CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MAKE EMPTINESS YOUR PATH

“Musui, my old and tender friend, you said your companion had become ill, but you didn’t tell us he was so handsome.” For all his pompousness, the abbot was a bluff, good-natured fellow. He appraised Cat by the soft light of the floor lanterns. “Paint black eyebrows on him and blacken his teeth and he could be Lord Yoshitsune’s lover Shizuka in her disguise as a pageboy.”

Ready to refill and relight her new master’s tiny pipe every few puffs, Cat was kneeling on the tatami behind him. She bowed low, acknowledging her unworthiness of the abbot’s compliment. She was also trying to hide the fact that she could be a woman in disguise more easily than the abbot imagined.

At least she felt scrubbed and fed and civilized for the first time in days. The clothes she wore had been handed down through generations of boys serving at the temple. The cotton cloth was softened by long wear, the collar of the loose coat frayed. But the clothes were clean, and they harbored no fleas or lice.

Over her loincloth Cat wore full gray breeches tied and bloused at her knees. Over that she had put on the quilted, black-and-yellow-striped cotton robe. She had pulled the wide black hakama over both and tied it low on her hips. The breeches and the robe showed through the long slits down the hakama’s sides. Its stiffened rear panel stood up jauntily against the small of her back. She wore white tabi. Her hair was dressed in the tea whisk style but tied now with a scarlet paper cord.

“He’s handsome enough to be a gohodoshi, a messenger of the gods and retriever of lost souls.” The man who spoke had large overlapping front teeth that looked like the yellowed ivory vanes of a fan. He was one of five monks of higher rank who had come to spend an evening with the famous poet. The sullen acolyte attending him glared at Cat. He didn’t like the presence of a good-looking rival in the abbey.

“If I were to stray into the spirit world,” the monk leaned over and whispered at Cat, “I would want you to escort me home, Gohodoshisan .”

Cat ignored him and the acolyte’s jealous glower and the abbot’s look of disapproval. She stared instead at the bit of paper glued by a spot of blood to the back of Musui’s pale, smooth skull. Cat had been charged with shaving her master’s head. She’d never shaved a head before or anything else, for that matter, and her hand had slipped. Now she was afraid that someone would notice the bloody scrap and embarrass Musui, but she dared not call attention to it by picking it off.

A wrestler named Arashi, Mountain Wind, filled one corner of the twenty-four-tatami-mat room. The broad shaven strip from his forehead to his crown bulged between the oiled banks of his hair. His clubbed topknot rested on his bare pate like a lizard sunning. He wore a quilted cotton robe big enough to cover a double mattress. He sat cross-legged with his feet tucked under his massive, lumpy thighs like small, well-fed creatures sheltering there. He leaned on an ironwood elbow stand that creaked under the pressure.

He was still fuming about his dousing in the river that afternoon when the larcenous river porters had tried to extort more money from him. And he was irritated that the poet was sitting in the place of honor and receiving all the attention. The poet wasn’t going to wrestle the local strongmen in a charity performance for the temple the next day. Mountain Wind was.

One of the monks had just asked Musui why haiku poems were composed of seventeen syllables when the door slid open and an initiate spoke from a kneeling position on the corridor floor.

“Your Reverence, a gentleman wishes an audience with you.” The youth moved out of the way.

Hanshiro knelt in the doorway and bowed. He entered without rising, gliding along by putting his left foot out, drawing himself forward on it, lowering that knee to the floor, extending the right foot, and repeating the process. When he reached the humblest location in the room, nearest the door, he slapped his hakama hems out of the way, knelt again, knees slightly apart, hands on his thighs, and settled back on his heels.

“Tosa no Hanshiro.” He bowed as he introduced himself. “Your Reverence, forgive the discourteous intrusion while you’re entertaining such an honored guest.”

Hanshiro absentmindedly reached inside the neck of his ancient jacket to scratch a moxa scar on his shoulder. Those sitting nearest him assumed he had fleas and edged away. He had bathed in the river and had retied his topknot, but he still seemed a scruffy thistle among the pruned and cultivated monks, all of whom came from noble families.

Cat stiffened. She might not know the price of a rice cake or a ferry ride, but she recognized danger, even if it had left its long-sword politely at the door.

“You’re quite welcome here,” the abbot said. “We amateurs were only chatting about poetry. But we are indeed honored to have among us Musui-sensei, a disciple of the master, Bash himself.”

“Maybe you can answer our question.” Musui smiled innocently at Hanshiro. “Why does a haiku poem usually consist of seventeen syllables?”

It was a test, of course, but Musui had no intention of embarrassing Hanshiro. He was sure the newcomer knew the answer. He was arranging for Hanshiro to earn a respected place in the gathering, although he also was sure Hanshiro of Tosa didn’t care if he were respected or not.

“My knowledge of the arts is trifling.” Hanshiro looked at Musui, but he surveyed the room from the corners of his eyes.

Cat felt the cold, hard edge of his gaze brush her. She shivered inside her big jacket and hakama. That the clothes were borrowed must be obvious. Cat could almost hear them crying out, “Imposter!”

“I would say that Bash-sensei composed poems of seventeen syllables because they can be read in one breath.” Hanshiro bowed gravely in thanks when an acolyte set down a tray of smoking utensils. “The poet’s thought can be grasped in an instant. The expression of his enlightenment approaches the point of no-time. Of no-mind. Of no-being.”

Musui beamed. He had been right about the unkempt stranger.

“What of poets like Ihara, who create dozens of poems a day?” The monk who spoke was sitting next to the wrestler.

His voice startled Mountain Wind, who had settled his chins onto the overstuffed cushion of his chest for a snooze. Mountain Wind dutifully sat up straighter, ready to regale them all with a listing of the forty-eight falls. When he realized they were still discussing poetry, he went back to sleep.

“Sensei said that he who creates five haiku during a lifetime is a poet,” Musui said. “He who completes ten is a master.”

“And which of the master’s poems is your favorite, Hanshiro?” the abbot asked.

Hanshiro cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. He looked beyond the gathered monks and beyond the abbey walls to Tosa, the wild, remote land of his birth. He stood at the end of the world, on the high black promontory of Cape Muroto. He heard the roar of the surf, felt the cold salt wind on his face.

A winter moon’s light
Silver-crested waves rising
To knock at my gate

His reciting voice was deep and resonant and sent a chill through Cat. Everyone sat silent, appreciating Bash’s genius. The waterfall in the garden seemed loud in the stillness of the room.

The poem was well chosen. It was in keeping with the coming of cold weather and expressive of longings for a distant homeland. Cat was grudgingly impressed.

“And what brings you so far from the coast, where waves knock at your gate?” The abbot had finally gotten to the business of Hanshiro’s visit.

“I’m looking for a fugitive who wounded four men,” Hanshiro said. “That one may be dressed as a wandering priest. That one was seen headed this way.” The language’s pronouns didn’t distinguish male from female, so Hanshiro didn’t have to reveal that the fugitive was a woman.

Cat feared she would faint. All that stood between her and destruction at the hands of this coarse ruffian was the affable shield of her master’s smile.

“A-so. The unfortunate affair at the ferry.” The abbot already had dispatched underlings to find out as much as possible about the fight, just as Hanshiro knew he would.

Hanshiro also knew the abbot was appointed by the emperor, one of the few official functions left to him. He had little loyalty and less love for the shgun’s upstart government in Edo. Locally the abbot had power and information, without the legal obligation to ask Hanshiro the kinds of questions the authorities would have asked. That was why Hanshiro had come here.

“We have not seen him. Have any of his opponents died?” The abbot’s question wasn’t an idle one.

To save themselves the bother of dealing with nosy officials, the local folk were in the habit of depositing the corpses of unidentified travelers on the temple steps. Since the unauthorized burial of persons who had died under unusual circumstances was a punishable offense, the abbot was stuck with each decaying body until the matter could be straightened out. A proportion of the sake donated to the temple by wealthy patrons went toward preserving the malodorous evidence in such cases.

“No, they didn’t die.” Although they probably wish they had died, Hanshiro thought.

At least the shame of being beaten by one small woman would keep Kira’s men from making much of a fuss about it. They were like men who stepped in dog dung in the dark. They would be quiet about the entire affair.

The abbot ran a hand over his satiny skull. This brawl at the ferry would surely bring him problems.

“A thick-livered fellow, that priest,” said Musui. “Four to one, you say.”

“His opponents were small-livered, cowardly, and unskilled.”

Unskilled! With her head still bowed Cat sent a smoldering sideways glance Hanshiro’s way. She looked down quickly when her eyes met his. Unskilled!

She was outraged. Didn’t the filthy hired killer have a high nose. Didn’t he have a good opinion of himself, though. Unskilled, indeed.

“Might this be connected with the Ak-Asano affair?” In the dim light Musui didn’t seem to notice Cat’s hands shake as she poured his tea. “I’ve heard many stories about it lately.”

“They say a lone warrior is gathering an army to avenge the death of Lord Asano,” said the man sitting next to Mountain Wind.

“The fugitive is only a wandering lunatic,” said Hanshiro. “But there are those in Edo who want this nonsense cropped while it’s a tender shoot, before it grows into something requiring an ax.”

“And you are certainly the shears to prune it,” murmured Musui.

“In the village, the well-side talk is that Lord Asano had a daughter who has fled the capital. She’s now in hiding, and this warrior-priest is her champion,” said the abbot.

“I was there,” Mountain Wind said.

They all turned to stare at him.

“I was in the House of the Perfumed Lotus the night the wench disappeared, the one they say might be Asano’s child.”

Cat was sure they could hear her heart, loud as storm surf in her head. Except for Musui’s bamboo flute, there was nothing close at hand to serve as a weapon. If only she had her scissors with her. She could at least have driven them into her heart before the hired killer took her. She vowed that if she lived through this night, she would keep the scissors honed and would always carry them with her.

Make emptiness your path. The words from Musashi’s Book of Emptiness calmed her. Make emptiness your path and your path is emptiness.

“What does Her Ladyship look like?” Hanshiro asked casually. He was already sitting bolt upright, but Cat noticed his spine stiffen a bit more.

“I didn’t actually see her. It was my first visit to the Perfumed Lotus. And my last.” Mountain Wind was happy finally to have the group’s attention. “I had wrestled the champion, Mr. Long-Way-from-Nostrilto-Nostril, at the Green Jade Hall that afternoon. He beat me with the dragonfly twist, but—”

“Excuse me …” The abbot had spent evenings with wrestlers before. “What happened in the House of the Perfumed Lotus?”

“Nothing we’d want to know about.” The long-toothed monk gave Cat’s sleeve another seductive tweak.

“It was an unpleasant evening,” Mountain Wind said. “The vixens there had forced me to drink a bit of sake. Four half-night whores were taking turns sucking on my scepter when an army of men attacked.”

Mountain Wind waved his bulky arm as though flourishing a sword. “They were probably Asano’s retainers, come to rescue their dead master’s daughter. There was much screaming and running to and fro. I think there was an earthquake, and then the fire bell rang. I had to dash into the night air naked. The whores scattered like spider young. I left unsatisfied.”

As the talk of what was called the Ak-Asano affair continued, Cat passed through fear and into a detached serenity. She walked the path of emptiness.

She kneaded her master’s shoulders when he complained of stiffness and in the process managed to remove the bloody scrap of paper from his skull. She poured his tea and emptied and refilled his pipe, although she was careful not to perform too gracefully.

Cat was not too detached to notice that the rnin from Tosa was a willow in the wind. He bent before questions so that they blew over him. The rnin had tiger eyes, eyes with golden irises. People answered the questions of those with tiger eyes. He spoke little, but he skillfully nudged the conversation along, setting it back on course when it strayed from the subject of the feud between Asano and Kira.

By the end of the evening he had extracted all the available information. He had surrendered almost none himself. Cat was relieved to hear that the available information added up to very little that was correct, more that was incorrect, and a great deal that was pure foolishness. The word had gotten out, though, that Lord Asano had a daughter.

“Do you play the flute, Tosa-san?” Musui picked up the flute from where it lay next to him.

“Very badly,” said Hanshiro.

“Perhaps you would honor us with a song to end this most pleasant evening.”

“Forgive me, but I lack the skill to perform for such an august company.” Hanshiro bowed to blunt the rudeness of his refusal.

“Please honor us by passing the night with us here,” said the abbot. “Our accommodations are austere, but I trust you’ll find them adequate.”

“Thank you, Your Reverence.”

As the monks prepared to retire to their tiny rooms, Hanshiro debated paying a night visit to the page who had glanced at him with such a flash of passion in his eyes. He was a comely lad. Graceful. And clever as a woman at pretending to be shy and virtuous. After that first signal he hadn’t met Hanshiro’s gaze again. Very appealing.

In fact, every time Hanshiro looked at him he felt a warm, tingling confusion, like that produced by the first few sips of sake. As the evening progressed the confusion had taken the form of desire.

But a tumble with him would divert Hanshiro from his purpose. And the boy might already be the lover of the master Musui. In any case, he would probably find the lad’s bed either empty or doubly occupied.

Besides, Hanshiro’s experience with boys had been unsatisfying. Even the most beautiful of them couldn’t escape the impediment of being young and inexperienced and much too worshipful in the light of day. Hanshiro didn’t relish being teacher as well as lover, which was what boys required.

Hanshiro preferred second- and even third-rank courtesans, and the older, plainer-looking ones at that. They were as skilled but not as devious as the tay. Their fees didn’t drive a man to the money lenders. Unlike the haughty tay, they didn’t taunt him or keep him waiting in the reception room with giggling apprentices. They didn’t make petulant demands for expensive presents and fawning love letters.

“Sensei.” Hanshiro gave a slight pull on Musui’s sleeve as he passed on his way to the door.

“Yes.”

“I wish to make a presumptuous request.”

“Anything you like, my son. It was delightful to hear the views of one as cultured as you.”

“May I borrow your flute?”

 

 

The night had turned chill, and thunder rolled like waves onto a distant and desolate shore. A wind rattled the bamboos in the abbey garden. Cat lay under a thin quilt on the narrow pallet assigned her. Many of the thin pallets in the acolytes’ crowded quarters were empty, however. The boys who should have been occupying them were warming the beds of their masters.

O-Jiz-sama of the Six States of Existence, Cat thought. Tomorrow I will make an offering and send up incense and prayers to you for protecting me this night.

Then she surrendered her attention to the mournful music coming from the stormy garden outside the abbey.

Musui said that each bamboo flute had a soul and a voice of its own. He said it only waited for a kindred human spirit to release its song. Now his flute was singing through Hanshiro. Its song was the moan of lonely winds through high, wind-scoured mountain crags. It was the cry of seabirds hovering above waves crashing on huge rocks.

If Cat hadn’t already seen the rnin’s hard, implacable face, she would have thought it the song of a man lonely and longing for love. The deep minor-key tremolo set up a resonance of longing in Cat herself. She yearned for the company of women, even the women of the House of the Carp.

In the past year Cat had endured the maulings of the men who paid for her company. While they plunged and grunted she had consoled herself by thinking of the money Old Jug Face would send to her mother. But now she missed lying under the satin quilts with Plover in the moments they had managed to steal together.

She missed the whispered talk, mouth to ear, of Plover’s hopes for the future. Like most of the women of the Floating World, Plover dreamed of a handsome, rich, kind young man who would pay her pillow fee and make her his separate consort. In the pleasure districts love, not sex, was forbidden.

Cat missed the warmth and security of Plover’s arms around her. She missed her gentle laugh and her accomplished caresses. While the flute’s notes floated down around her and the bamboo whispered to the wind, Cat spread her legs under the quilt. She ran her hand across her breasts and down her belly, seeking the hidden kernel. She imagined that her own fingers were Plover’s as she slowly, sensuously, consoled herself.