In the privacy of Shinzei's office Kiyomori was entrusted with a curious and secret mission.
"Grave issues are involved. This is urgent. Any indiscretion on your part may rouse the suspicions of Yorinaga and Tameyoshi of the Genji—to your undoing. Wait until sundown, then send out your men one by one," Shinzei said, repeating his warning.
That night a band of some fifty warriors left the capital and started toward the hills northwest of Kyoto, a good distance beyond the city gates. They were soon making their way swiftly up the slopes of Mount Atago, converging on one of the crags, where they met to take counsel. Shortly afterward they were again on their way, in search of Jomyo, chief priest of Mount Atago. Arrived at his gates, they pounded loudly, calling for admittance.
"We come from the Cloister Palace, soldiers of Kiyomori of the Heike, Lord Aki. We have reports that someone has tampered with the Tengu Demon in the main shrine here and brought the death-curse on the late Emperor. The Cloistered Emperor orders Lord Aki to make a search and obtain evidence. Lead us to the shrine. Refuse, and you will be guilty of resisting an imperial order!"
A sound of confused movements arose within; then Jomyo himself appeared and spoke to Kiyomori. "If you come on his majesty's business, you bear papers. Permit me to see them."
"Ho, you there, kneel!"
As Jomyo came to his knees, Kiyomori thrust the official writ at him.
"There is no mistake about it—I cannot refuse. The doors will be opened immediately. This way, your lordship." Calling for more torches, Jomyo led the way toward the shrine. His shadow loomed up gigantic against the sanctuary doors. A key grated harshly in the lock. Great tongues of flame undulated eerily, lighting up the cavernous interior, and there in front of Kiyomori towered an image of the Tengu Demon, a spike protruding from either eye.
"What—spikes!" Kiyomori gasped, as did Jomyo and the others who craned over their shoulders.
There was nothing more to do. Kiyomori had seen that for which he had been sent. It was uncanny and the sight made his flesh creep. He had always scoffed at stories of witchcraft, but this—! A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"Good. This shall be reported at once." Kiyomori turned away, shaken by what he had seen. The doors were secured and Kiyomori's seal affixed. Ordering the greater part of his soldiers to stay behind on guard, Kiyomori rode that same night back to Kyoto and to Shinzei.
For an instant Shinzei's eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as Kiyomori related what he had seen; then he relapsed into his usual composure, remarking: "As I thought. . . ."
It was Lady Bifukumon who had urged the Cloistered Emperor to send Kiyomori and his soldiers to Mount Atago, and who carefully imparted her belief that Yorinaga and his father had caused the young Emperor's death by witchcraft. She furthermore warned him against these two, whom she said had designs on the throne. In due course two hermits appeared at the Palace as witnesses and described the evil rites they had seen performed by some wandering friars. Where these friars had gone no one knew, for they had vanished like the summer clouds, they said. And not long after, Yorinaga and his father were forbidden the Cloister Palace.
In the meantime the question of selecting a new emperor had become urgent, and Yorinaga and his father were mystified when they found themselves barred from the high councils. The reason for their sudden fall from grace soon became clear to them, but when they declared their innocence in letters to the Cloistered Emperor, their pleas for a hearing came back unanswered through Councilor Shinzei's office. Nothing they did seemed to soften Toba's displeasure.
Between the lattices of one of the Palace windows an official watched father and son enter their carriages and drive away for the last time. Shinzei smiled sardonically; had they known, they would have watched their steps more closely; Yorinaga had never had cause to suspect that this silent figure, hunched over his desk for years, was his bitterest enemy. Nor did the Minister know that this man's wife, Lady Kii, was Lady Bifukumon's confidante.
Shinzei broke into soundless laughter. "See, my fine demons —doesn't it hurt? A spike in the right eye and one in the left? Who is to tell you that it was I, Shinzei, who did this?"
CHAPTER XIII
THE WILLOW-SPRING PALACE
For close to fourteen years the existence of a certain man had almost been forgotten. This was the ex-emperor Sutoku, who, forced to abdicate when he was twenty-three, had gone to live at the Palace of the Willow Spring with only a small retinue. Those years were spent in the practice of various religious devotions in his private chapel, in reading, and the writing of poetry. It was also his habit to stroll unaccompanied through the Palace park and to rest in the shade of a giant willow tree that grew beside a bubbling spring. This spring, renowned for the sweetness and purity of its waters, had been there even before Kyoto had been founded, people said, and in times long forgotten a willow tree had sprung up beside it. The waters of the Willow Spring, as it came to be called, were kept only for the ex-Emperor's table, and a caretaker lived in a small lodge near by.
As he stood under the giant willow one day, Sutoku called to the guardian of the spring: "I thirst—bring me water."
The caretaker quickly appeared, carrying a newly baked clay bowl, which he filled with the sparkling water.
"Sweetness itself—like the dew from heaven," the ex-Emperor said, handing back the empty vessel and seating himself on a stone in the willow tree's shade. The caretaker brought a freshly woven reed mat, which he spread for his visitor.
Then Sutoku said: "You seem contented, caretaker. How long is it since you came here?"
"I have watched for fourteen years over this spring, your majesty, for I was with your housemen when you came to live here."
"Fourteen years! And what did you do before that?"
"My father was a court musician and taught me from childhood to play on the flute and flageolet; at ten I was sent to the Palace Academy of Music, and when I was fourteen I performed for the first time before your majesty. It was an honor I shall never forget. Then came your abdication at the end of that year."
"Then you and your father before you are not of the common people, for there are only four families in this capital admitted to that calling."
"My father was Abй Torihiko, a musician of the Sixth Rank."
"And your name?"
"I—" the caretaker bowed low—"I am called Asatori."
Sutoku's eyes settled in wonder on the bowed head before him. "What made you leave your calling—your father—to become a mere caretaker of this spring?"
Asatori shook his head in denial. "No, this is no menial task, sir, for water is the very source of life, and to guard this spring which quenches your majesty's thirst is no mean calling. My father long ago gave your majesty lessons on various instruments, and was a favorite of Lady Bifukumon. Though musicians, we are needy folk, so when the time came to celebrate my coming of age, some of your robes were sent to me for a gift; these were made into my ceremonial suit, so I was turned out like a fine young gentleman. I shall remember that for the rest of my life!"
"Oh, did such a thing ever happen?"
"Your majesty would not recall such favors to your humble subjects, but my father never forgot them. When the time of your abdication came, I shall never forget how he said: 'Asatori, it will not be possible for me to follow his majesty, but you are only a pupil at the academy and may go wherever you choose. Follow his majesty and serve him loyally in my stead. I have other sons to carry on our name and our calling.' He then gave me a flute as a parting gift, and I came with you here and have watched over this spring ever since."
Sutoku, who had been listening closely with bent head and closed eyes, looked up, smiling faintly as Asatori ended his narration. "Your flute—do you have it here with you now?"
"It is put away carefully in a case made from a strip of one of the robes your majesty sent me, and has become a keepsake from my father."
"Keepsake? But your father must still be living."
> "No, that flute is now a memento. My father is no longer in this world, and, since it was his last wish that I stay with you, I shall remain here until the sources of this spring run dry."
"Ah—" sighed Sutoku heavily as he rose to his feet. His mother, Lady Taikenmon, too, was dead. How fleeting was man and all things of this world, he mused. "One of these nights when the moon is full, you shall play to me on your flute. How cool this air! Asatori, I shall come again soon."
Asatori's eyes followed Sutoku as he vanished among the trees. This chance meeting and the artless moments of talk with one whom he otherwise dared not approach filled him with delight. Through the summer nights Asatori waited for the moon to grow, full, recalling Sutoku's promise to listen to him on his flute.
About this time people who passed the Willow-Spring Palace began to notice with curiosity how numerous litters and carriages arrived at the long-neglected Palace. There were rumors that the young Emperor Konoyй had not long to live, and that the dethroned Sutoku's son, Prince Shigebito, the Cloistered Emperor Toba's grandson, would ascend the throne. Among the many visitors who came to call on the ex-Emperor were Yorinaga and his father, Tadazanй, who until now had ignored Sutoku's existence. They came with repeated assurances that good things were in store for him, that his son was all but crowned. And the prospect of renewed prosperity and the resurrection of his hopes led Sutoku to forget his promise to the caretaker of the Willow Spring.
Asatori gazed forlornly at the full moon and waited for the monarch, who did not come. He watched the coming and going of litters and carriages, and grew anxious, for the Willow Spring lost its sparkle and grew muddy—portent of some upheaval in nature, or the forerunner of calamity.
Popular expectations were disappointed when in October the Cloistered Emperor's fourth son, Sutoku's younger brother, was proclaimed Emperor and invested as Goshirakawa. Sutoku was overwhelmed. His own son, who stood in direct line of succession, had been passed over. Lady Bifukumon, he felt certain, had played no small part in influencing the Cloistered Emperor's choice, and he, Sutoku, had been singled out for her ill will. There was little consolation to be found in Yorinaga's words: "Patience—and yet more patience. Your time will yet come."
The new reign opened in April 1156. By summer of that same year the rule of the Cloister Government, which had lasted uninterrupted for twenty-seven years, was over. Toba died at the Detached Palace of Anrakuju-in Temple on the night of July 2. News of his approaching end reached the capital that same afternoon, and a vast flurry ensued as litters and carriages jostled one another in their haste to reach the hamlet of Takeda, on whose outskirts the temple stood. In the tangled concourse of fast-trotting animals and shouting, sweating men, one carriage forced its way through and rolled swiftly onward. Behind the drawn blinds of his tossing carriage, Sutoku concealed a face drawn with grief.
Carriages were drawn up, inside as well as outside the Palace gates. There was no room to spare even in the wide enclosure fronting the Palace, so crowded was it with men-at-arms, attendants, and litters. A hush hung like a pall over everything. No aides came to meet Sutoku's carriage, and his grooms were obliged to call out loudly to announce his arrival. Sutoku feverishly rolled up a blind, crying sharply to his grooms: "Let me down, let me down, I say!"
Even as his carriage rolled in by the gateway, the solemn booming of temple and pagoda bells had ceased. He caught the sound of intaken breaths and the murmur: "His majesty's eyes are now closing—" Sutoku saw the quick movement of men dropping to their knees, the lifting of hands in prayer, and he was overcome with grief. It was not a monarch who was dying, but his own father! Those long years of bitterness—the estrangement —one last meeting would be enough to wipe away that.
"Let me down, I say! What's this senseless confusion? Pull up at the door—hurry!"
At the sound of that frenzied command, the grooms wrenched the carriage round and forced a way through the welter of vehicles. As the carriage pulled up at the portico, a wheel struck a litter that stood by, crushing it with a harsh rending sound. At this, Akanori of the Genji and several other warriors who stood on guard at the door leaped forward cursing.
Livid, Sutoku cried out in his anger: "Out of my way, insolent ones! Can you not see who I am? How dare you interfere!"
Akanori advanced with a threatening air. "Now that I see who you are, I have even more reason to forbid you to come any farther. I have orders not to admit you. Back! Back!"
Beside himself, Sutoku now leaned out of his carriage. "What, you petty official! I am here to see his majesty, my father, yet no one comes to meet me, and they dare to send mere soldiers to carry out their orders!"
"My orders are from Korekata, Captain of the Right, who serves his majesty. A warrior must do his duty. You shall not go a step farther!"
"I'll have no dealings with you wretches. . . ." Trembling with rage, Sutoku prepared to step down from his carriage when, the Guards charged at the carriage and thrust it back; Sutoku's grooms leaped on the soldiers to grapple with them; at the impact the carriage lurched; Sutoku, clutching for a blind, was thrown to the ground between the carriage shafts. A blind came away in his hand as he fell and crashed heavily across the shafts, lacerating Akanori's cheek, from which the blood suddenly oozed.
Those in the Palace were quickly told that the ex-Emperor Sutoku had gone mad, wounded a Guard, and was now on his way to the inner apartments. Korekata, the Captain of the Right, who was sitting beside Councilor Shinzei when the news of the scuffle was brought to him, started from his seat. A frightened scream from one of the ladies-in-waiting made him fly down the long corridors. As he approached the entrance, a shaft of light from one of the anterooms lit up a pillar in the hall, and there he came face to face with Sutoku. His face was a pale mask; his eyes stared unseeing; his sleeve was torn, and his hair straggled wildly across his forehead.
The captain's hands shot out in a gesture of refusal. "Sir— you may not enter," he cried, blocking the way. "You must not be seen in your present condition. I beg you to leave very quietly."
Sutoku seemed not to understand and brushed Korekata's arms aside roughly. "Out of the way! I must see him now—at once!"
"Sir, can you not understand that you may not see him?"
"I—I don't understand—Korekata! What is wrong in my wanting to see my dying father? You are a fiend to interfere! Out—out of my way!"
Korekata's voice rose to a shout as he restrained the distraught Sutoku. "You are mad, I tell you! Whatever you say, you shall not see him!"
Sutoku suddenly broke into a terrible sobbing as he struggled to shake off the captain's restraining arms, but the latter called some Guards, who soon dragged Sutoku away weeping and struggling and forced him into his carriage.
The luminous interior of the Temple was swallowed up in billows of incense; in mournful unison gongs sounded a dirge; one thousand priests bowed their heads silently as the spirit of Toba departed from this world.
Before the short summer night was over, a rumor swept through the Palace at Takeda like a gathering wave. The whisper went from ear to ear: The ex-Emperor is forming a conspiracy. . . . Incredible? There had been signs of it beforehand—a report from the Guard Office confirmed it. The Tanaka Villa, on the opposite bank of the river from the Detached Palace, where Sutoku was staying, was suspect. Since the Hour of the Boar (ten o'clock) a meeting appeared to have been held there. From another source in the capital came a report that on the previous afternoon, horses and carts piled with weapons were seen making their way at irregular intervals to the Willow-Spring Palace. Eyewitnesses recounted seeing frightened groups of women and children, with household goods, hurrying at midday toward the Northern and Eastern Hills. The avenues of the capital were as deserted as a city of death at midnight. . . .
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