The Potter's Notebook by Frank Giovinazzi, a historical novel set in 17th century Japan, is available on the Amazon Kindle platform and in paperback.
Seventy-Nine Hideaki spent the last days before the celebration sequestered in the villagers' hut. The sky had been cleansed after the typhoon, but there was still a grey film on the air. Occasionally he and Shuji visited the other, but they had decided to keep a low profile and to maintain constant vigilance over their respective furnaces. He had a good idea what was in Shuji's kiln, but his brother wouldn't tell him for sure. They had glazed the piece he was caretaking with an unusual formula Shuji had created himself, using several ideas from the potter's notebook, but no complete recipe. Just another gamble that was all or nothing. Hideaki felt the tension, and enjoyed it. Shuji apparently felt none. He spent his time reading his touchstone, and creating new sketches for pots that he intended to design once he was free of this episode. The Princess could not manage to sneak out again, so she sent her matron with messages and food several times. Shuji still dreamed of her being his wife, but in a totally different way. He no longer pined for her; he believed they would become betrothed following several years of hard work and accomplishment. He was a happy young man – the notebook gave him something he hadn't before experienced – a tradition, continuity and a sort of authority figure that he could relate to, one that was in his field of interest and worthy of his respect. In the face of such a legitimate authority, Shuji had been tamed and disciplined. He knew he had a long way to go in the development of his work, but he was firmly righted on his life path, and nothing would again would ever knock him off. On the eve of the celebration, they had broken down both kilns. Hideaki transported the piece he was responsible for to Shuji. His brother pulled out a folded square of cloth and showed Hideaki what he had made for the Royal Mother. Hideaki was in awe. Shuji held one of the three up to the light; Hideaki wept. * * * The morning of the celebration greeted them with a dark portent, as if the day had been draped with a black sash. The Black Priest's men had moved out in full force under the cover of darkness. They were acting as a police force and intelligence unit, patrolling ominously. Clad in the severe military versions of their uniforms, loose pants and tunics instead of robes, cut to accentuate their swagger and disguise their intent, they also wore black headdresses wrapped around their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed, with a long, flowing tail off the back of the neck, giving a sensation of animal, balletic motion when they strutted. The villagers and castle staff, who had been looking forward to this day, instead met it with the trudging, shuffling gait of an occupied people. They met their tasks with efficiency but no enthusiasm. Even the drums did not have their former, upbeat effect – it was more like the drumming on a slave ship, meant to keep them moving in time, and subservient. The Princess had smuggled out an embroidered pillow she had made for her mother's gift. Shuji would use it as the base of his presentation. But getting past the guard would prove to be a challenge. They were obviously there not only to protect the Daimyo and his family and the Shogun from harm, but also to insulate them from another spectacular feat of Shuji's artistic wizardry. Shuji was concerned, but realized their superior position. "The Priest is afraid of us." "It's nice of you to include me, but I don't think he's too worried me," Hideaki said. "We're in this together, brother." The boys watched a pair of guards walk past, chatting the time away – with each other. None of the martial monks addressed the villagers except to run them down on the occasional whim. "Look at them. They're waiting for some sort of disturbance, and they are under strict orders to stay alert." Even though the guards looked bored, they were watching carefully out of the corners of their shrouded nonchalance. "Okay, what do we do?" "I don't know." * * * They waited. The morning dragged out and lunchtime came and went. Workers and courtiers flowed back and forth, fetching supplies, ferrying equipment and garbage. Several times, the overworked, high strung Supervisor bounced back and forth at a brisk clip. Shuji thought that odd, and started to work that thread into his gurgling mind. While Hideaki fretted, Shuji consoled him. "Brother, the situation wants to work itself out, wants us to work it out. There is a way out of this – the answer will make itself available." * * * On another trip, the Supervisor carried buckets and that was even more out of the ordinary. Shuji watched as carts and other transport moved back and forth on the path. As the day wore on, the guard got lax, many of them started drifting toward the picnic area. Shuji noted the Black Priest was most likely on the grounds. Without his withering supervision, they were simply being human. Everyone wants to be at the party. The day was well into the afternoon, the awkward time after the day's activities are exhausted and before the closing ceremony, when people start to get restless. Hideaki was squirrelly. Shuji was calm. The time had come. He packed the contents of the gift into a small bucket, then put that bucket inside a larger one. He bid the grandmother of the house put it alongside the road when she spotted the Supervisors coming back along the way. "Brother," he said to Hideaki. "Yes?" "Have you noticed we still look exactly alike?" "Yes," Hideaki sounded puzzled then cracked a sly smile. "We are both no good, you know." "Where do you want me?" "Cross the road and go along the back of the stream trail. Cross the stream and approach the dais from behind." "When?" "You'll know when." "And what are you going to do?" "Wait." * * * The day had come to a pleasant end. The Garden had been restored to its bland affectation without Shuji's original sculptures to bring it to life, and both the villagers and the artisans of the fief had presented many lovely things to the Royal Mother and the Shogun. An unremarkable day. The Daimyo felt the twitch on the air, the vague portent that might still mean disaster for the Black Priest and redemption for him. He could sense the Shogun was not pleased with the state of affairs, but the Daimyo was blithe. He possessed an unaccountable confidence that was worth cultivating if only to drive the Black Priest mad, but was authentic. For him, the mystery was a delight. He prolonged the ending of the picnic as long as he could, commenting to the Shogun that the setting sun was magnificent in this part of his kingdom. Hideaki was in the bushes on the opposite side of the stream. He was waiting for quite some time, and the air in the shaded part of the wood was already cool from the loss of the sun's pride. He was getting nervous. Shuji had hitched a ride on the back of a cart into the picnic grounds. The guards had all scrunched up at the bottlenecked entrance to the Garden, convinced the much warned about disaster would never come. As the Sun turned another shade of crimson and blinkered another part of its mass behind the horizon, a man appeared on horseback. The Shogun shifted position. "What a marvelous ceremony to end the picnic. A warrior dressed in the historical guard from when your family came to prominence." The Daimyo agreed wholeheartedly, leaning forward. The warrior pranced his stallion. His armor was oiled and supple, his head rigid atop an ancient neck. The Black Priest blanched at the sight of his twin. How could he have kept his presence secret all this time? The entire assembly had perked up. This had not been expected, but there was something portentous about the old man and his horse that also wore its own armor proudly around its muzzle, neck and flank. The old samurai drew his long sword, an exquisite museum piece, that even the Shogun admired. Such swords were only seen on rare display, or after a drunken night in Edo; few were in circulation. Overhead, a magpie circled, drawing attention to itself, or trying to, because no one was paying attention. Hideaki saw the old man and was emboldened. He was so thrilled, he almost didn't take his cue. This must be it! He left the refuge of the brush and waded into the stream. Shuji was off the cart, watching the samurai. The guard were mesmerized. The crowd was enjoying the exhibition, especially when they saw how old the man on the horse was. The Shogun thought it magnificent. The old man progressed along the intricate path of the Garden – sword held high – with a theatricality that made him appear as if he was a ghost of Japan's great warriors, a spectral giant traversing the actual landscape of the nation. His actions were deliberate, crisp. He was performing a kata on horseback. The crowd loved it. A tanuki started to scurry out from under a boulder. The samurai saw the movement before it was fully committed and urged his horse forward. The warrior's eyes widened as he followed the tanuki's slink from boulder to boulder, as he himself approached the front of the Garden closest to the Shogun. Hideaki was across the stream and climbing the incline. The Black Priest was furious. There was nothing he could do, his plans were being foiled! The samurai spurred his horse to a half gallop as the tanuki made a bid for the open area that would lead it to freedom. The horse jumped a boulder and the tanuki was crumpled under hoof. "Craww-ccck!" The magpie cried, and with that, the old man threw his sword in front of him, with a cry of disgust. The assembly thought it was all part of the performance. Eyes ablaze, the samurai pulled a bow off his back and drew what looked like one arrow, but he held another one loosely in his fingers under the first, while his horse was bucking and rearing backward, almost as if it was out of control but still, the whole affair seemed so tightly choreographed it all appeared as some sort of open air play. Twisting in his saddle as the horse moved forward, ever forward toward the dais, the samurai let an arrow fly at the magpie. It whistled through the air as the magpie used its wings to pull up short, crying out in complaint and haughtiness, as it judged the wind disturbance and let the arrow veer off. But while the bird was crowing the old man had nocked the second, letting it fly in the wake of the first missile, using the air sheath to fly undetected and finding its mark because the enemy had counted victory too soon. Hideaki yelled now. It seemed the right time, and a number of guardsmen swarmed around him, grabbing and punching him to the ground. Shuji was on the move now, having retrieved the small bucket out of the larger one, readying his gift for presentation. The old samurai jumped his horse over the final hedge and the play was done. He drew his short sword and locked eyes on the Black Priest, with no other intent readable save assassination. The remaining guard reacted. They were the long bowmen who had just been admiring the samurai's work and they returned the craftsmanship by firing two full volleys at him, making his chest and neck bristle with their own well-aimed couriers. The momentum of the horse and rider and the culmination of decades of stalking ended with a scissoring toss of the short sword directly for the neck of the Black Priest who had looked back at the prone boy held down by his guard. He turned his head in time to see the rotating, swiveling blade come at his head, neatly severing it from his decrepit neck. As the head plopped to the ground, the Black Priest's body, which had seen the end coming, stamped its feet on the dusty ground, twice, before falling over, joining its counterpart in the dirt. As the old samurai saw his brother finally die, and as more arrows pierced his proud breast, he launched himself forward off his mount, finding the tip of his long sword which had landed perfectly spiked. He looked at death in the face and rushed the blade, fast enough that it went all the way through his chest and out his back, stopping as his body met the hilt. There was no other violence directed anywhere, so the whole congregation still believed it theater. The guards, now a massive body without a head, let Hideaki up. Shuji advanced to the podium The Daimyo had seen him out of the corner of his eye, and was pleased. He carried a pillow with something on it that was hard to make out in the quickening dusk. He bowed when he presented himself to the Daimyo and the Shogun, but presented the gift only to the Royal Mother. She blushed slightly, bowing in acceptance. On the pillow slept a preternaturally wrought porcelain bird's nest, mottled brown, so perfect it almost looked as if the boy had been forced to present something so quaint as a real nest from a tree in the wood. Arranged in the middle of the nest were three tiny eggs, and everyone knew they were also crafted. Shuji set the pillow down before the Royal Mother. Leaning forward, contemplating the nest, she picked up one of the eggs. Holding it up to the vanishing daylight, perfectly shaped and balanced, more real than real, she wasn't sure if the fading light made her see what appeared to be the quickening of life through the translucent shell. The Royal Mother was overwhelmed. The craftsmanship, the intention, the love, all made her lower her eyes and weep silently, as she felt the beauty in the gift quicken the beauty within her, reviving it back to its rightful strength. The image that had burned itself in Shuji's breast had been transferred into the world, and now to the Royal Mother. Now it resided in her breast, the gift of art that was also a glimpse of the beauty of the invisible world always waiting to be born. Read Chapter 80 of The Potter's Notebook.
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