relieved that he would not have to find a way to restrain a man he respected. “It’s wrong, Katsushima-san. He’s committed no crime.”
“Are you sure of that? Sure enough to kneel beside him before the kaishaku ? Because that’s what you’ll be doing if you defy the regent: you’ll sentence yourself to execution.”
Once again that tiny, distant voice in Daigoro’s mind voiced its observations about the differences in social stations. Only a ronin would speak of being sentenced to death. Daigoro, lord of his house, would not wait for a higher lord’s sentencing; if he’d done wrong, he would already have plunged his sword into his belly.
But for all of that, Katsushima made a good point. Daigoro had no idea what history the regent and the abbot shared. For that matter, he didn’t even know the abbot’s name. How many conversations had he ever shared with the old man? Three? Four? The abbot had impressed Daigoro from their first meeting, and had offered him valuable spiritual guidance, but for all of that Daigoro didn’t really know anything about him. He had been samurai, yes, but for whom? He had seen battle, yes, and he’d even faced Daigoro’s own father, but how had he conducted himself on the battlefield? With honor? Without? Had he dishonored the great Toyotomi himself? How?
Daigoro could answer none of those questions. All he could do was order a horse to be saddled so he could pay a visit to Katto-ji.
10
“O kuma-dono,” the abbot said when he opened the gate in the temple’s garden wall. “What a surprise! It’s late.”
He held a thin taper; its flickering flame caused his many wrinkles to deepen with shadow. The evening had become quite chilly, but the bald abbot wore neither a hat nor an overrobe. “May I come in?” Daigoro said.
“Of course, of course.”
Upon stepping through Katto-ji’s gate, Daigoro saw the moonlight playing on the broken skin of the huge, twisted, ancient pine that dominated the courtyard. The rocks surrounding the pine had been raked to form concentric waves around the fat, gnarled roots, like ripples retreating from stomping feet in a shallow pool. Here and there a candle flame quivered behind paper windows, but for the most part the abbey was dark and still.
“Please, sit, Okuma-dono. What can I do for you on this beautiful night?”
The abbot sat down on a short staircase that ascended to the meditation hall. Daigoro lowered himself to sit beside him, his right knee wobbling as he did so, his right hand protesting loudly as he used it to balance himself as he sat. He looked at the abbot, whose unbroken hands rested on two good knees, and found himself envious of the old man’s health. And just how old was he? Sixty? Eighty? Daigoro couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he himself was just sixteen and this wizened abbot got around more easily than he did.
“I’ve received a missive,” said Daigoro. “From General Toyotomi, the new regent.”
Daigoro studied the abbot’s face as he delivered this news. The abbot’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Toyotomi. Then his face became even more serene than it was already—and that was saying something, for this was a man who could teach the moonlit stones in the rock garden about serenity.
“Do you know him?” said Daigoro.
“The answer to that depends on what you mean by ‘know.’ I’ve never met him face-to-face.”
“But you met him on the battlefield.”
Again the eyebrows rose. “Ah,” said the abbot. “Now, that’s an interesting insight. What led you to it?”
“He wants me to deliver your head in a sack.”
“Does he, now?”
Daigoro marveled at the abbot’s tranquility. Yes, the old man had been samurai, and yes, he had been practicing Zen for years, but even so, he might still have let slip a hint of distress upon learning that the most powerful man in the empire wanted him dead. Once again Daigoro found himself envious.
And yet he was frustrated too. The abbot had an
“Are you sure of that? Sure enough to kneel beside him before the kaishaku ? Because that’s what you’ll be doing if you defy the regent: you’ll sentence yourself to execution.”
Once again that tiny, distant voice in Daigoro’s mind voiced its observations about the differences in social stations. Only a ronin would speak of being sentenced to death. Daigoro, lord of his house, would not wait for a higher lord’s sentencing; if he’d done wrong, he would already have plunged his sword into his belly.
But for all of that, Katsushima made a good point. Daigoro had no idea what history the regent and the abbot shared. For that matter, he didn’t even know the abbot’s name. How many conversations had he ever shared with the old man? Three? Four? The abbot had impressed Daigoro from their first meeting, and had offered him valuable spiritual guidance, but for all of that Daigoro didn’t really know anything about him. He had been samurai, yes, but for whom? He had seen battle, yes, and he’d even faced Daigoro’s own father, but how had he conducted himself on the battlefield? With honor? Without? Had he dishonored the great Toyotomi himself? How?
Daigoro could answer none of those questions. All he could do was order a horse to be saddled so he could pay a visit to Katto-ji.
10
“O kuma-dono,” the abbot said when he opened the gate in the temple’s garden wall. “What a surprise! It’s late.”
He held a thin taper; its flickering flame caused his many wrinkles to deepen with shadow. The evening had become quite chilly, but the bald abbot wore neither a hat nor an overrobe. “May I come in?” Daigoro said.
“Of course, of course.”
Upon stepping through Katto-ji’s gate, Daigoro saw the moonlight playing on the broken skin of the huge, twisted, ancient pine that dominated the courtyard. The rocks surrounding the pine had been raked to form concentric waves around the fat, gnarled roots, like ripples retreating from stomping feet in a shallow pool. Here and there a candle flame quivered behind paper windows, but for the most part the abbey was dark and still.
“Please, sit, Okuma-dono. What can I do for you on this beautiful night?”
The abbot sat down on a short staircase that ascended to the meditation hall. Daigoro lowered himself to sit beside him, his right knee wobbling as he did so, his right hand protesting loudly as he used it to balance himself as he sat. He looked at the abbot, whose unbroken hands rested on two good knees, and found himself envious of the old man’s health. And just how old was he? Sixty? Eighty? Daigoro couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he himself was just sixteen and this wizened abbot got around more easily than he did.
“I’ve received a missive,” said Daigoro. “From General Toyotomi, the new regent.”
Daigoro studied the abbot’s face as he delivered this news. The abbot’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Toyotomi. Then his face became even more serene than it was already—and that was saying something, for this was a man who could teach the moonlit stones in the rock garden about serenity.
“Do you know him?” said Daigoro.
“The answer to that depends on what you mean by ‘know.’ I’ve never met him face-to-face.”
“But you met him on the battlefield.”
Again the eyebrows rose. “Ah,” said the abbot. “Now, that’s an interesting insight. What led you to it?”
“He wants me to deliver your head in a sack.”
“Does he, now?”
Daigoro marveled at the abbot’s tranquility. Yes, the old man had been samurai, and yes, he had been practicing Zen for years, but even so, he might still have let slip a hint of distress upon learning that the most powerful man in the empire wanted him dead. Once again Daigoro found himself envious.
And yet he was frustrated too. The abbot had an
Similar Books
