Finally, when her spirit was as calm as she could make it, when the pang of Shuyun’s leaving was a sweet sadness not a sorrow, she opened the box.
To her great surprise she did not find a sacred blossom inside but a white butterfly, tinged with the faintest purple. It fanned its wings slowly and then, in a single motion, took to the air. It circled about the balcony once, then rose on a current, descended again, and then fluttered off into the garden where it was soon lost from sight. Nishima watched long after it had gone, hoping for a last glimpse, but it did not reappear and she leaned her head back against the pillar and closed her eyes.
My heart is both broken and full of joy, she told herself. I do not know whether to cry or laugh.
Opening her eyes she realized that a perfect paper shinta blossom lay on the silk of the wooden case and she set the case on the rail and took it up. After a moment of searching, she found the key and began to unfold the blossom. In the heart of the paper flower she found a single line of characters written in Shuyun’s beautiful flowing hand.
Beyond the future lies a future in which we cannot be separated.
She thought of the butterfly flying out of the case and she smiled.
“Things are never what one expects,” Nishima said to herself, and she laughed. She laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.
* * *
The guards led the Empress along a path paved in stones. They stopped at a simple wooden gate under a small arch and tile roof. Very quickly, one of the guards passed through the gate and when he returned four other guards came with him. This man nodded to the senior officer who in turn knelt and bowed to the Empress. The garden was secure.
Nishima went through the open gate and heard it close behind her.
It is a day for partings, she told herself.
A few steps into the garden Nishima stopped to look out to the north over the large encampment of the tribes. She knew he was not there, but still her eyes searched for a moment among the thousands of tiny figures before she turned away.
A few more paces brought her to the shrine and she knelt on a mat that had been placed for her. Into the face of an uncut stone had been chiseled the name character Shimeko.
Nishima offered up a silent prayer to Botahara and then one also to the Teacher.
We will never know, Nishima thought, we will never know if you fell into their hands without intending to or whether you chose to take your terrible weapon out among our enemies so that others might live. When I think of your fate, Shimeko-sum, I am gripped by its horror. Among all the brave, all the heroes of this pointless war, you alone went into battle without armor, without protection. Only you risked the destruction of your spirit. May Botahara rest you and protect your soul.
Nishima offered up a long prayer for forgiveness and then rose and went to her duties.
Sixty-six
THEY HAD SLIPPED out of the city at dawn, all three in disguise, and set out across country until they found the narrow road they sought. Only then did they throw back their hoods to the sunlight—a warrior, a monk, and a barbarian tribesman.
There was no indication that they hurried to an appointed time or place—in truth, their pace seemed almost leisurely. They stopped, it appeared, whenever whim struck and often finished their day’s travel before sunset. In a time when a significant portion of the population of Wa were on the roads and canals, returning or moving to places where they would begin their lives again, these three travelers hardly stood out. Except that they did not seem to be driven to reach their destination as others did.
Of course the area the three traveled through was not flooded with refugees the way the northern canal and roads were aswarm with people returning to homes, or even the way the roads to the south and the west were filled with people seeking places to begin anew. The three set their course north by east and encountered few as they went.
* * *
Shuyun knelt cross-legged on a mat by the edge of the stream. He had spent an hour in meditation upon the sunlight falling through the leaves as the wind moved among the trees. He watched the beauty of the movement and patterns as though they were dance.
Two dozen paces up the stream bank Komawara sat bent over a letter, reading. Shuyun had seen the lord take this same paper from his sleeve several times, to pore over it as he did now, but Komawara did not speak of this and Shuyun felt it would be the worst manners to inquire.
Shuyun was certain he saw the beginnings of healing in Komawara, just a glimmer, but there, nonetheless. He carries wounds as deep as any cut by a sword, Shuyun thought. One cannot expect him to heal overnight.
What Nishima had done, the gifts that she had given the young lord, showed great wisdom, Shuyun thought. There was no question in Shuyun’s mind that Nishima was the ruler that Wa needed in this time. Thinking of the Empress brought a sense of warmth and joy. She was my teacher, he thought, though she did not know it.
He turned his attention back to the light dappling the ferns and the forest floor across the stream. The Illusion, he had been taught and it had taken some time to learn what that truly meant. He had labored under so many misapprehensions—it made him wonder what was truly written in the scrolls of Botahara.
The sound of the lightest of footsteps sounded in the soft undergrowth and Shuyun turned to find the Kalam bearing bowls of cha. With a bow, the tribesman set one on the edge of Shuyun’s mat and then turned and took a second bowl to Komawara.
Shuyun caught the lord’s eye then and waved an invitation. Folding his letter, Komawara came and found a place on the corner of the monk’s mat. Yes, there it was, around the eyes and the mouth, signs that Komawara was emerging through the bitterness and anger.
Shuyun noticed that the lord did not carry a sword in his sash, and had not during their journey—highly unusual for a warrior of Seh. Of course, Komawara did keep a blade strapped to his saddle, but Shuyun had not seen him touch it yet. The Kalam removed the sword at each stop and kept it close at hand for the lord’s use. There were brigands abroad in Wa, and many inclined to honesty were being forced to this life. But all the same Komawara chose not to carry a blade.
“We might reach the foot of the mountain this afternoon, Brother, it is not as far off as it appears.”
Shuyun nodded. “Yes. In the morning I must proceed alone, Samyamu-sum, though I will miss your company.”
“I fear my company has been poor, Shuyun-sum. I apologize for this.”
Shuyun met the lord’s gaze for a moment, searching his eyes. “Lord Komawara, do you suggest that one who will serve the Teacher would speak anything but the truth?” he said, his tone mock-serious.
Komawara grinned. “Please excuse me, Brother. I meant to imply no such thing. But, in truth, I think my company has been less than joyful.”
“Perhaps, but it has given me great joy even so. After our other journeys together, this one has certainly been the most pleasant.”
Komawara gave a short laugh. “What, Brother, you did not feel great joy climbing the walls of Denji Gorge in the darkness? The legends will no doubt say that you did.”
Shuyun grimaced. “It is your legend, Lord Komawara, that will speak of fearlessness.”
“Huh,” Komawara sipped his cha. “That is one of the many things I fear, Brother. On the walls of Denji Gorge I was as terrified as I can remember being, yet no song will tell that part of the tale.” And then quieter. “No play will show the regret I feel for the lives I have taken.”
Shuyun stared at the lord’s face, watching the anguish return. “I have taken a life as well, Samyamu-sum. Lord Botahara was once a great general. The spirit can rise above all things—it is possible. Do not think that your soul will carry this stain forever—it can be cleansed. You are not a simple warrior, Samyamu-sum, able to follow the way of the sword without question. It is the terrible thing about war; it sends the most innocent into the field and strips their souls bare of this innocence. We have both seen it. Lord Shonto, Lady Nishima, Jaku Katta, you�
�we have all played parts in this terrible war. None have escaped unscathed.
“Duty requires much of us all. Of some it requires a life of drudgery. To rise above that is as difficult as it is to rise above what you have done in the performance of your duties. Yet souls of great enlightenment have arisen from the poorest circumstances. I have faith that you will rise above this, Samyamu-sum, though it may be as difficult as all the other feats you are celebrated for.”
Komawara took a long breath. “Thank you, Shuyun-sum. It is my hope that you are right, as you have been in so many other matters.”
The Kalam came and sat on a rock a pace away, sipping his cha silently. The three stayed like that into the afternoon, preserving their company as long as possible.
* * *
The next morning found the three travelers at the base of the Mountain of the Pure Spirit. They rode along a road that wound through a woods of birch and pine and golden slip maple.
They did not speak as they rode, for there was little left to be said. They had survived their travels in the desert and the war fought the length of the Grand Canal—words could not begin to say what these things meant. Riding out with Shuyun on the beginning of his journey said all that was required.
At length they came to a shrine at the road’s edge. The road narrowed here and began to rise more steeply. As though this was a sign, Shuyun stopped and turned his horse so that he faced his companions.
“I must go alone from here, Samyamu-sum.”
The monk could see the young lord struggling as he had often watched the Kalam do—looking for the correct words. In this case, Shuyun thought, none would be found.
“May Botahara journey at your side, Samyamu-sum,” Shuyun said.
With an effort, Komawara managed to speak in a whisper. “May Botahara chant your name, Brother.”
Shuyun reached out and touched the lord’s arm. “He has, Lord Komawara. He has.” The monk smiled.
Turning to the Kalam, he spoke to the tribesman in the language of the desert, the tribesman bobbing his head at almost every word. The monk reached into his sleeve then and removed something that he placed in the Kalam’s hand. The final words Shuyun said left the tribesman utterly still and silent.
With a bow that the others returned, Shuyun turned his horse and began to climb up into the trees. At a point where he was about to disappear into the woods, Shuyun turned his horse and waved once to his companions. And then he was gone from sight.
It was a small gesture, but it gladdened Komawara’s heart more than he could have guessed.
The lord and the tribesman turned their horses back the way they had come, riding knee to knee. It was several rih before Komawara’s curiosity got the better of him.
“If I may ask,” the lord said, “what was Shuyun-sum’s gift?”
The barbarian dug into a pouch at his waist and held out his hand. On his palm lay a deep blue stone, the kind one might find in the bed of river—smooth and regular in shape.
“It is the soul of a butterfly, Lord Komawara,” the Kalam said with apparent awe. “Brother Shuyun said to me I would one day see that this was so.”
“Then that is no doubt true,” Komawara responded and the two men rode on through the late spring day, lost in their own thoughts.
* * *
Shuyun gave his horse to three monks that he met, and this unexpected generosity allowed him to pass on without also giving them his name. The road wound up through the trees, past temples and monasteries belonging to both the Sisterhood and the Order to which Shuyun had once belonged. There were many shrines and, like all good seekers, Shuyun stopped at each one and offered a prayer.
Rather than sleep in the lodgings provided for seekers near the monasteries and temples Shuyun slept out under the sky, wrapped in the single blanket in which, during the day, he carried a bowl and a few things required for him to act as a healer.
With each step up the sacred mountain the monk felt he was breaking free of the earth, rising up onto a different plane. Summer clouds sailed in from the ocean and occasionally one seemed to attach itself to the mountain, clinging there until it stretched itself out in the wind like a torn banner, then it would break its bond and sail free.
They come to me, Shuyun laughed to himself, the Gatherer of Clouds. Like the Brother in the ancient play, it is my place to gather together the nebulous, the ambiguous. I will dispel the Illusion, if only for a few.
On the second day Shuyun came to the shrine he sought—the place where Botahara had given up his army and renounced all property, the place mentioned in the scroll Shuyun had received from Brother Hitara. Here the monk found a place on a large rock and began to fast and meditate. The shrine was just above the tree line and only a few of the most hardy trees survived here. Though few in number, these mountain pines were very old and each had been given a name, for they had been there a thousand years before when the Perfect Master had walked over these very stones.
Many seekers came to this shrine but few spoke to Shuyun, for most had taken vows of silence and assumed the same of others.
On the third day of Shuyun’s fast, the monk he awaited appeared at last. Seeing Shuyun, he approached, bowing in the manner of the Botahist Brothers.
“May the Perfect Master walk beside you, Brother Hitara,” Shuyun said.
“May the Teacher greet you by name, Brother Shuyun.”
The monk Shuyun had met in the desert perched on the edge of the rock.
“It is my hope, Brother Hitara, that you have come to show me the Way.”
“Only the Teacher can do that, Brother—the Teacher and his bearer. But I will guide you some short distance.”
Shuyun gave a deep bow in answer. They set off, passing between two tall stones set like gate posts on the stark landscape. The gray bones of the mountain were exposed here and interrupted only occasionally by dusky-green lichen beds.
As they passed the western shoulder of the peak itself, Shuyun was given a view of the Empire stretching off into the distance. He was above the clouds now and could see the masses of white, each trailing a shadow across the land, as they rolled off toward the western horizon. The Grand Canal was a silver thread pulled straight across the landscape and the Imperial Capital was a mound of white stones, stark against the greens of the land and the blues of the lake. Shuyun stopped for a moment, and Brother Hitara walked on a few paces to leave him in peace.
It was an easy thing to fill himself with the presence of Nishima and he did so now—her humor, her tenderness, her open spirit. Raising his hand at last as though he waved to someone far off, the monk turned and followed Hitara.
“Good-bye, my teacher,” he whispered, “I go to meet another.”
At dusk they had passed around the shoulder of the mountain and Shuyun felt that they were in the mountains proper now, for there was no sight of the Empire. They made a camp after dark and meditated on the stars until a moon appeared and then they continued, walking a narrow ridge that twisted and rolled like a stem of lintel vine. By daylight they had gone many rih.
Brother Hitara was also fasting, so they stopped only occasionally to drink. The late-spring sun beat down, but the air remained cool and there was always a breeze from the sea, making their relentless pace bearable. Toward the end of the second day Shuyun realized that only his Botahist-trained memory would allow him to retrace their route, so twisted was it, so devoid of distinguishing marks.
Working down a scree slope late in the day, Brother Hitara began to search along the face of a cliff. After some searching he located a break in the rock that could not be seen from even a few feet away. Through this they came upon a ledge wide enough for two to walk abreast. It wound up around the side of the cliff, its slope gradual, disappearing into a white cloud that clung to the mountain side. The stone here appeared to have seen so many generations of men pass along it that it was worn completely smooth.
Hitara stood gazing along the pathway with a look of satisfaction as though reassure
d somehow that it was still here or that he had been able to find it. “You must not wear your sandals here, Brother Shuyun—for you this is the beginning of the Way. Give a prayer of thanks each time your sole touches the stone, for few have walked this path.”
“Brother Hitara,” Shuyun said. “My gratitude cannot be expressed.”
Hitara looked at him oddly then, almost quizzically. “Brother Shuyun, certainly the honor is mine. I have taken some small part in the completion of a prophesy. With each breath I thank Botahara for this. Few can say as much.” He raised his hands to encompass the whole world. “What more can I ask of this life?”
He knelt down and kissed the smooth stone that began the path, then rose and bowed to Shuyun. “We shall meet again, Brother Shuyun. May the Teacher bless you.”
“I must thank you for delivering His message, though I confess it took some months before I realized.
“It grows dark, Brother, will you not make camp with me until morning?” Suddenly Shuyun felt it odd to be abandoned. The path he had sought for so long seemed more daunting than he had imagined.
Hitara waved up the slope. “The moon will light my way, Brother Shuyun, for I have many tasks to perform. I would suggest you wait until daylight before you proceed, however. The Way is narrow.” Bowing again, Hitara began to make his way lightly up the loose rock.
Finding a flat stone, Shuyun sat and began to meditate. Later, in the moonlight, he chanted, his voice echoing among the mountains as though he were a hundred men.
At the first hint of light he rose and removed his sandals. Like Hitara, he knelt and kissed the stone before placing a foot upon it. If there had been water, he would have bathed his feet.
The pathway led up the shoulder of the mountain until it entered a draw between that mountain and the next. Shuyun passed over the ridge that lay here, glad to find a stream of cool water. The path then followed the narrow ridge, the stone sloping off on both sides into green valleys far below. To his right Shuyun could see a small lake the color of turquoise.
The Initiate Brother Duology Page 107
