The Straw Doll Cries at Midnight

by K. Bird Lincoln

  A burst of male laughter and booted footsteps on stone made everyone turn to face the path. Male attendants in fine layered robes, hair caught into sleek topknots, poured up the slope. Across their foreheads they all wore matching hachimaki with the Mitsuuroko—three scales—crest of the Hojo embroidered in the Ashikaga colors of gold and black.

  Then came the Rooster Lord himself, strutting over to the front seat next to the Daimyo, a fresh, startling contrast to the Daimyo’s somber armor. If Beautiful were here, she’d certainly have cutting remarks about this display of wealth. Hojo meant to make some kind of statement with this display. Kazue sat stiffly next to me, presenting only her back. No help there. She stared at the stage as if memorizing each leaf on the pine. The Hojo attendants advanced on the side seating like foxes rousting pheasant from the bush. Handmaidens tittered, dropped programs or fans, and flapped the long sleeves of their robes in their haste to change positions.

  A conspicuous lack of men surrounded Kazue and me. I sat up straighter, adjusting my hem again. Silly, girl. As if the angle of a hem could fool anyone here. It wasn’t just Kazue’s disdainful sniffing that kept the male attendants away.

  The makeup, robe, and hair my friends had spent so much time arranging suddenly weighed on me like a winter robe in high summer. This was not who I was, and the ease with which the other handmaidens and attendants flirted and preened made it extremely clear no one else was fooled, either. Hot envy of Uesugi-san and Little Turtle joined the flush spreading down my neck. I had the fiercest longing to go home, even if it meant leaving Ashikaga alone here with the yurei and his dying father. To walk in Whispering Brook’s forest, taste Father’s miso soup, sleep next to Little Brother’s restless, warm body—that was where I was meant to be, not in Kyoto clothed in borrowed robes clutching paper as indecipherable to me as the words of the nobles chatting in the front row.

  My scalp prickled. I raised my eyes to find Ashikaga awkwardly half-turned my direction. Dark eyes flickered over us, noting the island of silence. Somehow, my lordling pierced through the make-up disguise, stripping away false layers to bare, rough peasant underneath. I flinched away, as if Ashikaga could see into my heart, filled with the desire to leave Kyoto. Traitorous thoughts. Heat flowed from shoulders into my chest, tangling into a knot.

  The kabuto helmet set aside, hair pulled back tightly, that finely featured face was as exposed as mine was covered. Exposed, but not open. The shuttered look meant Ashikaga was keeping a hold on strong emotions. Zeami’s possession of Lady Ashikaga’s box, appearing in public, Lord Hojo’s engagement to Lady Hisako—any and all of these things could make Ashikaga feel as if facing a court of execution instead of a night of entertainment.

  For an instant, the grim mouth relaxed. The particular look that flashed briefly over Ashikaga’s features—familiar, exasperated amusement—lanced deep inside me, breaking open the knot of selfish worries. The barest nod of a chin, and then my lordling turned to greet Lord Hojo with a courtly bow, strikingly sleek in dark armor against the peacock-feather robes of the other Lord.

  I pressed restless fingernails into my palms, trying to sit as still as Kazue. Just a smile. Just a bare nod, and all the longing for home and family was swept away by a warmth rising up my body like steam. Just a youth in out-of-place armor. Just dark eyes that saw too much. Why should this affect me so?

  Rivulets of perspiration tickled down my sides under the heavy robes. Heads turned again as another set of nobles appeared at the top of the slope. My scalp prickled more urgently.

  Lord Yoshikazu and Lord Hosokawa.

  After them came more nobles and attendants. Kazue probably knew their names. I paid no mind to her muttering. The only nobles I cared about were already here. Hosokawa-Norinaga never even glanced at me, but awareness prickled the air. As Lord Yoshikazu went to join the Daimyo, I strained to hear the conversation, but the rustling and chattering was too loud to make anything out. When Lord Yoshikazu clapped Hojo on the back, I could guess it was to the news of the engagement, but nothing else of their conversation came through.

  Even before the musicians took the stage, my lower back was an aching mass from the stiff posture required by formal robe and obi. Three men with hand-drums, and a fourth with a wooden flute, sat on the rear of the stage in front of the pine painting. Dressed all in black, two more placed a simple round structure in the middle of the stage. They settled dried clumps of susuki plume grass around the structure and then retreated. Conversation died down as the audience turned their attention to the stage.

  I’d seen Dengaku Noh acrobats and jugglers before when they passed through Ashikaga Han, usually near harvest time, but I had never seen a mask before like the one worn by the solitary actor who slowly, so slowly, shuffled down the covered bridge to the throaty shrieks of the flute.

  I let the program fall to the bench. I couldn’t read the blocky characters printed on expensive paper explaining what the performance was about or who this character must be. The figure, hunched like an old woman, shuffled to the front of the main stage. From my seat’s vantage, the stage’s left side pillar blocked the figure, but I had glimpsed the face—the mask. Beautiful had described blood-red lips and snow-white faces on Sarugaku masks. This was definitely a woman, but not a young beauty. This mask had heavy ridges at brow and mouth for wrinkles.

  Chanting started in a throaty, high-pitched tone. A voice I had heard before—Zeami. Somehow no trace of youth or elegance could be seen in the shaking hands of the figure as it mimed drawing water from the round structure. A well. A trio of men sitting on the other side of the stage answered in chorus.

  “Tsuzu-itzusu, tsuzu-itzusu.” They sounded like the drone of locusts in high summer punctuated by sudden vocal whoops and strikes on the hand-drum. Nothing at all like the lively music and dancing of Dengaku Noh.

  Every move Zeami made was measured, controlled. Each tilt of his head brought out a different shade of expression from the mask on his face. Sadness, grief, anger shown by odd jerks of his head. When another actor, bare-faced and dressed as a monk, entered on the long walkway, I still could not tear my eyes from Zeami. He was mesmerizing, his solid figure under the thickly wrapped robe and wooden mask so completely that of an elderly woman that the living, fleshly male body underneath disappeared.

  The strange music and slow movements created a heavy atmosphere around the rapt audience—breathing in unison and focused on the figures on the stage.

  “We measured our hair after years apart,” chanted the old woman. “Mine has grown longer in your absence. Will you be the one to tie up my hair?” A story of love, then.

  After the first quarter-hour, not quite everyone was as mesmerized. Kazue looked more at audience members than the stage. Lord Yoshikazu and Lord Hosokawa were clearly bored. The chanting continued, but Lord Yoshikazu leaned this way and that, dropping comments into surrounding ears that caused smiles and titters.

  On stage, the old woman stepped behind the well, passed her long sleeve in front of her face, and shrugged off her robe.

  When she turned to face us, the old woman’s mask was replaced by a perfect oval of fair youth, blood-red bud of a mouth and brows drawn in high arches over the forehead in high-court style. A small movement at the corner of my eye drew me. Ashikaga had jerked in surprise. Under that carefully bland expression, my lordling was fascinated. All attention focused on the young girl on the stage, now singing of yearning in formal, old vocabulary that stirred my thoughts like the brush of a swallow-tail butterfly wing.

  My lordling’s rapt gaze was the exact twin of the Daimyo’s.

  My arms and legs went still. So rarely was I in the Daimyo’s presence, it was easy to forget how Ashikaga took after the Daimyo in more ways than skill with a sword and the sharp, beak of an Ashikaga nose. The fierce concentration, the slight forward tilt of their posture on the stools; fa
ther and child both made it seem like the world had all fallen away but for the actor on the stage.

  Ashikaga was drawn to this man who wove the illusion of an impossibly perfect girl; arms draping long sleeves just so, perfectly rounded shoulders and downcast chin. Even Beautiful couldn’t have been more demure.

  The first gray tinge of twilight had darkened the air. Monks appeared with lighted tapers hidden behind cupped hands. They lit the stone lanterns ringing the audience. Fickle flame teased over the sharp planes of Ashikaga’s face, making it odd, unfamiliar. More impenetrable than a Sarugaku mask. A chill certainty crept over me. How could Ashikaga look upon Zeami this way and be unmoved? Whatever Ashikaga saw when looking on me, it could not compare to this fascinating actor, a man who created the purest form of feminine grace out of light and cloth and air.

  Another Tiger Girl.

  I’d clung to the memory of how Whispering Brook had spoken those words to me the first time I held Ashikaga, bleeding and wounded, in my arms. We were both Tiger year girls, carving out a way to live within the constraints fate shaped around us. No matter what I was, or wasn’t, the part of me that chafed at Little Turtle’s demure postures or Auntie Jay’s sharp remarks about too much time spent alone in the woods was the part that had a bond with Ashikaga.

  Zeami was no Tiger girl, but wasn’t this part of the same thing? The way he lived his life as much more than a man. It had never occurred to me, back in Ashikaga Village, that another soul would choose the difficult path that had been thrust upon my lordling.

  A sound tried to rise up from the knot in my chest, pushing its way into a throat suddenly thick. No matter what my lordling thought or wanted or did, I was Ashikaga Yoshinori’s to do with as my lordling pleased, bound by my heart to this service as tightly as Uesugi-san’s honor or duty to his liege. I’d made that choice all those months ago when I’d put my foot on the first stair of Hell Mountain unsure if I’d live to come down.

  It didn’t matter if Ashikaga looked upon Zeami with a tinge of that wanting I foolishly thought only I saw. I was a Tiger girl. As fiercely bent on protecting those I cared for as Ashikaga. My heart, once committed, didn’t know how to let go. The lordling was mine. I was bound to Ashikaga with all the unfeminine wiles I possessed.

  While I sat here dumbly playing handmaiden, Ashikaga risked exposure to the court at functions like this. Nothing I could do, Tiger or not, to help there. But there was one place I had some small influence to make Ashikaga safer.

  And I was missing my chance. Lord Hosokawa had risen from his bench moments ago. Unaccompanied, he made his way through the crowded benches back towards the copse of pines that screened the temple’s outbuildings. The only person who could possibly help me understand the yurei.

  I clutched my stomach as if under attack from sudden indigestion pains. Kazue gave me a disapproving glare, and then returned her attention to cataloguing garments and straining to overhear the whispered conversations of her neighbors.

  I rose, causing those behind me to hiss in disapproval. The nape of my neck exposed by my robe’s low-tugged collar prickled like mad—my lordling’s gaze on me. Purposefully, I made my way back to the pines without once turning my face to the front rows.

  “For what reason do you court your precious lordling’s displeasure?” came a whispered, rough voice in my ear as I passed the first pine. A male hand on my bare wrist tugged me further into the shadows. Under the cumbersome sleeve, a sensation like the stinging of blood-warmth returning to skin numbed by snow tingled up my arm. Lord Hosokawa’s hand, the source of the sensation, held me immobile, the taste of his fox magic burning pine needles on my tongue.

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  “OR MAYBE YOUR LORDLING is captivated by his father’s favored actor and blissfully unaware his tame shamaness consorts with unseemly partners?”

  I pressed my lips together for a moment. I would not rise to his bait. There were more important things to discuss then Ashikaga. “You told me I could ask you anything.”

  Lord Hosokawa released my wrist to spread his arms wide. Amusement curled a corner of his mouth. “Any question you like. Trust has nowhere to plant itself in a sunless field.”

  I took a deep breath. Norinaga-Hosokawa was the only being I knew who might have the knowledge of how to deal with the yurei. At Ryoan-ji, he’d helped me when the kami caught me in Jindo song. His motivation made me uneasy, but if he could help me with the yurei, saving the Daimyo and keeping Ashikaga safe outweighed that uneasiness.

  The part of me that held fast to my mother’s memory, singing Jindo songs to Whispering Brook’s hidden shrine, hungered to know more than just a few warding songs. Keeping Jindo apart from Ashikaga wouldn’t keep him safe. It was the only tool I had to protect him.

  “There is a kami in the cherry trees of the Ashikaga Residence compound. From the first night Lord Ashikaga arrived in Kyo no Miyako, that spirit has been restless. Grumbling every night.”

  “That explains the tired circles under your eyes. I had attributed your haggard expression to the harsh demands of serving Lord Ashikaga.”

  He persisted in teasing? He saw enough on Hell Mountain to know what I was. Wearing these robes didn’t make me revel in gossip and innuendo. The fox general was too sly to be fooled by appearances. Trying to unsettle me? I shot him the withering look I used when Little Brother whined too much about chores. The other side of Lord Hosokawa’s mouth curled up into his mustache.

  “Your pardon, Lily-of-the-Valley,” he said. “Forgive a moment of foolishness in testing how deeply they have stained you with this role of Ashikaga handmaiden.” He waved his hand. “Please continue.”

  “Something terrible walks the Ashikaga Residence.” How much could I reveal? Would Hosokawa be more willing to help me if I seemed helpless? Would he try to take advantage if he knew the yurei was Lady Ashikaga? I was no good at this thinking one thing and showing another. Better to just say things straight. “I’ve seen it several times now.”

  “A kami?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel anything like Whispering Brook or Asama-yama. The kami always well up within like a spring. This was like a smothering smoke from the outside.”

  Hosokawa settled back on his heels. “Not the kami, then. You may be untrained, but you would recognize kami.”

  “I think it might be . . . a yurei.” Should I tell him the details of Lady Ashikaga’s appearance? The wooden comb? The straw doll? The strange necklace?

  “A human ghost? In Ashikaga Residence. Very interesting. That explains your sudden willingness to follow me behind trees. You think it dangerous?”

  “Teach me how to put it to rest.”

  “Yurei aren’t dangerous. They do nothing beyond causing fear and chills. Most humans aren’t usually aware of them.”

  Nothing beyond fear and chills? I rubbed the center of my chest with a finger. The yurei had almost killed the Daimyo, and certainly held Ashikaga prisoner with more than a chill. Was I mistaken to think that Hosokawa had a deeper knowledge than I of these things and Jindo? He’d certainly not had Asama-yama’s approval when we’d gone head to head on Hell Mountain. Or maybe this was another test, to see if I could be easily cowed. I didn’t have time for ignorance or tests.

  “Help me,” I said frostily. “You want a reason for me to trust you? Here is your chance to put me in your debt.”

  “I see,” he said, dropping the amused hauteur. Something of the fox general bled through into this broader, ruddy Hosokawa face. It was too easy to forget that I was dealing with the general who had ordered Headman murdered just to lure Ashikaga out of the Great House.

  And Flower.

  I needed his help, but no matter how gracious he was, how much he seemed to want my favor, his soldiers had killed my sister. If
he helped, it was for his own reasons. It would never go far enough to make up for what he’d taken from me. I’d make sure what he taught me only was used to put the yurei to rest, not to further whatever plans Hosokawa was concocting this time.

  “I’ll need time to make some preparations,” said Hosokawa. “Meet me at Kiyomizu-dera, at the foot of Higashi-yama during the hour of the rabbit in three days’ time.”

  “Meet at a temple to discuss Jindo matters?”

  Hosokawa crossed his arms. “Before ‘Pure Water’ became a temple to the Buddha, its namesake waterfall was a sacred shrine. The spirit of Otowa waterfall has slept quietly for many years. It may wake to greet you, who knows? You do seem to rile things up wherever you go.”

  I shuffled back, suddenly feeling the awkwardness of the two of us alone under the shadowy pines. If luck held, Ashikaga was still under Zeami’s spell, but it wouldn’t do for anyone else to see us together, either. There were only gossip-worthy reasons for Lord Hosokawa to speak alone with an Ashikaga handmaiden.

  Lord Hosokawa gave a disappointed tongue click at my retreat. Maybe I’d failed another of his tests. “You bore the indwelling of the molten heart of Asama-yama itself impossibly unscathed. A great melancholy weighs me seeing one such as you playing at handmaiden.” The disappointed frown turned to a smile so gentle, so engaging, even Lady Hisako or Little Turtle couldn’t have matched it. He gave a half-shrug and leaned in, not allowing my eyes to drop away from his unsettlingly warm gaze. “If I help with your yurei, maybe you will consider learning other things from me.”