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Tai, Ran Province

I'm ashamed to write something like this when Master Gyousou has more important things to read. Here in Ran I'm staying in the same room I did on the way to Ren, that time when I was small. It has a window facing west and a view of the cloud-sea. I thought I might paint the view, but the sun's gone down now, it's too dark, and the wind on the terrace is cold. There was a moment when I was by the window looking out, and I thought I heard Seirai behind me. During that trip he told stories on the nights when I was too excited to go quietly to bed. I can't remember what story he told the first night. I wish I could remember.

We part to meet again, my lord said. That was this morning. If the tobacco box looks emptier than it should be, please don't blame the attendants. The thief was someone else.

Oh, I can't send this.

En, Kankyuu

Today we toured the university, which is enormous. Since our tour was unofficial--I get a sense that much of En Taiho's activity is unofficial--we were able to watch students going about their everyday business. I realized I had embarassingly little idea of what people study here--I mean here, in this world. I feel a little less ignorant now. The curriculum in En includes history, mathematics, and the classics, with supplementary instruction in archery and horsemanship (but not swordsmanship? I wonder, how did Master Gyousou learn?). There's a school of the visual and performing arts, but those are small. I suppose most students of the arts learn by apprenticeship.

It turns out I won't be traveling alone to Han. En Taiho introduced me to a scholar, a friend of Nakajima-san--I should say of King Kei--who was "looking for an excuse to go." En Taiho says he'll come along, too. I'm afraid no one trusts me to wander unsupervised. I can't blame En Taiho, after all the trouble he went to before, but he said it isn't that. You don't know those people, he said. Later King En said it would ease King Tai's mind if I had a decent escort, and I couldn't really argue, since I knew what Master Gyousou would say.

Lord Rakushun the scholar was quiet until I asked about his studies. He has a lot of questions about Tai, but in some respects I think he knows much more than I do. He seems unassuming and kind. Sometimes he talks with an accent. I wonder if it's rude to mention that he's also a mouse.

En, Kankyuu, Genei Palace

There's a kind of messenger bird, dark blue and white, with bars on the tail--here's a picture, but the likeness is bad. I've never seen this kind before. Lord Rakushun has one that he uses to talk with King Kei. It delivers messages by voice, like a parrot only better, since it copies the speech of the speaker exactly. Has Master Gyousou heard of these? It's sort of tempting. But I don't know what I'd do if my lord's voice came out of a bird.

Both Lord Rakushun and En Taiho speak very fondly of King Kei. They both call her Youko. From what Lord Rakushun says, she had a difficult time when she first came here, worse than En Taiho or I did. I wonder if it's easier for children to go from one world to another. Maybe it gets harder the older you are. When I asked whether that might be so, En Taiho made a funny noise and said King En had no trouble, but "he acts like a child, so no wonder."

En, Kankyuu

This morning we left the palace and went down into the city. En Taiho had to cover his head with a sort of scarf, so his hair wouldn't show--he grumbled about it and said I was lucky I didn't have to bother. While we went on foot during the day, the suugu we rode in on stayed at the stable of an inn that's been in business for at least a century, though En Taiho couldn't remember exactly how long. There were no other suugu in the stable when we left left, only some smaller riding beasts, so Tama and Tora got to rule the roost. I think Tora recognized me--he growled in a friendly way--he was the one who carried me back to Tai from Kei. Master Gyousou is probably thinking of Keito, but Tora is more like a giant kitten. He likes to be rubbed behind the ears.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go on and on about suugu. Compared to Kouki, Kankyuu is...I don't know how to say it without being unkind to Kouki. Even the light that falls between the eaves is different. I suppose it's natural for a place that's known nothing but prosperity for five hundred years. People walk as if they know where they're going and aren't worried about getting there. It surprised me that there were beggars, especially around the temples, but none of them looked like they were starving. En Taiho said they were mendicants who live on alms. They beg as part of their devotions. I saw a shaven-headed boy, maybe seven or eight years old, rattling his bowl at everyone who passed through the temple gate. When people gave him coins he scowled at them, but when they gave him rice balls or buns stuffed with bean paste he bowed and called them honorable mistresses, honorable sirs.

His Majesty is in perilous high spirits as our guests are soon to arrive. We must think of some way to detain them, Risetsu, you must help me think, he declared. To this end I am calculating with all my might, but I'm afraid we daren't keep Taiki too long. It would be a sorry reflection on our hospitality if we let him pine under our roof. Isn't it magnanimous of King Tai to permit an extended journey considering everything that's happened? And how brave of Taiki to make the trip! I cannot think how Enki can bear to tromp about all the time by himself--like a vagrant! I should be sick at heart at being parted. (Though I should be sick in other ways if my master were as monkeyish as his.) They are so peculiar in En. Alas I can't write any longer, dear diary, there's too much to be done. I do hope Rakushun will like our little surprise.

En, Kankyuu, Genei Palace

There is one thing that puzzles me. The people I've met here--the ministers, the attendants, En Taiho too--all of them like to disparage the king. Fondly, more or less. Maybe King En solicits it. But I wonder if they aren't taking their lord for granted. They've been blessed for so long, watching kings and queens fall around them, right and left, but after five hundred years I wonder if they have any real idea, any real memory of what it's like--to do without.

It's not that I mean to judge, or, or say they should be reminded. I just keep thinking, if I were in their shoes I would be so proud--if I were in En Taiho's shoes I think I might be trembling day and night not to burst, with pride.

From the writings of the poet Hitsui:

For the first time in memory I was summoned to the Residence to play for His Majesty alone. Always before on these uncommon occasions the Taiho has been present as well, but the Taiho for these several weeks is traveling abroad, as everyone at the palace knows.

While listening His Majesty scarcely drank, but took tobacco. He smiled once when filling his pipe, as he held the leaves between his finger and thumb, and did not smile again all evening regardless of my performance. He did not speak. For the most part he seemed scarcely aware of my presence, or of the ringing of the lute, even when I conceived a dreadful impudence and improvised on the tune of "Song of a Spring Midnight":

On his stormcloud the dragon king
Frowns, and winds roil in eight directions
His claws clasp air, bereft of that dark pearl
Priceless beyond the bright fruit
Of Zui's ten thousand gem-springs.

Han, Royal Palace

We arrived in Han just in time for a festival called Onmyou Hanten. I don't think this is celebrated at all in Tai. I'll try to describe but my head is still ringing. I hardly know where to begin.

In the morning the three of us went to court to attend what we expected would be a formal welcome ceremony. I should have noticed something was odd when the gentleman (later I found out he was the prime minister) who came to guide us from our hall was dressed as a chambermaid, with an enormous featherduster dangling from his sash. He was very pleasant to us, but he was sweating. Still, En Taiho had warned me to be ready for eccentricities, and I didn't want to offend, so I said nothing.

When we reached the reception room in the Inner Hall, the scene was astonishing. There were no officials lined up bowing to greet us. Instead the floor was thronged with maidservants, manservants, pages, footsoldiers, cooks, clerks--young people for the most part--dressed in costume. Some of them were got up as ministers, but with robes disheveled and belts skewed as if they had dressed while hopelessly drunk. A number of the men were wearing women's clothes, and vice versa. They were eating candied almonds (some were flinging almonds at one another) and talking, and in the corner a string ensemble was playing, so the room was full of din.

The person sitting on the throne was a girl, with golden hair, dressed as a cavalry officer in trousers and tall boots. She held a riding crop in one hand. From her hair I knew this must be Han Taiho, but otherwise I felt completely lost. I looked at En Taiho, who didn't look so much surprised as exasperated, as if he wanted to go stomping back out the door. Then a person standing behind the throne stepped up beside it and rapped its jeweled arm with the butt of his folding fan.

The noise subsided and the music stopped. Han Taiho jumped to her feet. She was smiling.

"You've come! You don't know how we've waited--but we must send you back to your rooms to change. You can't go about looking drab on today of all days. There are clothes specially prepared, you shall have your choice of them--"

Beside the throne, King Han--should I say Han Taiho?--leaned forward and said, very musically, "Rakushun."

(I don't think anyone can blame Lord Rakushun for squeaking his answer.) "Yes!?"

"Calico or brindle?"

"P-Pardon?!"

The king produced something from his sleeve. When he turned it toward us with a flourish we saw that it was a beautifully painted mask. It had triangular ears and long filaments splaying out from under the nose on each side. Han Taiho--should I say King Han?--let out a laugh like the chiming of a string of little silver bells.

"Today you shall become a cat!" she said.

From the Record of Culinary Matters recorded by Assistant Chef Sui of the Forbidden Kitchen:

It was suggested by Her Grace the Taiho that some delicacies in the style of Tai cuisine should be served. This threw our esteemed Master Chef into fits of private consternation as neither she nor any other chef among us is conversant with the preparation of Tai delicacies, if an ice-encrusted island populated by miners, barbarians, and goatherds can be said to have delicacies at all. Since there is no gainsaying Her Grace, messengers were despatched throughout the capital and beyond to see whether a Tai chef could be found, but almost immediately afterward the Taiho withdrew her request.

Han, Royal Palace

After the banquet the other night I was asked to tell a story from Hourai. "A souvenir from the archipelago of Wa," said the king, "something nouveau." It was an awful moment. My mind went blank, and nothing came into my head except old plays that ended badly. I felt bleak, thinking I couldn't even manage to give a return gift as small as a story to these people who've done so much for me. It must've been clear to everyone I was at a loss, or maybe I just looked cowed, because Han Taiho poured fresh tea in my cup and asked, "Are there no fairytales there?"

There are, I said. The tea warmed my throat, and it got easier to talk.

"A tale about a princess, then," said King Han--I think he meant it in honor of Han Taiho. So I told them about Kaguya-hime. And I've just realized Master Gyousou won't know the story, either, but if I write it all down now this letter will get much too long.

Today I found out Lord Rakushun has transcribed the entire thing. Han Taiho says it will be on the stage before the end of the month.

Han, Royal Palace

Somehow it was settled that I should do a portrait of Han Taiho. There are so many better artists here--it seems like King Han collects them, along with poets and people with perfect teeth--but he waved his fan at my excuses. Today I was supposed to start painting, but now King Han says he can't decide whether Han Taiho should pose with her harp or with flowers, so in the end nothing got done, although we drank a lot of sake in flavors I could barely recognize, and King Han smoked a lot of tobacco that smelled odd. En Taiho wondered (sort of loudly, after the sake) how the kingdom doesn't fall apart if the king can't make up his mind about something like a portrait, but Han Taiho put her chin in the air and said indecision was a pleasure reserved for luxuries.

After dinner Han Taiho performed for us on the harp, which she says has been the favorite instrument here since the time of the second dynasty. She plays the lute and the zither also. Her harp is of mahogany wood, shaped like a crescent moon, with thirteen silk strings and tassles of red cotton flowing from the neck. The head is carved like the head of a female phoenix. She plays wonderfully and the music is very strange. Lord Rakushun says in the classical repertoire most pieces begin with a section in free rhythm, only entering a fixed rhythm in the second part. Master harpists are given the title Celestial Musician and can move a listener to tears by plucking a single note. I think Han Taiho must be a master. The last piece she played was a hymn to the glory of the king.

Recovered by an attendant in the Royal Palace of Han:

Tai sake is strong but. I think. The wine in Han might be stronger? Is it all right to say that? Everything is magnf magnified, I can hear the ink seeping into the page. I wonder is my heart always set at this volume only I never notice. This is the cup I am drinking from. Very bad rendition. Master. Please forgive me. If I bring some back can we drink it together if I pour for you.

Tai, Kouki, Hakkei Palace

In the Taiho's absence His Majesty's mood declines from temperate to increasingly sharp. He throws himself bodily into work and sleeps little. There is talk among the court physicians of preparing a draught to improve his rest, but His Majesty will have none of it. He is brusque if civil with his attendants, unrelenting with himself. Those who know him from the time of his generalship or his first reign are unsurprised, and call it a reversion to old habit, since His Majesty is a horse that learnt to gallop first and only much later to walk. Furthermore it is a principle of animal husbandry, says General Gashin, that a stallion is best housed with a companionable gelding: if the gelding is removed the stallion will become an unmanageable brute.

The Taiho, in his mercy, has faithfully sent letters throughout the duration of his journey. One would not presume to suggest that he does so for the court's sake as much as His Majesty's, but the intervention of a bluebird has been our preservation more than once.

Ren, Juurei, Urou Palace

In the courtyard of my guest hall is a moon garden. There are other gardens like this situated all across the palace. King Ren says in this country you can find as many plants that bloom after dark as in the daylight, and Ren Taiho says there are night hummingbirds that drink only from night flowers. When the night jasmine opens, the smell of it spreads like a mist that infuses everything, including the bedcurtains. My pillow smells different only if I put something under it. Tonight I sat out beside the arbor for a while, hoping to see one of the hummingbirds, but none came. As I was going to bed it occurred to me I should've put out the lamp in case they might be shy of it. Tomorrow I might try again.

The moon is still new, a sliver. I didn't notice last time I was here, but the sky is different--from Tai, I mean. The night sky. The River of Heaven, the angle of the constellations--if I had to find my way by them, I think I would wander for a long time.

Ren, Juurei, Urou Palace

My dreams have been fitful these past nights. I don't know if sleeping in foreign beds in foreign places can account for it. On my last night in Han I dreamed I was lost among the processional throng in the capital, trying to make my way through the crush while the whole crowd pushed in the opposite direction. On all sides of me there were dancers, jugglers, half-beasts, fire-eaters, bare-chested men and women with jewels affixed to their lips and the corners of their eyes--all of them speaking and shouting or singing in some language I didn't know. The street was so congested I could hardly set one foot in front of the other. I was on the brink of turning back when I caught a glimpse of white far ahead, and I knew (I don't know how I knew, but I was sure, the way one is sure of things without any reason in dreams) that it was Master Gyousou.

My heart jumped into my throat. I started to press forward, and then to run, though it felt like I was moving in slow motion, as if my legs were weighted, while the people streamed aside like sand from one lobe of a tilted hourglass. The only thing in my mind was that I had to hurry. When I reached the place where Master Gyousou was standing, I couldn't speak. I knelt in the confusion of the street. No one took any notice. I bowed, and meant to lay my forehead at my lord's feet, but from above I heard "There's no need" and "Kouri, lift your head."

Ren, Juurei, Urou Palace

When I couldn't sleep I went into the courtyard and drew lotuses by lamplight. There was a long lake full of these at the temple of the Queen Mother of the West outside Juurei. It made me think of the thousand-lotus garden at Houro Palace, but the air here is heavier and lies closer to the skin.

There were plumed egrets wading in the temple pool. At first I thought they were all white, but some had dusky undersides that showed when they lifted their wings. The maiden acolytes sang vespers when the sun set. I want to write more about the temple but I don't have the words.

Still no hummingbirds.

Recovered by an attendant in the Royal Palace of Ren:

I don't know the hour. I spilled ink on my fingers. I fell asleep imagining my lord would come.

Ren, Juurei, Urou Palace

No matter how often I do it, it feels fragile tying scraps to the leg of a bird. Sometimes I think I might as well put the paper bits in glass bottles and set them loose on the Sea of Clouds. They'd float to Tai sooner or later. I don't know how the birds find their way to where they're going. By instinct? It seems unfair to put burdens on living things so airy and small. But the birds, when they bring a letter--they look a little bit proud, don't they? In the tilt of their eyes.

Ren Taiho gave me a poem that starts like this:

People say the setting sun marks the edge of the sky,
I look towards the edge of the sky, but cannot see my home.

She didn't write it, but she says she thought of it often the last time she was away from Ren--I'm afraid that means while she was helping to look for me. She and King Ren have been so kind. I wish I felt less like a rope pulled taut. If it weren't so mild here, if everything weren't so forgiving...the orchards in the back palace have fruit on the trees already, still green.

Somehow I keep thinking of Hourai, and how sick I was there without knowing it. That whole time, I wanted to remember what I'd forgotten, I wanted it more than anything but I think it was forgetfulness that saved me, in the end. If I had remembered all along, I don't know how I would've lived.

Tai, Kouki, Hakkei Palace

Your letters--those sent and those unsent--have been received. If the bird arrives during the day I save the reading for my reward after work is done, or such has been my intention. These past weeks I am reminded how well a ship fares without its anchor. The reminder is redundant but no less keen for that. At this distance I hope I have done nothing to grieve you, and left nothing undone, but my heart, I think you must give our regards to Kei another time. You have fed enough tinder to this fire. Come home.