The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (50 page)

'
Truly
, Sister, I'm well enough: the mountain winters slow me, a little . . .'

'How many years have you spent on Mount Shiranui, Housekeeper?'

'This will be my fifth,' she seems happy to talk, 'in the Shrine's service.'

'Sister Yayoi told me you're from a large island in Satsuma Domain.'

'Oh, it's a little-known place, a full day's sail from Kagoshima Port, called Yakushima. Nobody's heard of it. A few island men serve the Lord of Satsuma as foot-soldiers - they bring back stories they spend their lives embroidering, but otherwise very few islanders ever leave. The interior is mountainous and trackless. Only cautious woodsmen, foolish hunters or wayward pilgrims venture there. The island's
kami
gods aren't used to humans. There is just one notable shrine, halfway up Miura Mountain, two days' journey from the port, with a small monastery, smaller than Shiranui Shrine.'

Minori passes the Linen Room's doorway, blowing into her hands.

'How did you come,' Orito asks, 'to be appointed housekeeper here?'

Yugiri passes in the other direction, swinging a bucket.

The housekeeper unfolds a sheet to fold again. 'Master Byakko visited Yakushima on a pilgrimage. My father, a fifth son of a lesser family of the Miyake clan, was a samurai in name only - he was a rice and millet merchant, and owned a fishing boat. As he supplied the Miura monastery with rice, he offered to guide Master Byakko up the mountain. I went to carry and cook; we Yakushima girls are bred sturdy.' The housekeeper risks a rare, shy smile. 'On the return journey, Master Byakko told my father that the small nunnery attached to Mount Shiranui required a housekeeper who wasn't afraid of hard work. Father jumped at the chance: I was one of four daughters, and the master's offer meant one less dowry to find.'

'What were your thoughts about vanishing over the horizon?'

'I was nervous, but excited, too, at the idea of seeing the mainland with my own eyes. Two days later, I was on a boat, watching my home island shrink until it was small enough to fit into a thimble . . . and then there was no going back.'

Sawarabi's spiked laughter carries through from the Kitchen.

Housekeeper Satsuki is looking backwards through time: her breath is short.

You are more ill
, Orito guesses,
than you are admitting . . .

'Well, what a gossip I am! Thank you for your help, Sister, but you mustn't let me keep you from your chores. I can finish folding the robes on my own, thank you.'

Orito returns to the Cloisters and takes up her broom again.

The acolytes knock on the gate to be allowed back into the Precincts.

As it opens, the moon-grey cat darts between their legs. It swerves across the Courtyard; a squirrel darts up the old pine. The cat heads straight to Orito, slinks against her shins and looks up at her, meaningfully.

'If you've come back for more fish, you rogue, there isn't any.'

The cat tells Orito that she is a poor dumb creature.

* * *

'In the domain of Bizen,' First Sister Hatsune strokes her forever-shut eyelid as the night wind blows around the Shrine, 'a ravine climbs northwards from the San'yodo Highway to the castle town of Bitchu. At a narrow twist in this ravine, two footsore pedlars from Osaka were overtaken by night, and made camp at the foot of an abandoned shrine to Inari, the Fox God, underneath a venerable walnut-tree, draped in moss. Now the first pedlar, a cheerful fellow, sold ribbons, combs and suchlike. He'd charm the girls, cajole the young men, and business had been good. "Ribbons for kisses," he'd sing, "from all the young misses!" The second pedlar was a knife-seller. He was a darker-spirited fellow who believed that the world owed him a living, and his handcart was full of unsold merchandise. On the night this tale begins, they warmed themselves at their fire and talked about what they would do on their return to Osaka. The ribbon pedlar was set on marrying his childhood sweetheart, but the knife-seller planned to open a pawnbroker's shop to earn the most money with the least work.'

Sawarabi's scissors
snip snip snip
through a band of cotton.

'Before they slept, the knife-seller suggested that they pray to Inari-
sama
for his protection through the night in such a lonely spot. The ribbon pedlar agreed, but as he knelt before the abandoned altar, the knife-seller chopped off his head with a single stroke of his biggest unsold axe.'

Several of the Sisters gasp and Sadaie gives a little shriek. 'No!'

'
Ph
ut Sister,' says Asagao, 'you told us the two
n
en were
ph
riends.'

'So the poor ribbon-seller thought, Sister. But now the knife-seller stole his companion's money, buried the body and fell sound asleep. Surely nightmares, or strange groans, plagued him? Not at all. The knife-seller woke up refreshed, enjoyed his victim's food for breakfast and had an uneventful journey back to Osaka. Setting himself up in business with the murdered man's money, he prospered as a pawnbroker, and soon he was lining his robes and eating the daintiest delicacies with silver chopsticks. Four springs came and four autumns went. Then, one afternoon, a spruce, bushy customer in a brown cloak walked into the pawnbroker's shop and produced a box of walnut wood. From inside, he removed a polished human skull. The pawnbroker said, "The box may be worth a few copper
mon
, but why are you showing me this old lump of bone?" The stranger smiled at the pawnbroker with his fine white teeth and commanded the skull: "Sing!" And as I live and breathe, Sisters, sing it did, and here is the song that it sang:

' "
With Beauty shall you Sleep, on Pleasure shall you Dine
,

By the Crane and the Turtle and the Goyo Pine . . .
" '

A log cracks open in the hearth and half the women jump.

'The three tokens of good fortune,' says Blind Minori.

'So thought the pawnbroker,' continues Hatsune, 'but to the spruce and bushy stranger he complained that the market was flooded with these Dutch novelties. He asked whether the skull would sing for anyone or just the stranger? In his silky voice, the stranger explained that it would sing for its true owner. "Well," grunted the pawnbroker, "here's three
koban
: ask for one
mon
more, and the deal's off." The stranger said not a word but bowed, placed the skull on its box, took his payment and left. The pawnbroker lost no time in deciding how best to turn his magical acquisition into money. He clicked his fingers for his palanquin, and rode to the den of a certain masterless samurai, a dissolute sort of
ronin
given to strange wagers. Being a cautious man, the pawnbroker tested his new purchase as he rode and ordered the skull, "Sing!" And sure enough, the skull sang,

' "
Wood is Life and Fire is Time
,

By the Crane and the Turtle and the Goyo Pine!
" '

'Once in the samurai's presence, the pawnbroker produced his new acquisition and asked for a thousand
koban
for a song from his new friend, the skull. Quick as a blade, the samurai told the pawnbroker that he'd lose his head for insulting his credulity if it didn't sing. The pawnbroker, who had expected this response, agreed to the wager in return for half the samurai's wealth, if the skull
did
sing. Well, the crafty samurai assumed that the pawnbroker had lost his wits . . . and saw an easy fortune to be had. He objected that the pawnbroker's neck was worth nothing and claimed all his visitor's wealth as a prize. Delighted that the samurai had taken the bait, the pawnbroker raised the stakes again: if the skull sang, his rival must pay
all
his wealth . . . unless, of course, he was losing his nerve? In reply, the samurai bade his scribe draw up the wager as a blood-oath, witnessed by the ward headman, a corrupt fellow well used to such shady goings-on. Then the greedy pawnbroker placed the skull on a box and ordered: "Sing!" '

The women's shadows are the uneasy shades of slanted giants.

Hotaru is the first to crack. 'What happened, Sister Hatsune?'

'Silence was what happened, Sister. The skull uttered not one squeak. So the pawnbroker raised his voice a second time. "Sing. I command you. Sing!" '

Housekeeper Satsuki's busy needle has fallen still.

'The skull said not a word. The pawnbroker turned pale. "Sing! Sing!" But still the skull was mute. The blood-oath lay there on the table, its red ink not yet dry. The pawnbroker, in despair, shouted at the skull - "Sing!" Nothing, nothing, nothing. The pawnbroker expected no mercy, nor received any. The samurai called for his sharpest sword whilst the pawnbroker knelt there, trying to pray. Off came the pawnbroker's head.'

Sawarabi drops a thimble: it rolls to Orito, who picks it up and returns it.

'Now,' Hatsune nods, ponderously, 'too late, the skull chose to sing . . .

' "
Ribbons for kisses, from all the young misses!

Ribbons for kisses, from all the young misses!
" '

Hotaru and Asagao stare wide-eyed. Umegae's mocking smile is gone.

'The samurai,' Hatsune leans backwards, brushing her knees, 'knew cursed silver when he saw it. He donated the pawnbroker's money to Sanjusandengo Temple. The spruce and bushy stranger was never heard of again. Who knows that he wasn't Inari-
sama
himself, come to avenge the wickedness committed against his shrine? The skull of the ribbon-seller - if his it was - is still housed in a remote alcove in a rarely visited wing of Sanjusandengo. One of the older monks prays for its repose every year on the Day of the Dead. If any of you passes that way after your Descent, you may go and see it for yourself . . .'

* * *

Rain hisses like swinging snakes and gutters gurgle. Orito watches a vein pulsating in Yayoi's throat.
The belly craves food
, she thinks,
the tongue craves water, the heart craves love and the mind craves stories
. It is stories, she believes, that make life in the House of Sisters tolerable, stories in all their forms: the Gifts' letters, tittle-tattle, recollections and tall tales like Hatsune's singing skull. She thinks of myths of gods, of Izanami and Izanagi, of Buddha and Jesus; and perhaps the Goddess of Mount Shiranui, and wonders whether the same principle is not at work. Orito pictures the human mind as a loom that weaves disparate threads of belief, memory and narrative into an entity whose common name is Self, and which sometimes calls itself Perception.

'I can't stop thinking,' Yayoi murmurs, 'of the girl.'

'Which girl,' Orito wraps Yayoi's hair around her thumb, 'Sleepyhead?'

'The ribbon-seller's sweetheart. The one he planned to marry.'

You must leave the House and leave Yayoi
, Orito reminds herself,
soon
.

'So sad.' Yayoi yawns. 'She'd grow old and die, never knowing the truth.'

The fire glows bright and dim as the draught blows strong and weak.

There is a leak over the iron brazier: drips hiss and crackle.

The wind rattles the Cloisters' wooden screens like a deranged prisoner.

Yayoi's question comes from nowhere. 'Were you touched by a man, Sister?'

Orito is used to her friend's directness, but not on this subject. 'No.'