Yamada skipped over this one with a smile. The consort would object. After some thought, he settled on a combination of fairly harmless substances and went through the garden to his pharmacy to prepare the medicine.
As he passed the fishpond, he saw the small footprints in the snow and a few crumbs by the side of the pond. Sadamu had been feeding the fish again. This reminded him that he had a family now, and he felt comforted by the thought. There would be two boys to raise. Hachiro went to school with the monks every day, but Sadamu could keep him company a little longer.
He noticed that the path to the pharmacy had not been swept and made a note to speak to Togoro later. In his studio, he laid down his notes and began to assemble, grind, and weigh the ingredients of the aphrodisiac: dried Chinese yam, cinnamon bark, licorice root, hyssop, parsley seeds, all wholesome – unlike that recipe which used dried lacquer and could cause a stomach upset. After some thought, he added ground deer’s horn and doubled the parsley seed. These ingredients he mixed and sifted carefully, then he added honey as a binder. The resultant thick dough, he formed into small pills which were to be dissolved in warm wine and taken on an empty stomach.
To make certain that they would not leave an unpleasant taste on His Majesty’s tongue, he heated a little wine and took a dose himself. He found the taste very satisfactory. The wine had merely an agreeably sweet and herbal flavor. His Majesty, he was convinced, needed only strength of mind to succeed in his endeavors with his consort. Something mildly stimulating was all that was necessary. It would never do to experiment with stronger drugs on an emperor.
By now, Yamada felt pleasantly warm himself in spite of the chilly air in the pharmacy. He placed the pills into a fine white porcelain jar. Around its neck he tied a small piece of paper bearing the simple instructions. It looked very plain for an emperor, he decided, and after a moment’s thought, he carried it into the house to look for a silk ribbon.
Otori heard him in the corridor and put her head out of the kitchen. “Togoro’s gone,” she announced.
“What?” The doctor paused, trying to understand. “Gone where?”
She came a few steps toward him, glowering. “How should I know? Nobody ever tells me anything.”
“I expect he’ll turn up,” Yamada said indifferently and turned toward his room. On second thought, since she seemed to blame him, he added, “I’ll have to leave again in a little. Back to the palace to deliver some medicine.”
She nodded. “Good. We can use the money. That Hachiro’s bought himself new clothes. It took all my household money to pay the shopkeeper for them. You might have told me.”
That explained her ill humor. “He didn’t tell me,” he said defensively. Seeing her eyes widen at Hachiro’s newest outrage, he added, “It’s all right. I forgot that they need new clothes now that they are my sons. Come in and I’ll give you the money.”
“He’s got his nerve doing such a thing without permission,” she muttered, following him into his study. “Maybe it’s time for another whipping.”
He shuddered. “No. Let it go this time.” She told him the cost — not insignificant — and he gave her the money. “What about Sadamu?” he asked.
“He could use new clothes more than that Hachiro.”
“I’ll see about it tomorrow.”
When Otori had left, Yamada sat down and worried about Hachiro. First the business with Togoro, and now the new clothes. The boy was sullen and far too concerned with his new status. The fact that Otori did not confront him herself meant that she was afraid to, and that troubled him more than Hachiro’s shopping spree. But perhaps the fault was his own. He had changed the youngster’s life too abruptly. How could he expect Hachiro to be an obedient son when he had never had a father or a home? No doubt, he would settle down in time, especially now that his days were taken up with lessons.
With a sigh, the doctor searched for the ribbon, found a nice green one, and tied it around the jar.
It was time to make the delivery, but a strange lassitude had seized him, and he stretched out beside his desk, his arms behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. In a way, the audience with His Majesty had been amusing. As long as the emperor did not have his eye on Toshiko, Yamada wished him every success in the bedchamber. Not with Toshiko, though. He flushed hotly at the thought of it and was suddenly so aroused that he jumped up. He paced for a while without finding relief, then threw wide the doors to the cold garden and gulped some winter the air. Maddening images of naked, intertwined bodies, hers and his own, crowded his mind. He ran down into the garden, looked for a broom, and swept the path to the studio with vigorous strokes.
Halfway through the job, he realized that he had just proved the amazing efficacy of His Majesty’s medicine and paused to laugh. By the time all the paths around his house had been cleared, the effect of the medicine had worn off sufficiently for him to return to his room. There he rewrote the prescription for half the amount he had taken, and then he carried the emperor’s pills to the palace.
Strangely, although his body behaved itself now, he could not quite rid his mind of desire for hours afterward.
Only In a Dream
When the maid woke her, Toshiko took a moment to peer into her mirror. The flame of the single candle flickered, but she was satisfied that her make-up was still in place and her hair tidy. Nearby, bedclothes rustled and pale faces materialized in the gloom. Someone whispered a question, but nobody wanted to leave the warm cocoon of bedding. It was bitterly cold this time of night.
The maid helped Toshiko with her costume and arranged her long hair, and then Toshiko snatched up her notes and tripped down the long corridor to the emperor’s room. A servant opened the door for her.
Toshiko was still drowsy from sleep. It took her a moment to realize that she had not been called to assist with His Majesty’s song collection. The large room was dim. Only one lamp was lit inside the curtained dais where bedding had been spread. This single light had the effect of making the gauze draperies translucent and giving the raised dais an importance that imbued it with an almost numinous quality. It reminded her of an altar table in a dark temple hall.
Confused, she stopped to look for Otomae — or anyone. But the dark room was empty except for the Emperor. Gone were the many lights, the desk, his scattered papers. The painted screens had been moved and now partially surrounded the massive curtained dais. She had stepped into another world. Behind her the door closed softly.
The emperor was in undress, wearing a loose white silk robe somewhat resembling a shrine priest’s robe. He came toward her, his hands outstretched in welcome.
“Come,” he said with a smile.
She felt a moment’s panic — as if there were still time or choice to turn and run, to keep running, out of the palace and away from the capital, all the way home, to her family, her horses, her childhood — but there was no escape from this dream.
“Come here, Princess Moon,” the Emperor said more urgently. “Do not turn down my invitation like that other shining lady.” His voice and eyes caressed her.
She saw and heard only kindness and a fervent plea. Those who are very lonely respond to another’s loneliness with a surge of sympathy. Toshiko gathered her skirts and ran to him.
He took her hand and led her up the steps to the curtained dais. Lifting the curtain and taking the notes from her feeble hand, he put them aside and invited her to sit. Then he poured some wine for her.
The curtained dais was like a small, cozy room, its ceiling a silken canopy embroidered with the sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum, emblem of the imperial house, its walls the heavy pale gold draperies that could be raised or lowered with wide brocade bands of a deep purple. The bedding was thick and soft and the color of ripened rice plants. An ornate lantern hung suspended from the canopy and cast its soft light on her crimson trousers. All beyond was in darkness.