And I don’t need the Spirits to tell me that.
At the back of the shrine gardens, in the part most overgrown and unkempt, stood an old teahouse. Funded by one of the Taikuns of old, the small square building with walls of unpainted wood and bamboo was the quintessence of simplicity and aesthetics. These days, the High Priestess alone used it for her contemplations. Only she and a few gardeners even knew of its existence. The roof of dark straw badly needed repairing and the tea stove begged for replacement, but it was still the best place to meditate in the entire shrine.
A flock of blue-winged magpies darted, screeching, from among the pink azaleas growing wildly over the earthen walls of the pavilion as Lady Kazuko sat on the narrow veranda overlooking a small lotus pond with a cup of fragrant, frothy cha in her hand. She liked the cup. It was covered in a sky-blue glaze, spotted and cracked in a deliberate, yet seemingly random, pattern. She had bought it in Heian, a long time ago. The best potteries in the country were selling their wares on the approach to the great Kiyomizu Temple. An old frail woman had walked among the rich merchants trying to sell just this one bowl. She was blind, and this was the last vessel she had created before her eyes died.
“You have a gift of seeing,” the old woman said, touching Lady Kazuko’s hands.
“I do,” the priestess agreed. There was no point in asking how the woman knew.
“I could tell you this cup is mystic and will aid you in your divinations, but all I can say is that it will hold the cha without spilling, and that the glaze will not peel or lose its shine for many years.”
“That is as much as I expect from a teacup.”
Despite the old woman’s words, Lady Kazuko did enjoy making her divinations while drinking from the cup. Perhaps the gentle blue of the glaze helped to clear her mind, or perhaps the amount of cha it held was just right.
She reached for the small round bamboo box and shook it vigorously. A single stick fell out. She picked it up and smiled. Forty-four - life is a game of shogi. All success depends on cunning and strategy.
The sticks were just a toy, of course, a souvenir from the Qin district, but in the shrine, where the air itself was permeated with spiritual energy, even children’s toys could tell the truth. The sticks simply confirmed what she had already learned from all the other divinations - the yarrow, the compass, the bones, the Four Pillars, the Six Planets, even the omikuji ribbons… She had spent the better part of the day trying to pierce the veils of fate and, of course, she had visited the Waters. The Spirits were most obliging, providing her with many detailed visions, but little guidance as to which of the futures was the most probable one. It was often a problem with the Waters of Scrying. Only very rarely were they as straightforward as when they had presented Nagomi with her first prophecy. And clear answers were what she needed most on this day of decisions.
She could still have given away the foreigner to the authorities. She could say he had been brought to the shrine against her will, that she knew nothing about it. None would dare question the word of a High Priestess, not over that of a drunken unemployed interpreter and two children. This would be the clever, rational solution. The shrine would be safe, her duty to the Taikun fulfilled; but she did not need the bamboo sticks or twigs of yarrow to see that the boy’s arrival was no accident. One did not give away the gifts from the Gods.
She had had ample time to observe the foreigner, ever since she had requested his presence at the shrine. The circumstances of his arrival, as reported by Nagomi, piqued her curiosity. Then the blue ring on his finger caught her attention - a shard of sapphire stone, like the ones Nagomi saw in her vision. The boy said at first it was just a gift from his grandfather, but then admitted that it, too, had come from Yamato. A coincidence? The High Priestess knew there was no such thing when it came to divination. The other parts of the puzzle started falling into place. The crimson robed enemy assaulting Satō’s and Nagomi’s houses, and now the boy’s dorako…
The mightiest will fall, remembered Lady Kazuko. She was bound to serve the Edo court with wisdom and advice. In exchange, the shrine was given protection from the domain lords and city magistrates. But the prophecy was older than the castle of Edo, and it concerned more than just the Taikun. The priestess had to consider the fate of all Yamato before making a decision. It was a heavy burden, but she was prepared to carry it.
Where did the foreigner come into all this? Would this boy bring the darkness upon Yamato, or deliverance? Was he just a harbinger of doom?
The situation required a decisive unorthodox solution.
“Cunning and strategy,” reminded the bamboo sticks.
The High Priestess lifted her head and looked towards the top of the mountain, where the forest was the darkest and most dense. Sudden understanding dawned on her. For a moment she had gained a prophetic vision of the threads of Fate, all converging on Suwa, the Shrine in the middle of the tangled, glistening spider’s web. Nagomi’s apprenticeship and prophecies, Satō’s escape, the boy’s arrival - even Tokojiro’s old, forgotten debt of gratitude, all played a part in the greater divine scheme.
The Suwa Shrine was not just a place where all these things had happened, she realised. The shrine itself was the solution.
I need to write a few letters.
CHAPTER II
The shrine bell struck nine times. The door to Bran’s room slid away. The red-haired girl’s slim, almond-eyed face was lit by a small flickering flame in her hand. He got up and straightened the creases on his new kimono, a deep, dark purple silk gown embroidered with the crest of a triangular mountain reflected in the water. The High Priestess had given it to him as a gift, and taught him how to wear it properly.
He pursed his lips and inhaled deeply in unsure anticipation.
“Kazuko-hime,” the girl said, their limited mutually known vocabulary making it impossible to explain further what she wanted. “Dōzo,” she added, giving him a rolled up piece of paper.
It was a letter from the High Priestess, written in the elegant, if oddly spiky and angular, handwriting that he guessed belonged to the interpreter, Tokojiro.
Please follow the girl.
Do not fear. Keep your mind clear.
I will help you find what you are looking for.
Trust us, we all want to help you.
This was all very cryptic and vague, and did not inspire trust in him at all. Why couldn’t the priestess just send the interpreter to explain what was going on?
A whole day had passed since he had reported about the dragon and nobody had come to see him except the blind girl bringing him food and some strange moustached man who carefully studied his sword and then left without a word. What did they want from him now?
He looked at the girl, but she only stood, smiling shyly, in silence.
“Dōzo,” she repeated, gesturing him to follow her outside.
They walked down the long winding corridors and then, after putting on uncomfortable wooden sandals, out of the building into the night. The moon was waning, but still bright. The garden was completely silent. They passed through a small gateway leading out of the main compound, walked across the bridge over a stream — here there was, at last, a sound, the trickling of a waterfall and the croaking of frogs — then the path started ascending steeply into a deep forest growing beyond the northern limits of the shrine.
The wood here was different from the cultivated orchard of the inner shrine. It was ancient, thick, not even a sliver of moonlight filtering through the dense canopy. There was something sinister in the darkness, giant gnarled trees brooded over the narrow path and invaded it with their black roots, covered with moss, vine and cobwebs.
“Where are you taking me?”
Bran was losing his patience. He had trusted the girl and the priestess so far, but his trust was running thin. Where was the translator? Why were they taking him deeper into the forest? Cold sweat trickled down his spine — what if they were going to sacrifice him to their Gods? He was, after al
l, in a temple, and he knew nothing of the religions of the locals…
“Kazuko-hime,” the girl repeated, and from the helpless look in her worried eyes Bran guessed she knew as little of the purpose of their nightly escapade as he did.
At last they reached the end of the trail, the heart of the forest. By the light coming from the stone lantern standing between two enormous cedar trees, Bran saw a cross-beam gate of cinnabar wood and, beyond it, a little shrine, no bigger than a shed, made of round white stones under a thatched roof. The bargeboards of the roof crossed and formed a fork at the top of the gables. The structure was leaning a bit to the side, the stones covered with thick pillow moss, and the thatch was black with age.
The red-haired girl drew a sharp breath seeing the building. The inquisitive boy — Satō, the wizard’s son, Bran remembered - and Lady Kazuko were also there, waiting for him. The boy’s arm was bandaged. The High Priestess reached out her hand expectantly.
“What do you want from me? Where’s Tokojiro?”
“Tokojiro-sama dame.”
The priestess shook her head and crossed her arms.
“Forbidden?” Bran tried to guess, “Is the translator forbidden to come here?”
There was no answer. He looked at the red-haired girl. She tried to smile encouragingly, but the concern was still in her eyes.
Lady Kazuko said something and he sensed urgency in her voice. He took her by the hand at last and, lowering their heads under a thick straw rope hung across the entrance, the two entered the tiny shrine. There was barely enough room for them to stand here, slightly bending their backs. It was pitch black, cold and damp. He could hear water dripping somewhere far below. The air smelled faintly of sulphur.
When his eyes got used to the darkness, only faintly brightened by the stone lantern outside, he noticed a flight of steps carved into the rock, leading downwards, damp, slick and coated with lichen. Somehow he managed not to slip and tumble down, slowly following Lady Kazuko. Soon they reached a vast underground chamber filled with smoke and mist.
There was a wide lake at the bottom, its waters sparkling and shimmering with their own pale light as if the moon was trapped underneath the surface. The blue light dispersed on the whirling mist, carving fantastic shapes from the shadows. The smell of rotten eggs and ammonia was now almost unbearable. The rocks around the pool were coated in fine yellow powder.
Bran glanced at the priestess nervously.
“What now?”
She made a gesture he did not understand at first, but when she repeated it he realised she wanted him to disrobe and enter the water. This was not another hiding place. There was to be some kind of ritual performed on him, but the priestess was frail and unarmed, he couldn’t imagine her wanting to harm him. There was something in the old woman’s eyes that made him believe her good will. If only they could somehow communicate… There was only one way to learn exactly what it was she wanted to do with him on that mysterious night - obey the command and see the ritual through to the end.
Bran cast the dark robe to the floor and undid the loincloth. He was naked, but not cold. The warm mist surrounded and caressed his body, as if it had a mind of its own. He stepped forwards and touched the surface of the water with his toes. It was bubbling and hot, almost as hot as the water in the Oyū bath. He looked at the priestess and she nodded. He took another step. The stone bottom of the pool descended steeply and before long he was submerged up to the chest.
The experience was not altogether unpleasant. His muscles relaxed, his joints lost their stiffness. He could sense underwater flows and currents warming his thighs and calves, streams of heat emerging from cracks in the bottom of the lake. He stepped deeper and the water covered his shoulders. He inhaled deeply.
The mist around him became denser and thicker, now milky-white. The thicker it became the deeper breaths he had to take and the more of it he took into his lungs. He was starting to feel nauseous, and turned around to come out of the pool before it was too late. The priestess observed him intently, but made no move.
Suddenly the mist whirled around him again and some shapes appeared in the fumes, wisps of thicker yellowish smoke. For a second he thought he saw a human face looking at him curiously. Then another appeared, and now he was certain - there were eyes gazing at him from the steam, faces of all shapes and sizes, small, large, narrow and round, gentle female ones with sad eyes and fierce male ones frowning under bushy eyebrows - dozens of them, swirling around in silence, crowding and pushing each other to get nearer.
Some of the faces then grew necks, shoulders and arms. The hands of smoke started touching him, stroking and poking his flesh. He yowled as wandering fingers pinched him on the back, on the shoulder. He was surrounded by a crowd of hands, a forest of palms, now scratching and punching each other to get closer, and some of the scratches and punches would reach him by mistake. “Stop it!” he wanted to say, but the mist had enveloped his head and mouth, making it difficult to breathe or speak.
He was terrified. He could not get back to the shore. The ghosts were pushing and pulling him around in a whirlpool of limbs, fighting for the prize of a young body. He noticed the female faces had now gone from the immediate vicinity, as stronger, more virile Spirits of men took their places in the front. Some of the ghosts procured weapons of smoke and fog, swords of mist, spears of steam, and started fighting each other in a manner of warriors on a battlefield. Misplaced blows fell on Bran’s arms and head. He raised his hands, defending himself from the strikes, and closed his eyes…
As suddenly as it had started, the chaos stopped. Bran opened his eyes. The ghosts were still there, a troop of grizzled warriors armed to their lucid teeth, but they were no longer fighting. The throng parted, making way for somebody coming in from the darkness - a Spirit of a huge man in full armour, wearing a masked helmet with a fan-shaped ornament. In his chest stuck an arrow, still trembling as if it had been shot mere seconds ago. The Spirit raised a great, narrow-bladed halberd and pointed it in Bran’s direction. Other ghosts bowed in respect and pulled back.
The warrior Spirit roared and lunged towards the dragon rider. Bran’s mouth and eyes were forced open by an unseen power. The Spirit transformed into several wisps of white smoke that entered Bran’s body. The boy felt an exquisite pain, as if molten lead was poured down his mouth, nostrils and ears. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.
After what seemed like an eternity, the High Priestess climbed up the stone stairs and out of the shrine carrying the Westerner’s limp unconscious body on her back. Immediately, Nagomi jumped to her aid and, with Satō’s help, took the burden off the woman’s shoulders.
“Did it work?” she asked.
She didn’t exactly know what was supposed to work, or how.
“We won’t know until dawn,” replied Lady Kazuko, catching her breath.
“Why, what happens at dawn?”
“Patience, child, you’ll see for yourself. Until then, we must wait and pray. Let’s take him back to the shrine then beg the kami for a happy outcome.”
Nagomi helped carry the boy’s body down the hill, through the dark forest and quiet garden. It seemed lighter than what she remembered from the beach.
“Take him to my quarters,” the priestess commanded.
They laid the unconscious boy on the straw mat floor in the Crane Room and sat beside him. Lady Kazuko closed her eyes and started chanting a monotonous droning invocation to the kami of Suwa. Nagomi joined her quietly, still casting worried glances at the Westerner.
“What is going on, Kazuko-hime?” she asked at last, when the chant finished, “what happened in that cave?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment, but let me start with what happened yesterday. This will help you understand why I had to do what I did.”
“You mean the magistrate agents,” said Satō.
“Yes. They came to search the shrine for a harboured fugitive. Luckily, the bugyō made a mistake — he came without a proper warrant, so I
could refuse his request and buy us a little time. However, when he’s back with the Taikun’s seal I will have no choice but to let him in.”
“The magistrate should be investigating my father’s disappearance, not chasing after harmless Westerners,” Satō said, clutching her fists.
“How did they know Bran-sama is here? Who betrayed us?” asked a worried Nagomi.
“I’m afraid they were not looking for the boy. They were looking for you, Satō. Your family has been outlawed. You are now a wanted fugitive.”
“What?” Satō cried out.
The boy stirred on his bed and moaned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, remembering her manners, “but… I don’t understand…”
“I’m not exactly sure what is going on here, either,” the High Priestess admitted. “Perhaps the magistrate decided to use this opportunity to finally get rid of the Takashima family… They claim that your father perished through his unlawful experiments and you, as his heir, are equally dangerous.”
“At least the boy is still safe,” Satō said, biting her lip.
“But you’re not. I told them you have already left the shrine in search of your father. This is what you will do today, at any rate, before they return.”
“Today…?” The wizardess looked outside. It was still dark, the sky in the east slowly turning grey. “But, I don’t even know where to go — what to look for…”
“And you will take Bran-sama with you,” continued Lady Kazuko, “he will help you and you will help him.”
“How can he help me — he’s just a lost boy,” Satō scoffed, “and he’ll be slain the moment he steps out of the shrine.”
“He may be lost, but there is a reason why he became lost here, of all places. This is not the first time his kin has met with the man in the crimson robe. He told me his grandfather met a similar being once before.”
“So he came here because of the crimson robed man?” Nagomi guessed, trying to make sense of the fast-changing events.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 25