His heart contracted at her despair. He put both hands on her shoulders to turn her toward him. “It is not too late. You shall have a fine dower and I will do my utmost to find a good husband for you. You will see, in another year you, too, may look forward to your first child.”
“You are very kind, Akitada.” It was no more than a breath; then she moved away from him, saying brightly, “Now tell me about your day and show me Tamako’s picture!”
He went to unroll the painting.
Yoshiko clapped her hands. “Oh, Akitada! It is charming. The little boy is adorable! Just so must Yori look, I think. We must get your son a puppy.”
“Yori is a little younger, but he is big for his age.” Akitada narrowed his eyes and made mental comparisons. “He has finer features, I think, and larger eyes. And his hair is quite thick so that the braids over his ears stick out more. But he has the same sturdy arms and legs—” He broke off. She looked at him, questioning, and he told her, “I am so worried that there has been no news from them that I can hardly think of anything else. Tomorrow I ride back to see what has become of them.”
“Oh, but Akitada,” cried his sister. “What if… ?” She paused, her eyes large with concern.
He misunderstood and said impatiently, “Mother has repeatedly refused to see me. She can hardly expect me to sit around at her door like those cursed monks. And if she should take it into her head to die while I am gone, it cannot be helped.”
“Yes, of course. I was thinking of the palace. What if they send for you?”
Her worried face made him smile. “I shall only be gone a day or so. Make my apologies and claim an urgent message has called me away.”
The next day was cold and overcast, but the post horse was fresh and Akitada, warmly dressed in a thickly padded hunting robe and lined boots, set out at a smart pace.
In the three weeks since he had passed this way, the colors of the mountains ahead had shifted from the golden bronze of late autumn foliage to a dull grayish brown of winter. Only the pines and cedars had kept their green, muted to a duller shade now under the cloudy sky. Nights of freezing cold had turned the roadside grasses sere, and the fallow rice fields looked nearly black.
He soon reached the foothills and began the steady climb. Once he encountered a small caravan of travelers and stopped to ask about his family, but they had come from the south and had no news. He wondered how far he should go. All the way to Lake Biwa? He could not stay away too long without incurring imperial displeasure if he were called to report. If only his mother had not insisted that he go and announce his return!
Eventually he came to the place where the road to the temple joined the highway. A wooden shack, boarded up and seemingly abandoned on his last visit, was now open, serving refreshments to travelers and pilgrims. With its shutters raised, Akitada saw a small wooden platform inside, with a woman in a blue and white scarf and gray apron sitting next to a tiny stove, an earthenware pitcher, and several bamboo baskets.
He dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. The woman, young and deeply tanned, shot up and skipped down from the platform. “Welcome! Welcome!” she cried, running and bobbing bows every few steps. “Welcome to the Abode of Celestial Mountain Breezes, your honor! First-class accommodations! Refined wines and delicacies from the capital! Served hot to warm you on a chilly ride. Please enter and allow me to wait upon your honor.”
With the end of her speech she came to a halt before him, bowing so deeply that he was looking down at her back and the nape of her neck, and so she remained in apparently rapt contemplation of his boots.
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “I shall have a cup of wine before I go on.”
She bobbed up, revealing briefly a round, smiling face with eyes so narrow that they were mere slits, before rushing back to her shack, where she busied herself with a cup and ladle, with which she dipped wine from a small container on the stove.
Akitada followed more slowly and sat on the edge of the platform. The wine was cheap and rough, as he had expected, but it warmed his stomach in the chill mountain air. He peered into one of the baskets and decided to buy a dumpling. It was hardly capital fare, being a cold rice dumpling stuffed with chopped vegetables, but none the worse for that. He ate hungrily, complimented her, and asked for another.
She had a pretty way of blushing and confided that she had started preparations the night before and risen well before sunrise to boil her dumplings before walking to this little shack with her food and wine supplies.
He smiled at her. “You are strong as well as a good cook. I missed you when I passed this way a few weeks ago. But it was raining very hard.”
“I remember the day,” she cried. “Did you go to see the temple dancers?”
Akitada shook his head.
“Oh, you missed a treat. I closed early that day and walked up to the temple with my husband. It was a fine show. The celestial fairies were so beautiful I thought I was in the Western Paradise.” She looked rapt, then added confidingly, “My husband says if business is good we’ll go to the plays in the capital. Have you ever seen those?”
“No, but since you recommend them, I shall perhaps go this year. Did you hear about the murder at the temple?”
“Yes. The next day. Horrible, wasn’t it? We missed all the excitement, my husband and I. We walked home in the rain right after the plays. Wet as drowned rats.” She laughed, then offered Akitada more wine.
“Perhaps one more cup,” he said. “Do you happen to recall the name of the performers?”
“They called themselves the Pure Land Dancers, but that name is just for temples. When they’re playing in the capital for ordinary people, they do more exciting stories about heroes and monsters, and there are acrobatics, and some things that’ll make you laugh. They call themselves Uemon’s Players then. That’s because the old man who runs the group is called Uemon, you see.”
“Yes. I see.” Akitada nodded with a smile at her enthusiasm. He glanced up the narrow, stony road which led to the temple. Perhaps he could make a brief detour and still reach Lake Biwa before dark. Farther than the lake he dared not travel. He hoped to meet his family on the way, or at least pick up some news of them from passing travelers. “Will you be here for a few more hours?” he asked the woman.
“Till dark,” she said with a sigh, glancing at her baskets. “Business picks up toward evening because travelers are trying to get to the capital before dark.”
Akitada took a silver coin from his sash and extended it to her. “For the food and a favor,” he said. “Would you keep an eye out for my family? My name is Sugawara and I expect my wife and three-year-old son, along with an elderly man and two strong young warriors on horseback and in wagons, with bearers and some mounted guards. If you see them, will you ask them to wait here for my return?”
She promised eagerly, tucking the coin inside her robe.
This time Akitada reached the temple quickly. It was nearly midday and cold, but the road was dry. The great roof of the gate where he had last seen Nagaoka’s wife and her brother-in-law still had silvery hoarfrost on its tiles. The colors of the vermilion columns and blue-tiled roofs were sharp and the gilded spire of the pagoda disappeared into the clouds above.
The sound of his horse’s hooves brought the gatekeeper running out to greet him. By good fortune it was the same man who had offered Akitada a glance at the plan of the temple that other morning. They recognized each other instantly and with mutual pleasure.