The Clever Hawk

  *

  They say that, given time, even dust amassed will grow into a mountain. Day by day, and step by step, I push my body.

  My increased distance in the final year takes me through the outskirts of Kyoto. There, I sense the strange unease in the streets; all those living there knew war was almost upon then, yet they went about their daily tasks, choosing to ignore what was obvious. Although my course sees me come into close proximity with all manner of people, I move through them as if I do not exist. It is not so different to running through the dense forest, for in both I am alone. I saw myself as they must see me, a true mountain monk: wearing the elongated straw hat, pure white robes, and split-toed socks, my gait even and smooth, head forward, upright, flying without obstruction.

  I complete the first block of one-hundred days of the seventh year of the kaihogyo with surprising ease. Every day I am on the trail for more than fourteen hours, leaving little time to rest and eat, but by focusing upon each step I never become miserable or despondent. I half-expect to see Takatora when the moon is at its fullest and the air cold and dry, but in over a year and a half since the fasting he has not appeared.

  There is, however, one ghost that haunts me still.

  I know Yobutomo has returned to Enrakyu-ji, as I have seen him on occasion in the preceding few weeks, but always our paths have always diverged from one another. I awoke early out of a habit, well before sunrise, even though with my penultimate block completed I am due some rest period before beginning my final one-hundred day trial. I spend some time reflecting upon my thoughts before seeking Yobutomo out just as the sun is rising. It does not take long to find him, for I have seen which paths he runs before dawn. I do not have to wait for long before I see his figure approach, moving at a quick walk that is more like a glide between the trees.

  “Tonbo?” he says, drawing closer, his breathing still elevated.

  “You are looking well,” I say, my lie obvious. Time is starting to lean heavily upon his features and he has to squint in order to focus, and I hear a rasping to his breath.

  “Tonbo.” He gives me a sad smile. “Again, in only one year, you have grown.”

  “I wanted to speak with you,” I say suddenly, knowing that if I delay I will not ever be able to speak.

  “You do?”

  “It is about my debt…”

  Yobutomo shakes his head in an imitation of an old man’s wandering wits and gives a wave of his hand, as if the matter was of no consequence entirely. I subtly shift my position, blocking his intended escape.

  “I have only the final task remaining,” I say. “One-hundred more days. After that -”

  “You are your own man now. You will make your own path.”

  “I saw her, last week.”

  Yobutomo looks confused, but after a moment gives a little nod.

  “Where?”

  “In the streets of Kyoto. It was early morning, I was passing through an intersection when I saw her…”

  In my mind’s eye I can see it again, the streets broad and nearly deserted, the sky just hinting at dawn. The back of the tall-wheeled courtesan’s cart, emblazoned with a motif of cranes and bamboo leaves. It was not unusual to see the women of the night returning from customer’s houses at this early hour, yet something drew my eye, and I slowed my steps to watch. The runner had lain down the poles and ran his forearm across his face, a white sweatband knotted about this forehead and a light sleeveless top darkened by sweat. He moved around the side of the cart and opened the low door. I watched as a young woman dressed in a rich gown of red and gold was helped from the compartment, her movements measured and graceful. The gown hugged her slender and shapely body, the wide collar exposing her neck, her coiffure shining like a heavy black stone, bound up high and held by comb. She bowed her head in thanks to her driver and paused a moment, head cocked as if she had heard something, and she looked up. Her eyes met mine, and a tiny smile, no more than a delicate upturn at the corner of her painted red lips, sent a physical jolt through me.

  She had looked away, and stepped into the building. I could not tear my eyes away as the runner stood, pivoting the handcart upright about the two high wheels and hauling upon the poles under his arms. Moments later, he turned a corner and disappeared, and I was alone. I remember lingering there a while, watching the house. There were no lights or movements from within. For a moment, I played with the idea of going up to the door and presenting myself; perhaps up close, the differences would be obvious, and I would have known I had been deceived by the light. But I knew the truth.

  “It was Aki,” I say. “I saw her ghost.”

  “You’re shaking,” says Yobutomo. “Here, boy, sit down before you fall down.”

  I pass a hand over my face.

  “I cannot run from what I have done. You are right. I have a debt. I want to aid you the best way I can.”

  “Miyamori castle?”

  I nod, and Yobutomo purses his lips.

  “I will begin preparations.”