by Nick Lake
Taro looked down, embarrassed. He, too, knew only the hiragana.
Oshi didn’t seem to notice. ‘One day the monk brought with him a friend – Hayao here. It goes without saying that he was handsome, his carriage and bearing fitting for a samurai of his rank.’
Taro glanced at Hayao, slumped in the cart, trying to imagine the man strong and vigorous. It was difficult.
‘When he and Tsuyu saw each other,’ continued Oshi, ‘they fell in love immediately – and though the monk kept a careful eye on them, they contrived to declare this love to each other. As Hayao left, Tsuyu whispered to him that if he did not return she would surely die.
‘Hayao was only too glad to return, but sadly etiquette would not allow him to visit the small house alone. He waited and waited for the monk to invite him again – but the latter, having seen hints of the developing romance as clearly as an astrologer might read a fortune in the stars, avoided the young man scrupulously. He knew that Tsuyu’s father would have him killed if he besmirched – or caused to be besmirched – the honour of the lady of the plum rain.’
Hana snorted at this. ‘Men,’ she said.
Taro looked at her. What did she mean by that?
Oshi just shrugged. ‘Fathers must look out for their daughters,’ he said. At this Hana did blush – and Taro knew she was thinking of how her own father had ordered her to commit seppuku, when he knew of her treason.
If Oshi noticed her discomfort, he didn’t say anything. They were walking through a long, broad valley of rice paddies, and as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, he continued his story.
‘Not realizing the true reason for her love’s neglect, Tsuyu wasted away in the little house on the mountainside, and very soon died of a broken heart. She was buried in a nearby cemetery among the plum trees.
‘Hayao, of course, knew nothing of this death, since his only channel for news of the girl was the monk, who had taken to ignoring him. But one day the monk unexpectedly arrived on his doorstep. “Forgive me for keeping my distance for so long, friend,” the monk said. Hayao forgave him instantly – his only preoccupation was with seeing Tsuyu again, and he knew that the monk was the one who could arrange it. “I forgive you, of course,” he replied, “but only if you will take me once more to see Tsuyu, my plum blossom rain, my cool dew on a hot day.”
‘The monk’s face fell. “I am sorry to tell you, Hayao, but the girl is dead. I am afraid that when you saw her last, the meeting, though brief, was long enough for her to fall in love with you. But I was afraid to take you to her again, in case her father got wind of it and had me killed. When I heard that she had died, it was clear to me that she had suffered a broken heart.”
‘Hayao could not believe his friend’s words. “But I love her, too!” he cried. “Surely I could have convinced her father of my honourable intentions?’
‘The monk smiled. “Oh, Hayao, how hard it must be to be so handsome that girls will die for love of you! But come, let us not keep talking of the dead. All we can do now is open a bottle of sake and repeat the nenbutsu.”
‘But Hayao could not move on – he remained frozen with grief for many months. Every night he repeated the nenbutsu, and the name of Tsuyu was never absent from his thoughts, and neither was the memory of her lithe figure and almond face absent from his imagination.’
Oshi paused. ‘That part of the story I had from the monk – he was the first person I talked to, when Hayao’s mother asked me to help. He felt awful. Had he known, he said, how badly Hayao would take the news of the girl’s death, he wouldn’t have spoken so flippantly. But he was a product of his Buddhist training. I believe he couldn’t help but think of a girl who would die of love as being. . . silly, frivolous perhaps. He didn’t treat the matter with the due respect, and it may yet prove the death of this fine young samurai.’
‘You don’t really think he’ll die, do you?’ asked Hana, looking stricken by the thought.
Oshi shrugged and gave a heavy sigh. ‘Perhaps not. But things are bad. I was surprised when he spoke yesterday – it has been days since I heard his voice. It must have been because he recognized you. Were you two close?’
Hana looked at Taro, then down. ‘We spent much time together,’ she said.
Taro bit his tongue.
‘But since then,’ said Oshi, ‘it doesn’t even seem that he sees us.’ They all glanced at Hayao, who was lying in the cart and crooning.
‘Does it get worse with time, then?’ said Hiro.
‘Yes. With every day that the ghost spends at his side, he loses more of his strength. He becomes less and less himself, and more like a husk with no flesh inside. Eventually he will be. . . scooped out. Empty.’
There were tears on Hana’s cheeks, Taro noticed.
‘The rest of the story,’ said Oshi, ‘I had directly from Hayao – in part at least. I also had to speak to his neighbour, to piece together what had happened. But I did speak to Hayao at length. This was when he was still able to talk of it, when he had moments of lucid thought – though for the most part he thought that Tsuyu was real, and alive. He believed, I think, that I was trying to take away his happiness – that I was part of some conspiracy designed to remove Tsuyu from him, because of her low birth, perhaps. That was how it started – and over time, it grew worse and worse. Now he is as you see him. She’s the only thing that’s real for him.’
‘How did she find him?’ asked Taro. ‘You said she died apart from him. ‘
‘Yes,’ said Oshi. ‘From talking to Hayao and his neighbour, I believe she was able to locate him during obon, when the spirits of the dead are drawn to those with whom they share karmic connections. I know, because Hayao told me, that when the festival drew near, he loaded his shoryodana shelf with rice and water for his family ghosts. In particular, though, he dedicated all his offerings to Tsuyu. On the night of the first day of the festival, he lit his lamp and repeated the nenbutsu once more. Then, it being a hot and oppressive night, he went out to the veranda in search of cool air. He sat there dreaming of Tsuyu – getting up only once, to fetch incense sticks, which he arranged around him to drive away the mosquitoes.
‘All of a sudden, he was disturbed by the clopping sound of a woman’s geta clogs passing in front of his house. He looked over the hedge that surrounded the garden and saw a woman walking past, holding a beautiful decorated lamp.
‘As he looked, the woman turned to face him, and he was surprised to see Tsuyu.
‘“Hayao!” she cried out, rushing towards him. “I thought you were dead.”
‘“And I thought you were dead!” replied Hayao. Tripping over his feet, he ran out into the street and invited the woman inside. Once seated, Hayao gave his side of the story and Tsuyu explained hers.
‘“You see, Hayao,” she said, “this monk who taught me was so afraid of causing me dishonour, and so losing either his position or his head, that he tricked you into believing I was dead! And he told me you were dead, hoping no doubt that we would forget each other.”’
‘She was cunning,’ said Hana.
Oshi smiled sadly. ‘The dead always are.’ He gestured to the samurai in the cart. ‘Hayao was overjoyed, of course. He cursed the name of the monk who had contrived to separate them, but he was glad to find that Tsuyu was still alive. He told her how much he loved her. “And as for me,” replied Tsuyu, “I would gladly disobey my father to be with you, even if it should mean that he responds with a shichi-sho made no mando, a disinheritance for seven lifetimes. Come, will you not allow me to stay tonight?’
‘Hayao hesitated. Not only was it highly improper to have an unattached girl to stay, but also he was worried that the nosy local gossip might notice. “The thing is,” he said, “I have an annoying neighbour called Yusai, who is a ninsomi and tells people’s fortunes by looking at the shapes of their faces. It happens that this is not the only way in which he likes to scrutinize other people, however – he also rejoices in learning the business of all his neighbours, and then t
elling it to his other neighbours, as if to spread the bounty of gossip evenly around the neighbourhood. If you stay, I fear he may discover us.”
‘Hayao asked the girl if he could visit her at home, but she said no, he couldn’t. Her father had fallen in the world, it seemed, and she had been forced to move to a peasant house among the plum trees. She was embarrassed to receive him there.
‘“Very well, then,” said Hayao. “But because of this busybody Yusai, you must leave before daybreak, and quietly.”’
Hiro had started to sweat, as the day warmed, and Oshi motioned for him to put down the cart. He lifted it himself and began to pull it along the path – slower than Hiro, but steadily. ‘That’s as much as I could draw out of Hayao,’ he said. ‘When I spoke to him, he seemed to think that I had been sent by the monk, his erstwhile friend, to convince him his true love was dead. He was quite unpleasant to me, I must say. He was paranoid – thought everyone was conspiring with the girl’s father to deny their happiness.’
‘Poor man,’ said Hana.
‘Yes. All the time she really was dead, of course – it was she who was lying to him. The rest of the story is from Hayao’s neighbour, Yusai. A man who, I must say, was just as bad a gossip as Hayao said. Still, it made him a useful source of information. One night Yusai the fortune-teller was unable to sleep, and wandering in his garden, he happened to hear a voice through his neighbour Hayao’s paper window. He peered in, by the light of his night-lantern. Inside, under the shade of a mosquito net, Hayao was talking intently to someone. The strange thing was that Yusai couldn’t see who he was talking to. He did hear what Hayao was saying, though.
‘“And if your father should indeed disinherit you for seven lifetimes, you will come and live with me forever. And if he comes to claim you back, I will fight him. My sword has not tasted blood for many months.”
‘There was a pause, then Hayao said. “Ah, my dear. I am so happy that you are not dead. I love you.”
‘All of a sudden, the moon came out from behind a cloud and lit up the scene inside, so that for Yusai it was as if a lighthouse’s beam had swung round and illuminated the room. What he saw made him fall backwards, into the cruel thorns of a rosebush. For just a moment, in the light of the moon, he thought he saw the pale shape of a woman – though afterwards he convinced himself he had imagined it – and then it was gone, and he realized Hayao was speaking to nothing.’
‘Ugh,’ said Hiro, shivering.
‘It was Yusai who alerted the monk, Hayao’s friend, to what was going on. He thought Hayao might have gone mad, but of course the monk knew immediately that he was being haunted, and he called for me.’
‘What did you do?’ said Taro.
‘I told him that if the woman was truly a ghost, he would start to see a change in his neighbour’s face – the signs of death would appear upon it. It was possible, you see, that the man was possessed by a living spirit – such as that of a girl who was obsessively in love with him. But those cases are rarely fatal. In the case of a ghost, though, the effect is much worse. A man whose lover was a gaki would not live long. For the spirit of the living is yoki, and pure; the spirit of the dead is inki, and unclean.’
‘And she was a ghost, of course,’ said Taro.
‘Yes. Yusai returned to me a week later. His neighbour’s hair had greyed, he had lost weight. He rarely left the house.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I told Hayao that he was consorting with a ghost. He laughed at me – he said he had found his love again, and I wanted to take her away. He accused me of collaborating with the monk who had cheated him. I asked him to at least come with me to the cemetery where Tsuyu was buried, to clear up the matter.’
‘Hayao was angry, but he came with me and the monk to the cemetery, which was planted all around with plum trees. It was not long before we found a relatively new tomb, one befitting a noble. On the tomb, no proper name was written – only the kaimyo name that is given after death. I stopped a monk who happened to be walking by, and asked who the tomb belonged to.
‘He said it belonged to a young woman named Tsuyu, as I had known he would. He mentioned what a tragedy it was, that she had died so young of a broken heart. At that, Hayao became very pale. He told us what she had said, about moving to a small house among the plum trees. I took him aside. I told him that the karma that bound him to the girl was not a negative one, and that she was not feeding on him for revenge, but only because she needed him by her side. I told him it seemed likely to me they had been lovers in a previous life; I told him I accused him of no weakness. And I asked him to allow me to help.’
‘Did he?’ asked Hiro.
‘Yes. I lent him a powerful mamoni. It is a pure gold image of the Buddha – a shiryo-yoke that protects the living from the dead. I told him to wear it in his belt. And I gave him a scroll with a holy sutra, the Ubo-Darani-Kyo, the Treasure-Raining Sutra, which he was to read aloud every night. Also, a package of o-fuda charms, written on paper, which he was to paste to every window and door of his house. They are meant to prevent the dead from entering.’
‘But it didn’t work,’ said Hana.
‘No. The next week Yusai came to me again. It seemed that he had looked through the window every night, and every night Hayao had been speaking to his invisible lover. She had attached herself to him so firmly that even those measures would not work against her. Hayao, meanwhile, was so ill as to be lost. We tried to speak to him, but he didn’t even see us. He could see only Tsuyu. And the weaker he became, the stronger she grew. Soon she was with him constantly, not just at night.’
‘Couldn’t you paint him?’ said Taro. ‘Or tattoo him? I mean, put the Heart Sutra on him so she wouldn’t see him.’
‘Thinking of Hoichi again,’ said the priest approvingly. ‘But no. It wouldn’t work. That only prevents an unconnected spirit from seeing you – it doesn’t protect against one with which you have a karmic connection. The girl knew him, probably had known him in more than one lifetime. There was no hiding him from her.’
‘But how did she get past the o-fuda in the windows? The scroll?’
‘That,’ said the priest, ‘is what I don’t know. I intend to ask the monks on Mount Hiei – if anyone can help, it is them.’
After that, Oshi fell silent. He was breathing a little heavily now, the cart weighing on him, and Taro offered to take over. He was not a big man either, and so he was careful to draw the cart slowly, so as not to reveal his unnatural strength. Oshi was a Taoist priest, a man who dedicated himself to the exorcism of evil spirits. Taro wasn’t about to let on that he himself was a kyuuketsuki.
They walked on in this way for several incense sticks, not speaking much. Hana seemed deep in thought, and Taro saw her glance many times at Hayao, concern written clearly on her features. He knew it was ludicrous to be envious of such a man – a man being slowly killed by his dead lover. But he was – he was envious of those looks; wished Hana would look at him that way. She didn’t, though. In fact, it seemed she’d barely looked at him since they left the ninja mountain. He found that a small part of him hoped Hayao would not recover, so that nothing would change. He hated that part of him.
And then they turned a corner on the broad flank of a hill and saw Mount Hiei before them. Taro had never seen the sacred mountain before, but he knew instantly what it was – it was so huge and so perfectly shaped that it couldn’t be anything else.
‘Nearly there,’ said Oshi.
Hana grinned. ‘It is just as I remembered it,’ she said.
The conical mountain rose above the very clouds, so that its peak was beyond the rain, as if too elevated and rarefied to be sullied by such earthly things. Before them, the path ran straight, until it climbed into the foothills in looping swathes and steps.
Just in front of them, though, was a small wood in a natural dip – perhaps a holy wood dedicated to a local kami. Indeed it seemed that the peasants of this region had cultivated their paddy fields around it, l
eaving the grove of trees untouched. It gave Taro a slightly queasy feeling, as they crossed from the light into the dappled place under the leaves. He was just thinking that this would be a perfect place to lie in wait for pilgrims, to ambush them just as they neared the mountain and lowered their guard – when a man dropped from a branch ahead of him, a sword in his hand.
CHAPTER 8
SHUSAKU WISHED HE could see Lord Tokugawa’s eyes, to perceive if his employer was serious.
‘You want me to smuggle the gun into Hongan-ji? Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘The fortified lair of the Ikko-ikki rebel monks? The most fiercely guarded castle in all of Japan?’
‘Yes.’
Shusaku’s head spun. The Ikko-ikki were based only a few ri from Mount Hiei, on a hill above Osaka, and their reputation was if anything even more ferocious than that of the Tendai monks from Hiei. Geographically, then, they were close, but philosophically, the Ikko-ikki were as far from the Tendai sect as could be. Where the monks of Mount Hiei participated in the great readings from the Lotus Sutra, believing that the path to enlightenment was gained through careful study of its every word, the Ikko-ikki rejected the idea that enlightenment was something to be learned – claiming that anyone, even a humble peasant, could accede to karmic liberation. They did not use written texts of any kind. They called themselves the Pure Land Sect, after the heaven of Amida Buddha, which they said even an illiterate peasant could reach.
The samurai, of course, hated them. All the lords and nobles followed the Tendai sect. It appealed to them, for it said that holiness was to be found through dedication, money for ceremonies, and the ability to read. To them, dharma was contained in a book of ancient scriptures that it cost money to reproduce, and that they could therefore control.
For the Pure Land believers of the Ikko-ikki, dharma, and the potential for total perspective, was contained in every leaf of every tree, and in every droplet of rain. Any man could access it – he had only to look. The karma accumulated through a person’s past lives – or through the generations of their family’s dominion – was meaningless. A person could choose, at any moment, to seek the light of understanding, no matter whether their ancestors were lords, their karma as clean as their robes, or tanners who had spent their lives elbow deep in animal piss.
