The Oni, page 15
The governor’s suspicion-narrowed eyes open wide. He heaves himself onto his feet, heedless of the act’s indignity, and waddles past Bokuden down the steps. Standing before the cage, he reaches out a thick hand. The bird attacks the swollen finger as if it were a juicy worm. The governor jerks back. He sucks at the wound contemplatively.
“This pheasant’s feathers,” he mutters, “are pure white.”
“As the snows of Fuji,” Bokuden adds with shameless pride. “An auspicious omen, is it not?”
The governor grunts. Auspicious for Bokuden, anyway, who has had the sense to recognize superstitious significance in a naturally blanched creature. For himself, the governor realizes he has already erred in revealing his fascination with the oddity.
“Perhaps,” he says. “How much do you ask?”
Bokuden staggers as though shocked. He may even be shocked, but the governor doubts that.
“This is a gift of gratitude,” Bokuden protests.
Beneath his voluminous kimono, the governor’s shoulders sag. This will be expensive. He can refuse the gift, of course. That would free him from further obligation. It would also be inexcusably rude. The news would precede him to Naniwa and cast a pall over his visit … assuming Bokuden’s uncle did not have the invitation rescinded.
On the other hand, this pheasant is impressively handsome. The governor admires its beauty and singularity. He is not much swayed by its alleged function as a favorable omen, but many of his countrymen are … including Emperor Kotoku, at least publicly. The emperor’s new programs were meeting with resistance. He could capitalize on such a sign that the gods favor his reign.
“I accept your gift, Bokuden,” the governor says, stroking his double chin. “You honor my house.”
“Your acceptance honors mine.” Bokuden gestures to the bearers. They lower the cage to the ground, balance the crosspiece atop it, and depart, unburdened, as swiftly as they came.
Bokuden turns to follow. At the foot of the pavilion steps, he stops and turns again.
The governor waits uneagerly.
“There is one minor difficulty,” Bokuden begins.
The governor nods, almost imperceptibly.
“When I went hunting on Wonoyama, it was with no thought of bringing back live game. Consequently, I have incurred unforeseen expenses. These have jeopardized certain plans of mine for establishing …”
The governor climbs up into the open pavilion again. He picks up his unfinished poem and tears a blank strip of paper from the bottom. He reaches for his brush.
“How much, Bokuden? That’s all I need to know. No. Don’t even tell me that. Take this to my treasurer. He will satisfy your needs.”
Bokuden snatches at the ragged paper. Fresh ink smears his fingers. In the time it takes him to read the scrawled instructions, the governor pushes past to stand again before the pheasant’s cage, meditating on the living whiteness. No point in addressing further words to that broad, indifferent back. Bokuden hurries from the garden before the governor can change his mind.
CHAPTER 32
Tenth day.
Hoke pauses at the foot of Nikko’s most glorious waterfall. Its silvery beauty makes little impression on his half-glazed eyes, but the boy lacks a better goal. He perches on a smooth rock no bigger than himself. Because the low end happens to face the falls, he does also. Icy spray spatters his forehead, where droplets cling to furrows. Hoke shivers, although his borrowed kimono is double-lined with soft red cotton and the air hints of spring, inducing anxious trees to shoot green buds from branch-tips.
To Nikko’s inhabitants, the boy could as well be a ghost. He is seen frequently, but almost always at a distance. Few even hear his voice. Such willful aloofness seems particularly unhealthy in a child, but for the sake of the priest who accompanies the boy, and who lies deathly ill in the sanctuary of the local shrine, the villagers respect Hoke’s desire. If not respect, then tolerate.
Hoke does not dislike these people. Given a choice, he would readily join their activities, work and play alike. They demonstrate a joyful pride unimaginable in Imuri. Since he cannot stay, however, Hoke dares not form attachments. The sooner he leaves Nikko, the easier it will be.
The delay caused by Monaga’s illness grows more worrisome each day. Not for the first time, Hoke contemplates leaving the priest in the hands of these good folk. The plan is unworkable for several reasons. A lone peasant boy has little chance of penetrating the imperial court. A new mentor will hardly be as tractable and understanding as Monaga, whose very priesthood carries influence. Hoke would have to reveal too much to a strange companion, with possibly fatal results.
Should Monaga not recover, of course, Hoke will have no other choice.
The boy wipes a damp cheek with his sleeve. He prefers not to dwell on that thought. He concentrates on rushing waters.
Footsteps rasp faintly on the path behind him. Hoke stiffens; even his sphincter tenses. He draws the kimono tighter about his thin body, huddling against the cool stone. Why did he wear red today?
The footsteps stop. Their maker stands to Hoke’s left. With an effort, the boy shifts his eyes to look.
And releases a pent breath. It is only Yaku. The faint odor of sandalwood should have told Hoke this, as soon as the priest was no longer downwind.
“So here you are,” Yaku grumbles. His deep voice acts as counterpoint to the soprano laughter of the stream at the base of the falls. Spray forms dark spots on his ivory-colored kimono.
“Obviously,” the boy replies, hiding his relief.
“I was told you walked this path.”
Hoke shrugs. His gaze returns to the cascading waters.
Yaku taps his staff softly but impatiently on the stone. “You were not at breakfast.”
“I was not hungry.”
Yaku scowls. “So you left the sanctuary without a word. Knowing how my colleague and your protector, Monaga, worries about you. His life is already in the balance.”
Hoke swallows, clearing his throat. “The way you speak, my protector may soon be past all worrying.”
Yaku’s right hand clenches the staff. Knuckles whiten. He pauses for a long, deep breath before he speaks again.
“Perhaps I sound that way,” he admits grudgingly. “Of late, I sense a gloom deeper than any I have known. The kami are restless. However, I have good news this morning. Monaga’s fever has broken.”
Hoke’s shoulders rise the width of a finger. Almost, his shining eyes turn to the Nikko priest. He stops himself. Hopes have been dashed too often in his few years for him to raise them again on such slim evidence. His voice remains flat.
“You said as much five days ago. Then, the fever returned with the setting sun, worse than before.”
“You presume to question me?” Yaku chokes back further angry words. He is bound by his promise to Monaga, though the vow galls. How great a spirit the Imuri priest must have, to endure such insolence!
Swallowing his rage, Yaku confesses, “I was premature. This time I waited to be sure. There has been no fever since dawn yesterday.”
The boy chews his lower lip. “You did not mention this.”
“I did not wish to disappoint you again. Monaga is recovering. With proper rest, he will soon be able to travel.”
Hoke leaps from the stone. His feet jar on the hard ground. He stares up at the priest anxiously. From this angle, Yaku’s expression seems even severer than usual. “Today?”
Yaku glares. “Is that all you care about? Is Nikko so unpleasant?”
“How long?” the boy insists.
Yaku shakes his head in resignation. What can one do against such single-mindedness? “Two or three days. Four at the most. At present, he can barely stand unaided. He wishes to see you, though why he should is beyond me.”
Hoke’s jaw works violently. He cannot, will not speak.
Yaku takes this as a sign his comment has struck home. Contrite for hurting the boy, the priest recalls his secondary purpose for pursuing Hoke today.
“This brooding is not good for you, lad. With your patience sorely tried, you might welcome a diverting task.”
Hoke’s lips thin. “No.”
“You have not heard …”
“I will not be involved in village life. Every day you try to talk me into joining some communal effort. Do you wonder that I skipped breakfast today?”
“All Nikko knows your preferences,” Yaku replies sourly. “I have a solitary undertaking in mind. A message to be delivered to the provincial governor, on behalf of the village.”
Hoke snorts. “Some idle flattery, I suppose, or the dedication of a new hovel in his name. I recognize make-work when I see it. No thanks, priest.” He starts to mount the stone again, and halts with one knee raised. “What is a provincial governor?”
“I thought you knew everything. He’s a sort of lord. Ours, in fact, was lord of this province, prior to the new imperial regime. I’d forgotten that Imuri, being small and remote, has so far eluded the emperor’s land reforms. Our governor resides a day’s journey from here, beyond that mountain. You walk as far as your pacings about Nikko.”
Hoke considers this information as he considers everything … warily.
“There is a small element of risk,” Yaku adds, “but, again, no more than you already take in your daily, solitary walks.”
“How so?”
“That is the nature of the message. It seems that bandits have resolved this year to exercise greater boldness, or perhaps the Ainu grow uneasy. In the past week, while you’ve wandered oblivious to others’ words and deeds, five corpses were discovered on nearby roads. Two of the dead were residents of Nikko. You must have seen the funerals. We are petitioning the governor to increase his patrols in this area.”
Color drains from Hoke’s face. His knees weaken. His palms turn clammy, and not alone from the touch of the cold damp rock. “How … how did they die?”
“It is not proper for a child your age to hear …”
“How did they die?” Hoke grasps the priest’s flowing sleeve and pulls violently. The material rips. Losing his grip, the boy staggers back until his spine presses the rock.
Yaku glowers at the torn cloth. Before him, unrepentant, stands a pale, shivering child with cold eyes and thin lips. What does one do with such a boy? Cast him into the falls, out of frustration. Clutch him to your bosom, out of pity.
Yaku does neither.
“All were bludgeoned to death.” He sniffs haughtily. “Will you take the message? A boy may pass unseen where a man cannot.”
Hoke shakes his head. His very stance radiates refusal.
Yaku sniffs again. “Very well. I thought to do you a favor. Frankly, I feel better relying on one of the farmers.”
Hoke’s eyes dart right and left. The surrounding forest appears free of lurking shadows, though one can never be wholly sure. He licks his lips. His voice comes low, barely discernible over the waterfall’s roar.
“Your messenger must be extremely careful. It would be best if you did not dispatch him until Monaga and I have left.”
Yaku’s eyes widen at this unasked-for advice. “You arrogant little … I dare not say more. Do what you wish.”
The boy turns once more to watch the falling waters splash and leap, the stream froth and surge. Sunlight flashes on the surface, mesmerizingly. It is his only escape.
Yaku stares at the small, stiff form for a long moment. He fingers the torn kimono sleeve. An old garment, easily sewn. An unintentional act. Yaku is shamed that he has come so close to anger more than once during the brief exchange. Hoke is not just strange; he is disquieting. Perhaps the boy is right. The sooner the strangers from Imuri leave, the better. For Nikko as well as themselves.
CHAPTER 33
Twenty-ninth day.
A sampan skims the waters of Lake Biwa, propelled by the sculling of its single oarsman who stands at the stern. His passengers are willing to help, but neither priest nor boy is used to strenuous rowing. Instead, they rest in the center of the boat. Hoke peers over the sampan’s side, his chin on the bamboo frame, watching the western shore creep by. Monaga lies on his back. One hand shields his eyes from the sun. The wobbling, sideways motion of the vessel makes him uneasy. He hopes today he can keep down the bit of fish that was his supper.
His soft moans carry over the lake.
The oarsman is a gangling fisherman named Toki. Toki’s personality swings from taciturn to verbose. The former, Monaga thinks, seems a pose he cannot long maintain, although the latter is a dangerous trait for one of his low class. However, Hoke’s personality is puzzle enough for the priest to grapple with.
Toki draws back the oar and spares a sympathetic look for his elder passenger. “Be grateful, priest, that we voyage this month, instead of next.”
“I know. The Hira hurricanes.” Monaga sighs. A dozen times, at least, Toki has recounted the legend of the unfortunate girl who rowed the lake every night to visit her lover, the lighthouse keeper. When the keeper, fearing she might be a sorceress, deliberately left the fire out one night, the girl became lost, frustrated, and angry. She threw herself into the lake, cursing her lover with her dying breath. At once, a hurricane blew up, demolishing lighthouse and keeper. Since then, at the same time every year, the storms return to Lake Biwa.
“Exactly,” Toki confirms. “You couldn’t get me out on this lake then for all your threats.”
The oarsman’s jaw snaps shut on that bitter note. Hoke turns from inspecting the shoreline to glare at Toki with cold, fathomless eyes. A forceful oar-stroke hastens the boat with a jerk.
Monaga observes the strain in Hoke’s face, but cannot think how to interpret it.
“You invited us aboard, Toki,” the priest states, disregarding his abused stomach. “All but kidnapped us. We made no threats.”
“Did I say you did?” Toki’s voice is a shade too loud. “I did not. I never said I’d been threatened, only that if I had been …” The sentence trails off. He falls into one of his silent moods.
Hoke looks shoreward again.
At least, Monaga muses, they are spared another telling of that legend. Actually, Toki is a fairly good storyteller with too limited a repertoire. If the oarsman’s tales pulled Hoke out of his sullen introspection, Monaga would willingly listen again and again. They do not. The lad seems unimpressed by the knowledge that the lake was formed in the fifth year of Emperor Korei’s reign, by the same earthquake that created glorious Mount Fuji. He is so indifferent to the existence of the Dragon King’s palace at the bottom of the lake that he does not even look for the shining dome of its roof. He yawns at the adventures of the artist-priest who, because of his great skill and goodness, was permitted to explore the lake in the shape of a golden carp, and of the equally skilled painter Kwashin Koji, rumored to have sailed off into one of his own paintings of Lake Biwa. Pointing out the famous eight fair views for Hoke is a waste of time.
Monaga feels less easy every moment, and the erratic motion of the sampan becomes the least of his distresses.
Suddenly, Hoke leans forward, jabbing a finger towards shore. The shift in weight causes the boat to rock even more.
“Misasagi!” he exclaims, staring wide-eyed at the succession of conical earth mounds.
Monaga rises on one elbow to see for himself. The effort costs him; he tastes bitter bile at the back of his throat. No matter. The boy is finally taking an interest in something outside of himself.
“Yes, Hoke,” Monaga says. “Each one marks the burial spot of a high-place noble, if not an emperor.”
“Then we are but a few miles north of Otau!” Hoke turns to the oarsman. “Aren’t we?”
Toki nods, but with the bouncing of the boat this is impossible to detect. “True, lad. By afternoon we’ll be out of the lake waters and on the Uji River, which runs into the Yodo River, which will take us to Naniwa.” He licks his lips, tasting cold freshwater spray mingled with his own perspiration. “The current will be with us. We’ll make good time. Believe me, I’m as anxious to be rid of you as you are to arrive!” Toki falls silent once more, staring straight ahead.
Monaga lies back on the rough bamboo deck. He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. A frown tugs at his mouth. He wonders, not for the first time, if luck alone led to their meeting Toki, who’d landed to repair his curious, arrow-shaped fish traps, on Lake Biwa’s northern shore. If so, was it good luck or bad?
He wonders even more where a peasant boy from a remote province learned so much of Nihon’s geography.
CHAPTER 34
Second month. First day.
Toki’s sampan glides into sight of the harbor shortly after dawn. These waters are rougher than those of Lake Biwa but, considering their rough-and-tumble time on the rivers, Monaga now hardly feels the mild yaw caused by the tide.
Already the boards of the Naniwa docks quiver with activity, though trading does not reach its peak until later in the year, when the Sea of Japan is less treacherous to cross. Chinese and Korean tongues vie with native dialects, the latter almost as exotic as the former. Merchants disparage the newly-arrived wares, prior to bidding on them. Pimps circulate among fresh-landed sailors, praising whichever brothel pays them. Dock-workers curse and shout and jockey for employment unloading the wealthiest vessels, but there are no fights. Not yet. The day is young, and many choice openings may still be had, particularly as certain imperial reforms of dock hiring practices go into effect. A sharp westerly breeze chills the air, yet those thick-muscled stalwarts just hired strip to their loincloths for their arduous work.
Monaga and Hoke both gape open-mouthed, while Toki maneuvers his tiny boat to a narrow space at the end of a pier. The priest recalls visiting several cities during his apprenticeship, but the reality is all the more striking for the gloss of decades-old memories. Hoke, despite a fund of inexplicable knowledge, finds the scene beyond his imaginings, piercing his dark moodiness. There! Beyond the bustle of the docks! Buildings rise two and even three stories high!
Imuri may be ruled by terror, but it is still a sleepy, slow-paced province.
