by Kara Dalkey
In time, will I think my life there was a dream? How can I leave such beauty for drab monk’s robes and endless prayer? But he answered himself immediately. There is no longer a life for me in that beauty. How could I stay and watch Uguisu marry another? Would I be better off grubbing in the palace gardens, scorned by those of higher rank? Or as a guardsman, viewed as an upstart and swaggering ruffian? No. The only life left for me is at the end of this path, beyond worldly suffering.
His one regret was leaving his old father Niwa. Takenoko pulled out of his sleeve the note his father gave him when they parted and read it again:
“Usually it is the parent who aspires to Heaven before the child.
If autumn winds should bear the seed to Heaven,
what cause does this old willow have to weep?”
Takenoko looked back at the city and said,
“I see my home behind me as I wonder,
do trees hurt so when pulled up from their roots?”
He turned to go on and tripped on a rock, falling sprawled in the weeds beside the path. As he started to rise, he saw a small face peering at him through the underbrush. He was startled a moment, then realized the face was made of stone.
Sitting up, Takenoko cleared away some of the weeds and discovered a small stone Bodhisattva. Inscribed on its pedestal was the name “Aizen-myō.”
Gazing at the statue, Takenoko wondered if its kami had stopped him for some reason.
A faint voice in his mind said, “To rise on the path to Heaven, first you must remove the rocks from your shoes.”
Looking down, Takenoko thought, But there are no rocks in my shoes. Then he saw his father’s note crumpled in his left hand, and understood. Sadly, Takenoko placed the note on the lap of the stone bodhisattva. Then he bowed three times and continued on his way.
Ladies of the Court
“Konnichi-wa, Shonasaki!”
“Konnichi-wa, Kitsune, Nikao. Has the rain driven you out of the Seriyō Den?”
“You could say that. The boredom certainly has. This wing of the palace tends to be warmer and cheerier. We came to hear some of your poems to relieve our melancholy.”
The two ladies found cushions and seated themselves. Kitsune smiled, revealing a most fashionable set of dark-stained teeth. Her raven hair flowed like a river over her shoulders and down her back. Nikao was plumper, but she had a pleasing pale complexion and her eyes were like fine, narrow brushstrokes.
“I am afraid you two have chosen the wrong day to request poetry,” said Shonasaki. “I haven’t been able to write a thing all morning. My head feels completely empty.”
“Why not write a poem about emptiness, then?” said Kitsune.
“Don’t be silly,” said Nikao. “One can’t write a poem about nothing.”
“I understand there are priests who compose sutras to it all the time,” said Kutsune.
“Well,” Shonasaki put in, “priests are surely better suited to exploring Nirvana than I. So far as I can tell, this is the only proper poem about nothing.” She pushed forward a blank sheet of white rice paper.
“Ah, but that is not nothing, at all!” said Kitsune. “Look closer. There are grains and fibers in a delicate interweaving. This page is hardly empty.”
“It seems there is a poem in that somewhere,” said Nikao.
“Perhaps,” conceded Shonasaki, “but I think Kitsune should write it, since it’s her idea and I wouldn’t express it as well. Come now, there must be interesting things going on around the Emperor, where you are staying. Out here in the Plum Pavilion we only hear bits and snatches of gossip. Tell me what has been happening. Perhaps I can find a poem in that.”
“Well,” said Kitsune, “there really isn’t much to say. Though it’s been months since His Majesty came out of mourning for the dear late empress, things still seem dreary. His Majesty almost never visits his other ladies. And when he does, it’s only to talk about old times.”
“The seasons may be partly to blame,” said Nikao. “Autumn is always a melancholy time, and this autumn seems drearier than usual. All this rain! No doubt it hasn’t helped cheer His Majesty.”
“A puddle of autumn rain,” murmured Shonasaki, “A mirror of Our Majesty’s heart.”
“That sounds nice,” said Nikao. “There, you have a poem.”
“Almost,” said Shonasaki, “almost. But the syllables just won’t fall right.” She sighed in frustration. “Keep talking, Kitsune. There must be something else to inspire me.”
“Well, as I was saying, His Majesty doesn’t spend much time with anyone … except that stupid cat of his.”
“Lady Hinata?” Nikao said, surprised. “Why do you malign her? She’s such a pretty cat, so sweet and gentle.”
“Hah. You haven’t found her sleeping on your favorite Chinese coat, shedding all over it.”
Suddenly Shonasaki sat up and cried “Aha! That’s it!” She grabbed a brush and wrote:
“Ah, whose coat is this?
The cat has given me hers,
For the use of mine.”
Nikao giggled when she read it. Kitsune said, “I don’t think it’s very funny.”
“But at least I finally wrote one,” said Shonasaki. “It seems I’m inspired by amusing things today. Tell me something you do find funny, and I might write a better one.”
“Well, let’s see … Ah! We did hear one amusing bit of gossip. One of the Inner Guards told us that last night Fujiwara no Hidoi, the son of the Minister of the Right, set out in his carriage to visit someone. But there had been so much rain that his carriage bogged down in the mud just outside the palace gate. This made Hidoi angry and he got out of the carriage and whipped the ox. But the ox became frightened and scrabbled in the mud, becoming mired itself. So Hidoi went about whipping his attendants who were trying to push the cart. This didn’t help at all, and Hidoi strode about in such anger that he slipped and fell in the mud himself, soiling his beautiful court cloak. Hidoi then exclaimed that it was all a bad omen and that he should not have gone out at all that night. So he rushed back to his quarters and locked himself away, and has not been seen since. It is said he is serving a day of abstinence today as penance.”
“More likely he’s just ashamed to show his face for fear of ridicule,” said Nikao.
“Do you know who he might have been going to visit?” asked Shonasaki.
“Well, there’s a rumor that it might have been Uguisu, the daughter of the Minister of the Imperial Grounds,” said Kitsune.
“Uguisu?” said Nikao. “That little thing? I imagine she’s pleasant enough, but from what I’ve heard, she has little to recommend her. They say she hasn’t even shaved her eyebrows. And her teeth are still a common white.”
“But she’s young,” said Shonasaki, “and from the provinces. She hasn’t spent any time at court, so she can’t be expected to follow all the fashions.”
“If she had a mother or aunt to look after her, she might be better informed,” said Kitsune. “Why hasn’t she been sent to court? Her father is an important minister, after all.”
“No one even knows about her mother’s family,” said Nikao, “so they must be so lowly as to give her no backing whatsoever. Though her father long ago offered her as a lady-in-waiting to the court, no one has hired her because of this.”
“Oh. Is that the reason?” said Shonasaki. “Poor Uguisu. Well, Hidoi must see something in her, surely.”
“Yes,” said Kitsune, “she’s the only one who would have him.”
All three ladies erupted in giggles at this. Footsteps on the veranda outside their blinds stopped and there came the voice of a male courtier.
“What wind of fortune
Brings sound of carefree laughter,
On gales of autumn?”
The ladies put sleeves to their mouths with embarrassed delight. “You’re the cleverest of us, Shonasaki,” Kitsune whispered. “You must answer.”
But she could only say:
“The winds of fortu
ne,
May bring bad omens.
We spoke of you, sir.
“Now do please hurry along, or we shan’t be able to talk anymore.”
The courtier outside chuckled and replied:
“The winds of fortune
are capricious breezes. I go
Before I am drenched.”
His footsteps passed on and the ladies sighed and laughed some more. “I think that was Fujiwara no Kazenatsu,” said Kitsune. “I hear he’s quite handsome, as well as elegant.”
“Kazenatsu? Appropriate of him to speak of the winds, then,” observed Shonasaki.
“He’s a ‘summer wind’ indeed,” said Nikao. “He certainly added some warmth to our gathering.”
Kitsune shivered, causing her dark blue over-robe to ripple like a mountain stream. “Speaking of winds, I do feel a cold draft coming in. Can your blinds be secured more firmly?”
“I’ll see,” said Shonasaki, getting up and going to the veranda. As she tightened the fastening on the blinds, she saw a few snowflakes tumbling down through a grey sky.
“Snow so soon,” she murmured. Hastily returning to her companions, she said, “It will be a cold winter this year, don’t you think?”
WINTER
Cold winds from the river
Carve stone like steel knives
Beneath the winter moon.
—Bashō
ON THE BANKS OF THE KAMO
Katte pulled her old, faded silk jacket tighter around her shoulders as she hurried across the snow. She was grateful that her wooden clogs were just tall enough to keep her stockinged feet from getting soaked. Katte did not like leaving the warmth of the kitchens on such a cold day, but there was no more ginseng root in the store-rooms and her ailing mother had great need of its medicine. The old gardener, Niwa, had told Katte the nearest place ginseng grew was by the Kamo River which flowed not far from the palace grounds.
Katte paused at the top of the slope that led down to the Kamo, catching her breath at the beauty of the scene before her. A mist had risen off the river, pearlescent in the morning sunlight. Here and there, the sail of a fishing boat would come into view, then vanish in the mist. The tops and lower branches of pines, sparkling with frost, seemed as if floating in air. To her left and slightly behind her, Katte could see the pointed roofs and curving eaves of the palace revealed through the mist.
It’s like a Chinese painting, she thought, shivering with delight as well as cold. She imagined she could faintly hear the high, sweet notes of a courtier’s flute borne to her on the frosty breeze.
As Katte carefully picked her way through u-no-hana shrubs, she realized that the flute music was not her imagination. Though still faint, the sound became clearer as she moved along the river’s edge. Katte found herself entranced by the rippling melody and, without thinking, began to seek its source.
Before long, the kitchen maid came to a large pine, whose lower boughs reached down to the ground. Within the curtain of pine branches, Katte could see a portion of elegant violet-grey sleeves and skirt. What lady would play such beautiful music behind a kicho of pine boughs?
Suddenly, the music stopped. “Who is there?” said a cultured voice.
“It is no one, Lady of the Pine Curtain. I am most sorry to have disturbed you.” Katte gathered herself to leave.
“Wait,” said the lady. “Come under the tree, where I might see you.”
“Oh, no, my lady. There is no need for you to see such a wretched one as I.”
“Don’t be silly. You needn’t fear. I’m not a kami. I’m not even highborn. Come here.”
Slowly, Katte parted the pine boughs and crept inside. As she sat down on a soft bed of damp needles, she dared to glance at the lady and was surprised that she looked so young.
The lady smiled and nodded in greeting. “What is your name?”
“If it pleases you, my lady, this lowly one is called Katte.”
“A kitchen maid? How interesting. Do you find your life … fulfilling?”
Katte blinked and paused a moment. “Naturally it pleases me to serve Our Majesty, the Emperor, in whatever small capacity I may. Although I have often wished …”
“Wished what?”
“Well, you will doubtless consider it beneath your interest, but I have often wished to manage an inn located in some lovely setting.”
The lady laughed. “That is a more ambitious aspiration than I have ever had. And if you serve Our Majesty, then it must be that you work in the Imperial kitchens. Believe it or not, you have seen more of the palace than I.”
“I am surprised, my lady. Your music, I’m sure, would grace the halls at court. I could not resist coming to listen when I heard you.”
“Thank you. I do hope to someday ‘grace the halls at court.’ But why were you wandering down this way at all?”
“My mother is ill, my lady. I came seeking ginseng root which, I am told, grows near here.”
The young lady smiled. “Fortune must have let you hear my flute. As a matter of fact, there is some ginseng growing on the other side of this tree.”
“There is?” Eagerly, Katte dug through the pine needles and found the roots she was looking for. “How wise you are, my lady, to have noticed these!”
“My mother knew many of the ancient medicines. I learned a little from her.”
“How fortunate that you have a learned mother to teach you these things.”
“My mother passed away many years ago, but I am grateful for what guidance she could give me.”
“I am sorry to hear you have lost such a dear relative. I hope I do not lose my own so soon. I should hurry back to her. But could I please hear just one more tune from your flute, my lady?”
“Of course,” said Uguisu, lifting the instrument once more to her lips.
The Chinese Book
The Emperor looked up as the Minister of the Right, Fujiwara no Daimigi, strode into the Imperial Audience Chamber.
It was the Hour of the Tiger, before dawn had risen, and the Minister showed every sign of having hurriedly dressed. His Majesty smiled to himself. You would like to think me the puppet of your family, thought the Emperor. But I still have the power to make you damnably uncomfortable. “Konnichi-wa, Daimigi-san.”
“A good morning is it, your Majesty?” The Fujiwara gave a perfunctory bow before sitting. “Sometimes I think only the tiger loves this particular hour of darkness.”
“Truly? I had learned that the Great Reform of my forebears stipulated this hour for the commencement of daily official business. Ah, how things have deteriorated since those noble, ancient times. But you should be pleased to know, Daimigi-san, that I would not have summoned you if I did not have an important reason.” In truth, the Emperor was momentarily tempted to claim that he had changed his mind and send the Minister fuming home. But he could not yet risk enraging the head of the Fujiwara clan.
A calculating look came into the Minister’s eyes. “Well, though it may seem unusual to begin the day before the dawn, there is no harm in yearning for the cherry blossom before spring, eh?”
Ah, that’s why he thinks he’s here. He thinks I wish to discuss marrying his daughter. “Do we speak of cherry blossoms or maiden flowers now? No matter. I do not think it appropriate to fuss over flowers not yet in season.” In other words, Daimigi-san, your little fourteen-year-old girl is too young for me.
“But the most insignificant of buds, Your Majesty, may yet become the most beautiful of blossoms.”
“Nonetheless, if one picks a bud too soon, there may be no bloom at all. But I did not ask you here to discuss gardening.”
“Is it, then, the Day of Promotions that concerns you, Your Majesty? I can assure you that I have seen to all arrangements. There is no need for you to sully yourself with involvement in the pettiness of politics.”
“You are, as always, too kind, Daimigi-san. I will admit to being curious about what arrangements are being made. I would like to know if gifts from me are neede
d and appropriate, and of what sort.”
“Your Majesty’s renowned generosity would be most appreciated, I am sure. But I do not have the list of arrangements with me. I left it in my office, where my clerks will be making copies of it today. I will have a copy delivered to you as soon as one is ready, if you wish.”
You mean as soon as it is too late for me to do anything about it.
“That would be most thoughtful of you, Daimigi-san. But I have digressed. I did not ask you here to discuss the New Year’s promotions either.” Not directly, at least.
The Fujiwara looked perplexed. “May I ask, then, what it is you do wish to discuss, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, Daimigi-san. It concerns this book you gave me some days ago.” With the end of one finger he tapped the wooden cover of a tome on his lap.
“A … book, Your Majesty? Ah, would that be the notebook left me by the Chinese scholars?”
“The same. There is a passage here that disturbs me.”
“Disturbs you, Your Majesty?”
“That is what I said.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. I am most humbly sorry you are disturbed. I had thought it to be an innocuous work—merely a recording of the scholars’ impressions of the capital during their visit. I thought you might find it amusing.”
“And so I have, Daimigi-san. Except for this one passage.”
“What is the offending portion, Your Majesty?”
“It is here, near the end, where it is written: ‘… So, in all, Heian Kyo is a most charming little city. But one experience we must note was the day we were boating on the Kamo River. We were near the grounds of the Imperial Palace when we heard on the wind a flautist playing the most exquisite music. We were all quite entranced by it, and agreed it was finer than any we had heard at court in Ch’ang-an. Later that day, we endeavored to discover the identity of the musician, but none we could ask could tell us. No doubt the Emperor of Nippon wishes to keep the flautist his own court secret.’ And so on.”
“I thought it a rather pleasant passage, Your Majesty.”
“Did you? And do you know who this flautist is that the scholars write of?”
