Authors: Eiji Yoshikawa
"Who's that man?"
"That's my mistress Tokiwa's uncle. . . ."
"Ho, that rascal, that fellow who tried to get a reward from Rokuhara after lying to her and bringing her and her three children back to the capital?"
"He's a fiend. Those eyes make me shiver. Do you suppose he recognized me? What shall I do if he did?"
Mongaku, still a traveling monk, unattached to any monastery or temple, stayed much of the time in Kumano or at the Nachi Falls, visiting the temples of other sects when it pleased him, and when inclination led, returned to the capital. None of his friends in the capital had seen him for three years, until Mongaku suddenly appeared in Kyoto one day and was astounded to hear that his old school friend Kiyomori was in power. Kiyomori's rise to eminence filled Mongaku with misgivings; he found himself taking a proprietary interest in him; people seemed to regard Kiyomori favorably. Would his friend of academy days follow in the footsteps of his notorious predecessor, Shinzei? This was grotesque, incredible! Was it possible that Kiyomori, that "thick-skulled fellow" as his former schoolmates called him, had actually become the man of the hour? What a farce indeed if he overreached himself! Yet Mongaku could not suppress his secret satisfaction at seeing how the once despised warriors were now welcomed by the aristocrats as equals.
"Good Mongaku, which way are you going?" Yomogi asked, still clinging to his arm. Her terrified eyes gazed around fearfully at the noonday crowd.
Mongaku laughed. "Still frightened by that ox-dealer, are you?"
"I'm afraid he'll follow me—worried for my mistress."
"You're as loyal as my friend Asatori is to his lord."
"Asatori—the caretaker of the Willow Spring?"
"Yes, don't you remember how you often came to him to get water?"
"I've often wondered what became of him."
"He lives here in a mean little hut."
"Why, I didn't know that! Are you quite sure?"
"Last year he crossed to Shikoku to visit his lord in his lonely exile. I sometimes meet him on the streets, playing his flute. An odd fellow."
"Oh no, he is the kindest of persons. He was to me, to everybody."
"How old were you at the time?"
"Twelve."
"So you're sixteen now?"
"Yes, sixteen . . ." Yomogi replied, suddenly blushing. "Are you on your way to see him now?"
"No, I was going to pray at the grave of an old woman I once knew."
"Who was this old woman?"
"What a lot of questions you insist on asking!—This old woman was Kesa-Gozen's mother."
"And who was Kesa-Gozen?"
"You would hardly know. You weren't even born when she was alive. Her mother killed herself when Kesa-Gozen died, and I, who did not deserve to live, am still alive. My daily prayers and my monthly visits to her grave are not enough to wash away my guilt. I must do good in this world before I can hope to be forgiven. Yomogi, tell me what I should do."
"I don't know what you're talking about, good Mongaku."
"No, I dare say you don't. I was just muttering to myself. While we're talking like this we may as well call on Asatori. I can't say whether he'll be in or not."
The two made their way along a littered, malodorous lane where flies rose up in clouds at every step they took, and as many children seemed to obstruct their path—children afflicted with running eyes or sores; there was not one but was suffering from boils or maladies of one kind or another, and from filthy hovels came the drunken roars and high-pitched screams of quarreling couples.
"I'm sure this is the right one," Mongaku said, stopping in front of ,a hut. The roof was weighted with stones, the eaves sagged unevenly and the plaster had fallen from the walls in some places, revealing a framework of bamboo. But a straw mat hung from the lintel in lieu of a door; some bamboo grass and other plants grew under the window. There were signs of someone having swept round the entrance.
"Is Asatori at home?" Mongaku called, lifting the mat as he stepped inside. A man sat by the window reading from a book placed on a wooden crate. He looked round.
"Ah, come in, come in!" he cried, and stared at Yomogi, who stood behind Mongaku. Asatori's eyes widened with astonishment. They had not seen each other since they last met on the ruins of the Willow-Spring Palace. What memories they had of kindliness and warmth when the world was darkened by violence and brutality!
"Why, Asatori, I didn't know you lived here!"
"How you've grown, Yomogi! I hardly recognized you."
"You've changed, too, Asatori. You look older."
"Have I changed much?"
"Not very much. Are you no longer the caretaker of the Willow Spring?"
"No, but at heart I shall remain the caretaker until I die."
"Yes, and that reminds me of what people say about the Willow-Spring Palace. They say you can hear ghostly music on the ruins every night and that the spirit of the exiled Emperor goes wandering about among the trees. People are afraid to go near the place."
"And your mistress's house was not burned down that time; but it must have been in this last war?"
"Yes, not only burned, but we had to escape for our lives."
"You must have had a very hard time."
"It wasn't so much me, but my mistress and the little ones."
"I hear all kinds of gossip from an ox-dealer—a man of some importance round here, called Tomizo."
"Oh, do you know that fiend, Asatori?" Yomogi said with a shudder.
The two continued to talk eagerly, forgetting that Mongaku was even there. Left to his own devices, Mongaku took up the book Asatori had been reading and began leafing through it. Curious—what was Asatori doing with books on medicine? Mongaku slipped out volume after volume from the crate. All medical treatises. A queer fellow and even odder than he had thought him to be. What was Asatori up to now? A court musician turned menial —caretaker of the Willow Spring; he had once surprised Mongaku by telling him that he had joined a company of strolling puppeteers, but here he was, studying these learned tomes. Mongaku could scarcely get over his amazement.
"Have you two at last finished talking?" Mongaku asked, chuckling. "I'm afraid, Mongaku, I've been very rude."
"Asatori—"
"Yes?"
"Are you studying medicine?"
"Yes, I try to when I find time."
"Then you weren't a puppeteer after all?"
"No, no, let me explain. I can't make a living yet by practicing medicine, so I make ends meet by playing my flute for puppet shows and giving lessons on the bell and drum. In fact, I do a number of things of that kind."
"Hmm—you're a many-sided fellow."
"That's true; there are so many things I want to do that I'm always at my wits' end."
"Why don't you go back to the Court and take up your calling as a musician?"
"If the Court were not what it is, I would."
"Then you think of eventually becoming a physician?"
"I hadn't thought of that exactly, but there are so many around me here, poor and ignorant, that I thought better of becoming a monk like you and decided to practice the art of healing."
"Hmm—I see; just like you to think of that. A good thing, and you're the one for it. The aristocrats and the rich can afford physicians and medicines, but the poor just wait for death. I doubt there's one in a hundred here who can pay for a physician."
"Quite so. I visit these hovels and can always be sure of finding someone who's ill. There's no hope for these people. When there's not enough food to feed even the strong, the sick are abandoned in the hills or taken down to the river to die."
"I may be losing to you, Asatori."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean your capacity for love, your love for your fellow beings. You make me feel very humble."
"Nonsense, Mongaku. You must remember that I was born to the profession of music and perform expertly on almost any instrument, but I'm no scholar like you and must wrestle with each of these books."
"I'm afraid you have great difficulty studying by yourself. I'll tell you of a good physician who can teach you."
"How grateful I should be! But do you know someone willing to help me?"
"Yes, there's a famous scholar of the Academy of Physicians. He's quite old now and lives in retirement not far from the capital. You will take a letter from me and find out how he feels about teaching you."
Mongaku without loss of time drew an inkstone to him and wrote a letter of introduction.
While Mongaku and Asatori were absorbed in talk, Yomogi sat by, completely ignored, worried by thoughts of Tomizo. She began to speak anxiously about going home.
"Asatori can take you home," Mongaku said, reassuringly. "I would myself, but I might get into trouble with the soldiers from Rokuhara. Asatori, you'll go with Yomogi, won't you?"
"No trouble at all," Asatori replied, as Yomogi's anxious face suddenly dimpled.
The three started out together and Mongaku parted from them at a crossing near the Street of the Ox-Dealers.
As Yomogi and Asatori approached the deserted suburbs, Yomogi noticed two men following them, but she thought nothing of them, since neither was Tomizo.
"That house over there," she said, pointing, "is my mistress Tokiwa's," and stopped abruptly, disappointed to find that the walk had been so short.
"Good-by until another time," she called, scampering off, and soon vanished inside the gates of the villa.
A WHITE PEONY
An intermittent lowing came from a corner of the pasture where the market had been held at noon. A wakeful bull called to his mate through the dark, and his restless trampling made the surrounding blackness seem even blacker. The only light visible came from a hut where some men were gambling. The narrow space reeked with smoke from the lamp and the fumes of wine, and the chinking of coins could be heard above the guttural voices. A few shopkeepers among the cowherds and professional gamblers there were calling for higher stakes. Sweat rolled down their intent faces and their eyes bulged as they followed each roll of the dice.
Tomizo grunted. "Still at it? What's the use anyway?—Not done with it yet?" Sullen and angry at his losses, he sprawled against the thin boards of the wall, his head propped on a wooden headrest. Pulling himself up from his recumbent position, Tomizo reached for a wine-jar and muttered: "Wonder why everything I've done lately has come to nothing. I just can't understand it. . . ." Gulping down the contents of the flask, he shook his head slowly and writhed, spasmodically slapping his thigh, unable to escape some inner torment. Tokiwa had started his chain of bad luck, he reflected. He'd been a fool, reporting her to Rokuhara. He'd got nothing out of that—not even a penny. Worse than that, they'd jailed him and then let him out after beating him within an inch of his life. He would have fought his tormentors had there been some way of getting back at Kiyomori, but that was not to be thought of. And when he complained to his acquaintances about this, they had jeered at him and only put him in a rage. He had also been hearing that Tokiwa lived somewhere in the capital, enjoying all the luxuries and prestige attached to her position as Kiyomori's mistress.
Wine, women, gambling—he had bit by bit frittered away all that he owned. The last of his herd from his farm had been sold at the market only that morning. He had gambled again after that to recoup his losses and found himself even deeper in debt.
"Lend me some money until next market-day," he demanded, but got no response. "Hey, you'd better not insult me! I have a niece—Tokiwa—and she's worth more to me than all the money you've got there," he snarled, and then lay down once more.
When he woke the next morning, Tomizo found himself alone. Brushing away the flies that crawled on his face, he got up, yawned, and then started out to the sunlit pasture.
"Hey, Kamй, what about yesterday? Didn't I pay you for it, too?"
Kamй, a cowherd whom Tomizo had sent the previous day to follow Yomogi and Asatori, emerged from a shed, making excuses.