Trees in the Town

 

Sanuki no Suke’s Diary Volume 1 (Revised)

 

The early summer sky is overcast, and the farmers’ clothes, soaked with rain as they plant rice, look as if they will never dry. In these already dreary days, the quiet, secluded life of my village brings back memories of past and present even more than usual, leaving me filled with a gentle melancholy.

Step out onto the veranda and gazing outside, I see the clouds and sky dark and heavy, as though weeping in sympathy with me. Seeing this, I nod in deep agreement with the words once written by Murasaki Shikibu (976-1036):

The clouds above must surely be

The lingering haze of one held dear;

In pity, they look down on me,

As my sad heart grows dark and drear.

My tears flow without end, just as in the verse by Tachibana Toshitsuna (1028-1094):

The gentle rains of early June

Fall soft upon the sweet flag leaves,

And leave their dew to glisten soon

Along the edges of the eaves.

The mountain cuckoo sings as if directly addressing my aching heart, and the short summer night slowly fades away. As the night draws to a close, memories of that distant past surge back, and my tears fall unbidden and uncontrollable.

When I look back, I served my lord, Emperor Horikawa (1079-1107), admiring the blossoms in spring and the crimson leaves in autumn, gazing at the moonlit sky, accompanying him on snowy mornings, and remaining constantly by his side for eight long years. Throughout those days, there were countless memorable moments, yet I can never forget the peaceful stillness of his early morning prayers and the clear, echoing tones of his flute at dusk.

Hoping that it might help ease my sorrow, I continue writing down everything I can recall, until my eyes grow so blurred with tears that I can no longer see the tip of my brush. My tears drip into the water on my inkstone, smearing the ink lines and rendering them unreadable.

I write with the fond hope that this act of writing will bring some small relief to my grieving heart, yet it is just as if I were gazing at the bright, cold moon above Mount Obasute—where the heart finds no peace, and sorrow only deepens. This sorrow shows no sign of lifting, leaving me in a state of truly unbearable grief.

My aching heart can find no peace tonight,

As Sarashina’s autumn winds blow cold;

Beneath the desolate mountain’s silver light,

Where sad Obasute’s moon shines as of old. (Anonymous)

It was the twentieth day of the sixth month. The Emperor, feeling unwell, spent much of his time lying down. "So this is what illness feels like," he remarked. "Why do none of you pay any mind?" He harbored a quiet resentment toward the court ladies, who seemed so unconcerned. Looking back, I am filled with regret over matters beyond my control—that we did not offer earnest prayers before his condition grew grave, or that we failed to urge his abdication sooner, before the ultimate, heartbreaking end came to pass.

And so, from the sixth day of the seventh month, the Emperor’s illness grew increasingly severe. To be sure, we had never considered His Majesty to be in robust health, yet never before had he appeared in such agony. Having fallen ill so suddenly, we were all heartbroken, consumed with anxiety over what might become of him.

Unfortunately, at that very time, the senior ladies-in-waiting were all unavailable due to their own circumstances: one was giving birth, another was in mourning for her mother, and yet another had long since retired from court life, not having visited the Palace for two or three years.

As for the Emperor’s wet nurses, my elder sister, Fujiwara Mitsuko (1060–1121) was occupied with caring for the Crown Prince, the future Emperor Toba (1103–1156). Since his mother, Fujiwara Ishi (1076–1103), had died shortly after giving birth, the young prince was being raised in her absence, leaving Mitsuko unable to attend the Emperor as much as she wished. Moreover, she herself had recently been suffering from recurrent fevers.

Thus, only three of us remained constantly at the Emperor’s side: Fujiwara Ieko, Minamoto Shishi (1070–1149), and myself. When someone is gravely ill, even a person of humble status requires a great deal of care; how much more so for His Majesty, for whom we desperately needed more hands to attend to his personal needs.

As the sun set, the Emperor's pain became unbearable, so the situation was reported to the Cloistered Emperor Shirakawa (1053–1129), the Emperor’s father.

"The Cloistered Emperor was astonished, and said, 'I will inquire about his condition from a nearby location,' so he suddenly came to the Northern Palace," the messenger reported upon his return.

As the Emperor appeared to be in such severe pain, we brought lights closer to him than usual and kept a close watch, until he suddenly passed out. "Oh, this is terrible!" everyone exclaimed. The Minister of the Interior, Minamoto Masazane (1059–1127), and the Chancellor, Fujiwara Tadazane (1078–1162), entered the room and sat directly at the Emperor's side. Those around him all began chanting Buddhist prayers in loud voices.

One after another, messengers were sent to fetch the Priests Zoyo (1032–1116), Raiki, and Zoken, who were all the relatives of Masazane and Tadazane. Priest Raiki arrived immediately and recited sutras, making fervent prayers to the Buddha. After a while, the Emperor stirred slightly, and the people chanted even louder. Hearing the monk reciting the sutras, the Emperor ordered, "There is no point in reciting sutras now. Just transfer the evil spirits." So the servants acting as spirit mediums were brought to his side. Imagine the sheer horror of the moment the spirits were transferred to them. Once the spirits possessed the servants, they began to cry out wildly and loudly, without explaining why they had possessed the Emperor. It was truly terrifying.

When I offered the Emperor a little porridge, he took some, and my joy was beyond words. "Is any minister present?" he asked. Hearing this, the Chancellor passed through the curtain and explained that he was there. The Emperor then asked, "Has the Cloistered Emperor made his way to the Northern Palace?" The Chancellor replied, "Yes, he has."

The Emperor said, "Go to the Cloistered Emperor and tell him, 'Nothing seems to have any effect on my condition anymore. However, I would like you to have the nine-altar homa ritual performed, as well as a penance service at Sonsho-ji Temple. These must be carried out. Furthermore, whatever prayers or rituals you intend to perform, please carry them out tonight. I do not think I will live to see tomorrow or the day after.'"

The Chancellor remarked, "Surely your condition is not so grave as to warrant a nine-altar homa," to which the Emperor pressed, "How can you say that when I am in such critical danger?" Overwhelmed with sorrow, the Chancellor pressed the sleeve of his court attire to his face and withdrew. I wondered how the wet nurses would feel if they overheard this exchange.

Later, the Chancellor returned from the Cloistered Emperor and reported his message: "I shall arrange it as requested. I was indeed involved in such discussions last year and the year before, but because the Crown Prince was still so young, I have deferred the matter until now."

The Emperor responded, "Whatever decision is made must be finalized by the end of tonight." It was then, for the first time, that I realized he was speaking of his abdication.

None of us slept a wink, and we all watched the Emperor's face. Looking extremely distressed, the Emperor draped his legs over me and asked, "I am going to die today or tomorrow. How can so few of you turn your eyes to me? What do you think?"

Just hearing these words made my heart swell with grief, and I was choked with tears, unable to reply. Unable to contain my emotion, I fixed my eyes upon him. Perhaps realizing I was right beside him, he eventually stopped questioning me and noticed Fujiwara Ieko waiting in the corner of the room.

"Look at you, slacking off! Don’t you know I could die today or tomorrow?"

To which Ieko replied, almost in tears,

"How could I ever be slacking? I am not slacking in the least! It is just that I feel so utterly helpless before Your Majesty’s illness..."

"Oh, come on! You were definitely slacking just now. Fine then, I’ll just have to keep my eyes glued to you."

He looked so distressed that I did not leave his side even for a moment; I lay beside him in tears, as if I were his wet nurse. "Oh, how terrible! If he were to pass away like this, it would be an utter tragedy. How extraordinarily kind he has always been, making it so easy and fulfilling for me to serve him..." These and many other memories came flooding back to me. Guided only by my weeping eyes and aching heart, I was entirely unable to sleep, gazing intently at his face.

Regrettably, it was an unbearably hot season. Sandwiched between the sliding screen and the Emperor, I snuggled up close to him, staring intently at his sleeping face, helpless to do anything but weep. "Why did I end up serving him so intimately?" I wondered, filled with deep regret. Can anyone truly understand how I feel as I recall one memory after another, from the night I first entered the Emperor's service up to this very day? "How could things have come to this?" I wondered, overwhelmed by an indescribable sadness.

When the Emperor awoke, his gaze seemed weaker with each passing day. Even when he appeared to be asleep, I kept a vigilant eye on him, thinking how terrifying it must be for him to wake up and find everyone asleep. "I hope he can at least see that I am still here, just as before," I thought. As I gazed at his face, he looked into my eyes with a feeble expression and asked, "Why don't you sleep?"

It struck me that he sees right through to my heart, and an uncontrollable grief washed over me. "My elder sister told me, 'When His Majesty was ill before, it helped that someone was continuously by his side to attend to him, so please take utmost care of him. Regrettably, I am unwell myself and cannot come,'" I replied, but tears choked my voice and I could speak no further.

“I am in unbearable pain, so let me try this. I wonder if it will help,” said the Emperor, placing the sacred box containing the Yasakani Magatama, the sacred curved jewel, by his pillow and against his chest. The violent, erratic heaving of his chest was truly heartbreaking to behold, leaving me to wonder how much agony he was enduring. Even the sound of his labored breath filled the room with dread.

“My face must look haggard and pathetic,” I thought, “yet I should at least help him take some nourishment whenever he wakes.” So, hiding my face in my hand, I fed him a little porridge, wild onion, and garlic. He managed to eat a little before drifting back to sleep.

As dawn broke, I heard the sound of bells. “Is dawn finally breaking?” I thought, feeling relieved. Then, I heard the cawing of crows. The sounds of morning cleaning made me realize, “It is fully light now.”

“Well, once the usual ladies-in-waiting wake up, I shall take turns and get a little sleep,” I thought. But just then, ladies-in-waiting came in, raised the lattice shutters, and removed the candlesticks. Thinking, “I shall take a rest now,” I pulled my sleeping robe over my head. The Emperor noticed and pulled it back down. “He really does not want me to sleep,” I thought, and got back up.

The Emperor's wet nurse, Minamoto Shishi (1070-1149) said, “We will do our best to look after him during the day. Please get some rest,” so I retired to my room.

My maid was waiting for me in my room and said, “Your own health is so important, so please take care of yourself.” Hearing such words made my heart ache even more.

As the days went by, the Emperor became increasingly weaker, and I feared that his end might be near. I could only let my mind wander from one thought to another: “How happy we would be if only we could make him fully recover, just as he did when he was ill two years ago.”

At that moment, a messenger came calling me, saying, "Please come back." So I returned to the palace and offered the Emperor his meal. Fujiwara Ieko (1060?–1132?) supported him from behind, saying to the attendants, "Bring the Emperor a meal."

As I watched him sit up toward the small meal—yes, just a very small meal—I thought, "He really is in particularly severe pain today."

I usually would have noticed the arrival of the Chancellor, Fujiwara Tadazane (1078–1162), if he had entered in his customary way. However, during those days, everyone moved about in deep silence due to the Emperor's critical condition. Moreover, since the Chancellor had entered through the rear entrance, how could I possibly have noticed him? I paid no attention, but the Emperor said to me,

"Excuse me, but the Chancellor is coming."

I could not help but feel profoundly grateful for the Emperor's kindness as he informed me, even while groaning in pain. Despite his dire illness, I was deeply moved by the thoughtfulness with which he had always kept me informed of his condition, and tears welled up in my eyes. The Emperor looked at me with concern, and without eating even a single bite, he lay down, so I lay down beside him once again.

Due to his condition, the Chancellor frequently visited the palace day and night, which made me feel even more tense and awkward. Ieko said,

"There is a time and a place to be reserved. With the Emperor’s condition so serious, why should you feel hesitant?"

So I thought, "It cannot be helped," and continued to stay by his side.

When the Chancellor approached the curtain, the Emperor raised his knees to hide me behind his back, so I listened while lying down with my head covered by a robe.

"The fortune-teller said this and that. Such and such prayers have begun. Also, since the nineteenth is an auspicious day, we will postpone the service for your majesty's personal Buddha image and other religious rites until that day."

When he said this, the Emperor murmured,

"I wonder if I will live until that day."

Hearing his words, I could not contain my overwhelming sadness.

As the Chancellor, left, I pulled down the single-layer robe I had draped over my head and looked into the Emperor’s face, when a lady-in-waiting from the residence of the Empress, wrote a letter on her behalf:

"When Fujiwara Kenshi (1057-1084), your sister, was by the Emperor’s side, we were able to inquire about his condition in detail, which was reassuring. Instead, we are worried about him now because we only receive cursory replies. As you are connected with Teishi (1013-1094), the Emperor’s maternal grandmother, just like Kenshi is, we hold you in high regard just as we did her. Please, provide a detailed report of his current condition."

The Emperor asked, "Whose letter is this?" I replied, "From the Empress." He asked me to send a message saying, "Please come at noon," so I wrote it down and delivered it to the Empress.

The Empress arrived around noon. We cleared away the service utensils and left the room, as the Emperor told us to rest for a while. However, thinking to myself, "Maybe he will call me," I waited by the sliding screen.

Of course, I had no way of knowing what the Empress was whispering to the Emperor. After a while, he clapped his fan shut to summon me.

He wanted nothing more than to demand, "Bring that." As soon as I handed it to him, he said, "Pull the sliding screen closed again." I had foolishly thought to myself, "I am so glad I stayed instead of leaving." But he clearly had more to say to the Empress alone. I quickly stepped back and drew the sliding screen shut.

"Please, be sure to clap your fan whenever you require her attendance," I heard the Empress say to the Emperor with cool composure—yet the sliding screen never opened again to let me back in.

The Empress returned to her quarters in the evening, and the rest of us ladies-in-waiting gathered at the Emperor's side. And then—as if by magic—the color suddenly returned to his face, and he looked so revitalized, saying:

"Today, I feel as though the dawn has broken a little."

What could ever compare to the bitter joy I felt when I heard him utter those words?

Seeing the golden bowl filled with ice in the full heat of summer, the Emperor exclaimed, "Looking at that seems to refresh me! I'd like to put some large ice cubes in a tote jar and gather my courtiers to enjoy some."

At this, all the ladies-in-waiting beat a swift retreat, leaving only the Chancellor in attendance.

Accompanied by Fujiwara Ieko and Minamoto Shishi, I entered the Emperor’s sleeping room that night. We set up folding screens at the back door and peered into the room through the opening. The Chancellor was waiting by the edge of the room. Right beside the room screen, other ministers and high-ranking officials followed the Chancellor: the Chancellor's brothers, Minamoto Masatoshi (1063–1122) and Minamoto Kunizane (1069–1111), who were the uncles of the Emperor; the Chancellor's son, Fujiwara Akimichi (1084–1132), who was the cousin of the Emperor; Minamoto Yoshitoshi (1070–1134); and Minamoto Shigesuke (1045–1122). The Chancellor took pieces of ice and handed them out to each of them. Perhaps intending to encourage the Emperor's spirit, he took a piece for himself as well. From behind the screen, we thought, "If only the Emperor would recover as he did last year... How wonderful that would be!"

As night fell and the attendants were preparing lights and other necessities, the Emperor complained of severe pain. The ministers rushed to the chamber and immediately summoned Acharya Zoyo (1032–1116), the first cousin of the Chancellor's father, along with other high priests—securing the chamber exclusively with their trusted inner circle. When Acharya arrived, we set up screens around the Emperor, withdrew to the shadows, and listened intently. Acharya began his incantations. Perhaps lulled by the continuous chanting of the sutras, the Emperor grew quiet and seemed to drift off to sleep.

If my memory serves, this was on the fifteenth day.

In this state, yet another night wore away into morning, but he remained utterly frail. And thus, today also slipped away into night.

At dawn on the seventeenth, Fujiwara Ieko said to me,

"Please excuse me for a moment. My chest is in terrible pain, so I will go home to take my medicine and come back as soon as I can."

She then left. As the sun was setting, she returned and looked upon the Emperor.

"How on earth could this happen? Just because I wasn't here to watch him during the day, he has grown completely swollen!"

Overhearing her murmur, the Emperor asked suspiciously,

"What are you whispering about?"

Ieko replied,

"I was only mentioning how much your body has swollen during the day."

The Emperor then murmured softly,

"My hearing has grown so faint..."

He appeared to have weakened even further.

After a short while, he spoke again:

"I feel that this is truly the end."

With a faint and hesitating voice, I asked him,

"Why do you think such a thing?"

He answered,

"Acharya Zoyo prayed so fiercely that heat almost seemed to rise from his head, yet it brought no relief, and I feel no better at all. Indeed, I only seem to grow worse."

I cannot find any words to describe the agony I felt upon hearing his words.

When dawn broke, the Minister of the Interior arrived as an envoy from Retired Emperor Shirakawa. There was an unmistakable, unsettling gravity in his demeanor. Sensing that something momentous was afoot and feeling deeply unease at remaining nearby, I withdrew and lay down. The minister recounted the details to the Emperor in hushed, earnest tones. "Could it be about the abdication?" I could not help but suspect. Having finished his report, the minister approached where I lay, said softly, "Go to his side," and took his leave.

The high priests of Enryaku-ji Temple had been summoned the previous day, and twelve of them were present, chanting loud dharani, which was a deeply imposing sight. Finding no better course of action, summoned the Minister of the Interior and reluctantly said, "Tell the Retired Emperor to summon Priest Gyoson (1055–1135) of Mii-dera Temple, for last year when I was ill, he had insisted that I call upon him." Gyoson responded immediately and arrived without delay. The Emperor summoned him to his sickbed to offer prayers. Since the priests of Mii-dera Temple always venerate the Sahasrabhuja Sutra, Gyoson recited it with great reverence. Hearing him gently chant the phrase, "May your troubles be eliminated and your life lengthened," was profoundly comforting.

Perhaps because so many virtuous priests had gathered to pray for the Emperor—or taking advantage of the moment—vengeful spirits appeared, determined to assert their presence. Loudly identifying themselves as Priest Ryumei (1020–1104) and Priest Raigo (1004–1084) of Mii-dera Temple, the rival of Enryaku-ji Temple, they confronted him:

"Ever since your pilgrimage last year, we have longed to see you again. Yet you have shown no benevolence to visit us, and so we have come to call you to account."

Yielding to their rebuke, the Emperor offered his earnest plea:

"Had my health been sound these past two or three years, I would have made the royal pilgrimage. But I have been unable to travel even to nearby places. If I recover from this illness, I shall certainly fulfill my vow within the year."

And from this moment on, the Emperor’s suffering grew ever more severe.

As usual, a messenger arrived from the Empress.

"Her Majesty has heard that His Majesty is so gravely ill that you can hardly leave his side. We looked for others who might inform us of his condition, but there was no one else we could rely upon. Therefore, we are asking you: could you please come to our residence immediately? Her Majesty is also anxious to hear about the commotion along the thoroughfares."

How could I possibly refuse such a summons?

"I understand," I replied,

and the messenger urged, "In that case, let us depart at once," so I accompanied her to the Empress's Residence.

As was her custom, the Empress yet again declined to grant me a direct audience. Instead, acting through a lady-in-waiting—who happened to be a relative of mine—she sent her query about His Majesty's health. I was expected to report his condition in detail, yet I hesitated, fearing it might be considered and whispered that I had been far too loose-tongued, creating an unfavorable impression. That would be an utter nuisance. And yet, after being summoned all the way here, returning without saying a single word felt utterly pointless.

Before I knew it, the words escaped my lips: "If only Her Majesty might deign to visit His Majesty in person. He is in such unbearable agony."

To this, the lady-in-waiting merely offered the excuse, "In that case, we shall wait for a moment when the passage of our carriages will be less conspicuous," and with that, I was promptly dismissed and sent back to the Palace.

Upon my return, what should I behold but the Chancellor, Fujiwara Tadazane (1078–1162), the Minister of the Interior, Minamoto Masazane (1059–1127), and other high officials gathered in full array. They were hastily coordinating the summons of Priest Kensen (1032–1112), the head of Enryaku-ji Temple, following the Retired Emperor's recommendation that "it would be appropriate for the Emperor to receive the sila precepts." The air was thick with their hurried preparations. As dawn was about to break—the very time already fixed for the rite—I reported to the Emperor, "I visited the Empress as she requested, and she spoke of such and such."

When the Empress arrived at the palace, the Chancellor remarked with audible impatience, "It will never do to leave the Emperor’s side completely unattended." He had presumably gone to explain the situation to the Empress; yet he soon returned, issuing a sharp command: "Only Suke shall remain in the immediate presence of the Emperor."

I entered the Emperor's bedchamber, only to find Fujiwara Moroko (1070–1141), the wife of the Minister of the Interior, seated there, strangely enough.

All the ministers—indeed, all the men—withdrew behind the sliding doors. A four-foot folding screen was placed at the edge of the room. Lamps were lit at the Emperor’s bedside; as I remained prostrate beside him, the brilliant glare exposed my every shadow. It was an awkward, stifling position, yet I could not move.

"The Empress has arrived," I whispered to him.

"How near? Where?" he asked.

My heart sank with the realization that he could no longer sense what was happening around him at all.

"She is right by the screen," I replied.

"Which way?" he asked, and he had the edge of the screen pulled aside.

The Empress then spoke, "I am right here beside you."

Thinking there might be private words that must be exchanged, I quietly moved on my knees toward his feet. As I withdrew, the Empress leaned in close to his bedside and spoke to him at length in hushed tones.

Eventually, the Chancellor’s voice cut in sharply from outside: "This has gone on quite long enough. It is time to serve the Emperor some porridge."

Hearing this, the Empress calmly remarked, "Well then, I shall return home. I will come again tomorrow night," and with that, she took her leave.

As usual, I went up to the Emperor’s side and offered him ice and other refreshments.

The ministers arrived and said, "Now, bring in Priest Kensen." They arranged the chimes and other items brought from the prayer room, preparing for the ritual of conferring the sila (precepts). When the priest arrived, they set up a folding screen between him and the Emperor. The Chancellor ordered, "Bring the Emperor’s robe here." So I did. I was supposed to wash the Emperor’s hands with water, but as he was far too weak to rise, I simply wetted some paper and wiped his hands, which was truly heartbreaking. I brought his crown and garments. He barely managed to place the crown upon his head, and I draped the robe over his shoulders. He appeared eager to thread the cord into the loop and tried repeatedly, yet his hands were so terribly swollen that he could not thread it. My eyes were blinded by tears as I gazed upon him, until I could scarcely see at all.

Priest Kensen rang the bell and proclaimed the purpose of the sila.

"Because Your Majesty received the Dasa Kusala Sila (Ten Good Precepts) in your past life and never broke them, you have long held the imperial rank proper to such virtue in this present life. Your Majesty respects the Buddha-dharma and holds compassion for all people. No sovereign, from ancient times to the present, has ever matched such devotion. Now, as a sign of your receiving the sila tonight, may your illness be instantly vanquished, and may your life be extended to a hundred years!"

Hearing this, it was spoken as though His Majesty’s illness would be cured on the spot—words that sounded just very grand.

The Emperor received the sila and said, "I shall surely maintain them. I shall surely maintain them." The ministers asked,

"Does Your Majesty say you will maintain them?"

The Emperor softly nodded.

After the Sila precepts were administered and Priest Kensen departed, the Emperor called Acarya Jokai (1074–1149)—his maternal half-brother who had long been close to him—to his side, and said gently:

"Recite a sutra for me. This will be the last time I hear Jokai’s voice."

The Emperor seemed in profound physical distress, no longer possessing even the strength to shed tears. Hearing such heart-wrenching words, who could possibly remain unmoved? Everyone present was overcome with emotion. For a long while, Jokai offered no reply, nor was his voice heard chanting. I wondered softly to myself, "Perhaps he, too, is fighting back his tears."

After some time, Jokai’s voice finally reached us, chanting in a barely audible whisper. He was reading the prose passage leading to the Bhiksu Verse in Chapter 2, "Upaya" (Expedient Means), of the Saddharmapundarika Sutra. The Emperor listened with quiet devotion, and from the line, "The arrogant ones, like chaff among the assembly, departed through the Buddha's divine virtue," his own voice joined Jokai's, softly and effortlessly. His voice sounded so serene and clear that it seemed to gently envelop Jokai’s faint chanting. Jokai had chosen that specific passage especially for him, knowing how the Emperor used to recite Volumes One and Two by heart each morning and evening with such quiet devotion.

In the meantime, I received word from my sister, Fujiwara Kenshi. Having heard that the Emperor had fallen critically ill, she sent a maid to inquire about the details:

"Even if it might be considered ominous for me to enter the palace while ill, I would still like to come and inquire about his condition, even if only from my official chamber. I would feel far too anxious staying outside the palace grounds," she urgently implored me. "Please, go up to his bedchamber."

So, prompted by the messenger, I returned to the bedchamber.

I saw that Fujiwara Ieko was supporting the Emperor’s back, while Fujiwara Shishi remained prostrated beside him, just as before. I knelt at his feet, and Ieko said:

"His Majesty is in such terrible pain—that is why I need you now! Please hold his legs."

I held them firmly, while she wiped the sweat from his face.

Shishi then said:

"Now that you are here, the Emperor’s condition seems to have stabilized somewhat. I have something urgent to attend to, so I shall step away briefly. Please stay by his side."

Hearing this, I bowed low and took her position beside him.

After a while, as was his customary practice, the Emperor called Acarya Jokai to the side of the folding screen and requested: "Recite the Samantamukha Parivarta for me." Jokai recited it with solemn dignity. I wondered what was on the Emperor’s mind, but then he commanded:

"Recite the gatha verse at the end of it once more."

I felt that he must have had a specific deep intent in his heart, which was too deep for me to fathom.

When Fujiwara Shishi returned, the Emperor rested his foot against me and draped his arm around my neck so firmly that I could not move. Shishi waited at his feet, occupying the spot where I had previously sat. As was customary, I offered him ice and, whenever asked, wiped away his sweat. As I was wiping the area around his sidelocks with the soft Michinoku paper kept by his pillow, he murmured:

"Oh, the pain is terrible. I am going to die." Then, he began to chant:

"Namo Amitabha, Namo Amitabha."

Hearing this, I was struck by a profound sense of unreality. When the Emperor was in good health, even the lowliest officials would have considered such ominous words to be a dark omen. To hear them now, flowing from his own lips without hesitation, was so unexpected that I wondered if I were trapped in a dream; tears welled up and blurred my vision.

The Chancellor leaned close to the Emperor's face and urged, "Pray to the Buddha. I understand you have copied the Maha Prajnaparamita Sutra in your own hand. Where is it? Please, fix your heart upon it."

The Emperor replied weakly, "It should be in the priests’ waiting room."

The Chancellor left and soon returned with the sutra. He showed it to the Emperor, asking, "Is this it?"

"That is it," the Emperor confirmed. Yet even with the sacred text before him, he groaned, "The pain is growing worse," and his chest began to heave violently.

He uttered many noble and desperate prayers: "I am on the verge of death. Amaterasu Omikami, please save me. Namo... Universal Equality... The Illuminating Teaching... The Saddharmapundarika Sutra...." Yet still, he cried out, "Oh, this pain is unbearable! Lift me up, please."

I rose and helped him up. Usually, he was so heavy and difficult to lift, but now he felt strangely light, as if his very substance were fading.

Fujiwara Ieko sat behind him, supporting his back, while I held his hand. His arm felt startlingly cool against my skin. To feel such a deathly chill in the midst of this sweltering heat sent a shiver of shock and suspicion through my heart.

A messenger was dispatched to Priest Zoyo, and twelve long-time ascetics were summoned. Soon, the air was filled with nothing but the thunderous sound of prayers. Fujiwara Shishi moistened her hand and pressed water to the Emperor’s lips to ease his thirst. The sight of the Emperor, chanting the Buddhanusmriti with such single-minded devotion, was truly pitiable. Occasionally, he would plead, "Amaterasu Omikami, please help me," but his prayers went unanswered, and his countenance began to change rapidly.

Priest Zoyo was slow to arrive; an agonizing stretch of time dragged on before he finally appeared. Ordinarily, I would have withdrawn to a respectful distance upon his arrival, but in what state of mind could I have felt embarrassment now? We were all huddled together in that one space: the priest, Shishi, Fujiwara Ieko, the Emperor, and myself.

Zoyo raised his voice to its absolute limit—he prayed with such a consuming fire that it seemed as if smoke were rising from his very head. With his eyes clamped shut, he focused every ounce of his being, alternately resentful of and pleading with the Buddha. It was truly a reassuring sight. If even a humble monk can offer comfort during illness, how much more so when a man of such immense virtue pours his heart and soul into his rites!

"I have served the Buddha for over sixty years," Zoyo cried, "and the power of the Dharma has not yet failed us! Please, heal the Emperor’s eyes this very instant!"

"Hurry, hurry!" he urged, as if commanding an invisible force, but it was all in vain. The Emperor continued to chant Namo Amitabha for as long as his lips could move, but eventually, they grew still. The Chancellor, realizing the end had come, announced, "The time has come. I shall now report this to the Cloistered Emperor." He summoned the Minister of Civil Affairs, Minamoto Toshiaki (1044–1114), pushed aside the blinds, and whispered his instructions. Toshiaki rose immediately to carry out the orders.

Then, the Minister of the Interior approached the bedside. "There is nothing more to be done," he murmured. He aligned the Emperor's pillow to the north, lifted his frail body, and laid him to rest.

One by one, the ministers rose and departed. Only Zoyo remained, seated near the Emperor’s body, quietly offering prayers to the spirit as it drifted away from its earthly vessel.

Meanwhile, the sun began to shine with radiant clarity. As the day climbed higher, the Emperor’s complexion grew even paler than usual, yet his features appeared more exquisitely beautiful, and his hair remained as perfectly composed as if it had only just been styled. He looked as though he had simply drifted into a tranquil sleep.

Priest Zoyo offered a final bow, rose quietly, and departed through the sliding screen. At that moment, Fujiwara Ieko cried out, "Oh, the sorrow! What a cruel thing His Majesty has done to me! Someone, I beg of you, help me!" At her cry, all those present joined in a unison of wailing. The Emperor’s foster brothers—including Minamoto Masatoshi (1064–1122), Minamoto Kunizane (1069–1111), and Minamoto Akimichi (1080–1122)—along with several high-ranking officers and all the ladies-in-waiting, lamented with such tempestuous intensity that the very sliding doors shook as if rocked by a tremor. It was a scene so intimidating that anyone faint of heart would have shrunk back in terror.

"We long to behold His Majesty’s face one last time," pleaded the nobles and courtiers who had served him with devotion. They rushed to the palace, yet none but his closest kin were permitted to enter.

Ieko turned to the recumbent form and lamented, "Your Majesty, why have you forsaken me? From the moment of your birth, I have never left your side. I held you in your swaddling clothes and attended you wherever you went, sometimes following, sometimes leading your way. Even when illness forced me to stay at home for but ten days, I yearned for you with such heart-aching intensity. How then can I continue to live now? Please, take me with you. Wake but once more and let me look upon your face. Oh, the misery! I cannot go on. I beg of you, take me with you."

Hearing her desperate pleas, the twelve high priests who had been chanting dharani so vigorously fell into a hushed silence. When Priest Ningen (1057–1109)—the Abbot of Mount Hiei and uncle to the Chancellor—finally arrived and opened the sliding door, Ieko, her face bathed in tears, wailed, "What use is the Abbot of Mount Hiei at a time like this?"

Suddenly, it was as if something had been cast through the sliding door. I turned to see what it was, only to find a figure crouching there in collapse, draped in the indigo and safflower-dyed garment I had left behind in my own chambers. It was my sister, Fujiwara Kenshi, who had had herself supported and rushed here from my quarters upon hearing the harrowing news of His Majesty’s passing.

"Oh, how piteous!" she wailed in lamentation. "Never again shall I behold you in this life! What manner of abstinence kept me away—why did you not call for me at the very end? Through all the long months of your illness, I tended to you without fail. Yet now, at this most fateful hour, I was bedridden by my own infirmity! How I utterly despise my own wretched fate!"

She continued to cry out and wail aloud.

Meanwhile, I remained seated in silence by His Majesty's side. Taking the soft Michinoku paper I had used to wipe the perspiration from his brow, I pressed it against my face, breathing in his lingering scent. "Until this moment," I thought to myself, "I believed my devotion to the Emperor was as deep as that of those who now wail so loudly. Could it be that my love is lesser still, simply because I cannot raise my voice to cry as they do?"

When the Minister of the Interior arrived, he took but one look at the Emperor. I know not what was in his heart, but as he drew the ribs of his fan together, he rubbed them gently, making a faint, rustling sound, before departing in tears. Shortly after, he gave the command: "Lower the lattices at once." Immediately, two of his kinsmen, Fujiwara Akikuni and Fujiwara Iesada, rushed to lower the heavy shutters and withdrew—even though the sun was still shining with brilliant clarity.

"How heartless! What is happening?" I thought, my mind reeling. "The setting of the sun is beyond our power, yet in the past, I would always wait impatiently for the lamps to be lit before ever thinking of closing the lattices. But today, in the full light of noon, they have lowered them all, plunging us into a deliberate darkness." I felt as if I were losing my sanity. My sister, Fujiwara Kenshi, cried out:

"How cruel! Why must they treat us so? We can do nothing for him now by gazing upon his face, yet I wished to look upon him in the light while I still could."

She broke into a fresh paroxysm of weeping.

The Minister then reappeared and spoke: "We must now change his raiment and replace the tatami with thinner mats, as dictates the custom." His voice faltered, and unable to finish his words, he simply brought a shroud of thin white silk and draped it over the body.

As soon as he stepped away from the bedside, Fujiwara Kenshi rolled down onto the floor, lying there as if she too had ceased to breathe, looking just like the Emperor. Seeing this, the Minister summoned his son, Minamoto Akimichi (1083–1121), and ordered him to take her away. Akimichi and Fujiwara Kenshi’s maid lifted her up and led her out. Meanwhile, the Emperor’s wet nurse, Fujiwara Ieko, was likewise scooped up and carried away by her sons and others.

Fujiwara Kenshi, though frail and wasted by illness, had wept incessantly since the moment she had been carried in and set down. While her grief was completely understandable, her lack of composure was almost endearingly excessive. Turning to her son, Fujiwara Atsukane (1079–1139), I signaled to him:

"Do try to step in and lead her away from his side."

But she was in such a state that Atsukane could only fumble out, "She is completely beside herself. Please, have a little mercy on her."

"Words are of little use right now," I said softly to her. "Please, step down to the lower quarters," and I stepped in to untangle her from the Emperor.

At this, she cried out, "How can you say such things? To think that it has ended without your ever letting me gaze upon his beautiful face one last time—how bitter I feel toward you!" She wept with a resentment directed entirely at me, though I could only feel it was sweet and natural for her to be so upset.

When I touched the Emperor’s arm, it was cold, yet the flesh remained as supple as if he were merely sleeping. Hoping against hope for any sign of life, I prayed, "If only for a moment, please return to us and speak." During this time, I did not heartlessly press Kenshi to leave; together, we sat and held onto his arm.

Before we knew it, however, his limb grew utterly rigid. Realizing it was now truly in vain, I said:

"You must step back now. There is no longer any reason to linger. It was one thing to stay while we hoped for a final word, but now..."

I attempted to pull her away, but Kenshi clung like iron to the body. Atsukane seemed utterly paralyzed as to how to rein her in, so I suggested, "If you cannot manage her yourself, call the maids from her quarters to help."

At this, Kenshi—who until then had seemed completely lost in her grief—suddenly flared up in a flurry, "Why on earth would I allow a maid to approach His Majesty's presence?" before dissolving into fresh tears. Considering she herself had just arrived piggybacked on a maid, it was quite amusing how completely she had forgotten the moment to say such a thing.

Finally, I summoned my own maid. Setting aside all formality, we had her piggybacked onto a maid's shoulders and carried her away.

After all the wet nurses had departed, I remained in His Majesty's room alongside Fujiwara Koreko (1034–1114), a maid of honor with whom I shared a particularly close bond. We stayed there, lost to the passage of time. Koreko wept bitterly, repeating through her tears, "Of all those who served, it is this deep connection of karma that allowed me to remain by His Majesty's side until the very end." Hearing her words, a raw surge of grief suddenly surged back within me, overwhelming my heart once more.

Suddenly, a maid came hurriedly from my chambers, crying out: "Come quickly! Fujiwara Kenshi has passed away!" I was led away from the room to find Kenshi looking as though her spirit had entirely drained away, her breath so faint it was barely perceptible. As dusk fell, they gathered to lift her into a carriage and take her home.

The chamber where the Emperor lay had fallen completely motionless. The transformation was hard to fathom; the chaotic commotion of recent days, once so deafening that one could hardly hear a word, had vanished—silent now, as if a flame had simply slipped into nothingness. Not a sound remained.

Since Fujiwara Ieko’s chamber was separated from mine by only a single wall, I could still hear the muffled weeping of those within, echoing the cries of the day. Then, I heard Ieko’s voice crying out:

"Ah, at this hour, I used to worry about how quickly we should lower the lattices, but now there is no longer any need to give the command. How has it come to this? Please, help me... just summon me to where His Majesty is. I beg of you, please! Woe, woe!..."

She wept on and on, pouring out her unbearable sorrow. To listen to her cries was more than I could endure.

A rattling sound, as if something were being torn down, echoed from the Midday Chamber, accompanied by a commotion of many voices. When I listened intently, wondering what all the fuss was about, a lady-in-waiting—with whom I had shared a long and close service—suddenly rushed into my room. She wept bitterly, completely unable to speak. Seeing her state, I felt as though I too were about to throw myself down in tears, even before I knew the reason.

After a while, struggling to suppress her tears, she managed to speak: "Oh, how pitiful it is! At this very moment, there is a great stir as the Sacred Seal and the Sword are being transferred to the new Emperor. They are drawing the curtains around the Midday Chamber and removing the Sacred Mirror and other items. That sound you hear... it is the sound of them dismantling the curtain stands." Her sorrow was more than she could bear.

Earlier that day, Takashina Nariko had already been assigned to the duty of guarding the Sacred Sword. She was there, attending to her task and recounting stories of the late Emperor’s life. Since I had had no part in what took place in the Breakfast Room, her words drifted to me like a distant, empty murmur—utterly detached from my mind, and far beyond my heart.

Trees in the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Bando 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #13 Kitashinden-Nishi Kannon-do Hall

 

     The exact history and origins of the Kita-Shinden Nishi Kannon-do Hall (the 11th temple of the Kako County Bando 33 Kannon Pilgrimage) remain unknown.  While it has an official registered address, the small hall is actually located in a corner of a private property, adjacent to a local residence.

     When Kako Shinmura (Kako New Village) was developed after 1660, the Kitashinden area was opened up first. Since the local Jizo-do Hall is believed to have been established around that initial period, the Kannon-do Hall is likely not as old, judging from the fact that it sits within a private estate rather than its own independent grounds.

Address: 1102 Kako, Inami, Kako District, Hyogo 675-1105

Trees in the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Bando 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #12 Jizo-do Hall

 

     The exact date when Jizo-do Hall was built in Kako Shinmura, Kako County, Harima Province, is unknown. However, the village itself was developed after 1660. Since the Kitashinden area was developed first, Jizo-do Hall might have been built in the 1660s as the oldest religious facility in the new village. This situation supports the hypothesis that the stations of the Kako County Bando 33 Kannon Pilgrimage were mostly located at small local facilities rather than major, independent temples.

     In Kamishinden, Kannon-do Hall was likely replaced by a modern community center, while in Kitashinden, Jizo-do Hall coexists with a modern community center. This reflects the historical continuity of the local community.

Address: 764 Kako, Inami, Kako District, Hyogo 675-1105

Kitashinden Community Center

Address: 7081 Kako, Inami, Kako District, Hyogo 675-1105

Trees in the Town

 

Virtual Kako County Bando 33 Kannon Pilgrimage #11 Kannon-do Hall

 

     It is unknown when Kannon-do Hall was founded in Kami-Shinden Hamlet, Kako Shinmura Village, Kako County, Harima Province.  It is unknown when the Kamishinden area was developed. As the Kitashinden area was first developed in 1660, the Kamishinden area should have been developed later.  Kannondo-hall must have existed in the Taisho era (1912-1926), but it is also unknown when the hall became Kamishinden Community Center.

Kamishinden Community Center

Address: 1719-2 Kako, Inami, Kako District, Hyogo 675-1105