Lord Oda's Revenge (8 page)

She would wait until Kira was on the verge of achieving all he hoped, until his heart was hammering in his chest, filling him with the pleasure of being in the world, and then she would cut it out with her sword and he would bleed out all his blood, all over the indifferent ground.

 

O
SHI WAS NOT
a big man – he was shorter than Taro, with the sunken chest of one who had spent his time with books, not swords. But he must have had deep reserves of strength, because he had been travelling with Hayao for some days now, he told them, pulling the samurai in a small, two-wheeled cart. Taro was impressed. The priest was evidently dedicated, to drag his patient all the way to Mount Hiei.

But Oshi wasn't on his own any more, and so Hiro took the cart for the first part of the walk that day. It had stopped raining, but the stone of the path shone with moisture, and the moss on the trees was greener than green, as if the whole world had been washed clean.

As they walked, Oshi told the friends about what had happened to Hayao. It seemed that the samurai had fallen in love, on a return visit to his mother's home in the mountains of the north. The girl had been as beautiful as her name, which was Tsuyu, for she was named after the plum rain. And now this girl was the ghost that travelled with them, and that Taro had to avoid looking at, because of the way that it floated along beside Hayao, some of its body in and some of it out of the cart.

‘But how did she die?' said Hana.

‘I'm getting to that,' said the priest. ‘There's no rush, is there? Mount Hiei is still a long way away.'

‘Tell me about it,' said Hiro, panting as he pulled the cart.

Oshi smiled. ‘Very well, since you ask.' He took a breath and stretched his back, as if thinking where to start. ‘This Tsuyu, she did not get on with her stepmother, when her father remarried. So her father built her a small house in the hills. Her only visitor was a local monk, who had undertaken to teach Tsuyu the women's characters her father wished her to learn – but not, of course, the Chinese characters a man of similar rank would be taught.'

Taro looked down, embarrassed. He, too, knew only the hiragana.

Oshi didn't seem to notice. ‘One day the monk brought with him a friend – Hayao here. It goes without saying that he was handsome, his carriage and bearing fitting for a samurai of his rank.'

Taro glanced at Hayao, slumped in the cart, trying to imagine the man strong and vigorous. It was difficult.

‘When he and Tsuyu saw each other,' continued Oshi, ‘they fell in love immediately – and though the monk kept a careful eye on them, they contrived to declare this love to each other. As Hayao left, Tsuyu whispered to him that if he did not return she would surely die.

‘Hayao was only too glad to return, but sadly etiquette would not allow him to visit the small house alone. He waited and waited for the monk to invite him again – but the latter, having seen hints of the developing romance as clearly as an astrologer might read a fortune in the stars, avoided the young man scrupulously. He knew that Tsuyu's father would have him killed if he besmirched – or caused to be
besmirched – the honour of the lady of the plum rain.'

Hana snorted at this. ‘Men,' she said.

Taro looked at her. What did she mean by that?

Oshi just shrugged. ‘Fathers must look out for their daughters,' he said. At this Hana did blush – and Taro knew she was thinking of how her own father had ordered her to commit seppuku, when he knew of her treason.

If Oshi noticed her discomfort, he didn't say anything. They were walking through a long, broad valley of rice paddies, and as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, he continued his story.

‘Not realizing the true reason for her love's neglect, Tsuyu wasted away in the little house on the mountainside, and very soon died of a broken heart. She was buried in a nearby cemetery among the plum trees.

‘Hayao, of course, knew nothing of this death, since his only channel for news of the girl was the monk, who had taken to ignoring him. But one day the monk unexpectedly arrived on his doorstep. “Forgive me for keeping my distance for so long, friend,” the monk said. Hayao forgave him instantly – his only preoccupation was with seeing Tsuyu again, and he knew that the monk was the one who could arrange it. “I forgive you, of course,” he replied, “but only if you will take me once more to see Tsuyu, my plum blossom rain, my cool dew on a hot day.”

‘The monk's face fell. “I am sorry to tell you, Hayao, but the girl is dead. I am afraid that when you saw her last, the meeting, though brief, was long enough for her to fall in love with you. But I was afraid to take you to her again, in case her father got wind of it and had me killed. When I heard that she had died, it was clear to me that she had suffered a broken heart.”

‘Hayao could not believe his friend's words. “But I love her,
too!” he cried. “Surely I could have convinced her father of my honourable intentions?'

‘The monk smiled. “Oh, Hayao, how hard it must be to be so handsome that girls will die for love of you! But come, let us not keep talking of the dead. All we can do now is open a bottle of sake and repeat the
nenbutsu
.”

‘But Hayao could not move on – he remained frozen with grief for many months. Every night he repeated the
nenbutsu
, and the name of Tsuyu was never absent from his thoughts, and neither was the memory of her lithe figure and almond face absent from his imagination.'

Oshi paused. ‘That part of the story I had from the monk – he was the first person I talked to, when Hayao's mother asked me to help. He felt awful. Had he known, he said, how badly Hayao would take the news of the girl's death, he wouldn't have spoken so flippantly. But he was a product of his Buddhist training. I believe he couldn't help but think of a girl who would die of love as being. . . silly, frivolous perhaps. He didn't treat the matter with the due respect, and it may yet prove the death of this fine young samurai.'

‘You don't really think he'll die, do you?' asked Hana, looking stricken by the thought.

Oshi shrugged and gave a heavy sigh. ‘Perhaps not. But things are bad. I was surprised when he spoke yesterday – it has been days since I heard his voice. It must have been because he recognized you. Were you two close?'

Hana looked at Taro, then down. ‘We spent much time together,' she said.

Taro bit his tongue.

‘But since then,' said Oshi, ‘it doesn't even seem that he sees us.' They all glanced at Hayao, who was lying in the cart and crooning.

‘Does it get worse with time, then?' said Hiro.

‘Yes. With every day that the ghost spends at his side, he loses more of his strength. He becomes less and less himself, and more like a husk with no flesh inside. Eventually he will be. . . scooped out. Empty.'

There were tears on Hana's cheeks, Taro noticed.

‘The rest of the story,' said Oshi, ‘I had directly from Hayao – in part at least. I also had to speak to his neighbour, to piece together what had happened. But I did speak to Hayao at length. This was when he was still able to talk of it, when he had moments of lucid thought – though for the most part he thought that Tsuyu was real, and alive. He believed, I think, that I was trying to take away his happiness – that I was part of some conspiracy designed to remove Tsuyu from him, because of her low birth, perhaps. That was how it started – and over time, it grew worse and worse. Now he is as you see him. She's the
only
thing that's real for him.'

‘How did she find him?' asked Taro. ‘You said she died apart from him. ‘

‘Yes,' said Oshi. ‘From talking to Hayao and his neighbour, I believe she was able to locate him during
obon
, when the spirits of the dead are drawn to those with whom they share karmic connections. I know, because Hayao told me, that when the festival drew near, he loaded his
shoryodana
shelf with rice and water for his family ghosts. In particular, though, he dedicated all his offerings to Tsuyu. On the night of the first day of the festival, he lit his lamp and repeated the
nenbutsu
once more. Then, it being a hot and oppressive night, he went out to the veranda in search of cool air. He sat there dreaming of Tsuyu – getting up only once, to fetch incense sticks, which he arranged around him to drive away the mosquitoes.

‘All of a sudden, he was disturbed by the clopping sound of a woman's
geta
clogs passing in front of his house. He looked over the hedge that surrounded the garden and saw a woman walking past, holding a beautiful decorated lamp.

‘As he looked, the woman turned to face him, and he was surprised to see Tsuyu.

‘“Hayao!” she cried out, rushing towards him. “I thought you were dead.”

‘“And I thought
you
were dead!” replied Hayao. Tripping over his feet, he ran out into the street and invited the woman inside. Once seated, Hayao gave his side of the story and Tsuyu explained hers.

‘“You see, Hayao,” she said, “this monk who taught me was so afraid of causing me dishonour, and so losing either his position or his head, that he tricked you into believing I was dead! And he told me
you
were dead, hoping no doubt that we would forget each other.”'

‘She was cunning,' said Hana.

Oshi smiled sadly. ‘The dead always are.' He gestured to the samurai in the cart. ‘Hayao was overjoyed, of course. He cursed the name of the monk who had contrived to separate them, but he was glad to find that Tsuyu was still alive. He told her how much he loved her. “And as for me,” replied Tsuyu, “I would gladly disobey my father to be with you, even if it should mean that he responds with a
shichi-sho made no mando
, a disinheritance for seven lifetimes. Come, will you not allow me to stay tonight?'

‘Hayao hesitated. Not only was it highly improper to have an unattached girl to stay, but also he was worried that the nosy local gossip might notice. “The thing is,” he said, “I have an annoying neighbour called Yusai, who is a
ninsomi
and tells
people's fortunes by looking at the shapes of their faces. It happens that this is not the only way in which he likes to scrutinize other people, however – he also rejoices in learning the business of all his neighbours, and then telling it to his
other
neighbours, as if to spread the bounty of gossip evenly around the neighbourhood. If you stay, I fear he may discover us.”

‘Hayao asked the girl if he could visit her at home, but she said no, he couldn't. Her father had fallen in the world, it seemed, and she had been forced to move to a peasant house among the plum trees. She was embarrassed to receive him there.

‘“Very well, then,” said Hayao. “But because of this busybody Yusai, you must leave before daybreak, and quietly.”'

Hiro had started to sweat, as the day warmed, and Oshi motioned for him to put down the cart. He lifted it himself and began to pull it along the path – slower than Hiro, but steadily. ‘That's as much as I could draw out of Hayao,' he said. ‘When I spoke to him, he seemed to think that I had been sent by the monk, his erstwhile friend, to convince him his true love was dead. He was quite unpleasant to me, I must say. He was paranoid – thought everyone was conspiring with the girl's father to deny their happiness.'

‘Poor man,' said Hana.

‘Yes. All the time she really was dead, of course – it was she who was lying to him. The rest of the story is from Hayao's neighbour, Yusai. A man who, I must say, was just as bad a gossip as Hayao said. Still, it made him a useful source of information. One night Yusai the fortune-teller was unable to sleep, and wandering in his garden, he happened to hear a voice through his neighbour Hayao's paper window. He peered in, by the light of his night-lantern. Inside, under the shade of a mosquito net, Hayao was talking intently to someone. The
strange thing was that Yusai couldn't see who he was talking to. He did hear what Hayao was saying, though.

‘“And if your father should indeed disinherit you for seven lifetimes, you will come and live with me forever. And if he comes to claim you back, I will fight him. My sword has not tasted blood for many months.”

‘There was a pause, then Hayao said. “Ah, my dear. I am so happy that you are not dead. I love you.”

‘All of a sudden, the moon came out from behind a cloud and lit up the scene inside, so that for Yusai it was as if a lighthouse's beam had swung round and illuminated the room. What he saw made him fall backwards, into the cruel thorns of a rosebush. For just a moment, in the light of the moon, he thought he saw the pale shape of a woman – though afterwards he convinced himself he had imagined it – and then it was gone, and he realized Hayao was speaking to nothing.'

‘Ugh,' said Hiro, shivering.

‘It was Yusai who alerted the monk, Hayao's friend, to what was going on. He thought Hayao might have gone mad, but of course the monk knew immediately that he was being haunted, and he called for me.'