Autumn Bridge (62 page)

Whenever he had been angry before, Makoto had felt his temperature rise. Now he was in a rage that made any previous anger seem like minor irritation, yet instead of heat, he felt cold. If anyone touched him, he was certain they would think they were touching ice.

Genji had told worse than a lie, struck a crueler blow than abandonment, taken more than his rightful name. He had stolen Makoto’s entire life from him. All his memories, all his experiences, were false. They didn’t belong to him. They belonged to someone who had never existed. At twenty years of age, he had been reborn as the son of an evil manipulator and a glorified prostitute. Even worse was in store, if Shizuka had told the truth. One of them would eventually evidence a hereditary affliction that was some form of seizure. She had spoken of it as a prophetic power, but that was obviously the result of comforting lies told to her by her father. By
his
father.

So who was Makoto?

He was the angel of vengeance. He would cleanse sin with blood. Genji was to speak with Imperial ministers this afternoon. Makoto would intercept him at the palace. It was the perfect venue. Let Genji’s son, of whom he was so ashamed he had failed to acknowledge him for two decades, let this ignored son be the one to end his perfidy. Makoto took the revolver from his waistband and checked its chambers. The .32-caliber revolver, a gift from his father — or rather the man who had pretended to be his father — was fully loaded and ready to fire.

He stood to leave. As he turned toward the doorway, in front of a scroll painting in an alcove was a set of samurai swords, long and short, in a stand.

There was the final perfection.

He would kill Genji with this weapon, a sword from his own palace. With a blade that symbolized the supposedly stainless soul of the samurai, he would end the life of a man whose stance of honor was no more than a pose and a lie.

Makoto Okumichi took the shorter of the two swords from the stand, hid it under his coat, and left.

Genji’s carriage slowed as it approached the bridge across the moat.

He still habitually thought of the great castle as the Shogun’s Palace, in the same way the city resided in his mind as Edo rather than Tokyo. The overthrow of the Tokugawa Shogunate, the Restoration of the Emperor, the abolition of the samurai class, the dissolution of the domains, the unprecedented intrusion of foreigners into Japan, the destruction of the last heroic proponents of bushido — all these events had occurred in the span of less than ten years. Genji received more credit for these changes than he deserved, and more blame.

There had been seven attempts on his life since the Restoration. Each had failed because they were destined to fail. He would die by assassination, but not for many years. This he had foreseen. It would be at the Diet, which did not yet exist, and he would die in the arms of his daughter, Shizuka. In his vision, she was a young woman. Today, she was still a little girl. Many years remained guaranteed to him.

The carriage halted at the Sakurada Gate, the one through which Genji would enter the palace. Imperial guards came forward to verify his identity. In the few moments when they and his own guards were focused on each other, a young man in Western clothing suddenly rushed at the carriage, pulling a short sword from beneath his coat as he ran. He was only two paces away from Genji’s window before the guards noticed him.

It was too late.

Genji saw the sword aimed directly at him.

In another instant, it would enter his chest.

The vision of his death, the one that had guided him for so many years, had been flawed. His assassination was not in the distant future. It was now.

He felt cheated. He was to receive three visions in his life. Only two had materialized, and one had been fatally defective.

Did he recognize his young assassin?

But the blade didn’t reach Genji. Even as it plunged toward his heart, another young man stepped in front of the carriage with a sword of his own.

The two men impaled each other amidst their mingled cries of defiance and pain. Genji didn’t recognize the failed assassin. But he did know his defender.

It was his recently arrived son, Makoto.

The Reverend Abbess Jintoku peeked into the guest’s room. Makoto Stark was still asleep. It was highly irregular to have a man resident in the abbey. In the old days — which for Japan was as recently as fifteen years ago, depending on which old days you were talking about — it would have been impossible. But Lord Genji had personally approved it. The serious nature of Makoto’s injuries, combined with the valorous conditions under which he had sustained them, demanded an exception to the governing rule. So Lord Genji said. There was more to it than that. There was always more to everything than anyone said there was.

In this case, it was rather obvious.

The young man in question was the one who had made an enigmatic visit some weeks earlier. He had disputed the docent’s version of the famous Battle of Mushindo in 1861. He knew, he said, because his parents had been there. When the Abbess asked who his parents were, he said that was a very good question, and departed.

His appearance also spoke volumes. During his earlier visit, he had reminded the Abbess of someone she could not quite place. Now the resemblance was so apparent to her, she marveled she had not known immediately. Of course, it was much easier to see when he was side by side with Lord Genji. The multitude of potential relationships was fascinating. He could be the lord’s nephew, brother, or son. Of these, the most intriguing possibility was naturally the last.

If he was Lord Genji’s son, who was the mother?

He had said his parents had been in the battle. Only three women had been in Lord Genji’s party that day. One of them, Lady Emily, was not a possibility. She had given birth to only one child before her untimely demise, a daughter. That left Lady Hanako and Lady Heiko. It couldn’t be the former. She had married Lord Hidé around the time of the battle, and had presented her husband with a child within the year. Lord Iwao, who had been that child, was close in age to Makoto, and bore no brotherly similarity to him whatsoever. That meant his mother must be Lady Heiko. Could it be? If she had been his mother, Lord Genji would have taken her into his household along with the child. He would have made her an official concubine — it was still the old days then — if he had not actually married her. He certainly wouldn’t have sent both of them away to California and let his son adopt another man’s name, even if that man was as good a friend as Matthew Stark.

So Makoto must be mistaken, or a liar. Or the Abbess was failing to see something vital. If there was truth to be discovered, she might learn it before Makoto left the abbey. That would be some considerable time in the future, since his injuries were serious. It was a wonder he had not died. It was fortunate for him that the sword had missed his heart. It was fortunate for Lord Genji that Makoto had been armed with a sword of his own, or the assassin might have accomplished his goal. The Abbess had to wonder, though, what Makoto was doing with a short sword concealed on his person near the entrance to the Imperial Palace. The assassin had done precisely the same.

On her way to Goro’s garden, the Abbess met Lord Genji, who had just arrived.

Bowing deeply, she said, “My lord.”

“How is Makoto today?”

“Better, I think. He’s working in the garden with Goro.”

“Have you been bothered again by reporters?”

“No, my lord. Not for more than two weeks. Perhaps interest is declining.” The Abbess said this as a matter of politesse rather than of belief. Her interest had not declined. Why would anyone else’s?

“I hope so,” Genji said. He didn’t seem to believe what she had said, either.

“I went to the palace to kill you,” Makoto said. He dug around the bush to loosen the soil.

“Had you just watched,” Genji said, “the other would have done it for you.” He stood nearby in the shade of a pine tree.

“Yes.”

“Why did you protect me if you came to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” Makoto said. “When I saw him, I felt he was going to cheat me of my due, and I had been cheated enough. That doesn’t make sense, does it? If anyone was going to take your life, it had to be me.”

“Don’t be so regretful,” Genji said, smiling. “You will have other opportunities. Recover your health and plan anew.”

Makoto laughed, briefly, then gasped and put his hand on his chest. “Yes, I will plan anew. Completely anew. When the sword went into my chest, I had a sudden realization, or, that is to say, I saw a face in my mind’s eye. Do you know who?”

“Heiko.”

“No, Lord Saemon. I realized in that instant that he had manipulated me, and very skillfully, too.”

“You’re not saying Saemon told you to kill me?”

“Quite the opposite. He said everything he could say to win my forgiveness and forbearance for you. I stress
said
. His meaning was not in harmony with his words. He’s very good at that. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Of course. I have always found Lord Saemon to be the opposite of a man of his word, not in the sense that he lies but in that if you rest yourself upon them, you inevitably slip.”

“Yet you associate with him quite closely, and rely on his advice.”

“It is appearance and performance rather than actual reliance,” Genji said. “Since Lord Saemon knows this, there is yet another layer of truth and deception beneath that one, and so on and so on, and so on also for me.”

“Everyone says you know the future before it happens,” Makoto said, “but here you are, a prophet, talking like a complete idiot.”

“Oh? Is it not prudent to keep your enemy where you can see him? For what reason do you disapprove?”

“You’re outwitting yourself, and so is he. It is only a question of whose foolish cleverness will backfire first.” Makoto dug out a weed and shook the dirt free from its roots before setting it aside.

Goro, hoe in hand, came into the garden, went to an edge, and began to more clearly define the divide between garden and walkway.

Makoto said, “Sometimes the blunt, direct route of the dullard is the best way to the destination.” He looked at Genji. “Are you really prophetic?”

“One in every generation of us has been for six hundred years,” Genji said, “but not in the way people imagine.”

“Yes, so Shizuka told me. I suppose you put her up to it.”

“I trusted that in her guileless and direct way, she would be better at explaining than I.”

“Shouldn’t I have been told earlier? The way she described it, it sounds more like a curse than a blessing.”

“There are many things I should have said to you long ago. One thing unspoken led to another, and another, and another.”

Makoto shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. Shizuka will be the prophetess. I have had no visions.”

“Neither has she. The appearance of the facility is itself unpredictable. It often comes at puberty, especially for females. It may come much later. There’s no way to tell which of you will have it.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to prepare for it,” Makoto said.

“Beyond accepting the possibility, none,” Genji said.

He paused long enough that Makoto thought the conversation was over. He was about to move to another part of the garden when Genji spoke again.

He said, “In the matter of acknowledgment, I am ready to do so. I am also ready to declare you my heir in Shizuka’s place.”

Makoto laughed. He knew it was not polite, but he couldn’t help it.

“There is no point in an acknowledgment, Lord Genji. I needed it twenty years ago. It is useless now. As for an heir, you have one, and she is entirely appropriate.”

Makoto joined Goro and began helping him with the edging.

“Goro,” Makoto said.

“Goro,” Goro said, smiling.

“Makoto,” Makoto said.

Still smiling, Goro said “Kimi” and returned his full attention to where the blade of the hoe intersected the earth.

Makoto smiled at Genji. “I am determined to get him to say my name before I leave.”

“If he does, he will have named you his successor, and you won’t be able to leave, ever.”

Makoto and Genji looked at each other. Makoto laughed. Genji only smiled that small smile of his.

Beauty, youth, and allure fade even as they first appear. In the earliest mists of Spring, we see the Autumn Bridge.
AKI-NO-HASHI
(1311)

The children of Yamanaka Village often played in the ruins of an old temple on a hill above the valley. Most of them were afraid of the place. There were always strange sounds which, if they were not exactly like the groaning of tortured souls, or the howling of ghosts, or the cackling of demons, were close enough to make the children imagine all manner of terrifying possibilities. This was one of the reasons they went there, for like all children they dearly loved being frightened, so long as they could stop being frightened before it became too much to bear. The other reason they played in the ruins was because Kimi, the little girl who was the ringleader of the group, liked to play there. She liked to play there because, among them all, she was one of only two who were not afraid, even though she was one of the youngest and littlest. The other child who was not afraid was Goro. Goro wasn’t afraid because he was a fool, like his mother, the village idiot woman. He didn’t look like a child, because he was bigger than any man in the village, much bigger, and had the face of a man, rather than a child. In fact, he might have been a man, but he acted so childish, the children never questioned his presence among them.