The Golden Naginata (55 page)

A frigid breeze passed over the nun's shoulder and entered the room, but the dying man did not seem to wish his door slid shut, having as he did such little time to see even so small a portion of the world. Though the garden was bleak due to the winterlike qualities of highland autumns, it was yet a soothing sight, well cared for by Kahei, who knew much of trees and flowers.

Kahei Todawa, who also was not a young man, knelt close to his father's head, then lifted him by the shoulders until the old man was in a sitting position, leaning against his son. It was a sorrowful picture, an aged son serving to prop up his exceedingly old father, striving to keep his father's frightful shaking from negating their mutual sense of dignity and earnestness. In a moment, the shock to his body—caused by being lifted, however gently—had passed, and the withered samurai tried to speak, possibly in greeting to the nun. He was unable to squeak forth even one word. To save his face, the nun bowed anew, with head to floor, so that she would not appear to witness his infirmity and embarrassment.

It was hard for a samurai to die slowly and of old age. Some old men were ashamed to do so. It must have been an imposition to live these extra days, at the bikuni's request, that she might uphold her own duty.

When she lifted her face, she said, “Please pardon my lack of skill,” and raised the shakuhachi to her lips. The patriarch let his head roll against his son's shoulder. He closed his eyes to listen.

The bikuni had been unnecessarily shy about her skill with the instrument; and the household soon believed her efforts were a fine substitute for a recitation of one or another sutra. The instrument had only four holes on top, one on the back, but by half-holing there were many variations to the notes. The sound of an end-blown flute, particularly a large one such as the nun held, was unequaled in its mournfulness and expression of tranquility—most appropriate for so funereal an occasion.

As she began, the sound swelled at once and enclosed the listeners as in a fog risen from the mountain's valleys—a muted, melancholy bass, which broke at last into a metallic forte, then fell anew to an almost inaudible, quavering note. Her intake of breath was a note in itself, followed by the swell again, this time cut short and, as an artful afterthought, a grace-note was added. The loose tune changed dramatically, becoming a fluttery whisper, conveying vague reassurance, before lifting sharply into a shout or a knell—then, that same grace-note as before.

She was playing not merely for the dying patriarch, but also for the spirit of her instructor, who had taught her all she could learn of the instrument, who had loved her as his most sincere if not always his most gifted pupil. The shakuhachi had been his present to her on the day he died. That she had allowed it to be damaged in a foolish battle had caused her guilt and grief. She made amends for her error by duplicating the very melodies and rhythms of nature, in the manner she had been taught, creating songs in harmony with the universe, in apology for and admission of her personal insignificance, inadequacy, and obeisance.

Her music became a wind passing through the last crisp leaves of autumn's maples, then going up, up among the crags and dwarf pines of the highest peaks of Kanno province. The listeners felt the coldness of their world increase, due to the altitude at which their spirits soared. Everyone felt alone in the cosmos, alone on the edge of an icy precipice, certain they would be thrown down by the frightful wind, dashed into darkness and annihilation.

They felt they would die for the terror of that music, except that it changed by subtle stages, until they were certain they had already died, but of the music's beauty.

The mood and sentiment began its change, notes descending the further side of the mountains, striving for a place and time of greater kindness regarding its vastness and intentions. The rapt listeners, and the player as well, were carried gently first upon the sweet wind, then upon a quick river, for the sound was now swift and wet. And they came unexpectedly to a placid lake in summer!

The musical wind hung quietly, quavering upon the infinitesimal waves of the huge, supreme ocean.

The world was warm and comforting. It would not be surprising if a peony burst into blossom, in the very garden behind the performing bikuni. She held everyone in the spell of kinder days, gentler dramas, and the dream of dreams fulfilled. She took each of them along paths of mercy and oblivion, taking especially a dying man, who wished to know, more than did the others, that life had had some meaning and reward, and some regard for him.

All felt poised no longer on the brink of disaster, but on the brink of ecstasy, pinned to a climactic moment until it was unbearable and each craved release from beauty.

It took a while for them to realize, one by one, that the music had ended; it took a while for each to return from far-off places. Even foolish Iyo had been caused to ponder things profound, although already these were fading, as do all dreams of enlightenment.

They opened their eyes to the world as it actually exists, but were not disappointed. The illusions of terror and of beauty lingered just enough that everything was sharper and more thrilling—though paradoxically there had grown within them a vacuum where once reposed their hearts. No one in the world could truly recognize the empty corners of their spirits, unless once those corners were filled by some kind of magic; and the music was, above all, a kind of magic.

Each sighed unobtrusive sighs as their attention returned to the patriarch, who had a fierce, strong light in his dark eyes, and a peaceful look that had not been there before. Death no longer mattered; it held no fear, and no regret. He was made calmer and more powerful by the dream of deadly heights and gentle summers, and thus was able to speak, though in a voice as quavery and faint as the bikuni's subtlest note.

“Just now,” he said quietly, “I was walking in a summer field, and friends I used to know were calling out to me. Or was it only the sound of cicada? I would like to know.”

Then he was no longer shaking with palsy, for he no longer lived. The tearful old son laid his father back upon the quilt; and then the son hid his face behind a sleeve of his kimono, lest someone see the tracks upon his cheeks or the sadness of his expression. Iyo, rendered momentarily wiser by the spell of the flute, knew at last that his grandfather was gone; and he wailed a heart-piercing lament such as some would say only a shakuhachi could convey, and threw himself upon the old man's corpse in disbelief and sorrow.

The decrepit widow sat very still, her expression the same as always, the music not enough to unburden her of life's tumult, or to free her from pent-up emotion. That she was sorrowed could not be doubted. But her will was like a sword, her face a tarnished mirror, reflecting nothing.

The bikuni placed her shakuhachi on the platform and bowed to the instrument, keeping her eyes upon the grain of the deck's wood, so as not to impose upon the family's mourning.

She chose not to tarry in the house of Todawa. Their mournful disposition combined with her own sense of inadequacy as Buddha's servant; and this made her uncomfortable in their presence. She accepted from the aged widow a portion of uncooked rice for the alms-bag; then she set out into the gray afternoon.

The silent old woman had also given the bikuni a letter. It was addressed by Otane to the nameless nun, and was intended to be read after Otane and her peasant lover had fled the fief.

The day grew colder, though not so bad as the past night. Judging by the dismal sky, the weather would certainly worsen. For the moment, the chill was bothersome, but sufferable.

Her breath came out from under her hat in small steaming clouds, which she left behind like fading and unwanted memories. Dampness made her clothing hang heavily from her shoulders. She walked as though burdened with woe, each step hard and careful, her arms folded inside her kimono to embrace her own slight warmth. The colorless and foreboding sky matched her mood. It was not possible to tell where, behind the clouds, the sun might be.

Along a seldom-used path, she came upon a neglected drum-tower, in the woods east of the Todawa family's small estate. She sat on a step of this secluded structure, her amigasa and longsword at her side and Otane's letter on her knees. The bikuni sighed deeply and turned her head from one side then the other, a motion of despair.

Though she had been reluctant to read the missive, it turned out to contain little more than idle praise and gratitude. Otane's choice of words came close to endearments. The letter increased the nun's sad feelings, for she did not think she had betrayed sympathy for the lovers, and certainly had not helped them regarding their pitiable situation. Otane's letter suggested she had seen the heart of the bikuni and knew what was hidden there.

Otane's quiet wisdom did not lessen the bikuni's sense that a generous appraisal remained unearned.

“Maybe we will meet again in Shigeno Valley,” the nun said to the letter, moved despite herself by Otane's poetic calligraphy. She hoped the couple would find happiness and live long lives of devotion to one another. As she refolded the letter and touched it to her forehead, she said, “I will try to merit your high estimations.” She looked about, half in embarrassment, then sniffed to clear her nose.

Inside her kimono, held to her body by the tightly wrapped obi, the bikuni kept a cloth wallet. A traveler could not keep many mementos, but she could not hastily cast away the sensitive letter. She put it in the flat, silk folding wallet alongside a few other items—miniature sewing utensils, a wrapped lock of hair which was not her own, one or two other private things of negligible size—then tucked it back within her kimono, where it was undetectable.

She picked up hat and sword and entered the darkness of the pagoda, sitting upon her knees to meditate. She was not eager for her next destination. Thus she lingered in the tower, playing the shakuhachi for the same forgotten war-dead for whom the pagoda had been built long ago. The plaintive notes of the instrument echoed the bikuni's sentiments.

Her mind would not become clear of all thought, for some fragment of consciousness refused to submerge itself in a melody that was overly aware of its own notes. She could not remove herself from various desiderations: longing for enlightenment, for comprehension of life's complicated events and windings, for some honorable means by which to avoid what appeared to be an inevitable duel with Heinosuke of the Rooster Clan.

It was difficult to believe the boy she had known as Yabushi could have grown into a cruel killer. Yet she had seen good men become contrary, and indecent fellows become repentant and benevolent. The world was not static, though things might be more comprehensible if it were. It was possible that her dislike of change had driven her to tonsure, though she was unsuited to its meaning, and inept at its keeping.

Because of life's vicissitudes, she must prepare for the possibility of finding not an old friend, but someone wicked, or desperate, or misled … someone who could pin vassals of Lord Sato to trees, with or without justification, denying them their coups de grace. It was an act of infamy so out of keeping with samurai ethos that even a nun felt drawn back into the affairs of the world. Though temper abated, yet had she bound herself by an unchecked moment of anger and anger's oath of vengeance.

Considerations such as these kept her from becoming utterly clear of mind, therefore less ready for anything that might occur during the promised encounter. It was necessary to enter each aspect of one's life guiltless in order to come out of it the same. It was necessary to begin a task with perfect emptiness, rather than encumbered by doubt, or fear, or hatred, or anything other than a selfless sort of intuitive control and readiness.

She was not ready for much today.

But it was time. And for all that she could see, it was inescapable.

A gulleyed byway led in and out of an ancient forest and near the dangerous brink. Here and there the route was marshy. Her borrowed wooden geta kept her feet above the ground, except once or twice when they sank into mud, allowing her feet to become wet and cold. She ignored the discomfort. Warped and half-rotten bridges saw her across narrow streams, which were numerous, spilling into the gorge.

When the path took her near the cliff's edge, she could see to the monstrous, frothy river far below. From some points along the way, she could see as far as the curve of the gorge, atop which perched the sullen temple between high falls. Funguslike patches of fog clung to the temple. Toward the base of the stony cliffs, numerous wide falls collided into an ultimate, single entity and continued downward. The river was entirely obscured where this entity struck. There might have been no river at all in that spot, for all one could see through the roiling, billowing clouds of mist. It looked as though the waterfalls spilled straight into Emma's Hell, and smoke was seeping out. The smoky mists swirled up and away, forming grotesque visages, which dissipated, then reformed into shapes more hideous than before.

At other points along the route, she could see only the ancient cedars all around, a forest virtually untouched by woodcutters, who shunned it. Her mind could not help but compare these trees to those surrounding White Beast Shrine west of the village. There, around Bundori's refuge, a sad nostalgia weighted moist branches, heavy with old dreams and new tears; whereas here, the trees were bowed beneath terrifying secrets, and their tears were thick as blood.

Above her head, branches brushed against one another, whispering dour warnings in a language she could not comprehend. The sky's illumination was, within the cold embrace of these cedars, mostly blotted out. There was little underbrush beyond luridly colored toadstools, spidery moulds, fleshy lumps, and darksome mushrooms whose wrinkled caps resembled devilish faces.

Nor were there beasts in this portentious wood, possibly due to nothing more untoward than the early hibernation patterns in the highlands. But one could well believe the animals, like the woodcutters, were reluctant to disturb the atmospheric glumness.