HER SKIN WAS smooth, her hair glossy and black. The fire seemed not to have touched her at all, as if she were precious to it. Beside her lay a skull – presumably that of a monk who had been caught in the Hokke-do when it burned. The remains of the hall were all around her. A blackened beam, two handspans wide, had been snapped by the falling roof, as if it were a twig, and lying under it were ashes that Taro hoped had come from the burning walls. Charred remnants of pillars stuck up from the ground like the stumps of burned trees, warped shapes of melted glass glinted in the light, and everything stank of charcoal.
Even as Taro looked down on her, monks were going about on their knees in the fine ash, picking up the larger fragments of the monk’s bones with chopsticks, making sure to place them in the urn in order from toe to top of the head, for otherwise the dead man would lie unquietly, upside down.
Taro touched Hana’s face – it was warm. He kneeled and put his ear to her mouth. To his shock he found that she was breathing, very slowly but steadily. Her chest rose and fell, and yet she did not wake. He pinched her arm – nothing. He could not understand it. Even the floor of the building was burned away, so that she was lying on a bed of soft ash. ‘It’s impossible,’ he said. ‘The heat alone. . .’
Her eyelashes, as delicate as threads of silk, were not even singed.
‘It is a miracle,’ said the abbot. He gestured to a pair of large charred beams, lying crosswise a few paces away. They were blackened by the heat, with great cracks running along their length from the intensity of the fire. ‘Those were on top of her. When the monks lifted them – and it took four men to move each one – she was lying underneath.’
Taro, still kneeling, spoke in her ear. ‘Hana.’
‘She won’t wake,’ said the abbot. ‘We’ve tried. She just lies there, sleeping.’
Hana’s arms were folded over each other, and she lay on her side, her whole body curled and wrapped around the golden scrolls. Taro could see that she had held them close to her, then huddled around them, protecting them from the fire with her own flesh. He was in awe at the extent of her sacrifice – she had been willing to die for these sutras. And yet she wasn’t dead. She was lying here, breathing gently, still clutching the precious treasure of the monastery.
Taro saw where her hand was gripping one of the golden tubes and tried to uncurl her fingers. He grunted, surprised. They were unyielding as china, or stone.
‘We tried that, too,’ said the abbot. ‘It is impossible to remove them.’
Taro looked at her with wonder. A rosy blush was on her cheeks, the shadow of a smile on her lips. He half expected –
hoped
– that she would simply stand, brush off her kimono, and none of this would be real. The only hint that things were otherwise was that her eyes were closed.
‘How did this happen?’ he asked the abbot.
The abbot shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before. But there is one thing—’ He broke off, as if unsure of what he was about to say.
‘Yes?’ said Taro.
‘When the founder of the Tendai monastery copied those scrolls, it is said he received help. From Kannon, the bodhisattva of compassion. She gave him insights not contained in the original Sanskrit. That is why these particular sutras are so special – they are the only ones to contain the words of Kannon herself.’
Taro glanced behind him at the path that led to the summit. Though the wind had died down, the prayer wheels – dedicated to Kannon – continued to creak on their axles, reading out their endless prayers to the air. It was an eerie sound, he realized suddenly.
‘You think Kannon did this?’ he said.
The abbot shrugged. ‘It’s possible. When Kannon died, she could have melted into oneness with everything, because she had achieved enlightenment. But she turned her back on that bliss and returned to earth to help humanity. Those scrolls contained the very distillation of her wisdom, and your friend was ready to give her life to save them. I believe Kannon would understand that, and respect it. Perhaps she used her power to keep the flames from the girl.’
Hiro frowned. ‘If Kannon saved her, why doesn’t she wake?’
Again the abbot made a gesture of resigned ignorance. ‘Even bodhisattvas are not all-powerful, for there is a flow in the world that even enlightenment cannot allow us to dam, or divert. Kannon may have saved her body, in gratitude for her sacrifice. But perhaps she could not save her soul from making the journey into death. That is a voyage that cannot be reversed. At least, not since—’
‘No!’ said Taro. ‘She’s not dead.’ He felt as if he had been struck in the stomach. He touched Hana’s mouth – something he had never done when she was awake. ‘She’s breathing,’ he said.
‘I’ve seen men continue breathing, after they have been dealt blows to the head,’ said the abbot. ‘And yet their souls have left them. They do not speak or eat or drink, and eventually they die.’
Taro felt sick. He looked at the face of the girl he loved, so fragile and beautiful. ‘She won’t die. I—I won’t allow it.’
The monk put a gentle hand on Taro’s arm. ‘That may not be for you to decide.’
Hiro, too, reached out to touch Taro, but Taro pulled away from them. ‘Wait,’ he said. He turned to the abbot. ‘Just now you were about to say something, when I interrupted. About the voyage to death being reversed only once. What did you mean?’
The abbot sighed, but it was a compassionate sigh – the sigh of one who doesn’t want to give false hope. ‘That was a long time ago,’ he said. ‘When the last Buddha was still alive. It’s said that after he achieved enlightenment, but before he ascended into nothingness, he had a ball, which represented all of dharma and samsara, too, and that with it he could order the world as he chose. Once, a demon attacked one of his best-loved disciples and stole away his soul to Enma’s hell. The Buddha used the ball to get him back.’
Taro smiled. ‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’
‘But the ball is just a story!’ said the abbot. ‘It is never mentioned in the Sanskrit sutras, apart from that single time when the Buddha rescued his disciple. No one has heard of it, or seen it, in a thousand years. There’s a folk tale of the amas, which says that it was thrown off a treasure ship from China, off the coast of Japan. But that’s just a legend! People are easily seduced by the idea that something so powerful might be so close, yet so hidden.’
Taro looked at Hiro, who raised his eyebrows. Both of them had reason to think the story was true – if only because Lord Oda believed it, and so did the prophetess. It was also true, though, what the abbot said about the seduction of power. Taro had never understood why people wanted it – why they wanted control over the world and the doings of men, and were willing to kill to get it.
But now he saw. Even if mountains and tides were raised against him, he was going to find the Buddha ball. And when he had it in his hands, he would destroy those who had hurt him. And then he would summon Hana’s soul from death itself, and look her in the eyes again. She might hate him, perhaps. She might remember that it was Hayao, and Hiro, who came after her – that Taro had abandoned her.
And that was all right. Taro hated himself, after all. What was important was that he bring her back. Let her marry Hayao – at least she would live.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Taro. He touched Hana’s cheek again. ‘What will you do with her?’
‘We can’t move her,’ said the abbot. ‘We’ve tried. It’s as if she is part of this place now. My idea was to build a new temple around her, and the scrolls in her hands. Already the story of her sacrifice is spreading. People will want to pay their respects.’
‘She looks like she might wake at any moment,’ Hayao said. He had come to stand next to Taro.
‘Maybe one day, when she’s needed, she will,’ said the abbot.
One of the monks gathering the bones of the nameless man who had died in the fire, an old one with white stubble, shuffled past, bent over. As he passed by Hana’s head, he touched his own forehead, in respect.
‘See?’ said the abbot. ‘She is already a symbol, and an object of worship. She is like the monastery – it may burn, but it can never be destroyed.’
‘What about food?’ said Taro. ‘Water?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said the abbot.
‘You talked about men who had injured their heads. You said they starved. What will you do for Hana?’
The abbot looked confused. ‘I don’t – I mean—’
Taro took a step forward, feeling a new momentum pulse through him, a fierce compulsion that he knew would agitate his limbs and his mind until he had found the ball and returned to this spot with it. ‘She is not just a statue, or the centrepiece of a temple. Do you understand? She is my friend, and I will wake her up again – I will return her soul to her body. Until then, I want you to keep her alive.’
‘You’ve tried to move her fingers,’ said the abbot. ‘You’ve seen how hard it is.’
‘Then you will have to think of something,’ said Taro. ‘Drip water onto her lips, if you must.’
Hayao put a hand on Taro’s shoulder. ‘I will make sure she lives,’ he said.
Taro smiled thinly. ‘Thank you.’ As if he needed Hana to be even more grateful to the samurai! But he kept the smile on his lips. ‘Just don’t let her body die before my mother’s cremation. I hope to be back before then.’
‘Back?’ said the abbot. ‘But you helped to save the monastery – you and Hiro are our honoured guests. And anyway, the sutras must be chanted. . .’
‘There are plenty of monks for that,’ said Taro. ‘I’m sorry. I have to leave. If it wasn’t for me, none of this would have happened in the first place.’
‘But you fought bravely!’ said the monk. ‘You couldn’t have kept her from the flames.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Taro. ‘I meant that if I hadn’t been here, the samurai would never have attacked. All I have done is bring destruction to your door – you should be glad to see the back of me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the abbot. ‘The samurai have wanted to crush us for decades.’
‘But it was only when I arrived that they finally tried – it was me they wanted. Wherever I go, I bring danger. I am cursed.’ He thought of his father, of Shusaku, of Heiko and the prophetess. All dead because of him.
‘No one is cursed,’ said the abbot. ‘Everyone is blessed equally by—’
‘Not if they have bad karma,’ said Taro. ‘Believe me. It’s better if I go.’
‘You cannot believe that army attacked the monastery just because of you!’ exclaimed the abbot.
‘I do believe it,’ said Taro. ‘It has happened before. And besides, Kenji Kira told me.’
‘Kenji Kira?’
‘The man Yukiko killed. He was a hatamoto of Lord Oda’s. He attacked the monastery to kill me.’
‘But why?’
‘There is. . . something I have inherited, which makes me important to the daimyo.’ He didn’t want to reveal too much. He couldn’t tell the abbot either that he was Lord Tokugawa’s son, or that his mother, a simple ama diver, might have received from her ancestors the ball of the last Buddha himself, a world in miniature, and with it the power to command the elements. Especially since the abbot seemed to think it was all a story for children. ‘Hiro – tell him.’
Hiro shifted on his feet. ‘It’s true that people are always hunting him,’ he said eventually, also being careful with his words.
‘But an army!’ said the abbot. ‘You’re saying all those monks died on your account?’
Taro hung his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
The abbot sighed. ‘Do not apologize. I am sure your burdens are heavy, but you cannot be responsible for this. The daimyo have wanted us out of the way for a long time. Even if this had anything to do with you – which I am very far from believing – it was only an excuse to finally act.’ He smiled at Taro. ‘There is no need for you to leave. Please, stay here with us. Perhaps you could even take orders. . .’
‘No,’ said Taro. ‘I apologize, but I must go. It is not only the samurai. There is. . . something I need to find.’ And when I have it, I will bring Hana back to life, he thought. And, further down in the darkness of his mind, there was another thought, one he could not admit even to himself, not completely. Perhaps she was not spared, said that thought. Perhaps she was kept here by our karma, because she is the only woman I will ever love. As long as I live, she cannot leave me, and so she is kept in this realm till I die, or till I can make her live.
‘Very well,’ said the abbot. ‘When you are ready, an escort will take you down the mountain, in case the samurai are lying in wait.’
Taro put his hands on Hiro’s shoulders. ‘You can stay, if you like,’ he said. ‘You’ve done enough for me.’
‘Nice try,’ said Hiro. ‘I go where you go.’
‘I thought you might say that,’ said Taro. He turned to the abbot. ‘You will keep her alive?’
The abbot sighed. ‘We will try.’
‘Good,’ said Taro. ‘Then when I return, I will see her again.’ He bent down and kissed Hana’s eyelids – the first time his lips had ever touched her skin. He felt as if he had been hollowed out, and filled with sharp things. His mother, who had survived an attack by ninjas, and travelled all the way to this mountain, was dead. Hana, who had abandoned her own father for him, was lost to him too, and it felt even crueller because she seemed to be sleeping, and only a call of her name away. He did not know how he could continue in this world, and he wished fervently that Yukiko had killed him, too.
But then, it had been her intention to keep him alive, to suffer all of this.
Focusing on revenge, he forced himself to turn away from Hana’s peaceful body, and face the slope that led through cedar trees to the stone path, and farther, once he struck out north, to the sea and Shirahama.
From this moment, he would not rest.
He would get the ball. He would avenge these deaths. And then he would stand once again in this spot and hold the ball over Hana’s body, and make her open her eyes and sit up.
She would hate him, he was sure. She would consider him a coward and a traitor, for leaving her alone to die. He didn’t care.
She would live, and then he could die.