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Hi no yojin - part one
In the hall, the servant kneels and scratches at the door. She quietly slides the shoji fusuma aside and speaks softly. I do not look up from my task, carefully drying the tip if my brush and coaxing it to a point. The servant is old and her voice is thin, I guess more than hear her tell me that the others have returned. I quietly instruct her to see to their comfort and to bring tea and more light to my room, dismissing her with a gesture before she bows and shuts the screen.
I use a bit of soft paper to wipe my suzuri clean before I put the ink stone back in its case. I pour the last few drops of water from the iron suiteki onto the paper. Ink flowers bloom; spidery chrysanthemums in shades of grey. The miniature metal teapot, not much bigger than a sake cup, is a comforting weight in my hand. I run the pad of my thumb across the dimpled surface before putting it away and allow myself a small smile. It has a pleasing texture. The thick black felt shitajiki folds to fit comfortably in my suzuribako and the long metal paper weights follow. I have just enough time to roll the brushes in their bamboo holder before Yama-san slides the shoji aside.
The sliding screen bangs against the wall. Yama-san stoops slightly so his head does not strike the top of the doorway when he enters the room. The kamoi is too low for him. He is a giant compared to most of the other yoriki. Indeed, compared to most other men I have met. His helmet is tucked under his arm or he would be cat-backed. As it is the top of his head barely clears the ceiling. I suppress quirking of my lips and quickly hide the remains of my smile, lest he think I am amused by his predicament.
I carefully settle the brush roll in the writing box before I close the lid. I allow myself one brief caress across the lacquered wood before I give Yama-san my full attention.
His face is open, unlined and honest. I realize I have no idea of his age, though I am certain he is older than I. He came to me from another post, leaving the service of a pair of brilliant magistrates in the capital to join my yoriki. I hope I do not disappoint him. At least I was quick to learn that he is not as naïve as most others think him. His face is very deceptive.
I nod my permission to speak and Yama-san does not hesitate.
“We almost had him, magistrate, but he slipped through our line near the river.” He carefully keeps chagrin from turning down the corners of his mouth but he can not hide it in his eyes.
I nod. “I smell smoke. Is he responsible?”
Yama-san does not lower his eyes, but rather meets mine. It is respect and not boldness that causes him to do so. I feel an uninvited tickle of pride. And a bit of annoyance at his familiarity.
“Hai. He set a fire in one of the gambling houses, magistrate. We could not put it out in time. It went up quickly and spread.”
“And he escaped while you were trying to extinguish the flames.”
As we speak the sun rises. Her light spreads, red, through the smoke in the east to stain the screens behind me. The morning lends the tatami the color of drying blood. I watch my shadow slowly stretch across the mats to Yama-san’s feet. The darkness almost touches him.
In the hall, the servant kneels and scratches at the door. She quietly slides the shoji fusuma aside and speaks softly. I do not look up from my task, carefully drying the tip if my brush and coaxing it to a point. The servant is old and her voice is thin, I guess more than hear her tell me that the others have returned. I quietly instruct her to see to their comfort and to bring tea and more light to my room, dismissing her with a gesture before she bows and shuts the screen.
I use a bit of soft paper to wipe my suzuri clean before I put the ink stone back in its case. I pour the last few drops of water from the iron suiteki onto the paper. Ink flowers bloom; spidery chrysanthemums in shades of grey. The miniature metal teapot, not much bigger than a sake cup, is a comforting weight in my hand. I run the pad of my thumb across the dimpled surface before putting it away and allow myself a small smile. It has a pleasing texture. The thick black felt shitajiki folds to fit comfortably in my suzuribako and the long metal paper weights follow. I have just enough time to roll the brushes in their bamboo holder before Yama-san slides the shoji aside.
The sliding screen bangs against the wall. Yama-san stoops slightly so his head does not strike the top of the doorway when he enters the room. The kamoi is too low for him. He is a giant compared to most of the other yoriki. Indeed, compared to most other men I have met. His helmet is tucked under his arm or he would be cat-backed. As it is the top of his head barely clears the ceiling. I suppress quirking of my lips and quickly hide the remains of my smile, lest he think I am amused by his predicament.
I carefully settle the brush roll in the writing box before I close the lid. I allow myself one brief caress across the lacquered wood before I give Yama-san my full attention.
His face is open, unlined and honest. I realize I have no idea of his age, though I am certain he is older than I. He came to me from another post, leaving the service of a pair of brilliant magistrates in the capital to join my yoriki. I hope I do not disappoint him. At least I was quick to learn that he is not as naïve as most others think him. His face is very deceptive.
I nod my permission to speak and Yama-san does not hesitate.
“We almost had him, magistrate, but he slipped through our line near the river.” He carefully keeps chagrin from turning down the corners of his mouth but he can not hide it in his eyes.
I nod. “I smell smoke. Is he responsible?”
Yama-san does not lower his eyes, but rather meets mine. It is respect and not boldness that causes him to do so. I feel an uninvited tickle of pride. And a bit of annoyance at his familiarity.
“Hai. He set a fire in one of the gambling houses, magistrate. We could not put it out in time. It went up quickly and spread.”
“And he escaped while you were trying to extinguish the flames.”
As we speak the sun rises. Her light spreads, red, through the smoke in the east to stain the screens behind me. The morning lends the tatami the color of drying blood. I watch my shadow slowly stretch across the mats to Yama-san’s feet. The darkness almost touches him.