn’t destroy it, but it does not explain why he didn’t use it himself! Why didn’t he accuse Teiko openly?”
“I have no doubt he meant to confront her in private if he’d had the chance, but in court? Why should he? If Takahito was Kiyoshi’s son, then the Emperor’s heir was a Fujiwara after all, and with Teiko the Dowager Empress under Sentaro’s thumb, thanks to that letter. Until that day came he could continue to champion Prince Norihira, but he won no matter who took the throne, or so the fool thought. Teiko was not mistaken when she said Sentaro was searching for the letter—he wanted it back as much as she did.”
Kanemore, warrior that he was, continued to fight a lost battle. “Rubbish! Why would Teiko go to such lengths to deliberately dishonor herself?”
I met his gaze. “To make her son Emperor.”
Despite my sympathy for Kanemore, I had come too far alone. Now he was going to share my burden whether he liked it or not. I gave him the rest.
“Consider this—so long as the Fujiwara preferred Prince Norihira, Takahito’s position remained uncertain. Would the Teiko you knew resign herself to that if there was an alternative? Any alternative?”
Kanemore looked grim. “No. She would not.”
I nodded. “Just so. Teiko gave Sentaro possession of the letter solely to show that he could have altered it. Then she likewise arranged for the letter to disappear and for us to find it again. In hindsight I realize that it had all been a little too easy, though not so easy as to arouse immediate suspicion. Those shikigami might very well have killed me if I’d been alone, but Teiko sent you to make certain that did not happen. Her attention to detail was really astounding.”
Kanemore tried again. “But . . . if this was her plan, then it worked perfectly! Lord Sentaro was humiliated before the Emperor, the Chancellor, the entire Court! His power is diminished! She didn’t have to kill herself.”
I almost laughed again. “Humiliated? Diminished? Why should Teiko risk so much and settle for so little? With the responsibility for her death laid solely at his feet, Lord Sentaro’s power at Court has been broken. The entire Fujiwara clan has taken a blow that will be a long time healing. No one will oppose Prince Takahito’s claim to the Throne now, or dare speak ill of your sister in or out of the Imperial Presence. It was Teiko’s game, Kanemore-san. She chose the stakes.”
Kanemore finally accepted defeat. “Even the shikigami . . . Goji-san, I swear I did not know.”
“I believe you. Teiko understood full well what would have happened if she’d confided in either of us. Yet we can both take comfort in this much—we did not fail your sister. We both performed exactly as she hoped.”
Kanemore was silent for a time. When he spoke again he looked at me intently. “I thought my sister’s payment was in gold. I was wrong. She paid in revenge.”
I grunted. “Lord Sentaro? That was . . . satisfying, I admit, but I’d compose a poem praising the beauty of the man’s hindquarters and recite it in front of the entire Court tomorrow if that would bring your sister back.”
He managed a brief smile then, but his expression quickly t
urned serious again. “Not Sentaro. I mean you could have simply ignored Teiko’s final poem, and her death would have been for nothing and my nephew’s ruin complete and final. She offered this to you.”
I smiled. “She knew . . . Well, say in all fairness that she left the choice to me. Was that a choice at all, Kanemore-san?”
He didn’t answer, but then I didn’t think there was one. I stood gazing out at the moon’s reflection. The charming ghosts were in their procession. I think my neck was extended at the proper angle. The rest, so far as I knew or cared, was up to Kanemore.
I felt his hand on my shoulder. I’m not sure if that was intended to reassure me or steady himself.
“You must drink with me, Goji-san,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
“I must drink,” I said. “With or without you.”
We returned to the Widow Tamahara’s establishment. I wondered if we would drink to the point of despair and allow ourselves to be swallowed up by the darkness. Or would we survive and go on, as if I had said nothing at all on Shijo Bridge? While we waited for our saké, I think I received an answer of sorts as Kanemore’s attention wandered elsewhere in the room. He watched the samuru laughing and drinking at the other low tables, and his distaste was obvious.
“A sorry lot. Always drinking and whoring and gambling, when they’re not killing each other.” Kanemore sighed deeply and continued, “And yet they are the future.”
I frowned. “These louts? What makes you think so?”
Our saké arrived and Kanemore poured. “Think? No, Goji-san—I know. Year by year the power and wealth of the provincial daimyos increases, and their private armies are filled with these samurai,” he said, now using the more common corrupted word, “whose loyalties are to their lords and not the Emperor. They are the reason upstarts like the Abe Clan are able to create so much trouble in the first place.”
“Dark days are ahead if you are correct.”
Kanemore raised his cup. “Dark days are behind as well.”
So. It seemed we had chosen to live, and in my heart I hoped that, at least for a while, things might get better. To that end I drank, and as the evening progressed I used the saké to convince myself that all the things I needed desperately to believe were really true.
On the Banks of the River of Heaven Page 25