Laura Joh Rowland - Sano Ichiro v06 Black Lotus.pdf

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Laura Joh Rowland - Sano Ichiro 06 - Black Lotus
EDO
Genroku Period, Year 6, Month 8
(Tokyo, September 1693)
Prologue
The day of tragedy dawned with an iridescent sheen in the eastern sky.
As the heavens gradually lightened from indigo to slate blue, stars
disappeared; the moon's crescent faded. The dim outlines of forested hills
framed Zojo Temple, administrative seat of the Buddhist Pure Land sect
in Shiba, south of Edo Castle. Across a vast tract of land spread the
domain of ten thousand priests, nuns, and novices who occupied the more
than one hundred buildings of Zojo proper and the forty-eight smaller
subsidiary temples clustered around it. Above countless tiled and thatched
roofs soared the tiered spires of pagodas and the open framework
structures of firewatch towers. The Zojo temple district was a city within
a city, deserted and silent in the waning darkness.
On the platform of a firewatch tower stood a lone figure in the
unpopulated landscape: a young priest with a shaven head, a round,
innocent face, and keen-sighted eyes. His saffron robe billowed in the
cool early autumn wind that carried the scent of fallen leaves and night
soil. His high perch afforded him a splendid view of the narrow lanes,
walled compounds, and courtyards that comprised the district.
"Namu Amida Butsu," the priest repeated over and over again. "Praise to
the Buddha."
The chant would ensure his entry into paradise after his death, but also
served the practical purpose of keeping him alert during a long night of
guarding the religious community against Edo's most dangerous hazard:
fire. The priest's stomach rumbled with hunger; still chanting, he stretched
his cold, stiff muscles and longed for food, a hot bath, and a warm bed.
Looking forward to the end of his vigil, he turned slowly on the platform.
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Around him revolved the panorama of morning. As the sky brightened to
luminous pearl, colors appeared in the landscape: green foliage and
multihued flower beds in gardens; scarlet woodwork on buildings; white
monuments in cemeteries; the hazy violet mirrors of ponds. The first
tentative waking trills of birds rose to a chorus of songs. Sparrows darted
over the peaked and gabled roofs; pigeons cooed and fluttered in the
eaves; crows winged in the blue distance above the hills, against rosy
wisps of cloud. It would be a clear, warm day. Another night had passed
safely. Yet even as the thought soothed the priest's mind, his sharp gaze
sighted an aberration in the tranquil scene.
A small, dark cloud hovered low over the western sector of the district.
While the priest watched, it thickened and spread with disturbing speed.
Now he smelled the bitter tang of smoke. Frantically, he pulled the rope
that dangled from inside the roof of his tower. The brass alarm bell
clanged, echoing across the district.
Fire!
The insistent ringing of a bell jarred her from deep, black unconsciousness
into dazed stupor. She lay facedown on the ground, with damp, fragrant
grass pressed against her nose and cheek. Where was she? Panic shot
through her, followed by the certainty that something was terribly wrong.
Pushing herself up on her elbows, she groaned. Her head throbbed with
pain; soreness burned on her buttocks and calves, between her thighs,
around her neck. Aches permeated her muscles. The world spun in a
dizzying blur. Thick, acrid air filled her lungs. Coughing, she fell back on
the ground and lay still until the dizziness passed. Then she rolled over,
looking around in bewilderment as her surroundings came into focus.
Tall pine trees pierced the dim blue sky above her. Smoke veiled stone
lanterns and orange lilies in the garden where she lay. She smelled smoke
and heard the crackle of fire. Moaning, she sat upright. Nausea assailed
her; the pain in her head intensified, and she covered her ears to muffle
the loud clangs of the bell. Then she saw the house, some twenty paces
distant, beyond red maples circling a pond.
It was a rustic, one-story cottage built of plaster and weathered cypress,
with bamboo lattice over the windows and deep eaves shading the
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veranda. Fire licked the foundations and crept up the walls, curling and
blackening the paper windowpanes. The thatched roof ignited in an
explosion of sparks and flame. Instinctively she opened her mouth to call
for help. Then the first hint of returning memory stifled her voice to a
whimper of dread. Through her mind flashed disjointed impressions: a
harsh voice; the taste of tears; a lantern glowing in a dark room; loud
thumps and crashes; a violent thrashing of naked limbs; her own running
feet and fumbling hands. But how had she arrived here?
Baffled, she examined herself for clues. Her brown muslin kimono was
wrinkled and her long black hair tangled; her bare feet were dirty, her
fingernails torn and grimy. She struggled to piece the fragmented
recollections into a comprehensible whole, but terror obliterated the
images. The burning house radiated menace. A sob rose from her aching
throat.
She knew what had happened, yet she did not know.
As the firebell pealed its urgent call, an army of priests clad in leather
capes and helmets, carrying buckets, ladders, and axes, raced through the
crooked lanes of the Zojo temple district. A burgeoning cloud of black
smoke rose from one of the subsidiary temples enclosed in separate
walled compounds. The fire brigade stormed through the gate, whose
portals bore the circular symbol of a black lotus flower with pointed petals
and gold stamens. Inside, priests and novice monks stampeded the lanes
between the temple's many buildings, up the broad central flagstone path
leading to the main hall, toward the rear of the compound and the source
of the smoke. Children from the orphanage followed in a chattering,
excited flock. Nuns in hemp robes chased after the orphans, trying in vain
to herd them away from danger.
"Let us through!" ordered the fire brigade commander, a muscular priest
with stern features.
He led his troops through the chaos, around the main hall and past smaller
buildings, into a wooded area. Beyond a cemetery of stone grave markers,
he saw flames through the trees. The priests of the Black Lotus Temple
had formed a line from a cylindrical stone well, along a gravel path, and
across a garden to the burning house. They passed buckets down the line
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and hurled water at the fire, which had climbed the timbers and engulfed
the walls. The fire brigade quickly positioned ladders to convey water to
the blazing roof.
"Is anyone in the building?" shouted the commander.
Either no one knew or no one heard him over the fire's roar and the din of
voices. Accompanied by two men, he ran up the steps to the veranda and
opened the door. Smoke poured out. Coughing, he and his companions
fastened the face protectors of their helmets over their noses and mouths.
They groped through the smoke, down a short corridor, through fierce
heat. The house contained two rooms, divided by burning lattice and paper
partitions. Flaming thatch dropped through the rafters. The commander
rushed through the open door of the nearest room. Dense, suffocating
smoke filled the small space. Amid the indistinct shapes of furniture, a
human figure lay on the floor.
"Carry it out!" the commander ordered.
While his men complied, he sped to the second room. There, the fire
raged up the walls and across the tatami mats. The heat seared the
commander's face; his eyes stung. From the threshold he spied two
figures lying together in the corner, one much smaller than the other.
Burning clothing enveloped them. Shouting for assistance, the commander
waded through the fire and beat his thick leather sleeves against the
bodies to extinguish the flames. His men came and helped him carry the
two inert burdens out of the house, just before the roof collapsed with a
great crash.
Away from the other priests still fighting the blaze, they laid the bodies on
the ground beside the one previously carried out. Choking and coughing,
the commander gratefully inhaled the cool, fresh air. He wiped his
streaming eyes and knelt beside the victims. They lay motionless, and had
probably been dead before he'd entered the hoarse. The first was a large,
naked samurai with a paunchy stomach; knotted gray hair looped over his
shaved crown. There were no burns on him. But the other two...
The commander winced at the sight of their blistered, blackened faces.
Breasts protruded through the shreds of charred cloth clinging to the
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