The Fires of the Gods (3 page)

THE ANGRY GODS

W
hen she saw Tora’s face, Hanae stopped bouncing little Yuki on her knees and asked, ‘Are you in pain again?’

Tora shook his head and winced. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back.’ He looked for his boots.

Putting the baby on the floor, Hanae jumped up. ‘Don’t go. You aren’t well.’ She shook his arm when he ignored her. ‘Surely the master wouldn’t make you run errands after what’s happened to you.’

The abandoned baby started crying, and Tora went to scoop up his son, wincing again. ‘Where are my boots? The master doesn’t know. And don’t tell him. This is my business.’

Hanae stood in front of the door, her arms folded. ‘You’re not leaving,’ she said. ‘It could be your death to walk around with that big swelling on your head. We need you alive.’

Tora’s face softened. He kissed the baby and handed him to Hanae. Retrieving his boots, he sat to put them on. ‘I just want to look in on the man whose father died last night.’

Hanae looked uncertain. ‘Is that all you’ll do? You’ll come right back afterwards? You won’t get into any more fights?’

He nodded, kissed her and, moving his wife and son out of his way, left the house.

The street that had seemed a living inferno the night before looked merely depressing by daylight. He recalled the urgency and excitement of the flames, sparks, moving shadows, and screams. Now there was only the wet, smoking pile of rubble. The houses on either side were scarred by the heat, and a few neighbors moved about, making repairs. No one bothered with the ruin.

The Kaneharus had made and sold
tatami
floor mats. The grass mats, of course, were a great fire hazard, and so the disaster might be blamed on carelessness with open flames and cooking fires, but Tora recalled the old woman’s calling to the gods. He shuddered. That fire had seemed unnatural. Could the gods really be so angry that they would kill an old man?

He walked up to a man on a ladder who was ripping charred boards from the wall of his house and asked what had happened to his neighbor.

The man glanced down. ‘He’s dead,’ he said and returned to his work.

The curt finality sickened Tora. It wasn’t right that people cared so little about each other. Maybe life was just a matter of accepting tragedy and making repairs. ‘What?’ he persisted. ‘Both the father and his son have crossed that bridge?’

The man now paused to look at Tora more closely. He took in his bruised face and the blistered hands. ‘You were here last night, weren’t you? You’re the one that tried to get Old Kaneharu out.’ When Tora nodded glumly, he climbed down and said, ‘The old man walks that path alone, but Young Kaneharu’s very bad. He’s staying with a cousin.’ He gave Tora directions, then added with a bow, ‘We’re grateful that you told us what to do to save ourselves and our houses. May the Buddha smile on you.’

Tora waved that away. ‘Buddha sent the rain, and you did the rest yourselves.’ He glanced once more at the steaming pile of blackened timbers that had been a shop and a house and was now unrecognizable. The smell was acrid, but he knew it would have been much worse if it had not rained. The whole street would have gone up in flames. Other people would have died in the fires. Perhaps the rain, too, had been the gods’ doing.

The neighbor looked at his damaged wall. ‘Old Kaneharu was cheap. A regular miser. Look at what his fire did to my place and the others.’

This astonished Tora. ‘What do you mean?’

The neighbor shook his head and started back up the ladder. Tora looked after him and reflected that neighbors were like family. You had no choice in the matter. And this man was clearly unhappy about the damage to his house. Then he had a thought and shouted up, ‘You have much trouble with thieving kids around here?’

The man looked down and shook his head. ‘Not lately.’

The search for Kaneharu’s cousin proved frustrating. After trying several streets in vain, Tora passed a large house of a rice dealer. A sign read ‘Watanabe – Best Rice for Eating or Seeding’. Bales of new rice were stacked near the door, and from the back came the sound of pounding: someone was grinding rice into a fine meal. A fat man stood in the doorway, filling it with a broad
belly covered in gray silk. He was counting the bales and shouting numbers to a clerk, who was making entries in an account ledger. The fat man’s round, shiny face rested on several chins, and the bulging eyes and thick lips suggested that his body could barely contain so much good living.

When the merchant had finished counting, Tora greeted him and asked about the umbrella maker who was married to Kaneharu’s cousin.

The merchant pursed his thick lips. His face reminded Tora of a large koi. The man compressed his lips and said, ‘Two streets back. Number sixteen. Is it about the fire? The gods’ anger is a terrible thing.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s criminal to let this go on. Now a man has died, and they say the son’s not going to make it.’

The umbrella maker’s shop was one of the poorest in this quarter. He was not as well off as the Kaneharus. The owner sat cross-legged in his small shop, splicing bamboo. When Tora asked for Kaneharu, he made a face and shouted for his wife, then went on with his work of splicing and cutting umbrella ribs. His pale, thin wife took Tora to the back room, where her cousin lay on a pallet. He was shivering continuously and his teeth chattered. His chest, arms, and legs were covered with stained bandages, and his swollen, crimson face shone with oozing burns and the ointment the cousin had applied.

‘He’s bad,’ the cousin whispered. ‘The fire’s eating him up from inside. He says he’s got nothing to live for now. His business is gone, and so is Uncle.’

Tora nodded and squatted beside the injured man. ‘Kaneharu,’ he said, ‘can you hear me?’ The eyes flickered open, rested on Tora for a moment, then closed. Tora tried again. ‘Do you remember me? I tried to get your father out last night. It grieves me that I failed.’

This time the eyes flickered and stayed open longer. The blistered lips moved and sounds emerged, but Tora could not make out what Kaneharu was saying and bent closer. ‘What?’

His cousin offered a translation. ‘There’s no shame in that. You were very kind.’

Tora doubted that the shaking and shivering patient had said all of that, but he accepted it, asking, ‘Did your cousin say what happened? How the fire started?’

Kaneharu moaned loudly and said something.

The cousin gave a little cry and put a hand over Kaneharu’s lips.

‘What? What did he say?’ Tora asked.

The cousin shook her head. ‘He blames the gods, but it was an accident.’

The dying man – Tora no longer doubted that Kaneharu was dying – rolled his head about from side to side and said quite clearly, ‘Father paid the money. He
paid
.’ Then the shaking got worse, and he started to wail.

His cousin reached into a basin for a moist cloth and laid it on his head, making soothing noises as if to a whimpering child. She gave Tora a pleading look. ‘He’s not in his right mind,’ she muttered.

Tora nodded. He bent to Kaneharu. ‘Please forgive me for troubling you. I’ll pray for you.’

Kaneharu said nothing.

Tora let himself out. Perhaps the cousin was right and he was out of his mind with pain. Tora wondered if he should go back and talk to the neighbors again, but he did not feel up to it. His breathing was still shallow and painful and both his head and his hands hurt. It would have to wait.

More importantly, he had given his word to Hanae.

THE INAUSPICIOUS VISIT

A
kitada hated pleading, but he stiffened his resolve with an icy determination. The image of Tamako’s pale face was before his eyes, and the hardships they would all soon suffer were on his mind.

He had sent Genba with his horses and the dog Trouble to the farm to save on feed. The farm did not produce much in terms of saleable rice, but there was plenty of grazing. It had been hard, because he loved his own horse and enjoyed riding it. They would now be forced to rent horses. It meant they would not go anywhere they could not walk to, but it was more important to feed his family.

And he would miss the dog. In spite of the well-earned name, Trouble was a member of the family, and Akitada thought that the dog had shown particular affection to himself.

His best hope lay in avoiding dismissal. He must try, even if it involved groveling. The prospect sickened him so much that he had not been able to eat.

He decided to start with the minister. Here, at least, he had been in the wrong. To his dismay, however, Fujiwara Kaneie was not in – though on second thought it would have been more unusual if he had been.

Unfortunately, his request to speak with His Excellency was overheard by the detestable Munefusa, who came running, full of glee at Akitada’s disappointment.

‘Come to apologize, have you?’ he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. Heads popped out from doors as clerks and secretaries expected another confrontation. ‘Won’t do you much good, I’m afraid. The minister was very angry.’

Akitada bristled. ‘You’ve got it wrong again, Munefusa. My purpose was to find out the origin of a certain false rumor about me. No, I don’t suspect you. You haven’t got the intelligence or the reputation to carry a convincing tale.’

Someone snickered, and Munefusa flushed. ‘Whatever you may think of me, I know who’s responsible, while you don’t.’

Akitada was already sorry that he had let his temper get away from him. He said more calmly, ‘Do you? Well, then I needn’t trouble His Excellency. Out with it.’

Munefusa raised a brow. ‘That wouldn’t be very professional, would it?’

‘Why not? It should be your first interest that those who are connected with the Ministry of Justice are above reproach. I’m merely clearing my good name.’

‘There’s a matter of confidentiality involved here.’

Akitada took a step towards Munefusa. ‘So you’ve lied again. You know nothing. You just like to make people think you have the power to hurt them.’

The hallway had filled with clerks, scribes, and servants. Munefusa looked at them, then told Akitada, ‘I happen to know because His Excellency told me. The person who complained about you to the chancellor is Junior Controller Kiyowara Kane. And I wouldn’t recommend approaching him. You might find yourself thrown out of his house.’ With that, Munefusa turned and ducked back into his office.

Akitada looked after him with a smile. ‘Good!’ he said and winked at the audience before walking away. He was nearly
outside when quick footsteps sounded and an elderly clerk caught up with him.

‘Sir,’ he said, a little out of breath, ‘we wanted you to know that we all think very highly of you and pray that justice will be done. Munefusa will be the death of us all. He doesn’t know anything.’

Akitada was very touched, but he said only, ‘Thank you, Shinkai, but you mustn’t let me, or anyone else, hear you speak this way about a superior again.’

They bowed to each other and parted.

Who was Kiyowara Kane? The name seemed vaguely familiar: not because he had met the man, but rather because someone had mentioned him as being one of the new chancellor’s supporters or friends. Akitada, who was excessively non-political for a civil servant, had paid little attention to the recent shifts of power in the administration. Now he stopped at the tax office, a place he visited occasionally when he needed to consult its archives for cases involving property disputes.

The archives were just as dim, dry, and dusty as he remembered. ‘Kunyoshi?’ he called. There was no answer. It was too silent. On the other hand, the head archivist was old and nearly deaf. Akitada had long since expected him to leave the service to become a monk. He went to look for him, making his way through a warren of rooms filled with shelving, down narrow halls lined with more shelving, into larger spaces divided by yet more tall stacks of shelving. The shelves were stacked high with dusty boxes and tagged with wooden markers.

He found Kunyoshi in the last room: a small cubbyhole with a desk. Kunyoshi was folded forward over the desk, his white head resting on a stack of papers. His brush had dropped from lifeless fingers to the floor.

Akitada felt the familiar tightness in his belly when in the presence of death and took a deep breath. Poor Kunyoshi – taken in the midst of a loyal service to the emperor that must have exceeded fifty years. It would have been what he wanted. Too many of the dead in Akitada’s past had died prematurely, violently, because they stood in someone’s way. This made him suspicious of all sudden deaths. So he peered more closely, then felt very foolish; Kunyoshi’s breath caused one of the sheets of paper to flutter slightly. The old man was asleep, drooling a little on one of his documents.

Akitada touched his shoulder, and Kunyoshi came upright with a cry. Staring up at Akitada, he clutched his thin chest. ‘Wha— what? Who… Is something the matter?’

‘I beg your pardon, Kunyoshi.’ Akitada felt guilty. ‘I only wanted to ask a question, but you were so preoccupied that you did not hear me call out.’

‘Ah. Ah so. Yes, quite,’ mumbled Kunyoshi, glancing down at the half-finished document and brushing at the spittle with his sleeve. He looked around for his brush, then gave up. ‘It’s you, Lord Sugawara,’ he said and made an attempt to struggle up, but Akitada gently pushed him back.

‘Don’t disturb yourself. It’s a small thing and hardly worth interrupting your work. Still, I would be very grateful for the information. Do you happen to know anything about a Kiyowara Kane?’

Kunyoshi blinked. ‘Certainly. He’s a new man. His first lady is the chancellor’s second lady’s sister. You haven’t met? He’s very eager, they say.’ Kunyoshi compressed his lips. ‘Being a provincial no doubt has something to do with it.’

Some of this made sense to Akitada. Kiyowara had garnered an important position in the central government because of his connections to the new chancellor’s wife. Since life in the provinces held little charm for the nobility, Kiyowara was now very eager to make a name for himself. The old guard, like Kunyoshi, despised such men. But why was this provincial gentleman bent on persecuting him? Unless it fell under the heading of busywork to impress his brother-in-law and others in power. Akitada thought his case might look a little more hopeful if Kiyowara simply labored under a misconception and could be made to see reason.

‘What exactly is his position?’ he asked.

The archivist made a face. ‘Junior Controller of the Right.’

Impressive. That put him in the senior fifth rank, many steps above Akitada and several above Kaneie. More importantly, as a controller he had a significant voice in the administration of those ministries that formed the right arm of the government, and that included the Ministry of Justice.

‘I see,’ said Akitada. ‘Do you happen to know where he lives?’

Kunyoshi cackled. ‘You should know his house well. It used to belong to your former chief.’

Akitada was taken aback. The Soga villa had been the home
of his old nemesis, the late Minister of Justice, Soga. The knowledge brought back memories of being ordered to report there to feel the lash of Soga’s tongue and hear threats of immediate dismissal.

Under the circumstances, it was a very bad omen.

It suddenly struck Akitada that he was reliving the past. A little more than a year ago he had also faced dismissal. And though he had kept the position, while Soga had died, the same plague that took Soga had taken Akitada’s son. He was not by nature a superstitious man, but fear seized him again: a year ago he had lost Yori. Would he lose Tamako and another child this time?

Akitada left Kunyoshi with muttered thanks.

His earlier determination now quite undermined, he set out to make the acquaintance of this official who had happily destroyed a stranger in order to make himself appear conscientious and hard-working.

The Soga house had always been far more luxurious than his own, which had fallen on hard times. The Sugawara family had suffered the disfavor and persecution of the Fujiwara rulers and had eventually sought refuge in the anonymity of poverty. Thus, the Soga villa occupied a much larger property, allowing for extensive gardens, many courtyards, and separate service buildings. The new owner had found it necessary to embellish the property further. The thatched roofs of the main hall and front gate had been replaced with shiny new green tiles, and fresh white sand covered the entrance courtyard. Trim, railings, and banisters were newly lacquered in brilliant red.

Numerous servants in white uniforms with black sashes were busy placing tubs of ornamental trees about. An older man in a dark silk robe, who had a long, pale face, supervised them. When he saw Akitada, who wore his second-best silk robe and his court hat with the rank ribbons, he came to greet him.

‘Sugawara Akitada,’ said Akitada in the brusque manner likely to get service. ‘From the Ministry of Justice. I’m here to see Lord Kiyowara.’

The man bowed deeply, identified himself as Major-domo Fuhito, and led him past the main hall, through an interior courtyard with artistically placed rocks and bamboos, down a hallway, and into a reception room, where he offered him a silk cushion and promised to announce him.

The room was elegant but sparsely furnished. Akitada looked around at a number of handsome paintings, one of which depicted a large manor house surrounded by rice fields cultivated by many peasants. No doubt this was Kiyowara’s provincial home, here displayed to demonstrate a background of wealth and importance.

Open doors to a veranda overlooked a part of the private garden. There, too, improvements had been made. The shrubberies were neatly trimmed; an elegant pagoda-like roof with gilded bells rose above them – by its size and decoration it was probably a garden pavilion in the Chinese style – and water glistened between tree trunks where he could not remember seeing any before.

Akitada sat for a while, pondering this visible wealth and the power that went with it, and felt his anger fade to despair. Ostentation was meant to impress, but now he saw that it also intimidated. The best he could hope for in the coming encounter was that he might convince Kiyowara that it was better to sacrifice someone else to his ambition. There had probably been nothing personal in Kiyowara’s actions. The irrational notion that somehow Soga’s vengeful spirit had taken possession of Kiyowara’s body in order to continue his persecution was ridiculous. He bent his thoughts to making a convincing argument for reinstatement.

The sudden appearance of another visitor interrupted this. He was an older man, as formally dressed as Akitada, but with rank ribbons that caused Akitada to kneel and bow deeply. The other man gave him only a casual glance, nodded, and sat down. After a moment, Akitada did the same. He knew Prince Atsunori, Minister of Central Affairs, from the official meetings he occasionally attended. A son of the late Emperor Reizei, the prince was said to be reserved, efficient, and trusted by the young emperor. He also appeared to be haughty, for he refused to speak or look at Akitada beyond the first glance.

How important was Kiyowara if he could make a man like the prince wait? It was not a long wait, however, for the door opened again and a harried-looking Fuhito dashed in, bowed very deeply, and muttered, ‘Sincerest apologies, Your Highness. The stupid servant made a mistake. My master asks that you join him.’

The prince rose, lips compressed with irritation. Both left without speaking to Akitada.

Time began to hang heavy, especially when Akitada’s thoughts turned again to Tamako’s condition and their precarious finances. After a while, he rose and stepped out on to the veranda to distract himself with a look at Kiyowara’s grounds.

He saw now that the water was an artificial lake, fed by a small stream that seemed to meander around the various buildings that made up Kiyowara’s villa. It was the sort of stream where nobles would gather during poetry month to compose verses and drink cups of wine sent floating downstream by servants.

The sound of a woman’s laughter made him look towards the pagoda. A moment later, the figure of a gentleman appeared on the narrow path that skirted the stream. He was about Akitada’s age and handsome in the smooth-faced way that was much admired at court. As he strolled closer, he glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. He touched his narrow mustache, perhaps to make sure that the encounter with the woman had not left tell-tale traces.

Akitada turned away, embarrassed, but the gentleman suddenly exclaimed, ‘The crickets cry: I sense the coming cold.’

Akitada swung back, but the stranger was not looking at him – was, in fact, unaware of him. He stood, his arms spread a little and his head cocked as if he were listening. Then he nodded. ‘Yes. Not bad.’ He walked closer to the small stream and paused to stare into the water. After a moment, he raised his hands once more and declaimed, ‘Everywhere the wind moves through dead grasses, and I shiver in the darkening night.’

It seemed a madman’s comment on this hot and humid summer’s day, and Akitada watched him nervously. Just then the man looked up from the stream and saw him. Far from being embarrassed, he called across, ‘Hello, there. I’m Ono. Well, what do you think? Will it do? What about “darkening night”? Is that too repetitious? I was thinking of loneliness and thoughts of death.’

Not a madman then, but a poet. Perhaps there was little difference. Akitada suppressed a smile. He had never been consulted about poems before, because his lack of talent and interest in that direction was too well known among his friends. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘I like it, but how do you find the inspiration in this weather?’