Autumn Bridge (43 page)

Women understand the duel between us better than men, Genji had said. Our first novelist was a woman. I believe no man has yet equaled her observations in that area.

Smith had said, Japan is the last place I would have expected a man to yield first place to a woman. Do you not rule absolutely and without question? Is not the word of a man law?

Rule and merit are not the same, Genji had said. Men rule Japan by virtue of their swords, not by virtue of their virtue.

Smith had read — more accurately, he had skimmed — the key chapters of Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall.
The history of the barbarian invasions was intriguing, and that of the Empress Theodora usefully cautionary; women were not to be underestimated, nor was the vigor of their vengeance to be ignored. The relevance of Rome’s destruction to his own life, however, he did not see at all.

He had read neither Aristotle nor Plato in Greek and had no intention of ever doing so. Indeed, even if the intention had existed, the facility in Greek most certainly did not. He had no intention of reading them in English, either. Was he to pretend, like the others, to be some kind of American Athenian? He refused to indulge in such idiocy.

His final evening on campus, he had listened to ignorant undergraduates engaged in a pretentious discussion of De Quincey’s
Confessions
, and had decided then and there to abandon his useless college tenure. The world offered both opportunities and dangers in great plenitude. He would not waste another day risking the loss of the former or being shielded from the latter.

Thinking of those days, Smith always felt a certain odd emotion combining relief with regret. A little more than a year after his departure, South Carolina began the Secession, and the following summer, the Union Army invaded Virginia. Had he remained at college, he would not have missed the opportunity to serve. Once back in Hawaii, his parents adamantly refused him permission to return. He was the only son among five daughters. He would risk not only his life but his entire lineage. So he remained at home and missed what would surely be the greatest adventure of his time. He had also missed the slaughter of six hundred thousand of his fellow human beings, one of whom he might have been. It was a present irony that had he enlisted, he would have fought under the same banner as Lieutenant Farrington. Smith’s family was originally Georgian, but they were also staunch abolitionists. In God’s eyes, all of His children were equal. How could one of them own another?

Of course, Smith would never tell Farrington this. The pretense of complete opposition better suited their rivalry for Emily Gibson’s hand. And it was thoughts of the strange turn this rivalry had taken that now weighed so heavily on Smith.

Farrington’s behavior toward Emily had changed, not in any outward form, but in its essence. Though he still went through the motions, he was no longer in earnest pursuit of Emily. If this was not apparent to anyone else — and it seemed not to be — it was very apparent to Smith. Since the incident at Mushindo Monastery, Farrington’s ardor had evaporated.

Why?

One aspect of the incident seemed to make a particular impact on Farrington. Smith remembered his expression of horror when Lord Genji had pronounced with complete certainty that Emily, not General Hidé’s wife, Hanako, had been the assassin’s target. That the assassin had been one of Lord Genji’s most trusted subordinates also seemed to inspire great consternation. From this combination of fact and supposition, what conclusion had Farrington drawn that had caused his former affection to disappear so instantaneously?

It was not fear. Smith knew enough about Farrington’s character to discount that possibility, his jibes about the War notwithstanding. If it was not a matter of courage, then it could only be one of honor. There were no other serious concerns for a gentleman. In other circumstances, Emily’s lack of either family or inheritance could have been a deficiency, since she would come to her bridegroom without a dowry. This did not matter to Smith. It might have mattered to Farrington. But because her lordly patron was sure to gift the wedding couple most generously, the deficiency was conceptual rather than actual.

What matter of honor was so apparent to Farrington that Smith himself failed to see?

The answer must lie in the path of Farrington’s thoughts.

The assassin’s target was Emily.

The assassin was General Taro, Lord Genji’s hitherto most loyal cavalry commander.

Therefore—

Therefore what?

Smith could not follow Farrington’s reasoning further. Even if Emily had been Taro’s target, how would that drive Farrington away? If anything, his protective instincts, especially prominent in a military man, should have come to the forefront.

The treachery of a warlord’s loyal subject was likewise not a reasonable cause. Assassinations had grown unfortunately common of late, and the assassins were more often than not close retainers of the victim. Loyalties in Japan had become dangerously confused.

It was most disconcerting. To best Farrington was one thing. To have him retreat voluntarily was quite another. They would lunch together. Perhaps careful observation would prove revealing.

Smith turned his horse’s head back toward the castle.

Emily stood at the eastern window of the high tower and gazed out at the Pacific. Today it was as gentle as its name. At least, on its surface. Who knew what storms and currents tore at its depths? This very island, and all the other islands of Japan, were no more than the tips of oceanic volcanoes. They were quiescent now, but the earthquakes that constantly shook the chain were a stern warning against complacency. Stability was an illusion. A peaceful sea could gather itself up into a monstrous tidal wave at any moment, a mountain could explode into molten rock, the very earth beneath this mighty castle could tremble and collapse, and everyone and all their works within it could be cast down to destruction. Nothing was as it seemed, nothing could be trusted. Of all follies, was there any greater than believing in the permanence of anything?

No, no. What was she thinking? Blasphemy. Was it not said,
The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away; But the word of the Lord endureth forever
? Yes, so it was said. Amen.

But the promise brought her no comfort.

She had lost her best friend.

She was about to leave the man she loved.

Soon she would be alone. Worse than alone. She would be living a lie, betrothed, then married to a man for whom she felt respect and nothing more, whether the groom was Charles Smith or Robert Farrington. She reminded herself that her actions were motivated by love, by a determination to relieve Genji of the danger created by her presence. It did not lessen her anguish. Rather than feeling joy in the sacrifice, she felt only pain in the loss. How selfish she was. What would Zephaniah say?

She had not thought about her former fiancé much since his death, and not at all in recent years. Surely he came to mind now only because of the grievous circumstances in which she found herself. What would he say to her? Something about her doom and damnation, surely. Hellfire was his specialty as a preacher.

Think of others before yourself, Emily.

Yes, sir, she would answer.

“Sir” is too distant an appellation for one who is to be your husband, Emily. You should call me by my given name, as I do you.

Yes, Zephaniah.

Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction.

Amen.

She said amen always after each of his quotations from the Bible. He cited the Book often, so she said amen often.

He that believeth not shall be damned.

Amen.

As his enthusiasm grew, his voice increased in volume and sonority, the veins of his forehead popped dangerously, as if they were near to bursting, and his eyes widened and bulged from their sockets with the passion of his emotions.

Ye serpents! Ye generations of vipers! How can ye escape the damnation of hell?

Amen!

But Zephaniah was six years dead. He would not appear to unleash visions of divine retribution upon her. How she would welcome it now, if only to drive other, more dangerous thoughts from her hopes and her imagination. If he had lived, she would be Mrs. Zephaniah Cromwell, she would not be in this castle, she would not be in love with the wrong man, she would not be doomed to unhappiness no matter what she did.

Fear had brought her to the tower, and hope. She had imagined a ghost at Mushindo Monastery — or, more properly now, Mushindo Abbey. She had to have imagined it, for if she truly saw what she thought she saw, then the
Autumn Bridge
scrolls she had read were, impossibly, a portrait of her destiny. She was in the tower, the reputed favorite haunt of the ghost, as a challenge. If ghost there was, then let her show herself. Or itself, for demons have no true gender, only illusions of masculinity or femininity. She was certain there was no ghost, so had not considered what she would do if it appeared. That lack of preparation — though what preparation could there be? — frightened her now. She had an uneasy feeling of being watched, and hesitated to turn too quickly, lest she see what she feared. But each time she turned, there was nothing there but a wall, a window, a door, the columbarium with the urns full of the ashes of Genji’s ancestors.

There was no one there. If she could not see it, it could not see her. Surely that was the case, was it not? A chill swept over her. How terrible if she could be watched without being able to see the watcher. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to come here after all. She had just about made up her mind to leave when she thought she heard something in the stairwell, perhaps the faint, fading echo of a footstep. Whose footstep? Or the soft moaning of wind moving up toward the top of the tower. But the air outside was utterly still. There was no wind. There was no way in or out of the tower except by the stairwell.

She backed away. It couldn’t be—

And it wasn’t. Charles Smith appeared in the doorway.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Smith said.

“You are not,” Emily said, somewhat more warmly than she had intended. “I am very happy to see you, Charles.”

“The preparations are complete. We may proceed at any time.”

“Preparations?”

“For the picnic.”

“Ah, yes.”

“If you are not up to it, we can leave it for another day.”

“Oh, no, we can’t. This is perfect weather for a picnic.” It had been her idea. Charles and Robert had both been so worried about her emotional state, she felt she must do something to relieve their concern. They had to believe they were doing it for her, rather than the other way around, or it would do no good. So she had maneuvered Charles into making the suggestion. “Let me just gather up my things.”

Smith glanced at the urns in the columbarium. “A strange place for study, even the study of ancient scrolls.”

“The scrolls are here, but I am not studying. I came here in the hope that helpful thoughts would arise.”

“If your thoughts arise more clearly in the presence of earthly remains, you may be better suited for life of a monastic nature than for marriage.”

“I know I am not capable of the one. I fear I may also lack the necessary qualities for the other.”

“Few people are truly suited to the wholly spiritual life, including those who have embarked upon it. A former inmate of the monastery at Monte Cassino told me the place was more riven with jealousies and politics than his previous abode, which had been the city of Rome itself.”

“How did you happen to meet such a remarkable person?”

“I was visiting Honolulu when he passed through on his way to Cochin China.”

“As a missionary?”

Smith smiled and shook his head. “As an arms merchant. He said that if he could not successfully save his own soul in a monastery, then he may as well help, in some small way, other souls find their way to their Maker.”

Emily frowned, completely unamused. “That’s a terrible story, Charles. I hope you will never repeat it again.”

“I fear I must,” Smith said, feigning a somber expression, “as it is entirely true, and may prove salutary to some.” If this beautiful woman had a flaw, it was her limited sense of humor. Perversely, the fact amused him, which he was careful not to show.

“I fail to see any helpful moral.”

Her disapproval was still vividly apparent. The color that rose to her cheeks and eyelids highlighted the smooth and snowy whiteness of her skin. The visible blood in the translucent flesh caused a sudden excitement in his loins. In a more barbaric age, or in a less inhibited one, he would respond to his instincts, without hesitation, and seek the consecration of marriage at another more convenient time. Or perhaps that justifying thought arose only because he had lately reread his favorite chapters of
Decline and Fall
, the two relating the conquests and exploits of Attila. How free a man the barbarian Hun had been, and how unfree were he and all civilized men. Civilization itself had suppressed their natural instincts and powers. The present ideal was the knightly gentleman, not the Hun. At times such as these, when he looked upon Emily’s excruciating beauty, all the more seductive for its innocence and lack of intentional provocation, he truly regretted the era, place, and destiny he usually regarded as great blessings.