by Nogami Yaeko
Someone’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen. He must have a visitor. Kisaku, Unai’s nephew, who was from Sakai and had practiced tea there, was taking care of Rikyū, but he had been sent to the castle to inform Hideyoshi that Rikyū wasn’t coming to greet him today. The old couple that worked for Sōunji Temple now lived in another hut. So it wasn’t a surprise that someone had stepped unannounced into the kitchen.
Rikyū enjoyed the simple life, and so he didn’t mind getting up himself to see who was there. In the dim entrance to the kitchen, he saw a man with a straw hat, wet from the rain. He could have been a farmer coming to sell fish from the Hayakawa River, or maybe someone delivering food from the fields. “Go to the house at the back,” he told the stranger, businesslike, speaking to him from inside the four-mat room.
As he turned to go back to the porch, a stammering voice followed him. “Tea master.”
“Oh! It’s …”
The man at the door threw his straw hat away and plunged into the kitchen, touching his head on the stepping board, sobbing even as he bowed low. Rikyū ran up to him.
“Sōji, how did you get here?”
Sōji was too overcome to speak.
“I’m so glad you came!”
“Me, too.”
“Come to the front. I’ll have my old servant bring water to wash your feet.”
But Sōji shook his head and gestured to show that he would rather stay where he was. Then he took off his rain jacket, which was soaking wet and muddy. His feet were muddy also, and scratched bloody by wild brambles. His sandals were torn. He scooped water from a nearby jar into a washing basin and washed his own feet.
Rikyū let him do as he wished. He realized that this unexpected visitor, with his unusual appearance, meant something extraordinary.
When Rikyū finally coaxed Sōji inside, there was only one thing he wanted to ask, and only one thing Sōji wanted to talk about. It had nothing to do with Sakai. It was how Sōji had managed to escape.
11
Sōji purposely waited for the rain to return so that he would have an excuse to wear a straw hat. It made him look more like an ordinary farmer. For an added touch, he carried a machete that would not only add to his farmer’s disguise, but would also be useful for clearing a path through the bushes where there were no roads. He left the castle gate after midnight. Since the nights were short that time of year, the sky would lighten before six. If he could be through the battle lines and reach the Hakone road by then, he could mingle with the people on the streets in the next big village. That was where he could find out where Rikyū was.
In the fall, Sōji’s students used to invite him to gather mushrooms and then have tea. That experience helped him to navigate the mountain roads. He avoided the Hosokawa camp at the foot of the mountain and took a treacherous mountain path.
Every time he sensed a watching guard, he hid. Innumerable fireflies scattered like phosphorescent grain in his wake. Even the rain, which had been heavy earlier, stopped as if to make his passage easier. The clouds that hid the round, bright moon split each time the rough wind blew, spluttering rain in their wake. His eyes adapted to the darkness like a wild foal’s. When he looked behind him at the dark, mysterious woods, the torches that had been burning through the night glimmered with dying red light as the sky grew silver. He was calm enough to admire the beauty of the scene. After daybreak, he was able to walk freely on the mountain road. The machete in his hand made him look like a diligent farmer going to cut grasses on a wet day.
He met real farmers on the road, and it was one of them who unexpectedly told him where Rikyū was. As he passed through the village of Itabashimura and came to the Hakone road, the sky opened suddenly, and it poured. He was exhausted as much from fear and anxiety as from the journey itself, and so he ducked inside a guard hut to rest until the rain let up. He sat on a log and munched on some rice balls he had brought with him. Before long, another man came into the hut, also seeking refuge from the rain.
As soon as the man sat, Sōji offered to share his rice balls. That started a conversation. The other man, who seemed open-hearted and talkative, was a servant at a nearby estate. The owner of the estate, Gorōbei, was a prominent, wealthy man in the Enoura region. The servant told Sōji that he was on the way back to his master’s house from visiting his relatives in the village of Ogikubomura, where he had stayed the night before while on household business. He bragged about life at the estate, but one key fact caught Sōji’s attention: occasionally, Hideyoshi and his major retainers would come to his master’s estate for amusement—celebrations, say, or a tea ceremony.
At those words, Sōji’s heart leaped, and he listened intently. The servant knew that it was Rikyū who had come to his master’s house for tea each time. This also happened to be the servant who brought Rikyū his favorite food—dried mackerel—and he mentioned the crucial detail that Rikyū had moved from Sōunji Temple to a house in the mountains.
“You’re so lucky it’s almost uncanny,” Rikyū commented after listening to Sōji’s story.
Sōji felt the same. But he repeated again that he owed Genan everything. “I could never have done it without his help. I wouldn’t even have gotten past Komine Gate.”
“I assumed that would be the case. It sounds like Genan is a great man. If he commanded the armies of Odawara instead of Ujimasa, they might not be facing the end to Sōun’s five-generation project.”
“That means, tea master …” Sōji stammered. “Will Hōjō’s side be defeated?”
“When you were there, you could not grasp the real situation.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Whenever the talk in Odawara got too negative, and people felt sure they would lose the war, there would be new rumors of Odawara winning a battle. Tokugawa was at the castle engaging in peace negotiations even as they spoke. That was what Sōji had heard, but he didn’t know anything for sure. He asked Rikyū if there were really peace talks.
“There really is a difference between what you hear on one side of a battle and what you hear on the other! Actually, it was Hōjō’s side that asked for the talks. They finally gave up on their future and contacted Tokugawa.”
“Then the story was reversed.”
That wasn’t all. People were saying that whenever Tokugawa’s troops tried to attack the castle, they were defeated at Shinoguruwa, a compound on the eastern side of the property. The purpose of the meetings was to negotiate peace, but the first condition Tokugawa gave them was that they had to release Toku-hime, Ujinao’s wife, to her father Ieyasu. That was done as quickly as possible. Toku-hime left the castle at the Shibutoriguchi entrance and was received by the Tokugawa troops, who whisked her back to her native land. In compensation for the loss, Hōjō asked for the provinces of Musashi, Izu, and Sagami, but Hideyoshi wasn’t happy with that demand, so the talks were at a standstill.
It was all news to Sōji. It was like bitter water thrown on his heart. He suspected that Ieyasu knew the peace talks wouldn’t work, and that he had cynically used the process to get his daughter back. Anger surged in Sōji as if he himself had been cheated. He suddenly had a vision of Ujinao as he had seen him last fall. Ujinao had been just coming back from a hunt. The young lord was riding on a strong brown horse, followed by a falconer with his bird and ten retainers. They rode up the mountain road at Yatsu. Ujinao looked weak, and there was a nervous expression on his slender face. There was a slight resemblance to Genan in his high nose and clear, black eyes under high eyebrows. That had only made Sōji pity him.
The thing that really hit Sōji was how Genan would feel about that fraud and humiliation. Probably he had not even been consulted, and had heard about it only after the negotiations broke off. Genan might have removed himself from worldly affairs, but he was a senior member of the Hōjō family, and a warrior whose spirit had never been banished. Perhaps the disgrace of the fraudulent peace talks had been kept from him as it was from the commoners. “Does he not
know about this?” Sōji asked Rikyū.
“Of course he knows it,” Rikyū answered straightforwardly.
“What about the talks?”
“He may be retired, but even if all the details of the story come to light he will not be surprised. He knows full well the kinds of plots and strategies that people engage in. That is why he helped you escape.”
Rikyū assumed that Genan had given up on the Hōjō family. Genan knew that Sōji had once served Hideyoshi and then been exiled. If he was found in Odawara after the castle fell, it would not go well for him. Rikyū continued, “Otherwise he would not have given you official permission to leave. He favors you, but you are not one of his people, and you cannot help in battle.”
Sōji’s downcast eyes filled with something hot as he envisioned the gold coins with the bamboo pattern shining like a fish’s scales. It would only have taken two or three days for Sōji to get across enemy lines and back, but in addition to the pass Genan had wanted to give him a huge sum of money. Rikyū was right: Genan had intended for Sōji to leave Odawara for good.
“But I can’t break my promise.” Now that the moment had come, Sōji didn’t know how to explain why he had made that promise to Genan. “I told Genan that I would go back there.” The shout of protest burst out as if it was Genan sitting there and not Rikyū.
“Even so, it’s not possible to go back now that you’re here.”
“I can go back,” Sōji said defiantly, his lower chin convulsing stubbornly. He still had the pass for Komine Gate. It was because of the pass that he was able to leave, but if he had been suspected on his way to Rikyū’s, the pass could have become a very dangerous thing. It would have been seen as proof that he was a spy for Odawara. Of course Sōji had known the danger, but he was focused single-mindedly on fulfilling his promise, and he knew the pass would give him a chance to get back through the gate again. So he hid the pass in the back of his kimono collar.
Sōji hadn’t voiced any of his thoughts to Rikyū. He had been forced to leave Genan despite his deep respect for the old man, and now the news of Odawara’s inevitable defeat was smothering him like an avalanche. If he could find the words to express his emotion, the only person who would understand was sitting right in front of him. He had been so excited to see Rikyū, had visualized this day in his mind for so long while living in Yatsu, and now that it was here his joy was crushed under another emotion. Even if the fall of the Hōjō family was near—especially if it was near—he had to carry out his promise and return, regardless of the danger.
Sōji’s nose had reddened, and he clamped his mouth shut. Rikyū had been successful in reducing the number of flies that had swarmed around the house when he first came there, but they had gotten fatter, and now they were striking Sōji on the forehead like pebbles. He didn’t seem to notice.
Knowing it was useless to keep arguing, Rikyū casually suggested that they have lunch. He put aside the fly swatter, which he had kept busy while they were talking, and called Kisaku. Kisaku had been preparing lunch since he got back from the castle.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much, but I have a few things ready.” Kisaku, who was a good cook, was being modest. The menu was a hearty one: winter squash in arrowroot soup, salt-grilled minnow, and cucumbers in vinegar sprinkled with shiso.
As the trays of food were placed in front of them, Rikyū turned to Sōji and spoke, using slightly formal language. “It’s said that all human beings have fortunes and misfortunes. But more than anything else, I’m just so happy that you’re safe and well. You’ve been through many difficulties in the past, but you were especially lucky to be able to get here safely.” Sōji picked up a shallow black lacquer cup, and Rikyū poured sake into it. Sōji had a good sense of the taste of sake, but even so two or three cups were usually enough for him. Rikyū was the same. Rikyū told Sōji that he had stopped drinking since he became ill, but when Sōji poured him sake he didn’t hesitate to drink it. Then he mentioned that he’d received a letter from Oribe.
“I see. So Oribe-sama is in the Musashi area,” Sōji said.
“Everyone is on the battlefield these days rather than in the tearoom.”
Rikyū didn’t tell Sōji exactly where Oribe was. Although Sōji wasn’t on Hōjō’s side, he had still been supported by Genan in Odawara. Rikyū did not want to let Sōji know that Oribe, who was a warrior as well as Sōji’s fellow tea practitioner, was preparing to attack Hachigata Castle, and that the forces inside were expected to surrender soon. Perhaps he felt pity for Sōji.
Instead, Rikyū spoke about Oribe’s letter with the poem, and the satirical poem about flies that Rikyū had composed in reply. “I wrote to him that even though this place is like a travelers’ inn, I wished I could have him here to make a cup of tea for me. Then, unexpectedly, you came here. I thought perhaps you would make tea for me after lunch, but since I’m your host, I will serve tea to you.”
“Oh, thank you so much.”
“But then, I would like you to make tea tonight.”
“I deeply appreciate your kindness.” Sōji put his chopsticks down and bowed his head seriously, keeping his hands on his knees. He had hoped for this, but wouldn’t have dared to ask.
Although Sōji was small, he was well built, and his stomach and intestines were stronger than most people’s. He was a big eater. Even so, he could hardly get the second cup of rice gruel down his throat. His body was filled with some indescribable emotion. And, because he was tired, the sake affected him more than usual. It made him more jubilant, as if he could say what was on his mind without any hesitation. But he wanted to save his stories until after lunch, when they were both in the tearoom, which was the most appropriate place for discussion.
Rikyū’s tearoom was small, only nine feet by six feet. Although it faced the garden, and had a small porch where people could sit, it had been used for storage until Rikyū had turned it into a tearoom. He hadn’t done any special remodeling. The only difference between the storage room and the tearoom was that in place of the objects that had been stored there, there was a brazier with a singing kettle on top of it, and beside that, a fukurodana, a small stand with shelves to hold the tea utensils. A low screen had been placed in front of the bottom part of the blackened, heavy, dingy door.
When Rikyū sat down to make tea, the room was transformed from an old storage closet to a farmer’s wabi tearoom. Rikyū took a Raku tea bowl down from the shelf. Since he knew that Sōji liked strong tea even for the thin tea ceremony, he took three full scoops from the eggplant-shaped tea container instead of the usual two. The whipped tea looked glossy and fresh inside the black tea bowl, which had a wide top and a narrow bottom. Just as a fresh, clear spring bubbles up from the ground, or the blooming flower opens, or the moon peeps through the clouds, the flavor changed to suit the moment. It was simply natural, as if it was produced by some force beyond the human hand.
Sōji knew Rikyū’s style of making tea very well, but it had been so long that the tea sent him into rapture. The smell, the texture, and the taste were indescribable. When the time came to ask questions, he realized that everything he could have asked had already been answered by the way Rikyū made tea. He wanted to tell Rikyū how much that tea meant to him.
“Tea master …” Rikyū rinsed the bowl with hot water, and then dumped the water into a wooden waste-water container. The moment had arrived. “I feel I am impudent. I have been striving in the way of tea, and I looked like some kind of master, but recently I realized that I’ve been mistaken in my way of thinking.”
Sōji was a theorist who exceeded all of Rikyū’s other students. He separated tea practitioners into three categories. The first he called chanoyusha, a person who had a discerning eye for tea utensils, was skilled at making tea, and was able to make their way in the world as a master of tea ceremony. The second category was wabisuki or sukisha, a person who did not own even a single utensil but who practiced tea ceremony with a sense of calm preparedness, creativity, and ach
ievement. The final category was a meijin, a person who had three qualities: they owned at least one famous Chinese utensil, had skill at judging the quality of utensils, and were also skilled in the preparation.
Sōji was confident about his categorization. If there was any mistake, it was in placing too much emphasis on owning the utensils that had been collected during the fifteenth century. But recently, he had started to think that famous objects were not necessary to truly practice tea. This change of heart had come from his current state of mind, producing a state close to enlightenment.
Sōji spoke as if confessing his sins. Rikyū, who sat listening to him quietly, finally spoke. “You have changed quite a bit.”
Sōji’s dark face showed his apprehension like a young boy’s. Rikyū’s words had hit him right in the gut. Up until his banishment, Sōji had not been able to separate the practice of tea from the use of famous Chinese utensils. This was a common attitude among tea practitioners, for whom the most important part of the gathering was hearing about what kind of famous utensils had been used, but Sōji had been extreme even among tea people. His devotion to famous utensils was almost a craving. Like a young man in love who chases his lover’s figure, Sōji had never missed a chance to see famous tea objects, and had kept precise records of the different tea utensils that people owned and the gatherings in which they were used.
For example, he had once written about a tea jar named Yonjukkoku (Forty Koku): “Since the Matsushima and Mikagetsu jars were banished, Yonjukokku became the greatest jar in Japan.” Commenting on the scroll inscribed by the Zen master Kidō that had been secretly used by Rikyū during Kokei’s farewell tea, he had written, “Originally the scroll was owned by Ikushima. It is the best scroll in Japan. It is owned and treasured by Hideyoshi.” He had said that the flower vase named Kaburanashi (Slender Body, Wide Mouth) was “a celadon flower vase. It was handed down from Insetsu, then Jōō, and is now owned by Hideyoshi. It is the best vase in Japan.” Of the tea caddy Nitari Nasu, he had written, “The shape and the glaze deserve to be regarded as the best in Japan. Jukō praised this chaire.”