SI1 Shinju (1994)

by Laura Joh Rowland

  But the headman and elders refused. As an Edo official, Sano had no authority in Totsuka. He must remain at the inn; a guard would see that he did. He must dictate a statement and sign many documents, just like anyone else whose companion had died on the highway. In addition, he must attend the inquest in the morning, arrange for the cremation of Tsunehiko’s body, and promise to convey the ashes to the boy’s family on his return trip.

  Finally they left Sano alone, in a spare guest room hastily prepared for him by Gorobei’s weeping maid. Exhausted though he was, Sano didn’t sleep. Instead he knelt on the floor and watched the windows gradually brighten with the coming dawn. The emotions he’d suppressed came flooding back. Grief, anger, and horror sickened him. Although the room was warm, a violent tremor seized him, one that had nothing to do with physical cold. He clenched his jaws and tightened his muscles against it. The floor shuddered with his uncontrollable spasms. After what seemed an eternity, they subsided, leaving his body weak and drained but his mind sharply lucid.

  He knew without proof, but also beyond doubt, that the man who had been watching him had killed both Tsunehiko and the innkeeper’s son. But why? The answer came to Sano from some still, quiet place deep inside him.

  He, not Tsunehiko, had been the intended victim. Only his fortunate awakening and quick reflexes had saved him from a killer who, unable to tell them apart in the darkness, had meant to kill them both as a precaution and begun with the wrong one. As to why, he knew the answer to that, too. He was getting close to the truth about Noriyoshi’s and Yukiko’s murders, and someone wanted to stop him. Who, then? Young Lord Niu or one of the countless Niu clan retainers, who would kill at their master’s bidding? Kikunojo, with his intelligence and flair for disguise? Raiden, of the great strength and violent tendencies? Sano could not dismiss them as suspects. Or perhaps the spy who had reported on his activities to Magistrate Ogyu and Lady Niu had had orders to kill him.

  With a kind of desolate satisfaction, Sano pondered these questions. He’d wanted proof that Noriyoshi and Yukiko had been murdered. What better than an attempt on his life? But any pleasure he might have taken from realizing his goal fell before his guilt over Tsunehiko.

  He shouldn’t have exposed Tsunehiko to danger. He should have at least told him the real purpose of the journey. He should have recognized the threat posed by the watcher and warned Tsunehiko, protected him somehow. More to the point, he should never have undertaken the journey at all. Magistrate Ogyu had ordered him to abandon the investigation, and he should have obeyed. He couldn’t shift the blame to Ogyu for sending Tsunehiko with him. The boy’s blood was on his hands.

  Sano realized that he’d never seriously considered giving up the investigation, not even when his obligations to his father and Ogyu had held him back temporarily. The part of him that yearned after the truth had always known he would continue. Now he did consider the alternative. The cost of truth was too high. He couldn’t pay it with more human lives.

  Then his desire to bring the killer to justice rose anew. His craving for vengeance came surging back. He couldn’t let Tsunehiko’s murderer go unpunished. His honor demanded satisfaction, his spirit a relief from sorrow and guilt.

  Sano’s hand moved to his waist. He slowly unsheathed the long sword and held it before him in both hands.

  He stayed like that, unmoving, for what remained of the night.

  Chapter 16

  Fujisawa, Hiratsuka, Oiso, Odawara. The names of the post stations ran together in Sano’s mind, as did his memories of the journey through towns and woods, over hills and plains, along seashore and across rivers, past houses and temples. Pushing himself beyond exhaustion, he neared Hakone in the gray early afternoon two days after leaving Totsuka.

  The approach to Hakone was the most difficult and dangerous section of the Tōkaido. Here the land turned mountainous; the road narrowed to a steep, rough trail that twisted upward through stands of tall cedar trees. Sano dismounted and continued on foot, leading his horse. Soon he was panting from the effort of climbing, sweating despite the moist, bone-chilling cold. The altitude made him light-headed, and he couldn’t get enough of the thin air into his lungs. Every breath seemed poisoned with the resinous fragrance of the cedars.

  And the landscape overwhelmed his troubled mind. In its surreal splendor, it seemed like something out of an ancient legend. Every step sent small rocks skittering dizzily over the sides of sheer cliffs. Roaring waterfalls tumbled over boulders and precipices toward the sea, which Sano occasionally glimpsed in the east. Fissures in the ground leaked steam: the breath of dragons, who lived beneath Mount Fuji, hidden in the clouds to the northwest. Far below, a swirling river appeared and disappeared. High, fragile wooden bridges crossed it, leading Sano through tiny mountain villages.

  An eerie enchantment shrouded the villages like a magic spell. The peasants Sano met there greeted him with polite bows, but they seemed illusory. He passed few other travelers. Those who flocked to Hakone in summer to enjoy the medicinal benefits of its fresh air and hot springs avoided it in winter, when the climate was considered unhealthy. Sano faced the dangers of the road alone: robber gangs; the old demons who lived in caves and played evil tricks on the unwary. And the watcher-now murderer-whose presence Sano no longer sensed but took for granted. He walked with his sword drawn, his eyes constantly searching.

  Once he stopped and shouted, “Here I am! Come and get me, I dare you!”

  Hearing his voice echo through the mountains, he wondered whether he was going mad. When he at last saw Hakone Village below him in the distance, he welcomed his escape from solitude and return to the normal, everyday world.

  Hakone Village ’s hundred-some houses clustered around a segment of the Tōkaido that ran along the southeast shore of Lake Ashi. The lake, dotted with fishing boats, reflected the leaden sky. High, wooded mountains, some with almost vertical sides, surrounded it. Mount Fuji towered above the others, a faint white peak wearing a fainter hat of white clouds.

  Sano felt a vast relief as he completed his descent. He’d almost reached his destination. Soon he could rest in a clean, cozy inn, with food for his stomach and a hot bath for his aching muscles. Then he reached the checkpoint, where he encountered an obstacle he should have expected. Hakone was famous for the strength and severity of its guard. The village’s location, with mountains on one side and lake on the other, made it a natural trap for the shogun’s men to detain suspicious-looking travelers-especially samurai who were not trusted Tokugawa allies. Twenty guards in full armor manned the fortified gates barring the way into the village, and they would not let Sano pass.

  “Come with me,” said one guard.

  In a small bare room in the post house, Sano spent an hour answering the rapid-fire questions of three officials who wore the Tokugawa crest on their kimonos.

  “Who is your family? Where are you from? What is your destination, and what is the purpose of your journey? Who is your lord? What is your occupation, and who is your immediate superior?”

  Sano wanted desperately to be on his way, but he couldn’t afford to antagonize the officials, who might hold him for hours- or days-longer.

  “Sano Ichirō of Edo, son of Sano Shutarō, martial arts instructor, who was formerly in the service of Lord Kū of Takamatsu Province,” he answered politely.

  Through the open door he could see other officials turning out the contents of his saddlebags onto the floor in the next room. One searched his clothing, while another examined his travel pass.

  “I am a yoriki under the supervision of Ogyu Banzan, the north magistrate of Edo. I am on a pilgrimage to Mishima.”

  He waited for the officials to ask if he was meeting anyone in Mishima, and whom. Their job was to sniff out secret assignations related to plots against the government. Instead they seized upon his name, losing interest in the purpose of his journey.

  “Yoriki Sano Ichirō of Edo,” the leader said. “Were you not involved in the murders that took place in To
tsuka the day before yesterday?”

  Sano was amazed at how fast their spy network passed news along the Tōkaido. He responded to their questions about the murders, suspecting that they already knew most of the answers. Finally, after a thorough reprise of the Totsuka inquest, they let him go.

  Since the Temple of Kannon lay high in the mountains behind Hakone Village, Sano left his horse and baggage at an inn and set out on foot. The steep path curved and twisted. Cedars pressed in closely on each side, their heavy dark green boughs blocking Sano’s view at every turn as he climbed. Snow and ice whitened the ground in great slippery patches. Sano found a dead branch and used it as a staff as he struggled from one precarious foothold to the next. The Nius would have sent servants to ease Midori’s way, but still the trip must have been hard for her. The higher he climbed, the more the cold, wind, and dampness intensified. Droplets of icy water struck his face. He felt as though he’d reached the clouds. His heart pounded from the exertion; his lungs heaved.

  But his determination to catch the murderer and avenge Tsunehiko’s death kept him going. He only hoped that what awaited him at the Temple of Kannon would make his journey worthwhile. When he finally paused to rest, he saw that he was high above Hakone, with village, lake, and mountains spread below him under a thin veil of mist. Vertigo made him sway. He leaned on his staff for support. Then he turned and once more began the perilous climb upward.

  Suddenly, just when he’d almost depleted his last reserves of strength, he emerged into a level, open clearing. Here the surrounding cedars obscured the sky and created a premature twilight. When Sano’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a temple that perhaps dated back more than a thousand years, to when Buddhism had first come to Japan.

  A great free-standing gate with tiled double roofs supported on eight strong pillars marked its entrance. Sano passed through this gate and a smaller inner one, into an earthen courtyard dotted with unlit stone lanterns. To his right stood the main hall, square and forbidding on its high stone podium. On his left he saw the pagoda and the wooden cage that housed the temple bell. A few stone monuments comprised the graveyard. The lecture hall, sutra repository, and storehouses occupied ledges cut into the slope that rose behind the courtyard. Above these, a steep path led to what Sano guessed was the nunnery, a long, low building cantilevered over the mountainside on a support of interlocking wooden beams.

  Although the temple must have undergone periodic repair over the years, only the five-story pagoda had been restored to its original condition. Its freshly plastered white walls shone; new blue-gray tiles covered its roofs. Gleaming paint accented the woodwork in traditional Chinese colors: green for window mullions, red and yellow for the roofs’ intricate structural members. The bells encircling the pagoda’s tall bronze spire rang softly in the wind. But the other buildings showed signs of advanced deterioration. Moss and lichen crusted their peeling plaster; wooden beams, doors, and window lattices had warped and split. Broken tiles marred the roofs’ clean lines. Sano saw no priests or nuns or pilgrims. If the watcher had followed, he did not appear. The temple seemed deserted, suspended in a timeless hush.

  He climbed the stairs to the main hall. The massive door creaked open at his touch. He paused in the entryway to slip off his shoes, then entered the hall. Against the far wall, a huge Buddha sat enthroned upon a lotus flower. Time had turned the many-armed bronze statue a deep greenish black. All around it stood smaller painted wood images of guardian kings: fierce warriors with clenched fists and raised spears. Hundreds of burning oil lamps and smoldering incense burners animated the deities with a hazy, flickering glow. Years of flame and smoke had blackened the hall’s exposed rafters and suffused it with a musty, ancient fragrance. Faded murals showed ghostly sepia images of the Buddha surrounded by palaces and hills. Tucked in the far left corner, almost as an afterthought, was a woman-sized gilded wooden figure of Kannon-Kuan Yin, Chinese goddess of mercy, bodhisattva who forswore emancipation from the wheel of continual rebirth in order to save the souls of others. She wore a jeweled crown and a flaming halo.

  Sano dropped a coin into the offertory box that stood on a post near the altar. He closed his eyes and bent his head over his clasped hands, offering silent prayers for his father’s health, Tsunehiko’s spirit, an end to Wisteria’s grief, and the success of his mission.

  The whisper of robes dragging on the floor startled Sano out of his prayers. He turned to see a tall, slender nun in a long black robe and veil standing before him. She could have been any age between thirty and sixty, with pale, stern features and a high forehead. Her long fingers toyed with the rosary at her sash, automatically counting prayers.

  “Welcome, honorable pilgrim,” she said, bowing. “I am the abbess of the Temple of Kannon, and I would be delighted to tell you about the temple’s history. The temple was built during the Heian Period, approximately eight hundred years ago.”

  The practiced quality of her voice indicated that she had recited this speech many times before. Its unctuous tone told Sano that she, like other religious leaders, was anxious to curry favor with members of the warrior class, who supported their temples.

  “Now the Temple of Kannon is sanctuary to twenty nuns who have forsaken earthly life to seek spiritual enlightenment. If you accompany me, I will tell you about the images that you see here.

  Sano bowed. “Forgive me, Abbess, but I am not here on a pilgrimage. I’ve come to see one of your nuns, Miss Niu Midori.” He identified himself, saying, “I apologize for the intrusion, but this is a matter of utmost importance.”

  “I am afraid that is impossible.” The abbess’s voice lost its unctuousness, turning cold. “As I have already said, our nuns have forsaken the world and its concerns. They shun contact with those from the outside. Our novices, in particular, are subject to the strictest seclusion. You cannot see Miss Midori now, or ever. I regret that you have come all this way for nothing.”

  It was a dismissal, delivered with finality. Sano’s already flagging spirits sagged lower.

  “Please, Abbess,” he said. “I promise I will not stay long with her, or interfere with her faith.” Had she received orders from Lady Niu to shield Midori from all visitors, or him in particular? He’d seen no recognition on her face when he’d given his name. “I just want to speak with her alone for a few moments. Nothing more.

  “And afterward,” he added, “I would like to make a small gift to the Temple of Kannon.” The clergy, he knew, were always eager for donations.

  Instead of replying, the abbess turned from him and clapped her hands twice. The door flew open. Two orange-robed priests entered the hall: tall, muscular men carrying long, curved spears.

  “Good day, master,” the abbess said. “May the Buddha in all his divine mercy grant you a safe journey home.”

  Sano had no choice but to let the priests escort him outside. He was familiar with the legendary fighting skills of the mountain priests, who had warred against each other and the ruling clans for hundreds of years. When he tried to bribe them into letting him see Midori, they remained mute and unresponsive to his pleas, their faces stony. They saw him as far as the gate, then stood watching as he descended the path.

  Once out of their sight, Sano flung down his staff. He dropped to his knees, staring down over the treetops at the village and lake. He tried to summon the strength to descend the mountainside. Soon night would fall; the air had already grown chillier with the dying day. If he waited too long, he might get hurt trying to negotiate the treacherous path in darkness, or lose his way and freeze to death. But despair, combined with exhaustion, held him immobile. This journey had come to nothing; Tsunehiko had died for nothing. He was no closer to unraveling the mystery of Noriyoshi’s and Yukiko’s deaths than when he’d left Edo. How could he live with his failure and the tragic consequences of his actions?

  Stand up, Sano told himself. Pick up your staff, put one foot in front of the other, and…

  His head whipped around at the sound of
running footsteps coming from the temple grounds above him. The priests. Hand on his sword, he leaped to his feet, driven by the samurai instinct to stand and fight. Then common sense reminded him that there were at least two priests and only one of him. If he wanted to live, he’d best leave now, before they found him. Seizing his staff, he hurried down the path.

  “Yoriki! Wait!”

  The high female voice stopped Sano in his tracks. He turned and saw a small figure skidding down the path toward him. Reaching him, she stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her. He stared at her in shock.

  It was Midori, although he barely recognized her. Instead of a bright silk kimono, she wore a coarse, shapeless hemp robe. Bare feet peeped out from beneath its hem. She seemed smaller, as if she’d lost weight. Her face was thin, pale, and peaked, her lips chapped. Most shocking of all, her head had been shaved. Only a bluish tinge on her bare scalp remained of her long black hair.

  Between gasps, she said, “… saw you from the nuns’ dormitory… ” One hand went to her heaving breast. “… climbed out the window… couldn’t let you go without telling you… ”

  “Calm down, it’s all right,” Sano said. He drew her off the path and seated her on a fallen log. She was shivering in her thin robe, so he took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. Then he waited with rising anticipation for her to catch her breath. At last he would possess the information for which he’d traveled so far and paid so dearly.

  But when she spoke, it wasn’t about her sister or Noriyoshi. “I hate this place!” she cried passionately, beating her fists against the log. “Cooking and scrubbing floors and praying from dawn till sunset. Then a few hours’ sleep on a hard straw bed before that awful bell wakes me up and the whole thing starts all over again.”

  Tears brightened her eyes. “If I have to stay here any longer, I’ll die. Please, take me away with you!”

  Pity welled inside Sano as he shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said. Although his refusal might turn her against him, he had to tell her the truth.