The Peony Lantern

by Frances Watts

  Isamu kneeled by her bed. ‘I showed Shunsho-san the prints and told him about my uncle’s confession. And I told him the part I had played, how I had carried the messages myself.’ He took Misaki’s hand in his. ‘I made sure he understood that your father was not to blame.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

  ‘Shunsho-san said to tell you that you should stay here in Kanda, and someone will come to see you.’

  He rose to his feet and I walked with him through the house.

  ‘What will you do now?’ I asked as he took his swords from the rack by the entrance.

  ‘Lord Kinoyoshi is on his way to Edo for his year of attendance. His procession has just crossed the Sakawa River, and he’s expected here any day. I’ve been confined to my quarters till his arrival. I’m going there now; there’s a guard waiting outside for me. I asked for permission to see you and Misaki first.’

  ‘I’m sure Misaki appreciates that.’

  ‘And you, Kasumi?’ His voice was grave, but I knew he was teasing me again.

  ‘Naturally.’ I could say it calmly.

  ‘You asked to see my work.’ He bent to pick up some paintings he had left by the rack. ‘I’ve brought these; they’re the best I’ve done. I want you to keep them — as a memento.’

  ‘A memento? But I’ll see you —’ And then, as a chill hand clutched at my insides, I understood. He was saying goodbye.

  He must have seen the comprehension dawning on my face. ‘My family has been disgraced. I must share in that disgrace. I will follow my uncle’s path.’

  ‘Isamu, no —’

  ‘The daimyo will expect it.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was as if I had no breath in my body.

  He gripped my hand and I felt warmth travel through me. I was so cold.

  ‘I wish . . .’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘But there’s no sense wishing.’ He swallowed hard, and there was a slight crack in his voice as he continued, ‘By tomorrow I’ll be dead.’ He looked at me intently. ‘You will remember me, won’t you, Kasumi?’

  Tears filled my eyes, but still I couldn’t speak. I just gazed at him wordlessly, trying to convey with my look everything that I felt.

  ‘And you’ll look after Misaki?’

  I dropped his hand. ‘Of course.’

  I walked slowly back to the reception room.

  For a moment I had been sure he shared my feelings, but his last thought had been of Misaki. Yet he had given me his pictures. Me, not Misaki. Because I was a fellow artist? Or perhaps in the hope that I would show Misaki?

  I kneeled by the kotatsu and spread Isamu’s paintings across its top. A heron, rendered in such exquisite detail I could see the light wind ruffling its feathers. Next, a landscape: a rough-barked pine in the foreground, a teahouse behind it, mountains receding into the distance. At the third picture I stopped. I recognised a red comb; Misaki’s comb. A woman bent over flowers. But the face . . . the face was mine.

  He had claimed not to remember when we had looked at the comb in Yabuhara, when I’d said, I’ve never seen anything so lovely.

  And now, in this picture, I was wearing it.

  I thought he had taken the comb out of love for Misaki — and now I saw the truth. Despite knowing it could never be, he had loved me. But I had dropped his hand. And I would never be able to let him know that I returned his feelings.

  I rose and walked out into the garden. The sun was low in the sky and the air was frigid, but I welcomed the sharp lash of the cold on my skin, the chill that made each breath a gasp of pain. I kept walking until I reached the pond, just in time to see the sun’s last rays hit the shimmering surface. In the sudden flash of light, I saw the flash of metal; the killing blade on pale skin. Isamu!

  With a cry of horror, I dropped to my knees in the snow, my body heaving with sobs.

  In the days that followed I returned to Isamu’s painting of me again and again. I examined every inch of the portrait, from the elegant arrangement of irises (obviously he borrowed Misaki’s arrangement as well as her comb; it certainly wasn’t one of mine) to the stray wisp of hair that brushed my cheek like a caress, and I tried to imagine what was in his heart as he painted it.

  And then there were the words inscribed in the corner. Puzzle over them as I might, tracing the calligraphy with my finger, they would not give up their meaning.

  I showed the portrait to Misaki, but she was no more able to read the words than I was. She saw the meaning of the picture straight away, though. ‘I knew he must be in love with you,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Even though he would never be able to act on it. Oh, Kasumi — the way he looked at you, how he sought your company. You must have known.’

  ‘Honestly I had no idea.’ I thought he loved you . . .

  The knowledge now that it was me he loved could only be bittersweet.

  We were silent for a time, Misaki leafing through Isamu’s other paintings, sighing at the fine brushwork, both of us mourning a life lost.

  Finally Misaki put the paintings down and looked at me. ‘What will you do now, Kasumi?’

  ‘I’ll go . . . home.’ I said the word without any conviction. My time in Edo had awoken a part of me I would otherwise have never known. For good or bad, I had a gift, and returning to the valley would mean the death of the gift and, I couldn’t help but think, the death of the best part of me. ‘If I visit the mansion of the Owari domain, I’m sure they’ll help me to arrange my journey back to Tsumago.’

  ‘I wish you could stay here in Edo,’ Misaki said. ‘Perhaps you could come live with me in Nihonbashi?’

  ‘My father would never allow it.’

  Before arranging my departure, I paid a visit to Daiki and Chika. I wanted to return the paintings they had lent me and thank them for everything they’d taught me.

  They offered me tea in their reception room, but I asked if we could drink it in the studio instead.

  ‘We were sorry to hear about Lord Shimizu,’ Daiki said as he eased himself down to sit at the low table. Of course, they didn’t know the full story; no one did. They only knew that he had died unexpectedly. ‘Will you stay on with Misaki-san as her churo?’

  There was another thing they didn’t know: that Misaki was not a samurai lady but a commoner’s daughter, in no need of an attendant.

  ‘No, she’s planning to return to her father’s house.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right.’ Daiki turned to his wife. ‘She’s from Morioka.’

  I made no comment, just said, ‘I’ll be leaving Edo soon.’

  ‘You’ll return to your valley?’

  ‘Yes.’ Soon I would be walking in the forest I loved, visiting my grandparents’ graves, praying at the shrine where I had first seen Isamu . . . Perhaps he would haunt me; he had seemed to be at one with the spirits at the shrine.

  ‘What about your painting? Will you continue?’

  ‘My father would forbid it.’ Saying the words, it felt like a lantern inside me was snuffed out. ‘He’s a man who values dumplings, not flowers. I suppose he’ll find me a husband to marry and I’ll work in an inn.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ Daiki asked.

  ‘No,’ I confessed. ‘But it’s the life I’ll have.’

  ‘Perhaps there is another path.’

  ‘If there is, I can’t see it.’

  Daiki exchanged a glance with his wife. She nodded.

  ‘I never thought to find a true pupil,’ he began. ‘Until now, I have never even accepted an apprentice. But when we heard about Lord Shimizu’s death we began to talk about what it might mean for you, and we agreed that we would like to invite you to live with us.’

  I was so stunned I could only stare open-mouthed.

  ‘We’d make you work hard at menial tasks, and occasionally teach you something that would make the drudgery worthwhile.’

  Still I just stared.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Kasumi. Are you so used to the fine life of Lord Shimizu’s
house that you turn up your nose at our humble dwelling?’

  I knew he was only joking, but still my response burst out of me. ‘No!’ I almost shouted. ‘I love it here.’ I gestured to the brushes lined up on the low tables, to the paint-splattered tatami, to the paintings drying along the partition screens. ‘I would be at home here . . . as if it were my real home.’ I put a hand to my heart. ‘Where I could be myself.’

  ‘Then it is decided,’ said Daiki.

  ‘But . . .’ I looked at him uncertainly. Could it really be decided just like that? What would my father say?

  ‘Patience, my husband,’ his wife said softly. ‘It’s different for us. We come from samurai families that value art. We didn’t have to defy our fathers. Kasumi has a lot to think about.’

  And then I realised there was nothing to think about. This was it: my one chance. ‘I will defy my father,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll find a way to ensure that won’t be necessary.’ And Chika began to outline a plan that made it seem possible.

  For the first time since Isamu’s death, I felt something like hope for the future. Which reminded me . . . Swallowing my embarrassment, I put Isamu’s portrait, still rolled up, on the table.

  ‘You have been clutching that scroll with the reverence of a sacred object. Is it one of yours?’

  ‘No, it’s by . . . it’s by a friend of mine.’ I realised that if I was going to live with them as part of their family I would have to be truthful. ‘It’s Isamu’s,’ I said.

  ‘Lord Shimizu’s nephew?’

  ‘Yes. He — he died with his uncle . . .’ I choked up, unable to explain further.

  Chika was quick to understand, and placed a warm hand on my arm. ‘He was a good friend to you, wasn’t he, Kasumi? He was kind enough to bring you here, I remember.’

  ‘He was . . . He might have been more than a friend.’

  I untied the ribbon and showed them the picture.

  ‘It’s you!’ Daiki exclaimed.

  ‘But I can’t read the words.’

  Chika gave me a sympathetic look. ‘If you come to live with us, we’ll teach you,’ she promised.

  Then she read:

  ‘No decoration

  can compare in loveliness:

  a perfect flower.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was flooded with joy and pain in equal measure. With my face in my hands, I wept.

  When I got home Misaki had risen from her bed and was in her dressing room, mixing powder for her face.

  ‘Let me do that,’ I said.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re back. I need you to do my hair. And a kimono — what kimono? Or — no, I shouldn’t wear silk, not now that he knows the truth.’

  I had never seen her so flustered. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘A messenger just arrived. Lord Kinoyoshi is coming.’

  ‘I know. Isamu . . .’ It was hard to say his name without a pang. ‘Isamu told me he was nearly in Edo.’

  ‘No, I mean he is coming here, to this house.’

  ‘The daimyo? But why?’

  ‘I don’t know. A messenger came about half an hour ago to tell me to prepare to receive him.’

  I put her hair up, haste making me clumsy, and she put on a kimono of fine cotton.

  ‘We should receive him in the formal reception room,’ she said over her shoulder as she left the dressing room.

  I followed her out of our private quarters and across the courtyard, but hesitated at the front entrance to the house. I hadn’t been in there since that awful day.

  Misaki cast a look behind her. ‘What’s wrong? Oh . . . The room has been cleaned, Kasumi. There are no signs of . . .’ She faltered. ‘Of what happened here.’

  I slipped off my sandals and stepped inside. Glancing around, I saw a scroll where the sword had once hung, a plum blossom branch in a vase. The tatami was so new it was still green and gave off a faint grassy scent.

  Then we heard voices outside, and rushed back to the entrance just as an ornate palanquin, accompanied by at least a dozen guards and retainers, was carried through the gate.

  Misaki and I dropped to our knees in the small entryway and remained there, our heads bowed, until a samurai retainer approached. Addressing Misaki, he said, ‘The daimyo would speak to you.’

  The retainer moved away and I glanced up to see an imposing figure, broad rather than tall, with small features in a wide flat face.

  He walked past us into the reception room, and the retainer who had spoken earlier gestured for Misaki to follow.

  I would have loved to listen outside the door, but two of the daimyo’s personal guards were posted there, so I went back to our private quarters and anxiously awaited Misaki’s return. Isamu had said that someone from the domain would be coming to speak to her, but we had never expected that it would be Lord Kinoyoshi himself.

  When at last Misaki entered the room, she seemed to be moving in a daze.

  ‘The daimyo was so kind,’ she said. ‘He told me that I’ll be accorded all the honour due Minoru’s widow. He plans to keep the true story of my husband’s death a secret; he fears it would be too destabilising if one of the domain’s leading officials was known to be a traitor.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Isamu?’

  ‘Only that he behaved honourably.’

  We were both silent for a moment. At least Isamu would be remembered with respect, I thought.

  Misaki resumed her recount of the daimyo’s visit. ‘My father will be compensated and Lord Kinoyoshi said I may stay on in this house for as long as I like.’ She looked around the familiar room and I wondered if she was comparing it to the humble home she had shared with her father and brother. But she shook her head. ‘I couldn’t live here now. Whether I knew it or not, this house was my prison. I’ll let the daimyo announce that I’m returning to Morioka then I’ll move back to Nihonbashi. What about you, Kasumi? When will you leave for home? I’ll stay here with you until you depart.’

  ‘I’m going back to Tsumago — but not for long. I’ll be coming back to Edo to live with Daiki sensei and his wife.’

  Misaki’s eyebrows rose. ‘As an assistant?’

  ‘A bit more than that.’

  ‘An apprentice?’

  I shook my head, a smile tugging at my lips as I remembered Chika’s plan.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘They want to adopt me, to make me their daughter.’

  Misaki clapped her hands. ‘That’s perfect. I can’t think of anything I would want more for you.’

  I couldn’t either. Except one thing . . . that Isamu had lived.

  Chapter

  Twenty-six

  Small flame flickering

  A lantern of peonies

  Lights the shadowed path

  In the end it was decided I would stay in Edo till the end of the fourth month, then Daiki and Chika would accompany me to the Kiso Valley to talk to my father. (‘Perhaps if I tell your father how much I’m being paid to paint these screens he’ll think differently about an artist’s worth,’ Chika suggested.) I was sure that the fact they were both samurai-born would be enough to persuade him, though I suspected they planned to offer him money as well. From Tsumago we would continue on to Kyoto. We’d spend some months there . . . and then?

  ‘I’d like to see Amanohashidate,’ Daiki said. ‘It’s known as a place of spectacular beauty. What about you, Kasumi? Where have you dreamed of going?’

  ‘I’d like to go to Hakone.’

  Daiki laughed at the modesty of my suggestion. ‘But that’s only a few hours’ journey from here.’

  ‘I want to see the view of Mount Fuji across the lake, to see if my painting did it justice.’

  ‘We can go to Hakone, and anywhere else we want. Let’s plan to travel for a year, and we’ll paint what we see.’

  I was excited by the prospect of my new life, but the pain of Isamu’s death cloaked me like a shroud. I knew it was what honour demanded, but he had done nothing wrong. His death w
as a waste.

  On the first day of the fourth month, when our spring clothes were changed for summer’s light fabrics and cooling designs, Misaki went to Nihonbashi to visit her father and Kenta, and I took my ink and brushes outside.

  Daiki had told me I should paint every day without fail, and it was a task I took to gladly. For all the praise and encouragement he and Chika had given me, I was still only a beginner, I knew — but I also knew that I had it in me to be a great painter, perhaps as great as Chika. The stake that sticks up gets hammered down, as my father always said, but I would not be hammered down, I vowed.

  Strolling through the garden, I noticed that the first peonies had opened, their blooms both lush and delicate. As I studied them, I was reminded of the ghost story, and how the beautiful woman was really an evil spirit who had bewitched the man. How easy it had been for me to imagine Misaki as the wrongdoer. No. Not easy. I had struggled. But why would I think that Shimizu, with all his wisdom and education, could be so easily bewitched? It was Misaki who had been bewitched. And me too. I had resolved I would not be hammered down, but I would use the story of the Peony Lantern to guard against false pride, to remind me how much I didn’t know. It would become a lesson to light my way forwards.

  I began to paint, and was soon lost in that dreamlike world where no time passes.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that, suspended between the flower and the brush, before a movement through the trees caught my eye. Had I summoned a spirit with my musings? I sprang up, unable to believe the image shimmering before me, blurred by the tears in my eyes. Suddenly I was flung back to my last afternoon in Tsumago, to the apparition at the shrine. Isamu? Now I was sure it was a spirit.

  But then the spirit ran to me and squeezed me so tight I knew he was flesh and blood. ‘Isamu!’

  I let out a sob and he released me, taking a quick step backwards. ‘I’m so sorry, Kasumi.’ He bowed. ‘I forgot myself.’

  I was laughing and crying, the words tumbling from me in a rush. ‘What happened? Where have you come from? We thought you were dead!’