Thousand Shrine Warrior (31 page)

Heinosuke tumbled backward, his hand clamped to his one eye, blood oozing through his fingers. When he moaned, it did not convey the depth of his pain and his horror. Ittosai whispered, his voice yet thunderous in the darkness of Heinosuke's world, a darkness which would now extend beyond the walls of the tunnels. “Was it your eye?” said Ittosai. “It's unfortunate. Even now, I won't kill you.”

When the big man was gone, Heinosuke began to crawl, dripping gore from his sliced eye, feeling the wall one-handed. He strove to retain consciousness and reason and to bear in mind the ancient maps of the castle's deep foundation.

Neatly rolled and strapped across the bikuni's back was a traveling quilt, tattered and unwholesome. She had scavenged it from the Temple of the Gorge, where some wayward pilgrim had left it who knew how long ago, quite likely having fled the haunted place too swiftly to gather bedding. The small quilt would suffice for the few cold nights to be spent in the depths of the canyon.

The bottoms of her hakama trousers were lifted and tucked into her obi, so that she could climb where necessary. But once the floor of the gorge was obtained, there were only a few occasions that called for her to scrabble over natural monuments or the debris of landslides.

The whole of the morning she walked along the river and through persisting fog. Every sound was rendered spectacular when sight was so hindered. At times the rapids crashed with uproarious insistence against banks and boulders; at other points the river was almost quiet, so that fish (or something!) could be heard leaping.

She made excellent speed, for the river was lowest at this time of year, though still fabulous. There were dry beds of gravel softened by snow, high banks with animal trails, or swamps frozen solid enough to be reasonably safe to traverse. It was unexpectedly easy passage in all, discounting the gorge's daunting and oppressive mood.

If she thought plainly about that indefinable mood and investigated whatever presented itself from the mist, there was nothing unexpected. But, like dim stars seen more clearly from the side of one's vision, if she dropped her wariness and expectation for the least moment, formless presences became tangible at the periphery of her awareness.

She fancied herself blithely strolling along the Sandzu, Hell's river. The musky fog was a vast, amorphous entity through which lesser ghosts swept to and fro, gazing on those who passed. Finding her mind unnecessarily imaginative, the bikuni made herself increasingly uneasy. To placate, if not disperse, the spirits of the gorge, she drew forth the shakuhachi and began to play. The sound of it calmed her own spirit as well as those around her, irrespective of the unearthly manner in which the melody rebounded from unseen cliffs.

The fog began to burn away in the cold afternoon sun, revealing the looming cliffs, from which numerous projecting shapes of stone appeared eager to tumble down. The route had led sharply downward from highland Kanno, so that she was soon below the snowline, disregarding isolated isles of snow. She doffed the straw boots, which would wear out on naked rocks, and stuffed them in the end of her rolled traveling quilt. Then she donned the geta that had hung like wooden bells from the bedroll. The raucous clatter of her new footgear lent an easier familiarity to her trek, lulling her into a false security.

Near a bend, a black and leafless tree was seen to have fallen into the river. It had once made a valiant effort to root itself high upon the face of the cliff, only to be chucked down in the prime of its growth. It lay in the torrent, rocking faintly, its black limbs raking upward. The bikuni was nearly drawn into melancholy thoughts at the sight of so awesome a symbol of life's unfairness and struggle's futility.

The tree did not quite bridge the two banks. From the bikuni's vantage-ground, it looked as though the other bank might provide an easier route further on, whereas the present bank looked narrower and more rugged in the distance. It would be tricky crossing by way of the insufficient bridge; the tree was thin near the head and a leap from there might not work out well. It would be a bad idea to get soaked in this cold weather.

As she stood pondering the wisdom of climbing across the river versus the wisdom of adhering to the present course, a flash of blue cloth caught her attention. Something was snagged in the tree's submerged limbs. At first the nun approached slowly. Then, as it became more evident what it was the black tree had captured, the nun began to trot over the rocky terrain.

Her mind reeled with the recognition. All the subtle dreariness of the gorge heightened and descended upon her sensibility, as a smith's hammer pounds steel. Before she climbed out onto the tree, she first drew her sword, severed a hooked limb to be used as a tool, then resheathed. Branch in hand, she climbed toward the middle of the river.

Some of the limbs were sharp as thorns. Some were brittle and snapped against her weight. To reach her objective, it was necessary to brace herself across three limbs, none of which could hold her weight alone, and lie almost flat, hovering above clear, rushing water. She reached downward with the limb in an effort to hook onto the obi that tied Shinji's and Otane's bodies together at their waists.

They had been in the river for a week, since the night they were freed from the cruciform, only to seek a more horrible demise. They were recognizable only because of the blue peasant cottons that they had worn on the day they were captured and crucified, and by the fact that they were bound as people bind themselves when pledged to commit
shinju
or love suicide.

The hooked end of her branch caught hold of the obi. She pulled; and she whispered, “I will see you put to rest, Otane, Shinji. I have not abandoned you yet.” As their bloated, pallid corpses were raised, the bikuni realized the three limbs would not take the added weight. She spread herself wider, flattened herself more, braced across six or seven limbs of different sizes. One broke and poked her. Her free arm grabbed blindly for a sturdier branch, and found one. She began to crawl backward, toward thicker limbs and the trunk, moving spiderlike, pulling the corpses with her. For a moment her bamboo hat caught on a small limb, but the twig broke and the bikuni made it to the slippery trunk.

Rapids beat against the tree. The bikuni found surer footing and pulled Shinji's and Otane's bodies from the water. At the moment of success, the tree began to shift. The bikuni was thrown backward and nearly impaled upon a sharp limb. The hooked branch she had used as a tool was broken near the end. There were terrible scraping sounds and snapping limbs against the riverbottom. Neroyume clung for the sake of her life and saw the bodies of the clinging lovers slip under the log, beyond view.

The tree found better anchor. The nun hurried back and forth along the trunk, frantic to see where the currents had whisked the two bodies. She saw them at last, among frothy rapids far down the river, bashed against a boulder, then rushed beyond sight. The bikuni despaired. She had failed Otane and Shinji again.

The tree's new position offered no hope of crossing to the other bank. The bikuni continued along the way, watching for the corpses to resurface, although there was not much hope of seeing them again.

The bikuni's inability to cross to the other bank proved unfortunate. The river widened, meeting the cliff on one side, leaving no path. It became necessary to climb the wall about a fifth of the way up, where a ledge presented itself. It was not an easy route, though it could have been worse. If she were careless, a plunge into the freezing rapids might be her last mistake. But by taking the ledge slowly, it was not excessively dangerous.

The ledge wound around a hump on the cliff's face. It was impossible to see ahead. For all she could tell, the route would only take her halfway before coming to a sudden end.

It was essential to hug the wall and find handholds wherever possible. Shale broke loose and clattered toward the river. While upon this precarious perch, the bikuni heard someone reciting the Kwannon Sutra. The rush of water blended with the chanting, lending an inhuman aspect to the litany. She clung to the wall, motionless, trying to judge where the sutra originated. It became stronger and more distinct.

“
Shin-kwan, shojo-kwan, kodai chie-kwan
… clear vision, pure vision, vision wise and full of mercy. Clear vision, pure vision, we rely upon thee ever. Thy merciful heart is a wonderful cloud/ from which falleth sweet dew extinguishing/ the flames of earthly passion. Clear vision, pure vision, vision wise and full of mercy. Clear vision, pure vision, we rely upon thee ever.”

In a moment, the chanter appeared from around the curve of the cliff's face. He ceased reciting and became most quiet, glowering at the nun, the two of them standing almost side by side.

He was young, homely to a high degree, and head-shaven. His hat hung at his back and his clothing were the blackest black, his kimono's sleeves hanging below his knees.

They were in quite a predicament. Neither could continue their journey, and it was an equal nuisance for either to retrace the distance they had come.

“We're in trouble,” said the bikuni, a forced smile barely showing from beneath her hat.

“I don't think so,” said the monk in a holier-than-thou tone of voice. He immediately quoted: “‘A monk is higher than a nun; a nun is higher than a lay monk; a lay monk is higher than a lay nun.' I cannot tell by your costume whether you are a nun or a lay nun. In either case, since I am a monk, practically a full-fledged priest, in fact, there is no confusion as to who should remove herself as quickly as possible from my chosen path.”

“If we join hands momentarily,” the bikuni suggested, eminently more reasonable than the stuck-up little monk, “we could negotiate the treacherous route with mutual safety and benefit.”

The monk was aghast. He exclaimed indignantly, “How can you suggest it! To lay hands upon this pious and chaste friend of Buddha? Women are perverse and greedy! They are ignorant of correct conduct! Your scheme is not clever enough to take me in. What a clumsy conceit, to think you might touch so much as the hem of my vestment, let alone these hands, which perform holy works.”

The nun replied evenly: “Please rest comfortably. Your attitude scarcely fills my heart with perverse sentiment.”

“It is you who lack proper manners,” said the monk. “How is it troublesome for you to return the way you came, then start out anew once I'm safely through? Someone instructed you poorly as Buddha's servant!”

“It is unforgivable if you cast aspersions on the old priest who instructed me,” she said, not mentioning that her instruction had consisted exclusively of shakuhachi lessons. “His feelings about young monks was that they spend the first year of their study sitting and thinking and thereafter they just sit.”

“If I were sitting somewhere,” said the monk, “you would not be in this dilemma. What will you do about it?”

“It crossed my mind,” she said, “to push you off.”

The monk, ignoring the idle threat, closed his eyes, turned his face upward, and, as he waited for the bikuni to do exactly what she said, he chanted, “
Shin-kwan, shojo-kwan, kodai chie-kwan, hikwan koji-kwan
…”

Exasperated, the bikuni started back along the way she came. The monk followed with a smirk, pleased to have won out against her unsubtle bluff. Soon they were on a dry part of the riverbed, standing face to face. As it was nearly sunset, it would not be wise for her to attempt renegotiating the ledge until morning. At least now she could be certain it led somewhere! Despite herself, she was amused. The monk was not a strong-looking fellow and would have had the harder time starting over again.

He began to make camp. Without asking permission, she decided to share the same site. If he didn't like it, the monk changed his mind on discovering himself incapable of making a campfire from the damp and iced wood around the river. The bikuni had collected a number of twigs earlier in the day, keeping them inside her kimono, where they dried nicely. With flint and steel from her travel kit, she struck a small blaze, sufficient to ignite the damp stuff the monk had gathered.

Although the nun was not traveling without food, she had not eaten that day. The Shinto priest of White Beast Shrine had repaired her alms-bag and put a lot of millet inside; but she had nothing in which to boil the millet. For this reason she was extremely hungry. The homely monk happened to have a nice supply of dried fruit and crackers, the latter practically in crumbs. When he unfolded the wrapping paper, the bikuni sat near him by the fire and said, “This humble servant of Buddha is indebted to Buddha's friend for sharing.” He was tremendously annoyed, but made no acidic reply.

In a while, he struck up a conversation, affecting a friendly tone although retaining an abusive edge to many of his comments. “So, you're running away from Kanno province, am I right? I'm going straight there myself.”

“What do you know of Kanno?” she asked softly.

“No monks allowed. No nuns. The lord of Kanno is a fanatical Lotus convert. I'll cause some trouble about it.”

“Maybe it's not exactly what you think.”

“Can't be scared off,” boasted the little monk, his chin held firm. “I'm resolved to reestablish Kwannon's worship.”

The bikuni was tempted to let the overconfident buffoon find out on his own how things were in Kanno. But it would be too wicked to let him wander innocently into a different kind of trouble than he expected. She told him with stark simplicity, “Lord Sato is held under the sway of a goryo.”

“Is it so?” said the monk, putting on a show of attentiveness, though the nun thought his amazement was a deception. “Lord Sato is under such a fiend's influence? So that's why priests are banned from crossing the borders!”

The bikuni nodded. “The vengeful ghost is a spirit of my own clan. For that reason I could not fight it. You're correct to say I am running away. I cannot deny it. As you are above a lay nun, surely you will be more capable than I.”