The Peony Lantern Read online

  Dedication

  For my sister Stephanie

  A snake on the path

  As we descend the mountain:

  You are the braver

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Frances Watts

  Copyright

  Chapter

  One

  A feather of green

  Cracks the shell of forest floor:

  A new life begins

  Ansei 4 (1857)

  ‘Kasumi, I need you to go to the forest,’ my mother called as I was putting the last futon into the cupboard.

  ‘Have a lovely walk.’ Hana was polishing the walls, which glowed a deep amber from years of smoke and soot. ‘Don’t spare a thought for those of us who have to work around here.’

  ‘Gathering sansai is work,’ I protested. Mountain greens didn’t gather themselves.

  ‘Not if you enjoy it.’ My sister’s name might mean ‘flower’, and she might present a demure face to our father, but she really should have been named ‘thorn’; she was as prickly as a barberry bush.

  Near the kitchen I stepped down from the tatami mat and tied on my straw sandals.

  ‘Why do you always send Kasumi to the forest and never me anymore?’ Hana complained as I slipped out the back entrance. ‘She’ll be gone half the morning and I’ll end up doing her share of the chores.’

  Mother no doubt meant her response to be too low for my ears, but I clearly heard her say: ‘You know it’s better for all of us if we keep her out of your father’s way.’ It shouldn’t have come as a surprise — everything about me seemed to irritate Father — but the way my mother said it, as if this was a well-established fact between her and my sister, stung.

  Snatching up a basket, I crossed the small garden, passing the clay-walled storehouse where our valuables were kept. After letting myself out through the back gate, I strode up the hill on the path that led into the trees. Of course, I was to blame for Father’s attitude to me, I reflected as I passed the farm of old Ito, tucked into a fold in the mountain where the path curved. As a daughter, it was my duty to serve Father quietly and obey him unquestioningly, to keep my thoughts and opinions to myself . . . but somehow I always forgot to hold my tongue when he was around. ‘As soon as Hana is married, I’ll start looking for a husband for Kasumi,’ I’d heard him tell Mother. ‘She needs a stern mother-in-law to put her in her place.’ I shivered, both at the thought of the stern mother-in-law and the chill in the air.

  Summer came late to the mountains, and even now, early in the fifth month, the air was crisp in the morning. The air was even cooler once I entered the forest, the sunlight filtering only weakly through the trees. As usual, I immediately felt calmer. I was alone now, in the privacy of the sheltering trees; sometimes it seemed like here, and not the inn, was my real home. And this, I knew, was the other reason Mother had sent me and not Hana. Hana had no feeling for the forest. She was too impatient, her eyes too quick, and she invariably came home with her basket nearly empty apart from a few tough old roots. And besides, I never meant to be gone so long. The hours just slipped away.

  I slowed my pace, remembering the advice of my grandmother, my mother’s mother, who had passed away almost two years before. It was Grandmother who had taught me to forage for mountain greens, how to spot the tender fern shoots curling in the shade of the larger fronds, to see past the verdant green foliage to the pale young leaves beneath, to find the bamboo sprouts hidden among the leaves on the forest floor.

  ‘You must slip lightly through the forest like a mist — like your name: Kasumi — leaving no trace.’ She was a poet, and her senses were open wide to the world. As we roamed the forest together, filling our baskets, she would compose a poem about the star-speckled dew on a spider’s web, or the gentle percussion of pine needles in the breeze. Afterwards, she would recite the poem to Grandfather, and he would write it in a book covered in red silk. Grandfather had lived only one month after Grandmother died. In that month I visited him every day to describe what I had seen in the forest that morning.

  ‘You have your grandmother’s ears and eyes. Perhaps you too are a poet.’

  But I knew I wasn’t. My words weren’t beautiful like hers. My words just got me into trouble. Hmph. I was thinking of Father again.

  To calm myself, I breathed in the spicy, woody scent of the trees — cypress, pines and conifers — the Kiso Valley was famed for. I became aware of the softness of the pine needles beneath my feet, of the fingertips of fresh green on the trees, of the thrushes singing kiyoko, kiyoko, kiyoko.

  I drifted into a bamboo grove and gently loosened the youngest shoots from the soil, pausing as a snake, still sluggish from its winter sleep, reluctantly roused itself to move from my path. Following it with my eyes, I spied a crop of golden-capped mushrooms on a fallen log, and then some curling warabi shoots.

  When my basket was full I left the forest, surprised to see that the sun was high in the sky now. There were figures moving in the rice fields between the village and the river as I descended on the path that came out near the carp rock. Visitors always stopped to admire the rock shaped like a carp swimming upstream — and our village on the Nakasendo highway had many visitors. In the fourth month particularly, the highway was busy with daimyo, the lords of the different domains, going to and from Edo, where they were required by the Shogun to spend every second year. Even now, when the season of the processions had finished, we still saw many travellers, mostly merchants and pilgrims who preferred to journey before the plum rains of summer arrived.

  From above, I could see the dark wooden houses lining the long road. Mostly they were inns: the Yamada honjin, where the daimyo would stay, and the Kimura waki-honjin, for the high-ranking domain officials, and nearly thirty more, smaller inns like ours. As well as the inns were shops selling everything a traveller might need, like ointment for sore feet or digestive medicine brewed from the bark of cork trees.

  As I hurried along the main road of the village, I saw two samurai, each wearing both a long and a short sword, their over-jackets marked with the crests of the lords they served — a design of hollyhock leaves for one, hawk feathers for the second. The pair was deep in conversation by the notice board where the Shogun’s laws and edicts were posted. One was tall and dignified; the other, with small round eyes and a pointed nose in his broad face, reminded me of a tanuki, the raccoon dog. They were staring at a piece of paper the shorter man held, the tall one tracing his finger along it. Then, as if sensing they were being watched, the tall one looked up and I quickly dropped my eyes to the ground and bowed before hurrying on.

  On reaching our inn, I ignored the front entrance that was reserved for guests and went around the back to the kitchen entrance.

  ‘Kasumi, what took you so long? It’s nearly lunchtime already.’ Mother sounded breathless. ‘A senior retainer of Lord K
inoyoshi, the daimyo of Matsuyama domain, will be taking his midday meal here. His servant came to tell us. He called his master Lord Shimizu Minoru, even though his master isn’t a daimyo.’ She sounded nervous; it wasn’t often we received such high-ranking guests at the Kira Inn.

  ‘Why would he come here?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t he be going to the waki-honjin with the other officials?’

  ‘Apparently Lord Shimizu asked where he would find the best lunch in Tsumago and he was told to come to the Kira Inn.’ My mother’s face was slightly flushed as she stirred the soup, whether from pride or the heat of the coals I couldn’t tell.

  ‘Doesn’t Lord Kinoyoshi usually travel by the Tōkaidō?’ I asked. The coastal road was a quicker route than the one through the mountains, and more commonly used by the daimyo of the western domains.

  ‘Did Mother say Lord Kinoyoshi was coming to lunch here?’ Hana interrupted. She had been sweeping the tatami in the front rooms and hit the floor lightly with the broom. ‘No, she didn’t. It’s one of his retainers. And I’m sure it’s his business which road he travels, not yours.’

  I turned to glare at her. ‘I was just asking.’

  Mother ignored our bickering as she glanced at the contents of my basket, her mind on the meal she would prepare. ‘I’ll use the mushrooms in miso soup.’ Without turning, she said, ‘Hana, go fetch the good dishes from the storehouse — the ones with the dandelion pattern.’

  Muttering under her breath, Hana flung down the broom and stalked away.

  I turned my attention to the meal we were preparing. As well as the soup there was a pot of water boiling over the stove. I ladled a couple of spoonfuls into a bowl and put the fern shoots in to soak with a pinch of wood ash to remove the bitterness, then began to peel away the dark outer layers of the bamboo shoot.

  Barely an hour later I heard Father welcoming the distinguished visitor, calling to Mami, our maid, to come wash his feet. Most of our guests ate in the main room, but we also had a more formal reception room, and it was to this room that Father conducted our visitor. In the main room we had a party of pilgrims on their way to Hikawa shrine, as well as a merchant from Nakatsugawa and a pair of minor officials from our own Owari domain.

  While mother fried warabi tempura and grilled the trout, I assembled tray after tray with a variety of dishes: soba noodles served cold with grated yam, miso soup made with the mushrooms I had found, and small bowls of pickled ginger and radish.

  Lord Shimizu was served first, and then Hana and Mami carried trays to the other guests. Hana had just left the kitchen with the last tray when Father entered. Mother looked up hopefully. ‘Is he enjoying the meal?’ There was no need to ask who she was talking about.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Father impatiently. He was clearly feeling the stress of having such an important visitor. ‘Lord Shimizu has eaten everything and is ready for the rice. Quickly now.’ And he left again.

  Mother looked around, flustered. ‘Where’s Mami?’

  ‘The pilgrims called for more sake,’ I said.

  ‘Kasumi, you’ll have to go.’

  I filled a bowl with rice and put it on a tray, then smoothed my kimono, pushed my hair behind my ears and went towards the reception room.

  Outside the room, I put the tray down, kneeled and touched my forehead to the floor, then slid back the rice-paper screen. Keeping my head lowered, I peered through my lashes to see our honoured guest sitting on a cushion on the tatami. His back was to the tokonoma, the small raised alcove decorated today with a branch of flowering azaleas in a vase and a hanging scroll painted with a summer meadow.

  ‘Come on then, girl,’ Father said, and I heard a hint of annoyance in his voice. He would have preferred Mami, who giggled and flirted with the customers, or Hana, who was brisk and reserved, always striking the perfect balance between efficiency and deference. I was clumsy by comparison as I picked up the tray with the rice, the bowl sliding across the surface until I righted it and stepped into the room. Immediately I kneeled, put down the tray, and touched my forehead to the floor once more.

  When I looked up I saw a man about my father’s age. I was surprised to recognise the tall samurai I’d seen earlier on the street. He was alone now, no sign of his companion.

  ‘Hello again, sir,’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘Yes, sir, earlier this morning. Well, we didn’t meet, but I saw you standing by the notice board at the northern end of town with a gentleman who looked like a tanuki.’

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I would have given anything to take them back. The samurai was staring at me in shock — clearly unable to believe that I could be so impertinent, so disrespectful.

  My father glared at me, then covered the awkward silence with a forced laugh. ‘Please accept my apologies, sir. Our Kasumi has always had an overactive imagination. I don’t encourage it, believe me.’

  Still kneeling beside Lord Shimizu’s table, I busied myself serving rice and clearing away dishes, sensing the man’s eyes on me.

  When the samurai didn’t respond, Father went on, a desperate edge to his voice. ‘Kasumi is the one who found the sansai for the tempura, and there’s no inn in Tsumago that can boast greens so young and tender. She has very clever eyes.’

  I flushed to hear Father compliment me, until he finished with: ‘It is a pity that in all other ways she is stupid.’ He kneeled and bowed in a gesture of obeisance. ‘Please excuse my stupid daughter, my lord. We are exceptionally busy today, or I wouldn’t have allowed her to serve an honoured guest like you.’

  The samurai still said nothing. It seemed to me that he was mulling over his response. He ate some rice then laid down his chopsticks. ‘Is that so?’

  I kept my eyes on the floor, but felt his gaze burning the back of my head. How would he deal with my unthinking insult?

  As if aware he might be making things worse, Father suddenly changed tack. ‘I mean to say, her manners are — how shall I put it? — undeveloped,’ he said. ‘But she’s a good girl. Very quiet, very discreet, respectful.’ The look he gave me left me in no doubt that he thought the opposite. And I couldn’t blame him. This morning I had been feeling resentful of his bad opinion of me, but the truth was I deserved it.

  I glanced up from behind the curtain of hair that fell across my cheek and saw the samurai raise his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure if describing a man as a tanuki can be described as discreet and respectful . . .’ I drew a shallow breath in anticipation of his next words. ‘But in this case it was accurate. Anyway, he was no friend of mine; he had just stopped to ask directions. I doubt I’d know him if I saw him again.’ He allowed himself a small smile. ‘My eyes are not that clever, perhaps.’

  ‘That is only natural,’ said Father. ‘This one —’ he nodded in my direction ‘— will see two stag beetles fight over a berry and a week later can still tell one beetle from the other. If only she paid such close attention to her work. Do you have daughters, sir?’

  The samurai shook his head. ‘I haven’t been blessed with children.’

  ‘Too many daughters is no blessing,’ said Father. Too many? He only had two! ‘The older one is a credit to her mother, though: hard-working and practical, with not a single opinion of her own. I only wish you could have met her instead.’

  I hoped Mother wouldn’t get in trouble for sending me with the rice.

  Father was still going. ‘Kasumi is a dreamer, I’m afraid. Prone to flights of fancy, then she blurts out whatever fool thing is in her head.’

  Was he meaning to apologise for my slip about the tanuki, or enjoying the opportunity to catalogue my faults?

  I risked another glance at the samurai and saw that he was regarding me thoughtfully. I tried to convey my own apology with my bowed head and downcast eyes. Father was right to be angry with me: I should never have dared to open my mouth. My outburst had not only been unladylike and lacking in deference, it was also dangerous. If the tanuki man had been a friend of the s
amurai, and he had taken offence, the consequences for Father could have been severe. As I arranged the empty dishes on the tray, I could tell Lord Shimizu was still staring, perhaps deciding if punishment was required. The tanuki man was a fellow samurai, after all, and if my words were taken as mockery . . . Oh, why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut?

  Finally Shimizu picked up his sake jug and emptied the last few drops into his cup. He turned to my father, holding the jug aloft. ‘Would it be possible to have some more sake?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Father. ‘Right away. Fetch a cup and some more sake, Kasumi. No, not you. Have Mami bring it in.’

  Picking up the tray, I hastily left the room, dishes clattering.

  Once outside I stopped and took a few deep breaths, willing my hands to cease their trembling.

  ‘Why were you gone so long?’ Hana demanded when I joined her and Mother by the hearth, where they each held a bowl of rice. Mami was in the kitchen rinsing bowls by the wash basin, stopping every now and then to run and peer through a gap in the screen separating our quarters from the large front room where the guests were to see who needed their place cleared and who needed more sake. Clearly the lunch rush was winding down. ‘Did you drop something?’ Hana sounded almost hopeful, and I guessed she resented that I had been given the task of serving the important guest.

  Ignoring her, I called, ‘Mami, Father wants you to take some more sake to the reception room.’

  Mother was looking over the tray I still held, noting the empty dishes. ‘So he ate everything? There was nothing he didn’t like?’

  She didn’t notice my evasiveness but Hana’s eyes were as sharp as a night hawk’s when it came to my failings. ‘Or did you do something worse? I know — you spilled something on him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said.

  As we tidied up from lunch and began to prepare the dishes we would need for the dinner service, I waited apprehensively for Father to return to our quarters.

  Half an hour passed. At Mother’s urging, Mami went to see if Shimizu required anything further, and came back to report that both the samurai and my father were gone. This was not so unusual; it was normal for the innkeeper to personally escort distinguished guests to the edge of town. But when another half-hour passed without any sign of Father, I began to worry in earnest.