The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

The autumn wind blows through flame-boughed trees and they sigh like parted lovers, or mourners for the year that is dying. The wind brings me memories.

I come from a family of lantern makers, and that is my trade now. It is a good trade, even for an old man such as I am. But not long ago, I had the excellent fortune to be in the service of a young samurai. His name was Shinzaburo and he was but a younger son of a lesser branch of the Taira clan. Still, I was proud to be Chamberlain of the Wardrobe for his household, and he was a kind and just lord.

My skills were not wasted in his service. Shinzaburo was courting the Lady Tsuyu, and as a gift for her I made a peony lantern. I still believe it was the finest I ever made. The petals were of the sheerest pink silk and they glowed with the light from the candle within. I was told the Lady Tsuyu adored the gift and I felt well rewarded.

But those pleasant days melted away, as cherry blossoms before the heat of summer. Our lord Shinzaburo was called to war—the Taira clan again went to the battlefield against the voracious Minamoto. Only our lord’s standard bearer went with him. The rest of us stayed behind, and kept his house, and waited.

And then we learned of the terrible defeat of the Taira. Our lord Shinzaburo and his standard bearer, we were told, died valiantly, though futilely, on the shores of Lake Biwa.

In sorrow, the household dispersed. His goods were taken to distant relatives and the other servants found other work. It was my sad task to inform the Lady Tsuyu of Shinzaburo’s fate.

I remember kneeling on her veranda in the autumn rain. As I was but a lowly servant, it was not seemly that I should speak to a lady of Tsuyu’s quality face to face. She sat behind cloth and wood blinds, and I could smell the chrysanthemum scent of her kimonos, hear them rustling with her small movements, see the trailing edge of one golden silk sleeve. The separation should have eased my discomfort, yet I was unable to find the proper words. I am no poet, but I passed to her under the blinds a blood-red leaf. “Our dear Shinzaburo is such as this,” I said to her, “fallen, yet in passing, glorious.”

I heard her sigh and knew she understood, but I did not hear her faint or weep. Her soft, young voice was steady as she thanked me for my message. She seemed resolute, her feet upon a path already chosen. I wished that I knew the appearance of her face, so that I could imagine her brave countenance. I asked if there was any service I could do for her. She politely said there was none and bade me go.

I returned the next morning to Tsuyu’s house to see if there was yet anything I might do, for I knew my lord had loved her dearly, and would wish that she be looked after. But when I arrived, I found the lady’s house deserted and empty. A neighbor said the whole household had packed up and stolen away in the middle of the night. I found myself wondering if Tsuyu had taken my peony lantern with her. As I passed the house one last time, I saw on one white shoji panel many spots of a dark red stain. Ah, I thought, where the lady has gone she will have no need of lanterns.

After this time, the only one of my lord’s servants whom I kept as friend was Gyunyuko, Shinzaburo’s old nursemaid. She was, and still is, a woman of grace and strength. Though she was very distressed to hear of our lord’s death, yet her faith was strong and she was certain our lord sat among lotus petals in the Pure Land. She had no other family, having outlived them all, so I became as a nephew to her. She went to live in a nearby village while I stayed in Heian Kyo, and from time to time I would send her some of what I earned from my lantern making. Once a month we would meet in the marketplace and exchange news and pleasantries. I expected this was the way we would each live out the rest of our days.

Then, two years later, Gyunyuko came rushing up to greet me in the marketplace. I still remember her white hair flying, her face like a child’s on New Year's Day. “I have wonderful news!” she cried, grasping my arms.

“Don’t tell me,” I said, “You have just learned that you have a long-lost grandchild.”

She grinned and beat a fist lightly against my arm. “Nearly as good! I have news of our lord Shinzaburo. He is not dead! A man in the village saw him return on a ship. Our lord should be here in Heian Kyo by now. Let us look for him!”

I cautioned her against listening to wild rumors, particularly those that give hope, but she would not be dissuaded. We sought out relatives of our lord. Those that would speak to us claimed not to have seen him. We went to all the places an itinerant samurai might be found, gambling dens, the willow district, the Rashomon. He was not there and none had seen him. At last, as evening threw its purple curtain across the sky, Gyunyuko and I wearily wandered back to the old house where we had served him.