"Your mistress's, eh? And what use would she have for an umbrella like this? She never steps out of the house."
"I bought it only this morning at the West Market. But would you believe it, I found it quite moldy when I opened it, so I've put it out here with the rest."
"Hmm—you got it at the West Market? Does your mistress plan to go out somewhere?"
"I intend to go to the temple with her; the hundredth day of prayer comes the day after tomorrow."
"And where are you accompanying her, may I ask?"
"Where? But, surely, you know—the Kannon Chapel in Kiyomizu Temple."
The Nose passed into the house and spent some time talking with Tokiwa.
There had been no sign or trace of Konno-maru since the day guards had been set up around the house, and the Nose put it down to the soldiers' vigilance. He was, in fact, beginning to forget the whole affair, but was still troubled over Kiyomori's failure to appear. It looked very much as though his little scheme for worming his way into Kiyomori's favor had come to nothing. True enough, Kiyomori had little time to philander, but, with patience, it was not unlikely that he would finally turn up. The Nose was willing to wait, and from time to time visited the villa to make sure that all was running smoothly.
With Konno-maru now a matter of the past, the Nose found himself faced with another problem. Should he or should he not let Kiyomori know that Tokiwa often left the villa? The Nose would of course be held to blame if any mishap overtook her.
"Naturally, I don't want to discourage you from going to the temple, and I'm only too happy to know that you feel so inclined. Still, it may be wise to inquire how Lord Kiyomori feels about this. I shall go there myself today or tomorrow." the Nose said to Tokiwa before departing.
On the following day Tokiwa received a message to the effect that she was permitted to go out, and, accompanied by Yomogi, set out for Kiyomizu Temple. On this last day of Tokiwa's one hundred days of prayer to the Kannon, Tokiwa was astonished to find close to a score of priests at the chapel reciting the sutras in her behalf. Myriads of candles lighted up the chapel's interior, and the air was heavy with incense as she prayed:
"Watch over my three fatherless children, O Holy One. Their mother is all but lost to them. This Tokiwa is only the empty husk, and her spirit wanders through hell. Whatever sorrows and trials come to their mother, spare her children, all-merciful and loving one. Let these pitiful ones not suffer for the sins of the Genji."
And as she recalled that winter night when she prayed in this same chapel with her children beside her, Tokiwa wept.
"My lady, the Mass is at an end, will you not come this way and rest?" a priest whispered.
Tokiwa suddenly came to herself. "Thank you, your reverence," and then exclaimed: "But are you not Kogan?"
"Yes, Kogan—your good health, my lady."
"How can I ever forget your kindness to me that time?" Tokiwa began, raising her clasped hands to him. "I shall never forget how good you were to me who am no longer worthy to speak to you."
"My lady, you must not say that. There's no need for you to feel shame. To me, you are as pure as the Kannon herself."
Another priest appeared. "This way, my lady, this way, please."
Tokiwa declined the invitation. "I thank you, but I have a long way to go and had better leave now."
But the priest detained her. "But, my lady, you have come a great distance and at such an early hour, and he has been waiting for you for some time."
". . . Who—who has been waiting?"
"The gentleman who ordered the Mass."
Tokiwa was mystified. Who could it be? There was no worshipper at this chapel other than she. But the priest must not be kept waiting much longer—so with Kogan to guide her, Tokiwa made her way along the balustraded galleries, until finally conducted to a room. As she entered it, she suddenly drew back, shaken, then slowly sank to her feet.
"Tokiwa—you did not expect to see me, did you?"
The brilliant sunshine sifting through the maple leaves outside illumined Kiyomori's face, investing it with a radiant look.
"I have often thought of you, Tokiwa, but many things prevented my coming—and now summer is here. . . . How swiftly the seasons pass! Has all been well with you, Tokiwa?"
"Yes . . ." Tokiwa replied, and a confusion of emotions welled up in her until she was choked with tears.
As Kiyomori gazed at her, he also struggled with a rush of conflicting feelings—the memory of a spring night and its poignancy filled him. For an instant an awkward, almost boyish shyness overcame him. Mastering himself, he spoke to her once more.
"You could not of course have guessed that it was I who had the Mass said today. Uncalled-for meddling, you may rightly feel. But, Tokiwa, I too have need of prayers. Yes, Kiyomori, this poor blundering fool—this mere fatuous man! Can you, a woman, possibly understand?"
"I think I do—a little."
"Even that little is enough, Tokiwa, and for that I am grateful. I am making an even greater fool of myself now, but I find it difficult to confess to you why. Let Bamboku himself tell you later on."
Kiyomori spoke cheerfully, but as he ended, he abruptly turned his face away, and the light from the dancing leaves was reflected in his tears.
Following this brief meeting, Tokiwa did not see Kiyomori again that summer, nor the next; they were never to meet, for not long after, Kiyomori had the Nose arrange a marriage between Tokiwa and an elderly Fujiwara courtier.
By autumn the gossips had completely forgotten all the talk about Tokiwa.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE WANDERING POET
Saigyo, the monk poet, had not been back to the capital for several years, but where he went he heard much talk of what went on there. He had in the meantime been staying in a hermitage at Yoshino and made several pilgrimages to Kumano and Ominй. Early in the spring of 1160, he set out along the Tokaido highway on a pilgrimage that took him to the northeast, and while he was there the local chieftain, Hidehira, invited Saigyo to stay with him.
Hidehira, who supplied the nobility and warriors in Kyoto with the famous thoroughbreds of the northeast, had heard much of the monk poet whenever he went to Kyoto on business or appeared there to give the central government an account of his stewardship.
When autumn came, Saigyo took leave of his host and journeyed westward to the province of Echigo; in September he reached the southern end of Lake Biwa, where a vessel was about to set sail for the western shore. Saigyo joined the other passengers on board, and as they waited for the boat to start, Saigyo began to wonder about his companion and disciple, Saiju, from whom he had parted several months before at the Tenryu River.
Saigyo and Saiju had come to the Tenryu River and boarded a ferry that was preparing to sail with a full load, when three warriors, local soldiery, suddenly appeared, waving and shouting to the boatman to stop. The boatman's reluctance to take on any more passengers enraged the warriors, who pushed their way on board with sour looks, blustering: "We're in a great hurry and you've only these peasants and beggar monks on board, haven't you?"
Saigyo knew what to expect of them. Soldiers everywhere were getting to be a belligerent, truculent lot. Ignoring them, he continued to sit quietly gazing out over the river, until one of the soldiers suddenly stood over him and bellowed:
"Here, you beggar—you priest, get up!"
Saigyo made no sign that he heard, but the other soldiers quickly assumed a threatening air and swore at him. "Get off, you! You won't?"
Saigyo did not intend to resist them, but he could feel Saiju beside him trembling with rage, and tightened his grip on his disciple's arm. They had been fellow monks for twenty years, but Saigyo knew that Saiju, his former retainer, was still a hot-blooded warrior at heart. How often he had cautioned Saiju to curb that temper of his!
Saigyo's meekness, however, seemed to enrage the soldiers even more.
"Here, are you deaf?" one shouted. Seizing Saigyo by his collar, he sent him s
prawling onto the riverbank. Saigyo's head struck a stone and he groaned softly; blood trickled down over one eye. But as he lay prone, he kept calling to Saiju, who finally came to his assistance.
Saiju was beside himself. "So this is how you, Yoshikiyo, once the bravest of the Imperial Guards, behave when you're insulted!" he raged. "If you expect me to put up with such treatment—cowering like a beaten cur—then I've had enough of the holy life! I took the vows to escape the torments of hell, but this is worse than the fate of the damned! I'm through with this life! Were I not a monk I would give them what they deserve!" Saiju wept with rage.
"Ah, Saiju, are you still not ready for this life that you chose? Have you forgotten that day I sent you to Lady Taikenmon and you got into trouble with the Guards at the Rashomon Gate and were thrown into jail? When I heard you were in trouble, I rode all night back from Toba to rescue you from the terrible Tameyoshi of the Genji. Have you forgotten that, Saiju?"
"That I have not."
"Are you any wiser than you were then?"
"It's all very well for you to say that, but it's not my nature to let ruffians bully harmless people. I can't endure such humiliation, for I've always held my head high before men."
"Saiju, as long as you feel that way, we shall never be able to get along together. Though we travel side by side, our hearts will not be following the same path. It's better that we part here and now, Saiju."
"What makes you say that?"
"For the time being, it would be better for you to do as you please."
"Does this mean I am released from my vows?"
"I have no authority to do that, Saiju. My prayer has always been to find joy in life, and for that one must give up all worldly ambitions and conflict, submit to the influences of nature, and cling to the life of the poet, finding contentment in the precepts of Buddha. That is the vow we took. Who am I to lay down rules? Ah, Saiju, you seem unable to understand me at all."
"No, I am simply a clumsy fool, humbly permitted to follow you. But I dare think that I understand."
"I'm afraid you still don't. You're no better than those who think I retreated from life. It is not so, for I am more than ever of the world. My purpose is to realize myself more completely, to enjoy life even more, and to regret nothing. That is how I wish to make my life worth while, and all that I ask of life. . . . How different that is from your idea of the holy life!"
"No, I agree with you, but—"
"Then why should you so often feel anger, rage over being humiliated, and regret your choice? Had you truly embraced the monk's life, then you'd not repent it, nor regret having taken the vows. You don't seem to have renounced the world, so why go on like this any more? Wouldn't it be better for you to put away all pretense and go back to the world?"
As he spoke, Saigyo realized that the life which should have meant freedom for Saiju had become a burden to him; and out of compassion for him, he insisted that they should part.
At length Saiju said: "I will do as you tell me, and shall think on what you have said—not only think, but act upon it, and when you return to the capital in the autumn I shall be there waiting for you."
Saigyo wondered where Saiju expected to find him after this long separation, for he had no idea of where he himself would be staying. He noticed that the boat was midway across Lake Biwa, and that the peaks of Mount Hiei were beginning to tower above it. He recalled how passengers a year ago seemed to talk of nothing but of Yoshitomo of the Genji and his sons and their flight to East Omi. Then he fell asleep. As he slept one of his fellow passengers glanced at him sharply from time to time, and when Saigyo woke, smiled at him pleasantly, saying:
"Here we meet again!"
"Let me see, who are you?"
"I am Otoami, a carver of Buddhist images—we met some time ago in the northeast."
"Ah, yes, to be sure! . . . Are you on your way back to the capital, too?"
"Yes, though I still have years of work on the temple in the northeast, an urgent call from Rokuhara brought me back, an order for Lady Ariko."
"What an immense distance for you to come!"
"Yes, indeed, and it would also be a pleasure if I were traveling at will like you. As it is, I have orders to fill both in the capital and in the north, and traveling with my men in a limited time. . . ." Otoami smiled, looking round at his companions, who made up more than half the passengers on board. With him were not only apprentices, but lacquer-workers, woodworkers, carvers of metal, and other such artisans. A passenger who sat near Otoami suddenly leaned over and spoke to the latter in undertones and then addressed Saigyo.
"Sir, are you Saigyo, the monk poet? I saw you several times in Koromogawa, where the Chieftain Hidehira himself is one of my patrons," he said, adding: "I am Kichiji, a merchant; I bring placer gold several times a year from the northeast to the capital and exchange it for merchandise from China, which is then sent north. . . . When you next come our way, you must not fail to visit me."
Saigyo nodded amiably, smiling to himself at the thought that rumors about him had reached even those distant parts.
As the boat neared the shore the passengers busied themselves with getting off. Otoami and the merchant were the first to disembark. After loading their pack-horses, they prepared to move off in an impressive procession, when Kichiji turned to Saigyo, saying affably:
"We have enough horses for us all. Would you care to join us tonight at our inn?"
Saigyo declined the invitation and went on his way.
Saigyo spent his time in the hills about Kyoto, visiting temples and calling on old friends. One day as he walked through the capital he found himself in the lane where his home had once stood. Nothing remained of it now except broken tiles and a waste of tall autumn grasses. He stared at the scene numbly, then turned away into the dusk, in search of a night's lodging, while the night winds sighed around his travel-worn figure. He thought of several friends who would welcome him, but the memory of the wife and child whom he had abandoned twenty long years ago haunted him. His wife, he was told, had entered a nunnery; he wondered about the daughter, who was four when he last saw her. He had heard she was married. From time to time he paused and listened to the night, alive with the chirring of crickets. Everything—the trees, the earth itself, the hedgerows, and even the stars suddenly seemed filled with the sound of weeping, and his mind ached, and his heart, and he began to wonder why he wandered so aimlessly through the dark streets. What brought him here like a ghost from the past?
A sudden longing to see Saiju overcame him—not his disciple, but a fellow being of whom he could beg forgiveness and to whom he could confess his blindness and folly. Twenty years of the holy life!—and he had only begun to learn tonight that the human heart could not be denied by an act of will nor by the disciplines of religion. Where did Saiju expect to find him, after promising to meet him in the capital? Then Saigyo thought of his cousin, Lord Tokudaiji, among whose retainers Saiju had several friends. Saigyo spent the night at a temple in the Eastern Hills and on the following day went down to the capital. On arriving at Lord Tokudaiji's mansion, he was surprised to find soldiers, footmen, and servants crowding about the gate, where several grand carriages waited. He was about to turn away when he heard someone calling him. It was Saiju.
"Ah, Saiju, so you came here after all!"
"Yes, I have been staying here for some time with my friends; I was sure that you would soon come, and have been waiting impatiently."
"Yes, how good it is to see you again!" Saigyo replied eagerly.
"Ever since we parted at the Tenryu River, I have meditated morning and night upon your reproof. Dunce that I am, I feel I am somewhat the wiser now. Never shall I act so foolishly as I did then. Forgive me for what I said."
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