The Plum Rains and Other Stories (14 page)

It’s mine, said the Hell-kite, but he handed him the gun.

That too.

He picked up the bundle and gave it to him.

Jirobei examined the harquebus then put it aside. He
unfolded
the blood-stiffened robe until the mangled head was
exposed
, hacked with slash marks, bits missing, a shard of half-jaw wrenched out sideways, the whole thing clotted and foul. You’re supposed to wash it. You wash it then comb out the hair and oil it then configure the topknot again with a pure white paper-tie and attach a name tag to it. You mount it on a shelf-stand and scent it with incense. Or, if you require it for activities at a later date, you place it in a cask of rice wine as a preservative and
attach
the name tag to the cask handle.

I didn’t have time to do any of that.

Jirobei said nothing.

Who would do all that?

Samurai do that for the men they kill, Jirobei said, his eyes buried behind fat red slabs of flesh. I myself don’t.

So I guess that means you aren’t samurai. I guess I didn’t need to be told that.

That is what it means, said Jirobei. He placed the mangled head to one side then set the harquebus there too. Give me your long sword.

Never, said the Hell-kite.

Give it to me.

Why do you want it?

Give it to me.

The Hell-kite stared at him then said, What will happen if I do? 

That’s already determined, said Jirobei. Whatever occurs here was always meant to occur here. It’s correct as it is in itself. You walked to it, and I walked to it. It fits itself. It’s neither too long nor too short, neither too heavy nor too light. It is perfect in the shape and heft of its instant. How could it ever be
otherwise
? Can you even conceive of an event that fails to conform to the expectations of itself? Of course you can’t. The idea is
impossible
. From the day you were born, you were coming here to me. You must understand this in order to find your own place in the web of things. The sword wants the transfer. Hand it to me.

I can’t…

You can’t?

The Hell-kite shook his head, his lower lip quivering and his eyes filling with tears. I’m afraid.

You’re afraid. All right. Jirobei observed him mildly then reached over and lifted the sword away, the suddenness of it such that the Hell-kite’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

Jirobei drew the blade out halfway. He observed the dullness of the skin of the steel, the traces of discolouring that would soon become rust. He drew it out all the way and saw the dents and nicks at the slashing end of the blade, the dried blood still on it. He put the empty scabbard on the ground.

You are not a samurai.

The Hell-kite looked at him, trying to produce a scorn he didn’t feel, his tears overflowing now, sliding down both cheeks.

You carry weapons that are forbidden, and you have killed a man without justification. You are a criminal.

Who are you to say it? cried the Hell-kite of Edo. He seized the front his robe with both hands and gripped it closed until his knuckles turned white. Who are you at all?

Who am I? I’m someone who always arrives at where he is meant to be. Jirobei examined the neglected blade again then said, Sit up straighter. 

You’re not a person who can tell me what to do! the
Hell-kite
cried, weeping frightened tears; but he did straighten his back in spite of himself, and his head came away without a
moment
of doubt, his life’s blood leaping up from its neck stump in a single gasp then slowing and seeping out naturally.

Jirobei left the corpse where it sat while he went to gather dry wood. He built his pyre around the Hell-kite, who still clutched the front of his robe in the obscene modesty of his fear, blood coating his hands and wrists and pooling in his lap. Jirobei piled his swords and the new-style gun there too, and he added the two heads, one a disgrace, the other cut properly. He sat with the pyre even after it had burned down then moved farther off to choose his bivouac for that night.

Jirobei raked through the ashes at dawn the next day. He dragged out the blackened sword blades and the gun barrel with its lock and breech and firing mechanism charred. He broke the sword blades on the outcropping of granite. He used a rock to smash the breech with its flange cover and serpentine, but the gun barrel was too stiff to bend or break so he tossed it into a brushy gorge as a thing unworthy of respect. 

L
IGHTNESS

P
ale yellow butterflies flitted above the grassy banks of his small pond. A few dark yellow mountain-roses still bloomed in a tangled mass along the wall that separated his atelier from the main buildings of the mansion compound. On a nearby blossom a butterfly rested, its wings held together, dreaming itself into being.

Hizen no Sotobayama Monsaburo – Ox-Blossom was his poetic name – scraped open a space on his cluttered work table with the blade of his hand. He cut a generous strip off the end of his paper roll then loaded his brush and wrote a head note in Chinese:

He pondered this then sketched the first part of a poem in Japanese:

What? He removed the lid from his covered jar of barley water and, still holding his writing brush, drank the contents in a single draught. Something…

He read it aloud. The rhythm seemed wrong so he changed it to:

The slap-clacker of a passing rice cake pedlar outside the walls distracted him, and he listened to it growing fainter and fainter until the sound was lost behind the muffled roar of the city.

Ox-Blossom inked his brush again, dragging it up
backwards
from the well of the inkstone to form the writing tip. So if ‘fleeting’ then not ‘flowering…’ He crossed out the first line then crossed out the second and wrote:

He stared at the phrase then slashed across it with a violent black smear. He ripped the sheet of paper in half, ripped it in half again, then began tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, the flakes of paper dropping onto his tatami mats like fake snow.

His houseman had finished the seasonal change of clothing the day before, packing away the last of the lightweight summer robes in storage boxes; and now an unfamiliar garment hung on the display-frame, the sleeves held out on the bamboo crossbar as if offering an empty embrace. The robe was a rich indigo silk, and the white Sotobayama family crests embroidered on each of the front panels and in the middle of the back were slightly larger than usual, as if aping the manner favoured by the ruling Tokugawa family. The robe was much too grand for any activity he might have that day. He went out into the hall and called for his houseman but got no reply.

‘Fleeting dreams’ was too obvious. Old Master Bashō would have looked at him calmly, patiently, waiting for him to
recognise
how bad it was, ask if he didn’t think he was being
self-indulgent
?

Ox-Blossom flopped down on his atelier veranda. The
autumn
breeze shifted the tops of the trees in the main garden of the mansion. ‘Fading’ and ‘transience’ and ‘passing’ – all also exhausted from over-use, tired words, tedious words, words
hollowed
out and reduced to dry husks, with no more significance than the rattle in the ceiling of empty nut shells rolled by mice.

He spotted his houseman squatting just beyond the
brush-wood
gate that separated his atelier garden from the mansion’s main gardens. The fellow looked like a rustic petitioner, with his robe bundled up around his waist, the front flaps stuffed down between his thighs, and a vaguely puzzled smile on his face.

Where were you? Ox-Blossom demanded. His father, the Lord of Hizen, had replaced most of his son’s staff in Edo with retainers from the family domain, hoping an infusion of rural vigour would counteract the effete sophistication of the shogun’s metropolis. The man assigned to Ox-Blossom’s person when in his atelier – a building that also functioned as his private retreat when his entourage of rural samurai became tedious – was
particularly
free of urban contagion.

I wasn’t here.

I know that, said Ox-Blossom. Where did you go?

Because I had to go out.

Why did you have to go out?

To the green-items market.

Ox-Blossom glared at the man. Green items?

It is the term used here in the shogun’s city for vegetables and fruits. Or so I am told.

Used by whom?

Because the old term was not useful enough, apparently.

So. You went to a market. Fine. But can I ask who sent you there?

I went in order to ascertain the possibility of purchasing melons.

Melons?

There are those in the Tokugawa family who are said to be fond of them.

I don’t doubt that, said Ox-Blossom. But what concern is it of yours?

Because melons are best selected in the morning while still cool.

Idiot! That’s hardly an explanation of anything.

No? The houseman pondered this, frowning as a thought trudged through him. Perhaps it is because the purchase proved an impossibility? Melons being a summer-season green item…

Ox-Blossom glared at him, detecting a trace of insolence in the man’s stupidity. Whether you are called away or choose to go, you are to tell the chief steward and he is to make a
replacement
available should I required something of you, or of whomever in your absence is temporarily occupying your role. Is that clear?

Ox-Blossom found assent in the slackening of his
houseman’s
gaze, and he returned to the sanctuary of his work table.

Scrolls in boxes were stacked on the alcove shelf in the
atelier,
and a painting by Old Master Bashō himself hung there, the image of a few crows swirling about a withered tree bearing a poem about autumn twilight. His teacher had given it to him shortly before departing on a journey to the west, where a
dispute
had divided his followers in Osaka.

Ox-Blossom’s own efforts covered the walls of the work room. Long strips of rice paper bearing phrases in Chinese or Japanese shifted in the air, the bottom edges lifting then
settling
back again. Ox-Blossom studied one he’d made recently,
his index finger tracing the shapes of the painted characters on his palm as he followed the flow of the lines.

He inked his brush again then sketched a running-style simplification of one of the characters, seeking to reshape the word so that it would maintain the integrity of its structure yet also take on a dynamic instability that would provoke the eye, and carry the viewer through the interrelatedness of its parts while also driving downward to the next one below it.

Ox-Blossom glanced up to find his houseman crouching in the interior doorway.

There was something else you wanted?

No, the houseman said. Nothing. He remained as he was.

Then why are you here?

Here? Do you mean in this house? Or this doorway? Or in the city itself, or even –

Enough! Your time in them all may be growing shorter.

The man pondered this observation but seemed to find no merit in it. There was a message, he said finally. It arrived when I was in a state of absence.

What kind of message?

I forgot to inform you due to the unsatisfactory nature of the conclusion of the matter of the melons.

Melons again! When did this message arrive?

It was in the written form.

Fine. Where is this message?

As I indicated in my previous indication, it arrived when –

Understood! Ox-Blossom scraped the ink off the tip of his brush then placed it on the brush holder and turned to face his man directly. Answer me this, do you enjoy eating?

The man nodded solemnly.

The portions are ample? The flavour tasty?

His man nodded again then said, I am fond of the food here.

And do you hope to continue with this fondness?

He began blinking. I do hope to.

Then produce that message without further delay, and your access to food will not be interrupted.

His man regarded him dully for a moment then said, And is that the only requirement?

Idiot! Scoundrel! Do you want your life to end?

The message did not arrive unaccompanied.

Fine. What accompanied it?

And if your honourableness were not informed as to the nature of the state of its arrival, then you would not –

Answer it!

Instructions.

Regarding?

Garments.

For what purpose?

The manner of wearing of.

Ox-Blossom glared at his houseman, one hand clenched into a fist.

The preparation of garments suitable for wearing to formal occasions at Edo Castle.

And is the message then an invitation?

As you know, my education was interrupted before I learned to read written words.

You read the unwritten then?

I meant to distinguish between words written in ink and words spoken in language.

And do you think writing is not in language?

The houseman drew himself up. As you know, my education was interrupted.

As is your life about to be.

I have no understanding of written words, the man said stubbornly. It cannot be held against me.

Perhaps not. But you are an excellent gossip. You will have heard of the contents of the message from whomever delivered it. And where is this message now?

Little Oshichi from the scullery brought it. Her limp has become worse. She will soon be lame. The houseman gazed around vaguely. There are those who say thermal waters might cure her. Others say the fogs found at such places would make her even worse. Oshichi knows a carter whose sister is
married
to an apprentice scabbard-maker who outfits guards at the castle, and he heard someone say that you are to be informed of a sad occurrence…

I am what?

And that the shogun himself has agreed to meet with you.

Why would he do that?

Thus the need for arriving in proper attire.

What sad occurrence?

Thus the instructions that came with the message.

Ox-Blossom placed both hands on his table. I am waiting for what I want, he said. You will have the same experience at meal time.

The houseman began blinking slowly. Your honour has been summoned to the castle. It is a matter of emotion and regret. The shogun has taken it upon himself to show sympathy. Thus the need for the formal robe. I had thought also that perhaps arriving with a gift of –

No! Don’t say it!

It is said that your honour is the only person in Edo who can fully understand what needs to be done in this situation.

And
what
is the situation?

A man has died. He was once samurai but now is not.

Who?

The name meant nothing to me, but he was a –

Why can you not remember such a simple thing as a man’s name?

It is also said that he –

Enough! said Ox-Blossom. You may go. I’ll speak with the seneschal.

His houseman remained as he was. As for the matter of the melons, I had thought that perhaps –

No! Not a word! Not a word about melons!

The houseman began blinking in consternation. The sister of the carter married to the apprentice scabbard-maker … the sister being the married one, I mean, not the carter … although the carter too may very well be married, for I do not –

The heavy inkstone went sailing past the man’s head and crashed into the corridor behind him, leaving a trail of ink
lacerating
the tatami mats and the fusuma doors.

The houseman looked around to confirm what had just
happened,
and he continued studying the inkstone where it lay, as if assessing the possibility of further alterations. Once it seemed certain nothing more would be learned, he backed away slightly then said, She told me that the person who died was your
teacher.
And that only you would know what needs to be done.

Ox-Blossom stared at him. My … teacher?

The houseman pushed ahead. I had thought that perhaps arriving with a gift of melons might demonstrate to the shogun that you recognise the honour he is showing your honour. For it is well known that he has a particular liking … for … them…

O
LD
M
ASTER
B
ASHō WAS DEAD
, and there was no one to take his place. The gate to his cottage would be closed, the rain
shutters
attached, and poets who had once sought his advice and approval would disperse like dry leaves blown in a gale. It was with this in mind that Ox-Blossom set off on a solitary foot journey, intending to complete one final duty to the memory of
his teacher. He did not wear robes of mourning, judging such a display presumptuous; but he did write the Old Master’s death poem on his sedge-grass travel hat:

By late afternoon of the second day, Ox-Blossom had reached the river-town which marked the outside boundary of the wide Musashi grasslands. The vermillion portal of the
local
inari shrine was guarded by a pair of fox statues wearing faded red votive bibs, and inside the sanctuary were mated pairs of miniature terracotta foxes arrayed on shelves, with shards of broken ones littering the floor tiles. A rattle-rope hung from the peak of the eaves. Ox-Blossom gave it a perfunctory shake to acknowledge the god’s presence then returned to the shrine
gardens.
The purification trough was fed continuously by a bamboo trickle-pipe, and after rinsing his face and neck and forearms the samurai poet settled on a bench and sat staring at the flat surface of water shimmering in the sunlight, overflow spilling out evenly on all sides and dribbling down the mossy flanks.