Duly outfitted, I set off for the torii, the shrine’s physical and metaphysical gate. However, I discovered that Hime had no intention of letting me embark alone upon my mission. She sidled at my legs, ignoring my efforts to shoo her—both cajoling and scolding alike. Reasoning with a cat is as futile as arguing with the waves, and rather than waste more time, I gave up. Thus, Hime padded beside me as I ascended that grandfather spirit steeped in age and grandeur, Mount Mori.
We trekked the slender trail while the sun slipped from the eastern gates and wheeled across the palace of sky. As the sun retreated into her western pavilion, I cleared the debris from a ditch, our shelter for the night. It occurred to me—belly rumbling and teeth chattering—that in my hurry, I had neglected to provision myself with so much as a rice ball or tinder box.
Hime did not immediately chastise me for my blunder. First she miaoed politely, inquiring after supper. But when I showed her the emptiness of my sleeves, her cries turned plaintive.
“Forgive me, gentle one. Tonight, you and I must go hungry. But as soon as it’s dawn, I will look for a stream to fish. Come, curl up in my arms; at least I can endeavor to warm you.”
Hime fixed me with her golden eyes and, quick as only a cat can, bounded away. I debated for a heartbeat whether I should let her go and trust her to return. But Hime was a pampered creature, unfamiliar with wilderness dangers. I would never forgive myself if she came to harm.
I chased after. Fortunately, a white cat’s coat is well suited to catching stray beams of moonlight, and I glimpsed her stalking through the underbrush.
“Hime-chan, come here,” I called. But, in the infuriating manner of catkind, she allowed me to approach only close enough to tantalize before leaping away. She led me a merry chase, crashing through prickly scrub and wending through dense foliage. At last, I saw her crouched atop a boulder. Around her perch, a stream rippled, mirror-bright.
With detached amusement, Hime let me pluck her from her roost. I had every intention of scolding her, but the notion fled when I saw the woman standing in the stream.
She was beautiful, her inky hair flowing in a mantle down her back. Her kimono was embroidered brocade patterned with elegant butterflies. But where her legs should be were trailing wisps of nothing. Tears coursed from her empty eyes, mingling with the smoke and mist of her absent legs, to join with the scrolling stream.
“Come closer,” she whispered, “so you may hear my tale.”
I did not move, only clutched Hime tighter. “Noble lady, I can hear you well enough from here.”
“Then listen. When the oni came, my husband bade me run so that I and our son might live. But it was to death I fled. Treachery and assassins, they spilled my life on this stone. My last sight was of a black-garbed killer turning to slay my baby. Husband and child murdered. I am doomed to an eternity of sorrow.”
I swallowed. “Who was your husband?”
“The noble samurai, Taira no Sukemori.”
“Then you need no longer mourn for your son. He was given to priests to be raised and is in good health, notwithstanding an empty belly.”
“Liar! For shame, to taunt a grieving mother. Your disrespect has earned you a yurei’s curse!”
“Would you damn the son you gave your life to save?”
The yurei of my mother studied me, still weeping black tears. “Prove you are he, and I will depart for the Pure Land and give you my blessing instead.”
“Very well. What proof would you credit?”
“Only the reverence a son owes the memory of his mother.” She clasped her hands in the sleeves of her kimono and waited.
The reverence a son owes the memory of his mother? Unnerved by the yurei’s wet, unblinking stare, I contemplated the boulder. Such an ominous rock, not like the sacred stones that adorned the shrine’s provinces. The thought of my mother’s spirit anchored here, chained by violence and tragedy, weighted my heart. Maybe I could not free her, and perhaps she would curse me for my presumption, but I would be comforted, knowing that the boulder, at least, had been honorably consecrated.
I had not taken priestly vows yet, but I had attended many purification ceremonies, and thanks to Akio, I had a jar of omiki. And did not the priests say that a single, sincere prayer could move heaven?
I tore several empty pages from my sutra book, ripped and folded them into lightning-shaped shide streamers, and bound them with grass to the handle of my calligraphy brush to craft a makeshift shide wand. Bowing to the world’s corners, I strove for tranquility.
“Heavenly kami and earthly kami,” I intoned, “hear me.” My hands trembled as I flicked the shide wand over the boulder. “Purity of Heaven, purity of Earth, sweep impurities from within and without.” The shide rustled and shushed, a familiar sound, holy and restful. “I beseech the kami to cleanse and bless this place so my mother may know peace.” I bowed and unstoppered the jar of omiki. My hands no longer shook as I poured the sake onto the boulder. “Reverently, I speak this prayer. Kashikomi kashikomi mo maosu.”
When I was done, my mother’s yurei raised her head to the starry sky. Her eyes were bright as hope, and she no longer wept.
“Surely, only a dutiful son would forgo food and drink to bring omiki to honor the place of his mother’s death,” she murmured. “I am content. What will you do now, Chikazane-kun?”
“My father’s spirit called upon me to avenge him. I must kill the oni that murdered him.”
A tiny crease appeared on my mother’s brow. “It is the hasty hunter who lunges for the rustling bush before he knows what it conceals.” She bowed. “Or the hungry one. At least I can keep your clamoring belly from clouding your caution. But beware that your true quarry does not elude you as you chase after a paper tiger.”
I opened my mouth, abuzz with questions, but a bubble of light whirled from the heavens, stealing away breath, words, and opportunity. It whispered around my mother, playing with the hem of her kimono as it bore her aloft. She glanced back, and the expression on her face was both tender and pensive.
“Chikazane-kun, follow the stream up the mountain,” she called, “and you will find the oni’s cave and perhaps the steel beneath the paper.”
Then she was gone.
Where she had been, a ball of flame danced on the water. It glided across the surface and settled atop the newly-sanctified boulder. While I gaped, it flared bright as fifty lanterns, and before I could raise a hand to shield my dazzled eyes, it shrank to a comforting blaze. At the base of the boulder, a sumptuous banquet had materialized: roasted fish, steamed rice, and plum wine.
Enticed by the aroma, Hime bounded to the feast. A well-mannered cat, she awaited my attendance before commencing her meal, but she made her impatience clear by the anxious lash of her tail.
I was not so amazed as to require Hime to wait longer; I hurried to join her.
The fish was delicious, each mouthful a harmony of subtle flavors and delicate textures. The rice was perfectly cooked, neither too sticky nor too dry, and the plum wine was refinement itself. As we ate, the flame imparted an atmosphere of cheery hospitality and restful warmth. Despite having no fuel but the stone at its base, it seemed capable of burning indefinitely. At the completion of our meal, lulled by a sated belly, the cozy fire, and Hime purring at my side, I slept.
My dreams were filled with terrifying images of blue-skinned demons, barbed fangs glittering as they lunged at me. The murky gauze of dawn brushing my eyelids was a welcome reprieve.
Although the fire still burned, merry and warm, I shivered, chilled by my nightmares. Roused by my agitation, Hime opened her eyes and yawned.
“Ah, Hime, it is all good and well for my father’s spirit to exhort me to confront an oni, but I do not even possess a katana.” I stood, and Hime grudgingly rose to her paws. “Not that I could wield one. And this oni defeated my father, a mighty samurai. How am I to keep from being devoured, much less avenge him?”
“Master, please forgive this one’s presumption, but ne
ither Kannushi Akio nor your mother’s spirit held any delusions as to your fighting prowess, even if the crab was inclined to bluster.” The voice was soft and fluid as a purr.
I cast about, but there was only Hime.
“The priest, in his eminent wisdom, provisioned you with omiki, which you applied to masterful effect.” Incredulous, I watched her feline mouth shape words. “It is this one’s humble estimation that master is adequately equipped for this undertaking, although perhaps —and I mean no disrespect—it would have been advantageous to have brought an extra fishcake or two.”
“You can talk!” I blurted.
Hime regarded me with unblinking, golden eyes. “You have conversed with your father’s spirit manifested upon a crab shell and consoled the yurei of your mother, and it is my speech you cannot credit?”
“B-but you’re a cat!”
She gave her back to me, the twitch of her ear showing her affront.
“Hime-chan, I meant no discourtesy. I am only amazed. Why have you never spoken before?” But she would not relent, and I was left to apologize to her stiff tail.
She stalked upstream, leaving me to tag after. The morning passed in stilted silence. As the sun crested overhead, I fetched out my book of sutras in a bid to win her forbearance and flipped through it.
“How could priestly meditations help me defeat an oni?” I mused aloud.
Hime glanced over one white shoulder. “So now you have decided to heed the words of a mere cat?”
“Hime-chan, if I have offended you, then I am the basest of villains. We have been fast friends all my life, and assuredly you have my most earnest confidence and trust.”
A tentative purr rose from her throat, but her tail remained implacable.
“Surely you are the wisest and cleverest of cats, and it is my sincerest desire that you help ease the burden of my loutish ignorance. Please, Hime-chan?”
Her tail relented. “Hannya-Shin-Kyo,” she miaoed.
I paged to the appropriate sutra. “Meditation upon emptiness of form?”
“It is not merely the emptiness of your mind that it brings about, master. Does not Kannushi Akio say that to embrace the sutra, you must become it?”
“Yes, but I don’t see—”
“Exactly.” Hime sat so abruptly I almost trod on her tail.
“Why have you stopped?”
“Shh! The oni’s cave is around that bend. I scent the old death of discarded bones, and his youki, his demon energy, prickles my whiskers.”
I froze, my heart leaping in my chest.
“He breathes deep and slow,” Hime whispered, “as a bear in torpor.”
“Then now would be the time to strike. If I had a large stone or a tree branch, perhaps I could—”
Hime flattened her ears and hissed. “Are you in such haste to be devoured?”
“What? I—”
“If you truly trust me to look after your best interests, remove your clothes and give me your calligraphy brush.”
As I was not at all in a hurry to be eaten or rent to bits, I did as Hime instructed, although more than a little abashed at finding myself unclad at the dictates of a cat. I hid my garments in the long grass and detached the shide streamers from my brush, cringing at each crackle and whish.
Hime bade me lay the book on the ground opened to Hannya-Shin-Kyo. Rising to her hind legs, she took the brush in her paws and used the stream’s water to moisten my ink stone.
She wielded the calligraphy brush with dexterity, her claws and paw pads daintily manipulating the slender instrument. Starting at my feet, and referring often to the book, she painted the sutra on my skin. I kneeled and lay supine so she could continue decorating my flesh, shifting when she requested so she could paint my back. The brush whisked, damp and prickly, from the top of my scalp, including the ticklish curve of my ears, to the space between each toe.
“There,” she said at last. “Your flesh has become Hannya-Shin-Kyo.”
The novelty of the situation had eroded when I lay facedown in the dirt. “And how is this to benefit me against the oni?”
“You must discipline your mind to match your body, and you will be to the oni as the silence that frames a heartbeat, the stillness between thoughts, and the space outside the borders of the poet’s composition.”
“How do you know this?”
“I am a cat.”
She said it as though it was all the answer I should require, and perhaps it was. After all, who was more adept than a cat at lurking unseen and gliding upon noiseless paws?
I composed myself, although the oni’s proximity was not conducive to serenity, and strove to attain that elusive quietude where heart and mind embrace emptiness and the path of enlightenment becomes clear. I closed my eyes, pushing aside thoughts of the oni, my duty, and even the grit beneath my naked skin. I chanted the Hannya-Shin-Kyo and found a corner of tranquility.
“An estimable accomplishment, master,” Hime said. “I can no longer see you. But linger a while. Horses approach.”
I heard the jingle of leather and metal and the thut-thut of hooves.
“I must warn these travelers away from the oni’s den,” I murmured.
Hime did not reply.
“Hime-chan?” I stood, and she did not stir an ear tip, only continued to gaze at my previous posture.
Wonder would have sundered my tranquility, so I let it drift past, unmoved as the mountain by a breeze.
The horsemen drew closer, a trio of men. At their head rode a nobleman garbed in the elegant uniform of a military lord of high rank. The train of his ocean-blue brocade spilled off his horse’s haunches. The silk was embroidered in white and silver threads with graceful butterflies identical to the ones that had adorned my mother’s kimono—the Taira crest. My crest. The soldiers beside him wore simple gray, blazoned with the shogun crest of Minamoto no Yoritomo. Taira and Minamoto, implacable adversaries riding in accord?
I chased after as they cantered around the bend. In the side of the mountain, a black mouth dribbled water from a stony throat. The three men dismounted and tied their steeds away from the cave’s entrance. The Taira nobleman strode forward.
“Oni!” he bellowed. “Rouse your lazy bones!” His voice bounced among the rocks, the echoes lingering.
A thunderous howl blasted from the darkness, and I clung to the nothing of Hannya-Shin-Kyo, setting each syllable like a shield against terror.
Out of the cave, a monstrous figure emerged, as tall as two men and massive as four. Its skin was the blue of smoke, and black horns sprouted from its head. A ragged tiger pelt draped its hips, and a gnarled, iron club, thick as my waist, hung from a ginger-striped thong.
“Who dares?” it roared.
The nobleman pulled a tawny jewel from his sleeve. It drank in the sun and cast off brilliant streamers of light. “Bow before me, demon, or feel the gofu’s bite.”
The oni crashed to its craggy knees and kowtowed.
I almost lost the rhythm of Hannya-Shin-Kyo then. The jewel, the gofu, was the pivot upon which my destiny revolved.
“Forgive me, master.” The oni’s voice was harsh, the grate of bone upon rock. “I forgot the cadence of your speech in the passage of seasons. What is your bidding?”
“Did you also forget the date? Tomorrow marks the end of our compact.”
“I know the date.” I felt the oni’s words rumble through the hollows of my chest.
“And tomorrow will herald the beginning of a new one.”
The oni snarled, baring a mouthful of jagged teeth. “No! You promised to free me.”
The nobleman sneered. “So you may split my skull and devour me? I think not.”
“I am oath-bound to exact no retribution upon you.”
“I am not so foolish as to trust the pledge of a demon.”
The hatred in the oni’s eyes was as plain as it was tangible, hot as the blast from a furnace and black as deceit. “It seems that I am the fool to have credited the words of a traitor.�
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The nobleman brandished the jewel. “Malign me again, and I will set the gofu in burning coals and watch you writhe while your insides smolder.”
“You may hold the key to my youki, Taira no Kimitake, but if you forswear your vow, the safeguards of our pact are forfeit. One day, I will rend the meat from your bones and feast upon your screams.”
Kimitake laughed. “Empty words, barren threats. While I possess the gofu, you must serve me faithfully.”
The oni spat. “With so much duplicity blighting your ki, how long do you think your good fortune will last? My patience is boundless.”
“I, not the uncaring infinite, govern my fortune.”
“Indeed.”
“Enough of your insolence. I have decided that it is time again for my fortune to rise. The empire is tranquil, and so the emperor looks fondly upon Yoritomo. Therefore, I command you to upset this inopportune peace. Tomorrow you will raze the shrine below and slaughter all within it. While the countryside stews in turmoil, I will challenge and defeat you, and the emperor will set me as shogun in Yoritomo’s place.”
“You would defile a sacred place?”
“Of course not. But you would.”
The oni glared in impotent fury as Kimitake and his escort withdrew.
As evening’s cloak swept over the mountainside, Kimitake and his men organized a camp—raising a tent, gathering wood, and cooking rice. Kimitake retired while his soldiers paced the perimeter.
I crept into Kimitake’s tent, secure in the protection of Hannya-Shin-Kyo, although I deemed it wise to wait until both guards’ backs were turned and Kimitake’s snores were loud and even before I scrambled in.
While I had expected to rifle through the sleeves and folds of his uniform, or perhaps upend boxes and baskets in search of a secreted compartment, the gofu was plain to see. Kimitake’s outflung arm revealed a hand enveloped in a skein of white silk. Layer upon layer of fabric, sheer as a butterfly’s wing, wrapped the gofu tight against his palm. By the wan flame of the single, burning lamp, it glowed through the bindings like a star.
Japanese Dreams Page 7