"Will this, then, be the end of the fighting?"
"I fear not."
"You believe there will be more?" Asatori shuddered.
"Not until men learn to cast out greed and suspicion from their hearts," Mongaku replied. "While sons distrust their fathers, and fathers their children, there is no telling when brothers and kin will become bitter enemies. When master and retainer and friends dare not trust each other, then without even the shedding of blood, life on earth becomes a hell. In this last war the flames of hell itself reached out at us."
"It appears as though the war has ended."
"No, that was only a foretaste of one even more terrible. Councilor Shinzei's ruthlessness is a promise of worse to come. You shall see how this capital becomes the haunt of demons. The thought terrifies me."
"Is this because Shinzei alone is evil?"
"The causes go farther and deeper, and Shinzei alone is not responsible for them. They are in me, too—in you."
"In me—you?"
"Consider, Asatori—man is a most troublesome creature. Supposing someone comes and knocks over this jar of wine that we are enjoying. Do you think we could remain silent? Or what if some person should try to rob you of your precious flute, would you not fight to get it back? We are both solitary souls with no family ties, but if this were not so, we would become victims of blind love, and in our blindness who knows what we might be led to do? Were we free of all such bonds, we would even then find ourselves led astray by our desires and self-love. Do not the teachings of Buddha say that man is a god and a devil by turns, that he is a dangerous creature tossed unceasingly between good and evil? This is true of the prince as well as the pauper, those who are surfeited and those who starve—and the world is made up of both. No wonder, then, that one misstep can lead to the spilling of blood."
"Then are all men evil, and is there no one who is not?"
"It would be safe if each man regarded himself as evil. I must say for myself that I find myself so, and that I easily let my feelings get the better of me."
"Does this mean that force is evil?"
"Undoubtedly. But power is an even more fatal poison. The fascination that power has for men is indeed a mystery. He who once tastes of it cannot avoid creating conflict or is himself drawn into it. Have we not already seen how even the great lords and fair ladies, or even a three-year-old emperor, become mere puppets in this struggle for power?—Even the holy men on their mountains who preach salvation are not free from this greed for power and fame. No, not even among the dancing-girls at Eguchi and the merchants of the market-place, or the hordes of beggars. . . . What troublesome creatures we are!"
Mongaku, preoccupied with his reflections on the follies of mankind, emptied cup after cup of the wine he had brought his friend. Asatori meanwhile sat listening vacantly. These vexing passions of which Mongaku spoke, he could not seem to find in himself. Mongaku's reflections sounded like the confessions of one who wrestled unceasingly with the demons within him.
The two soon lay down to sleep. When the night was half over, Mongaku rose and prepared to depart. Shouldering his pack, and staff in hand, he set out toward the river, fording it where it was shallowest, and vanished into the darkness of the farther shore. Asatori accompanied his friend to the riverbank and watched him disappear before starting back for the ruins. As he turned a corner onto one of the avenues, Asatori saw a long procession of riders approaching in a glare of torches. Shrinking back in fear, he ran to his hut and hid himself, trembling. But sleep would not come because of his anxiety. For many days he had had thought of the ex-Emperor and what might become of him. Whenever he went out begging, he heard gossip that the authorities were preparing to deal with the ex-Emperor; that the Emperor no longer had cause to apprehend and punish his brother Sutoku, who had taken the tonsure and retired to Ninna-ji Temple, and that the sovereign would have his brother taken to a temple farther removed from the capital. There was also a rumor that secret meetings of high officials were being held to decide Sutoku's fate.
Asatori sat up suddenly. Could it be that the procession was going to Ninna-ji Temple? He looked up at the stars in the early dawn, then leaped to his feet, ran out onto an avenue, and, taking a short cut behind the Academy, came out on another avenue where he saw the same lighted procession creeping northward like a glowing centipede in the direction of Ninna-ji Temple, outside the city gates.
On the previous day the Emperor's aide arrived at Ninna-ji Temple and presented himself to the ex-Emperor, Sutoku, saying: "I bring an imperial order. Tomorrow, the 23rd, you are to leave for the land of Sanuki. You have only tonight to arrange your affairs and make your farewells. You are to wait for your escorts."
Banishment! Sutoku heard these words in despair. Banishment across the seas! His thoughts turned to his son. What was to become of him? Sutoku begged for a word with the Abbot. At midnight the Abbot came, and Sutoku told him of his fears for his son and entreated the Abbot to see that the Prince was brought to him and took the tonsure at his hands. Moved by Sutoku's pitiful pleas, the reluctant Abbot consented.
Three gentlewomen, the only attendants Sutoku was allowed to retain, had scarcely completed their preparations for the departure when neighing and the shouts of grooms and soldiers and the rumbling of carriage wheels were heard outside the gate. Smoking pine torches lit up the early hours of the dawn with an unearthly glare. The gates were opened and the scurrying of monks' feet and a bustle filled the temple buildings. One by one pale points of light appeared as candles were lit. Two warriors appeared in Sutoku's chamber, announcing that they were his guards, and led him to the waiting carriage. In the half-light of the dawn monks, menservants, serving-women, and farming folk from the temple estates lined the driveway and crowded the gates sorrowing, and among that throng stood Asatori, craning for a last sight of his master. But Sutoku was not be seen, for his carriage was boarded up with wooden shutters. As the procession of warriors and officials moved away, the crowd dispersed, leaving only Asatori staring at the backs of the riders. Asatori then started after them, trudging behind the cavalcade.
The procession avoided the capital by taking the rutted road on the western side, passed the Rashomon Gate, and wound its way south, by Fukumi and the Anrakuju-in Temple, where the Kamo and Katsura rivers meet to form the Yodo River. There the sprawling landscape still lay wrapped in sleep.
Three boats were moored at the landing-stage at Yodo. "They're late. They should have arrived long ago," grumbled some warriors who accompanied the Governor of Sanuki.
"Here they come," cried a sailor.
"Where? I don't see them."
"Can't you see those fishermen in great excitement?"
In a short while two carriages flanked by warriors on horseback arrived. The Governor stepped forward. "You come later than the appointed hour. This inconveniences us who regulate our movements by the tide and winds. See that the exile boards at once."
The sailors and boatmen were now hurriedly setting rudders, loosening ropes and shouting to one another in the morning wind. One of Sutoku's guards seemed to be holding a heated conversation with the Governor.
"About three hundred escorts you say?"
"After all, he's not an ordinary prisoner."
"Even so—so many. There's barely room for him and his three attendants."
"That may be, but we have orders to accompany them. How many vessels do you have ready?"
"As you can see for yourself—one for the exile and his party. Two for the officials and soldiers. It's impossible to take on three hundred. We could take twenty—not more. There's just no room."
Further argument was futile and it was finally settled that twenty warriors would accompany Sutoku; his two guards then took leave of him there. The three gentlewomen entered their vessel and Sutoku followed them. The narrow cabin with its two small windows had only a rough straw mat covering the floor. Inside, the air was dank, and slimy insects crawled about in the crevices. The Governor, whose craft h
ad left the shore, shouted: "Lock the cabin door, and cast off!"
A shouting suddenly arose when a sailor discovered a queer little fellow wedged between a deck-locker and the cabin and dragged him out by the scruff of his neck. The sailor, after carefully looking him over, roared: "You river beggar! What do you mean by crawling in here and hiding? Are you a river imp? You must be —you belong in the river!" And with this he tossed the man overboard. The men on the two vessels watched this scene with guffaws. At the sound of the splash, Sutoku peered from a window and saw Asatori in the foam boiling and bubbling on the surface of the river. Asatori gasped out something, but the swift current caught him and bore him away.
The toilsome sea voyage ended on the 15th of August when the three small fisher-boats arrived on the northeastern coast of Shikoku Island near Sakade. Sutoku and his three attendants were met by their jailer, a kindly official, who conducted them inland to a temple among the hills, and there Sutoku lived for three years until his removal to his final abode farther south in the fastness of the hills.
Among those in the capital who heard of Sutoku's sudden departure with sorrow was Saigyo, the monk poet (Sato Yoshikiyo), who by devious means succeeded in sending a poem to the lonely exile through his kindly disposed jailer.
One autumn night Sutoku laid down his writing-brush and spoke to one of the gentlewomen:
"I heard it this evening and I seem to hear it again—I can't be imagining it. Don't you hear it, too?"
There it was again—the unmistakable notes of a flute—and it seemed to be coming closer.
"Do you know of anyone who goes about playing his flute in these parts? I wonder who it could be?"
"What a plaintive sound!"
"Go quietly and find out. It must be someone who has seen the light of this candle. ... It couldn't be one of the guards."
The gentlewoman stole out and ran to the guardhouse, where she knocked softly on the door. A guard appeared, and she told him what she had heard. He listened to her indulgently and was promising that she should speak with the unknown flutist when a young pilgrim appeared, carrying a flute. He replied to the questions that were put to him.
". . . Yes, yes. I came to Shikoku on a pilgrimage in the hope that chance would bring me here, where my music would comfort the royal exile. I have prayed for so long that he would listen to this flute. My name is Asatori. I come of a family of court musicians, but I gave up my calling to serve his majesty for many years as a caretaker of the Willow-Spring Palace."
On learning his name, the gentlewoman, who had often heard her master speak of Asatori, hurried back with the news.
"Asatori? ... So it was Asatori, after all!" Sutoku exclaimed, as he quickly stepped out on a veranda and seated himself. The veranda jutted out over a lily-pool, and Asatori, who had been forbidden to cross the slender bridge over it, stood on the farther side among the tall grasses. The moon lay trapped in the pool.
As they gazed at each other silently, Sutoku reproached himself bitterly for not keeping the promise he had once made to Asatori—that he would listen to him play the flute on a moonlit night. But Asatori had not forgotten. He had crossed the dangerous seas and faced unnumbered hardships to find him. He had also come to him in the hills during the flight from Shirakawa.
Asatori could not speak for his tears; then, placing his flute against his lips, he began to play, pouring out his heart in infinitely moving strains.
The moon set. Lights were snuffed out, and the music of the flute was heard no more. After bidding his master farewell, Asatori, looking back many times, departed.
As far as it was ever known, Asatori was the only one to visit the ex-Emperor in his exile. In August of the year 1164, when he was forty-six, Sutoku died, broken in body and spirit. In early winter of the following year a pilgrim stood beside a lonely grave in the hills of Shikoku; it was Saigyo, who had left the capital in autumn on a pilgrimage.
CHAPTER XIX
A TEAHOUSE AT EGUCHI
Toward noon of a late November day in 1159, three young warriors were riding rapidly down the left bank of the Yodo River. The withered reeds stretched for miles around like low-hanging smoke, and as far as the eye could see dun-colored clouds came down to meet the ash-gray river. The noon sun was a luminous blot in the bleak sky.
"O-oy—Jiro! Stop pretending you know the way. Are you sure you're turning in the right direction?"
"All right, all right. We just passed the Tenno Hills and must be on the Yamazaki Road. We'll get to Akutagawa by following the foothills."
Tota and Juro, who galloped some distance behind Jiro, jeered: "Jiro seems to know all about this, doesn't he? You say this is your first trip, but you know this road quite well by now, don't you, Jiro?"
"Oh, is that so? So it was you who thought of this and invited us to come along, eh?"
"You liar, Tota! Wasn't it you that's been badgering me all along to go down to Eguchi to spend a night there watching the dancing-girls?"
"No, that was Juro, our man about town, who knows all about dancing-girls!"
"Hey, Tota! Better look out what you say!"
Juro laughed. "Here, here, no telling tales on each other! Jiro doesn't seem to mind in the least!"
"Looks like more snow before night. Let's hope it won't start snowing before we reach Eguchi."
The riders suddenly stopped to listen to the honking of wild geese in the clouds.
Their skillful horsemanship showed that these three, though they came from the capital, were warriors trained in eastern Japan. With the exception of Jiro, the others had come to the capital in answer to Yoshitomo's mustering orders and had taken part in the battle at Shirakawa. Jiro had arrived too late for the fighting, but had remained in Kyoto on General Yoshitomo's orders and been assigned to the Horse Guards.
In the two years since the end of the Hogen War, many changes had taken place in Kyoto. The Emperor's Palace was rebuilt. New ministers headed the various departments of state, and new laws were enacted. Traditional court ceremonials, in abeyance for more than a century, were revived; the Academy of Music and the training school for court dancers once more opened their doors. Wrestling contests were held as before in the Palace park, and a general air of peace prevailed, when without warning or apparent cause the Emperor Goshirakawa was dethroned and the Emperor Nijo ascended the throne.
Toward the end of November, when a lull came in the busy ceremonials of the Court, members of the Guard in turn received several days' leave; now it was the turn of these three warriors who had heard so much about the fabulous beauties at Eguchi. Fearing to be looked down on by their fellow Guards as mere provincials, they made plans to spend a night at Eguchi near the mouth of the Yodo River.
The Kamo and Katsura rivers, merging several miles south of the capital as the Yodo River, formed a delta at Naniwa (Osaka). Vessels loaded with cargo for Kyoto, fishing craft, and other boats from east and west put in at Naniwa, whose inlets were dotted with fishers' settlements among the tall reeds. Eguchi, a short distance above the river mouth, was a village of inns, teahouses, and brothels. The usual mode of travel from Kyoto to Eguchi was the leisurely trip by water, but the three had not time for this.
"So, this is Eguchi and its teahouses!"
"Livelier than the other places we just passed."
"Now for a place to spend the night."
The warriors dismounted and led their horses with some disappointment along the main thoroughfare, peering into each house they passed. Faces pale as moonflowers were pressed against the latticed windows of structures that seemed no larger than birdcages. Now and again they saw dancing-girls in small shelters set up against a board fence, squatting beside clay stoves, cooking or fanning the embers. As they went farther, however, the houses appeared more elegant and prosperous. They saw a few women with winter chrysanthemums in their hair. Some others in wide hats or muffled in their cloaks passed them, accompanying visitors from a landing-place. Somewhere from above them in a second story came the strum
ming of a harp, and the water running in the ditches carried a faint odor of perfumes.
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