Read Online The Tokaido Road (1991)(528p) by Lucia St. Clair Robson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson
Tags: Historical Romance
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like waves against a rocky shore. With a heart so full of grief that Cat feared it would break, she picked up the bamboo ladle lying on the stone basin. She filled it and rinsed her mouth to purify it. Then she poured more water over her hands and over the grave. She put her palms together and rubbed the beads of the rosary as she bowed her head and chanted a scripture for the repose of her father’s soul.
In front of the statue of Kannon-sama lay a heap of wooden strips. Mourners had painted on them the names of dead loved ones. Cat had none for her father, but at least she could leave something.
She took out the paper-wrapped coins from the dead guest’s purse and the blue scarf with its coiled hank of her shorn hair. This was the last money she could give her mother. Cat didn’t expect to live to see her again.
She looked for a place to hide them and decided on the squat brass censer with its lid perforated in a design of autumn grasses. Cat recognized the urn. It had sat for years in the ornate altar cupboard in the main reception room of the inner apartments of her father’s mansion. Oishi had said it belonged to him so that Lord Asano’s wife would allow it to stay at the grave.
When Cat emptied the ashes and blew out the residue, their aroma reminded her so strongly of home that she became disoriented for an instant. The incense was called Smoke of Fuji, a blend of camphor and sandalwood and secret ingredients mixed by the master, Wakayama. The subtle, magical smell had pervaded everything belonging to Cat’s mother. It had permeated her clothing and the tatami and bedding and screens of the inner chambers where she spent her days.
As Cat breathed in the lingering traces of Smoke of Fuji, she breathed in her mother’s essence. She heard her soft voice, her laughter, like delicate wind chimes in another room. Cat longed to see her. Just a glimpse, a word. She could bear any danger then and any hardship. She could bear even the loneliness.
As she was laying the scarf and the coins inside the censer, a clamor of bells and voices and small hand drums sent the pigeons flapping in all directions. Out of sight in the courtyard behind the temple the monks were kneeling in a line on square mats. They had begun their morning devotions. The time had come to start for Shinagawa, and the barrier set up to regulate travel.
Cat reached into Kannon-sama’s chapel, picked up the flat brass bell lying there, and slipped the hemp cord over her head so the bell hung at her chest. Next, she pulled out a tall, bulbous cylinder of a basket with a section of latticework woven in. She settled the inner frame onto her head, tied the cords, and adjusted the hat so she could see through the open weave. Her face was unrecognizable behind it. The basket made her look taller than she was.
Dressing Cat as a komuso, a priest of “empty nothing,” was Shichisaburo’s solution to the problem of a disguise. Komuso were mendicants, often former samurai, who traveled alone. At times they engaged in sorcery and exorcism. The fact that people expected them to behave strangely might cover the mistakes Cat was sure to make on the road.
Shichisaburo had ransacked his theater’s costumes and props and had been rather proud of the result. Cat’s cropped hair was pulled into a shaggy horsetail near the top of her head. Even belted, the short white hemp robe and black coat were so big and shabby that they disguised Cat’s body. The bottoms of the rough, straw-colored trousers bloused out at the knees, below which they were gathered into black canvas gaiters and black tabi that buttoned up the back. The tabi socks hid her aristocratic feet and cushioned them from the chafing of the ties of her straw sandals.
Best of all was the six-foot-tall bamboo walking staff that had been a prop from one of Shichisaburo’s plays. It contained the slender oak shaft for a halberd, a naginata. Holes had been bored through the solid joints of the bamboo. The
In front of the statue of Kannon-sama lay a heap of wooden strips. Mourners had painted on them the names of dead loved ones. Cat had none for her father, but at least she could leave something.
She took out the paper-wrapped coins from the dead guest’s purse and the blue scarf with its coiled hank of her shorn hair. This was the last money she could give her mother. Cat didn’t expect to live to see her again.
She looked for a place to hide them and decided on the squat brass censer with its lid perforated in a design of autumn grasses. Cat recognized the urn. It had sat for years in the ornate altar cupboard in the main reception room of the inner apartments of her father’s mansion. Oishi had said it belonged to him so that Lord Asano’s wife would allow it to stay at the grave.
When Cat emptied the ashes and blew out the residue, their aroma reminded her so strongly of home that she became disoriented for an instant. The incense was called Smoke of Fuji, a blend of camphor and sandalwood and secret ingredients mixed by the master, Wakayama. The subtle, magical smell had pervaded everything belonging to Cat’s mother. It had permeated her clothing and the tatami and bedding and screens of the inner chambers where she spent her days.
As Cat breathed in the lingering traces of Smoke of Fuji, she breathed in her mother’s essence. She heard her soft voice, her laughter, like delicate wind chimes in another room. Cat longed to see her. Just a glimpse, a word. She could bear any danger then and any hardship. She could bear even the loneliness.
As she was laying the scarf and the coins inside the censer, a clamor of bells and voices and small hand drums sent the pigeons flapping in all directions. Out of sight in the courtyard behind the temple the monks were kneeling in a line on square mats. They had begun their morning devotions. The time had come to start for Shinagawa, and the barrier set up to regulate travel.
Cat reached into Kannon-sama’s chapel, picked up the flat brass bell lying there, and slipped the hemp cord over her head so the bell hung at her chest. Next, she pulled out a tall, bulbous cylinder of a basket with a section of latticework woven in. She settled the inner frame onto her head, tied the cords, and adjusted the hat so she could see through the open weave. Her face was unrecognizable behind it. The basket made her look taller than she was.
Dressing Cat as a komuso, a priest of “empty nothing,” was Shichisaburo’s solution to the problem of a disguise. Komuso were mendicants, often former samurai, who traveled alone. At times they engaged in sorcery and exorcism. The fact that people expected them to behave strangely might cover the mistakes Cat was sure to make on the road.
Shichisaburo had ransacked his theater’s costumes and props and had been rather proud of the result. Cat’s cropped hair was pulled into a shaggy horsetail near the top of her head. Even belted, the short white hemp robe and black coat were so big and shabby that they disguised Cat’s body. The bottoms of the rough, straw-colored trousers bloused out at the knees, below which they were gathered into black canvas gaiters and black tabi that buttoned up the back. The tabi socks hid her aristocratic feet and cushioned them from the chafing of the ties of her straw sandals.
Best of all was the six-foot-tall bamboo walking staff that had been a prop from one of Shichisaburo’s plays. It contained the slender oak shaft for a halberd, a naginata. Holes had been bored through the solid joints of the bamboo. The
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