Autumn Bridge (24 page)

Endlessly abjure the endless arising of desire, anger, and mistaken views—

Open my eyes to the infinite pathways of truth—

Embody the supremely benevolent Way of the Buddha.

It took the better part of a morning to complete the ceremony, and vocal and bodily fatigue, approaching a level of actual distress for some, was profound among all concerned. Thereafter, the Abbess decided that three repetitions would be sufficient for any future supplicant, and a simple bow could take the place of the prostrations. After all, was it not true that sincerity rather than form was the key to salvation?

Despite the questionable orthodoxy of the ceremony, it, like Yasuko’s prayers, apparently did have an effect, for from then on, Yasuko behaved in a manner entirely consistent with her declared intent. She became as consistent in her practice as Goro was in his. Gradually, others began to follow her example.

The essentially ridiculous nature of the situation did not escape the Reverend Abbess. The true spiritual exemplars of Mushindo were a nearly mute idiot and a crippled failed suicide. Nevertheless, in time, she, too, began to engage in meditation even when it was not necessary for the sake of guests.

She silently took her place among her fellow nuns.

As she settled in, she mulled over the amount of wood fragments, bullets, and scrolls remaining, and contemplated how long they would be a source of holy relics. The scrolls were the most critical, because they would be the most difficult to replace with new material. One piece of lead looked pretty much like any other, and the same could be said for pieces of charred wood. But there was something about the look of the ancient paper that she had so far been unable to duplicate. She wondered, neither for the first time nor the last, whether they were what was left of the infamous
Aki-no-hashi
compendium of spells set down by the princess witch, Lady Shizuka, in ancient times. Not that it mattered, one way or the other. The important thing was quantity, not their nature. And that wasn’t an immediate worry. There had been twelve scrolls to start with, and there were still the better part of nine left. Still, it never hurt to plan ahead. She thought about this at the start of her meditation, not so much to arrive at any solution, but simply to bring it up and set it aside.

Next, she noticed the sounds of Mushindo.

When she was young, the eerie creaking, whining, and crying had frightened her and every other child in the village. The place is haunted, they would say. Listen. Those are the voices of tortured souls and demons. When they listened, it seemed beyond doubt that they heard supernatural voices. But only if they listened. And no matter how closely they listened, they could never quite make out what those voices were saying. Which of course only served to add more excitement to their childish fear. If they went about their business, then they heard nothing but the wind in the trees, the cries of birds and an occasional fox, the gurgling of a stream, the voices of wood-gatherers calling to each other in the distant valleys.

At the beginning of the Abbess’s meditation, what she heard sounded much like the wind, animals, water, and distant voices that they most likely were, yet as her breathing slowed, and her attention clarified, it inexorably took on the demonic quality of her youthful imaginings. Was it really only because she was listening? Or were those truly the voices of denizens of other worlds calling out to her, reminding her of the evanescent nature of life in this one? Had it always been this way, or had it begun with Lady Shizuka’s arrival at this very place, six hundred years ago? And if so, did it mean that Lady Shizuka had really been a witch? Or were the sounds, real or fantastic as they may be, no more than meaningless oddities of entry into meditation?

Finally, she let go of all conjecture — what use was it to cling to that which pointed at nothing real? — and flowed effortlessly through the constrictions of thought into a vibrant stillness.

Summer brought abysmal sorrow to Lady Kiyomi, and catastrophe to the clan. Her husband, Lord Masamuné, was trapped by an unexpectedly powerful enemy force at Cape Muroto and killed, along with her father, her two eldest sons, and almost all of their samurai. Her remaining son, Hironobu, had then become Lord of Akaoka, a hasty investiture that was to precede his first and last act as titular leader of the clan — ritual suicide in advance of the arrival of the triumphant enemy. Their leaders would, in any case, put him under the sword. With the death of his sire and his siblings, he was lord of the domain, and lords did not surrender. That he was only six years old mattered not at all. His elder brothers had been ten and eight, and their youth had not saved them. They had accompanied their father on what they thought would be a skirmish to observe combat for the first time. Instead, they had perished with him.

Now Lady Kiyomi herself had only two duties remaining in life. She would observe her youngest son’s suicide — the ever-faithful bodyguard, Go, would strike off Hironobu’s head as soon as his knife’s blade broke his skin — then she, too, would die by her own hand. She had no intention of remaining alive to be humiliated and abused by the usurpers. While she was not sorry for herself, she could not help feeling sorry for Hironobu. She was twenty-seven, so she had not become a grandmother. Still, she had lived a reasonably full life as lover, wife, and mother. He had become Lord of Akaoka, but he would reign for mere hours, then he would die.

But Hironobu did not die, and neither did Lady Kiyomi. At the moment before he plunged the knife into his belly, a myriad of sparrows suddenly rose from the dry streambed, the sound of their flight like that of distant waves breaking on the shore. They passed directly over Hironobu in a winged cloud. Beneath them, the flickering of light and shadow created the illusion that he himself was flickering — insubstantial, ethereal, like a ghost glimpsed out of the corner of one’s eye. Everyone saw it. Several people cried out. Perhaps Lady Kiyomi was one of them.

It was an omen. The gods disapproved. This was clear to everyone. So Hironobu did not kill himself. Instead, it was decided that he would lead their handful of remaining samurai against the enemy that very night. Instead of dying by the stream, he would die on the field of battle. It was still death, but it was a bolder death, and the god of warriors, Hachiman, favored the bold. Go would insure that the boy was not captured alive by the enemy.

Kneeling as she adjusted Hironobu’s child-sized armor, Lady Kiyomi was as tall as he was with his feet in his little warrior’s boots and his head topped with a helmet with stylized steel horns. Lady Kiyomi barely restrained her tears. The miniature breastplate, the scaled-down swords, the lacquered gauntlets and shin guards — they were all meant for ceremonial purposes, not combat, but would soon be employed in earnest. The look of pride on Hironobu’s face nearly dissolved her restraint. She spoke quickly to block her tears.

“Remember, you are now lord of this realm. Behave appropriately.”

“I’ll remember,” he said. “How do I look, Mother? Do I look like a real samurai?”

“You are the son of Masamuné, Lord of Akaoka, who crushed the Mongol hordes of Kublai Khan at Hakata Bay. You
are
a real samurai. And a real samurai should not be so concerned with mere appearance.”

“Yes, Mother, I know. But all the stories about the heroes of old tell about how splendidly they dressed. Their armor, their banners, their silk kimonos, their swords, their horses. It is said that Lord Yoshitsuné’s look of warlike confidence alone broke the spirit of his enemies. It is also said that he was very handsome. These are important things for heroes.”

Lady Kiyomi said, “Stories always make things up. Heroes are always handsome and victorious. Their ladies are always beautiful and faithful. That’s how stories are.”

“But Father was handsome and victorious,” Hironobu said, “and you are beautiful and faithful. When they tell stories about us, they won’t have to make things up.”

She did not tell him that all little boys think their fathers are handsome and their mothers beautiful. If she spoke, she would have wept.

He thrust out his chest and put the best semblance of a warrior’s scowl on his face. “Do I have a look of warlike confidence, Mother?”

“Stay close to Go,” she said, “and do what he says. If it should be your fate to die, then die without hesitation, without fear, without regret.”

“I will, Mother. But I don’t think I will die in this battle.” He reached a finger under his helmet and scratched. “One hundred years ago, at the Battle of Ichinotani, Lord Yoshitsuné had only a hundred men against thousands of foes. Like I do. One hundred twenty-one against five thousand. He won, and I will, too. Will they tell stories about me when I am gone? I think they will.”

Lady Kiyomi quickly turned away and dabbed at her eyes with the soft silk of her sleeves. When she turned back, she smiled. She thought of words that would fit a fairy tale, and said them.

“When you return, I will wash the blood of our arrogant enemies from your sword.”

Hironobu’s face brightened. Like a warrior in combat, he dropped to one knee and gave an abbreviated battlefield bow.

“Thank you, Mother.”

She placed her hands on the floor before her and bowed her head low in return.

“I know you will do your best, my lord.”

“My lord,” Hironobu said. “You called me ‘my lord.’ ”

“Are you not?”

“Yes,” he said, and got to his feet. They were eye to eye again. “I am.”

She did not expect to see him again. When the courier brought word of his death, she would order the castle set ablaze, then she would plunge the blade of her knife into her throat. There would be no fairy-tale victory, no legends of beauty and courage. Yet they would share one quality with the heroes and ladies of those tales. They would never grow old.

A few days later, the courier did come, but he brought news not of Hironobu’s death but of his victory instead. The summer that had begun in such tragedy ended in amazing triumph. Their badly outnumbered samurai had annihilated the better part of an army many times as big as their own.

Word of young Lord Hironobu’s impossible victory in the Muroto Woods spread very quickly. Celebrants came crowding into the domain from every direction. All had heard of the omen of the sparrows and were eager to see the favored young lord for themselves. The small castle, newly rechristened Cloud of Sparrows, became uncomfortably crowded. Near the end of the weeklong festivities, when it appeared certain that most of the visiting samurai lords would soon expire of alcohol poisoning, unpredictably shifting winds and an unusual profusion of lightning and thunder presaged the coming of an early autumn storm. Those who had been preparing to leave now prepared to remain for the foreseeable future. It seemed impossible, but everyone grew drunker. Surprisingly, no one died of it.

Go alone remained sober. Raised on
koumiss
, the strong brew made of mare’s milk, he had not acquired a taste for rice wine despite ten years in Japan. When he passed by a drunken gathering, people frequently called out to him.

“Go!”

“Lord General!”

“Lord Go!”

Displaying a smile he did not feel within, Go acknowledged the cheers. Crowds in confined spaces made him uneasy. He still had the nomad’s love of open space and hatred of confinement. Being among so many people within the constricting walls of a castle tightened his throat, shortened his breath, and made him sweat as if he were in the early stages of a deadly illness.

But the crowd and the walls were not the main cause of his unease. The storm troubled him even more. Never had he witnessed such horrendous violence in the sky. Not in the steppes of his homeland, not in the vast plains of China, not in the mountains and valleys of Japan. Rapid waves of lightning inflamed the sky, followed momentarily by the pounding hooves of thousands of phantom horses in stampede. In the unpredictable interval between the lightning and the accompanying thunder, Go flinched. The situation was made all the more ominous by the strange lack of turbulence on the ground. Despite the fury above, no wind, no rain, nor any other stormy effect had actually touched them. It was an omen. There could be no doubt whatsoever. But of what? It couldn’t herald the approach of another Tangolhun. Go was the last of that line, and he had only one offspring, Chiaki, a son. That curse of witchery could only be empowered by a woman. His wife had given birth to a girl before Chiaki, and two girls after. Go had killed all three female infants at birth. His wife had wept, but she had not questioned him or tried to stop him. As she always promised, she put his happiness before her own. So no new Nürjhen witch had been born, or ever would be. Then why did he feel such fear with every flash of lightning and every rumble of celestial hooves?

Among the Nürjhen tribesmen, a storm after a victory was an omen of great magnitude. The Japanese did not see it that way, of course. To them, a storm was the wrath of the thunder god, a god best placated through offerings of prayers by priests, gifts of food by women and children, and heavy drinking by men. This last was highly predictable. Every event of any significance always called for the consumption of an ocean of sake, the rice wine to which apparently all samurai became addicted at a very early age. If the Nürjhen had drunk so much alcohol, they would never have conquered the rich pasturelands between the Blue Ice Mountains and the Red Dragon River. If the Mongols had, they would not have conquered the Nürjhen, and Go would still be riding with his clansmen in the vast freeness of Central Asia.