The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai

by Barbara Lazar

  ‘You and I are aware that your performance is inadequate. My duties in special hut have not changed your behaviour. Customers leave and do not return. My profits dwindle.’ She picked up a winter pillow and dangled it high in front of me. ‘Yes. I know you noticed, Kozaishō. You notice everything. Well, your poor services are the reason I do not have enough to change pillows for the new season. Do you wish to spend more time in my special hut?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. I did not care, without my beautiful Buddhist.

  Hitomi used her screechy voice and gestured with her hands high in the air. ‘Do you want to die?’

  The inside of me was scooped out, like a melon, seeds and all, nothing left that the rind, unable to hold its shape.

  She flopped against her pillows. Her nostrils flared and she grunted. She frowned and, from time to time, grumbled to herself.

  Outside, sparrows called to each other in the new grass. Pheasants cooed, murmuring to each other about their clutches of eggs. The sounds of birds who had found their mates. Mine, lost for the rest of this lifetime.

  ‘Kozaishō!’

  Hitomi interrupted my rumination. I raised my head. She was not scowling.

  ‘Kozaishō. But first—’ She clapped three times.

  The shōji opened and a servant scuttled in bringing the aroma of warm mochi. She bowed and set down a tray. More claps, and the servant left. No words spoken. This had been rehearsed.

  ‘Let us eat these rice cakes while they are still warm.’ She reached out and took one, at the same time maintaining her gaze on me.

  ‘Whatever Madam Hitomi wishes.’ I took one and waited for her to bite first.

  She ate in silence. I did not eat mochi: the sweetness would turn bitter in my mouth.

  ‘Eat it. You have lost too much weight.’

  I nibbled at what I thought would taste like old straw. Warm. Delicious. My mouth watered. The old monkey! My appetite revived.

  ‘Now, Kozaishō, you will meet your tutor on the Days of the Snake and the Pig. Correct?’ Her voice melted into the air, as sweet as the mochi that dissolved in my mouth.

  ‘Madam Hitomi, the Days of the Hare, Goat and Pig.’

  ‘Because I know you enjoy your studies, he will come on the Day of the Rooster also.’

  I responded with a small bow. I needed to be wary. She had bribed me. For what?

  Hitomi squinted at me. ‘Misuki will take lessons with you. Eat. Eat. You must fatten up if you are to concentrate on your studies.’

  She pointed at my mostly eaten rice cake. I took another few bites and finished it. Disgusted with myself for the enjoyment. The mochi – a component of the bribe.

  ‘I will also arrange for another tutor. For the biwa. On the Days of the Ox and the Goat.’ She drifted deep into her pillows, her hands cross-fingered in her lap. ‘For both you and Misuki. That will make it easier for Misuki to catch up with you.’ She tapped her fingers together.

  Misuki had learned fast. She had astounded me. Hitomi had surprised, no, unsettled me. Let her do what she wished with me. The tutors, more days. A biwa tutor. Now Misuki. Again, Hitomi wanted something from me. Was Misuki a spy for Hitomi? I smelt her fear. Perhaps she had spoken the truth. Perhaps she really did rely on me for her profits.

  ‘Would you like another mochi? Here, Kozaishō . . .’ She pushed the tray towards me. I took another, my appetite shamefully enticed into allience.

  ‘Kozaishō, you and I know I hear grievances from your clients. My special hut has not motivated you to perform better. Therefore I have a proposal.’

  My head snapped up. Here it came. Her voice smoothed over her anxiety, and her fingers danced. What else would she offer and for what? I had to find and kill Tashiko’s murderer.

  ‘Kozaishō, listen to me. You and I understand you have not managed your responsibilities. Here is my proposal.’ She pressed her elbows on to her knees, her fists under her multiple chins. ‘Each day I receive complaints you will be locked into the room here in Main House and not permitted to be with Akio.’

  Akio! Akio – still here? To be with my great friend. To return to training. My bow? To strap on my quiver. To grasp my bokken. My back straightened, and the expected throbbing warmth seeped through my bindings. I steeled myself against the tremors, soon to come.

  ‘You will go to Akio every day I receive no complaints from your clients.’

  My face turned to the source of much pain these past two months. My eyes narrowed, as I envisaged a life again with someone who loved me.

  She was manipulating me for her own comfort and profit, I knew that, yet tears of possibility leaked down my cheeks to my chin. What Hitomi’s hatred and punishment had not achieved, this specious kindness had accomplished. I had not made a sound through any of her torments, but I allowed myself, that day, to utter a single sound of hope.

  III. Framework for Vengeance

  I hesitated outside the communal eating room, listened to the chatter, and relished the fragrance of rice and vegetables for the first time in months. Hitomi’s sweet mochi remained on my teeth, reminding me of hunger.

  I entered, and conversations melted like ice at the edge of a river on a hot day. Glances skittered across the room, away from me. Except Misuki’s. She sat in a corner, far from the few women trekking to and from the rice and the pickled or fresh vegetable pots in the room’s centre. I wanted to be alone, but she beamed when her eyes locked on mine, and she motioned me to join her, Emi and Aya.

  I fixed a smile to my face. I had no wish to hurt Emi and Aya. Perhaps Misuki thought that now Tashiko was dead . . . but no. Never. No matter how many incense sticks she bought for me, I could not love her. I filled my evening-meal bowl and joined them in the corner.

  Misuki halted her jabbering for a moment when I sat down with my bowl. The evening-meal talk remained hushed, but Misuki, like a priest announcing prayers to a large group, prattled on: the day, the full moon, this month, the season turning from Fire to Earth, moving towards harvest time, then Aya’s birth year, Koshin, the Unlucky Monkey Year . . .

  Stares prickled my skin as Misuki praised my fortunes, complimented my virtues – and stretched my patience to the thinness of a biwa string ready to snap. I finished my food quickly, nodded to Misuki and left, hearing the voices flood and flow now, up and down like rivers in their seasons.

  Misuki followed me to our sleep huts. The frogs’ loud songs shielded her whispers as we walked on the moonlit path. ‘Madam Hitomi has you watched. They listen to what you say. No one should hear what my servant overheard, but you need to know.’

  I had already spotted the same strange samurai who had lifted me at the funeral. ‘What about Rin?’

  ‘I do not know. She gossips and spends much of her time with Hitomi. Perhaps . . .’

  Rin could not be trusted. Besides, she caused too many problems for a leader. Her size permitted her to grab or take whatever she wanted from anyone’s hut. I had seen her. My beloved Tashiko had applied gentle ways to ask for the best for herself and others. I resolved to be more like Tashiko, serene, reserved – and cautious.

  The silence of the frogs was interrupted. I heard steps behind us. I smelt incense. I squeezed Misuki’s hand and placed a finger to her lips. The moon hid behind clouds. Darkness veiled us. The samurai?

  I held my breath.

  Rin marched past us. She slapped me directly across my welts in time with her heavy step.

  That jolt and the shooting pains slowed me, but I made no sound. The wounds on my back opened, searing, then wet. I allowed myself a grimace in the darkness. Rin liked to help Hitomi in these ways. I strained beyond the pain to recognise the footfalls and scent of the samurai, and relaxed with the return of the frogs’ and birds’ songs.

  In a clear voice I pretended to talk to Misuki: ‘I believe Tashiko’s spirit is in a clean and pure land, where people walk on lapis lazuli, and golden ropes mark the boundaries. Jewelled trees grow beside each road, and continuously flower and bear fruit. Heaven is wh
at she wanted. Heaven is what she read to me. Heaven is what I pray for her.’

  The sound of Rin’s footsteps faded into the woods. The frogs’ chorus rumbled to its full drumming.

  Misuki stroked my shoulder and sighed. ‘I will pray that for her also.’

  If she kept agreeing with me, I might slap her. I doubted she could say what she had to quickly.

  ‘My servant overheard that Madam Hitomi, Rin and the priest send money to the Tendai temple on Mount Hiei . . . the one near Heiankyō . . . to buy Kuyō!’

  I tapped Misuki’s shoulder and leaned to her ear. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ Hitomi and Rin must be terrified if they had parted with money to the capital. I hoped the priest was mortified, too. Only the priests on Mount Hiei, that lucky north-east location reserved for the most potent threats, could say those particular protection prayers. Kuyō, to keep the living safe from the dead.

  ‘Thirty-three years of prayers to keep Tashiko’s soul from becoming a yurei. My cousin’s wife died, and his priest said his wife’s spirit had become a yurei.’ Misuki placed her hand on my upper arm. ‘Kozaishō, then he died, and then each of his children died. I have heard of wicked yurei who lure living spouses into fresh graves and cause innocent deaths.’

  If Tashiko’s yurei came for me, I would go – gladly. But I had fought for her complete funeral: she would attack Goro. Perhaps also Hitomi and Rin.

  Misuki thrust her palm on to my hip.

  I pulled away. Her touch angered me. I could not have feelings for her. I hissed, between my teeth, ‘Men who are violent against women should be killed!’

  ‘Ssssh!’ She gripped my side with one hand.

  My resolve to be like Tashiko had gone. I wanted to fight and to embrace Misuki. I practised breathing deeply to call in my reserved caution.

  ‘Tashiko’s Earth personality is quite strong and any sudden change would upset her spirit greatly. Naturally, being murdered . . . Oh, I am sorry, Kozaishō.’ Misuki hung her head. Next she raised her eyes and softened her voice.

  I had not considered Tashiko’s Earth, although I was mindful of her power. I shared this story with Misuki, because it reminded me of Tashiko.

  In a village of Nuribe, an extraordinary woman lived and married Maro, a useless man. She gave birth to seven children, but was too poor to feed them, since she had no one upon whom to depend. Because her children had no clothes, she wove vines into clothes. She herself wore rags. She gathered edible herbs from the fields and devoted herself to staying at home and cleaning the house. When she cooked the herbs, she called her children, sat up straight and ate the food, smiling, talking cheerfully and being grateful. The continual self-restraint in mind and body made her spirit grow to be like that of a guest from heaven. In the fifth year of the old emperor’s reign, Bodhisattvas communicated with her, and she ate special herbs gathered in the field in springtime and flew about in the heavens. From this we learn, ‘One may achieve five kinds of merit by leading a lay life and sweeping the garden with an upright mind.’

  Misuki pulled my hair away from my face. My vision clouded. I turned away.

  ‘We cannot change karma but . . .’ Misuki placed the tip of a finger in her mouth. ‘But we need to do something?’

  ‘Do something? What do you mean?’ Her vagueness and use of ‘we’ irritated me. I could not trust her. Or anyone.

  ‘I have no idea, Kozaishō.’

  Change something – definitely. First, I would set a trap for Misuki to see if she was honest with me. In a low voice, I risked my main concerns: ‘Men should not hurt us Women-for-Play. I must also find out who cannot be trusted.’ Perhaps Misuki knew. I would know. Soon.

  She stopped and placed her hands on my shoulders. ‘Trusted? What are you saying?’

  When her hands touched me icy twitches coated my skin, perhaps brought by the breeze, with its strong perfume of plum blossoms. What a mismatch; disloyalty was the ugliest trait.

  The sandalwood incense of samurai drifted into the plum blossoms’ aroma.

  I laid a hand on her shoulder clucked, and murmured, ‘Let us continue in private.’

  Inside my hut, I whispered, ‘Someone informed Hitomi about me and Akio. I need to find out who betrayed me.’

  She placed a hand on each cheek, shook her head, and moaned, ‘Aaaaaah!’ like an old grandmother I saw once at a shrine with my parents.

  When she spoke, she sounded like a hungry kitten. ‘Perhaps it is not true what they say, that bad news runs one thousand chō. I thought you already knew.’

  ‘Knew what? Tell me.’ I placed my hand on her neck as she sobbed.

  ‘I know.’ She swayed with her moans.

  ‘Tell me! Speak!’ My hand tightened around the hair at her nape.

  ‘An accident,’ Misuki coughed out. ‘She did not mean it.’

  ‘Tell me who.’ My hand itched with enough malice to shoot an arrow. Who could commit such a betrayal by accident? I pinched Misuki’s neck. I had to know my enemies’ identities. Could I trust Misuki’s answer?

  Misuki yowled, ‘Be merciful. It was an accident. It was – it was – Emi.’

  I threw Misuki to the floor. The thud smoothed a few thorns of my bitterness. Sweet Emi. ‘No! Liar! Not my Emi. You must be the traitor.’

  Misuki whispered, between sniffles, ‘She was boasting about you. How well you dance. Your beautiful music. Your wonderful songs and stories. And your accurate archery – your archery.’

  ‘Emi said all that? Where? When?’

  Misuki hoisted her blotched face, dripping tears and strings of slime. How could Emi have gone against me? ‘Emi is so proud of you. But she did not know what she was doing.’

  ‘Who heard her?’ I stared at the floor near her, as if it could talk.

  Misuki wiped her eyes and nose, jerking with hiccups. ‘Everyone. Before the evening meal. What will you do?’ She sat, stiff with fear of my temper, to say nothing of my success in combat.

  I pulled my face into a blank. Who could be trusted in this world, if not Emi? ‘Nothing,’ I announced, in as unwavering a voice as I could manage. ‘Emi is the innocent. The one who informed Hitomi or Rin is my enemy. Tell me who overheard her.’ I moved my eyes to meet Misuki’s. ‘Omit no one.’

  Misuki flinched when my fingers gripped her arm. Next, each word I spoke was a sword stroke: ‘Help me find my betrayer.’

  ‘I will if I can,’ she mewed. She listed almost all the people I knew, then said, ‘How can we do this?’

  I forced myself to show no emotion. Did Misuki know about Goro? Probably not. Hitomi’s whippings, Goro’s murder of Tashiko, Rin’s and several unknown samurai’s constant surveillance, and now perhaps another threat. My life required much vigilance. Yet it was my life, not Misuki’s, unless she was the traitor.

  ‘Too much is at risk. I cannot allow you to play a part. Misuki, I require, no, I demand you say no more to anyone, especially Emi.’

  ‘Of course not. This is my choice, Kozaishō. Let us begin in the best places and on the best days. Let me frame the most advantageous places for our work huts. Perhaps I should also look at our sleep huts . . .’ The fingertip entered her mouth again.

  ‘Think over your participation in my – situation. Truly you, Emi and Aya will always be my family, my sisters.’

  Two days later Misuki contrived, with our birth years and other information, the changes in the sleep and work huts required for my endeavours to be lucky. I located a new hiding spot for my coins and old festival clothes, since Misuki had known the previous one.

  I had predicted that her sleep and work huts would be next to my new ones. No surprises. A few coins and one unit of summer silk managed the hut exchanges, the bartering completed, hopefully, without Hitomi or Rin’s knowledge.

  The next morning I met Emi alone. I explained how what she had said had hurt me. Her round eyes looked at me, eyebrows in a knot, tears spilling down her clothes. My stomach flipped and I wanted to stop my tongue, but I needed to protect both of us.
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  ‘You must not say anything about me to anyone else. You must not share anything I say to you with anyone else. Absolutely no one.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, Kozaishō.’ Emi collapsed to her knees, her arms circled my legs.

  ‘I know you would never hurt me on purpose.’ I bent to hug her. When I knew she was listening to me, I continued slowly, ‘Just remember, whenever anyone asks you what I said or did, or anything we said or did together, you must say, “We talked about the weather.”’

  ‘I promise, Kozaishō. Even today. We talked about the weather. Always. We talked about the weather.’

  I stayed while she practised this sentence over and over and over, just like we had done at the shōen with dances and songs.

  On the day after my first no-complaint day I rushed to the practice field to meet Akio. Awakening before the usual time posed no problem because I had slept little since Tashiko’s death. With Hitomi’s official consent, I went to the stables, selected a horse and rode to the fields, without any hurry or secrecy. Pheasants and sparrows clucked and cheeped along the path. Wild geese in chevrons flew against the eastern horizon.

  I searched for Akio’s red and blue rectangular armour against the early light. No Akio. Was he punished? If so, I prayed to the Goddess of Mercy that he had not been banished, or worse. My mind travelled to many terrible places.

  After I had asked several samurai, one answered my question: ‘In his quarters. He is not permitted here until the end of the month. Did you not know?’

  No one had told me. I galloped to the samurai quarters and asked the first one I saw, a young boy, who pointed out Akio’s house. Dismounting, I sprinted and called.

  A man ran to me, dressed in a red and white summer silk hitatare and a blue and white hakama. A stranger. Who was this? He kneaded the top of my hair before I had completed my bow. Akio.

  ‘Little one, I have sorrowed for your unhappiness.’ He pulled at my costume, which hung on me like a scarecrow before a storm in harvest time. ‘You have become so thin.’