The dying old man’s eyes opened for the first time since the bikuni entered the room. He turned his head weakly, looking straight at the nun. She could not look away. A withered, spidery hand slipped out from under the quilt, clinging to a Buddhist rosary, shaking with palsy.
The bikuni was extraordinarily ill at ease. She scooted away from the foot of the dying man’s bed, bowed with forehead to floor, and whispered, “Forgive me, but I have never learned Buddhist sutras of any sort. I am a Shintoist at heart.” When she raised her head from the floor, the old, old woman was looking at the straw matting at her own knees, her face blandly unreadable, devoid of its former and premature gratitude. Otane, who was sitting on her knees just inside the door as though she were still only a servant in the castle, finally spoke.
“Surely you know a few! How can you walk about the country as a nun and never learn the sutras?”
The bikuni’s eyes were again caught by those of the dying old man. It was impossible to turn her face away from his. Still, she was able to answer Otane’s harsh query.
“Buddhist doctrine is as the leaves of a tree, but Shinto is the tree itself.” Her voice was small when she added, “Think of me as a poor, dry autumn leaf.”
Otane was indignant and angry, perhaps embarrassed as well, if she had been the one to suggest to her father that the martial nun be brought in the first place. “A bikuni can’t think like that!” she exclaimed.
“It is the essence of esotericism,” said the bikuni, “that we think as we please.”
“It’s too much!” scolded Otane, but Kahei Todawa shushed his daughter, and the room became deathly still. Deathly. After a long, cold, lonely silence, the dry lips of the dying man began a pitiful recital in his own behalf: “Namu Amida Butsu … Namu Amida … Butsu … Namu…”
The nun could not remain composed in the face of this wretched encounter. She bowed again, this time to the dying man in particular. Though it was unlike her, she made an excuse for herself: “It has been my way to play my shakuhachi for the sick at heart or the dying. This has been my excuse for never learning the sutras. But my shakuhachi has been damaged and waits this very moment to be repaired in the village. Please live two or three more days and I will come back to do my best for you!”
With so much pain in her gut she felt as though she had committed seppuku, the bikuni grabbed hat and sword and hurried out of the room. Otane bowed to her grandmother, father, and dying grandfather, and she left as well. The unobtrusive peasant youth followed after Otane.
For the majority of her life, the bikuni had been a samurai. Among samurai it was generally felt that there was nothing so terrible as retirement from worldly life. Honorable, valorous death was vastly preferred to lost privilege, glory, and class standing. Yet the bikuni had taken the tonsure voluntarily. She had not regretted it until this day. Only now did it seem she had given up less of the world than previously believed. She had lost status while retaining responsibility; given up glory though deeds were still required. It had always been easy for her to face her own death as a samurai. But it was terrifying to be asked, as Buddha’s woman, to ease another’s dying.
She went as far as the kitchen, trying to erase from her mind the image of the dying man and his watchful mourners. In the kitchen, she saw the huge boy with bits of sticky rice all around his mouth. A grin widened in his pudgy face. The bikuni stood over him, looking at him strangely. Otane came up behind her, the handsome farmboy in tow. Otane said softly,
“Let me feed you before you go.”
The nun sat by the firepit and held her hands above the coals, trying to look at none but the foolish boy, whose innocent spirit was a healing thing, untouched as he was by remorse or sorrow. This boy and the priest called Paddy-Bird were the only two individuals she had seen in the whole mountainous fief, aside from small children, capable of smiling.
“Tah-neh!” the huge fellow exclaimed, seeing she was after food again. Otane shushed him with a not-too-harsh look, and for a moment he didn’t smile.
The farmboy sat down near the nun, warming himself by the kitchen firepit as well. The nun didn’t look at him, but noted his appearance from the corner of her eye. There was no denying his beauty. His lips were full and small, his chin round, his eyebrows long and thin. It was a wonder no one in the castle had noticed him among the fields, and made him a minor page at least, for he was prettier than those pampered youths. Yet there was something disrespectful in the manner of his expression, something perhaps not attractive to many, suggesting as it did a dislike for authority.
“Iyo there is Otane’s brother,” said the farmboy. “He has a lot of trouble understanding things and being understood, though he’s good for a few sorts of errands and chores. He doesn’t know his grandfather is dying, though it’s been explained to him once or twice. You’re a stupid fellow, isn’t it so, Iyo?”
Iyo realized this last was addressed to him, but didn’t know that he had been disparaged. He grinned hugely as always, and exclaimed, “Shin Ji! Tah-neh’s Shin Ji!”
The farmboy laughed, yet there was a joyless edge to it. “That’s right, Iyo,” he said. “I’m Otane’s Shinji, not Shinji’s Shinji.”
The nun had been near the verge of disliking the youth, if for no other reason than his easy mistreatment of Iyo. But she quickly detected Shinji’s self-deprecation. She realized he did not hold himself in as much esteem as he would like to project. For all his physical beauty, Shinji yet seemed to think of Iyo as a kind of mirror. When he teased Iyo about things, it reflected on himself. Certainly Iyo absorbed none of it and felt no injury.
Otane was hurt by it, though. She cringed at Shinji’s last remark, but hid her mortification as she went silently about her task of preparing fresh rice balls for the nun. Shinji continued talking boldly to the bikuni.
“Though Iyo isn’t very smart, he is nonetheless of the buké class. Even a fellow like him is more important than a farmer’s son. Otane’s parents condescend to treat me like a son at times, and I remind myself to be humble and appreciative. But they are lost in their sadness and have forgotten that I am here. They never think I might have feelings as real as their own, that I might share their sorrow, or comfort them, given half a chance. Samurai are good at not noticing peasants, don’t you think? Just like crickets on a path. Who sees if one is underfoot?”
Otane moved about the kitchen in speechless trepidation. Was Shinji so blind? Didn’t he see that she was affected by his tongue? Such a good-looking fellow should learn to notice the feelings of others, or his beauty didn’t mean a thing. That’s what the nun was thinking. But she didn’t say a thing.
“Even if you keep a cricket in a little cage,” he said, “and feed it and write a poem about how nice the cricket is … if it gets loose, or if it dies, pretty easy to replace it with another one. Hard to tell the difference.”
Otane dropped the rice spatula. Surely Shinji noticed, but hardly skipped a beat in the rhythm of his lecture.
“Despite this, Otane and I have decided we will live together someplace. Isn’t it funny? A samurai and a cricket. Maybe just a worm! Feel free to laugh at us.” Shinji’s eyes glinted as though to convey the jesting nature of his words, yet the words were far too harsh to be accepted as humor. Otane was visibly shaken, but had no doubt heard it all before, and offered no criticism of anything her illicit lover said.
The bikuni turned her face from Iyo’s to the farmboy’s and looked at him without the least emotion. Her thoughts were many, but she would not let him know her feelings about his callousness and insecurity. He’d been respectfully silent at the deathbed of the patriarch, and was doubtless grateful that they had not shut him out altogether. Yet he was simultaneously bitter about many things. He had not been raised like a samurai and could not hold back his feelings for long periods of time. As he was more comfortable in the kitchen, as opposed to the private rooms of samurai, Shinji felt at ease to speak his mind, especially as he was only talking to a mendicant.
&n
bsp; He matched the nun’s gaze, but as she did not reply to his frank speech, the humor in his eyes began to fade. He looked away from her, uncomfortable or ashamed. As he wished her opinion, the bikuni searched for some honest response, and said,
“Surely Lord Sato’s daughter has noticed that Otane did not return to her duties as lady-in-waiting. Someone will come to this house looking for her. A lot of trouble if it seems a peasant is living with a samurai family as though he were a son-in-law. Her family risks a lot in your favor.”
The farmboy was unmoved by this. He met her gaze again, then leaned her direction to share a secret. “If Otane’s grandfather had not gotten so ill unexpectedly, we would already have run away together! When Otane told her father about your helping her, we all agreed you must have been a famous samurai before you were a nun. We thought you’d be brave enough to give a dying fellow a nice service despite Lord Sato’s decree favoring Priest Kuro exclusively. So Otane and I delayed our plans a while. Well, how could we know you lacked knowledge of the sutras? If you hadn’t left the room so fast, I’m sure Mr. Todawa would have apologized for bothering you. I know Otane is embarrassed to have put you in such a spot. But there is another matter Otane and I talked about privately, another reason for hoping to talk to you.”
Otane brought a tray of fresh rice balls and some hot tea to the bikuni and placed these at her side. She slapped Iyo’s greedy hand, then produced some walnuts from her sleeve for him. These kept him busy, albeit noisily, cracking and eating the nuts. Otane was tense, but let her beloved farmboy handle the matter he had brought up.
“It’s like this,” said Shinji. “When Lord Sato finds out you killed three of his retainers, he’ll send more than three to punish you. The corpses may already have been found. It’s best you run away with Otane and me! After Otane has made enough prayers for the sake of her grandfather’s spirit, we intend to sneak across the river gorge. I have a pass to do so, since my family farms across the bridge and we must always bring a certain percentage of our crops to the castle. Otane has secretly taken her grandfather’s pass, since he will not require it. I altered it a bit so that she can use it to cross over the rope bridge with me.”
Their plan was a terrible thing. They could be crucified just for running away in the first place. Altering a fief pass was also a punishable crime.
“As a mendicant,” said Shinji, “you can come and go as you please, more or less. The three of us could meet at the rope bridge and not have any trouble. If the single guard stationed there suspects something, we can give him some money. Most of the samurai serving Lord Sato these days are corrupt and easy to bribe.”
“Many illicit lovers try what you suggest,” said the bikuni. “Most of them are captured by and by. Do you know you could be crucified? I don’t think you’ve exhausted other avenues as yet. A special petition could be set before Lord Sato, who might make an exception for your case.”
“You haven’t been here long enough to know how things are!” exclaimed Shinji. “In other places, such special dispensation can sometimes be acquired. Otane’s father is very low-ranking for a samurai. In fact, before he was placed under house arrest, his main duty was caring for Lord Sato’s plum trees. Practically a farmer himself! Otane and I would have a good case with any other lord, but Sato has no concern for people’s happiness. We know exactly what he would say. ‘Recite the Lotus Sutra until you have gotten over your desire for one another.’ If we argued, he might have us killed, our corpses buried in Priest Kuro’s horrible cemetery at the Temple of the Gorge, where already several of Kuro’s victims now repose. Nobody petitions Lord Sato for anything anymore, nor complains about the way he governs things—or fails to govern. If there are no complaints, things aren’t too bad. Otherwise, Priest Kuro whispers in Lord Sato’s ear, and the advice is no fun for anybody.”
The bikuni was beginning to have very strong doubts about the dark priest’s motivations. She said, “A priest should not be so drunk with power. I would like to know more about this Kuro.”
“Better not to deal with him at all!” said Shinji. “Accompany us away from Kanno province, neh? It’s selfish to want you to help us, but it’s for your sake too.”
“A bikuni travels alone,” she said. “I will go my way after I have carved a stone lantern for the men I was forced to kill.”
“Someone will have to carve one for you!” said the farmboy. When she did not comment, his face became clouded with anger. He said, “Are you too proud to keep us company? An ex-samurai like you can’t be concerned with lovers intent on breaking the law!”
She studied his expression a long moment before speaking. “You dislike samurai a lot,” she said. “But you want to marry one.”
Otane knelt at Shinji’s side and pulled on his sleeve, keeping him from saying something angrier than he already said. She whispered, “I told you she was too severe. She won’t help us. We must run away without her.”
“Tah-neh!” exclaimed Iyo, having run out of noisy walnuts.
“Shut up!” the farmboy scolded, making Iyo stop grinning, making him upset. Otane went nurturantly to the big fellow and soothed his hurt feelings. The bikuni didn’t like to see a samurai daughter jerked back and forth like that, meeting the needs of others and never really stating her own feelings. Perhaps it was true, though, that all she required was the presence of the handsome, if somewhat rude, Shinji.
“If your plan is to succeed,” said the bikuni, “you must be calmer in your hearts. Fear makes people angry. Anger makes people careless.”
Shinji folded his arms and turned his back on the bikuni and the firepit. Otane’s large, hurt eyes watched the bikuni’s profile. She said, “I’ve caused him a lot of responsibility.” Her tone was apologetic. When she said this, Shinji turned back to face his lover, and his anger had dissipated. He looked miserable and forlorn. He virtually leapt in Otane’s direction, to fall beside her and cling to her sleeve, weeping like a child. Bowing his head, he wailed, “It’s I who have caused you the trouble!”
They were pitiful to see. The bikuni began to tie her hat upon her head, indicating her intention to leave, but also to hide her face lest they notice her reluctant concern. She stood, saying, “Is Lord Sato as heartless as you say? Villagers seem to dislike him, but I saw no particular evidence of cruelty. If his men catch runaways, however, he is justified in applying the law, though laws are often cruel.”
“Really it isn’t Lord Sato so much as that dark priest,” said Otane, extricating herself from the clinging Shinji and hurrying to the doorway to place the bikuni’s sandals where she could step into them. “Since Kuro came, there have been numerous bad omens, poor crops, illness, deaths, and Lord Sato’s retainers have become unruly. In past years when things were bad, taxes were reduced, but this year they were raised a little bit. It’s not that things have become untenable, but happiness has been erased from the land. It’s much worse in the castle than in the village. But a shadow cannot fall upon the lord of a country without the country feeling it as well.”
The bikuni placed her longsword through her obi and stepped out into the back garden. Otane hurried on ahead to get the rear gate. The bikuni stood beneath the gate’s roof while the young woman held the gate open. The nun asked, “I did not want to pester you with my own problem while your family could overhear. But as you were a lady-in-waiting for Lord Sato’s daughter, perhaps you can help me with something I need to know, even though I have been no help to you.”
Otane’s eyes conveyed her willingness to help.
“I came here looking for a man of Omi in the service of Lord Sato, but was informed that no such man is in the castle. I can well believe the one I seek would not work for Lord Sato if it could be helped, since things are as they are. But I think there is more to it, or the men I talked to would not have been so upset about my query.”
Otane, too, appeared upset by the query, but she took a deep breath to calm her feelings, and spoke confidentially. “Ordinarily a lady-in-waitin
g knows little about what men of the castle do. But the man you speak of was Lady Echiko’s betrothed, destined to become Lord Sato’s son-in-law!”
The nun replied, “I’m surprised,” though there was no hint of shock in her tone.
“He was Lord Sato’s favorite retainer and achieved a high rank among castle men. Though his clan had declined in his native province, still he had a good family tree and might well have been a minor Lord himself, had he been a more ruthless fellow. Lord Sato was glad that his daughter noticed this man above others. We ladies-in-waiting conspired to help Lady Echiko have secret meetings with him from time to time. All of this was when it was still nice to live in the castle, before Priest Kuro possessed our Lord’s heart.
“I don’t know exactly what happened, but some while later, Lord Sato announced that Heinosuke, my Lady’s betrothed, was to be exiled for some petty reason. Everyone knew it was on the advice of his Lordship’s new cleric, who certainly did seem to dislike Heinosuke and some other good men.
“On the same night as the proclamation of exile, someone made an attempt on Priest Kuro’s life. A week or so later it was finally announced officially that young Heinosuke had gone wild and made a foiled attempt on the priest, then ran off. We ladies-in-waiting knew it wasn’t exactly like that, for Heinosuke had come to Lady Echiko the very night of the assassination attempt.”
“Do you know if he really tried to kill Priest Kuro?” asked the nun.
“He did!” said Otane in a harsh whisper, her eyes large when she confessed her knowledge. “I remember Lady Echiko was playing her koto, when suddenly a string snapped—a bad omen! She had been singing a sad song because of the news of her betrothed’s pending exile. It was a cold, cloudless night and all the doors were shuttered. Yet there was a cold wind from somewhere, which ran through Lady Echiko’s chamber. We ladies-in-waiting looked around to see what door had been opened. The oil lantern suddenly went out, as though Fukkeshibaba the fire-extinguishing hag had slipped in and blown it out. We were as frightened as little children by then, until we were relieved to hear Heinosuke’s voice in the darkness.
The Golden Naginata Page 38
