Read Online The Tokaido Road (1991)(528p) by Lucia St. Clair Robson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson
Tags: Historical Romance
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you good-bye.
Cat hadn’t been allowed to watch him carry out the shMgun’s sentence, but she knew the ritual well. He had dressed in the white robes of death that every samurai kept ready. He had knelt under the cherry tree with blossoms blowing around him. A trusted swordsman, blade poised, stood behind him. He had pulled his arms out of the wide sleeves and tucked them under his knees so he would fall forward instead of sprawling in an undignified way. He had reached for the dagger on its tall, ceremonial tray and held its paper-wrapped hilt steadily in both hands, the blade turned toward himself.
Cat couldn’t see what followed, though. Even if she had been present, the act would have happened too swiftly for the eye to see. The sword descended in a flash of light. Cat could only picture her father’s head hanging from the piece of skin the swordsman left so it wouldn’t bounce away. To keep from crying out, Cat bit down hard on the heel of her thumb.
Everything that happens in life is reward or punishment for what we have done. Only the ignorant resent their fate. Cat’s mother had said it often. It had been her soft admonition throughout Cat’s rebellious childhood. But Cat did resent the cruelties of fate. That was why she hadn’t become a nun as her mother had. She could not sit in a small room copying sutras for the rest of her life. A hunger for revenge was gnawing at her soul. Religious piety wouldn’t satisfy it.
Still shivering with the cold, she stood stiffly. In the cramped space she tried to brush out the wrinkles in the baggy hempen trousers of her priest’s costume. She straightened the tattered, belted overcoat whose frayed lower edge reached just below her knees. The pale hem of the short priest’s robe showed below it. Then she walked around in front of the statue.
She put her palms together, fingers pointed heavenward, and draped Shichisaburo’s rosary over them, holding it in place with her thumbs. She bowed her head and asked the goddess, Kannon-sama, to bless her. The statue was ancient, carved from a camphor log in some forgotten time by some forgotten hand. The gilt paint that had covered it had mostly worn away.
This particular image of the thousand-armed goddess had only four hands. Two were folded in prayer. One was raised toward heaven. The fourth held a lotus blossom. Kannon-sama’s lovely face looked no older than Cat’s own. She smiled down so serenely that Cat almost smiled in return.
Cat looked out from under the dripping eaves of the small chapel. A gray veil of mist twined through the grounds of Spring Hill Temple, as though the old stone monuments themselves were dissolving. Jewels of dew covered the dark green moss on the crowds of monuments and statues and the tall stone lanterns.
The sky was as gray as the mist and the breasts of the pigeons flying about the wide eaves of the main temple building. The dawn bell began ringing. Night was opening. Cat had overslept.
She took deep breaths to push back a momentary panic. This was where her father was buried. The police and Lord Kira’s men would certainly search here for her. She had to hurry.
Close to Cat’s shelter was the stone marker of her father’s grave. His last poem had been incised into it. Cat had memorized it, but through her tears she read it anyway.
Far more fragile than
Tender blooms, so soon scattered
By the fresh spring winds,
Must I now bid you farewell
And leave gentle spring behind?
Oishi Kuranosuke had made arrangements for erecting this monument to his lord. He had contributed the funds to assure that the priests here performed the rituals for Lord Asano’s soul at the proper intervals. The grave was covered with fresh cedar boughs, a fragrant expression of grief. Someone had set out offerings of persimmons and rice. Cat could see the stubs of hundreds of joss sticks burned in her father’s memory.
The temple bell continued tolling, its booming notes following one on the other
Cat hadn’t been allowed to watch him carry out the shMgun’s sentence, but she knew the ritual well. He had dressed in the white robes of death that every samurai kept ready. He had knelt under the cherry tree with blossoms blowing around him. A trusted swordsman, blade poised, stood behind him. He had pulled his arms out of the wide sleeves and tucked them under his knees so he would fall forward instead of sprawling in an undignified way. He had reached for the dagger on its tall, ceremonial tray and held its paper-wrapped hilt steadily in both hands, the blade turned toward himself.
Cat couldn’t see what followed, though. Even if she had been present, the act would have happened too swiftly for the eye to see. The sword descended in a flash of light. Cat could only picture her father’s head hanging from the piece of skin the swordsman left so it wouldn’t bounce away. To keep from crying out, Cat bit down hard on the heel of her thumb.
Everything that happens in life is reward or punishment for what we have done. Only the ignorant resent their fate. Cat’s mother had said it often. It had been her soft admonition throughout Cat’s rebellious childhood. But Cat did resent the cruelties of fate. That was why she hadn’t become a nun as her mother had. She could not sit in a small room copying sutras for the rest of her life. A hunger for revenge was gnawing at her soul. Religious piety wouldn’t satisfy it.
Still shivering with the cold, she stood stiffly. In the cramped space she tried to brush out the wrinkles in the baggy hempen trousers of her priest’s costume. She straightened the tattered, belted overcoat whose frayed lower edge reached just below her knees. The pale hem of the short priest’s robe showed below it. Then she walked around in front of the statue.
She put her palms together, fingers pointed heavenward, and draped Shichisaburo’s rosary over them, holding it in place with her thumbs. She bowed her head and asked the goddess, Kannon-sama, to bless her. The statue was ancient, carved from a camphor log in some forgotten time by some forgotten hand. The gilt paint that had covered it had mostly worn away.
This particular image of the thousand-armed goddess had only four hands. Two were folded in prayer. One was raised toward heaven. The fourth held a lotus blossom. Kannon-sama’s lovely face looked no older than Cat’s own. She smiled down so serenely that Cat almost smiled in return.
Cat looked out from under the dripping eaves of the small chapel. A gray veil of mist twined through the grounds of Spring Hill Temple, as though the old stone monuments themselves were dissolving. Jewels of dew covered the dark green moss on the crowds of monuments and statues and the tall stone lanterns.
The sky was as gray as the mist and the breasts of the pigeons flying about the wide eaves of the main temple building. The dawn bell began ringing. Night was opening. Cat had overslept.
She took deep breaths to push back a momentary panic. This was where her father was buried. The police and Lord Kira’s men would certainly search here for her. She had to hurry.
Close to Cat’s shelter was the stone marker of her father’s grave. His last poem had been incised into it. Cat had memorized it, but through her tears she read it anyway.
Far more fragile than
Tender blooms, so soon scattered
By the fresh spring winds,
Must I now bid you farewell
And leave gentle spring behind?
Oishi Kuranosuke had made arrangements for erecting this monument to his lord. He had contributed the funds to assure that the priests here performed the rituals for Lord Asano’s soul at the proper intervals. The grave was covered with fresh cedar boughs, a fragrant expression of grief. Someone had set out offerings of persimmons and rice. Cat could see the stubs of hundreds of joss sticks burned in her father’s memory.
The temple bell continued tolling, its booming notes following one on the other
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