Yamada looked up at the people around him.  “Are you monsters to mock and beat a helpless suffering creature, a human being like yourselves?” he demanded angrily.

“He’s the monster,” the man with the broom said, pointing an accusing finger.  “Look at him.  He makes my stomach turn.  And he’s been there for days, driving my customers away.  Who wants to eat after seeing that?  I told him to leave.  Many times I told him.  I offered him money to go.  He won’t.  He’s cursing my business and my family by lying there.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Yamada, who was examining the wounded man by then.  He had been in a fire.  His hair and eyebrows had been burned off and the fire had caused the horrible disfigurement of his face.  His hands were also covered with blackened oozing sores, and when Yamada lifted the rags he wore around his feet, he saw that the soles of his feet were raw flesh.

He looked at the owner of the eatery again.  “This man has been burned severely.  He cannot walk and he cannot help the wounds on his face.  You should have helped him instead of beating him and calling him names.  A stray dog would have been kinder.”

The onlookers, deprived of their entertainment, muttered and drifted away.  When the owner of the business also turned to go, Yamada rose angrily.  “Not so fast, you!” he said.  “I know you and I promise I shall lay charges against you if you don’t this instant get the constables so that this man can be helped.”  The man nodded and slunk off.

Left alone with his shivering patient, Yamada crouched beside him and touched the man’s shoulder.  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.  “I’m a doctor.  We’ll take you to my house where I can treat your wounds.  What is your name?”

What was once a mouth moved a little, and a sound came like a breath.  Yamada could not be certain.  “Goro?” he asked.

No, it seemed to be Togoro.  The burned man tried to say more but was hindered by his shaking and the fact that he was weeping again, more copiously than before.  Yamada’s heart contracted with pity, seeing those tears well from swollen, crusted eyelids and course down the raw flesh.  The salty liquid must burn as much as the fire had.  He said no more, hoping that help would come soon and that in the silence the man would stop crying.

After an eternity, the constables arrived with a stretcher and the patient was carried to the doctor’s house.  There, a white-faced and frightened Otori spread clean bedding in a storage room next to the kitchen.  The doctor had thoughtlessly wanted to put him in his own room, but she refused to countenance this, claiming that the doctor was out so much that the nursing would fall to her, and she spent most of her day in the kitchen.

The constables left, and Yamada set about cleansing his patient’s wounds and applying soothing ointments.  Togoro was very patient throughout the painful process.  The doctor gave him some medicine to soothe the pain, and Otori fed him small amounts of broth through a hollow straw.  After a while, Togoro went to sleep.  Seeing the extent of his injuries, which also covered parts of his body, the doctor was surprised that, in due course, his patient healed and recovered most of his functions.  Only his hands and feet were so badly scarred that they had stiffened.  He shuffled and was awkward at grasping things.  His face was the worst.  Even after the swollen, infected wounds had healed, he was left horribly scarred and of such ugliness that people looked away the moment they laid eyes on him.

Togoro had no memory of his past or of the fire that destroyed his life, but he suffered from nightmares and had periodic moods of deep sadness that sent him to the temples.  Fire of any size frightened him and he gave any open flame a wide berth.

As with Hachiro, Yamada had to guess at his age and background.  Togoro could neither read nor write, and his speech marked him as belonging to the laboring class.  From the beginning, Yamada was humbled by his patience.  He bore the painful cleansing and scraping of his wounds without complaint, merely looking up at the doctor with doglike devotion.  He often wept when he thanked Yamada.

And when he got better, he stayed on.  One day early on, when Yamada came to change his bandages, he had crawled from his pallet and was sweeping the kitchen floor, holding a short broom with both painful hands.  Nobody had the heart to send him away after he got stronger, and in time they came to depend on his tireless labors.

*

And that was how, for this new year, Yamada added another guilt to the one he already bore.

The Secret Note

Spring brought sun and warmer weather, and in the palace, servants and maids threw open the wooden shutters, letting sunlight and fresh air into the dark, perfumed world of women and the dusty offices of men.

In the courtyard of the women’s quarters, a potted plum tree was covered with buds showing deep red against the blue sky, and on the tiled roofs sat doves cooing in the sun.  The ladies put out their heads and laughed with pleasure.

Time to put away the winter robes with their deep jewel colors and bring forth cherry- blossom silks and willow-leaf gauze and gorgeously embroidered Chinese jackets.  These must be aired, scented, and have their wrinkles pressed out.  In the bustle, there was new excitement.

Only Toshiko was listless.  She was more of an outsider now than she had been before.  Even Shojo-ben kept away these days; she had an admirer among the young courtiers and was in love.  Lady Sanjo watched Toshiko with hot eyes, and her maids periodically searched Toshiko’s clothing and reported to her.  They were looking for the first sign that she was with child, and she hated them and herself.

She often went to the little room under the eaves for privacy.  One day, she found that here, too, the heavy shutters had been raised.  The veranda and small courtyard beyond lay in the morning sun.  The snow was gone, leaving behind moisture that had darkened the wooden boards and the rocks and gravel beyond.  The one small azalea bush, where they had caught the cat together, showed buds among its green leaves, and Toshiko stepped outside to see what color it would be.

At home, the wild azaleas in the woods behind their house bloomed in all shades of red.  She used to go with her mother to dig up small plants for the spring garden her mother had planted outside her veranda.  A white cherry also grew there.  It must be quite large by now.  Its blossoms used to open white as snow when the red azaleas bloomed.  Cherry blossoms lasted only a short time.  Before you knew it, they blushed a rosy pink and died.  The azaleas went on blooming blood red, but the cherry petals fell like snow and drifted to cover them with a white blanket.  Even in the beginning of life there was already death.

Looking at the budding azalea bush, Toshiko thought of her mother and sister and how much she loved them.  Were they walking together in the spring garden today and thinking of the absent one?  Her hand went to her breast where she still carried her mother’s letter -- the farewell to a child who had passed out of her life.  When His Majesty had presented her with the precious gowns, she had kept only one.  The rest she had sent home.  She had not added a note, because the message of the gowns was enough.  Her mother would know that Toshiko had done her duty.

After the long darkness, the sunlight felt harsh and almost painful.  Toshiko shivered.  There was nothing for her here, or in this coming of spring, and she turned sadly to go back inside.  As she did, she saw a glimmer of white where the boards of the veranda met the wall of the building.  She bent to pick up the scrap of paper — such cleanliness was ingrained from her upbringing — and saw that it had been folded over many times.  It must have been there for a long time, for it was still moist from the melting snow and the ink had blurred through the paper.  She unfolded it cautiously, found the writing had become illegible, but recognized — with a wildly beating heart — the small drawing of a one-eyed cat.  It was from him.  She turned and looked toward the gate — as if he would open it and walk in — and then at the rocks — in case he was hiding behind them and would now rise to greet her.  But he was not there.  He had come and left a note she could no longer read, heaven knew how long ago, and she had not known it.  Perhaps there would still have been time then.