Akitada and the Way of Justice (Akitada Stories)

by I. J. Parker

  • • •

  It was an impossible case. Akitada was to find a hermit he had never met and who must remain nameless. Moreover, he could not let anyone know he was looking for him. And somewhere someone had collected a great deal of gold for a letter that had disappeared along with the hermit.

  If indeed the exchange had taken place.

  If it had not, or if the hermit had been killed and the murderer had found it, then the letter might already be on offer to the prince’s enemies.

  Akitada decided to begin at Kiyomizu-dera. On the way into the snowy hills on the outskirts of the capital, he thought about Sesshin dying. Such thoughts always brought back his own grief for his son. This time he felt doubly bereft for he would lose a good and loyal friend who had often interceded on his behalf in the past.

  He forced his mind to consider the situation. Sesshin had said that the missing letter affected the succession. The young emperor had put on a man’s trousers a year ago but had not yet produced a son. There were some nasty rumors that he enjoyed himself with pages. The appointment of a crown prince would assure the succession, should the emperor die childless. And Sesshin’s candidate surely was the second prince of whom he was quite fond. Equally surely, the chancellor was opposed to such an arrangement.

  Someone was playing a very dangerous game, and Akitada was about to step into the middle of it.

  At the temple gate, he tied up his horse and went to sign the visitors’ book. An eager young monk appeared at his side.

  “Abbot Genshin will be delighted to receive you, my lord,” the chatty young man informed him after a glance at his name. “Just now he has some troublesome visitors, but I doubt they’ll stay long. Can you imagine? They think we are hiding their senile father. It’s nonsense, of course, but the Reverend Father decided to speak to them. May I show you around meanwhile?”

  The young monk seemed tolerant of eccentric questions, so Akitada asked, “Do you ever lose any of your visitors up here?” He gestured around at the steep, densely wooded mountain site and haphazard disposition of halls, paths, and stone steps.

  The young monk laughed heartily. “‘In the great Void,’” he quoted, “‘nothing is lost because nothing exists’. Here, if worshippers lose their way, they start shouting and we go to get them.”

  Akitada saw that his guide was certainly nimble enough to rescue lost souls. He, on the other hand, had a painful leg and was quickly out of breath.

  Beyond the Gate of the Benevolent Kings stood an ancient bell tower. Akitada took the opportunity to sit down on a rocky outcropping to admire it. The bell tower was a small building, stone below and wood above, but the gracefully curving roof was missing tiles, and stones and plaster had fallen from the foundation. A mangy cat sniffed nearby.

  The young monk decided to urge a donation. “We lack the funds for a proper rebuilding program,” he explained, clapping his hands at the cat which gave him a baleful look.

  Akitada’s own home needed repairs even more urgently than the bell tower.

  “The bell is quite large and has a particularly fine tone,” the monk continued. “We rang it the night before the New Year. One hundred and eight times, one stroke for every human weakness that must be discarded before the New Year can be faced with a pure mind.” He frowned and picked up a rock to throw at the cat. The cat hissed and departed.

  Akitada considered human weaknesses, including those that made young monks throw rocks at harmless cats. “Did you have many visitors that night?”

  “Oh, no. The abbot had a guest, that’s all. Just as well. It wasn’t Hossho’s best performance, I’m afraid. The ringing was very ragged.”

  “Hmm. What about travelers seeking shelter?”

  “Oh, we get beggars sometimes, but Hossho is quite firm with them.”

  “Ah, yes,” muttered Akitada. “One must be firm with beggars.” He rose and they walked through another gate, past a three-storied pagoda with handsome red lacquer trim, and then climbed up and down a number of steep flights of stone steps.

  Akitada’s guide returned to the subject of the institution’s many services and needs, while Akitada wished himself elsewhere. Shivering in the chill air, he interrupted the lecture to ask the monk if greeting visitors was among his regular duties.

  “Oh, no. I’m helping out today, because our regular gatekeeper isn’t here. Just like Hossho to go off on his own business.”

  “This Hossho must be a very busy monk,” Akitada observed, suppressing a sneeze and wondering if he would pay with a cold for this excursion.

  “Ha ha!” laughed the young monk. “You don’t know Hossho. He’s always trying to get out of work.”

  When they reached the great hall with its enormous sweeping roofs, Akitada limped inside with a sigh. He made his bow to the eleven-faced and thousand-armed Kannon, briefly admired the gilded divinities, and then stepped onto the great veranda. This jutted out six stories above a wooded gorge and offered a famous view of the capital below.

  His guide pointed out more attractions. “Over there is the Shrine of the Eight Hills. It’s well attended by ladies because the god who is enshrined there helps lovers.”

  “Why is that only attractive to ladies?” Akitada asked, thinking of the prince’s secret love and the dangerous letter.

  “Ha ha. Gentlemen know their hearts but they don’t always tell, do they? That’s very frustrating to women so they come to ask the god if there is hope.” The young monk chuckled. “There are two sacred rocks there. If they can walk blind-folded from one to the other, it means happiness. The shrine priest makes a very good income by offering his arm. We only have the waterfall and the lucky jump. It’s not nearly as profitable.”

  “A lucky jump?”

  “Oh, yes.” The monk leaned over the balustrade and pointed downward. “If you make it down without getting hurt, you will have a wish fulfilled.”

  Akitada peered into a ravine. “That looks dangerous.” Somewhere below he heard the faint sound of water, but the cliff was so thickly overgrown with scrub and evergreens that he could not see the bottom. A large number of crows sat on the branches of a crippled pine tree.

  The monk pointed a little to the left. “The waterfall is over there. People call it the Sound of Feathers Fall. Its water cures diseases. We have had many miraculous cures.”

  “Surely that’s more useful than the two rocks,” Akitada said. “Or do you have to jump to get down there?”

  The monk laughed heartily again. “Not quite, but the path is a little steep. Not too many sick people manage it.”

  Akitada eyed the crows again and sighed. “I would not mind getting rid of this pain in my leg,” he said.

  The path was precipitous and slippery, especially this time of year. Akitada gritted his teeth. The waterfall, when they reached it, was quite small and pooled into a basin. A bamboo dipper awaited the afflicted believers, and Akitada dipped out a measure of the icy water and drank. He shivered and sneezed.

  The young monk clapped his hands. “There! The pain is leaving your body already.”

  Akitada thought it more likely that he had caught a cold but did not say so. Instead he limped into the dense shrubbery, heading toward the pine with the crows.

  “Where are you going, sir?” his guide cried after him.

  “Call of nature.”

  The crows gave raucous warning cries at his approach and reluctantly rose with a clatter of wings to find a safer perch. On the ground near the pine’s trunk, Akitada found what had attracted them. The broken body of a monk lay in a small patch of snow. The dead man might have been sleeping under the tree except for the season and the odd angle of his head and the blood on his face. His limbs lay relaxed, one arm under his body, the other folded across his middle. One foot lacked its sandal.

  Akitada looked up. The cliff rose sharply to the scaffolding of beams that supported the veranda. It was impossible to see much, for shrubs and trees grew all around him and in the crevices of the cliff. He saw s
ome broken branches, suggesting that the dead man had indeed jumped or fallen from above. In another month or two, the leaves would make even a partial view impossible. If it had not been for the crows, the body might never have been found.

  This then was surely Sesshin’s missing messenger—dead, to add the Akitada’s sense of hopelessness. He bent to search the body. There was no letter. He straightened up, frowned, and made a systematic search of the whole area. He found the other sandal hanging in a shrub quite a distance from the body. In the process, he tore his trousers in several places, knocked his hat askew, scratched his face, and got a large thorn in his right hand. He also sneezed again.

  His guide called out to him. Akitada did not bother to answer. He eyed the side of the cliff, then shook his head. How did that sandal get into the shrub? He returned to the body and examined it carefully.

  His guide made his way noisily through the underbrush and found him. “There you are, sir. I was getting—” He gave a loud gasp. “Amida. It’s Hossho. What’s he doing here?”

  • • •

  Hossho, the gatekeeper and bellringer, had a bruised and broken neck. He also had badly bruised shins. Akitada’s guide proposed that Hossho must have taken the jump from the veranda because he wished to be reborn in paradise.

  “But,” protested Akitada, “doesn’t the Buddha forbid taking your own life? I would have thought Hossho committed a grievous offense by jumping and lost salvation.”

  “Not at all, sir,” said the young monk, looking quite cheerful. “Hossho’s faith in the powers of Kannon was so great that I’m sure he had his wish granted. Besides, all he had to do was to utter the Buddha’s name as he was falling. That’s sufficient to gain entrance to the Western Paradise.”

  Akitada thought it was a wonder that all of the monks had not long since vaulted over the balustrade. Aloud he said, “I believe Hossho was murdered. You must report his death to the police.”

  This upset his guide who insisted on reporting to the abbot first. Akitada was cold, sore, and depressed. His case had just become more complicated. Instead of finding a missing hermit, he had the body of a murdered monk on his hands. With a sigh, he climbed back to the top.

  The abbot’s assistant, a cadaverous individual with a disconcerting way of watching Akitada from the corner of his eyes, let them in. Akitada’s guide reported Hossho’s death with great excitement, not omitting his belief in the miraculous powers of the jump and Hossho’s desire to find a shortcut to Nirvana. Akitada had to cut him off with a demand to see the abbot.

  The Venerable Genshin, a handsome middle-aged cleric, was seated in a comfortable study overlooking the mountains. He was surrounded by warming braziers, books and pictures, elegant writing utensils, and an exquisite small altar with carved figures of the Amida Buddha and two bodhisattvas.

  “Lord Sugawara,” his assistant announced and left, softly closing the door behind him.

  “Please be seated,” said the abbot, clearly unimpressed by Akitada’s rank. His speech and manner were those of a high court noble, and he made no attempt to be either courteous or friendly. “My assistant tells me you found the body of one of the monks. I regret extremely that you should have been troubled by this unfortunate affair.” He did not quite tsk, but the effect was much the same.

  Akitada sat near one of the braziers with a sigh of relief. Rubbing his chilled hands over its pleasant warmth, he said, “The monk was murdered, Venerable Father. It will be necessary to call the authorities.”

  The abbot raised thin eyebrows. “Murdered? Come, we must not judge too quickly. It may be that he has allowed his depth of devotion to tempt him, or it may merely have been an accident in the dark.”

  Genshin was related to powerful men with ties to the imperial household. It would not do to offend him, but Akitada did not like his reaction to the death. “I regret, Venerable Father,” he said firmly, “but the indications are that he was murdered. Do you know if someone had a reason to wish him dead?”

  The abbot refolded his hands and looked at them. “I hope you’re wrong, but it is true that Hossho could be—how shall I put it?—a little irritating. There have been complaints.”

  “Are you suggesting that one of his fellow monks murdered him because he was irritating?”

  Genshin compressed his lips. “Murder is much too strong a word. It could have been mere mischief.”

  “Mischief?”

  “Well, have you considered that perhaps Hossho was leaning over the railing and, in the heat of an argument, someone gave him a little push, never thinking that he would be seriously hurt?”

  Akitada slowly shook his head. “No, Father. I saw his neck. He was not killed by the fall. Someone strangled him, breaking his neck, and then pushed him over the railing.” He did not mention that he must have lost a sandal in the struggle, and that the murderer had flung that after him.

  The abbot opened his eyes wide. “Ridiculous!” he said. “And sacrilegious.”

  Akitada was at the end of his patience. If only one could be sure not to step on sensitive toes. The prince-bishop had liked the abbot well enough to pay him a visit, but this man was uncomfortably haughty and uncooperative. Akitada had no wish to spend the rest of his life in exile on some godforsaken island because he had interfered in someone’s power play. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m told two visitors came to you because they think their father disappeared from this temple. Surely the police will come anyway.”

  The abbot sat up stiffly. “We cannot afford to have ugly rumors spread. They are mistaken. Their father was never here. Really, you must not imagine that this temple is a den of murderers. That is quite outrageous.”

  “Surely it wouldn’t hurt to make a thorough search of the grounds and buildings and ask some questions. Someone may have seen the old man.”

  But it was too late. The abbot had become angry and defiant. Tucking his hands into his deep sleeves, he glowered at Akitada. “I cannot imagine why you would doubt my word. If you persist in mentioning this false story to people and spread tales about poor Hossho’s death, I shall be forced to report the matter to His Majesty.”

  Time to depart, but the ache in Akitada’s leg had only just begun to subside. “I beg your pardon, Venerable Father. Finding a body and then hearing that an elderly person got lost at this time of year caused me to imagine some connection between the two. No doubt, his sons will find him soon. What was their name again?”

  The abbot huffed. “I do not know. They are in some sort of trade. Such men are very grasping. Possibly they want the temple to reimburse them for the loss of their father.”

  Akitada nodded. “Ah, you believe him dead then. There is great evil in this world. Thank you very much for explaining the matter.” The abbot glared, and reluctantly Akitada staggered to his feet. “Perhaps you should mention their attempt at extortion to the police,” he suggested.

  The abbot snapped, “The police have no jurisdiction here. As for Hossho’s accident, we will deal with it ourselves. I trust you will respect the sanctity of this temple.”

  It sounded like an order, perhaps even a threat. Akitada bit his lip, bowed again, and left.

  His young guide had disappeared, and the abbot’s assistant slammed the door behind him. Favoring his sore leg, Akitada limped back toward the main gate. As he passed the bell tower, he saw that the cat had returned to its investigations. At the main gate, Akitada found the new gatekeeper and asked if he had heard about his predecessor’s death.

  The monk shivered. “Yes, they told me.”

  “I understand he was not well liked?”

  The monk looked uncomfortable. “Hossho got others to do his work, that’s all. I didn’t know he was so unhappy. I would have been nicer to him.”

  So the monk thought the death a suicide. Akitada asked, “Could Hossho have admitted the old man who disappeared?”

  “Oh, no. His name would be in the visitors’ book. I checked.”

  Akitada accompanied the monk
to his cubicle to look for himself. He found his own name, and just above it the names of Yutaka and Hikaru Miyahara. Then he ran his finger up the list of visitors for the week before the New Year. According to the gatekeeper, their names belonged to a merchant family, a group of young monks from another temple, two women, several farmers and tradesmen who had come to collect payment for goods or services before the New Year, and two of the temple’s debtors who had discharged their debts.

  “What about private guests?” Akitada asked, thinking of Sesshin.

  “Private visitors don’t sign in.”

  It seemed Sesshin’s messenger had never reached the temple.

  Akitada thanked the monk and got on his horse. On the road home, he caught up with two men who were walking. He guessed they were the Miyahara brothers.