Black Lotus

Black Lotus

Laura Joh Rowland

S
ANO
I
CHIRŌ 06

St. Martin’s Minotaur New York

Also by Laura Joh Rowland

1. Shinjū
   
2. Bundori
   
3. The Way of the Traitor
   
4. The Concubine’s Tattoo
   
5. The Samurai’s Wife
   
6. Black Lotus
   
7. The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
   
8. The Dragon King’s Palace
   
9. The Perfumed Sleeve
   
10. The Assassin's Touch
    

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Contents

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Prologue
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St. Martin's Minotaur
PA
New York

BLACK LOTUS. Copyright © 2001 by Laura Joh Rowland. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

ISBN 0-312-26872-6

First Edition: April

To my brother, Larry Joh

JAPAN

Genroku Period, Year 6, Month 8

(Tokyo, September 1693)

PROLOGUE

The day of tragedy dawned with an iridescent sheen in the eastern sky. As the heavens gradually lightened from indigo to slate blue, stars disappeared; the moon's crescent faded. The dim outlines of forested hills framed Zōjō Temple, administrative seat of the Buddhist Pure Land sect in Shiba, south of Edo Castle. Across a vast tract of land spread the domain of ten thousand priests, nuns, and novices who occupied the more than one hundred buildings of Zōjō proper and the forty-eight smaller subsidiary temples clustered around it. Above countless tiled and thatched roofs soared the tiered spires of pagodas and the open framework structures of firewatch towers. The Zōjō temple district was a city within a city, deserted and silent in the waning darkness.

On the platform of a firewatch tower stood a lone figure in the unpopulated landscape: a young priest with a shaven head, a round, innocent face, and keen-sighted eyes. His saffron robe billowed in the cool early autumn wind that carried the scent of fallen leaves and night soil. His high perch afforded him a splendid view of the narrow lanes, walled compounds, and courtyards that comprised the district.

"
Namu Amida Butsu
," the priest repeated over and over again. "Praise to the Buddha."

The chant would ensure his entry into paradise after his death, but also served the practical purpose of keeping him alert during a long night of guarding the religious community against Edo's most dangerous hazard: fire. The priest's stomach rumbled with hunger; still chanting, he stretched his cold, stiff muscles and longed for food, a hot bath, and a warm bed. Looking forward to the end of his vigil, he turned slowly on the platform.

Around him revolved the panorama of morning. As the sky brightened to luminous pearl, colors appeared in the landscape: green foliage and multihued flower beds in gardens; scarlet woodwork on buildings; white monuments in cemeteries; the hazy violet mirrors of ponds. The first tentative waking trills of birds rose to a chorus of songs. Sparrows darted over the peaked and gabled roofs; pigeons cooed and fluttered in the eaves; crows winged in the blue distance above the hills, against rosy wisps of cloud. It would be a clear, warm day. Another night had passed safely. Yet even as the thought soothed the priest's mind, his sharp gaze sighted an aberration in the tranquil scene.

A small, dark cloud hovered low over the western sector of the district. While the priest watched, it thickened and spread with disturbing speed. Now he smelled the bitter tang of smoke. Frantically, he pulled the rope that dangled from inside the roof of his tower. The brass alarm bell clanged, echoing across the district.

Fire!

The insistent ringing of a bell jarred her from deep, black unconsciousness into dazed stupor. She lay facedown on the ground, with damp, fragrant grass pressed against her nose and cheek. Where was she? Panic shot through her, followed by the certainty that some-thing was terribly wrong. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she groaned. Her head throbbed with pain; soreness burned on her buttocks and calves, between her thighs, around her neck. Aches permeated her muscles. The world spun in a dizzying blur. Thick, acrid air filled her lungs. Coughing, she fell back on the ground and lay still until the dizziness passed. Then she rolled over, looking around in bewilderment as her surroundings came into focus.

Tall pine trees pierced the dim blue sky above her. Smoke veiled stone lanterns and orange lilies in the garden where she lay. She smelled smoke and heard the crackle of fire. Moaning, she sat upright. Nausea assailed her; the pain in her head intensified, and she covered her ears to muffle the loud clangs of the bell. Then she saw the house, some twenty paces distant, beyond red maples circling a pond.

It was a rustic, one-story cottage built of plaster and weathered cypress, with bamboo lattice over the windows and deep eaves shading the veranda. Fire licked the foundations and crept up the walls, curling and blackening the paper windowpanes. The thatched roof ignited in an explosion of sparks and flame. Instinctively she opened her mouth to call for help. Then the first hint of returning memory stifled her voice to a whimper of dread. Through her mind flashed disjointed impressions: a harsh voice; the taste of tears; a lantern glowing in a dark room; loud thumps and crashes; a violent thrashing of naked limbs; her own running feet and fumbling hands. But how had she arrived here?

Baffled, she examined herself for clues. Her brown muslin kimono was wrinkled and her long black hair tangled; her bare feet were dirty, her fingernails torn and grimy. She struggled to piece the fragmented recollections into a comprehensible whole, but terror obliterated the images. The burning house radiated menace. A sob rose from her aching throat.

She knew what had happened, yet she did not know.

As the firebell pealed its urgent call, an army of priests clad in leather capes and helmets, carrying buckets, ladders, and axes, raced through the crooked lanes of the Zōjō temple district. A burgeoning cloud of black smoke rose from one of the subsidiary temples enclosed in separate walled compounds. The fire brigade stormed through the gate, whose portals bore the circular symbol of a black lotus flower with pointed petals and gold stamens. Inside, priests and novice monks stampeded the lanes between the temple's many buildings, up the broad central flagstone path leading to the main hall, toward the rear of the compound and the source of the smoke. Children from the orphanage followed in a chattering, excited flock. Nuns in hemp robes chased after the orphans, trying in vain to herd them away from danger.

"Let us through!" ordered the fire brigade commander, a muscular priest with stern features.

He led his troops through the chaos, around the main hall and past smaller buildings, into a wooded area. Beyond a cemetery of stone grave markers, he saw flames through the trees. The priests of the Black Lotus Temple had formed a line from a cylindrical stone well, along a gravel path, and across a garden to the burning house. They passed buckets down the line and hurled water at the fire, which had climbed the timbers and engulfed the walls. The fire brigade quickly positioned ladders to convey water to the blazing roof.

"Is anyone in the building?" shouted the commander.

Either no one knew or no one heard him over the fire's roar and the din of voices. Accompanied by two men, he ran up the steps to the veranda and opened the door. Smoke poured out. Coughing, he and his companions fastened the face protectors of their helmets over their noses and mouths. They groped through the smoke, down a short corridor, through fierce heat. The house contained two rooms, divided by burning lattice and paper partitions. Flaming thatch dropped through the rafters. The commander rushed through the open door of the nearest room. Dense, suffocating smoke filled the small space. Amid the indistinct shapes of furniture, a human figure lay on the floor.

"Carry it out!" the commander ordered.

While his men complied, he sped to the second room. There, the fire raged up the walls and across the tatami mats. The heat seared the commander's face; his eyes stung. From the threshold he spied two figures lying together in the corner, one much smaller than the other. Burning clothing enveloped them. Shouting for assistance, the commander waded through the fire and beat his thick leather sleeves against the bodies to extinguish the flames. His men came and helped him carry the two inert burdens out of the house, just before the roof collapsed with a great crash.

Away from the other priests still fighting the blaze, they laid the bodies on the ground beside the one previously carried out. Choking and coughing, the commander gratefully inhaled the cool, fresh air. He wiped his streaming eyes and knelt beside the victims. They lay motionless, and had probably been dead before he'd entered the hoarse. The first was a large, naked samurai with a paunchy stomach; knotted gray hair looped over his shaved crown. There were no burns on him. But the other two . . .

The commander winced at the sight of their blistered, blackened faces. Breasts protruded through the shreds of charred cloth clinging to the larger corpse: It was a woman. The last victim was a very young child. With its hair burned away and the remains of a blanket swaddling its body, the commander couldn't discern its sex or exact age.

Priests and nuns gathered near the sad tableau. Shocked cries arose from them, then the click of rosary beads as they began chanting prayers. Someone passed the commander three white funeral shrouds. He murmured a blessing for the spirits of the deceased, then tenderly covered the bodies.

Lying huddled behind a boulder, she watched the priests continue throwing water on the house while the fire brigade hacked apart the burning shell with axes. The flames and smoke had diminished; ruined walls and timbers steamed; the odor of charred wood filled the air. Soon the fire would be out. But she felt neither relief nor any desire to call out to the firemen, who were walking around the site, examining the wreckage with worried expressions. In her confusion and terror, she felt an overwhelming urge to flee.

She raised herself on her elbows and knees. Her throbbing head spun. Nausea convulsed her stomach; she retched, but nothing came up. Moaning, she crawled. Her body felt enormously heavy and cumbersome as she dragged herself across the ground. Gasps heaved her lungs. She mustn't let anyone find her here. She had to get away. Gritting her teeth against the pain and sickness, she inched across coarse white gravel and damp lawn, toward shadowy woods and the temple's back gate.

Then she heard purposeful footsteps approaching from behind her. Strong hands lifted her up, turned her around. She found herself looking at a fireman in leather robe and helmet. His stern face was daubed with soot; his eyes were red.

"What are you doing here, little girl?" he demanded.

His accusing glare sent tremors of fear through her. Whimpering, she writhed and kicked in a feeble attempt to escape, but he held her tight. She tried to speak, but panic choked her voice; her heart pounded. Dizziness overcame her. The world grew dim and hazy. As she descended into unconsciousness, her captor's face blurred.

She wished she had a good answer to his question.