‘Yes, Lordship.’
‘So where is his wealth? Makoto shipped tea direct to Kyoto, circumvented every levy, every toll along the way. What was the result of all this enterprise? Where are his riches?’
‘Might I suggest you retire tonight, wait until the house is quiet and still, then come to the bottom of the rock garden. Make sure you are not followed. If any of your bodyguards ask you where you are going, simply tell them you cannot sleep so have gone for a walk, then dismiss them. I will show you where Makoto hoarded his wealth.’
Kotau sat on a stone bench and contemplated the raked gravel. The Priest stood by his side.
‘When shall we expect your Lordship’s honoured parents to arrive at the mansion? Shall I order their rooms prepared?’
‘My father and mother passed away yesterday. The pressure of staging the tournament proved too much for their delicate constitutions.’
‘My deepest condolences. Should we temporarily inter their bodies within the grounds while arrangements are made for the construction of a tomb?’
‘No. They are buried by the shrine. Let them merge with the woodland, the river weeds. There’s a poetry to it.’
‘I will order the staff of the estate to observe the customary mourning period.’
‘They weren’t my parents. I was a foundling, discovered drifting down the river in a basket. Rumour has it I am the result of the ill-starred love of a great aristocrat and a courtesan.’
‘That is the story you wish to be told?’
‘Go to the shrine. Scour the tavern. Remove their possessions and burn them. Erase any evidence that they lived but don’t burn the inn itself. I still have some affection for the place.’
The Priest bowed assent.
‘Some of Lord Makoto’s forebears are buried near the perimeter of the estate.’
‘Leave their graves untouched,’ said Kotau. ‘If we disinter their bones and scatter them for the dogs, where will it end? What will happen to our mortal remains in years to come? We are not savages.’
‘Yes, Lordship.’
‘What of the girl? The child that masqueraded as a swordsman during the tournament? What became of her?’
‘She took to the road. She will be far from the valley by now.’
‘I have the strangest feeling she and I will meet again.’
Kotau walked to the centre of the gravel garden. He turned back and contemplated the trail of footprints he had left across the depiction of universal harmony.
‘Teach me about power,’ he said.
‘Power is an illusion,’ said the Priest. ‘Great men plot and scheme, and the gods laugh at their presumption. We are simply straws in the wind.’
‘No. Some names, some accomplishments, endure.’
‘You lived your whole life in the shrine beneath the gaze of that great statue. Who was that man? What did he do in life? The substance of his days has melted like snow in the springtime. He is no one and everyone.’
‘Then what is the purpose of life, if nothing we do matters?’ asked Kotau.
‘That question marks the beginning of wisdom.’
‘If I wanted to become a monk I would have presented myself at a temple. Life is short and I have much to achieve. Teach me about temporal power.’
The Priest fetched a rake and dragged the stone garden smooth. Then, with a sweep of the implement, he drew the boot-shaped outline of the island of Honshu.
‘This is the world,’ he declared. He placed a rock where Kyoto should be. ‘And this is the centre. The Imperial Palace, home of the sun god himself.’ He placed a second rock beside the first. ‘This is the home of the Shōgun, the supreme military ruler. He and the Emperor are engaged in a battle for supremacy, a battle that has lasted generations. It is a war for the soul of man. The still and contemplative aspects of our nature vying with our more savage instincts for supremacy. Each of these great houses competes for the loyalty of the regional warlords. It is like an endless game of go, each player leaning over the board turning the counters from black to white and back again.’
Kotau drew a tanto knife from his belt and threw it at the map. The blade sparked as it struck gravel and dug deep.
‘And here we are,’ he said.
‘The province of Etchū,’ confirmed the Priest.
‘Someone should bring order to this region. Someone should bring a sword.’
‘We have capable men here at the estate. They have drawn their blades many times in Makoto’s service. They are no strangers to killing.’
‘We shall give them ranks and uniforms. Never underestimate the power of a title. As we have seen these last few days, men will throw their lives away for thin air.’
‘I encouraged Lord Makoto to study the works of Sun Tzu. The scrolls are held in his inner chamber, if your Lordship cares to view them.’
‘I can read. To a degree.’
‘I can help your Lordship with his studies. And I am acquainted with an expert in court etiquette who lives in Nagoya. If your Lordship intends to enter society, to entertain high-born guests here at the manor, he may be able to offer advice regarding deportment and the conduct of hospitality.’
‘Can it be done? Can a low-born man remake himself?’
‘Most would think not.’
‘You disagree?’
‘It will be fascinating to find out.’
‘How could it be done? If you were me, how would you draw the Shōgun’s eye, turn his thoughts to this backwater and win his patronage?’
‘Go to Kyoto and take a grand house.’
‘I would be little more than a merchant. How would I gain access to the Generals?’
‘It is a journey of small steps. First you must establish a modest name among the junior members of the officer class.’
‘How does a person join their company?’
‘There is a contest each autumn. Great families travel across Honshu to witness the competition. Great honour is conferred on the champion.’
‘More swordplay?’
‘The competitors are served tea from the great plantations of Honshu. They must identify the source of each cup. Those who can tell which leaves were grown in the mountains and which were grown on the plains can win great status. What better way to prove one’s gentility, to demonstrate one’s refinement, to attest to a lifetime spent living in exquisitely refined elegance, than to demonstrate one’s sensitivity to the subtle flavour differentiations of tea?’
‘I hate the stuff.’
‘Then you have a wonderful advantage. A person who enjoys tea, who has drunk it all their days, will find it difficult to differentiate one strain of leaf from another. You, on the other hand, will find the flavours strong and strange. You will find the subtle differences of flavour caused by climatic variations and soil conditions very pronounced. You will have a distinct edge.’
‘Summon an experienced tea master. We will see what can be achieved. And recruit labourers from the village. We must build a high wall around the mansion. I broke into the house with ease and held you at knifepoint. That must never happen again.’
‘You are quite safe here.’
‘Grand ambitions create grand enemies.’
‘We must take control of our fears,’ said the Priest. ‘When a man lies in the dark his eyes create shape and movement where none exists.’
‘A high wall and lookout towers. The work must begin in the next few days.’
Kotau headed back towards the house.
‘Will the title be enough, Lordship?’ called the Priest. ‘When years have passed, an ocean of blood has been spilled, and you are the undisputed Daimyō of this province, will you be content?’
Kotau turned to face the Priest.
‘No.’
‘So what do you truly want?’
‘Everything under the sun.’
* * *
Kotau followed the Priest’s instructions. He retired for the night and dismissed the maids. He lay on his bed mat and listened to the
silences of the great house. He heard the whisper of sandal steps as domestic staff left his quarters. He waited for the silences of the house to deepen then got silently to his feet, fastened a robe and stepped into sandals.
He walked through the absolute dark of the reception room, hugging the walls to avoid the table. He opened the screen and stepped into the garden. Moonlight turned the raked gravel white as snow. He kept to the shadows, a furtive intruder within the precincts of his own home. He hugged the garden wall and approached the deep darkness at the end of the garden.
An unseen hand gripped his arm.
‘Come with me,’ said the Priest, drawing him through a gap in the undergrowth. Kotau ducked as twigs lashed his head. The Priest struck a flint and lit a lamp. He crouched, unlocked a corroded iron grate and lifted it clear. Kotau followed him down a flight of steps and found himself in an underground brick room. There were three trunks draped in oiled canvas at the back of the room. The Priest unlocked one of the trunks, lifted the lids and held the lamp so Kotau could see inside. Kotau raked his hand through copper coins.
‘How long was he lord of this valley?’
‘Seventeen summers,’ said the Priest.
‘Why did he hoard these coins instead of spending them? Think of all he could have built, all he could have achieved.’
‘He was a prudent man. He wanted to preserve his riches for future generations of the Makoto clan.’
‘But he could produce no heir.’ Kotau continued to rake the coins. ‘Clearly he was sent by providence to prepare for my arrival, to build my house and fill my coffers. He was a puppet of the gods. Tomorrow you must visit the nearby town and hire more men. I need reliable, ambitious soldiers. We will have them drive bandits from the hills, then we will establish a toll at the river crossing. This place will be the administrative centre of the region. I will bring order, and the people will love me.’
‘Forgive the impertinence, Lordship, but I brought an offering,’ said the Priest, drawing Kotau’s attention to a sack in the corner. He held the lamp high while his master widened the neck of the sack and looked inside. Kotau gasped in pleasure at the sight of the jumbled skulls.
‘Some trophies of your rise to prominence.’
‘A well-chosen gift. It bodes well for your future. Who else has access to this chamber?’
‘There is only one key, Lordship.’
Kotau held out his hand and the Priest handed him the heavy iron key.
‘Put this place from your mind,’ said Kotau. ‘From now on, no one comes here but me.’
The Priest bowed and left.
Kotau set a lamp on a shelf, took each skull from the sack and set them on top of the wooden caskets. He recognized the wide forehead of the Drunkard, the broken front teeth of the villager, the slim head of the Monk. He held the Monk’s skull, contemplated the empty sockets and tried to picture the universe of thoughts, memories and emotion that used to be held within the cranium. He placed the Monk alongside the skulls of the other dead swordsmen, stepped back and basked in their necrotic presence.
Tengu took a last look at the great blank-eyed sculpture then left the shrine. She walked through tall grass to make sure every speck of stone dust was brushed from her feet. She didn’t want to carry a particle of the cursed place with her.
She walked down the road to the village one last time. She stopped in the dirt square and looked around. The place was quiet, almost deserted. Ropes hung from untended tanning frames and swung in the breeze. A dog sat outside the tea house and scratched itself. The tea house itself was empty; the village menfolk were tending cultivation rows high on the hillside and wouldn’t return until evening. Women and children had retreated to their homes, turning their back on the carnage of the last few days. Tengu had assumed the tournament would live on as a local myth, be a grand tale told father to son, but maybe the valley folk had had their fill of bloodshed. Maybe they would remember the contest not as a clash of heroes but as a sudden and awful catastrophe that had befallen the valley like a flood or a brush fire, something to be put behind them and never spoken of again.
She drew water from the central well, filled a clay flask ready for her journey, then walked through the desolate cluster of huts. The place was dying. The stilted houses were falling into disrepair and underbrush had begun to reclaim cleared land surrounding the hamlet. The village would be gone in a generation or two. Nothing left but scattered bamboo poles decaying in the mulch of the forest floor. But no doubt the shrine would endure. The tavern might burn to the ground and the bridge might collapse into the river, but that enigmatic stone visage would stand among the trees until the end of time.
She paused at the village graveyard and stood before a row of six burial mounds. Each plot had a wooden marker staked in the freshly dug earth with a coloured headband tied round it. The rags fluttered in the breeze. She plucked some stalks of devilwood from the nearby scrubland, laid the white flowers at each graveside and asked the dead swordsmen to walk by her side in the days to come.
She sat by the Monk’s grave and kept company with him a while. Kotau might have hacked off his head but his heart and soul were present. She untied the yellow rag from his grave marker and tossed it away. He had been more than an anonymous tournament contestant, more than a game counter sacrificed as Kotau manoeuvred for power.
She visited the obelisk at the edge of the village, knelt and said a final prayer in remembrance of her father. She thanked him for the hardship and humiliations she had endured. She had been scourged and purified.
She headed down the road. She paused when she reached a bend in the path and took a last look back at the wretched hamlet before following the overgrown track through dense woodland, up and out of the valley.
Tengu spent the next few days walking south-east towards the provincial border. There no longer seemed any need to disguise herself as a boy, no need to hide behind a mask, so she let her hair hang loose and stopped trying to mimic a masculine gait. It was a relief to drop the pretence. She tied her weapons to the pack on her back and concealed them beneath loose-hanging canvas.
She queued at a customs post alongside pilgrims and merchants, got waved through the bridge crossing which acted as a border check and entered Iga.
She passed the stretch of forest where she’d first met the Monk and was overwhelmed by sadness. She spent an afternoon seeking the waterfall shrine, all the while wondering why she felt compelled to search out a place that would make her grief more acute. She sat by the waterfall and let herself weep.
A pilgrim had left a bunch of violets at the foot of the votive obelisk. She found a concave stone, burned the flowers then wet the ashes to form a paste. She used the tip of her knife to prick the ink into the knuckles of the index and middle finger of her left hand. The act would leave her tattooed with two almost imperceptible dots, one for her father and one for the Monk. The dots would be in her field of vision through her waking hours, a reminder of the great souls she had known and lost. In years to come she would, no doubt, add more knuckle dots to represent guiding spirits she had yet to meet.
She resumed her journey. Each night she set traps, built a fire and made camp, but in the morning the snares were empty. Each time she reached a river and dropped a line the hook would come up empty. It was as if some malign aura were driving creatures away.
The iron sword gave her bad dreams. She huddled beneath her blanket each sunset and used the lacquered box as a pillow. The moment she closed her eyes she was immediately transported to a barbarian battlefield, surrounded by alien faces, cacophonous screams and the crunch of splintering bone. She needed to be rid of the weapon as quickly as she could.
She made her way through Iga towards the high hills which hid the mysterious Forty-Eight Waterfalls. She stopped a night in a hillside hamlet and bought supplies. The villagers tried to dissuade her from visiting the temple. When they saw she was determined to make the journey they made offerings at the local shrine and prayed for the mad gi
rl that was sure to die of hunger or fall prey to the kami that haunted the woodland shadows and made the trees shake at night.
She entered the warren of river gorges that deterred all but the most determined travellers from approaching the Temple of Shadows. The further she travelled the higher the canyon walls became and she found herself navigating through permanent twilight as she trod a damp forest floor which never truly saw daylight. Sometimes she traversed hillside gradients so steep she had to sleep roped to a tree.
On the third day the weather turned bad. She was lashed with rain as she inched along canyon walls, back pressed to the rock, pathway slick with runoff from the cliff face above her.
She ran out of food on the fifth day and chewed twigs and leaves to assuage her hunger. She was starved and shivering with exposure when she finally reached the steps which led up the valley wall to the baleful ramparts of the temple. It was the tenth day of her journey and she was near delirious with exhaustion. Her sandals had disintegrated and her feet were swaddled in rags and twine. She couldn’t be sure if she had truly arrived at her destination or if the temple was a hallucination induced by fatigue. She curled against the rocks at the foot of the stone stairway and tried to rest, but cold and hunger pursued her in dreams so she shouldered her bag then began her climb.
She heaved herself up the seemingly endless steps that sloped into the rain-mist like they were a path to the heavens. Her robe hung heavy with water and rain dripped from her hair. She took the ascent in fifty-step stages. Each time she stopped she would crouch and slap herself for warmth, aware that the longer she stayed still the harder it would become to start moving once more. It got colder the higher she climbed. The sight of countless steps stretching upwards into vapour made her despair so she looked down, stared at her feet and forced one foot in front of the other.
She almost wept when suddenly there were no more steps to climb and she found herself at the on the temple plateau. She staggered the final few paces and fell against the gate. She dropped her pack, pounded the great oak door with her fist and waited for a response.
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