“She lives in a happier past,” said Ribata softly. “Humor her, please.”
Hardly helpful. His eyes roamed around for inspiration and fell on the bridge. The last of the sunlight was gone and the brilliant red of its balustrade had turned to a dull brown of withered maple leaves. Akitada recited, “The evening sheds a lonely light upon the bridge suspended between two arms of land.” The old lady hissed behind her fan. “Prince Okisada could have done better, even when his illness was upon him. However, let me see.” She tapped her chin with the fan. “‘Evening,’ ‘lonely,’
‘suspended,’ ‘arms.’ ” She cackled triumphantly, and cried, in a grating singsong, “Waiting, I cradle loneliness in my arms, hoping you will cross the bridge.”
Akitada and Ribata applauded politely, their eyes on the ridiculous old creature who simpered behind her fan and sent inviting glances toward Akitada.
They were unaware that someone had joined them until Kumo spoke.
“I think my honored grandmother must feel the chill of the air. I have come to escort her back to her quarters.” Akitada knelt quickly, his head bowed, hoping he had not broken some rule, but Kumo took no notice of him. He went to his grandmother and bent to lift her to her feet.
“No!” She scrambled back like a small, stubborn child. “I don’t want to go. Lord Yoriyoshi and I are exchanging poems. His are not as good as the prince’s, but . . .” She screwed up her face and began to cry. “The prince died,” she wailed. “All of my friends die. It’s your fault.” And she lashed out with a frail hand like a bird’s claw and slapped her grandson’s face. He stepped back, his expression grim, as she staggered to her feet and faced him with glittering eyes. “I hate you,” she shrieked. “You are a monster! I wish you would die, too.” Then she burst into violent tears and the mask of the court beauty disintegrated into a grotesque mingling of black and white paint. Her thin frame shook in its volu-minous, many-colored silks, and she began to sway alarmingly.
Both Ribata and Kumo went to her aid. “She is overtired,” muttered Ribata, while he said, “I hate to see her like this.” Lady Saisho clung to the nun, but her tears diminished, and after a moment she allowed her grandson to lift her in his arms and carry her away with tender care. The nun walked with them a little ways, then returned.
Akitada had got to his feet. “What was she talking about?” he asked, puzzled by Lady Saisho’s references to Prince Okisada.
Ribata sighed. “Old age may take away the mind, yet leave the pain behind. She has seen much grief and many horrors in her long life.”
He gave her a sharp look. “I have heard that, in spite of the favor shown the high constable by the government in the capital, her grandson still bears a grudge for what happened three generations ago.”
Ribata looked into the distance, her arms folded into her wide sleeves, and murmured, “They are a proud family.” Following her glance, Akitada said, “Look around you.” His sweeping gesture encompassed the elegant garden with its pavilion, shrine, lake, and lacquered bridge. “The Kumos have not fared badly here. I see power, wealth, and luxury all about me where I least expected it.”
She gazed silently at the scene. The last light was fading in the sky and already the darkness of night seeped forth from the trees and ground. Fireflies glimmered faintly. Only the lake still shimmered, reflecting, like a lady’s polished silver mirror, the dying lavender of the sky. “You play the flute?” Ribata asked softly.
The question startled Akitada. “I used to, poorly, in another life.”
She went back into the pavilion. Picking up her flute, she offered it. “Come. Play for me.”
Ribata was a woman of extraordinary culture, one of the mysteries of this island, and part of him did not want to play, fearing her censure, even if it remained unspoken. But his desire overcame his shyness. He took up the flute with a bow. They seated themselves, and he put the mouthpiece to his lips and blew gently.
The sound the instrument produced was strong and very beautiful. It told him that this flute was of extraordinary, perhaps legendary quality. He looked at it in wonder. At first glance very plain and ordinary, it consisted of a piece of bamboo with seven holes and a mouthpiece-called a cicada because it resembled the carapace of that insect-the whole wrapped in paper-thin cherry bark of a lustrous deep red and then lacquered with the sap of the sumac tree until its patina shimmered like layered gossamer.
The flute was old and must be very precious, a family heir-loom. “What is its name?” he asked reverently.
“Plover’s Cry.”
“Ah.” He raised the flute to his lips again. The name was apt.
High, clear, and full of longing, the notes resembled the melancholy cry of the male bird on the seashore calling for its lost mate. His hands shook a little with awe and pleasure, and he closed his eyes before playing in earnest.
The song he chose was one he knew well, but still he was nervous. He knew he could not do justice to such a flute, even if he tried his best. “Rolling Waves and Flying Clouds” was not his favorite, but it contained a passage he had never quite mastered, and he hoped Ribata would correct him. So he concentrated, paying attention to his fingering, and thought he did not do too badly. But when he opened his eyes and lowered the flute, he saw that the nun had fallen asleep.
It was almost dark. As if to respond to the call of the flute, a cicada began its song nearby, and gradually others joined. He listened for a while, feeling mournful and unhappy.
Then he raised the flute to his lips again and played to the cicadas. He played “Twilight Cicadas” for them, and as they seemed to like that, he also played “Walking Among Cherry Blossoms,” and “Wild Geese Departing,” and “Rain Falling on my Hut.” As he played, he thought of his wife Tamako dancing about the courtyard with their infant son. He had a sudden fear that he might not survive this journey to see them again and resolved if he did, he would try to be a better husband and father.
As always, the music eased his black thoughts, and when the last song was done, he sighed and with a bow, he laid the precious flute on the mat before the sleeping nun. Then he rose.
Ribata’s voice startled him. “You are troubled.” He stood in the dark, waiting.
“I think you play the flute to find the way out of your troubles,” she told him.
“Yes,” he admitted, awed by her perception. “I’m not very good, because I don’t concentrate on technique but only on the sounds and my thoughts. How did you know?” In the faint light remaining, he could see that her eyes were open now and rested on him. “The flute told me.”
“I want to do better,” he said humbly, and, saying it, he knew he meant more than flute playing.
He waited a long time, but she made no other comment.
Finally he bowed. “I have been a nuisance,” he said. “Please forgive me. Thank you for allowing me to play this magnificent flute. I shall always remember it.” He turned to go.
“Take it with you,” she said.
He stopped, appalled. “No. I couldn’t. Not that flute. I’m not worthy and-”
“Take it,” she said again.
“You don’t understand. I could not care for it properly. It might get lost or broken. Where I am going there is . . . unrest, perhaps danger.”
“I know. Take it. You can return it to me when you have done what you came to do.” And silently, she rose and slipped past him with a mere whisper of her robe.
He looked after her, dazed with wonder, until she passed across the bridge, her white robe a brief glimmer against the black mass of trees-a pale insubstantial ghost returning to the darkness. Only the flute remained, a tangible link to the mystery of her past, and perhaps to that of Kumo, and his grandmother, and of Prince Okisada who had died, or been murdered, for his own past.
Akitada went back, took up the flute, and put it tenderly into his sleeve. Then he left the garden in search of food and a place to sleep.
Wherever Inspector Osawa would be bedding down, the convict Taketsuna could only hope for a dry corner among the servants and horses. It was fully dark now, and no one seemed about. Lights glimmered from the residence, and torches spread a reddish glow over the stable yard.
As Akitada approached the stockade enclosing the stables, kitchens, storehouses, and servants’ quarters, he
