Bundori: A Novel of Japan (25 page)

The shrine attendant’s tiny thatched hut stood hidden in the forest surrounding the Momijiyama. A narrow path wound through the trees to the doorway, which in turn led into an entry porch filled with equipment necessary for maintaining the shrine- brooms, buckets, cleaning cloths, soap, candles, lamps, incense- all arranged neatly on shelves. Beyond this lay a single room with a clean tatami floor, a hearth for cooking, a tub for bathing, a rough wooden cabinet for possessions, and a small window looking out on the forest: the bare necessities of the shrine attendant’s life and work.

In the middle of the room, Aoi knelt and carefully unfolded the two kimonos that Sano had given her last night. To her he’d entrusted the task of identifying his missing witness, the mysterious woman who had disappeared from Zōjō Temple after the priest’s murder. Her fingers trembled with anticipation and anxiety. She must help Sano find evidence against Chamberlain Yanagisawa. To fail would mean sacrificing their chance for freedom and happiness.

She spread both kimonos on the floor before her, but did not immediately examine them. Instead she sat motionless for a long moment, letting her vision blur. Then she began to take slow, deep breaths. Her lungs expanded to their limit, then expelled the air, contracting to complete emptiness. In. Out. For inspiration, she summoned the memory of her father. She pictured his stern face, heard his quiet voice.

“The special ninja breathing exercise cleanses the body and blood, Aoi,” he said. “It calms the mind and enhances concentration.”

Soon Aoi felt the power radiating from her spiritual center in her abdomen: a great, erratic pulse that shuddered through her body. Over its thunder, her father’s voice came to her across time and space:

“Fearful outsiders call the ninja’s power the ‘dark magic’ But it’s not magic. It’s the power that every human has within himself, but only we know how to tap.”

And this turbulent, swirling energy wasn’t dark, either, but shot through with sparks of light that exploded behind her eyes. She envisioned it as a deep, restless sea filled with luminescent living things. She could hear the waves roaring in her ears, crashing against the shores of her consciousness. Resisting the tide that could carry her into chaos and madness, she clasped her hands. Her trained fingers automatically arranged and rearranged themselves in a series of intricate positions, interlocking, weaving, twisting, pointing.

“Many a samurai, seeing a ninja adversary perform this exercise, has dropped dead from fright,” her father had taught her. “Use their fear as you would any weapon. But remember that the hand positions aren’t an evil magic curse, but a silent chant, a manual mantra designed to harness, focus, and direct your energy.”

As Aoi’s fingers flexed and laced, the turbulent sea within her grew quiet, its pulse slow and rhythmical. She floated in a cold, exhilarating atmosphere of heightened sensory perception. She could smell houses burning in the city below the castle, hear snow melting on distant mountains. She tasted the river’s fishy water and experienced the pressure of her clothes against her skin as a crushing weight of layered stone. All these sensations, though, were extraneous. The last hand position banished them to the edges of her mind. Her father’s image faded, as did his voice, saying “Now you are ready, my daughter.”

Aoi picked up the first kimono. Its white cranes, snowflakes, and green pine boughs seared their images into her brain; the brilliant crimson background made her sensitized eyes water. As she moved her hands over the fabric, she almost swooned at the sensuous pleasure of touching the lush silk, the million tiny stitches of embroidery. Her fingertips probed every area of the garment, seeking the almost invisible thinning where the wearer’s body had rubbed the fabric. With surreal clarity she saw tiny particles adhering to the neckline, cuffs, and hem. She found a single long black hair, which she stroked, sniffed, then ran along her tongue.

Last, Aoi lifted the kimono to her face. She closed her eyes to eliminate visual distractions. Then, concentrating on the underarm, breast, and crotch areas, she inhaled body odors left by the wearer: perfume, sweat, intimate secretions. With her tongue she tasted what information sight, smell, and touch hadn’t given her. When she finally laid the kimono down, her heart was thudding, her body trembling from the profound sensory experience. She rested for a moment, then repeated the procedure on the second kimono, a gray one printed with autumn flowers and grasses. It confirmed what facts she’d gleaned from the first and yielded a few more. Finished, she lay on her back, exhausted and gasping, eyes closed. The energy sea receded; its pulsing tide ebbed. Gradually Aoi’s heartbeat slowed, her breathing evened, and her body ceased to tremble. The world returned to its normal state-muted, colorless by comparison.

Aoi opened her eyes and sat up at the sound of soft footsteps outside the door.

“Enter,” she called before the knock came. Even with her ordinary perception she could identify the caller as the person for whom she’d sent.

The young maid entered on her knees and bowed. A small woman with a pleasant face and quiet demeanor, she was one of the Edo Castle network’s best agents, liked and trusted by her peers and superiors.

“I await your orders, my lady,” she said.

“I want to know who owns these,” Aoi said, showing her the kimonos. “Show them to all the women in the palace, Official Quarter, and attendants’ quarters.”

For who better to ask about the mystery witness than the castle women-confined and idle-who thrived on town gossip and fashion news brought them by their men and servants?

“The woman I’m looking for went to Zōjō Temple to become a nun,” Aoi continued, “but she may have returned home.”

Having filled her agent in on the bare facts Sano had given her, Aoi next fleshed them out with her own discoveries. “The woman is a wealthy commoner. Her husband is probably a rice broker. And she’s unhappy because he has other women.” There was no mistaking the expensive quality of the kimonos. Or the fine dusting of powdered rice hulls at the hems-too much for a rich woman with no need to enter the kitchen, but typical of one who lived near a brokerage, with someone who worked there. And Aoi had recognized the distinctive aura of heartbreak, a wife spurned.

“She’s fat, past forty-five, and suffers from congestion in the nose and chest.”

This from the strained seams, the faint wear patterns over the hips, buttocks, and breasts, the sour odor of a woman beyond her childbearing years, and the faint saltiness of dried mucus.

“But she tries hard to look young and pretty. She wears too much makeup.”

Aoi had found numerous particles of white face powder and tiny smears of rouge on the kimonos’ necklines. The fabric, bright and gaudy, was more appropriate for a young girl. And Aoi had tasted bitter dye on the long black hair.

“Ask everyone if they know this woman’s name, and where she lives,” Aoi finished. “Report to me by sunset.”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid took the kimonos, bowed, and left the hut.

Aoi gazed after her, thinking: That girl is young, but a good, obedient worker. She’s careful to hide her loneliness and pain, as I once did. She would make as good a replacement for me as I did for Michiko…

Abruptly Aoi rose and left her hut, taking with her a whisk broom and dustpan. She hurried through the woods toward the shrine, as if by running toward duty she could escape the fact that meeting Sano had changed her life, that love had destroyed her carefully constructed defenses and made her vulnerable.

She’d vowed never to involve herself with a man again. Remembering her dead lover, Fusei Matsugae, she couldn’t open herself to the pain and self-hatred that came of destroying that which was dearest to her. Yet now she’d done it again. She couldn’t dismiss her union with Sano as a momentary yielding to lust, nor could she pretend that their collaboration was based solely on coinciding interests-his wish to please the shogun, hers to destroy Yanagisawa. Somehow their togetherness had become an integral part of her desire to succeed.

Aoi strode the paths of the shrine precinct, seeking any task that could occupy her thoughts and assist her denial of the truth. She turned down a path where a strip of garden formed a boundary between precinct and forest. Along this ran flagstones on which worshippers could stroll and view the cherry trees, shrubs, and flower beds. Aoi knelt on the path and industriously began sweeping up dirt, pebbles, twigs, and fallen blossoms. Sweat filmed her face. Sunshine, dappled by the swaying branches of a cherry tree above her, dazzled her eyes. The smells of damp earth and pungent pine filled her lungs. Despite her attempt to purge all thought and emotion from her mind, she succumbed to the magic of the warm spring day and the yearning voice of her own heart. Her hand slowed. She slipped into a daydream that blended past and present.

She was back in her village, standing at her favorite place on the mountainside, with the wind in her hair and her spirit at peace. How good and clean she felt, having used her mystical powers for good rather than evil! And working with Sano had given her a sense of community she’d not experienced since leaving home. The memory of last night made her body sing with desire. Now she saw Sano standing on the mountain beside her, with all the trappings of his class and rank miraculously stripped away. His hair had grown, covering his samurai’s shaven crown. He wore no swords, no Tokugawa crest. Seeing him thus, Aoi gasped. She hadn’t noticed until now his resemblance to her father. They didn’t look alike, but the same inner essence of honor and integrity marked their faces.

Gazing at her, Sano didn’t smile. Neither did she. They didn’t embrace, or even touch. Free from the castle walls that imprisoned them, they walked up the mountain together, toward a shared future ambiguous in its particulars, but radiant with promise. Aoi’s heart swelled with happiness.

Her extra sense, trained to remain alert even when her mind was occupied, detected the approach of evil first. In an instant, Aoi’s dream evaporated. Her skin contracted, her nostrils quivered; her body stiffened as danger wafted toward her like a predator’s spoor. The wild elixirs of fear and excitement began to flow in her blood. Her legs tensed instinctively, ready to run for cover. Then she recognized the person behind the aura that preceded him. Fear gave way to dread. Trapped, she stayed on her knees, head bent, hand still wielding the broom, while she frantically sought escape.

Now he entered the range of her ordinary senses. She heard his stealthy footsteps and the whisper of his satin robes on the path. She smelled his wintergreen hair oil and masculine body odor. He stopped just short of her, his presence a cold patch of night in the bright morning.

“Continue working. Don’t look up,” said Chamberlain Yanagisawa.

Aoi kept her eyes on the ground and her hand moving, though less out of obedience than from fear of meeting his gaze. Why had he come to her like this, in the open, where anyone could see them? Had he somehow learned of her defection? Her thoughts flew to her family. She must warn them of the danger. And Sano, too, who at this moment was out gathering evidence against the chamberlain.

Above her, a branch of the flowering cherry tree rustled, then snapped: Yanagisawa had picked a spray of blossoms. She felt him hold them to his nose and heard him sniff their fragrance- his ostensible reason for stopping, the pretense to hide their conversation.

“What have you to report about
Sōsakan
Sano’s inquiries?” he asked.

Aoi relaxed a little. Maybe he’d found a spare moment in his busy schedule, had been passing by the shrine, and impulsively stopped to see her. Hastily she marshaled her thoughts.

“Yesterday Sano interviewed Chūgo Gichin and Matsui Minoru.” She knew Yanagisawa had other spies, who might tell him even if she didn’t, and the last thing she wanted was for him to doubt her efficiency or loyalty.

“Has he found evidence against any of the suspects?”

She heard an anxious tremor in the chamberlain’s smooth voice. Were Sano’s suspicions justified? Now Aoi longed to look into his eyes and read the truth there.

Instead, she arranged her sweepings of dirt, twigs, and dead blossoms into a neat pile. “No, Honorable Chamberlain,” she replied evenly.

A beat passed. Then: “Did you see Sano last night?”

Panic rippled the surface of Aoi’s nerves. Sano’s servants knew she’d brought him home last night and stayed until dawn. How much else they knew-or would tell, if asked-she couldn’t say. In addition, Sano’s attackers might have recognized her. She must stay as close to the truth as possible.

“I saw him, Honorable Chamberlain,” she said.

“How did he seem?”

He knew about the attack. Aoi could tell by the acceleration of his pulse, which she felt as a palpitation in her ears.

“He was badly beaten,” she said cautiously. “I treated his wounds. I listened to his troubles. I left him asleep.”

“Good. He will trust you all the more.”

The satisfaction in Yanagisawa’s voice chilled her. He was a suspect; he wanted Sano’s investigation stopped. Had he ordered the beating? Was this proof of his guilt?

“And how is our invalid this morning?” Yanagisawa’s hushed laugh made Aoi imagine a soft quilt stuffed with steel needles. “In bed, where he’ll languish away the rest of his miserable life?”

Aoi wanted to tell him that Sano’s body and spirit were broken, that the investigation was over-anything to cease Yanagisawa’s interference and buy her and Sano time to destroy him. But she couldn’t risk the possibility of his learning the truth elsewhere and discovering her lies.

“No, Honorable Chamberlain,” she said, hating her role as a spy even more now that she’d renounced it. “Sano is a strong man. And lucky that whoever beat him didn’t hurt him permanently. He was well enough to leave the castle this morning to call on another suspect. A woman named O-tama.”

Yanagisawa’s robes rustled as he began to pace. His movements stirred up a cold draft that raised bumps on Aoi’s skin. A net of terror fell over her heart: silk threads tightening, cutting. She could no longer pretend to work, because she knew what he was going to say.