by I. J. Parker
The symbolic connection between the Buddha and Okisada, once emperor-designate, was instantly clear to Akitada.
On the mandala, the Buddha occupied the very center and was surrounded by concentric rings of petals of the lotus flower, representing an enormous spiritual hierarchy; each petal contained a figure, from the Buddha’s own representations to hundreds of increasingly smaller saints, each representing multiple worlds. The court had always perceived an analogy between this Buddha and the emperor who, surrounded by his great ministers, each in charge of his own department of lesser officials, ruled the lives of the people down to the least significant persons in the realm. When the emperor was a descendant of gods, the religious hierarchy validated the secular one. Okisada had certainly not lost his delusions of godlike majesty in exile.
But what of Shunsei? Apparently the young monk now spent his days and nights in front of the mandala. Praying?
Grieving for his lover? Meditating in an effort to achieve enlightenment? Or atoning for a mortal sin?
The monk stood, waiting passively, patiently, his eyes lowered and his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robe. Up close, he was older than Akitada had at first thought. He must be well into his thirties, no boy but a mature man. He also looked frail and ill, as if the childish flesh had fallen away, the soft skin had lost its healthy glow, and the rounded contours of cheek and chin had disappeared to leave behind the finely drawn features of total abstinence. Startlingly, the very large, soft, and long-lashed eyes and the softly curving lips were still there and powerfully sensual in the pale, thin face.
Shunsei raised those tender liquid eyes to Akitada’s. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked in the same soft voice. “I have only water to offer you.”
“Thank you. I need nothing.” Akitada seated himself on the mat and gestured toward the mandala. “I have never seen a more beautiful painting of Roshana,” he said.
“He sent for it when he built this hall. Now I pray to him.
Perhaps, someday soon, he will allow me to join him.” Somehow this strange statement made sense. Shunsei’s identification of the Buddha with the late prince might have been the result of excessive grief, but Akitada suspected that Okisada had planted the seed of worship in the young monk’s mind a long time ago. For the first time he wondered about Okisada’s physical appearance. He must have been old enough to be Shunsei’s father. Of course, Shunsei himself looked decep-tively young because of his small size and dainty shape. The only imperial princes Akitada had met had been portly men of undistinguished appearance. How, then, had Okisada attracted such deep devotion in his lover unless it was through linking physical lust to spiritual worship? The thought was disturbing, and Akitada glanced away from those soft eyes and curving lips to the Roshana Buddha.
“What do you wish to know?” the soft voice asked.
Akitada pulled his thoughts together. He had a murder to solve and a conspiracy to prevent. “Tell me about him,” he begged.
“Why?”
Akitada phrased his response carefully. “I have been sent here. In the capital his death will raise questions. I have already spoken to the high constable and Professor Sakamoto and I have listened to Lord Taira and the prince’s physician, but still some of the answers escape me.”
It was surprising how easily these half-truths came to his tongue, and amazing how this simple monk accepted them without question. He even smiled a little. “Yes, they all loved him,” he said with a nod, “but not the same as I. We, he and I, became as one when we were together. When he entered the dark path, I wished to join him but couldn’t. Not then, but soon now.” He nodded again and looked lovingly at the altar.
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Yes. It is good that they should know in the capital. That his family should know, and the whole world. You see, he knew the great transformation was approaching. At first he thought it was just an indisposition. He called his doctor in and took medicine, and when the pains got very bad he would come to me, and I would chant as I rubbed his back and his aching belly.” Akitada stared at Shunsei. He had a strange sense that the floor beneath him had lost its solidity and there was nothing to hold on to. “The prince was ill?” he asked.
“At first that was what we thought, he and I. I gave him relief, he said, but now I know the great transformation had already begun. The pain came more and more often, until he wished for release from this world. I thought my weak prayers had failed, and lost my faith.” He hung his head and looked down at his hands, which rested in his lap.
Dazedly Akitada followed his glance. Beautiful hands, he thought, long-fingered and shapely, covered with the same translucent skin as his face. Curled together, they lay passively where once, no doubt, the dead lover’s hands had roamed, where Shunsei and Okisada had found the center of their universe together. The thought was disturbingly erotic, and Akitada felt hot and ashamed. He shifted to look back at the mandala. Death, religious ecstasy, and sexual arousal were perhaps not far apart. The thought would be rejected as blas-phemous by most, but here was at least one man who, in the simplicity of his faith and because of repressed desires, had equated physical lovemaking with spiritual worship. How could you judge a man’s faith?
Was this the secret the others had wanted to hide at all cost?
That the prince had died from a severe and protracted illness?
That would destroy the case against Mutobe and his son.
But what of the poisoned dog? Or had there been a dog?
Perhaps that was a lie, too. Or the dog had been poisoned as an afterthought. And then another, more terrible thought entered Akitada’s mind. What if Okisada had become ill because someone had administered poison to him over a period of time?
Shunsei’s account of Okisada’s “transformation” could describe the effects of systematic poisoning, and his death in the pavilion would have marked the final dose. That would also clear young Mutobe, who could not have had the opportunity to administer all the prior doses. But why kill Okisada, whose return to imperial power had been the object of the plot? Was there someone else who wished Okisada dead? Akitada shook his head in confusion.
Shunsei’s soft sigh brought him back. The monk said gravely, “Do not doubt the miracle, as I did. He achieved what we had both prayed for, a state of blessedness, a cessation of pain. I know, for he has come and told me so.” Akitada looked at Shunsei’s deep-set, feverish eyes and felt a great pity. This man was dying himself, by his own choice, and in the final stages of starvation and meditation he must have been hallucinating.
Kumo, Taira, and Sakamoto need not worry about his testimony. Shunsei would not live long enough to travel to Mano.
Of course, there was still Nakatomi. They had wanted the physician to testify only to the cause of death, and not touch on the prince’s prior state of health. They had known of his illness.
But Akitada’s eavesdropping had convinced him that his death had shocked and surprised them. Sakamoto in particular had complained bitterly about it. Only one fact was certain: they all wanted the governor’s son convicted of murder as soon as possible.
Shunsei still sat quietly looking down at his hands.
“You knew he would die?” Akitada asked.
The monk raised his eyes and smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes. Only not so soon.”
“And young Mutobe? Is he to die also?” The smile faded to sadness. “If it is his karma. We all must die.”
Akitada gritted his teeth. A moment ago he thought he had his answer, but Shunsei seemed to have changed his mind again.
Perhaps he was dealing with a madman after all. He looked long into Shunsei’s eyes. Impossible to tell. The large black orbs gazed back calmly.
“But you do not believe that he murdered the prince?” Akitada finally asked bluntly.
Shunsei smiled again. “He assisted in the transformation,” he corrected.
“What? How?”
“He helped him achieve nirvana more quickly.”
Akitada staggered to his feet. He had failed. Shunsei, who had been present, truly believed that young Mutobe had poisoned Okisada. “Thank you,” he muttered, and bowed.
Shunsei also rose. He swayed a little as if light-headed.
“Thank you for coming,” he said politely. “Please tell them what I said. His memory will be sacred forever.” Blindly, Akitada walked to the door, followed by Shunsei.
On the steps, he turned one more time to look back at the other man, who stood on the veranda, supporting himself against a column. The moon cast an eerie whiteness over his face, sharp-ening the angles of the underlying skull and turning the eyes into fathomless pools of darkness.
On some strange impulse, Akitada said, “I was told the prince enjoyed fugu. Did he, by any chance, eat some the day he died?”
This time, Shunsei’s smile broke the spell of strangeness and made him almost human again. “Oh, yes. The blowfish. He sent me to the fisherman’s wife for it. He was not well and wished to be strong for the meeting. He always enjoyed fugu, but since his illness he also derived relief from it.” Akitada reached for the railing. “But . . . no fugu was served to the others.”
“Oh, no. He prepared it himself in his room and carried a small dose with him. He was very familiar with the preparation.” Shunsei pressed his palms together and bowed. Then he disappeared back into the room, extinguishing the lights until all was plunged into darkness again.
Akitada groped his way back to the monks’ dormitory, his mind as murky as the darkness of the forest around him. Had Okisada died by accidentally poisoning himself?
Or had he committed suicide to escape the torment of his pain?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LIEUTENANT WADA
Akitada woke. At first he was not certain what had disturbed his sleep because all was dark and silent. He turned over, but the memories of the previous day began to crowd in. It was finally over and soon he would be home. The prince had taken the poison himself. Okisada might have mistaken the dosage or, in the knowledge of a slow and increasingly painful death, decided to end it quickly, but ultimately it did not matter. He was dead, all danger of his leading another rebellion was over, and the conspiracy against the governor would fall apart as soon as the fact was known. True, Shunsei’s condition was worrisome, but there was at least one other person who knew that the prince had eaten blowfish: his regular supplier, Haru.
He sat up and stretched. Hearing soft noises next door in Osawa’s room, he got up, opened the door, and peered out. It was still night in the forest, but the sky above the trees was already turning the deep blue-black which precedes dawn, and a few birds chirped sleepily.
It was unusual for Osawa to rise this early, but he, too, now had someone to rush back to. Akitada smiled, yawned, and took a few deep breaths of the pine-scented air. It was deliciously cool and he hated to leave the woods for the hot plain again, but tonight they would be back in Mano.
Akitada looked at Osawa’s closed door and decided to get dressed. If Osawa was in such a hurry, he was not going to delay him. The sooner he could settle this affair and leave Sadoshima, the better. He longed for his family with an almost painful intensity.
After lighting the oil lamp, he reached for the blue robe he had been wearing for days. It looked and smelled the worse for the hard wear. In his bag was still his own robe of plain brown silk, the one he had arrived in and which had been stained and torn during those first appalling days. He shook his head at the memory of the misery suffered by convicts.
He rolled up the blue robe and shook out the brown one after removing the flute from its folds. Surely Osawa would not mind if he put on clean clothes for the trip back. They had no more official calls to make on the way.
The silk robe was a little creased, but it looked and smelled a great deal better than the blue one. He slipped it on and fas-tened the black sash about his waist. Reaching up to adjust the collar, he touched the stiffness of the documents between the layers of fabric. They, too, would soon no longer be needed. He thought guiltily of Masako, who had not only nursed him back to health, but had washed and mended his clothes. He was ashamed of having rejected her affection so harshly. Tonight he would speak to her, explain his situation, and offer her . . . what? He thought he would know once he knew her real feelings for him.
Smoothing down the familiar cool silk, he felt relief that it was over. The judge, once informed of the facts, would know what questions to ask. If Shunsei was too weak to travel, he could sign an affidavit. Taira would be called to testify, and Haru. Nakatomi would be forced to speak about Okisada’s illness. Finally, Sakamoto would be confronted with the mass of evidence, and he would break and reveal the plot to build a murder case against the governor’s son. Yes, it should all unravel nicely, even without Shunsei’s presence.
He used his fingers to comb his beard and hair, retied his topknot, and checked the neck of his robe again. It bulged a bit, refused to lie down flat. He patted the fabric down firmly, but it still buckled. With his index finger he checked the seam where he had inserted the documents and found it torn.
His heart pounding, Akitada fished out the papers and unfolded them. For a long time he stared in disbelief at the blank sheets of ordinary paper.
He turned them this way and that, wondering foolishly if the august words had somehow faded, not wanting to believe the obvious, that someone had stolen his imperial orders and the governor’s safe conduct, and with them his identity.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. He tried to remember when he had last seen the documents. They had still been there after he left Mano, after Masako had found them without realizing what they were.
Or perhaps she had realized only too well! For the documents to have been stolen from such a hiding place, the thief must have known what to look for and where. Had Masako revealed his secret, perhaps unintentionally?
If so, he had been allowed to leave Mano with the documents. Yes, the papers had still been in his robe on the road to Kumo’s manor. Later he had worn his blue clerk’s robe and, foolishly, he had only checked the documents by touch, and not often that. Where had the theft happened? At Kumo’s manor or in Minato? He had slept with the saddlebags under his head in the groom’s room and also later in Takao’s kitchen, but there had been many times when his saddlebags had lain somewhere while he was doing Osawa’s bidding. He had worried more about the flute than the documents.
Anyone could have removed the papers anywhere between Minato and here, but surely the most likely thief was Genzo.
Seimei would say, “Spilled water does not return to its pail.” It was more important to think about what would happen next.
He could not raise an outcry. What could Osawa do, even if he believed him? No, he must return to Mano as quickly as possible. Thank heaven Mutobe had seen the papers and could vouch for him.
Akitada packed the blue robe, the flute, and his other belongings into his saddlebags and walked through the waking forest to the monastery stable to saddle the horses. But there a second shock awaited him.
A distraught Osawa was getting in the saddle, while a red-cheeked novice was holding the reins and listening to Osawa’s agitated instructions with an expression of blank confusion on his young face.
“Why the rush, Master Osawa?” Akitada called out.
Osawa turned. “Oh, there you are. Good. I have no time. I’m off to Minato this instant. Takao’s had an accident. Very bad.
You must go on to Mano. There”-he flung a hand toward a small pile of boxes and bundles-“are the records. All of them.
Also my letter of resignation. Make my excuses to the governor.” He pulled the reins from the novice’s hand and dug his heels in the horse’s flank.
“Wait . . .” cried Akitada, but Osawa was already cantering down the forest path at breakneck speed, the skirts of his gown fluttering behind him as he disappeared around the first bend of the track.
Akitada and the novice looked at each other. The novice shrugged and sm
iled.
“What happened?” Akitada asked.
“Not sure. I couldn’t understand the gentleman too well. He came rushing up to the stable, shouting for his horse. I didn’t know which one, and he was jumping up and down, crying it was a matter of life and death. I finally found the right horse, and he had all these instructions. For you, I suppose. I didn’t really understand them at all.”
“But how . . . ? Did a messenger arrive for him?” The novice nodded. “A man came on a horse and asked the way to the gentleman’s room. I took his horse and showed him.”
“His name?”
The youngster looked blank again. “I didn’t ask. He was short and had a nose like a beak.”
Akitada stared down the path Osawa had taken. So the bird-faced man had reappeared. He wished Osawa had knocked on his door or at least discussed the matter before taking off so precipitously.
“Get my horse,” he told the novice, then changed his mind.
“Never mind. I’ll do it.” He ran to the stable. Dropping his saddlebags on the ground beside the mule, he threw blanket and saddle on his horse, which sensed his agitation and sidestepped nervously. The young monk came to lend a hand. Leading the horse out, Akitada told him, “I’ll be back. Load the mule in the meantime!” Then he swung himself into the saddle and kicked his heels into the animal’s flanks.