Feeling terribly and unfairly disgraced, Sano had no choice but to make his farewell bows and rise. As he walked away from Tsunayoshi and Yanagisawa, the path to the door seemed the beginning of a road leading to certain failure. Still, he must walk it as he tried to fulfill both promises to his father-exemplifying Bushido and performing a heroic deed-virtually alone, in the face of obstacles that now included a new and powerful enemy.
Before the door closed behind him, Sano heard the shogun say to Yanagisawa, “I shall be in my, ahh, chambers for the rest of the night. See that I am not disturbed until tomorrow.”
Chapter 8
The Momijiyama-the Tokugawa ancestral shrine-formed Edo Castle’s sacred, most private heart. There, high on the hilltop, shrouded in pine and cypress and surrounded by high stone walls, reposed the relics of the past Tokugawa shoguns: Ieyasu, Hidetada, Iemitsu, Ietsuna. Their spirits protected the castle to ensure that their line might continue into the infinite future.
Sano hesitated outside the shrine. On either side of the soaring torii gate, flames leapt inside huge stone lanterns. A pair of snarling Korean temple dogs flanked the flagstone path just inside the gate, warning off evil spirits and earthly intruders. Beyond them, the path led between rows of pines and ended at a steep stairway that climbed to the shrine’s main precinct. Smaller lanterns lit the way, their flames winking bravely against the immense, star-studded night.
A primitive disquiet stirred in Sano as he entered the shrine. Here on the dark, deserted hill, in the cold, restless wind that rustled the pines and smelled faintly of incense, the spirit realm seemed very near. Sano imagined ghostly presences lurking in the trees, inhabiting the rocks, buildings, and land. Only his determination to keep his appointment with Aoi propelled him up the steps.
At the top, the wind was stronger, the darkness relieved only by the starlight that filtered through the trees. Sano paused at the ritual basin, a huge stone font sheltered under a thatched roof. The icy water chilled his hands as he washed them.
“Aoi?” he called.
The wind whipped his words away. He followed a path that zigzagged through the trees and between structures he couldn’t identify in the darkness: drum house, bell tower, sutra repositories? He passed a pagoda whose intricate spire pierced the sky, then emerged into a large open courtyard. At its far end, lanterns burned before the main worship hall, where Aoi waited, a still, silent figure dressed in black, holding a small, glowing paper lantern.
Sano raised a tentative hand in greeting, reluctant to speak again. Everything about this meeting-the late hour, isolated location, and eerie atmosphere-suggested a clandestine rendezvous. As he crossed the courtyard toward Aoi, the shrine’s monuments loomed around him: treasuries, ceremonial stage, mausoleums. His footsteps made a forlorn, lonely tapping on the flagstones; the wind pressed at his back, urging him forward.
Aoi gracefully descended the steps to meet him. The wind swirled her dark garments around her. Wordlessly she bowed, then waited for him to speak.
“I’ve brought the things you asked for,” Sano said. “A pouch that belonged to Kaibara Tōju. A lock of hair from another murdered man. And the label from the trophy.”
His words sounded flat and banal in this strange setting. Beyond them, the worship hall was a glittering architectural fantasy of gilt pillars and lattices, carved wood and stone, undulating gabled roofs, and brilliantly colored ornamentation. Floral and geometric paintings decorated the walls. Fierce demons climbed the pillars; dragons writhed over the door; Chinese lions glared from the eaves; phoenixes poised, wings spread for flight, on the roofs pinnacle. The Tokugawa had exercised no restraint in honoring their ancestors. In contrast, Aoi, with her dark hair and clothes and pale skin, had the stark drama of a black and white painting.
“Come with me,” she said.
Her husky voice sent a shivery warmth vibrating through Sano. Intrigued, he followed Aoi out of the courtyard and into the woods. There her lantern barely pierced the darkness. Sano groped his way past trees, stumbling over stones as he hurried to match her swift, sure pace.
They stopped at a place where overhanging boughs made a natural shelter from the wind, but the night seemed even colder, as if the pines exuded a resinous chill. The sudden silence made Sano’s ears ring. Aoi raised her lantern, and in its glow, Sano saw that they were in a sort of woodland shrine-a circular clearing carpeted with pine needles, with an altar in the middle and, at one edge, the moss-covered statue of a deity he couldn’t identify.
Aoi knelt before the altar and used her lantern to light the candles and incense burners arranged in a circle there. Sano knelt opposite her. His curiosity about this enigmatic woman increased.
“Have you always lived at the castle?” he asked.
“Not always, master.” In the candlelight, Aoi’s skin glowed; he had an urge to feel its smoothness. The smoke from the incense, sweet and musky, veiled her in its thin tendrils.
Sano tried again. “How long have you tended the shrine?”
“Six years, master. Before that, I was a palace servant.”
Was she trying to discourage his interest by reminding him of her low status? “Where are you from?” Sano persisted, guessing from the slow tempo of her speech that she was not an Edo native.
Having finished preparing the altar, Aoi folded her hands in her lap. “ Iga Province, master.” An unyielding quality in her polite manner brooked no further questions. “If you would please place the relics there.”
Sano removed the pouch, the paper-wrapped hair, and the label from under his sash and laid them in the center of the circle as she’d indicated. The murder investigation was first priority now. Breaking through her reserve was a challenge he looked forward to meeting later.
Gazing down at the relics, Aoi sat motionless except for the deep breaths that expanded and contracted her chest. Her eyes focused inward, and her respiration gradually slowed until it seemed to cease altogether. She was apparently entering a trance state, similar to one of deep meditation. Time passed. Sano waited, himself entranced by the flickering candles, smoking incense, and Aoi’s deathlike immobility. On the edge of his awareness, he heard the wind whistling outside the shrine, and the barking of a dog somewhere down the hill. The cold permeated his bones. A current of apprehension shot through him, and he felt an almost irresistible impulse to touch Aoi and make sure she was still alive.
Then her mouth opened, emitting a moan that wandered the range from high notes to low, and back again. Sano stared, transfixed by the ritual’s powerful erotic quality. Aoi’s moist lips, her moans, the quickening rise and fall of her bosom, and the sheen of sweat on her face all made him think of a woman succumbing to sexual pleasure. He could even see her nipples, large and erect, pressing through her kimono. Warm blood pooled in his loins. His overwhelming desire to touch her increased. Then she spoke.
“… my son. Promise… ”
The voice was that of an old man, weak and cracked with mortal sickness. Aoi’s features took on a startlingly familiar cast. Sano sat forward so quickly that he almost lost his balance and fell onto the altar. Shock banished arousal as he recognized his father’s voice and visage.
“Be the living embodiment of Bushido… ”
Even as Sano reeled with the blow of hearing his father speak through Aoi, his mind cast about for a rational explanation. At his house, she must have noticed his father’s memorial altar and known of his recent bereavement. But how could she evoke the essence of someone she’d never met, and speak words that he alone had heard? All doubts about her mystical abilities vanished in a flood of pure joy.