She pours some tea and closes his frozen fingers around the bowl.

She unclasps the monk's damp robe and wraps her woollen shawl around him.

His throat muscles make a grinding noise as he drinks.

Perhaps he was gathering plants, Otane wonders, or meditating in a cave or meditating in a cave.

She sets about heating the remains of the soup. They do not speak.

'I fled Mount Shiranui,' announces Jiritsu, coming abruptly to. 'I broke my Oath.'

Otane is astonished, but a wrong word now might silence him.

'My hand, this hand, my brush: they knew, before I did.'

She grinds some yogi yogi root, waiting for words that make sense. root, waiting for words that make sense.

'I accepted the - the Deathless Way, but its truer name is "evil".'

The fire snaps, the animals breathe, the snow is falling.

Jiritsu coughs, as if winded. 'She sees so far far! So very, very far . . . My father was a tobacco hawker, and gambler, around Sakai. We were just a rung above the outcasts . . . and one night the cards went badly and he sold me to a tanner. An untouchable. I lost my name and slept over the slaughterhouse. For years, for years, I slit horses' throats to earn my board. Slit . . . slit . . . slit. What the tanners' sons did to me, I . . . I . . . I . . . longed for someone to slit my my throat. Come winter, boiling bones into glue was the only warmth. Come summer, the flies got into your eyes, your mouth, and we scraped up the dried blood and oily shit to mix it with Ezo seaweed, for fertiliser. Hell shall smell of that place . . .' throat. Come winter, boiling bones into glue was the only warmth. Come summer, the flies got into your eyes, your mouth, and we scraped up the dried blood and oily shit to mix it with Ezo seaweed, for fertiliser. Hell shall smell of that place . . .'

The roof-timbers of the cottage creak. Snow is piling up.

'One New Year's Day I climbed over the wall closing the eta eta village and ran away to Osaka, but the tanner sent two men to fetch me back. They underestimated my skill with knives. No man saw, but village and ran away to Osaka, but the tanner sent two men to fetch me back. They underestimated my skill with knives. No man saw, but She She saw. saw. She She drew me . . . day by rumour by crossroads by dream by month by hook, drew me . . . day by rumour by crossroads by dream by month by hook, She She urged me west, west, west . . . across the straits to Hizen Domain, to Kyoga Domain . . . and up . . .' Jiritsu looks at the ceiling, perhaps towards the summit of the mountain. urged me west, west, west . . . across the straits to Hizen Domain, to Kyoga Domain . . . and up . . .' Jiritsu looks at the ceiling, perhaps towards the summit of the mountain.

'Does Acolyte-sama,' Otane grinds her pestle, 'refer to someone at the Shrine?'

'They are all,' Jiritsu stares through her, 'as a saw is to a carpenter.'

'Then this foolish old crone doesn't understand who "She" may be.'

Tears sprout in Jiritsu's eyes. 'Are we no more than the totality of our acts?'

Otane decides to be direct. 'Acolyte-sama: in the shrine on Mount Shiranui, did you see Miss Aibagawa?'

He blinks and sees more clearly. 'The Newest Sister. Yes.'

'Is she . . .' now Otane wonders what to ask '. . . is she well?'

He makes a deep sad purr. 'The horses knew I was going to kill them.'

'How is Miss Aibagawa . . .' Otane's mortar and pestle fall still '. . . treated?'

'If She She hears,' Jiritsu drifts away again, ' hears,' Jiritsu drifts away again, 'She shall poke his finger through my heart . . . tomorrow, I shall . . . speak of . . . of that place - but her hearing is sharper at night. Then I am bound for Nagasaki. I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .' shall poke his finger through my heart . . . tomorrow, I shall . . . speak of . . . of that place - but her hearing is sharper at night. Then I am bound for Nagasaki. I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .'

Ginger for his circulation, Otane goes to her cabinet, feverfew for delirium feverfew for delirium.

'My hand, my brush: they knew before I did.' Jiritsu's wan voice follows her. 'Three nights ago, but it may be three ages, I was in the Scriptorium, at work at a letter from a Gift. The letters are a lesser wrong, "Acts of Compassion", Genmu says . . . but . . . but I left myself, and upon my return, my hand, my brush, had written . . . had written out out . . .' he whispers and cringes '. . . . . .' he whispers and cringes '. . . I had written out the Twelve Creeds I had written out the Twelve Creeds. Black ink on white parchment! Merely to utter utter them is a profanity, except for Master Genmu and the Lord Abbot, but to them is a profanity, except for Master Genmu and the Lord Abbot, but to record record them, so a layman's eyes might read . . . them, so a layman's eyes might read . . . She She must have been occupied elsewhere or she would have killed me on the spot. Master Yoten passed by, inches behind me . . . Not moving, I read the Twelve Creeds, and saw, for the first time . . . the slaughterhouses of Sakai are a pleasure garden in comparison.' must have been occupied elsewhere or she would have killed me on the spot. Master Yoten passed by, inches behind me . . . Not moving, I read the Twelve Creeds, and saw, for the first time . . . the slaughterhouses of Sakai are a pleasure garden in comparison.'

Otane understands little, grates ginger, and her heart feels cold.

Jiritsu slides out a dogwood scroll-tube from his inner clothing. 'Some few men of power in Nagasaki, Enomoto does not own. Magistrate Shiroyama may yet prove a man of conscience . . . and abbots of rival Orders shall be eager to know the worst, and this this . . .' he frowns at the scroll-tube '. . . is worse than the worst.' . . .' he frowns at the scroll-tube '. . . is worse than the worst.'

'Then Acolyte-sama intends,' Otane asks, 'to go to Nagasaki?' intends,' Otane asks, 'to go to Nagasaki?'

'East.' The aged young man struggles to locate her. 'Kinten shall follow.'

'To persuade Acoltye-sama,' she hopes, 'to come back to the Shrine?'

Jiritsu shakes his head. 'The Paths are clear about those who . . . turn away.'

Otane glances at her unlit butsudan butsudan alcove. 'Hide here.' alcove. 'Hide here.'

Acolyte Jiritsu looks through his hand at the fire. 'Stumbling in the snow, I thought, Otane of Kurozane will shelter me Otane of Kurozane will shelter me . . .' . . .'

'This old woman is glad . . .' rats scrat in the thatch '. . . glad you thought so.'

'. . . for one night for one night. But if I stay here two, Kinten shall kill us both.'

He says this without drama, as one stating a simple fact.

Fire consumes wood, thinks Otane, and time consumes us and time consumes us.

'Father called me "boy",' he says. 'The tanner called me "dog". Master Genmu named his new acolyte "Jiritsu". What is my name now?'

'Do you have any memory,' she asks, 'of how your mother named you?'

'At the slaughterhouse, I'd dream of a . . . motherly woman who named me Mohei.'

'That was surely her.' Otane mixes tea with the powders. 'Drink.'

'When Lord Enma asks my name,' the fugitive receives the cup, 'for the Register of Hell, that's what I shall tell him, "Mohei the Apostate".'

Otane's dreams are of scaly wings, roaring blindness and distant knocks. She wakes in her bed of straw and feathers stitched between sheets of hemp. Her exposed cheeks and nose are pinched by the cold. By cracks of snow-blue daylight, she sees Mohei, lying curled by the dying fire, and remembers everything. She watches him for a while, uncertain whether he is sleeping or awake. The cat emerges from the shawl and pads over to Otane, who sifts their conversation for delirium, delusion, clues and truth. Why he ran away Why he ran away, she understands, is what threatens Miss Aibagawa . . is what threatens Miss Aibagawa . . . .

It is written in that dogwood scroll. It is still in his hand.

. . . and perhaps and perhaps, Otane thinks, he is Maria- he is Maria-sama's answer to my prayers answer to my prayers.

He could be persuaded to stay a few days until the hunters give up.

There's room to hide in the under-roof, she thinks, if anyone comes . . if anyone comes . . . .

She sighs out a plume of white in the cold air. The cat puffs littler clouds.

'Praise Deusu in Heaven,' she recites soundlessly, 'for this new day.'

Pale clouds uncoil, too, from the wet nose of the dreaming dog.

But wrapped in the warm foreign shawl, Mohei is stiller than still.

Otane realises he is not breathing.

XV.

The House of Sisters, Mount Shiranui Shrine

Sunrise on the Twenty-third Morning of the Tenth Month The three bronze booms of the Bell of the First Cause reverberate over roofs, dislodge pigeons, chase echoes around the Cloisters, sluice under the door of the Newest Sister's cell and find Orito, who keeps her eyes shut and begs, Let me imagine I am elsewhere for a moment longer . . . Let me imagine I am elsewhere for a moment longer . . . but the smells of sour but the smells of sour tatami tatami, greasy candles and stale smoke deny her any illusion of release. She hears the tap, tap, tap tap, tap, tap of the women's tobacco pipes. of the women's tobacco pipes.

During the night, fleas or lice feasted on her neck, breast and midriff.

In Nagasaki, she thinks, just two days east, the maples will still be red . . . just two days east, the maples will still be red . . .

The manju manju flowers pink and white, and the flowers pink and white, and the sanma sanma saury fat and in season saury fat and in season.

A two-day journey, she thinks, which may as well be twenty years . . . which may as well be twenty years . . .

Sister Kagero walks past the cell. Her voice stabs, 'Cold! Cold! Cold!'

Orito opens her eyes and surveys the ceiling of her five-mat room.

She wonders which rafter the last Newest Sister used to hang herself.

The fire is dead, and the twice-filtered light has a new bluish whiteness.

First snow, Orito thinks. The gorge down to Kurozane may be impassable The gorge down to Kurozane may be impassable.

With her thumbnail, Orito makes a tiny nick in the wood skirting the wall.

The House may own me, she thinks, but it shan't own Time but it shan't own Time.

She counts the notches: one day, two days, three days . . . one day, two days, three days . . .

. . . forty-seven days, forty-eight days, forty-nine days . . . forty-seven days, forty-eight days, forty-nine days . . .

This morning, she calculates, is the fiftieth since her abduction.

'You'll still be here,' Fat Rat mocks, 'after ten thousand thousand notches.' notches.'

Its eyes are black pearls and it vanishes in a furry blur.

If there was was a rat a rat, Orito tells herself, it it didn't didn't speak because rats speak because rats don't. don't.

She hears her mother humming in the passageway, as on most mornings.

She smells her servant Ayame's toasted onigiri onigiri rice-balls rolled in sesame. rice-balls rolled in sesame.

'Ayame isn't here either,' Orito says. 'Stepmother dismissed her.'

These 'slippages' of time and senses, she is sure, are caused by the medicine Master Suzaku concocts for each Sister before supper. Hers the Master calls 'Solace'. She knows the pleasure it brings is harmful and addictive, but unless she drinks it she shan't be fed, and what hope has a starving woman of escaping from a mountain shrine in the middle of winter? Better to eat.

Harder to tolerate are thoughts of her stepmother and stepbrother waking up in the Aibagawa Residence in Nagasaki. Orito wonders what of hers and her father's belongings remain, and what has been sold off: the telescopes, their apparatus, books and medicines; Mother's kimonos and jewellery . . . It is all her stepmother's property now, to sell to the highest bidder.

Just like she sold me, thinks Orito, feeling anger in her stomach . . .

. . . until she hears Yayoi, next door: vomiting; groaning; and vomiting again.

Orito struggles out of bed and puts on her padded over-kimono.

She ties her headscarf over her burn and hurries into the passageway.

I am no longer daughter, she thinks, but I but I am am still a midwife . . . still a midwife . . .

. . . Where was I going? Where was I going? Orito stands in the musty corridor partitioned from the Cloisters by the rows of sliding wooden screens. Daylight enters through a lattice carved along the top. She shivers and she sees her breath, knowing she was going somewhere, but where? Forgetfulness is another trick of Suzaku's Solace. She looks around for clues. The night lamp at the corner by the privy is extinguished. Orito places her palm on the wooden screen, stained dark by countless winters. She pushes, and the screen yields a stubborn inch. Through the gap she sees icicles, hanging from the Cloister's eaves. Orito stands in the musty corridor partitioned from the Cloisters by the rows of sliding wooden screens. Daylight enters through a lattice carved along the top. She shivers and she sees her breath, knowing she was going somewhere, but where? Forgetfulness is another trick of Suzaku's Solace. She looks around for clues. The night lamp at the corner by the privy is extinguished. Orito places her palm on the wooden screen, stained dark by countless winters. She pushes, and the screen yields a stubborn inch. Through the gap she sees icicles, hanging from the Cloister's eaves.

An old pine's branches sag under snow; snow encrusts the seated stones.

A film of ice covers Square Pond. Bare Peak is streaked by veins of snow.

Sister Kiritsubo emerges from behind the pine's trunk, walking along the Cloisters opposite, trailing her withered arm's fused fingers along the wooden screen. She circumnavigates the courtyard one hundred and eight times. Upon reaching the gap, she says, 'Sister is up early this morning.'

Orito has nothing to say to Sister Kiritsubo.

Third Sister Umegae approaches up the inner corridor. 'This is just the beginning of the Kyoga winter, Newest Sister.' In the snow-light, Umegae's dappled stains are berry-purple. 'A Gift in your womb is like a warm stone in your pocket.'

Orito knows Umegae says this to frighten her. It works.

The stolen midwife hears the noise of vomiting and remembers, Yayoi Yayoi . . . . . .

The sixteen-year-old woman bends over a wooden bucket. Gastric fluid dangles from her lips and a slop of fresh vomit is pumped out. Orito breaks the ice on the water-bowl with a ladle and carries it to her. Yayoi, glassy-eyed, nods at her visitor to say, The worst is over The worst is over. Orito wipes Yayoi's mouth with a square of paper and gives her a cup of the numbingly cold water. 'Most of it,' Yayoi hides her fox's ears with her headband, 'went into the bucket this morning, at least.'

'Practice,' Orito wipes the splashes of vomit, 'does make perfect, then.' make perfect, then.'

Yayoi dabs her eyes with her sleeve. 'Why am I still sick so often, Sister?'

'The vomiting can sometimes continue right up to the birth . . .'

'Last time, I yearned for dango dango candy; this time, even the candy; this time, even the thought thought of it . . .' of it . . .'

'Each pregnancy is different. Now lie down for a little while.'