by I. J. Parker
Then he made his way to the northern precincts of the palace and found the walled garden of the women’s quarters. It was deserted this time of year, lying undisturbed and featureless under the soft blanket of new snow. The rocks seemed merely larger hummocks of snow, and the bamboo drooped under its burden and rustled dryly as a sparrow flew up, sending a dusting of snow to the white ground. The heavy shutters of the building were closed. The doctor walked quickly to the veranda, and left his note under a small stone just outside the shutter where they used to meet.
A part of him hoped fervently that she was inside and, hearing him, would open the shutter a little, but in this he was disappointed. All remained silent except for the sound of melting snow dripping from the end of the eaves.
Back at the gate, he turned for a last look and saw his tracks leading to her door and away again. Too late!
The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter
Toshiko’s life changed abruptly with the arrival of the consort. The news reached them when one of the maids rushed in, chattering about the long line of carriages and outriders entering the palace precincts.
Their dim and quiet days were over. The ladies hurried to unpack their best gowns. Maids brought clothes racks and set them up to air fine robes of silk gauze and brocade and to perfume them with incense. More lamps were lit, bringing out the jewel tones of deep reds and golds and purples in the rich fabrics. The air was heavy with perfume. Servants rushed into the city to purchase last minute adornments and fresh supplies of make-up. And the ladies’ tongues wagged, wondering why the consort had returned so suddenly and what this might mean about news from the palace and about upcoming entertainments and who might be in her entourage. The New Year was not far away, and if Her Majesty remained a while, the palace would hum with festivities, and many old friends would visit.
Toshiko was at a loss about what was expected of her in all of this. She followed the others around, trying to find out more. Lady Sanjo was besieged with questions but only smiled mysteriously. Toshiko did not like the woman’s knowing manner and the sidelong glances she cast her way from time to time.
Nothing further happened the day of Her Majesty’s arrival, except that some of the ladies who traveled with the Consort stopped in for visits. Even to Toshiko’s untrained eyes, they dressed more elegantly and engaged in much livelier conversation. She guessed from their tales that they led a very different life in the city and began to suspect that their entertaining ways were the reason they had been chosen by the Consort. Bits of poetry flew quickly between them, along with clever comments on this and that person or thing and laughter at silly incidents they had observed at court, and many, many references to gentlemen of their acquaintance. The ladies in the retired emperor’s palace had nothing like it to offer in return and expressed wonder and a good deal of envy.
The visitors eyed Toshiko curiously at first but lost interest when informed who she was. There was bigger news. The little crown prince would be made emperor soon. This fortunate event would raise their mistress in rank and lend brilliance to her court. All the ladies, even the ones who would not be invited back to court with the newly made empress, were very happy.
Toshiko wondered what the consort was like and if His Majesty would now forget her. The next morning brought the summons for them to present themselves, and she dressed carefully, not for His Majesty this time, but for her first official duty as a lady-in-waiting to his consort.
When she finally laid eyes on Her Majesty, she was struck with admiration. The consort was much younger than she had expected, having foolishly assumed that she must be His Majesty’s age. She looked in every way exquisite, being small and dainty of stature, with a charmingly round face and thick, lustrous hair. The Chinese jacket she wore was of crimson silk, embroidered with golden chrysanthemums, and her gowns of beaten silk gauze were layered in shades of autumn leaves and old rose petals. Even among her beautifully dressed ladies-in-waiting, she glowed like the rarest flower in a stunning painting.
Toshiko, who had dressed in the darker hues of the wintry season, was amazed at the color and spectacle before her. Since the previous spring, her days had been spent in the semi-darkness of the women’s quarters among other ladies who had been forgotten by the great world.
Until now.
Her Majesty’s arrival had brought a number of high-ranking young men to the cloister palace, and music and laughter sounded in the corridors and from the pavilions.
When Toshiko, as the newest member of Her Majesty’s ladies, was called forward to make her obeisance, Lady Sanjo, seated behind the consort, leaned forward to murmur something to her mistress. Toshiko’s heart beat fearfully as she bowed, but the Consort was very courteous, asking about her home and what amused her. She found her voice and talked about singing and dancing imayo. To her relief, the moment was over quickly, and she could slip back behind the last row of ladies where nobody noticed her.
In the days that followed she was gradually drawn into the merry-making around Her Majesty. Many of the ladies played the zither and lute, and others could respond to poems with clever twists on words. She was too ignorant to participate in such activities. Her education in such skills had been sadly neglected. To her relief, nobody asked her to sing or dance, but she listened to others and took pleasure in their skills. It suited her to be thus left in peace. Sometimes she played board games with the others and enjoyed herself with the pure delight of a child, and she read avidly all the new romances that were passed around.
One day, His Majesty appeared suddenly in their midst. Toshiko immediately hid behind a screen. He had not called for her since his consort’s arrival, and she was embarrassed to be seen by him.
His Majesty directed a servant to unpack several elegant boxes of books, his gift to his consort and her ladies. The books were filled with illustrated tales, and when he showed them around, the ladies gathered, crying out in admiration at the pictures of dainty, colorful figures who moved fairylike among clouds of gold dust through landscapes filled with lakes, waterfalls, mountains, and elegant pavilions.
Unable to restrain her curiosity, Toshiko crept out to catch a glimpse. His Majesty saw her immediately.
“Ah, I see Lady Toshiko is here,” he said to the consort. “I am glad you have made her welcome. She arrived only recently and from outside the capital. As you know, we are very quiet here in your absence, and I am sure she has been leading a sadly dull life until now.”
Her Majesty’s eyes searched the room for Toshiko, who had frozen in her place, wishing she could disappear like a drop of dew in the sun. “She is still very young,” the consort said without enthusiasm. “Something out of the ordinary, would you say?”
“Oh, yes.” The emperor’s mouth twitched with secret amusement as he looked at Toshiko. “Quite out of the ordinary. Has she sung and danced for you yet? Lady Toshiko is adept at imayo. As a matter of fact, she has been a great help to me with my collection.”
There was a small noise, something like a snort. All eyes turned to Lady Sanjo who coughed delicately into her sleeve, and bowed to His Majesty. “Please forgive my rude cough, sire. The season has not been kind to me.” Bowing to Her Majesty next, she added, “Indeed, Your Majesty, this young lady has been most accommodating and industrious in her attendance on His Majesty.”
An embarrassed silence followed these words, then the consort said dryly, “I see. In that case, perhaps she should be assigned new quarters, sire?”
The emperor flushed and waved that aside with an impatient gesture. “I trust all the ladies are comfortable. Please do not trouble yourself. It does not signify.”
Her Majesty nodded. “As you wish, sire.”
New quarters? Toshiko was uncomfortably aware that this exchange somehow involved her position here. She looked to Lady Sanjo for an answer and saw that she wore the expression of a purring cat.
Ashamed without knowing why, she drew away even more. But the Emperor was watching her as the books passed around.
“Lady Toshiko,” he called to her, “are you familiar with the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter?”
“I think so, sire,” Toshiko said, wishing she had stayed behind the screen.
“The story is about a man who finds a great jewel hidden in a hollow bamboo. It reminds me of you.” He smiled at her, then searched among the books. “Here it is. Come, you must see how fine these illustrations are.” He patted a pillow beside him, and the ladies pulled aside their wide skirts to let Toshiko pass. She came forward, her face burning with embarrassment.
The tale belonged to her childhood. It was the story of an elderly childless couple whose fervent prayers for children were answered when the husband, a humble bamboo cutter, found a shining child inside a hollow bamboo. In their care, this child grew into a luminous beauty known as Princess Moon. She was courted by many great men, even by the emperor himself, but in the end she refused them all because she was immortal and had to leave the world for her celestial abode.
Toshiko had never seen the tale illustrated. As the emperor slowly unrolled the scroll, she saw that it had sections of written text alternating with charming scenes in bright colors. The only paintings in her parents’ house had been her mother’s screens of mountains and a scroll painting of a falcon in her father’s room. Here there was a whole world in miniature, with mansions and gardens filled with people who moved about and who laughed or cried just as you would expect them to do in real life.
“Oh,” she sighed, peering over her fan, “how very beautiful! And how lucky the poor bamboo cutter and his wife were. The princess brought such pleasure into their lonely lives.”
“And to all the gentlemen who saw her,” chuckled the emperor. “Poor gentlemen. She wanted none of them. Not even the emperor. How do you explain that?”
Toshiko did not know what to say. He was close to her and his scent reminded her of the last time she had sat beside him. She blushed and raised her fan.
“She was a divine creature and not of this earth,” said Her Majesty, breaking the awkward silence. “Perhaps it was fair punishment to them for neglecting their own ladies.”
“That had not occurred to me,” said the emperor. “My interpretation has always been that the author was making fun of the inept and dishonest nobles of his day. Apparently he did not think much of his emperor either.”
“Oh, surely not,” cried Lady Sanjo. “He could not have been such a villain. He would have been sent into exile.”
“Not at all. We are not such cruel taskmasters, I hope.” The emperor smiled broadly. “But Lady Sanjo proves that I, too, have my critics. She does not think much of my explanation. Do you have a better one, Lady Sanjo?”
Lady Sanjo flushed. “Oh, no, sire. I am only a foolish woman and thought it just a fairytale.” Then her face brightened and she rose to her feet. “But I am very eager to have Your Majesty explain the true meaning to me.”
Toshiko drew back with an apology, and Lady Sanjo quickly took her place. The emperor bit his lip, but he pointed to the figures of the suitors, identifying each by name and linking him with passages in the text, while Lady Sanjo leaned closer and murmured her admiration. When he was done, he quickly rolled up the scroll and, pleading business, left them.
But that night, quite late, he sent for Toshiko.
Hachiro
He would kill himself. That would show them. They would be sorry then.
So much for being made a son, for being called Hachiro instead of Boy, for having a home. What a fine father! He hadn’t even waited a day before beating him, shaming him before that hateful witch Otori and the smirking Togoro. It had been nothing but lies, and he’d been a fool for having believed. Shit and lies and hate. That’s all he would ever get.
The pain blistering his backside was nothing to the despair in Hachiro’s belly. He ran from the house and flung himself in front of a passing horseman. That got him a bloody knee and another lash from the rider’s whip. With a sob, he got up and limped away. He roamed the streets as he used to, determined never to return to the doctor’s house. But his old haunts, filled with ragged street children and thieves, no longer welcomed him. People raised their fists at him and chased him off when he asked for work. When he got hungry, he traded his jacket for a meal.
Some time later he came across an unattractive fat girl who sat on the steps to a shrine and bawled like a baby. “I’m gonna kill myself,” she sobbed.
He stopped, surprised that someone else was bent on self-destruction, and asked why she wanted to die.
It was the old story. A boyfriend got her pregnant, and her father had beaten her and thrown her on the street. Hachiro thought her too ugly for any man but did not say so. Any man, except maybe someone like Togoro. He told her to blame it on the man who’d been in the fire. If she’s been raped by such a monster, he argued, her father would feel sorry for her. She cheered up and thanked him.
The satisfaction of having made trouble for Togoro was temporary. He forgot the incident quickly, and when night came and he nearly froze without his jacket, he slunk back home.
Nothing changed over the subsequent weeks. The doctor favored Sadamu no matter how hard Hachiro tried to please him. They hardly ever looked at him, and Otori never missed a chance to call him devil’s bait or worse. It seemed her hatred for him had grown. Despair and grief became Hachiro’s daily fare, causing the fierce belly ache to return. He wished he could run away, but there was no place for him to run to. This time he made up his mind to drown himself.
The Kamo riverbed was empty of life during the cold season. Dark water moved slowly and sluggishly between ice-encrusted banks. Hachiro kicked off his boots and waded in. The ice cut his feet and the cold water caused agonizing pain to his legs. This eased the pain in his belly a little, but tears ran down his face. He hated the tears as much as what he had become. Vaguely aware that drowning would be unpleasant, he told himself that in this cold the end would come quickly and splashed on.
But the cursed river was shallow and his strength left him before the ground dropped away under his feet. When he could not feel his legs any longer, he let himself fall forward, embracing the icy darkness.
Rivers flow into the sea. The water would take him to a better world.
But he did not succeed this time either.
Rude hands pulled him out, pummeled him, shook him. Loud voices shouted at him. The dull sleepiness receded, and the pain returned.
It took all of his strength not to weep in front of his rescuers. They — young men in plain blue robes — carried him off to a strange house where they took off his sodden clothes so roughly that he wanted to whimper, and then they left him, wrapped in someone’s robe, near a large kitchen fire. To his icy skin, the heat felt as if the flames were consuming him like Togoro.
But the pain eventually receded, and a woman held a cup of warm sake to his lips. She had a soft voice, and though he did not want to live, he drank.
*
“What did you think you were doing?” the man asked, sounding angry.
He gave him back the anger. “What business is it of yours? They had no right to bring me back.”
The man’s face softened. “You were going to kill yourself?”
He did not bother to answer. He thought how hard it had been to reach oblivion and that now he must do it all over again. Perhaps jumping from the pagoda would do the trick. Yes, that way nobody could stop him. Once he took off from the top like a bird, he would plummet down to be shattered so quickly and completely that there would be no going back.
“Why?” asked the man. “Answer me! Why did you want to die?”
He shook his head. Too much trouble to explain.
“What’s your name?”
“Boy.”
“Boy?”
He looked away. The other name was not his any longer. He knew well enough that it had been offered unwillingly. Of all the names they called him — scum, guttersnipe, thief, demon, devil, lout, and laggard — boy was the leas
t offensive. As for being the adopted son, the doctor had proved that that had also been a lie.
A painful lie because it had shown him that he was nothing. Less than nothing.
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere.”
“Your clothes are good and you look well fed. What happened to make you run away and want to kill yourself?”
Boy glanced at his clothes where they dried beside the fire. The woman had spread them there after feeding him. Then she had gone to get the man. As soon as the clothes were dry, he would go to the pagoda.
The man sighed. “Will you come and watch me teach my students?” he asked.
Boy did not answer but he got to his feet. It did not matter what he did until he could leave.
But he did not go to the pagoda that day. Instead he went home, silently and sullenly. He had not been missed, proof that he did not belong, that he was unloved, the lesser of two sons. But he had shelter, food for his belly, and clothes to cover his body.
