THE POETRY COMPETITION

Glad that the semi-opaque veils of her travelling costume hid her face, Hikari murmured polite appreciation of another peasant’s attempt at a poem, as he bowed in front of her and retreated back into the crowd. Her father sat a little way to her right, resplendent in some of his finest robes, flanked by his two wives. He disguised his distaste at the crude poems better than she could. He had a smile on his face and was nodding graciously. Completing their party, her brother sat next to their mother and he hid his impatience even less well that she did. His foot tapped the ground and his mouth was twisted in a scowl.

Honestly, she thought, watching these rustics ape city was too unbearable for words. It was like watching a cat try to sing or a dog to dance. It made her long for Miyako where the most brilliant and elegant would compose poems over lacquered bowls of o-sake.

It did not help that Mimi had left to return to the capital over a week ago, taking back with her all the grace and refinement that she had brought with her. They had parted with many pretty poems and promises that they would write to each other constantly, but she knew Mimi would not keep her word. A wife had other duties besides writing idle gossip to her friends, especially after she had her first child. Hikari still blackened her teeth and made up her face, but she knew she would not continue with those chores for too much longer. Like a flower growing on a shore of salt and rock, her beauty would wilt and fade.

With a little sigh, she settled back into her chair and waited for the next peasant to come and inflict his composition on them. She felt a strange, little shock when she saw it was the boy she had met in the garden. She had spent so many hours thinking about him and his paintings that it seemed odd to see him in the flesh. Now that she could examine him at her leisure, even though it was through the mist of the veil’s fabric, she saw that he was as attractive as one of his paintings. His eyes were the colour of still lake that reflected the sky, while his hair was as golden as sunlight. It made her feel uneasy. It seemed wrong for a peasant to be that handsome.

He bowed deeply to them as etiquette dictated, then recited the verse: ‘Surprised at grey dawn; white morning-glory blooming in the pale light.’ He did not glance once at her, but his implication would have been clear even without the play on her name. Even as she made polite sounds of appreciation, Hikari felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment and outrage. How dare he recite such an impudent poem in front of her? The paintings he left her were bad enough, but this verse stretched the bounds of belief. This could not continue. She would speak to him after the contest.

“Charming,” her father said sincerely. As furious as she was with the boy, Hikari had to admit that it was. Like his paintings with ash and water, his poem was simple and unrefined, but charming. People at Miyako might even praise its freshness - innovation was prized as much as tradition at a court that quickly grew bored with its entertainments. He bowed gratefully, and stepped back into the crowd.

Hikari listened to the rest of the peasants with growing impatience. It seemed like there was no end to the terrible poems that they had composed on autumnal themes. Plants, birds, animals, the elements, it seemed that there was no seasonal marker that did not form part of a rustic verse. She grudgingly had to admit that not one of them came close to the charm or wit of the impudent poem the boy had recited to her. At last, however, the final peasant made his way back into the group of onlookers and contestants.

Her father stood and inclined his head to them, “Thank you for doing us the honour of inviting us to your contest. Nothing could have been more delightful or enjoyable,” Taichi made a sour face at that, “I have decided that the prize should go to the man who recited the poem about the morning glory.”

When he had been invited to judge the contest, her father had volunteered the prize as well. It was an elegantly painted scroll depicting one of the Tales of Ise that he had illustrated himself during his stay in the provinces. The cover was a rich scarlet and the rollers were sandalwood. Hikari had thought it inappropriate for a peasants’ poetry contest - a brace of fish or a basket of rice would be more to their taste - but the young man seemed delighted by it. He bowed to Lord Yagami before tucking it carefully into one of the folds of his garment. (1)

After that, the contest was over and their party scattered. Lord Yagami accompanied Izumi and her mother back to their home, while Taichi gathered together a group of young men to play an impromptu game of kemari. After telling her father that she wished to walk alone for a while and checking that her brother was suitably distracted, she set off after the young peasant. He did not head back to the village with the rest of them, but made for a small stream that murmured through the pinewoods. There, he seated himself on the edge of a rock and unrolled the scroll in his hands. With one finger, he traced her father’s delicate brushstrokes, as if wondering how to duplicate them himself.

When she reached him at last - her layered robes made walking difficult and slow - she cleared her throat to let him know that she was there. Her stomach suddenly felt like moths were flying around in it, and she did not know why. He lifted his head, a surprised expression coming to his face, “Lady Yagami? If you want to walk here, I’ll leave . . . .”

“To write another poem about it?” her words were blunt, but there was no point in being subtle or arch with a peasant, “Dazzled by its light, I left the stream to whisper its secrets to the sun alone, perhaps?”

“The sun is pale today, hidden by the clouds. I don’t fear being dazzled,” he replied with a little smile. Hikari stared at him in disbelief. Peasants were simply not meant to think this way. The poem was as impudent as it was clever. Beneath her concealing travelling-veil, she was wearing lavender and blue-green robes that day, layered elegantly in the combination called hagi. (2)

She forced down her anger and spoke as calmly as she could manage, “I wish to speak to you about what happened in the garden the other morning.”

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he said honestly, “When I heard someone fall, my first thought was to help whoever it was. I didn’t expect it to be you, and I didn’t expect you to be . . . scared of me.”

Giving in to the weight of her robes, she sat on a flat rock opposite from him, “Did I give you offence by being afraid of you?”

“Did you truly think I would rape you?” he asked in return, then sighed when she did not reply, “I’m not that sort of man, Lady Yagami.”

“I know,” she said quietly, “I am alone with you now and at your mercy. My brother would not hear me if I called for help.”

“So you are,” he sounded surprised and a little pleased. She looked across at him, fear fluttering in her belly again. Perhaps she had been a fool to seek him out in this deserted wood with no one but the crickets to hear her screams. A few paintings, an impudent poem, were not enough reason to put herself at risk like this. He had just said that he would not take advantage of her and she wanted to believe him, but what man would confess to being enough of a brute to force a woman against her will? Then, he smiled at her and she felt her fear dissolve. It was the open, sweet smile of a child with no concept of evil, “Your apology is accepted, Lady Yagami.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded his dismissal but said, “Did your lord father paint this scroll he gave me?”

“Yes,” she replied, “He was considered a talented artist back in the city. His scrolls won painting competitions for his side more than once.”

“You must think my paintings are hopelessly crude by comparison,” he ran a caressing hand over the cylinder in his hand, “They’re nothing like his.”

Suddenly, Hikari remembered in horror that she was meant to be furious at him for his impudence. She did not know how he had done it, but he had managed to disarm her completely. He had even managed to wheedle an apology out of her that she had not meant to give. If she scolded him now for his actions, she would seem as changeable and churlish as an autumn storm that darkened a clear sky. All that remained to her was to be gracious in defeat, “My father would be delighted if I could paint half as well as you do. Your work is beautiful.”

“I could teach you,” he suggested, “I would be happy to do so.”

Hikari looked at him in shock. The young peasant seemed sincere enough in his offer. There was no trace of mockery in his clear, blue eyes or in his charmingly accented voice. Yet, if a fish had leapt out of the stream and said he would teach her how to breathe water, she could not have been more surprised. After a long silence, she said, “And what would I teach you in return? How would I repay you?”

“There’s no need to repay me,” he replied, “However, if you insist, I want to learn to read and write. You can teach me that, while I teach you how to draw.”

“Read and write?”

“Yes,” he looked at her as if defying her to comment, “So, what do you say, Lady Yagami?”

“I only know a few Chinese characters, I’m afraid, but I’ll teach you them along with our native script.”

As he nodded his agreement, she hoped she had made the right decision. There was no real harm in their arrangement: she might as well pass the long, dull hours in the provinces improving her skills with a brush, and teaching him the fundamentals of literacy would not make him less effective in the fields. However, she had a feeling that her father would not approve of it, nor would any future husband she might chance to get.

He was a peasant and she was a noblewoman. Their worlds were supposed to be delineated and separated by barriers thicker and more opaque than any screen of state. They might overlap for brief moments at festivals and contests such as the one she had attended that day, but they were never supposed to be together in this way. She truly hoped she had made the right choice in this matter.

“In that case . . . .” she paused, realising she did not know his name and slightly embarrassed that she had not thought to ask him before this, “If I am to teach you, I need to know your name.”

“Takeru.” (3)

A sudden thought coming to mind, she snapped a twig off one of the trees. In the soft mud of the river-bank, she carefully wrote his name in hiragana. Next to those characters, she scratched the kanji for his name – high mountain or peak. He watched her in fascination, his eyes following and memorising every precise stroke of her stick.

“Your first lesson, Takeru,” Hikari turned to him, “When do we meet for your second?”

“It will have to be before dawn,” he replied apologetically, “It’s harvest season at the moment, and I have to work the fields.”

“Before dawn,” she echoed, “Be in the gardens of my estate before dawn, Takeru. We shall meet beneath the trees where I tripped and fell,” she paused for a minute, unable to resist adding in her most arch tones, “Where you were first surprised by a white morning-glory blooming in the grey dawn.”

“But you carry on surprising me, Hikari,” he said enigmatically, then disappeared between the pinetrees and was gone before she could protest his more than daring use of her name.

***

NOTES:

(1) The Tales of Ise are a series of brief love stories, each of which is structured around a poem. You can read some at http://www.barnard.columbia.edu/english/reinventingliteraryhistory/women/genji/ise.htm

(2) I need to explain this. Obviously, the clouds are a reference to the travelling veil. However, the reference to the sun being pale is a play on the lavender colour of her robes. In Japanese, the colour would be called usuki and mean ‘thin, pale, weak’.

(3) Just Takeru. Peasants didn’t have second names until really late in Japan’s history.