Across the Nightingale Floor (22 page)

We came finally to the second gate,
which led into another cluster of buildings where pilgrims and other visitors
stayed. Here we were asked to wait and given tea to drink. After a few moments
two priests approached us. One was an old man, rather short and frail with age,
but with bright eyes and an expression of great serenity. The other was much
younger, stern-faced and muscular.

“You are very welcome here, Lord
Otori,” the old man said, making the Tohan man's face darken even more. “It was
with great sorrow that we buried Lord Takeshi. You have come, of course, to
visit the grave.”

“Stay here with Muto Kenji,”
Shigeru said to the soldier, and he and I followed the old priest to the
graveyard, where the tombstones stood in rows beneath the huge trees. Someone
was burning wood, and the smoke drifted beneath the trunks, making blue rays
out of the sunlight.

The three of us knelt in silence.
After a few moments the younger priest came with candles and incense and passed
them to Shigeru, who placed them before the stone. The sweet fragrance floated
around us. The lamps burned steadily, since there was no wind, but their flames
could hardly be seen in the brightness of the sun. Shigeru also took two
objects from his sleeve—a black stone like the ones from the seashore around
Hagi, and a straw horse such as a child might play with—and placed these on the
grave.

I remembered the tears he had shed
the first night I had met him. Now I understood his grief, but neither of us
wept.

After a while the priest rose,
touching Shigeru on the shoulder, and we followed him to the main building of
this remote country temple. It was made of wood, cypress and cedar, which had
faded over time to silver-gray. It did not look large, but its central hall was
perfectly proportioned, giving a sense of space and tranquility, leading the
gaze inwards to where the golden statue of the Enlightened One seemed to hover
among the candle flames as if in Paradise.

We loosened our sandals and stepped
up into the hall. Again the young monk brought incense, and we placed it at the
golden feet of the statue. Kneeling to one side of us, he began to chant one of
the sutras for the dead.

It was dim inside, and my eyes were
dazzled by the candles, but I could hear the breathing of others within the
temple, beyond the altar, and as my vision adjusted to the darkness I could see
the shapes of monks sitting in silent meditation. I realized the hall was much
bigger than I had at first thought, and there were many monks here, possibly
hundreds.

Even though I was raised among the
Hidden, my mother took me to the shrines and temples of our district, and I
knew a little of the teachings of the Enlightened One. I thought now, as I had
often thought before, that people when they pray look and sound the same. The
peace of this place pierced my soul. What was I doing here, a killer, my heart
bent on revenge?

When the ceremony was over we went
back to join Kenji, who seemed to be deep in a one-sided discussion with the
Tohan man about art and religion.

“We have a gift for the lord
abbot,” Shigeru said, picking up the box, which I had left with Kenji.

A twinkle appeared in the priest's
eye. “I will take you to him.”

“And the young men would like to
see the paintings,” Kenji said.

“Makoto will show them. Follow me,
please, Lord Otori.”

The Tohan man looked taken aback as
Shigeru disappeared behind the altar with the old priest. He made as if to
follow them, but Makoto seemed to block his path, without touching or
threatening him.

“This way, young man!”

With a deliberate tread he somehow
herded the three of us out of the temple and along a boardwalk to a smaller
hall.

“The great painter Sesshu lived in
this temple for ten years,” he told us. “He designed the gardens and painted
landscapes, animals, and birds. These wooden screens are his work.”

“That is what it is to be an
artist,” Kenji said in his querulous teacher's voice.

“Yes, master,” I replied. I did not
have to pretend to be humble: I was genuinely awed by the work before our eyes.
The black horse, the white cranes, seemed to have been caught and frozen in an
instant of time by the consummate skill of the artist. You felt that at any
moment the spell would be broken, the horse would stamp and rear, the cranes
would see us and launch themselves into the sky. The painter had achieved what
we would all like to do: capture time and make it stand still.

The screen closest to the door
seemed to be bare. I peered at it, thinking the colors must have faded. Makoto
said, “There were birds on it, but the legend goes that they were so lifelike,
they flew away.”

“You see how much you have to
learn,” Kenji told me. I thought he was rather overdoing it, but the Tohan man
gave me a scornful glance and, after a cursory look at the paintings, went
outside and sat down under a tree.

I took out the ink stone, and
Makoto brought me some water. I prepared the ink and unfolded a roll of paper.
I wanted to trace the master's hand and see if he could transfer, across the
chasm of the years, what he had seen, into my brush.

Outside, the afternoon heat
increased, shimmering, intensified by the crickets' shrilling. The trees cast
great pools of inky shade. Inside the hall it was cooler, dim. Time slowed. I
heard the Tohan man's breathing even as he fell asleep.

“The gardens are also Sesshu's
work,” Makoto said, and he and Kenji sat themselves down on the matting, their
backs towards the paintings and me, looking out onto the rocks and trees. In
the distance a waterfall murmured, and I could hear two wood doves cooing. From
time to time Kenji made a comment or asked a question about the garden, and
Makoto replied. Their conversation grew more desultory, until they also seemed
to be dozing.

Left alone with my brush and paper,
and the incomparable paintings, I felt the same focus and concentration steal
over me that I'd felt the previous night, taking me into the same
half-trancelike state. It saddened me a little that the skills of the Tribe
should be so similar to the skills of art. A strong desire seized me to stay in
this place for ten years like the great Sesshu, and draw and paint every day
until my paintings came to life and flew away.

I made copies of the horse and the
cranes, copies that did not satisfy me at all, and then I painted the little
bird from my mountain as I had seen it flying off at my approach, with a flash
of white in its wings.

I was absorbed by the work. From
far away I could hear Shigeru's voice, speaking to the old priest. I was not
really listening: I assumed he was seeking some spiritual counsel from the old
man, a private matter. But the words dropped into my hearing, and it slowly
dawned on me that their talk was of something quite different: burdensome new
taxes, curtailment of freedom, Iida's desire to destroy the temples, several
thousand monks in remote monasteries, all trained as warriors and desiring to
overthrow the Tohan and restore the lands to the Otori.

I grinned ruefully to myself. My
concept of the temple as a place of peace, a sanctuary from war, was somewhat
misplaced. The priests and the monks were as belligerent as we were, as bent on
revenge.

I did one more copy of the horse,
and felt happier with it. I had caught something of its fiery power. I felt
that Sesshu's spirit had indeed touched me across time, and maybe had reminded
me that when illusions are shattered by truth, talent is set free.

Then I heard another sound from far
below that set my heart racing: Kaede's voice. The women and Abe were climbing
the steps to the second gate.

I called quietly to Kenji, “The
others are coming.”

Makoto got swiftly to his feet and
padded silently away. A few moments later the old priest and Lord Shigeru
stepped into the hall, where I was putting the finishing strokes to the copy of
the horse.

“Ah, Sesshu spoke to you!” the old
priest said, smiling.

I gave the picture to Shigeru. He
was sitting looking at it when the ladies and Abe joined us. The Tohan man woke
and tried to pretend he had not been asleep. The talk was all of paintings and
gardens. Lady Maruyama continued to pay special attention to Abe, asking his
opinion and flattering him until even he became interested in the subject.

Kaede looked at the sketch of the
bird. “May I have this?” she asked.

“If it pleases you, Lady
Shirakawa,” I replied. “I'm afraid it is very poor.”

“It does please me,” she said in a
low voice. “It makes me think of freedom.”

The ink had dried rapidly in the
heat. I rolled the paper and gave it to her, my fingers grazing hers for a
moment. It was the first time we had touched. Neither of us said any more. The
heat seemed more intense, the crickets more insistent. A wave of fatigue swept
over me. I was dizzy with lack of sleep and emotion. My fingers had lost their
assurance and trembled as I packed away the painting things.

“Let us walk in the garden,”
Shigeru said, and took the ladies outside. I felt the old priest's gaze on me.

“Come back to us,” he said, “when
all this is over. There will always be a place for you here.”

I thought of all the turmoil and
changes the temple had seen, the battles that raged around it. It seemed so
tranquil: The trees stood as they had for hundreds of years, the Enlightened
One sat among the candles with his serene smile. Yet, even in this place of
peace men were planning war. I could never withdraw into painting and planning
gardens until Iida was dead.

“Will it ever be over?” I replied.

“Everything that has a beginning
has an ending,” he said.

I bowed to the ground before him,
and he placed his palms together in a blessing.

Makoto walked out into the garden
with me. He was looking at me quizzically. “How much do you hear?” he said
quietly.

I looked around. The Tohan men were
with Shigeru at the top of the steps. “Can you hear what they are saying?”

He measured the space with his eye.
“Only if they shout it.”

“I hear every word. I can hear them
in the eating house below. I can tell you how many people are gathered there.”

It struck me then that it sounded
like a multitude.

Makoto gave a short laugh,
amazement mixed with appreciation. “Like a dog?”

“Yes, like a dog,” I replied.

“Useful to your masters.”

His words stayed with me. I was
useful to my masters, to Lord Shigeru, to Kenji, to the Tribe. I had been born
with dark talents I did not ask for, yet I could not resist honing and testing
them, and they had brought me to the place I was now. Without them I would
surely be dead. With them I was drawn every day further into this world of
lies, secrecy, and revenge. I wondered how much of this Makoto would
understand, and wished I could share my thoughts with him. I felt an
instinctive liking for him—more than liking: trust. But the shadows were
lengthening; it was nearly the hour of the Rooster. We had to leave to get back
to Yamagata before nightfall. There was no time to talk.

When we descended the steps there
was indeed a huge crowd of people gathered outside the lodging house.

“Are they here for the Festival?” I
said to Makoto.

“Partly,” he said, and then in an
aside so no one else could hear him: “But mainly because they have heard Lord
Otori is here. They haven't forgotten the way things were before Yaegahara. Nor
have we here. . . .”

“Farewell,” he said as I mounted
Raku. “We'll meet again.”

On the mountain path, on the road,
it was the same. Many people were out, and they all seemed to want to take a
look with their own eyes at Lord Shigeru. There was something eerie about it,
the silent people dropping to the ground as we rode past, then getting to their
feet to stare after us, their faces somber, their eyes burning.

The Tohan men were furious, but
there was nothing they could do. They rode some way ahead of me, but I could
hear their whispered conversation as clearly as if they poured the words into
my ears.

“What did Shigeru do at the
temple?” Abe asked.

“Prayed, spoke to the priest. We
were shown the works by Sesshu; the boy did some painting.”

“I don't care what the boy did! Was
Shigeru alone with the priest?”

“Only for a few minutes,” the
younger man lied.

Abe's horse plunged forward. He
must have jerked on the bridle in anger.

“He's not plotting anything,” the
young man said airily. “It's all just what it seems. He's on his way to be
married. I don't see why you're so worried. The three of them are harmless.
Fools—cowards, even—but harmless.”

“You're the fool if you think
that,” Abe growled. “Shigeru is a lot more dangerous than he seems. He's no
coward, for a start. He has patience. And no one else in the Three Countries
has this effect on the people!”

They rode in silence for a while,
then Abe muttered, “Just one sign of treachery and we have him.”

The words floated back to me through
the perfect summer evening. By the time we reached the river it was dusk, a
blue twilight lit by fireflies among the rushes. On the bank the bonfires were
already blazing for the second night of the festival. The previous night had
been grief-filled and subdued. Tonight the atmosphere was wilder, with an
undercurrent of ferment and violence. The streets were crowded, the throng
thickest along the edge of the moat. People were standing staring at the first
gate of the castle.

As we rode past we could see the
four heads displayed above the gate. The baskets had already been removed from
the walls.

“They died quickly,” Shigeru said
to me. “They were lucky.”

I did not reply. I was watching
Lady Maruyama. She took one quick look at the heads and then turned away, her
face pale but composed. I wondered what she was thinking, if she was praying.