Текст книги "Black Arrow "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

TWENTY-TWO

CHRYSANTHEMUM

AND GRASSES

W

hen they returned to the tribunal late that night, Akitada was exhausted in mind and body from the business of settling affairs at Takata—he had left Kaoru and Takesuke in control– and emotionally drained. The long ride back with Hitomaro’s corpse slung over the horse beside him had given him unwanted time to brood on his actions. Takesuke had congratulated him on his courage, and Akitada had wanted to wipe the look of admiration from his face. At least Tora, who had lost a lot of blood, would heal. Akitada felt profoundly guilty that, of the four of them, he had come out of the fight unscathed.

Genba wept like a child when he carried the body of his friend to a temporary bier in the tribunal hall. There he and Tora would keep watch over Hito’s corpse.

Akitada entered his private quarters only briefly. Seimei tried to fuss over him, but the small amount of bleeding from his old shoulder wound and assorted bruises where his body armor had deflected sword blows amounted to nothing. When Akitada saw the joyous relief on Tamako’s face, it seemed so inappropriate to him that he was sickened and turned from her without a word to seek the solitude of his office. He wanted nothing so much as sleep, oblivion, a few hours of escape from himself—from a man he never knew, from the blood lust that had lain hidden inside him all his life, from the death of a friend.

But it was not to be. By the flickering light of the oil lamp, he saw a strange figure sitting at his desk. A very old man was hunched over the lacquered box of the shell game, turning it slowly in gnarled hands, absorbed in the pattern of the decoration. He raised his eyes unhurriedly to Akitada and nodded a greeting. The yamabushi had returned.

He looked at Akitada for a long moment. Then he gently set down the game and indicated the other cushion. “Please be seated, Governor,” he said courteously in a deep, restful voice. “You look very tired.”

Dazed, Akitada obeyed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and shivered, but it was not from cold, for it was almost cozy in the light of the single oil lamp casting a warm glow on the desk between the two men.

The old priest pushed the brazier a little closer to Akitada. Steam and a curious fragrance rose from the small iron tea kettle on it. The master reached for a cup, poured, and stirred. “Drink this,” he ordered, sharp black eyes watching from a face as wrinkled and dark brown as a nut.

Akitada tasted, then slowly emptied the cup.

“An infusion of dried berries, herbs, and certain tree barks,” the master said, answering an unspoken question. “You will feel refreshed in a moment and later you will sleep.”

“Thank you. It has a pleasant taste.” The visitor’s solicitude was comforting. Akitada became aware of a welcome warmth. He frowned with the effort to remember. “You’re right. I have had a long and difficult day.” Even the soreness in his shoulder seemed to ease. His eyes strayed to the desk where the yamabushi’s conch shell had joined the black-feathered arrow and the shell game.

“Tell me what happened at Takata,” the priest encouraged.

“We took the manor. Makio is dead ... and so is Hitomaro.” And no medicine or spell would make that right again.

“Ah!” A long pause ensued, then the yamabushi shook his head regretfully. “It’s a pity about Hitomaro. I liked that young man.” His silver hair and beard shimmered in the light of the oil lamp. He looked at Akitada and said, “But you, you are alive. You must learn to forgive yourself for what is merely a manifestation of fate. It is a hard lesson, but death is right in its time.”

Empty platitudes, Akitada thought. He felt shame like the thrust of a knife to his belly and turned his head away.

“Come, I did not think you a fool, Governor,” the yamabushi said more sharply.

Angered, Akitada swung back. “I am not a fool. But neither am I a saint or a martyr like you, my Lord. When I lose a friend through my own carelessness, I cannot shrug it off and busy myself with good deeds and prayers instead.”

The old man sighed. With his gnarled finger he traced the design on the lacquer box. “The chrysanthemum is the last flower to bloom,” he murmured. “Its petals fall and the young grasses shrivel and die when the storm of winter touches their brief lives. Death, Governor, is a wide gate no one can close.”

Akitada clenched his fists. “Never mind! You cannot understand.”

The priest laughed very softly. “On the contrary. I, of all people, understand very well. If you know who I am, you should also know that.”

The man’s complete detachment filled Akitada with fury. He leaned forward and stabbed an accusing finger toward him. “I know that you are the late Lord Maro’s older brother, the uncle of Makio,” he growled. “I know that you have a grandson, Kaoru, who has played various roles—among them those of a humble woodcutter from the outcast village and my sergeant of constables. I know about the crime of which you stood accused. I know that you fled, giving up your birthright and hiding among the outcasts as a mountain priest.” He paused and pulled from his sleeve the document he had found at Takata and tossed it on the desk. “And now I also know that you were innocent of the murder of that woman and child. Read your brother’s confession.”

The old man ignored the paper. “Did my foolish grandson reveal so much?”

“No. Kaoru did everything he could to protect your secret. Every time I asked questions about you or his background, he became evasive. But I noticed that he was as familiar with a hermit’s life in a mountain cave as with the secret passages in Takata manor.”

The white head nodded. “He likes you, too,” he said, seemingly inconsequentially.

This was getting them nowhere. Akitada pointed at the paper on the desk. “Your brother wrote this on his deathbed. Forty years ago he used one of your black arrows to murder your father’s young wife and son because he wanted to rid himself of both you and your father’s favorite. But the deed haunted him. I have no doubt he eventually spoke to his son about it, and that Makio kept him a virtual prisoner after that. When your brother felt death approaching, he asked a trusted servant to smuggle paper to him during the banquet Makio gave in my honor. Today I retrieved his confession from the place where the two old men had hidden it.”

Akitada fell silent.

Today! Was it still the same day? The memory of the blood, of the tangled bodies of Makio and Hitomaro rose vividly before his eyes. Hitomaro’s last words had been about his wish to die. He had rushed toward death from the moment they had entered the secret passage. Life was too short for some, and much too long for others. The old man across from him had held the key to a deadly mystery for forty years. It could be argued that all the suffering in this province had been caused by the wrong son seizing power in Takata forty years ago. Now the true heir was sitting across from him, apparently unmoved and unsurprised, not even curious enough to pick up the scroll for which the faithful Hideo had died.

As if he had read his thoughts, his visitor asked, “What happened to Hideo?”

Akitada said coldly, “He was tortured and then thrown off the mountain when he would not reveal the hiding place of your brother’s confession. No doubt he would have died in either case, since he knew the truth.”

To Akitada’s satisfaction, the old man finally reacted. He put a hand over his eyes. “Makio did this?” he asked in a tight voice.

“Kaibara. I was there that night. Kaibara was the only one who left the banquet at the right time. He was seen going to the old lord’s pavilion by the same two maids who had watched Hideo taking writing paper to your brother earlier.”

“Ah.” His visitor lowered his hand, and nodded. His face was calm again.

“However, since Kaibara had not been summoned from your brother’s pavilion, it means almost certainly that he was carrying out Makio’s instructions.”

The white head nodded. “Yes. It may well have been so.”

Without disguising his contempt, Akitada said, “Many people have died as a consequence of that false accusation, my Lord. You knew it was false, yet you chose to run and hide among the outcasts when you should have faced your troubles and fought for justice. Not doing so has plunged this province and its inhabitants into misery and bloodshed. It cost Hideo his life. And today I lost a friend because of it.”

The old man looked back at him calmly. “That is very true.”

“Just now you lectured me about fate,” Akitada cried angrily, “but you understand nothing of duty. If you had done your duty by your people and defended yourself against the charges, fate would have taken a different course. Your religious life with all its sacrifices, your service to the poor, and your sentimental protection of every criminal in the area do not absolve you from the guilt of having abandoned your duty.”

“When it comes to duty,” said the old man with a gentle smile, “I hope that you will think my offense somewhat mitigated by the fact that I found a suitable substitute in you.” He took the arrow and held it up. “I can still bend a bow and hit a target when it is required.”

Akitada tensed. Of course. How could he have forgotten? This old man was the Uesugi heir who had been a champion archer in his youth. It was he who had killed Kaibara and saved his life that night among the graves. “Yes,” he said. “I should have known it was you.” Miserably, he added, “I suppose I must be grateful, though I cannot take much pleasure in my life at the moment.” Hitomaro’s death would not have happened, if Kaibara had been successful that night.

“No need to thank me.” The old man took the arrow and put it into his rope belt. “It was not a personal matter. I merely mention it, because you doubted my sense of duty to my people. Fate also follows the dutiful action. Kaibara’s is the only life I have ever taken, and I broke my Buddhist vows when I decided that your life was more valuable to my people than his.” He sighed. “I suppose I must add another sin, the satisfaction of having avenged my old friend Hideo.”

Suddenly Akitada felt overwhelmed by sadness. So many wasted lives. And now all was over and done with. What remained was the future. He looked at his visitor uncertainly. Even the ravages of decades spent exposed to the harsh elements of the cold north could not altogether hide the grace and charisma of the strange creature across from him. His skin was blackened, and his hair and beard flowed wildly about his shoulders and chest, but his eyes were alive with intelligence. He wore fewer clothes than the poorest beggar and looked more like a goblin than a rational man, but his speech and manners were those of a man born to rank. Moreover, he seemed to have gained the respect, even reverence, of the local people.

With a sigh, Akitada said, “It is late. You must spend the night. We will meet again in the morning to discuss your reinstatement. It will please the people and bring harmony back to the province.”

The rightful Lord of Takata raised his hand. “No. I am a Buddhist priest and have no desire to resume my title.”

“What?” Akitada was dumbfounded.

The old man stroked his beard, smiled, and nodded. “My grandson will do very well instead,” he said complacently.

“Kaoru?” Akitada opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. The capture of Takata manor would have been impossible without that remarkable young man’s ruse, and he had proven his courage and military skill not only in combat but also on the occasion of Boshu’s attack on Hitomaro. Hitomaro!

“Dew and tears are equally transient,” remarked the old man with a sympathetic nod.

Akitada flushed. The way the other man seemed to read his mind was uncanny. “It is true that your grandson Kaoru has some superior qualities,” he said stiffly. “I assume it was you who taught him archery and to read and write Chinese? He told me the arrow that killed Kaibara belonged to a dead man and that a Buddhist priest instructed him in Chinese.”

The proud grandfather chuckled. “A quick learner, that boy! His father did not do as well.”

And that raised the problem of legitimacy. Akitada hesitated, then asked bluntly, “You say you are a priest. Did you take one of the outcast women to wife?”

For the first time, the old man looked uncomfortable. His dark, leathery hand reached out to the box of shells and touched it almost apologetically. “No,” he said, “not an outcast, though we both became untouchable. Masako was a young woman of good family who had the bad karma to be sent to Takata for training in household matters. She became fond of me. When I had to flee, she followed me into exile. It seemed right that I should make her my wife. I took priestly vows after her death.”

“Ah!” At least she was not the madwoman of the outcast village, the one through whom the gods spoke. That one must be the mother of the dead son’s wife. “You married in exile? And you had a son soon after?”

The old man nodded.

Akitada stared at him. “Good heavens, man! You were the older son, the heir; you were the pride of the Uesugi clan. More importantly, you were innocent of the murders. Why did you not stay and fight for your birthright, for the birthright of your son?

“Because I was guilty.”

“No.” Akitada tapped the old lord’s confession on the desk between them. “It was your brother who committed those murders.”

The priest said sadly, “Poor Maro. We met in the forest one day, you know. At first he didn’t recognize me. I was greatly changed, you see.” He gestured at his clothes and beard. “But I spoke to him, and he fainted. Perhaps he took me for a demon or thought I was seeking vengeance, I don’t know. When I saw what I had done, I went away. They say he went mad after that.”

“Not mad. He went home and told his son that you were alive. Makio locked him up in the north pavilion.” Akitada reached for the rolled paper and pressed it in the old man’s hand. “Read what your brother wrote before he died,” he urged.

The priest put the paper back on the desk. “It changes nothing. What is written is of things long past. Only the heart knows all the gains and losses.”

Baffled, Akitada ran his hand through his hair. He was getting drowsy. “I don’t understand,” he complained. “Why should your brother confess to a lie on his deathbed? How could you have been guilty? Nothing makes sense.”

The yamabushi picked up the conch shell, and rose. He fastened the conch to his belt, took up his staff, gave a last tender touch to the box on the desk, and said, “Farewell, Governor! You should be able to sleep now.”

Akitada stumbled to his feet and barred the way. “Wait! You cannot leave like this! I must know the truth. How could I have been so wrong? After all that I learned of your past, both before and after the murder of the young woman and her child, I cannot believe you capable of such a heinous crime.”

The old man looked at him, and something in the black depths of his eyes made Akitada back away. “All men,” the master said, “are naked under their loincloths. Remember that. I did not bend my bow nor aim my arrow on that golden autumn afternoon, but they died for my offense. The boy was not my father’s son. He was mine. That is my guilt, and it caused their deaths.” He gestured toward the game on the desk. “That shell game was my gift for her. I ordered it before her death. The chrysanthemums and grasses of our forbidden love. She was named for that flower, and our child was the young green blade of grass growing up in her arms. When my brother found out, he killed both of them—out of respect for our father and for our family honor.”

That Akitada did not believe, but the enormity of the other man’s tragic transgression and loss left him speechless. He stumbled to his desk and picked up the box. “Here,” he said, offering it.

The priest raised both hands in refusal. “No.” He smiled a little and said, “I have met your lady and saw that she is with child. When you become downcast again over what cannot be changed, remember: To have her is like having the sun and the moon in your sleeve and holding the universe in your hand. You will need to think of that often in the future.”

Barefoot and bare-headed, his lean black frame covered by the rough hemp and skins, the yamabushi bowed with a nobleman’s grace and softly padded out of the room.

Akitada sank down on his pillow still holding the box. Weariness overwhelmed him, and he looked toward the bedding Tamako had spread for him in the corner. The blankets looked strangely tangled and lumpy. He put the game down and went to investigate.

When he peeled back the layers of quilted silk, he uncovered two soft brushes of glossy black hair, each tied with red silk cord, and a small boy’s rosy cheek and silken lashes. Toneo was fast asleep, his round childish hand curled about Akitada’s flute.

He covered the child again, and looked about the room. Where was he to sleep? Then his eyes fell on the game.

When he slipped into Tamako’s room, she was huddled under the bedding. But he knew she was awake and sighed. She sat bolt upright, looking at him, her eyes large and tragic in the light of his candle.

“Tamako?” His voice encompassed all his grief, and guilt, and pain, and utter, utter weariness.

Wordlessly she reached out to him, the paleness of her skin touched by the golden candlelight—and he went into her arms.