Thousand Shrine Warrior

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  It took a moment to recall whether it had been two years ago, or three, that she had been in the mountain province of Kanno. How time rushed by! Her life was strangely unpredictable. She could not place the chronology of several small adventures; had something or other happened before the terrible events in Kanno? or after? Well; failing to keep a travel-diary, there was much the mind neglected. She only thought of Kanno because of a Shinto priest named Yano of Seki, a hermit in some unknown hideaway, but once custodian of a large, rundown shrine. He had asked her to visit his home province someday; and here she was without having planned it.

  Yano had asked her to consider the beauty of the countryside as she strolled about Seki; then, if she would be so generous, he wished that she would remember him, so that dear Seki might come to him in dreams.

  A barefoot boy, small but swift, darted up the dark, steep path, almost bumbling into the nun. He hugged several dumplings to his breast, obviously stolen. He was a dirty, ragged scamp and could not possibly have purchased so many. One dumpling fell from his clutches, rolling and rolling back down the path, covering itself with dust.

  A ronin pursued the brat, sword waving. He looked to be a hungry fellow, yet chasing after so small a foe with blade drawn struck the bikuni as an overreaction. Rather than keeping out of the way, she made a point of tripping the man, and his sword went flying. He jumped to his feet, snatched up his weapon, and pointed it at the nun. He gritted his teeth and winced so hard it made him spit just to breathe.

  “Don’t look down on children,” said the nun. “Emperor Ojin, who became wargod Hachiman, ruled Naipon when younger than that boy.”

  “He stole my dinner!” spewed the ronin, beside himself with rage. His sandals were worn so thin he ought to have thrown them away. His clothing needed washing. He might have tried to kill the woman, but she was uncowed and well-armed. She was also mysterious, her face hidden beneath an amigasa, her posture relaxed but ready. But he was a wronged man and knew it. He would not back away. He exclaimed, “An insult to trip me that way! Make restitution!”

  The bikuni reached into the front of her kimono, near her obi. She drew out a wallet, untied it, and removed some coins. These she threw at the ronin’s feet. “Buy lots of dumplings,” she said, and walked on up the path.

  She came to the knoll’s rise, the momentary incident already gone from her mind. She looked down the long slope toward a village. Cuttlefish boats were setting sail by night, torches front and back, their fires reflecting in ragged streaks upon black water. Night-fishing was perilous, especially if there were an unpredicted storm. Many fishers lost their lives each year. Deadly though their industry could be, to see them heading toward the horizon, their brands shining, and to hear their sisters and wives shouting blessings from the beach, was pleasing to the senses.

  “Bundori-sama!” the nun exclaimed softly, wondering if her words would carry to Kanno on so light a wind. “Yano of Seki! Are you dreaming just now? I’m thinking of you, as I promised.”

  She was embarrassed to have been overheard. The rag-clad boy with dumpling on his face crept near. She turned her hat-shrouded face slightly, then said with low intonation, “Want to steal something from me? You can’t have my shakuhachi.”

  “Thanks for helping me escape,” the boy said dryly. He was pretty cocky for a dirty-faced thief. He looked the bikuni up and down as though deciding whether or not to approve of her, then said, “I suppose you saved my life. No one ever chased me with a sword before, although I’ve been caught and beaten once or twice.”

  “If you must steal, you should pick people who are better off,” said the nun. “That ronin might have gone hungry because of you. A long time since there’s been a meaningful war. Not much a samurai can do. You should know it, a samurai’s son.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I guessed right? I thought so. Have pity on the men you rob.”

  “He bought six dumplings,” said the boy, as though disgusted by excess. “He only needed one.”

  “How many did you steal?”

  “All six. Want one?” He held out a dirty hand. “Too much for me.” He patted his belly. “I ate four.”

  “Thank you. I will.” She took the proffered dough, handprint and all. She bowed simultaneously to the dumpling and the boy.

  “There are some benches over there,” said the boy. She followed him to a place intended for sitting and viewing the sea and village. Nice trees on either side held back the breeze. She sat and raised the dumpling under her hat. The boy sat rather nearer than was polite. He said, “You were talking to Yano but I didn’t see him anywhere. He’s a nice man. He helps me out sometimes.”

  “Don’t lie,” said the bikuni. “Yano left Seki when your father was a boy.”

  “I steal food but I don’t lie!” The boy was indignant. “Yano lives way up there.” He gestured vaguely.

  “Up where?”

  “Hawk crag. See it sticking above the forest? He lives halfway up.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “Always.”

  “Not the same man. The Yano I know is a hermit in Kanno.”

  The nun spoke without certainty. Yano had never really told her where he would be going when he left White Beast Shrine more than two years earlier. Sensing her vague doubt, the boy pried at it. “This is the Yano who wrote a book of proverbs and poems about folk dances.”

  “My Yano did that,” the nun admitted.

  “Then he’s the same man. Not more than one Yano of Seki in this world, I’ll warrant. I’ll take you. It doesn’t take long to climb up there.”

  The tame, rolling hills of Seki were nothing compared to the mountains of such places as Kanno and Kai. Parts were densely forested, especially around fishing villages, and here and there some startlingly huge natural monument reared above the trees. In other areas, the land had been cleared and was moist and green with spring cultivation.

  Any so-called hermit living in such an excuse for a retreat, in the midst of a populated countryside, could hardly consider himself an ascetic. Still, it was conceivable Yano had become homesick and had returned to Seki for his final years.

  The three-day moon, called Archer’s Moon, shone high in heaven by the time they reached Hawk Crag. It was not difficult climbing. Old people could do it if they pleased. It would never meet the needs of a legitimate recluse. Built perilously near the edge of an overhang, the horrible shanty was barely visible in the moon’s thin light. There was laughter coming from the place. An old man was laughing and so was some woman.

  “He commits shocking sins up there,” said rag-clad Hayo. “Say you! Buddha’s man! Stop that!”

  The bikuni said softly, “The Yano I know is a kannushi, a Shinto priest.”

  “No. He’s Buddhist. Say you! Old man! Look out your door! We’re coming up!”

  The giggling of the girl increased. The old man was peering through one of his hovel’s innumerable cracks. Whoever was with him must have uncovered a lamp, for light began to seep out from all the corners of the shack. The old man shouted, “I’m not a holy fellow! Don’t bring pilgrims to me, Hayo, you dirty scamp! Who’s that? Hey, ex-samurai! You a woman? Throw away your swords and hurry up here!”

  She could see only the shadow of his head bobbing with excessive animation at the cracks. She called, “I’m a friend of Yano of Seki, known in Kanno as the Honorable Mister Paddy-Bird. If you’re his impostor, soiling his good name, I’ll have your life!”

  “Ha ha! Come fight me to the death! If you have the nerve, ha ha!”

  She and the boy reached the ledge on which the hermit lived. The man calling himself Yano scurried right out to greet them. He most definitely was not the Yano she had known. He wore a Buddhist vest and an oversized rosary as a necklace, but nothing else. A fat woman came out of the hovel, her kimono open in front, and began to climb down from the crag by some alternate route. Before she disappeared below the ledge, she shouted, “I’ll come see you again. Have mo
ney next time!” He didn’t answer, but waved behind his back.

  The vile hermit picked his nose and said to the bikuni, “Well, as you can see, I’m Yano of Seki all right. But you’re no friend of mine.”

  “Yano left this province a long time ago,” said the bikuni, her voice stern with disapproval. “I happen to know he wrote a book on folk dance, but he never knew what became of it. Have you been claiming authorship? Do you use his good name to bait whores to your crooked shed?”

  “You’ve seen through me!” said the impostor Yano, clutching a pretend arrow in his chest. “However, I’ve been Yano long enough that I’ve forgotten who else I might have been. I added some nice poems to the manuscript, so I’m Yano all right.” He began to hop about in an absurd parody of a dance, and sang one of his unnecessary compositions:

  “Stupid to dance!

  Stupid to watch!

  Stupid either way!

  Might as well dance!

  “Hey, ex-samurai, dance with me!”

  Hayo began to dance at least, a spritely boy grabbing the old man’s hands and hopping left and right with him. They were like two sporting demons. The bikuni said,

  “Old man, give me Yano’s manuscript at once. Tear out the pages that are yours if you want.”

  Impostor Yano ceased dancing. He said, “It’s my treasure! People give me offerings in order to come up here and copy out their favorite ditties. How would I live without it?”

  “Yano was a decent man and devoted to Shinto. He would be alarmed to find out his manuscript was ill-used by some vulgar Buddhist.”

  “What? You think that? Well! Well!” The hermit stamped the ground in agitation. “All right! You can have it! You think Yano was so righteous? He gave me that manuscript a long time ago! He said he didn’t want it!” The impostor ran through the open door of his hermitage, then out again, manuscript in one hand, a portable lantern in the other. He set the lantern on the ground and squatted beside it. The lantern’s paper walls were torn, and a black oni-devil had been painted on one side. The impostor turned to a certain page and said, “How’s this one! You’ll like it!

  “Hopping in the garden!

  Hopping to the clapping hands!

  Hopping through the ama-dera!

  Hopping on the nuns!

  “Pretty good one? It’s called ‘Convent Dance.’ This one’s good, too. Yano used to sing it as loud as it would go!

  “Oh, in Nikomi they dance squatting down!

  Oh, in Nikomi they dance squatting down!

  Whew! Stench! Don’t dance squatting!

  In Nikomi they dance squatting down!”

  The hermit pinched his nose shut and rolled onto his back, kicking his feet in the air, laughing uproariously. Hayo hopped around him, laughing also.

  “You wrote those,” the bikuni said sharply. “Yano never would.”

  The hermit threw the manuscript in the air and the bikuni caught it. The rice paper was soft from wear and bound together with silk string. The hermit said, “See for yourself. Isn’t my handwriting different? I wrote the ones in the back. Not as good as Yano’s, I’ll admit.”

  The bikuni dropped the manuscript and turned her face to the ledge, gazing across the top of the nighted forest. False Yano crept up to her, bending low like some kind of wheedling devil; and he said with odd compassion, “You’re upset? Because your friend lived a different life than you expected? Yano was known as ‘the lover in love with love’ and ‘the merry priest.’ When he gave me his book, he said to keep up his good name, for he was done with it. You see? I was his friend, too. So don’t go spoiling it by telling people what they already know.”

  She continued to stare away from Hawk Crag. False Yano said, “Don’t be gloomy! Nothing wrong with having fun and being in love. Yano had a lot of lovers in his time. If I told you what all kinds, you’d be surprised. But he was never insincere, and neither am I. That fat whore of mine? I do her a favor and like her a lot. You think she has the Thousands of Myriads for customers? Frankly, we’re in love. Not exclusively, mind you.”

  The bikuni still would not reply. False Yano made a derisive sound and walked away, saying, “A prude! Hey, Hayo! Don’t bring prudes up here again! She’s a spoil-sport. Takes the world too seriously, as though things weren’t bad enough without posturing like that. Tch!”

  The bikuni started to climb down from the hill’s edge. Hayo hurried after her but she said, “Don’t follow me, Hayo. It isn’t necessary.”

  “Can’t get rid of me!” he said. “Where are you going to stay? I bet you gave that ronin the only coins you had! I’ll show you a good place. I have my own house.”

  Hayo’s home was an abandoned storehouse at the rear of a hillside estate. There had once been a habitable dwelling nearby, but it was presently nothing but a burnt-out hulk. The charred ruin, along with the storehouse, were nearly lost among weeds, vines, and tall grasses. Hayo had borrowed a flame for a pilfered candle along the way, and led the bikuni with this feeble light, his hand cupped to protect the flame from wind.

  Though the storehouse escaped fire, it had subsequently fallen into a fearful condition. Even beggars found better places. The door had come off and lay among weeds, in two halves. Many of the floorboards were rotted through. A fool, but no one else, might ascend to the dangerous loft; nor would wisdom allow one to stand beneath the loft. The bikuni followed Hayo through the small interior, trusting he knew the safest places to step, stand, or sit.

  He told her where to place her swords and hat as he reached into a secret place beneath the floor and pulled something out. It was a lovely candleholder of a type used in temples. He stuck the candle in this, then handed it to the bikuni, smiling hugely.

  “Did you steal this?” she asked, receiving the candleholder.

  “I steal everything. There’s some charcoal in that corner, if you would light some for us.”

  As the night was not unpleasant, she used the least amount of charcoal, placed in a cracked pot. She had to go outside to find dry twigs and grass, but soon she had the coals glowing. Hayo meanwhile knelt before a pitiful reliquary, in which two funeral tablets stood side by side. He struck a tarnished brass bowl, which gave a dull ring instead of the long, pure note of better metal. He clapped his hands before the reliquary and mumbled something or other to his mother and father.

  When they were spreading out infested bedding, the bikuni asked, “How were you orphaned?”

  “I don’t know how mother died. I was little. Father killed himself last year. I don’t mind. I get by.”

  “He left you just like that?”

  “I don’t mind. He asked me not to.”

  “Not to mind?”

  “And not to follow. He had a hard time. I get by.” His face was momentarily in candlelight, cheeks slick with tears. She thought it best not to pursue the subject, since it made him sad. He said, “Do you hate Yano? He’s perverted, but nice.”

  “I don’t hate him,” said the bikuni, covering herself up. The boy fussed around her, tucking her in as though she were the child. Then he crawled off to his own blanket. The bikuni whispered her confession, “Maybe I’m just envious. My life could never be so free. Not even now, with no one to answer to.”

  “This sad world,” said the boy, innocent of jest. He blew out the candle and the two of them were soon asleep.

  The bikuni awoke in the moments before dawn. She slipped out of the storehouse, scratching at some fiendish bug which had transferred itself from bedding to neck. She carried her incognito-hat in one hand and strode to the high point of the ruinous estate, from whence to see the sky turn from deep indigo to shallow blue.

  From this knoll she had a fine view of Namida Beach but could not see the fishing village. Namida was famous for a battle centuries before—yet it was forgotten what the battle had decided. A river ran into the turquoise mirror of ocean. Naku Jetty was a crescent shape creating a cove at the river’s mouth.

  Straight above her head, the sky was speckles
s, promising a pleasant day. Far out over the sea there reared a billowing cloud in the form of a great white horse. The newly risen sun gave the horse red eyes. She watched that cloud until it lost its shape and hidden meaning. Somewhere in the weeds and vines nearby, a hototogisu cuckoo, far from its highland haunts, made its song of endless, longing love.

  Beneath the sky and with so much of the fresh world stretched before her vision, the bikuni felt miniscule. She felt as though the whole of Naipon—every rock and stone and wave, and the shadow which was herself upon a hill—might dissolve as do the shapes of clouds. Everything would cease to exist if she blinked her eyes once too many times, or failed to appreciate the vision well enough. And upon the world’s conclusion, she would not wake from the dream, but would cease altogether to exist.

  Hayo crept up behind, yawning and scratching his dirty shock of hair.

  “A nice morning,” she said, turning slightly his direction.

  He slapped his thin belly and said, “My tummy smells something cooking way off there.” He pointed down the narrow lane that was the main road to the village. “Enough for you, too.”

  “Please don’t feel responsible for me,” said the bikuni. “To tell the truth, I disapprove of your stealing, though it is not my place to chastise. Nevertheless, because I have once accepted a meal from you, I must repay or be indebted. Therefore, please allow me to show you how a bikuni gets by.”

  “Begging’s fun too!” said Hayo gleefully. “Get better stuff if you steal it, though.”

  “I don’t beg,” the nun said evenly. “I play my shakuhachi.”

  “I’d like to hear it!” he said happily. “We’ll beg together. I’ll do a dance.”

  “It’s not begging,” she said. “A dance would be undignified. Come along and watch, but no dancing.”

  They went along the winding lane in the direction of the sea, losing sight of the water when bamboo groves impinged upon the road and shaded the cool morning. Somewhere to the right was the sound of young women using mattocks to dig bamboo shoots. It was hard work, but they were laughing. She and Hayo could not see them, but they chattered and made a lot of noise.