Autumn Bridge (52 page)

Until the moment Midori let her head come to rest against him, Yorimasa could see his future as clearly as if he were a prophet. Then, as his arm went around her in a false gesture of reassurance, he found himself embracing a kimono-clad body more childish in size and form than he had expected. He looked at her closely for the first time. Her makeup had been skillfully applied by her servants, or perhaps her mother. From a distance, it had been sufficient to disguise her immaturity, especially from someone who paid little attention to her. He should have listened when his father told him about her, for surely he had. But once he learned who she was — the daughter of the ridiculous Lord of Apples — everything else was a meaningless detail. Or so it seemed at the time.

“Midori?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“In what year were you born?”

“My lord?” His question confused her. He must know. No one would agree to marry without a thorough astrological consultation. According to her father, Yorimasa’s chart was favorable for her. Hers must be the same for him, otherwise no marriage could have taken place. But it was not for her to question her husband. She had to remember that. When he speaks, she obeys.

She said, “In the second year of the Ninko Emperor.”

“And the month?”

Midori blushed. To be born in
that
month and be caught by her husband climbing a tree! Could she possibly have done worse?

She spoke so quietly she hoped he wouldn’t hear. “The month of the monkey, my lord.”

Yorimasa looked at the girl’s face beneath the makeup. No wonder she couldn’t keep her hair properly coiffed. No wonder she raced farm boys up trees. It wasn’t because she was mentally impaired, as he had assumed. It was because she was eleven years old.

Knowing what kind of man he had become and the brutality of which he was capable, his father had put a child into his hands. Kiyori cared only about an heir and the next generation’s prophet. He didn’t care who was sacrificed. His eldest son, this innocent child, they were equally nothing to him.

May the curse of the unforgiving gods fall on his father, and may the compassion and protection of the infinite Buddhas be denied him forever.

Yorimasa’s arm fell away from Midori’s shoulder.

He said, “I am not a monster.”

“No, my lord.” Yorimasa was beginning to frighten her. What was he talking about?

He rose to his feet, staggered, and almost fell. “I have done evil things, but I am not a monster.”

Midori knew she was an inadequate bride for such a man. Had she disappointed him so severely that he would not even spend a few minutes of polite conversation with her? No, it was worse than that. Yorimasa knocked over the sword stand. He picked up his short sword, drew it, and threw the scabbard so violently it pierced a door’s paper pane and flew out into the hallway. He was so insulted by her deficiencies, he was going to kill her!

Yorimasa screamed, “Let your prophecies explain this!”

Midori raised her arm. She shielded her face with the wide sleeve of her kimono. It would not protect her, but it would at least prevent her from seeing the descending blade. A splatter of blood struck the floor in front of her. A single drop fell on her cheek. She felt no pain, not even the slightest sensation of being cut.

It was not her blood!

Yorimasa had driven the blade into his own abdomen.

Midori screamed.

Had he eaten less opium, had he sipped less absinthe, had he not been weakened by his shame or made hasty by his anger, Yorimasa could have become the first person ever to prevent the fulfillment of an Okumichi lord’s prophecy. But his bad habits frustrated his noble intention.

His sword, poorly grasped, went high and entered his stomach instead of his intestines. Because he had not prepared himself in the traditional manner, his blade had sliced in through several layers of clothing, and so, try as he might, he was unable to draw the blade in the proper crosscut and rip himself open. Even so, he would have succeeded in bleeding to death in short order, if not for one more unexpected occurrence.

Midori came to his rescue.

“My lord, what are you doing?”

Weeping tears of rage and frustration, Yorimasa tried to push the blade downward into his abdomen, but his bunched clothing allowed only a slight movement in that direction. With both hands, Midori grasped the outward-facing hilt of the sword and pulled with all her strength. Yorimasa’s hands held the blade itself through the material of his kimono. His grip was less secure than hers. When she pulled, the sword and Midori both fell away to the floor.

Midori dropped the sword and quickly returned to Yorimasa’s side. Yorimasa and the floor beneath him were soaked with blood. She could see it pulsating through the ugly gash in his belly. She pressed her hands against the wound, to no avail.

“Help! Help! Father! Father!”

She removed her obi, discarded the decorative bow, and pressed the sash as tightly as she could against the wound. Blood was everywhere. That he was still bleeding shocked her. Surely there was no more left in his body.

“Help!”

Where was everyone? She could wait no longer. If Yorimasa didn’t get help right away, he would die.

She stumbled out of the room and went looking for her father.

“You should have let me die,” Yorimasa said. “Now I will only have to try again. Disgusting, isn’t it? A samurai who needs two tries to kill himself.”

“I am proud of you,” Kiyori said.

Yorimasa turned in his bed to look at his father. The effort made him wince.

“I know why you stabbed yourself,” Kiyori said. “You wanted to keep from violating the girl.”

“You know nothing,” Yorimasa said. “I would not have touched her, never. I tried to kill myself because I was the nearest Okumichi. Had you been closer, I would have tried to kill you. Nothing matters to you but prophecy. You sent her to me like an animal to an outcast slaughterhouse.”

“The prophecy will be fulfilled. You are married. You are alive. The heir will be born in due time. Of that, I have no doubt whatsoever.”

“You have lost your mind at last, you old fool. After this disaster, Lord Nao will never permit the marriage to stand. Not even the Lord of Apples can stomach such a disgrace. By now, the story is spreading throughout the realm. As soon as I have recovered my strength, I will die.”

“There is no story spreading,” Kiyori said, “because nothing happened. The wedding went well. Bride and groom spent the early evening in conversation, then the bride returned to her mother’s quarters, where she is preparing for her journey to Cloud of Sparrows. In the meantime, the groom and his father are enjoying Lord Nao’s generous hospitality.”

“Something this disgraceful cannot be kept secret.”

Kiyori smiled. “You forget. Before you and Midori met for the night, Lord Nao sent all the women out of the castle. There is no one to spread any stories.”

“I will not sleep with a child.”

“I know you won’t. I don’t expect you to.”

Now Yorimasa was confused. “Then how do you expect to get an heir?”

“He will arrive when he should. For now, you will protect Midori, and watch over her. In time, she will be a woman, and ready to consummate the marriage.”

“Ridiculous. That happens only in fairy tales. As soon as I have recovered, I will complete what I began.”

“Then kill Midori first,” Kiyori said. “She thinks you tried to kill yourself because she disappointed you so terribly. Her shame is unendurable. She told her mother she will not live if you die.”

“That is none of my concern,” Yorimasa said, and closed his eyes.

Kiyori said nothing. But a smile appeared on his face and persisted for some time.

“My mother was seventeen when I was born,” Genji said. “As my grandfather predicted, my father protected her and watched over her until she was ready.”

“Such great changes in character,” Emily said, “are usually the result of a religious awakening. Is that what happened with your father?”

“No,” Genji said. “He was never a very religious man. It was something else entirely.”

“And that was?”

“He changed because he discovered the meaning of love.”

“Ah,” Emily said, smiling. “That is very clever of you. You have come back round to it. I hope you will not again say it cannot be said.”

“I didn’t say it couldn’t be said. I said it was not easily said. Now that I have told you of my mother and father, you will understand my definition.”

“Yes?”

“My father was living a life of hatred because he could think of no one but himself. That could be said to be the very meaning of hatred itself. He changed because in my mother he found someone to care about more than he cared about himself. That is my definition of love.” Genji looked at Emily. “What is yours?”

Emily willed the tears not to well, and when they did, she willed them not to fall. When they fell, she ignored them and said, “Mine is the same as yours, my lord.”

Memory is treacherously seductive.
If you remember little, you strive in vain to remember more. If you remember much, you also strive to remember more. In each case, you will recall what flatters you and ignore what does not. Is it not amazing that your memory never fails you? Inevitably, you find what you seek.
And if you remember everything?
Then the secret is to forget with the same selfish attention.
AKI-NO-HASHI
(1311)

When they returned from Apple Valley, Emily retired to her room to rest. Genji went to the high tower. Everyone else avoided going there unless absolutely necessary. The rumors of ghosts, particularly the rumors about Lady Shizuka’s ghost, did not encourage casual visits. Sometimes attendance was necessary. The ashes of the lords and ladies of the clan were contained in the columbarium on the seventh floor. On important dates, memorial services were conducted there. At other times, only monks and nuns climbed the stairs with regularity. Every morning, they placed flowers and incense on the altar, and recited sutras. Every evening, they returned to remove the flowers and the burned incense, and performed the formal ceremony closing the columbarium for the night. Genji liked the quiet of the tower, and the views in four directions, and did not fear ghosts.