Blood and Chrysanthemums

by Nancy Baker

  “The troupe of Master Hidekane, seeking safe passage on the way to Konishi, would be deeply gratified by the chance to repay the Lord Fujiwara’s kindness by presenting one of their humble plays for the pleasure of the lord and his household.”

  “Travelling to Konishi in this weather?” the lord asked, for it was the first month and winter gripped the land with fingers of frost and snow. “They can hardly be among the flower of the court if they cannot find employment closer to home.”

  “I questioned the messenger from the inn,” Tadeo told him. “He said that they have horses, as well as ox carts, and all are well appointed and costly.”

  “Konishi is fond of Noh,” the lord reflected. “And the gods know he cannot show his face near Kyoto and the shogun, not if he wishes to keep his head for long.” After a moment, he nodded. “It has been a long winter. The household could no doubt stand some pleasure. Invite them to come and entertain us.”

  So messengers were sent and, the next morning, the actors arrived. Servants and samurai both paused in their duties to watch the troupe ride in, for they were colourfully dressed, bright spots of red and gold and green against the white and black of the snowy hills and bare trees. There were fifteen of them, walking or riding or sitting in the ox-drawn carts that rocked on the frozen, rutted path up to the gates of the house.

  At the gate, Tadeo greeted them, for it was the custom of Lord Sadamori to rest most of the day and handle his affairs as the sun began to set. The actors and their trunks of costumes and masks were unloaded and servants recruited to assist in the preparation of a stage. The site chosen for the performance was in the old part of the manor, which had been abandoned with the construction of the new, more fortified mansion, so much had to be done to prepare it for use.

  At sunset, when the lord arose, Tadeo bowed his way into his chambers and waited as his master took tea. The shadowy shapes of the guards moved beyond the shoji screens and, from down the hallway, the steward could hear the faint, haunting notes of a woman’s voice singing—the lord’s youngest concubine.

  “The actors have arrived?”

  “Yes, my lord. Their leader has said that they will be prepared for the performance tomorrow evening but he would be honoured to pay his respects to you tonight, if it would suit you.”

  “This Master Hidekane. What manner of man is he?”

  “Much younger than I expected. But the messenger did not lie; they appear to be a prosperous company. There is only one thing. . . .” The steward paused, suddenly uncertain. Sadamori nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “It is perhaps nothing. I would not trouble you, my lord, except that I know you are . . . concerned for your safety. When I told Master Hidekane that he would perform in the old manor, he simply nodded and agreed.”

  “And you expected some argument on that?”

  “You will forgive me if I point out that artists are often temperamental. The old manor could be in any state of disrepair. Yet he did not seem concerned, nor ask to see it immediately, nor request changes that were not possible. Some of your other . . . artistic . . . guests have been less easy to accommodate.”

  The lord thanked Tadeo for the information and dismissed him, though he could not dismiss the unease the steward’s words had left. It could simply be that the director wished to be polite to his host, and risk no offence that might see the performance—and anticipated reward—jeopardized. But Tadeo was correct. The musicians and painters who sometimes stayed with him where usually happy to take advantage of the privileges their talents gave them.

  Sadamori resolved to meet this young master and determine if there was indeed a threat. He had been secure here for twenty years. Tadeo had been raised since childhood to serve and protect him. His two concubines knew he did not require what other men did, and took what no man ever had, but as he treated them well in all other fashions, they did not seem inclined to complain. There were those among the samurai who might suspect. But they were sworn to die in his service and besides, as he was a canny enough general, more prospered than perished and so they were content.

  He could not guess what threat a playwright might hold for him, except that a fanciful imagination might be more inclined to believe what a pragmatic mind would not. But still he would see this man. He would learn if his unease had any source beyond the habit of caution.

  The man was brought to him in his receiving room, accompanied by the silent samurai, who retreated to kneel by the doorway. One of the servants crept to offer sake. Sadamori studied the man. He was young, as Tadeo had said, perhaps in his early thirties. He was handsome, in the fashion of a priest: ascetic, inward. There was something about the planes of his face, the tilt of his eyes, that sounded on memories but Sadamori could not tell if they were true or false. After four centuries, many people looked like someone he remembered.

  “Welcome to my house,” he said at last and the man bowed again.

  “We are honoured by your welcome, Lord Sadamori.”

  “I regret that I have not been able to hear all the news of your fine art. It has been some time since I visited the capital.” It had been fifty years, in fact, since the Fujiwara lord had knelt to offer fealty to the shogun and supposedly died in battle against the rebellious barons of the south.

  “We are very new . . . and I hope your honour will remember that when we present our entertainments tomorrow night. But I had the honour to train with the Master Zeami since childhood.”

  “If that respected gentleman has trained you, then I am certain your efforts will be gratefully received. I hope that you found the stage we provided adequate.”

  “Most appropriate, my lord. The play we will present will benefit greatly from the atmosphere of the old manor. It is in excellent condition.”

  “We of the Fujiwara house honour our past,” Sadamori acknowledged, for it had pained him to leave the manor, which had been in the old style of building with low roofs and heavy eaves that allowed the dark to linger well into the day. But the forces of change and necessity required strong defences and he had bowed before them, as always.

  “So illustrious a past should not be forgotten,” Hidekane said and for a moment something like mockery seemed to glide beneath the words. Sadamori met his eyes but there was nothing there but polite respect.

  “Where are you from, Master Hidekane?”

  “A small village, some miles south of here. But I was given at an early age as apprentice to the company. My mother was widowed, my older brother killed.”

  “How unfortunate. Was there an accident?” It broke all rules of politeness to ask, but if the man seemed to have no shame about volunteering information, Sadamori would take it.

  “No. They were murdered.”

  “The times are troubled indeed. One hopes the perpetrators were punished.”

  “I am certain punishment will come. In one life or another,” Hidekane said softly and bowed his head slightly, as if in quiet prayer.

  “Karma,” Sadamori remarked, after a silent moment.

  “Yes. Karma.”

  After the playwright left, Lord Sadamori walked alone through the snow-covered hills for a long time, but found no answers waiting beneath the winter moon.

  The next night, the household gathered in the old manor. The room was lit and warmed with braziers and torches. One end had been transformed. A cloth curtain bearing the image of the traditional pine tree hung as a backdrop, a low stage had been raised to extend out into the room.

  The samurai and their wives settled onto mats before the stage, servants slid silently into spaces in the darkness at the back of the room. Lord Sadamori’s two concubines entered, fans fluttering, and walked with dainty, perfect steps to the cushions that awaited them. At last, the lord himself arrived, resplendent in a kimono embroidered with the crest of his ancient house. The assembly bowed as he moved to take his place at the very front of the audience.

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p; Almost unseen, the steward slipped backstage to signal to the players. The two musicians moved from the wings to take their places, followed by the chorus, who knelt beside them before the backdrop.

  The flute began its windy plaint and was joined by the slow heartbeat of the drum. Whispered conversations died, silk rustled as the audience shifted to get the best view. An actor dressed as a travelling priest moved onto the stage, pace precise, movements the refinement of ritual.

  Over cold and distant roads

  From the mountains of the north

  Over cold and distant roads

  From the mountains of the north

  I am passing on my way to

  The sacred shrine of Ise.

  Sadamori watched the drama begin in the time-honoured fashion. The troupe seemed fine enough, he thought, as the chorus echoed the priest’s words, embroidering upon his description of the cold, wearying journey. Hidekane’s poetic images were beautiful . . . yet there was something sharp beneath them, like ice embedded in snow.

  The second actor had come out, wearing the costume and mask of an old man, approaching the priest as he prepared to spend the night in a deserted house.

  The moon is rising

  But still there is not enough light

  The night has a hold on me

  And the mist covers my eyes

  Why else should I wander here

  Searching for what is lost

  I cannot find my way home

  I cannot rest

  As the priest and the old man spoke their lines, the latter’s story emerged. He was searching for his sons, or their spirits, in the darkness of the night. Sometimes he spoke to the young priest, sometimes to the air, sometimes to some presence only he could sense. The actor’s voice and movements were controlled and precise, the perfect evocation of age and despair. Yet there was something more behind the stylized mask, the ritualized movements. It was the playwright himself, Hidekane, who performed the role. At that thought, something like a chill passed through Sadamori as he sat on his silk cushions, his concubines by his side, his samurai at his back.

  The tragic old man, the chorus echoing his plaintive verse, excited from the stage. His place was taken by the kyogen, who announced himself as a villager returning from prayer at the local shrine. As was his function, he revealed the true story: the old man was as much a ghost as the sons he was seeking. All had perished in a terrible fire that had destroyed their home a hundred years earlier. But the villagers believed that they had been slain by a demon before the fire and this was the cause of the man’s unquiet spirit.

  As the priest prayed for the old man’s peace, the flute wailed, the drum beat harder. In the audience, someone coughed. The youngest of the concubines looked at her lord and saw his face was as white and as still as that of a corpse. She lowered her eyes, her fan trembling in her hand.

  From behind the curtain, the playwright returned, this time in the guise of a demon. The audience muttered and grasped . . . for the demon’s mask was terrifying and unexpected. Half of it was twisted and ghastly, with sharp red brows, a crooked black mouth. The other half was that of a prince, pure and handsome.

  The demon’s grunted voice came.

  Truly I am cursed

  Filled with hate for that

  Which lives upon the earth

  As I do not

  Truly I am hungry

  For the souls of those

  Who die and pass beyond

  Who join the Wheel

  As I do not.

  In the flickering torchlight, the mask became an image of a soul divided. Upon the stage, amid the artifice and ritual, there was no actor, no performance. There was only the thing itself, the pure distillation of an undying, demonic power that murdered and despaired, that clung to life and longed for death. There was evil and there was pain.

  Before the stage, the undead lord of Fujiwara watched his secret brought to life in words with edges as sharp as a Muramasa blade.

  Behind the mountains

  the moon goes down

  As I must go

  But upon the mountains

  The moon must rise again

  As I must rise

  There is no rest.

  The final pose was struck. The final drumbeat sounded. Silence held the hall.

  Then Lord Sadamori lifted his hands and forced them together. Behind him, the ranks of samurai and servants clapped. Only the youngest concubine saw him wince as his palms touched.

  There was feasting, then, sake poured and drunk, honours paid and received. The night wore on and at last the playwright rose to retire. He came to kneel in front of the lord. They spoke together for a moment, their voices so low that no one heard them over the merriment of the celebration.

  “The performance was most intriguing,” Sadamori said and Hidekane smiled. “I would be interested to know what inspired the play.”

  “My humble thanks for your kind words. I would be honoured to answer any of your questions. Perhaps the garden of the old manor would lend a proper atmosphere.” The suggestion made the lord wary, for the gardens would be deserted and nothing that passed within them could be heard or seen by the rest of the household. Then he smiled and nodded, for this could work as well to his advantage as to the poet’s.

  Like long-time conspirators, it seemed they needed few words. Hidekane left the room. A suitable time later, the lord too retired. At the appointed time, they met in the garden. The chilly air turned the poet’s breath to icy mist but the lord wore only his silk kimono and did not shiver. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice quiet and calm, but cold as the moon above them.

  “Ito no Hidekane. Who would have been Fujiwara no Hidekane, had you not slain my father.”

  “Your father, if you claim to be the child of Kozun, betrayed me.”

  “My mother told me the true tale. How you came to my father fifty years ago and offered to adopt him into your family, to give him your estates upon your death, because you had no children of your own. But you did not die, for you are an unnatural demon. You merely went away and, when you returned, killed my father and my brothers to take back the honours you had given him. She was fortunate to have escaped your murderous treachery.”

  “Your father’s wife was two years dead when I returned.”

  “My father’s maid was not. You did not know that, did you? That she was his mistress and carried his child. You did not believe that she would remember the foul things you did to her, that she would see through the dreams to the demon that you are.”

  “I remember her now. Though,” his voice turned languid, “I do not recall her fear of foul dreams. Indeed, it seemed to me she went eagerly to sleep each night, perfumed and willing.”

  For a moment, fury painted its mask on the actor’s face. But then he mastered it and continued, as if this were but another play and he had lines yet to say.

  “As I grew older, she could no longer afford to keep me and so she gave me up to a passing troupe. But she had told me the story every night and made me swear to remember it.”

  “And so here you are, a master of your own company. A playwright of some talent, I admit. Though your mother’s story had more fiction in it than your play. No, do not interrupt me. I endured your tale this night, now you must hear mine. I did indeed adopt your father and allow him to inherit this land. But there were conditions. He was not to impoverish it. He was not to disgrace the Fujiwara name. And when a young man bearing the family crest on his sword came to him, he was to adopt him in his turn and leave him the estate. This was all I asked of him. Fifty years of wealth, and even a portion of the rice crop to any sons of his own I might displace, and all he was required to do was adopt me and give me my ‘ancestor’s’ name.

  “But he grew greedy. He misused the wealth of this estate. He antagonized my neighbours. And when I returned, he denied his sworn oath and his duty. He refu
sed to set his own sons aside. Eventually, he agreed, when I held their lives as hostage to his bond. But still he plotted against me or, more truthfully, against the young man he believed I was. Eventually, he began to suspect the truth. Perhaps your mother aided him in that, believing she would one day be lady of the house.

  “I gave him every chance to live out the rest of his life in honour and comfort. I gave to him the same chance I gave others over the years. They made the honourable decision and did as they had promised. But your father gave me no other choice. He had even involved your older brothers in his plots.”

  “And so you killed them all.”

  “Yes. That has always been the price of treachery.” The words had the coldness of harsh truth. “Why did you come here? To slay the demon and take back your false inheritance?”

  “No,” Hidekane said, after a moment. “I thought of that for many years. But I am not a swordsman. My only weapons are words. My play, the truth of your evil, is my revenge. It will live longer than either of us, as my curse upon you.”

  “Your play held a core of truth,” the demon-lord admitted after a moment. “Your heart knew it all along. For whose soul did you embody on that stage? Your father’s . . . or mine?”

  For a moment, the poet would not look at him but instead stared at the dark, dead trees that surrounded them. “You curse is to be what you are. My curse is to imagine it too well,” he said bleakly at last.

  “I am not cursed. I am only what I am. I have no wish to change . . . or to die.”

  “Now. But someday . . .” There was a strange distraction in his voice, as if he had left the careful rhythms of his script and grasped now for some truth he had never articulated. “Someday my words may be yours.”

  “Or perhaps, Master Hidekane, it is your own epitaph you have written.”

  “Do that, if you wish, Lord Demon. Kill me. But if you do, it will only make my words stronger.”

  “You cannot perform that play for Lord Konishi,” Lord Sadamori said and the playwright knew that he would not die that night.