Picking up his bowl, he decided that today he must put his foot down and tell them to stop coming into the garden. When he straightened up, he saw them. Two small figures had burst from the trees, waving their arms and shouting.

Now what? They knew better than to bother him. He had let them know they weren’t welcome. He set the bowl back down, put on his most ferocious scowl, and started toward them.

The boy and girl were nine and ten respectively, the children of a woman who lived in the poor quarter across from the Takashina mansion. She was a widow who cleaned other people’s houses all day long. Ragged, thin, and left to their own resources, the children had climbed the wall and come into the garden to play. They reminded him of his own childhood, and he had been too permissive in the beginning. But his duties here meant that he was to guard the property against undesirable visitors, and it was only a matter of time before the professor or the nun would object to the noise of children and complain to the owner.

They were shouting “Come quick!” and “The poor lady!” Koshiro began to feel queasy and started to run

When they met, the children were babbling, their eyes wide with panic, and their arms flailing, pointing, gesturing. Something was wrong, though he could not make out what it was.

Lady Ogata occupied the Lake Pavilion, a graceful building overlooking a small artificial pond with koi and water lilies. Though she was noble and in her mid-twenties, Koshiro never thought of her without feeling desire. He himself was fifty years old and already had gray hairs among the black ones. But lust did not die with age, and a man had little control over his willful thoughts.

So Koshiro ran through the trees and bounded up the veranda steps of the Lake Pavilion. All was still. The shutters were closed except for one that stood partially open. He called out, “My lady? Are you all right? It’s Koshiro.”

There was no answer.

He pushed the shutter a little wider and looked inside.

The large, elegant room lay in deep shadow after the brightness outside. At first, he thought it was empty, its bare floor gleaming softly.

Puzzled, he blinked his eyes to adjust them. The little girl had caught up and was shaking his arm. “Look!” she cried. “Please take her down! Quick!”

He raised his eyes from the floor.

Something floated in the dim space, a dusky shape. A bundle of robes hung up to air? The silk gowns almost touched the floorboards and moved softly in the breeze from the open doorway. As he stared, the shape seemed to turn slightly toward him, and he saw a pair white-stockinged feet. They did not touch the floor.

In wonder, he stepped inside and went closer. That was when he realized that a woman was inside the robes. She was weightless, floating above the ground like one of the fairies in the western paradise.

He looked up, saw her face, and recoiled. It was Lady Ogata, but all of her beauty was gone. She looked shocking, her tongue protruding from her mouth like some huge slug, and her eyes rolled back so only the whites showed. Purple silk was looped around her neck and passed behind her head. It was tied around one of the rafters above. He muttered a prayer and reached for his amulet.

Lady Ogata hung, swaying and turning gently, while the little girl cried something and pulled at him. Swallowing down his nausea, Koshiro went to touch the limp hand. It was cold as ice.

“Too late,” he croaked, then turned away to run outside and vomit up his rice gruel.

So quickly can a man’s fortune turn from happiness to despair. All was lost. Nothing would ever be well again.

At that moment, Koshiro hated Lady Ogata as he had never hated anyone before.

2

The Sadness of Autumn

Less than a mile from the site of Lady Ogata’s death, Tora also sat in the sunshine on his small veranda. He, too, had eaten his morning gruel and contemplated the day ahead. Behind him, he could hear the voices of his wife Hanae and son Yuki. He, too, felt a sense of contentment.

But unlike Koshiro, Tora was fully aware that not all was well. It was autumn again, and they were home, and there were the shouts and laughter of children again, but the gloom of death hung heavy over this house.

The master had returned, a shadow of his former self, to his motherless children.

Lady Tamako had died in childbirth in the spring while her husband served as governor in distant Kyushu. Tora and Saburo had been with him, and they had feared for his sanity when he learned what had happened, knowing that his lady had been dead and buried weeks before he got the news and that it would be more weeks before he would set foot in his house again.

Tora got up and went inside where Hanae was putting away the bedding and tidying their main room. She was small and agile, his pretty Hanae, a former dancer and still as graceful and desirable as when they had first met. These days there was a new fear in his heart that he might give her a child again and she might die like Lady Tamako. After his return, he had hesitated to take her in his arms and make love to her, and she had wept until he explained. Now, they lay together again, but still he was afraid. All their lives had changed.

Yuki put his head in. “I put the firewood next to the fireplace, Mother,” he announced. When he saw his father, his eyes lit up. “Will you give me another stick fighting lesson today, Father?”

Tora was proud of his sturdy son, but the mention of stick fighting reminded him of his master. He had taught Lord Sugawara the moves and strategies of combat with a fighting stick many years ago when they had both been young and full of energy and laughter. Oh, how sadly things had changed!

“Another day perhaps,” he said vaguely and saw Yuki’s face fall. “Perhaps you and I can exercise the horses later,” he added.

Yuki clapped his hands. “I’ll go brush them now, Father,” he cried and disappeared.

Tora and Hanae looked at each other.

“I feel ashamed,” he said. “I have so much, and the master …” His voice trailed off.

She nodded. “He hardly eats and spends all his time sitting in his dark room. And the children have become so quiet. It’s bad for all of them. What should we do?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. We have all tried. His family and his friends. We’re still trying. I’d better look in on him, but the gods know I hate seeing him like this.”

She nodded. “Stay with him. Talk to him. Mention the children. It may help.”

“I’ll try, but he always sends me away when I remind him of them.”

*

Saburo had spent the night with Shokichi, a prostitute he had met a year ago while investigating the murder of a brothel owner. He was very fond of Shokichi, the first and only woman to treat him as a normal man. The disfigurement of his face that made him look like a goblin had frightened both children and adults.

These days he no longer looked quite so terrifying. He had grown a mustache and beard that hid most of the worst scars and deformities, and he used a paste concocted by Lady Tamako to conceal the rest. Except for one eye that he had trouble controlling he looked almost normal. But Shokichi had liked him even when he was a monster. She almost had not recognized him when he returned from Kyushu and went to visit her.

In the beginning, he had been shy and very careful not to expect anything beyond friendship. In fact, he had kept his distance, merely taking her to a restaurant now and then, or to a temple fair, or for a walk by the river under the late-flowering cherry trees. And there she had finally burst into tears.

Dismayed, he had begged her forgiveness for whatever he had done.

“It’s what you haven’t done,” sobbed Shokichi.

“I’ll do it,” he cried. “Right away. Just tell me what it is.”