7.

Feudal Japan

DECEMBER, 1680

Jakkō-in Convent, Kyoto

Yoshi waits by the back gate with his possessions in hand and traveling cloak on, but Sachi arrives alone, her voice tight with worry.

“They called the doctor and he gave her some herbs, but every hour she grows worse.”

“Worse?” He stiffens with alarm.

“We’ve been chanting the sutras for her, but what if she dies? What will happen to me if—”

“Did you tell her I was waiting for her?” he interrupts, cutting her off before she names his worst fear. “Did you remind her that she can spend the rest of her life living it, not just praying for others?”

“I told her your words exactly, Takamatsu-san.”

“And what did she say?”

“I’m . . . not sure she heard me. When she speaks, she makes no sense. If she . . . what if she . . . what will happen to me if she . . .”

“Don’t say it!” Yoshi barks, his fear making him harsher than he means to be. More gently he adds, “I’ll see what I can do.”

But what can he do? The next day, he visits the apothecary, but there are no herbs in his storeroom that haven’t already been sent to the convent, no remedy that hasn’t been tried. Helpless to do anything but hope, he pays a scribe to write Kiri a letter, urging her to fix her eyes on the future, to find the strength to do what her heart desires, hoping it will lend her the strength to get well.

He delivers the note into Sachi’s hands that night, then spends the next day making offerings at every shrine and temple within walking distance.

But the next night, Sachi’s news is worse, her voice edgy with fear and exhaustion.

“I’ve barely slept for days,” she whimpers. “When she’s awake she has trouble breathing, and when she’s asleep, she tosses and moans.”

“Did you give her my letter?”

“Yes, but she was too ill to read it, and I—” Sachi can’t read.

All he can do is increase his prayers, double his offerings.

The next night, pacing back and forth before the gate, he hopes for good news, but as the snow hardens to ice, and the maid still doesn’t come, he fears the worst. Is Kiri dying? Is she already dead?

For three nights, he keeps his vigil under the steadily waning moon. Hunched against the cold, heart filled with dread, he stamps his feet and shivers until the clack of the night patrol’s sticks warns him that early morning deliverymen will soon begin to arrive. He spends his days tossing coins and praying fervently at the shrines and temples. The traveling money he’d scraped together by pawning his fine clothing and the two dusty ink paintings he’d spirited from his family’s treasure house is dwindling, but he dares not give up.

On the fourth day, he has to know. He rises early, goes to the public bath. Then he dons his last silk kimono and visits the barber to have his tonsure shaved and his topknot oiled.

He hammers on the front gate of Jakkō-in. The gatekeeper tells him that men aren’t allowed past the entry hut, but he refuses to take no for an answer.

“I’m the son of Honzaemon III and this is a matter of great urgency,” he insists, mustering the voice his father uses for uncooperative tradesmen. “I need to see a woman who’s staying here. Her name is Kiri.”

“I’m sorry,” says the porter, a veteran of such demands. “The nuns aren’t allowed any contact with the outside world.”

“She’s not a . . . never mind. Let me speak with the abbess, then.”

“I’ll find out if she’ll see you. Wait here, please.”

Yoshi takes a seat on the hard bench provided for visitors. He leaps to his feet twice, thinking he hears footsteps, but it’s some time before the gatekeeper returns with the abbess. Hearing them stop before him, he rises.

“This is the gentleman who asked to see you, Your Reverence.”

He bows and introduces himself, adding that he’s from Sasayama.

If that means anything to the abbess, she doesn’t say.

“I understand you have a message for one of our nuns.”

“She’s not a nun. She just arrived a week ago. But she’s been sick, and—”

“Ah. Are you referring to the postulant we’ve been petitioning the blessed Jizo-sama to deliver from her grave illness?”

“Yes. That’s her. Her name is Kiri.”

“I’m afraid it’s not,” the abbess says, in a gentle voice. “Not anymore. This morning she received a new name.”

“She’s . . . dead?” He sways, gropes for the gatepost. It can’t be true. But it must be—they’ve already given her the name she’ll use in the afterlife.

“No young master, I’m afraid you misunderstand,” the abbess replies. “All our nuns give up their old names and receive new ones when they take their vows.”