The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (43 page)

II. Secret Papers

Michimori spoke to Tokikazu first. ‘Go to Nitta no Shibasaki’s carriage. Lady Kozaishō will accompany you. If anyone asks about your activities, advise them that Lady Kozaishō, eh . . . has never seen anything so grand and wishes to inspect it closely.’

As if to seek agreement, Michimori’s enquiring eyebrows became bent as trees before a storm, and I motioned my approval.

‘If Lady Kozaishō does not find what she needs, escort her to Shibasaki’s residence in the guest quarters. Say you heard of the loss of his
koto
. Knowing how much he loves music, at my request, you are to assist him in finding it. Say you are honoured to be of service, and do not make eye contact. Search thoroughly, Tokikazu.’

Tokikazu narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, his unripe persimmons look. ‘Akio will have a
koto
in his robes.’ We bowed, hiding smiles, and left.

Escorted by Tokikazu and Akio, I walked back through the corridors of Rokuhara. First I insisted on going to my apartments where I collected sewing implements. While the samurai waited outside, I sent the serving girls and Emi out on a spurious errand. Now Misuki and I could search my hidden papers without fearing discovery. We found the log I remembered. His name was there! Nitta no Shibasaki! I knew him. I hid several papers deep in the folds of my sleeve.

We went to the stables where the carriages and palanquins were stored. Shibasaki’s carriage appeared modest, but when I felt the curtains and cushions, they were made of rich fabrics. I found objects stuffed in secret places. With the samurai standing near, I used a needle and opened seams. There were coins, not only in the fabrics but deep in the stuffing. When I had finished, I carefully closed all I had opened.

Later I laid a few of the coins in Michimori’s hand. I said, ‘This was planned, my lord.’ Relieved to avoid a direct confrontation with Nitta no Shibasaki, Michimori leaned back on his cushions.

Looking at his countenance, I thought:

Crisp white mountain peaks

So close to heaven when viewed

From low in the grasses

All the birds sing his praises

Commendable is his face

I pulled the papers from my sleeve and shared their contents with him: Shibasaki’s bragging about his many wives, their lands and his evasion of tax payments. There was also information about Shibasaki’s peculiar physical desires. These I did not share.

Michimori sent his questions with only a look, and I explained about the logs I had brought from Hitomi’s.

‘You have confirmed my suspicions. I was unable to do this directly, as you understand. His alliances are with the Minamoto and Go-Shirakawa.’

I murmured objection to the compliment, and observed his eyes.

The house swallow’s thanks:

For a true friend’s citadel

For sanctuary

For the wind on which she rides

For the rain that nourishes

‘How may I show you my gratitude, house swallow?’ His fingertip greeted my cheek.

I studied the warm brown eyes and blurted my secret longings. ‘I am a peasant girl, who desires to speak and behave like other women here. I have no lineage and no property. The only way I can be worthy . . . is to serve and to learn.’

My mouth dried, making it hard for me to speak. ‘I wish to know what the courtiers know: Chinese, poetry, classics, mathematics, rhetoric, politics, law, strategy, divination, music and medicine. I wish to learn all.’

I kept my eyes down, for this was an audacious request. Perhaps he had expected me to ask for a new kimono or trinket, but I had petitioned for larger favours. I risked his wrath and beyond.

I did not venture to look at his face. He made no sound. No command to commit
seppuku
. In the silence I let out a breath, although my eyes remained closed. I smelt the sandalwood incense of his hair. He had bent his head to me.

‘If it is your wish,’ Governor Michimori whispered, ‘I will arrange for more tutors.’ He tilted my head up with his fingers. ‘However, Obāsan has already shared your love of ink and paper with me.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘Yes.’ His voice was suddenly filled with grit. Had it been there before? ‘You need tutors. First, in calligraphy.’

‘My lord, I did not request a calligraphy tutor, but if you wish—’ I winced, attempting to keep the agitation from my face. My failures at the brush haunted me, especially in this place, where all were judged by their brush, their choice of words, even the colour and character of the paper.

‘Wish? I demand it.’

I flushed at his words, which were harder than before. I was reminded of Chiba’s voice, before he had hit me the first time. Inwardly, pincers gripped. The old scars on my back ached. ‘I will obey.’ I tasted spleen, but swallowed. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Dishonesty
is
a problem.’

‘My honourable lord Taira no Michimori, I do not know to what you refer.’ I reverted to formal language. The air between us was frigid.

‘Do you not?’ He selected a few notes from the large number always piled next to him, scooped them into his hands and tossed them across to me. ‘Are these yours?’

He knew! Drums resounded in my chest, cheeks scorched, high summer heat poured on my head, rivulets of sweat rolled down my back. How could he have found out? Obāsan would never have given me away. ‘Yes.’

‘Is this your hand?’

The room revolved, my vision in whirlpools. I stammered, ‘No, my lord. It is another’s.’

He pushed a brush, paper and ink to me. In his commander’s voice he ordered, ‘Write down one of your lovely poems.’

The brush burned like ice. I could not keep my face blank. I grunted, grimaced and wrote, trying to hear Tashiko’s voice as she had taught me.

Michimori watched. My hand shook. The bird scratches I made were worse than gruesome. Every groan he emitted decreased the legibility of my characters.

When I finished, he snatched the paper. He moved his head from side to side and furrowed his brow over darkened eyes. ‘The worst. My lowest rank of soldier could do better.’

Tears of disgrace cascaded. I could not keep a wobble from my chin. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘This must change.’ He knelt beside me, the grit gone from his voice. ‘I know you will work hard with this calligraphy tutor. I cannot abide a wife whose brush is like a peasant’s.’

III. Players

Back in Rokuhara we occupied the same rooms we had previously. The impermanence of life – ‘the floating world’, as courtiers call it – changed with the tutors and my studies. I learned to talk without using the peasant speech of my parents. The most difficult task was to eliminate the last syllable of each of my country words. Obāsan and Misuki reminded me daily, hourly, almost continuously. Over the months I heard, through Misuki, that ridicule of my language by other wives and concubines had diminished.

Misuki and I found ourselves in training every day with Tokikazu. I loved her gentleness, but on the practice field Misuki became quickly fatigued. She did not enjoy military studies.

As demanding as warrior training was for her, calligraphy proved even more perplexing to me. My handwriting was of the primitive I had been born, and mortified me. Although my speech improved my writing was abysmal.

Beautiful writing was the most important attribute of a courtier. It delineated the classes, separated the refined from the common. Misuki’s brush was better than mine. Misuki had written for me, although I had not permitted the serving girls or Emi to see. Now my calligraphy tutor’s pointer often met my knuckles.

My literature tutor was a polite and distant relative of Michimori. His broad, reddish nose turned upwards and wrinkled, like an old cherry, when he concentrated. He was familiar with every character ever put on paper. He puffed his cheeks and shook his jowls. ‘There is so much of which you are unaware.’

I read more.

During those long months of study, he shook his head, then grunted, shook his head, then told me ‘The Tale of the Genji.’ Misuki and I shared titbits of it when we were exhausted from other readings. We appreciated To no Chijo’s classification of women. Teasingly, after reading ‘The Tale of the Genji’, Misuki referred to Sadakokai as ‘Fragrant Captain’, but never to his face.

Some of what I learned was significant and some was, as Obāsan said, ‘as useless as wet feathers’. The Gods were good to me, and I remembered most of what I read. I stuffed Chinese poetry into my sleeves to read.

Our serving girls shared my poems with other serving girls. After a time I found the courage to show a few to my poetry tutor, who intoned nasally, ‘You may have a trifling talent,’ and sniffed.

Although unusual for a woman, I was privileged to have a tutor in Chinese. He was delighted by his elevated status, due to Michimori’s high rank, and kind to me. He wore his hair long and hanging down his back, as Obāsan wore hers. When he corrected me, especially my many writing errors, he did so as though he were saddened by my mistakes in his wonderful language. With long fingers and longer fingernails, he pointed to all the mistakes in each character and sighed. ‘Write that again . . . and again.’

In his favour, he was not affiliated to either the Taira or the Minamoto, so his rebukes remained between the two of us. With the literature tutor, my mistakes travelled to others with derision. After the first month he was unable to find many.

I remained alert. Because of the looming risks of Three Eyes or his agents, I carried my sword, always. Misuki, too, carried a weapon but concealed it. She practised with me rather than with the samurai, who grew bored working at a beginner’s level. Tokikazu remained with me at each session, and I relished his presence, although our camaraderie had held a different flavour since my marriage.

I agreed with Shōtoku Taishi, whom I had studied. He was the Crown Prince, the Philosopher of Righteousness who lived before the capital was in Nara, almost eight hundred years ago, and who brought Buddhism to Japan. He said, ‘All men are influenced by partisanship, and few have wide vision.’ Perhaps Michimori was one of the few.

IV. Number Two Serving Girl

Servants prepared special meals when the beginning of a new day and a new month or year arrived together. Steamed and pounded rice cakes had to be eaten to ensure long life and health. In addition, we ate abundant sweets: jellies, toasted acorns, pastes of beans and of seaweed, plums, even tinted and sugared rice cakes.

Misuki said, ‘Eat several persimmons, for fruitfulness and happiness!’ She watched me eat them, then scattered parched soybeans in our rooms to dispel
oni
.

One came anyway.

It happened while I was resting. Our last meal had been rice and red beans so I was not hungry. I gave Misuki and Emi permission to eat in their room.

Misuki returned almost immediately. ‘Lady Kozaishō, the food tastes odd.’

‘Eh?’ I asked, imitating Michimori’s style and smiling to myself.

Then I saw that Misuki’s eyes shone with as much fear as they had when the
s
ō
hei
had attacked us near their portable shrine.

‘The spices overwhelmed Emi,’ she said, ‘and she could not eat any of the food at all. She had stopped after having eaten only a little and called the two serving girls to scold them saying, “You have made a poor selection. Or, worse, you’ve allowed the food to be bad.”’

Misuki related all: ‘I talked to each serving girl. Number One’s eyes stared down in shame, failing in such an important duty. Number Two’s eyes twitched. Her mouth contorted. “What is wrong with this food?” I demanded. “What has happened?” Number Two hung her head. I picked up her chin until her face was directly in front of mine. Her eyes went empty, and her spirit disappeared. I was not sure what to do. I pointed to the floor. I told them, “Stay here. Do not move or there will be severe punishments.” They prostrated themselves. I said, “Take no action. Remain here. Do nothing until my return, no matter how long.” Then I came to find you, my honourable Lady Kozaishō.’ Misuki nodded after speaking.

‘Poison,’ I whispered. I called for Emi to bring boiled water while I selected the special herbs. After steeping, Misuki drank, and I helped her to vomit.