The Dragon Scroll

by I. J. Parker

  Akitada's last errand was also the hardest. His steps slowed when he turned the corner and saw Higekuro's school ahead. Flakes of snow touched his face like a cold caress. He did not bother to take his hands out of his sleeves to wipe them away. As he passed the house of the wealthy neighbor, he saw that its gate was scarred from the constables' axes, its lock broken and replaced by the paper strips and seals of the provincial administration. How much chaos and tragedy this one small street had seen in the last few days! Akitada looked up at the heavy clouds. The snow muffled sounds and blurred sharp edges. A quiet peace had returned to the street, but for him it was a joyless peace.

  The front doors of the school stood wide open. As he approached, Hidesato emerged with a broom and dustpan. He emptied debris in the gutter and, turning back, caught sight of Akitada. The expression of happy contentment on his face changed to anxious concern.

  "I came to say good-bye," said Akitada.

  Hidesato's relief was painfully obvious. He looked around, then placed broom and pan against the wall of the building and bowed. "I hope Your Excellency will have a safe journey home," he said.

  "Thank you. I see you're lending a hand here."

  Hidesato flushed. "The girls needed some help," he said, adding, "Tora's inside."

  This news was no surprise, but it hurt nevertheless. Akitada had expected that Tora would stay with Otomi. He thought back to their first meeting. What he felt for the rough ex-soldier and farmer's son would have seemed inconceivable then.

  Hidesato fidgeted. "Er," he mumbled, "I'm very grateful for your help, sir. I understand you cleared me of the murder charge."

  "It was nothing. Sooner or later you would have been cleared without me."

  Hidesato shook his head. "If it hadn't been for you and Tora, Ayako and I would not be together. I'm not a young man and never hoped to find a home and a family, let alone a girl like her. I shall never forget what you've done for me."

  Hiding his pain and rage, Akitada turned his back on Hidesato and stepped into the exercise hall.

  The doors to the backyard were wide open. Outside, snowy bundles of mats and broken blinds were stacked against the fence. Just inside, in the gray light of the morning, Tora sat on the floor near a hot brazier, cleaning Higekuro's bow. Perhaps Hidesato would be using it soon. From the private quarters came the delicious smell of cooking.

  Tora greeted Akitada with a wide grin--another happy man!--and said, "The place looks nice again, doesn't it?"

  Akitada looked around and nodded. Gone were the bloody mats. The floorboards and pillars had been scrubbed and polished till they shone. All the weapons were hanging neatly against the wall or resting in their racks. "You have done a fine job," he said listlessly and turned toward the kitchen.

  He had expected to find Ayako at the stove, but only Otomi was there. She crouched over a silk scroll on the floor, unaware of Akitada, absorbed in painting the image of the Goddess of Mercy. Akitada's eyes went to the raised platform under the window. It was empty except for a pair of half-finished straw sandals.

  A great sadness for Higekuro filled him suddenly. The fact that such a man should have died when far less worthy men lived was utterly unacceptable. In its own way, it had been as shocking a death as that of the child. Yet he at least had not died in vain. What Higekuro had wanted more than anything else in life had been to find husbands for both of his daughters. He had achieved that. Life would go on here. Tora, Hidesato, and Ayako would carry on with the school, Otomi would paint, and the two couples would raise their children here. Their happiness would soon erase the memories of blood spilled across the hall next door.

  He turned away. "Where is Ayako?" he asked Tora.

  "No idea." Tora tried to evade, but when he saw Akitada's expression, he bellowed, "Hidesato?"

  The sergeant came in immediately, as if he had been waiting outside, impatient for Akitada to leave.

  "Where's Ayako gone off to?"

  Hidesato's eyes flew to Akitada's face. He hesitated, then said, "To the temple of the Kannon...like every day since ... since her father died."

  "Thank you." Akitada asked Tora, "Will I see you tonight?"

  "Of course." Tora was depressingly cheerful. "We're just about done here. Tell Ayako dinner's ready."

  The distance to the temple took longer on foot, but Akitada was in no hurry today. How different everything seemed. People walked about in straw boots and colorful scarves and jackets. The muted sound of children's laughter came from backyards, and plunged him into a deeper depression. Smoke from cooking fires rose from chimneys, mingling with the white haze of falling snow. His steps inaudible in the white softness underfoot, Akitada felt as if he were walking through a cloud.

  The sensation of unreality intensified when he reached the deserted temple. All was silent here. The buildings seemed surreal, a fairy palace inhabited by celestial princesses. He remembered how ominously the dark roofs of the hall and pagoda had risen from the black wilderness of trees the other night. Now a silvery blanket of snow covered the roof tiles and wrapped the curving eaves in feathery white so that they appeared to rise into the swirling air above like the wings of snowbirds. Behind the magic palace, trees made a filigree of white and black branches, silent guardians of the place. Akitada stopped. It seemed that no mere human could pass into that unearthly world without becoming irrevocably lost.

  But he had obligations. Crossing the street quickly, he passed between the red-lacquered pillars of the gate into the courtyard. On the snowy ground, a single set of footsteps led to the main hall and up its stairs. He followed, careful not to mar them with his own large boot prints.

  She was not inside, though a candle still burned at the foot of the goddess painting and a thin white spiral of incense curled from a censer she had placed before it. Akitada walked through the hall and stepped out onto the rear veranda.

  Ayako was leaning against one of the pillars, soberly dressed in a dark quilted robe, looking out at the silent, snowy grove below. "I knew you would come eventually," she said without turning her head.

  "I have been very busy." He was not really aware of his words, so intent were his eyes on her, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the graceful column of her neck, the way she held her shoulders straight and proud. Guessing at the rounded hips tapering to long thighs, he undressed her in his mind one more time, seeing the golden skin, touching its smoothness, breathing her scent.

  She turned. "I have waited here every day." Her eyes moved over him slowly, tenderly.

  Akitada gazed back. "Everything has changed," he said.

  She nodded. Then, surprisingly, she said, "You are still angry with me. And with Hidesato."

  "Yes. I know I have no right."

  She turned away again. "You think that I took him to the bathhouse and made love to him where you and I used to lie together."

  He was ashamed of his jealousy but could not lie. "Yes," he said softly.

  "You are wrong." She sighed. "Perhaps that will make you feel better. I don't know. It makes no difference, because you and I are of different worlds. Although my father once held rank, we have become nonpersons in this nation, neither noble nor common. My father accepted this and taught us that human relationships depend on qualities rarely found in your world. He believed in honor, but by his standards even the Rat has honor, perhaps more honor than a high-ranking nobleman from the capital."

  Rage seized Akitada. "How dare you accuse me of lacking honor?" he snapped. "You who gave herself to a mere sergeant who had wandered in off the street looking for a place to hide from the law. How can you think that he will not discard you when he gets the urge to move on? To a man like that you are just a convenience, a livelihood, and a warm bed at night."

  She flinched at his anger and turned to face him. "Forgive me," she said sadly. "I had not meant to hurt you so." Her voice was thick with tears, and she pulled her robe around her more tightly as if to fend off the coldness of his contempt. "I heard about the child and wished
I could help you."

  "Ayako," he begged, immediately contrite. "It is not too late. Come with me." He paused fractionally, then added, "Be my wife."

  "No. It is much too late," she said. "It was too late when we first met. I knew it, but I could not help myself, and for that I ask your forgiveness. I can never live with you as your wife without forcing you to become as we are. That is why I must choose Hidesato."

  "No!"

  "Yes." She stood, sharply defined against the snowy world beyond, black hair framing the narrow pale face with its strange eyes. Her body was tense, the shoulders squared, the hands clasped so tightly around the red-lacquered balustrade that he could see the bones through the skin. But her voice was calm and very clear in the silence of the place. "Hidesato is a kind man with more honor than you allow him, for he has never touched me. I shall become his wife after you leave, because it would have been my father's wish, and so it is mine. Together we will make a home for Otomi and a life for ourselves."

  Akitada stood in silence, looking at her. Snowflakes gathered in her black hair, turning to beads of crystal. Then he nodded, defeated by her firmness, her sense of duty.

  "You must go now," she whispered. "Please, Akitada! Please go quickly!"

  He stretched out his hand to brush away her tears, then dropped it and left.

  For the remaining daylight hours of this, his last day, Akitada walked the streets of the city. From the Temple of the Merciful Goddess he wandered to Squatters' Field, then drifted northward to the garrison, where he stood at a distance, watching Yukinari drilling a troop of foot soldiers. The captain would see them off the next morning, and Akitada left without speaking to him.

  He went to the residential quarter of the wealthy, turning into the alley behind the Tachibana residence. The back gate of the empty mansion swung loose in the wind, and he stopped in for a look at the garden. The studio slept under a mantle of white. At the small pond, Tachibana's fish rose from the black depths at his approach, still expecting their owner's hand dispensing food. But only snow fell and melted on the black water. One by one the silver and gold shapes turned and sank again to the bottom. When Akitada left, he looked back. His steps marred the pristine white paths, perhaps never to be swept again. He latched the gate behind himself.

  In the gathering dusk, Akitada drifted toward the colored lights and bustle of the market, uncaring that his feet had become numb from the cold. He went down a street of pleasure houses, of powdered faces and smiling eyes, of inviting fingers on his sleeve, barely answering the offers whispered to him. In the falling snow he heard the music of zithers and lutes, the thin, reedy voices of the women and the rough laughter of their customers. Then he walked the poorer streets, where urgent couples ducked into alleys or embraced furtively, leaning in the covered doorways of closed shops. And he felt like a ghost watching the living.

  It was dark when he finally returned to the tribunal--wet, cold, and too tired to feel.

  Tora and Seimei were packing boxes. Tea simmered on the brazier, and on his desk stood a tray with covered dishes of food. Akitada realized he had not eaten since morning.

  "Have you been waiting long?" he asked Tora.

  "Don't worry. Seimei's been telling me all about your mother and sisters."

  Akitada winced. What awaited him in the capital was the life he had sought to escape. His widowed mother ruled him and his sisters with an iron hand and a bitter tongue.

  "You look tired," Seimei said sympathetically. "Paying farewell visits is always depressing. I saved your food for you, in case you were not invited to dinner."

  "Later, Seimei. I must settle with Tora first." Akitada looked at Tora sadly. How handsome he had become. He suddenly noticed that Tora was wearing his blue robe again. "I thought you traded that away," he said, nodding at Tora's clothes.

  Tora looked down at himself. "I decided to get it back. The color and cut suit me pretty well. Besides, there's something to be said for making an impression." He winked at Seimei, who chuckled.

  "I see," Akitada said heavily. "You will do very well whatever you do and whatever you wear, Tora. I shall miss you." He turned away to hide his emotion. Opening his document box, he muttered, "Here are your wages. I have added a bonus for your efforts and advice in solving the tax case. And there is a present to help you get started in your new life." He held out a package to Tora.

  Tora stared at it, making no effort to take it. "You don't need me anymore?" he asked tonelessly.

  "I told you once before that you are free to leave at any time. Now that you have plans and my work here is done, I will not hold you any longer."

  "What plans?" Tora's voice rose angrily. "You're still sore because of what I said about officials. And I thought you'd given me another chance." He snatched the money from Akitada's hand, tore open the package, and glanced at the contents. "Very generous," he sneered, then flung the gold bar and silver coins at Akitada's feet. "Take care of yourself, old-timer," he called to Seimei and stalked out the door.

  Akitada stared after him. "What...?" he began.

  "He was hoping you'd take him back with you," said Seimei, dropping dejectedly onto a cushion. "That is all he has been talking about, wanting to know about the capital, about the family, what kind of house you live in, what kind of work he would do. He was afraid you might let him go, but I told him you would never do that, that you would find a way to keep him. It was wrong of me to give him hope." Seimei wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Such a short time we had together," he said. "It is true what they say: 'Every meeting is the beginning of a parting.' I shall miss that boy."

  Akitada shook his head. Had he missed something? Then hope sprang suddenly, and he ran after Tora.

  He caught up with him just outside the tribunal gate. Tora stood in the swirling snow peering at the message board, his wide shoulders in the blue robe hunched up. He seemed to be checking the notices.

  "Tora," said Akitada, "I did not know you wanted to come."

  Tora did not turn. "Don't let it bother you. I see they aren't looking for me anymore. I'll find other work. There's a lot of fighting going on. Maybe I'll go back to the army."

  "But aren't you marrying Otomi?"

  Tora swung around, astonished. "Me, marry?"

  So much for love! Relief washed over Akitada. Otomi's loss was his gain. "In that case," he said, "perhaps you would consider returning to the capital with me. It's not very interesting work, I'm afraid, and I can't pay you much, but there are some very pretty girls there."

  * * * *

  TWENTY-TWO

  MORNING GLORY

  In an austere office of the Bureau of Censors, two middle-aged men faced each other across a desk with neat stacks of documents. The desk and office belonged to Minamoto Yutaka, the feared president of the censors, a personage so powerful that he reported directly to the chancellor. He was a tall, almost cadaverous man, his sparse hair graying, his nose sharp, and his lips thin and permanently turned down at the corners. He sat stiffly upright, hands tucked into the sleeves of a dark green brocade robe, and watched the man opposite him from slitted eyes.

  Soga Ietada, the current minister of justice, wore a lighter shade of green and was physically Minamoto's opposite. Almost obese, he had abundant, bristling hair on his head, eyebrows, mustache, and the backs of his hands. At the moment he was occupied with a fan and a cup of tea.

  "There are those at court who predicted a different outcome to this matter," Soga said, putting down his empty cup. He spoke with a slight whine, as if he were complaining.

  The president turned down the corners of his mouth a little more. "The Fujiwaras are blessed by Buddha. Motosuke emerged from this regrettable affair not only with a clean record but as the man who uncovered a dangerous conspiracy."

  The minister waved his fan agitatedly. "We should have stopped Moto--" He broke off, his mouth frozen open in mid-speech.

  The thin man had opened his eyes wide and raised a hand. "You are confused, Soga. It is naturally
with great relief and pleasure that we have received the news of Fujiwara Motosuke's return from Kazusa and his appointment as senior councilor in the Great Council of State. Equally delightful is the news that his daughter has entered the imperial household."

  The minister found his voice again. "If she produces an heir, Motosuke may become the next chancellor."

  "Quite possible." The president pursed his thin lips and smiled sourly. "And in the fullness of time, your junior clerk Sugawara may become minister of justice."

  The minister blanched. "This development was completely unforeseen. Sugawara was a mere nobody, and now everyone talks of his brilliant future. The worst thing is that we are thought to support the Fujiwara faction because I recommended Sugawara to you."