"I feel fine," said Tora, getting up and losing the compress again. "And I can take the note on my way. I want to make sure old Umakai's friends don't get into trouble." He pressed the herbal pack into Seimei's hand.
Seimei protested, but Akitada said, "Leave him be, Seimei! I must say, Tora, you are unusually forgiving about the treatment you received. And conditions at Rashomon are getting appalling. The sooner the authorities are made aware of what is going on there, the better. This may just get them started cleaning out the riffraff around the gate."
Tora looked shocked. "You can't do that. Those guys let me go. I grant you Spike and Nail are a bit rough, but Monk and Hitomaro were very decent. They're educated men like you, reading books and everything. You can't throw people in jail for being down on their luck. You'd soon have nobody left to clean the streets and plow the fields."
Akitada grimaced. "You are right. Very well, I leave the matter in your hands." He rose and put on his hat. "Seimei, please make copies of the documents your chess partner promised to bring." At the door he paused and added, "Oh, and see if you can find out what tradesmen were supplying the wine, lanterns, cushions and so forth for the poetry competition. Try the housekeeping office in the Treasury and the office of the superintendent of the imperial parks."
Astonished, Tora and Seimei stared at each other.
The mansion that once belonged to Prince Yoakira was only a short distance from the Sugawara residence. A tall plaster wall topped with tiles protected a compound covering an entire block. Behind the wall rose the tops of tall trees and the tiled roofs of many halls. A great silence hung over the whole area.
The heavy, studded double gate was securely locked, but a smaller gate beside it stood open. Akitada walked in and crossed an imposing entry courtyard. It was deserted. To the right and left rose buildings with deep verandas and wide roof overhangs. They were connected by covered galleries through which one could see other courtyards, some with trees and shrubbery, and more halls, roofs and galleries. Once the place would have thronged with visitors and bustled with servants. Now the emptiness and silence were oppressive.
Akitada passed by the main building, containing the ceremonial rooms used only for public functions or great family celebrations. Probably the service conducted by Sesshin had taken place there, but now the hall lay closed and brooding in the morning sun.
Beyond it was another courtyard, this one with a group of pines, dark and stiff guardians over the adjoining private residences. Which one had been the prince's? They all looked alike. Here must also be the quarters occupied by his granddaughter and grandson. Where had the boy stood when he saw his grandfather rushing across the compound towards the building belonging to his sister?
Suddenly Akitada felt uncomfortably like an intruder caught in the act. He turned quickly, scanning the surroundings. Nothing. Yet it was as if he had disturbed the peace of some immanent force, and a shiver ran down his spine.
But then his ear caught a reassuringly human sound in this ghostly place. In the distance, someone was raking gravel.
Following the soft, swishing sounds, Akitada went in search of the lone gardener. After a few wrong turns, he passed through a gallery into a small inner courtyard which was shaded by a huge old paulownia tree. An old man in a loose hempen shirt and pants was busy sweeping up the fallen blossoms and yellowed leaves.
"Good morning, uncle," Akitada called out to him.
The old man started and peered towards him uncertainly. After a moment, he bowed deeply, saying in a cracked voice, "Good morning, Your Honor. I'm afraid you have come at the wrong time. There's no one at home. The family lives in the country now."
The old-timer was bent with age, but strong and sturdy still, his sad face deeply tanned and wrinkled, like old wood cracked by time, his hair and beard nearly white. Akitada said, "My name is Sugawara and I come from the young lord, who is my pupil. He has expressed concern for his people, and so I thought to ask for news."
The old man's face broke into a smile of great sweetness. "The young lord?" he cried. "Oh, how is the young lord, sir?" Tears rose to his eyes and spilled over. "Oh, the sad change! Oh!" he murmured, shaking his head in sorrow.
"The boy is well enough, and a very good student. Come, let us sit down over there and talk. What is your name, by the way?"
"I'm Kinsue, Your Honor." The greybeard carefully leaned his bamboo rake against the trunk of the old tree and followed Akitada to the veranda steps. "The old woman and me, we stayed behind to take care of the place." He stopped uncertainly. "But won't you come inside?"
"No, no." Akitada sat down on a step. "It is a beautiful day and I would much rather be in the fresh air. Young Lord Minamoto is concerned about the well-being of his sister and of the servants. Can you tell me about them?"
Kinsue remained standing respectfully. "Not much, Your Honor," he said. "You see when I came back from the mountains, the wagons were all packed to go. The young lady and all the other servants left soon after. There was to be no mourning, because the master had been transported to Nirvana, you see. Lord Sakanoue said it was a matter for rejoicing." He looked down at his hempen outfit, traditionally worn by a dead man's servants, and brushed the fabric awkwardly. "It seemed disrespectful." Gazing across the courtyard, towards the tree, he wiped his eyes. "Forgive me, sir, but I'm an old man," he said brokenly, "and I cannot help weeping. To me it was dreadful, the day we lost our master. Lord Sakanoue took the young lord away and when he came back, he told me and my wife to stay behind. We were not wanted. He took the last wagon to the country himself."
"But he is back in the capital. Does he not reside here?"
"No. He went to see everyone settled and then came back alone. But he doesn't live here. There's talk of ghosts, you see. It's only me and the old woman who live here and look after the master's home." The old man sighed. "You can't blame Lord Sakanoue. The soothsayer warned us. He said evil would befall this house. But the master had him whipped from the gate. Now the master's dead and the halls are without life. Even this tree is dying. My wife and I, we say our prayers for the master's spirit every day. The forty-nine days will be up in another week. Maybe then he will have rest. May the Buddha grant it." He bowed his head and let the tears drip unchecked into the gravel.
Akitada did not know what to say in the face of such grief and superstition. His eyes went to the pile of yellow leaves under the tree. It was early summer still. Why was the tree losing its leaves? He looked up at the dense crown above. There was an astonishing number of yellowing leaves amongst the green. It must be the hot, dry weather. Soon the summer rains would come. Surely the old tree would recover then.
As if he had shared his thought, the old man before him began to talk again. "We try to keep his place the way he would like it," he said. "Every day I put fresh flowers in his room and offerings of fruit and rice. When I am there I talk to him a little. Nothing much. About the weather and what part of the house we are going to clean next. I shall tell him what you said about his grandson being such a fine scholar. He will be so pleased; he loved the young lord. He was a very good master." Again Kinsue brushed awkwardly at his wet face with a gnarled hand. "Would Your Honor like to see the master's room?" he asked timidly.
Akitada accepted and found that he had been sitting on the steps leading to the prince's pavilion. Kinsue climbed the steps and opened a finely carved door leading into a large, bright space divided by means of painted screens into three smaller areas. One of these, the old man explained, had been where the prince had slept. It was now bare of mats and bedding. A fine low writing desk and shelves with a few books occupied the next space. Here, in a niche with a hanging calligraphy scroll, Kinsue had placed his offerings: a sheaf of purple irises in a porcelain vase, and two bowls of food, one of oranges and another of rice. Set carefully beside these traditional offerings to buddhas and spirits of the dead were a pair of new straw sandals and a small pile of copper coins.