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be closed now till spring.ö
ôIt is an honor for us that you have returned,ö one of them said shyly, and
the glances they exchanged told me they had a fair idea of the significance of
my appearance.
After ten minutes or so the monk came hurrying back. ôOur abbot welcomes Lord
Otori,ö he said, ôand asks that you will bathe and eat. He would like to speak
with you when the evening prayers are finished.ö
Makoto finished his tea, bowed formally to me, and said he must get ready for
evening prayers, as though he had spent the whole day in the temple with the
other monks, not slogging through a blizzard and killing two men. His manner
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was cool and formal. I knew beneath it lay the heart of a true friend, but
here he was one of the monks, while I had to relearn how to be a lord. The
wind howled around the gables; the snow drifted relentlessly down. I had come
in safety to Terayama. The winter was mine to reshape my life.
I was taken to one of the temple guest rooms by the young man who'd brought
the abbot's message. In spring and summer these rooms would have been full of
visitors and pilgrims, but now they were deserted. Even though the outer
shutters were closed against the storm, it was bitterly cold. The wind moaned
through the chinks in the wall, and through some of the larger ones snow
drifted. The same monk showed me the way to the small bathhouse built above a
hot spring. I took off my wet, filthy clothes and scrubbed myself all over.
Then I eased my body into the hot water. It was even better than I'd imagined
it would be. I thought of the men who had tried to kill me in the last two
days and was fiercely glad I was alive. The water steamed and bubbled around
me. I felt a rush of gratitude for it, that it should well up out of the
mountain, bathe my aching body, and un-thaw my frozen limbs. I thought about
mountains, which were just as likely to spit out ash and fire or shake their
sides and throw buildings around like kindling, and make men feel as helpless
as the insects that crawl from burning logs. This mountain could have gripped
me and frozen me to death, but instead it had given me this scalding water.
My arms were bruised from the warrior's grip, and there was a long, shallow
cut on my neck where his sword must have grazed me. My right wrist, which had
bothered me on and off ever since Akio had bent it backward, in Inuyama,
tearing the tendons, now felt stronger. My body seemed more spare than ever,
but otherwise I was in good shape after the journey. And now I was clean too.
I heard footsteps in the room beyond, and the monk called out that he had
brought dry clothes and some food. I emerged from the water, my skin bright
red from the heat, rubbed myself dry on the rags left there for that purpose,
and ran back along the boardwalk through the snow to the room.
It was empty. The clothes lay on the floor: clean loincloth, quilted
undergarments, silken outer robe, also quilted, and sash. The robe was a dark
plum color woven with a deeper pattern of purple, the Otori crest in silver on
the back. I put it on slowly, relishing the touch of the silk. It had been a
long time since I had worn anything of this quality. I wondered why it was at
the temple and who had left it here. Had it been Shigeru's? I felt his
presence envelop me. The first thing I would do in the morning would be to
visit his grave. He would tell me how to achieve revenge.
The smell of the food made me realize how famished I was. The meal was more
substantial than anything I'd had for days, and it took me just two minutes to
devour it. Then, not wanting to lose the heat from the bath or to fall asleep,
I went through some exercises, ending with meditation.
Beyond the wind and the snow I could hear the monks chanting from the main
hall of the temple. The snowy night, the deserted room with its memories and
ghosts, the serene words of the ancient sutras, all combined to produce an
exquisite bittersweet sensation. My spine chilled. I wished I could express
it, wished I had paid more attention when Ichiro had tried to teach me poetry.
I longed to hold the brush in my hand: If I could not express my feelings in
words, perhaps I could paint them.
ôCome back to us,ö the old priest had said, ôWhen all this is overàö Part of
me wished I could do that and spend the rest of my days in this tranquil
place. But I remembered how even here I had overheard plans of war; the monks
were armed and the temple fortified now. It was far from over; indeed it was
only just begun.
The chanting came to an end and I heard the soft pad of feet as the monks
filed away to eat, then sleep for a few hours until the bell roused them at
midnight. Footsteps approached the room from the cloister, and the same monk
came to the door and slid it open. He bowed to me and said, ôLord Otori, our
abbot wishes to see you now.ö
I stood and followed him along the cloister. ôWhat's your name?ö
ôNorio, sir,ö he replied, and added in a whisper, ôI was born in Hagi.ö
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He did not say more, the rule of the temple being that no one spoke
unnecessarily. We walked around the central courtyard, already filled with
snow, past the eating hall where the monks knelt in silent rows, each with a
bowl of food in front of him, past the main hall, which smelled of incense and
candle wax and where the golden figure sat gleaming in the dimness, to the
third side of the square. Here lay a series of small rooms used as offices and
studies. From the farthest I could hear the click of prayer beads, the whisper
of a sutra. We stopped outside the first room and Norio called in a low voice,
ôLord Abbot, your visitor is here.ö
I was ashamed when I saw him, for it was the old priest himself, in the same
old clothes I had seen him in when I had last been at Terayama. I had thought
him one of the old men of the temple, not its head. I had been so wrapped up
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