Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series)

by I. J. Parker

  “Don’t,” she pleaded as steadily as she could. “Please don’t do this. It will destroy me.”

  It did not work. Laughing softly, he slipped under her cover and reached for her. She found herself grasped against a lean and muscular body that was heavily perfumed. Nausea welled up and she gagged, barely controlling the urge to vomit. Using all her strength, she pushed him away. But he was young and much stronger and heavier than she. Chuckling again deep in his throat, he pinned her down and forced a knee between her legs.

  Toshiko was seized by a furious and desperate anger. When he positioned himself, breathing heavily now, and then raised himself to enter her, she screamed and struck his face hard with her fist. He fell back and staggered up with a muffled cry.

  A moment later, the door flew open, and noise and lights invaded the eave chamber. Women’s startled faces, ghostly white in the candle light, peered in at the pair of them. A young man was standing above her, holding his nose and staring in disbelief at the blood that dripped down between his fingers, staining his white under robe, and falling on Toshiko’s bare thighs.

  Sobbing, Toshiko snatched a robe and crawled away from him.

  Lady Sanjo pushed past the others. “What is going on here?” she cried. The answer was obvious — except for the disgust and anger on the young nobleman’s face. He glared at the women as he reached for his trousers.

  Lady Sanjo was the very picture of shock and outrage. “Lady Toshiko, what have you done?” she demanded.

  Toshiko said, “I’ve never seen him before. I woke up, and there he was.” She added angrily, “Is that why you wanted me to sleep here tonight?”

  Shocked silence met the accusation.

  “What is this?” Fujiwara Munetada had managed to put on his trousers and coat. Now he glared at Lady Sanjo. “This is outrageous!” He mumbled through the wad of tissue pressed to his nose. “One expects better from someone of your age and breeding. I shall not forget this trick.” And with that, he flounced out into the moonlit courtyard. The outer gate slammed behind him.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” stammered Lady Sanjo, taking in the fact that her trick had sadly, and perhaps disastrously, miscarried. “He is the regent’s son and must have lost his way. How embarrassing for him. No wonder he blames his mistake on others.”

  The ladies exchanged glances before drifting away to discuss the incident behind her back.

  Lady Sanjo looked after them with pinched lips, then turned angrily on Toshiko. “Well, I assume he’s had his way. You might have handled this more discreetly. I’ll send a maid to clean up.”

  Toshiko was at the end of her patience. She rose to confront the other woman. “He has not had his way, as you put it. But I see I was right. You did arrange this visit,” she said though gritted teeth. “His Majesty will hear of it. I do not feel safe here any longer.”

  Lady Sanjo glowered. “How dare you? Go and tell His Majesty and see whom He believes. We saw both of you half naked. Don’t think for a moment that His Majesty has regard for every young strumpet that warms his bed. He is tired of you already, my girl. And in your case, He did not think enough of the liaison to set you up in separate quarters. Should you find yourself with child, don’t expect Him to acknowledge it. What happened here tonight will convince Him of your low character.” And with that, she slammed out of the room.

  Toshiko was stunned by her words. The unfairness of her situation filled her with despair. It was not Lady Sanjo who was her most dangerous enemy; it was the emperor Himself. Her sacrifice had been for nothing; she was no better in His eyes than a woman of pleasure. He had brought her here and dressed her up in the shirabyoshi costume because that was how He had thought of her. She was no more than a harlot to Him.

  As the maid helped her change out of her bloodstained under robe and gathered the soiled bedding, she pondered her future. When she was alone again, she brought a candle closer, took out her writing box, and wrote a brief note, begging His Majesty for an audience. She intended to ask His permission to return home.

  But the next day an answer from His secretary arrived, refusing her request with the explanation that His Majesty was too busy with the details of the move. She was referred to Lady Sanjo instead. Naturally, she did not avail herself of this recourse but stayed well clear of that lady and the others.

  A servant brought her food to the eave chamber, but otherwise she was left alone. The afternoon after her disturbed night, she heard hammering in the courtyard and peered out. Workmen were doing something to the outside of the gate. After dark, she slipped out to check it. The gate had been nailed shut. She had become a prisoner.

  Soon after she fell ill.

  The Dojo

  Akogi ran a motherly hand through Hachiro’s tousled hair. “Come, eat another bean cake. You’re a growing boy and need your strength. I bet they don’t feed you anything this good at home.”

  Hachiro ate well at home, but he was always hungry these days. His body seemed to crave food. Food and sleep were the two things he could not seem to get enough of.

  He devoured the cake and wiped his hands on his school robe. Akogi was right. Old Otori never offered him cakes filled with sweet bean paste and seemed to begrudge him even his bowl of gruel in the morning. How that woman hated him! Akogi was different. She smiled all the time and was soft and round while Otori was as bony as a rake. To his amazement, she did not seem to mind his ugliness or his sullen moods. Still, he guarded against liking her too much. People could not be trusted. You had to grab what you could and run.

  In a way, his adoption was no different from the bean cake offered by Akogi. Hachiro accepted the benefits of his new status but he remained vigilant. Otori’s hatred and the doctor’s dislike of him proved daily that life was still fraught with the same dangers he faced in the streets.

  Master Soma was a different matter. Master Soma deserved respect and obedience. This had nothing to do with the fact that his students had dragged Hachiro from the frigid waters of the Kamo River and everything with Master Soma’s school. Hachiro dreamed of becoming a famous swordsman and spent part of every day in the dojo now.

  His tough childhood had already taught him the value of being smarter, quicker, and more aggressive than his enemies. The same skills were practiced here and could win him the respect that was so lacking in his own life. He was determined to master the art of the sword.

  Swordsmanship occupied his every thought, even at the monastery school. There he was made to learn Chinese characters and to wield the brush smoothly and neatly. He loved particularly the characters for ken, the sword and kata, the move. Do signified the Way and shi the Master. He practiced writing “The Way is wherever I am” over and over again, until the monk who taught the use of the brush told his fellow monks that this Hachiro must be spiritually gifted and destined to enter the Buddha’s way.

  When he had heard about Togoro’s fate, he had been sick. The sight and thought of food made him ill for days. He slept little and had nightmares of being cast into a hell where the judge of the underworld had the doctor’s face and condemned him to be beaten by a devil with Togoro’s horribly distorted features. During the days that followed, he moved between the doctor’s house and the temple school in a waking nightmare. When he passed the great pagoda every day, he thought again about killing himself. Once or twice he climbed halfway up but turned around and came back down. He told no one what he had done.

  But Master Soma could see into his soul. One day, after the students had left and Hachiro was putting away mats and wooden swords, the Master said, “Hachiro, come here a moment.”

  Hachiro knelt and bowed, his heart pounding that the Master should speak to him.

  “You like what we do here?”

  He clenched his hands and gasped, “Oh, yes, Master.”

  “What troubles you?”

  One could not lie to this man, so Hachiro looked down and said nothing, but hot tears came to his eyes. He knew how unworthy he was, how even his
presence was a contamination of this place. If he revealed his guilt, the Master would make him leave.

  There was a long silence, but just when Hachiro had made up his mind that he must go anyway and never come here again, the Master said, “It is possible to enter the Way even when you think you are lost. Look up at the scroll on the wall. That is the meaning of the words: The Way is wherever I am.”

  Hachiro looked at the characters through blurred eyes. “I’m not worthy of being where you are, Master,” he said. “I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.”

  The Master laughed softly. “You misunderstand. That ‘I’ means everyone who is looking for the Way. I think you have been looking but without knowing that you found it. Would you like to become my student?”

  Hachiro’s eyes widened, and he drew in his breath sharply. He looked from the Master around the dojo, turning his head slowly from the racks of weapons on his left to the kamiza --the deity’s place -- with the scroll and the Master’s seat, and then to the wall on the right, the place for the dummy used in practice. His heart almost burst with desire. “Oh, Master!” he said fervently. But sadness extinguished the spark of joy at having been asked. “It is impossible.”

  “Will you tell me why?”

  Hachiro talked about the doctor and the adoption, of how he had been coming here in secret, and how he would never be allowed to become Master Soma’s student because the doctor hated killing. He did not mention the other, more grievous, obstacle.

  Master Soma listened and accepted the impossibility. He said no more, and nothing changed. Hachiro accepted his disappointment as punishment for what he had done, but he kept coming to watch the lessons and the practice sessions, and to clean the dojo every day.

  He learned much, and sometimes after he was finished with the cleaning chores, he would select one of the smaller swords and practice. One day a new student saw him and offered him a practice bout. The student was much older than Hachiro, but Hachiro disarmed him easily and explained what he had done wrong. The student told others, and Hachiro found himself challenged to one practice session after another. He won most of them.

  “So,” said Master Soma one day, “you disobey your father and take up the way of the sword after all.”

  Hachiro nearly dropped his broom. “B-but it is only play, Master. I’m not a student.”

  “I think you had better have a name tag and a sword of your own,” said Soma. “You have long since entered the Way and there is no going back for you. I could wish that we did not have to keep your father in the dark about it, but that decision I will leave to you. You can work off the cost of the lessons by doing what you have done, cleaning the dojo and tutoring the weaker students.”

  And so Hachiro studied sword fighting.

  Death of a Cat

  The illness came on gradually with a slight queasiness after a meal. But this worsened over a number of days until Toshiko took to her bed and was violently ill for three days, vomiting up everything she ate or drank. By the time the vomiting stopped, she was too weak to rise from her bed. She would lie still, looking mindlessly for hours at the dust motes that danced in the rays of sunlight filtering through the shutters, then fall asleep in a shower of stars.

  No one bothered her. Her maid crept in a few times to stare at her and to change the stale water in the flask. Now and then one of the ladies would peer in and disappear again. Toshiko gradually became very thirsty but was afraid to drink in case the horrible cramping and purging would start again. It had been so bad that she had brought up blood and fainted after one bout.

  On the fourth day, she woke to the sounds of packing and voices, both male and female, and the heavier tread of male porters. They were taking away furnishings and trunks filled with the clothing of the other women. Everyone was moving to the new palace. Perhaps she would be left to die alone here. Illness of any sort frightened people. What if this was the beginning of smallpox? All but the oldest of the palace women must fear the scarring and pitting of their faces more than death itself.

  On the evening of the third day, her maid brought a bowl of rice gruel. Toshiko looked at it without interest. On the whole, starvation was not painful. She felt a pleasant languor and lightness she took for the first signs of approaching death. She welcomed this gentle death. Only her thirst troubled her.

  The sounds of moving receded that night, and it became quiet. She slept fitfully and, as the first gray light of morning began to fill the room, she woke to find Shojo-ben by her side.

  “Toshiko?” Shojo-ben whispered when Toshiko opened her eyes. “Can you hear me?”

  Toshiko tried to speak but found her mouth was so dry that her tongue did not move. She managed a soft croak.

  “I’m so glad you are better,” Shojo-ben continued, trying to sound cheerful, but her eyes were full of tears. “They will surely send a doctor to have a look at you. We are to leave today, so I came to say good-bye. I promise to prepare a nice room for you in the new palace. As soon as you can travel, you will come.”

  Toshiko croaked again, then managed to mutter, “Fresh water?”

  Shojo-ben went out to refill the flask and then supported her so she could sip. The water was wonderful and soothed her parched mouth and throat.

  “Thank you,” Toshiko said, sounding more like herself, but falling back weakly on her bedding.

  “You are a little better, aren’t you?” Shojo-ben asked timidly. “I’ve been so worried.”

  This contradicted Shojo-ben’s earlier optimism, but Toshiko tried to smile. “A little,” she said.

  The water stayed down.

  “Do you want some more food?” Shojo-ben eyed the bowl of gruel. “You did not eat much.”

  Toshiko made the effort to turn her head and look at the bowl. She did not remember eating any of it, but it was half-empty. Very strange. She looked away, murmuring, “No. I’m not hungry.”

  They were silent for a little, then Shojo-ben said, “You must try to eat to get better. I want you to be well before I leave His Majesty’s service.”

  “You are leaving?”

  Shojo-ben nodded, smiled. “I am to be married.”

  The light was getting brighter in her room with the rising sun, and Toshiko saw the happiness on her friend’s face. “I did not know,” she said wonderingly. “How did you manage it?” She remembered the clandestine visits, but it took parental and imperial consent to release a young woman from her service in the palace.

  Shojo-ben looked down at her folded hands and blushed. “My husband-to-be will take up his post as governor of Izumi soon and wants me to go with him. He went to my father, and together they went to His Majesty.” She looked up and said earnestly, “His Majesty never had any interest in me. He made no difficulties. It is you he prefers.”

  The knowledge that her misery was due to the emperor’s fickle desire for her made Toshiko turn her head away, trying not to weep. “I am happy for you, but I shall miss you so much,” she murmured and then could not stop her tears. She felt very weak. Her only friend was leaving and there was no hope for her. It was best to die quickly.

  Shojo-ben embraced her and held her.

  Outside the eave chamber, someone wailed loudly. Shojo-ben looked toward the door as other voices were raised. “That was Lady Dainagon,” she said, releasing Toshiko and getting up. “I wonder what happened. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Toshiko did not much care. On the whole she was glad to be left alone, though she supposed that she should be happier for Shojo-ben. She dried her face and groped for the water flask, pouring another cup. It was even more refreshing than the first, and she drank a third cup before Shojo-ben returned, looking distressed.

  “Mikan is dead. Lady Dainagon just found him,” she said, sitting back down. “Apparently he died during the night. You can imagine how upset she is. She loved that cat. He must have eaten something that did not agree with him because he vomited before he died.”

  Toshiko’s eyes flew to the bow
l of gruel. She struggled into a sitting position. “The cat’s vomit,” she asked, “was it rice gruel?”

  Shojo-ben looked at the bowl and gasped. “Oh, you think the cat . . . that there was something in your gruel? Oh, Toshiko, are you feeling ill again?”

  “No. I did not eat any gruel.”

  “Oh, thank heaven. That is all right then.”

  “No,” said Toshiko. “It is not all right. The gruel was intended for me. And I ate gruel before I became so ill. Someone here wants me to die.”

  Shojo-ben’s eyes widened in horror. “Are you sure? I cannot believe . . .”

  Just then, Lady Sanjo put her head in at the door and said, “Time to get ready, Lady Shojo-ben. Ah, I see you are feeling better, Lady Toshiko. Will you be able to travel with us?”