Thousand Shrine Warrior

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  The bikuni mused. “A strange, sad story,” she said, then turned away from Otane as though to leave without further word. But she stood in the gate a while longer. When her voice issued again from beneath her hat, she said, “If you and Shinji must try to find a better place, I suggest you go in the direction of Shigeno Valley. It’s a long journey for you, but the lord of that valley is a woman named Toshima. You may have heard of her, since women rarely rule a fief alone, and it has made her famous. Under her protection, you can work hard as farmers in her valley. Tell her a strolling nun with two swords said so on her honor! If you are caught before you reach there, you’ll be brought back here and killed.”

  The nun stepped out onto the path leading to the main road. Otane bowed behind the departing nun, then closed the gate, a barely audible “Thank you” reaching the bikuni’s ears. As the nun made her way back to the road and started toward the village, she could not unburden herself of thoughts about Otane. “How sad she is,” the nun said to herself. “I hope people help her and her lover along their way.”

  Under the protection of a thatched lean-to that had been propped up by Priest Bundori for the nun’s sake, a stone lantern was slowly taking shape. The nun worked diligently, oblivious to the chill, heavy rain outside her tiny cover. The priest had loaned her mallet and chisel, and gotten her started with numerous verbal instructions, for she had not made such a lantern previously. “You must bore the horizontal holes first, while the stone is strongest,” he’d advised. “Then shape the outside of the lantern. The top is made separately. Don’t worry if it stands straight or not; the ground where you put it won’t be flat in any case.”

  Most of the time she was left alone to this labor, though often she could see Priest Bundori working about the shrine compound and grounds. He wore a coat made of grass, which caused him to look like a spiny animal, and a wide hat, these protecting him from the elements. With a long rake, he swept leaves from the surfaces of ponds, and unclogged the various miniature cataracts and tops of tiny waterfalls. Some of the streams were already swollen to their limit and parts of the gardens would surely become flooded, even with Bundori’s best efforts to keep the water flowing smoothly.

  The leaves he removed from waterways became mulch and compost in other areas of the grounds. Leaves collected in dry weather had been placed in sheds to use as fodder and fuel, but this wet stuff would be saved for next year’s gardening.

  When the rain became heavier still, Bundori vanished into one of the buildings for a while, performing what chores the nun could not tell. It was comforting to see the fellow scurrying about, but sometimes the nun felt she should be helping him rather than chipping at her stone creation. But Bundori had been most insistent that she adhere to her own labor.

  She whacked hammer against chisel against stone. It shook the length of her arm and caused wrists especially to ache. She set the tools aside a bit, reaching inside her pocket-sleeve to withdraw a thin, stoppered bamboo tube. She removed the plug and stuck a finger in the opening of the tube, taking out a helping of salve. It was the medicine Bundori had mixed for her, smelling of knotweed and shepherd’s purse and clove. She rubbed it on the backs of her swollen hands and around her wrists. It created a warm sensation and did indeed ease the ache.

  Later in the afternoon, rain still falling in sheets, Bundori brought a meal to her from the main shrine-house. She ceased chipping at stone, greeted the priest, and accepted the bowl of coarse millet and some kind of stringy, tough root he had dug up from somewhere. He had brought a bowl for himself, generously keeping her company rather than eating in the comfort of his home. The stuff he was forced to eat out of poverty was not especially tasty, but both Bundori and the nun were grateful for what there was.

  “I don’t blame your pushing me to get this work done quickly,” said the nun, it not evading her notice that twice the priest had fed her outside so that she would have minimal excuse to interrupt her task. “If I stay too long, I’ll eat you out of home.”

  This was not Bundori’s reasoning at all, and he was chagrined to be misunderstood. “If you don’t mind the poverty of our meals, it is no bother to me that you eat a lot,” he said. “But it is true I am trying to be particularly helpful so that you can finish your lantern in a hurry.” He gazed out from under the lean-to, beneath which he crouched alongside the nun. He held the bowl of food in one hand, chopsticks in the other. The sky was dark and foreboding, promising worse rain than what presently fell. “Hard to say when the first high winds will start. Harder still for you to travel if they start up soon! Please don’t misunderstand me; I would be glad to have you stay the rest of autumn and the whole of winter. But it would be a long time for you. I think you’d rather continue your thousand-shrine journey. Life is short, after all. Not enough time for you to finish your atonement if you dawdle here and there.”

  “You think I travel to atone for something?” asked the feasting nun.

  “Isn’t it so?” he asked. There was not the least antipathy in his remarks, but he sounded pretty sure of himself. “You killed a lot of people in the past, is that right? Now you’re sorry for it. That’s why you walk about Naipon the Anchored Empire, too modest even to tell your name to anyone.”

  “Maybe it’s true I’m, sorry about some things I’ve done,” the nun allowed. “But I’m not sure I am. You think me humble to live this life, but it may well be that I’ve become addicted to freedom. Once I was a retainer to a certain lord, then I was wife of another, and always I pursued my duty with utmost vigor, except once or twice when I strayed for the sake of adventure. On reflection, I realize that when I did not stray, it was because duty itself led to adventure. I never did like the ropes which bound me, even the ropes of samurai fame and duty and face and honor. Now I have given up family, masters, even my own name. To whom am I answerable except my inner self? It is supposed to be a tragedy for a samurai to fall as I have fallen, to ‘leave the world’ as a nameless wanderer. I haven’t yet experienced the fullness of the tragedy. If I atone for something, I do it badly. Life interests me too much.”

  Bundori had a capped bamboo container full of tea, and two matching cups. He poured a little for the bikuni. Then she took the container and poured for him. The brew warmed their insides. “The tea is a herbal remedy,” he remarked, smacking his old lips. “It will help your fingers and my knees!” He poured a little more for her. He pondered the things the woman had said to him, then added his own thoughts: “I traveled around a bit myself, when I was young. I suppose I was not doing any particular atonement either. I was looking for someplace better than dear old Seki. Now I’ve a nostalgia for the place I felt critical about in youth!”

  “We’re all looking for a better place,” the bikuni mused. “Even those of us who don’t go anywhere.”

  “That must be true! Therefore I may not have given up, even though I haven’t traveled in so long. I’m still looking!”

  “Looking for Seki you left behind?” she asked wistfully. “As I, perhaps, seek my native Heida, as though it could exist the way it existed for a child.”

  “Seki has grown better in my memory, no doubt. Have your travels taken you there as yet?”

  “I was in Seki when very young, visiting a warrior’s shrine with my father and younger brother. The shrine faced the sea and was on a windy hillside. That’s all I can remember. I was pretty small, but I did learn something important while there.”

  “It’s so?”

  “Yes. Until I went to Seki, the first place I can remember visiting, I had always thought the moon shone only in Heida. I was surprised to see the moon favored Seki as well!”

  “The moon favors it very well!” said Bundori, misty-eyed. “The thought of it makes me want to make a poem.” He started to recite something on the spur of the moment, putting it to a rough tune:

  “What a splendid place, Seki!

  I should go back there someday

  Stand upon the hill and smell the sea

  Oh, but
it’s far, and I am old

  ha ha! What a splendid place, right here!”

  He laughed at himself, a crooked-mouthed and clownish laugh, but his brow knit upward in a sad way. It was hard to say if he was happy or sad. It seemed he was both. He said, “You should go see it for me! See if it isn’t even nicer than you recall! Think about me when you go there. That way, Seki will be in my dreams.”

  “I will do it,” said the nun. “I’ll play my flute before the very shrine my father took me to when I was little. I will play for the warrior buried there, and for the memory of my father and younger brother.”

  “Your brother is dead too? Must have been he died of war!”

  “Yes, he died of war. He died bravely.” Her expression was vacant for a moment, her mind wandering off into memories of the men in her family. Then she said, “My father died of a mean horse, though. He had a long life.”

  “I’m glad,” said Bundori.

  Bundori’s white stag came into the gardens from a wooded area. The beast drank from a cold, shallow pool, then raised his red eyes to look straight at the two people sitting under the lean-to. He seemed amused by them, but who can say what a stag may think? The rain ran off his pale fur in rivulets. He had already grown his winter coat and didn’t mind the chill of autumn.

  “As you were a traveler before,” the nun asked, “what convinced you to settle down at last, in such a place as this? I can’t imagine giving up the freedom!”

  “Ideas change as one grows older,” said Bundori. “Especially with bad knees like mine, which always did make wandering a nuisance. Maybe I had a reason for staying at this particular shrine; maybe it was an accident. I came here as you did, by chance, many years ago, not intending to stay long. Twenty years have passed. Maybe more! I’ve lost track. There were five old men living here at the time, and the gardens were nicer than nowadays, there being more hands to take care of things. They had lived at this shrine since they were young men, more than sixty cold winters! I was appalled by the very notion. I told them stories about my travels. I was rude enough to suggest they had wasted their own lives by staying put like they did. They didn’t mind my saying so. After a few days, they decided to go on a pilgrimage together. That’s how much my stories impressed them. I promised to take care of the gardens and the compound for them while they were away. But even then, watching them hobble down the mountainside, holding onto one another’s sleeves, going in search of they knew not what, I didn’t think they’d live long enough to come back. I hope they had at least one good adventure before they died!”

  “So you’ve been here ever since,” said the bikuni.

  “I was glad to trade my way of living for theirs. I’ve not regretted it a moment, even lately when things are not so easy.”

  “You never miss adventure?” she asked.

  “In my case, I was not after adventure in particular, unless I’ve forgotten. I was only searching, as I said. You said we all search, even if we don’t travel. I must have started searching long before I left home. I searched for joy in a world filled with cruelty and stupidity. At first I thought I could be happy if only I could count on a few friends. But friends can be contentious, so I thought ideal friendship could be found in the classics, and I read a lot. But old books are often hard to comprehend, so I decided anthologies of poetry were best, for anyone can understand the poems in any manner they decide to understand them. Yet poems prey upon emotion, so it struck me that a rural life would be more conducive to restful joy. Thinking so, I set out in search of a restful place, but never could stay anywhere too long. Little towns were dull. People were no different than in bigger places. For a long time I believed music and dance were the only things to ease the heart. As I traveled from place to place and festival to festival, I listened to the folksongs and watched the regional dances. I even wrote a treatise about it, though I’ve no idea what became of the manuscript. Songs and dances were nice to see, but in the long run it was only my special interest, and not the road to joy. I had lived this fickle life for many years when I stumbled on this shrine. When those five old men left me here by myself, I soon realized that seclusion in a mountain shrine, attending to the Thousands of Myriads, cleanses the impure heart and makes us whole. Nothing else can do it. This is the only thing. Before I die, I expect to find a wild retreat higher in the mountains, and that shall be the most complete seclusion, the final ecstasy of my life!”

  The bikuni could not suppress a smile, for Bundori had as much as confessed that his fickle nature had not really changed, that he still felt there was something better in the next field, or higher on the mountain.

  For a while, the Shinto priest and esoteric nun were silent together, warm cups in their hands, staring out at nothing, their hot breaths little clouds before their faces. It was a peaceful comraderie. Far, far away there was a flash of lightning, so far away it made no sound for a long time; and when the sound rolled up the mountain at last, it was muted, like the weary sigh of gods. The sun could barely penetrate the clouds. The world was diffuse and dreamlike. Despite the rain, the edgeless quality of everything was pleasant.

  After a few moments of listening to the rain upon the small thatched lean-to, the nun asked carefully, “Tell me about the Lotus priest who instructs Lord Sato.”

  The question stilled Bundori’s breath. The nun saw that she would have to encourage him better.

  “You have managed never to mention him to me yourself. But yesterday in the village, and at a place I visited among the samurai estates, it became clear to me that Priest Kuro is uppermost in everybody’s mind. His influence seems not to be a good thing, although to tell the truth, I’ve seen fiefs in worse condition than this one, even without untoward clerical influence. It makes me wonder about the real purpose of Kuro’s machinations.”

  “He’s a monstrous fellow,” Bundori whispered. “He hasn’t done much for a while, but when he first appeared at the castle last autumn, several priests of the area took ill and died. The rest left shortly after Lord Sato’s terrible decree against worshipping Amida or Kwannon or the Shinto gods, or anything but the Lotus Sutra, as though the sutra were itself a god. Now there is only Kuro the Darkness—and me. His influence cannot reach me directly, because the Thousands of Myriads of Shinto deities protect me from Buddhist demons and magic. Also I have the white buck. He’s a good luck charm, as are my white birds, fish, turtle, and a family of voles who have already hibernated so you haven’t seen them. I fear, though, that someone will defile my shrine by some physical act, if Kuro cannot reach it with his spells. If someone had the nerve to pee or spill blood or throw some dead things on these grounds, then evil spirits would be able to take control of the fouled spots. I am prepared at any moment to fight Buddhist monsters with Shinto counter-spells. But I’m an old man, to tell the truth. I don’t look forward to what Kuro might do.”

  “Has he done anything to you so far?”

  “Not much. Several samurai came once and tried to claim my white buck, so that Lord Sato could hunt it to the ground. I think Kuro sent them, but Kuro does everything through Lord Sato and cannot insist too much. I couldn’t have stopped them from taking my buck if they’d been more resolved. When they tried to catch him, they realized how difficult it would be. He’s only gentle when he wants to be, and his antlers are sharp. So the samurai went higher in the mountains and caught an ordinary deer for Sato’s hunt. When the weather changed recently, numerous deer started for low ground, passing through local places. Sato’s retainers have caught several of these for Lord Sato’s purposes. Kuro hasn’t had an excuse to worry me about my buck since then. As I don’t interfere with anything, Kuro has overlooked me for a while. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Why would the stag be important to Kuro?”

  “Well, he’s a big fellow, and even the smallest of white beasts constitute Shinto charms and magicks of the highest order. Probably I would have to leave here if not for the buck, or risk the sickness that took care of Ku
ro’s rivals.”

  “It’s interesting,” said the nun. “If he’s a sorcerer, as you say, why does he fear priests?”

  “Not a sorcerer,” said Bundori. “He’s a monster. A devil out of Buddhist Hell. I have no proof of it, but I think I’m right. He seems immune to the Lotus Sutra for some reason, so it’s the only one he will allow. He acts ambitious, and pretends to be devoted to the Lotus Sutra, but these things will prove to be a ruse in the long run. Ambition disguises an even more unholy purpose, though I don’t know what the purpose might be. Why else has he slowly rid Lord Sato’s fief of the holy men who might exorcise a devil in a confrontation? Kuro will worry about you for the same reason he didn’t like the priests. He can’t risk his plan by ignoring someone strong enough to fight a devil.”

  “You assume he has some plan,” said the nun. “But would a devil need one?”

  “This one does,” he answered. “Or else he would already have wrought random havoc. He has something in mind and is careful about his moves. He awaits the proper moment, and has been patient. I’m sure of it, though don’t ask me to be specific, for it is only how I feel.”

  “Do you plan to stop him if you can?”

  “No. I don’t,” said Bundori, without the least hesitation in his reply. “I’ll defend my shrine, that’s all. Does it mean I’m a coward? What happens happens. The most I can do is keep White Beast Shrine a haven for the villagers and farmers in the event of something awful coming to pass. All I need to do is keep blood and urine and rotting flesh away from here, and this place will be a fortress against whatever Kuro the Darkness might conjure.”

  The nun picked up her borrowed tools and made as though to start on her lantern again. But she stopped a moment and looked at the priest who was sitting on his haunches looking out at the rain. She said, “As a matter of fact, I’ve fought devils before. My sword is a famous one, as I told you, though like myself, it does not boast about its name. It is haunted by its maker, who died for love of swordsmithing and Naipon. A ghost-haunted blade is a good weapon against a monster.”