Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [297]
Rin’ya looked a little puzzled. Her eyes opened wide, but after a moment she signaled her assent. She already showed signs of becoming a great beauty, and it was almost certain she would be the successor in the next generation to the famous Yoshino. But she was only eleven years old. Barely had she gone into the outside corridor and slid the door shut when she clapped her hands and called loudly, “Uneme, Tamami, Itonosuke! Look out here!”
The three girls rushed out and began clapping their hands and shrieking joyfully, delighted by the discovery of snow outside.
The men looked out to see what the commotion was about and, except for Shōyū, were amused by the sight of the young attendants chattering excitedly, trying to decide whether the snow would still be on the ground in the morning. Rin’ya, her mission forgotten, rushed out into the garden to play in the snow.
Impatient, Shōyū sent one of the courtesans in search of Yoshino Dayū.
She returned and whispered into his ear, “Yoshino said she would like more than anything to join you, but her guest won’t permit it.”
“Won’t permit it! That’s ridiculous! Other women here may be forced to do their customers’ bidding, but Yoshino can do as she pleases. Or is she allowing herself to be bought for money these days?”
“Oh, no. But the guest she’s with tonight is particularly stubborn. Every time she says she’d like to leave, he insists more adamantly that she stay.” “Urn. I suppose none of her customers ever wants her to go. Who is she with tonight?”
“Lord Karasumaru.”
“Lord Karasumaru?” repeated Shōyū with an ironic smile. “Is he alone?” “No.”
“He’s with some of his usual cronies?”
“Yes.”
Shōyū slapped his knee. “This might turn out to be interesting. The snow is good, the sake is good, and if we just had Yoshino, everything would be perfect. Kōetsu, let’s write his lordship a letter. You, young lady, bring me an ink stone and brush.”
When the girl placed the writing materials before Kōetsu, he said, “What shall I write?”
“A poem would be good. Prose might do, but verse would be better. Lord Karasumaru is one of our more celebrated poets.”
“I’m not sure I know how to go about it. Let’s see, we want the poem to persuade him to let us have Yoshino, isn’t that right?”
“That’s it.”
“If it’s not a good poem, it won’t make him change his mind. Good poems are not easy to write on the spur of the moment. Why don’t you write the first lines, and I’ll write the rest?”
“Hmm. Let’s see what we can do.” Shōyū took the brush and wrote:
To our humble hut
Let there come one cherry tree, One tree from Yoshino.
“So far, so good,” said Kōetsu, and wrote:
The flowers shiver from cold
In the clouds above the peaks.
Shōyū was immensely pleased. “Marvelous,” he said. “That ought to take care of his lordship and his noble companions—the ‘people above the clouds.”’ He neatly folded the paper, then handed it to Sumigiku, saying gravely, “The other girls don’t seem to have the dignity you have, so I appoint you my envoy to Lord Kangan. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the name he’s known by in these parts.” The nickname, meaning “Frigid Mountain Crag,” was a reference to Lord Karasumaru’s exalted status.
Sumigiku was not long in returning. “Lord Kangan’s reply, if you please,” she said, reverentially placing a gorgeously wrought letter box before Shōyū and Kōetsu. They looked at the box, which implied formality, then at each other. What had started as a little joke was taking on more serious overtones.
“My word,” said Shōyū. “We must be more careful next time. They must have been surprised. Surely they couldn’t have known we’d be here tonight.”
Still hoping to get the better of the exchange, Shōyū opened the box and unfolded the answer. To his dismay, he saw nothing but a piece of cream-colored paper, devoid of writing.
Thinking he must have dropped something, he looked around for a second sheet, then glanced again into the box.
“Sumigiku, what does this mean?”
“I have no idea. Lord Kangan handed me the box and told