In spite of the huge hole in the roof, the floor of the abandoned temple was in partial darkness. It seemed to be strewn with debris and garbage. Fallen columns, leaning walls, piles of broken roof tiles were everywhere. So were broken dishes, rags, and rotting food remnants. He was in a section that still had a partial roof over it and walls on three sides. But here, too, a lot of rubble and garbage had collected. Bundles of rags were piled in corners here and there. A charred section showed someone had made a fire on the wooden floor, perhaps to cook, for an iron pot and some other utensils stood nearby.
Then Saburo remembered that Honkokuji was the beggars’ den.
A bout of dizziness seized him, and a sudden retching took him forward to a corner to vomit.
“Hey!”
The filthy pile of rags disintegrated into two separate segments that flew to either side. The shock stopped his nausea. He swallowed and stared.
Curses assaulted his ears from both sides. Other voices sounded from a distance, and here and there piles of garbage took on substance and life as if they had been magically transformed into creatures.
Saburo apologized to the two old men he had disturbed. They grumbled and sat down again. One of them had lost an arm.
“How did I get here?” Saburo asked them. “Did you see who brought me?”
The cripple jerked his head toward the left. There sat a giant of a man with bushy black hair and beard. He was watching Saburo with a wide grin.
Saburo, his head hurting as if it meant to split open, walked over. “Hello,” he said, nodding his head in greeting and flinching at the pain. “I’m Saburo. I hear you brought me here last night. Is that right?”
The giant mouthed something incomprehensible. Saburo squatted down before him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I’m very grateful, though. I wondered where you found me.”
One of the old men joined them. “He can’t talk. They cut out his tongue. Most people don’t know what he’s saying.”
The giant nodded. His eyes went from Saburo to the old man. He mumbled. Spittle dripped from the corners of his mouth into his beard as he struggled with the words.
The old man translated, “He says you looked like one of us, so he picked you up and brought you here. He says you were in an alley in the Willow Quarter. He works there.”
“He works? You mean he isn’t a beggar?” Saburo was still trying to understand why this man had carried him all the way across the city.
The old man frowned at him. “We all work,” he pointed out. “We got our places, and there we sit or stand every day to pick up a few coppers. Jinsai keeps late hours because the Willow Quarter stays busy till dawn, but he makes good money there. He does odd jobs sometimes.”
The giant nodded and grinned.
The old man scowled back. “He needs to,” he said snidely. “Look at the size of the beast. He eats his weight in food every day.”
The giant smiled more broadly.
“Would you ask him if he saw anyone near me?”
“He can hear you well enough,” snapped the old man.
Saburo made the giant an apologetic bow, groaned, and reached for his head.
The big man mouthed something and gestured.
The old-timer nodded. “Nobody near you, but a man was walking away at the end of the alley.”
“Did you see what he looked like?”
The giant scratched his head, pointed at Saburo and muttered.
“He looked like you,” the old man translated with a grin.
“He looked like me?” Saburo stared at him.
The giant chuckled, gestured some more, and pointed at Saburo’s clothes. The old man explained, “He was your size and dressed in black from head to toe. What happened to your face?”
Saburo had to answer this question all the time. He minded, just as he minded the stares, the averted eyes, the expressions of horror and disgust. At least neither the giant nor the old beggar seemed at all bothered by his horrible disfigurement. No doubt they were used to all sorts of horrors. He said, “Some men wanted to know what I couldn’t tell them.”
“Oh,” said the old man and fell silent. The giant leaned across and patted Saburo’s shoulder with his huge paw, causing him to tumble sideways and cry out at the sudden pain in his head.
The giant muttered. The old man said, “Jinsai says to let Bashan look at your head. Come, I’ll take you.”
Saburo protested, but the old man was already limping away. This time, Saburo just waved a hand toward the giant, then followed the old beggar.
The temple had once been very large, and while it offered only partial shelter against the rain, its inhabitants had found their own means of improving it. Here and there, fallen debris and sections of wood flooring or of interior walls had been salvaged and cobbled together to make small huts and lean-tos. There they lived, singly or as small families. The whole formed a village of sorts. He was in the beggars’ headquarters. This ruined temple was the location of their kakibe, their guild, for they were organized like any other business in the city. And they were untouchable, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the city. They had their own laws and rules.
The old man headed for the open courtyard. It was still surrounded by partial walls and the remnants of outbuildings. Even parts of the pagoda remained. Near the well of what must have been the kitchen area when monks still lived there, a small group of people had gathered to watch a bald man at his work.
Bashan.
Saburo saw that Bashan was one of the blind masseurs. His head was shaven and he knelt in front of a seated man, probing inside his mouth. Beside him rested an open wooden satchel. Many masseurs were blind men and performed their services by touch only. Some even practiced acupuncture and moxibustion, carrying their tools in a box that could be slung across their shoulder and chest. Such work was possible for the blind, and some became very good at it.
But Saburo did not trust a blind man to touch his head and stopped. “No, wait. I don’t need any help. I feel fine.”
The old man ignored him and shouted, “Hey, there, Bashan. Got a patient for you. He’s had a bad knock on his head. Get your fingers out of Goto’s mouth and take a look at him.” He chortled at the expression. Seeing Saburo’s reaction, he added, “Got magic in those fingers. Don’t you worry.”
The masseur had turned his face in their direction. His eyes were half closed, and he leaned his head sideways as if to hear better. He called out, “Is that you, Eino? I’m done.” He held up a bloody tooth and made Saburo gag again. “Bring him over here.”
His patient rose with a wide grin of relief, the gaps in his teeth proving he had lost teeth before and probably more painfully.
The old man seized Saburo by the sleeve and drew him forward.
“Really, I’m fine,” said Saburo, hanging back. “Thanks, Bashan, but I don’t need any treatment. Besides I’ve got no money.”
Bashan laughed. It was a nice laugh, full-throated and pleasant. Tora saw that the blind masseur was tall and would have been handsome if not for his disability. “Nobody has any money here, friend. Sit down and let me touch your face.”
Saburo recoiled. “No!”
Bashan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”
The old beggar explained, “He’s got those ugly scars on his face. He says someone tortured him. It’s really the back of his head needs looking at.” To Saburo, he repeated, “Don’t you worry! Bashan’s very gentle.”
With an inward sigh, Saburo sat down across from the masseur. Bashan washed his hands in a basin and dried them on a cloth attached to his belt. Then he traced Saburo’s scars with his fingers. Their touch was cool from the water and soft and very quick. “I see,” he murmured. “Did you tell them what they wanted to know?”
“Yes,” Saburo said, angry at the man and at himself. “You would’ve done the same.”
“I believe you. Now lean down so I can check your head.”
Again Bashan’s touch was feather light. Saburo felt only a couple of brief twinges.