Saburo clears his throat, adjusts the angle of the fan stuck into his obi, and follows his escort. The twisting corridors seem to go on forever, and he soon loses all sense of direction. The castle halls all look the same—dark, polished wooden floors, white plaster walls punctuated by sliding paper shōji screens concealing unseen rooms. He catches the titter of women’s laughter from behind one, and false notes in a beginner’s tune on the koto coming from another. They move at a snail’s pace, since his samurai escort is reduced to scuffing along in the trailing silk trousers that fashionably prevent fighting men from making any aggressive moves indoors.
Just when the poet is beginning to think that the maze will never end, they reach the anteroom of the grand chamber in which the region’s new ruler receives his subjects. A thin bamboo blind swagged with impressive purple and red ceremonial tassels conceals a wide opening in the far wall, separating the exalted man in the next room from those seeking his favor.
“Saburo Shibata, Poet of Kyoto,” announces the chamberlain. The guards stand aside, allowing him to enter the anteroom alone.
From behind the blind a voice growls, “Pull the damn shade up, Maeda. How am I supposed to talk to this poet fellow if I can’t see his face?”
Lord Inaba plans to speak with him directly? Saburo pales and falls to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor in the bow reserved for the highest authority.
“Come, come,” commands the imposing figure now being revealed as the chamberlain raises the curtain. “Get up. I didn’t call you here to wear a hole in the tatami with your nose.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” murmurs Saburo, shuffling forward. He dares not rise any further. It doesn’t pay to take a lord too much at his word. He cautiously raises his eyes, only to find Lord Inaba awaiting him in a room so magnificent it takes his breath away. The walls are a deep blood red, entirely plastered in costly bingara clay. A carved ceiling of old growth hinoki cedar arches overhead, bathing the room in a scent so rare it seldom perfumes any place less exalted than an imperial residence.
The scarred man sitting rather stiffly amid this splendor in his purple silk court robes is relatively new to ruling—it’s only been three months since the shogun commanded the Inaba clan to replace the Todo family and their allies as lords of Yodo Castle—but he’s acquiring a reputation as a swift dispenser of justice to anyone who doesn’t give him the respect he’s due.
“Maeda-san, fetch the poet a cushion. Put it there.” Lord Inaba’s moustache bristles as he points to a spot directly in front of him. “And bring us some tea. This audience-giving is thirsty work.”
When the tea has been poured and Saburo is warily kneeling where he was told, the lord dismisses his retainers, telling them to station themselves in the corridor outside, in case they’re needed. Not that a poet poses much of a threat, he jokes.
Saburo forces a polite laugh and waits for the lord to take a sip of tea before venturing to wet his own tongue. Which is, truth be told, parched from nervousness. The daimyō finally takes a gulp, peers into its depths with distaste, then refills his cup from the teapot at his elbow.
“I’ll never get used to this stuff,” he complains. “The tea at my last posting wasn’t nearly so bitter.” He raises an eyebrow bisected by a thin scar. “I bet you could write a poem about that, couldn’t you?”
“Of course, my lord,” Saburo quickly agrees. “And a fine metaphor it would be. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to use it yourself?”
A bark of laughter. “I’m a fighter, not a poet.” Then he heaves an annoyed sigh. “But now it seems I have to be both. These days, it’s not enough to keep order, I have to play at politics too.”
Saburo compliments him on that astute observation, as though it were his own. In fact, it was the legendary general Hideyoshi Toyotomi who first employed poetry, flower arranging, and tea ceremony as instruments of statecraft. This new lord might be a bit rough around the edges, but he’s been well educated for his destiny.
“Now that my clan has taken possession of the castle, I’ve employed your brother to give me a crash course in tea ceremony,” he continues. “But apparently, that’s not enough. I need all kinds of other nonsense now, they tell me.”
Like . . . poetic scrolls? Saburo’s pulse quickens. Had his brother put in a good word for him? He hadn’t dared imagine that he’d been summoned to the castle in order to become court poet to the rising star of Kansai, but . . .
“This tea bowl you’ve written so much about,” says the daimyō. “What’s it called? Fortune? Fate? Something like that?”
“You mean Unmei, Your Excellency?”
“Yes. That’s it. Funny name for a tea bowl, isn’t it? When your brother first mentioned it, I thought it was a sword.” He guffaws at his own ignorance. “Which is why I like it.”
He waves the teapot at Saburo (who thinks it safest not to accept being served by such a lofty personage), then fills his own cup again.
“What I’d like to know is, where did you get it? I know I’m supposed to be able to figure that out by reading those scribblings of yours, but it would be quicker to hear it from you. In plain words, the kind a simple warrior can understand.”
He downs half his tea, then sits back, waiting.
Saburo bows.
“I was just a young man at the time, Your Excellency,” he begins. “I’d been studying with a disciple of the esteemed poet Basho, when something he said inspired me to give up my fine clothes, take up my traveling staff, and follow in the footsteps of his master.” He leaves out the fact that the life-changing words had been so critical of Saburo’s poetic efforts that he’d fled the master’s salon, vowing never to come back. Over the years, the story has been retold so many times that he no longer notices how the fabric of the legend hangs on the facts the way a court gown hangs on a wooden stand.
Warming to his subject, he tells of being caught in a typhoon (which had—in the saga’s current version—assumed hundred-year ferocity), becoming lost in the woods (so far from civilization that he’d later been inspired to write a poem on that very subject), and being rescued (near death, not drunk) by the reclusive master potter Yakibō. It was at midnight on New Year’s Eve that, after drinking tea (not sake) together and pondering the Four Noble Truths (not secretly scoffing at them), the artist known as the High Priest of Pottery had gifted him the tea bowl named Unmei (which is what he had renamed Yabō after a rainstorm and careless packing had smeared the characters the potter had instructed him to write on the lid. He’d taken the mishap as a sign from the gods that they approved of him giving it a new name, one more in keeping with its new owner’s aspirations.)
“After I received Unmei,” he tells Lord Inaba, “the saintly hermit sent me forth with his blessing, and from that day forward, my luck changed. I carried it over hill and vale, across rivers and mountains, and it inspired me to write The Road to Destiny poetry collection that was received with,” Saburo bows his head modestly, “my first small measure of acclaim.”
The rest—the critical praise, the way would-be poets now regularly appear on his doorstep, begging him to take their money and teach them to be great poets too—he modestly omits, simply concluding, “The rest is history.”
He bows deeply, to signal the end of his narrative.
“A fine story,” says Lord Inaba, his voice warm with approval. “And that’s exactly what I need right now. I’ve called you here today—”
The poet holds his bow, heart pounding.
“—to tell me where this mysterious High Priest of Pottery lives, so I can send someone to fetch me one of those lucky tea bowls.”
Saburo nearly pitches face-first onto the tatami. All the daimyō wants from him is a miserable tea bowl? Disappointment overwhelms him, then curdles into something worse. Fear. If Lord Inaba manages to hunt down the Pottery Priest, he’ll learn the true story. That Saburo hadn’t been given his famous tea bowl, he stole it.
“Poet?” the warlord barks. “Is somethi
ng wrong?”
Saburo coughs, takes a gasping breath.
“Sorry, my lord, I get these spells sometimes . . .”
What’s he going to do? He dares not refuse. But how can he say yes, without turning everything he’s built into a smoking ruin?
“I would be honored to serve your lordship in any way I’m able, but it’s been many years since I saw Yakibō,” he waffles. Could he get away with claiming ignorance? “If you remember from The Road to Destiny, I chanced across his kiln by getting lost, so I’m not at all sure I can remember how to get there.”
Lord Inaba frowns. “You should be able to retrace your steps, though. Isn’t that whole book about your journey? It has to be somewhere between here and that town you stopped in. The one with the persimmon tree.”
Too close. The first person the daimyō’s lieutenant stops on the streets of Shigaraki will point them straight to Yakibō’s kiln.
“Well remembered, my lord.” Think, think. “But his kiln could be anywhere within two days’ walk from there, and I’d be embarrassed to send Your Excellency’s retainers to comb the forest for a single twig, if you know what I mean.”
The warlord is frowning even more deeply. He’s not buying it.
Saburo is out of excuses. There’s only one way to make sure Lord Inaba’s minions don’t learn his secret.
“Won’t you allow me to go on this quest instead? The man who made Unmei is an avowed hermit, and he’ll certainly hide himself from such awe-inspiring persons as your retainers. But he knows me, Your Excellency. I’m sure I can persuade him to give you the luckiest tea bowl he has.”
“Fine. Just don’t order something specially made,” the daimyō growls. “Artisans fuss over things when they know it’s for the Castle, and before you know it, the thing that should have been finished in a month takes a year. Any old lucky tea bowl from this holy hermit will work just fine, but I need it as soon as possible. Too many of my new subjects are still loyal to the Todo clan, and I want to have a firm grip on their allegiance by the time the harvest is due, so they don’t siphon off supplies to those who would prefer to bring back their old masters.” He tosses back the rest of his tea. “So. What do you need? Horses, servants? How soon can you leave?”
“I’ll set out right away, Your Excellency,” Saburo gabbles, weak with relief. “I need nothing but my staff, my traveling cloak, and the opportunity to serve you.”
27.
Feudal Japan
JULY, 1724
Shigaraki
Lord Inaba’s money pouch weighs heavily under Saburo’s traveling kimono, and his feet burn from the unaccustomed walking, but that’s not what’s slowing his steps as the hills begin to take on a familiar shape. The closer he draws to Yakibō’s kiln, the more his misgivings grow.
When he first set out, his relief at dodging certain disaster had lent him a certain optimism. He’d even entertained the notion of buying a bottle of Yakibō’s favorite sake, knocking on his door, and suggesting they let bygones be bygones. They could spend a pleasant evening revisiting their old arguments as artists and equals. They could even invite Hattsan.
But by the time half-remembered landmarks begin to appear, the layers of fiction his story has acquired over the years have sloughed away, and he has to face the bald truth that although he departed with Yakibō’s blessing, he’s more likely to be greeted with a curse.
And that’s not even his biggest problem. Now that every step is bringing the past back with uncomfortable clarity, he’s reminded that the contents of the bulging purse entrusted to him will never be accepted in exchange for one of Yakibō’s precious “attachments.” Nothing he can offer the Pottery Priest will tempt him to part with a single tea bowl. Not silver. Not rank. Not fame. Nothing.
Saburo plods on, so caught up in brooding on the impossibility of his task that he doesn’t realize how close he’s getting, until the acrid smell of wood smoke penetrates his gloom. His chin jerks up. Is he already—? No, this path leads to Old Taro’s. If only he could turn here instead, hand over some of the daimyō’s silver and ask Old Taro to make a tea bowl for him. If the rival potter had even a fraction of Yakibō’s talent, that’s exactly what he’d—
His sandals slap to a halt, and his bark of laughter launches a cloud of twittering birds from a nearby bush. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Yakibō’s beloved “attachments” aren’t for sale, but his other pieces are. Special orders, some of them. Why not a tea bowl? If he could be talked into making a new one—a normal one, without all that Buddhist baggage—how would that be different from ordering a miso pot or a sake flask? He’d need a go-between of course, and he’d have to conceal who it’s intended for, but . . . yes, that’s what he’ll do. The intermediary will cost him a string of Lord Inaba’s coins, but the Pottery Priest cares little for money, and there ought to be plenty left over to keep himself in comfort and sake at a local inn until the new tea bowl is made and fired.
He tramps on, planting his walking stick with renewed vigor. The sun comes out and glints off the river, and even his blisters hurt less, now that he has a plan.
His surge of good cheer lifts him through the outskirts of Shigaraki, depositing him on the main street. Not much has changed. The tea merchant still displays his wares in Yakibō’s pots out front, but a new noodle stand has set up shop across from the temple.
He’d better keep his head down, just in case. It wouldn’t do to be recognized by anyone who remembers him from the days he used to be known about town as Tohai-kun, the Frozen Poet. The streets seem busier than twenty years ago, a little more crowded with—
He glances up as the townsfolk around him shift aside to make way for a file of armed men, escorting a government official. Saburo cranes his neck, curious. Tall hat, brocade robes. The regional magistrate. This one looks younger than the bearded old uncle who held the office twenty years ago, though, and he’s . . . no, he can’t be. Surely this new magistrate isn’t the underling Saburo shared an occasional flask of sake with, back when he was just a clerk, and Saburo was just a potter’s apprentice?
A potter’s apprentice who disappeared with his master’s prized tea bowl.
He draws a sharp breath. Anyone who has heard the Pottery Priest tell the tale will not call what he did “rescuing.” He darts into the nearest shop. Even after twenty years, the magistrate could order him flogged for thievery. Or worse. His hand flies instinctively to his nose, as if he heard the swordsman sharpening his blade.
Bending over a bin of daikon radishes, he pretends to inspect them until he’s sure the magistrate’s retinue has disappeared. Pulling his hat lower, he pokes his head out to check both ways, then slinks out to the street and scurries back the way he came. He dares not look up until he’s safely inside a hostelry in the neighboring village, where nobody will look at the name on his traveling papers and connect it to the poet better known in Shigaraki as a thief.
Safe in the privacy of the inn, he relaxes a little. But he knows that the time it will take for a tea bowl to be made and fired will already stretch Lord Inaba’s patience to the limit, so he can’t hide in his room for long.
That evening, he dresses in a brown kimono that shows the kind of false humility a prosperous artisan or a merchant with social aspirations might affect. It adheres to the strict laws that govern how much wealth each class is allowed to display, but is lined in the kind of gaudy and forbidden silk that can be “accidentally” revealed with a kick of the foot while walking.
Joining the townsfolk in the village’s sake shop, he hunches over his cup at a corner table. Which of his fellow drinkers would make the best go-between?
By the time he reaches the bottom of his second flask, he’s decided on a middle-aged man whose companion excused himself early to go home to his new wife. The balding drinker who’s now finishing his sake alone is apparently the town’s tea merchant.
Saburo picks up his empty flask and stands, but as he makes his way through the crowded hall for a refil
l, he jostles the table of the lone tea-seller hard enough to topple his sake bottle. Apologizing profusely, he insists on replacing it with a new (and better) one. When they’re both seated at the table with full cups, and pleasantries have been exchanged, he confides that although he’s traveling for business, he’d hoped to acquire a gift for his father-in-law while in the region.
“Regrettably, I haven’t yet found something that might appeal to him,” Saburo says, refilling his companion’s cup. “He saw a tea bowl in Kyoto that he admired very much, and I discovered that it was made by an artist from Shigaraki who goes by the name of Yakibō. Do you know him, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” says the merchant. “But I’m afraid he’s past taking on any commissions. My son-in-law is the apothecary in Shigaraki, and he told me that the old man’s apprentice stopped buying his master’s usual remedy a couple of weeks ago. He must no longer be hoping for a cure, poor man.”
No longer hoping for a . . . Yakibō is dying?
“Are you all right?” The tea seller is peering at him strangely.
“Yes, I’m just, uh, I’m sorry to hear the news he’s not well, that’s all.” Yakibō can’t be dying. He can’t be. “I wish I’d come sooner.”
“Eh, you’d have to have come a lot sooner,” says the tea-seller, topping up Saburo’s cup. “He’s been sick for almost a year, and his apprentice has been running things for longer than that. Must be five years ago now—or is it six? No, it’s five—Hattsan took over after that hard winter when our pond was frozen well into the spring. The tea crop was so late that my storeroom was nearly empty by the time the new batch of leaves finished fermenting.” The merchant drains his cup and smacks his lips. “But if it’s a tea bowl you’re wanting, I doubt Hattsan can help you. He makes perfectly serviceable water jars and grinding bowls, but he’s no artist. For tea ceremony ware, I really think you’d be better off with . . .”
The Last Tea Bowl Thief Page 14
