Segaki, page 7
The dog was happier now. It took time out to investigate fascinating smells, deer droppings perhaps. It had been thirsty for so long, and was so tired of dust baths, that it was content to amble contentedly towards the water.
Muchaku was happier, too. This roar was cousin to the capricious falls of Noto. It made him secure in the midst of all this change.
The rocky wood through which they now passed seemed unscathed. Before Muchaku’s nose an early bagworm had woven itself around a leaf, swaying gently at the end of a long sticky thread. Spider webs stretched from tree to tree, as they do from statue to statue in those treasury rooms where the massed temple Buddhas are kept. And indeed this little wood was also a host, equally liberated and benign.
And then, at once, it was not.
The dog ran ahead and then came back. It had catapulted out into another devastated strip, and by now it knew what that meant. The sound of water was now very loud, but so was the sound of smouldering fire.
There had been more fighting and less looting here than down in the valley, for there were more dead. They had surely been mercenaries, for only men paid to do so would have killed in such haste and with such lack of art. Most of them had been decapitated, for several of the local warlords still paid by the head, in order to make war more serious, and naturally wanted to see what they had paid for.
The devastated strip was actually an open glade, the fire having licked only the outer trees of the wood, in a ring around the burnt over grass. In the centre was an overturned closed lacquer cart, or the remains of one. Someone of importance had been making an escape and was either dead or not dead. It was from there that the fire seemed to have started.
Over it all, quite visible now, the waterfall poured serenely down to freshen the air.
That was ironic. For though Micho waterfall is only a waterfall, at the same time it is one of the great Buddhist texts of Japan, a Koan in itself, and also a commentary on that passage of the Tao Te Ching which claims that the highest excellence is like that of water, which benefits all things, and which, without deliberate effort or destructive force, also shapes all things. It is not only the source of life; it is also patience, for he who has true wisdom shapes things merely by seeking his own level. The Japanese, however, never having forgotten that they are primitive, are more subtle than that. They realize that the absence of effort is a characteristic only of great vigour.
To remain untouched, and to touch nothing, one must at the same time keep constantly in motion. But then the subtleties of nature are infinite precisely because its manifestations are generic. There is only one Micho waterfall. Yet who is to say how it differs from any other waterfall? The surroundings make it seem unique, but are not unique in themselves. In nature nothing is unique and everything is particular. Thus one sees the world from two sides at once merely by looking at it in one way.
And what we value a man, or a waterfall, or a dog for, is not what we call himself or it, which we can never know, but for that insight into the nature of all things which only the particular thing can ever give us, and it only when it is most idiosyncratically itself.
Unfortunately Muchaku was in no such mood, though he found the virginal existence of the waterfall soothing, so seasonably permanent, above this wood and these men, who had been cut off in the middle of a summer.
The sight revolted him. He would go no farther. One of the wheels on the wagon was still spinning. The scene was too immediate.
It was the dog, then, that found the living man.
Muchaku hesitated. He did not want to step out on to that burnt earth. Smoke from the scorched trees drifted in a blue mist, noiseless, but yet like an imitation of the mist of the waterfall, whose base was hidden by conical green trees standing up like incense mounds.
The dog lifted its nose into the wind. Something had caught its attention. The look of worried boredom in its eyes gave way to surprise, it bounded into the air, set off across the field at a purposeful trot, giving the headless bodies a wide berth, its fringed tail held politely straight out, and disappeared. Then it began to yip.
A live voice came out of that dead place. It was amused but firm, and sounded preoccupied. The dog was still.
Muchaku fidgetted and then decided to follow. He picked his way a little too fastidiously, his robe blackening at the hem in the grass char, and rounded near the abandoned cart a copse of almost untouched trees with sooty leaves. It was here the dog had vanished. He approached with trepidation and then straightened up.
The corpse of a young boy lay at full length. The head was gone, but the body had a crumpled distinction. It had the quality of having been suddenly flung down from on high. The slightly resigned hands were distinct against his armour, soft palms up. The dog lay at some distance to the side, its eyes full of an obedient intelligence, its tail thumping contentedly on the ground, its pink tongue lolling out.
It had somehow managed to become a more cheerful younger dog. Muchaku saw at once why, and was jealous. It had always gone that way with their pets. Yasumaro had only to enter a room, and everyone immediately discovered himself to be immensely attractive and downright beautiful. It was a dreadful gift, for it ruined all the painful plans of the serious-minded.
Seated comfortably on a rock, with his back to him, was a wiry lean gentleman in a faded blue painter’s robe, with the right sleeve cut away, the muscles of the exposed arm brown and methodical. For a moment, though he was overjoyed with relief, Muchaku did not want to see his face.
For his brother Yasumaro had an odd face. It was thin, bony, and narrow, with precisely rich lips and sparkling grey eyes that laughed at everything. Physically his brother was older than he, unapproachable, and innately austere. He always managed to look as though he had just had a bath and enjoyed it riotously. He made no pretence to wisdom at any time, but it was impossible to budge him. So he always made you furious, even while you were enjoying him, for you could not help but feel some awe, even though, and perhaps because, there was about that physical austerity, that raw-boned, lanky mind, something deliberately and joyously frivolous.
He liked to play tag with children. If by chance you trapped him into a serious conversation, he might accidentally say something profoundly disturbing, but then he would blink and burst into fits of giggles, and instead of finishing what he had begun to tell you, would politely excuse himself. Half an hour later you would find him placidly peeling vegetables with the maid. You would ask him what he thought of such and such, and he would look at you solemnly, holding up a peeling, moist and glittering as he twirled it in his hand, and say: “Look, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it edible?”
And the maid would say, “Oh master … I shouldn’t be here and you shouldn’t be peeling vegetables.”
And he would say: “Of course not. But you do think it’s beautiful, don’t you? I don’t see how you could cook so well if you didn’t.”
She would blush and giggle and say yes, and he would turn to his guests as though he had made a major discovery. He had not, in all his lifetime, ever lost a maid. And he was always in motion. When you turned to speak to him, he was no longer there. If you admired the view he would offer you a perfectly preserved plum; if you enjoyed a plum, he would turn your attention to the irises, and he abhorred any serious discussion unless it had a light and glancing touch.
Yet even when he was giggling, you could not help but be aware of something calm, grave, watchful, and utterly immovable that sat always just inside him, and he never appeared anywhere before noon. In the midst of all that foolishness wisdom would explode in your mouth as though you had bitten on an unexpected peppercorn carelessly left in the dish.
He had never been to court. He loathed to sell his works. Yet at merely fifty he was already a famous man. He did not look at the matter that way. He would peer at a new painting and say, “What a pity it is to spoil all that innocence. Someone buys them, and then they become so worldly. I don’t understand it. No wonder I never see them again. I’m just their poor relation.”
It was in the morning that he worked, and clearly he was working now.
Despite himself, Muchaku had to smile. There was something so healthy and sane emanating from that rock. He walked round and looked down at his brother. His shadow fell across the sketch pad, and Yasumaro looked up.
“You said I would come back,” Muchaku said softly. He felt nervous.
Yasumaro did not even start. He didn’t seem in the least surprised to see him. He was adjusted to these times. It was only the expected that ever surprised him.
“So you finally became bored with it. I always hoped you would,” said Yasumaro. His attention was divided.
Muchaku retired behind the dog and sat down cross-legged to wait. The sunlight seemed to him benevolent. For the first time in days he was warm. But he knew that his brother refused to be interrupted while at work.
It did not strike him as odd that his brother should be sitting placidly in the middle of a battlefield. It was just the sort of thing his brother would do. Certain people seem to live by virtue of a suspension of natural law favourable only to themselves. Muchaku felt snug and secure, precisely as the dog did. It was impossible to tell why, but he knew as a certainty that so long as Yasumaro wished to remain undisturbed there would be no further fighting in that field. All of us have abilities we can make no use of. When we try to employ them, they vanish, so it is better to take them for granted and profit accordingly. Wherever Yasumaro was, there always there was quiet too. Perhaps it was merely that he could not bring himself to appear anywhere where peace was not.
Whatever it was, he sat comfortably in the middle of this field with an equanimity Muchaku could not muster, as though a headless corpse was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Nor, he saw, was his brother really painting. His brush was dry. Instead he was watching and waiting, with a quivering interest, and Muchaku leaned forward to see for what.
To others it might seem inhuman. But Muchaku knew how his brother felt about such things. To Yasumaro love was neither sympathy nor understanding, but only the ability to watch. It was the ability to watch that required sympathy and understanding.
The battle could not have been more than a few hours ago. The soldier’s body was quite fresh, and the absence of the head made it seem shockingly naked and personal, yet innocent and downy too. A little dew still glistened in the shadowed parts of the armour, but the body was sprawled out loosely, with a mute, ecstatic blindness, as though it had been abandoned in a bed. The only way I can see, it seemed to say, is if you touch me.
The plump uncertain fight hand was lying palm up on the grass, with fingers slightly curled, as though waiting to hold something that would strike it with wonder.
What Yasumaro had been watching was not the body at all, but a nubile young snail. It appeared now, round a fold in the boy’s skirts, with an eager, rocking motion, its tender little green body mottled with brown spots. It was very moist. It was not accustomed to cloth, and appeared to decide to descend to the stubble, which it did, riding the heavy folds like an overladen skiff. It reached the stubble, rested for a moment, looking inquiringly in each direction, ejected its soft mucous trail, and then began a determined rolling journey up the body’s coast.
There was something dramatic about the smooth progression of that snail. It had made several false starts, Muchaku could see, from the drying silver of its trails. It had even appeared to change its mind and reverse direction, as though it had been irresistibly called back.
It was impossible to tell how it came there, but one of the trails led from a hip pouch. It almost seemed as though the young boy must have picked it up from the ground, to prevent its being crushed, and put it in there. Yasumaro drew in his breath and leaned forward.
The displacement of air must have disturbed the snail. It twisted around, its knobbed antennae waving distractedly in the air, then hunched up, which moved its shell a little on to its shoulders, and continued on its way.
Finally, when Muchaku’s neck was beginning to ache from bending forward, it reached the hand, hauled itself painfully up through the web between the third and fourth fingers, slipped a little, and half coasted into the centre of the palm. There it came to rest, its antennae nodding up and down, with the extremely self-contained look of someone who has returned a favour suitably.
It was as though the body had been waiting. The fingers looked stiffer. And something within it peacefully withdrew, as though it too had lingered only to become aware of this.
“Ah,” breathed Yasumaro, tenderly plucked out the snail, and with a grin stood up. “You see. One learns nothing if one experiences life, only if one watches one’s self experiencing it.” He turned the snail over in his hand. “You have a dog now.”
“It doesn’t belong to me.”
Yasumaro looked at him intently. “But you clearly belong to it,” he said. “And perhaps that is better.” He laughed. “Do you know why you have come?”
His brother had always been like that, the quizzical questioner. Twenty years ago, Muchaku had been asked why he was going in exactly the same mocking tone. This had always been their conversation, affectionate, and yet without understanding. Time, which he had always found so monotonous, was to Yasumaro meaningless. It made no difference to him whether he had not seen a person for ten days, an hour, or twenty years. He always took up the conversation where they had left off. Now he held out the snail in his open palm. It had withdrawn into its shell.
The dog stirred. Someone was softly calling from the edge of the field. Yasumaro turned towards the sound, and so did Muchaku.
A girl was standing there, simply dressed, with her hair done up in a white muslin handkerchief. She looked expectant yet troubled, and she had clearly been waiting there for some time. Her attitude was happily submissive. Seeing she had been seen, she started forward. Smiling pleasantly, Yasumaro went to meet her. Muchaku and the dog followed.
Muchaku watched her narrowly. Yasumaro believed in his creature comforts, and this no doubt was one of his creatures. Anything carnal had always made Muchaku nervous, and there was something withdrawn about this girl which showed that she was no ordinary servant. She convinced in that role, but only as an actress convinces.
Yasumaro was obviously glad to see her.
There was certainly something spirited and practical about her face, her eyes solemnly danced, yet, well-scrubbed though she was, she also seemed just to have removed heavy oxide paste and rice powder. It was clear, somehow, from the hurried awkwardness of her stance, that she had been trained to move gracefully and so felt at a loss when she had to move otherwise.
Right now, however, with a wary glance at Muchaku, she was intent upon being a maid. Yasumaro explained her away as his cook, introducing her to Muchaku with a twinkle, for his brother’s idea of what austerity was and was not had always moved him to a quietly mendacious compliance. His manner had something of that sick room hush which the knowledgeable display before the unworldly.
Muchaku thought her too healthy to be true, and too forward. Over her plump freckled arm she was carrying a warm lunch in a wicker basket. He could smell it from where he stood, and the smell made him wince. It had the intimate beefy smell of curly brown hair under an arm, and he was faint for food.
Yasumaro must have sensed that, and took his arm. His grip was surprisingly tough, but considerately gentle. But then Yasumaro was a beautiful man, whose taut body perfectly expressed the ironic enthusiasm of his mind.
There was nothing for Muchaku to do but smile at her. She gave him an abrupt curtsey, but seemed upset to see him. Her eyes grew rounder and she drew away, her clogs sinking unevenly into the turf, so that she lost her balance. Yasumaro steadied her and she gave him a quick nervous look.
“My brother is here,” she said softly.
“Your brother?”
“He’s a soldier with Lord Takatori. He knows all about …” she hesitated, “me. He’s waiting in the trees. He didn’t think it was safe to be seen.”
Muchaku looked towards the trees and saw among the blackened boughs that same glint of silver. His face must have shown his alarm, for he saw that they were each looking at him curiously. Yasumaro sucked in his breath and hurried towards the edge of the wood.
The girl and Muchaku were left awkwardly alone. The girl had tact. She saw he was disturbed, but did not follow his glance towards the wood. In that moment they heard voices, a quick, rough, rapid voice, and Yasumaro speaking in lower tones. Muchaku became pale.
She stooped to play with the dog. It did not like her at first, for Muchaku only played with it solemnly. There was something definitely wrong. Muchaku could sense that. But he did not dare to ask a question. As her fingers rambled through the short hair of the dog, she seemed abruptly sad.
There was a rustling clank as the soldier moved away, the boughs agitated after his passage. Yasumaro came hurrying back.
“We will go up to the house,” he said. He told the girl to go ahead of them, and that he would see her later. His manner had changed. He was more elastic and abrupt. He seemed cross with Muchaku. He did not refer to the soldier.
“Why did you come?” he asked after a while.
“I don’t know.”
“But then you do.” He was almost galloping towards the house, and Muchaku could tell that in some way he was very angry. And he would not look at him, which made Muchaku feel guilty.
They went right through the garden to the house, and right through the house to the garden studio. Muchaku did not know what else to do but follow. Yasumaro’s mood seemed to have altered again. It was now gentle and sad, as he stepped out of the studio on to the veranda, and so down to the garden.
While Muchaku watched, he carefully took the snail out of some concealed pocket in his robe, and set it down precisely on a small slitted rock. It sat there for some time in its shell, and then slowly its tail and head came out and it moved smoothly towards the shrubbery.
