Dream of a Spring Night (Hollow Reed series) (3 page)

Toshiko was shown a place to sleep.
 
At home she had her own room and privacy.
 
Here was surrounded by other women.
 
When she returned from her interview with the emperor, they looked at her,
then
turned away.

Lady Sanjo, who had taken her to His Majesty, pointed vaguely toward a dark corner, and Toshiko went there.
 
She found several neck rests, took one, and lay down as she was, placing her head on the unfamiliar support and pulling her outer gown over her for warmth.
 
She was so tired that the humming voices of the others lulled her to sleep.

The sounds of steady, thrumming rain on the roof and the splashing on the stones outside woke her.
 
For a moment, the darkness was puzzling, then she remembered where she was, and desolation swallowed her again.
 
At home this would have been a delicious sort of waking, that moment of fusion of dream and reality when she hovered between both, half tempted to slip back into sleep, half curious about the new day.
 
But now reality brought only despair.
 
She opened her eyes to the grey obscurity of the hall and, like a frightened mouse, listened for human sounds.
 
When she heard none, she sat up.

Here and there on the dark glossy planks lay silken figures.
 
Their long hair writhed like black snakes across gowns whose colors looked faded in the faint light leaking through the shutters.
 
They seemed like dead people, as if she alone had been spared by some demon
who
had come in the night and killed the others.

Spared for what?
 
To be at the ogre’s mercy, captive and tormented until she died?

She thought of flight, of leaving this dark world of death and returning to her home — to life, to a world of sunshine and swaying grasses, of horses and falcons, and the freedom to ride with her brothers.

But she could not leave, not ever.
 
She, too, was dead -- dead to her family, as they were dead to her.
 

Gradually distant sounds of palace life penetrated the thrumming of the rain: a guard’s shout, quick footsteps passing on the covered veranda outside the shutters, subdued voices, a crash as something fell.

And slowly in the room, the dead women began to stir, to sit up, stretch, and talk to each other.
 
A shutter opened and a maid looked in.
 
Their day had begun.

Bemused, Toshiko watched from her corner as each of the ladies was greeted by her own maid who tended to her morning toilet while exchanging soft chatter.
 
Everywhere there were elaborate preparations with much running and fetching.
 
Someone called for more light, for food, and the shutters were raised, revealing an unrelenting gray sky and a slanting rain which made the world outside appear as if seen through silver gauze.
 
Maids rushed about with bowls and water pitchers or small trays with the morning rice gruel.
 
Here and there large round mirrors appeared, and candles were lit as the ladies applied cosmetics to their faces or fresh blackening to their teeth.

Lady Sanjo arrived suddenly at Toshiko’s side.
 
She cried, “Heavens, has no one seen to the new girl?
 
She must be made presentable.”

Toshiko, aware of her sleep-rumpled condition, got to her feet and looked about for her cosmetics box, her mirror,
her
combs.

Lady Sanjo glared at her.
 
“You have brought no maid,” she said accusingly.

Toshiko bowed her head.
 
“No.
 
I was told—”

“How stupid!”
 
The other woman snapped her fingers irritably, looked around, and fixed on a young lady nearby who was almost ready.
 
“Shojo-ben, do you mind sharing your maid until someone can be assigned?”

Lady Shojo-ben smiled and bowed, and Toshiko blushed with embarrassment and bowed back, murmuring her thanks.
 
A rather plain woman in a dark silk gown joined them and was told to get Toshiko’s boxes and hot water.

Lady Shojo-ben was small and very pretty.
 
Her hands were like fluttering butterflies as she asked if Toshiko had slept well.

“Yes, thank you.
 
I was tired.
 
It was a long journey and then to be called into the August Presence . . . it was exhausting,” bubbled Toshiko, grateful for the other’s friendliness.

Lady Sanjo made a hissing sound.
 
“Guard your tongue, girl,” she murmured, and Lady Shojo-ben blushed and lowered her eyes.
 

It became very quiet in the large room.
 
Toshiko felt confused and then realized that they must think — oh, no — they must think that she and he —.
 
She began to tremble with shame.
 
“It was nothing,” she cried, looking around at the listening women and their maids.
 
The room seemed to be full of ears, all avidly waiting for her next word.
 
“He didn’t . . . nothing happened.”
 
Lady Sanjo now looked as fierce as a demon and hissed again.
 
“We only talked,” Toshiko finished lamely.

Someone giggled, then immediately suppressed the sound.

Lady Sanjo gripped Toshiko’s arm painfully and nearly jerked her off her feet, pulling her out of the room and onto the veranda where the rainwater rushed from the overhanging eaves and drowned out most sounds, away from the open door and the room full of ears.

Pushing Toshiko hard against the wall, she brought her face close and said through gritted teeth, “You rude, disgusting girl!
 
You will never — do you hear me, you stupid thing? —
never
mention His Majesty again.
 
You will never discuss what passes between you, or tell what was said.
 
If you cannot do this, you will be sent home in disgrace this very day.
 
Do you understand me?”
 
And she gave Toshiko a shake.

Toshiko nodded.
 
She tried not to breathe — the other woman’s breath stank — and felt hot tears springing from her eyes, and then she felt the sharp pain of a slap.

“Stop that!
 
No tears, do you hear?”

Toshiko swallowed her tears and nodded again.

“Well?”

“I shall obey, Lady Sanjo.”

“Remember it.
 
You are in my charge, and I shall have my eye on you every moment.
 
At the least impropriety . . .”

And now Toshiko understood that this woman hated her and that she must submit to anything she demanded or dishonor her parents.
 
She sank to her knees.
 
“I swear,” she whispered.
 
“I’ll be obedient.
 
Please do not send me home, Lady Sanjo.
 
Please.”
 
And that act of submission took more courage than the defiance that tore at her heart.

But the rest of the day was not altogether bad.
 
She dressed, and Shojo-ben’s maid helped her with her toilet and praised the thickness and length of her hair.
 
Toshiko bent over her mirror in the half-light of the cloudy day, determined that Lady Sanjo should find nothing to criticize.
 
She located her jar of tooth-blackening and applied another coat to be sure that not the least spot of white showed.

White teeth are like the uncouth fangs of wild animals.

Long ago, when she had still been alive, her mother had said this to her, explaining the need for tooth-blackening.
 
Toshiko was thirteen then and had become a woman.
 
“It is time to put away the wild and childish things and prepare to become a lady,” her mother had said.
 
Applying the evil-smelling paste of metal filings and soured wine to her teeth marked her new status as much as did plucking her eyebrows and her hairline.
 
She learned to cover her face with the paste of ground rice flour and to use burned oil of sesame to paint new eyebrows high up on her forehead and to outline her eyes.
 
She reddened her lips with safflower juice.
 
And she learned to wear her hair loose.
 
It was all very unpleasant.
 
Being a lady made it nearly impossible to engage in the things she loved so much.
 
Ladies spent their day sitting or lying down, whereas men rode horses, hunted with falcons, played football, shot arrows at targets, and practiced sword-fighting.
 

She had complained, but her mother had been firm.
 
“You are a woman,” she had said.
 
“It is your karma.”
 
And then she had begun to comb her daughter’s long hair.

That was the only pleasant part of the daily toilet.
 
Both her mother and sister had combed her long thick hair and rubbed almond oil into it to make it glossy and smooth, and she had done the same for them.
 
To have her hair handled produced an inordinately lovely sensation.
 
It made her whole body feel warm and languid, and delightful little shivers of intense pleasure ran through her.
 
She grew proud of her hair and begged to have it combed.

But she had still found moments to slip away to the stable to saddle her horse and ride with the wind.
 
That, too, was a deeply physical pleasure, though of a different, more intensely alive kind.
 
She had felt in control then, filled with power.
 
When her hair was being combed, she seemed to turn to liquid.

Lady Shojo-ben’s maid combed her hair now, but Toshiko could not enjoy it because some of the others came to speak to her.
 
They were curious.
 
They asked about her family and about her skills, but their eyes remained cold and when she had answered they turned away, as if she were of little interest.

Only Lady Shojo-ben was truly kind.
 
She showed her around her new home.
 
Their quarters were in the Hojuji palace, which was very large, to judge from the building they were in, and from the many roofs and galleries Toshiko could see through the open doors.
 
These were the women’s quarters, but His Majesty’s official wives were elsewhere at the moment, in their own palaces in the city or in nunneries.
 
The retired Emperor had seven sons by several wives, and the succession was assured.
 
The high-born mothers of these sons no longer felt it a duty to be on call, but because the reigning sovereign was a mere infant, some of the other ladies still hoped that His eye would fall on one of them, that they would bear Him another prince, and that this would raise them and their families in the world.
 
That was why Toshiko was here and why the others were wary of her.
 

When they reached the long gallery that led to the imperial apartments, Toshiko stopped.
 
She recognized the mirror-bright flooring and the ornate double doors at the end, and shivered with sudden dread.
 

Lady Shojo-ben looked at her,
blushed
a little, then took her hand and said, “Are you afraid?”

Serving a “son of the gods” was like a religious duty, like praying to the Buddha, or copying the lotus sutra hundreds of times.
 
But Toshiko was only fourteen and had not bargained with the gods for this.
 
Her prayers had always been for her loved ones or for a new horse, or bow, or a sword like her younger brother’s.
 
But it had been her parents’ prayers that were answered when she was called to court.

Remembering Lady Sanjo’s warning, Toshiko said nothing, and after a moment Lady Shojo-ben said, “You must not worry.
 
He is very kind.
 
Mostly he is devout and very busy with matters of state.
 
And when he does not work or pray, he makes a collection of the songs called imayo.”
 

Toshiko’s eyes widened.
 
“Imayo songs?”
 
She recalled his question and felt ashamed and a little frightened.
 
Had she already ruined her parents’ hopes by that small, well-intended fib?

“Yes.
 
Sometimes he sings them for us. They are quite pretty.
 
Only, you know, imayo is usually performed by certain . . . women.
 
They are called shirabyoshi.”
 
Lady Shojo-ben paused, then leaned closer and whispered, “They say some of these women have visited His Majesty to perform for him.”