“Men don’t talk to their wives, they talk to each other,” he retorted. “Anyway you have no husband. You would spend your time better marrying again.”
“I will marry no one,” she said. “That’s why I must learn. All the things a husband would do for me, I must do for myself.”
“Of course you will marry,” he replied shortly. “Something will be arranged.” But to her relief he made no efforts in that direction.
She continued to sit with him every day, kneeling beside him as he prepared the inkstone and the brushes, watching every stroke. She could read and write the flowing script that women used, but her father wrote in men’s language, the shapes of the characters as impenetrable and solid as prison bars.
She watched patiently, until one day he handed her the brush and told her to write the characters for man, woman, and child.
Because she was naturally left-handed she took the brush in that hand, but, seeing him frown, transferred it to the right. Using her right hand meant, as always, that she had to put more effort into her work. She wrote boldly, copying his arm movements. He looked at the result for a long time.
“You write like a man,” he said finally.
“Pretend that I am one.” She felt his eyes on her and raised her own to meet his gaze. He was staring at her as if he did not know her, as if she alarmed and fascinated him at the same time, like some exotic animal.
“It would be interesting,” he said, “to see if a girl could be taught. Since I have no son, nor will I ever have one now . . .”
His voice trailed off and he stared into the distance with unseeing eyes. It was the only time he alluded even faintly to her mother’s death.
From then on, Kaede’s father taught her everything that she would have learned already had she been born male. Ayame disapproved strongly—so did most of the household and the men, especially Shoji—but Kaede ignored them. She learned quickly, though much of what she learned filled her with despair.
“All Father tells me is why men rule the world,” she complained to Shizuka. “Every text, every law, explains and justifies their domination.”
“That is the way of the world,” Shizuka replied. It was night and they lay side by side, whispering. Ai, Hana, and the other women were asleep in the adjoining room. The night was still, the air cold.
“Not everyone believes that. Maybe there are other countries where they think differently. Even here there are people who dare to think in other ways. Lady Maruyama, for instance . . .” Kaede’s voice went even quieter. “The Hidden . . .”
“What do you know about the Hidden?” Shizuka said, laughing softly.
“You told me about them, a long time ago, when you first came to me at Noguchi Castle. You said they believed everyone was created equal by their god. I remember that I thought you, and they, must have been mad. But now when I learn that even the Enlightened One speaks badly of women—or at least his priests and monks do—it makes me question why it should be so.”
“What do you expect?” Shizuka said. “It’s men who write histories and sacred texts—even poetry. You can’t change the way the world is. You have to learn how to work within it.”
“There are women writers,” Kaede said. “I remember hearing their tales at Noguchi Castle. But Father says I should not read them, that they will corrupt my mind.”
Sometimes she thought her father selected works for her to read simply because they said such harsh things about women, and then she thought perhaps there were no other works. She particularly disliked K’ung Fu-Tzu, whom her father admired intensely. She was writing the thoughts of the sage to her father’s dictation one afternoon, when a visitor arrived.
The weather had changed in the night. The air was damp with a cold edge to it. Wood smoke and mist hung together in the valleys. In the garden the heavy heads of the last chrysanthemums drooped with moisture. The women had spent the last weeks preparing the winter clothes, and Kaede was grateful for the quilted garments she now wore under her robes. Sitting writing and reading made her hands and feet cold. Soon she would have to arrange for braziers: She feared the onset of winter for which they were still so unprepared.
Ayame came bustling to the door and said in a voice tinged with alarm, “Lord Fujiwara is here, sir.”
Kaede said, “I will leave you,” placed the brush down, and stood.
“No, stay. It will amuse him to meet you. No doubt he’s come to hear whatever news you may have brought from the East.”
Her father went to the doorway and stepped out to welcome his guest. He turned and beckoned to Kaede and then dropped to his knees.
The courtyard was filled with men on horseback and other attendants. Lord Fujiwara was descending from a palanquin that had been set down beside the huge flat rock that had been transported to the garden expressly for that purpose; Kaede remembered the day from her childhood. She marveled briefly that anyone should so travel by choice, and hoped guiltily that the men had brought their own food with them. Then she dropped to her knees as one of the attendants loosened the nobleman’s sandals and he stepped out of them and into the house.
She managed to look at him before she cast her eyes downward. He was tall and slender, his face white and sculpted like a mask, the forehead abnormally high. His clothes were subdued in color, but elegant and made of exquisite fabric. He gave out a seductive fragrance that suggested boldness and originality. He returned her father’s bow graciously and responded to his greeting in courteous, flowery language.
Kaede remained motionless as he stepped past her into the room, the scent filling her nostrils.
“My eldest daughter,” her father said casually as he followed his guest inside. “Otori Kaede.”
“Lady Otori,” she heard him say, and then: “I would like to look at her.”
“Come in, daughter,” her father said impatiently, and she went in on her knees.
“Lord Fujiwara,” she murmured.
“She is very beautiful,” the nobleman remarked. “Let me see her face.”
She raised her eyes and met his gaze.
“Exquisite.”
In his narrowed appraising eyes she saw admiration but no desire. It surprised her, and she smiled slightly but unguardedly. He seemed equally surprised, and the sternly held line of his lips softened.
“I am disturbing you,” he apologized, his glance taking in the writing instruments and the scrolls. Curiosity got the better of him. One eyebrow went up. “A lesson?”
“It’s nothing,” her father replied, embarrassed. “A girl’s foolishness. You will think me a very indulgent father.”
“On the contrary, I am fascinated.” He picked up the page she had been writing on. “May I?”
“Please, please,” her father said.
“Quite a fine hand. One would not believe it to be a girl’s.”
Kaede felt herself blush. She was reminded again of her boldness in daring to learn men’s affairs.
“Do you like K’ung Fu-Tzu?” Lord Fujiwara addressed her directly, confusing her even more.
“I’m afraid my feelings toward him are mixed,” she replied. “He seems to care so little for me.”
“Daughter,” her father remonstrated, but Fujiwara’s lips moved again into something approaching a smile.
“He cannot have anticipated such a close acquaintance,” he replied lightly. “You have arrived lately from Inuyama, I believe. I must confess, my visit is partly to find out what news there is.”
“I came nearly a month ago,” she replied. “Not directly from Inuyama, but from Terayama, where Lord Otori is buried.”
“Your husband? I had not heard. My condolences.”
His glance ran over her form. Nothing escapes him, she thought. He has eyes like a cormorant.
“Iida brought about his death,” she said quietly, “and was killed in turn by the Otori.”
Fujiwara went on to express his sympathy further, and she spoke briefly of Arai and the situation at Inuyama, but bene
ath his formal elegant speech she thought she discerned a hunger to know more. It disturbed her a little, but at the same time she was tempted by it. She felt she could tell him anything and that nothing would shock him, and she was flattered by his obvious interest in her.
“This is the Arai who swore allegiance to the Noguchi,” her father said, returning with anger to his main grudge. “Because of his treachery I found myself fighting men from the Seishuu clan on my own land—some of them my own relatives. I was betrayed and outnumbered.”
“Father!” Kaede tried to silence him. It was none of Lord Fujiwara’s concern, and the less said about the disgrace, the better.
The nobleman acknowledged the disclosure with a slight bow. “Lord Shirakawa was wounded, I believe.”
“Too slightly,” he replied. “Better had I been killed. I should take my own life, but my daughters weaken me.”
Kaede had no desire to hear any more. Luckily they were interrupted by Ayame bringing tea and small pieces of sweetened bean paste. Kaede served the men and then excused herself, leaving them to talk further. Fujiwara’s eyes followed her as she left, and she found herself hoping she might talk with him again but without her father present.
She could not suggest such a meeting directly, but from time to time she tried to think of ways to make it happen. A few days later, however, her father told her a message had come from the nobleman inviting Kaede to visit him to view his collection of paintings and other treasures.
“You have aroused his interest in some way,” he said, a little surprised.
Pleased though somewhat apprehensive, Kaede told Shizuka to go to the stables and ask Amano to get Raku ready and to ride with her to Fujiwara’s residence, which was a little more than an hour’s journey away.
“You must go in the palanquin,” Shizuka replied firmly.
“Why?”
“Lord Fujiwara is from the court. He is a nobleman. You can’t go and visit him on a horse, like a warrior.” Shizuka looked stern and then spoiled the effect by giggling and adding, “Now, if you were a boy and rode up on Raku, he would probably never let you go! But you have to impress him as a woman; you must be presented perfectly.” She looked critically at Kaede. “He’ll think you too tall, no doubt.”
“He already said I was beautiful,” Kaede replied, stung.
“He needs to find you flawless, like a piece of celadon or a painting by Sesshu. Then he’ll feel the desire to add you to his collection.”
“I don’t want to be part of his collection,” she exclaimed.
“What do you want?” Shizuka’s voice had turned serious.
Kaede answered in a similar tone. “I want to restore my land and claim what is mine. I want to have power as men have.”
“Then you need an ally,” Shizuka replied. “If it is to be Lord Fujiwara, you must be perfect for him. Send a message to say you had a bad dream and that the day seems inauspicious. Tell him you will attend on him the day after tomorrow. That should give us time.”
The message was sent and Kaede submitted herself to Shizuka’s efforts. Her hair was washed, her eyebrows plucked, her skin scrubbed with bran, massaged with lotions, and scrubbed again. Shizuka went through all the garments in the house and selected some of Kaede’s mother’s robes for her to wear. They were not new, but the materials were of high-quality and the colors—gray like a dove’s wing and the purple of bush clover—brought out Kaede’s ivory skin and the blue-black lights in her hair.
“You are certainly beautiful enough to attract his interest,” Shizuka said. “But you must also intrigue him. Don’t tell him too much. I believe he is a man who loves secrets. If you share your secrets with him, be sure he pays a fair price for them.”
The nights had turned cold with the first frosts, but the days were clear. The mountains that encircled her home were brilliant with maple and sumac, as red as flames against the dark green cedars and the blue sky. Kaede’s senses were heightened by her pregnancy, and as she stepped from the palanquin in the garden of the Fujiwara residence, the beauty before her moved her deeply. It was a perfect moment of autumn, and would so soon vanish forever, driven away by the storm winds that would come howling from the mountains.
The house was larger than her own and in much better repair. Water flowed through the garden, trickling over ancient stones and through pools where gold and red carp swam lazily. The mountains seemed to rise directly from the garden, and a distant waterfall both echoed and mirrored the stream. Two great eagles soared above in the cloudless sky.
A young man greeted her at the step and led the way across a wide veranda to the main room where Lord Fujiwara was already sitting. Kaede stepped inside the doorway and sank to her knees, touching her forehead to the floor. The matting was fresh and new, the color still pale green, the scent poignant.
Shizuka remained outside, kneeling on the wooden floor. Within the room there was silence. Kaede waited for him to speak, knowing he was studying her, trying to see as much as she could of the room without moving her eyes or her head. It was a relief when he finally addressed her and begged her to sit up.
“I am very pleased you could come,” he said, and they exchanged formalities, she keeping her voice soft and low, he speaking in such flowery language that sometimes she could only guess at the meaning of the words. She hoped that, if she said as little as possible, he would find her enigmatic rather than dull.
The young man returned with tea utensils and Fujiwara himself made tea, whisking the green powder into a foaming brew. The bowls were rough, pink-brown in color, pleasing to both eye and hand. She turned hers, admiring it.
“It’s from Hagi,” he said. “From Lord Otori’s hometown. It is my favorite of all the tea ware.” After a moment he went on: “Will you go there?”
Of course, I should, Kaede thought rapidly. If he really were my husband and I were carrying his child, I would go to his house, to his family.
“I cannot,” she said simply, raising her eyes. As always the memory of Shigeru’s death and the role she had played in it and in the act of revenge brought her almost to tears, darkening her eyes, making them glow.
“There are always reasons,” he said obliquely. “Take my own situation. My son, my wife’s grave, are in the capital. You may not have heard this: I myself was asked to leave. My writings displeased the regent. After my exile, the city was subjected to two huge earthquakes and a series of fires. It was generally believed to be heaven’s displeasure at such unjust treatment of a harmless scholar. Prayers were offered and I was begged to return, but for the time being my life here pleases me, and I find reasons not to obey immediately—though, of course, eventually I must.”
“Lord Shigeru has become a god,” she said. “Hundreds of people go every day to pray at his shrine, at Terayama.”
“Lord Shigeru, alas for us all, is dead, however, and I am still very much alive. It is too early for me to become a god.”
He had told her something of himself and now she felt moved to do the same. “His uncles wanted him dead,” she said. “That is why I will not go to them.”
“I know little of the Otori clan,” he said, “apart from the beautiful pottery they produce in Hagi. They have the reputation of skulking there. It’s quite inaccessible, I believe. And they have some ancient connection with the imperial family.” His voice was light, almost bantering, but when he went on it changed slightly. The same intensity of feeling that she had noticed previously had entered it again. “Forgive me if I am intruding, but how did Lord Shigeru die?”
She had spoken so little of the terrible events at Inuyama that she longed to unburden herself to him now, but as he leaned toward her she felt his hunger again, not for her, but to know what she had suffered.
“I cannot speak of it,” she said in a low voice. She would make him pay for her secrets. “It is too painful.”
“Ah.” Fujiwara looked down at the bowl in his hand. Kaede allowed herself to study him, the sculpted bones of his face, the sens
uous mouth, the long, delicate fingers. He placed the bowl on the matting and glanced up at her. She deliberately held his gaze, let tears form in her eyes, then looked away.
“Maybe one day . . .” she said softly.
They sat without moving or speaking for several moments.
“You intrigue me,” he said finally. “Very few women do. Let me show you my humble place, my meager collection.”
She placed the bowl on the floor and stood gracefully. He watched every movement she made, but with none of the predatory desire of other men. Kaede realized what Shizuka had meant: If he admired her, this nobleman would want to add her to his collection. What price would he pay for her, and what could she demand?
Shizuka bowed to the floor as they stepped past her, and the young man appeared again from the shadows. He was as fine-boned and as delicate as a girl.
“Mamoru,” Fujiwara said, “Lady Otori has kindly consented to look at my pathetic pieces. Come with us.”
As the young man bowed to her, Fujiwara said, “You should learn from her. Study her. She is a perfect specimen.”
Kaede followed them to the center of the house, where there was a courtyard and a stage area.
“Mamoru is an actor,” Fujiwara said. “He plays women’s roles. I like to present dramas in this small space.”
Maybe it was not large, but it was exquisite. Plain wooden pillars supported the ornately carved roof, and on the backdrop a twisted pine tree was painted.
“You must come and watch a performance,” Fujiwara said. “We are about to start rehearsing Atsumori. We are waiting for our flute player to arrive. But before that we will present The Fulling Block. Mamoru can learn a lot from you, and I would like your opinion of his performance.”
When she said nothing he went on, “You are familiar with drama?”
“I saw a few plays when I was at Lord Noguchi’s,” she replied, “but I know little about it.”
“Your father told me you were a hostage with the Noguchi.”
“From the age of seven.”
“What curious lives women lead,” he remarked, and a chill came over her.
They went from the theater to another reception room that gave out onto a smaller garden. Sunlight streamed into it and Kaede was grateful for its warmth. But the sun was already low over the mountains. Soon their peaks would hide it, and their jagged shadows would cover the valley. She could not help shivering.