15.

Feudal Japan

SEPTEMBER, 1703

Shigaraki

The first thing Saburo the Aspiring Poet becomes aware of as he swims up to consciousness is the smell of smoke. He opens his eyes a sliver. Then wider, because he still can’t see a thing. It’s so dark he can barely make out the peaked ceiling far overhead, supported by undulating beams blackened by age or soot or both.

His head hurts like a pack of vindictive demons is trapped inside. Reaching up, he finds his tonsure stubbled, his topknot awry. There’s a tender patch high on his cheekbone and he winces as his fingers explore some scratches on his jaw that he can’t remember—

Then it all floods back. The accursed typhoon, a late-season storm so fierce, he couldn’t tell where the path ended and the forest began. The onslaught of wind and rain that not only pounded relentlessly from above, but blew sideways like the gods had turned the world on its ear. His traveling hat had been useless, his fine clothing soaked in minutes, and as he tucked his chin against the wind, his enviable goatee became a downspout, sluicing cold rain straight down the neck of his kimono. His feet were rubbed raw by plodding through the mud in sodden sandals, and his wet cloak felt like it had been fashioned by a blacksmith, not a weaver. Blinded by the driving rain, he must have taken the wrong track, because he hadn’t encountered a single inn along the way. Just endless, endless trees that blocked the waning light long before sundown, and bushes that snatched hungrily at his garments from either side, as if they didn’t get a chance to snare travelers very often.

The only thing that kept him from giving up was the bottle of sake he’d intended as a gift for the family acquaintance he was counting on to offer him a bed at his next stop. The alcohol had warmed him, dulled his aches and pains, or at least made him care less. Trying to make the final mouthfuls last, he’d spotted a track that didn’t look like it had been made by animals, running up into the trees. He’d fallen more than once as he stumbled up the rocky path, his feet clumsy with exhaustion or drink or both. The weathered door of a decrepit-looking farmhouse is the last thing he can remember. But he must have knocked, and there must have been somebody home, because here he is, warmer and drier than he’s been in two days. And hungover as hell.

“You’re awake.”

The gruff voice belongs to an imposing figure materializing from the gloom.

Saburo tries to answer, but his throat is too dry. The smoky smell diminishes as the man moves away, then returns as he’s handed a roughly glazed cup.

“It’s just water,” the man says, “but that’s probably the best cure for what’s ailing you.”

As the would-be poet struggles to sit, his rescuer splays one strong hand against his back to help him up. Saburo grabs the cup and drinks greedily, hands it back, asks for more.

“Later. Best to go slow at first. My name is Yoshi, but everyone calls me Yakibō. Who are you?”

“Shibata.” He bobs an awkward bow. “Saburo Shibata.”

How long had he been out cold? Is it the middle of the night? Or already the next morning? He squints into the gloom. The windows are shuttered tight against the storm, but slivers of light show around the edges. Must be daytime. Outside, anyway—it’s midnight in here. The only light in the cavernous room comes from a fire banked low in the sunken hearth. It leaps up onto an iron teakettle suspended over the fire, then illuminates the underside of a carved wooden carp counterweight and the links of an iron chain disappearing into the gloom overhead. His rescuer’s face is in deep shadow, the flickering light behind him silhouetting a shaved pate surrounded by wiry hair that’s been pulled into the topknot worn by commoners and samurai alike.

“Where am I?” Saburo asks. “How long have I been here?”

“Since yesterday.” The man adds a stick to the fire. “We found you lying in the mud outside. What were you doing in the woods all alone, during the biggest storm we’ve had in years?”

Saburo groans and falls back onto his pallet, reminded of the long list of calamities that had befallen him since he set out. His blistered feet, unaccustomed to walking long distances each day. His “winter” cloak, so inadequate for the mountain weather that it would have been laughable if it hadn’t nearly killed him. And his utter failure to find the inspiration he’d been seeking.

“I was hunting poems,” he sighs.

That got a guffaw. “Did you catch any?”

“No,” he admits. “Not one.” He ought to laugh along with his rescuer, but his throbbing sense of failure hurts more than all his aching bones combined.

“Well, then, Saburo Shibata, as a wise man once told me, you’re lucky you didn’t become a Buddha while still burdened with such burning desire. Be grateful you’ve been given another chance to rid yourself of attachments like that. You might find enlightenment yet, before your time comes.”

Yoshi-known-as-Yakibō melts into the darkness again, and by the time he returns, the would-be poet has figured out what his nickname means.

“Why are you called the Pottery Priest? You don’t look like a priest.”

The man gives a short laugh.

“I’m not. A lifetime ago, that’s what I wanted to be. I am a potter, though, for my sins.”

Which is almost as hard to believe. He sounds educated, and doesn’t have the nearly incomprehensible backcountry accent Saburo had encountered the last time he stopped at a village inn.

“You don’t sound like a potter.”

“Well, that’s what the gods made me, this time around, anyway. Hopefully, it will be the last.” Yakibō braces his hands on his knees and stands. “But right now, I’ve got wood to stack and a kiln to finish loading. You rest, get your strength back. If you’re feeling better by tomorrow, Hattsan and I would welcome another pair of hands stoking the fire.”

He shuffles to the door and lets himself out. A little rain blows in as it closes behind him, and Saburo sinks back into dreamless sleep.

The next time he awakens, it’s even darker. Is this potter fellow too poor to afford a little oil for a lantern? Fortunately, he isn’t too poor to afford food, because Saburo can smell pickled radishes and hear the soft crek crek of chopsticks scraping a rice bowl.

“Yakibō? Is that you?” He cautiously raises his head, relieved it doesn’t hurt like the devil anymore.

“Ah, you’re awake, young poet,” comes the potter’s voice. “Good thing you returned to the land of the living before I ate the bit I was saving for you.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark? How can you even see to eat?”

“Seems to me I use my mouth for eating, not my eyes.”

But the potter shifts from where he’s sitting and a bamboo rice paddle knocks against the iron pot, scraping something into a bowl.

Saburo hopes it’s for him. He’s hungry enough to eat a wild boar, hide and all.

“Here.” A warm bowl and a pair of chopsticks nudge up against his arm, and he gropes for them. Whatever is in the bowl smells delicious. Pickles, dried fish cured with soy sauce and sweet sake, and rice that’s been in the pot long enough to acquire a toasty crust. But it’s too dark to see the ends of his chopsticks. What’s he supposed to do, stick his face in the bowl and eat like a dog?

“Yakibō-san? I’ll need a little light if I’m going to eat.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“You’re handicapped.”

Before he can ask what that means, a flint is struck, and a paper-shaded lantern begins to glow. As the flame lengthens inside, he sees Yakibō’s face clearly for the first time. It’s seamed and nut-brown, his wispy beard untrimmed, his milky eyes staring at nothing as he tucks away the flint and takes up his bowl and chopsticks again.

“Are you . . . blind?”

“Since birth,” the potter replies, poking around in his bowl with the tips of his chopsticks. Encountering a chunk of daikon radish, he pops it into his mouth.

“But how can you . . .”

“Make rice? Make pots? Make a living?” He laughs. “I manage. And if you’re about to start feeling sorry for me, I’d like to point out that I wasn’t the one lying unconscious in the mud.”

“Yes, but—”

“Look, young poet,” the potter says, taking a swig of sake. “I’ve been blind my whole life, so I don’t really understand this ‘sight’ thing you can’t seem to live without. To be honest, at times I wonder how the rest of you muddle through the world, missing so much that’s right in front of your noses.”

Stunned, Saburo nearly drops his chopsticks. You miss so much that’s right in front of your nose. Hadn’t his poetry master said the same thing, the last time he had spared a word for Saburo’s poems?

But the master’s words hadn’t been meant kindly. Saburo had been so stung by the criticism, he’d almost given up. But now that the same words have been uttered by a blind man who feels sorry for him because he can see, Saburo understands them in a whole new light.

This is a sign. He was meant to get lost in these woods. He was meant to be rescued by this potter. He was probably even meant to be eating this rice and these pickles. Maybe he’s finally on his own version of Basho’s Narrow Road to the Deep North after all.