by Nancy Baker
“Why would I want to go back there?”
“Why do you want to stay?” Sara countered. “You’re miserable here.”
“I am not. Things are just taking longer than I thought.”
“Things are taking longer because it isn’t going to work.”
“Sara . . .” The echoes of her own thoughts in her sister’s words turned her voice waspish. She turned her head away, staring at the dark depth of the alley.
“How come you haven’t gone back to school?”
“I’ve been checking things out. I can’t just . . .”
“Yes, you can. If you want to, if you really want to, you can. Face it, Ardeth. You don’t care about public transportation in the 1890s or whatever that stupid Ph.D. topic was, do you?”
“It’s not whether I care about it or not.”
“Yes, it is. Do you care or not?”
“No,” Ardeth admitted after a moment.
“Can you imagine finishing it? Getting a job at the university? Teaching night school?” Sara demanded.
She opened her mouth to reply, to tell her about the plans she had made, the future she had envisioned. But all that surfaced in her mind was a television silently running teenage fantasies as she crouched over a warm, male body. She shook her head slowly.
“Or hanging out here on Queen Street, chasing street kids and vampire wannabes again?” Ardeth thought of the nightclub, the boy’s filled teeth and shook her head again. “That’s not your life any more, Ardy. I’m sorry but it’s not.”
“Then what is?”
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, you won’t find it here. The real world, your real life—they’re back in Banff, with him.”
“I can’t go back, Sara.” She forced the words out past the sudden pain in her throat.
“No,” Sara said softly, moving to lean against the wall beside her. “You can’t go back.”
That’s not what I meant, Ardeth wanted to say, to shout, but there was no way to do it with Sara so close, with her sister’s arm against hers. She closed her eyes and thought about walking back into the tiny apartment, Rozokov looking up from his chair and his book . . . What would happen then? Would his eyes turn cold, his voice to iron as he ordered her away again? Would he kiss her and love her and say her name in the way that made all the barriers inside her mind melts away? Even if he did, would it make any difference in the end?
And if she stayed here . . . could she make herself believe in the fictional future she had spun for herself? Could she make do with the reality of furtive midnight feedings on strangers to whom she was no more than an odd, sickeningly erotic dream? Could she go back and live out a thousand written and celluloid fantasies again?
For a moment, despair swamped her. There seemed to be no path that didn’t promise pain. Then an echo whispered inside her: “He is very old and wishes to meet those of his own kind.”
He is very old, she thought suddenly. Maybe Dimitri is wrong. Maybe we don’t have to be solitary creatures. Maybe somewhere there are vampires who have figured out how to be together. If there is another way to live, if there’s something neither Dimitri nor I can see, maybe Sadamori Fujiwara knows it.
And if he doesn’t? Can I bear to go through this again? Can I bear to hope this other vampire has an answer and then discover that he doesn’t?
Can I bear to stay here and always wonder?
She opened her eyes and looked at her sister. “You just want the apartment back,” she said. For a moment, Sara looked stricken, face flushed with guilt, then she seemed to see resolution in Ardeth’s eyes and she grinned.
“Damn straight.”
Chapter 22
THE TALE OF TAMAKATSURA
I was seventeen when my uncle returned from the provinces.
I did not know that my father had taken in his unknown half-brother until several days after his arrival, for I was not living at home, but at the court as lady-in-waiting to the young crown prince’s consort, Princess Masahime.
My father sent me a note to tell me of his brother’s arrival and of the death of his father, the grandfather I had never seen. One of the servants brought it to me as my lady and her entourage took the air on one of the palace’s verandas, carefully screened by bamboo lattice.
The princess was reading and asked me what news had come.
“My father sends me news, my lady. His father, who served in the north, has died and his half-brother has arrived in Heian-kyo.”
“From the provinces?” Yugao, one of the other ladies, asked. “What is your father planning to do with such a man? Surely he will not introduce him at court.”
“I do not know. I suppose it will depend on what my uncle is like.” I looked at the scroll again but saw no clues in my father’s writing. As I rolled it away, I resolved to say sutras for my grandfather, for surely the soul of a man murdered by bandits would need prayers for safe passage out of this world. If his vengeful ghost remained, no doubt it would be the bandits it would pursue, but ghosts were not known for their reasonableness, so it was best to take no chances. That lesson I knew well.
“Not like that dreadful Yugiri, I hope,” Koi said, and I recalled the armoured figure of the general striding through the hallways of the palace, his hat askew, his face dark with beard. Koi flirted with him from behind the safety of her screen then privately laughed at his clumsy poetry and rough writing. The scene that had ensued when she rejected him had been the scandal of the court for at least a day, until the next scandal. Koi still spat at his name but I felt secretly sorry for him. It was not his fault he had not been born with court manners . . . or that he had the misfortune to become infatuated with Koi.
“Perhaps he will be a gentleman,” I ventured and Koi pursed her tiny red lips.
“Tamakatsura has always been an optimist,” Yugao added, with the faintest trace of malice, “despite the tragedies of her life.”
“I have had no tragedies,” I countered, “I grieve for the death of my betrothed but cannot be but grateful that it gave me the chance to serve my lady.” I bowed a little and saw Masahime smile. It was flattery, in part, and she knew it. But we had been friends for many years before her marriage to the prince and I was not displeased to be at the court with her. And, in truth, I was not above flattery if it would make her smile, for her mood had been strained and unhappy. She was nearing the birth of her first child, a child who might one day be emperor, and the burden of it was great for her.
“I heard another tale of Tachibana no Kyoji’s ghost.” Masahime looked at Yugao sharply but the other lady continued. “Tamakatsura does not mind, do you?”
“Not for myself,” I answered truthfully, or nearly so. “But I think it is ill-omened to discuss such things so close to our lady’s time. Tell me later, if you wish.” And so the subject was closed, at least for the time, and I was spared another story of my betrothed’s wraith wandering through the palace grounds.
The object of his return was never spelled out, but I knew that some people believed it was me his ghost sought. There were some who thought I should have pined away after his untimely passage. Even my father seemed to believe so . . . for at least that would have relieved him of concern over how the gossip would affect our family and his chances of ever seeing me safely wed. There were times when I had felt the same, as ashamed as if I had somehow caused the fatal illness that befell Kyoji and doubly shamed for the pain his death caused my father and our house.
But I had not loved Kyoji . . . and could not seem to pine away for him, not matter how I tried.
“Speaking of bandits,” put in Yugao and for a moment we all tried to recall when we had been, “I heard from one of the ladies of the mother of the new priestess of Ise that their mansion was broken into last week.”
“Was it bandits or monks?” Koi asked, for Yugao’s brother was a monk in service at Mount Hiei. Yugao always denied that he would participat
e in the raids the armed brothers sometimes made on the city . . . but there was many a noble son among their ranks.
“Bandits,” Yugao replied firmly, not rising to Koi’s bait for once.
“Was anyone hurt?” Masahime asked.
“Only a servant or two, I believe. The robbers set fire to one of the storehouses but it was extinguished in time. The family was unharmed, though they lost three chests of silk and many bags of rice.”
“The minister of the army had promised to put a stop to the raids. I heard him swear it to the emperor in audience the other day,” the princess said, as if to reassure us.
The minister of the army was always promising to put a stop to it, I thought privately. Whether he ever would was another thing altogether.
“As long as it does not mean more barbarians like Yugiri at court,” Koi said spitefully. “Generals do not belong in court, where they do not know how to behave. They belong out . . . generalling . . . or whatever it is they do.”
“Enough of such dreary talk,” I put in, seeing Masahime wince as the child stirred inside her. “Lady Fujitsubo’s moon-viewing is tonight. My lady, if you still wish to attend, we should prepare.” So, duly distracted by thoughts of silks and gifts and delicacies, we let the talk of ghosts and bandits drift away like clouds before a spring wind.
The moon-viewing party was held at the Plum Pavilion, the home of Lady Fujitsubo daughter of the ex-empress Sadako. She had invited the ladies of the court, flirtatiously declining to invite the gentlemen, who nonetheless had elected to have their own gathering at Wisteria Court, which shared the gardens of the Plum Pavilion. The lamps from their veranda glowed through the thin veil of trees and male laughter floated to us on the perfumed air, but, since they were not with us, we had no need of screens and so sat in the open air and watched the full moon rise.
There was much rice and wine and more poetry, none of it so impressive that I am troubled to record it. Servants came and went, with scrolls for one lady or another, sent from the gentleman on the far porch. Their poetry was read aloud and then dissected, along with their calligraphy and choice of paper; with a wicked humour that no doubt would have appalled them if they could have heard it. Replies were composed and returned. Some of it was play, the simple flirtation that gave spice to life. Some of it was desire and would end in consummation in the dark rooms of the palace. And some sad lines were lines of love, which would end in pain and loss. Love always did.
Even I received a tribute or two. I guessed who had sent them and declined their invitations with careful words. My reputation was tainted enough as it was, haunted by Kyoji’s ghost, and I dared not risk it further. And in truth I was not tempted by the men whose poems flattered me, for I knew the words meant nothing and were only rituals they enacted to obtain what they briefly desired.
It neared the Hour of the Rat and the gathering showed no signs of disbanding. The Princess Masahime had left some time earlier, attended by Yugao, but I used her welfare as my excuse to bid goodnight to my hostess.
I knew that I should go straightaway to my chambers in the palace, for the night could hold dangers; the ghostly one of my betrothed, the more concrete one of robbers and bandits. But the spring air was so fresh, the moon still so bright and dazzling that I could not bear to return to the quiet darkness of my rooms. So I took one of the well-used paths that led to one of the palace’s ponds, picking my way by the moon’s gleam and hoping that I did not tear the sleeve of my best kimono on the bushes.
At the end of the path, a small jetty had been constructed and I walked out on it, the wooden soles of my sandals sounding very loud in the stillness of the night. I was no more than a short walk from the Plum Pavilion, but, as its veranda faced inward, I heard only a faint whisper of laughter on the breeze. I rested my hands on the railing and looked up at the moon, just beginning to shroud herself in the palest of veils.
And then I knew that I was not alone.
To my surprise, my mind was suddenly very clear, despite my fright. There would be no use in crying out, for I did not think I would be heard, any more than I could hear the moon-viewing party. There was nowhere to run, except into the water. I did not know whether I could drown rather than face dishonour but I resolved to try, if it became necessary.
I turned around slowly, lifting my hand to let my long sleeves veil my face a little.
A man stood at the end of the jetty. I did not know him, thought I could see that his clothes were of the latest courtly style. His face looked very white in the moonlight, his eyes two dark coals that seemed touched with red, as if still holding a core of fire, waiting only for a spark to ignite them.
“Forgive me, my lady.” His voice was quiet, with an old-fashioned accent. “I did not mean to startle you. Do not let me disturb you.” Fine words all . . . but he did not move. I took a step forward but it did not shame him into moving back.
“I was returning from the Plum Pavilion . . . I am expected at the palace.” I took another cautious step.
“I am a stranger here but still, this does not seem to be the way to the palace.” There was amusement in his voice. “But do not let me interrupt you. No doubt you are waiting for someone to escort you.”
“No,” I said before I thought to lie. Better he believed me to be on an assignation than alone, but now it was too late.
“No? So none of the gracious acceptances I heard tonight were yours, then?”
“If you attended the moon-viewing as you seem to claim, you would know that.”
“Perhaps.” His wooden sandals clicked on the jetty and I felt the railing at my back. “But declined invitations are seldom shared and, as I said, I am a stranger here. I do not know whose private viewing I have so rudely interrupted.”
“I am lady-in-waiting to the Princess Masahime.” He was close enough now that I could see his black brows arch a little. In the moonlight, his powdered face seemed to be another moon, glowing and mysterious.
“Do you know the Lady Tamakatsura?” The question made me tremble and look at him harder, to see if he bore any of the signs of a supernatural creature, fearing for one moment that he was my betrothed’s spirit, strangely changed. But he seemed real enough, perilously real.
“Yes,” I breathed at last. “I know her. Why do you ask?”
“I am curious, that is all. I am acquainted with her father.”
“You say you are a stranger here. Is this your first visit to the capital?” I asked, in the secret and unworthy hope that I could wield my own birth as Koi did, as a weapon against the world.
“Not my first. But the first in many years.”
“And do you find it changed?” He looked back then, towards the place the palace lay, behind the dark spires of the trees. After a long moment, he spoke softly.
The plum trees bloom
and the snow is melting away
The cherry blossoms wait
to reflect the moon
The wind blows in the pines
And there is autumn in it.
“Do you find it so sad?” I asked, for there was sorrow in the grave beauty of the poem.
“Yes. The sadness of the blossom just before it falls, the moment just before you see the decay of the bloom.”
“This is Heian-kyo. This is the court of the emperor. How can you say that it is said, that it will fall?”
“Because it will, my lady. The seeds of its downfall have already been planted and grown to ripeness in the world outside these walls. I will not bore you with the details of rice fortunes and falling taxation and unrest and the armies of the Minamoto and Taira growing outside your door. I can only tell you that all things that live must die,” he said bitterly, “or change. Change will come to the city of tranquility and peace.”
“It is true that the city is not as it was,” I conceded. “There are thieves and killers even inside the palace grounds. Houses of the great families have burned
or fallen into disrepair from failing fortunes. But surely these are temporary trials.”
“All things must change, my lady,” he repeated softly. “Or die. All blossoms fall, in the end.”
I shivered at the strange sadness in his voice and tried to counter it with lightness in my own. “If you are a soothsayer, my lord, you are a dreary one.”
“True enough. Dreary words for courtship.”
“Is this courtship, my lord?” I asked, though my mouth went dry and I was aware of the black water whispering beneath my feet.
“No. It is not courtship,” he said, his voice low but in no way soft. His hand reached up to grasp mine, which I still held up to my face. He brushed aside the silk of my sleeves and his fingers touched my wrist. I wanted to flee, to throw myself past him along the jetty or fling myself over the rail into the waiting water, but I could not move.
The stranger lifted my wrist to his lips and kissed it. His touch was chill; lips and tongue like cool silk, teeth like icy needles. My body shivered and trembled as if with cold but inside of me something melted and burned. I did not scream. I did not flee.
At last he lifted his head and smiled at me, as if he knew what I had felt. “You will never speak of this night.” His voice was darker than the river water, sweeter than a poet’s, but I nodded of my own will, as well as his. He needed no power to seal my lips; whatever kind of demon he was, it would be I who bore the weight of scandal and gossip were it known he had come to me. Then his face was very close to mine and I closed my eyes before his mouth touched mine. I thought that I could taste my blood on his lips, but, to my shame, I did not care.
When I opened my eyes, he was gone.
I told no one. I painted my face more heavily than usual to hide the heat I could feel waiting beneath my skin. I wrapped a silk band around my wrist to hide the two marks I found there. I did not walk alone in the night. The demon did not come for me again.
Several weeks later, I returned to my father’s house. A gathering of our family and close friends had been planned in honour of my grandfather’s departed spirit, and, caught up in the bustle of preparation and the company of my aunts and cousins, I almost forgot my strange experience.