“The Kimono”, Chapter One, continued….

 

This must be a dream, thought Mari. I am kneeling on something cold, hard. I smell charcoal… Where am I? It’s so dark my eyes can’t pick anything out. My arms! Why are my arms tied behind my back?

She was kneeling on a cold wooden floor. Her eyes were barely able to pick out details of a room with little light. She was shivering, now naked except for the kimono over her shoulders. She heard a grunt and a low voice.

“So. What have we here? A young maiden lost on her journey through life?”

Mari lifted her head and saw a man, or what appeared to be a man, for the room was still dim except for a low burning brazier. He certainly had a voice like a man. He rose, moved around in front of her and stared down, a bemused look on his face.

He had long, black hair, tied in a topknot, and seemed tall for a Japanese man. His forehead was high and Mari realized his hair was plucked from the front of his head. He was dressed unlike anything she had seen in modern Japanese styles for he wore what looked to be numerous robes and had a dagger in the sash at his waist.

“Catbird got your tongue?” He leaned down and raised her chin up in a hard-skinned hand. Mari shivered from fear and cold.

“Where am I? Why are my arms tied? Who are you?” Mari was stuttering, forcing her questions out, shocked as much with fear as cold.

“Ah, I see I have summoned a young woman who has no manners. Perhaps I will teach you some. Perhaps you can learn to address your betters with respect.” The man took the draped kimono off her shoulders and folded it carefully, placing it on a wooden chest by a wall.

Mari started shivering harder, her naked body exposed to the cold room.

“As to your rude question, I am Lord Tetsu Hakuto, in the service of the Shōgun. I am of the clan Minamoto. That is all you, girl, need to know.”

“You s-s-still haven’t answered my question. Where am I? Is this a dream? Please, I beg of you, I am freezing. For the love of God, give me a blanket or s-s-something to warm myself.”

Lord Tetsu looked down at her, his face a mask. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I see I have a challenge before me. Well, good, I am up for a challenge, even if it is in the insignificant package of a woman.”

Lord Tetsu lifted her by one secured arm and roughly dragged her to a low futon. He pushed her face down and threw a silk quilt over her. At first Mari lay still until, wiggling like a worm, her head cleared the quilt. She could not sit up but at least she could see.

The man was kneeling before a low table. He was writing something on a paper scroll with a brush he dipped in ink. Mari watched silently, knowing he was watching her from the corner of his eye.

“Please untie me, Lord Tetsu Hakuto. I am very uncomfortable and would like to sit up.”

“Why would your comfort be of my concern? You make silly demands of a superior.”

Mari struggled not to show tears. She was uncomfortable and afraid.

“Lord Tetsu Hakuto. I have to pee badly.”

Lord Tetsu grunted and put down his brush. “Well, that is natural. I also have to pass water first thing in the morning. Come, girl.”

Mari wasn’t sure she wanted help but she had little choice. He threw back the cover, pulled her to her feet, and walked her to a small alcove where a squat clay vessel was placed. He pushed her down and walked away. Mari was glad for the privacy. Of course, with her hands tied she had to carefully balance herself but at least her bladder didn’t hurt.

Mari padded to where he was, blushing because of her nakedness. She wasn’t sure this was a dream for she felt wide awake. She edged towards the low brazier for warmth.

“Lord Tetsu, it is unnecessary for you to keep my arms tied for I am not a threat to you. I am a modern woman who is not violent and I have no intentions of grabbing your sword and using it against you.”

Lord Tetsu looked up from his scroll and listened, his raised eyebrows expressing his surprise. “You could not grab my sword, as you put it, without losing your hands. I have no fear of you harming me. It is rather the other way around. However, since you are about to tip into the brazier, I will untie you.”

He drew his dagger and whipping her around, cut her ropes. Mari almost sobbed in relief. Her arms were numb. Then the pain hit her and she moaned as she tried to rub them, a pathetic, naked woman in great discomfort.

The sight of her must have moved Lord Tetsu for he drew her to him and rubbed her arms. Mari was grateful for she was shivering with cold. She felt exhausted and leaned her head against his chest with a sigh. Then she fainted.

When she recovered her senses, she was covered in the quilt on the futon. He was sitting next to her and smelled of sandalwood and male sweat, real enough.

“This isn’t a dream.” Her voice sounded soft and flat where she leaned against him, her face buried in the fabric of his robes.

“So, you have come back to me, little one?” His voice had a touch of humor. “No, this is no dream, but it is time for you to answer me.”

“Please, Lord Tetsu. Please first give me some water?”

“I will give you some broth for these things can take strength out of a woman. Wait.”

Rising, he drew the quilt over her body. He brought a bowl of hot broth simmering on the brazier. Her hands shook as she reached for the bowl.

“Better you are fed than scald yourself.”

Mari sat next to him, wrapped in the quilt, while Lord Tetsu fed her the broth with a china spoon. It was hot and spicy, tasting like seaweed, but it warmed her.

“Now,” said Lord Tetsu when she had eaten enough to stop shivering, “tell me where you found the kimono.”

“In a shop in Kyoto on Dezu Street. It was hanging near a window and the silver decoration caught my eye. I brought it home and when I slept in it last night, well…something happened, and either this is a dream or it isn’t.”

Lord Tetsu grunted and exclaimed, “Kyoto! It is a long journey from where it was last.” He was silent, thinking, then spoke. “What is your name girl, and are you maiden or wife?”

Mari almost laughed, surprised by his quaint wording. “I am very much a wife and my name is Mari. My husband is a systems operator for a worldwide communications company.”

“What? You speak in riddles! Plainly, girl, for you try my patience with your chatter.”

Mari ventured a question. “Lord Tetsu, what date is it today? Where am I in history?”

“What date? Today is today and as far as this history, you are in the castle of a daimyo who is under the protection of a most powerful Shōgun.”

“What is the name of this Shōgun, Lord Tetsu?”

He looked at her in surprise, his eyebrows arching. “None other than the great Lord Tokugawa.”

This still didn’t give her any idea where she was but the broth was good and she had stopped shivering.

“Lord Tetsu Hakuto, do you have a woman’s kimono for me to cover myself with? I am not used to walking around naked.”

“You will get used to it.”

“Lord Tetsu Hakuto, I would remind you that my name is Mari, not ‘girl’. I am an educated, married woman and well respected in my field.” This last was not true for Mari had no field to speak of.

“Ho! You are prideful for a woman and forceful, too. Perhaps your husband does not beat you enough. That is a failing in many young husbands and you look to be young enough. Perhaps I can help him in this.” He raised his arm as if to cuff her.

Mari spoke fast. “Lord Tetsu, violence is the mark of a barbarian. Surely you are not such a man. You write and that shows you are civilized.”

A sly smile crossed the face of Lord Tetsu and he allowed it to broaden. He lowered his arm slowly. “You think quickly for a woman, Woman-called-Mari. Does your education extend to the brush?”

Mari looked at his table and rising from the futon with the quilt wrapped tightly around her, she went to it. She looked at the finely drawn calligraphy there and shook her head.

“Lord Tetsu, I write with a pen, not a brush, and I also write with a keyboard, something I am beginning to think you have no knowledge of. I do write some haiku but perhaps it would be better for me to recite one for you? You would not be able to read my script.”

“Why, are you so bad with the brush? Then your education is very low. Perhaps you dance or play an instrument?”

Mari smiled. “No, Lord Tetsu. I play violin but I suspect you are not familiar with this instrument. I do, however, write a lot of poetry. I write tanka, choka, sonnets and much free verse. I write haiku when I am able.”

“Ah! You are very boastful. Obviously, your husband is a weak man.”

Mari smiled. “Perhaps, Lord Tetsu, perhaps, or maybe he lives by different standards.”

Lord Tetsu stood at his table, his arms crossed over his chest, looking curiously at the woman before him wrapped in his quilt. “Then, if you dare, compose a poem and let’s see if your boasting has merit.”

Mari thought hard, trying to remember some she had recently written. There were a few, though they didn’t follow the classical forms.

 

 

Cold rain sweeps the streets.

Even ducks seek shelter.

Feathers drop in haste.

 

 

“Hah! Not very good, but a beginning. Give me another.”

Mari thought this next one would be more of the classical form but then she wasn’t really sure.

 

 

A glance at a wrist.

There! The pulse of a river–

tiny beat of life.

 

 

“Better! Perhaps your husband has taught you something.”

“My husband has taught me nothing, Lord Tetsu. He is not interested in poetry. I have learned this myself.”

“Not interested in poetry? You have married a barbarian then, for a man who does not write poems is indeed a savage. Give me some more, Woman-called-Mari.”

She thought of a few others she had written, though she could only partly remember their lines. She had little option except to admit failure but something in this rude man brought her mettle out. Pausing only a little between poems, she closed her eyes and recited what she could.

 

 

A woman in bed,

kimono revealing breast.

Snow on Mt. Fuji.

 

 

Snow falls on meadows.

Crows pick at last harvest seeds.

Spring now far away.

 

 

A swirl of blossoms

caught in the water’s current

begins the season.

 

 

Fall’s crispness compels

apples to tumble from trees.

Worms make the journey.

 

 

I chase one red leaf

across dry and brittle grass.

Juice of summer gone.

 

 

She kept her eyes closed thinking back to what she had just recited. Opening one eye, she saw him contemplating her with a quizzical look.

“For a mere woman, you have a fertile mind. If you had been born a man, you might have made a name for yourself.” Lord Tetsu gave a short nod of his head, a measure of respect. “Come, woman, learn how a man writes poems. You have shown yourself capable of learning at least something. Perhaps you are the rare woman who can rise above her nature.”

What a pompous ass, thought Mari. Obviously, this dream is about humiliation.

For the next hour, Lord Tetsu composed haiku and longer poems, mostly in honor of his Lord Shōgun. Mari listened to his low monotone and the sentiments that poured out like warm sake. She was lost in the tone of his recitation but was not blind to his beauty. His black hair fell down his back and the vigor of this man before her was evident. Even when he rose and went to make water, it seemed the most natural of things. She was not embarrassed nor discomforted. He was an inventive poet, even when she didn’t understand most of his references.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“The Kimono” was published by Amazon October 2018.

 

Haiku and Tanka from “The Kimono”

I am sitting here with the proof copy of “The Kimono” in my hands.  It looks beautiful, and in a week or so will be on Amazon.com for purchase.  I decided to post some of the poetry from the novel.  Some are haiku, some are tanka, and tanka in many cases are a call and answer between Lady Mari (a 21st century Japanese-American and Lord Tetsu, a 17th century warlord.  They haggle in verse.  Over the course of this novel, there is a lot of verse -haggling between them.

Lady Nyo

Haiku

So lonely am I

my soul is like floating weed

severed at the roots.

–

A glance at a wrist

There! The pulse of a river-

tiny beat of life.

–

I chase one red leaf

across dry and brittle grass

Juice of summer gone.

–

A swirl of blossoms

caught in the water’s current

begins the season.

 

Tanka

How long will it last?

I do not know his heart.

This morning my thoughts

are as tangled as my hair.

–

How can a woman

know a warrior’s heart?

We have the sound of

war drums that drown

out weaker sentiments.

–

Who attends to the wounded

but women?

Our hands are soft and strong

the best medicine after war.

–

A woman only knows

a man’s heart

by her silence.

–

Who knows the depth of my hidden heart?

Perhaps a ravine in the mountains?

No matter. A firefly of love is flashing.

–

What can dispel the

blackness of a man’s heart?

Never mind. Even the torch of a firefly

lends its light.

–

The fireflies are bright this evening,

They light up the night

and make me remember

your laughter.

–

 

 

 

“River of Death”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

 

“Song of the Nightingale” is a tale in 12 episodes about a marriage in 17th century Japan. Lord Nyo and Lady Nyo, he a samurai and she from the powerful clan Fujiwara, have been married since she was fifteen. Now she is thirty and Lord Nyo sixty. Magic, a tricky Tengu and a baby plucked from the surface of the moon figure in the story.

The poetry of Saigyo is noted: where it isn’t his,  it’s mine.
Episode 11 is a scene from a battlefield, as Lord Nyo is a general in the provincial army of Lord Mori, an aging and despot daimyo in north west Japan, near Moon (Gassan) Mountain.

Lady Nyo…but not the one in the story.

–

THE RIVER OF DEATH, episode 11

There’s no gap or break in the ranks of those marching under the hill:
an endless line of dying men, coming on and on and on….
—Saigyo

–
When the news of Lady Nyo
Birthing a son
Reached Lord Nyo
He was far from home,
To the east,
Over mountains
In dangerous, alien territory.
–
A general in the service
Of his lord,
The gore of battle,
The issue of ‘dying with honor’
Began at first light,
The air soon filled with sounds of battle-
Dying horses, dying men
Drawing their last gasps of life,
Churned into the mud of immeasurable violence.

–

The river of death is swollen with bodies fallen into it;
in the end the bridge of horses cannot help.
—Saigyo

–
Death, not new life
Was before his eyes at dawn,
And death, not life
Pillowed his head at night.
–

A battle rages around me,
But inside this old warrior
A battle rages inside my heart.
It is heavy with sorrow,
So tired beyond my old bones.

 

What good have we done
In watering the soil
With blood and offal
of sons?
–Lady Nyo
–

He stunk with the blood of battle
As his bow and swords cut a swath
Through men in service to another
And when the battle horns went silent,
With tattered banners like defeated clouds
Hanging limp over the field,
Acrid smoke stained everything
And the piteous cries of the dying
Echoed in his ears.
He wondered if his life would end here.

But the gods that he didn’t believe in
Were merciful.
His thoughts turned from fierce, ugly warriors
Towards home and a baby.

Still, he could not leave.
He was caught by status,
The prestige of his clan.
He could not desert the
Fate set out from birth.

Ah! This was fate of a man in servitude
To his Lord Daimyo.
This was the fate
Of a man chained to Honor.

Still, in the darkest hours of the night
The soft and perfumed shape of his wife
Floated down to him from the fleeting clouds,
Came to him through the smoke of battlefield fires,
And he turned on his pallet
To embrace this haunting comfort.
–

Off in the distance
There I see my loved one’s home
On the horizon.
How I long to be there soon
Get along black steed of mine!

—from the Man’yoshu
–

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2015-18

“Song of the Nightingale” was published on Amazon.com in 2015

 

“The Kimono”, Chapter 27

THE MOON PEEKED THROUGH the distant trees below Gassan Mountain in the east. This low to the horizon its color was a dark coppery-pumpkin as it hovered in the evening sky. The rising moon caused the drunken men to pause in their good-humored noise. How many times had the full moon risen yet the beauty of its appearance, the miracle of its closeness, always produced awe? A servant came around the screen and whispered something to Lady Nyo. She, in turn, went to Mari and in a very low voice said that Lord Tetsu had requested her company. Lady Nyo fussed a bit with Mari’s face, patted rice powder over her features, combed out her hair and gathered it halfway down her back with a twist of red paper. From a small wooden box, she brought out a flask of scent and applied it between Mari’s breasts. With a nod and a sigh, she was finished and bowed to Mari with a small smile.

 

Mari followed a serving girl to the lake where she found Lord Tetsu. He gave a slight nod in greeting and turned, walking further down to a small stand of cherry trees. Here, there were no lanterns hanging from the branches. Only the brightness of the full moon and a small brazier gave light. Quilts had been placed for them on the ground. The servant disappeared, fading silently into the shadows surrounding the grove of cherries. Dragonflies dipped and swooped along the shoreline. The sound of the water lapping at the beach was amplified by the silence around them.

They were far enough away that they could not hear the others. The sky darkened and rose-tinted clouds appeared over the water. Lord Tetsu sipped his sake and said nothing. Mari didn’t want to break the beauty of the young night with conversation. It was enough to enjoy the silence and the moon reflecting in the water.

Suddenly, Lord Tetsu made a soft exclamation and pointed to some rocks at a distance, farther down the beach. “There. Do you see kitsune? She has come for her own hanami.” Night was replacing dusk and the shoreline was dissolving into shadows. Mari could barely make out the small form of a fox. She darted back and forth, from rock to rock, rolling over those at the water’s edge and pouncing on something, probably a crayfish. A few moments later, the moon had risen a little higher and beamed across the water. Mari could see the russet coat of the fox. It had a tail that looked tipped in gold, illuminated by the moonlight.

“Kitsune has a long and gilded tail.

She comes at night down to the glistening lake

The moon rises to light her way.” 

Lord Tetsu’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. Mari was caught, spellbound by his words. How exact, how clever was his tanka, within a breath’s sighting of the fox! Mari knew she would have struggled with her thoughts, cast aside her impressions and lost the immediacy of the moment. With Lord Tetsu, it was as natural as breathing. She turned her head to look at him as the moon went dark with a flock of passing clouds. Lord Tetsu’s features were silhouetted against the shadows of the grove behind them.

 

How serene he appeared. Mari touched the silk of his sleeve. He looked down at her small white hand and smiled as the moon reappeared with its soft brilliance. The water was like a black mirror reflecting the moon, so still and calm. Lord Tetsu drew Mari close and stroked her hair. She could smell sake on his breath and the scent of sandalwood from his gown. Mari put her hand inside his kimono, on his chest, and felt the soft beating of his heart. With all the strangeness of her present world, with all that was unknown before her, this – the warmth of his skin, the scent of him – at least was real, with no unsettling magic. She’d had enough of magic and the superstitions that plagued this century and place. Mari shivered. Lord Tetsu chuckled and drew her closer.

“The moon is clear.

I escort a lovely girl

frightened by a fox. ”

Mari knew the verse to be Bashō’s, and a famous one at that. She also knew Lord Tetsu had changed the word “boy” to “girl”. Lord Tetsu loosened the string of his trousers and pulled aside his robes. He laid down on the quilt and pulled Mari over him, making her straddle his hips. Without a word, he pushed her carefully arranged kimonos up over her hips and off her shoulders. He held her breasts, now exposed to the moonlight, in his large hands and bent her to him. Only her obi kept her robes around her. It had been so long since they had made love, right before her miscarriage months ago. She groaned as desire flooded her, making her aroused. Lord Tetsu, his own desire evident, wasted little time. Pulling her arms around his neck, he held her to him like a vise, rocking Mari with his motion. Seeking her mouth, he finally kissed her as their coupling ended.


Later, Lord Tetsu wrapped them together in quilts. Mari slept, her head pillowed on his shoulder, the warmth of his body a further comfort. It was still spring, not near summer at all, and the nights were cold this close to Gassan Mountain.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Slipping in some photos of roses in the new front rose garden.  Tsuki stalking a chipmunk in last photo.  Mimi on the hunt.

 

“The Kimono”, Chapter 28, Earthquake!

The painting above by Sesshu is in my opinion a brilliant usage of ink and imagination. It takes years to even approach such a technique and I am firm in my belief that in order to even begin such is worth while of a life time of effort.  There is so much ‘good’ in this painting that it enthralls me.  There is a depth and simplicity in this painting that demands attention.

 

“The Kimono” be published in a matter of months….

–

Plum Blossom Snow

The present snowstorm

of white plum blossoms

blinds me to sorrow.

They cascade over cheeks

like perfumed, satin tears

too warm with the promise

of life to chill flesh.

–

Lady Nyo, circa 2016

—

MARI DREAMED OF SNOW falling on her face but somewhere in her mind she knew it was spring, now too far from winter. She woke up, cold, as Lord Tetsu had turned in the night and taken all the quilts. She sat up, pulling her thin kimonos around her. The dawn’s light barely infused the bay. Only thin tendrils of light skimmed the sky above the distant mountains. Something was wrong. It wasn’t snow, but cherry blossoms. They covered the ground. There was a deep humming beneath the soil.

–

Mari placed her hands on the ground and felt the vibrations. She wondered why Lord Tetsu had not woken. Mari stood to get a better look at the bay but even standing was difficult. She felt drunk, unstable on her feet. Something was definitely wrong. The water in the bay looked as if something was punching from beneath with a million fists, causing it to
roil and churn.
  
–
Lord Tetsu woke with a start and sat up. For the first time, Mari saw fear on his face.

“Do not try to stand. Throw off your geta and run!” he shouted. He grabbed her hand and they ran half-crouching up the hill towards the others, Mari gathering her robes above her knees. The tremors of the earthquake knocked them to the ground several times and each time Lord Tetsu covered her with his body. They heard screams and shouts in the distance. Nothing seemed real. Cherry trees were uprooted and tossed in a jumble against each other. Lord Tetsu saw Lord Nyo scrambling towards him and shouted for him to get back to town and get their horses. They must ride to Gassan or get as high as possible. They were in the lowlands and after the earthquake a feared tsunami could strike.

–

A brazier had turned over and started a small fire on some quilts. Lord Tetsu stamped it out and then looked for survivors. Lady Nyo and her servants were trapped under some branches of a fallen cherry tree. Lord Tetsu and some of the men lifted the tree and pulled them out. Blood mixed with soil streamed down Lady Nyo’s face but other than a flesh wound, she would survive. Others were not so lucky. A few servants from the inn had been killed by fallen trees. Lord Tetsu’s men dragged their bodies out and laid them together on the ground. Someone covered them with the half-burnt quilts. Lady Nyo sat against a fallen tree. Mari scrambled to her and wiped the blood from her face with her kimono sleeve. Why didn’t Lord Nyo free his wife first before he obeyed Lord Tetsu’s orders to fetch their horses? Clearly, such were the rules of this century and culture. “I am fine, don’t worry about me, please,” whispered Lady Nyo. She was in shock, her face pale with trauma. “Is my Lord Nyo alive?” Mari nodded her head and told her that Lord Tetsu had ordered him to bring the horses from the town.


Lady Nyo looked doubtful. “Surely the town has suffered what we have here. The horses might have bolted and he will not find them. We can only hope he does. Lord Tetsu wants us all to ride to Gassan Mountain. He said the higher we are, the safer we will be.”

–

Suddenly, a man appeared over them. Startled, Mari looked up. It was Lord Yoki. “Do not fear, my ladies,” he said, bowing. “Lord Tetsu is right. The higher we get, the better our chances of surviving will be.”

–

Another tremor rumbled beneath them. It lasted only a few seconds but Mari screamed in fear. Lord Yoki laid his hand on her shoulder to steady her. Mari buried her face in his robes. Either he had very hairy legs or she felt feathers through his clothing. In any case, she was glad he was there. Lord Tetsu was off directing the men, gathering what they could that would be useful for their flight to Gassan Mountain. He was not around to comfort a hysterical woman. Mari continued to wipe the blood from Lady Nyo’s face, using the other sleeve of her kimono. Lady Nyo chanted something in a low voice. Mari thought she was praying.

–

Suddenly, Lord Tetsu bent over Mari, pulled her to her feet and led her away from the others. He put his arm around her waist and drew her to him. “You must leave. If you stay, you will die.”

“Yes,” said Mari. “I will die with you.”

Lord Tetsu grimaced and put his hand around her neck, close to her chin, and bent her head back. He increased the pressure on either side of her jaw. The last thing Mari saw was his eyes, two black pools to drown in.



Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018

“Kimono”, the rest of Chapter One….

 

For Kanzen and Kim who expressed interest in this novel.

 

“Please untie me, Lord Mori Higato. I am very uncomfortable and would like to sit up.”

“Why would your comfort be of my concern? You make silly demands of a superior.”

Mari struggled not to show tears. She was uncomfortable and afraid.

“Lord Mori Higato. I have to pee badly.”

Lord Mori grunted and put down his brush. “Well, that is natural. I also have to pass water first thing in the morning. Come, girl.”

Mari wasn’t sure she wanted help, but she had little choice. He threw back the cover, pulled her to her feet, and walked her to a small alcove where a squat clay vessel was placed. He pushed her down and walked away. Mari was glad for the privacy. Of course with her hands tied she had to carefully balance herself, but at least her bladder didn’t hurt.

She padded to where he was, blushing because of her nakedness. She wasn’t sure this was a dream for she felt wide-awake. She edged towards the low brazier for warmth.

“Lord Mori. It is unnecessary for you to keep my arms tied for I am not a threat to you. I am a modern woman who is not violent and I have no intentions of grabbing your sword and using it against you.”

Lord Mori looked up from his scroll and listened, his raised eyebrows expressing his surprise.

“You could not grab my sword, as you put it, without losing your hands. I have no fear of you harming me. It is rather the other way around. However, since you are about to tip into the brazier, I will untie you.”

He drew his dagger and whipping her around, cut her ropes. Mari almost sobbed in relief. Her arms were numb. Then the pain hit her and she moaned as she tried to rub them, a pathetic, naked woman in great discomfort.

The sight of her must have moved Lord Mori for he drew her to him and rubbed her arms. Mari was grateful for she was shivering with cold. She felt exhausted and leaned her head against his chest with a sigh. Then she fainted.

When she recovered, she was buried in the quilt. He was sitting next to her and smelled of sandalwood and male sweat, real enough.

“This isn’t a dream.” Her voice sounded soft and flat where she leaned against him, her face buried in the fabric of his robes.

“So you have come back to me, little one?”

His voice had a touch of humor. “No, this is no dream, but it is time for you to answer me.”

“Please, Lord Mori. Please first give me some water?”

“I will give you some broth for these things can take strength out of a woman. Wait.”

Rising, he drew the quilt over her body. He brought a bowl of hot broth simmering on the brazier. Her hands shook as she reached for the bowl.

“Better you are fed than scald yourself.”

Mari sat next to him, wrapped in the quilt, while Lord Mori fed her the broth with a china spoon. It was hot and spicy, tasting like seaweed, but it warmed her.

“Now,” said Lord Mori when she had eaten enough to stop shivering, “tell me where you found the kimono.”

“In a shop in Kyoto on Dezu Street. It was hanging near a window and the silver decoration caught my eye. I brought it home and when I slept in it last night, well…something happened, and either this is a dream or it isn’t.”

Lord Mori grunted and exclaimed: “Kyoto! It is a long journey from where it was last.”

He was silent, thinking, then spoke. “What is your name girl, and are you maiden or wife?”

Mari almost laughed, surprised by his quaint wording.

“I am very much wife, and my name is Mari. My husband is a systems operator for a world-wide communications company.”

“What? You speak in riddles! Plainly girl, for you try my patience with your chatter.”

Mari ventured a question.

“Lord Mori, what date is it today. Where am I in history?”

“What date? Today is today and as far as this history, you are in the castle of a daimyo.”

Almost as an afterthought, he added in a whisper, almost to himself: “Who is under the protection of a most powerful shogun.”

“What is the name of this shogun, Lord Mori?”

He looked at her in surprise, his eyebrows arching.

“None other than the great Lord Tokugawa.”

This still didn’t give her any idea where she was, but the broth was good and she had stopped shivering.

“Lord Mori Higato, do you have a woman’s kimono for me to cover myself with? I am not used to walking around naked.”

“You will get used to it girl.”  He went back to his scroll.

“Lord Mori Higato, I would remind you that my name is Mari, not ‘girl’, I am an educated, married woman and well respected in my field.” This last was not true, for Mari had no field to speak of.

“Ho! You are prideful for a woman and forceful, too. Perhaps your husband does not beat you enough. That is a failing in many young husbands, and you look to be young enough. Perhaps I can help him in this.” He raised his arm as if to cuff her.

“Lord Mori, violence is the mark of a barbarian. Surely you are not such a man. You write and that shows you are civilized.”

A sly smile crossed the face of Lord Mori and he allowed it to broaden. He lowered his arm slowly.

“You think quickly for a female, Woman- Called- Mari. Does your education extend to the brush?”

Mari looked at his table and rising from the futon with the quilt wrapped tightly around her, she went to it. She looked at the finely drawn calligraphy there and shook her head.

“Lord Mori, I write with a pen, not a brush, and I also write with a keyboard, something I am beginning to think you have no knowledge of. I do write some haiku, but perhaps it would be better for me to recite one for you? You would not be able to read my script.”

 

“Why? Are you so bad with the brush? Then your education is very low. Perhaps you dance or play an instrument?”

Mari smiled. “No, Lord Mori. I play violin but this instrument I believe you are not familiar. I do, however, write a lot of poetry. I write tanka, choka and sonnets and much free verse. I write haiku when I am able.

“Ah! You are very boastful. Obviously your husband is a weak man.”

Mari smiled. “Perhaps, Lord Mori, perhaps, or maybe he lives by different standards.”

Lord Mori stood at his table, his arms crossed over his chest, looking curiously at the woman before him wrapped in his quilt.

“Then, if you dare, compose a poem and let’s see if your boasting has merit.”

Mari thought hard, trying to remember some she had recently written. There were a few, though they didn’t follow the classical forms. She wrote these because she was bored, but still the Kyoto landscape lent some inspiration.

“Cold rain sweeps the streets
Even ducks seek shelter
Feathers drop in haste”.

“Hah! Not very good, but a beginning. Give me another.”

Mari thought this next one would be more of the classical form, but then she wasn’t really sure.

 

“A glance at a wrist
There! The pulse of a river-
Tiny beat of life.”

“Better! Perhaps your husband has taught you something.”

“My husband has taught me nothing, Lord Mori. He is not interested in poetry. I have learned this myself.”

“Not interested in poetry? You have married a barbarian then, for a man who does not write poems is indeed a savage. Give me some more, Woman –Called- Mari.”

She thought of a couple of others she had written, though she could only partly remember their lines. She had little option, except to admit failure, but something in this rude man brought her mettle out. Pausing only a little between poems, she closed her eyes and recited what she could:

Snow falls on meadows
Crows pick at last harvest seeds
Spring now far away

Taking a breath, she tried to remember what she had recently written.

A swirl of blossoms
Caught in the water’s current
Begins the season.

Looking at him, she could see he was interested. He tried to put her off with a scowl.

Fall’s crispness compels
Apples to tumble from trees.
Worms make the journey.

I chase one red leaf
Across dry and brittle grass
Juice of summer gone.”

 

She closed her eyes, thinking back to what she had just recited. She realized her verse wasn’t that good, certainly not in the classical style. Opening one eye, she saw him contemplating her with a quizzical look.

“For a mere woman, you have a fertile mind. If you had been born a man, you might have made a name for yourself.”

Lord Mori gave a short nod of his head, a measure of respect.

“Come woman, learn how a man writes poems. You have shown yourself capable of learning at least something. Perhaps you are the rare woman who can rise above her nature.”

What a pompous ass, thought Mari. Obviously this dream is about humiliation.

For the next hour, Lord Mori composed haiku and longer poems, mostly in the honor of his Lord Shogun. Mari listened to his low monotone and the sentiments that poured out like warm sake. She was lost in the monotone of his recitation, and was not blind to his beauty. His black hair fell down his back and the vigor of this man before her was evident. Even when he rose and went to make water, it seemed the most natural of things. She was not embarrassed nor discomforted. He was an inventive poet, even when she didn’t understand most of his references.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018

 

 

“Kimono” Chapter 47…..

 

I have been writing this novel for 10 years.  It is finally finished, except for the final edit.  Nick Nicholson, in Canberra, Australia has helped tremendously with some of the later chapters.  Nick designed and produced my last 3 books, “Pitcher of Moon”,  “Song of the Nightingale” and the second edition of “A Seasoning of Lust”.  If we both survive the final edit, this will be the fourth book Nick has been involved in.  His unflagging interest in  the story has helped spur me on.

This short chapter is mostly about battle:  In the 17th century there were set patterns for battle, but the time was generally a peaceful time under the Tokugawa regime.  This lasted for almost 250 years.  And a population of man samurai without battle makes for unhappy and contentious warriors.  Mari is a 21st century woman who has been zapped back into 17th Japan, to be confronted by a daimyo, Lord Mori, of the region of Akito, north of just about everything.

Lady Nyo

 

Kimono, Chapter 47

Lord Mori thought perhaps he was possessed by some frightful kami. His sleep had been disturbed, before battle, and that was to be expected.  But the sleeplessness had continued.  One could expect satisfaction, a fulfillment after a victory.  And that attack on Kiyama’s castle was successful. But he could not shake the fear he felt when going through the fire with his men and Mari. Was this fear unworthy of a samurai?  His whole life had been one in service to samurais and daimyos.  First, to his swordmaster, later to his uncle the daimyo. Even his uncle’s retainers, daimyo in their own right, with much small fiefs, dominated his life.  Some of them even now were sitting in the Council of Elders, asleep during most attendances.

 

Except for becoming an excellent swordsman and archer, he had not known really what he wanted.  It was never a question to consider.  The code of bushido, the control of tradition was his air and bread.

 

The death of Lord Yoki struck him hard.  He had lost many warriors over his life, but the tengu Yoki was different.  Both he and Ekei had planned the force against the castle, and though their luck held for various reasons, he knew it was just some planning and a twist of fate he survived.  He had lost men, some he knew, and more he didn’t.  This wasn’t the first skirmish.  But times had been relatively peaceful, and only the aggression of Kiyama had violated that.  He wondered at his reaction to Mari being kidnapped.  She was just a woman, but of course he knew better. He was a daimyo in the man’s world and women were minor elements.  But still.  When he heard she was abducted by what had to be Kiyama’s men, he almost lost control of himself.  It was with great concentration and resolve that he didn’t betray his emotions like a woman.

All this had taken a toll on him. It was not the first time he had wanted to give up the position of daimyo and disappear into the mists. The thought of this was new to him, and he had never verbally voiced this thought except to Lord Ekei.  He was not an old man yet, only in his fifties, but life had closed around his throat and was strangling him.  Perhaps the woman had opened his eyes too much.

One night Mari asked how battles were organized and fought.  He was surprised at her interest, as these things were not discussed with women. Women were the ones to wash the heads and present them to the generals.  War was the territory of samurai and daimyos, warriors, not women. The fact that there had only been skirmishes during his time didn’t help, but he did relate stories of some famous battles to Mari.  Also how a daimyo goes to war, the responsibilities of his retainers to procure soldiers and weapons, (mostly peasants from the fields) and how a battle might go.  Some battles they just taunted each other from the battle field, shouted the worst insults they could come up with and then everyone went home, declaring a draw and the ministers of both sides would meet and iron out issues.   That practice didn’t last long, just a footnote in history.  A daimyo would direct it from behind lines but this was hard because once a battle began it became a general melee where everyone was trying maim and kill the other.  In his grandfather’s time, it was the practice just to send two small opposing forces out to do battle, while everyone else watched from the hillsides.  But blood lust is lust for battle, for the smell of blood and the noise of combat, where one man strains to survive the blood lust of another.  What was the point of carrying two swords if you didn’t intend to kill?  To kill the enemy was honorable and loyalty to your lord was the first commandment.  Perhaps he had become soured by the traditional ways.  Perhaps he should have shaved his head and become a Buddhist priest.  He might find peace in that way.  But he also knew how political the priests were. They lined up for one side or another and fought bitter battles on the temple grounds.  Many were samurai, and though they didn’t carry the swords openly, they plotted and controlled much wealth and power in the land.

Later that morning, Lord Mori was met by forty of his personal guard, escorting him to  the Council of Elders . It was to last three days. He knew his life hung in the balance.  These men could smell weakness and being as loyal as a pack of wolves, they would fall on him if they could.  He long knew of alliances between daimyos, and it was just a luck of the draw he had kept his head this long.  As he told Mari, treachery was the fashion of the day.

 

—-

 

“So, there are rumors he wants to abdicate. Good. But you can bet he won’t lay down his swords.  He will not become a priest.  Not him.”

 

Lord Shumi, one of the  retainers and a member of the Council of Elders, had little patience with a constantly shifting chess board.  He was old and wanted some peace. He preferred the sun in his garden to anything. Right now he had to empty his bladder.

“Bah.  It’s treasonous. He leads when there is relative peace and now?”  Lord Mifune spat on the ground.

“There is sure to be a counter attack by some daimyo of Lord Kiyama’s when the dust and ashes settle.”

“Yes, always in alliance with others.  It will take time for them to decide on a new leader and rebuild the castle.  I understand the burning was only on one quarter.”

“They got in and out fast, I hear.  They used the Amida Tong for the night attack.”

“How did they do that?”  Lord Shumi’s surprise spread across his ugly face.   “Yes, there are monasteries, temples where the priests consort with these fanatics, but it takes a load of silver.”

“Then he had made payment well in advance.  He must have secured their services before any of this debacle happened.”

The two were walking in the gardens of the castle, both shaking their heads at the enormity of how their lives were to change.

“He’s growing old and he thinks there is more to this life and he is missing it.”

“Between you and me?  He has always been a little off.  This skirmish on Lord Kiyama’s lands and the burning of his castle will have him on his knees explaining to the Shogun.  If he maintains his head I will be surprised.”

 

“Hai.  It’s that witch of a woman he has squired away.  She is a strange one.  Hardly Japanese.”

“He certainly moved his ass and the asses of the gods to get her back from Kiyama.  You would think she possessed the only place for his illustrious sword.”

Lord Mifune laughed.  “She certainly is ugly.  And I would bet my katana she has big feet.  Hardly an acceptable consort for a daimyo.”

“Love is blind and makes jackasses out of all of us.  You remember, my lord.  When you are young the whiff of woman would make you do shameful stuff.  We all did.”

“Yes, yes. I remember my misspent youth.”  Lord Shumi walked with the usual samurai pigeon toed gait. His legs were much bowled.

“Did you hear the rumor this Lady Mari might be from Hokkaido?  She has a strange caste to her face. Not quite….us.”

“Well, I hear she has his royal cucumber leased to her obi.”

Both old men laughed.  Though sex was something they rarely could rarely rise to they took great joy in these affairs of other men.  It was only human.

Perhaps Lord Mori?…..

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Lord Nyo’s Lament’, from “Song of the Nightingale”

 Shawna and many others:  I’m having a hard time posting on sites…..but know I will keep trying…the poetry of you all is wonderful, and I just wanted you to know that I am reading.  Jane….wordpress doesn’t seem to be working on many sites lately.

This is #3 in 13 episodes from “Song of the Nightingale”.  A tale of two early 17th century Japanese couple, not young, and suffering some of the same issues of marriage that centuries later still exist.

(Cover painting by Jane Kohut-Bartels, wc, 2015)

 

–

Lord Nyo’s Lament

 

Oh my wife!

My feet take me over mountains

In the service to our lord

But my heart stays tucked in the bosom

Of your robe.

–

Lady Nyo, circa 2015

–

 

 

The song of the arrow

As it arced into the sea

Was as tuneless

As a badly strung samisen.

 

Gun- metal clouds

Stretched across a dull horizon

The sun still asleep

As he should be

His quiver empty

His heart, too.

 

When had the callousness of life and death

Become as comfortable as breath to him?

He had become too much the warrior

And too little the man.

 

His distance from his wife,

From most of life

Was as if some unseen object

Kept them ten paces apart.

Perhaps it was the cloud-barrier

Of earthly lusts which obscured

The Sun of Buddha?

 

 

Perhaps he should pray.

What God would listen?

Then it came to him

That joker of a Buddha, Fudo

With his rope to pull him from Hell

And his sword to cut through foolishness-

Fudo would listen.

Fudo knew the quaking hearts

The illusions embraced

To stomach the battlefield

The fog of drink,

To face life

In the service of Death.

Fudo would save him from

The yellow waters of Hell.

 

He remembered those years

When she could bring him to his knees

With the promise of dark mystery

Between silken thighs,

And the glimpse of her white wrist-

A river of passion

Just beneath the surface.

How he had steeled his heart

Believing himself unmanned

For the love she induced!

 

Three cranes flew low to the shore,

Legs streaming like black ribbons behind.

Three cranes, three prayers, three chances

To find his way back

Bound up in Fudo’s ropes,

Prodded in the ass by Fudo’s sword.

 

He would write a poem

On a bone-white fan

To leave on her cushion.

She would know his love

She would know his sorrow.

 

The sea took his arrows

Beyond the breakers,

The glint of sleek feathers

Catching thin rays of light.

An unexpected peace came over him

As they journeyed far from his hands.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011, 2016  (“Song of the Nightingale” was published by Amazon.com, 2015)

 

 

 

” Song of the Nightingale”

Format

 WARNING:  a site called “JP at Olive Garden” has just posted two of my poems and the introduction of “Song of the Nightingale” WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.  What is worse is that some person named Kora Davishen  has ‘rewritten’ my poem “Storm Drain Baby”….and of course, gutting it.  THIS IS WRONG AND UNWORTHY OF A POETRY SITE. What is worse is this is unethical and illegal.  It violates copyright laws. I demand that “JP at Olive Garden” take down my work and do not do this again.  I was warned years ago that “JP at Olive Garden” steals other poets work and posts it on their site, but I didn’t know they also REWRITE and brag about it.  I call upon poets to avoid this site for their Unethical and Illegal behavior. Rewriting a poem is nothing but stealing and business unworthy of real poets. Other  poets have contacted me and they also have had, over the years, some of the same issues with this site (and their constantly changing names).  They do this to make it look like they have more followers than they actually have.  They are NOT poets; they are just opportunists looking to suck off the labor of real poets.  I have made the appropriate forms out to alert BLOGGER about their behavior. Hopefully, they will take action to ban this energy sucker website from the internet.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

August 22, 2016

 

A year ago ( July, 2015) I published “Song of the Nightingale” with Amazon.com.  This book came out of a 10 year study of medieval Japanese culture.  Most importantly, a study of the great 8th century document, “The Man’yoshu”.  This document was a collection of 4,515 poems, written by emperors, priests, women poets, court people, samurai, and included songs of fishermen and peasants.   Some of the verse in this document inspired the action of the two main characters, Lord and Lady Nyo, a fictional samurai couple from the 17th century Japan. Nick Nicholson, from Canberra, Australia, a marvelous writer and photographer, an a friend of over a decade, not only formatted the book but also lent his beautiful photos.  It was a labor of love for both of us, and I have decided to post on this blog a number of the episodes.  The cover was painted by me, and there are other paintings in this book, along with Nick’s photos.

Jane Kohut-Bartels who is the Lady Nyo of this blog.

 

Introduction to ” Song of the Nightingale”

In Old Japan there was an even older daimyo called Lord Mori who lived in the shadow of Moon Mountain, far up in the Northwest of Japan.  Lord Mori ran a court that did little except keep his men (and himself) entertained with drinking, hawking and hunting.  Affairs of state were loosely examined and paperwork generally lost, misplaced under a writing table or under a pile of something more entertaining to his Lordship.  Sometimes even under the robes of a young courtesan.

Every other year the Emperor in Edo would demand all the daimyos travel to his court for an extended visit. This was a clever idea of the honorable Emperor. It kept them from each other’s throats, plundering each other’s land, and made them all accountable to Edo and the throne.

Lord Mori was fortunate in his exemption of having to travel the months to sit in attendance on the Emperor. He was awarded this exemption with pitiful letters to the court complaining of age, ill health and general infirmities. He sent his eldest, rather stupid son to comply with the Emperor’s wishes. He agreed to have this disappointing young man stay in Edo to attend the Emperor. Probably forever.

Lord Mori, however, continued to hunt, hawk and generally enjoy life in the hinterlands.

True, his realm, his fiefdom, was tucked away in mountains hard to cross. To travel to Edo took months because of bad roads, fast rivers and mountain passages. A daimyo was expected to assemble a large entourage for this trip: vassals, brass polishers, flag carriers, outriders, a train of horses and mules to carry all the supplies, litters for the women, litters for advisors and fortune tellers, and then of course, his samurai. His train of honor could be four thousand men or more!

But this tale isn’t about Lord Mori. It’s about one of his generals, his vassal, Lord Nyo and his wife, Lady Nyo, who was born from a branch of a powerful clan, though a clan who had lost standing at the court in Edo.

Now, just for the curious, Lord Nyo is an old samurai, scarred in battle, ugly as most warriors are, and at a lost when it comes to the refinement and elegance of life– especially poetry. His Lady Nyo is fully half his age, a delicate and thoughtful woman, though without issue.

But Lord and Lady Nyo don’t fill these pages alone. There are other characters; priests, magical events, samurai and a particularly tricky Tengu who will entertain any reader of this tale.

A full moon, as in many Japanese tales, figures in the mix. As do poetry, some historic and some bad. War and battles, love and hate. But this is like life. There is no getting one without the other.

 

The present Lady Nyo, descended from generations past.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

 

 

 

 

W

“The Kimono”, Chapter 3 ….. with a few Japanese Ghost Stories

–

This weekend I was talking to another writer, who happens to be Japanese.  We read each other’s blog when we can, and we got on the subject of Kaidan, Ghost Stories.  I have read many, but not as much as he. However, ghost stories are a fascination in all cultures, and I mentioned this chapter of “The Kimono” where Mari, a Japanese-American woman in Kyoto has been  invited to a ritual: a storyteller of ghost stories.  This novel will confuse those reading isolated chapters, but the short story is this:  Mari finds an antique kimono in a shop in Kyoto, and upon donning it, is transported back to the 17th century Japan.  A different region, but she lands on her face in front of a daimyo, Lord Mori. He is also Yamabushi. She travels back and forth, from the 21st century to the 17th and seems to have little control over events.  She supposes (and hopes) Lord Mori is controlling the kimono, but it seems the kimono has a mind of its own.

Lady Nyo

CHAPTER 3, KIMONO (Part of Chapter)

Mari awoke next to Steven. She watched him breath, his chest rise and fall, heard his gentle snoring. The kimono lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. She slipped out of bed and picked it up.

The trees are almost bare now, she thought distractedly, looking through the window. Holding the kimono to her breast, she buried her face in its heavy silk. Tears wet her cheeks.

Only a strange dream, Mari, nothing more.

She walked around in a haze, wondering what was happening to her. Details of her dream did not dissolve like dreams generally did but became solid. Something had happened, and the raw ache between her legs told her something had happened to her sexually. Not all she remembered could be a dream.

Later that morning after Steven had left, Mari dressed and went to the Higashiyama region in Kyoto by the eastern hills, where she had bought the kimono. The strange feeling Mari had when she woke that morning persisted as she walked in a gentle rain up Sannenzaka, the stair street, where the old wooden- front shops were. The street was crowded with people, mostly Japanese, but she spied some tourists. Though she had not been in Kyoto for long, she realized this area was a popular spot for sightseeing and buying souvenirs.   She looked into the windows and saw the kiyomizuyaki sets, traditional and simple ceramics used in the tea ceremony, other ceramics and woven goods, wooden geta and other products that were small enough to purchase and be shipped back home.

There were small, narrow streets that led off Sannenzaka, but she couldn’t find the shop where she bought the kimono. Nothing here looked familiar. After an hour of searching, she sat down on a wooden bench under a now-naked gingko tree and watched people walk past. Old couples leaning upon each other, garbed in dull, black kimonos, young couples with children, dressed in western clothes, and a couple of demure, giggling Maikos clattering by on their wooden geta.

The light rain stopped, barely misting the streets and air. Mari turned her eyes upwards to the clouds above her. She remembered a part of the dream where four cranes flew in the distance as she stood in the castle’s window. Almost beckoned by her thoughts three white cranes flew overhead and Mari’s eyes followed their flight, her eyes filling with tears. Shaking her head, she shivered though the day was not cold.

Suddenly she heard the sounds of horns and drums and down Sannenzaka street came a small procession. The horns were conch shells, the drums small hand-held instruments. They were all men and at first she thought they were priests from one of the many temples in the area. She heard people say they were Yamabushi. Mari asked a man next to her what were Yamabushi? He looked at her askance.

“Magicians and healers, you know, kenza and miko.”

‘Ah, thank you” Mari said bowing politely. “Yes, Yamabushi!”

As if she knew what that was, or kenza and miko for that matter.

He whispered that the fellow at the back was “Fudo”, a joker of a Buddha with a sword and noose. Mari asked him what the noose and sword represented. He said it was actually a lasso to save you from Hell, for binding up destructive passions. The sword was for cutting through delusions, foolishness. There was something vaguely familiar in all this but Mari couldn’t place it.

That evening, a Japanese friend had already invited them to an unusual ritual, something she called Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai. There would be a storyteller, a member of the Yamabushi sect, or so said Miyo. Mari had met her at a small company function when they first arrived in Kyoto.

Ah, thought Mari, that is where I have heard the word “Yamabushi”.

It was a ritual of evocation where a hundred candles were burned, said Miyo when she telephoned Mari to invite them. The spiritual energy was summoned along with a ghost story for each candle. As the short story was told, the candle was blown out and the energy compounded. This time there would be only four candles and four stories, but four was the number of Death. Miyo said this ritual would include ofuda, strips of Buddhist sutras: prayers for the protection from the supernatural.

When Mari told Steven about the evening’s séance, he refused to go. He claimed no interest in such superstition, so Mari had to go alone. Considering Steven’s disdain, it was just as well. He could show his opinion in a nasty way, and Miyo was the only friend Mari had in Kyoto.

Mari walked the short distance to her friend’s house. Kyoto was a mass of building activity and Mari was glad to see these quaint frame houses preserved. So much of the old architecture of the city had been torn down and replaced with modern structures. She entered a little gate and found she was in a small Japanese garden, the sand raked like eddies around the boulders. Miyo told her the house was one once owned by an old Samurai around 1910. He had become an ardent gardener.

Miyo was standing at the door, bowing to her. She wore the usual formal black kimono of a married woman and smiled encouraging as she came up the walk. Mari entered the house and was led into a room on the right. There were about eight other people sitting around a low table. Mari was introduced to the friends of Miyo already there, mostly elderly people, more of Miyo’s age than Mari’s. Everyone bowed as Mari bowed back.

Miyo brought in a tea service and dishes of pastry with sweet bean filling. Mari talked quietly with an elderly couple to her left. Seated farther to her right was a man dressed in kimono, who looked to be in his 50’s. His name was Hiro Takado and he was the story teller. There were four candles on the table and when refreshments were cleared, Hiro Takado lit the candles.

Mari listened to his first story, as Miyo whispered a loose translation in her ear. It was a ghost story, a man who lost his wife and ‘found’ her again on the road. It was not exactly scary, but did seem to impress the other listeners, who laughed and looked nervously around.

Hiro Takado blew out the first candle. Mari noticed the room dimmed. Dusk had arrived. Two more stories, the third about a young woman at a crossing with no features to her face. Mari was getting into the spirit of the evening, feeling her stomach flutter. There was only one candle left on the table. The other guests, clutching their ofuda, muttered nervously at the end of the story.   Each candle’s demise summoned more spiritual energy and became a beacon for the dead. They were invited amongst the living.

Hiro Takado took a sip of water and started the last kaidan. An old samurai had fallen in love with a young woman who gave him her favor and cruelly disappeared. She left her kimono behind in his bed. She was a married woman, now an adulterer. The old samurai searched high and low for his jilting lover. Finally he wrapped himself in her kimono, lay down under a cedar tree and died. The last candle was extinguished.

Mari waited breathlessly, strangely effected by the soft words of the storyteller. The others waited in silence until Hiro Takado started a chant.

“The dead walk this night

Lost voiceless souls

Wind in the trees

Carry their moans

Carry their groans

Up to our doors.

Open and greet them

Bow to their sadness

Open and greet them

Soon we will be them.”

Miyo whispered into Mari’s ear. “This is a prayer of invitation, do not be surprised if something happens. Mr. Takado is known for his abilities.”

Mari glanced at the storyteller and his features seemed to swim before her eyes, a slight change in his face, his brows fuller, his mouth broadened, perhaps it was the smile he gave to Mari. Something happened to his features in the half-light of the now darkening room. With a gasp and a hand to her mouth Mari realized she was now looking at the face of the samurai in the dream. It was only later when she was walking home, when her heart was still that could she think clearly.

The next day Mari was going to bury the kimono in the bottom of an old chest. She lay it out on the bed, her hand running over the knotted embroidery inside where it wrapped around, leaving a tattoo on her hips. She closed her eyes and read the small mounds of stitching like Braille. Picking up the heavy crepe she buried her nose in the cloth, smelling its scent. She thought of the first time she saw it in the window of the shop near Sannenzaka Street. It had attracted her like a dull, muted beacon, and she thought about the candles, the stories and the face of Hiro Takado. A heaviness fell over her limbs and she shook off the desire to lay face down over the kimono and go to sleep. She quickly folded the kimono and put it under blankets and sweaters at the bottom of the chest.

For a month Mari attended to the routine with Steven, kissing her husband goodbye in the morning. She spent her days roaming the streets and temples of Kyoto, learning the different districts and feeding the ducks bread in the waterways.

It took a couple of weeks for her depression to become evident. Her daily walks were unvarying, the district’s streets and parks beginning to have a dull, sameness that did nothing to lift her spirits. She felt disconnected to everything and rarely now smiled. If anyone had bothered to ask after her, she would have told them she felt numb, detached from life.

One day Mari decided to sit at her desk and scroll through the internet. Nothing much interested her anymore. The morning was overcast anyway and threatened rain. She thought about the story teller, Hiro Takado, the ghost stories he told, the transformation of his face, and decided to research the Yamabushi. She found little except this cult was well established by the 9^th century. They were mystics, healers and hermits. Apparently they got too powerful for the different ruling families and were bribed to fight and serve depending which mountain region they came from. They were mountainous warriors, and skilled in different forms of magic.

Mari sat back, wondering at the behavior of Hiro Takado, thinking the night was just some weird happening and not that she was crazy. The dream haunted, pressed inward on her, disturbed her sleep and relations with Steven. She needed relief for her face took on a haunted look, with dark circles under her eyes. She lost weight and was now thin.

One afternoon Mari opened the chest at the bottom of the bed, removed the blankets and carefully lifted the kimono out. The black crepe was heavy and cool in her hands as she draped it over the chair. Sitting on the bed, she wondered what she would do with it? Was what she remembered just an erotic dream brought upon by her unhappiness with Steven?

Later that night the full moon rose, shone on the rooftops and distorted the trees. Mari slipped out of bed, pulling the kimono around her. She carefully stepped back into bed, and watched the moon pattern the floor with its light. Finally she fell asleep, wrapped in the warming embrace of the kimono.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015

Mimi acting very silly.