Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [553]
This space was three hundred paces by five hundred paces. In the center was a pit fifteen paces square and five deep, filled with wood. Over the pit was a high matted roof dressed with white silk and surrounding it were walls of white linen sheets, hung from bamboos, that pointed exactly East, North, West, and South, a small wooden gate in the middle of each wall.
“The gates are for the soul to go through, Anjin-san, in its flight to heaven,” Mariko had told him at Hakoné.
“Let’s go for a swim or talk of other things. Happy things.”
“Yes, of course, but first please may I finish because this is a very happy thing. Our funeral is most very important to us so you should learn about it, Anjin-san, neh? Please?”
“All right. But why have four gates? Why not just one?”
“The soul must have a choice. That’s wise—oh, we are very wise, neh? Did I tell thee today that I love thee?” she had said. “We are a very wise nation to allow the soul a choice. Most souls choose the south gate, Anjin-san. That’s the important one, where there are tables with dried figs and fresh pomegranates and other fruits, radishes and other vegetables, and the sheaves of rice plantlets if the season is correct. And always a bowl of fresh cooked rice, Anjin-san, that’s most important. You see, the soul might want to eat before leaving.”
“If it’s me, put a roast pheasant or—”
“So sorry, no flesh—not even fish. We’re serious about that, Anjin-san. Also on the table there’ll be a small brazier with coals burning nicely with precious woods and oils in it to make everything smell sweet….”
Blackthorne felt his eyes fill with tears.
“I want my funeral to be near dawn,” she had always said so serenely. “I love the dawn most of all. And, if it could also be in the autumn …”
My poor darling, he thought. You knew all along there’d never be an autumn.
His litter stopped in a place of honor in the front rank, near the center, and he was close enough to see tears on the water-sprinkled fruits. Everything was there as she had said. Around were hundreds of palanquins and the square was packed with a thousand samurai and their ladies on foot, all silent and motionless. He recognized Ishido and, beside him, Ochiba. Neither looked at him. They sat on their sumptuous litters and stared at the white linen walls that rustled in the gentling breeze. Kiyama was on the other side of Ochiba, Zataki nearby, with Ito. Onoshi’s closed litter was also there. All had echelons of guards. Kiyama’s samurai wore crosses. And Onoshi’s.
Blackthorne looked around, seeking Yabu, but he could find him nowhere, nor were there any Browns or a friendly face. Now Kiyama was gazing at him stonily and when he saw the look in the eyes he was glad for his guards. Nonetheless he bowed slightly. But Kiyama’s gaze never altered, nor was his politeness acknowledged. After a moment, Kiyama looked away and Blackthorne breathed easier.
The sound of drums and bells and metal beating on metal tore the air. Discordant. Piercing. All eyes went to the main gateway to the castle. Then, out of the maw came an ornate roofed palanquin, borne by eight Shinto priests, a high priest sitting on it like a graven Buddha. Other priests beat metal drums before and after this litter, and then came two hundred orange-robed Buddhist priests and more white-clad Shinto priests, and then her bier.
The bier was rich and roofed, all in white, and she was dressed in white and propped sitting, her head slightly forward, her face made up and hair meticulous. Ten Browns were her pallbearers. Before the bier two priestlings strew tiny paper rose petals that the wind took and scattered, signifying that life was as ephemeral as a flower, and