Thousand Shrine Warrior

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  Iwazu was somewhat older, and her child was near the toddler stage. As she held her son, the tiny fellow gazed about with wonder as he grew and grew. Iwazu’s husband Guma laughed at their child’s surprise.

  The childless couple were younger than the other four birdfolk. Uda was as handsome as a castle page. Akuni might well have been a famous courtesan instead of some bird’s wife, and in fact had a courtesan’s coiffure. The manner of them both tended to the sensual. They were vain but gentle.

  The white hair of the two mothers was arranged like that of court ladies. The fathers wore high-peaked hats shaped like the black hats of noblemen, except these hats were white. Uda wore no hat; his neatly tied topknot stood up straight like the crest of a bird.

  When they ceased to grow and metamorphose, six adults and two children of utterly human appearance sat on the long mat before Bundori. The raining glitter began to fáde away as the priest slowed the pace of his frantic spell. In no time at all, he had fallen silent, and gazed with a grandfather’s affection on his six friends and their children. These men and women gazed at Bundori with equal love, eerie only because their faces were so pale and eyes so red. As one, they bowed to the patriarch of the holy sanctuary.

  “How glad I am to see you,” said Bundori with tears in his eyes.

  “It is good of you to invite us here today,” said Guma, senior among the bird-folk. He was a Lord among birds and held himself regally. He was handsome in a mature manner completely different from the attractive Uda, who was practically a boy, or Omo, who was strong and calm and silent like a warrior.

  Iwazu, wife of Lord Guma, was, through association with Guma, boss among the women. She indicated to young Akuni that she ought to prepare tea for everyone, for the water was steaming. Pouting a bit, Akuni nudged her husband Uda, who yawned as though he didn’t notice she wished he would help, but then he got up and helped her anyway. Soon everyone had nice cups of tea before their knees, but none began to drink until Priest Bundori had taken the first sip. When he had done so, everyone laughed merrily and drank leisurely from their teacups.

  Akuni had settled down next to Bundori, leaning toward the priest in a sexy way. As he sipped his tea, he tried not to let his eyes linger on the back of Akuni’s lovely, slender white neck. It was hard not to admire the faint tracings of blue veins beneath her perfectly alabaster complexion. Bundori felt somewhat flustered. Uda seemed not to mind Akuni’s flirtations. He was not of jealous propensity and may have been himself a bit like his wife.

  Bundori was a gray cloud amidst the ethereal snowiness of his friends. To an outsider, his strange company might look all alike; but to Bundori, the whiteness of their skin and the redness of their eyes provided the most superficial of similarities. They were as different from one another as any other group of people could possibly be. Flirtatious Akuni and her girlish husband Uda; haughty Iwazu and her imperious husband Guma; contrary Shiumi, attentive of her infant, next to her quiet husband Omo. The child of Iwazu and Guma was in some ways Bundori’s favorite. He took the fellow onto his knees and grinned at the cherubic, laughing face. Tiny fingers clung to the priest’s old gnarly ones. Bundori realized the power of childhood was greater than any magic of his own! When the boy wiggled and wanted to go exploring some more, Bundori was sad to let him go.

  Everybody talked of many things and were generous with compliments for one another. It was a nice party. After a while, Bundori bacame serious and asked everyone if they would help him with some important business. They became quiet and attentive so that they could find out what the business was about.

  “I thought this might be my last chance to speak with you for a while,” he said, looking sad about it. “The nun who was here today is liable to find it difficult to travel beyond this mountain province, for the freezing storms will start soon. I have it in mind to ask her to stay at this sanctuary until after winter, when it will be easy to travel again. That would mean I could not beckon you to visit me, it being against the rule of Shinto priests to let this magic become known. I will be lonely without you, especially since the nun is of melancholy disposition and won’t help cheer things up.

  “Still, I am thinking I should convince her to stay. As you know, that weird priest up in Lord Sato’s castle, claiming to be of the Lotus sect, has beguiled the Lord and caused some trouble within the castle walls. If it continues, the trouble will spill out into the town. The best retainers have already left Lord Sato’s service, and those prone to cruelty have remained, in order to have a good time for themselves. This is coupled with a short summer and the early arrival of fall, meaning there may not be enough rice to eat this winter. Either Lord Sato’s men will get hungry and become dangerous nuisances, or extra rice-tax will be levied out of season so that villagers will starve. It is regarding these things that I have summoned you, seeking your wise counsel.”

  “You have a good idea!” said Akuni, still leaning scandalously close to Bundori as she praised his thinking. “That nun looks like a strong fighter to me, too. If you can keep her here until spring, she could be a lot of help if there are problems in the meantime.”

  Uda, as pretty as his wife, agreed easily with Akuni. “That priest of the Lotus sect has been a bad influence,” he said, shaking his shoulders like a bird ruffling its feathers with annoyance. “Most Lotus priests take such names as ‘Sun,’ and ‘Light,’ but this one calls himself Kuro the Darkness. I wonder if he’s a priest at all, or some creature out of Hell! An esoteric nun with swords could take care of such a fiend as that.”

  “I could tell at once,” Iwazu added, her haughtiness giving way to momentary awe, “that the nun had killed a lot of people. It made me frightened for my child, until I sensed the poor nun’s heart and knew she wouldn’t harm a bird.”

  Shiumi, ever a cynical woman, said, “I’m not so sure it’s a wise idea. You think she will help people out, but she’s a Buddhist after all.”

  “Such a prejudiced statement!” complained Uda, sensitive about such matters. “Not all Buddhists are like Kuro, and not only Shintoism is good. Buddhists can be compassionate, I’m convinced. They talk about it a lot.”

  “Yes they do,” agreed Shiumi, but there was still an edge to her voice. She adjusted the infant in her arms and pulled her kimono open so that her babe could suckle a moon-white breast. Shiumi’s good looks belied her contrary nature. “That nun,” she said, “wants to carve a lantern for some men she killed. Is that compassion? It won’t bring them back to life! My husband is strong enough to fight Kuro. We don’t need a Buddhist nun at all!”

  “There is no need to argue loudly,” said imperious Guma, causing Uda and Shiumi to settle down. He said to Bundori, “It might be that a killer is exactly the thing the villagers will require. It takes more than compassion to help beleaguered people. It takes anger, too, or else all that one can do is feel sorry for everybody, and watch things happen.”

  Bundori sighed. He said, “You’re talking about murdering that troublesome priest, but I am thinking of a more defensive posture. The villagers don’t understand how bad things may yet become. They are resigned to a little trouble and can live with that. If someone stands between the people and Lord Sato, maybe things will stay the way they are, neither worse nor better. In that case, no one will need to suffer very much.”

  Guma’s wife caught her small son before he could crawl too near the firepit. She wanted to disagree with Bundori, but respect for his opinion made her venture her own feelings at first tentatively and then with more conviction. “Lord Sato’s retainers listen more to Kuro the Darkness than to their own master,” Iwazu said. “He will compel them to do burdensome things until he has whatever it is he seeks. Without a strong master to hold them in check, some of the retainers may begin to kill at random, with Kuro’s blessing.”

  Priest Bundori did not like to listen to this, and he wondered aloud, “Am I wrong to think that it is possible to gain a champion for those people without it causing a lot of bloodshed?”

/>   Iwazu continued, “The influence of the weird priest is the cause of your having to go hungry. You eat nothing but thin soup because the people are afraid to make donations to any shrine or temple, as it makes him jealous. He has frightened off or caused the death of every priest in Lord Sato’s fief, and would like for you to starve to death or leave your place as well. This being so, it is natural that you should wish ill on Kuro. We wish him ill ourselves.”

  Bundori looked more and more upset. Guma wished to reinforce his proud wife’s strong sentiment, so he spoke intensely: “You are really the source of our concern. I believe Shintoists and Buddhists should live in harmony. It is not Lord Sato’s faith, but his clerical advisor that is the source of the belligerence against the native gods of Naipon. The zealous attitude of Lord Sato has made the people afraid to honor Shinto gods except in secret. It angers the Thousands of Myriads that this is so, and they will send a revengeful agent one way or another. If the nun uses her swords to cause Lord Sato and his privileged priest annoyance, maybe you can regain your health.”

  “I am used to hunger in my life,” said Bundori. “If I thought my motivation was to improve my own situation, to receive good rice and better donations for my shrine, then I would cease at once to consider my plan. But this imbalance of faiths concerns everyone. There is always some kind of response when significant numbers of gods are denied their due.”

  Quiet Omo made his feelings known at last. His voice was nearly as soft as girlish Uda’s, but more self-assured and devoid of vanity. “Shiumi was correct when she said I could be of help. It is not necessary to look beyond our very home for the revengeful agent of the Shinto gods. I need only to acquire a sword and your permission to pit myself against Kuro the Darkness. If I die, only then will it become necessary to consider help from outside.”

  Priest Bundori’s usually gleeful expression was now much tortured. “It is a terrible thing for us to wish death on another human being. I cannot let Omo go into the world with vengeance on his mind. I can involve the nun only if I truly have no ulterior motive for myself, only if my exclusive wish is for the villagers’ safety in a worsening situation.” Bundori’s emotional pain was evident. He concluded, “I cannot decide what is right.”

  Someone not seen previously ventured out from a dark corner. The bird-folk and Priest Bundori were surprised to realize someone had been hiding in the shrine-house the whole time. He was an extraordinarily slender man, albino like the others, his kimono having the pattern of a serpent embroidered in the faintest yellow, winding around and around himself.

  “Our new friend!” exclaimed Bundori. “I had forgotten all about you!”

  The thin fellow was not as beautiful as the bird-folk. He had a sallow complexion and a long face. But he had a look of sincerity that suggested a purity of heart. He came out from where he had been listening to everything and bowed in an apologetic way. He said,

  “Forgive my eavesdropping so carelessly, but I did not know what had happened to myself and could not move for the longest while.”

  Bundori returned the bow and reassured the polite fellow, “That’s how it is the first time. I know you meant no harm by staying hidden.”

  “I was encouraged to come out because of your discussion,” he said. “I believe you have failed to consider the needs of the bikuni. She should not be encouraged to kill, for it has become distasteful to her. She should be helped along her way as soon as possible, lest she become caught up in the way things are or may soon be.”

  The bird-folk chattered in hasty disagreement, but Bundori held up a hand until they were silent. He said to the serpent-fellow, “The nun saved your life so you alone have her best interests in mind. I’m afraid you are correct. My own thinking has been self-deluding. I was hoping my friends could talk me into having the bikuni cause Lord Sato and Kuro trouble, though foolishly convincing myself that my only concern was for the village. You have helped me see the falsehoods and selfishness I have pursued today. I am indebted to you.”

  The priest bowed again, and deeply, and the serpent-youth seemed embarrassed by it. Bundori eased the embarrassment by insisting the young man join the rest of them for tea. They spent a pleasant afternoon together before Bundori could no longer put aside necessity.

  Bundori left the shrine-house and started off along the path toward the village. He must find the bikuni before there was any kind of trouble.

  In the village, the bikuni found an artisan who repaired musical instruments. The front of his shop was open despite the chilliness of the day. He sat in plain view of the street, on the raised wooden floor of his shop, working on the bridge of a koto. He was a man of middle years. Judging by his clothing and his shop, he was not a particularly successful businessman, but managed to get by. His features were hard, pale, and etched by concentration. His fingers were long and thin.

  She stepped over the threshold into the shop, but did not step onto the raised portion of the floor or in any manner interrupt the artisan. When he seemed finished for the moment, she placed her silk bag on the platform and pushed it toward him. Without word, he opened the damaged bag and removed the body of the shakuhachi, then reached deep into the bag to get the clipped mouthpiece. He inspected the angle of the cut and pursed his lips disapprovingly. After a careful look at the entire instrument, he looked up, but could not see the bikuni’s face beneath her hat. He said, “Did you think it would stop a sword? It’s an excellent piece of work. Too bad someone treated it badly.”

  The woman accepted this chastisement, bowed very slightly, and asked, “Can it be repaired?”

  “It will never have the timbre of before,” he told her, “but it can be put together.”

  “I regret my carelessness has spoiled its perfection. Perhaps flawed it will better suit my talents. What would it cost to make it work again?”

  The artisan pursed his lips as before, looking pensive. Then he raised five fingers. It was not such a high price to ask, but the bikuni had no money whatsoever. She looked at the five fingers a long while without comment. As her face was hidden beneath her hat, the artisan could hardly be expected to read her thoughts by her expression; but silence can convey a lot. He said, “As you are Buddha’s woman …” then made his five fingers three.

  For a samurai, it would be inconceivable to barter. The activities and behaviors of artisans and merchants were totally at odds with the ways of the buké class. Although the woman had left samurai privileges behind to become a strolling nun, it was still a distasteful matter. Awkwardly, she asked,

  “Could it be done on credit?”

  The artisan placed the mouthpiece and then the body of the shakuhachi in the silk bag, tied the end as best he could, considering the rent left by a sword’s cut, set it on the floor before himself, and pushed it toward the end of the platform. It seemed a mean act, yet the bikuni saw there was guilt in his expression.

  “I understand,” said the bikuni, for a traveler was a risk for extending credit, and the man’s shop did not reflect an income that could well afford charity. “If I forfeit my instrument should I fail to pay you for the repair, would it then be possible? I will find some work to do to raise the small amount.”

  “Who would buy it, even repaired, if it made a damaged sound?” The artisan looked most put-upon, but his hard expression could not disguise a well-intending heart. “Very well,” he said, not allowing her to humble herself further. “Leave it with me a while. There is work which must come first. But I will get it done.”

  The bikuni bowed deeply and turned toward the street. She stood a moment, a motionless silhouette at the entrance, then looked back at the artisan to ask, “Will this road lead me to Lord Sato’s castle higher on this mountain?”

  His answer came reluctantly. “It’s no place for a nun to seek even brief employment.”

  “I hear he is a convert to the Lotus sect,” said the bikuni, encouraging the artisan; but he would not say more about Lord Sato, no doubt afraid of who might overhear any cri
ticism. She could not believe Lord Sato was especially wicked, as provincial rulers go, but there was something about the artisan’s attitude that seemed dark and moody, and she had seen this in the faces of everyone on the street. The village was not prosperous, but neither was it destitute. Thus Sato’s taxes must be neither slight nor excessive. She wondered what it was, then, that made the townsfolk act as though a pall hung over their lives, that made them leery of a Lord who didn’t seem to practice common tyranny.

  She stepped out onto the street and continued through the town. She stopped here and there to see what various merchants and artisans were doing. They went about their lives in an ordinary enough way, but at a slower pace than usual, and that gloomy aspect was in everybody’s disposition. It was a subtle thing, more related to an absence of cheer than to any excess of fear or visible sorrow.

  As she strode along the main street, she found herself nearing the end of the village proper and approaching the wide, cold creek that separated the village from the numerous small estates of Lord Sato’s retainers. Sato’s fief was indeed provincial, so nothing as elaborate as a castle-town had grown up around his fortification. Rather, there was a densely forested area surrounding his most private lands. Interspersed throughout the ancient trees were the homes of samurai owing Lord Sato allegiance.

  A bridge connected the village street with the road winding through that forest. On the samurai side of the bridge, there was a squat little guardhouse, its front doors opened so that the two men within had a clear view of who came and went. Under the usual order of things, strict rules were observed, which governed the comings and goings especially of townsfolk and farmers. Whatever an individual’s business, ranging from charcoal delivery or payment of the rice levy to fetching away fecal matter from toilets or fulfilling each year’s quota of forced labor, it was required that identification tags be presented. On them was engraved one’s name, position, and business. Such information was cross-checked with a ledger in the keeping of the guards, and thus little was allowed to happen around the castle that was not controlled. Such typical regulations were not being observed at this small checkpoint, however. What few people passed over the bridge were virtually ignored by the two guards, who seemed more concerned with staying near the warmth of the coal-pot resting between them. Perhaps it was because they knew everyone by sight, the village being small. The guards disposed of what struck them as meaningless tasks. But it struck the nun as evidence of laxness regarding duty. It caused her to wonder.