The Oni, page 14
Beneath this rope, in the center of the torii, just where he’d stood almost a fortnight earlier, is the boy Hoke.
The priest puts aside his pine branch. Hoke’s dark, lusterless eyes meet his, drawing him forward as flame draws the summer insects. The boy seems an embodiment of enduring sorrow.
“You’re getting thin, lad,” Monaga observes. “You should eat more.”
“My master feeds on the misery of others. His diet leaves poor table scraps.”
The priest is surprised at Hoke’s eloquence. Yet, under what previous circumstances had they this opportunity to speak freely? On his last visit to the shrine, the boy was preoccupied with fulfilling his mission so he would not have to kill himself. No time for small talk then. Good. This summons is not serious if the demon forgoes such threats.
“All right, Hoke, I suppose I’m as ready now as I can be to face Lord Uto.” He steps through the torii, passing the boy. He walks three paces, but hears only his own pair of sandals crunching snow. He turns.
Hoke stands beneath the torii, shaking his head.
“My Lord Uto has withdrawn from society. No one has seen him for days. I am not even called to share his bed. He dug a pit beneath the floorboards of his bedchamber and refuses to come out, even for state business.”
Monaga raises an eyebrow and rubs a thick-boned hand across his long chin.
“That sounds encouraging. A repugnance for human company is a common oni trait. I dared not hope it would develop so soon. Perhaps he will shortly abdicate and join his demonic cousins in the remote mountains.”
Hoke rubs his hands together with more vigor than warming one’s fingers requires.
“His mood is foul and growing fouler. If you are right, and my master becomes dissatisfied with Imuri, I fear the people will suffer. Those Lord Uto cannot rule, he slays.”
Monaga sighs. Hope is extinguished too swiftly to stave off his internal chill. “I feared as much, myself, but chose not to think of it.”
“Who can say? He confides in no one, trusts only myself and that no more than he must.” The boy shrugs. His indifference seems callous, but Monaga knows that no mind can dwell on great horror for long. Not if it is to remain sane.
“Then Lord Uto does not wish to see me this morning?”
“He does not. I do.”
Monaga points to a boulder beside the path, on the mundane side of the torii. The stone is worn smooth by the buttocks of worshippers who needed to recover from the steep climb before they entered sacred ground. It has eroded very little since the day Lord Uto began his reign. The two sit side by side. A breeze flits among surrounding pines. The boy trembles.
“What troubles you, Hoke?”
“I have great fear.” His fingers clutch the priest’s arm.
“With good cause.”
“Please, take me where he cannot reach me. Take me to the Imperial Palace in Naniwa.”
Monaga’s eyes widen. “The emperor’s court?”
“There are rumors in the village of a petition sent to the emperor. He is wise and beneficent and will surely take action. Perhaps he will send Prince Naka for Lord Uto’s head. What I know of the fiend’s household may be useful to the prince.”
For a peasant boy, Monaga muses, you are well informed. Of course, Uto’s network of spies reports to him at all hours. The lad is bound to overhear things. The priest is less sure of the benevolence of Emperor Kotoku, who cut down the trees of the shrine of Iki-kuni-dama. Still, Kotoku continues to perform the ancient rituals, to appease the populace, and he is slowly but aggressively extending imperial influence throughout the islands. He would not wish a demon in power over even so small and inaccessible a province as Imuri.
“Uto has forbidden my leaving,” Monaga points out.
“He forgets that you exist; have I not said so? If you are worried, leave a message promising to return. He honors your word. Say you’re visiting a sick colleague.”
Monaga shakes his head. “He will take his anger out on the villagers. He knows I can spread word of his cruelty.”
“What does that matter, in view of the petition? You can forswear to be silent. Likely he will not even notice you have left.”
Still the priest hesitates.
“He will be suspicious if we vanish together.”
“He no longer cares about me, either. His desires turn more and more on violence for its own sake. My life is in danger.”
Whose is not? wonders Monaga. He frowns. Hoke has an unexpected, and disturbing, well of persuasive words.
“I will take you as far as the Ise shrines. It is safe enough there.”
The boy grimaces. “I thank you, but no. It must be the capital!” Hoke presses the priest’s weathered hand with his own smooth palm. “Naniwa is not much beyond Ise. If you do not aid me, I will journey alone.”
Monaga grasps the boy’s shoulders and studies his grim child-face. Hoke is as inexpressive as if he were born of the fork of a tree. Only the flaring of his nostrils betrays the volcano below the youthful surface. Some greater terror eats at the child’s insides, something he will not speak of. Monaga must discover what it is, but now is not the proper time.
“We leave at sunset. Meet me here.”
Hoke bows gratefully, striking his forehead on the priest’s bony knee. He looks up again suddenly, his lower lip caught in his teeth. He grips the older man’s arm once more.
“Day is better.”
“We would be seen.”
“And ulterior motives therefore less suspected. Please. We must leave as soon as possible. I know the patrol schedule. We can avoid Lord Uto’s men.”
A strangely commanding tone for one of tender years and lowly class. Monaga again scrutinizes the lad, searching for something he does not know, something he does not find. No matter. The priest is committed, whatever his misgivings.
Monaga rises and walked to the torii. He unties the straw rope from one of the pillars.
“I usually replace the shimenawa on New Year’s Day, but I had better attend to it now. Can you wait that long, at least?”
Hoke bows, oblivious to the gentle sarcasm.
CHAPTER 30
650 A.D. First month. First day.
In Naniwa, the imperial chariot arrives at the Palace of Ajifu. Here, Emperor Kotoku views the ceremonies of the New Year’s celebrations. Plays and poetry competitions, dances and processions and sporting events that range from wrestling to kite-flying—these are the matters that occupy the court today.
“I ruined two pairs of sandals on the road from Lake Biwa!” the runner protests. He waves a sealed paper under the gatekeeper’s nose. “I bruised and froze my toes on the cobbles of your streets, searching for the emperor!” He pauses to gulp crisp morning air; he has not yet recovered his breath.
The guards shrugs. “The emperor’s orders are explicit. No state business until our New Year’s festivities are concluded. You should have realized as much.”
“I realize that even my calluses are blistered.”
“Nevertheless, you must wait. Afterwards, you may visit the emperor’s residence properly, and add this petition from … where did you say?”
“Imuri province.”
“Izumi?”
“No, Imuri.”
“Don’t know it. Anyway, then you can add this petition of yours to the others presented in the past few days. I promise you, our emperor personally reads every petition brought to him.”
The runner sighs and tucks the message up his sleeve. “Very well. I had better find lodgings. Can you recommend … ?”
The guard is not unsympathetic. Prior to his appointment as gatekeeper, he had been a court messenger. He gestures the runner to approach and unlocks the gate.
“You seem a man of honor,” he says, “so I’ll do this much for you. Ajifu is overrun with court servants, and no man, not even the Son of Heaven, knows them all. You’re welcome to join us menials in our celebrations, but you must promise not to bring up this matter of a petition. Save it for later, as I said.”
The runner is not an Imuri native. He is ignorant of the petition’s content. Why should he object to such a promise? Besides, he’s earned a holiday.
In Nikko, a small mountain village, strange wild men burst into house after house, roaring and yelping and leaping into the air so that their rags and strips of fur flap in every direction. Children shriek and run, for they are the favorite prey of these madmen. At last, the apparitions are appeased with bean cakes and sake, and their disguises are put aside.
A middle-aged priest and a boy stagger through the brisk dawn down Nikko’s main road. At first, they are mistaken for fellow celebrants. Their cloaks are rent, their packs about to fall apart. A gray strip of cloth circles the older man’s balding skull, and a swollen bruise mars his companion’s cheek.
They do not wear costumes. They are challenged.
“It seems a miracle that we have come this far,” Monaga replies to the headman’s pointed questions. “I never knew so many hazards existed between Imuri and Nikko. I shudder to think what may lie ahead.”
“More details, if you please,” the headman orders. He slips a badger pelt from his back. A few moments earlier, he’d been leading the ‘madmen’ of Nikko on riotous rampage.
“Extraordinary luck we’ve had! Once, we stumbled into a bandit camp in a pine forest, apparently within an hour of a dispute that left broken skulls and shards of bone and no survivors … unless, of course, they fled. Again, we strayed into an Ainu village that was completely deserted save for the corpse of an aboriginal woman who’d been raped and then strangled until her cheeks were as blue as the moustache tattooed over her lips.”
“Nothing less than they deserve,” the headman comments, remembering a recent Ainu raid on Nikko’s rice crop.
“In any case, their misfortune allowed us to replenish our food supplies. Then, we were nearly buried alive in an avalanche caused by an earthquake. How it was that we awoke at the foot of a mountain, stiff and sore but only slightly injured, I cannot even guess. Hoke refuses to discuss the incident.”
Monaga ruffles the boy’s hair. Hoke’s face is bland.
“Come, come, what is all this?” demands Yaku, the village priest, as he pushes through the gathering crowd. “These visitors need food and rest! Don’t keep them jabbering in the cold!”
The headman reddens, apologizing immediately.
The hospitality of the people of Nikko is matched only by the beauty of the local scenery—particularly the waterfall. Baths and hot meals are quickly arranged. A portion of the day’s offerings to the gods, which are not slight, is set aside for the travelers, that they might later buy what they need when they meet less generous folk. Monaga and Hoke are named guests of honor and given favored spots from which to watch the traditional fertility dance held at the village shrine. After days of hardship, Monaga welcomes such a respite.
Hoke, who has known few truly carefree days in his short life and should thus be even more pleased at the fuss, balks at further delay.
“We must reach Naniwa as soon as possible!”
Monaga rubs his aching calves, avoiding a tender purple blotch as large as a rice bowl where a falling boulder nearly crushed his leg.
“I don’t understand you, Hoke. Any other boy your age would jump at a few hours’ holiday!”
“And a priest with the welfare of his people at heart would not let himself be diverted from his duty!”
“Here, now! Some respect!” snaps Yaku. He enters the room set aside for the wanderers, bearing bowls of hot miso soup.
Monaga raises a disparaging hand. “It’s all right, Yaku. The boy has suffered much. If his manners are a bit rough, well, whose would not be under the circumstances?”
“You know best.” The slant of his eyebrow indicates Yaku’s true feelings are otherwise. He puts down the soup bowls. “I will have your clothing cleaned while you bathe. Meanwhile, you will of course receive fresh kimonos.”
Monaga nods as Yaku reaches for their packs. “You are too gener—”
“No!” Hoke flings himself across his pathetically small pack. “No one touches my things!”
Yaku glares at the boy. He turns to Monaga. “Really!”
Monaga shakes his head. “Look at him, Yaku. That isn’t greed in his eyes, nor malice. It’s terror! Indulge him, for my sake. He’s lost more than you can imagine!”
Yaku scowls, but nods brusquely. Not trusting his tongue, he leaves without another word. The travelers are alone again.
“Now, you listen to me, boy,” Monaga says sternly. “I grow weary of making your excuses. The people of Nikko are extending their most gracious hospitality to us …”
“I didn’t ask for it!” Hoke clutches his pack tight against his chest. Hair falls raggedly before his eyes, which take on an almost feral glow. “You can’t say I did!”
“Nor did I, so you needn’t look at me that way. Still, we cannot refuse it. I share your desire for haste. By this time, the petition must surely be in the emperor’s hands. However, we have been pressing ourselves hard. Another week like the last will kill me, if I don’t rest. It is only one day. We leave at dawn, refreshed. I guarantee that with our strength renewed we’ll soon make up for lost time. In the meantime, try not to act like an ungrateful eta!”
Hoke’s eyes remain fixed on the priest. They seem to glitter as they fill with tears. He nods, unable to speak. Several minutes pass before he lets go of his pack.
“Hoke?” asks the priest. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
The boy does not move. Monaga suspects that he is very close to learning Hoke’s secret, but he is too weary to press him now. Morning may tell another story.
Morning will tell another story, in a way Monaga does not anticipate. That evening, as he helps Yaku with the ritual ablutions, the priest from Imuri collapses. Within an hour, fever is upon him.
The travelers will not leave Nikko at dawn, after all.
CHAPTER 31
Ninth day.
The governor of Anato, a province on Honshu’s southwest tip, sits unattended in an open pavilion at the center of his garden. He taps an ivory penholder against his thick lower lip.
The governor is a heavy-set, sour-faced man with pitted cheeks. Half of his body hair makes up his full eyebrows. Once a middling-strong sumo wrestler, the governor each day feels more keenly the burden of muscles atrophying to flab. His digestion also suffers. His household affords a variety of foods beyond the imagining of most inhabitants of the Country of Eight Islands, yet his diet is as bland as that of the meanest eta. Essentially a good man, the governor tries not to take out his internal discomforts on the people of Anato. This is easier on some days than on others.
The big man has sat here all morning, composing a flattering poem he hopes to read during his visit next month to the imperial court in Naniwa. Invitations to the emperor’s palace do not come often, partly because of his own dour demeanor, an aspect of his personality too ingrained to change. Since the decline of the Soga clan, land reform proceeds quickly, especially when former Soga supporters are involved. Like many old officials, the governor is distantly related to that family—another factor in his casual ostracism—and so he is particularly anxious to win Emperor Kotoku’s favor.
The poem is nearly complete. A single line remains to be written. The perfect phrase finally coalesces in the governor’s mind. He wets his brush with ink, touches it to the rice-paper.
“Hai!”
A shrill greeting shatters the garden’s tranquility, driving the closing line from his thoughts.
The governor cleans his brush and lays it down gently, resisting an urge to hurl it at the intruder. The ivory handle would only crack against Bokuden’s thick skull.
For of course it is Bokuden who stands grinning on the steps of the pavilion. Few people are privileged to enter the governor’s presence unannounced and unaccompanied by at least one guard, and of those few only Bokuden regularly abuses the privilege. His ragged hunting outfit drips mud and less pleasant things on the polished wood. His pipestem-thin arms never wholly rest.
The governor sighs. His great belly quivers. “I trust you have not come about a new loan, Bokuden. I warned you when I forgave your past debts at the New Year’s festivities that I would not …”
“I remember, Governor,” Bokuden interrupts, bobbing his bony skull. For a nobleman’s nephew, Bokuden has little sense of decorum … perhaps because he is a nobleman’s nephew. “I welcome this opportunity to again thank you for that generous gesture, although I fully intended …”
“It was no more than tradition required.” And, the governor adds silently, a scandal-hating uncle with connections in the new emperor’s court. Naturally the governor does not refer aloud to the bargaining that led to his imperial invitation. Even Bokuden does not violate protocol that far. Inwardly, however, the governor grimaces. A new loan is precisely what Bokuden wants. By this time, the young man ought to have guessed what the rest of Anato knows: the uncle will not intercede on his nephew’s behalf again.
“Yet I feel obliged to your honorable self,” Bokuden replies. “I have prayed since then for an opportunity to repay you. Today, while I hunted on Mount Wonoyama, the gods answered those prayers.”
The governor cannot repress a scowl. Bokuden’s ploy is subtler than usual; the stakes must be higher. Although he senses the trap, the former wrestler is intrigued.
Bokuden claps his hands thrice. Before the third clap’s echo fades, two bearers appear. A bamboo cage dangles between them from a crosspiece resting on their shoulders. They halt at arm’s length from the pavilion steps. A beak stabs out to peck at the ropes that bind the cage bars together. The winged captive emits a high-pitched squawk.
