And now, she thought, he will make his good-byes and walk away forever.  She braced herself, considered lifting the shade a little when his back was turned so she could see him clearly one more time, to hold his image in her heart.

But he said instead, “The countryside near your home is very lovely.  Your younger brother showed me around.  I saw the places where you used to walk and ride your horse.”

The thought of what Yasuhira might have said caused her to gasp audibly.  She put her hand over her mouth.

He misunderstood.  “I have distressed you,” he said quickly.  “Forgive me.  I thought perhaps you would like to talk about your home.”

She lowered her hand.  “Oh, yes,” she begged.  “Please tell me.”

“Well, then, I did not speak to your father.  He was away with your brother Takehira.  But your mother was very kind and saw to it that I was given lodging and a fine meal.  There was fresh fish and even some wild duck.  I haven’t tasted food like that since I left home.”

“My family still keeps to the old ways of hunting,” she said apologetically, remembering the rich taste of roasted pheasant and dove, and of rabbit stew.

“Your younger brother, I think, shot the duck.  He showed me the horses.  They were very fine.”

She wanted to ask about her own mare, Fierce Storm, but was afraid to.  They had probably sold her by now.  Grief overwhelmed her again.  “I cannot go home,” she said in a forlorn voice.  “I can never return home again.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Surely you may visit your parents sometimes?”

“I don’t think so.”

He moved a little closer.  “It pains me that you are so unhappy.”

She said nothing because speaking her true feelings would be disloyal to her family.

“Perhaps you will make friends here,” he offered.

“Yes,” she said sadly, and both were silent.  She thought of Lady Shojo-ben and knew that even the kindest friend would not take the place of what she had lost.

Through the grass shade she looked at his wide shoulders and his shapely head.  His hands rested on his knees, and he inclined his face a little toward her.  She inhaled deeply to breathe in his scent and nearly swooned.  Perhaps, she thought, what I am about to lose is much worse, for there is no hope for us.

He sighed as if he agreed.  “I should not be here,” he said, “but I’ll return if you would like me to.”  He paused, then added, “As a friend.”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly.  “Please.  But . . . I’m not sure . . . it is not permitted, I think.”

“I see.  Not here, at any rate.  And not like this.”  He stood, then said quite fervently, “I am your friend, Lady Toshiko.  Call on me whenever you need me and I shall come wherever you direct me.”

Visitors

Toshiko had been lost in the perfumed darkness for four months when her father and brother arrived in the capital.  It was nearly autumn by now, and the roads were dusty and crowded with soldiers and pilgrims.

Oba no Hiramoto and his nineteen-year-old son, Takehira, belonged to the warrior class, masters in their own domains but despised by the court nobility.  On the highway, they met with respect, even fear.  Foot travelers stepped politely out of their way and bowed.  Peasants knelt.  But when they reached the capital, they encountered the court nobility who showed their disdain by raising their chins and staring right through them.  The Obas responded to this by making gross jokes about perfumed fops in their carriages.

The provincial warriors were fiercely proud of their lands and loyalties but had not been welcome at court until recently when the fops had come to realize that they needed the warriors to protect their ancient wealth and power.

Father and son wore full armor and were attended by ten armed foot soldiers.  Hiramoto was tall and broad-shouldered but had a pock-marked face and grizzled beard.  His son drew the eyes of young women because he was handsome and had a dashing narrow mustache.

The Obas were not wealthy but proud.  At the moment, they were dusty, hot, and tired.  City life was strange to them and that, along with what lay ahead, made them tense.  The father worried about the outcome of his journey, and Takehira was filled with nervous energy.  His eyes went everywhere, taking in the teeming humanity all around him, gazing at willows and canals, squinting toward the distant imperial palace and the green foothills beyond.  He noted that earthen walls enclosed whole city quarters of tenements and houses, each like a village in the larger city, each, no doubt, filled with shops and amusements for his delight as a member of the imperial guard.

“Too many beggars,” his father complained, and Takehira tore his eyes away from his golden hopes and looked at the people around him.

They made little headway.  Large carriages drawn by slow oxen impeded them.  Servants on their master’s errands ducked in and out of the throng.  Half naked porters bore their goods in enormous baskets on their backs.  Traveling monks strode along as if they owned the street, the small rings on their staffs jingling at every step.  And everybody was shouting.  The ragged children with limbs like sticks and distended bellies were everywhere, crying for coppers with their shrill voices.  They dashed into the street to reach for their bridles, touched their stirrups, hung onto their saddle blankets, pleaded with sunken eyes and hungry mouths.  And yet the smell of cooking foods was all around them.

Takehira tossed the children some coins, and a fight broke out between the hooves of their shying and rearing horses.

“Stop that,” snapped his father.

They caught up with a fine ox-drawn carriage.  Its driver and runner used their whips on the crowd and cursed at people.  Now and then, the reed curtain in the back twitched, revealing glimpses of colored silks inside.

Takehira stared.  “Who do you think she is?” he asked his father.  “A princess?  Maybe it’s Toshiko?  What if it’s Toshiko, and here we are, right behind her?”

“Nonsense,” grunted his father.

Takehira dismissed the thought of shouting a greeting at the lady, and looked instead at some palace guards riding the other way with their bows and quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders.  “Fine horses, those,” he remarked, “and look at that armor.”

This time his father did not hear him, for there was too much noise, a grand cacophony of shouts, creaking wheels, hoof beats, cracking whips, barking dogs, bells, and laughter.

They took Third Avenue to the river, passing more walls and fences of every kind, tall plastered ones with massive gateways, wooden ones, modest ones of woven bamboo, and poor ones made from twigs and brushwood.  Everywhere, as far as the eye could see were homes, temples, shrines, palaces, markets, and villas.

At one corner, two pretty young women in red silk skirts and colored jackets laughed and waved to them.

“Can they be shrine maidens?” Takehira asked his father.  “They seem very immodest.”

Hiramoto looked and gave a snort.  “Whores.”

Takehira grinned.  “Really?”  He whistled to the women as he passed.

Both immediately plunged into the street and ran alongside their horses.  One put her hands familiarly on Takehira’s knee.  “Welcome,” she cried in a high voice. “We know first-class lodgings where your lordships will be treated like princes.  Please follow us.”

Hiramoto reached for his sword.  “Away, scum!” he roared.

The women shrieked and scattered.

Takehira looked after them regretfully.  “What’s your rush?  We should stop and find lodging before we make our bow to His Majesty.”

But his father only grunted again.  A long bridge spanning the Kamo River took them out of the old city and into the green eastern hills where new temples and palaces with shining blue-tiled roofs and gilded pagodas beckoned from the trees.