away, desperately trying to create a fire break, dangerous work given the fire’s proximity. North again, paralleling the fire; and entering Yoshiwara, he breathed a sigh of relief seeing it still standing. But for how long? The air was thick with ash, and he saw sparks flying above him. He thought it wouldn’t be long before the district erupted into an inferno, and clearly the residents had the same notion, for he saw only a few bowed figures running through the darkness, possessions strapped to their backs. It was already hot as a furnace, and to the south was an inferno, lighting the curved roofs and waving branches with a red premonition of what was to come. Wrapping a scarf about his face (which did no good — he was coughing furiously), he reached Madame Haru’s place, the House of Bending Willows, and found the gate closed. He called out but no one answered. There’s no one here, idiot. Get out while you can. But he had to make certain, didn’t he? Perhaps he could even bring Watanabe some item to prove his diligence — or just to boast to Minoru of his exploits. Tying Kaze to the wooden gate handle, he scaled the wall and jumped down inside. He rapped on the sliding door at the main entry, calling out, but of course no one answered. The doors slid open without hindrance and two strides and a jump took him through the vestibule and into the main parlor. He knew the way to Ayaka’s room by memory, having been here four times before, up the stairs and down the hall. He knocked again: no answer. He opened the door. “Ayaka?” he said, stupefied, because to his complete surprise there was a woman kneeling there, looking out the open window to the street, and firelight limned her face. Then she turned and he recoiled. Not Ayaka. Not Ayaka at all, but someone else, something else. An old woman, face deeply seamed, but with long gray hair that somehow floated upward, twisting and writhing in the wind from the window, a crown of churning smoke in ceaseless movement; and her eyes were pits of flame. He stepped back to flee, but the old woman called out: “Stay, young samurai! I can help you!” Her voice hissed and crackled like sputtering logs, and orange light shone within her mouth when she spoke. “What are you?” “I’m the one who can give you what you desire.” “You’re a demon.” “That’s just a word people use for things they don’t understand. I have thoughts and desires, just like you. And I know you came here looking for something. Name it.” “I’m looking for Ayaka.” “Yes, of course. I can make her yours, if you wish. If you just do a small something for me.” “What is it?” “In Madame Haru’s perfume collection there is a silver bottle with an iron stopper. Bring it to me.” “That’s it?” “I need your help opening it. Then I will fulfill your desire. But hurry — the fire is close.” He considered just running away, but the spirit seemed confident she knew where Ayaka was — and more. Something about the way she said I can make her yours seized his attention ... seized it like the gentle fingers of a beautiful woman. “Fine. Stay here.” Madame Haru’s room was just at the end of the hall. The house mother had at least a dozen bottles of perfume on a small table, but No. 126 only one had an iron stopper. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands: nearly globular, like an orange, or a grenade. The scenes on it were hard to see in the flickering light, but seemed to depict dancing figures in a bamboo grove. He returned to Ayaka’s room and found the old woman waiting, leaning forward eagerly, spidery fingers tented on her thighs. “Here it is,” he said, though disturbed by the fiery intensity of her stare. “Now tell me where Ayaka is.” “So the girl is what you want?” “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” “And I said I could make her yours. But consider: Open the bottle, and I will grant whatever you wish. If you still want women, I can give you any woman you desire. If you want money, I can make you as wealthy as the emperor. I can make you a lord of lords, or an unstoppable warrior. I can make you a sage. I can even make you a Buddha.” “A Buddha?” he repeated, frowning. A Buddha? He thought he had known why he was here, but now he was thrown into uncertainty. After all, what greater prize could there be than Buddhahood? If he were a Buddha, all the other problems he faced, all his confusion, would dissipate like sand thrown into the ocean. Kings would bow before him, sages would speak of his wisdom, and his name would be remembered for a thousand years. What could compare to it? Was it not the ultimate glory? Then he remembered his purpose. “What about Ayaka?” “You’ll never see her again.” “You mean she’ll be dead?” “I mean her fate will be out of your hands.” He chewed on this, sweating in the heat. It wasn’t like he would be killing her. Wasn’t her karma her own? And she obviously wasn’t in the geisha house anyway. She was probably sipping tea with an auntie somewhere. “Fine,” he said. “Make me a Buddha.” “Open the bottle,” the demon hissed. He pulled on the stopper. It had obviously been put there a long time ago and he had to pull hard, but finally it popped free. He inhaled sharply as it did, and his head swam with a sudden heady scent, a cloud of red fumes billowing from the bottle. In that moment, suddenly, he understood, understood completely, and knew he had made a mistake. “I want— ” he began to say, but a spark blew in through the window. The fumes ignited. It took him a moment to even register what had happened, as his vision turned white, then black. Then agony gripped him, his face literally on fire, but most of all his eyes, and he screamed and fell, pressing his hands to the melted flesh of his ruined sockets. He might well have died there, but in a half-mad fever dream he got to his feet and stumbled down the stairs and out the gate, bouncing off the walls, until he found his horse tied where he’d left him. Somehow he managed to pull himself into the saddle, and together they escaped the flames. Blind, his life as a samurai was over. He was sent to Kamakura for his healing and in Kamakura he remained, shaving his head and becoming a monk. He spoke rarely, glad he at least could not see his own disfigurement. Eventually that too passed, until he could imagine no other way his life could have gone. When old age finally claimed his life, the other monks murmured among themselves, “He was a living Buddha.”
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