Autumn Bridge (56 page)

“Kiyori!” Sadako stared at him. The rising moon lit the fear in her face. “What’s wrong?”

Kiyori could not answer. Even if he could, he would not have known what to say. He saw the present moment coexistent with the numberless worlds and the countless eons and the infinite myriads of beings that were and were not himself. He saw past and future stretching into the endless distance toward a beginningless beginning and an endless end that he could never perceive without disintegrating.

A shadowy female figure rose out of him like spirit separating from body. In an instant, he knew what had happened. She had come to him as he had come to her. Her long tresses spilled over her shoulders and onto him.

No, not quite onto him.

Into him.

She floated a hand’s width above the mat in the usual manner of disembodied ghouls, and like a ghoul was partly inside him and partly outside. The fearful rumors of a ghostly presence were true, but it was nothing that he had imagined.

“Kiyori,” Sadako said. She reached to touch him. Before she did, he spoke, and not to her.

He said, “Lady Shizuka.”

“Lord Kiyori,” Shizuka said, and pulled herself away and out of him.

When she did, he lost consciousness.

“Kiyori!” Sadako was too afraid to touch him. But something had to be done. She rose, threw open the door, and hurried away to find help. She had not gone five steps before she stopped. If anyone else saw him in this weakened state, in a possible condition of temporary madness — for he had spoken the ancient sorceress’s name as if she had appeared before him — his still-unsteady hold on power could be lost. He was only fifteen, with many enemies and few friends.

Sadako looked back down the dark hallway toward the forbidden wing. Still trembling with fear, she started back to where Kiyori lay. She herself was the only one she could trust to keep silent. If Kiyori did not trust her, then he could put her to death and his secret would be completely safe. She did not want to die. But she knew her duty. Her father was of low rank, but he was a samurai, and she was a samurai’s daughter.

Sadako held Kiyori in her arms until he awoke, finally, at dawn.

He said, “The high tower. The seventh floor.”

“There is no seventh floor, Lord Kiyori,” Sadako said. She purposely said his name in case he had forgotten who he was.

“I will have it built. That is where we will—”

He stopped and looked at Sadako. She had seen him in his time of greatest weakness. She had heard him babble to a ghost. Could he trust her to keep silent? There was only one way to be sure. Execute her.

Or—

There was an alternative.

Marry her.

Which was worse? he wondered. Every part of his body from his head to his toes ached. It took much effort to lift himself from Sadako’s lap.

“Why do you laugh, my lord?”

“Oh, because our little adventure turned out so much worse, and so much better, than either of us could have expected.”

Shizuka smiled. Kiyori’s face was peaceful though he had died by poison. He had not suffered much pain. She was glad of that.

For sixty-four of his seventy-nine years, Lord Kiyori had feared her. He feared her because she knew the future, he feared her because she was a ghost or an embodiment of his own insanity, he feared her because she appeared and disappeared without warning. But he feared her most because she was forever young.

He had never considered how frightening he was to her. That first night in the tower was only a premonition. In the next three years, Lord Kiyori deteriorated at horrific speed from youth to old age, as if a curse had been placed upon him by powerful and merciless gods. Perhaps it was true. A curse was as good an explanation as any.

Shizuka stayed with Lord Kiyori’s ghostly corpse until the shadowy image dissipated for the last time.

Now there was only one ghost left in the high tower.

Before the sun rose again, there would be none.

Lord Nao did not think he would ever return to this place. Perhaps if he were of a more religious nature, the ashes of his daughter would have some meaning for him. As it was, ashes were only ashes. He did not believe in immortality or reincarnation in any of its fabulously described forms. He did not believe evildoers were consigned to suffer in demonic realms, nor did he believe the good and the faithful were rewarded with an angelic existence in a heavenly paradise. He did not believe the spirits of the departed clung eternally to their earthly remains.

Life was life.

Death was death.

That was all.

Once, not so very long ago, Nao’s existence was full of life, and the promise and possibilities that life contained. Then, in short order, death replaced life. Midori, so robust a tomboy as a child, was surprisingly fragile as a woman. As his friend Lord Kiyori had predicted, she never recovered from the birth of her first child, Genji. The birth of her second child, a daughter, killed her and the child both. Within a month of that, a plague brought ashore by Russian trappers swept through Nao’s northern domain. He escaped without acquiring so much as a bad cough. His wife, sons, and grandchildren were not so fortunate.

His son-in-law, Yorimasa, had survived Midori by less than a year. His newly installed ashes were beside hers. That was a formality and an expression of sentiment that he hoped comforted someone, for it did nothing for him. Among some, there was doubt as to the cause of Yorimasa’s death. Nao was not one of them. Yorimasa’s sorrow drove him to return to the vices of opium, absinthe, and alcohol. He did not revert to his former violence. He simply could not endure the emptiness of a life without Midori. Nao understood. He felt the same sorrow and emptiness. That he still had one grandson who would carry on his bloodline was somehow inadequate. He no longer cared about his bloodline. It must have been the same for Yorimasa.

He was found by the side of the road, his neck broken, his horse grazing placidly nearby. All evidence suggested the obvious. He had intoxicated himself to the edge of unconsciousness, fallen, and died. That at least one person did not accept this view was confirmed by the subsequent deaths in short order of sixteen samurai, gamblers, and smugglers who would have been suspects had Yorimasa’s death been the result of foul play. All sixteen were killed by a single sword stroke to the fronts of their bodies, a blow so powerful they were either decapitated or had their torsos cloven nearly in two. All had weapons in their hands, or their weapons had fallen nearby. None of the deaths was by ambush or stealth. Every rumor pointed to Shigeru, of course, but nothing could be proved. There were no witnesses. At least, none willing to come forth.

Nao heard the rustle of clothing in the doorway behind him.

He said, “If our lives had not been too long, perhaps theirs would not have been too brief.”

Lord Kiyori sat next to him. “There is no connection between the two. If there were, all parents would sacrifice themselves for their children.”

“Still, I cannot help but feel I have lived too long. When I was born, the Chien-lung Emperor was on the throne of China, and that empire was mighty beyond challenge. The British ambassador went to see him, and the Emperor said, You have nothing we desire, you may leave, and the British were summarily dismissed. Now the British come and go as they please, they sell drugs to the Chinese to steal their wealth and break their will. The Chinese and British fought a war, and the British won. It is hardly imaginable, but there it is. I am out of date.”

“You and I were born in the same year,” Kiyori said. “If you are out of date, then so am I.”

“You can see the future,” Nao said, “so you of all people can never be out of date.”

“I have often wished I could not. What use is knowing of tragedy if it cannot be prevented?”

“You did not ask to be prescient. It is your burden to bear. Unlike you, I can lay my burdens down. I have written to the Shogun resigning my title and powers.”

“I thought you might.”

Nao said, “Remember, when we were young, we promised each other and our ancestors we would be the ones to avenge our clans and overthrow the Tokugawa Shogun? I think that is the only promise I have failed to keep.”

Kiyori laughed. “That is the kind of foolish pledge young men make. We can be forgiven for not fulfilling it.”

They sat for a time in silence.

Then Kiyori asked, “What will you do?”

“I will remember,” Nao said. “Everyone I treasure now resides only in memory.”

Men think it is they who rule the world. Do not make difficulties for yourself. Keep silent and encourage this belief.
Knowing the truth is wisdom.
Babbling about it is folly.
AKI-NO-HASHI
(1311)

Makoto spent much of the ocean voyage from Yokohama to Muroto Province thinking of what he would do if Genji refused to see him. He could have saved himself the trouble. He was admitted immediately.

The man who came to greet him in the large drawing room was approximately his own height and build. He was dressed similarly in a double-breasted woolen frock coat, a white silk shirt with a black silk cravat, a silk vest, light woolen trousers, and low-cut dress boots with laces. His clothing was in hues of dark gray, while Makoto’s was black. That, and the heavier riding boots that Makoto wore, were the only significant differences. It was a mild disappointment. Here in this ancient fortress, he had looked forward to seeing a warlord in traditional regalia at last.

“I am happy to meet you, Makoto,” Genji said, extending his hand. Face-to-face, he appeared young enough to be Makoto’s elder brother.

Genji’s English was nearly flawless. If he had the slightest of accents, it was not the typical one of a native Japanese speaker, but one that Makoto recognized as that of New York, the middle Hudson River Valley, in the vicinity of Albany, if he was not mistaken. Makoto’s linguistics studies had led him into the entertaining hobby of indentifying the birthplaces of speakers solely by their patterns of speech. Genji must have had a tutor from that region. He would have to ask him, if the appropriate opportunity arose.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Okumichi. I know you are very busy.”

“I would not call twenty years short notice.”

Makoto smiled. “You surprise me, sir. At the very least, I expected a certain degree of evasion, even outright denial. Indeed, even prior to denial, refusal to meet with me at all seemed the likeliest of all outcomes.”

“Evasion is useless,” Genji said, “and denial impossible. Look at you. Look at me. Our relationship is patently obvious.”

“Is that so? Do you not see any of Matthew Stark in me?”

“In your boldness, yes, and in your calm in a difficult situation, I see much of Matthew. He has raised you, after all. How could you not be like him?”

Two maids appeared in the doorway and bowed before entering. They were dressed in traditional kimono instead of the Western clothing worn by the servants who had greeted him upon his arrival. Perhaps, like an Ottoman pasha, Genji affected modern ways to strangers while preferring the culture of his traditional despotism within his innermost chambers. Perhaps the warlord accoutrements that Makoto had not seen were then on display.

The maids placed their trays on the table.

“Shall the tea be poured, my lord?” one asked.

“Thank you, no,” Genji said.

The maids bowed and departed. Their entry and exit had been most unobtrusive.

“Did my mother serve you that way?”

“She poured,” Genji said, “because pouring can be a demonstration of grace, and a display of elegance and beauty. Since she possessed all three qualities in abundance, she naturally had that inclination. She was not particularly fond of carrying trays, however. She was not a servant, after all, so neither fondness nor necessity required it.”

“She was not a servant? I understood that she was, sir. A maid or some such, in this castle, and the palace in Tokyo.”

“Ah,” Genji said. He walked to the window and looked toward the sea.

“Am I mistaken?”

“The mistake is mine,” Genji said.

“You abandoned my mother, sir. No, please, I do not say it as an accusation or as a judgment upon your actions, simply as a factual statement. I would like to know why. I have not come to make any claim upon you, material or otherwise, nor do I propose that you announce our relationship to anyone, or acknowledge it in any way whatsoever. I want only one thing. The answer to ‘Why?’ ”

“I admit that I did not acknowledge you as I should have,” Genji said, “nor did I acknowledge your mother. I hope you will agree that, as much of a failing as it was, it is not to be equated with abandonment. Neither of you was abandoned. Your welfare was an important concern, and I believe I properly provided for your well-being.”

“You will forgive me, sir, if I find a semantic discussion without interest,” Makoto said. “The matter of why still remains, and it stands out rather prominently as the only matter of true importance.”

Genji bowed at the waist in the manner of a Western gentleman conceding a point. Someone had tutored him well.

“I will try to explain,” Genji said. “Our modernization is of recent vintage, and it is quite superficial as well. We are still bound by beliefs that are entirely medieval. Twenty years ago, at the time of your birth, the situation was even more backward. I think it will be impossible for you to imagine how backward.”

Another person arrived in the doorway, this time a young girl about twelve years of age. Her child’s kimono was not entirely compatible with her appearance, which reminded Makoto strongly of his sisters in San Francisco. Like them, it was obvious that only one of her parents was Japanese.

“Why are you wearing a kimono?” Genji asked in Japanese. “I thought you hated Japanese clothing.”

The little girl strolled nonchalantly into the room.