Autumn Bridge (16 page)

As they approached the construction site on the rise above Apple Valley, Tsuda began to sweat again. He wasn’t worried about it this time. However wet his clothing got, by whatever cause, he could blame the horse beneath him. Horses were by nature sweaty, smelly animals. But would they find fault with the work he had done so far? Was not enough accomplished? Had he placed it on the wrong site? Was the directional orientation not to their liking? Had he misread the plans for the building? Had he cut down too many trees? Too few?

A samurai galloped next to him and said harshly, “You! Stop dawdling! You’re wasting your betters’ time!” He looked like he would happily decapitate Tsuda on the spot.

“Yes, sir, excuse me, sir, I’m not used to being on horseback, horses not being appropriate for lowly—”

The samurai reached over, grabbed the reins out of his hands, kicked Tsuda’s horse into a gallop, and led it to the rise where the rest of the party waited. By the time they got there, Tsuda was certain his manly parts had suffered such a battering against the hard saddle that he would not be able to attempt felicitous contact with geisha ever again.

“Dismount,” Taro said. “Show Lady Hanako and Lady Emily exactly how you happened to discover the trunk.”

“Yes, Lord Taro,” Tsuda said, and nearly fell from the saddle in his haste to obey. Why had he even put in a bid for the project? Let someone else do it. Let someone else take the risk. That’s what he should have done. “We began three weeks ago,” he said.

“Shall we begin digging now, Mr. Tsuda?” the laborer asked. He and a hundred men with shovels, picks, and other construction equipment had been waiting for nearly an hour for the architect to give them the signal to begin. What was the delay? Why was he standing there on the crest of the hill as if in a trance? They were here to build a building, not conduct religious rites.

Tsuda could hear the impatience in the man’s voice. It was understandable. He was an ignorant peasant who did not understand the mystical quality of feng shui, the art of direction and location without which an architect was not an architect but a mere assembler of wood and stone. Also, since the laborers would be paid by the work actually done and not by mere time on the site, they were naturally eager to commence. His, however, was a higher calling. The place from which the first shovelful of dirt was removed would determine the destiny of the building, and thus of those who would use it, and those who would build it. If it was off by so much as one pace, bad luck rather than good fortune might find its way there.

Of the many buildings Tsuda had designed and constructed during the ten years of his career, not one had inflicted the least harm on its owners and occupants. Indeed, two of them — a certain geisha house in Kobe, and Lord Genji’s rebuilt palace in Edo — could be said to have generated especially good luck for all concerned. The geisha house had risen to considerable regional prominence in recent years, and was reputed to rival the best in Edo and Kyoto. That was certainly an overenthusiastic exaggeration. However, the mere fact that the claim could be made at all was a great honor. And as for Lord Genji, though he had far more political enemies than allies, and was an Outside Lord as well, he had since the rebuilding become both a trusted confidant of the Imperial Court in Kyoto and a respected member of the Shogun’s Council of Reconciliation.

Far be it from Tsuda to claim to have had anything to do with either good result. Yet, surely Lord Genji at least recognized that some credit was due, since he had awarded Tsuda the contract to build a “chapel” here, a chapel being a kind of Christian temple. He had worked with the lord’s outsider friend, Lady Emily, in the design. It seemed to him to be an unnecessarily rigid plan, with fixed rows of hardwood seats, a second raised level for a group of religious singers called a “choir” in the front, and a raised podium to the side of that, where a priest would apparently stand and address the gathered worshippers. There was a bell, as in a Buddhist temple, but here it was out of reach high in a bell tower, and had to be rung, not by being struck reverently by a priest with a consecrated mallet, but by being jerked about by ropes and pulleys from below. The actual ringing was caused by a steel mallet installed within the bell itself, which swung and struck the sides of the bell haphazardly.

“It will be time for lunch before we even start,” one of the men grumbled.

Tsuda held up his hand for silence. He would not be rushed. Perhaps he was not a samurai, but he took his work every bit as seriously as they took theirs. For one week, he had come to this place to meditate during both sunrise and sunset. At home, he had consulted the I Ching, using both yarrow stick and coin methods. This was the final step. He would drop all preconceptions, fears, and desires, open himself up to the inherent nature of the place, and dig the first shovelful of dirt. At that moment, there was a slight shift in the wind. The scent of ocean was displaced by that of apple blossoms. Tsuda inhaled. When he exhaled, he opened his eyes and drove the shovel into the ground.

And immediately struck something hard, just below the surface.

“The shovel actually shattered the wood of the outer box,” Tsuda said. “But that box protected the inner one, the one with the most elegant painting upon it. I trust it arrived undamaged, as I found it?” He had heard that Lady Emily was prone to unpredictable and frequent fainting fits, so her sudden pallor did not surprise him. That Lady Hanako also lost all color in her face did.

She said, “Why did you think to send the trunk directly to Lady Emily?”

“I would not presume to make such a decision,” Tsuda said. “Because the size and weight of the trunk suggested that it contained writings rather than goods, and knowing that an English-language translation of the clan history had been undertaken at Lord Genji’s command—”

“Silence!” Taro said. “Answer the question. Why did you send the trunk to Lady Emily?”

“I did not, Lord Taro.” His trembling involuntarily increased until his clothing began to flap as if being whipped by a rising wind. “I instructed my courier most clearly to deliver the trunk directly to Lord Genji. If he did otherwise, then I must—”

Taro was infuriated. “You sent the trunk to Lord Genji? Why did you not deliver it to the captain of the guard at the castle? It would be his duty to take the next step, not yours.”

Tsuda pressed his forehead into the dirt of the construction site so hard, his back muscles began to cramp. “Lord Genji specifically instructed me to communicate directly with him regarding all matters pertaining to the construction of the chapel.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Taro’s hand went to his sword. “What lord would permit a peasant such access?”

“Excuse me, Lord Taro,” Lady Emily said. “Mr. Tsuda is correct. I was present during the conversation.”

Lady Emily’s words embodied the most exquisitely beautiful spoken Japanese Tsuda had ever heard, American accent and all! She had just saved his life. He would forever be grateful to her.

“He could hardly disobey a direct order of the Great Lord,” Lady Emily said.

Taro grunted. He took his hand off his sword and said, “Who was the courier? Send for him.”

In a few minutes, the courier groveled in the dirt next to Tsuda, sweating profusely from the frantic run he had made in answer to the summons.

Taro said, “Why did you deliver the trunk to Lady Emily’s quarters?”

“I did not, Lord Taro,” the courier said. “I took it to Lord Genji as instructed by Mr. Tsuda. Lord Genji opened the trunk, saw what was within, and told me to take it to Lady Emily’s study.”

“And what was within?” Taro said.

“I don’t know, Lord Taro,” the courier said. “I was bowing the entire time I was in Lord Genji’s presence. I heard the trunk open. Lord Genji said there were scrolls inside, and I heard the trunk close. Lord Genji then ordered me to take the trunk to Lady Emily’s study. I obeyed. That is all.”

“You may go,” Taro said. To Lady Emily he said, “Do you have any further questions for Tsuda?”

“No,” Emily said, “not for Mr. Tsuda.”

Tsuda breathed a sigh of relief, though of course not audibly, and left counting himself a fortunate man indeed.

Self-sacrificing loyalty is held to be the highest ideal of the samurai. The reason for this is not difficult to find. The generous would call it wishful thinking. Others would give it a harsher name.
The true history of the clans of the realm is written in the blood of treason. Yet, read what has been memorialized, and you will think the great heroes of legend have come back to life again and again.
Is it any wonder that those who grow up listening to lies themselves become liars?
AKI-NO-HASHI
(1311)

The Reverend Abbess of Mushindo, Jintoku, sat on her knees on the dais of the main meditation hall. She bowed low and held her bow as today’s guests were led into the hall by two young women dressed in the manner of Buddhist nuns of a bygone time, their heads covered with hoods of rough brown cloth that matched their robes. The Reverend Abbess was identically attired, eschewing the more costly, more comfortable silk garb to which she was entitled by her rank. She and her acolytes wore hoods because they did not shave their heads in the usual manner of Buddhist nuns. The Reverend Abbess had discovered that nuns with long, lustrous, attractive tresses generated a noticeably lower level of donations than those who appeared more deprived. Since she had no desire to shave her own head, she would not ask her followers to do so. Her entire methodology was to lead by example. It was the only way that clearly established moral authenticity, and moral authenticity was the essential basis for her authority at Mushindo Abbey.

There were forty guests today, forty-one the day before, and thirty-seven the day before that. The women’s clothing was the now standard mix of Western and Japanese popular in the cities, kimono with English hats and French shoes, with an occasional jacket of American cut as outerwear. Men tended to go in one direction, either entirely Western, from hat to boots, or stubbornly Japanese, in kimono and wooden sandals. No one wore topknots anymore, and no one wore swords. Both were forbidden. And even if they were not, who would carry them? There were no more samurai, and only samurai had been allowed swords in the past.

Attendance had steadily risen in the three years since the Abbess had thought of instituting guided tours of the temple. For this, she had the new Imperial government to thank. Traffic to the temple had increased because interest in the ancient ways of Japan had increased, coincident with the government’s strenuous modernization campaign. This was not as strange as it might at first appear. While modernization meant the adoption of Western ways in industry, science, war, political form, and dress, it was accompanied by an equally energetic campaign to maintain the old cultural traditions. “Western Science, Eastern Virtue.” That was the official slogan. But did anyone really know exactly what embodied Eastern Virtue?